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MiddleFinger
Is cooler thanyou

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Do you enjoy poetry?
#7511370 - 10/12/07 12:05 AM (16 years, 3 months ago) |
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Being a poet myself, I am always looking for the next great writer... The next poem to push the boundaries of our language.
Recently, I discovered a poet named Richard Siken. Dude has invoked an epiphany within me. American creativity is not dead. Infact, we are now the home of the best poet to come along in decades.
Behold the brillaince of Richard Siken:
"Scheherazade"
Tell me about the dream where we pull the bodies out of the lake and dress them in warm clothes again. How it was late, and no one could sleep, the horses running Until they forget that they are horses. It’s not like a tree where the roots have to end somewhere, it’s more like a song on a policeman’s radio, how we rolled up the carpet so we could dance, and the days were bright red, and every time we kissed there was another apple to slice into pieces. Look at the light through the windowpane. That means it’s noon, that means we’re inconsolable. Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us. These, our bodies, possessed by light. Tell me we’ll never get used to it.
Just thought I'd share my newest obsession and inspiration with the good people of the shroomery. For those of you who write, I hope you find the same inspiration from this man's work as I have.
-------------------- History says, Don't hope On this side of the grave. But then, once in a lifetime The longed-for tidal wave Of justice can rise up And hope and history rhyme.
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wrestler_az
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i like poetry, when i get around to reading it. though i must confess, this is the first poem in a long time that has drifted across my field of vision.
i liked first two lines...
but once the author started talking of horses and police radios, i got lost a bit. i like sliced apples, though they taste better when sauced. im usually asleep at noon, and love to me is a lot like todays to-do list... its better off left alone till tomorrow.
and i can honestly tell you, that i will never get used to it. the day i do, is the day i die. all in all a decent poem... though im sorry to say it hasnt given me much inspiration to do much of anything...
im in a bit of an emo mood tonight, can ya tell?
p.s. im drunk on sparks...
-------------------- how's your WOW?
Edited by yageman (04/20/06 4:20 PM)
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MiddleFinger
Is cooler thanyou

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Re: Do you enjoy poetry? [Re: wrestler_az]
#7511456 - 10/12/07 12:53 AM (16 years, 3 months ago) |
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Quote:
wrestler_az said: i like poetry, when i get around to reading it. though i must confess, this is the first poem in a long time that has drifted across my field of vision.
i liked first two lines...
but once the author started talking of horses and police radios, i got lost a bit. i like sliced apples, though they taste better when sauced. im usually asleep at noon, and love to me is a lot like todays to-do list... its better off left alone till tomorrow.
and i can honestly tell you, that i will never get used to it. the day i do, is the day i die. all in all a decent poem... though im sorry to say it hasnt given me much inspiration to do much of anything...
im in a bit of an emo mood tonight, can ya tell?
p.s. im drunk on sparks...
I feel ya, brotha.
I'm drunk as fuck right now, and have been writing manically for the last two hours.
Back to Siken:
Your response is interesting. The images you gathered seem obvious, but I've shown this poem to many other people and NONE of them responded the way you have.
I disagree with your criticisms, but they seem valid nonetheless.
How about:
There’s a part in the movie where you can see right through the acting, where you can tell that I’m about to burst into tears right before I burst into tears and flee to the slimy moonlit riverbed canopied with devastated clouds. We’re shooting the scene where I swallow your heart and you make me spit it up again. I swallow your heart and it crawls right out of my mouth.
Or:
very morning the maple leaves. Every morning another chapter where the hero shifts from one foot to the other. Every morning the same big and little words all spelling out desire, all spelling out You will be alone always and then you will die. So maybe I wanted to give you something more than a catalog of non-definitive acts, something other than the desperation. Dear So-and-So, I'm sorry I couldn't come to your party. Dear So-and-So, I'm sorry I came to your party and seduced you and left you bruised and ruined, you poor sad thing. Your want a better story. Who wouldn't? A forest, then. Beautiful trees. And a lady singing. Love on the water, love underwater, love, love and so on. What a sweet lady. Sing lady, sing! Of course, she wakes the dragon. Love always wakes the dragon and suddenly flames everywhere. I can tell already you think I'm the dragon, that would be so like me, but I'm not. I'm not the dragon. I'm not the princess either. Who am I? I'm just a writer. I write things down. I walk through your dreams and invent the future. Sure, I sink the boat of love, but that comes later. And yes, I swallow glass, but that comes later. And the part where I push you flush against the wall and every part of your body rubs against the bricks, shut up I'm getting to it. For a while I thought I was the dragon. I guess I can tell you that now. And, for a while, I thought I was the princess, cotton candy pink, sitting there in my room, in the tower of the castle, young and beautiful and in love and waiting for you with confidence but the princess looks into her mirror and only sees the princess, while I'm out here, slogging through the mud, breathing fire, and getting stabbed to death. Okay, so I'm the dragon. Bid deal. You still get to be the hero. You get the magic gloves! A fish that talks! You get eyes like flashlights! What more do you want? I make you pancakes, I take you hunting, I talk to you as if you're really there. Are you there, sweetheart? Do you know me? Is this microphone live? Let me do it right for once, for the record, let me make a thing of cream and stars that becomes, you know the story, simply heaven. Inside your head you hear a phone ringing and when you open your eyes only a clearing with deer in it. Hello deer. Inside your head the sound of glass, a car crash sound as the trucks roll over and explode in slow motion. Hello darling, sorry about that. Sorry about the bony elbows, sorry we lived here, sorry about the scene at the bottom of the stairwell and how I ruined everything by saying it out loud. Especially that, but I should have known. You see, I take the parts that I remember and stitch them back together to make a creature that will do what I say or love me back. I'm not really sure why I do it, but in this version you are not feeding yourself to a bad man against a black sky prickled with small lights. I take it back. The wooden halls likes caskets. These terms from the lower depths. I take them back. Here is the repeated image of the lover destroyed. Crossed out. Clumsy hands in a dark room. Crossed out. There is something underneath the floorboards. Crossed out. And here is the tabernacle reconstructed. Here is the part where everyone was happy all the time and we were all forgiven, even though we didn't deserve it. Inside your head you hear a phone ringing, and when you open your eyes you're washing up in a stranger's bathroom, standing by the window in a yellow towel, only twenty minutes away from the dirtiest thing you know. All the rooms of the castle except this one, says someone, and suddenly darkness, suddenly only darkness. In the living room, in the broken yard, in the back of the car as the lights go by. In the airport bathroom's gurgle and flush, bathed in a pharmacy of unnatural light, my hands looking weird, my face weird, my feet too far away. And the the airplane, the window seat over the wing with a view of the wing and a little foil bag of peanuts. I arrived in the city and you met me at the station, smiling in a way that made me frightened. Down the alley, around the arcade, up the stairs of the building to the little room with the broken faucets, your drawings, all your things, I looked out the window and said This doesn't look that much different from home, because it didn't, but then I noticed the black sky and all those lights. We walked through the house to the elevated train. All these buildings, all that glass and the shiny beautiful mechanical wind. We were inside the train car when I started to cry. You were crying too, smiling and crying in a way that made me even more hysterical. You said I could have anything I wanted, but I just couldn't say it out loud. Actually, you said Love, for you, is larger than the usual romantic love. It's like a religion. It's terrifying. No one will ever want to sleep with you. Okay, if you're so great, you do it— here's the pencil, make it work . . . If the window is on your right, you are in your own bed. If the window is over your heart, and it is painted shut, then we are breathing river water. Build me a city and call it Jerusalem. Build me another and call it Jerusalem. We have come back from Jerusalem where we found not what we sought, so do it over, give me another version, a different room, another hallway, the kitchen painted over and over, another bowl of soup. The entire history of human desire takes about seventy minutes to tell. Unfortunately, we don't have that kind of time. Forget the dragon, leave the gun on the table, this has nothing to do with happiness. Let's jump ahead to the moment of epiphany, in gold light, as the camera pans to where the action is, lakeside and backlit, and it all falls into frame, close enough to see the blue rings of my eyes as I say something ugly. I never liked that ending either. More love streaming out the wrong way, and I don't want to be the kind that says the wrong way. But it doesn't work, these erasures, this constant refolding of the pleats. There were some nice parts, sure, all lemondrop and mellonball, laughing in silk pajamas and the grains of sugar on the toast, love love or whatever, take a number. I'm sorry it's such a lousy story. Dear Forgiveness, you know that recently we have had our difficulties and there are many things I want to ask you. I tried that one time, high school, second lunch, and then again, years later, in the chlorinated pool. I am still talking to you about help. I still do not have these luxuries. I have told you where I'm coming from, so put it together. We clutch our bellies and roll on the floor . . . When I say this, it should mean laughter, not poison. I want more applesauce. I want more seats reserved for heroes. Dear Forgiveness, I saved a plate for you. Quit milling around the yard and come inside.
-These are the only poems of his I can find online. I lost my Siken anthology (fuck cheap vodka) and cannot post any of his classic works.
Again:
-------------------- History says, Don't hope On this side of the grave. But then, once in a lifetime The longed-for tidal wave Of justice can rise up And hope and history rhyme.
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wrestler_az
PsiLLy BiLLy



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that first one starts out good as the first one you posted... but as it goes on i get a little lost. it seems as though its a work in progress, and was posted in hopes someone would finish it for him. so, hes put up a front (as we all tend to do at times) and has found that the one he loves does not love him back...
it seems like there should be more...
there isnt much closure in this one, seems like its only half finished.
and that second one is entirely too long for my drunk ass to read, let alone critique. ill have to come back to that one when im sober. though from the bits i skimmed over, hes got some nice imagery going on with his words. im sure he could summarize the message into something a more reader friendly though.
but assuming these are all from the same author, i would have to say hes got his intros down... some work could be done with delivering the final message however... it seems to me he wants to drag it along a bit, thinking making it longer and more strung out will make it better. im not saying im some master poet, im far from it actually... but from what ive read as a reader id like to see him condense it a little. the faster you can get to the point in a poem, the better as far as im concerned...
but thats just me.
ill reread this thread tomorrow when im sober... my responses may be a little different.
-------------------- how's your WOW?
Edited by yageman (04/20/06 4:20 PM)
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SneezingPenis
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Re: Do you enjoy poetry? [Re: wrestler_az]
#7511485 - 10/12/07 01:24 AM (16 years, 3 months ago) |
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I find that almost all poetry dealing with the self is a steaming heap of shit.
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wrestler_az
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Quote:
YawningAnus said: I find that almost all poetry dealing with the self is a steaming heap of shit.
isnt that most poetry?
who the hell sits around writing poems that isnt a depressed self loathing my god how can i live this life type of a person? if they had any bit of a social life they wouldnt find themselves a poet...
-------------------- how's your WOW?
Edited by yageman (04/20/06 4:20 PM)
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SneezingPenis
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Re: Do you enjoy poetry? [Re: wrestler_az]
#7511492 - 10/12/07 01:31 AM (16 years, 3 months ago) |
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yeah, it is most poetry, but there are some that arent entirely self absorbed.
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Nemo_Hoes
Juan Sánchez Villa-Lobo Ramírez



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Boy: Do it! Girl: HARRRRRRRRRRRRR Boy: I turn you around to lick your asshole. Boy: I pry apart that battleship you call your ass. Boy: I see shit nuggets hanging from the hair around your asshole. Girl: WTF?!?!? Boy: They stink really bad. Girl: OMG STOP!!! Boy: I start to get fed up with your ugly ass Boy: I tear off your wooden peg leg. Boy: I ram it up your ass. Girl: YOURE A FUCKING PYSCHO!! Boy: Then I pour hot carmel over your head. Boy: And turn you into a fucking candy apple... Boy: I kick you in the face! Girl: FUCK YOU ASSHOLE!! Boy: The celluloid from your cheeks hits the side of the cabin... Boy: Your parrot flys away. Boy: ...going limp again. Boy: Hello? Boy: Say it! Boy: HAARRRRRR!!!!!
-------------------- We will also report to the NAACP and to Al Sharpton's entourage, how the Shroomery administrators allows their mods and members to be balatantly allowed the use of the 'N' word.
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wrestler_az
PsiLLy BiLLy



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like?
i dont mean to come across as an ass, im just curious...
-------------------- how's your WOW?
Edited by yageman (04/20/06 4:20 PM)
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SneezingPenis
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Re: Do you enjoy poetry? [Re: wrestler_az]
#7511497 - 10/12/07 01:38 AM (16 years, 3 months ago) |
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carl sandburg shell silverstein Dr seuss ogden nash
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wrestler_az
PsiLLy BiLLy



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Re: Do you enjoy poetry? [Re: Nemo_Hoes]
#7511498 - 10/12/07 01:39 AM (16 years, 3 months ago) |
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Quote:
The Motherfuckin G said: Boy: Do it! Girl: HARRRRRRRRRRRRR Boy: I turn you around to lick your asshole. Boy: I pry apart that battleship you call your ass. Boy: I see shit nuggets hanging from the hair around your asshole. Girl: WTF?!?!? Boy: They stink really bad. Girl: OMG STOP!!! Boy: I start to get fed up with your ugly ass Boy: I tear off your wooden peg leg. Boy: I ram it up your ass. Girl: YOURE A FUCKING PYSCHO!! Boy: Then I pour hot carmel over your head. Boy: And turn you into a fucking candy apple... Boy: I kick you in the face! Girl: FUCK YOU ASSHOLE!! Boy: The celluloid from your cheeks hits the side of the cabin... Boy: Your parrot flys away. Boy: ...going limp again. Boy: Hello? Boy: Say it! Boy: HAARRRRRR!!!!!
thats from a series of chat sessions i remember reading...
5 shrooms to you if you can give me the link to the rest of them.
talk to me like a pirate when i go limp....
arrrrrg!
-------------------- how's your WOW?
Edited by yageman (04/20/06 4:20 PM)
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Hyper_Panda_GO
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Re: Do you enjoy poetry? [Re: wrestler_az]
#7511500 - 10/12/07 01:39 AM (16 years, 3 months ago) |
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Shel Silverstein E.E. Cummings Leonard Cohen (sort of) Homer
-------------------- There is no valid reason you should be reading this
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Nemo_Hoes
Juan Sánchez Villa-Lobo Ramírez



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Re: Do you enjoy poetry? [Re: wrestler_az]
#7511504 - 10/12/07 01:40 AM (16 years, 3 months ago) |
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-------------------- We will also report to the NAACP and to Al Sharpton's entourage, how the Shroomery administrators allows their mods and members to be balatantly allowed the use of the 'N' word.
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MiddleFinger
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Quote:
YawningAnus said: yeah, it is most poetry, but there are some that arent entirely self absorbed.
I can see where you coming from.
However, some of the great poets find inspiration from the search for the self ( I don't consider Siken GREAT...yet.)
E.X. :
Keats Yeats Auden Donne
-------------------- History says, Don't hope On this side of the grave. But then, once in a lifetime The longed-for tidal wave Of justice can rise up And hope and history rhyme.
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SneezingPenis
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IMO, Tom Robbins is the greatest author.
he combines the best of both prose and poetry.
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wrestler_az
PsiLLy BiLLy



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Quote:
YawningAnus said: carl sandburg shell silverstein Dr seuss ogden nash
help me find those of shel silverstein that werernt so oriented towards the children, and ill give you 5 as well. i remember him writing some stuff that was quite out there... im really drunk and cant quite figure out the google. but i do remember reading a few of his that i liked very much...
i just cant find them...
-------------------- how's your WOW?
Edited by yageman (04/20/06 4:20 PM)
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SneezingPenis
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Re: Do you enjoy poetry? [Re: wrestler_az]
#7511534 - 10/12/07 02:00 AM (16 years, 3 months ago) |
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actually, I cant recall any of his poems that arent for children, but here is one that is kind of cool
Forgotten Language by Shel Silverstein Once I spoke the language of the flowers, Once I understood each word the caterpillar said, Once I smiled in secret at the gossip of the starlings, And shared a conversation with the housefly in my bed. Once I heard and answered all the questions of the crickets, And joined the crying of each falling dying flake of snow, Once I spoke the language of the flowers. . . . How did it go? How did it go?
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GonzoCool


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I do...now that I am in love. 
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Apollyphelion
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Re: Do you enjoy poetry? [Re: GonzoCool]
#7511820 - 10/13/07 12:18 PM (16 years, 3 months ago) |
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I enjoy writing poetry a little more than I do reading it. The poems you posted were good. However, I must confess some of my work here at home is similar in the way he abstractly portrays certain emotions.
It gets my
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Hyper_Panda_GO
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Poetry is incredibly fun to write, especially limmericks
There once was a druggist named Dan Who was a very vein punctured man With his dirty syringe After a heroin binge His brain simply turned into flan
-------------------- There is no valid reason you should be reading this
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