I know, it's almost as bad as confessing that you're a scret ball-pen user. All the same, I'll give you one of mine that I rather like at the moment.

Reticence

You nothing said
Though your eyes swam like lapis lazuli in summer seas,
Hanging a question on your reticence.

You left abruptly, not with a word,
A whisper, or a sign,
But dawdling into darkness like a star
Ungathered unto any galaxy
That radiates its light into the void and nothing warms
Nor wears
Nor either perishes,

For what are words but opiates,
Corners to conceal discomfort in,
Some apprehensive hours?

Not so much recently, but in past lives. The one I'm proudest of in terms of its poetical qualities is this one, which I penned during the 1991 Gulf War.

The Dogs of War

The dogs of war awake. The night
is shattered by the thunder of
their barking, booming cry, athirst
for drink, the blood of dying men
and dead. The lightning of their eyes
illumines stroboscopic scenes
of carnage, men flung to the sky
to fall in bits and pieces for
the satisfaction of their greed
whose passions lightly squander life,
the life of others, ragged dolls
strewn red and lifeless on the sand.

The dogs descend, and vultures, too,
their prey the lands they tread upon
as one advances, one retreats
in squabbles over bloody bones.
A line drawn in the sand is scuffed,
positions taken, lost, retaken,
only life their trifling price.
The irony of war hangs thick,
that they whose sabres rattle loud
should rule the land while they
who bought it lie interred beneath,
a generation blown to hell.

The thing about this that bothers me the most is that it's still current.

Me. If you want to read some just say so.

I write a little and read a lot!!!

Favourites:Robert Frost,Edna Millay,Emily Dickinson,Wordsworth,Byron,etc.

Yes,i'm old fashioned.But i admit TS Eliot's cats are a treat!!

JD

Don't be shy LZG. Let us read some of your poetry.

Here's another one of mine that is more of a lyric...(sometimes they come out that way)...


Old Life


Ink stained hands and a couple of books
Make some noise, get a couple of looks
Running up that hill and running you down
That’s life, that’s life, that’s old life

Snappy clothes and a couple of songs
Stories to tell cause a couple of yawns
Fill up your time and damage your mind
That’s life, that’s life, that’s old life

And the sun goes around
And the moon and the stars do a dance
I’ll catch your hand and I’ll let it go
When old life tells me it’s time

Rainy nights and a couple of tears
Wind in your hair, an exaltation of fears
Wait for the doctor while you wait for the bus
That’s life, that’s life, that’s old life

When it’s all over what have you got
Peas in the porridge and the coffee is hot
Showers felt good and kisses felt better
That’s life, that’s life, that’s old life

And the sun goes around
And the moon and the stars do a dance
I’ll catch your hand and I’ll let it go
When old life tells me it’s time

I’ll catch your hand and I’ll let it go
When old life tells me it’s time


May 19 and 20, 2007

Merry Go Round Dreams

He came to me all in a day,
From a time and place so far away.
Want me he did,
But from him I hid.
Afraid to face the offer he gave.
Fearful he’d steal me away from all that
I knew.
By and by his overtures bludgeoning me,
Tripping through my mind,
Deliberately seeping into my heart.
All day long.
Even as I lie down to bed.
Glided gently into Morpheus’ grasp.
He remained in my head.
Vivid,
Alive,
As the very stars,
Scintillating in the pitch sky.
Wraith- like
His frail frame,
In the saddle atop his wooden steed.
Dark as night,
Bounding across the recesses of my mind.
Spinning, whirling,
The closer he came,
The stronger his beckonings were.
Eyes as brown and soft as old beach glass,
Starred from between thickets of
Long lashes.
Very dark eyes,
Windows
Into an even darker
Soul.
Like pools of
Cool water
On a long summers day.
His smile,
Full rose cupids bow pout.
Like warm sunshine playing through the fresh
Spring foliage.
Sweet and shy.
As he neared
Aware I became
Of his hair,
Its beauty.
Tumbling over his shoulders,
Like rivulets of nearly raven tiger-eye.
Spiraling, twisting,
In loose curves and rings,
Framing his face in all its soft glory.
A fine boyish face,
Forlorn
Smooth as ice cream,
With a slight nose.
In the saddle,
Embellished with tiny shards of mirror,
His tenuous form rested.
Atop his grand steed,
The tone of black satin,
Its neck elegantly curved.
Hair as untamed as its rider.
Graceful is its body,
Just like its rider.
His fine hands,
Resting on fine legs,
Dangling along powerful mid night flanks.
Above them his body,
Lean and compact,
Sitting in the saddle like that of a prince.
His cries now tearing at my heart,
Invading my soul.
But still I do not wish to go,
To fall into that hole.
Want me he still does,
From him I still hide.
Through when I awoke,
A piece of my heart he did break,
And take,
A ransom.
To lure me back.
By and by,
Day in day out.

Extremely powerful and passionate. Thanks LZG.

Thanks. It really did all come from a dream.

Here's another fairly recent one of mine - last year:


Fly Naked!

It’s come down to this:
The confiscation of everything personal or fun.
How will we fly from now on?
No laptop, no liquids,
Just thirty thousand feet and our fears.

It was not supposed to be like this.
I remember the flights of my youth:
The men in suits, the ladies in dresses,
China, linen napkins, custom silverware.
They would bring kids spaghetti if you asked.
It was heaven.

Now, the cramped seats, the stale air,
The recycled bag of nuts, a one-year-old People.
And we’re supposed to be grateful?
“We’re losing money on every flight,” says the CEO,
“Be glad you have a seat at all.”

I’m grateful, grateful to arrive in one piece,
But I remember.

There’s the old dream, often revisited,
The one where it comes as a complete surprise –
But one day, you walk out to your porch
Spread your arms, kick out, and rise.
It takes some effort, you have to shed some clothes,
But you can fly.

Your friends are let in on the secret one by one.
Your parents are amazed, your enemies envious
And worried what you can now do to them with water balloons.
This pure air and freedom
Carrying you up, higher and higher,
Into a sky that’s still blue, clouds still white.

And in the morning, you shook yourself,
Surprised to not have that power –
It seemed so real, so right.

Now it’s clearly a dream, just a memory
(Like smiling stewardesses who bent down to talk;
Like captains with tans, white hair and Ray-Bans
Who weren’t sex fiends or secret alcoholics),
Just an illusion.

But how wonderful it would be.
To lose the bags, the shoes, the bottles;
To drop the purses, the magazines, the PDA and cellphones.
To walk to the gate, spread our arms, and ascend
Without everything that makes us less
Than what we truly are. Weightless.

Check out my signature for a recent piece.

On being trampled upon again.

I'm Banquo at the banquet
I'm the one you'd not known best.
I'm your fifteen stone first-footer
I'm the disinvited guest.

I'm the one thing you knew you shouldn't do
but you did thinking you were right.
I'm a person now shot through.
left ouside, hid from sight.

You thought it was for good now.
You thought you'd do your best.
You screwed it up oh boy how!
how at night do you rest?

Then the vutures come a picking
With their words and hidden joys.
hate them all with hearts not ticking
see their statements as just ploys.

Here's one I wrote a few years ago - just what you might expect from someone who loves farm life. My apologies to all you city-dwellers. (Wonder why - even though some lines are indented in the box where I typed this in - the post preview shows all the lines flush on the left?)



City Gods


Tall, tall buildings,

monuments to a god called Clutter.

Highways stacked upon highways,

offerings to a god called Haste.

Concrete covering the earth

so the God of Heat may make himself manifest.

Aching arms and legs that cannot stretch themselves,

curses of a god called Cram.

Judith B. Landry - 1990 or thereabouts

Oh well, at least there are a few of us. I do limericks too.

A divorcee, much raddled and used,
About her own figure enthused:
"It's deliciously curved
And quite nicely preserved,"
And millions of men were amused.

Cruel, but the target has taken her leisurely revenge. I never meet her without being reminded of it, repeatedly, and at length.

My favourites: Thomas Hardy, Wilfred Owen, Edmund Blunden, George Barker, Gerard Manley Hopkins, George Herbert, Christina Rossetti.

I like this.

Edit: removed post

I totallt fogot those FP haikus that are somewhere in another thread..do they count as poety?

T

Another older poem of mine -

Moss Agate (for Mary)


This dusk of snow
Frames pines
Trimmed white;

Ice cobweb-cold
As the pigeons
Comb the pebbles;

This moss agate.
Delicate as obsidian,
A cool clear glass

Window,
Formed by pressure
And persistence.

Inside this winter
Curves our warmth;
Then flowers unfreeze,

As hues release,
Trace lines in outline,
Verdure of spring;

But we’ll remain
Hidden in certain
Pressure and fire –

In volcanic glass
Indefinite, violet,
Flowing like clear water.

Here is the poem I wrote for my Parents on their 55th anniversary.

http://pages.suddenlink.net/pakman/al_and_maudean.htm

I'm a diarist, a fantasy writer, and also a poet.

Written yesterday:

S.S. Friendship
Dedicated to: Hiram L., my best friend - after being more than a bit neglectful.

---

An old craft
Tough and tested -
She's weathered many seas;

Waves can't budge her,
She's always righting -
Fighting ceaselessly...

Beware the Sandbars,
Their grit of diamond -
Grinding at her hull;

For all the falsehoods
Can eat her toughness -
Until all abandon ship.

Don't write the tombstone
Of your best mate -
The steel
Of S.S. Friendship.

---

Two things:

1.) I rarely write short poems like this one;
2.) Like many of my poems, this one has a basic meter inspired by a mainstream song. Bonus points for anyone who can guess which one is at the heart of this poem.

Yes.

In fact, to make them that short and still fit the tight restrictions - while still being good - isn't as easy as one might think.

I hesitate to post this, it really isn't finished and it is a bit silly. But I wrote it a long time ago and I take it out evry once in awhile and change a
word or two.

I have never been.
JD
February 4th 197*

I have never been a poet
The rhyme of thought eludes me
I can not write a poem
My childish attempts amuse me.

I have never been an artist
My visions are not meant to last
I can not paint a portrait
My hands move too fast

I have never been a musician
The scales and notes confuse me
I can not carry a tune
Tone deaf does suit me

I have never been an author
My thoughts the pen can’t master
I can not tell a story
The telling surely a disaster

I have never been a hero
Would not know where to start
I did put on a uniform
And tried to do my part

Even when I was spit on
For wearing all that green
I never thought I was special
I just stood taller glad to be seen

I do write poetry -- pretty much a **late** night activity. My way of decompressing from the day and letting the other side of me out for a while.


Day Dreamer

As I lie on my back
I reflect on the great white fleets
that wander the blue
changing them, one-by-one
to shapes of childhood past

Nearby, fallen leaves scratch their way
across a well-worn path
and branches above dance
in celebration of the procession

Fickle breezes move across me
to fold me in their cool embrace
and place upon my brow
a touch of God's grace

My life is in the breath of the wind
in gaps and heights of clouds
and the quest of the unknown shore
That, like all, is foretold
by the Divine

- P. Kurland
Sept. 2007

Hey you guys; this is good stuff. I love poetry and the writing thereof, so I'm glad this forum is receiving such good attention.

Here are a couple to amuse you (if that's the word). These are just what I have put out most recently.

Fugue Oratorio to the Republic
Für Paul Celan, der nicht eng liegt

Lamplight: a spark on the shell of a car, dawn bluing
a man stands on the corner of Broadway and 61st in a stiff salute

our waltz going on in the telephone booth, Laura, is the kind that is skin
on skin - your taste buds buckle on the top note. History passes here

like the tall ships on the Thames into the interminable waterway,
folded into the sea at sundown and never toasted or gilded.

The graybeard prophet on the street corner in his stiff embrace
with our future, which he'll cut into floorboards, says, "Can't you hear

the boot heels, like history being born, falling in the piazza,
the platz, the square?" In the night this parade rhythm bears up

overspreads the sky. Laura, you're like spring on the edge of a desert
let me turn to you, leave the rest. Wrap our monuments in shrouds.

The shells of cars pass slow and black, black as stale
snow with no angels cut in. We raise our glasses at dawn

and at night, light piercing straight through because they're hollow.
There's a plaster horseman on every corner leading

the crosswalkers in a salute. Tell me, Laura, where the first gold
rusher's heart caught fire. Douse our monuments in petroleum.

Sunlight: a spark on the shell of a car, noon star falling to the rim
highways gird the greed-greased pastures, keep sheep from overspilling

keep shepherds well armed their staves white like the cross
the cross that shades the highways at noon and at night we drink

and drink our own spit because our glasses are bottom-dry.
Laura, you're as pure as apple wood in the mouth of spring.

I can kiss the drizzle off you, Laura, but I can't stop the axeman
or the shells of cars like ants over-hill. This machine broad as sunlight

stoops under that leaden star called Destiny. We'll go hand in hand:
look through our time like a mirror, to find that it's like searching


out our reflection in the sea. We stand on the street corner listening
for boot heels on cobbles; we cross, our heads down and close together.

-Summer Greer

Meeting Chloë Hanslip

She’s standing at a row of windows
beside a sunshower: autumn in Florida
is this, rain that comes from sunshine,
though it’s also hurricane season. However,
this might be the aftermath of her Beethoven “Spring,”
not a meteorological fact at all.

Her dress is a black that flows against
the dove-white of her skin under golden light
and its sequins remind me that there’s something
radiant when I look up at night. Smiling
through seaglass eyes, she is just taller than my chin
in high-heels: her hand is small, but it presses forward the sea.

-Summer Greer

Nice, Martius. I like both of these. I especially like the way the line breaks and the rhythm work so nicely in the Fugue.

Thank you, sir! Since I'm a creative writing major, I spend a good part of my time thinking about poetry. However, music was my first passion, so I'm glad I am able to convey some ebb and flow through the Fugue. If you have never read Celan's Todesfuge, which inspired my Fugue, consider looking it up - it really is a masterwork! Most of the translations I have seen can't retain the rhythm of the original, however.

J - I like your stuff too, particularly Moss Agate. I saw some tight images and fine restraint in that poem.

Best and happy Thanksgiving,
Summer

Ok, I will join, although I have already posted this elsewhere:

The things they come
And things they go
And you may never know
Why one time makes you fly
And another one bow

Once standing proud
You seem to glow
Then hours turn in an endless flow
And all that once was
Will inevitably blow

I know that this might be full of mistakes, so please be merciful :-)

Here, from my latest book, is a pen-related poem which originally appeared in Pen World:

Early and Late


1

Southpawed, I sat in St. Brendan’s first-grade class,
at a wrought-framed desk, hands primly folded
atop the gouged, graffitoed hardwood lid that bore
the dark veneer of all the other straight-backed,
uniformed boys who’d passed that way before.

Too unschooled for pens, I’d set my fat, blunt-leaded
pencil in its shallow trough, the red shaft scarred
with the pit-marks of teething. All black and white
against the chalked blackboard, Sister taught
the rigid curves and angularities of early ABCs,

but I, true to some time-tested prejudice,
was the sinister recalcitrant, her only devil-
handed boy she placed, cowed and cowering,
closest to her desk so that when my left hand
would reach, by instinct, for that instrument of self-

expression, I’d feel her wooden knuckle-raps and bear
my red Fs home. How many pencils did I sharpen
into extinction, practicing what seemed a secret code
I longed to break, enjoined as I was—though I couldn’t
grasp it then—in the ardor of apprenticeship?


2

What flows now between the mind-
forged nib and the paper’s pure
vacancy: these vagrant trails,

blue-black as night, stippled
with distant glimmer, jots
and tittles, the deep dye

of being, cursive, connected,
stroked, and curled, the flourish
of a word—there!—like a whip

inked into meaning.

I write song lyrics, which I refer to as "poetry lite"

I call for some audio files.

I gave it a whirl, but the file was too big to upload. Too bad. If I can find somewhere else to stick it, I'll send a link.

-

I like this one very much, Richard. Your work often strikes a chord, though.

Here's a link to a few of my songs, Martius (hope it works!)

http://members.shaw.ca/pam.b/music.html

[/quote]-

I like this one very much, Richard. Your work often strikes a chord, though.
[/quote]


Thanks, Lucinda.

Yeah, I confess....You can read some of them online...please go to...

http://blog.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseacti...endID=110385625

Nathan Hondros

This is impressive work. I enjoyed it greatly.

Nathan Hondros

Here's one of mine from a couple of years ago:


Elementals

Sprawling dunes concussed by
Spiraling whiplash winds
Reducing mountains into molehills
Disintegrating hourglasses, panoramic

You, in profile
Turbaned, majestic
On fire from the steel-sharp
Glint of the sun

The softest footfall
Illuminated by diagonal
Shafts of light
A canopy of stardust, hidden

By you, with Beethoven hair
Tendrils, tree branches
Fanning unfurled limbs
Vanishing beyond scattershot cloudbursts

Moonlight upon the ocean
Noctilucent, pearlescent
Haunted with ancestral ghosts
Seeking solace within the waves, rebirth

And you, luminous in phosphorescent reflection
A nautilus curl
Kissing your nape
Mine.

"Noctilucent". What a brilliant word. Fits perfectly in the poem, as well. Love the ending.

Nathan Hondros

Click to view attachment

Oh, but that is gorgeous stuff, Nathan - 'both candescent and profane' - too good. Thanks for 'diurnal' too - great word akin to 'noctilucent' Thank you for your kind words above. I must visit your site to read more.

Thank you, Kelly

I do not write poetry. I know nothing of prose and the terms associated with it. But I wrote this last night after reading this post and thought it might be fun to try my hand at it. It pales in comparison to the stuff you guys have posted but It's a true story that happened to me yesterday.

Today I met a childhood friend
Upon whose face I gladly gazed
No longer boys we now were men
but my how he had aged
He talked and talked about the fact
he'd lost another job
And as he talked he showered me
with drops of spit and slob
T'was not his fault
no not at all
blamed others for his woes
So what he's late
at half past eight
Blame him and them and those
I nodded and I shook my head
as if it were a shame
But all the while I'm wondering
who really was to blame
I feel for those who dont realize
your path is yours to choose
Noone else but you decides
if you will win or lose
In the end we both shook hands
and promised we would call
But now I'm not so sure
I'd like to see him
after all.

Cool! I see potential for subtlety that will strengthen this poem. The spit and slobber are great - as far as I can tell, these are all the details I need to see that he is causing problems for other people as well as himself.

I don't mean to lecture, but I think about poetry most of the time (when I'm not thinking about FP's that is).

I think you should keep it up!

Best,
Summer Greer

Finally, a fountain pen poem! I hope you enjoy it, folks.

Inner Light
For the Duelist Musashi and the Nakaya Fountain Pen Company

Writing this, the pen is like holding
a pistol grip, even the hilt of the Honjo.
Somewhere in the cataract mist
we call History, a Samurai beheads his best friend
whose glory is to die violently and in peace.

This is the line I stand on when I hold
you, Fountain Pen; you're as steady
as a column of the temples, as graceful
as the flight of blossoms. Each facet
of your length is a viscous meditation

edged with deep lightning. I feed
your life with base inks and advance
my own in a climb that carves
wells of fire, wets fountainheads.
The words are a struggle of muscles

like a long pirouette, the balance
of a violin bow, a point that moves
the world. You, Pen, are the focus,
a maker of what the throat will shape:
my sword carved from a heavy oar.

Here's my attempt at a poem:

The Dust Speck's Refrain
Escaping the city
cover under a canopy of iridescence
barrier between ourselves
and the vastness
To the country
from amidst the luminate oppression
glistening
shining in self-indulgent splendor
myopic gathering
display of self-importance

A midnight sky of limitless stars
face to face with an immeasurable backdrop
cosmic wonder
naked before an infinite frontier
But liberated from the trappings of significance
beyond the constraints of the limited
eternity creeps down
illuminating the finite
undermining a sense of worth
ingrained inferiority

“I’m significant!” screamed the dust speck.

Cool! I see potential for subtlety that will strengthen this poem. The spit and slobber are great - as far as I can tell, these are all the details I need to see that he is causing problems for other people as well as himself.

I don't mean to lecture, but I think about poetry most of the time (when I'm not thinking about FP's that is).

I think you should keep it up!

Best,
Summer Greer
[/quote]


Thanks for the encouragement. I means alot.

Oh dear, I twitter each time I consider putting a poem into the world. But this one, I suppose, yearns to escape and I ought not disobey. It won a prize at my university, my first ever sort of acknowledgement that this endeavor isn't a waste of time. I only won $50 though, barely enough for a dashing fountain pen...


[071110]

The sport fanatic
with a resolute sneer
can’t sway,
and spawns a pole in the streetcar.
No longer are persons
the disparate flecks in the mosaic
after such a hard casing emits a mean jeer.


The hunched-over reader,
hurriedly acquiring designs
from the leaves of a dictionary,
and painted by the tangling wind,
has no time for arbitrary arrows
and cannot meet the man in the seat
beside him breaking the policies of prudence
in alcoholic haste to release his frictioned mind.


Our scholar is a doorknob,
awkward and lifeless but limitless,
with the skills to spark fury in a huntress,
docile but recalcitrant to demand.
We might denote the chap as secretive,
but really, no one wants a show.


The ragged hairstyle has divided
the bench from the bully to the brains,
and en route to spill his blank hostility
at an archaic strategic warlike game
the hulking flesh fans its intimidation
and aloud doubts the dreamer’s interior.


Knowing the only worth of Christ
(yet the cavalier is more devout),
the interrupted beaver stills
the tempest of being attacked
and smiles, resumes his breeding new ideas
as if artifice, impolite and spurious
assumptions were not off.
He holds his pen, highlighting text
as if no bother pierced his routine.


But how can an inquisitive one
harness the motors of art in life
without wielding the insolence
delivered at their lap?


The trap of inhumanity
and the balance over strife
is the wind
whittling away benevolence.
But what does it expose,
a universal misanthrope?
Is the indifferent nod
the noble response,
a pardon to avoid provoke?


I grope for an opinion,
to align with honor or with compassion.
I hope to commune with only
saintly, kind, open pilgrims
with softer tongues.
I hope that throngs
of pigeons,
undulating with a garbaged cluck
don’t peck away the egret
when its elegance is up for trust.

I just discovered that the link to my songs that I had posted earlier, doesn't work properly. I think I've fixed the problem. Try http://members.shaw.ca/pam.b/music2.html if you're interested.