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Heroines appear beautiful.

Youthfulness is there; so is the figure.
Beautician is there; so is the photographer.
Perverted audience is every where.
Heroines are less than what they seem
02.06.2002, pakd

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Adrienne Vittadini

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[...] Read more

poem by Caasder Fronds
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Fitration Bags

2.5 gallon shopvac bags
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[...] Read more

poem by Rwetewrt Erwtwer
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Trash Bag

1 bag cement mold
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[...] Read more

poem by Rwetewrt Erwtwer
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What is Sometimes Hidden.

Just as Minnie gets in the mood
to play the Debussy Violin

Sonata her mother says the
photographer is waiting and

so she has to go along to the
lounge and pose and have her

picture taken and as she stands
there with her violin dressed

to the nines the photographer
says no do not smile it cheapens

the effect and so she stiffens
her lips and stares at the young

photographer's moustache and
her mother says do has the man

wants dear and don't pout so
and so she ceases to pout and

gazes at the box camera and man
hidden behind the cloth his hand

visible and do not move he says
hold it do not fidget dear her

mother says and puts her hands
on her shoulders and places her

in the position her mother thinks
the photographer wants is that it?

her mother asks the photographer
smiling in that way she smiles that

gives the impression of an imbecile
yes yes he says that is it and so she

stands as placed the sensation of
wanting to urinate suddenly upon

her and so she squeezes her thighs
together her knees touching her

hands gripping the violin trying
silently to keep the urine in.

poem by Terry Collett
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Better, Deeper, More Intelligent

Better, deeper, more intelligent,
and sensitive than us, Jane Austen
provides a literary environment
in which we all, by getting lost in
admiration for her heroines,
feel so diminished we conclude
whichever of the many heroes wins
their heart is an unlucky dude.

Riding with her, dressed by Abercombie
and Fitch is not the sort of way
I’d like to spend my time. I’m not a zombie.
Perhaps because I am not gay
I can’t relate to all the topics Jane
obsesses on, and in Northanger
Abbey heroines would all complain
I was a crashing bore and wanker.

“Why couldn’t all these heroines go out
and get a job? ” was asked by Emma––
not Jane’s, Ms. Thompson’s Emma, without doubt
a heroine who’s not a femi-
nist––oh horrid word––but understands
how prejudice which is their pride
lands nearly all of them in Jane’s badlands
composed of English countryside.

Who needs a woman who is deeper than
themselves, far better, surely, and
far more intelligent? I’m not that man.
Although I think I understand
what all her heroines are saying, I
don’t look for girls who're good or deep.
I’m merely looking for the sort who’ll lie
with me before I fall asleep.

Inspired by an article by Jennifer Schuessler on “Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, ” by Seth Grahame-Smith (“I Was a Regency Zombie, ” NYT, February 22,2009) :

The classic examples of that would be any speech by Judi Dench — her accent certainly helps — or Emma Thompson’s understated, wryly funny acceptance speech at the 1996 Oscars, when she won the award for best adapted screenplay for “Sense and Sensibility.”
“Before I came, I went to visit Jane Austen’s grave in Winchester Cathedral to pay my respects, you know, and tell her about the grosses, ” she said. She also thanked Sidney Pollack “for asking the right questions, like, ‘Why couldn’t these women go out and get a job? ’ ” Ms. Thompson — who accepted another award, at the Golden Globes, with a speech in the style of Jane Austen herself — then did what cool British award winners do: she put the Oscar in her guest bathroom.

These days, America is menaced by zombie banks and zombie computers. What’s next, a zombie Jane Austen? In fact, yes. Minor pandemonium ensued in the blogosphere this month after Quirk Books announced the publication of “Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, ” an edition of Austen’s classic juiced up with “all-new scenes of bone-crunching zombie mayhem” by a Los Angeles television writer named Seth Grahame-Smith. (First line: “It is a truth universally acknowledged that a zombie in possession of brains must be in want of more brains.”) … In fact, “Pride and Prejudice” may already be a zombie novel, contends Brad Pasanek, a specialist in 18th-century literature at the University of Virginia. “The characters other than the protagonist are so often surrounded by people who aren’t fully human, like machines that keep repeating the same things over and over again, ” Professor Pasanek said. “All those characters shuffling in and out of scenes, always frustrating the protagonists. It’s a crowded but eerie landscape. What’s wrong with those people? They don’t dance well but move in jerky fits. Oh, they are headed this way! ” While the vast industry of Austen sequels and pastiches runs heavily toward the romance-novel end of the literary spectrum - see “The Private Diary of Mr. Darcy” by Maya Slater, to be published in the United States in June - scholars have long emphasized the mean-girl side of Jane’s personality. Professor Pasanek, who has collaborated on a project that uses spam-detection software to analyze Austen fan fiction, cites the psychologist D. W. Harding’s 1940 essay “Regulated Hatred, ” which sounds more like a death-metal band than a piece of influential Austen scholarship.“Most people try to ignore the fact that Austen’s novels are sort of acid baths, ” Professor Pasanek said. “She’s so much better, deeper, more sensitive and intelligent than everyone around her that she has to regulate her own misanthropy. Her novels are hostile environments.”

2/22/09

poem by Gershon Hepner
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I Am The Audience

I am the audience
Theres no doubt, no consequence
I could make the morning papers
If I use my capers
Lets be the audience
I might lose my patience
Polite applause excepted
To the ones selected, as the audience...
Oh I ... am the audience
No doubt, no consequence
Cause Im the audience
Lets be the audience
I might lose my patience
Polite applause excepted
To the ones selected
I am the audience
Breakdown the pretence
No longer be silent
Lets turn to violence
I am the audience

song performed by Xtc
Added by Lucian Velea
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I Am The Audience

I am the audience
Theres no doubt, no consequence
I could make the morning papers
If I use my capers
Lets be the audience
I might lose my patience
Polite applause excepted
To the ones selected, as the audience...
Oh I ... am the audience
No doubt, no consequence
Cause Im the audience
Lets be the audience
I might lose my patience
Polite applause excepted
To the ones selected
I am the audience
Breakdown the pretence
No longer be silent
Lets turn to violence
I am the audience

song performed by Xtc
Added by Lucian Velea
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The ten commandments of communication

The ten commandments of communication

Verify your ideas before clarification, as to whether the contents of your
communication will really serve the purpose of your communication. Consult others, where appropriate, the communication plan. This will help you decide the audience-based right content, flow, duration and location.

Make clear to the audience the true purpose of communication. Make it known to the audience as to what you want them to do after receiving the inputs from you. It can be just an act, can be an attitudinal change, can be drawing a strategy or plan of action.

Ensure you are in the right set of environment for the communication.
Communication is not effected just by words and gestures, but also by the quality of place where you communicate.

Take into confidence your audience. Encourage them to come out with their experience in the subject of communication. Accordingly polish your ways.

Be sure where to emphasize and where to dilute. Check yourself the
overtones and emphasis on messages conveyed, as audience may not notice.

Avoid being theoretical all through. Give practical examples. Enthuse
audience to come out with problems, connected with the subject and offer, if possible, practical solutions.

Follow up with what you communicate. Ensure audience is with you through the entire communication. Give no impression that you are evaluating their ability to absorb.

Demonstrate that you practice what you preach. Your past experiences may come handy.

Communicate for tomorrow, based on previous learning, enabling the audience visualize new horizons on the subject of communication.

Last, but not the least, seek not to be understood, but to understand. Be a good listener too.

poem by Bashyam Narayanan
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Epilogue

(THE GRAVEYARD OF SPOON RIVER. TWO VOICES ARE HEARD BEHIND A SCREEN DECORATED WITH DIABOLICAL AND ANGELIC FIGURES IN VARIOUS ALLEGORICAL RELATIONS. A FAINT LIGHT SHOWS DIMLY THROUGH THE SCREEN AS IF IT WERE WOVEN OF LEAVES, BRANCHES AND SHADOWS.)

FIRST VOICE

A game of checkers?

SECOND VOICE

Well, I don't mind.

FIRST VOICE

I move the Will.

SECOND VOICE

You're playing it blind.

FIRST VOICE

Then here's the Soul.

SECOND VOICE

Checked by the Will.

FIRST VOICE

Eternal Good!

SECOND VOICE

And Eternal Ill.

FIRST VOICE

I haste for the King row.

SECOND VOICE

Save your breath.

FIRST VOICE

I was moving Life.

SECOND VOICE

You're checked by Death.

[...] Read more

poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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Abeke

Abeke!
A sight for sour eyes,
A glocery to distressed souls,
A beautician of smile,
Oh beautiful one,
Adorned with spell
To ravage a man's world
With allure of carressing
In touch gentle slumber.

Abeke!
Your beauty roars like a ferocious Lion
Your beauty tumble rocks down the hills
Your beauty stills the wind
And incline us to the harmony
Of your gentle breath
And runs all men through a tumult of emotion
Abeke!
For men say you are a soul dresser,
Some call you the fig replenisher,
For you hottily undress a man's conceit,
With your crystal charmed eyes of glee.
And lightning, dazzling smile from the forest
Of your irrisistible naked lips,
But i call you a condiment,
The totality of a man's existence.

Abeke!
Some say you are a product of black concoct,
That which was made of Africa's consult,
Some say you are figment of imagination,
Some say you are every man's flight of imagination,
Because you are a descendant of mother nature,
But i say you are just another mother Mary,
With a volumptious sensuality,
That best defines the 21st century's beauty,
And if you happen to be a figurine in a gallery,
I wouldn't mind exhausting a fortune
For a cursory glance.

Abeke!
The priceless beauty of my time,
The great sorceress
That beholds my heart
For all i do care.
Abeke!

I have been looking under rocks,
Breaking locks just trying to find you,
The golden sun told me you went West up the hills,

[...] Read more

poem by Folayemi Akande
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A Myriad Heroines

Tonight sheer ecstasy and bliss, first discovered Strictly
Come Dancing, I lose myself in those dancing heroines,
Vin Diesel in the movie XXX stole the show encouraging
the individual to make a difference, Wizards of Waverley
Place had Alex experience romance in a magical journal

I have many brilliant stories also, never featuring me, there
is a myriad heroines - based on the stories I loved when I
was a kid, books I like get assimilated into it - every noble
thought integrated in a kaleidoscope that encompasses
more than this universe, after this great Sunday night

I am convinced whatever sacrifice or endurance tomorrow
requires, I am safe in an inner bauble of wonderful dreams,
need not send my own self anywhere as an infinite number
of heroines can go all over the world to do the magnificent
things suggested by myths, parables and legends

poem by Margaret Alice Second
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True Aussie Heroes And Heroines

From Victoria's bushfires great stories we hear
Stories of great courage in the face of fear
Stories of generosity and selflessness of the catastrophe abound
When heroes and heroines are needed they are to be found
Where hundreds of people and more than a million animals have died
And more than two thousand homes have been destroyed
Of courage and generosity the many cannot be denied
The heroes and heroines of Victoria's blackened countryside
The fire fighters and volunteers who risked their lives for others to save
Where courage is needed you will find the brave
The people who gave homes to the homeless the men and women who helped in every way
These are the true heroes and heroines of Australia's blackest ever day
The Aussie generosity and courage one has to admire
It surely did surface in Victoria's monster fire.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Believe It Or Not

Believe it or not, everyone, have things that they hide
Believe it or not, everyone, keep most things inside
Believe it or not, everyone, believes in something above
Believe it or not, everyone, needs to feel loved
Feel loved, but we don't and we won't until we figure out
Could someone deliver us, and send some kind of sign
So close to giving up, 'cause faith is so hard to find
But you don't and you won't, until we figure out
Seen it or not, every time, the world turns upside down
Believe it or not, most of us, feel like we're losing ground
Believe it or not, everyone, hate admitting fear
Believe it or not, most of us, wanna know why we're here
Why we're here, but we don''t and we won't until we figure out
Could someone deliver us, and send some kind of sign
So close to giving up, 'cause faith is so hard to find
Someone deliver us, and send some kind of sign
So close to giving up, 'cause faith is so hard to find
But you're young and you won't, until we figure out
Most of us have nothing to complain about
Most of us have things we could live without
Everyone needs advice on how to get along
You know we won't until we figure out
[Instrumental]
Believe it or not everyone
Believe it or not, everyone, have things that they hide
Believe it or not, everyone, keep most things inside
Believe it or not, everyone, believe in something above
Believe it or not, everyone, needs to feel loved
Feel loved, well we don't and we won't until we figure out
Could someone deliver us, and send some kind of sign
So close to giving up, 'cause faith is so hard to find
Someone deliver us, and send some kind of sign
So close to giving up, 'cause faith is so hard to find
But you're young and you won't, until we figure out
You're young and you won't, until we figure out

song performed by Nickelback
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The Amateur Photographer

Beware of those who slyly pilch
In many cunning ways;
Beware of little lyres that filch
From undisputed bays!
Beware the tumbler's beaded brim,
The ass in fiercer fur;
But most of all beware of him
Who makes my pen to stir--
THe Insecure
And Amateur
Implacable Photographer!

Beware lest, thieving for your thirst,
An earwig's in the plum!
Beware of folly, gay at first,
That later makes you glum!
Beware of pits when stars are dim,
The tooth of vagrant cur;
But most of all beware of him
That makes my pen to stir--
The masterful
Disasterful
Implacable Photographer!

Beware of angling in a stream
Whose trout are not for you;
Beware of trusting in a dream
That's gone before the dew!
Beware of truckling to a whim;
Of folks that always purr;
But most of all beware of him
That makes my pen to stir--
The premature
And Amateur
Implacable Photographer!

poem by Norman Rowland Gale
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Scrape not sexual art.

When you coin love song,
you relive with your past love.
The one who tunes for it
Too, relives with one’s past love.
Hero and heroine play it,
With sex hidden in flesh,
While the singers recall
Their love in singing it.
Audience turns as heroes and heroines
To relish their past love.
Art with sex is the outlet
For human libido.
Where art thrives there dies sexual assult.
16.04.2002, Pakd

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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The Rosciad

Unknowing and unknown, the hardy Muse
Boldly defies all mean and partial views;
With honest freedom plays the critic's part,
And praises, as she censures, from the heart.

Roscius deceased, each high aspiring player
Push'd all his interest for the vacant chair.
The buskin'd heroes of the mimic stage
No longer whine in love, and rant in rage;
The monarch quits his throne, and condescends
Humbly to court the favour of his friends;
For pity's sake tells undeserved mishaps,
And, their applause to gain, recounts his claps.
Thus the victorious chiefs of ancient Rome,
To win the mob, a suppliant's form assume;
In pompous strain fight o'er the extinguish'd war,
And show where honour bled in every scar.
But though bare merit might in Rome appear
The strongest plea for favour, 'tis not here;
We form our judgment in another way;
And they will best succeed, who best can pay:
Those who would gain the votes of British tribes,
Must add to force of merit, force of bribes.
What can an actor give? In every age
Cash hath been rudely banish'd from the stage;
Monarchs themselves, to grief of every player,
Appear as often as their image there:
They can't, like candidate for other seat,
Pour seas of wine, and mountains raise of meat.
Wine! they could bribe you with the world as soon,
And of 'Roast Beef,' they only know the tune:
But what they have they give; could Clive do more,
Though for each million he had brought home four?
Shuter keeps open house at Southwark fair,
And hopes the friends of humour will be there;
In Smithfield, Yates prepares the rival treat
For those who laughter love, instead of meat;
Foote, at Old House,--for even Foote will be,
In self-conceit, an actor,--bribes with tea;
Which Wilkinson at second-hand receives,
And at the New, pours water on the leaves.
The town divided, each runs several ways,
As passion, humour, interest, party sways.
Things of no moment, colour of the hair,
Shape of a leg, complexion brown or fair,
A dress well chosen, or a patch misplaced,
Conciliate favour, or create distaste.
From galleries loud peals of laughter roll,
And thunder Shuter's praises; he's so droll.
Embox'd, the ladies must have something smart,

[...] Read more

poem by Charles Churchill
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Perverted Urges

Peruked from a time,
When masquerades were the rage.
And little boys and little girls...
Satisfied their fancies.
The elders curbed their perverted urges.
Under burlap, hopsack and lace...
And replaced later by silk and houndstooth,
To disguise their heated lusts...
And naked tastes for a screw in the hay!
Discreeted with the best of principles projected.

Those perverted and peruked.
Sweat!
With standards of lives...
And an etiquette!
Oh yes.

And today,
As those centuries have long passed away!
Those perverted urges are still there.
But faded are those standards...
Yet
Attempts are made,
By some who try to keep temptations hidden!
While butts and thighs...
With tattoed breasts!
Are clearly exposed and on display!

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Eyes Of Mr D (Part 5)

Mr D took off his glasses,
and raised his white cane.
He struck the dark figure,
hard with the crook of the handle
in the middle of the back.
The dark figure bends backwards
revealing his mask of death.
Quickly he recovered and twisted around.
He went to strike out at Mr D,
who hooked the white cane
around one leg and pulled.
The dark figure with the mask of death
fell upon the ground.
He pulled a blade from his pocket
that glinted under the moonlight.
Mr D used the cane again
to knock the blade from his hand
into the dark waters of the lake.

The sound of sirens and blue lights filled the air.
The figure with the mask of death
tried his best to flee.
Mr D went after him.
He ran onto the wooden bridge.
Mr D caught him there.
They struggled with each other,
one getting the upper hand for a moment,
then the other.
Mr D finally hit him with his fist.
The figure spun and stumbled against the wooden guardrail.
The rail snapped under the sudden weight.
Into the dark waters,
the figure plunged and disappeared below.

Mr D came off the bridge
moments before the police arrived.
It was over now he said to himself.
The pretty woman waited there for him.
She looked, smiled, and held her hand out
to the man who saved her life.
“How did you know? ” she asked.
“My eyes told me it was going to happen.”
He then went on to explain.
When they were allowed to leave,
they left hand in hand.
“I don’t know your name.” She said,
“And here you save my life.”
He smiled. “Are you sure you want to know? ”
She nodded.
“My name is Henry De Ath,

[...] Read more

poem by David Harris
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Picture-Writing

In those days said Hiawatha,
"Lo! how all things fade and perish!
From the memory of the old men
Pass away the great traditions,
The achievements of the warriors,
The adventures of the hunters,
All the wisdom of the Medas,
All the craft of the Wabenos,
All the marvellous dreams and visions
Of the Jossakeeds, the Prophets!
"Great men die and are forgotten,
Wise men speak; their words of wisdom
Perish in the ears that hear them,
Do not reach the generations
That, as yet unborn, are waiting
In the great, mysterious darkness
Of the speechless days that shall be!
"On the grave-posts of our fathers
Are no signs, no figures painted;
Who are in those graves we know not,
Only know they are our fathers.
Of what kith they are and kindred,
From what old, ancestral Totem,
Be it Eagle, Bear, or Beaver,
They descended, this we know not,
Only know they are our fathers.
"Face to face we speak together,
But we cannot speak when absent,
Cannot send our voices from us
To the friends that dwell afar off;
Cannot send a secret message,
But the bearer learns our secret,
May pervert it, may betray it,
May reveal it unto others."
Thus said Hiawatha, walking
In the solitary forest,
Pondering, musing in the forest,
On the welfare of his people.
From his pouch he took his colors,
Took his paints of different colors,
On the smooth bark of a birch-tree
Painted many shapes and figures,
Wonderful and mystic figures,
And each figure had a meaning,
Each some word or thought suggested.
Gitche Manito the Mighty,
He, the Master of Life, was painted
As an egg, with points projecting
To the four winds of the heavens.
Everywhere is the Great Spirit,

[...] Read more

poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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The Song Of Hiawatha XIV: Picture-Writing

In those days said Hiawatha,
'Lo! how all things fade and perish!
From the memory of the old men
Pass away the great traditions,
The achievements of the warriors,
The adventures of the hunters,
All the wisdom of the Medas,
All the craft of the Wabenos,
All the marvellous dreams and visions
Of the Jossakeeds, the Prophets!
'Great men die and are forgotten,
Wise men speak; their words of wisdom
Perish in the ears that hear them,
Do not reach the generations
That, as yet unborn, are waiting
In the great, mysterious darkness
Of the speechless days that shall be!
'On the grave-posts of our fathers
Are no signs, no figures painted;
Who are in those graves we know not,
Only know they are our fathers.
Of what kith they are and kindred,
From what old, ancestral Totem,
Be it Eagle, Bear, or Beaver,
They descended, this we know not,
Only know they are our fathers.
'Face to face we speak together,
But we cannot speak when absent,
Cannot send our voices from us
To the friends that dwell afar off;
Cannot send a secret message,
But the bearer learns our secret,
May pervert it, may betray it,
May reveal it unto others.'
Thus said Hiawatha, walking
In the solitary forest,
Pondering, musing in the forest,
On the welfare of his people.
From his pouch he took his colors,
Took his paints of different colors,
On the smooth bark of a birch-tree
Painted many shapes and figures,
Wonderful and mystic figures,
And each figure had a meaning,
Each some word or thought suggested.
Gitche Manito the Mighty,
He, the Master of Life, was painted
As an egg, with points projecting
To the four winds of the heavens.
Everywhere is the Great Spirit,

[...] Read more

poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Added by Poetry Lover
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