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Saul Bellow

We are all such accidents. We do not make up history and culture. We simply appear, not by our own choice. We make what we can of our condition with the means available. We must accept the mixture as we find it — the impurity of it, the tragedy of it, the hope of it.

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Our House With The Rotary Phone

I sit in a room that no longer exists
On a chair long since splintered and gone
While I pick at a meal I once would devour
in our house with the rotary phone.

I sit in the room that doesn’t exist
Enjoying my choice of ice creams
Recalling the window in Tiffany glass
Forgive an old man his daydreams

A simple “A” frame with three beds and a bath,
obsolete, yes, but our home.
It stood with its’ sisters on Queens borough Hill,
where the L.I.E. jams are well known.

I had known for some time that her best days were gone
A plywood fence circled our home
Title had passed to a contractor’s hands
Neglected, our house looked forlorn

My past like a picture ripped from its frame
They left not a stone on a stone
Not even the numbers on wood painted green
of our house with the rotary phone.


Our house and its twin have been wrecked and removed
And replaced with a modern brick “home”
So pardon my tear as I stand at the bier
Of our house with the rotary phone

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What Real Love Has To Do With The Lust?

These days everybody uses word love to express his or her feeling
But the problem is majority of them don’t know the real love meaning

What real love has to do with the lust?
If you get confused between love and lust, you are going to pay the price, whatever the cost

Remember, one of the most important part of your life is your feeling
So, when it comes to the real love, you better watch out with whom you are dealing

Real love requires sacrifices, respect, caring, forgiveness and trust
If you attracted to someone solely for your looks, that’s not the love, that’s a pure lust

This poem has a message especially for young people and teenage
Because lust, not the real love is the most popular one at this age

You can easily involve in a bad relationship
If every time someone claims, that loves you and you give away your heart so easy and so cheap

unfortunately, the teenage girls are the most victims of the lust
So, you better get your college degree first, then you mature enough to know, when it comes to real love, who you should trust

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What Poem Can Be Written/To Break The Silence Of Infinite Sadness?

WHAT POEM CAN BE WRITTEN/ TO BREAK THE SILENCE OF INFINITE SADNESS

What poem can be written
To break the silence of infinite sadness?
An infinite poem?
A sad Poem?
A poem that knows no one’s name
Including my own?
A poem that comes suddenly
Like the freshness of these winter breezes
And sweeps the mind free
Into a new world
Of Light and Dreams
So cold?

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We went out of our minds with the easy life

We went out of our minds with the easy life,
Wine from morning on, hungover by evening,
How can I keep this idle gaiety,
Your blush, O drunken plague?

An agonizing ceremony in a handshake,
Nocturnal kisses on the streets,
While the currents of speech grow heavy,
And lanterns burn like torches.

We wait for death, like the fairytale wolf,
But I'm afraid that the first to die will be
The one with the anxious red mouth
And the forelock covering his eyes.

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The Poems Are All I Have Now

THE POEMS ARE ALL I HAVE NOW

The poems are all I have now-

They are small
As my soul.

They tell what I am inside.
But do they have Beauty?

I write these words now
With the hope that they will be
Something
They probably are not.

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There Is No Such Thing as Wickedness Only with the Rich Ones...

once he pitied the poor
wanted to take them all from
poverty
like weeds from a garden
where he dream
only of flowers

then he mingled with them
lived with them
immersed in them
only to find out that they are
no less different
than him

they are kind
and must be understood
beyond that
kindness

at some point
as in any other case
familiarity breeds contempt
and he becomes
like anyone of them

suspicious, insecure,
greedy, and always
discontented

and they rob him
and killed him and he was
not able to tell
what was it that he hated
with the poor

i didn't know too.
i don't want to be one
neither do i wish to live with any one of them
nor immerse myself some more
into such a distress

we all have our share
of the chunks of this valley of
tears

again that is fair enough
rich or poor
same human weaknesses are there

this avarice, this greed
and to some extent
this capacity to go beyond all these
in due time

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We Are All Kings Minus A Kingdom

Leave me alone
I want to live like me
And more let me clear one thing
I want to live like a human being
I know I am not like you
You know you are not like me
We are totally different
Goes out and comes in like an ant
The heard you make is lacking talent
No variety, no quality
No liberty, no individuality
A total morbidity!
I can accept you easily
You can act like me happily
But it would be a total defeat
This leads us both in the undone street

On part of you it is a total fraud
You always try to be my false god
It is your naive and nascent crave
You always want me to be your slave.

You are a blot on humanity
You do with us a treachery

I want to live like me
I respect, you should also respect me
It would be just nice and fair
If there is a mutual love and care!

It will be on part of us a wisdom
We are all kings minus a kingdom
It will be nice and fine if we enjoy our mutual freedom!

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Imagery And Poetry

Imagery

Though often written off as decoration or illustration, imagery lies at the heart of a poem. Much of any language is built of dead metaphors, and metaphors in poetry are more sleeping than dead. To put the matter concisely: imagery is the content of thought where attention is directed to sensory qualities: mental images, figures of speech and embodiments of non-discursive truth.


Discussion

Psychologists identify seven kinds of mental images — those of sight, sound, taste, smell, touch, bodily awareness and muscular tension. All are available to poets, and are used by poets, though rarely to the same extent. The key point is the purposes to which imagery is put. Metaphor, simile, allegory, personification, metonymy (attribute for whole) and synecdoche (part for whole) all involve imagery. Often the things compared are both images, but one of them may also be a feeling or concept. The effects achieved are very various, therefore, and the matter is further complicated by literary fashion and a poet's individual obsessions.


Imagery has adjusted to changing cultural outlooks. The medieval view of art was rooted in morality, and its descriptions of the world never forgot that the smallest thing must also serve God's purposes. The Renaissance writers studied the classical authors, and employed imagery to clarify, enforce and decorate. Imagery was often elaborate, but not generally constitutive of meaning. The growth of a homogeneous reading public in the 18th century brought a polite and plain diction into general use. Images became mental representations of sensory experience, a storehouse of devices by which the original scenes of nature, society, commerce, etc. could be recreated. With Romantic transcendentalism, when the world reappeared as the garment of God, and the abstract and general resided in the concrete and particular, poetry came to embody the sacred, and images to be symbols of an indwelling deity. In Modernism and Postmodernism, the interest has focused on the images themselves, which are an inescapable part of language, and therefore a way of interrogating the world.

Suggestions

Consider using imagery to:
1. Externalize thought.
2. Create mood and atmosphere.
3. Give continuity by recurring leitmotifs.
4. Develop plot or increase dramatic effect by abrupt changes in imagery.
5. Exploit the etymology of words to subtly revive their original meanings.
recommendations
1.Don't mix metaphors too wantonly. Shakespeare did, but fashions change.
2. Find images that are new-struck, resonant and apposite.
3. Avoid imagery altogether rather than employ cliché.
4. Imagery constructs a world: make sure that world is real and vibrant with contemporary issues.

Poetry Lessons: Writing Cycle



One question is often asked in poetry lessons: is there some cycle to writing? Can the process be standardized, or made more efficient?

The answer is yes, up to a point. Poets keep files of poems in various stages of construction, and work on them as circumstances permit. The various stages call on very different skills, moreover, and a working session often sees several poems being attended to at the same time.

Discussion

Professional writers soon learn the elements of construction, indeed must to survive in a very competitive market. The slant, number of words, diction suitable for the intended audience, quotes required, references for further reading — all these will be have been set by the publication in question, and the writer's task is simply to gather material and then shape it.
Not so poetry. Poems grow much more haphazardly: in odd directions, by fits and starts, never to foreseen conclusions or any conclusions at all. Many, probably the great majority, are never accepted by reputable magazines and simply have to be aired in poetry groups and then filed for attention years later.
There are nonetheless strategies to make best use of your time. The stages below do not need to be followed mechanically, and there are poems that spring almost perfect from first putting pen to paper. But first blooms are rarities, and may be no better than the products of prolonged toil, in which art has concealed art. You need to develop your own working methods.
Suggestions
1. First comes a theme, which may be anything from a few words to a fleshed-out plan. Belonging to this stage are jottings, detailed notes, references to poems similar in shape or content. Also a long, hard look at the chances of success. Poets are not paid on an hourly basis, so that time lavished on one thing is time stolen from something else.
2. First draft. Here the poem takes shape. Content will be worked out: what the poem says and how. Verse type, rhyme scheme and stanza patterning will have been decided, and in overall shape the poem is looking like its final version.
3. Crafting. Now the draft is taken apart. Commercial writing omits this stage because there isn't the time, and such writing is anyway constructed in various stereotypes and phraseologies. Poetry is written with the deepest attention to language, however, and each shift in imagery, metaphor, verse style, word choice brings changes throughout the poem.

4. Evaluation. Stages 1 - 3 above, which are commonly repeated, give what has now to be critiqued. The poem is analyzed from various viewpoints — New Critics, Freudian / Jungian, mythological, stylistic, rhetorical, metaphorical, Postmodernist traits, and so forth. Some of these methods are evaluative; others simply reveal the poem's depth, understanding and interest. Objectivity is important, and ideally the critiques should be carried out with the help of sympathetic but astute critics in workshops and poetry circles.


5. Polishing. The poem, together with its originating notes and comments, is now put away, generally for some weeks or months. It is then read with fresh eyes, and anything less than excellent is immediately marked for attention. Changes and improvements are made, and the piece again put away for rereading later. When this process no longer brings changes, the piece is ready for publication. Note the repetitions: most poets find it very unwise to make large changes immediately before publication.


6. Submitting for publication. Many poems are first printed in small magazines, which helps generate interest and reputation. The appropriate magazines need to be selected very carefully, and their guides for submission adhered to.


7. Publicizing. Most poetry gets known through networking, attending poetry groups and readings, serving on committees, writing reviews, helping to edit anthologies, etc. Publicizing your work is an essential but commonly overlooked aspect of the poetry writing business.

Most people join poetry or literature circles for pleasure. They have always enjoyed poetry, and now have the time — through retirement, unemployment or the children leaving home — to try their own hand at this absorbing genre.
How to get started, find like-minded friends, engage in collaborative associations and publications?
Discussion
The pursuit can hardly be bettered. Poetry is the most versatile and wide-ranging of literary forms, enabling things to be said that cannot be encompassed in prose. It can be finished in odd moments, unlike the novel, which takes long years of effort. Whatever its standard or style, a poem can usually be published somewhere, given the determination, the research and the contacts. Poetry forms a good introduction to more commercial types of writing, and is usually included in creative writing courses.
Nonetheless, poetry is not easy. The medium is a compact one, needing great concentration to read, and even more to write. First efforts are not always rewarding. Nevertheless, even the most pedestrian poem occasionally lifts into the vivid and memorable, and kindles a warm response in its reader. And that is worth a great deal, despite what poetry has become in recent years. With the Modernists' love of experimentation, anti-realism, individualism and intellectualism came a great narrowing of aims and accomplishments. Poetry was not writing at its highest pitch, but something fabricated altogether differently. With Postmodernism these trends were accentuated. Writers became the self-appointed spiritual guardians of language, championing its creative and arbitrary nature over its more prosaic powers to represent, analyse and discover.
Those writing simply for pleasure can ignore these subtleties. At least at first, the opportunities seem boundless. Despite all the advantages enjoyed by contemporary plays and films — the technology, the 'real-life' dramas, modern idiom in speech and attitudes — Shakespeare is still the most performed of dramatists, giving us a gallery of recognisable characters that no one has rivalled. Dante provides us with a sharp-etched picture of fifteenth-century Italian politics. Byron manages to work in slang and details of a water pump into Don Juan, and Ezra Pound incorporates views on capitalist economics in the Cantos. Philip Larkin paints the domestic nihilism of the contemporary welfare state, and Ted Hughes's animals are exactly observed. What are these but the smallest examples of what lies open to talent, honesty and determination?
Success brings pleasure, and pleasure may be the truest mark of a writer. Without talent, nothing of importance can be achieved. But without increasing absorption, fascination and sheer pleasure in literary craftsmanship, that talent will never see the light of day. Native ability and hard work are both essential to poetry, and pleasure is the stimulus to both.
Suggestions
1. Join a local poetry writing group or literature circle. Writing is a lonely enough activity, and moral support and shared aims will help you through the barren stretches.
2. Be realistic. Good poets are not household names, and earn little or nothing from their efforts. The pleasure of writing has to be sufficient reward.
3. Develop some street sense. Like all the arts, poetry is a world of sharp infighting, excellent achievements and a good deal of chicanery, hypocrisy and plain madness. Carry on just the same.
4. Read biographies of poets. You will understand their work more, and the struggles they faced.
5. Consult books or attend classes on poetry appreciation. Your style will be different, but the underlying principles remain the same. You can't write well without thoroughly understanding what poetry is about.
6. Enjoy the literary life. Curl up with books. Sit with notebook in hand at local cafés. Join literature circles and societies. Poetry is an excellent way of making friends, for all that writers are competitive and fretful creatures.

Poetry for Pleasure



Most people join poetry or literature circles for pleasure. They have always enjoyed poetry, and now have the time — through retirement, unemployment or the children leaving home — to try their own hand at this absorbing genre.
How to get started, find like-minded friends, engage in collaborative associations and publications?
Discussion
The pursuit can hardly be bettered. Poetry is the most versatile and wide-ranging of literary forms, enabling things to be said that cannot be encompassed in prose. It can be finished in odd moments, unlike the novel, which takes long years of effort. Whatever its standard or style, a poem can usually be published somewhere, given the determination, the research and the contacts. Poetry forms a good introduction to more commercial types of writing, and is usually included in creative writing courses.
Nonetheless, poetry is not easy. The medium is a compact one, needing great concentration to read, and even more to write. First efforts are not always rewarding. Nevertheless, even the most pedestrian poem occasionally lifts into the vivid and memorable, and kindles a warm response in its reader. And that is worth a great deal, despite what poetry has become in recent years. With the Modernists' love of experimentation, anti-realism, individualism and intellectualism came a great narrowing of aims and accomplishments. Poetry was not writing at its highest pitch, but something fabricated altogether differently. With Postmodernism these trends were accentuated. Writers became the self-appointed spiritual guardians of language, championing its creative and arbitrary nature over its more prosaic powers to represent, analyse and discover.
Those writing simply for pleasure can ignore these subtleties. At least at first, the opportunities seem boundless. Despite all the advantages enjoyed by contemporary plays and films — the technology, the 'real-life' dramas, modern idiom in speech and attitudes — Shakespeare is still the most performed of dramatists, giving us a gallery of recognisable characters that no one has rivalled. Dante provides us with a sharp-etched picture of fifteenth-century Italian politics. Byron manages to work in slang and details of a water pump into Don Juan, and Ezra Pound incorporates views on capitalist economics in the Cantos. Philip Larkin paints the domestic nihilism of the contemporary welfare state, and Ted Hughes's animals are exactly observed. What are these but the smallest examples of what lies open to talent, honesty and determination?
Success brings pleasure, and pleasure may be the truest mark of a writer. Without talent, nothing of importance can be achieved. But without increasing absorption, fascination and sheer pleasure in literary craftsmanship, that talent will never see the light of day. Native ability and hard work are both essential to poetry, and pleasure is the stimulus to both.
Suggestions
1. Join a local poetry writing group or literature circle. Writing is a lonely enough activity, and moral support and shared aims will help you through the barren stretches.
2. Be realistic. Good poets are not household names, and earn little or nothing from their efforts. The pleasure of writing has to be sufficient reward.
3. Develop some street sense. Like all the arts, poetry is a world of sharp infighting, excellent achievements and a good deal of chicanery, hypocrisy and plain madness. Carry on just the same.
4. Read biographies of poets. You will understand their work more, and the struggles they faced.
5. Consult books or attend classes on poetry appreciation. Your style will be different, but the underlying principles remain the same. You can't write well without thoroughly understanding what poetry is about.
6. Enjoy the literary life. Curl up with books. Sit with notebook in hand at local cafés. Join literature circles and societies. Poetry is an excellent way of making friends, for all that writers are competitive and fretful creatures.
------- Originality in Poetry



Any writing that is true to your personality, authentic and original, is apt to begin as dark poetry. How do you generate these qualities, and then develop them?
The author's personality is always to be found in a good poem: it is something that only he or she could have produced. But we also expect that the personality will facilitate and further the poem's intentions. The authentic is that individual voice, unquestionably theirs, which genuine artists find as they seek to represent what is increasingly important to them. Originality does not mean novelty — which is easily achieved — but the means by which experience is presented in a more distinctive and significant manner.
Personality, authenticity and originality are therefore linked, and achieved only by continual effort. Gifts and character make artists, and the two are interdependent.
Discussion
As in life generally, success comes at a price. The creators of dark poetry are often: 1. indifferent to conventional procedures and behaviour,2. inner-directed, making and following their own goals, and 3. keenly interested in contradictions and challenges.
Better poets can therefore find themselves at odds with society, and there is no doubt that such conflicts make for solitary, cross-grained and somewhat unbalanced personalities. Many past writers had difficult and neurotic personalities, and the same traits are all too evident today. Nonetheless, absurd posturing, sharp feuds and strident ambitions also appear in writers of no talent whatsoever, which suggests that difficulties are the unfortunate side affects of originality and not its sustaining force. Artists may be sometimes unbalanced, but not all unbalanced people are artists.
Creativity differs markedly between the arts and sciences, and even between different art forms. Nonetheless, most creativity shows four phases: challenge, incubation, illumination and exposition. Driving these phases forward, through many interruptions and loopbacks, is the earnest desire to succeed, which naturally taps some inner need. We make poetry out of the quarrel with ourselves, said Yeats, and these fears and obsessions are highly individual. The lyric poet is very different from the dark poet, and neither of these will wish to be the poetic spokesperson of their age in the way that Tennyson, Larkin or Betjeman became in England.
Suggestions
How is originality fostered?
1. By personal difficulties, particularly in childhood, that have been worked through. Analyse and meet these difficulties.
2. By unswerving self-honesty. Ask yourself: is this what you really hoped to write? Could you not dig deeper into the wellsprings of the poem?
3. By starting afresh, expanding your repertoire with new techniques and new themes.
4. By pacing yourselves, drawing up timetables of writing that extend and build on previous accomplishments.
5. By working in related fields: writing novels, short-stories, articles: particularly where these unlock new perspectives and energies.


Modernism in Poetry

Most serious poetry today is still Modernist. Modernism in literature is not easily summarised, but the key elements are experimentation, anti-realism, individualism and a stress on the cerebral rather than emotive aspects.
Discussion
Modernist writing is challenging, which makes it suitable for academic study. Many poets come from university, moreover, and set sail by Modernism's charts, so that its assumptions need to be understood to appreciate their work. And since Postmodernism still seems brash and arbitrary, writing in some form of Modernism is probably the best way of getting your work into the better literary magazines. How much should you know of its methods and assumptions?
You need to read widely — poetry, criticism and literary theory. Modernism was a complex and diverse movement. From Symbolism it took allusiveness in style and an interest in rarefied mental states. From Realism it borrowed an urban setting, and a willingness to break taboos. And from Romanticism came an artist-centred view, and retreat into irrationalism and hallucinations.
Hence many problems. No one wants to denigrate the best that has been written this last hundred years, but the forward-looking poet should be aware of its limitations. Novelty for novelty's sake ends in boredom and indifference, in movements prey to fashion and media hype. Modernism's ruthless self-promotion has also created intellectual castes that carefully guard their status. Often the work is excessively cerebral, an art-for-art's sake movement that has become faddish and analytical. The foundations tend to be self-authenticating — Freudian psychiatry, verbal cleverness, individualism run riot, anti-realism, overemphasis on the irrational. These concepts may not be wholly fraudulent, but as articles of faith they have not won general assent. Modernist work will give you accredited status, but possibly neither an avant-garde reputation nor wide popularity.
Suggestions
1. Modernist work is often the most accessible of today's poetry, thanks to education, public libraries and a vast critical industry. Start therefore with Yeats, Frost, Pound, Eliot, Stevens, Williams, etc., and follow your interests — back into traditional poetry or forward into Postmodernist styles.
2. Model your first efforts on the better poems of Modernism. You will learn much about the poet's craft, and produce work that is still acceptable to the better poetry magazines.

3. Read the biographies of Modernist artists to understand how and why they made their innovations. Then read aesthetics and nineteenth-century continental philosophy to get a broader view of the matter.

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A Child With The Ghost

Nothing I can say
Can make your picture talk
I feel so tired and
Nothing I can do
Will make your picture move
I feel so helpless but
I can feel
A child with the ghost here
You let your heart slip away
If I had one wish
Id wish to talk with you
I have some questions
Things only you could know
If I had one wish
Id wish to talk with you
Nothing you can feel
Can feel as cold as this
Ill sing this song and
Ill say goodbye forever
I wonder
If God is all they say
I cant believe in such things.
I suppose
Some games are hard to lose
But you dont have to play cos
I can feel
A child with the ghost here
You let your heart slip away

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In Your Fidelity With The Word

in your fidelity with the word
despite what mood you keep on siding with the word
giving it a face
and a soul
and a certain motion like the planets in their orbits

what then? what shall all these words reward you?

a story to tell? a poem that you can read for all of those
who are weary on the journey?
a novel to spend time with
or kill it since it bores you to death?

yes, i must ask, what shall this fidelity give you
as a reward for your affections
and loyalty to its nuances, moods, and context?

is it the liberation of your soul from the prison of doubt?
oh, you keep on saying you are free.
is it the liberation of your mind from the unpopularity of reality?
oh, you keep saying you do not need it.
is it the liberation of your body from the shackles of your organs?
mind boggling, why should my organs be my prison?

is it this prolix that keeps you bored?
or is it simply the questions that keep on growing
that keeps you alive?

are you more interested in the answers?
i am just asking. Are there answers?

my dear, at the end, there are only questions.
These are the realities of our world. The open mind
is the gift. It is the reward to your fidelity
of the bosom of the word.

kiss it then, and make love to the beauty of the
question mark.

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The Other Me

I guess we can still be friends
I guess we can talk at least
But if we were seventeen
Imagine the things wed do
I know that those days are over
Im glad that those games are won
And the winners ride off into the sunset
But its not the same for you
And I dont want to play
Those nasty games that adults play
But I cant let you go
And I cant see another way
And I know that shes the only one for me
But you know that if I could split in two
The other me - would stay all night
The other me - would hold you tight
The other me - would be the only one for you
When I see you there alone
It almost breaks my heart
But it doesnt break enough
For me to break my whole life apart
I guess we could still be friends
And we can talk all night
But I have to bite my tongue
And sometimes words dont come out right
Were old enough to know
What we can think or say out loud
To know that hearts are not just
Cards to play when twos a crowd
And I know that shes the only one for me
But you know that if I could split in two
The other me - would stay all night
The other me - would hold you tight
The other me - would be the only one for you
The other me . . .
Would take you so far away from here
And hed be . . .
A man with a mission . . .
The other me . . .
Might even be better than this one
And I know that shes the only one for me
But you know that if I could split in two
The other me - would stay all night
The other me - would hold you tight
The other me - would be the only one for you

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The Chase of Ages

Light of my lives! Is the time not yet?
Lo, I've brooded on a star
Through many a year, with the hope held dear
That, in some future far,
I would know the joy of a love returned.
Are my lives lived vainly, all?
Since that cosmic morn when life, now-born,
First moved on this mundane ball?

Yea, I mind it yet, when first we met
On a tertiary rock,
Flow the graceful charm of your rudiments
Imparted love's first shock.
But I was a mere organic cell
In that early eocene,
While you were a prim, primordial germ,
And the mother of protogene.

So I loved and died, and the ages sped
Till the time of my second birth;
When I took my place in the cosmic race,
And again came down to earth.
Once more we met. Ah, love, not yet!
You were far above my state!
For how could I raise my mollusc gaze
To a virtuous vertebrate?

Again we died, and again we slept,
And again we came to be
I as an anthropoidal ape,
And you as a chimpanzee.
You as a charming chimpanzee,
With a high, patrician air;
And I watched you waltz from tree to tree
As I slunk in my lowly lair.

And yet again, in an age or so,
We met, and I mind the sob
I sobbed when I found that I was what?
And you were a thingumbob.
You had sold your tail for a kind of soul,
You had grown two thumbs beside;
And I knew again that my love was vain,
So I went to the woods and died.

As a humble homunculus, later on,
I crept to your cave at night,
And howled long, love-lorn howls in vain
To my lady troglodyte.
And I grew insane at your cold disdain,
And my howlings filled the place,
Till your father sought me out one night,
And - again I yearned in space.

Then, light of my lives! Is the time not yet?
say, in what distant life
In what dim age that is still to come
May I win and call you wife?
Still high above! My love, my love!
Nay, how can I raise my eyes
To you, my star of the eocene,
My e'er elusive prize?

Lo, Time speeds on, and the suns grow cold,
And the earth infirm and hoar,
And, ages past, we are here at last
Ay, both on the earth once more.
But, alas, dear heart, as far apart
As e'er in this cosmic whirl;
For I'm but a lowly writer-man
And you are a tea-room girl.

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Upon the death of my ever desired friend Doctor Donne Dean of Pauls

To have liv'd eminent in a degreee
Beyond our lofty'st flights, that is like thee;
Or t'have had too much merit is not safe;
For such excesses find no Epitaph.
At common graves we have Poetick eyes
Can melt themselves in easie Elegies;
Each quill can drop his tributary verse,
And pin it with the Hatchments, to the Herse:
But at thine, Poem or inscription
(Rich Soul of wit and language); we have none;
Indeed a silence does that Tomb befit
Where is no Herald left to blazon it.
Widdow'd invention justly doth forbear
To come abroad knowing thou art not here,
Late her great Patron; whose prerogative
Maintain'd and cloth'd her so, as none alive
Must now presume to keep her at thy rate,
Though he the Indies for her dowre estate:
Or else that awful fire, which once did burn
In thy clear brain, now fall'n into thy Urn.
Lives there to fright rude Empericks from thence,
Which might profane thee by their ignorance:
Who ever writes of thee, and in a style
Unworthy such a Theme, does but revile
Thy precious dust, and wake a learned spirit
Which may revenge his rapes upon thy merit.
For all a low-pitcht fancie can devise,
Will prove at best but hallow'd injuries.
Thou, like the dying Swan, didst lately sing
Thy mournful Dirge in audience of the King;
When pale looks, and faint accents of thy breath,
Presented so to life that piece of death,
That it was fear'd and prophesi'd by all
Thou thither cam'st to preach thy Funerall.
O! hadst thou in an Elegiack knell
Rung out unto the world thine own farewell;
And in thy high victorious numbers beat
The solemn measure of thy griev'd retreat:
Thou might'st the Poets service now have mist,
As well as then thou didst prevent the Priest:
And never to the world beholden be,
So much as for an Epitaph for thee.
I do not like the office. Nor is't fit
Thou, who didst lend our age such summes of wit,
Should'st now reborrow from her Bankrupt Mine
That Ore to bury thee, which once was thine.
Rather still leave us in thy debt; and know
(Exalted Soul!) More glory 'tis to ow
Unto thy Herse what we can never pay,
Then with embased coin those Rites defray.
Commit we then Thee to Thy Self: nor blame
Our drooping loves, which thus to thine own fame
Leave Thee Executour: since but thy own
No pen could do Thee Justice, nor Bayes crown
Thy vast desert; save that we nothing can
Depute to be thy ashes Guardian.
So Jewellers no Art or Metal trust
To form the Diamond, but the Diamonds dust.

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Nightmare

Nightmare
By: Adam M. Snow

We are but a dream for the dreamed;
only to realize that we have been redeemed;
to be hopeless nor do I be the same;
for in this dream, I have no name;
for my words remain unspoken;
when all I am is broken.

There's no darkness nor is there light;
for this world can be seen in daylight not just the night.
In this world the water is black yet the sky is red;
for we are all full of dread.
There's so much fear and agony here;
for it feels like our end is near.

Is this but a nightmare of reality?
If so this is brutality;
for I see the people stopped to pray;
'Have we lost our way? '

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Perhaps You'll Find More Luck With the Others

Peace?

There is only one peace I will defend.
And that is the peace between my ears.

When it arrived and I identified with it...
And it took a while for my suspicions to leave?
I had not until then...
Experienced a life without spotlighting my agonies.

Peace?

There is only one peace I will defend.
And that is the peace between my ears.

Nor do I have a need to have it cheapened,
By a marketing campaign...
You've come to solicit with promises to set me free.
I've already got it.
'Free-of-being-dumb'.

Perhaps you'll find more luck with the others.
They are the ones praying for it on their knees!
With the hope that the peace you tease will come.

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Our subconscious minds have no sense of humor, play no jokes and cannot tell the difference between reality and an imagined thought or image. What we continually think about eventually will manifest in our lives. Unfortunately most of us are completely unaware of this fact and we do not monitor our thoughts with the care needed so that we can create in our lives the results we say we want. Since the great majority of people do not feel worthy and deserving of abundant good fortune, radiant good health and total success in all areas of their lives that overriding thought pattern controls the results people get. The first order of business of anyone who wants to enjoy success in all areas of his
her life is to take charge of the internal dialogue they have and only think, say and behavior in a manner consistent with the results they truly desire.

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Too Bad We Can Not Cease Our Addictions

Under steeples in pews praying,
Are the people of faith deep in their wishes...
With eyes closed tightly,
As the preacher peeks silently...
While cobwebs drop,
Slowly,
From ceilings high.

Some are seen uneasy freeing inhabitions.
As symbols are squeezed,
Or ritually brought to lips to kiss.
With the hope these actions,
Protects them from superstitions.

While many minds are on sipping liquor.
With a mixing of that scotch on the rocks...
To guzzle as if punch or soda pop!

Even in the sacred of places...
It's too bad,
We can not skip the thinking...
Of taking a nip or two,
Of those habits...
Crooks can not loot from us.
Because we wouldn't have it!

'PLEASE...
Do not harm anyone in my family.
And IF I can make a special request...
I will give the combination,
Of the safe where the valuables are kept.
But whatever you do...
Please don't touch my booze.
You have no idea...
What that booze has help me through.'

We keep our addictions,
Protected...
As if guarding Fort Knox!
And when the preacher stops praying...
Some folks are nudged from nods,
To 'a-men' themselves with their heads cocked.
As if overwhelmed by a scripture with a message...
'Too much CAIN will attack any ABLE left,
In one's brain! '

It's too bad we can not cease our addictions.
It's too bad we can't give them to the crooks...
Who prescribe them to keep us hooked.

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Holding Hands With The Devil

You made the rope you're expected to hang yourself with.
Now as you try to squirm and twist yourself out of it.
Let me ask do you regret it?
Did you live the good life if only for a very short time?
Money to destroy.
Money to control.

Oh in this god forsaken world.
So many treasure troves buried deep within the sand.
All one has to do is dig.
But it would go so much faster with the right tools.
How about I loan them too you.
A debt can always be repaid.
Come on man what do you say?

Holding hands with the devil.
He says lets go play.
You say okay.
He says follow me this way.
Let me show all the reason why you shouldn't pray.
An end to all your suffering but it is only for you.
Once the choice has been made their will be no turning back.
For god abandons those who abandon him.
So lets live in this pleasure of sin.

Are you strong enough to say no?
Are you strong enough to say I won't go?
A temptation forever in your face.
The forbidding fruit has a sweet taste.

It is the empty escape.
Feel nothing, do nothing, be nothing.
Completely oblivious.
Why would you ever want to know?
As all the knowledge will bare the human pain.
Don't pay attention to me for you're right I am completely insane.
As much as evil has no definite name.
Constantly changing and conforming to its environment.

It is the chameleon.
It must blend in.
Never to be discovered.
Buried deep within the sand.
Will you be the one to dig it up?

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Shattered Dream

I can grasp your pain and helplessness as I
Gaze into your eyes,
Round as globes, though always tear-filled,
Masking the green,
Turning hazel in the sunlight's shadows…
Hidden behind mountains of despair,
That façade you often don -
Friendly and with that smile,
Broad and beautiful as a river, meandering -
Often a lead-hued cloud would pass between our glances-
I have often tried with my hand, outstretched
To touch your spirit, lithe and vulnerable as it can be-
Your strength that comes from your love and faith in God, although
Fragile as the dance of a yearling it may be-
I had never known love until the day that you
Pulled the blinds - though slightly, to
Let me touch your heart.
Light has always scintillated within your pupils as
Mine- blackened with fear and suspicion of the rest of t he world -
You I never feared.
I was none but a young fawn alive in the wild
Leaping away from a world that still terrifies me-
I lived alone in a world I had erected for myself and had
Built out of my fondest reverie as
I had long ago lost my flagging grasp on reality.
This planet was spinning too quickly for us-
We opened windows and doors to allow love to enter, and
With trepidation, we would close them again.
Your kiss was mesmerizing as your petal-soft lips would
Brush against mine in such a cherished and non-threatening way-
I recall, though sadly, the night that cloud darkened and
Thunder had clapped between us.
You chained the door behind you and left me standing, terrified.
I can still hear the screaming of your tears echoing throughout the room-
I kept my stance as a stone never weathered, as
I held within glaciers of tears, never cried.
I recall the sight of your coffee-colored tresses
Falling around your naiad- like countenance -
So lovely and feminine in all of your ways-
You are still the passing comet that enlightens my universe- as confined as it may be-
I had tried and tried to push stones aside to make a home for us.
I held in my cupped hands petals of a carnation,
Red as the rage that tears me apart inside, always present in my own pain-
You are more than a carnation to me, but a peace-rose,
Swaying gracefully in a spring zephyr…
I shall never open my gateway to let amity enter again.
Falling hailstones are keeping me safe inside my own phantasmal world where
I can converse with the voices inhabiting my mind.
Disillusioned, I gaze outside my window as I watch snowflakes
Falling and melting before they touch the ground and
The very thought of your presence shall always make my
Tormented heart keeps on beating though in a bittersweet and remorseful way.
Solitude has never felt so safe since I have locked myself in
My own small world forever, as it spins madly about my eternal star.
I hope that when I die I shall leave behind me all of the
Nightmarish memories of my delusive world-
You are still my star, though from some different galaxy.
Face to face we met and hand in hand we were joined and it felt so right but became so wrong, and often I have wondered how love and pain so miserably clashing
Never moved me to tears until this day…
I hold agony, wrath and guilt pent up inside my breaking heart-
How these feelings have wronged us?
My nightingale, my beautiful wild rose,
A part of me shall always cherish you, my brightly blazing comet always present -
Somewhere in the back of my mind sheds a little light upon my inner space.
I have taken each and every moment in time to turn back the clock and to
Collect the fallen foundation we once stood upon, though unstable,
Our eyes were blinded by fate and hope for a future we both desired.
My soul shall remain padlocked inside my mind where the only life I can envision is to
Live in my own small world as it rapidly spins revolutions around my own bright star-
Light as dim as a votive candle with the hope that I may continue my solitary walk
Through the darkness after that flame burns out, and that
Dreams, memories and hope for both of us shall always persevere-
Our worlds, so complicated and so very different s they may be-
Light, love and prayer- Oh, such beautiful and promising words, they are

Claudia Krizay

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Patrick White

Silence and Solitude

Solitude and silence. The emptiness of the living moment
subsumed in the mundane middens of the soul, clam shells
and sheep bones, the shucked content of the heart
cherished again as the afterlife of the evidence
I once lived here along with everyone else.

Before I write, this archaeological seance I hold with myself,
this ingathering of everyone I've ever been
flowing back into me where the mindstream meets the sea.
The continuous stillness of this contiguous awareness
where everything is a symbolic event in a dream
trying to wake up from itself to set the dream people free.
Emotional effusions of the moon bleeding among the coral.
Solar flares of conceptual insight returning like ingrown hairs
to the source of their deception like unwanted children
though I've franchised orphanages all over my mindscape
to shelter my rational thought from the persecutions of my intuition.
Serpent's tongues that have been struck by black lightning
humming like a choir of tuning forks half a note off
like a lie they told God, they've been living ever since.

No piety. But a natural kind of reverence for the life of the mind
breathing me in and out of my body like a bellows
trying to boil spiritual gold out of my default metal of lead
as things begin to heat up like the tongue of a sword
on the anvil of my voice. And by that I know
prophetic heads are going to roll on the growing edge
of an imaginative insurgency nothing flammable with life
can resist for long. I know anything I say about this,
if experience hasn't cooked you in the same cauldron
I was born in, will seem unpatently absurd, but then
so are thermals in the open fields just before sunset
and the hawks that ride them for the sheer joy of airing their wings
unpertrubed by what's moving in the grass down below.

Infinite grammars. Myriad alphabets. Space talks in tongues.
Everything that is lives and isn't intelligent, but intelligence itself.
Chaos the mercurial cornerstone of an order that's lost
the rhythm of life trying to syncopate its heartbeat
to the unmusical paradigms of stone-eared preconceptions.
I see crows with rubies in their beaks as if
they'd just isolated the gene for symmetry.
In this miasmic swirl of images and wavelengths,
third eyes coalescing like starclusters
out of clouds of unknowing breaking into light,
and the shadows they cast no less prepossessing,
how uninhabitable I feel as a planet hoping the night
will prove me wrong and make all things
communicable and clear as a mother tongue
I've been speaking for years without knowing it
even when I exile myself like the sacred syllable
of a native son wandering the earth like a rootless tree.

And there, do you see that constellation rising
like a distillation of the starmud I've walked in all my life?
Doesn't it make you want to dance under it with the wind
like a chandelier you've thrown rocks because it's beautiful,
as if someone were standing in it like a window
with the elevated perspective of the Pleiades
shining down in equanimity upon its desecrants
as if by their fruits you shall know the luminous generosity
of a windfall of light that falls at your feet
as if someone were germinating star sapphires in your bloodstream
to give you something higher to aspire to
than just teaching fire how to swim through the blues?

Inside the allegory. The logic of metaphor.
Hidden harmonies in synchronous pictographic fields
that resonate like cave paintings with otherworlds
that are not occluded by the imposition of space and time.
The younger ore of the outer world smelted down
like imagistic strokes of luck into the visionary elders
that transform them in the fires of their imaginations
into the igneous bloodlines that pour out of them
like the mystic metals of swords descended from ancient stars
that can give and take life at the same time
in these homeless realms of sacred ambivalence
before the dark mother tempered the forms she engendered
in tears that broke like the waters of a docetist womb.

Things here don't relate like thought-trains on parallel lines
that never meet, whatever the destination, they associate
like chords and keys you can hear with your eyes
and see with your ears in a synteresis of the senses
that wash up on the shores of cosmic, island consciousness,
all wavelengths of the same inexhaustible oceanic mind
that doesn't make things appear so much as emerge
like species efflorescing into the medium they're working in.

Alloys of light and earth. Hybrids of water and fire.
The sky calling its birds. The river its fish.
And the longing of time in the mouth of the earth
to call us out of the starmud and bathe us in the rain
gentled out of her atmospheric acids so as not to burn
the tenderness she lavished on us like eyes and skin,
a new kind of shining to enhance the radiance of the stars,
light upon light in the skulls of the unbegotten ancestors.

This is the morphological matrix of knowledge forms
shaped to the organs of perception like neuronic synapses,
enjoining efferent axons to the walls of nervous villages
waiting for the news of what they're experiencing
from the abstract receptors of oracular impulses,
construing the world as a dendritic grapevine
tendrilled like Celtic silverwork throughout the mind
rooted in space as the closest similitude
to the emptiness that is the ground of its being
and the great commingled watershed of its subconscious commons.

The simpler the window, the cleaner the view
so I attend to my seeing like a nightwatchmen
attends to his own eyes like the glow of a lantern
warns and reveals the shadows of his presence in the darkness.
Eye to eye with the sky at either end of the telescope
things of the world are things of the mind,
cosmology the bubble-brained psychology of the multiverse.
And there are some nights, waiting for a poem
to bloom like a flower in the flames of my intensities,
I swear I can overhear from stars away
the exhilarated echoes of alien voices ruminating
on how we might have changed the gestural expressionism
of our shapeshifting, river-turning, morphotic souls in their absence.

Probable concourses of multiplicitous insights
into the jewel I'm turning in the light of my mind
like the sun and the moon at midnight and noon
when the measure of words is the wingspan
of whatever sky I happen to be flying in
like comets and birds and maple-keys
that have unlocked my heartwood and set me free
to blossom like an alphabet on a pilgrimage of trees,
to express myself like an inconceivable wind
with wings on my heels in the hermetic shrines
of this unearthly solitude, this estranged silence.

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