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The First Poem by The First Poet

i'm intrigued by the ur-poem
by allan j saywell
entitled grunt
which is
the first poem
by the first poet:
grunt

how do we know he was a poet
saywell he say so
but think about how
it happened

one day Grunt
for that was his name
listened
to himself saying grunt
and thought
that's quite a nice sound
if I say it carefully

[...] Read more

poem by Michael Shepherd
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Song For Ishtar

The moon is a sow
and grunts in my throat
Her great shining shines through me
so the mud of my hollow gleams
and breaks in silver bubbles

She is a sow
and I a pig and a poet

When she opens her white
lips to devour me I bite back
and laughter rocks the moon

In the black of desire
we rock and grunt, grunt and
shine

poem by Denise Levertov
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When Communicating My Needs

There are times I feel 'lofty'
And have a need to express my intelligence.
That combination of experience, insight and observation...
Is seeking a way to express itself.
And when in the mood...
I can soar to heights and care less I am understood.

Some who assume others are intelligent,
Do their best to try to impress with their own...
Mental abilities.
As if the basicness of communication,
Is only used to grunt sexual expectations.
And it seems the most unattractive people...
Grunt words I can not pronounce.

There are times I feel 'lofty'
And have a need to express my intelligence.
That combination of experience, insight and observation...
Is seeking a way to express itself.
And when in the mood...

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Captain Von Esson of the “Sebastopol”

Of his beauty, or stature, or colour of hair I hadn’t the slightest hint,
But he comes to me as a little man, with a scrubby beard and a squint,
With a heart somewhere if it wasn’t there, and an Irish terrier nose,
With a bark or a yelp for his friends and his crew, and a bull-dog grip for his foes.
The Japs had taken a permanent fort at the price of ten thousand sons,
And they shelled the ships in the harbour there with their landed naval guns.
Through sand bags laid on the upper deck, the shells went through with a whelt—
And some (because of ballistic curve) out under the armoured belt.

Till each was sunk that the Russians left—while the buildings reeled with the shock,
Save the last of the Russian ships of war—the Sebastopol—in dock.
And this is the reason—told in a line—why there is a tale to tell:
The Sebastopol had a man for boss, and a crew that knew it well.

He rousted them out from the dens ashore, and they didn’t engage in prayer,
For dear men pray when the fight is done, and there wasn’t a cheap man there.
He rooted the dock-hands out, when crouched, in deadly fear of the Jap,
But they stood in greater immediate fear of Von Esson’s squint and his yap.

She groped her way in the gathering dusk, out under the time-dulled din,

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poem by Henry Lawson
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Chatter Chief Of Staff Application 1331 After William Shakespeare Hamlet's Soliloquy

To verse, or role reverse, that's in the question,
when writer's block may cause some indigestion -
[with contests tougher then the going's rougher] -
Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer
the strings and sorrows of outrageous scribblers,
the binges of obsessional dribblers,
the noisy cutters' red, black, unread bubbles:
or to take arms against such teething troubles
and by opposing, end them? Still keep one's cool,
guide, bona fide, and gladly suffer fools?

There's surely something wrong in A.P. rules
when talent's topsy-turvy turned by ghouls,
when terms of reference ability are not retained.
Here trophy credibility must be regained.
For here are pressing claims and urgent needs,
though many try, scarce one percent succeeds -
and one percent of these may save their soul
as contest pressures take their toll
of high ideals, oft leaving empty shell

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poem by Jonathan Robin
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The Great Pig Story of the Tweed

“Hands off, old man!” the young man cried—
They stood beside the Tweed,
Where still the name of Murder Creek
Records some bloody deed.

The old man seized the hapless youth,
With frantic grasp and rough,
By what is popularly called
(But vulgarly) the scruff;

And shouted as he twirled him round,
And shook him to and fro,
“Was them consignments pigs? . . Great Scott!
Was them things pigs or no?”

Wild-eyed and gaunt, and grim he stood,
Beneath the scorching noon,—
Cantharides P. Roebuck, late
Of the steamboat Arakoon.

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poem by James Brunton Stephens
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True Confession

1
Today, recovering from influenza,
I begin, having nothing worse to do,
This autobiography that ends a
Half of my life I'm glad I'm through.
O Love, what a bloody hullaballoo
I look back at, shaken and sober,
When that intemperate life I view
From this temperate October.
To nineteen hundred and forty-seven
I pay the deepest of respects,
For during this year I was given
Some insight into the other sex.
I was a victim, till forty-six,
Of the rosy bed with bitches in it;
But now, in spite of all pretexts,
I never sleep a single minute.

O fellow sailor on the tossing sea,
O fleeting virgin in the night,

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poem by George Barker
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Hamlet: Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered country from whose bourn
No traveler returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?

classic line from the play Hamlet, Act III, Scene 1, script by William Shakespeare (1599)
Added by Dan Costinaş
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Look wise, say nothing, and grunt. Speech was given to conceal thought.

quote by William Osler
Added by Lucian Velea
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Look wise, say nothing, and grunt. Speech was given to conceal thought.

quote by William Osler
Added by Lucian Velea
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