POETRY SWAP MEET: Poetry we don't usually know about, or?
http://www.oystercatcherpress.com/product/excavate-poems-after-pasolini-by-ellen-dillon/
http://www.doolinfestivals.ie/writers-artists-bios/item/132-ellen-dillon%E2%80%99s.html
Ellen Dillon
Gramsci’s Ashes of (American Flags)
after Pasolini and Wilco
Yellow Flag
Hey Nonny Di Maggio, this impure air
makes the dark foreign garden grow
ever darker, dazzles it with Tcheky Karyo,
this drooling sky over yellowish attics whose
immense semicircles make veils for the eye
of the Tiber & Lazio’s turquoise mountains
The cash machine is blue and green
It spreads a mortal peace, disaffected as
our dreams, between the old town walls
(the autumnal May) For a bundle of twenties
& a small service fee you can’t (see?)
do anything but stay in that foreign spot,
locked up still, among patrician
ennui while all around the rain stops
Neil Hilborn (born August 8, 1990) is an American slam poet who writes and performs poetry. His poems often detail personal experiences and battles with mental illness. He is best known for his poem “OCD”.
https://youtu.be/vnKZ4pdSU-s
Ken Walkman
Alaska's Fiddling Poet
His nine CDs of old-time Appalachian-style string-band music include two for children.
His nineteen books consist of sixteen full-length poetry collections, a memoir about his life as a touring artist, a volume of
acrostic poems for kids, and a hybrid book that's part creative writing manual, part memoir, part full-length collection of
poems (about writers and writing).
A former college professor with an MFA in Creative Writing, he's been a visiting writer at nearly 100 colleges and universities,
a visiting artist at over 240 schools in 35 states, and has led workshops from Alaska to Maine.
Wedding Soup
Begin with dark thoughts. Add
bones, curtains, a sliver
of spiderleg to taste.
Throw in chickens without heads,
dolls with belly buttons,
toys in boxes. For extra
strength, sprinkle a few whispers,
several riddles, a sly bit
of nowhere. Simmer the mix
in factories between butcher shops
and schools. When set to eat,
assemble the world, and serve
-Ken Waldman
Jade-Pandora said:[/u]ellen[/u]
FIVE STAGES OF GRIEVING
grief sits you down on your ass like a boulder —Gordon Masman
The belief-river rushes around her muddy and sloppy.
She twists and buffets like a cherished stuffed-bear
torn from a child’s grasp and thrown in.
He has died in war. She never doubted his death.
No fantasy could place his skin next to hers,
no illusion grow his curly hair,
no phantom restore his stone-still body.
Grief hurls wet and stunning.
Sleep all day. Sleep all night.
Stubborn, she won’t yearn for his frozen face.
Death happens to everyone. She discards his watch,
gets papers in order and signed.
The boulder Earth still spins no matter what.
She doesn’t dwell on regret.
Says goodbye quietly.
Ice has its allure. Winter protects her.
Docile and melted. She contradicts stages.
Stretches toward orphans and science.
Sharpens pencils.
Won’t let anger crack her.
She bursts through the rain,
finds unblemished wrists
and pale blue robin’s eggs.
She chews on ice-cubes. They hurt her teeth.
She puts on false eyelashes.
Buys sexy dresses. Swallows new-tasting semen.
Looks for flaws in all the faces.
She crushes rainbows.
Her desire to pray flies beyond the horizon.
She finally gets a Ph.D.
Flawless and bookish
she fools her new men.
She goes political. Carries placards.
Listens to progressive talk-radio, stays close to home.
Cries during passionate speeches.
Always on, like a humming machine,
she lives patient and trembling.
She’s drenched rough, tumbling past debris—
torn petals, bug parts, twigs like distorted stinging arms.
The river beats her as though she were guilty.
You talked about writing various kinds of work, and I'd want to share my opinion. When I was a university student, I frequently required assistance with my work, so when I didn't have enough time to do everything myself, I turned to https://www.nursingpaper.com/our-services/nursing-care-plan-writing-service/ . I was extremely happy with their work, and I believe it will be helpful for many students who, for a variety of reasons, lack the time to do everything independently.
Very powerful poem and atmospheric. I write in a similar manner of word arrangement.
FIVE STAGES OF GRIEVING
grief sits you down on your ass like a boulder —Gordon Masman
The belief-river rushes around her muddy and sloppy.
She twists and buffets like a cherished stuffed-bear
torn from a child’s grasp and thrown in.
He has died in war. She never doubted his death.
No fantasy could place his skin next to hers,
no illusion grow his curly hair,
no phantom restore his stone-still body.
Grief hurls wet and stunning.
Sleep all day. Sleep all night.
Stubborn, she won’t yearn for his frozen face.
Death happens to everyone. She discards his watch,
gets papers in order and signed.
The boulder Earth still spins no matter what.
She doesn’t dwell on regret.
Says goodbye quietly.
Ice has its allure. Winter protects her.
Docile and melted. She contradicts stages.
Stretches toward orphans and science.
Sharpens pencils.
Won’t let anger crack her.
She bursts through the rain,
finds unblemished wrists
and pale blue robin’s eggs.
She chews on ice-cubes. They hurt her teeth.
She puts on false eyelashes.
Buys sexy dresses. Swallows new-tasting semen.
Looks for flaws in all the faces.
She crushes rainbows.
Her desire to pray flies beyond the horizon.
She finally gets a Ph.D.
Flawless and bookish
she fools her new men.
She goes political. Carries placards.
Listens to progressive talk-radio, stays close to home.
Cries during passionate speeches.
Always on, like a humming machine,
she lives patient and trembling.
She’s drenched rough, tumbling past debris—
torn petals, bug parts, twigs like distorted stinging arms.
The river beats her as though she were guilty.
You talked about writing various kinds of work, and I'd want to share my opinion. When I was a university student, I frequently required assistance with my work, so when I didn't have enough time to do everything myself, I turned to https://www.nursingpaper.com/our-services/nursing-care-plan-writing-service/ . I was extremely happy with their work, and I believe it will be helpful for many students who, for a variety of reasons, lack the time to do everything independently.
Very powerful poem and atmospheric. I write in a similar manner of word arrangement.
Not my first contact my first interaction and communication
I said if your going to look after her and shes not scared you can take her away from this evil planet do you agree I mentally asked them. The next thing they must have said ok because I hear this has to happen because she won't look like she did " she won't fit in" because they huge foreheads and since waking up if she disappeared it wouldn't make sense but then I'm stood outside my old high-school which was a hospital being told she was dead. The next i remember is being so upset I was in a small 2 person must be spaceship because I felt this overwhelming grief thats still with me right now and I shot up all the way to outside our atmosphere and maybe another dimension because I was so devastated I thought I need my mum then suddenly I' flydown and get my mum who died a few years ago then she was sat next to me in the mini ship and she already knew. It was like the power of my sadness was powering the ship so then as I' mentally let my mum into head we fly like b4 again so fast but then I remembered how scared my mum was of huge rides or she was telling me and I thought if I take her up too high she'll either suffocate or the vacuum of space will kill her so we slowed very quick almost instantly. I looked because I smealt a foul engine or exhaust smell then I saw that wed nearly crashed into either a plane high in the sky or rocket ship but one that was clearly human the next bit got fuzzy but I think I dropped my mum back to where I had just taken her from she was back with my dad.
But then I realised that both of them are meant to be dead and I'm flying a spaceship so weather I've worked this out in or post dream is that they was letting me see baby D she wasn't dead it just different. Then in my head I'm given a choice you can change too... butl you won't be the same as us but once you do you can't go back but u can be with baby d so I've agreed then feeling all bunged up and can smell this chemical smell and see a.sort of purple thing with funny strings coming off . Once my body changes to that I remember everything being OK and I was back in my miniship zooming anywhere I want to and fast but not as fast or as powerful as before. Then I must have slightly been disturbed by Steve or densil making noise im slowed down then it all fades out. So back asleep I want to go back which I do but my other alien body and mini ship is the same but not as powerful post dream I think its because I wasn't as deeply in the astral realm as before. I've never wrote my dreams down but this was so real and the smells feelings and emotions of are still with me and I do not want to forget they say to keep a dream diary because the small details u do forget I've never really seen the point until now because I plan to return.
An amazing musician and poet!
Ren Erin Gill (born 29 March 1990), known professionally as Ren, is a Welsh songwriter and musician Ren has spent years battling health problems and often uses his public persona to raise awareness of mental health issues
https://youtu.be/ebX5ZvrT6-o?si=28vJ-t3SGqqbZ7dE
For Joe (Freckled Angels)
Could I have just a day
Where I'd get to see your face
I would laugh and you would skate
Hanging out by the pier cave
Chasing dreams, freckled face
No inhibitions, acest mates
Tell me everything's okay
You never meant to go away
And I need something to hold on to
And I wish I could hold on to you
'Cause I will never ever forget you
And bet, I know you'll be soaring through
Because
Freckled angels laugh the hardest
And their hearts, they are the largest
With their wings, they fly the farthest
So I know you're gonna be okay
Freckled angels live the longest
And their minds, they are the strongest
All their friends, they are the fondest
So I know you're gonna be okay
Could I have just a sec?
Please pull me out of this wreck
Crack a joke and tense your pecks
Act the fool, but with excellence
And everytime I laugh it reminds me of you
The funniest guy I ever knew
I've got so much left to say
Hope I can tell you all some day
And I need something to hold on to
And I wish I could hold on to you
'Cause I will never ever forget you
And bet, I know you'll be soaring through
Because
Freckled angels laugh the hardest
And their hearts, they are the largest
With their wings, they fly the farthest
So I know you're gonna be okay
Freckled angels live the longest
And their minds, they are the strongest
All their friends, they are the fondest
So I know you're gonna be okay
I hope you can hear me singing to you
'Cause if so
I'll sing until my voice shatters
And my lungs they explode
I'll sing over a crowded room
So they all know how much I really miss you
Miss you Joe
Freckled angels laugh the hardest
And their hearts, they are the largest
With their wings, they fly the farthest
So I know you're gonna be okay
Freckled angels live the longest
And their minds, they are the strongest
All their friends, they are the fondest
So I know you're gonna be okay
-Ren
Anonymous
<< post removed >>
Mark Grist is. a British spoken word artist who uses poetry in the classroom.
https://youtu.be/lmEbF2uhsZk
https://youtu.be/lmEbF2uhsZk
Kinkpoet said:Mark Grist is. a British spoken word artist who uses poetry in the classroom.
https://youtu.be/lmEbF2uhsZk
Nice one thank you KP.
https://youtu.be/lmEbF2uhsZk
Nice one thank you KP.
Edward Paul Abbey (1927 – 1989) was an American author and essayist noted for his advocacy of environmental issues, criticism of public land policies, and anarchist political views.
Benedicto:
May your trails be crooked, winding, lonesome, dangerous, leading to the most amazing view. May your rivers flow without end, meandering through pastoral valleys tinkling with bells, past temples and castles and poets’ towers into a dark primeval forest where tigers belch and monkeys howl, through miasmal and mysterious swamps and down into a desert of red rock, blue mesas, domes and pinnacles and grottos of endless stone, and down again into a deep vast ancient unknown chasm where bars of sunlight blaze on profiled cliffs, where deer walk across the white sand beaches, where storms come and go as lightning clangs upon the high crags, where something strange and more beautiful and more full of wonder than your deepest dreams waits for you — beyond that next turning of the canyon walls.
Edward Abbey
Benedicto:
May your trails be crooked, winding, lonesome, dangerous, leading to the most amazing view. May your rivers flow without end, meandering through pastoral valleys tinkling with bells, past temples and castles and poets’ towers into a dark primeval forest where tigers belch and monkeys howl, through miasmal and mysterious swamps and down into a desert of red rock, blue mesas, domes and pinnacles and grottos of endless stone, and down again into a deep vast ancient unknown chasm where bars of sunlight blaze on profiled cliffs, where deer walk across the white sand beaches, where storms come and go as lightning clangs upon the high crags, where something strange and more beautiful and more full of wonder than your deepest dreams waits for you — beyond that next turning of the canyon walls.
Edward Abbey
Kinkpoet said:Edward Paul Abbey (1927 – 1989) was an American author and essayist noted for his advocacy of environmental issues, criticism of public land policies, and anarchist political views.
Benedicto:
May your trails be crooked, winding, lonesome, dangerous, leading to the most amazing view. May your rivers flow without end, meandering through pastoral valleys tinkling with bells, past temples and castles and poets’ towers into a dark primeval forest where tigers belch and monkeys howl, through miasmal and mysterious swamps and down into a desert of red rock, blue mesas, domes and pinnacles and grottos of endless stone, and down again into a deep vast ancient unknown chasm where bars of sunlight blaze on profiled cliffs, where deer walk across the white sand beaches, where storms come and go as lightning clangs upon the high crags, where something strange and more beautiful and more full of wonder than your deepest dreams waits for you — beyond that next turning of the canyon walls.
Edward Abbey
Nice one.
It reminds me of Tom Hirons's poem:
SOMETIMES A WILD GOD
Sometimes a wild god comes to the table.
He is awkward and does not know the ways
Of porcelain, of fork and mustard and silver.
His voice makes vinegar from wine.
When the wild god arrives at the door,
You will probably fear him.
He reminds you of something dark
That you might have dreamt,
Or the secret you do not wish to be shared.
He will not ring the doorbell;
Instead he scrapes with his fingers
Leaving blood on the paintwork,
Though primroses grow
In circles round his feet.
You do not want to let him in.
You are very busy.
It is late, or early, and besides…
You cannot look at him straight
Because he makes you want to cry.
Your dog barks;
The wild god smiles.
He holds out his hand and
The dog licks his wounds,
Then leads him inside.
The wild god stands in your kitchen.
Ivy is taking over your sideboard;
Mistletoe has moved into the lampshades
And wrens have begun to sing
An old song in the mouth of your kettle.
‘I haven’t much,’ you say
And give him the worst of your food.
He sits at the table, bleeding.
He coughs up foxes.
There are otters in his eyes.
When your wife calls down,
You close the door and
Tell her it’s fine.
You will not let her see
The strange guest at your table.
The wild god asks for whiskey
And you pour a glass for him,
Then a glass for yourself.
Three snakes are beginning to nest
In your voicebox. You cough.
Oh, limitless space.
Oh, eternal mystery.
Oh, endless cycles of death and birth.
Oh, miracle of life.
Oh, the wondrous dance of it all.
You cough again,
Expectorate the snakes and
Water down the whiskey,
Wondering how you got so old
And where your passion went.
The wild god reaches into a bag
Made of moles and nightingale-skin.
He pulls out a two-reeded pipe,
Raises an eyebrow
And all the birds begin to sing.
The fox leaps into your eyes.
Otters rush from the darkness.
The snakes pour through your body.
Your dog howls and upstairs
Your wife both exults and weeps at once.
The wild god dances with your dog.
You dance with the sparrows.
A white stag pulls up a stool
And bellows hymns to enchantments.
A pelican leaps from chair to chair.
In the distance, warriors pour from their tombs.
Ancient gold grows like grass in the fields.
Everyone dreams the words to long-forgotten songs.
The hills echo and the grey stones ring
With laughter and madness and pain.
In the middle of the dance,
The house takes off from the ground.
Clouds climb through the windows;
Lightning pounds its fists on the table
And the moon leans in.
The wild god points to your side.
You are bleeding heavily.
You have been bleeding for a long time,
Possibly since you were born.
There is a bear in the wound.
‘Why did you leave me to die?’
Asks the wild god and you say:
‘I was busy surviving.
The shops were all closed;
I didn’t know how. I’m sorry.’
Listen to them:
The fox in your neck and
The snakes in your arms and
The wren and the sparrow and the deer…
The great un-nameable beasts
In your liver and your kidneys and your heart…
There is a symphony of howling.
A cacophony of dissent.
The wild god nods his head and
You wake on the floor holding a knife,
A bottle and a handful of black fur.
Your dog is asleep on the table.
Your wife is stirring, far above.
Your cheeks are wet with tears;
Your mouth aches from laughter or shouting.
A black bear is sitting by the fire.
Sometimes a wild god comes to the table.
He is awkward and does not know the ways
Of porcelain, of fork and mustard and silver.
His voice makes vinegar from wine
And brings the dead to life.
Benedicto:
May your trails be crooked, winding, lonesome, dangerous, leading to the most amazing view. May your rivers flow without end, meandering through pastoral valleys tinkling with bells, past temples and castles and poets’ towers into a dark primeval forest where tigers belch and monkeys howl, through miasmal and mysterious swamps and down into a desert of red rock, blue mesas, domes and pinnacles and grottos of endless stone, and down again into a deep vast ancient unknown chasm where bars of sunlight blaze on profiled cliffs, where deer walk across the white sand beaches, where storms come and go as lightning clangs upon the high crags, where something strange and more beautiful and more full of wonder than your deepest dreams waits for you — beyond that next turning of the canyon walls.
Edward Abbey
Nice one.
It reminds me of Tom Hirons's poem:
SOMETIMES A WILD GOD
Sometimes a wild god comes to the table.
He is awkward and does not know the ways
Of porcelain, of fork and mustard and silver.
His voice makes vinegar from wine.
When the wild god arrives at the door,
You will probably fear him.
He reminds you of something dark
That you might have dreamt,
Or the secret you do not wish to be shared.
He will not ring the doorbell;
Instead he scrapes with his fingers
Leaving blood on the paintwork,
Though primroses grow
In circles round his feet.
You do not want to let him in.
You are very busy.
It is late, or early, and besides…
You cannot look at him straight
Because he makes you want to cry.
Your dog barks;
The wild god smiles.
He holds out his hand and
The dog licks his wounds,
Then leads him inside.
The wild god stands in your kitchen.
Ivy is taking over your sideboard;
Mistletoe has moved into the lampshades
And wrens have begun to sing
An old song in the mouth of your kettle.
‘I haven’t much,’ you say
And give him the worst of your food.
He sits at the table, bleeding.
He coughs up foxes.
There are otters in his eyes.
When your wife calls down,
You close the door and
Tell her it’s fine.
You will not let her see
The strange guest at your table.
The wild god asks for whiskey
And you pour a glass for him,
Then a glass for yourself.
Three snakes are beginning to nest
In your voicebox. You cough.
Oh, limitless space.
Oh, eternal mystery.
Oh, endless cycles of death and birth.
Oh, miracle of life.
Oh, the wondrous dance of it all.
You cough again,
Expectorate the snakes and
Water down the whiskey,
Wondering how you got so old
And where your passion went.
The wild god reaches into a bag
Made of moles and nightingale-skin.
He pulls out a two-reeded pipe,
Raises an eyebrow
And all the birds begin to sing.
The fox leaps into your eyes.
Otters rush from the darkness.
The snakes pour through your body.
Your dog howls and upstairs
Your wife both exults and weeps at once.
The wild god dances with your dog.
You dance with the sparrows.
A white stag pulls up a stool
And bellows hymns to enchantments.
A pelican leaps from chair to chair.
In the distance, warriors pour from their tombs.
Ancient gold grows like grass in the fields.
Everyone dreams the words to long-forgotten songs.
The hills echo and the grey stones ring
With laughter and madness and pain.
In the middle of the dance,
The house takes off from the ground.
Clouds climb through the windows;
Lightning pounds its fists on the table
And the moon leans in.
The wild god points to your side.
You are bleeding heavily.
You have been bleeding for a long time,
Possibly since you were born.
There is a bear in the wound.
‘Why did you leave me to die?’
Asks the wild god and you say:
‘I was busy surviving.
The shops were all closed;
I didn’t know how. I’m sorry.’
Listen to them:
The fox in your neck and
The snakes in your arms and
The wren and the sparrow and the deer…
The great un-nameable beasts
In your liver and your kidneys and your heart…
There is a symphony of howling.
A cacophony of dissent.
The wild god nods his head and
You wake on the floor holding a knife,
A bottle and a handful of black fur.
Your dog is asleep on the table.
Your wife is stirring, far above.
Your cheeks are wet with tears;
Your mouth aches from laughter or shouting.
A black bear is sitting by the fire.
Sometimes a wild god comes to the table.
He is awkward and does not know the ways
Of porcelain, of fork and mustard and silver.
His voice makes vinegar from wine
And brings the dead to life.
