The Couch

Kickass Poems

Comments on Kickass Poems

Zum
Senior Member

Usergroup: Members
Joined: Jan 21, 2009

Total Topics: 23
Total Comments: 420
Zum
Posted 10/02/09 - 2:49 AM:
Subject: Kickass Poems
I'll share some that I like right now.

The Rain Stick

Upend the rain stick and what happens next
Is a music that you never would have known
To listen for. In a cactus stalk

Downpour, sluice-rush, spillage and backwash
Come flowing through. You stand there like a pipe
Being played by water, you shake it again lightly

And diminuendo runs through all its scales
Like a gutter stopping trickling. And now here comes
A sprinkle of drops out of the freshened leaves,

Then subtle little wets off grass and daisies:
Then glitter-drizzle, almost-breaths of air.
Upend the stick again. What happens next

Is undiminished for having happened once,
Twice, ten, a thousand times before.
Who care of all the music that transpires

Is the fall of grit or dry seeds through a cactus?
You are like a rich man entering heaven
Through the ear of a raindrop. Listen now again.

Seamus Heaney


Insomnia

This morning I got up before dawn,
but was still
unable to find you,
though I dropped to my knees
and looked under the coffee table.
I had dreamt you were there.
Dreams can auger anything,
the whereabouts of a lover
or foe, for instance.
It is most economical
to find them both in the same place,
but this rarely occurs.
The night before last, with the moon
eye-to-eye with my window,
I went stealthily to the china cabinet.
I wore blue. I wanted to find you
as a narrow blue flame would,
a light going out.
That you were not there
was not conclusive.
I entered the spare room.
The air roared as in the channels of shells.
The walls stared at each other.
You had gone,
even your foot prints followed.
Tonight I'll get up at 3:00,
an hour you'd be liable
to show up in my closet,
perhaps standing next to
the cashmere sweater you always admired.
My friends, meanwhile, whisper
that aside from the blue-black half moons
under my eyes I am uncommonly pale.
But it's all this late-night
searching through closets,
through room after room,
that makes some women lose sleep.
The therapists don't know,
they come up with so many
pedestrian theories.

Suzanne Lummis

Anybody have any favorites?
Thinker13
Senior Member
Avatar

Usergroup: Members
Joined: Apr 27, 2009

Total Topics: 357
Total Comments: 3379
Posted 10/02/09 - 8:48 AM:

Why are they 'kickass' poems,Zum?smiling face


I like both of them. It seems that I have heard the name of Suzanne Lummiswink.



Thank you.
Zum
Senior Member

Usergroup: Members
Joined: Jan 21, 2009

Total Topics: 23
Total Comments: 420
Zum
Posted 10/02/09 - 10:07 AM:

Kickass: excellent, stunning, startling, unique, delightful smiling face

I put a poem by Suzanne in "Gallery and Open Mike." She is a Los Angeles Poet and my sister.

Thinker13
Senior Member
Avatar

Usergroup: Members
Joined: Apr 27, 2009

Total Topics: 357
Total Comments: 3379
Posted 10/03/09 - 1:08 AM:

Zum wrote:
Kickass: excellent, stunning, startling, unique, delightful smiling face


Thank you.




I put a poem by Suzanne in "Gallery and Open Mike." She is a Los Angeles Poet and my sister.




I do not forget details so easily. Your name,as well as all your stories are still vivid,Charlotte Stuart!laughing




Zum
Senior Member

Usergroup: Members
Joined: Jan 21, 2009

Total Topics: 23
Total Comments: 420
Zum
Posted 10/04/09 - 1:30 AM:

Thank you, Thinker.
Thinker13
Senior Member
Avatar

Usergroup: Members
Joined: Apr 27, 2009

Total Topics: 357
Total Comments: 3379
Posted 10/04/09 - 2:36 AM:

Zum wrote:
Thank you, Thinker.



Welcome,Zum.
Zum
Senior Member

Usergroup: Members
Joined: Jan 21, 2009

Total Topics: 23
Total Comments: 420
Zum
Posted 10/07/09 - 12:26 AM:

To Some I Have Talked With by the Fire


While I wrought out these fitful Danaan rhymes,
My heart would brim with dreams about the times
When we bent down above the fading coals
And talked of the dark folk who live in souls
Of passionate men, like bats in the dead trees;
And of the wayward twilight companies
Who sigh with mingled sorrow and content,
Because their blossoming dreams have never bent
Under the fruit of evil and of good:
And of the embattled flaming multitude
Who rise, wing above wing, flame above flame,
And, like a storm, cry the ineffable Name,
And with the clashing of their sword-blades make
A rapturous music, till the morning break
And the white hush end all but the loud beat
Of their long wings, the flash of their white feet.

William Butler Yeats
Zum
Senior Member

Usergroup: Members
Joined: Jan 21, 2009

Total Topics: 23
Total Comments: 420
Zum
Posted 10/09/09 - 11:53 PM:

Come on. Some of y'all put some in.zen
Thinker13
Senior Member
Avatar

Usergroup: Members
Joined: Apr 27, 2009

Total Topics: 357
Total Comments: 3379
Posted 10/10/09 - 1:34 AM:

Zum wrote:
Come on. Some of y'all put some in.zen



Indeed. But I am so boring. Repetitive.laughing


I'm nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there's a pair of us — don't tell!
They'd banish us, you know.

How dreary to be somebody!
How public, like a frog
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!


--Emily Dickinson.
Thinker13
Senior Member
Avatar

Usergroup: Members
Joined: Apr 27, 2009

Total Topics: 357
Total Comments: 3379
#10 - Quote - Permalink
Posted 10/10/09 - 1:37 AM:

Maya

That I should make much of myself and turn it on all sides,

thus casting colored shadows on thy radiance

---such is thy Maya.

Thou settest a barrier in thine own being

and then callest thy severed self in myriad notes.

This thy self-separation has taken body in me.

The poignant song is echoed through all the sky in many-coloued tears

and smiles, alarms and hopes; waves rise up and sink again,

dreams break and form.

In me is thy own defeat of self.

This screen that thou hast raised is painted with innumerable figures

with the brush of the night and the day.

Behind it thy seat is woven in wondrous mysteries of curves,

casting away all barren lines of straightness.

The great pageant of thee and me has overspread the sky.

With the tune of thee and me all the air is vibrant,

and all ages pass with the hiding and seeking of thee and me.


--Gitanjali,Rabindranath Tagore.
Thinker13
Senior Member
Avatar

Usergroup: Members
Joined: Apr 27, 2009

Total Topics: 357
Total Comments: 3379
#11 - Quote - Permalink
Posted 10/10/09 - 1:40 AM:

When Day Is Done

If the day is done,

if birds sing no more,

if the wind has flagged tired,

then draw the veil of darkness thick upon me,

even as thou hast wrapt the earth with the coverlet of sleep

and tenderly closed the petals of the drooping lotus at dusk.

From the traveler,

whose sack of provisions is empty before the voyage is ended,

whose garment is torn and dust-laden,

whose strength is exhausted,

remove shame and poverty,

and renew his life like a flower under the cover of thy kindly night.



--Rabindranath Tagore.
Thinker13
Senior Member
Avatar

Usergroup: Members
Joined: Apr 27, 2009

Total Topics: 357
Total Comments: 3379
#12 - Quote - Permalink
Posted 10/10/09 - 1:42 AM:

Leave This

Leave this chanting and singing and telling of beads!

Whom dost thou worship in this lonely dark corner of a temple with doors all shut?

Open thine eyes and see thy God is not before thee!

He is there where the tiller is tilling the hard ground

and where the pathmaker is breaking stones.

He is with them in sun and in shower,

and his garment is covered with dust.

Put off thy holy mantle and even like him come down on the dusty soil!

Deliverance?

Where is this deliverance to be found?

Our master himself has joyfully taken upon him the bonds of creation;

he is bound with us all for ever.

Come out of thy meditations and leave aside thy flowers and incense!

What harm is there if thy clothes become tattered and stained?

Meet him and stand by him in toil and in sweat of thy brow.



--Rabindranath Tagore.
Zum
Senior Member

Usergroup: Members
Joined: Jan 21, 2009

Total Topics: 23
Total Comments: 420
Zum
#13 - Quote - Permalink
Posted 10/10/09 - 12:27 PM:

I like the Tagore poems, very much, especially the last one.

The one I'm about to post serves as Dylan Thomas' prologue to his Collected Poems, which was copyrighted in 1939, the year Hitler's Nazi forces invaded Poland. Exquisite sensibilities like those of Dylan Thomas were not required to discern that harsh times were coming.

He isn't an easy poet to read. Much of the time, he chooses words for their sound as much as for their meaning.

I think the poem says this: It is dusk and summer's end. I live in the middle of nature, near water. Over this water I can see birds of every kind, and fishermen are out. All nature speaks and sings. I am not at peace (I am in poor peace): in this condition I sing to you strangers out there. I dare to perform the burning, crested act of song. Among birds' songs I offer my crude syllables, though I know that, like leaves, they will eventually fall and perish. The sun is setting. I'm creating patterns of words because I want you to know that (though I'm only a man) I glory in all of life. Out of my words I'm building an arc, to the best of my love, as the flood waters everywhere rise, released by mankind's fear and rage, covering my sleeping Wales. I'm inviting all the birds and animals into my arc. (Here Dylan Thomas invites them all in, elaborately, calling them in their own voices, using their names and particular descriptions.) He talks about how he is building his arc right then. All the animals come aboard and he, the poet, becomes a moonshine drinking Noah of the bay. From every direction, other arcs, manned by love, will join his.


AUTHOR'S PROLOGUE


This day winding down now
At God speeded summer's end
In the torrent salmon sun,
In my seashaken house
On a breakneck of rocks
Tangled with chirrup and fruit,
Froth, flute, fin and quill
At a wood's dancing hoof,
By scummed, starfish sands
With their fishwife cross
Gulls, pipers, cockles, and sails,
Out there, crow black, men
Tackled with cloud, who kneel
To the sunset nets,
Geese nearly in heaven, boys
Stabbing, and herons, and shells
That speak seven seas,
Eternal waters away
From the cities of nine
Days' night whose towers will catch
In the religious wind
Like stalks of tall, dry straw,
At poor peace I sing
To you strangers (though song
Is a burning and crested act,
The fire of birds in
The world's turning wood,
For my sawn, splay sounds),
Out of these seathumbed leaves
That will fly and fall
Like leaves of trees and as soon
Crumble and undie
Into the dogdayed night.
Seaward the salmon, sucked sun slips,
And the dumb swans drub blue
My dabbed bay's dusk, as I hack
The rumpus of shapes
For you to know
How I, a spinning man,
Glory also this star, bird
Roared, sea born, man torn, blood blest.
Hark: I trumpet the place,
From fish to jumping hill! Look:
I build my bellowing ark
To the best of my love
As the flood begins,
Out of the fountainhead
Of fear, rage red, manalive,
Molten and mountainous to stream
of the wound asleep
Sheep white hollow farms
To Wales in my arms.
Hoo, there, in castle keep,
You king singsong owls, who moonbeam
The flickering runs and dive,
The dingle furred deer dead!
Hullo, on plumbed byrns,
O my ruffled ring dove
In the hooting, nearly dark
With Welsh and reverent rook,
Coo rooing the woods' praise,
Who moons her blue notes from her nest
Down to the curlew herd!
Ho, hullaballoing clan
Agape, with woe
In your beaks, on the gabbling capes!
Heigh, on horseback hill, Jack
Whisking hare! who
Hears, there, this fox light, my flood ship's
Clangour as I hew and smite
(A clash of anvils for my
Hubbub and fiddle, this tune
On a tongued puffball)
But animals thick as thieves
On God's rough tumbling grounds
(Hail to His beasthood!).
Beasts who sleep good and thin,
Hist, in hogsback woods! The haystacked
Hollow farms in a throng
Of waters cluck and cling,
And barnroofs cockcrow war!
O kingdom of neighbours, finned
Felled and quilled, flash to my patch
Work arc and the moonshine
Drinking Noah of the bay,
With pelt, and scale, and fleece:
Only the drowned deep bells
Of sleep and churches noise
Poor peace as the sun sets
And dark shoals every hold field.
We will ride out alone, and then,
Under the stars of Wales,
Cry, Multitudes of arks! Across
The water lidded lands,
Manned with their loves they'll move,
Like wooden islands, hill to hill.
Huloo, my prowed dove with a flute!
Ahoy, old sea-legged Dai mouse!
My ark sings in the sun
At God speeded summer's end
And the flood flowers now.


I take "noise" and "shoals," above, to be verbs...

Zum
Senior Member

Usergroup: Members
Joined: Jan 21, 2009

Total Topics: 23
Total Comments: 420
Zum
#14 - Quote - Permalink
Posted 10/10/09 - 5:53 PM:

That is, he's building an ark. laughing Hate typos.
Zum
Senior Member

Usergroup: Members
Joined: Jan 21, 2009

Total Topics: 23
Total Comments: 420
Zum
#15 - Quote - Permalink
Posted 10/15/09 - 10:13 AM:

Fish I Remember


Only Birmingham, who took a double back flip
out of his bowl
and flopped till dead on the linoleum.
He looked so alone when I found him,
a spot of gold worth nothing.
He'd wanted to strike out in the world
but couldn't walk or fly or breathe air.
He couldn't trudge ahead
with even the tiniest suitcase.
Birmingham, on our side of the glass
life is that way for us too,
brutal and unjust.
But think of that falling swoop through the air!
Your heart in your mouth.
for an instant you were precious metal, a star.
You were manna dropping from heaven.
You were like the life that burst
in mysterious splendor
long ago from the sea.

I waded,
and tossed him into a wave
at Laguna, with no ceremony.
his little dream went down
into the grey blue.
Mine also. I had to clamber
from the sea as a woman,
not a new thing,
and drive home through the gritty air,
not step from this earth
and soar.


Suzanne Lummis
libertygrl
Administrator
Avatar

Usergroup: Administrators
Joined: Apr 16, 2005
Location: San Francisco

Total Topics: 425
Total Comments: 4672
#16 - Quote - Permalink
Posted 10/15/09 - 3:14 PM:

The laws of God, the laws of man,
He may keep that will and can;
Not I: let God and man decree
Laws for themselves and not for me;
And if my ways are not as theirs
Let them mind their own affairs.
Their deeds I judge and much condemn,
Yet when did I make laws for them?
Please yourselves, say I, and they
Need only look the other way.
But no, they will not; they must still
Wrest their neighbour to their will,
And make me dance as they desire
With jail and gallows and hell-fire.
And how am I to face the odds
Of man's bedevilment and God's?
I, a stranger and afraid
In a world I never made.

--A.E. Housman
Thinker13
Senior Member
Avatar

Usergroup: Members
Joined: Apr 27, 2009

Total Topics: 357
Total Comments: 3379
#17 - Quote - Permalink
Posted 10/16/09 - 9:47 AM:

"Who never ate his bread in sorrow,

Who never spent the darksome hours Weeping,

and watching for the morrow,

Who never burnt midnight oil

He knows not ye,O' heavenly powers!"


John Wolfgang Von Goethe.


[These lines were translated from German,perhaps by Thomas Carlyle first. Oscar Wilde was particularly fond of these.]
Zum
Senior Member

Usergroup: Members
Joined: Jan 21, 2009

Total Topics: 23
Total Comments: 420
Zum
#18 - Quote - Permalink
Posted 10/19/09 - 6:51 PM:

Okay, this one's harsh.

Lamentations

I found him in the guard-room at the Base.
From the blind darkness I had heard his crying
And blundered in. With puzzled, patient face
A sergeant watched him; it was no good trying
To stop it; for he howled and beat his chest.
And, all because his brother had gone west,
Raved at the bleeding war; his rampant grief
Moaned, shouted, sobbed, and choked, while he was kneeling
Half-naked on the floor. In my belief
Such men have lost all patriotic feeling.


Siegfried Sassoon
libertygrl
Administrator
Avatar

Usergroup: Administrators
Joined: Apr 16, 2005
Location: San Francisco

Total Topics: 425
Total Comments: 4672
#19 - Quote - Permalink
Posted 10/21/09 - 3:53 PM:

Zum wrote:
Okay, this one's harsh.

this too:

suburban woman, by zachary maunier

1.

you loom in the doorway with your waxen face,
flamboyantly clutching your necklace
like a shield against one more suburban joke.
: rehearsing for the museum? : i thought to shoot.

the order of the day is to retreat in haste
and to salute everything with a last hurrah.
drums are rolling, dear, as in olden times, drunk
with blood, calling us to the sacrificial rite.
there's something ancestral and terrifying
about the face the television promises, look,

in the middle of its ominous harangue.
no comment. we don't have kneeling pads
at home, and if you lean out to the umbrellas along
the shore, we know security is your preferred dream.
you go to the balcony as an eyewitness of the fires
inevitably blazing in the distance.

i see how fear chisels in you a statue
with veiled gaze and a speechless,
expressionless face, withdrawn into you,
the most recondite hiding place of all.

2.

together now, happy if we hear a racket
in the distance, we look at each other,
for the promise is fulfilled, the ritual
sacrament conferred on us by time.

what should we do, you ask. hoist the sails
or dig a mine shaft in the floor, deserting
who we are as we descend time's tunnel
to reach the world's antipodes?
swallow a pill or let ourselves go,
pushed by the wind, beneath the eaves?

you cannot, in a final rapture, take anything.
you'll be the pretty, on that crucial day,
of all you desired and lose, without appeal,
under mob rule or some praetorian order,
sentenced to biblical logic
and the resignation of roman existence.

all you have today is your face's imitation
in the mirror. and that's all you have to defend
in the hour when god's creation rebels
: and beyond your gaze - look - there's still
the whole world...:
Franny
New

Usergroup: Members
Joined: Oct 23, 2009

Total Topics: 0
Total Comments: 7
Franny
#20 - Quote - Permalink
Posted 10/23/09 - 11:45 AM:

GIFT

You tell me that silence
Is nearer to peace than poems
But if for my gift
I brought you silence
(for I know silence)
You would say
This is not silence
This is another poem
And you would hand it back to me.

--Leonard Cohen
Zum
Senior Member

Usergroup: Members
Joined: Jan 21, 2009

Total Topics: 23
Total Comments: 420
Zum
#21 - Quote - Permalink
Posted 10/24/09 - 1:29 AM:

WHAT ANY LOVER LEARNS

Water is heavy silver over stone.

What is heavy silver over stone's

Refusal. It does not fall. It fills. It flows

Every crevice, every fault of the stone,

Every hollow. River does not run.

River presses its heavy silver self

Down into stone and stone refuses.


What runs,

Swirling and leaping into sun, is stone's

Refusal of the river, not the river.



Archibald MacLeish
Thinker13
Senior Member
Avatar

Usergroup: Members
Joined: Apr 27, 2009

Total Topics: 357
Total Comments: 3379
#22 - Quote - Permalink
Posted 10/24/09 - 3:36 AM:

Let the lover be disgraceful, crazy,

absentminded. Someone sober

will worry about things going badly.

Let the lover be.



--Rumi
Thinker13
Senior Member
Avatar

Usergroup: Members
Joined: Apr 27, 2009

Total Topics: 357
Total Comments: 3379
#23 - Quote - Permalink
Posted 10/24/09 - 3:37 AM:

The Freshness



When it's cold and raining,

you are more beautiful.



And the snow brings me

even closer to your lips.



The inner secret, that which was never born,

you are that freshness, and I am with you now.



I can't explain the goings,

or the comings. You enter suddenly,



and I am nowhere again.

Inside the majesty.




--Jalaluddin Rumi.
Zum
Senior Member

Usergroup: Members
Joined: Jan 21, 2009

Total Topics: 23
Total Comments: 420
Zum
#24 - Quote - Permalink
Posted 11/03/09 - 1:59 PM:

For those in love--



somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond

any experience,your eyes have their silence:

in my most frail gesture are things which enclose me,

or which i cannot touch because they are too near


your slightest look easily will unclose me

though i have closed myself as fingers,

you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens

(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose


or if your wish be to close me,i and

my life will shut very beautifully,suddenly,

as when the heart of this flower imagines

the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals

the power of your intense fragility:whose texture

compels me with the colour of its countries,

tendering death and forever with each breathing


(i do not know what it is about you that closes

and opens;only something in me understands

the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)

nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands


e. e. cummings



I tried to reproduce his individualistic punctuation accurately. He doesn't have any titles, at least not in 100 Selected Poems.

Obviously a love poem by man to a woman, but it kind of works universally.
libertygrl
Administrator
Avatar

Usergroup: Administrators
Joined: Apr 16, 2005
Location: San Francisco

Total Topics: 425
Total Comments: 4672
#25 - Quote - Permalink
Posted 11/04/09 - 12:11 AM:

lovely smiling face
Search thread for
Download thread as
  • 0/5
  • 1
  • 2
  • 3
  • 4
  • 5



Sorry, you don't have permission . Log in, or register if you haven't yet.



Acknowledgements:

Couch logo design by Midnight_Monk. The photo hanging above the couch was taken by Paul.

Powered by WSN Forum. Free smileys here.
Special thanks to Maria Cristina, Jesse , Echolist Directory, The Star Online,
Hosting Free Webs, and dmoz.org for referring visitors to this site!

Copyright notice:

Except where noted otherwise, copyright belongs to respective authors
for artwork, photography and text posted in this forum.