' Live-Poets Society ' – A Corner For Poetry

[MichaelS36]

Okay… 

A Lobster Pot

A lobster pot
tossed by the sea
onto the rocks
wedged in the jetty
between the boulders
of the breakwater
pristine, but barnacled,
seaweeded, lost, adrift
crashed where we found it
in the jagged wet rocks,
on the Maine coast
that long ago summer
climbing down among the stones
to bring it up, into the light
no minor feat
Lug the dead weight
down the jetty,
to the beach
abandon our find,
our catch
to true owners
claiming their rights
as we left the rocks
and touched the sand


Copyright by Raymond A. Foss,

[Parker Owens]

Hearts and bones? Time for me to go a-hunting. 

[AC Benus]

15 minutes ago, MichaelS36 said:

Okay… 

A Lobster Pot

A lobster pot
tossed by the sea
onto the rocks
wedged in the jetty
between the boulders
of the breakwater
pristine, but barnacled,
seaweeded, lost, adrift
crashed where we found it
in the jagged wet rocks,
on the Maine coast
that long ago summer
climbing down among the stones
to bring it up, into the light
no minor feat
Lug the dead weight
down the jetty,
to the beach
abandon our find,
our catch
to true owners
claiming their rights
as we left the rocks
and touched the sand


Copyright by Raymond A. Foss,

Well, as a Modern poem, if we take it metaphorically, I could see the poem being about ecology. Everything we "find" on earth is just ours for a few brief moments, and as long as we remember we'll have to pass it on (or back to the original owner...), we'll take better care of the Earth.

[MichaelS36]

2 minutes ago, AC Benus said:

Well, as a Modern poem, if we take it metaphorically, I could see the poem being about ecology. Everything we "find" on earth is just ours for a few brief moments, and as long as we remember we'll have to pass it on (or back to the original owner...), we'll take better care of the Earth.

We don't have a great history of being good caretakers sadly. 

[mollyhousemouse]

On 9/13/2019 at 7:24 AM, Mikiesboy said:

Few suspect my double life, ‘twould make a dandy thriller.
My poker face does not reflect the fact that I’m a killer.
I’m not your average murderess — deceptive nomenclature.
My victims are botanical. (They’re of a plant-like nature.)

My methods are diversified but always I’m discreet.
I subtly assassinate each struggling sprout I meet.
Drowning often does them in but then sometimes it’s drought.
Frequently it’s too much shade that snuffs their young lives out.

Begonias are my favorite prey. They never live to tell.
Impatiens die before their time. I guess it’s just as well.
So never leave your plants with me – this message I implore —
Or else your healthy Wandering Jew won’t wander any more.

By Lois Corcoran

this is hilarious!
(says the woman who can over water a cactus)

[Mikiesboy]

Just now, mollyhousemouse said:

this is hilarious!
(says the woman who can over water a cactus)

oh ... a fellow killer, eh?

[mollyhousemouse]

3 minutes ago, Mikiesboy said:

oh ... a fellow killer, eh?

tim, at this point, i'd be classified as a "repeat offender" if not "serial killer"

[mollyhousemouse]

lobster pots and seafood bring to mind this classic from Lewis Carroll:

 

The sun was shining on the sea,
Shining with all his might:
He did his very best to make
The billows smooth and bright--
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of the night.
The moon was shining sulkily,
Because she thought the sun
Had got no business to be there
After the day was done--
"It's very rude of him," she said,
"To come and spoil the fun!"

The sea was wet as wet could be,
The sands were dry as dry.
You could not see a cloud, because
No cloud was in the sky:
No birds were flying overhead--
There were no birds to fly.
The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand;
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand:
"If this were only cleared away,"
They said, "it would be grand!"
"If seven maids with seven mops
Swept it for half a year.
Do you suppose," the Walrus said,
"That they could get it clear?"
"I doubt it," said the Carpenter,
And shed a bitter tear.
"O Oysters, come and walk with us!"
The Walrus did beseech.
"A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
Along the briny beach:
We cannot do with more than four,
To give a hand to each."
The eldest Oyster looked at him,
But never a word he said:
The eldest Oyster winked his eye,
And shook his heavy head--
Meaning to say he did not choose
To leave the oyster-bed.
But four young Oysters hurried up,
All eager for the treat:
Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,
Their shoes were clean and neat--
And this was odd, because, you know,
They hadn't any feet.
Four other Oysters followed them,
And yet another four;
And thick and fast they came at last,
And more, and more, and more--
All hopping through the frothy waves,
And scrambling to the shore.

The Walrus and the Carpenter
Walked on a mile or so,
And then they rested on a rock
Conveniently low:
And all the little Oysters stood
And waited in a row.
"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--
Of cabbages--and kings--
And why the sea is boiling hot--
And whether pigs have wings."
"But wait a bit," the Oysters cried,
"Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us are fat!"
"No hurry!" said the Carpenter.
They thanked him much for that.
"A loaf of bread," the Walrus said,
"Is what we chiefly need:
Pepper and vinegar besides
Are very good indeed--
Now if you're ready, Oysters dear,
We can begin to feed."
"But not on us!" the Oysters cried,
Turning a little blue.
"After such kindness, that would be
A dismal thing to do!"
"The night is fine," the Walrus said.
"Do you admire the view?

"It was so kind of you to come!
And you are very nice!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"Cut us another slice:
I wish you were not quite so deaf--
I've had to ask you twice!"
"It seems a shame," the Walrus said,
"To play them such a trick,
After we've brought them out so far,
And made them trot so quick!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"The butter's spread too thick!"
"I weep for you," the Walrus said:
"I deeply sympathize."
With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket-handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.
"O Oysters," said the Carpenter,
"You've had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?'
But answer came there none--
And this was scarcely odd, because
They'd eaten every one.

[mollyhousemouse]

On 9/13/2019 at 4:19 PM, Mikiesboy said:

This one mentions begonia and death ...

 

Glory of Garden

Mist veil in haze, winter unwraps,
A rejoice raptures in reverie of spring. 
Amber gold touch of Midas perhaps,
Bees and frilled petals in amorous cling.

A mystical harmony of beauty serene,
Magnolia and tulip, hum for butterfly.
Honeysuckle vines, squirrels in between,
Yellows and purple, rose cheeks feel shy.

Like peacocks bloom, begonia and pansy
Palettes of color, lush in vibrant green
Perfumed breeze...cadence lily in daisy
Petunia with marigold, in rollick are seen.

On canvas of soil, lyric paints a picture,
Sprouting prose...to poetry and sonnet.
Sowing seeds of love, Man nurtures Nature
In pride of his sweat, plants glitter on it.

The harvest of hoe, conjures a treasure 
In Glory of Garden, life is born to grow.
Landscape of spring, is short-lived pleasure
Maxim of death,.. in summer.., do they know?

 

Debjani Mitra

this sounds like a beautiful garden, tim!
 

[Parker Owens]

I know I am slow.  Here is a favorite garden poem...

Morning has broken,
Like the first morning,
Blackbird has spoken
Like the first bird;
Praise for the singing,
Praise for the morning,
Praise for them springing
Fresh from the Word.

-Eleanor Farjeon

[AC Benus]

(Sorry folks! I've missed a few postings; I don't think the notices are coming through....)

[Parker Owens]

Here are the first three stanzas of a lengthy, but interesting translation of a Renaissance poem, The Tournament, by Angelo Poliziano.  For some reason, this took my fancy. The translation is by Guy Davenport.

Splendor and pride I celebrate,

of Tuscan arms and Tuscan men.

Generous and strict, firm their state,

scholars, knights, and gentlemen,

and her whose power moves us all

from heaven's third bright parapet.

Lest time and death among them fall,

and fortune turn and men forget.

 

O shining god who breathes desire

Sweet and biter upon our eyes

And rives until the heart take fire

And burns the hotter for your sighs,

Make gentle all you gaze upon,

Burn out what’s base within the mind,

That intellect and love be one,

Direct me, Love, or I am blind.

 

Lighten the weight that holds me so,

Steady my hand, Love, rule my tongue,

Begin and end, that the world may know

Yours the honor; when all is sung.

Display the snare, show how you won,

How you the Tuscan baron caught,

Etruscan Leda’s youngest son,

And how the cunning net was wrought.

 

[AC Benus]

On 9/30/2019 at 6:22 AM, Parker Owens said:

Here are the first three stanzas of a lengthy, but interesting translation of a Renaissance poem, The Tournament, by Angelo Poliziano.  For some reason, this took my fancy. The translation is by Guy Davenport.

 

Splendor and pride I celebrate,

of Tuscan arms and Tuscan men.

Generous and strict, firm their state,

scholars, knights, and gentlemen,

and her whose power moves us all

from heaven's third bright parapet.

Lest time and death among them fall,

and fortune turn and men forget.

 

O shining god who breathes desire

Sweet and biter upon our eyes

And rives until the heart take fire

And burns the hotter for your sighs,

Make gentle all you gaze upon,

Burn out what’s base within the mind,

That intellect and love be one,

Direct me, Love, or I am blind.

 

Lighten the weight that holds me so,

Steady my hand, Love, rule my tongue,

Begin and end, that the world may know

Yours the honor; when all is sung.

Display the snare, show how you won,

How you the Tuscan baron caught,

Etruscan Leda’s youngest son,

And how the cunning net was wrought.

 

It's lovely and wonderful!  

[AC Benus]

I know I seem to be the all-Hans, all-the-time channel, but this little one is so perfect; sweet and innocent. Talent like this from a 22-year-old is pretty amazing. 

 

The Hour 
 
The fountainhead’s grotesque white face tosses 
 A playful jet upon the bowl, filling it. 
The sun wends brightly through the foliage 
And paints the mottled nymphs in leopard skins. 
 
A white butterfly flutters down the path;
In pale colors are the garden blooms awash.
And into over-spilling rose beds slip
Bees who hum like they’re keeping a secret

Hans Ehrenbaum-Degele

[Parker Owens]

27 minutes ago, AC Benus said:

I know I seem to be the all-Hans, all-the-time channel, but this little one is so perfect; sweet and innocent. Talent like this from a 22-year-old is pretty amazing. 

 

The Hour 
 
The fountainhead’s grotesque white face tosses 
 A playful jet upon the bowl, filling it. 
The sun wends brightly through the foliage 
And paints the mottled nymphs in leopard skins. 
 
A white butterfly flutters down the path;
In pale colors are the garden blooms awash.
And into over-spilling rose beds slip
Bees who hum like they’re keeping a secret

Hans Ehrenbaum-Degele

That’s so beautiful! 

[Mikiesboy]

4 hours ago, AC Benus said:

I know I seem to be the all-Hans, all-the-time channel, but this little one is so perfect; sweet and innocent. Talent like this from a 22-year-old is pretty amazing. 

 

The Hour 
 
The fountainhead’s grotesque white face tosses 
 A playful jet upon the bowl, filling it. 
The sun wends brightly through the foliage 
And paints the mottled nymphs in leopard skins. 
 
A white butterfly flutters down the path;
In pale colors are the garden blooms awash.
And into over-spilling rose beds slip
Bees who hum like they’re keeping a secret

Hans Ehrenbaum-Degele

oh this one.. this one is really lovely ... it makes me wonder what he'd been doing had he lived.. his poetry at 22 is amazing

[Parker Owens]

I can’t solve

life’s complex equations,

with multiple implicit unknowns

and multidimensional intersecting curves,

each with unique points of inflection;

but I can contemplate

their beauty.

[AC Benus]

58 minutes ago, Parker Owens said:

I can’t solve

life’s complex equations,

with multiple implicit unknowns

and multidimensional intersecting curves,

each with unique points of inflection;

but I can contemplate

their beauty.

Wow, a stunner! You have arranged complexities to build on the longest line, and then re-simplify towards a Keats-ianly brilliant conclusion. You've give me an example par excellence for my Skyscraper Poetry Prompt, when I get there sometime in the future. This brought a smile to my day. Thanks for sharing! 

[Parker Owens]

6 hours ago, AC Benus said:

Wow, a stunner! You have arranged complexities to build on the longest line, and then re-simplify towards a Keats-ianly brilliant conclusion. You've give me an example par excellence for my Skyscraper Poetry Prompt, when I get there sometime in the future. This brought a smile to my day. Thanks for sharing! 

You made my day, too. It’s a great joy that this poem brought you smiles. 

[Black Paper]

Failure III

 

You want to cry.

You want to die.

You don't even want to try.

You don't even know why.

But, to say you don't, is a lie.

You tried and tried but are still tied.

The road looks narrow.

It feels so wide.

You can't keep going.

The winds keep blowing.

You try to keep walking.

But, something is stalking.

In you mind, you hear so much talking.

You fell down.

And, now you frown.

The gusts blew away your crown.

You feel the tears stream down your face.

You try to heal yourself but go no place.

It's getting worse.

This deepening curse keeps going in reverse.

Even though you rehearse,

It steals all of you money.

You have an empty purse.

It took everything.

You have nothing.

But, there is still something.

There is one last thing.

There is a way to be okay.

This is your last hope.

Your heart can save you,

And, pull you up with it's rope.

Don't give up just yet.

Or, you will only regret.

Trust your heart from the start.

And, you will never be torn apart.

~Black Paper

=Wrote this tonight. Thought I would share the importance of this page and what it teaches- to never give up.=

 

Edited October 14, 2019 by Black Paper

[AC Benus]

Wow! Sometimes I feel like I know nothing. Only two or so years ago I learned about John Clare, perhaps now my favorite Romantic poet...and now tonight I find someone who might even outshine his heart-soul. Several of Letitia Elizabeth Landon's poems show a clearly Queer sensibility. She published under her initials (initially, lol) and most assumed she was a man, making it all the more interesting when she wrote love poems from one man to another. However, I will first show you this remarkable set of Lyrics. I think the theme will resonate with most of us

 

Lines of Life 

 

                          -----------------
Orphan in my first years, I early learnt
To make my heart suffice itself, and seek
Support and sympathy in its own depths.

                         -----------------

 

Well, read my cheek, and watch my eye —

    Too strictly school'd are they

One secret of my soul to show,

    One hidden thought betray.

 

I never knew the time my heart

    Look'd freely from my brow;

It once was check'd by timidness,

     'Tis taught by caution now.

 

I live among the cold, the false,

    And I must seem like them;

And such I am, for I am false

   As those I most condemn.

 

I teach my lip its sweetest smile,

    My tongue its softest tone;

I borrow others' likeness, till

    Almost I lose my own.

 

I pass through flattery's gilded sieve,

    Whatever I would say;

In social life, all, like the blind,

    Must learn to feel their way.

 

I check my thoughts like curbed steeds

    That struggle with the rein;

I bid my feelings sleep, like wrecks

    In the unfathom'd main.

 

I hear them speak of love, the deep.

    The true, and mock the name;

Mock at all high and early truth,

    And I too do the same.

 

I hear them tell some touching tale,

    I swallow down the tear;

I hear them name some generous deed,

    And I have learnt to sneer.

 

I hear the spiritual, the kind,

    The pure, but named in mirth;

Till all of good, ay, even hope,

    Seems exiled from our earth.

 

And one fear, withering ridicule,

    Is all that I can dread;

A sword hung by a single hair

    For ever o'er the head.

 

We bow to a most servile faith,

    In a most servile fear;

While none among us dares to say

    What none will choose to hear.

 

And if we dream of loftier thoughts,

    In weakness they are gone;

And indolence and vanity

    Rivet our fetters on.

 

Surely I was not born for this!

    I feel a loftier mood

Of generous impulse, high resolve,

    Steal o'er my solitude!

 

I gaze upon the thousand stars

    That fill the midnight sky;

And wish, so passionately wish,

    A light like theirs on high.

 

I have such eagerness of hope

    To benefit my kind;

And feel as if immortal power

    Were given to my mind.

 

I think on that eternal fame,

    The sun of earthly gloom.

Which makes the gloriousness of death,

    The future of the tomb —

 

That earthly future, the faint sign

    Of a more heavenly one;

— A step, a word, a voice, a look, —

    Alas! my dream is done!

 

And earth, and earth's debasing stain,

    Again is on my soul;

And I am but a nameless part

    Of a most worthless whole.

 

Why write I this? because my heart

    Towards the future springs,

That future where it loves to soar

    On more than eagle wings.

 

The present, it is but a speck

    In that eternal time,

In which my lost hopes find a home,

    My spirit knows its clime.

 

Oh! not myself — for what am I? —

    The worthless and the weak,

Whose every thought of self should raise

    A blush to burn my cheek.

 

But song has touch’d my lips with fire.

    And made my heart a shrine;

For what, although alloy'd, debased,

    Is in itself divine.

 

I am myself but a vile link

    Amid life's weary chain;

But I have spoken hallow'd words,

    O do not say in vain!

 

My first, my last, my only wish,

    Say will my charmed chords

Wake to the morning light of fame,

    And breathe again my words?

 

Will the young maiden, when her tears

    Alone in moonlight shine —

Tears for the absent and the loved —

    Murmur some song of mine?

 

Will the pale youth by his dim lamp,

    Himself a dying flame,

From many an antique scroll beside,

    Choose that which bears my name?

 

Let music make less terrible

    The silence of the dead;

I care not, so my spirit last

    Long after life has fled.

 

 

 

_

[Mikiesboy]

5 hours ago, AC Benus said:

live among the cold, the false,

    And I must seem like them;

And such I am, for I am false

   As those I most condemn.

You know much my wonderful, dear friend. I am glad there is still the excitement of discovery for you!  It is wonderful ... yet too often the message from then, is the same for many today.

[Parker Owens]

7 hours ago, AC Benus said:

I check my thoughts like curbed steeds

    That struggle with the rein;

I bid my feelings sleep, like wrecks

    In the unfathom'd main.

What a fantastic image. It sticks in my brain, as do many others in this poem. Thank you for sharing Letitia Elizabeth Landon with us. 

[Parker Owens]

I’ve tried a new form, called a kimo. You can find my attempt here. https://gayauthors.org/story/parker-owens/disasters-delights-and-other-detours/60
 

[northie]

I've also given it a go. Parker makes writing kimos look easy. Taking motion out of what you write takes some thinking about.