first 10 people get a poem

[NewOrleans]

I'm in a mood.

Disclaimer: I am not writing the poems, lol.  Just giving you one.

[gpw]

ME!

Except I want one written, too. Both, please.

[josieposy]

[Deleted]

MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

Please and thank you.

[IIOY]

A poem I want
A request I shall make
Please don't merely Google
I want nothing fake

I've been inside all day
Because of the snow
It's hasn't been all bad
But it does kinda blow

I have errands to run
And many things to do
BTW I just realized
I haven't mentioned my poo

I've been gassy as hell
For my bowels, a plea
My poor husband and children
May have to flee

I have PMS
That's the cause of my strife
It's annoying as hell
FML

[AJL]

Me!

[wawa]

oh me me! I love these threads. they always send me off into a "why haven't I heard of these people before" google spiral.

[MrsAxilla]

Me, please!

[memenee]

Yes!!

[pixy0stix]

doh.

[NewOrleans]

Nov 26, 2014 15:18:52 GMT -5 josieposy said:

something unexpected for you.


The Mosquito

by John Updike



On the fine wire of her whine she walked

Unseen in the ominous bedroom dark

A traitor to her camouflage, she talked

A thirsty blue streak distinct as a spark,


I was to her a fragrant lake of blood

From which she had to sip a drop or die

A reservoir, a lavish field of food

I lay awake, unconsious of my size


We seem fair-matched opponents, soft she dropped

Down like a anchor on her thread of song

Her nose sank thankfully in; then i slapped

At the sting on my arm, cunning and strong


A cunning, strong gargantua. i struck

This lover pinned in the feast of my flesh

Lulled by my blood, relaxed, half-sated, stuck

Engrossed in the gross rivers of myself


Success, without a cry the creature died

Became a fleck of fluff upon the sheet

The small welt of remorse subsides as side

By side we, murderer and murdered, sleep.

[NewOrleans]

Nov 26, 2014 15:33:23 GMT -5 @majorwife said:

HI!

for a psycho feminist.


Margaret Atwood 
Spelling



My daughter plays on the floor

with plastic letters,

red, blue & hard yellow,

learning how to spell,

spelling,

how to make spells.



I wonder how many women

denied themselves daughters,

closed themselves in rooms,

drew the curtains

so they could mainline words.



A child is not a poem,

a poem is not a child.

there is no either/or.

However.



I return to the story

of the woman caught in the war

& in labour, her thighs tied

together by the enemy

so she could not give birth.



Ancestress: the burning witch,

her mouth covered by leather

to strangle words.



A word after a word

after a word is power.



At the point where language falls away

from the hot bones, at the point

where the rock breaks open and darkness

flows out of it like blood, at

the melting point of granite

when the bones know

they are hollow & the word

splits & doubles & speaks

the truth & the body

itself becomes a mouth.



This is a metaphor.



How do you learn to spell?

Blood, sky & the sun,

your own name first,

your first naming, your first name,

your first word.

[NewOrleans]

Nov 26, 2014 15:23:10 GMT -5 kevin arnold said:

Thank you!

you are witty and funny.  This poem is long, but I have faith in you, and I think you would like Allen Ginsberg if you haven't already discovered him on your own.  In case you don't have the patience, here's a link to listen to Ginsberg himself.  www.youtube.com/watch?v=cJq2DUyzSdg   There's a hilarious version but I can't find it.

America
Allen Ginsberg


America I've given you all and now I'm nothing.

America two dollars and twenty-seven cents January 17, 1956.

I can't stand my own mind.

America when will we end the human war?

Go fuck yourself with your atom bomb

I don't feel good don't bother me.

I won't write my poem till I'm in my right mind.

America when will you be angelic?

When will you take off your clothes?

When will you look at yourself through the grave?

When will you be worthy of your million Trotskyites?

America why are your libraries full of tears?

America when will you send your eggs to India?

I'm sick of your insane demands.

When can I go into the supermarket and buy what I need with my good looks?

America after all it is you and I who are perfect not the next world.

Your machinery is too much for me.

You made me want to be a saint.

There must be some other way to settle this argument.

Burroughs is in Tangiers I don't think he'll come back it's sinister.

Are you being sinister or is this some form of practical joke?

I'm trying to come to the point.

I refuse to give up my obsession.

America stop pushing I know what I'm doing.

America the plum blossoms are falling.

I haven't read the newspapers for months, everyday somebody goes on trial for

murder.


America I feel sentimental about the Wobblies.

America I used to be a communist when I was a kid and I'm not sorry.

I smoke marijuana every chance I get.

I sit in my house for days on end and stare at the roses in the closet.

When I go to Chinatown I get drunk and never get laid.

My mind is made up there's going to be trouble.

You should have seen me reading Marx.

My psychoanalyst thinks I'm perfectly right.

I won't say the Lord's Prayer.

I have mystical visions and cosmic vibrations.

America I still haven't told you what you did to Uncle Max after he came over

from Russia.



I'm addressing you.

Are you going to let our emotional life be run by Time Magazine?

I'm obsessed by Time Magazine.

I read it every week.

Its cover stares at me every time I slink past the corner candystore.

I read it in the basement of the Berkeley Public Library.

It's always telling me about responsibility. Businessmen are serious. Movie

producers are serious. Everybody's serious but me.

It occurs to me that I am America.

I am talking to myself again.



Asia is rising against me.

I haven't got a chinaman's chance.

I'd better consider my national resources.

My national resources consist of two joints of marijuana millions of genitals

an unpublishable private literature that goes 1400 miles and hour and

twentyfivethousand mental institutions.

I say nothing about my prisons nor the millions of underpriviliged who live in

my flowerpots under the light of five hundred suns.

I have abolished the whorehouses of France, Tangiers is the next to go.

My ambition is to be President despite the fact that I'm a Catholic.



America how can I write a holy litany in your silly mood?

I will continue like Henry Ford my strophes are as individual as his

automobiles more so they're all different sexes

America I will sell you strophes $2500 apiece $500 down on your old strophe

America free Tom Mooney

America save the Spanish Loyalists

America Sacco & Vanzetti must not die

America I am the Scottsboro boys.

America when I was seven momma took me to Communist Cell meetings they

sold us garbanzos a handful per ticket a ticket costs a nickel and the

speeches were free everybody was angelic and sentimental about the

workers it was all so sincere you have no idea what a good thing the party

was in 1835 Scott Nearing was a grand old man a real mensch Mother

Bloor made me cry I once saw Israel Amter plain. Everybody must have

been a spy.

America you don're really want to go to war.

America it's them bad Russians.

Them Russians them Russians and them Chinamen. And them Russians.

The Russia wants to eat us alive. The Russia's power mad. She wants to take

our cars from out our garages.

Her wants to grab Chicago. Her needs a Red Reader's Digest. her wants our

auto plants in Siberia. Him big bureaucracy running our fillingstations.

That no good. Ugh. Him makes Indians learn read. Him need big black niggers.

Hah. Her make us all work sixteen hours a day. Help.

America this is quite serious.

America this is the impression I get from looking in the television set.

America is this correct?

I'd better get right down to the job.

It's true I don't want to join the Army or turn lathes in precision parts

factories, I'm nearsighted and psychopathic anyway.

America I'm putting my queer shoulder to the wheel.

[secretlyevil]

Me!

[NewOrleans]

Nov 26, 2014 15:19:38 GMT -5 @fucksticklegit said:

MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

Please and thank you.

you!  you changed my life with your bra thread!  So here is a poem about a woman's relationship with her body.


homage to my hips

BY LUCILLE CLIFTON


these hips are big hips

they need space to

move around in.

they don't fit into little

petty places. these hips

are free hips.

they don't like to be held back.

these hips have never been enslaved,

they go where they want to go

they do what they want to do.

these hips are mighty hips.

these hips are magic hips.

i have known them

to put a spell on a man and

spin him like a top!

[Deleted]

I've read that poem before and I love it

[NewOrleans]

Nov 26, 2014 15:18:44 GMT -5 gpw said:

ME!

Except I want one written, too. Both, please.

for you because the other day.


If We Must Die

BY CLAUDE MCKAY


If we must die, let it not be like hogs

Hunted and penned in an inglorious spot,

While round us bark the mad and hungry dogs,

Making their mock at our accursèd lot.

If we must die, O let us nobly die,

So that our precious blood may not be shed

In vain; then even the monsters we defy

Shall be constrained to honor us though dead!

O kinsmen! we must meet the common foe!

Though far outnumbered let us show us brave,

And for their thousand blows deal one death-blow!

What though before us lies the open grave?

Like men we’ll face the murderous, cowardly pack,

Pressed to the wall, dying, but fighting back!

[NewOrleans]

Nov 26, 2014 15:32:27 GMT -5 memenee said:

Yes!!

something lovely and classical for you


What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why (Sonnet XLIII)

Edna St. Vincent Millay


What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,

I have forgotten, and what arms have lain

Under my head till morning; but the rain

Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh

Upon the glass and listen for reply,

And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain

For unremembered lads that not again

Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.

Thus in winter stands the lonely tree,

Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,

Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:

I cannot say what loves have come and gone,

I only know that summer sang in me

A little while, that in me sings no more.

[gpw]

Nov 26, 2014 16:01:19 GMT -5 NewOrleans said:

Nov 26, 2014 15:18:44 GMT -5 gpw said:

ME!

Except I want one written, too. Both, please.

for you because the other day.


If We Must Die

BY CLAUDE MCKAY


If we must die, let it not be like hogs

Hunted and penned in an inglorious spot,

While round us bark the mad and hungry dogs,

Making their mock at our accursèd lot.

If we must die, O let us nobly die,

So that our precious blood may not be shed

In vain; then even the monsters we defy

Shall be constrained to honor us though dead!

O kinsmen! we must meet the common foe!

Though far outnumbered let us show us brave,

And for their thousand blows deal one death-blow!

What though before us lies the open grave?

Like men we’ll face the murderous, cowardly pack,

Pressed to the wall, dying, but fighting back!

[meshaliuknits]

Dang it. Late.

[NewOrleans]

Nov 26, 2014 15:49:04 GMT -5 secretlyevil said:

Me!

you get a special poem.

It is special because it was written by a random girl in a poetry class I took in college many  years ago.  I thoughts she was a great writer, and I kept her  poem for all these years.  I only know her first name because it's written on it: Kelly.

Bathroom Stall Writer

Your words are a relief
(vowel movements)
that shouldn't be flushed away
by the janitor's spray bottle.
Running in black streaks
like mascara, your words still cry out.

I imagine your think pen clicking
on the stall door,
sounding like teeth chattering
in the cold.  Your simple words
"Be happy"
are warm quilts to wrap 
around the tube that is my body.

In this tiny cell of yellow urine smell
your pen is a match
striking the door with the words
"I am so alone please help me!"

Spaces of skin colored paint
burned ink black by 
flames of faith in this filth.

[gpw]

Nov 26, 2014 16:05:28 GMT -5 meshaliuknits said:

Dang it. Late.

You know she will do everyone.  

#peerpressure

[bimbi284]

Annnnnd I'm late .

[ESF]

This thread is amazing.

Am I too late to get one?

[NewOrleans]

Nov 26, 2014 15:23:11 GMT -5 IIOY said:

A poem I want
A request I shall make
Please don't merely Google
I want nothing fake

I've been inside all day
Because of the snow
It's hasn't been all bad
But it does kinda blow

I have errands to run
And many things to do
BTW I just realized
I haven't mentioned my poo

I've been gassy as hell
For my bowels, a plea
My poor husband and children
May have to flee

I have PMS
That's the cause of my strife
It's annoying as hell
FML

for you because of statins. sorry about Ginsberg duplicate.


C’mon Pigs of Western Civilization

Eat More Grease.

Allen Ginsberg


Eat Eat more marbled Sirloin more Pork 'n

gravy!

Lard up the dressing, fry chicken in

boiling oil

Carry it dribbling to gray climes, snowed with

salt,

Little lambs covered with mint roast in rack

surrounded by roast potatoes wet with

buttersauce.

Buttered veal medallions in creamy saliva

buttered beef, glistening mountains

of french fries

Stroganoffs in white hot sour cream, chops

soaked in olive oil

surrounded by olives, salty feta cheese, followed

by Roquefort & Bleu & Stilton

thirsty

for wine, beer Cocacola Fanta Champagne

Pepsi retsina arak whiskey vodka

Agh! Watch out heart attack, pop more

angina pills

order a plate of Bratwurst, fried frankfurters,

couple billion Wimpys', MacDonald burger

to the moon & burp!

Salt on those fries! Boil onions

& breaded mushrooms even zucchini

in deep hot Crisco pans

Turkeys die only once,

look nice, next to tall white glasses

sugarmilk & icecream vanilla balls

Strawberrry for sweeter color milkshakes

with hot dogs

Forget greenbeans, everyday a few carrots,

a mini big spoonful of salty rice'll

do, make the plate pretty;

throw in some vinegar pickles, briney sauerkraut

check yr. cholesterol, swallow a pill

and order a sugar Cream donut, pack 2 under

the size 44 belt

Pass out in the vomitorium come back cough

up strands of sandwich still chewing

pastrami at Katz's delicatessen

Back to central Europe & gobble Kielbasa

in Lodz

swallow salami in Munich with beer,Liverwurst

on pumpernickel in Berlin, greasy cheese in

a 3 star Hotel near Syntagma, on white

bread thick-buttered

Set an example for developing nations, salt,

sugar, animal fat, coffee tobacco Schnapps

Drop dead faster! make room for

Chinese guestworkers with alien soybean

curds green cabbage & rice!

Africans Latins with rice beans & calabash can

stay thin & crowd in apartments for working

class foodfreaks —



Not like western cuisine rich in protein

cancer heart attack hypertension sweat

bloated liver & spleen megaly

Diabetes & stroke — monuments to carnivorous

civilizations

presently murdering Belfast

Bosnia Cypress Ngorno Karabach Georgia

mailing love letter bombs in

Vienna or setting houses afire

in East Germany — have another coffee,

here's a cigar.

And this is a plate of black forest chocolate cake,

you deserve it.

[pixy0stix]

A poem for you, m'dear.

Eating Poetry
BY MARK STRAND

Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.
There is no happiness like mine.
I have been eating poetry.

The librarian does not believe what she sees.
Her eyes are sad
and she walks with her hands in her dress.

The poems are gone.
The light is dim.
The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up.

Their eyeballs roll,
their blond legs burn like brush.
The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep.

She does not understand.
When I get on my knees and lick her hand,
she screams.

I am a new man.
I snarl at her and bark.
I romp with joy in the bookish dark.

[NewOrleans]

Nov 26, 2014 15:34:11 GMT -5 pixy0stix said:

doh.

here is a very eco-friendly poem for you.

Mushrooms
Sylvia Plath


Overnight, very

Whitely, discreetly,

Very quietly



Our toes, our noses

Take hold on the loam,

Acquire the air.



Nobody sees us,

Stops us, betrays us;

The small grains make room.



Soft fists insist on

Heaving the needles,

The leafy bedding,



Even the paving.

Our hammers, our rams,

Earless and eyeless,



Perfectly voiceless,

Widen the crannies,

Shoulder through holes. We



Diet on water,

On crumbs of shadow,

Bland-mannered, asking



Little or nothing.

So many of us!

So many of us!



We are shelves, we are

Tables, we are meek,

We are edible,



Nudgers and shovers

In spite of ourselves.

Our kind multiplies:



We shall by morning

Inherit the earth.

Our foot's in the door.

[NewOrleans]

Nov 26, 2014 15:23:32 GMT -5 AJL said:

Me!

I didn't forget.  I get distracted by the cable guy coming-- we're switching providers.

Here is an interesting take on the sinking of the Titanic by Thomas Hardy.


The Convergence Of The Twain

by Thomas Hardy



Lines on the loss of the "Titanic"



In a solitude of the sea

Deep from human vanity,

And the Pride of Life that planned her, stilly couches she.


Steel chambers, late the pyres

Of her salamandrine fires,

Cold currents thrid, and turn to rhythmic tidal lyres.


Over the mirrors meant

To glass the opulent

The sea-worm crawls—grotesque, slimed, dumb, indifferent.


Jewels in joy designed

To ravish the sensuous mind

Lie lightless, all their sparkles bleared and black and blind.


Dim moon-eyed fishes near

Gaze at the gilded gear

And query: "What does this vaingloriousness down here?"...


Well: while was fashioning

This creature of cleaving wing,

The Immanent Will that stirs and urges everything


Prepared a sinister mate

For her—so gaily great—

A Shape of Ice, for the time far and dissociate.


And as the smart ship grew

In stature, grace, and hue,

In shadowy silent distance grew the Iceberg too.


Alien they seemed to be;

No mortal eye could see

The intimate welding of their later history,


Or sign that they were bent

By paths coincident

On being anon twin halves of one august event,


Till the Spinner of the Years

Said "Now!" And each one hears,

And consummation comes, and jars two hemispheres.

[NewOrleans]

Nov 26, 2014 16:05:28 GMT -5 meshaliuknits said:

Dang it. Late.

last time we did this I know I found you a sewing-type poem.  It only makes sense that now you get a cat poem!  lmao, even the cat in this poem is an asshole (which I love him all the more for).

Cat's Dream
Pablo Neruda

How neatly a cat sleeps,

sleeps with its paws and its posture,

sleeps with its wicked claws,

and with its unfeeling blood,

sleeps with all the rings--

a series of burnt circles--

which have formed the odd geology

of its sand-colored tail.



I should like to sleep like a cat,

with all the fur of time,

with a tongue rough as flint,

with the dry sex of fire;

and after speaking to no one,

stretch myself over the world,

over roofs and landscapes,

with a passionate desire

to hunt the rats in my dreams.



I have seen how the cat asleep

would undulate, how the night

flowed through it like dark water;

and at times, it was going to fall

or possibly plunge into

the bare deserted snowdrifts.

Sometimes it grew so much in sleep

like a tiger's great-grandfather,

and would leap in the darkness over

rooftops, clouds and volcanoes.



Sleep, sleep cat of the night,

with episcopal ceremony

and your stone-carved moustache.

Take care of all our dreams;

control the obscurity

of our slumbering prowess

with your relentless heart

and the great ruff of your tail

[NewOrleans]

Nov 26, 2014 15:27:51 GMT -5 MrsAxilla said:

Me, please!

This is a poem about the winter outside our homes when there is winter inside our homes.


Those Winter Sundays

Robert Hayden


Sundays too my father got up early

and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,

then with cracked hands that ached

from labor in the weekday weather made

banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.



I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.

When the rooms were warm, he’d call,

and slowly I would rise and dress,

fearing the chronic angers of that house,



Speaking indifferently to him,

who had driven out the cold

and polished my good shoes as well.

What did I know, what did I know

of love’s austere and lonely offices?