Psycho-Babble Social Thread 19863

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another poem A SECRET HISTORY OF PRAYER AND SONG

Posted by kid_A on March 14, 2002, at 19:27:39

A SECRET HISTORY OF PRAYER AND SONG

prologue, a prayer for no one

this is a prayer for no one
a song for no one - a song
long forgotten, a prayer
left unanswered

what caused the lepers of 5th ave- to jump to
their feet cursing the leprosarium
blessing a NASDAQ cool that choked
a purple sky bending under jupiter and
Wall

some awesome prayer, sung silently sung
infinitely that leveled disbeliveers
to their knees who crawled teary-eyed into
Starbucks screaming for their liberties

to a beautiful miniscule prayer sung like a
whisper, "shhhh... i am your king,
but eight years of age today, bring
me the heads of your filthiest harlots"

who rocked on radio kaos that they might
burn the future of cry when their
sleepmates left home- sick from
war with the heartbreak

who raptured all the dumb and all the dead
and just anyone who might listen,
if only for a while

who stole fire for vegas stole fire for kasas city
stole for reno, and cursed those vectors that
tore at their livers for want of a
little meat

who self destructed, three times allready
burst into tears/flames, consumed (again)
by fear of telephone ring

who leered at passers by under the arcing
halos of streetlamp and october,
muttering a litany of complaints on
ailing justice and empty promise

and mothers who had drowned their young
resplendent starving babes, kicking
and screaming in the river surf

and for aaron of the moors, patron saint of
senseless violence, let not your sorrow
die, though we are dead

and for dawsons and for wards
and for jacksons and for carvers
and for astons of the new york

and for garrets and for daltons
and for vanderbilts, and for carters
and for morrises of the morrisania

and for skull and for bones

and for

hyper genome

and for bold

and for beautiful

and for

restless

and for

young.

a prayer for the beautific

oh beautiful siren oh beautiful and unsteady
pulse beat oh unholy the city of
imaculate subway halelujah

oh metal and parking lot oh flowers and
hope oh police and city of
spectre industry and unatainable
whores

oh darkness and light oh capitol and rape
oh blessed broken monolith

they are dreaming of you - lest you forget
they know that you steal from them

they are shaping words in cool glass like
dale - can you believe that?

they are blessing the sacrament through
blood and maybe some psychiatry

they are bored of morocco and life and lansky
blessed bentley blessed aston
blessed martin

they are alive through heartbeat channel no 5
china chow paper magazine blast furnace

they drug themselves up from mud into mud and
beyond mud to form ceramic phallus like
yeah, beyond that - into silicone

they are in congress with azrael under law
under mammon under the holy babel under
the magnificent lust of holy sodom

they are baring their breasts into ashes and
into dust and into klonopin, percodan and
halcion into wiccan rites of the samhain
into the tai chi

they choose what and who and when and where they
are blessed by genome to have choice

they are silent soul under moonlight into
winter under moonlight sunkiss under
moonlight never to be spoken of again

they are stealing hearts like candy
under the covers of darkness
under failing stars

they are cutting deep cuts into glass into fbi
delorean dreamgirl fuck into cosa nostra

they waiting for the welcome message
they waiting for hale-bopp

they are broken ideas and telephone horror
silent machinery perpetual motion
money under moonlight

they dive through strip-mined streets at
midnite dashing through their doorboys
sniffling and laughing - ha!

they are the rivers of silver the department
of treasury hampton and vale and
unlimited dollars

they are locking themselves into iron maidens
and fingering their loveworn
belts of broken chastity

they are vast and vissioned and uniform highways
they got unlimited clock

they are a crown of antlers and teenaged
death squads siphilus and rockets
pornographic hope so fleeting it
holds no comfort

they are inside the moment under moonlight
giving it away because its not there
and its gone before you got it
(into empty space)

they are destroying art they are fucking
on NEA grants for arts sakes god damn
them and that's okay by me

they are what you couldn't be and for you if
you could be it and what we would be
if we could aww fuck it

they are timeless inside of time and under
archon they rose bloodless and skyclad
to devour their daughters whole
like prostitute

they are iron and copper and metallic thunder they
hiawatha captor they chief thunderbird
castrator

they[re] will never be another one like you
they[re] will never be another one who
does the things you do

they are sucking up poetry like lightning they are
killing the word before you knew it
was word they are destructing
all consciousness

they frenchkiss electric they telepathic romance
they make light inside of darkness

they blood like money and faces like dollars
they are all holy amongst the blessed
ivanka - i christen thee, pocahontas
of the americas

they are the oh (open) and the m (closure)

they are the space between the words

they are the first, and they are the last
and they are the always

radiant solar stormgods

radiant super nova

they are breaking the boundaries of
time and space

epilogue, a prayer for the damned

what were we given? spit and blood and asphalt
some tyre yard of broken horses for girls

what nightmares and ignorance, what maniac
terror, what televised breakdown, what
choking colonial timebomb apartheid

what demonic army, what halting cruelty,
what slow drunk death by isolation

we can jam the fuck pch, we can get it live on
rock box, we can do it rock shock

we burn like joan of ark, dirty little secrets
and atomic bomb

we cold yeah - tired hungry lonely niggers

we starving, maniac basehead manic
yeah we wild in the streets

we are cool and we seek heat

we the unseen danger, unknown danger, monster
limitless danger, danger blankeyed
danger incomplete

we stuck with arrows we drawn and quartered
we eaten whole like christians

we make zombie television
we give radio exorcist

we hunt alleyway and redlight
looking for big bang who gave
up with a whimper

we make war for the massachusets we
draw blood for the new york we
suffer the connecticut

we huddle en masse and fuck like rabbits
we keep warm like cuban ex-
patriots

we got stuck in naked rooms for heresy,
blasphemies for Hadrian - who made
us strip (even though we longed
to strip) -to burn ourselves
for fun

we call this, rape fantasy

we junk punk, we rock robot, we nurture nature
disaster- sobbing deep and empty
sobs- we reach beyond our grasp

we were looking for lost continent but found only
atlantis, er, jericho, some shoddy, sullen
oasis of cheerless sand

and public execution, and military police,
and limitless heartbreak and
a promise derailed

and grocery horror, and arrested
rebirth, and words changing
nothing

and minds are changing

and wouldn't it be nice if we were older?

and dance with me and remember me and speak
softly of me in careful whisper

and didn't we almost have it all?

we sabotaged the homeless, we killed radio
telescope, we stayed up late
to watch for falling planets

we contemplated gravity, quantum, and the
steady state, we crawled on floors
we threw up blood

and drowned in false sense of security,
daybreak, and what a loss, what
a great artist the world has
lost

and then, like wolves, they were upon us!

we drowned on slave ships from the durban,
upper volta, and katanga, we
swallowed lucious gulps of
the salty sea air

and meditated through the window of our skin
and fell through cadillacs down
into city, into subway, and
fell through light, into Shiva

we died in plastic prison dragging feet,
screaming in awful shame

we blighted crops and poisoned wells,
we stole your slumbered babes

we swallowed pride, and electric shock,
we swallowed timeless hospital

and meaningless verse

and disco destruction

and prayers tiredly spoken

and pointless obsession

and persistence of memory

and empty medieval manhattan

and new radiant scorpio

and holographic japan

and endless
yin

and

this is a laugh

and

this is a drag

and

these are just words

and

these are the last words,
we will ever say.

january 12th, 2000

Re: another poem A SECRET HISTORY OF PRAYER AND SONG

Posted by trouble on March 15, 2002, at 3:00:37

In reply to another poem A SECRET HISTORY OF PRAYER AND SONG, posted by kid_A on March 14, 2002, at 19:27:39

>

Kid_A,

I imagine you in a poetry reading, the room growing deadly quiet and staying that way long afterwards, and when you return to your seat your friends are silent, embarrassed by their awe and loss of anything to say, ever again.
This IMHO is what makes the whole damn thing worthwhile.

I just don't know what to say about your poems, I fantasize about having discussions someday w/ T.S. Eliot and Rimbaud, I know exactly what I'd ask them, meanwhile there you are, living and breathing and I don't know what to say for fear I'll reveal my ignorance and prove myself unworthy of consideration. You may be kinder than some, but so many of the greats were notoriously picky picky picky about who they'd discuss their works with, and kept everyone on perpetual probation, I'm thinking now of Nabakov and Robert Lowell, who dismissed the poetry of Sylvia Plath as "facile." Ouch. And she was his student!

Anyway, I know you've given me the go-ahead to ask you about your work before, but the timidity persists b/c I feel I'm *supposed* to be able to get it, and when I do get one of your references I'm in awe, enamored, non-plussed, humbled and oddly enervated, but in a good way, still, there are some stanzas I don't understand, and I know they are there for a reason, and if I'm going to get everything out of the poem it intends to offer, I need to know. But since the very purpose of allegory, oxymoron, metonymy and all figurative speech is to involve the reader in the poem, given its interpretative process, we readers have to do our part to complete the work. Asking for help defeats the point, including the purpose of all the poet's hard work. I take that seriously, which is why I hesitate to pull on your coat, since that could reasonabley be taken as an offense.

I haven't spent any time yet w/ A Secret History of Prayer and Song, so have nothing to say about it, except it strikes me as YOUR EPIC, but there are a couple others I've looked at enough to know what I want to ask, if you've a mind to go over them in more detail as you see fit.

thanks,
trouble

A SECRET HISTORY OF PRAYER AND SONG
>
>
> prologue, a prayer for no one
>
> this is a prayer for no one
> a song for no one - a song
> long forgotten, a prayer
> left unanswered
>
> what caused the lepers of 5th ave- to jump to
> their feet cursing the leprosarium
> blessing a NASDAQ cool that choked
> a purple sky bending under jupiter and
> Wall
>
> some awesome prayer, sung silently sung
> infinitely that leveled disbeliveers
> to their knees who crawled teary-eyed into
> Starbucks screaming for their liberties
>
> to a beautiful miniscule prayer sung like a
> whisper, "shhhh... i am your king,
> but eight years of age today, bring
> me the heads of your filthiest harlots"
>
> who rocked on radio kaos that they might
> burn the future of cry when their
> sleepmates left home- sick from
> war with the heartbreak
>
> who raptured all the dumb and all the dead
> and just anyone who might listen,
> if only for a while
>
> who stole fire for vegas stole fire for kasas city
> stole for reno, and cursed those vectors that
> tore at their livers for want of a
> little meat
>
> who self destructed, three times allready
> burst into tears/flames, consumed (again)
> by fear of telephone ring
>
> who leered at passers by under the arcing
> halos of streetlamp and october,
> muttering a litany of complaints on
> ailing justice and empty promise
>
> and mothers who had drowned their young
> resplendent starving babes, kicking
> and screaming in the river surf
>
> and for aaron of the moors, patron saint of
> senseless violence, let not your sorrow
> die, though we are dead
>
> and for dawsons and for wards
> and for jacksons and for carvers
> and for astons of the new york
>
> and for garrets and for daltons
> and for vanderbilts, and for carters
> and for morrises of the morrisania
>
> and for skull and for bones
>
> and for
>
> hyper genome
>
> and for bold
>
> and for beautiful
>
> and for
>
> restless
>
> and for
>
> young.
>
>
>
>
> a prayer for the beautific
>
> oh beautiful siren oh beautiful and unsteady
> pulse beat oh unholy the city of
> imaculate subway halelujah
>
> oh metal and parking lot oh flowers and
> hope oh police and city of
> spectre industry and unatainable
> whores
>
> oh darkness and light oh capitol and rape
> oh blessed broken monolith
>
> they are dreaming of you - lest you forget
> they know that you steal from them
>
> they are shaping words in cool glass like
> dale - can you believe that?
>
> they are blessing the sacrament through
> blood and maybe some psychiatry
>
> they are bored of morocco and life and lansky
> blessed bentley blessed aston
> blessed martin
>
> they are alive through heartbeat channel no 5
> china chow paper magazine blast furnace
>
> they drug themselves up from mud into mud and
> beyond mud to form ceramic phallus like
> yeah, beyond that - into silicone
>
> they are in congress with azrael under law
> under mammon under the holy babel under
> the magnificent lust of holy sodom
>
> they are baring their breasts into ashes and
> into dust and into klonopin, percodan and
> halcion into wiccan rites of the samhain
> into the tai chi
>
> they choose what and who and when and where they
> are blessed by genome to have choice
>
> they are silent soul under moonlight into
> winter under moonlight sunkiss under
> moonlight never to be spoken of again
>
> they are stealing hearts like candy
> under the covers of darkness
> under failing stars
>
> they are cutting deep cuts into glass into fbi
> delorean dreamgirl fuck into cosa nostra
>
> they waiting for the welcome message
> they waiting for hale-bopp
>
> they are broken ideas and telephone horror
> silent machinery perpetual motion
> money under moonlight
>
> they dive through strip-mined streets at
> midnite dashing through their doorboys
> sniffling and laughing - ha!
>
> they are the rivers of silver the department
> of treasury hampton and vale and
> unlimited dollars
>
> they are locking themselves into iron maidens
> and fingering their loveworn
> belts of broken chastity
>
> they are vast and vissioned and uniform highways
> they got unlimited clock
>
> they are a crown of antlers and teenaged
> death squads siphilus and rockets
> pornographic hope so fleeting it
> holds no comfort
>
> they are inside the moment under moonlight
> giving it away because its not there
> and its gone before you got it
> (into empty space)
>
> they are destroying art they are fucking
> on NEA grants for arts sakes god damn
> them and that's okay by me
>
> they are what you couldn't be and for you if
> you could be it and what we would be
> if we could aww fuck it
>
> they are timeless inside of time and under
> archon they rose bloodless and skyclad
> to devour their daughters whole
> like prostitute
>
> they are iron and copper and metallic thunder they
> hiawatha captor they chief thunderbird
> castrator
>
> they[re] will never be another one like you
> they[re] will never be another one who
> does the things you do
>
> they are sucking up poetry like lightning they are
> killing the word before you knew it
> was word they are destructing
> all consciousness
>
> they frenchkiss electric they telepathic romance
> they make light inside of darkness
>
> they blood like money and faces like dollars
> they are all holy amongst the blessed
> ivanka - i christen thee, pocahontas
> of the americas
>
> they are the oh (open) and the m (closure)
>
> they are the space between the words
>
> they are the first, and they are the last
> and they are the always
>
> radiant solar stormgods
>
> radiant super nova
>
> they are breaking the boundaries of
> time and space
>
>
>
> epilogue, a prayer for the damned
>
> what were we given? spit and blood and asphalt
> some tyre yard of broken horses for girls
>
> what nightmares and ignorance, what maniac
> terror, what televised breakdown, what
> choking colonial timebomb apartheid
>
> what demonic army, what halting cruelty,
> what slow drunk death by isolation
>
> we can jam the fuck pch, we can get it live on
> rock box, we can do it rock shock
>
> we burn like joan of ark, dirty little secrets
> and atomic bomb
>
> we cold yeah - tired hungry lonely niggers
>
> we starving, maniac basehead manic
> yeah we wild in the streets
>
> we are cool and we seek heat
>
> we the unseen danger, unknown danger, monster
> limitless danger, danger blankeyed
> danger incomplete
>
> we stuck with arrows we drawn and quartered
> we eaten whole like christians
>
> we make zombie television
> we give radio exorcist
>
> we hunt alleyway and redlight
> looking for big bang who gave
> up with a whimper
>
> we make war for the massachusets we
> draw blood for the new york we
> suffer the connecticut
>
> we huddle en masse and fuck like rabbits
> we keep warm like cuban ex-
> patriots
>
> we got stuck in naked rooms for heresy,
> blasphemies for Hadrian - who made
> us strip (even though we longed
> to strip) -to burn ourselves
> for fun
>
> we call this, rape fantasy
>
> we junk punk, we rock robot, we nurture nature
> disaster- sobbing deep and empty
> sobs- we reach beyond our grasp
>
> we were looking for lost continent but found only
> atlantis, er, jericho, some shoddy, sullen
> oasis of cheerless sand
>
> and public execution, and military police,
> and limitless heartbreak and
> a promise derailed
>
> and grocery horror, and arrested
> rebirth, and words changing
> nothing
>
> and minds are changing
>
> and wouldn't it be nice if we were older?
>
> and dance with me and remember me and speak
> softly of me in careful whisper
>
> and didn't we almost have it all?
>
> we sabotaged the homeless, we killed radio
> telescope, we stayed up late
> to watch for falling planets
>
> we contemplated gravity, quantum, and the
> steady state, we crawled on floors
> we threw up blood
>
> and drowned in false sense of security,
> daybreak, and what a loss, what
> a great artist the world has
> lost
>
> and then, like wolves, they were upon us!
>
> we drowned on slave ships from the durban,
> upper volta, and katanga, we
> swallowed lucious gulps of
> the salty sea air
>
> and meditated through the window of our skin
> and fell through cadillacs down
> into city, into subway, and
> fell through light, into Shiva
>
> we died in plastic prison dragging feet,
> screaming in awful shame
>
> we blighted crops and poisoned wells,
> we stole your slumbered babes
>
> we swallowed pride, and electric shock,
> we swallowed timeless hospital
>
> and meaningless verse
>
> and disco destruction
>
> and prayers tiredly spoken
>
>
>
> and pointless obsession
>
> and persistence of memory
>
> and empty medieval manhattan
>
>
>
> and new radiant scorpio
>
> and holographic japan
>
> and endless
> yin
>
>
> and
>
> this is a laugh
>
>
> and
>
> this is a drag
>
>
> and
>
> these are just words
>
>
> and
>
> these are the last words,
> we will ever say.
>
>
> january 12th, 2000

Re: another poem A SECRET HISTORY OF PRAYER AND SONG » trouble

Posted by kid_A on March 15, 2002, at 12:15:44

In reply to Re: another poem A SECRET HISTORY OF PRAYER AND SONG, posted by trouble on March 15, 2002, at 3:00:37

trouble,
first, thankyou for taking the interest in my work, believe it or not I do harbour quite a bit of self doubt when it concerns my writing and when someone takes the time to respond to something I've written I appreciate it very deeply...

Regarding Robert Lowell, another 'confessional' poet if you will, He had quite nice things to say about the work of Plath in the introduction he gives to her book Ariel, the poems that would serve a a precursor to her unfortunate end. I think in that book alone, a book that by itself deserved to be awarded the Pulitzer (she was posthumously awarded one for her collected words), Plath, to borrow Lowell's words, "becomes herself, becomes something imaginary, newly, wildly and subtly created".

If I had to choose a poet to whom I owe a imense debt as far as influence goes, it would have to be Anne Sexton. Sexton's writing style is different than plaths in that at times it becomes more abstract, fanciful, In the end phases of her work there is a running theme of her relationship to what she can only grasp at being her idea of a "God" with a captial G...

You are correct about this poem being my epic, it is I think one I laboured over for well on two years now... I initially finished it in february of 2000, but have since made several amendments that I think help to better convey the poems theme, the dichotomy between sane and insane, between beautiful and wretched, between Caliban and Prospero, between rich and poor, between happy and sad. I modeled the poem as being spoken by the character of Caliban, from The Tempest, I instill in him the awe of his would be gods, I try to impart the feelings he has towards himself... This is not to say that my poem is in anyway a metaphor or relation to The Tempest, but Caliban serves as a reference point for me to best explain the narator...

In my work I strive to impart the most clear sense of emotion that I can. I try my best not to just compile a collection of 'pretty words'. I would hope, I think, that in some way, at least on some levels, someone can connect with what I say. I understand that not all passages will be as lucid as others, but overall I hope to impart a certain feeling.

I think writing in metaphor, that there is not always a garuntee that people will simply 'get' your writing. Plaths writing can be obtuse to the point of mystery... Take the poem "Cut", which deals with mental illness treatment, but reads much more about the fascination with a accidental severing of a finger... I think that poem alone has been misinterpreted on many levels, I myself have a hard time grasping it, but it, along with "The Applicant", are amoung my favourites of Plaths. They adorn my walls at home, as I walk through my appartment, sometimes I'll stop at a corner where I've taped an inspiring poem, and the sheer depth and impact it has on me is amazing, If I was asked for what I live for, it is these moments of connection I feel with these particular writers.

Im open to any discussion about my work, its obvious you have an interest in writing, and I might say could probably make quite a good poet if you gave it a chance, if you have not allready... Its not all black and white, so theres no need to feel as if you 'get it' or do not... The words in themselves cary some impact, which I hope is imparted, the best poetry achieves this in some ways, even if at times the meaning is obscured.

much thanks again,

kid_A

Re: another poem A SECRET HISTORY OF PRAYER AND SONG

Posted by trouble on March 15, 2002, at 15:08:42

In reply to Re: another poem A SECRET HISTORY OF PRAYER AND SONG » trouble, posted by kid_A on March 15, 2002, at 12:15:44

Hi Kid_A,
I'm 4 hours late for work so I have to go fast. I haven't read the Tempest and don't know who Caliban is, which only makes me MORE interested in unlocking the mysteries of your epic, but I'm on a sort of pre-school level w/ it, just so you know. I guess I'm considered an accomplished poet in Austin, but I can't stand my work, it's too expository and simple. FACILE! You write the way I think real poets write, inscrutable! Demanding but intensely rewarding. I'm gonna ask you about an earlier poem, the first one I read, I'll get to that soon.

Thanks for telling me the kind words Dr. Skunk Hour had to say about his former student. I've read 4 of her biographies and still barely understand a single poem, but the only framed portrait I have on my living room wall is of her.

My favorite modern poet is Sharon Olds, who I've heard described as Sylvia Plath on bad acid. I might post one of hers (or so) on PSB as the spirit moves.

Poetry, ah...this is the first time I've felt at ease around here in days.

take care,
trouble

Re: another poem A SECRET HISTORY OF PRAYER AND S » trouble

Posted by Zo on March 16, 2002, at 1:05:12

In reply to Re: another poem A SECRET HISTORY OF PRAYER AND SONG, posted by trouble on March 15, 2002, at 15:08:42

trouble! recent Sharon Olds poem in New Yorker of curling up in her mother's arms "as she lay dying." Did you see it? I will post it, if not! I think she is dynamite, and don't find her acid-like at all, but very grounded in the stuff of life. . .

Zo

please please post it Zo, and thanks!!!! (nm)

Posted by trouble on March 16, 2002, at 2:10:13

In reply to Re: another poem A SECRET HISTORY OF PRAYER AND S » trouble, posted by Zo on March 16, 2002, at 1:05:12

Re: A SECRET HISTORY OF PRAYER AND SONG » kid_A

Posted by Zo on March 16, 2002, at 18:03:57

In reply to another poem A SECRET HISTORY OF PRAYER AND SONG, posted by kid_A on March 14, 2002, at 19:27:39

You realize that this is one of the great titles of all time.

I'm quite serious. I just know there's a book behind it.

Literally. That's how I write, an interesting title comes to me first, and I tease out what's behind--within-- it.

(Have to d/l yr. poem to read more closely.)

Zo

Re: A SECRET HISTORY OF PRAYER AND SONG » Zo

Posted by kid_A on March 16, 2002, at 18:38:39

In reply to Re: A SECRET HISTORY OF PRAYER AND SONG » kid_A, posted by Zo on March 16, 2002, at 18:03:57

Zo,
Thank you very much for your kind words... I do often title my poems before I write them, sometimes the title changes, sometimes its left over and it's apt...

I can see it now, the Psycho Babble poetry circle... again, thanks for reading. Please post some of your writing, even in exceprt if they are prose... Id like to foster an writer-friendly environment here...

as always,

A.

The Last Evening, by Sharon Olds

Posted by Zo on March 17, 2002, at 2:57:49

In reply to please please post it Zo, and thanks!!!! (nm), posted by trouble on March 16, 2002, at 2:10:13

Then we raised the top portion of the bed,
and her head was like a trillium, growing
up, out of the ground, in the woods,
eyes closed, mouth open,
and we put the Battle arias on, and when I
heard the first note, that was it, for me,
I excused myself from the death-room guests,
and went to my mother, and cleared a place
on the mattress, beside her, lifting
the tubes, oxygen, dextrose, morphine,
dipping in under them, and letting them
rest on my hair, as if burying myself
under a topsoil of roots, I pulled
the sheet up, over my head,
and touched my forehead and nose and mouth
to her arm, and then, against the warm
soloace of her skin, I sobbed full out,
unguarded, as I have not done near her;
and I could feel some barrier between us dissolving,
I could feel myself dissolving it,
moving ever closer to her through it, til I was
all there, I went to my mom
for comfort. And in her coma nothing
drew her away from giving me the basal
kindness of her presence, I took a long turn
as a child on earth. When the doctor came in,
he looked at her and said, "I'd say
hours, not days." When he left, I ate
a pear with her, talking us through it,
and walnuts--and crow, a whole bouquet
of crows came apart, outside the window.
I looked for the moon and said, I'll be right
back, and ran down the hospital hall,
and there, outside an eastern window,
was the waxing gibbous, like a swimmer's head
turned to the side half out of the water, mouth
pulled to the side and back, to take a breath,
I could see my young mother, slim
and strong in her navy one-piece, and see,
in memory's dark-blue corridor,
the beauty of her crawl, the hard, graceful
overhand motion, as someone who says
This way, to the others behind. And I went back,
and sat with her, alone, an hour,
in the quiet, and I felt, almost, not
afraid of losing her, I was so
content to have her beside me, unspeaking,
unseeing, alive.

The Applicant by Sylvia Plath

Posted by kid_A on March 17, 2002, at 21:44:41

In reply to The Last Evening, by Sharon Olds, posted by Zo on March 17, 2002, at 2:57:49

First, are you our sort of a person?
Do you wear
A glass eye, false teeth or a crutch,
A brace or a hook,
Rubber breasts or a rubber crotch,

Stitches to show something's missing? No, no? Then
How can we give you a thing?
Stop crying.
Open your hand.
Empty? Empty. Here is a hand

To fill it and willing
To bring teacups and roll away headaches
And do whatever you tell it.
Will you marry it?
It is guaranteed

To thumb shut your eyes at the end
And dissolve of sorrow.
We make new stock from the salt.
I notice you are stark naked.
How about this suit----

Black and stiff, but not a bad fit.
Will you marry it?
It is waterproof, shatterproof, proof
Against fire and bombs through the roof.
Believe me, they'll bury you in it.

Now your head, excuse me, is empty.
I have the ticket for that.
Come here, sweetie, out of the closet.
Well, what do you think of that ?
Naked as paper to start

But in twenty-five years she'll be silver,
In fifty, gold.
A living doll, everywhere you look.
It can sew, it can cook,
It can talk, talk , talk.

It works, there is nothing wrong with it.
You have a hole, it's a poultice.
You have an eye, it's an image.
My boy, it's your last resort.
Will you marry it, marry it, marry it.

Beautiful (nm) » kid_A

Posted by Krazy Kat on March 18, 2002, at 8:26:57

In reply to The Applicant by Sylvia Plath, posted by kid_A on March 17, 2002, at 21:44:41

Sylvia Plath by gifted, reckless, dead

Posted by trouble on March 18, 2002, at 9:50:48

In reply to The Applicant by Sylvia Plath, posted by kid_A on March 17, 2002, at 21:44:41

Peter Laughner,
Rocket From The Tombs,
precursor of Dead Boys and Pere Ubu, Datapanik records, 1974 (Out of print, I've never heard the original, I'm taking liberties w/ the following half-forgotten lyrics from an old Death of Samantha LP)

Sylvia Plath
Was never too good at math
But they tell me that she finished
At the head of her class

And when she lost her virginity
She didn't lose it too fast
They wouldn't hold any dress rehearsals for
Sylvia Plath

Sylvia Plath
Came into Manhatten
She had crawled out of one
Cocoon where there was absolutely
Nothin happenin
And if I'm gonna be classless and crass
I'm gonna break up some glass
Nobody broke anything sharper than
Sylvia Plath

There's no vast excuses (?)
There's just the dance in the aftermath

And when you check out of this hotel jack
Yer nothin but an autograph

The desk clerk wakes her at seven
And he tosses it out w/the trash
But he'll keep around a couple of letters
Which were addressed to
Sylvia Plath

Sylvia Plath
Woke up and turned on the gas
Then she put her head down and completely
Forgot about lighting a match

The rest of the details
Are too boring to attach

Let's see you do one thing as graceful as
Sylvia Plath
Let's see you do one thing as graceful as
Sylvia Plath

Yeah, let's see you do one thing as senselessly cruel as
Sylvia Plath

It's unbeleievably beautiful if you ever come across a copy or cover by any band, I predict you will buy it stat.

p.s. I like that last line, it must be one for her kids, ya think?

Marry it! Marry it! Marry it!

Posted by trouble on March 18, 2002, at 10:33:30

In reply to Sylvia Plath by gifted, reckless, dead, posted by trouble on March 18, 2002, at 9:50:48

A Portrait Of The Reader With A Bowl Of Cereal BILLY COLLINS

"A poet...never speaks directly,
as to someone at the breakfast table."
-yeats

Every morning I sit across from you
at the same small table,
the sun all over the breakfast things-
curve of a blue-and-white pitcher,
a dish of berries-
me in a sweatshirt or robe,
you invisible.

Most days, we are suspended
over a deep pool of silence.
I stare straight through you
or look out the window at the garden,
the powerful sky,
a cloud passing behind a tree.

There is no need to pass the toast,
the pot of jam,
or pour you a cup of tea,
and I can hide behind the paper,
rotate in its drum of calamitous news.

But some days I may notice
a little door swinging open
in the morning air,
and maybe the tea leaves
of some dream will be stuck
to the china slope of the hour-

then I will lean forward,
elbows on the table,
with something to tell you,
and you will look up, as always
your spoon dripping milk, ready to listen.

Re: Marry it! Marry it! Marry it! » trouble

Posted by beardedlady on March 18, 2002, at 11:35:49

In reply to Marry it! Marry it! Marry it!, posted by trouble on March 18, 2002, at 10:33:30

Excellent poem; thank you.

By the way, when I was in 9th grade, I'd listen to my 8-track tapes in his car sometimes and leave them there. I'll never forget my dad coming in from work once when I'd left my Dead Boys tape in his deck. "What the hell's this shit--'I don't wanna dance, I just wanna get in your pants'?"

"Duh, Dad. It's the Dead Boys."

In case you're interested, I'm good at the line break thing. I would love to swap poems and critiques, but I don't like the idea of doing it here. Will you put in an e-mail address?

: )>

I've always prefered The Damned to the Dead Boys.. (nm)

Posted by kid_A on March 18, 2002, at 14:13:38

In reply to Re: Marry it! Marry it! Marry it! » trouble, posted by beardedlady on March 18, 2002, at 11:35:49

Oh, me too! And the Stranglers and... » kid_A

Posted by beardedlady on March 18, 2002, at 14:41:44

In reply to I've always prefered The Damned to the Dead Boys.. (nm), posted by kid_A on March 18, 2002, at 14:13:38

Ultravoxx (with John Foxx, not Midge) and the buzzies and Eddie and the Hot Rods. (I could take or leave the Dead Boys and Richard Hell.) I spent a good portion of my teens and twenties in our one punk club listening to these guys and hanging out with them. Made me what I am today!

; )>

Oh My F'n GOD... The Stranglers rock.... (nm)

Posted by kid_A on March 18, 2002, at 17:55:50

In reply to Oh, me too! And the Stranglers and... » kid_A, posted by beardedlady on March 18, 2002, at 14:41:44

Re: I've always prefered The Damned to the Dead Boys..

Posted by trouble on March 18, 2002, at 21:23:40

In reply to I've always prefered The Damned to the Dead Boys.. (nm), posted by kid_A on March 18, 2002, at 14:13:38

Either/Or thinking, Kid, don't make me cite you for Borderline Tendencies!

psychocop

Re: I've always prefered Nick Cave-book/songwriter

Posted by dove on March 19, 2002, at 14:37:06

In reply to Re: I've always prefered The Damned to the Dead Boys.., posted by trouble on March 18, 2002, at 21:23:40

What about Nick Cave, and Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds?

He's not cut-clean or perfect in rhythm or rhyme, but so many of his songs have such a keen edge that it's hard to argue against the fact that he's truly a poet. However, I'm not a well-versed nor a well-read poetry lover, I do wish I had the time to become one as I love poetry and write scribbles myself when I feel unable to speak.

Nick Cave's writing hits me first at a gut-level kind of force. It has a punch, and can be a real discomposing or uncomfortable first read or listen.

However, when I desensitize my over-sensitive emotional control center (as best I can), I find so much more hidden beneath the crass or the slurred. After a little digging, I find a goldmine of sorrow, loss, anger, surrender, submission, murder.

Followed by an emotional pause of sorts--like after being assaulted, just stunned--and a dusting of soothing silver spreads across my smarting and slightly bruised consciousness. It is an image of hope, love, vitality, healing, and *not* giving in to the dark forces that beg me to visit them.

dove (rambling thoughts....)

Re: I've always prefered Nick Cave, --King Ink--

Posted by kid_A on March 19, 2002, at 14:53:43

In reply to Re: I've always prefered Nick Cave-book/songwriter, posted by dove on March 19, 2002, at 14:37:06

I have the Birthday Party album Junk Yard, and the book "King Ink", my copy is published by
Henry Rollin's "213" publishing company...

I like his writing more than I like the music of the Birthday Party... Though I like the Birthday Party better than I like his solo work... I guess I just dig the goth kitsch...

Finally! Someone who's heard of Nick Cave!!!! (nm) » dove

Posted by IsoM on March 19, 2002, at 15:06:09

In reply to Re: I've always prefered Nick Cave-book/songwriter, posted by dove on March 19, 2002, at 14:37:06

Only us bad seeds. (nm)

Posted by beardedlady on March 19, 2002, at 16:00:20

In reply to Finally! Someone who's heard of Nick Cave!!!! (nm) » dove, posted by IsoM on March 19, 2002, at 15:06:09

borderline bipolar if i was a mom id be Pre-partum » trouble

Posted by kid_A on March 19, 2002, at 16:30:10

In reply to Re: I've always prefered The Damned to the Dead Boys.., posted by trouble on March 18, 2002, at 21:23:40

> Either/Or thinking, Kid, don't make me cite you for Borderline Tendencies!

My inner child suggests you go listen to Outlandos D'amour by the Police...

Re: Finally! Someone who's heard of Nick Cave!!!!

Posted by Rach on March 19, 2002, at 20:58:33

In reply to Finally! Someone who's heard of Nick Cave!!!! (nm) » dove, posted by IsoM on March 19, 2002, at 15:06:09

I have a lot of family from the same area that Nick is from - Wangaratta in Australia. I attended the same Uni as he did, and live about 5mins from his high school.

I never knew all this until just now when I searched for him on the internet to check that he actually was Australian. I think one of the strangest things he's ever done is a duet with Kylie Minogue.

Re: Nick Cave!!!! » Rach

Posted by IsoM on March 19, 2002, at 22:22:26

In reply to Re: Finally! Someone who's heard of Nick Cave!!!!, posted by Rach on March 19, 2002, at 20:58:33

His Murder Ballads are something. He's taken a somewhat different path with his music lately but I really like it. I had a mental image of him & when I first saw him was thoroughly surprised - not like I expected at all. Now I can't imagine him any other way.

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