thank you, cheryl
some stunning stuff

d
[/quote]


Thanks Dax.  These are poems I removed from submit & workshop.  Can't win 'em all.

cheryl

---

---

---

---

Purple Rose Series


Tall trees take flight in green-winged pride
Eagerness washes away with time
exulting paper worlds of melodious ride
blending the windblown with sublime.
 
Crest alone the sun-drenched way
Dance the foam, far from home in light
abreast this surging turquoise way
adorned by the lime-silvered flight.
 
The wood, the trees, a field, the sky
are partnered on this festive sea
Alone, yet linked you fly
each in element, running to the seen.
 
Unblemished love never offered
Words unfrayed move without flaw
A plan perfected soars with you
await mortality, should she intrude.

---

---

When the rising moon dons silver
making ready for evening
there is a woman,
queen of the sky
among shadows, though they lie.
 
In the priceless field of manhood;
in winter and summer where you've stood
a voyeur alone, you watch her dress
in her gowns, new and old--
before silver and always gold.
 
Where in some faraway ocean
a tree is planted in the sky
and at last you will climb;
you will see, though earthbound
for a while.
 
On that day of your wrenching,
the past will break and you will soar
to your field in the sky.
 
As for me
I will scatter dreams
as stars in any sky--
like your stellar trees
ever-born of the sea.

---

---

Up here, somewhere on jasper peaks
Trees in shadow-lengths shall grow
With care-filled steps
Could track, could go
Lured by pleasant ridges round
Clad in film, clad in clouds, so thin
Seduced by many signals
The worthy and forgiven seek
to blend with the beauty of the meek
A powerless wait, a powerful sate.
In my mind, the musty clears away
And leaves a shine on all a'given day

---

---

You've been disarmed
Can't help such charm
Drawn with delicate arms
Sharp as a lightning flash
Yet never leaves a jagged gash
It may burn a searing pain
But beloved is the gain
And the quivering wound
Which shall remain, a heal too soon

---

---

To win is the aim
Mountain, climb again
Here comes a need fulfilled
Cry to all, voices stilled
Hear a heart, hear pain
'Tis well, the scar remains
A reminder of that hidden hand
All dispersed, such silver strands

---

---

Drawing closer to the bull's eye
Live among the stars
The directive
From any man's perspective
Is to leave him restless
Within the context
Without the message

---

---

Determination would not wilt her pen.
He was King; she must let him win.
When taking aim at a member of royalty,
one's pursuit is with much difficulty.

She could not proceed through usual legalities;
normal channels, justifiably.
Attracting attention,
her haste was not reasonable, nor the remedy.

She bemoaned the inaccessibility
of a cosmos, proper and orderly;
such was the only way
to end her agony.
 
His attraction she loved.
His attention, she, the center of.
Yet whether royalty or loyalty
she could not let him win in the end

condoning social sin,
pardoning precocious whims,
giving in once again.
She couldn't pretend delightfully,

to be his chosen, sacrificially.
But most of all, she willed nevermore
to endure her appearance
as his fortunate victim.

---

---

She was provocative,
deep and delightful.
He was an artist
surpassing the form.

When there was no light
in which he could work
she would go to him
and provide a subject

for his hidden canvas
and his paltry palette.
Sometimes she was
a circus act,

walking a tight-rope.
Other times
she was a clown,
because in that dark

under-the-earth place
his whole life assumed
the character
of imprisonment.

---

---

we just grew


ciao, ciao




.

john-john says
come home with me
i nod
nuh-uh

at his crib
with a tatoo kit:
jar of body frosting
     apple seed flavor
paintbrush
     reusable
three stencils:
     rose bulb
     roman snail
     caviar
i paint
my poison
under his
umbelico erotico
and
eat my words
the
second time

---

---

i'll just post these links here in case someone is offended--you can just be mad at me--although i'm not really sure what my thoughts are. duh.


http://www.webdelsol.com/LITARTS/Boston_Comment/bostonc1.htm

http://www.webdelsol.com/LITARTS/Boston_Comment/bostonc2.htm

http://www.webdelsol.com/LITARTS/Boston_Comment/bostonc3.htm

http://www.webdelsol.com/LITARTS/Boston_Comment/bostonc4.htm

http://www.webdelsol.com/LITARTS/Boston_Comment/bostonc5.htm

anyway, the # in the link just changes all the way to 9.  i think that's simple enough.  and i even think it will work.

: )

Thanks for these links, Cheryl. Fascinating.

My own two penneth is that it matters only to academics whether something is or is not poetry or prose. To other readers what matters is the effect of the writing, not what it is called. Don't let them fool us by arguments like those old bishops in discussion of how many angels could be got onto the head of a pin. No doubt, in the 'name of literature' they would denounce me as a heretic. So what?

Cheers

milner

hey milner, sorry it took me so long to reply.  i was hoping someone would read this besides me.  i thought it was interesting too, but not in a terribly convincing, mind-shifting way, if you know what i mean.  and heretic is a bit strong for you milner, in the biblical way, but renegade works great for all us literary heathens.

you know, i was thinking about the name of this website-- 'Poetry Circle' -- so simple and innocent.  not anything at all like we really are.  lol 

well OK, i better just speak for myself  ; )

cheryl

I've also wondered at the name 'Poetry Circle', Cheryl, which can give the impression of a closed and cosy group. But that's counteracted by the use of 'forum', an open market place, or such-like, very public, and, in current usage, can mean an open discussion. That's our strength.

Cheers

milner

yes, and you know what i really love, and have really come to appreciate, is that the writers, poets, editors here are just nice people, you know?  i have yet to understand why some put up with the fallacy that genius must come with snobbery.  it's just not true at all.

and here i am talking as if we're all geniuses.  lol   well, undoubtedly some of us are, and probably not even the ones we think of.

thanks again for ruminating with me,
cheryl

---

These fields you ride are mine
         though there are others
              'Tis a pity you return
 because you've no place to go

    Should you enjoy, take care of them
               They've grown and changed

             You travelled here
                    on my back--
now you're here at my side
                         a parasite
            hoping to stay alive

     You ask so many questions
               I answer every one:
              a horse won't learn--
a stallion is stubborn at show--
 perhaps a muzzle is appropos

I have ten minutes to write so I'll make use of it.

Emily Dickinson was such an awesome poet, but I think maybe she really is sort of a 'woman's' poet.  Kinda like reading Bukowski then writing a poem about fuckin whores and pukin beer.  Not that men are the only ones that do that, but those two poets really are sort of at opposite ends of the spectrum. 

Be cool to research the similarities and write about it.  Dickinson Vs. Bukowski  Friday night in Ring 3 $300 presented by HBO.  First of all, the Buk lovers wouldn't even read it probably.  Emily's fans probably would, and there are enough of us out there.  Hmmmm....

Actually the reason I mention Emily is because after reading her poetry for about two hours one night, I felt very 'safe' writing and posting the poem below.  She understood me!  I wasn't the only one to have ever been so anxious of myself and life that I couldn't even speak.  But ultimately, there's a time and place for everything.

It wasn't until after Emily's death that a relative discovered most of her writing hidden away in her bedroom.  She wrote all of that amazing, intelligent, deep, clever poetry and never really cared who read it--except Wordsworth of course.

And he's another story altogether.

---

---

once a child is lost
not in death
but to state
            he is property
like cattle or farm land
with rows of corn
or broken ground
a chainlink fence
divides him

     and is always
     human to me

---

once, i lost a child
not to death
but to the state
he was property
like cattle or farm land
with rows of corn
or broken ground
a chainlink fence
divided him in half

he was always
human to me

in fragments
of dark and light
(no way such hours
would pass as time)
i learned psychosis
is a reality/isn't a choice

my stomach heaves
at the memories
not enough room
in my throat for air
or for bile to rise

i couldn't say the words
of my son's captivity
afraid of terror vivid as death
a burn in hell gurgle
of freakish sounds for mercy
for 'let me die'
for 'stop the pain'
to be ignored

cursed sharp points
jabbing and snapping
to let grief out

the only one
until i read
a sonnet's death
if i make a prison
of this human cave
walls will tell 
i am visible

---

WORD is dead
     When it is said,
     Some say.
     I say it just
     Begins to live   
     That day....
     In cave if I presumed to hide,
     The walls began to tell;
     Creation seemed a mighty crack
     To make me visible. -Emily Dickinson


once a child is lost
not in death
but to state
             he's property
like cattle or farm land
with rows of corn
or broken ground
chainlink fence
divides him

     always human
                to me

    fragments dark and light
       (no way such hours
       could pass as time)
psychosis is reality/never a choice

stomach heaving memories
not enough room in my throat
for rising bile or air to breathe

               couldn't say the words
                               of captivity
cursed sharp points
jabbing and snapping
to let grief out

i am visible

---

WORD is dead
     When it is said,
     Some say.
     I say it just
     Begins to live   
     That day....
     In cave if I presumed to hide,
     The walls began to tell;
     Creation seemed a mighty crack
     To make me visible. -Emily Dickinson


once a child is lost
not in death
but to state
             he's property
like cattle or farm land
with rows of corn
or broken ground
chainlink fence
divides him

     always human
                to me

    fragments dark and light
       (no way such hours
       could pass as time)
psychosis is reality/never a choice

stomach heaving memories
not enough room in my throat
for rising bile or air to breathe

               couldn't say the words
                               of captivity
cursed sharp points
jabbing and snapping
to let grief out

human cave or prisoner
walls tell i am visible

---

This is just between you and me.

After reading milner's reply to Larry's discussion, I think I had an intelligent thought.  Maybe it would be better for me to learn not to be ashamed of personal poems and learn not to take them so seriously, rather than posting a poem, dying of embarrassment, then deleting it off the face of the earth in complete, dramatic and utter humiliation.

No matter what, I will not delete a single poem from this website until I really don't care at all about what happens, and maybe never again.  This is day two of my resolution.

I will not care...I will not care...I do not care...I do not care.... 

Have I lost my mind?  Most likely.

Now I think I'll look for a pretty picture.

Weird things to think about.

---

---

I Cannot Live Without You
by Emily Dickinson


I CANNOT live with you,
It would be life,
And life is over there
Behind the shelf

The sexton keeps the key to,
Putting up
Our life, his porcelain,
Like a cup

Discarded of the housewife,
Quaint or broken;
A newer Sevres pleases,
Old ones crack.

I could not die with you,
For one must wait
To shut the other's gaze down, --
You could not.


And I, could I stand by
And see you freeze,
Without my right of frost,
Death's privilege?


Nor could I rise with you,
Because your face
Would put out Jesus',
That new grace

Glow plain and foreign
On my homesick eye,
Except that you, than he
Shone closer by.

They'd judge us -- how?
For you served Heaven, you know,
Or sought to;
I could not,

Because you saturated sight,
And I had no more eyes
For sordid excellence
As Paradise.

And were you lost, I would be,
Though my name
Rang loudest
On the heavenly fame.

And were you saved,
And I condemned to be
Where you were not,
That self were hell to me.

So we must keep apart,
You there, I here,
With just the door ajar
That oceans are,
And prayer,

And that pale sustenance,
Despair!
 

---

---

 

---

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
ACT ONE:

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


It was just the other day--the PC big wigs
and I are prowling the site in our sleek
impressive turn-of-the-phrase IambicMobile.

Irish-dewd is there for the ride,
Irish-dudette, Sassy-sheep, Tha-man-mil
with his side-kick-step-lower-JY
(who is forever hiding but never missing anything)
Quiet-man, Tantalizing-tights, Ed-pic
(always picks the best ones), and Ed-pac
(rumor is they call him pac cause he's always packin'
and o my goodness! it's a big one), and me.

     At the onset of this event
     I was without a ticket
     but I cried a british fortnight
     and one appeared on my flat screen
     --after I'd purged myself of all poetic
     devices (as prescribed by Tha-man-mil
     while JY took notes).

As always, I want to sit between Irish-dewd
and Quiet-man but Irish-dudette is too young
and fast for me. 

Tantalizing-tights says

Irish-dudette's issues are tanta-mount to
the bling-bling-bagpipes she totes
which is why her music is always beautiful.

Tanta-t has a special way
of making everyone feel better.

At such point an argument ensues:
Irish-dewd suggests enthusiastically

let's do a drive-by pick-through of the
discarded rejects pile.

to which Ed-pac and Ed-pic holla

Hell no!  No way!  I gots me at least
one there meself, ya damn BlueCap-Irish-prick!

Irish-dewd replies with a laugh
waking Quiet-man from hibernation
at which time Q cleverly slings a few
under-written sarcastic phrases
between the three and all become
magically peaceful again.

At just the right time, we round
the spiral of Journalese Boredwalk.
Suddenly Q becomes seized with
a frightening memory

to which Sassy-sheep responds
semi-dramatically:

What's wrong? What's wrong?

Q is word-up:
 
I dreamed we picked up a
freaky looking bunch of gypsies,
poets, and musicians right here at this
corner and ended up just like them!

It was a nightmare, right?

Well, maybe not a nightmare.  Could
be a bland dream.

But, after reading some recent posts,
it's becoming a nightmare quickly.

at which time I, who up until
this point, have been my silent-self,
respond in meter with the moment:

wicked tramps and thieves, eh?


Q nods very mysteriously, quite confused
and (sort of) amused:  Well...?


Oh...yeah, yeah.  Nightmare,
Big Q.  Go back to sleep.


at which time...he does.



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

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

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
   Re: The Big Wigs of PoetryCircle (invitation to a play)
« Reply #1 on: September 19, 2009, 02:12:42 PM » by Tom Riordan
Just leave your notes somewhere that the forensic literati will be able find them, Cheryl, so too many grad students' lives won't be wasted figuring out who's who and why's why after PC becomes world-beating. Tom
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--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
   Re: The Big Wigs of PoetryCircle (invitation to a play)
« Reply #2 on: September 19, 2009, 02:44:10 PM » by ca.leverette
huh?  world-beating?  what's that?

forensic literati?  now that's a good one.  the second act is on you.  ha!

thanks for checkin' it out, T.

(i do hope it's obvious there's not a jot or tittle of malice here.)




   Re: The Big Wigs of PoetryCircle (invitation to a play)
« Reply #3 on: September 19, 2009, 02:46:25 PM » by ca.leverette
Quote from: Tom Riordan on September 19, 2009, 02:12:42 PM
Just leave your notes somewhere that the forensic literati will be able find them, Cheryl, so too many grad students' lives won't be wasted figuring out who's who and why's why after PC becomes world-beating. Tom


but to do that i'd have to know who's paranoid or overly-sensitive.  the good-humored will know who they are.


'--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
   Re: The Big Wigs of PoetryCircle (invitation to a play)
« Reply #4 on: September 19, 2009, 03:00:23 PM » by Lavonne Westbrooks
Bring it on!
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--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
   Re: The Big Wigs of PoetryCircle (invitation to a play)
« Reply #5 on: September 19, 2009, 03:16:45 PM » by ca.leverette
Quote from: Lavonne Westbrooks on September 19, 2009, 03:00:23 PM
Bring it on!


now what does that mean?  listen here, sassy, this is not Raw Saturday Night Smack-Down at the Garden.

lol

thanks for the look lavonne.  so you're writing act three?

cheryl

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
   Re: The Big Wigs of PoetryCircle (invitation to a play)
« Reply #6 on: September 19, 2009, 03:42:35 PM » by StellaR



cheryl ..
your latest posts are magic

Stella

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“Logical argument is what destroys poetry because poetry is beyond logic.” Robert Graves

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
   Re: The Big Wigs of PoetryCircle (invitation to a play)
« Reply #7 on: September 19, 2009, 04:01:12 PM » by ca.leverette
Quote from: StellaR on September 19, 2009, 03:42:35 PM


cheryl ..
your latest posts are magic

Stella



Stella!  You have no idea what your words mean to me.  Thank you so much.

cheryl


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
   Re: The Big Wigs of PoetryCircle (invitation to a play)
« Reply #8 on: September 20, 2009, 06:49:45 AM » by Ken Robson
Cherylanne--right on the snoot to boot!

                            ken
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Poetry is an act of mischief.

             Theodore Roethke

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
   Re: The Big Wigs of PoetryCircle (invitation to a play)
« Reply #9 on: September 20, 2009, 08:11:44 AM » by ca.leverette
Quote from: Ken Robson on September 20, 2009, 06:49:45 AM
Cherylanne--right on the snoot to boot!

                            ken


Do you really think so?  lol   It was fun & meant to come off that way.  I hope it does.

Thanks again, Ken.
cheryl
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
   Re: The Big Wigs of PoetryCircle (invitation to a play)
« Reply #10 on: September 20, 2009, 06:52:47 PM » by silent lotus
dear Cherly

looking forward to getting tickets
to the first dress rehearsal !

do PC editors get preferential seating ?


smiles
silent lotus
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--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
   Re: The Big Wigs of PoetryCircle (invitation to a play)
« Reply #11 on: September 20, 2009, 07:05:38 PM » by Lavonne Westbrooks
Front Row
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--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
   Re: The Big Wigs of PoetryCircle (invitation to a play)
« Reply #12 on: September 20, 2009, 07:14:03 PM » by jamesthomashoward
Great fun, cherylanne. I frustratingly couldn't work out who everyone was though! care to provide a key?

I can see Tom, Milner, LV, John Yamrus...

james
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Cough.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
   Re: The Big Wigs of PoetryCircle (invitation to a play)
« Reply #13 on: September 21, 2009, 04:13:29 AM » by ca.leverette
Quote from: silent lotus on September 20, 2009, 06:52:47 PM
dear Cherly

looking forward to getting tickets
to the first dress rehearsal !

do PC editors get preferential seating ?


smiles
silent lotus


SL, so glad you responded this way.  Actually the big wigs were offered front row tickets but everyone of them with the exception of Lavonne insisted that the rest of us have them.  ; )

LOL Lavonne, thanks so much for popping in on this now and then.  Let's me know I'm still ok.

james, I'm hesitant to give it ALL away but the clues are in the name, of course.  For instance there's a beautiful (inside and out) poet here who's blog title references 'tights'.

But now I'll be honest.  I am not a manipulative person (not sure I know how) but when it comes to writing I will tend to do just about anything, so I might just string-along anyone interested so this post won't die too quickly.  haha

Hardly seems fair, eh.  But poop, I'm desperate.  For attention.  ; )

Thanks for reading, james.
cheryl


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
   Re: The Big Wigs of PoetryCircle (invitation to a play)
« Reply #14 on: September 22, 2009, 07:10:54 AM » by ca.leverette
Ok, jamesthomashoward, and anyone else who's curious, regarding Quiet Man::  who's the most prominent, but says the very very very least of any editor?
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Report to moderator   68.51.55.155

©ca.leverette2009♥

---

never thought
you would leave me here
alone
         waiting on notes of music
-transportation to another world
hoping songs of a stranger
might reveal ecstasy

behind closed eyes
is there another existence
where hands speak emotion
     right palm
     three movements forward
     slightly
     both hands leveled
     midair
     banter

pain for beauty
for loss
for longing

---

they said it was a bile duct
said it was a kidney
i don't need a doctor
to tell me you are distant

took you to the e.r.
not a homeless shelter
all those other mothers
had brand new cadillacs

won't call my brother
or irritate my sister
i do need a kind word
on days when you're resistant

don't need no glory
or government assistance
i'm just a daughter
in search of your affection

---

Tennyson's affect

It little avails a silent one
in this calm frame
amid these arid spaces
coupled with a missing beau
I deal and share disparate rules
unto my untamed blood
that hides, and taunts
and takes, and will not comply.

contemporary:

It doesn't do much good
a woman who lives a quiet
and calm life amid empty spaces
coupled with a missing beau
to teach and be mindful of
rules and morality
when her untamed blood
will not comply.

---

untamed blood (an exercise)
« on: Today at 09:55:14 PM » by ca.leverette
This is better (more my voice):


contemporary:

It doesn't do much good
a woman who lives a quiet
and calm life amid empty spaces
coupled with a missing beau
to teach and be mindful of
rules and morality
when her untamed blood
will not comply.


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

Tennyson's effect:

It little avails a silent one
in this calm frame
amid these arid spaces
coupled with a missing beau
I deal and share disparate rules
unto my untamed blood
that hides, and taunts
and takes, and will not comply.


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

(after reading Alfred Lord Tennyson--a practice)

Tennyson speaks of giving his life for a people who don't know him.

Mine is about taking time to rule my nature, when my nature refuses
to comply.


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

I dunno if I should post this.  Who cares what I practice?
Ok I'm breaking my rule and deleting due to how boring
this might be and really is not the right place)
Now, I'm going away to the garden to eat worms
while dressed in sackcloth and ashes

---

Highly entertaining.