has great algorithm.
The sun-hammered zoo
was crowded, families shuffling
into cool, barred halls,
their little ones pointing at the lumbering,
muscle-swollen gorillas whose leathery children
tumbled in the distance, their mama alert,
big Papa swinging his
bulk to the front, his back up
against a trunk, glancing at a weaker
father through the glass,
slowly scratching his chest
with one rough hand, rubbing with the other
his penis as
the kids giggle, then drops it, shifts
his weight to pick the broken
edge of a toenail,
then back again—that demonstration.
Finally, Mother coughs
and the weaker Father
finds his voice:
A couple weeks ago I attended a workshop organized by Frank Beltrano, the Lois Marie Harrod Poetry Writing Workshop, and one of the things we did to get the juices flowing was to write a poem on the spot, based on a prompt, a number of which were provided. One prompt situation mentioned monkeys and a zoo, and the memory in the poem above, from maybe forty years ago, came to mind. I've never liked writing poems from prompts, from lack of confidence, but this one worked out well. And, while writing it, I came to a new understanding of the event that had never occurred to me before: that the male gorilla came forward and sat between the female gorilla and the man behind the glass on purpose, to show him just who was the man around there. So having to write something you wouldn't on your own can have its rewards.
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إبراهيم أشعياء عوض I think it has a good flow of images.
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· 19 hrs · Edited
If you don't know
where you're going
will get you there.
And if you don't know
where you're coming from
will take you home.
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Meredith Moeckel Love this! ~♡~
I had a dream last night of a sheet of paper with a poem on it. The paper also included notes from several people, all typewritten as if from some kind of an online workshop. (Odd because I've never been a member of an online workshop.) The paper was perfectly still in my dream-space, like it was waiting for me to read it. The poem consisted of about twenty short lines. But I only got part way through it before it disappeared. Which was frustrating because I was intrigued by it. Then, half an hour later, the same sheet of paper with the same poem appeared again. But this time I was given even less time. Anyway, I don't think it would be possible to memorize a poem like that and get it out through the blood-brain barrier of the subconscious. So what was the point of it? Was my subconscious just showing me that it's been writing poems too? And why would it bother? Is it competing with me? And who were the people who attached notes to it? Maybe there's a little artificial community of poets in there. A funny idea, but it would make
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Sherry Leigh Williams sounds important
Like · Reply · 29 December 2016 at 18:48
Sharon Berg You are being invited by your subconscious to capture the poem on paper. In other words, stop rationalizing that you could not get it past the blood-brain barriers, just sit and write. You may not end up with the same poem this time, but who is to say that you won't eventually capture it?
Like · Reply · 2 · 29 December 2016 at 18:54
Stan Burfield You're write! Will do. We'll see what happens.
Like · Reply · 29 December 2016 at 19:11
Aldous Richards Do you capture poem or give it life?Rhetocrial question.
Unlike · Reply · 1 · 30 December 2016 at 03:31
Write a reply...
Stan Burfield I've done this before. Writing the words that come to mind, then the next and then the next. A few of my best poems have come that way, but usually it's a combination of obvious things and nonsense. Which is what happened this time. But partly it's a matter of priming the pump properly before doing it. Which I'll try in future. Now that I know there is something there waiting to get out.
Like · Reply · 29 December 2016 at 20:41
Stan Burfield Here's another possibility: My subconscious is simply excited by the fact that it has learned how to type, just like I do, but with no fingers! So It's showing me the new trick.
Like · Reply · 29 December 2016 at 22:40 · Edited
Cambridge N Calvin Keenan I think your sub cocious is trying to remind you about that online poetry group you were going to start up for us littler poets that know not what we do lol lol xox💜❤💜
Unlike · Reply · 1 · 30 December 2016 at 02:52
Lynn Tait Might have to do with you leaving the London Open Mic. Maybe you are giving you self permission to do so in your dreams.
Unlike · Reply · 1 · 30 December 2016 at 08:25
Martin Hayter Either that or "Life is like a poem..."
Unlike · Reply · 2 · 30 December 2016 at 11:38
Each Christmas, after watching the new James Bond,
I would walk to the mall feeling tall and ornery,
and Santa would see me stroll in and would know
that my only dreams were those heavy eyebrows,
that slick black hair, and the voice of Sean Connery.
But I grew, and Bond became just a dumb show;
His stunts against the entire Star Trek galaxy? Not likely.
So when white-haired Jean-Luc took his chair, I grieved
and finally let Connery go, and ever since then,
my friend, it’s been
let it snow, make it so, let it snow.
Watch the video.
Starting to write poetry again. Here's one I started writing in a post below. I fixed it up this morning to take to my little 3-man workshop this afternoon. When I come back from that with critiquing done on it, and more changes made, I'll show you the final product. ...
To open the morning
I am not Japanese.
Making my breakfast has become
my Tea Ceremony.
The ritual is performed as follows:
Wake up, stretch, breathe deeply,
walk into the kitchen, and solemnly
one full cup of Alpen "No Sugar Added"
Muesli into a sparkling ceramic bowl,
evenly sprinkling onto those flat
and resting flakes precisely three
quarter-teaspoons of Stevia,
the sweetener, and then from
the bag in the freezer scoop
one cup of frozen wild blueberries,
and pour into it right to the top a shot
of hot tap water then count to three,
and dribble the cold out
between your fingers,
refilling right then with another this time
counting to six, then dribble out the cool
again, placing the blueberries on the flakes,
with cold skim milk enough to cover,
stirring it all together with a shining spoon.
At another time
we will work on eating.
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Stan Burfield The trouble with this poem is it's one of the most vacuous things I've ever written. It's exactly the opposite of the last poem I posted here, a couple days ago. This one goes on and on saying nothing. That one was only four tiny lines, took only a minute to write, but contains all of me and more. Two very different kinds of poetry.
Like · Reply · 4 December at 15:14 · Edited
Stan Burfield Here it is:
I entered my room
from a dream
"wisdom is the sky".
can't lose, except from winning...
can't die, except from trying...
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Magnus Grendel Samson Coleman Either way, every thing has a way of turning it's glistening guts, inside out; to the Event Horizon, of No Return...
Like · Reply · 25 November at 21:37
Stan Burfield Including yer mind, Magnus :)
Like · Reply · 25 November at 21:38
Magnus Grendel Samson Coleman The mind may loose trace... But, it can never loose mind.
Like · Reply · 25 November at 21:42
Stan Burfield not while trying
Like · Reply · 25 November at 21:43
Write a reply...
Stan Burfield To anyone reading these two lines, they're actually Magnus', just inverted. His is the cup half filled with frustration.
Like · Reply · 25 November at 22:11 · Edited
Stan Burfield "You can't win, for losing...
Nor try, for dying..." Magnus Grendel Samson Coleman
Like · Reply · 25 November at 22:08
Stan Burfield But you've got to admit, it's far more poetic.
Like · Reply · 25 November at 22:12
Gord McCaw No, uh, look, uh, Stan, we can't, well, how could you put it? Go gettin' crippled over this...
Like · Reply · 25 November at 22:17
Stan Burfield JUST WAIT. I'm tryin to get my thermos open...
Like · Reply · 1 · 25 November at 22:24 · Edited
Stan Burfield And DON'T STAND BESIDE THOSE BOXES!
Like · Reply · 1 · 25 November at 22:25
Gord McCaw If you don't bee-leeve me ask Al Broudy...
Like · Reply · 25 November at 22:26
Stan Burfield huh
Like · Reply · 25 November at 22:27
Organizer of London Open Mic Poetry. former support worker for people with autism and developmental disabilities. former farm boy, former adventurer, former florist.