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Thread: The Poetry Thread Re-Booted

  1. #31
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    Redacted
    Last edited by Seikou-Kishi, 28th March 2014 at 16:01.

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  3. #32
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    Walk with me
    Your seeking is almost done
    With glee in my love
    Giddiness within me
    Lets take a walk together

    Take a walk with me
    Barefoot and free
    Feel the grass
    Listen to the trees.

    Walk with me
    For just a little while
    Kiss the wind
    Breathe through your smile

    Walk with me
    Touch the world with your heart
    Feel the pulse
    Let the rhythm begin to start

    Walk with me
    Open your eyes
    What do you see
    I gave you everything
    You were just blind
    Of the creation in me.
    Every time you walk
    Do not forget
    Our little talk
    for i am the seeker
    awaiting my your return
    with excitement and wonder
    to listen to your stories
    of the earth and it,s glories

    baptism of the flow
    you will feel from me
    all you have to do is just believe.

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  5. #33
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    EMANCIPATION?

    Suddenly across this nation thanks to modern education,
    Is a feeling of elation - 'Feminine emancipation'!

    Us men feel no compensation for this new co-operation,
    From the fairer population which may only court frustration.

    Due to the deregulation of a well-tried legislation,
    Now, who has the information to avoid the provocation?

    'Who does what to whom' relation must not cause a violation,
    Thus I need make application for my final resignation.

    Once, I knew the operation, gave my seat up at the station,
    But with all this new sensation I am left in reservation.

    Will it lead to aggravation raise my hat? In violation
    Of the rules in this narration, ending in my low prostration.

    I think, that with calculation and astute administration,
    Men should call for publication of the status Quo ...

    26th August 1987 John Parslow

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  7. #34
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    THE SILENT CHURCHYARD


    Weaving around the winding hill thus veiled from my eye until,
    All at once above the Yew a windswept steeple stirs into view.

    Today it seems this lofty spire with merely echoes of the choir,
    Calls the faithful home no more; just broken panes and rotting floor.

    Guttering's all stuffed with leaves; raucous magpies roost in eaves,
    Wide-open to the dewy morn' no shelter for the parish born.

    'Neath the Yew across the yard; weathered monuments on guard,
    Mute in their lone company - a long-forgotten memory.

    Sunlit shafts through leafy bowers inform me of the passing hours.
    White clouds which scud across the lee drag me from my reverie.

    So down again the winding hill over my shoulder I look until,
    A rusty vane is all I see of this secluded cemetery ...

    7th April 1987 John Parslow

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  9. #35
    Senior Member donk's Avatar
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    Replying to Barb's post on a different thread--where I was thinking about an issue I was having trouble relating to my love, I realized I was thinking about my situation rather poetically...so I wrote it down thusly:

    We chose to walk
    Hand in hand
    A path beset on all sides
    Fraught with trouble
    Joy and puzzles
    And everything in between.

    We thought it’d be easy
    Destiny’d just take us
    Set us down, lovingly
    Into pain free bliss.

    I found out this:
    There is no destination
    And the ride ain’t always easy
    The path not in front of us my Love.

    Wanna know where?
    I’m wrong about most things
    But this one, I think I got right…
    Dare to listen?

    I wish I could offer
    A spoon dipped in sugar
    Just shove down the medicine
    But that’s not the point
    (and there is no spoon!)

    The meds be the healing,
    The process itself
    And my hand can be the sugar
    But it will never be enough.
    YOU have to take the plunge!
    (Which means you gotta let go of my hand)

    The path has always been within
    (And so have all demons)
    Once you learn to navigate
    The wonderful, murky road
    Smelling the flowers
    While dodging the bullets
    Staying detached from it all.

    Once you can swim
    The inner stream without fear
    Ride the wave
    In loving detachment…the rest comes easy.

    I will always be at your side
    Doing my best, to help you pull yourself up
    Whenever you slip or fall
    I just can’t push
    You have to want it
    Take the plunge
    A journey starts with one step
    And becomes something else
    Every time you lose focus.

    FOCUS. Know thyself.
    You are love.
    Love is truth.


    It worked out pretty well, she finally got what I was trying to communicate....

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  11. #36
    Senior Member donk's Avatar
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    We tried to tell everyone
    We aren't who we said we are
    And no one believed us.

    That's what happened
    When we dreamed the same dream
    Woke up, and shared it.

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  13. #37
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    .....
    Last edited by Curt, 18th June 2014 at 18:11.

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  15. #38
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    TO A PAST LOVE

    Oh I still recall those halcyon days, gone alas the flowers of youth,
    When I was ever guilty-green and summers’ seemed to last forever,
    Autumn colours were your hair, and kissed your skin of silken-cream,
    I loved you then, I love you still - how fleeting love's bloom fades.

    Your nave eyes were rainbow-flashed, so honest yet with power to hurt,
    Trespassing those passing hours, as wine-red life coursed through our veins,
    We held struggling raptures in our grasp, that neither could contain,
    I loved you then - I love you still, when you were clay I moulded.

    The memory of our love's first-flush, still torments my friendless hours,
    We gave of ourselves, both love and passion, in a moral confusion,
    Those torrid days came to sudden end, an eagle flew down from the night sky,
    I loved you then - I love you still, when open-wounds his talons tore.

    He charmed my one true love away, picked my bones, left me to die,
    Those halcyon days of yesteryear, have long been trampled down in time,
    And memories - my personal hoard, their worth to me are more than life,
    I loved you then - I love you still, I wonder do you think of me …

    John Parslow 21st March 1997


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    INFERNO, CANTO I
    (Cut-up Method)


    A poet in all thoughts despondent
    Had abandoned the true way
    If from this savage place
    An hour of time could escape
    Into a delicious season
    It would impede woe and worse

    Time began the morning
    A wild beast at a mountains foot
    A point where the valley terminated
    With ravenous hunger
    Coming against the emperor who reigns above
    By degrees against a silent sun

    Hoarse and full of slumber
    Contented envy well repeated
    How there entered a ruthless pathway
    Terminating other poets honour and light
    Greedy will with variegated skin
    Late hope seemed long continued

    Pity comes already vested in planets rays
    Bitter within a dark forest
    Fleeing onward savage, rough and stern
    Lead left by every forlorn road
    Time slopes the living soul
    Death and nature is little more weary

    Art alone is distressful breath
    A desperate frightened air laments
    Veins pulse and tremble back to hell
    Perilous gazes explore wounds
    Where the ascent and hunt began
    Meagerness disconsolate was burned

    William S. Burroughs Cut-ups



    Burroughs discovered the cutup in 1959 in Paris through his friend Brion Gysin , a painter. When Gysin began experimenting with cutups in his own work, Burroughs immediately saw the similarity to the juxtaposition technique he had used in Naked Lunch and began extensive experiments with text, often with the collaboration of other writers. (Although Burroughs has credited Gysin with discovering the cutup, he has also acknowledged similar literary experiments in the works of Tzara, Stein, Eliot, and Dos Passos.) In 1960 Burroughs published his initial cutup experiments in Paris in Minutes To Go (with Brion Gysin, Sinclair Beiles, and Gregory Corso) and in San Francisco in The Exterminator (with Brion Gysin), works that were partially intended to introduce the technique to the public. Throughout the 1960s Burroughs and Gysin collaborated on cutup experiments in many media, the most significant collaborations being three films done in 1965 with English film maker Antony Balch (Towers Open Fire, Cut-Ups, and Bill and Tony) and The Third Mind, a book first completed in 1965 but not published in English until 1978. The final version of The Third Mind is both a historical collection of cutup experiments from 1960 to 1978 and a manifesto that sums up the cutup's significance for Burroughs and Gysin.

    Burroughs with his cut-upsBurroughs with his cut-ups The cutup is a mechanical method of juxtaposition in which Burroughs literally cuts up passages of prose by himself and other writers and then pastes them back together at random. This literary version of the collage technique is also supplemented by literary use of other media. Burroughs transcribes taped cutups (several tapes spliced into each other), film cutups (montage), and mixed media experiments (results of combining tapes with television, movies, or actual events). Thus Burroughs's use of cutups develops his juxtaposition technique to its logical conclusion as an experimental prose method, and he also makes use of all contemporary media, expanding his use of popular culture.

    As Burroughs experimented with the technique, he began to develop a theory of the cutup, and this theory was incorporated into his pseudoscience of addiction. In addition to drugs, sex, and power as aspects of man's addictive nature, Burroughs adds an analysis of control over human beings exercised by language ("the Word"), time, and space (i.e., man's physical existence and the mental constructs he uses to survive and adapt). Drugs, sex, and power control the body, but "word and image locks" control the mind, that is, "lock" us into conventional patterns of perceiving, thinking, and speaking that determine our interactions with environment and society. The cutup is a way of exposing word and image controls and thus freeing oneself from them, an alteration of consciousness that occurs in both the writer and the reader of the text. For Burroughs as an artist, the cutup is an impersonal method of inspiration, invention, and an arrangement that redefines the work of art as a process that occurs in collaboration with others and is not the sole property of artists. Thus Burroughs's cutup texts are comparable to similar contemporary experiments in other arts, such as action painting, happenings, and aleatory music. His theory of the cutup also parallels avant-garde literary theory, such as structuralism and deconstruction.


    In his own words," Burroughs sets the method out:



    "Pages of text are cut and rearranged to form new combinations of word and image-In writing my last two novels, Nova Express and The Ticket That Exploded, I have used an extension of the cut up method I call "the fold in method"-A page of text-my own or some one else's-is folded down the middle and placed on another page- The composite text is then read across half one text and half the other-The fold in method extends to writing the flash back used in films, enabling the writer to move backwards and forwards on his time track-For example I take page one and fold it into page one hundred-I insert the resulting composite as page ten-When the reader reads page ten he is flashing forwards in time to page one hundred and back in time to page one-The deja vu phenomena can so be produced to order-(This method is of course used in music where we are continually moved backwards and forward on the time track by repetition and rearrangement of musical themes-
    In using the fold in method I edit delete and rearrange as in any other method of composition-I have frequently had the experience of writing some pages of straight narrative text which were then folded in with other pages and found that the fold ins were clearer and more comprehensible than the original texts-Perfectly clear narrative prose can be produced using the fold in method-Best results are usually obtained by placing pages dealing with similar subjects in juxtaposition."

    Here is another Burroughs take on the cut-up method:

    "The cut-up method brings to writers the collage, which has been used by painters for seventy years. And used by the moving and still camera. In fact all street shots from movie or still cameras are by the unpredictable factors of passersby and juxtaposition cut-ups. And photographers will tell you that often their best shots are accidents . . . writers will tell you the same. The best writings seems to be done almost by accident but writers until the cut-up method was made explicit-all writing is in fact cut-ups; I will return to this point-had no way to produce the accident of spontaneity. You cannot will spontaneity. But you can introduce the unpredictable spontaneous factor with a pair of scissors.


    Source: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rc2yU7OUMcI


    "The method is simple. Here is one way to do it. Take a page. Like this page. Now cut down the middle. You have four sections: 1 2 3 4 . . . one two three four. Now rearrange the sections placing section four with section one and section two with section three. And you have a new page. Sometimes it says much the same thing. Sometimes something quite different-cutting up political speeches is an interesting exercise-in any case you will find that it says something and something quite definite. Take any poet or writer you fancy. Here, say, or poems you have read over many times. The words have lost meaning and life through years of repetition. Now take the poem and type out selected passages. Fill a page with excerpts. Now cut the page. You have a new poem. As many poems as you like. As many Shakespeare Rim baud poems as you like. Tristan Tzara said: "Poetry is for everyone." And Andre Breton called him a cop and expelled him from the movement. Say it again: "Poetry is for everyone." Poetry is a place and it is free to all cut up Rimbaud and you are in Rimbaud's place.

    "Cut-ups are for everyone. Anybody can make cut-ups. It is experimental in the sense of being something to do. Right here write now. Not something to talk and argue about. Greek philosophers assumed logically that an object twice as heavy as another object would fall twice as fast. It did not occur to them to push the two objects off the table and see how they fall. Shakespeare Rimbaud live in their words. Cut the word lines and you will hear their voices. Cut- ups often come through as code messages with special meaning for the cutter. Table tapping? Perhaps. Certainly an improvement on the usual deplorable performances of contacted poets through a medium. Rimbaud announces himself, to be followed by some excruciatingly bad poetry. Cut Rimbaud's words and you are assured of good poetry at least if not personal appearance.



    "All writing is in fact cut-ups. A collage of words read heard overheard. What else? Use of scissors renders the process explicit and subject to extension and variation. Clear classical prose can be composed entirely of rearranged cut-ups. Cutting and rearranging a page of written words introduces a new dimension into writing enabling the writer to turn images in cinematic variation. Images shift sense under the scissors smell images to sound sight to sound to kinesthetic. This is where Rimbaud was going with his color of vowels. And his "systematic derangement of the senses." The place of mescaline hallucination: seeing colors tasting sounds smelling forms.


    http://www.languageisavirus.com/arti...=#.UzRj5P3nHwI
    "Truth is a Pathless Land" J. Krishnamurti

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  19. #40
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    A poem I wrote when I was 10 years old

    They made boats from twigs and vine
    To catch fish from a hand made line
    And the dog sat and howled at the moon

    They sang as they walked back from the water
    With a feast for their sons and their daughters
    And the dog sat and howled at the moon

    A fire had been made from wood and stone
    To be lit just before the men had come home
    And the dog sat and howled at the moon

    With songs in their hearts and joy in their voices
    They all sat and gave thanks for their choices
    And with hands held high in the air they all sat
    And howled at the moon

    Tribe xx

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  21. #41
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    a random muse.


    I,m letting go

    Letting go of my surroundings
    Letting go of all that surrounds me.
    I,m letting go,i,m letting go.

    All the things that i see are not me,
    Are not me.
    Let me go ,let me go.
    I,m not me .i,m not me.

    Believe me when i see
    The world as it is.
    We are not meant to be.
    Not meant to be.

    This way.

    Let me go.
    Let us go.
    No more.
    This way.

    In music,in words i find the creative work divine.
    But your intention is to keep us blind.

    Now let us go,let us go.
    Last edited by ronin, 24th May 2014 at 16:55.

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  23. #42
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    I see now what you are,
    just looking from afar
    remembering a past
    only now seeing what you really are.

    I swung from your branches in happiness and glee
    Those summer days will never leave me.
    I Climbed up your trunk
    To see just what you could see.

    I fell with a bump on one occasion or two
    I gave my first kiss,under your leaves on that night
    Carved my love,s name into your hide that,s true
    A love that never lasted,a teenage romance,i without a clue.

    I watched you grow with me forever and a day
    Your majestic smile that never once did wane.
    The animals,birds and bee,s saw you as home
    Your love was unforgiving to all that did come.

    I watch as i see my children play under your shadow
    I hear your rustle, your creaks just being mischievous as can be
    I know you will love them just as you loved me.

    That branch that i stood upon so long ago
    Is way up in the sky,i can see that i know
    The last time i climbed to see the horizon afar
    I knew i was never coming back down
    From the heavens up above
    You gave me joy and a guidance
    And a unconditional love.

    Oh my old oak tree.

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  25. #43
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    For every moment that you have been hurt.
    I was there with you.
    Every feeling that you have felt.
    I felt it with you.
    When you laughed i laughed also
    I am near to you.
    When you cried
    I cried with you.

    Your life is a vision that i share with you
    Sometimes you forget i stand by you.
    Lest we forget creation is for you.
    And in turn you create for you.

    The wars will come and many will die.
    Famine and plague
    All that is dire.
    Never forget no matter your age
    That i walk your life with you
    I encompass you.
    With love.

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  27. #44
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    Quote Originally posted by Seikou-Kishi View Post
    Redacted
    Why the redaction my good fellow? Your words are always full of wisdom and much appreciated here ...

  28. #45
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    I was sent this to day.
    A***** B***** in Remembering N***
    11:07am Jan 31
    At 11 am on this Saturday three years ago we were at Golders Green for the service for our lovely E*** who chose the same path as N***. I respectfully share the following poem which might bring a little comfort. I can't remember where it is from - I think it might be from the SOBS web site.

    The Choice

    Dedicated to those who have left and those who are left

    I chose my time, I chose my way
    I chose to stay, not another day

    Dont hurt yourself, dont wonder why
    ... I made my choice, my sweet goodbye

    Cry for me not, I have my peace
    Please respect, my short-lived lease

    It wasnt to punish, or cause great pain
    No upper hand, nor spiteful gain

    It was a thought, a mood, a chance
    Our worlds have changed, a circumstance

    For the tearful eyes, I leave behind
    To make you suffer, was not in mind

    I am ever near, so remember me
    And the stupid stuff, that caused such glee

    Take all these thoughts, and give them space
    Banish bleaker ones: they have no place

    And because I trust, you love me so
    Youll understand, I had to go

    Ill suffer not, I wont grow older
    Theres nothing more, for me to shoulder

    I didnt explain, I made my choice
    And so this poem, becomes my voice

    So pray for me, I pray for you
    I pray for strength, to carry you

    Because
    I chose my time, I chose my way
    I chose to stay, not another day

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