Poetry

[alessandro]

Dears,

Does somebody feel like sharing poetry? I see discussion on politics, religion, god, some on food, clothing, drugs and I was thinking... poetry, how original.
Can you share nice (eventually translated) poems, maybe of living poets that you like.

Here's one of those that I like particularly.  It's written by Wendy Cope and it's called

If I Don't Know, (for Louise Kerr)

If I don't know how to be thankful enough
for the clusters of white blossom

on our mock orange, which has grown tall
and graceful, come into its own

like a new star just out of ballet school,
and if I don't know what to do

about those spires of sky-blue delphinium,
then what about the way they look together?

And what about the roses, or just one of them
that solid pinky-peachy bloom

that hollows towards its heart? Outrageaous.
I could crush it to bits.

A photograph? A dance to summer?
I sit on the swing and cry.

The rose. The gardenful. The evening light.
It's nine o'clock and I can still see everything.

[BoliverAllmon]

There was a thread once where several members here posted personal poetry and many were quite good. You should search for it.

boliver

[le_poete_mourant]

Ah, but I love the original Mock Orange poem by Louise Gluck:

    MOCK ORANGE

    It is not the moon, I tell you.
    It is these flowers
    lighting the yard.

    I hate them.
    I hate them as I hate sex,
    the man's mouth
    sealing my mouth, the man's
    paralyzing body—

    and the cry that always escapes,
    the low, humiliating
    premise of union—

    In my mind tonight
    I hear the question and pursuing answer
    fused in one sound
    that mounts and mounts and then
    is split into the old selves,
    the tired antagonisms. Do you see?
    We were made fools of.
    And the scent of mock orange
    drifts through the window.

    How can I rest?
    How can I be content
    when there is still
    that odor in the world?

The beauty of this poem is the metaphor of mock orange, a flower that pretends to be an orange tree by giving off that scent, is extended to the idea of love.  (I had to analyze it for a writing class.)

Here's one:
https://www.pianostreet.com/smf/index.php/topic,15405.0.html

By the way, some great poems at this website:   https://www.loc.gov/poetry/180/
set up by Billy Collins, former poet laureate of the U.S.

[lau]

for 3rd grade we did some crafts for valentines day and on mine I wrote a poem:

roses are red
violets are blue
my first grade teacher is a screw

after my teacher saw that I was sent to the school social worker. But I didn't mean anything by, it I just wanted to make it rhymn- I have no common sense.

another one:


and more:

roses are red
violets are blue
is this a good haiku?

roses are red
violets are blue
this statement is not true:
violets aren't blue

I just improvised those last three, geeze everything rhymns with blue

[leucippus]

Piano Ecstasy

~~~

Undulating ivory flowing like the sea
glistening with harmony in tones from A to G
my piano holds the secret to the passions deep within me
like petals on a daisy its keys are potpourri

Listen to the hammers as they pounce upon the strings
striking up vibrations as the wooden soundboard sings
no digitizing keyboards or other silly things
just acoustical pianos that rule the world like kings!

I'll play a little prelude or a movement from a dance
I'll play a long concerto that will put you in a trance
I'll play a little piece from a childhood song you know
I'll play a little romance that will set your heart aglow

My fingers crave the keyboard
my ears revere the sound
my body yearns the sweet vibrations for which pianos are renowned

Play a note
or play a chord
or play a complex melody
or play them altogether in a piano symphony
it matters little what you play
just play the keys for me
I'll listen to your playing with piano ecstasy

I'm addicted to the wooden box
it fills my life with joy
please don't take it from me
it's my favorite awesome toy!

~~~

(Leucippus 8/20/06)

I just wrote this for this thread.  Am I a nice guy or what? 
(I mean even if the poetry stinks I'm still a nice guy, right?)

[alessandro]

Dears,
Leucippus ! What do you mean with 'nice'  I'm again unrelaxed, answering posts, without having read their contents seriously, and that's due to my enthusiasm.   Poems can be long, and I'm not unhappy about that length.  I will read them again, with more attention.  The reference to 'haiku' gives me this envy of  an endeavour of paraphrasing;

Looking out of the bedroom-window without my glasses;

What is that new
yellow-lemon flower,
ah yes, a football

[pianistimo]

dear alessandro,

thanks for starting this thread.  enjoyed the Wendy Cope poem a lot.  also, i'm realizing (from a study yesterday of the bible , no less) that exact words bring certain feelings to people and the interpretations are always unique and different.  so, you narrow down the meanings by the context, right?  the poems in this thread are indicative of what 'mock orange' means to people.

and, the poem that leucippus wrote, 'piano ecstasy' was really good, too.  very descriptive.  i really like the use of the word 'undulating' describing the piano keys 'flowing like the sea.'    the only thing that might be a useless crit would be the third 'set' down - where all the lines start with 'I'll play.'  but maybe that was an intended thing and a sort of middle B section? it continues with 'my' and 'play.'  oftentimes, with poetry, if you leave it out and re-write it occasionally - it will actually turn itself into what it should be.  i find that the simpler the better.  so i start eliminating things and usually leave my poems somewhat on the sparse side.  but, i liked the entirety of yours.  maybe not ending with someone else playing - but you continuing to play?  although if you do an interaction - maybe half and half?

[pianistimo]

blue jay day

it lasted for a second
and the blue, it was a streak
went straight for a poplar
coming up from the creek

he darted there so purposefully,
but didn't stay for long.
was wondering what made him stop?
it looked like he belonged.


peach time

peaches, soft and furry
like a baby's head of hair
but when a bite is taken
there is always that huge scare.

the drip runs to the elbow
and like a hurried faucet leak
continues dripping till the peach
is mostly in your cheek.

[le_poete_mourant]

Pianistimo's poem reminded me of one of my own:

The Peach

the peach that you set on the table—
         
the wobbly glass table on the
tilted patio where we stood as the
sun looked down over the
grass that sloped away down the
hill that at the bottom met the
lake that seemed to have no bottom
(a scene stolen from an insurance commercial)  —

the peach that you tossed on the table,
   carelessly,
rolls off and lands on the granite tiles
of the veranda as the
sun falls lazily beyond the hills,

and I point this out to you,
tell you
the peach that you slammed on the table
has crashed to the ground

and you laugh
at me and the peach together,
you turn and glide away
to your plum sports car in the driveway,
         
without picking either of us up.



does art reflect life? 

[pianistimo]

if i remember right, i handed it to you in a paper bag so it wouldn't fall.  you were the one that dropped it.

[pianistimo]

was there a hidden meaning in the hill at the bottom next to a lake that seemed to have no bottom. 

[thalbergmad]

Mary had a little bike
She rode it round the grass
Every time the wheel went round
The spokes went up her dress


Thal

[quasimodo]

Mary had a little bike
She rode it round the grass
Every time the wheel went round
The spokes went up her dress


Thal

genius

[thalbergmad]

Mary had a little bike
She rode it back to front


The End

Thal

[pianistimo]

very funny, thal.  you could win a prize with that. 

next thing you know - you and zheer will be best friends and declaring that bicycling is off for women too. 

[bernhard]

very funny, thal.  you could win a prize with that. 

 bicycling is off for women too. 

That should be obvious. (Unless they do it properly and go sideways on the saddle)

BW
B.

[pianistimo]

that's only for horses, bernhard. 

[bernhard]

that's only for horses, bernhard. 

 I would think that if horses can do it, so should women.

("I never said actors were cattle. I said they should be treated like cattle" Alfred Hitchcock)
 

BW
B.

[bernhard]

that's only for horses, bernhard. 

https://www.pianostreet.com/smf/index.php/board,7/topic,20127.0.html#msg219729

I thought you had left...

BW
B

[le_poete_mourant]

was there a hidden meaning in the hill at the bottom next to a lake that seemed to have no bottom. 

Not hidden.  I'd say a metaphor.  The whole poem is a metaphor.  A good poem is an extended metaphor.  In this instance, actually, the poem is about a tricky person whose self-proclaimed nickname was "peach."