Manda's poetry Thread


manda
#1
I have been writing since I was 10 years old, for some reason, it would all fall into verse, the best stuff I've written is when my life has been in complete up heaval.

El desastro de mi vida

?Porque no puedes me comprendar
Cuando yo hablo de mi corazon?
De mis suenos y sientimeientos
Y las cosas que me hace llorar

?Porque no puedes mi entiende
Cuando yo te hablo del amor?
De cuando functionar correctamente
Hay nada que es mayor

Hoy, nuestros corazons no communicando
como antes, en los anos pasados
Y ahora, estoy en un lugar totalmente negro
Donde se que yo existe, solamente qorque sufrio.

I know it's hard to understand, It's in spanish, but the translation loses the rhyme scheme and some of the "feel". Its about my marriage falling apart. Not angry, just upset that we couldn't make it work out. Life moved me to a better place though, it's just that I was really proud of this one because it was the first time I had written anything other than an assignment in spanish, and it made sense with the first line (roughly translated): Why cant you comprehend me...considering the man that I had married had no idea what spanish looked like, he really couldn't. It was kind of fun to write. I will post more, and in English too
 
peapod
#2
cool manda...hows about this one..from one my favorite poets richard brautigan..

Ode to Oral Surgery Gone Wrong

Tingle tingle tingle...

I won't stay numb
I've felt before
The feeling will come

It's returning now
First comes the pain
I'll bear it somehow

Ever so tender
O so sensitive
A re-born member

Now this is what I miss
It's coming back now
That bitter sweet bliss

Tingle tingle tingle...

Now I live with the mere memory
Of what it's like to not feel, yet still be
 
manda
#3
I likes it, likes it a lot...reminds me of why I'm so scared of the dentist
 
peapod
#4
yes he is one of my favorites, got a favorite? here is another of his...
Candle
The candle’s fading flame
Still illuminates her face,
Though it is half-drowned
In its own wax.

hahahahhhaahaha
 
manda
#5
he he he.great stuff! I'll have to dig up some of my favorites and some of my other stuff
 
peapod
#6
Yes do! I love poetry..lets see some more of yours..I guess I will give you another brautigan poem...

All Watched Over by Machines of Loving Grace
Richard Brautigan 1967

I like to think (and
the sooner the better!)
of a cybernetic meadow
where mammals and computers
live together in mutually
programming harmony
like pure water
touching clear sky.
I like to think
(right now, please!)
of a cybernetic forest
filled with pines and electronics
where deer stroll peacefully
past computers
as if they were flowers
with spinning blossoms.

I like to think
(it has to be!)
of a cybernetic ecology
where we are free of our labors
and joined back to nature,
returned to our mammal
brothers and sisters,
and all watched over
by machines of loving grace.
 
manda
#7
I have no others with me tonight... another day I promise, keep posting though, you're finding some great stuff...we should start a "roses are red" thread. there are some pretty freaky people that could do shocking things to that age old rhyme
 
peapod
#8
right...sorry..I got side tracked sending my neice bigh's music...she actually likes it ...yes roses are red..Blah!
 
Reverend Blair
#9
Did anybody hear about theWrite the Nation (external - login to view) tour? I didn't hear about it until yesterday, but it looked like a cool idea to me.
 
peapod
#10
Yes will I see they will be reading at small gin joints...I take it than you will be attending rev?
 
Reverend Blair
#11
I would have attended had I known they were coming around. They seem to be done though. You have to check out this Mingus guy...he's like a punk rock poet. Very odd...in a good way.
 
peapod
#12
Oi! here is one of the worst poets I have ever read

John Rouat the Fisherman
MARGARET SIMPSON was the daughter of humble parents in the county of Ayr,
With a comely figure, and face of beauty rare,
And just in the full bloom of her womanhood,
Was united to John Rouat, a fisherman good.

John's fortune consisted of his coble, three oars, and his fishing-gear,
Besides his two stout boys, John and James, he loved most dear.
And no matter how the wind might blow, or the rain pelt,
Or scarcity of fish, John little sorrow felt.

While sitting by the clear blazing hearth of his home,
With beaming faces around it, all his own.
But John, the oldest son, refused his father obedience,
Which John Rouat considered a most grievous offence.

So his father tried to check him, but all wouldn't do,
And John joined a revenue cutter as one of its crew;
And when his father heard it he bitterly did moan,
And angrily forbade him never to return home.

Then shortly after James ran away to sea without his parent's leave,
So John Rouat became morose, and sadly did grieve.
But one day he received a letter, stating his son John was dead,
And when he read the sad news all comfort from him fled.

Then shortly after that his son James was shot,
For allowing a deserter to escape, such was his lot;
And through the death of his two sons he felt dejected,
And the condolence of kind neighbours by him was rejected.

'Twas near the close of autumn, when one day the sky became o'ercast,
And John Rouat, contrary to his wife's will, went to sea at last,
When suddenly the sea began to roar, and angry billows swept along,
And, alas! the stormy tempest for John Rouat proved too strong.

But still he clutched his oars, thinking to keep his coble afloat,
When one 'whelming billow struck heavily against the boat,
And man and boat were engulfed in the briny wave,
While the Storm Fiend did roar and madly did rave.

When Margaret Rouat heard of her husband's loss, her sorrow was very great,
And the villagers of Bute were moved with pity for her sad fate,
And for many days and nights she wandered among the hills,
Lamenting the loss of her husband and other ills.

Until worn out by fatigue, towards a ruinous hut she did creep,
And there she lay down on the earthen Roor, and fell asleep,
And as a herd boy by chance was passing by,
He looked into the hut and the body of Margaret he did espy.

Then the herd boy fled to communicate his fears,
And the hut was soon filled with villagers, and some shed tears.
When they discovered in the unhappy being they had found
Margaret Rouat, their old neighbour, then their sorrow was profound.

Then the men from the village of Bute willingly lent their aid,
To patch up the miserable hut, and great attention to her was paid.
And Margaret Rouat lived there in solitude for many years,
Although at times the simple creature shed many tears.

Margaret was always willing to work for her bread,
Sometimes she herded cows without any dread,
Besides sometimes she was allowed to ring the parish bell,
And for doing so she was always paid right well.

In an old box she kept her money hid away,
But being at the kirk one beautiful Sabbath day,
When to her utter dismay when she returned home,
She found the bottom forced from the box, and the money gone.

Then she wept like a child, in a hysteric fit,
Regarding the loss of her money, and didn't very long survive it.
And as she was wont to descend to the village twice a week,
The villagers missed her, and resolved they would for her seek. Then two men from the village, on the next day
Sauntered up to her dwelling, and to their dismay,
They found the door half open, and one stale crust of bread,
And on a rude pallet lay poor Margaret Rouat cold and dead.

 
manda
#13
I just get so angry and feel that we are are being swallowed up by a landslide...At least when I look back on things, I can say that I lifted my voice in protest. It may not be much, but at least I do what I can:

The Plea

I feel sick when I turn on the news
And hear of yet another bomb
Countless lives lost again and again
This has gone on for far too long

I feel sick when I turn on the news
And hear thousands more children have died
Nations greed have deprived them the neccessities
And all I can ask myself is "why"

I feel sick when I turn on the news
And hear of murder, crimes of hate
We keep turning on each other, it keeps getting worse
We need change now, but are we too late?

People are starving, hurting, others killing, more crying
Endless wars being fought, so many dying
We must break the politicians' tightening vices
And demand an end to this state of crisis


A. E
 
peapod
#14
Hey I gots one for twinks...Heya Twinks??? where you been??? using up the last bits of yur freedom are ya Anyways here a little poem for ya...

Macavity's a Mystery Cat: he's called the Hidden Paw--
For he's the master criminal who can defy the Law.
He's the bafflement of Scotland Yard, the Flying Squad's despair:
For when they reach the scene of crime--Macavity's not there!
Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity,
He's broken every human law, he breaks the law of gravity.
His powers of levitation would make a fakir stare,
And when you reach the scene of crime--Macavity's not there!
You may seek him in the basement, you may look up in the air--
But I tell you once and once again, Macavity's not there!

Macavity's a ginger cat, he's very tall and thin;
You would know him if you saw him, for his eyes are sunken in.
His brow is deeply lined with thought, his head is highly domed;
His coat is dusty from neglect, his whiskers are uncombed.
He sways his head from side to side, with movements like a snake;
And when you think he's half asleep, he's always wide awake.

Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity,
For he's a fiend in feline shape, a monster of depravity.
You may meet him in a by-street, you may see him in the square--
But when a crime's discovered, then Macavity's not there!

He's outwardly respectable. (They say he cheats at cards.)
And his footprints are not found in any file of Scotland Yard's
And when the larder's looted, or the jewel-case is rifled,
Or when the milk is missing, or another Peke's been stifled,
Or the greenhouse glass is broken, and the trellis past repair
Ay, there's the wonder of the thing! Macavity's not there!

And when the Foreign Office find a Treaty's gone astray,
Or the Admiralty lose some plans and drawings by the way,
There may be a scrap of paper in the hall or on the stair--
But it's useless to investigate--Macavity's not there!
And when the loss has been disclosed, the Secret Service say:
It must have been Macavity!'--but he's a mile away.
You'll be sure to find him resting, or a-licking of his thumb;
Or engaged in doing complicated long division sums.

Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity,
There never was a Cat of such deceitfulness and suavity.
He always has an alibi, and one or two to spare:
At whatever time the deed took place -- MACAVITY WASN'T THERE !
And they say that all the Cats whose wicked deeds are widely known
(I might mention Mungojerrie, I might mention Griddlebone)
Are nothing more than agents for the Cat who all the time
Just controls their operations: the Napoleon of Crime!
 
Haggis McBagpipe
#15
One of my all-time favourites by E.E. Cummings:

may I feel said he
i'll squeal said she
just once said he
it's fun said she

may i touch, said he
how much, said she
a lot said he
why not said she

let's go said he
not too far said she
what's too far said he
where you are said she

may i stay said he
which way said she
like this said he
if you kiss said she

may i move said he
is it love said she
if you're willing said he
but you're killing said she

but it's life said he
but your wife said she
now said he
ow said she

tiptop said he
don't stop said she
oh no said he
go slow said she

cccome? said he
ummm said she
you're divine! said he
you are mine said she
 
mrmom2
#16
I like that one Haggis
 
manda
#17
The Villan

I have had only the best of intentions
And have done my best to be gentle of voice
But I am dragged through the mud and spat upon
My very principals of being spat upon
And then I am left, to feel cold unworthy and dirty

It has never been my goal to cause anyone harm
And I too hurt when I must be agressive or calculated
But when I seek to tread softly, I am kicked and stepped on
And each move twisted to mean those very things I would try to avoid
And so I am left feeling battered and weary

I try my best to create a structure of stability and security
And ask only that I be left to strengthen the bonds
Instead the framework is smashed and new lows created
I am forced to rebuild from this pit of despair with no holds
Clawing to escape, but no hope or light in sight

I ask only that my opinions be given their true and intended voice
So that the meaning might be clear, heartfelt and understood
Instead I am screamed over and that voice is drowned out
And my intentions are reworked with villany and ruthlessness
So I am left crying, desperate unheard, hated and unknown


A.E
 
Jo Canadian
#18
I didn't make this one, but it's kind of a cool po'm.



Quote:

THE FINAL INSPECTION


The soldier stood and faced God,
Which must always come to pass.
He hoped his shoes were shining,
Just as brightly as his brass.

"Step forward now, you soldier,
How shall I deal with you?
Have you always turned the other cheek?
To My Church have you been true?"

The soldier squared his shoulders and said,
"No, Lord, I guess I ain't.
Because those of us who carry guns,
Can't always be a saint.

I've had to work most Sundays,
And at times my talk was tough.
And sometimes I've been violent,
Because the world is awfully rough.

But, I never took a penny,
That wasn't mine to keep...
Though I worked a lot of overtime,
When the bills got just too steep.

And I never passed a cry for help,
Though at times I shook with fear.
And sometimes, God, forgive me,
I've wept unmanly tears.

I know I don't deserve a place,
Among the people here.
They never wanted me around,
Except to calm their fears.

If you've a place for me here, Lord,
It needn't be so grand.
I never expected or had too much,
But if you don't, I'll understand.

There was a silence all around the throne,
Where the saints had often trod.
As the soldier waited quietly,
For the judgment of his God.

"Step forward now, you soldier,
You've borne your burdens well.
Walk peacefully on Heaven's streets,
You've done your time in Hell."


~Author Unknown~

 
#juan
#19
This has always been one of my favourites:

My Madonna
by: Robert W. Service


I hiled me a woman from the street
Shameless, but oh, so fair!
I bade her sit in the model's seat
And I painted her sitting there.

I hid all trace of her heart unclean;
I painted a babe at her breast;
I painted her as she might have been
If the Worst had been the Best.

She laughed at my picture and went away
Then came with a knowing nod,
A connoisseur, and I heard him say,
"Tis Mary, the Mother of God."

So I painted a halo round her hair,
And I sold her and took my fee,
And she hangs in the church of Saint Hilaire,
Where you and all may see.
 
peapod
#20
Gotta love Robert Service juan

I really like this poet Les Murray



The Meaning of Existence

Everything except language
knows the meaning of existence.
Trees, planets, rivers, time
know nothing else. They express it
moment by moment as the universe.

Even this fool of a body
lives it in part, and would
have full dignity within it
but for the ignorant freedom
of my talking mind.
 
#juan
#21

The Meaning of Existence


Excellent. Talk about volumes in two stanzas.
 
manda
#22
Alone in the dark here I ponder
Of who I am, and just who I'm supposed to be
In the grand scheme of things, it's really nothing
Compared to the death and destruction all around
But it is of worth in my own little corner of the world
And I want more than what I have made for myself
I want to be more to my family, my friends, and my love

But the past keeps holding me back

How can I strive upwards
When the tentacles twist and tie me down
How can I move beyond something
That keeps presenting itself as an obstacle before me
How can i be free to be more
When I can barely hold on to who I am
And when I finally move beyond all of this

What will be left of the world for me to strive for?
 
manda
#23
he he, this is one I dug up...I wrote it when I was a little ticked at someone trying to get into my life and create issues:

Tell it like it is

You're so damned hypocritical
And so quick to call out names
To find means to justify your actions as pure
And not the selfish motives they are

You're so bloody full of your self
And self-centered to the hilt
Trying to force the earth to move around you
And all those around you dance

Well I'm sick of all the bullsh!t
It's time to call you as you are
You're not some type of hero
not Wonderwoman or a star

I'll be the last to say I'm perfect
But at least I can say I'm true
I can admit my mistakes as I make 'em
That's a hell of a lot more than I can say for you

I'm not here to make others suffer
And ask only to be treated the same
I refuse to tiptoe around you
Grow up b*tch and take some blame!
 
peapod
#24
hehehehehe...looks like they better not mess with you manda
I love Richard Brautigan...the dude was real!!!

Its raining love

I don't know what it is,
but I distrust myself
when I start to like a girl
a lot.

It makes me nervous.
I don't say the right things
or perhaps I start
to examine,
evaluate,
compute
what I am saying.

If I say, "Do you think it's going to rain?"
and she says, "I don't know,"
I start thinking: Does she really like me?

In other words
I get a little creepy.

A friend of mine once said,
"It's twenty times better to be friends
with someone
than it is to be in love with them."

I think he's right and besides,
it's raining somewhere, programming flowers
and keeping snails happy.
That's all taken care of.

BUT

if a girl likes me a lot
and starts getting real nervous
and suddenly begins asking me funny questions
and looks sad if I give the wrong answers
and she says things like,
"Do you think it's going to rain?"
and I say, "It beats me,"
and she says, "Oh,"
and looks a little sad
at the clear blue California sky,
I think: Thank God, it's you, baby, this time
instead of me.

-- Richard Brautigan
 

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