poetry soia I have the book of poems I wrote wedged in between my trash can and my recycling. It seems appropriate. 010215 ... guitar_freak A link to ones soul 010216 ... silentbob a structure a building a sky scraper of thought of feeling emotion created in a way to make the reader react to the poet's words, feelings, in an attempt to relate, to express, to be understood If sometimes the poet is misunderstood, the poet still remains satisfied 010216 ... mikey emotions fall onto the paper dripping off the tip of my pen relaxing is this moment i waver on the edge of insanity oh how can it be so tough to get a grip tears can fall maybe they all water the garden in my mind or can it simply be hardships taking on a new vision one which is tangible 010306 ... brown cardigan boy its that free flow transcending from my mind, the thoughts scribbled, except i like to type them. who ever said we needed punctuation. great poetry is about words right. fuck all those critics who tear down in one day what they couldn't do in a lifetime. 010306 ... arinna I do however protest anent the un spontaneous, and otherwise scented merde which greets one (Everywhere Why) as divine poesy per that and this radically defunct periodical. i would suggest that certain ideas gestures rhymes, like Gillette Razor Blades having been used and reused to the mystical moment of dullness, emphatically are Not To Be Resharpened -e.e. cummings 010307 ... unhinged e.e. cummings a.r. ammons jim carroll THE DEBUSSY LECTURE my mathematical friend subtract my life i would let you these devotional pains as sharp as a knife equal to times divided by the addition of this rotten mean in spirals of percentages leaking definite and concrete solid in the answers a proof of these obtuse angles of love 2/28/01 010417 ... black&blue those words that can be so important to me...yet so boring to somebody else 010417 ... anonymouse an explanation for ones life... the purpose of their soul 010610 ... silentbob or wordy attempt at that explanation. 010719 ... Miffey I once heard that all great poets speak only for themselves, and so I say this: poetry, to me, is a release. It's mountains of emotion, good or bad, that I can no longer contain. I write them down, for myself. Then, I can reread them and tell how I really felt about those emotions. Good poetry, like good sex, is never faked. 020309 ... misstree dripping chunks of soulflesh 020309 ... amy i can't much help it, but truly the epicurian hedonism must be a little off the mark, because the dalai lama said so. time to floss. 040204 ... lulie When music is added it becomes a song. Which is not always a good thing. Why? I sing out of tune. 050726 ... gja Good poetry does not err. Of all the poets I can quote, and, of all the poems I can recite my favourite unreferenced retention is this: "Between my finger and my thumb / The squat pen rests; snug as a gun." 081030 ... no reason "you don't have to be heartbroken to write poetry" 090808 ... epitome of incomprehensibility Patrick_de_Belen Also, fun_with_google_translate (is this on blather red?) at http://channelawesome.com/googledegook-7-one-teaspoon-of-hair-and-a-good-man/ which totally makes a pop song sound like Gertrude Stein. Gertrude Stein's one of the most unique poets I've encountered, by the way. If I say avant-garde modernist poetry, you'll probably picture something very dense and referential like Ezra Pound's Cantos with all his Chinese characters and Greek words... either that or something more minimalist, haiku-like, like Pound again (can't escape him) with "In a Station of the Metro." Stein, though, is something all her own. She wrote avant-garde poetry with simple words, about everyday objects, and made it surreal through repetition and word-rearrangements, not to mention a good dose of funny. My favourite line of hers is "Sugar is not a vegetable" from the book Tender Buttons. It's true! It isn't! (Sadly.) 150214 ... unhinged poetryonbuses.org 150214 ... amy in red how could i write these poems without this lifelong hunger to do what i'm supposed to do? then again how do i know for a solid gain that these are the poems i meant to write for you? 150625 ... e_o_i (I like that, Amy) 150625 ... raze "he said, 'with most books you just read them and you're done with them. you can use the information or you can't. but with poetry it's different. it isn't like something that you use up but more like a house you live in.' the house he was living in now was emily dickinson's." — ron loewinsohn from "magnetic field(s)" 220116 ... raze "i think i responded so strongly to poetry when i first encountered it because it was and was not narrative. that's probably why it still holds my interest so completely. it is and is not." — catie rosemurgy 221229 ... Jus A Fable for Today: a narrative poetry suite Hey Farmer Farmer Silent Spring Commune lies in the midst of rural America, nestled between Mennonite farms, hillsides speckled with fruit trees, and vast fields of golden grain— a knoll-top cottage that tends to gleam beneath the feathery clouds of a late-summer afternoon. On a stray day in August,1970, Joni Mitchell’s voice crackles from the living room Zenith. It threads through the trill of a rotary phone, over a row of hippies in Savasana on the back deck, breathes into long tufts of sweetgrass, seeps from a basket of rotten apples forgotten by the orchard, until at last it comes to rest upon the ears of a mother. Don’t it always seem to go… she hums as her son stumbles over tiny stones by the river’s edge …you don’t know what you got ‘til it’s gone. Tree Museum Rachel thumbs the petal of a wildflower. “It took hundreds of millions of years to produce the life that now inhabits our earth,” she whispers. Her fingers find the base, and with a careful snap, crack its neck in half. She hands the decapitated bloom to her son. Too young to understand her words, but just new enough to marvel at the saturated brilliance of colours, textures, the fleeting life between them— as milky-white blood pools in his palm. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it, baby?” Pave Paradise A blackness, deep and silent, rises in the belly of the earth, amassing atop the hills surrounding Silent Spring. It spreads in droplets through rivers and streams and rain, it roots to the ground, and spores through air currents and tunnels— burrowing into the lungs of fauna, turning grey the pinkish hues of the setting sky. Neighbouring children convulse and cough and turn yellow. Chicken eggshells thin. Food rots. Rachel traces the length of her son’s nose as she watches his sleeping body rise and fall, each breath tallied as a blessing. A plane passes above her window, its metal siding painted with bold red letters— DDT Is Good for Me! 260115 what's it to you? who go blather from