1. "Poetry"
Posted by haulover on Apr-18th-03 at 12:13 AM

i started writing poetry about a year ago.  i had written some fiction and historical narratives but never poetry.  so poetry is a new form for me, but i've found satisfaction in it.  i thought i'd share it with the folks here.  and i'd be interested if anyone else has any to share. 

___________________________


Stay
(12-03-02)

In the deepening twilight,
We meet and embrace.
This is the last time I see your face.
A glistening orange moon rises like an eye opening in the starry night sky.
A storm blows from the churning sea --
Once so placid and friendly --
Now an angry monster of poetic misery.
Pounding waves turn to rain,
And through an eerie glow,
I see in the shadows of her eyes --
She knows.
That love is never choosing --
And life is always about losing.
But wait!
Before you drift away --
Before the night tide swallows all --
For one unforgettable moment --
My inscrutable beauty --
Please stay.


Life Steals
(04/18/03)

Here sucks the great hole of life.
Calling at my doorstep,
Sleeping in my bed,
Stealing my dreams,
And screwing up my head.
I wake up weak after I'm dead.
One false move and I'll break.
The moment I fall is here --
Blue and purple with dread.
But nothing happens.
Morning groans and darkness sighs.
And I'm still sad, tired, and alive.
Imagine pleasure in a lonely room,
Fantasizing in a box of pain.
Softly I sing to the melancholy music of rain,
As it dribbles on my window panes.
Great churning hole that takes me away,
Eat my hope, my life, my ridiculous gains.

Wow!
That's good and just starting?

The second sounds like pain.
I recognize pain, like the draining physical pain, the kind that one just endures.
It shapes everything.

Hope you have some happiness!
I went from pain to happiness almost overnight.
Cherish the happiness the exact moment you recognize it.

I like, Haulover, I like!  Do you have more to share with us?  I dabble in writing myself, but, no poetry. 

don't worry about me too much, kat.  most of that is memory.  and much of it is the sensation of an introverted dreamer. 

i've tried to write "happiness."  i know what that is as well, but the writing is always weaker.

i know you've got some.  let's hear it.

thanks, susan.  you have a poetic face.  i've been to san diego once; i stayed in del mar area. 

post what writing you do have, regardless of what style, form, or genre.  i'd love to see it.

and yeah, i have some more.  this is what used to be a horror story i tried to turn into a poem:

Estranged
(12-05-02)

If he can conjure his mother,
She will make the nasty voice go away.
Her voice calls to him, saying --
Come home -- the monsters are out and about.
Rose cheeks smiling,
Her love is reassuring -- blinding.
Brown eyes washed clean by morning sunshine.
Face somber, happy --
Young and wise --
Innocent and pretty --
But something about her mouth lies.
Did he not see a red smile and hear a careless laugh,
Through the dusty windshield of a car as she drove away?
Leaving him alone on a dirt road at night --
Did she come back to take him home --
Or did he wander for days --
Tired, frightened, alone?
Is he dreaming everything --
Searching through pictures that belong in nightmares?
Or apprehending the wicked truth --
That nothing is actually what it seems?
You do not answer when I speak to your heart.
That thing on your cheek was not there before.
Your eyes are secrets now.
Who are you, and who am I?
Is one of us real and the other dreaming --
Or are you and I both a lie?

if you'd like to peruse a whole bunch of my junk, look at www.abstractmusing.com

Wow!  That one really hit home, break-ups.  You've really hit it with that one.  A poetic face?  Thank you, an interesting compliment. 

Actually, my brother and I are working on a story about Lizzie, I'd be afraid of posting it, it might walk.  Thanks for sharing your writing with us! 

Your web site is a wonderful adventure. I especially love the angry young man and monochome art. Your poetry is very connected to your paintings in emotion and depth.

Thank you!

thank you so much, stefani.  i appreciate it.

You want to hear some, from me, you say?
....................................................................
Dr. Bowen looked aghast
at Andrew's face carved up by axe
When he could stand the sight no more
he made his exit out the door
I'll send a telegram, he declared
and ran outside to get some air
He left the form covered by a sheet
a Father no longer bothered by the heat
Meanwhile Lizzie began to hint
that Abby was home so off they went
Bridget & Addie, that stalwart crew
another body to find anew
directly up the steep front stair
from the 7th step they saw her there
lying like a mat upon the floor
Abby was dead, she would breathe no more
Lizzie now an orphan be
a suspect, jailed, she would not go free
for 10 long months she languished there
a Trial ensued, thousands stared
no evidence connected her to the crime
she was acquitted in an hours time
her sister Emma believed her tale
and claimed her innocence without fail
even though she wasn't home
that day to hear her Father's groan
They bought a house up on the Hill
News reports stalked Lizzie still
Each move she made, for a time
reminded readers of her "crime"
for she was guilty to the town
Fall River neighbors let her down
Lizzie changed her name one year
and Emma left her without a tear
They lived apart until they died
Then Emma could no longer hide
within a week they both were gone
The Borden story was all done
The World wonders unto this day
Who was the Murderer who Got Away?

-copyright 2003, Kat Koorey

Damn! That was good!

Thanks.  Have you got one?

Kat, thats great!  Do you have more?  We have so many creative people on this forum!

Haulover, went to your site to check out your stuff, loved the Angry Young Man series.  A few of them reminded me of Toulous Lautrec's works, the vivid colors and composition.  The photos of Arizona made me homesick, such a beautiful state. 

Nice work Haulover but made me sad!  Very sensitive writing.
I was just looking through my Dorothy Parker books and
love this little ditty:
  Razors pain you,
   Rivers are damp,
     Acids stain you,
      And drugs cause cramp.
   Guns aren't lawful,
     Nooses give,
      Gas smells awlful,
        You might as well live.

that's very good, kat.  i like it.  i'm still thinking about your challenge to put lizzie to poetry.  i haven't found an angle yet.

thanks.  i appreciate any feedback i get.  those photos are from a southwestern road trip i did a few years ago.  "angry young man" is not very recent, but i have a special feeling for them.  it was my expression of the pain of becoming an adult, of boy turning into man.

she must have been mighty down when she wrote that.  makes me think of sylvia plath.

No, I don't! I never could do poetry -- I
could always smart off pretty good though.

consider smart-ass poetry, kim.  you can make an art out of anything.

Really Kimberly!  I agree.  Got some *smart-mouth* poetry about our Lizzie?
Or any character?
OOO bet you could do Bridget?

Yay, Kimberly!  C'mon, hit us with your best shot! 

I really really really wouldn't want to do Bridget.

1234 posts!!!!

(BTW:  that color is supposed to be brown).  As compared to red

Yea, it might turn out politically incorrect.  At least I could see me doing one like that.
Let's see, how about a ditty about one incident?
Like the dress burning, or the fictious note or ironing handkerchiefs ...?

(Message last edited Apr-21st-03  12:40 AM.)

i've accepted kat's challenge to write a lizzie poem, and i'm working on it.  for now, here's something i did with the haiku form (3 lines, first 5 syllables, second 7, third 5).  the object is to make a statement that penetrates to a timeless truth or experience/emotion/insight.  hopefully you come up with a little truth-telling gem.

__________________________


Haiku Poems
(02/22/03)


Twinkle in her eye.
Starlight of depthless midnight.
I see in her glance.


On the edge we play.
Orgasmic sunrise today.
Forget tomorrow.


I must be going.
Trails snaking through a forest.
Snares are waiting there.


Rainbow of heart throbs.
Strange flatted notes in the tide.
Backward spinning slide.


Black eyes slowly close.
Shadows move on the front door.
I hear her laughter.


Baby blue ceiling.
Dreamy cotton clouds float by.
View of virgin sky.


My friend felt my heart.
He painted colors on clouds.
His tears smiled at me.


Pain so bad I die.
When love I see is a lie.
Dawn comes tomorrow.


Love hides in my heart.
Waiting for you in the dark.
I dream of your face.

I read all these twice.

They are separate from each other.

I don't know what to say.

I can feel them.

2 more than others.

Thanks.

Actually I was trying to be a bit racy -- you know "do" Bridget.
Never mind -- I'm a dork. I get called that a lot. A dork or
a dweeb. And there is no way for me to ever be able to sit
down & think of anything remotely poetic -- y'all make it look
easy & it really isn't.

(Message last edited Apr-22nd-03  4:08 AM.)

Kat, your artwork reminded me of a haiku I did in grade school, talk about jarring one's memory!

Snow is falling down
covering the dirt brown ground
until it is gone

kat:

was that done in photoshop?  if so, what did you use to do it?  (not details, necessarily, just generally speaking)

anyway, it's nice.

Haulover, did we miss yr birthday?

April 21st, 1961. 

(but you didn't miss anything this year.)

Hap - Hap-Happy Birthday!!!

 

(Message last edited Apr-23rd-03  2:17 PM.)

We usually do a "Virtual Party" thread.  I thought you'd mentioned it was coming up.

Happy 42nd!!!

Thanks for noticing, TinaKate!

Happy Belated Birthday, Haulover!  I hope you enjoyed your special day! 

thank you all!  i've enjoyed being here.  i haven't gotten acquainted with anyone, except for kat ("except for" definitely NOT a disparagement).  please email me with anything you don't want to say in the open forum. 

looks like i'm going to spring a ridiculous lizzie borden poem on you soon.  be kind.

haulover

Happy birthday! I'm late too, hmmm, what is that
old saying? Better late than pregnant?

my lizzie poem is slow-going.

but tonight i was feeling down about a friend who's having some problems, and i wrote this.  if i'm spilling my guts inappropriately, let me know, but i'd appreciate an audience.


FRIEND GONE

Loneliness, I said goodbye to you.
But spy that you are, you discovered my friend.
Now you take his place.
You move right in --
And watch me with your ugly grin.
I know where you are, friend.
You know I can't reach you.
What do you do with the thoughts that vex you?
How do you stand the pain that sustains you?
Scar tissue in the heart aches as before a rain.
The phone may ring.
How much longer must you wander down those blinding white corridors --
Of sadness and headaches?
In that jail of drug rehab?
I wait and wait --
For the healing music our souls exchange.
For the words our minds hear and speak.
I love you, brother.
Two wounded souls embrace,
And perfect peaceful non-sexual clarity breathes.
It will be all right.
This tender grievous moon passing over will soon set.

I went out to take a walk tonight about 9.
It was oddly dark and light at the same time.
The paths which were dark were reallyreally dark, and the paths in the moonlight were reallyreally light.
It was an eerie night outside tonight.
Comfortable but not comforting.
Lite but a cold glare of a light, not a welcoming one.
So different than a usual Florida garden night.
What's OUT there?
Was that your same dark?
Was that your same light?
We shared the same moon
You're not alone.

Kat:

thank you for your usual empathy.

nice effort on your part as well -- especially the last 5 lines.

Thank you for YOUr poem.  That is open of you to share yourself.
.......
As I'm reading this right now, a cat is throwing up in the next room.
(I guess you could say she is sharing too.  Thus my reality shifts...)

Immanuel Kant was a real pissant
Who was very rarely stable
Heidigger, Heidigger was a boozy beggar
Who could think you under the table
David Hume could out-consume
Schopenhauer and Hegal
And Wittgenstien was a beery swine
Who was just as schloshed as Schlegel

Theres nothing Nietzche couldn't teach you
'Bout the raising of the wrist
Socrates himself was permanently pissed

John Stuart Mill of his own free will
On a half a pint of shandy was particularly ill
Plato they say could stick it away
Half a crate of whiskey every day
Aristotle, Arsitotle was a bugger for the bottle
Hobbes was fond of his dram
And Rene Descartes was a drunken fart
"I drink therefore I am"

Yea Socrates himself is particularly missed
A lovely little thinker but a bugger when he's pissed

(Monty Python- "The Philosophers Song")



(Message last edited May-16th-03  9:31 AM.)

THE MYSTERY OF LIZZIE BORDEN

One grim hot August day,
In a house locked within and without,
A blade rained blood, crushing bone and brain.
Striking 18 times, the stepmother was dead by a bed.
Father's eye was cut in half,
Where hd had laid a tired head.

Shock and dismay echoed through voices of the day.
How did it happen?  Who could have done it?
No one saw -- no one heard -- a thing.
The maid was washing windows outside.
Alone in the house, Lizzie ironed and ate pears --
Except when she went to the barn for lead,
And came in and found her father dead.

Bloody flowers on the floor,
Pear-shaped drops on the wall.
Old man warm, old lady cold.
Did the killer hide?
Who so reckless, so bold?

And why is Lizzie so calm, quiet, and clean?
She heard a groan.
Abby went out on a note.
While the ladies fanned Lizzie's face,
There was a cry from the front stairs.

Abby never left the house.
The crime began over an hour ago.
Murmers and whispers that would never end --
Gave birth to the Lizzie Borden legend:
That the stepmother she could not abide --
Was how Lizzie Borden became an icon of parricide.
Father had the money and would know,
So he too had to go.

One person was there to do them both.
But no blood was on Lizzie's wardrobe.
After the search, someone saw her burn a dress.
Soon after, Lizzie was under arrest.
I know I am innocent and will bear this duress.

Lizzie, when did you last see your mother alive?
When she went up to the guest room.
I saw her making the bed as I passed by.
I took up laundry and saw the door closed.
Where she was, I'm sure I don't know.
I know where I was.

What could occupy Abby that morning?
The sewing machine was in the guest room.
Did you hear the machine?
No.
Could Abby have gone to her room without your knowledge?
I addressed envelopes in the sitting room.
I was in the cellar for five or ten minutes.
Did your mother leave the house?
No.
Did your mother leave the house?
She said she had a note.

Where were you when your father came home?
In the kitchen, on the stairs, in the kitchen.
Maggie let him in, and then she was upstairs.
Maggie washed windows inside?
I never saw her.
She was in one room, and I in another.
Father laid down to nap, while I looked for a sinker in the barn.
I looked at the pigeon house and picked up some pears.
No one come to the house.
I heard a scraping sound and saw the door wide open.
Father's face was bloody.
I sounded the alarm:
Maggie, come down.
Someone came in and killed him.

No bloody weapon was found.
Maggie upstairs heard no sound.
The killer came and disappeared.
One night Lizzie saw a phantom run around the house --
Out of sight into the night.

No one ever looked more guilty than Lizzie because of where she was.
But where was the blood of her deed?
Unless in the pail in the cellar --
Which Dr. Bowen explained,
Was her monthly sickness.
He was fast on the scene,
A reliable witness.

The jury found Lizzie not guilty.
A young girl cannot hang.
Her ring on her father's finger is love.
An axe in her hand is impossible.
Cold butchery so horrible cannot be the act of a Christian daughter.
Perplexing crime of the century goes unsolved.
While Lizzie Borden was absolved.

Sweetly innocent spooky gaze,
Dreamy pale blue-eyed haze.
Blind, deaf, muted truth buried in graves,
Of headless bodies --
Debris of rage.
While Lizzie Borden --
Stoic, silent, concealed --
Entertains in a mansion on the hill.

Wow!  What a great, concise, epic poem!

I esp like, "Pear-shaped drops on the wall" --  I've always liked that imagery & glad someone else noticed it.

Thanks, haulover!

That was really excellent!

Wow, that was so good, Haulover!  I just read it 3 times, good stuff!
I love the "Blind, deaf, muted truth buried in graves," line, so true. 

OH!  I got Goose Bumps!
That was wonderful!

I was most affected by the whole thing.

If I examine the words that gave me most reaction it is:
"Abby never left the house the crime began over an hour ago".

This is a new view, to me.
That the crime did begin at the death of Abby and the crime continued, even unto now
It is still a crime.
And it  had a start, and never ended. 
While Bridget dozed, while Lizzie ironed ..the crime was still happening...it was happening while Andrew fumbled at the front door, it was happening still while Bowen left to telegraph...

I also identified with "Her ring on her father's finger is love.
An axe in her hand is impossible."  That juxtaposition between the axe and the ring is powerful.
(Sounds like a good title of something).

thanks all for your compliments.  i wanted to do a better job, but i got stuck and just went ahead and did it anyway.

thanks for noticing those pear-shaped drops of blood.  that was just too good to pass up.  the bloody flowers, of course, is the carpet abby laid on.  that was one part i liked.

and i was fairly satisfied with my little description of lizzie:

Sweetly innocent spooky gaze,
Dreamy pale blue-eyed haze.

"Sweetly innocent spooky gaze,
Dreamy pale blue-eyed haze..."



The perfect description of this photo.

(Have to practice my new photo posting skills)

You both DID it!
Congrats!

*Marilyn Monroe pops by to sing:*

Happy Birth-day to youuuuuuuuu.......Happy Birth-day to youuuuuuuuu....... Happy Birth-day.....Mister Hauloverrrrr.....Happy Birth-day to youuuuuuuuu.......



ooooh...and I loooove the Philosophers Song!

ooooh...and Haulover ---- your poem is phenomenol! Really super work!

i've got a first draft of something i thought i'd try out on y'all.  it's inspired by "song of solomon" from the bible.  now it's really a grasping at something i can't explain -- especially the last part.  but if i can figure out what i'm trying to do, i might have something.  any reaction or critique or anything will be greatly appreciated.

____________________

TRIBUTE TO SONG OF SOLOMON
by Eugene Hosey

My lover's shape is a winding stream through the deepest woods,
Where herbs and wild roses breathe.
Her hair is soft as moss,
Long, silky, and gossamer as wild autumn grass,
And shapely as blooming flowers.
Her eyes peer from the still deep pools that fill from the flowing streams.
Bottomless wells are where she lives.
She's always alone.
Her smile is somber like when water mixes with sun.
Her face is a garden that blooms farther than any eye can see.
The sun reaches me from across the years,
And twin rays become my eyes.
She comes to me at night like the rare scent of a tropical midnight bloom,
Wafting through my window.
Naked and unashamed, her brown nipples swell in glistening moonlight  --
And stare intently into my eyes of awe and delirium.
Her navel is sweet like a child's dimple.
Hips like a marriage of globes carry a reddish bush of soft thicket --
Curled, tangled, and layered,
And teeming with invisible life.
I smell her watery odor and musk in my head,
As perfume emanates from flowers that angels pick to crown their heads.
My hardness sinks into the soft warm vortex of the ever-growing, ever-shrinking center of the universe.
Children like worlds fly from the stars,
Seeking their loves that sadly drift in the black holes of hopeful space.
And your mouth I kiss.
Words no longer exist.
We make love both dying and living.
We are and we are not.
One bright beam is always present --
Never fading, neverending --
Growing brighter and brighter --
Almighty loving God --
Blinding, erasing, forgetting it all.

_____________________

if you think i should move this kind of thing from lizzie's privy to stay for tea, let me know.  since it is not lizzie-related, i suppose stay for tea would be a better place?

okay,  i just realized this is in stay for tea instead of lizzie's privy.  nevermind that.

"now it's really a grasping at something i can't explain -- especially the last part.  but if i can figure out what i'm trying to do, i might have something."

*********

I'm not sure what yr confusion is.  The poem is linear & the conclusion is about that which is unknowable; two opposite energies combining & reaching the height of the divine, all-knowing energy.  How can you go on beyond that which is an eternal mystery?

I suppose if you'd rather change from the linear form to something else, or perhaps take a stand that it's either all-meaning or meaningless...that's the only possible confusion I'd see you having.

"The poem is linear & the conclusion is about that which is unknowable; two opposite energies combining & reaching the height of the divine, all-knowing energy.  How can you go on beyond that which is an eternal mystery? "

that's about it, isn't it?  thanks for your clarification.

You're welcome.

BTW, this is my fav bit --

"Children like worlds fly from the stars,
Seeking their loves that sadly drift in the black holes of hopeful space."

I don't have much to add except to say that that was beautiful!  Thank you for sharing it with us.  Love this part of it, it just spoke to something in me. 

"Her eyes peer from the still deep pools that fill from the flowing streams.
Bottomless wells are where she lives.
She's always alone."