| If you are in love...you should be here. |
[27 Sep 2004|11:15pm] |
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Piglet sidled up to Pooh from behind.
"Pooh!" he whispered.
"Yes, Piglet?"
"Nothing," said Piglet, taking Pooh's paw. "I just wanted to be sure of you."
Every time you fall in love, you sign an unspoken contract that might as well be the eleventh commandment: "Thou Shalt Fight!"
We love, we live, we cherish, we care, we speak, we touch, we feel, we emote, we Fight!
 fightslastnight is a community where you come and report what happened to you...What happened last night.
If you fought with your partner and want to share it - maybe because you like telling stories, maybe because you need advice, maybe because you have a kink of making your private life public...or maybe because you like malice and want to get even with somebody.
Whatever it is, if it is a fight between lovers - arguments, debates, exchanges, dialogues, fights - unfathomable things that happen when two people try to be each other, this is where you want to talk about it.
Come join us at fightslastnight
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| Support group for writers? |
[19 Jun 2004|12:36am] |
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We have all been there. Most poetry groups I am a member of have poets and writers complaining about the horrors of the most dreaded of afflictions - a Writer's Block. The frustration, the pain, the sheer agony of not drawing words to fit the thoughts is something that can not be captured but shared and perhaps cured with help and support.
I recently came across this new community writers_asylum which would serve as a support for all the poetry communities that we belong to. A place to rant, rave, support, share and help each other craft better works.
Give it a shot if you like it. I am joining it NOW.
X-posted everywhere...
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| So er...critique at will |
[16 Jun 2004|12:56pm] |
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A new poem after some time has passed me by. Come and read it. Everything is welcome, even a one liner that says "I read it!" :)
Things to Remember
Ask me questions
And I'll prattle:
Of Jack-
His folklore seeds thrown away,
Head soaked in stinging vinegar,
And Jill
And other Herculean tales that haunt childhoods;
Of an eerie Cassandra
With E.S.P.-
Add smoke, echoes and floating robes
For SFX,
And battles raved, waged and ravaged
Over women who boasted of a thousand ships;
Of the wonders of shapes-
Parabolas of hope
And the aerodynamics of joy,
Overlooked by stubborn
Maths books;
Of Fears-
The more tangible ones,
The ones that hit you on warm chatty evenings, Father in his room in a russet nightgown,
Wee Willie Winkie running through the town;
Of Dates and Histories-
Nicely packaged in assortable bits
Of easy to understand wrong linearity, Hiroshima museums of terror and
Revolts of scarlet patriotism;
Of data arranged in
Unvarying binaries, green and purple-
Scroll down programmes,
Dysfunctional functions,
No sense of humour, Creating codes of conspiracies,
Deaths and romance.
Crowded hasty entries inscribe themselves
In a sprawling scrawl
On blank rule-lined pages-
Dog-eared with time,
Stained with disuse, Inside the matrix of my head.
The only blank spots-
Like sheaves torn out of
Brown paper exercise books
By an errant schoolboy
Sending invisible cargoes
To obscure lands, Are the truly unforgettable things.
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| tear me to pieces - level of criticism: Harsh |
[29 Apr 2004|03:48am] |
Some time since I posted anything..largely because I was too busy to think much on my own and also because the commenting took such a large part of everything. Here is a poem that has been nagging me since quite some time now, I finally got it drafted into an acceptable form. Do let me know what you think. As usual, anything - even rudeness and monday morning bile is invited...And if you like it (or don't) do still drop in a word about it!
Thanks all...
Of feathers and poetry
She hushed her way
into the room;
quiet,
as rain not yet fallen,
and asked for a poem.
'Sure thing miss-!'
I drawled,
Hands groping
The wax-polished surfaces
Of the leather bound books
That winked at me.
I gave her a feather,
'Take this, it's a poem!'
But she refused.
A feather's a…feather.
It's not a poem.
'But it is. It Is.
It has take off on flights of fancy,
Borne the burden of flapping metaphors,
Hovered over the images of a bird's eye view;
It is more a poem
Than I can ever produce."
She twitched her eyes
And in a voice indignant,
Like chocolate about to melt,
Asked for a poem.
A feather's not a poem
Anybody can give a feather
She said it was absurd.
And so I write you a poem
On how tough it has become
To think a feather, a verse.
You scurry off, satisfied,
With words on cracked paper,
Unravelling my lines
To reach the feather hidden in them.
X-posted to a few communities, so sorry if you seem to find it everywhere!
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[12 Apr 2004|01:50am] |
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Study nothing except in the knowledge that you already knew it.
Worship nothing except in adoration of your true self.
And fear nothing except in the certainty that you are your enemy's begetter and its only hope of healing.
-C.B.
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| From within frames - Classroom poetry |
[06 Apr 2004|06:14pm] |
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Here is something that a heated insulting remark in class produced! Argghhhh academics! They are taking over!
Criticism, comments, suggestion, one word responses, bouquets and brickbats are all welcome!
From within frames.
*Rude Things* he said *Rude Things*
And Talk trickled out of the room
Like a T.V. image
Fading out with a dull 'ping!'
Long, polished fingrenails-
Echoing the beats of a
Flower-Power-
Drummed the silence in;
A pai of enbangled hands-
Familiar in their meeting,
surreptitiously came together
to writhe in uncertainty;
Polite lips, opened in a shocked
'O'-
Inviting, in their chapped parting,
A hypostatised Smirk;
Sleepy ees ruffled out sleep
And blinked in surprise,
Before drooping into polite
Indifference;
A senatorial finger waved
In sheer disapproval-
Airing words of reprimand
In a stuffy room;
A quick hand grabbed at the nearest pen,
Frantically looked around,
And started scribbling:
*Rude Things* he said *Rude Things*
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| haiku 89 |
[26 Mar 2004|04:42pm] |
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mood |
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your kiss sizzles off
my lips in the swelter of
a closed house in spring
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| Just Talking |
[17 Mar 2004|05:13pm] |
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mood |
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This ten years of conversation only tickles the depths of our wanting. I dream of your tongue rotating moonbeams on my thighs, our skin damp with the ecstacy of rhythm. I want to kick open the celestial doors to lovin and swallow you whole, gasps rippling from your mouth as you grip my cheeks. Our suspiring cries to be abolished, set aside, stomped down with the orbs of deep open dreams. Imagery swirls on echos in your head as you touch, while words bounce off my body... This ten years of conversation only barely tickles our fancy, and simply aggravates our raw, swollen longing. I want to swell in the moans of your fantasy.
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[14 Mar 2004|11:00am] |
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Feedback Please. One cannot be expected to improve if people don't tell him what's wrong and what's right with his work. Thanks.
You've seen this face before
The one with tears running down cheeks red with cold.
'It must have been the biting wind,' you think.
But it eats at you, this lie.
Drums beat behind your eyes, telling, pounding out the truth.
You know that when you get home, there won't be anyone there.
Rooms, full of everything you don't need
(Hunger, want, despair)
And one room housing that one thing that you really shouldn't have in the first place.
The door is locked, but every time you come home, you sneak inside
And look in the mirror
At that face you've seen before.
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| witnesses |
[13 Mar 2004|12:47am] |
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OK after that huge conversation and debate about that one experiment that I posted, here is something more my style, something that will be easier perhaps to identify as poetry. I hold it close to me becuase it has so many memories associated with it. It is very recent and so am finding it very difficult to distance myself from it or critique it. As usual, comments, criticism (even very harsh criticism), responses, flattery and rebuke, are all welcome. Hope you enjoy reading this one.
Thanks all!
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[09 Mar 2004|02:55pm] |
I've had this one bouncing around in my head for a few days now. What do you think?
Our tears glistened
As we made love
Under the red neon sign
That I stole.
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| Is this poetry? |
[09 Mar 2004|10:45pm] |
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"it might be clever...it IS clever, but it is not a poem!" she exclaimed.
Is that true? Cant just a clever working with words be poetry? Do we still have to stay with the Romantic notion of poetry as the spontaneous overflow of powerful emotions? I don't think so. But here is what i wrote anyway. Let me know what you think about it...
Unravelling Nothing
'Nothing is more real than Nothing.'
Nothing more is real than Nothing.
More Nothing is real than Nothing.
Is Nothing more real than Nothing?
Nothing real is more than Nothing.
Nothing Nothing is more than real.
Nothing than real is more Nothing.
Real Nothing is mroe than Nothing.
Nothing is more than real Nothing.
More real than Nothing is Nothing.
Nothing is real than more Nothing.
More Nothing than Nothing is Real.
Nothing is real more than Nothing.
And anybody who says nothing in a comment..oh well...join the corny club! :)
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| comment stats |
[09 Mar 2004|12:49am] |
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I just realised that i have posted more than 600 comments on LJ and received about 250. Most of the comments were of course in the different communities and stuff, a lot of them on friends' journals. But it makes me glad. Of two things - one that i have been replying to everyone who ever wrote to me, two that i kept to my resolution when i joined the poetry communities that i shall comment atleast twice as much as i post becuase that is the only way to being in a community. what about you? what are your stats on comments posted and received?
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| If we were lovers... |
[08 Mar 2004|02:13pm] |
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I found this somewhere. But it's like this: If we were lovers, we would ___ in ___ wearing ___. Fill in the blanks and have fun. I made a piece out of my answers. Here it is.
If We Were Lovers...
If we were lovers, we would dance all night to
jazz in sugar-dusted, moon-shaped clubs wearing
only the very best lingerie.
If we were lovers, we would write each other
letters on old-fashioned typewriters or unlined papers
smelling of each other while wearing blue raincoats
with pink polka dots.
If we were lovers, we would wait for each other,
you in your gray sweater and me in my stilletto
boots, wearing winsome smiles of the times to come.
If we were lovers, we would smoke cherry-
flavored cigarettes in the midst of spring and
fight over who's the greatest poet that ever
lived while wearing each other's clothing.
If we were lovers, we would fall in love with God
in our own way while wearing sunsets and
flower petals.
If we were lovers, we would hold hands in the
day and night to keep from floating off to the
stars, wearing nouveau paintings around
our hips as weights.
If we were lovers, we would not be perfect in this
kaleidoscope of a present while wearing past and future
on either side, but we'd be so damn close it's scary.
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| Abuse - the poem |
[08 Mar 2004|01:41am] |
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Sunday cleaning helped join up a poem that was just one hastily scribbled line in the margins for such a long time. here it is then, for all to see. i am not sure if it is too direct or does it work. Any comments - good, bad, ugly, call that a poem? would be happily recieved. I would also luv it if people pointed out what works where and why. Also any detailed criticques would be more than appreciated. Thanks all. Hope to hear from you about it.
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