replying on The Park Bench by Mr Pig
26 Jun 2003, 8:12 AM
was she a cancer, then? that would explain a lot.
on Life's sad song by Brian Tiensvold
26 Jun 2003, 8:09 AM
pimple. yes. excellent example of the genre.
on The Twenty-Fifth of Whenevber by OneFingerAnswer
26 Jun 2003, 8:08 AM
1 finger, there's a lot of potent emotion here. weed out the typos. read it aloud, and smooth the rhythm. you want your lover back? make these words your surrogate until then. it's worth it, as you well know.
replying on I fucked my sister (2 She's pregnant!) by <{Baba^Yaga}>
26 Jun 2003, 8:00 AM
Ah, beautiful Dreamer! Deny that you have fucked your sister. Deny it, man.
You cannot.
You are like Salome, but you learned Taps insteads of Veils, and the clattering of your Hoof is recognizable to this ear.
You cannot.
You are like Salome, but you learned Taps insteads of Veils, and the clattering of your Hoof is recognizable to this ear.
on Fraternity hazing the sheepdog by horus8
8 Apr 2003, 7:56 AM
Knowing they were RIGHT, for god and country?
And large-breasted american women? And piss beer?
Have a 9 for creative knotting.
And large-breasted american women? And piss beer?
Have a 9 for creative knotting.
replying on Tendering the question by Nanshe
8 Apr 2003, 7:54 AM
Thanks, I think.
A pearl in a parable, for you, Sir:
Henri Matisse once overheard a man at a Salon critiquing one of his paper cuttings. The man was exclaiming at length at the outrageous price of the, in his opinion, childish simplicity of the artwork. He compared it at length to some of the complex and highly realistic oil paintings that must have taken days to complete. Exasperated, the man asked Matisse how long it had taken him to execute the "art." Matisse smiled and answered, "Sixty years."
Henri Matisse once overheard a man at a Salon critiquing one of his paper cuttings. The man was exclaiming at length at the outrageous price of the, in his opinion, childish simplicity of the artwork. He compared it at length to some of the complex and highly realistic oil paintings that must have taken days to complete. Exasperated, the man asked Matisse how long it had taken him to execute the "art." Matisse smiled and answered, "Sixty years."
on Seattle Seasons by Sawa
26 Mar 2003, 1:33 PM
I like this idea, but you do not convince me.
on One More Mile by marvelis
26 Mar 2003, 1:33 PM
It seems as though you need to get religion.
No. One too many 'at his feet"s.
Try to wean out the things that sound poetic; focus on the idea that inspired the poem instead. this could be cut in half, and be better still. Besides, you are just responding to my voice. You like it. No one likes their own, at first. Remember the first time you heard yourself recorded? How strange it sounded? How you cringed? It is much like that. Be certain. Fill nothiung. Pare away. Marianne Moore said that poetry is about real frogs in imaginary gardens. Show me warts and mucous! I want to smell the musk, the mud.
I have looked at your other poems, and I am not certain what you were trying to do with them, so I shall leave them un-commented-upon.
Try to wean out the things that sound poetic; focus on the idea that inspired the poem instead. this could be cut in half, and be better still. Besides, you are just responding to my voice. You like it. No one likes their own, at first. Remember the first time you heard yourself recorded? How strange it sounded? How you cringed? It is much like that. Be certain. Fill nothiung. Pare away. Marianne Moore said that poetry is about real frogs in imaginary gardens. Show me warts and mucous! I want to smell the musk, the mud.
I have looked at your other poems, and I am not certain what you were trying to do with them, so I shall leave them un-commented-upon.
on A true love by prettykristah
11 Mar 2003, 10:06 PM
Well! Hyde and cried! Now that's a superlative rhyme.
Your syntax is awkward: his dog lay in breath? No.
Permit me:
He had smithed the words;
his anvilled pen spilled coins of thought
that piled like riches at his feet.
His dog lay at his feet, content;
its deep, regular breaths bespoke no other need.
The sun set and rose, rose and set
as he shortened the sentences of people
whose decades fell like minutes,
mindless of his own.
All things became music
whose notes he alone could hear:
folly and love played melodies
he kept to the rhythm of his heart.
Death soon lost its thrall:
no more the dreaded machine, advancing, merciless.
A sweetened darkness, empty,
honest as the dog sleeping at his feet
urged him on toward eternity.
Permit me:
He had smithed the words;
his anvilled pen spilled coins of thought
that piled like riches at his feet.
His dog lay at his feet, content;
its deep, regular breaths bespoke no other need.
The sun set and rose, rose and set
as he shortened the sentences of people
whose decades fell like minutes,
mindless of his own.
All things became music
whose notes he alone could hear:
folly and love played melodies
he kept to the rhythm of his heart.
Death soon lost its thrall:
no more the dreaded machine, advancing, merciless.
A sweetened darkness, empty,
honest as the dog sleeping at his feet
urged him on toward eternity.
but, grief aside, i am addressing the poem's error. forgive me if i seem crass in doing so.
here are the 2 lines with typos:
Presents with *ribions* and ugly bows,
Use that strength *til* the 25th of *Whenevber*
punctuation would help the reader understand where you want pauses, and breaks.
take care of your self, sir. he would want you to.
Namaste.