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Author Topic: New Songs, Post-Foetry  (Read 185274 times)
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Foetry1
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« on: May 06, 2005, 08:55:54 AM »

Nineteen Twenty Seven

To the ill, sleep is a frantic drowning,
But sometimes death--a random act--operates.
We say goodbye to the delirious sufferer.
The deeper drowning, called death
Covers life over with a sleep, or a pretending to sleep,
For what can we really suspect is still?
Heaven calls death, the deeper drowning, beautiful,
But we do not.
Instead, we grieve,
And, in our grief, we often grieve a lot.
Some, who grieve, drown themselves in tears,
And some do not.



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« Reply #1 on: May 06, 2005, 09:34:24 AM »

When This Cruel War Is Over

Don't forget about me, mother,
There are foets must be slain.
When this cruel war is over
I will come back home again.

They are lying in the parlour,
They are rotting in the rain.
When this cruel war is over
I will come back home again.

I fight them with my anonymity,
I fight them with my sword and shield,
I'll describe them to our nation,
I will make the foets yield.

They are plotting in the classroom,
They are dying in the grain.
When this cruel war is over,
I will come back home again.


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Foetry1
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« Reply #2 on: May 06, 2005, 11:35:06 AM »

Taking My Daughter Emily To School

This way, today.  To the east, clouds are huffing and puffing,
Getting ready to charge.  It is pure speculation on my part that
They are alive because they don't move, but let's hurry, dear.
To the west, a landscape crew carves pits.  Brown earth tames
Harvard Yard, a world inside a world inside a world.
The fury of spring's growth is almost a duty in which we dream.
The old buildings look new and surround us, cut-angled.
Flagstone paths--some need repair.  Holes in the grounds.
A small line of daffodils hails what is not yellow.  April's a small winter.
South, behind us, is the past, asleep, but swept with wind.  My daughter
Knows my past in her tiny bones.  My personality hides in her volatile
Smile.  "Wait to talk to the bartender.  Wait for the next offer."
Advice like this is for her when she is older, but today is simpler.
I hold her hand.  Ahead of us is north, where the mouth of the
Subway waits.  She wants to run in a different direction and I cry,
"This way, today."  The way tomorrow will be darker.  Or perhaps it
Will be brighter, brighter with less love, or less of what the world calls love.



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Foetry1
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« Reply #3 on: May 06, 2005, 01:06:48 PM »

The Ballad Of Alan Cordle


Some folks are reading poems,
With tea and toast and jam,
And others are not sleeping
To find out who I am.

Yes, they were successful,
And now you know my name.
The world is back to the way it was--
Or is it really the same?

Some folks are having breakfast,
Eating jam right from the jar,
Perhaps they’re a little worried
I’ll find out who they are.

They brag because they won,
They think no one got hurt,
But it’s never going to fit them,
That thousand dollar shirt.

They took somebody’s money,
They took somebody’s hope,
And they’re using it to build
A great big telescope.

They can see Mount Vernon,
And they can see Bombay,
And they can read the names
In the well-connected day.

But one more name is visible
And repeated in the mind.
And now who can forget
The day when poets were blind?




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Monday Love
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« Reply #4 on: May 20, 2005, 08:17:08 AM »

The Ballad of J. Alice Graham

I love poetry, but it depends
If the manuscripts are my lovers' and friends'.
If they are my friends' my heart sings
With the joy sweet poetry brings.
How easy it is to decide to love
What poetry and friendship thinks is enough.
I am lonely without friends.
Poetry?  It all depends
On the joy and the happiness of my friends.
My friends write poetry and poetry depends
On something beyond itself.
Do not talk to me of abstract things.
Why do you think poetry sings?
Why do you think it is?
Why do you think I write things new?
Do you think it is for him?  Or you?
You may read what I write.
But he is my day and my night.
If you could be one of my friends
You would understand how even genius depends
On love.  If you were holding my hand
Now, hypocrite reader! you would understand.
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alan
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WWW
« Reply #5 on: May 20, 2005, 09:56:22 AM »

Foetry1 and Monday Love, these ballads are inspired genius!

Thank you both!
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"You especially have to be hurt like hell before you can write seriously. But when you get the damned hurt, use it -- don't cheat with it.” -- Ernest Hemingway
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Alan Cordle
Foetry1
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« Reply #6 on: May 22, 2005, 11:21:04 AM »

Quote from: "alan"
Foetry1 and Monday Love, these ballads are inspired genius!

Thank you both!



Thank you, Alan.  Foetry.com has inspired many of my friends.  They all tell me they are writing better than they ever have.  I think they exaggerate, but they say there is some kind of renaissance in the air.
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Foetry1
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« Reply #7 on: May 22, 2005, 11:35:38 AM »

To Conserve Or Consummate

"How would people feel about a Foetry anthology?"
--David Moynihan, Disruptive Publishing

To conserve or consummate
Every virgin thought must consider,
For there is wealth here as well as there,
A treasure in not doing as well as in doing,
A paradise resting within and flying about
The tempted one’s worthlessness.
But worth found in another is found
To be that other’s worth alone,
So what congress we may attend
Only teaches individual doubt.
Better to retire in poetic bliss
And consummate, purely, unknown trust,
If lending out is never repaid
But to the common good which defies
A person’s unique worth.
But such virginity’s proud,
We are the thorn which injures others and ourselves.
We have no virginity to sell
Unless we stand well apart
And get to know it as well as it knows itself,
For you and I are that place where nothing knows
And this is our charm, our unusual attractiveness
That never knows another’s bliss
Though they moan with pleasure in our very arms.
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Foetry1
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« Reply #8 on: May 22, 2005, 01:06:42 PM »

All You Know

for Adam Hardin

So much do I hate my work,
That I always feel tired,
Even when I’ve slept all the hours I want.
A childish complaint, to hate work, I suppose,
But I would rather write poetry.  “Oh, one of those,”
You will laugh, “You would rather write poetry?
All of us paw at poetry, so what?”
And those with learning are the worst poets,
But they get the university jobs.
Envy’s choked poetry to death.
Nothing gets in the way of poetry like learning.
Learning is ice and these fools think they are burning.
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Foetry1
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« Reply #9 on: May 22, 2005, 02:06:38 PM »

Poet With Sound Turned Off

“Nothing”—Cordelia, King Lear, Act I

Wordsworth thought tranquility the right condition
For poetic composition.
Yeats saw genius as a long-legged fly
On a stream of silence.  With silent eye

Shakespeare heard love’s fine wit.
Keats found truth in a bride of quietness.
Plato, in his “Ion,” said poets cry
Only when a silent stone is near by.

Sound is poetry’s living effect,
But sound is never quite correct.
Comedy’s timing is brilliantly mute,
As is harmony, not the dumb striking of a lute.

Shelley’s moth flew toward a star,
But no strumming of air can travel that far.
Whitman’s noiseless spider instead
Throws into vastness a noiseless thread.

The sleeper desires poems in a dreaming sleep,
But storms roar, but they make not a peep.
A poem is a painting, moody, but still,
Syllables arranged by an architect’s will.

His memories may be full of fury,
But I read his story silently.
Genius of mind best comes from idiosyncratic speech.
Was anything more beyond this poem’s reach?

This formal poem is too artificial,
And what’s worse, it’s willful.
Like an ancient Greek statue’s placid face,
Here tragic and idiosyncratic have no place.

She looks away from you, and that is enough.
The side of her neck expresses her love.
She may turn towards you, pale as death.
But do not hold your breath.

She dreamed her dream was overheard
Inside the dream of your dreaming word.
See her strange, undulating line
Quiet the ugly noise of mine?

What trembles in rolling rhetoric’s cry
Lives but a minute in memory’s eye.
After meaning has drunk its fill
The stream of streams is still.

This poem is not a speech, but a look.
Do not speak it, or place it in a book.
Look, she dares to say nothing.
Nothing, but the world is coming.
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Monday Love
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« Reply #10 on: May 31, 2005, 08:09:59 AM »

The Blurb

The blurb bedecked with funeral flowers floats on the canopied river
And she who lies upon it is beautiful and will be beautiful forever.
The flags which flutter over forest and lawn
Have said goodbye.  The ceremony is done.
The mourners have dragged their crinoline  home
But the tears and sighing go on.

Shadows drop into the river.  Cypress and willow,
Each tree the eye tries to follow, swims into the valley
Holding still at thresholds of darkness coiling.
To bathe in earth and shadow is my love's dream and so
I have surrendered complacently to what the eye must do.

When she and I parted I told her I would remember her beauty
And even sing of it sometimes to the girls who pass on their way to the well
And she smiled seeing I was crying, she smiled always
For crying is no help.  And then she smiled her last smile.

Now when I walk along the river bank and hear the river's soft sounds,
The birds sighing in the river trees,
I have a love affair with my sorrow and tell no one,
Not even the night, which is listening, nor her, the lately dead,
Who is listening from her blurb.
When I wake in the morning and think of her,
I watch the sun slowly climbing up to die.
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Foetry1
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« Reply #11 on: June 02, 2005, 08:58:53 AM »

The Answer Comes Slowly Drifting Down The Stairs

As if your ambition to be beautiful were blind unless of course the fellows meeting. Your elaborate dress fails to flatter because you may have ordered a manuscript. The painters who come here looking for your love in the opinion of the contest officals. You do not look at me.  This is not unkind; unless the policy is agreed upon later on facts.  I have no looks, but your looks certainly matter but the student must first determine that. To those you politely kiss and hug and in the event of misunderstanding it is the author's.  During those events loud from dusk to midnight, at about the same time in your book. When talk is put on hold, the night dances for it is better to be late than out of the policy.  And even comes in warmly before us but is always the entrant's responsibility to call.  But I always thought you didn't have to be polite in regarding the attending loss of office. Your beauty alone the most natural and discrete for a full refund the law letter. For a full hour I pondered what it meant to paint and it's always better to call early.  And did not notice the sun descending.  Or you can make an appointment with someone



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Foetry1
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« Reply #12 on: June 02, 2005, 09:19:57 AM »

If This Strays Too Close To Song no matter how the registrar's office responds
The wise poetry editor I woo since the student has no right to inquire on any
Will frown: Song is wrong, song is wrong! or help the student with any decisions
Then sweet syllables I'll give to you or if the policy is revised within guidelines
But if it pass the stricter test after the deadline is passed the petition must be
This poem will bloom in some other breast but if the student still wishes to find

If we stand too close to song but more students in the last two years have petitioned
What is calm and wise may fail After the student has made his or her particular wish
And we may even do what is wrong   unless the student get permission of the dean and
So dangerous the party or the ball instead of appreciating the work that goes into
The poets choose to starve instead if every student in the class has not been graded
To prevent melody from infecting the head unless the student have further recourse

If you wish me to be wise and for the student to get the paper in by the deadline
The wise poetry editor I woo not that the student is correct in every case, sometimes
Will smile: I love your intricate lies! But the student may not seek to redress
But the poem may not be for you or the student may look into the handbook or guide
It may sit in a book for other minds that the student may or may not wish to look under
In other rooms, and we'll forget what binds


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Monday Love
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« Reply #13 on: June 04, 2005, 08:30:49 AM »

I Am The Weaker

I am the weaker—
Stronger only in the certainty of my hate,
So you knocked me to the ground,
And I, who spoke many words,
Was conquered, you making not a single sound.
Now I ask you to speak
Of yourself and your other loves.
I ask you to speak of anything at all
So then I can easily make you fall.
Please do not be silent as you have been.
We both know the more silent one shall win.
Speak as if you were speaking poetry--
This will determine how things between us will be.
Speak on any subject,
Praise my poems with blurbs!
And then I’ll be silent too,
And waiting for reply, you’ll hear nothing
And hearing nothing, hate will also conquer you.
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Foetry1
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« Reply #14 on: June 13, 2005, 07:49:29 PM »

The Poet Asks For An End To Blurbs

Poets love the silence.
In silence they do best,
As the heart needs the song
To put the heart at rest.
The agitated heart
Sees images at dawn
Which vanished yesterday
And are forever gone.
The agitated heart
Longs to hear the sound
Of a loved one’s voice
Now sleeping in the ground.
The agitated heart
Longs to leave the world behind
For the poet’s silence,
Where silences are kind.



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