Poet's Corner

[ShuckOwens]

...

[TinyElvis]

Kill My Landlord

Dark and lonely on a summer's night.
Kill my landlord. Kill my landlord.
Watchdog barking. Do he bite?
Kill my landlord. Kill my landlord.
Slip in his window. Break his neck.
Then his house I start to wreck.
Got no reason. What the heck?
Kill my landlord. Kill my landlord.
C-I-L-L my landlord.

[dcarter]

Arrgh! "I didn't realize you wrote such bloody awful poetry, Mr. Shankly" Though I am unfamiliar with her work, I do know that Nikki Giovanni is a critically acclaimed award-winning poet. I didn't realize that SHE wrote such bloody awful poetry. I should have been thinking of a different Smiths song, Ask: "Coyness is nice and coyness can stop you from doing all the things in life you want to". I thought that the bloody awfulness of the poem would be discussed! Frankly, Mr. Shankly, INDEED!!

Also, that Peter pan dude lives inTampa. To see him out in public is much more disturbing that a photograph.

[farrarfan1]

I cant help thinking that Tom may respond to that.

I would love to respond, but I won't.

[sand dusky]

thanks for the warning Cal. How long since you caught gay?

[calexico]

[sand dusky]

Mozzertastic

[dcarter]

How true with Pappy. Did you read my opening above Giovanni's poem?

[sand dusky]

it sort of has the feel of a radio jingle.

Now don't forget...pappy O'Donnel

[dcarter]

He and others may respond but I know that you understand the reason I posted it in the Poet's Corner has nothing to do with politics or my view toward Obama. I am sure that you caught the reference. The poem belongs in this thread for a discussion but not a political one.

[sand dusky]

I cant help thinking that Tom may respond to that.

[dcarter]

Frankly, Mr. Shankly, indeed!

Yes We Can, Yes We Can, Yes We Can!
by Nikki Giovanni

NPR.org, January 12, 2009 ·

Roll Call: A Song of Celebration

I'm Barack Obama
And I'm here to say:
I'm running for President
Of the USA

I'll walk the streets
And knock on doors
Share with the folks:
Not my dreams but yours

I'll talk with the people
I'll listen and learn
I'll make the butter
Then clean the churn

My wife is pretty
My children are sweet
We need one puppy
To be complete

I Represented in Springfield
Senated in DC
Articulating all the while
What change means to me

Some folk said "wait"
Some said "not now"
But here I am quite ready
To take that President vow

The time is now
For us to stand
Because we all know
Yes We Can
Yes We Can
Yes We Can

Roll Call

[trousersnakeandlarry]

Thank's Larry.......truly inspiring stuff...............but tell me.....Juarez....that's you really isn't it?

I am not Juarez, but I can vouch for this story as I am a frequent customer. These poems are originals of mine that I worked out between 1994 and 2007. They will be published in an anthology of my original poetry and fiction called "Lunchbox: The Dream is Over" that will be released by Simon & Schuster in 2009. Here is another:

Guest Room

I hate the bitch

So I told her my guest room

Had caught fire and burned

“Nothing left,” I said.

I did drive her to the bus station.

[dcarter]

I can appreciate poetry but rarely read it. I have friends that are serious poets. They have been published etc. When exposed to good poetry I can distinguish it from bloody awful poetry and can find pleasure in it. I just don't get into it enough to seek it out.

I must say that it is difficult to think of you as a serious poetry buff when I glance at your avatar.

tis the Diversity of man that allows me the scope

True. To clarify, I didn't mean that a serious poetry fan cannot be a Big Black fan. It was in reference to the 'O' face in your av. In my mind the image of a stereotypical poetry corner didn't jibe with the image on the Big Black cover.

That's what I like about poetry, the imagery and emotion it can convey.

[Talus]

DULCE ET DECORUM EST

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime . . .
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori.