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What's Poetry (Free verse) by Sasha Whatâs poetry? Ask Bécquer and heâll tell you:
«¿Qué es poesÃa? ¿Y tú me lo preguntas?
PoesÃa... eres tú.»
So itâs all you...
All somewhat whisky, wonât apply at all
If I donât know who or what you is. See, poems
Are things as real as rain or fake as rainbows,
And sound that moves low down upon the tongue
Or high, ethereal as a tweet in trees.
The sound, the slide and touch of tongue to tooth.
Yes, tongues like those for love (and not for talking
Since loveâs a wisky labial off the mouth)
But not for yous that fade away like the
Fake peepshow picaros for circus bucks.
Things.
Things like Rilkeâs Dinge or the Panther
Dessen Blick ist vom Vorübergehen der Stäbe
so müd geworden, daà er nichts mehr hält.
Dem ist, als ob es tausend Stäbe gäbe
und hinter tausend Stäben keine Welt.
(Whose gaze has gone so weary from the passing
Of bars that it no longer holds a bond,
To whom it seems a thousand bars are massing,
And in their thousand show no world beyond)
No world, behind the bars- thereâs not a form.
And formâs the thing of all: rien que la nuance
Take form away, no thing is left: sheer nothing.
So keep your âwhy donât you...âs and do your thing.
Such things out-thing and outthink things we think
Throw us for roller-coaster loopdeeloops
Right sideways, upside down (cerebral pressure
Perpetually strained: Danger of concussion)
Yet sound still echos and resounds upon
The tongue, words brighten round and we can see
The rutilant shadow of leaves against the grass
When sunset speaks her breath on my bare tongue
No sense need come, when we can speak the names
That objects are: A growl of uvular Frenchâs
"Lâinsecte net gratte la sécheresse,"
And curt cicadas grate the bone-dry air
As what we said.Wind pulsing in the pines
As drowsy dawn rose, blonde with a thousand roses,
Said words in thousands, to hie and sigh the time
When oceans, trees, and animals would rhyme.
Ask Ginsberg- he wonât answer, heâll just spew you
Detritus from KABOOMs of diatribes
On generations, angels, and mary jane,
As meaningless as that.
Donât dare ask Byron
Or "love" and "kiss" and "moon" and (rhyming) "bliss"
Will infect the response, and viral verse
Will pour in you as well. Donât ask, for your sake.
Nims doesenât know. Donât bother, he cares too much
For crystals and observatory odes.
But you asked me. So whatâs my answer?
This.
Up the ladder:
Reply To the 9,000 Poets Against War.
Down the ladder:
Lake Arrowhead
Votes: (green: user, blue: anonymous)
Arithmetic Mean: 6.4615383
Posted: June 18, 2004 8:19 PM PDT; Last modified: June 18, 2004 8:22 PM PDTWeighted score: 6.06847 Overall Rank: 1181 Comments:
[10]
zodiac @ 65.161.41.48
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18-Jun-04/8:24 PM
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Reply
I went to Rilke's grave in Ronda last Christmas. Ronda's one of the most totally ace towns I've ever seen - the best part of Spain, definitely.
i took a trip to detroit several years ago.
Seems like something you just vomited up, but still not bad.
You've got to change this: All somewhat whisky, wonât apply at all If I donât know who or what you is
Bleef Bow'luon
This poem is the kind of thing that causes me to tremble in angst and the fear that a poet hides in the shadows, praying that the sun never never rises from its mountain-crook.
It's amazingly bloated, and I know a lot about using mind-blowing padding-- that's how I've managed to effectively irritate rankerfolk, by piling on meaningless candy-coated, poisoned bullshit and slapping a title on it-- the kind of shit that cause most sane folks to take up a hobby, like genocide, for instance. "as real as rain or fake as rainbows," Ok, when someone says something is as real as the rain, their usually teenagers that are going for the slightly uplifting average of a C+ in english class. As for rainbows? I have a bias, a tick you could say: Whenever someone mentions rainbows in a poem, I have to try very very hard to stifle the puke rising up my throat so that it doesn't become air-born with extreme velocity. Never mind the murderous rage that accompanies the over-all sensation. Fuck skittles, you get what I'm sayin? Oh, and the german, french, spanish, martian garble, etc, is well, fucking annoying and seems like an attempt to drown your "poem" in eloquent riddles that mean nothing. That, or it's a clever ploy dreamed up by a twisted freak of a jester to instill frustration and confusion among rankerfolk.-- never mind the multi-lingual blither, we still need to figure out what the fuck your rambling on about in english. Almost nothing in your poem (written during a fit of lunacy, or an encounter with jack daniels) relates to each other-- most of it is just dull imagery mixed with elaborate vocabulary that makes my adventures with a thesaurus look like a cruise across the Pacific Ocean, with volcano hiking in Hawaii as the vacation special. We de have a vague notion though, a glimmer of the frail innuendo-- (yeah, I'm good with the fecal gilding aren't I??) supposedly your yappin about what poetry (to you and whatever party you belong to) is, what it means, it's purpose, and ??? you didn't seem to have time to really get into a subtopic.. wait, did you even keep to the topic? oh, yes, barely, your hate of poor Ginsberg seemed to snap you out of the shit-trace to make a pathetic closing that barely connected with what you began with. Maybe, if you had a sense of humor, you would of drawn an ascii picture of a gun after the last lines, or maybe a knife, or-- even better-- a needle, for example: ________________________________________ But you asked me. So whatâs my answer? This: |==[][][][][][]----- ***HEROIN & SPEED MIXED WITH PROZAC*** (and freud would cry, jung would sigh, pharmaceutical companies would celebrate as we all bask in the age of chemical therapy.) ---------------------------------------- That's my take on it... I know you won't like my reaction, my comment, my arrogance, my brash bitter humor or the sarcastic irony that pours out from me, BUT!!! never-the-less i am compelled to dish it out, much like a lawyer delivering ones divorce papers with anthrax soon mistaken for cocaine. Its ok to be insane, its ok, its ok, I FEEL YOUR PAIN. Good day. No Vote.
actually, I find that all quite funny.
Now, if you don't mind, I'll go back to the things that matter
Good, then I accomplished 80% of what I set out to do-- The other 20% can be stuffed as mere technicality.
Know that, to a jester, laughter is the stuff that does matter most. As is crushing ones enemies into pulp or at the least drawing their blood.. but thats something else all together.
when I wrote this I had had 3 long island ice teas, one glass of coffee flavoured liquor, a sleep-deprived 48 hours, and I don't even know how much beer. So I think that answers your question of what I was on.
Good day
I've written while binged for upto a week and a half, demented and slightly psychotic with tricks of the eyes and voices that didn't exist--
But I didn't make something as bloated or warped in skewed thought and word as this. And there are those who tell me that meth is worse than alcohol on the mind? Liquored thoughts make paranoid meth delusions look like a walk in the park when it comes to functioning to the best of ones inebriated ability. Plus, I don't switch languages like changing clothes.. often and suddenly in the middle of where-ever. I'm limited to phrases or sayings-- and thats only french when it applies. I try to atleast attempt to make a senseless rant comprehensible... or give it a thin line to connect the fragmented mess I made together. But the above piece? Is long island saying it might be cool to write while wasted in stupor, starting simple and fragmenting like one who spouts random things to nothing in particular. Well, anyway, that covers everything that I just had to babble, so toodles sister ice 'n liquor, peace be the journey and calm be the islands of drunken hic-ups. 312 view(s)
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