tumors of the lips- calling the travelling pack of poets

[woody]

Ah yes. Some very interesting responses. Including some lovely reflections on the Traitor.
And... finally a poem- from Pete and a stately effort indeed, no responses but I say top marks for his skill and gallantry.

[Cate]

Must a poem
be written
like this,
does written
like this
make a poem?

Seems to me that you received a few good poems. Pete's poem is good with some nice bite to it, but I also loved Manna's Port trip as well as Geoffry's a good poem is like a man.

side note - I heard somebody sobbing in a room the other day; I went in to console her and to my relief realized that she was laughing uncontrollably. Interesting how the two sound so similar.

[Manna]

Yes, I think a po-
em written like this is
a poem. In fact,
everything I say or even
think is a poem,
if displayed with short line
breaks; it is
especially
poetic to use single-word
lines.
And to break senten-
ces and very words
in strange places
into strange pieces
that you can hang from trees in nooses
spun from slug snot.

[Cate]

He he he - this is what I thought - but I take exception to your use of the word snot in relation to my beautiful slugs - it's mucus, thank you.

[Manna]

please accept my most humblestest apologies.

[mat james]

Genetic Genesis

Part 1:

Does
my every cell hold pre-history?
...row on row of nuclei...
Do a million DNA libraries
span my arm and eye?

I tilt one trapdoor
scan the cobwebbed spiralling stairway
there below
fading in archaic distance
corridors to all I know

among forgotten times ancestral
book on book of ancient scroll
reference number, title, author
...past millenniums I stroll

the drenching vibes of passion
to some telepathic ancestor
shrilling
thrilling in her voice
dissolving in his thoughts
I pore

through the forest thickly wooded
over the little brook I fly
chasing some naked maiden
long long hair long lean thighs

teasing
...laughing, yelling eyes screaming
falling, wooing fleeing still
around a giant fern I chase her
and in-between those thighs
I spill !

...Morning dew on sun-lit leaves
glistening beads bleed o’er her mane
soft my eyes she magnetises;
soft she hums my ancient name...





Part 2:

Waning lust-power subsiding
warmth and love for life within
blue and green and gold caress me
ignorant of guilt and sin;

beauty all within-without me
lust for life planted in her
seeds unite nucleic treasure
willing to me all they incur.

Wondering and pondering
this testament of long ago
I download an entry
in my spiraling folio.

Again the shelf is full
this author’s records; in their place
of psychic dreams, myths and facts
gestate toward my future Race

and laughing, loving, cussing, beaming
waltzing my cranial portico
allured to some Oedipal impulse:
we dance the gene-pool vertigo.


Mat James

[woody]

mat - thanks for gracing this thread with this excellent verse. there is some wonderful imagery here. i like 'through the forest thickly wooded' 'the drenching vibes of passion' 'Morning dew on sun-lit leaves'
some wonderful use of rhythm too...
'teasing
...laughing, yelling eyes screaming
falling, wooing fleeing still
around a giant fern I chase her
and in-between those thighs
I spill !'

excellent. part 2 really picks up this rhythm. you can really feel it. It's like a deam of meadows; lost and laughing running down the hill.

manna & cate -
hopefully you might have guessed I’m not fool enough to think line breaks constitute a poem or likewise that a poem can be defined by form, metre, breath length or any other standardised form, no, what I was praising in Pete's work was the nakedness of his intention. Intention clearly defines the form- It was clear he was responding to the task at hand and as such I credited it for what it was intended to be- a poem.
The other responses previously presented in the thread, for all their skill, were disguised by the familiar self consciousness frameworks of ironic verbiage and incredulous pomposity; clear displays of fear in the face of the task at hand.
What is a poem? A poem is a naked person.
Now who else will stop talking and undress?

[imaginary friend]

What is a poem? A poem is a naked person.
Now who else will stop talking and undress?

Short, but excellent poem Woody!

[Cate]

The other responses previously presented in the thread, for all their skill, were disguised by the familiar self consciousness frameworks of ironic verbiage and incredulous pomposity; clear displays of fear in the face of the task at hand.
What is a poem? A poem is a naked person.
Now who else will stop talking and undress?

Oh I’ve known fellas like you Woody, all snugged up in your fuzzy blue jacket, throwing gavels and shoulds around while demanding people leave their cloths at the entrance. You call for blood and hand out razor blades for door prizes. Your double dare call out wasn’t for me, but I have to ask you Woody, If you can’t see the pain that is in humour, why should I think that you can see the beauty in pain.

Woody if you ever seriously run a challenge (by that I mean a friendly challenge) I’d be willing to give it a try. I’m sill at that novice stage trying to learn everything that I can; so I love that sort of thing. I can’t promise naked though, Unless of course you were to undress first and provide a safe place for me to land.

[woody]

Ok, ok, I apologise cate, you make me sound like a cross between hugh hefner and charles manson. That was not my attention. I came here to cultivate something. It was not entrapment or some sordid solicitation or orgy. I was merely endeavoring to readdress the balance away from the self aware smuggery I believed was making this forum a deadly place to swim.
If it makes you feel more comfortable, I will disrobe completely and offer up a poem I wrote late in the night. It is poor and weak like me. Consider this me naked, staggering, shivering into the morning light without a shadow to support me. You are free to tear me down but I prefer if you viewed it as a friendly challenge.

This Was London

It wasn't Paris
Though it always rained
It wasn't Rome
Though it seemed as old
No, it was London
And nothing like love

No, it wasn't love
Though you lay naked
Amongst long roses
And I opened you
Up inside the dark
No this wasn't love

Though it looked the same
The parks were darker
The rooms were smaller
The afternoons endless
No, this was London
And nothing like love

[Manna]

shivering into the morning light without a shadow to support me.

This is a good start. Please finish this poem about the first flower of spring.

[imaginary friend]

I

Shivering in the morning light,
without a shadow to support her,
she closed the blinds, stripped
and marched from room to room,
Determined to excoriate
the unworthiness she felt
in her own naked skin.

Continue... if you please.

[Violet]

I

Shivering in the morning light,
without a shadow to support her,
she closed the blinds, stripped
and marched from room to room,
Determined to excoriate
the unworthiness she felt
in her own naked skin.

Continue... if you please.

She caught her reflection
in fractured glass
that drew a beam of light
through
twisted broken blinds

And through the light's insistence
her skin and hair and eyes
(in saturated sun aglow)
became a kind of vision
adorned in love
and shorn of all self loathing
in this
a heaven's blaze
of morning light

[imaginary friend]

Oh V!
Thank you for the transformation!

[Cate]

Ok, ok, I apologise cate, you make me sound like a cross between hugh hefner and charles manson. That was not my attention. I came here to cultivate something. It was not entrapment or some sordid solicitation or orgy. I was merely endeavoring to readdress the balance away from the self aware smuggery I believed was making this forum a deadly place to swim.

Not an orgy!?

Well what kind of party is this, why are we all standing around naked? I'm not chanting Ummmm ummmm sounds ...

..... This is a bit uncomfortable...... can I have my keys back please? .... geesh

_________________________
gossip

Mat's poem I remember from before and I hope that I took the time to tell him that I enjoyed it - sometimes I don't know quite what to say so I don't say anything. He's made some nice subtle changes to the piece which I think adds a nice texture.

Imaginary Friend always impresses me when she writes a poem - I wish she'd share more of them.

I often like Violets romantic take on things, I like how she continued with Sheila's poem.