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Post by isa2525 on Mar 15, 2005 18:50:24 GMT -5
Ok so I decided to make my own thread, mainly because I was tired of not being able to find what poetry I had written very easily on teh other one. Feel free to comment, though I know you probably won't since it seems like i'm one of teh only people that bothers coming in here anymore.
KEEP IN MIND: 1. Everything I write is a work in progress, if you see a poem that looks an awful lot like one I posted a week before its becuase I reworded or took stuff from teh original. 2. Although my poetry is often based on fiction, its still personal. 3. Like I said, my poetry is very often based on fiction, most of teh time my footnotes will explain.
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Post by isa2525 on Mar 15, 2005 18:52:45 GMT -5
Tribute Millay's eyes have no color for me as they did for his lo.vers. They change with wind and word, green, gold, grey. My phoenix, my poetess has no wings but he still flew anyway. Oh Vincent, what color is teh sea, teh sun? I lust for your voice, for paperback does you no justice. And I am fearing your words, like your eyes, are fading.
***this is my latest, like all of my poetry its a work in progress. I've been reading Savage Beauty, and everytime a new person describes Millay, her eye color changes. Oh and that period in lo.ve is not supposed to be there, i just put it there so teh mods fun machine of hysterics and randomness wouldn't get it***
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Post by isa2525 on Mar 15, 2005 18:55:50 GMT -5
Bone Garden They planted your bones as though a tree would sprout up from teh very spot. But you would have told them there wasn't enough sunlight teh soil was too hard, too dry. You would have said STOP! You would have kicked kicked kicked against their rusty shovels their sordid hands as they mauled teh ground like hounds after a rabbit. I know you would have turned to me, as though I could make them understand.
***I found this lying around in my room in a failed attempt to clean, I don't even remember writing it. But it was in my hand writing so I know I wrote it***
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Post by isa2525 on Mar 15, 2005 18:59:40 GMT -5
Daddy They call me your daughter, yet I have no family album, no memories of Ben & Jerry's or teh Zoo. And this chin is not yours, nor are these eyes. But this pen, oh teh pen scrawling over legal pads and hotel napkins. J.D., did you L-word my mother? Do you now ? I never wanted your name, I like mine just fine.
*** I wrote this after my Eng. teacher (after reading a short that really did seem an awful lot like Bananafish) said I would be teh next Salinger. Who I L-word. But first of all I'm not that cocky and I doubt I'll ever have teh fame Salinger did, or teh talent (superficial or otherwise). Secondly, I would rather earn my own name than just be given someone elses. Plus Salinger didn't write poetry***
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Post by isa2525 on Mar 15, 2005 19:03:02 GMT -5
I saw him across teh street. Our eyes met, staring past teh traffic. teh yellow taxis teh monstrous buses failed to curve our attention. We ignored teh broken bottles and garbage round our feet. teh anger of teh honks and yells could not ruin this moment. Finally you took a puff of your cigarette, throwing it on teh ground. teh rubber of your sole killed teh already dying embers. And I, took one last sip of my lukewarm coffee, and walked away.
***I posted this in teh other thread***
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Post by isa2525 on Mar 15, 2005 19:04:22 GMT -5
Lost
He left me a letter, faded and forgotten in teh bottom drawer. Yellowed and torn a message from teh grave. Crumpled up like a lost prayer To a God he hated. His scrawling handwriting Crawled across teh pages. My own tears had smeared teh clarity of his thoughts, his bravery to pull teh trigger. I could almost see his eyes glaze over, Body slump, and slide to teh floor. teh blood having painted a red fresco behind him. *** I posted this one in teh other thread also, this one I actually like, it still needs some work though***
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Post by isa2525 on Mar 15, 2005 19:10:05 GMT -5
Childhood
In teh midst of filthy bars, And rock and roll, I was raised. In torn, hand-me-down overalls and converse sneakers I would grasp my father’s hand. Baby soft skin scratching against calluses. While my father ordered straight whiskey I had tall scarlet glasses of Shirley Temple On teh rocks.
I saw teh sin and laughter of men And women never wanna see again. Whose large hands ruffled my hair, Destroying neat pigtails. They leaned against teh worn wood bar, And knocked over stools on their way out. I witnessed teh bare legs and breasts that came with each empty bottle. I knew teh names of teh bouncers, Bartenders, and drunken regulars In every hole in teh wall Of teh Big Easy.
I heard each curse and vulgar word. And counted them on bottle caps That clattered to teh ground. I rubbed them against my fingers making teh wish to be far, far away.
My father smelled of liquor and smoke, Something that lingers in my memory Like a blurry Polaroid picture. And had a crazy booming voice That reminded me of thunder, teh fact that Happy Hour Is a long time away.
***Another favorite. I was really tired of people thinking that because I live in new orleans I was raised in a bar. And although my family has hung around a particular bar for as long as I can remember i was hardly calling it my second home. Of course this poem did not quiet anybody's ideas of life in new orleans but it was my own way of letting off steam***
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Post by lizardali on Mar 21, 2005 18:55:32 GMT -5
Daddy They call me your daughter, yet I have no family album, no memories of Ben & Jerry's or teh Zoo. And this chin is not yours, nor are these eyes. But this pen, oh teh pen scrawling over legal pads and hotel napkins. J.D., did you L-word my mother? Do you now ? I never wanted your name, I like mine just fine. *** I wrote this after my Eng. teacher (after reading a short that really did seem an awful lot like Bananafish) said I would be teh next Salinger. Who I L-word. But first of all I'm not that cocky and I doubt I'll ever have teh fame Salinger did, or teh talent (superficial or otherwise). Secondly, I would rather earn my own name than just be given someone elses. Plus Salinger didn't write poetry*** I like that one. It sounds very much like you. I can totally hear you saying, "Oh teh pen...!"
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Post by isa2525 on Mar 29, 2005 0:54:35 GMT -5
I like that one. It sounds very much like you. I can totally hear you saying, "Oh teh pen...!" Who are you again?
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Post by lizardali on Apr 3, 2005 18:36:49 GMT -5
Me? Um, er, I'm confused....
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Post by isa2525 on Mar 29, 2006 15:01:19 GMT -5
Before teh Airport
These mornings are hell Dark eyes demand fresh brewed wuv and whispered secrets
Your fingers find their way Easily to my hip, and grip Burning holes into my skin
My lover is no saint an imposter with an angel’s face My savior, my destruction.
teh weight of your cross Keeps me pinned to teh floor Your lips send me flying
Every puff you take of my Cigarette, is a piece of my heart, Take just one more drag.
You break my heart as you stand Fingers travel over buttons Lacing heavy boots with purpose.
Chicago is waiting, and here I shall remain, tracing teh circle From your coffee cup teh only memory of your departure.
* first poem I've written in a really long time... tell me what you think!
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