This is a poem I wrote in High School about a popular, rich girl in one of my classes. I still remember it and it remains one of my favorites of the copious poetry I’ve written.
You tell me about facials
of banana cream
The way you flip your hair
makes me want to scream
Every day you *****
of how your maid makes your lunch
I hate to say this, because I really dislike Brazilians ( ), but Xebs got you all beat here.
Other than a couple of limmericks, I only learned one poem in my life. It was by Keats-
A statesman is an easy man, he tells his lies by rote.
A journalist makes up his lies and grabs you by the throat.
So stay at home, and drink your beer, and let the neighbors vote.
I thought that was generally good advise.
An English prof that I used to argue politics with told me that Keats girlfriend was an IRA member who was killed by the Brits. It made him bitter towards politics.
And that, gentle readers, is about the summ total of my knowlege of poetry.
I tried, but I gotta say that my contribution makes more sense. Unless your guy was a farmer. They need rain. They need chickens doin their thing. And they need a wheelbarrow to clean out the coop, the contents of which makes good fertilizer.
OK:
White is the pureity of a young child.
Red is the color of extreme emotion.
Rain water is symbolic of many tears.
The chickens continue to do their thing, as life goes on.
The childs wheelbarrow is a constant reminder of the lost loved one there by the chickens.
So much depends- life must go on even with the painful memories.
Mine was easier to understand, especially if you don’t know the background. But yours is more touching. I’m going to get drunk now.
I love that poem. I love Williams. You ever read that one about dancing naked in front of the mirror late at night? Brilliant.
Anyhoo, I love this story. Williams and Eliot were both friends with Pound but they hated each other. I’m on Williams’ side in this one. I find Eliot masturbatory. Anyway, Pound told Williams that Eliot would be visiting the States. Williams responded with something like, “Really? I’ll have to kick him in the balls, if he has any.”
If when my wife is sleeping
and the baby and Kathleen
are sleeping
and the sun is a flame-white disc
in silken mists
above shining trees,-
if I in my north room
dance naked, grotesquely
before my mirror
waving my shirt round my head
and singing softly to myself:
“I am lonely, lonely,
I was born to be lonely,
I am best so!”
If I admire my arms, my face,
my shoulders, flanks, buttocks
against the yellow drawn shades,-
Who shall say I am not
the happy genius of my household?
Who shall say I am not
the happy genius of my household?
hehehe
I like this one too:
AT ten A.M. the young housewife
moves about in negligee behind
the wooden walls of her husband’s house.
I pass solitary in my car.
Then again she comes to the curb
to call the ice-man, fish-man, and stands
shy, uncorseted, tucking in
stray ends of hair, and I compare her
to a fallen leaf.
The noiseless wheels of my car
rush with a crackling sound over
dried leaves as I bow and pass smiling.
I’m not much of an Eliot fan, either.
Honestly, I read more Beat poetry than anything. I’m a big Kerouac fan. I find his prose to be poetic at time.
“No Meio do Caminho”
by Carlos Drummond de Andrade
No meio do caminho tinha uma pedra
tinha uma pedra no mei do caminho
tinha uma pedra
no meio do caminho tinha uma pedra.
Nunca me esquecerei desse acontecimento
na vida de minhas retinas tão fatigadas.
Nunca me esquecerei que no meio do caminho
tinha uma pedra
Tinha uma pedra no meio do caminho
no meio do caminho tinha uma pedra.
Two Scavengers In A Truck, Two Beautiful People In A Mercedes
By Lawrence Ferlinghetti
At the stoplight waiting for the light
Nine A.M. downtown San Francisco
a bright garbage truck
with two garbage men in red plastic blazers
standing on the back stoop
one on each side hanging on
and looking down into
an elegant open Mercedes
with an elegant couple in it
The man
In a hip three-piece linen suit
With shoulder-length blond hair & sunglasses
The young blond woman so casually coifed
with a short skirt and colored stocking
On his way to his architect’s office
And the two scavengers up since Four A.M.
Grungy from their route
On the way home
The older of the two with grey iron hair
And hunched back
Looking like some
Gargoyle Quasimodo
And the younger of the two
Also with sunglasses and long hair
About the same age as the Mercedes driver
And both scavengers gazing down
As from a great distance
At the cool couple
As if they were watching some odorless TV ad
In which everything is possible
And the very red light for an instant
Holding all four close together
As if anything at all were possible
Between them
Across that great gulf
In the high seas
Of this democracy
), but Xebs got you all beat here.