Hi Steve, having read the email poem you're commenting on, I agree that your question makes sense. However, wasn't it Jack Micheline, one of your heroes, who wrote in his most famous poem: "I tell you, I tell you, all people are enslaved"? As a nonblack who feels enslaved to the American system,
Bluebeard's Retreat*I am always with you, Like a handsome brother. The windows hear rumors But only rattle back. All that glitters is not sunlight. Give me the keys To your stream of blood. Who washes hands here But the bricks and the moon? Blood stained jewels Echo the death Of
The Force of Destiny*There's a plan for me And for you, too, Although maybe not the same one. Your glory is gory. Your coincidences make me itch.Tom Savage 3/7/06*Written while watching La Forza Del Destino by Giuseppe Verdi at the Metropolitan Opera, New York City
If you don't want to talk about Friday, that is probably the day you should be talking about.morrigan [EMAIL PROTECTED] wrote:On Saturday he took me from behind while I was peeling potatoes. On Sunday he got on top of me and the bed shook with every thrust. On Monday he was tired, so
Help Division*Does your chronicle mention me? I am more prevalent near your end. When light obscures your scratches, Ask some birds who talk to you To explain all the meanings for you. My country belongs to you. You can let me in or out. There is an entry into speech Both disturbed
Apparently, the author pays for his own copies, unless some clarification of this matter arrives after it is fully stated. This is twice as many copies as Tamarind, Steve, but it apparently works the same way. Just as the Unbearables Assembling Mag used to.Steve Dalachinsky [EMAIL PROTECTED]
Live Without FearTake the body To the next level. It was delightful Working with you, Arms and/or legs. How about a Head cut, hair? Get the dance right. My body is my mascot. My pet is a cat Or was. She died At sixteen, five years ago. Now I have a cell phone But nobody to call.
Meet You At The End of Time*Call him a saint and he'll kill you. Go to your Heaven if you remember the way. Self-advertisements are confused by identity theft. You don't belong in one place. Call my name, someone else steps forward. The faces you see are familiar. Their stories are
Traveling ManModify peace in your valley Into peace in mine. If you go your way and I Go mine, may we not Find ourselves together again? Lost and found in your charms Are some spells I once knew but have forgotten. The day this house was built We found someone on the roof. Everything
Help Division* Does your chronicle mention me? I am more prevalent near your ending. When light obscures your scratches, Ask some birds who talk to you To explain all meanings for you. My country belongs to you. You can let me in or out. There is an entry into speech Both disturbed
Initiation In The Cube*Initiation in the cube. You go in as a shadow And emerge with flesh tones dancing. Who gets the chance and why? All the men move together, Lifting one another in each other's arms. When women emerge they are fewer And move further apart. Free form ululations.
Fallen Idols*Rise up again you bits of exploded stone. Pumice by the furnace of time. Re-inhabit the bodies you once represented. There is nothing to admit or exclude. Own my crisis or yours.What we remember... What will you forget? What can we offer The snake in his box?
Verdicts*Give justice a chance. Believe what you want to believe. You hear bargains on the brain. All things change, even you. Know what you're doing Or know someone who does. Your mistakes live with you. You like the story you haven't heard. Get back to me with an honest face. We
I understand why you feel this way. Still, after a moment of compassion for the man who had a heart attack today because of Cheney's misfire, we could look at this incident as symbolic of the whole Iraq mess and be reminded of it by Cheney shooting the wrong man. In short, we or our government, I
Hot Rain in the Forest*Leave Jesus on the shelf while here. Any ghost who wants to haunt you Has to pay for the privelege or duty.If you meet Tibetans In an African jungle, Do you run or smile?Formless creatures scurry Back into the forest. But how could you or I see them? Now
Walking Backwards?*Sorry.Pantomime walking backwards.The magic recitation of desires.Jumping fires Through purple pink fences. Quiet and clear charge/change.War or workWalk through flight but keep on movingPersiflage accepted.Tom Savage 12/24/05*Written at a
Hecuba or Hecate?*Life is a human sacrifice We enter and leave beyond our will By the banks of belief and desire. Pass all belief onward. The law of customs crumbles. Air comes out well but withers. Will you join it? You may not have a choice. The distributors of chaos wiggle. Be
I'd be curious to know if this is a collaborative work or, if not, that the author listed at the end of the play made up little speeches for so many of the writers who participate in this list.[EMAIL PROTECTED] wrote: Little Play, 1 Act, 3 scenes.Scene 1.Dan Waber: The silence between wordsLanny
A Newer World*I need a newer world Than the one I supposedly inhabit. Where do I look? Outer space is out of my budget. How far does my scale slide?Old maps don't take us To new places, even inside us, Very often. The essential departure is missing, The knowledge of who I am And
Poem Heard In A Dream I brought with me This wrench To deconstruct Your universe. (A female voice laughs.)Tom Savage 12/22/05
Yahoo! Shopping
Find Great Deals on Holiday Gifts at Yahoo! Shopping
Tangerines and String Quartets*I'm happy doing nothing. Time to get started. Continue the temporary And it becomes permanent Or almost, that is. Crash into some buildings And erase them with sand. The fish need to move to new dwellings, Swelling their gills As if they were their only
Could Love Be Called Open Heart Surgery?*May your ruins bear flowers. There seems to be more light everywhere now. Is decapitated Mickey the dark we discard? Dark and light are or could be a duality They transcend themselves. Forfeit the game if it seems to reject you And it dissolves
The latest absurdity to come out of all this stuff about Iraq, terrorism, Bush, etc. is the new hateful redefinition of the word "rendition". What used to be, say, Sinatra's rendition of a song or Van Gogh's rendition of a scene has now become a hateful kidnapping and transporting of "suspects"
What Gall or Gaul?* Romans ploughed the fields with them. Today, are they the French? Do our vines have such tender grapes?Use your mind or lose it. Even though it can be regained, The daily pain involved is vast.Make me with care. I've already been unmade. I don't need to go
Could it be that Mahayanists are more relaxed about this than Theravadins? My Buddhist training is Theravada. Zen is Mahayana so who knows? I remember the Tibetan teacher Chogyam Trungpa was quite a drinker, also."John M. Bennett" [EMAIL PROTECTED] wrote: Hmmm, some of those Zen monks would/will
I take it that you are referring to Christian, thus Catholic, monks here. Didn't they used to make wine in monasteries in France? It seems unlikely to me that Buddhist monks anywhere in the world would make either winre or fudgeas this might be encouraging intoxication, something which Buddhist
Do you remember who gave the Japanese this tooth, Steve? If it was the Burmese, that would be pretty amazing, given what the Japanese did in their country during WW II.Steve Dalachinsky [EMAIL PROTECTED] wrote: they claim to have buddha's tooth gotama's tooth in hiroshima tooi visited that tooth
May I suggest a poem by James Schuyler called "Self-Pity Is A Kind of Lying, Too". The Buddha both does and doesn't exist, somehow he or his teachings are still a lot more than just another bone. There are relics, however. It was a big deal to the countries involved when a tooth of the Buddha was
Poem or Song?
Ain't she sweet?
It ain't necessarily so.
Tell it to me confidentially
So I may spread it abroad.
Your ending surprised me
In that all of us went on.
Open-ended and closed simultaneously.
The boat dances
To the waves' strut.
As the tempo picks up
We slow down to it
Long enough to
The Perfect Gift*
Take your music
And face the chances.
Feel suffocated
Then breathe.
Tennis is an illusion
But only one of many.
Bring us back
To where you brought me from.
Don't let dust gather
In the stack room
Of the mind.
He or she who must
Live the music
Must make the correct gesture
Both
Musical Beowulf*
Slay all the monsters you want.
You'll be left alone with me.
Even heroes have to sleep
So we create the night for them.
Not every monster's arm needs a hand.
Redeemable honor crawls in a dishonest time.
Don't kick the sky
Unless you want it to bite you back.
Evolve or revolve
Prove What?*
Have it all?
Your friend in the sandbox
At least isn't in a coffin.
Drive whenever you want.
Going back to the school of life,
The humble student's eyes grow.
Do anything you want with me
That will make us both happy.
You don't have to prove to me
That art matters.
It's all in our
I'd like to add only to this wonderful review, with which I completely agree, that David Strathairn was a dynamite St. John The Baptist in Oscar Wilde's Salome on Broadway several seasons back. What a range! From St. John to Edward R. Murrow!Alan Sondheim [EMAIL PROTECTED] wrote:
--
Good Space*
Uphold space.
On the ultimate writing machines,
Imagination is more important than knowledge.
Live up to your name.
Search for yourself until you find it
Then start all over again.
Fixation on anything
Usually is not good.
What, then is inspiration?
How goodness is measured
Depends
Political Philosophical Poem*
Be affected by phenomena.
Leave numbness to the dead. They like it.
So it belongs to them.
Show them the money
And they laugh loudly or quietly
The more and more of it you show.
When your miracle
Turns out to be a wet napkin,
Did you renounce your mistake
Or
Torn Paper Poem
Love his face, I guess.
Screw it down so as to have
You seriously. I drew it
While eating a banana, see?
He's leaving. Let's follow him.
He needs to see it close.
His students ate him anyway.
How many look to see one minute.
The next minute it's another joy.
Still, they were
Fact or Fiction*
Look at these fictional characters
To whom such dramatic things must happen
Often in quick succession.
Are we not glad we are not them?
Our intermissions are longer than theirs;
Our crises more human.
Our days and nights are mostly mundane.
Why do we not cherish them more?
Tom
Who Killed New Orleans?
The end of America has begun.
The powerful are powerless to stop it.
What comes from nature or from terrorists
Serves a higher purpose.
These Americans who ravage the earth
To advance their collection of inanimate objects
Must be eliminated
Before they destroy the whole
Picnic on Water*
A perfect chest for a man
Involves breasts that are hard.
When hitchhiking became impossible
Did your feet cry?
With confidence, you can picnic on water
While those around you
Blot themselves out with wine.
Pick your own reserves to rely on.
Your boat still needs a river as I
Gallows Humor?*
Relearn how to read.
We can help. However,
You must be the eyes.
Make sure the oncoming car
Stops as you cross afront it.
Race against the time you never had.
We nearly lived together many times.
Advance. Retreat.
Don't look back.
Run forward!
Guilty bystanders re-arise
In their
Poem*
Mrs. Overcoat has a theatrical memory.
When the statue wiggles, don't mistake it for a wink.
For every key there is a dooor.
A bath may be on order soon.
Recognize harmony and join in.
Aha, they cry together,
Touch-appointing for grownups.
Not so up close but still very personal,
Very funny, Steve. What movie was this taken from? Could be the Titanic, a movie I've not committed to memory so it's only a guess. Only kidding.Steve Dalachinsky [EMAIL PROTECTED] wrote:
found poemStu- Make List liketranslated as star - maker listDavid Does _love GextensionLOWER Deck WinDoW TO6"
Asylum Gardens*
Something in the water.
Dead birds and a lot of dreams.
The squall sets out from your mind.
Protection or resurrection.
Have you disappeared from your own life?
Seekers and finders.
Keepers and losers.
How do you measure a life?
How do they?
Involve yourself in life
Or it will
Buzz?*
Operations from underneath?
The patient retains it's color.
Mr. Liszt smiles from far and near.
He's not on anybody's list tonight
For uncalculated or miscalculated errors.
Kali Yuga continues infar away Iraq,
A country Franz made no pilgrimage to
As far as I know and which may
Not even
Although I think this is really funny and a good description of many experimental movies and/or poems, it does remind me of the time when experimental movies were known as underground movies. This appellation was useful, I now realize in retrospect, because if the movie turned out to be bad, as
It was a marvelous performance of a play I performed in many years ago in a staged reading probably as part of a poetry project workshop. I was glad to see it done professionally and with some other interesting plays as well. Thanks for asking, TomSteve Dalachinsky [EMAIL PROTECTED] wrote:
how was
Poem*
Balance the world on my head.
Wear your stomach around your neck.
It agrees with you.
Nothingness no longer bothers to exist.
So it sings instead of blushing.
Take leave now
For the kingdom of words
Follows you wherever
And whenever you go.
Tom Savage
8/18/05
*Written at a performance of
Broken Blossoms*
Ripe harvest:
The woman who kisses your hand
May be looking for a little grace
From the sun.
You understand women;
I understand men.
There are always choices;
We have already made them.
Crazy guesses and wild intuitions
Open a window on the soul.
True life stories.
Appearance
One More Aurora
The last memories of August sunlight
Still flicker behind closed eyelids
As the brain searches for sleep.
As an escape from heat humidity
Images from once distant dreams
And those as yet unformed
Surface in the lightened darkness here.
They rear the heads of ghosts
From the not
Getting Your Balls Back*
Take off your pants if you have some.
A dress will do if that's what you're wearing today.
This theater is full
But you're the only one breathing.
Every saint has a future.
All sinners have pasts.
Reactionary dentists protect you from pain
Until you leave their chairs.
Is Pete in a peat bog over this one? I feel I am, slightly, TomSteve Dalachinsky [EMAIL PROTECTED] wrote:
pete__Do You Yahoo!?Tired of spam? Yahoo! Mail has the best spam protection around http://mail.yahoo.com
Dear August, this is the first time I've received two "deconstructed" versions of my poem in less than twenty-four hours. How do you do this? Also since the words "dope" and "junkie" weren't in the original, I assume those words to be yours, not mine. Anyway, apart from these repeated words which
Cyrano's Song
Detach my head
And wear it
As I sing.
Whose words?
Who knows?
The nose knows
But isn't telling.
It just goes on
Inhale/exhale
As almost always
Til someone dies.
Whose name we
Attach to this poem
Matters little, then,
My friend.
Tom Savage
5/15/05
Yahoo! Mail for
Dear Steve, I may indeed try to do this soon. So far, I haven't acquired the facility yet to write directly onto the computer I use five days a week outside my home. I write my poems longhand or on a typewriter, sometimes, then transfer them to the computer. Still, I understand what you mean by
Marsupials' Waltz*
Never stop dancing.
Invite some birds in
For a turn.
Maybe they'll teach you
How to fly.
Be kind to those
Who've forgotten how.
Teach them to dance, anyway.
A pilgrimage to the womb
Is advisable only for some.
Open your mouth slowly
And give me life.
If your ballet is clumsy,
These poems or works I see like this on this listserv and other places seem to be trying to outdo or under-do the great Samuel Beckett whose works got shorter as he got older. It is my suggestion that they do not succeed in this regard. I have now seen many such entries both here and sometimes in
My Personal Moonwalk*
Which planet has my moon
And will it let me through and on?
Floating in space was and is so much fun.
Could my moon grow to be a full planet
While I'm on it? I promise
Not to try to take credit
For any transformation I may witness.
I am here and so are you.
Seneca wouldn't
Manuscript Copy*
The end of the book
Is the beginning of the wall.
One season per day?
We leave the reasons
To the clouds.
Choreograph your prance.
Then dance
Outside our boundaries.
How did your revival
Precede your premiere?
Your names are screaming
Out from the corners of my room.
Enter my
Spanning Peter*
You don't have it but I do.
This is the beginning of most
Of the world's problems
As well as troubles between individuals
On a more intimate scale.
Good fortune to your fortune cookies.
If you lose them, they can be replaced.
A true master needs few props.
Something comic may be
Intimacy or the Illusion Thereof
Elective affinity. Thank the wolf.
Raise Aphrodite from the deep with pulleys.
They went to the estate of Edward Had-Merits.
Herre's a gift of some gray hairs.
Your name day is named Wednesday for Wotan,
Your window in my forehead through which
You know
Twnga Twang
For Min Xiao-Fen
Play me a koto, a lute, or a pipa
But emphasize the distaff, off-staff notes, please.
Someday you'll play like this, Merry
If you spend a couple of happy lives
At the koto factory.
So hit that box, too. John Cage kisses you.
All ancestors descend to our ceiling.
It
Crematorium Dance*
Can't wait to get buried?
Get a lift to your tomb.
It's a subterranean journey
With only a few let ups or letdowns.
The understanding of causes and effects
Distinguishes most adults from most children.
Snails know more than how to deliver mail.
Where is the thunder?
It often
Run, Doggie, Run
This corpse has a feast without moving.
Install the bed; bring back the dead.
Everything starts on time.
Your ending may be less specifically situated
Although it remains spiritually intact
As well as perfectly courtesy-trained.
The life must go on and on.
Just ask any breath
God's Backbone*
You still look better than dead
As long as you keep your palate moving.
Always take care of the vertebrae
By means of massaging the feet.
The biggest payout of your life
Could be the love you give by breathing.
A ghost repeats himself over and over
Up and down the spine of God.
An
Arrhythmia*
Ephemeral dreams of a heartbeat.
Identification card of skin.
Exchange places with light.
You're your own rat
But you didn't bite all over.
Go stalk someone in your own car.
She may be expecting you on time.
Audition for a commandment
But don't expect orders from me.
Hands get stiff
This is a very interesting version/riff on my poem. How long did it take you to write? I'm interested since I only posted the original poem yesterday. Thanks, anyway. Regards, Tom SavageAugust [EMAIL PROTECTED] wrote:
AH Freemix #0004
If your mountain speaks, learn itsfurniture would it it's
Life Changes
Follow your passion to compassion
Until it arrives and the emotion vanishes away.
The customer is usually wrong.
Strong personal reasons
For taking in cultural trash.
Evidence of eccentricities
Has been found to be
Performed by the one God.
Yours or mine matters little.
Whose god
Mastication Therapy*
On nearly empty pages,
Dali paints little brown bones
In order to feed his furniture.
To keep them warm
On cold nights
Of Europe's past-future,
Locked in its wars with America
Whose skies are almost always gray.
If we could eat furniture
Would it return the favor?
It's
Found Poem Lost In Translation
I found a poem.
Then I lost it.
If you know where I left, ,
Send it right back to me.
The border crossing guards will help you.
They may be Muses or extraterrestrials
But they know their jobs
And are sober enough to see.
Real mothers find poems in their babies'
Scribbled on Glass
Because you didn't feel up to it,
I had to do this,
Even though the future
Is more on my mind
Than the now. Somehow
That to be whether
To be or not is a knot
That sticks in my brains
Shouting: "Make me! Take me!"
So I take marker in hand
And scribble these words
On your window,
In Front of Kato Nobukijo's Ten Rakans Examining a Painting of White-Robed Compassion*
When I die, I want to be composed of letters,
My own words, if possible,
In a language I understand.
Would you care to paint this portrait now
With trees composed of words behind me?
I might be surrounded by
71 matches
Mail list logo
