Lyrical


sorabji.com: The Stalking Post: Lyrical
THIS IS A READ-ONLY ARCHIVE FROM THE SORABJI.COM MESSAGE BOARDS (1995-2016).

By Maxine Tynes on Saturday, July 10, 1999 - 02:51 am:

    "The Woman I Am In My Dreams"

    The woman I am in my dreams
    is taller than I am
    and sees the world as she walks
    unlike me with eyes on every step
    with eyes ever and always on the ground
    that woman walks only when
    she feels like not running
    not jogging
    the woman I am in my dreams
    lifts one leg effortlessly over the other
    crosses them
    high up on the knee
    the hip
    the thigh
    not just at the ankle like I do.

    The woman I am in my dreams
    breaks all the rules about shoes
    wears them high and red
    with killer spike heels
    moves from Nikes to spikes
    and the kind of pumps
    that go with a dress
    and having your hair done.

    The woman I am in my dreams
    her legs are straight and sure
    they don't fly out from under her
    they don't hide under long skirts
    her legs and feet are well
    they speak for her in footsteps on the road
    they laugh at hills and
    at rolling, unforgiving gravel
    they dialogue with ice and snow
    and they always win that argument

    the woman I am in my dreams
    I wake up and carry part of her
    with me everywhere.


By Rhiannon on Saturday, July 10, 1999 - 01:38 pm:

    Can I be evil for a moment and say I don't like this?

    That I'm so tired of reading women's poetry about breaking free and standing tall and all that tired imagery, as if writing about that is all it takes to be a woman poet?

    That I've never read a poem with this message that was written by a man?

    That this poem is all craft and no art?

    That I fail to be inspired and am instead filled with contempt?

    That if you really want to break free and stand tall you go out and do it, not write about it? That writing is never a substitute for action?



    Give me Denise Levertov, Elizabeth Bishop, Margaret Holley, Margaret Atwood, Louise Gluck, Gjertrude Schnackenberg. Those women can write a fucking poem.


By Sheila on Saturday, July 10, 1999 - 01:39 pm:

    don't forget edna s v m


By Rhiannon on Saturday, July 10, 1999 - 01:53 pm:

    Oh, right! And Marianne Moore.


    [So while staying out of the brawl going on in the "maybe the whitefolks here..." board, I'm dealing with my own rage (poetry-rage, that is) over in this corner. Join in the fun!]


By Semillama on Saturday, July 10, 1999 - 09:34 pm:

    In the immortal words of Rodney Anonymous:

    "God I hate poetry. No Art! No ART! NO ART!"



    You are invited to Blood Orgy of the Atomic Fern, by the way. Bring something yuo can burn.


By Rhiannon on Saturday, July 10, 1999 - 10:46 pm:

    Ooh! Where? When?


By Gee on Sunday, July 11, 1999 - 02:38 am:

    Hey, you don't have to love the thing, but don't be mean about it.

    Personally, I think it's lovely. Not all Tynes' poems are about "gee, lookit me! I'm strong!", but of all the ones of hers I've read, this one is my favorite, because I can sympathize.

    I don't see it as a strongwoman/weakwoman type thing, either. She just seems so shy and unsure of herself in this one. I can relate.

    I'd also like to state for the record that telling someone to stop writing about what's on their mind and "go ahead and Do something about it!" is ridiculous since, in a way, by writing about it, they Are doing something about it. They may not be doing what You would do in their place, but they're doing something.

    Here's another y'all probably won't like:



    "What Do I Remember Of The Evacuation?"
    -Joy Kogawa-

    What do I remember of the evacuation?
    I remember my father telling Tim and me
    About the mountains and the train
    And the excitment of going on a trip.
    What do I remember of the evacuation?
    I remember my mother wrapping
    A blanket around me and my
    Pretending to fall asleep so she would be happy
    Although I was so excited I couldn't sleep
    (I hear there were people herded
    Into the Hastings Park like cattle.
    Families were made to move in two hours
    Abandoning everything, leaving pets
    And possessions at gun point.
    I hear families were broken up
    Men were forced to work. I heard
    It whispered late at night
    That there was suffering) and
    I missed my dolls.
    What do I remember of the evacuation?
    I remember Miss Foster and Miss Tucker
    Who still live in Vancouver
    And who did what they could
    And loved the children and who gave me
    A puzzle to play with on the train.
    And I remember the mountains and I was
    Six years old and I swear I saw a giant
    Gulliver of Gulliver's Travels scanning the horizon
    And when I told my mother she believed it too
    And I remember how careful my parents were
    Not to bruse us with bitterness
    And I remember the puzzle of Lorraine Life
    Who said "Don't insult me" when I
    Proudly wrote my name in Japanese
    And Tim flew the Union Jack
    When the war was over but Lorraine
    And her friends spat on us anyway
    and I prayed to the God who loves
    All the children in his sight
    That I might be white.


By Waffles on Monday, July 12, 1999 - 12:35 pm:

    you are evil Rhiannon, but I also agree.

    howz about Anne Sexton for fem poetry.....my wife read these to me after the first time we got it on, or I should say "made love"...we had fucked numerous times before..... this has stuck with me for the last five years..


    When Man Enters Woman


    When man,
    enters woman,
    like the surf biting the shore,
    again and again,
    and the woman opens her mouth with pleasure
    and her teeth gleam
    like the alphabet,
    Logos appears milking a star,
    and the man
    inside of woman
    ties a knot
    so that they will
    never again be separate
    and the woman
    climbs into a flower
    and swallows its stem
    and Logos appears
    and unleashes their rivers.

    This man,
    this woman
    with their double hunger,
    have tried to reach through
    the curtain of God
    and briefly they have,
    though God
    in His perversity
    unties the knot.


By Rhiannon on Monday, July 12, 1999 - 08:02 pm:

    I don't really like Anne Sexton, either, but that was good. Ol' Anne's not nearly as irritating as that Plath woman. Don't even get me started on her!

    My fav. poets are W.S. Merwin, Mark Strand, and Charles Wright. It's only coincidental that they're guys. And old guys at that.


By Waffleboy on Monday, July 12, 1999 - 08:10 pm:

    thats a shame, i lean heavily towards women writes/poets especially those who are sexually liberated enough to write about it. As a male, i find it an intriguing and appealing to look inside a woman's psyche, especially regarding sexuality.


By Rhiannon on Monday, July 12, 1999 - 09:24 pm:

    I guess having a woman's psyche makes me comparatively less interested in exploring the feminine mystique, if you will. Men's, on the other hand -- Galway Kinnell has written some nice stuff exploring masculine sexuality. Though so has Charles Bukowski, and after reading him, I'm not sure how much about that topic I really want to know...


By Waffleboy on Tuesday, July 13, 1999 - 02:48 pm:

    this is probably my fav

    The Fury of Cock-Anne Sexton

    There they are
    drooping over the breakfast plates,
    angel-like,
    folding in their sad wing,
    animal sad,
    and only the night before
    there they were
    playing the banjo.
    Once more the day's light comes
    with its immense sun,
    its mother trucks,
    its engines of amputation.
    Whereas last night
    the cock knew its way home,
    as stiff as a hammer,
    battering in with all
    its awful power.
    That theater.
    Today it is tender,
    a small bird,
    as soft as a baby's hand.
    She is the house.
    He is the steeple.
    When they fuck they are God.
    When they break away they are God.
    When they snore they are God.
    In the morning thet butter the toast.
    They don't say much.
    They are still God.
    All the cocks of the world are God,
    blooming, blooming, blooming
    into the sweet blood of woman.


By Agatha on Tuesday, July 13, 1999 - 06:20 pm:

    i don't think that rhiannon was being mean, she was expressing her opinion about a piece of poetry. she didn't say that she hated the poet as a person. this is what happens when you allow your art to enter the public eye. i have had people laugh out loud at my artwork with me standing right near it. of course, they didn't know it was mine, but it still hurt my feelings. however, i respect their rights to having an opinion about my work. i can understand completely why some people wouldn't like it, and why they would scoff and say things like, "this is ART?!!" however, i like it, and somebody else is bound to somewhere. one of the great things about all forms of art is that they give people things to think and talk about. if we didn't have opinions about things like this, then we would probably be dead.


By Gee on Wednesday, July 14, 1999 - 12:48 am:

    Ah, Agatha. You're so sweet.

    Sure, everyone can have their opinion. I don't think I'd ever tell anyone they couldn't. It was just the whole "writing is no substitute for action" thing that set me off.

    I don't mean to be flip towards you Rhiannon, but that idea is just a load of crap.

    As for Anne Sexton...she seems a wee bit pretentious to me.



    "No Doctors Today, Thank You"
    -Ogden Nash-

    They tell me that euphoria is the feeling of feeling wonderful; well, today I feel euphorian,
    Today I have the agility of a Greek god and the appetite of a Victorian.
    Yes, today I may even go forth without my galoshes;
    Today I am a swashbuckler, would anybody like me to buckle any swashes?
    This is my euphorian day,
    I will ring welkins and before anybody answers I will run away.
    I will tame me a caribou
    And bedeck it with marabou.
    I will pen me my memoirs.
    Ah youth, youth! What Euphorian days them was!
    I wasn't much of a hand for the boudoirs,
    I was generally to be found where the food was.
    Does anybody want any flotsam?
    I've gotsam.
    Does anybody want any jetsam?
    I can getsam.
    I can play "Chopsticks" on the Wurlitzer,
    I can speak Portuguese like a Berlitzer.
    I can don or doff my shoes without typing or untying the laces because I am wearing moccasins,
    And I practically know the difference between serums and antitoccasins.
    Kind people, don't think me purse-proud, don't set me down as vainglorious,
    I'm just a little euphorious.


By Waffleboy on Wednesday, July 14, 1999 - 11:04 am:

    where do you find the pretention Gee? I don't see it.


By Rhiannon on Wednesday, July 14, 1999 - 11:27 am:

    Last night, I wrote a long response, and then my
    computer crashed, and I was so disgruntled I just
    went to bed.

    I had addressed the writing-as-substitute-for
    action issue in length. Unfortunately, I can't
    remember now all the good things I said. But
    basically:

    I don't know where you all are coming from. I'm
    here: Last year I took two semesters of poetry
    writing at school. And loved it (the
    above-mentioned Maggie Holley was my professor and
    she was just the best teacher you could ask for).
    Anyway, there were girls in my class (and we were
    all girls) who would write poems like the Maxine
    Tynes one -- rousing and impassioned and calling
    for female unity and all that. But I knew these
    girls. I knew them outside of class. I knew what
    they did with their free time/ lives/etc. They
    did nothing concrete to work toward the female
    unity they were calling for. They just talked
    about it.

    I think that's what I'm getting at. Sure,
    sometimes writing is action -- writing "Howl," for
    example, was an act that changed poetry. As were
    the writing of "Song of Myself" and "Four
    Quartets" and things like that. But it can also
    be a cop-out. Talk substituting action. Emily
    Dickinson, holed up in her house, writing about
    great passion and such, and yet not going out and
    living it.

    You have to concede that that does happen
    sometimes...right?



    Another thing I wrote in that lost message: To
    make something a poem takes a whole lot more than
    spitting your emotions or beliefs onto a page.
    This is where the art should come in. You have to
    (and I think "have to" or "must" IS the right
    phrase) organize your thoughts and words and
    phrases and images into something beautiful.
    Otherwise, just write an essay or a letter to an
    editor. Poetry is an art form. "The moon is
    shining in the sky" vs. "The moon, like a dead
    heart, cold and unstartable, hangs from a thread
    at the world's edge..." [Charles Wright, "Stone
    Canyon Nocturne"]. This is not to say that poetry
    has to be complicated. One of my favorite poems
    is a short one called "Homeland" by W.S. Merwin:

    The sky goes on living it goes
    On living the sky
    With all the barbed wire of the west
    In its veins
    And the sun goes down
    Driving a stake
    Through the black heart of Andrew Jackson


    So he has a message, but he frames it in a
    beautiful (and simple) way. That's all I ask from
    a poem. That it say something to me and that it
    say it in an artful way. I don't think I was
    being mean (evil, maybe, but not mean...) when I
    said that the Tynes poem didn't do either of those
    things. That's just what happened


By Rhiannon on Wednesday, July 14, 1999 - 11:32 am:

    ...to me when I read it (or didn't happen,
    rather).


    (Sorry that last part got cut off))


By Bothersome R. on Wednesday, July 14, 1999 - 04:18 pm:

    I'm sorry to keep posting, but I had to share -- I
    just read an interview with Charles Wright, and
    the last thing he says is "Poetry is language that
    sounds better and means more."


By J on Wednesday, July 14, 1999 - 08:05 pm:

    I just know The Charge of the Light Brigade,makes me cry.


By Gee on Thursday, July 15, 1999 - 02:31 am:

    I can dig it Rhiannon. I agree with what you said about flakes who yammer on about change and never do anything about it....at all. I mean not everyone has to be an activist, but if they just behave in a way that's the compleat opposit from what they wrote about, then that's phony.


    As for Maxine Tynes....her poem had an effect on me. Just a mild one, but still there was an effect. Which means Tynes Did do something. You see? Here's another one of hers. I like it a little less, but there are still certain elements that I dig.



    "Racism"
    -Maxine Tynes-

    Racism:
    the alphabet of that word
    a metallic absudity on the tongue
    the cell of its imprisonment
    slamming down all of your days
    on all of your life.

    The cage of racism
    allowing no life-to-life cross-over
    to the other side
    no people to people
    mind to mind
    heart to heart.

    The bite of racism
    is deep and deep
    and relentless in its pursuit
    incising Black and Native and language and
    gender cultures
    excising the heart of all that we are.

    We bleed generations of pain.
    We heal to hope.
    We rise to challenge.
    We shout the imperative.
    We stride the future.

    The language of the Black and Native future
    has no alphabet for racism,
    has no agenda for it
    no taste
    no time
    no reality.

    And in some future Black and Native time
    the rain of racism falls
    and finds no waiting hearts,
    finds no ground wanting.


By Lisa on Thursday, July 15, 1999 - 10:45 am:

    Alright. So I just happened upon all of this and I got caught up in the reading.

    I've been writing poetry since before I could walk. I'm going to allow myself to step out of the shy shell I pretend I have and voice my opinion.

    I agree with Rhiannon about the feminists who walk around crying change, grow, change, grow, and then do nothing about it. I believe in strength. This is not strength. This is self-victimization. When we, as women, and as human beings, place our misfortune on some other person, idea or concept, we take away from our own personal power. Whining is no way to fix a situation you are discontent with. Rhiannon, you are more than correct. Some of these girlies need to just get off their asses and do it. I too attended an all woman's college. The patheticness was enough to make me leave....

    Of course, that was a few years ago. I'm sure they've all changed by now. (laugh)

    I do disagree with you about your definition of poetry. Poetry *IS* putting your emotion on paper. It's how you do it that determines wether it's bad or good. But no one, no one except the author him or herself can define wether or not its poetry. If I write something, show it to you..

    I say, "Here. This is poetry."

    Then who are you to argue?

    You were all playing the name terrific poets game.

    Check out Robert Hass. He's delish.


By J on Thursday, July 15, 1999 - 11:23 am:

    This board is so much better than a $120.00 that I used to pay a shrink who used to excuse his self on my paid time probably wacking off,I,m lucky like that.I used to write,everyone has a story to tell,I lost touch with all that a long time ago.You guys make me think about it again.


By Rhiannon on Thursday, July 15, 1999 - 11:34 am:

    I agree with you -- poetry is not JUST putting
    your emotions down. You said it yourself: "it's
    how you do it." That's what I meant by "spitting"
    emotions out -- just hurling them from you without
    any thought of what they look like when they land.

    But I disagree with you on another point -- all of
    us should be able to define poetry for ourselves.
    So all of us should be able to say that what one
    person calls poetry is not poetry, in their
    opinion. Or at least call it bad poetry. Do you
    think there is a difference between the two?
    (Hmmm. That gives me something to think about
    while I wait long minutes between phone rings
    here.)


By Rhiannon again on Thursday, July 15, 1999 - 11:47 am:

    J, you reminded me of something we learned in
    class -- there's something called the Common
    Factor Theory in therapy. Basically, all
    therapies work to some degree, even though they're
    all very different. Why? Because just getting
    things out of your system and talking to someone
    helps.

    And in this place you can ramble on and on (like I
    do so very often) and you can't tell if anyone's
    bored or not. So you don't feel
    uncomfortable...you just keep writing. And you
    feel great. For free!


By Waffleboy on Thursday, July 15, 1999 - 12:21 pm:

    i am a poet and don't even no it!

    this poem really sucks, somebody throw a rock at me

    ATHENS



    hittin the road, late nights, in late places,
    saw a lot of concrete and asphalt,
    watch the miles go by
    ever seen the midwest at 37?
    thousand that is, I saw it ain't much
    road stop ahead
    athens they call it,
    hey faces, it's been a while
    tell me whats the know and tell me now,
    we have grown and bear gifts,
    gifts of body and brain
    ...... of flesh and faux
    yeah we 've heard it before, we 've even seen it before
    but let us show you
    what we do, and have done,
    better yet go where no man has said he would go
    I am that no man,
    and so are you
    no man, no woman
    we are the NO

    don't worry the aperture is focused
    a watchful eye on all that is caressed
    touched, bitten,
    "WOW" I said, to him "DID YOU SEE THAT?"
    me neither, but the electronic eyes
    misses not a beat
    candle wax crotches and mud-stained breasts
    "did you see what she did to she?"
    I missed it but the electro-eye got it all
    I pull on myself as what happens, unfolds
    screams and tickles
    white mess trickles.....from everywhere
    betcha didn't think I would notice, no problem
    the red and brown mesh give it all away,
    slippin' and slidin'
    wet bodies ridin'
    carnal waves destined never to hit the shore

    "pour me another drink" she said,
    "did you see that?" he said
    I said "no where's my head?"
    never mind the watchful eye
    the beep beep and
    red lights hum
    as tape after tape catches this great sum......
    "it was my first time" she said, "never mind,
    'tis mine two.",
    angels, cherubs, goddesses dancing intertwined...
    never mind whose first time
    "make me another drink" he said, shutter is open
    director's assistant caught with his pants down again...
    same old story, the boy gone too far...
    yeah but I make stiff drink
    just like I make a stiff..........
    "well!"....snickers all,
    we know by now,
    not even 9 p.m.
    and you stained something 3 times
    never mind look at them unwind........
    ......swollen, stiff and blood-rushed parts
    who could stand it,
    not I said from the start
    cock in hand all over again,
    as we find ourselves here .............again..
    ...and again......
    fingers explore,
    tongues ignore
    all of society's lore

    that smell of rich humanity pervades the smoke filled room
    of which we all lay
    ignorant and child-like we play.....
    never you mind the lens sees all,
    nothing is left astray...
    not a single thing,
    the results I have seen
    and screened,
    CUT said the director but my mind kept rolling,
    reeling.......
    to this day stealing,
    every ounce of passion and lust left on
    that couch,
    with John, Paul and the rest guiding us on.......
    you think they noticed,
    my insecure ass,
    her insecure this, that and thought
    doubt it he said to me in a dream last night
    we had red stained eyes, with green painted bodies,
    the white on the carpet and cream in the crotches....
    ........tainted vision in other words

    bodies feel warm
    and frankly pussies feel warmer,
    as two cats frolic before me ,
    two dogs await in the wings
    command and conquer and curiosity DID NOT kill these cats...
    mmmmmmm......that stained couch
    in the deep south
    will forever remind me
    of a time we went deep
    deep on each other, inside each other ,
    groaning panting painting cumming
    it was all in formation,
    "see the way she holds those curves?",
    imagines my cock
    said to my brain,
    never thought you'd see your skirt hold that skirt
    over the heads that is..............
    as the cock said to the brain ,
    "WHAT ARE YA WAITIN FOR AN INVITATION?"
    brain to the cock,
    "INVITATION NO, CELEBRATION YES"
    let me swim in her come and hers and hers and hers,
    let me revel in pleasure unbeknownst to her and her and him and him and her and her
    until now,
    let me celebrate, what has been,
    let me
    just let me, let me taste , let me kiss,
    let me smell, let me wish, for this night to never to……

    let this musky tainted room never leave my mind, let it forever stay picture perfect
    thanks to the automatic,
    yes automatic recreation machine...
    I have simulation.....
    which means stimulation.................
    which means imagination
    for the next time around

    Athens


By Rhiannon on Thursday, July 15, 1999 - 03:17 pm:

    No stone-throwing from this sinner. I like it.


By Markus on Thursday, July 15, 1999 - 05:56 pm:

    Ogden Nash is my boy any day of the week.


By Spider on Friday, May 31, 2002 - 02:26 pm:

    Hee. I'm like a poetry Nazi.


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