Poetry Appreciation (do NOT post your own poetry)
- Thread starter Tamstrong
- Start date
Chemistry 101
In a room stripped clean of furnishings
And the two of us stripped clean
Of clothes and caution
Pour cool drinks and mix in good music
Then like Gerbils in a wheel
Let us power the world
With the lemon sharp electricity
Crackling in the heavy air -
Sparking between us like
Fireflies in flight.
A single kiss and I’ll fall into you
My head dizzy with desire
In this solitary room built for two
Blood surges through our veins,
Throbbing in a shared rhythm.
Your eyes that paralyze
Set my heavenly body in motion.
In an instant, like the flip of a switch
The hunger ignites us
And then reunites us
Once again in its fiery dance.
A searching glance recalls this memory
Of your lingering touch not yet felt,
So lightly landed, with shivers afire
Exploding and exploring the raw voltage of our dance.
And, we have danced this volcanic tango
Many times before, haven’t we, love?
Yet time after time, all is newly familiar.
Cool air on our skin and the sweat of
Cool cocktails on our palms
Cooling our fingers and cooling our tongues
Cool music floating through the air,
Adding melodic punctuation to our freefall ballet.
In this world with electricity enough
For the many worlds beyond us
There are no glaciers near or large enough
To quench or quell the intensity of this inferno.
Face it my pet, there is just simply no way
To cool the heat
That lives in this world
Between us.
-Bobbi Baker
In a room stripped clean of furnishings
And the two of us stripped clean
Of clothes and caution
Pour cool drinks and mix in good music
Then like Gerbils in a wheel
Let us power the world
With the lemon sharp electricity
Crackling in the heavy air -
Sparking between us like
Fireflies in flight.
A single kiss and I’ll fall into you
My head dizzy with desire
In this solitary room built for two
Blood surges through our veins,
Throbbing in a shared rhythm.
Your eyes that paralyze
Set my heavenly body in motion.
In an instant, like the flip of a switch
The hunger ignites us
And then reunites us
Once again in its fiery dance.
A searching glance recalls this memory
Of your lingering touch not yet felt,
So lightly landed, with shivers afire
Exploding and exploring the raw voltage of our dance.
And, we have danced this volcanic tango
Many times before, haven’t we, love?
Yet time after time, all is newly familiar.
Cool air on our skin and the sweat of
Cool cocktails on our palms
Cooling our fingers and cooling our tongues
Cool music floating through the air,
Adding melodic punctuation to our freefall ballet.
In this world with electricity enough
For the many worlds beyond us
There are no glaciers near or large enough
To quench or quell the intensity of this inferno.
Face it my pet, there is just simply no way
To cool the heat
That lives in this world
Between us.
-Bobbi Baker
Together
I think of you, touching me
inhaling my essence
capturing my wild
seeking my inner child
kissing my pains away
loving my soul today
in the wilds of my imagination
i seek you
embellish your soul
suckle your inibitions
take control
as we drift into a melody
free from the dissent of today
lifted into harmony
we find a way
to be...
TO BE
TOGETHER
I think of you, touching me
inhaling my essence
capturing my wild
seeking my inner child
kissing my pains away
loving my soul today
in the wilds of my imagination
i seek you
embellish your soul
suckle your inibitions
take control
as we drift into a melody
free from the dissent of today
lifted into harmony
we find a way
to be...
TO BE
TOGETHER
Insomniac
by Sylvia Plath
The night is only a sort of carbon paper,
Blueblack, with the much-poked periods of stars
Letting in the light, peephole after peephole ---
A bonewhite light, like death, behind all things.
Under the eyes of the stars and the moon's rictus
He suffers his desert pillow, sleeplessness
Stretching its fine, irritating sand in all directions.
Over and over the old, granular movie
Exposes embarrassments--the mizzling days
Of childhood and adolescence, sticky with dreams,
Parental faces on tall stalks, alternately stern and tearful,
A garden of buggy rose that made him cry.
His forehead is bumpy as a sack of rocks.
Memories jostle each other for face-room like obsolete film stars.
He is immune to pills: red, purple, blue ---
How they lit the tedium of the protracted evening!
Those sugary planets whose influence won for him
A life baptized in no-life for a while,
And the sweet, drugged waking of a forgetful baby.
Now the pills are worn-out and silly, like classical gods.
Their poppy-sleepy colors do him no good.
His head is a little interior of grey mirrors.
Each gesture flees immediately down an alley
Of diminishing perspectives, and its significance
Drains like water out the hole at the far end.
He lives without privacy in a lidless room,
The bald slots of his eyes stiffened wide-open
On the incessant heat-lightning flicker of situations.
Nightlong, in the granite yard, invisible cats
Have been howling like women, or damaged instruments.
Already he can feel daylight, his white disease,
Creeping up with her hatful of trivial repetitions.
The city is a map of cheerful twitters now,
And everywhere people, eyes mica-silver and blank,
Are riding to work in rows, as if recently brainwashed.
by Sylvia Plath
The night is only a sort of carbon paper,
Blueblack, with the much-poked periods of stars
Letting in the light, peephole after peephole ---
A bonewhite light, like death, behind all things.
Under the eyes of the stars and the moon's rictus
He suffers his desert pillow, sleeplessness
Stretching its fine, irritating sand in all directions.
Over and over the old, granular movie
Exposes embarrassments--the mizzling days
Of childhood and adolescence, sticky with dreams,
Parental faces on tall stalks, alternately stern and tearful,
A garden of buggy rose that made him cry.
His forehead is bumpy as a sack of rocks.
Memories jostle each other for face-room like obsolete film stars.
He is immune to pills: red, purple, blue ---
How they lit the tedium of the protracted evening!
Those sugary planets whose influence won for him
A life baptized in no-life for a while,
And the sweet, drugged waking of a forgetful baby.
Now the pills are worn-out and silly, like classical gods.
Their poppy-sleepy colors do him no good.
His head is a little interior of grey mirrors.
Each gesture flees immediately down an alley
Of diminishing perspectives, and its significance
Drains like water out the hole at the far end.
He lives without privacy in a lidless room,
The bald slots of his eyes stiffened wide-open
On the incessant heat-lightning flicker of situations.
Nightlong, in the granite yard, invisible cats
Have been howling like women, or damaged instruments.
Already he can feel daylight, his white disease,
Creeping up with her hatful of trivial repetitions.
The city is a map of cheerful twitters now,
And everywhere people, eyes mica-silver and blank,
Are riding to work in rows, as if recently brainwashed.
Your Laughter
Take bread away from me, if you wish,
take air away, but
do not take from me your laughter.
Do not take away the rose,
the lance flower that you pluck,
the water that suddenly
bursts forth in joy,
the sudden wave
of silver born in you.
My struggle is harsh and I come back
with eyes tired
at times from having seen
the unchanging earth,
but when your laughter enters
it rises to the sky seeking me
and it opens for me all
the doors of life.
My love, in the darkest
hour your laughter
opens, and if suddenly
you see my blood staining
the stones of the street,
laugh, because your laughter
will be for my hands
like a fresh sword.
Next to the sea in the autumn,
your laughter must raise
its foamy cascade,
and in the spring, love,
I want your laughter like
the flower I was waiting for,
the blue flower, the rose
of my echoing country.
Laugh at the night,
at the day, at the moon,
laugh at the twisted
streets of the island,
laugh at this clumsy
boy who loves you,
but when I open
my eyes and close them,
when my steps go,
when my steps return,
deny me bread, air,
light, spring,
but never your laughter
for I would die.
~Pablo Neruda
Take bread away from me, if you wish,
take air away, but
do not take from me your laughter.
Do not take away the rose,
the lance flower that you pluck,
the water that suddenly
bursts forth in joy,
the sudden wave
of silver born in you.
My struggle is harsh and I come back
with eyes tired
at times from having seen
the unchanging earth,
but when your laughter enters
it rises to the sky seeking me
and it opens for me all
the doors of life.
My love, in the darkest
hour your laughter
opens, and if suddenly
you see my blood staining
the stones of the street,
laugh, because your laughter
will be for my hands
like a fresh sword.
Next to the sea in the autumn,
your laughter must raise
its foamy cascade,
and in the spring, love,
I want your laughter like
the flower I was waiting for,
the blue flower, the rose
of my echoing country.
Laugh at the night,
at the day, at the moon,
laugh at the twisted
streets of the island,
laugh at this clumsy
boy who loves you,
but when I open
my eyes and close them,
when my steps go,
when my steps return,
deny me bread, air,
light, spring,
but never your laughter
for I would die.
~Pablo Neruda
Chaos Ripples
Woman, you are too awake to play tame now.
You are expanding wildly within and your powerful ripple is causing havoc around you.
Your change has been noticed and causing distress for some.
Chaos is inevitable now you are shifting into your true being
It’s up to you: Will you choose the chaos or will the chaos choose you?
Both have the same outcome.
To drop you into BEing.
In alignment of you.
Will it be a fight for things to stay the same and draining you of your life force?
Or will it be uncomfortably surrendering into the liberating change the Universe is conspiring to create for you?
Slowly but surely the drums that are playing in your soul will tremble loose everything that no longer honours your highest truth.
You choose this path.
Walk it speaking your own voice
Radiantly dance into the night
Woman you are too awake.
Face your boundlessness and roam free.
© Sharona Lautoe – March 2015
Woman, you are too awake to play tame now.
You are expanding wildly within and your powerful ripple is causing havoc around you.
Your change has been noticed and causing distress for some.
Chaos is inevitable now you are shifting into your true being
It’s up to you: Will you choose the chaos or will the chaos choose you?
Both have the same outcome.
To drop you into BEing.
In alignment of you.
Will it be a fight for things to stay the same and draining you of your life force?
Or will it be uncomfortably surrendering into the liberating change the Universe is conspiring to create for you?
Slowly but surely the drums that are playing in your soul will tremble loose everything that no longer honours your highest truth.
You choose this path.
Walk it speaking your own voice
Radiantly dance into the night
Woman you are too awake.
Face your boundlessness and roam free.
© Sharona Lautoe – March 2015
The Drunk Poem
Starkle, starkle, little twink,
Who the hell are you I think.
I'm not under what you call
The alcofluence of incohol.
I'm just a little slort of sheep,
I'm not drunk like thinkle peep.
I don't know who is me yet,
But the drunker I stand here the longer I get.
So just give me one more fink to drill my cup,
'Cause I got all day sober to Sunday up.
Starkle, starkle, little twink,
Who the hell are you I think.
I'm not under what you call
The alcofluence of incohol.
I'm just a little slort of sheep,
I'm not drunk like thinkle peep.
I don't know who is me yet,
But the drunker I stand here the longer I get.
So just give me one more fink to drill my cup,
'Cause I got all day sober to Sunday up.
SHE IS A BOOK
She is a breathing book
each night I touch her pages
delicately turn to find
her heart in letters
written by her hand…
Scent of vanilla
soft and sensuous
unveiling another thought
another smiling memory
another intimate piece of her…
And I read with such abandon
across her pages
my fingers trailing
her soft paper skin…
In her sighs
she speaks of
stories and sonnets
history and fantasy
blue skies and silvery silks…
I hear her voice
in the pages
wanting to know her
every line
every word
every letter…
Now I take her into me
share my book with her
until we know
can read each glance
each whisper
each touch…
She is a book
and I love to read her pages…
© 2011 C Froman
She is a breathing book
each night I touch her pages
delicately turn to find
her heart in letters
written by her hand…
Scent of vanilla
soft and sensuous
unveiling another thought
another smiling memory
another intimate piece of her…
And I read with such abandon
across her pages
my fingers trailing
her soft paper skin…
In her sighs
she speaks of
stories and sonnets
history and fantasy
blue skies and silvery silks…
I hear her voice
in the pages
wanting to know her
every line
every word
every letter…
Now I take her into me
share my book with her
until we know
can read each glance
each whisper
each touch…
She is a book
and I love to read her pages…
© 2011 C Froman
One Fine Day
One fine day
About midnight
Two dead soldiers
Got in a fight.
Back to back
They faced each other.
Drew their swords
And shot each other.
A deaf policeman
Heard the noise.
Came out and
Killed the two dead boys.
If you don't believe
This lie is true.
Ask the blind man
He saw it too.
~Unknown
One fine day
About midnight
Two dead soldiers
Got in a fight.
Back to back
They faced each other.
Drew their swords
And shot each other.
A deaf policeman
Heard the noise.
Came out and
Killed the two dead boys.
If you don't believe
This lie is true.
Ask the blind man
He saw it too.
~Unknown
