Hey...What about poetry.

[thedexter102]

Ok after a spelling ribbing, What do you mean by "painful"?

[Navarre]

Well, the poem to me seems to be about feeling that all you have is slipping away and that desperate desire to hold onto it for a little longer. (I don't know what the song Tiny Dancer is about so I'm interpreting the poem based on what I read.)

[thedexter102]

Your about right.

[Navarre]

That was why I was using the word "painful". Some people may be glad to be free of the struggles of life but it is also sad to not have any more chances to try and to leave your loved ones behind.

[Gaumer]

I see you driving
'round town with the girl I love
And I'm like...Haiku

[thedexter102]

I see you driving
'round town with the girl I love
And I'm like...Haiku

Wow I got to save that somwhere.

[litanyofthieves]

Post apocalyptic poetry anyone?

Juggernaut lurches
Vomiting ash and corpse-flames
The stars align
Something stirs beneath the waves
The mother of filth approaches
on her palanquin of rats and roaches
She raises her hands to caress the blood-red sky
Her retinue follows, the glorious dead
Resplendent in their sloughing flesh
Hatred flies on unholy black wings
The faithful tear their eyes from their sockets
Hold fast now. Grip your blade tight.
We won't go down without a fight.
In the face of Armageddon
defiance is the only worthwhile response.

[Navarre]

An original piece that came unbidden to my brain at 1 am last night:

When she moves it is in slow motion.
Dream Weaver plays in the background.
I watch her hair suspended, defying gravity.
The filtered spotlight catches the hazel in her eyes.
It is a flashback to past scenes, burning the pages that make Me.
It is a chapter in someone else's story.
I choke on the narrative, and fade to black.

[thedexter102]

Seamus Heaney  (1939-)


Digging

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; as snug as a gun.

Under my window a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

By God, the old man could handle a spade,
Just like his old man.

My grandfather could cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner's bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, digging down and down
For the good turf. Digging.

The cold smell of potato mold, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I've no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I'll dig with it.

[Navarre]

Interesting piece. Why did you decide to post that, in particular?

Any commentary on my own, above it? As it is my own, I am more curious about it.

[thedexter102]

Your poem creates a startling and vivid image that seems to be the start of a longer poem or song.

I chose Digging because we studyed it in English. I thought it was neat.  

[Navarre]

Digging reveals the innate respect sons have for their fathers and the desire to rise to an equal or greater place in their own history. If also shows an acceptance of the writer's inability with the spade. Finally, it illustrates how he transitions that fact with his ambition into the act of writing with his pen as his implement of choice.

My poem wasn't designed to be part of anything larger. As I'd said, it was what went through my mind at about 1 am this morning while I was reflecting on something someone about whom I fail miserably at thinking about differently.

But I don't suppose it's necessarily showing me anything I don't already know. It's really only the same content as this poem I posted earlier.

Same muse. Same source. Same person. Same feelings. No less unrequited love or bitterness.

[thedexter102]

That's all poetry is.

[Navarre]

That's all, what?

What was your definition?

[thedexter102]

Same muse. Same source. Same person. Same feelings. No less unrequited love or bitterness.

That's all poetry is.