"I'm not a little boy or a sentimental puppy"
- 3 AnswersBooks & Authors4 years ago
- 2 AnswersPoetry1 decade ago
*Over two years ago before the poetry link was established as a separate thread (de-linked from books & other arts/humanities), a few veteran poets/critics, like Lady Annabella, may recall this seemingly simple love poem. Yes, there have been many better-written poems. However, it earns position 7 on my subjective list of the top-ten most memorable poems to have graced these links since I joined. If a poem were to be judged 'great' on the basis of the number of responses it generates, then 'yuyu' (the poet) is unbeatable!
This poem generated not 40, not 50, not 60, not 70 and not 80 answers but a whopping 88 answers!!
*You may view my profile - "starred questions" and look for yuyu's question - "what do you think of this poem?" You may also access her public profile to read her other poems and the 88 responses this poem generated. The poet may still be around. What a record!!
What's so special about the poem?
What do you think of this poem?
- By yuyu
When he walks he talks and there is no doubt about that
He reminds me of a thousand warriors
In a battle where he’s the winner
A taste of his kiss reminds me of honey molasses
There’s just no way to describe his scent
It is like no other
He’s got me caught up mentally, spiritually
He got me feeling like spring
With its blossoming flowers
Light of my life he is
Shining brightly through my soul
Emancipating me from girl to woman
Deep as the ocean I feel his touch
His masculinity has bewitched me forever6 AnswersPoetry1 decade ago
- 19 AnswersPhilosophy1 decade ago
*Down memory lane: Ours is the "Age of Testimony." Bearing witness to events is a discursive mode of our time. This gothic poem poignantly showed how psychic trauma and testimony are related. By using poetry as a means of historicizing and mediating traumatic experience, the poet produced this type of poem that reverberates long after the encounter. . . and a deserved position 8 of the top-ten most memorable poems to have graced this link. Don't you think so?
By Elysabeth Faslund
Should I lock the door behind me...
Shut questions out...
Satin pillowcase dreams...
Spirits walk in the bedroom...
My Father carries his pool cue...
My Mother, her dish towel...
Many years. Time stops...
Memories wet the pillowcase...
Tennessee, my beautiful wolf...
Tiptoes to my bed...
Touches her cold nose to my cheek...
Tickles with her eyelashes...
I didn't lock the door...
Pillowcase is dry...
Morning pools of sun...
Light fur, chalk dust on the floor.
(9 months ago)7 AnswersPoetry1 decade ago
Fifth Philosopher's Song
- by Aldous Huxley (1920)
A million million spermatozoa
All of them alive;
Out of their cataclysm but one poor Noah
Dare hope to survive.
And among that billion minus one
Might have chanced to be Shakespeare, another Newton, a new Donne-
But the One was Me.
Shame to have ousted your betters thus,
Taking ark while the others remained outside!
Better for all of us, froward Homunculus,
If you'd quietly died!2 AnswersPoetry1 decade ago
*Down Memory Lane: More than one year ago, this powerfully-crafted magnificent poem graced this link. The masterly deployment of apt, graceful images while exploring the complex isolation and pain of the human condition, simply transformed a ridiculous subject into the sublime! Don't you think so?
For this exceptional creative skill, the piece earns position nine as top-ten most memorable poems to have appeared in these links since I joined. (Watch out soon for my number eight in this subjective count-down).
The Birthing was like bloating
from that extra slice of cheesecake.
the rack of lamb, red potatoes
of normal mothers with smiles,
not pained closed zippers.
It was like a gallstone,
a boring sting with no reward,
to be forgotten
not spoken above whispers.
It was astonishing
that this tinyredwrinkled thing could
breathe its wet wheezes.
No bigger than one of those asthmatic handbag
dogs, silent judges
pretty, pale blue bows.
There would be no cigars, handshakes,
glad slaps on shoulders.
The room filled with embarrassed grins,
like sitting constipated
in a public bathroom stall
listening for each quick rattle,
As patrons come and go.
It lingered afterwards
like a bad meal in a greasy spoon.
You paid, and paid, and paid,
too sickened to eat, too guilty to leave
the Styrofoam box behind--
The damning evidence
1 year ago
<<The poet's comments: "This is the result of some ideas I've been kicking around--highly personal ones, but not sure if they fully work yet. This is a very early draft. I want to thank ObscureB and Margot for some invaluable pre-posting comments. Any feedback is appreciated.
Lori: I was a little over two pounds and did not come home from the hospital for over two months. I can relate to your sister quite well.
Thank you>>.5 AnswersPoetry1 decade ago
*my top-ten most memorable poems that have graced these links:
- just sharing. <no.9 - next week>
~How was your first time?
It was my first time ever, And I'll never forget.
I'd do it again, Without a single regret.
The sky was dark, The moon was high,
We were all alone: Just she and I.
Her hair was soft, Her eyes were blue,
I knew just what She wanted to do.
Her skin so soft,Her legs so fine,
I ran my fingers Down her spine.
I didn't know how But I tried my best,
I started by placing My hands on her breast.
I remember my fear, My fast beating heart,
But slowly she spread Her legs apart.
And when I did it, I felt no shame;
All at once The white stuff came.
At last it's finished, It's all over now.
My first time ever At milking a cow...8 AnswersPoetry1 decade ago
a poetic response to AC Tesla
a Gogol-ian array of dead souls,
this link compares.
hard to tell the indolent old bachelor
from the languid love-sick maid;
the pale banquo's ghost
from the wavering hamlet.
hard to differentiate
the jealous spaniard
from the impetuous poet
all dangling the satan's damocle's sword
with the modesty of doves, merriment of larks,
liberal magnanimous thumb-ing,
blessed be, the hideous witch of Endor
relentless, persistent & punctual.
mirror mirror on weblink, who shall, saint-like,
sing this song for my characteristic eternal delight!!6 AnswersPoetry1 decade ago
"Large sections of current literary theory are preposterous, too wrong-headed to be worth untangling by the professional philosopher, an affront to commonsense and practical experience.
But the older procedures of marshaling fact and argument are apparently tainted with the shortcomings of western society, complicit with its cheap intellectualizations, its hypocrisies and technical barbarism.
Perhaps the personal and the authentic, what literature has championed down the ages, have been set aside by a rampant materialism.
Academic life has been terrorized by crass market forces, literature prostituted, the publishing houses hijacked by lawyers and accountants indifferent to art."1 AnswerBooks & Authors1 decade ago
I have known since my Sunday school days that being polite, graceful, and considerate in language and behavior are cardinal virtues. But recently I found myself faced with a situation when being rude elicited valuable results. Just wondering whether you've also experienced similar situations when being polite is completely a waste time and effort.2 AnswersEtiquette1 decade ago
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I've heard it in the chilliest land
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
The Thing With Feathers
Hope is a horny outgrowth
of the heart, a central axis
along which you branch.
Inside, a hollow portion known
as emptiness. And a solid barb-bearing
part called the self, where
contour feathers grow – large, crude,
capable of much flapping. Surrounded
by small stunted hairlike feathers
of soft down, for insulation. When dry,
they leave a waxy powder you polish
each day with your tongue.
You dust yourself off, lick
your plumes, gaudy or plain,
it doesn’t matter. You hold them
in front of you, crooked
like the wing of a swan.
-- Elizabeth Zetlin5 AnswersPoetry1 decade ago
- 4 AnswersAir Travel1 decade ago