Describe yourself in five sentences or less and I'll post a line or a verse or a stanza that makes me think of you!
Here's mine:
The last two lines of "Strawberry on the Drawbridge" by Matthea Harvey:
Straw bridge. Draw berry. In the world they conjured the straw bridges were sharp and shiny, too delicate to cross, and there in the berry patches were the artists, islanded at their easels.
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Edark I have commandeered your poem - it is now mine again, as it should be.
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I am also a man who prefers male poets which you would have realized if you read my earlier post
that poem was always for Edark. :) And no, Science is yours. I stalked your posts on EM and decided you were intelligent, analytical and a man of science. :)
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Could I get one written by a man please?
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Wow you took my poem and gave it to Edark. That's so mean!
Science BY ALISON HAWTHORNE DEMING Then it was the future, though what’s arrived isn’t what we had in mind, all chrome and cybernetics, when we set up exhibits in the cafeteria for the judges to review what we’d made of our hypotheses.
The class skeptic (he later refused to sign anyone’s yearbook, calling it a sentimental degradation of language) chloroformed mice, weighing the bodies before and after to catch the weight of the soul,
wanting to prove the invisible real as a bagful of nails. A girl who knew it all made cookies from euglena, a one-celled compromise between animal and plant, she had cultured in a flask.
We’re smart enough, she concluded, to survive our mistakes, showing photos of farmland, poisoned, gouged, eroded. No one believed he really had built it when a kid no one knew showed up with an atom smasher, confirming that
the tiniest particles could be changed into something even harder to break. And one whose mother had cancer (hard to admit now, it was me) distilled the tar of cigarettes to paint it on the backs of shaven mice.
She wanted to know what it took, a little vial of sure malignancy, to prove a daily intake smaller than a single aspirin could finish something as large as a life. I thought of this
because, today, the dusky seaside sparrow became extinct. It may never be as famous as the pterodactyl or the dodo, but the last one died today, a resident of Walt Disney World where now its tissue samples
lie frozen, in case someday we learn to clone one from a few cells. Like those instant dinosaurs that come in a gelatin capsule—just add water and they inflate. One other thing this brings to mind. The euglena girl won first prize
both for science and, I think, in retrospect, for hope.
Fixed Ideas BY KENNETH SLESSOR Ranks of electroplated cubes, dwindling to glitters, Like the other pasture, the trigonometry of marble, Death’s candy-bed. Stone caked on stone, Dry pyramids and racks of iron balls. Life is observed, a precipitate of pellets, Or grammarians freeze it into spar, Their rhomboids, as for instance, the finest crystal Fixing a snowfall under glass. Gods are laid out In alabaster, with horny cartilage And zinc ribs; or systems of ecstasy Baked into bricks. There is a gallery of sculpture, Bleached bones of heroes, Gorgon masks of bushrangers; But the quarries are of more use than this, Filled with the rolling of huge granite dice, Ideas and judgments: vivisection, the Baptist Church, Good men and bad men, polygamy, birth-control . . .
Frail tinkling rush Water-hair streaming Prickles and glitters Cloudy with bristles River of thought Swimming the pebbles— Undo, loosen your bubbles!
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Maybe I got skipped Edark. We just don't know yet!
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Is the trigonometry of marble one about me cause I like it
Love Poem for Ted Neeley In Jesus Christ Superstar BY CARRIE SHIPERS
That man’s too old to play Christ, someone said when you appeared onstage—thirty years in those white robes, spotlights tracking your graceful sleeves, the attentive angle of your head as you worked a crowd. I agreed that you looked tired, but when Mary Magdalene anointed you, when you cast merchants and money changers from the temple, I forgot your thinning hair and wrinkled brow, forgot how your story ended: your broken voice crying on the cross, your body arched as you ascended. I’d lost track of how many songs were in the second act, thought there might be more—the empty tomb, your appearance on the road, to Peter in Jerusalem—but the cast came out for applause: soldiers, Apostles, and women; Annas, Caiaphas, Pilate; Mary in her red dress; Peter, that sturdy fisherman; Judas, who has all the best songs; and finally you, head bowed at our ovation. I didn’t come to worship but you’ve left me no choice— I don’t care how old you are, how many times you’ve done this act before—you still rock those power ballads, still heal with the same sweet force before you rise. We’ll always want too much from you. Tonight, I’ll believe until the curtain closes, your tour bus rolls away.
I Found a Four-Leaf Clover BY JACK PRELUTSKY I found a four-leaf clover and was happy with my find, but with time to think it over, I’ve entirely changed my mind. I concealed it in my pocket, safe inside a paper pad, soon, much swifter than a rocket, my good fortune turned to bad.
I smashed my fingers in a door, I dropped a dozen eggs, I slipped and tumbled to the floor, a dog nipped both my legs, my ring slid down the bathtub drain, my pen leaked on my shirt, I barked my shin, I missed my train, I sat on my dessert.
I broke my brand-new glasses, and I couldn’t find my keys, I stepped in spilled molasses, and was stung by angry bees. When the kitten ripped the curtain, and the toast burst into flame, I was absolutely certain that the clover was to blame.
I buried it discreetly in the middle of a field, now my luck has changed completely, and my wounds have almost healed. If I ever find another, I will simply let it be, or I’ll give it to my brother— he deserves it more than me.
