For Most People
Aamir Ansari January 8, 2002
#76 Posted by Ansari on January 20, 2002 6:05:21 pm
Samina Shah,
I see what you`re saying; guess I must have misunderstood the first time. Yes, writing can be risk business though I think your own conviction of what you have to say helps to alleviate the anxiety. But yes, it is a gamble, for in the end we are only working with, and on, human beings and we know from experience, recent and remote, how fickle they can be.
Regards,
Aamir
I see what you`re saying; guess I must have misunderstood the first time. Yes, writing can be risk business though I think your own conviction of what you have to say helps to alleviate the anxiety. But yes, it is a gamble, for in the end we are only working with, and on, human beings and we know from experience, recent and remote, how fickle they can be.
Regards,
Aamir
reply to this interact
write a new interact
add to favorites
flag objectionable content
#75 Posted by saminashah on January 19, 2002 6:08:27 pm
Aamir Ansari,
Perhaps my phrase did not communicate what I meant to say; fragility, care and the act of writing meant that writing, really good writing, is an act of risk and daring for many people. The act of writing is reach for the ``blue``, the shadow life outside of what we control or understand...kind of reminds me of Stanley Kunitz`s rule: A poem without secrets is dead on the page, and another one (Frost or Williams) : no surprise for the writer, no surprise for the reader...thus leaping for the unknown part of our words and psyches...thanks for the Gwendolyn Brooks poem.
soysauce
sounds interesting...
Perhaps my phrase did not communicate what I meant to say; fragility, care and the act of writing meant that writing, really good writing, is an act of risk and daring for many people. The act of writing is reach for the ``blue``, the shadow life outside of what we control or understand...kind of reminds me of Stanley Kunitz`s rule: A poem without secrets is dead on the page, and another one (Frost or Williams) : no surprise for the writer, no surprise for the reader...thus leaping for the unknown part of our words and psyches...thanks for the Gwendolyn Brooks poem.
soysauce
sounds interesting...
#73 Posted by BabyPea on January 18, 2002 11:43:16 am
ref #62:
``who wrote it?``
Santa Claus. Why as it freaky?
``who wrote it?``
Santa Claus. Why as it freaky?
#72 Posted by soysauce on January 18, 2002 11:43:16 am
If i may be a bit self indulgent...
I have been thinking about this epic poem that is yet to be written. Circa Y2K, a lot of friends and relatives left secure jobs to join the gold rush. I too had a whimsical idea for a ``product`` i`d make. The important part was that i`d become filthy rich just by announcing that i was starting a company. Anyway, got stuck after the first 2 stanzas. If anyone wishes to take it further feel free. Here goes:
A lowly academic
at parties i meet
women who seek
men with bigger feet
A fast convertible
an apartment in frisco
with a view indescribable,
men who own the next cisco.....
I have been thinking about this epic poem that is yet to be written. Circa Y2K, a lot of friends and relatives left secure jobs to join the gold rush. I too had a whimsical idea for a ``product`` i`d make. The important part was that i`d become filthy rich just by announcing that i was starting a company. Anyway, got stuck after the first 2 stanzas. If anyone wishes to take it further feel free. Here goes:
A lowly academic
at parties i meet
women who seek
men with bigger feet
A fast convertible
an apartment in frisco
with a view indescribable,
men who own the next cisco.....
#71 Posted by Ansari on January 18, 2002 11:43:16 am
Samina Shah,
Do we really write, craft and balance words, because we`re lonely, blue and vulnerable as brittle china? I don`t think so; not all of us. Thank you for the poem. It was well-written.
I don`t know if you`ve read Gwendolyn Brooks (I`ve just discovered her recently). Here`s one of hers. I hope you, and all the other Chowkwallahs reading this, enjoy it.
Corners on the Curving Sky
Our earth is round, and, among other things
That means that you and I can hold
completely different
Points of view and both be right.
The difference of our positions will show
Stars in your window I cannot even imagine.
Your sky may burn with light,
While mine, at the same moment,
Spreads beautiful to darkness.
Still, we must choose how we separately corner
The circling universe of our experience.
Once chosen, our cornering will determine
The message of any star and darkness we
encounter.
- Gwendolyn Brooks
Do we really write, craft and balance words, because we`re lonely, blue and vulnerable as brittle china? I don`t think so; not all of us. Thank you for the poem. It was well-written.
I don`t know if you`ve read Gwendolyn Brooks (I`ve just discovered her recently). Here`s one of hers. I hope you, and all the other Chowkwallahs reading this, enjoy it.
Corners on the Curving Sky
Our earth is round, and, among other things
That means that you and I can hold
completely different
Points of view and both be right.
The difference of our positions will show
Stars in your window I cannot even imagine.
Your sky may burn with light,
While mine, at the same moment,
Spreads beautiful to darkness.
Still, we must choose how we separately corner
The circling universe of our experience.
Once chosen, our cornering will determine
The message of any star and darkness we
encounter.
- Gwendolyn Brooks
#70 Posted by saminashah on January 17, 2002 2:47:36 pm
Aamir Ansari,
Fragility and care and perhaps the act of writing;
The Man Who Never Loses His Balance
He walks the high wire in his sleep.
The tent is blue, it is perpetual
afternoon. He is walking between
the open legs of his mother
and the grave. Always. The audience
is fathers whose kites are lost, children
who want to be terrified into joy.
He is so high above them, so capable
(with a single, calculated move)
of making them care for him
that he`s sick of the risks
he never really takes.
Every performance, deep down,
he tries one real plunge
off to the side, where the net ends.
The tent is blue. Outside is a world
that is blue. Inside him
a blueness that could crack
like china if he ever hit bottom.
-Stephen Dunn
Fragility and care and perhaps the act of writing;
The Man Who Never Loses His Balance
He walks the high wire in his sleep.
The tent is blue, it is perpetual
afternoon. He is walking between
the open legs of his mother
and the grave. Always. The audience
is fathers whose kites are lost, children
who want to be terrified into joy.
He is so high above them, so capable
(with a single, calculated move)
of making them care for him
that he`s sick of the risks
he never really takes.
Every performance, deep down,
he tries one real plunge
off to the side, where the net ends.
The tent is blue. Outside is a world
that is blue. Inside him
a blueness that could crack
like china if he ever hit bottom.
-Stephen Dunn
#69 Posted by Ansari on January 17, 2002 10:18:29 am
Samina Shah,
A ghazal in English? That was a first and charming. Here`s the flip side of poetry in India. . .
Poetry in India
I`m in India
feeling more secure
and less likely to get chinned `ere
I made friends with a steam-train firemen
who asked how long I would stay in his country
`Two weeks,` I replied
`Very short?` he probed
`I`m a very busy man.` I joked.
`What is it, the you do?` he probed further.
`Poetry!` I announced.
`Aha!` he pounced,
`Now I understand you,
my brother does the same.
Yes, very hard work:
the feeding, the cleaning, loading all the eggs on to
the lorry.`
- John Hegley
A ghazal in English? That was a first and charming. Here`s the flip side of poetry in India. . .
Poetry in India
I`m in India
feeling more secure
and less likely to get chinned `ere
I made friends with a steam-train firemen
who asked how long I would stay in his country
`Two weeks,` I replied
`Very short?` he probed
`I`m a very busy man.` I joked.
`What is it, the you do?` he probed further.
`Poetry!` I announced.
`Aha!` he pounced,
`Now I understand you,
my brother does the same.
Yes, very hard work:
the feeding, the cleaning, loading all the eggs on to
the lorry.`
- John Hegley
#68 Posted by saminashah on January 16, 2002 12:21:36 pm
Aamir Ansari,
Another great one! Here`s a ghazal by Rafiq Kathwari that might fall into a similar theme:
In Another Country
In Kashmir, half asleep, Mother listens to the rain.
In Manhattan, I feel her presence in the rain.
A rooster precedes the Call to Prayer at Dawn:
God is a name dropper: all names at once in the rain.
Forsythia shrivel in a glass vase on her nightstand
On my windowsills, wilted petals, petulance in the rain.
She must wonder when he will put on the kettle
butter the crumpets, offer compliments to the rain.
She yawns, performs ablutions, across the oceans
water in my hands becomes a reverence in the rain.
At Jewel House in Srinagar, Mother reshapes my ghazal,
``No enjambments!`` she says. ``Wah, wah,`` I chant in the rain.
``Rafiq``, I hear her call over the city din
The kettle whistles; my mother`s scent in the rain.
Another great one! Here`s a ghazal by Rafiq Kathwari that might fall into a similar theme:
In Another Country
In Kashmir, half asleep, Mother listens to the rain.
In Manhattan, I feel her presence in the rain.
A rooster precedes the Call to Prayer at Dawn:
God is a name dropper: all names at once in the rain.
Forsythia shrivel in a glass vase on her nightstand
On my windowsills, wilted petals, petulance in the rain.
She must wonder when he will put on the kettle
butter the crumpets, offer compliments to the rain.
She yawns, performs ablutions, across the oceans
water in my hands becomes a reverence in the rain.
At Jewel House in Srinagar, Mother reshapes my ghazal,
``No enjambments!`` she says. ``Wah, wah,`` I chant in the rain.
``Rafiq``, I hear her call over the city din
The kettle whistles; my mother`s scent in the rain.
#66 Posted by Prem on January 15, 2002 12:46:39 pm
Some of the lines posted here almost brought me to an orgasm...
#65 Posted by Ansari on January 15, 2002 11:34:32 am
Samina Shah;
Thank you for that. Very evocative; I liked the use of the colors. I`m afraid I haven`t read any of the writers you wrote about. Have you read Patrick Kavanagh?
Innocence
They laughed at one I loved-
The triangular hill that hung
Under the Big Forth. They said
That I was bounded by the whitethorn hedges
Of the little farm and did not know the world.
But I knew that love`s doorway to life
Is the same doorway everywhere.
Ashamed of what I loved
I flung her from me and called her a ditch
Although she was smiling at me with violets.
But now I am back in her briary arms
The dew of an Indian Summer lies
On bleached potato-stalks
What age am I?
I do not know what age I am,
I am no mortal age;
I know nothing of women,
Nothing of cities,
I cannot die
Unless I walk outside these whitethorn hedges.
- Patrick Kavanagh
Thank you for that. Very evocative; I liked the use of the colors. I`m afraid I haven`t read any of the writers you wrote about. Have you read Patrick Kavanagh?
Innocence
They laughed at one I loved-
The triangular hill that hung
Under the Big Forth. They said
That I was bounded by the whitethorn hedges
Of the little farm and did not know the world.
But I knew that love`s doorway to life
Is the same doorway everywhere.
Ashamed of what I loved
I flung her from me and called her a ditch
Although she was smiling at me with violets.
But now I am back in her briary arms
The dew of an Indian Summer lies
On bleached potato-stalks
What age am I?
I do not know what age I am,
I am no mortal age;
I know nothing of women,
Nothing of cities,
I cannot die
Unless I walk outside these whitethorn hedges.
- Patrick Kavanagh
#64 Posted by saminashah on January 15, 2002 10:21:36 am
Aamir Ansari,
Thanks for the excellent poem! I`ll have to look the poet up...Have you read Marilyn Chin, David Mura or Li Young Lee?
Yuba City School
From the trunk I shake out
my one American skirt, blue serge
that smells of mothballs. Again today
Neeraj came home crying from school. All week
the teacher has made him sit
in the last row, next to the fat boy
who drools and mumbles,
picks at the spotted milk-blue
skin of his face, but knows
to pinch, sudden-sharp,
when she is not looking.
The books are full of black curves,
dots like the eggs the boll-weevil lays
each monsoon in furniture-cracks
in Ludhiana. Far up in front
the teacher makes word-sounds
Neeraj does not know. They float
from her mouth-cave, he says,
in discs, each a different color.
Candy-pink for the girls
in their lace dresses, marching shiny shoes. Silk yellow for the boys besides them,
crisp blond hair, hands raised
in all the right answers. Behind them
the Mexicans, whose older brothers,
he tells me, carry knives,
whose catcalls and whizzing rubber bands
clash, mid-air, with the teacher`s
voice, its sharp purple edge.
For him, the words are
a muddy red, flying low and heavy,
and always the one he has learned to understand:
idiot, idiot, idiot.
I heat the iron over the stove. Outside
evening blurs the shivering
in the eucalyptus. Neeraj`s shadow
dissapers into the hole
he is hollowing all afternoon.
The earth, he know, is round, and if
one can tunnel all the way through,
he will end up in Punjab,
in his grandfather`s mango orchard,
his grandmother`s songs lighting
on his head, the old words
glowing like summer fireflies.
In the playground, Neeraj says,
invisible hands snatch at his uncut hair,
unseen feet trip him from behind,
and when he turns, ghost laughter
all around his bleeding knees.
He bites down on his lip
to keep in the crying. They are
waiting for him to open his mouth,
so they can steal his voice.
I test the iron with little drops of water
that sizzle and die. Press down
on the wrinlkled cloth. The room fills with a smell like singed flesh.
Tomorrow in my blue skirt I will go
to see the teacher, my tongue
stiff and swollen
in my unwilling mouth, my few
English phrases. She will pluck them
from me, nail shut my lips. My son
will keep sitting in the last row
among the red words that drink his voice.
-Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni
Thanks for the excellent poem! I`ll have to look the poet up...Have you read Marilyn Chin, David Mura or Li Young Lee?
Yuba City School
From the trunk I shake out
my one American skirt, blue serge
that smells of mothballs. Again today
Neeraj came home crying from school. All week
the teacher has made him sit
in the last row, next to the fat boy
who drools and mumbles,
picks at the spotted milk-blue
skin of his face, but knows
to pinch, sudden-sharp,
when she is not looking.
The books are full of black curves,
dots like the eggs the boll-weevil lays
each monsoon in furniture-cracks
in Ludhiana. Far up in front
the teacher makes word-sounds
Neeraj does not know. They float
from her mouth-cave, he says,
in discs, each a different color.
Candy-pink for the girls
in their lace dresses, marching shiny shoes. Silk yellow for the boys besides them,
crisp blond hair, hands raised
in all the right answers. Behind them
the Mexicans, whose older brothers,
he tells me, carry knives,
whose catcalls and whizzing rubber bands
clash, mid-air, with the teacher`s
voice, its sharp purple edge.
For him, the words are
a muddy red, flying low and heavy,
and always the one he has learned to understand:
idiot, idiot, idiot.
I heat the iron over the stove. Outside
evening blurs the shivering
in the eucalyptus. Neeraj`s shadow
dissapers into the hole
he is hollowing all afternoon.
The earth, he know, is round, and if
one can tunnel all the way through,
he will end up in Punjab,
in his grandfather`s mango orchard,
his grandmother`s songs lighting
on his head, the old words
glowing like summer fireflies.
In the playground, Neeraj says,
invisible hands snatch at his uncut hair,
unseen feet trip him from behind,
and when he turns, ghost laughter
all around his bleeding knees.
He bites down on his lip
to keep in the crying. They are
waiting for him to open his mouth,
so they can steal his voice.
I test the iron with little drops of water
that sizzle and die. Press down
on the wrinlkled cloth. The room fills with a smell like singed flesh.
Tomorrow in my blue skirt I will go
to see the teacher, my tongue
stiff and swollen
in my unwilling mouth, my few
English phrases. She will pluck them
from me, nail shut my lips. My son
will keep sitting in the last row
among the red words that drink his voice.
-Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni
#63 Posted by anNy on January 15, 2002 10:21:36 am
babypea:
that was for some reason freaky
who wrote it?
that was for some reason freaky
who wrote it?
#62 Posted by anNy on January 15, 2002 10:21:36 am
babypea:
that was for some reason freaky
who wrote that?
that was for some reason freaky
who wrote that?
#61 Posted by Ansari on January 15, 2002 10:21:36 am
Scout;
Hmm. . .where are we going with this one, I wonder? Please clarify.
Regards,
Aamir
Hmm. . .where are we going with this one, I wonder? Please clarify.
Regards,
Aamir
#60 Posted by scout on January 15, 2002 2:16:30 am
Ansari #58,
do you talk very slowly, pause between a few words, and rhyme every now and then.. during your day to day discourse?
do you talk very slowly, pause between a few words, and rhyme every now and then.. during your day to day discourse?
#59 Posted by Ansari on January 14, 2002 4:56:43 pm
What the Japanese Perhaps Heard
Perhaps they heard we don`t understand them
very well. Perhaps this made them
Pleased. Perhaps they heard we shoot
Japanese students who ring the wrong
Bell at Hallowe`en. That we shoot
at the slightest provocation: a low mark
On an exam, a lovers` spat, an excess
of guilt. Perhaps they wondered
If it was guilt we felt at the sight of that student
bleeding out among our lawn flamingos,
Or something recognizable to them,
something like grief. Perhaps
They heard that our culture
has its roots in desperate immigration
And lone men. Perhaps they observed
our skill at raising serial killers,
That we value good teeth above
good minds and have no festivals
To remember the dead. Perhaps they heard
that our grey lakes are deep enough to swallow cities,
That our landscape is vast wheat and loneliness.
Perhaps they ask themselves if, when grief
Wraps its wet arms around Montana, we would not prefer
the community of archipelagos
Upon which persimmons are harvested
and black fingers of rock uncurl their digits
In the mist. Perhaps their abacus echoes
the shape that grief takes,
One island
bleeding into the next,
And for us grief is an endless cornfield,
silken and ripe with poison.
-- Rachel Rose
#58 Posted by Ansari on January 14, 2002 4:56:43 pm
What We Heard About the Japanese
We heard they would jump from buildings
at the slightest provocation: low marks
On an exam, a lovers` spat
or an excess of shame.
We heard they were incited by shame,
not guilt. That they
Loved all things American.
Mistrusted anything foreign.
We heard their men liked to buy
schoolgirls` underwear
And their women
did not experience menopause or other
Western hysterias. We heard
they still preferred to breastfeed,
Carry handkerchiefs, ride bicycles
and dress their young like Victorian
Pupils. We heard that theirs
was a feminine culture. We heard
That theirs was an example of extreme
patriarchy. That rape
Didn`t exist on these islands. We heard
their marriages were arranged, that
They didn`t believe in love. We heard
they were experts in this art above all others.
That frequent earthquakes inspired insecurity
and lack of faith. That they had no sense of irony.
We heard even faith was an American invention.
We heard they were just like us under the skin.
-- Rachel Rose
This poem was posted on a poetry website called The Wondering Minstrels. Included here are the sender`s comments:
``When I first read these poems, they resonated strongly with me on several levels. Being half Japanese, I have heard it all: both extreme negative stereotypes and the almost unbelievable idealizing of Japanese culture that some Westerners indulge in. Either approach reduces the Japanese to something not quite like us, whether it`s less-than-human or super-human.
Rachel Rose captures these absurdity of these contradictions economically and strikingly in just a few lines.
Secondly, as an American with many friends from Japan, I`m often in the position of trying to explain things about US culture that I can barely
grasp myself. Things like guns and individualism and attitudes towards the elderly. Rose`s second poem crystallizes all of this into a few vivid and
colorful images, showing us how strange and inscrutable we can appear when viewed from the outside.
And finally, the timing of when I read poems felt significant. Much of what I`ve been hearing lately about Muslims reminds me painfully of what was said about the Japanese and Japanese Americans during World War II. They were seen as people with no respect for life or regard for self-preservation, no sense of morality that we could understand, showing fanatical loyalty to an
evil empire, and threatening our culture with their alien customs. I.e. not ``good Christians.`` Sound familiar? Life for Muslims in America today must be much like it was for Japanese during World War II. It makes me ache, but I do have hope that we can learn from past mistakes.``
We heard they would jump from buildings
at the slightest provocation: low marks
On an exam, a lovers` spat
or an excess of shame.
We heard they were incited by shame,
not guilt. That they
Loved all things American.
Mistrusted anything foreign.
We heard their men liked to buy
schoolgirls` underwear
And their women
did not experience menopause or other
Western hysterias. We heard
they still preferred to breastfeed,
Carry handkerchiefs, ride bicycles
and dress their young like Victorian
Pupils. We heard that theirs
was a feminine culture. We heard
That theirs was an example of extreme
patriarchy. That rape
Didn`t exist on these islands. We heard
their marriages were arranged, that
They didn`t believe in love. We heard
they were experts in this art above all others.
That frequent earthquakes inspired insecurity
and lack of faith. That they had no sense of irony.
We heard even faith was an American invention.
We heard they were just like us under the skin.
-- Rachel Rose
This poem was posted on a poetry website called The Wondering Minstrels. Included here are the sender`s comments:
``When I first read these poems, they resonated strongly with me on several levels. Being half Japanese, I have heard it all: both extreme negative stereotypes and the almost unbelievable idealizing of Japanese culture that some Westerners indulge in. Either approach reduces the Japanese to something not quite like us, whether it`s less-than-human or super-human.
Rachel Rose captures these absurdity of these contradictions economically and strikingly in just a few lines.
Secondly, as an American with many friends from Japan, I`m often in the position of trying to explain things about US culture that I can barely
grasp myself. Things like guns and individualism and attitudes towards the elderly. Rose`s second poem crystallizes all of this into a few vivid and
colorful images, showing us how strange and inscrutable we can appear when viewed from the outside.
And finally, the timing of when I read poems felt significant. Much of what I`ve been hearing lately about Muslims reminds me painfully of what was said about the Japanese and Japanese Americans during World War II. They were seen as people with no respect for life or regard for self-preservation, no sense of morality that we could understand, showing fanatical loyalty to an
evil empire, and threatening our culture with their alien customs. I.e. not ``good Christians.`` Sound familiar? Life for Muslims in America today must be much like it was for Japanese during World War II. It makes me ache, but I do have hope that we can learn from past mistakes.``
#57 Posted by BabyPea on January 14, 2002 10:48:19 am
through lips of cake does loving flow
the eyes belie an eerie glow
a madness, quelled in soft repose
a draught of spring his karma knows
for hell and love, i ken them both
they shear my nervous fibre growth
and though dead and buried is my soul
will a dream of me to you be loathe?
so tell me
does the rain still make you cry?
does the sand still love your skin?
and when hate consumes you,
do i feel like daddy`s kiss within?
does my summer still caress your hands?
and my breezes salinize your ears?
when spirits breathe your scent and fly
do your pupils melt away as tears?
and tell me
when hot milk, books and crickets fail
does my dusk cradle your head till dawn?
do my stars still smile at memories
of a happy, satiated yawn?
and when your face will rest upon his bed
and his breath invade your virgin soul
will those eyes reflect the words you said
as a strangers touch defined your whole?
the eyes belie an eerie glow
a madness, quelled in soft repose
a draught of spring his karma knows
for hell and love, i ken them both
they shear my nervous fibre growth
and though dead and buried is my soul
will a dream of me to you be loathe?
so tell me
does the rain still make you cry?
does the sand still love your skin?
and when hate consumes you,
do i feel like daddy`s kiss within?
does my summer still caress your hands?
and my breezes salinize your ears?
when spirits breathe your scent and fly
do your pupils melt away as tears?
and tell me
when hot milk, books and crickets fail
does my dusk cradle your head till dawn?
do my stars still smile at memories
of a happy, satiated yawn?
and when your face will rest upon his bed
and his breath invade your virgin soul
will those eyes reflect the words you said
as a strangers touch defined your whole?
#56 Posted by subroto on January 14, 2002 2:30:17 am
Nice to read something different Aamir - but those peole rushing for haircuts have a puropse in life too ;-)
A few strands of wispy hair still left,
Making their last stand on the bald pate,
Billowing in the hot summer wind,
Awaiting the scissors at the barber`s shop
Deadlines can wait for now.
Fingers greedily grasping girlie mags,
Draped o` so casually in the waiting room,
Seeking out the centre page,
Which needs to be unfolded on the lap
Ah the simple pleasure of a perve
And then rising upwards,
A primeval sound,
An eruption from the belly
A contentment felt
The joy of an after dinner belch
P.S There is no case of life imitating art here...
A few strands of wispy hair still left,
Making their last stand on the bald pate,
Billowing in the hot summer wind,
Awaiting the scissors at the barber`s shop
Deadlines can wait for now.
Fingers greedily grasping girlie mags,
Draped o` so casually in the waiting room,
Seeking out the centre page,
Which needs to be unfolded on the lap
Ah the simple pleasure of a perve
And then rising upwards,
A primeval sound,
An eruption from the belly
A contentment felt
The joy of an after dinner belch
P.S There is no case of life imitating art here...
#55 Posted by Snoopy on January 14, 2002 12:30:17 am
for Ansari , & other poetry writers who are infatuated by the enchanting ring of rhthym of Japnese just like those by Shunghfu or Bonsai ,Kimono ,Sayonara,Geisha,pokemon,dragon movies,hara kari,...
http://www.poetry.com/contest/contest.asp?
Next $1,000 Winner 1/15/2002 POETRY IN MOTION CONTEST
$100 Winner Every Day HAIKU CONTEST
AND WINNERS XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
ENTER CONTEST
PREVIOUS WINNERS
POETRY IN MOTION
PREVIOUS WINNERS
POST YOUR POETRY
ON THIS SITE
100 GREATEST POEMS EVER WRITTEN
100 GREATEST LOVE POEMS EVER WRITTEN
NEED HELP RHYMING?
SEPTEMBER 11th DEDICATION POEMS
POETIC TECHNIQUES
SEND FREE
GREETING CARDS
POETRY LAUREATE COURSE
YOUR WORDS ON PERSONALIZED PRODUCTS
PUBLISH YOUR OWN BOOK OF POETRY
VIEW REAL TIME
ENTRIES IN OUR
$1,000.00 CONTEST!
LISTEN TO POEMS WITH AUDIO
ONLINE POETRY BASH
POETRY BASH
CARD-TOON
ANTHOLOGY SERIES
OUR WORLD OF POETRY
LIVE EVENTS
SPRING CONVENTION
WORLD POETRY BASH
ABOUT POETRY.COM
CONTACT US
RESOURCES AND LINKS
FAQ`S
HOME
The Official Rules | Last Month`s Winner | Previous Winners
1/15/2002
01/15/2002
FREE entry form! Bookmark this page!
Poetry.com will award 1175 prizes totaling $58,000.00 to amateur poets in the coming months. Type your name, street address, and poem below and then click submit!
Anyone can enter the competition simply by submitting an original poem, 20 lines or fewer, on any subject, in any style. All poets who enter this contest will receive correspondence concerning their artistry within seven weeks including a copy of their poem for proofing purposes.
First: Middle: Last:
Email Address:
(Please complete, winners notified by U.S. mail.)
Address:
City: State or Province: Zip or Postal Code:
Alabama Alaska Alberta Arizona Arkansas Armed Forces Army Army Post British Columbia California Colorado Connecticut Delaware District of Columbia Florida Georgia Hawaii Idaho Illinois Indiana Iowa Kansas Kentucky Louisiana Maine Manitoba Maryland Massachusetts Michigan Minnesota Mississippi Missouri Montana Nebraska Nevada New Brunswick New Hampshire New Jersey New Mexico New York Newfoundland North Carolina North Dakota Northwest Territories Nova Scotia Ohio Oklahoma Ontario Oregon Pennsylvania Prince Edward Island Puerto Rico Quebec Rhode Island Saskatchewan South Carolina South Dakota Tennessee Texas U.S. Virgin Islands Utah Vermont Virginia Washington West Virginia Wisconsin Wyoming Yukon
Country:
United States Afghanistan Albania Algeria American Samoa Andorra Angola Anguilla Antigua and Barbuda Argentina Armenia Aruba Australia Austria Azerbaijan Bahamas, The Bahrain Bangladesh Barbados Belarus Belgium Belize Benin Bermuda Bhutan Bolivia Bosnia and Herzegovina Botswana Brazil British Virgin Islands Brunei Bulgaria Burkina Faso Burma Burundi Cambodia Cameroon Canada Cape Verde Cayman Islands Central African Republic Chad Chile China Christmas Island Cocos Islands Colombia Comoros Congo, Dem. Rep. of the Congo, Republic of the Cook Islands Costa Rica Cote d`Ivoire Croatia Cuba Cyprus Czech Republic Denmark Djibouti Dominica Dominican Republic Ecuador Egypt El Salvador Equatorial Guinea Eritrea Estonia Ethiopia Falkland Islands Faroe Islands Fiji Finland France French Guiana French Polynesia Gabon Gambia, The Georgia Germany Ghana Gibraltar Greece Greenland Grenada Guadeloupe Guam Guatemala Guernsey Guinea Guinea-Bissau Guyana Haiti Holy See (Vatican City) Honduras Hungary Iceland India Indonesia Iran Iraq Ireland Israel Italy Jamaica Japan Jersey Jordan Kazakhstan Kenya Kiribati Korea, North Korea, South Kuwait Kyrgyzstan Laos Latvia Lebanon Lesotho Liberia Libya Liechtenstein Lithuania Luxembourg Macedonia Madagascar Malawi Malaysia Maldives Mali Malta Man, Isle of Marshall Islands Martinique Mauritania Mauritius Mayotte Mexico Micronesia Moldova Monaco Mongolia Montserrat Morocco Mozambique Namibia Nauru Nepal Netherlands Netherlands Antilles New Caledonia New Zealand Nicaragua Niger Nigeria Niue Norfolk Island Northern Mariana Islands Norway Oman Pakistan Palau Palestine Panama Papua New Guinea Paraguay Peru Philippines Pitcairn Islands Poland Portugal Puerto Rico Qatar Reunion Romania Russia Rwanda Saint Helena Saint Kitts and Nevis Saint Lucia Saint Pierre and Miquelon Samoa San Marino Sao Tome and Principe Saudi Arabia Senegal Serbia and Montenegro Seychelles Sierra Leone Singapore Slovakia Slovenia Solomon Islands Somalia South Africa Spain Sri Lanka St. Vincent and the Grenadines Sudan Suriname Svalbard Swaziland Sweden Switzerland Syria Taiwan Tajikistan Tanzania Thailand Togo Tokelau Tonga Trinidad and Tobago Tunisia Turkey Turkmenistan Turks and Caicos Islands Tuvalu Uganda Ukraine United Arab Emirates United Kingdom United States Uruguay Uzbekistan Vanuatu Venezuela Vietnam Virgin Islands Wallis and Futuna Yemen Zambia Zimbabwe Other
(Your poem must fit entirely in the box below to be eligible for the contest.)
Title of Your Poem:
I would like to receive your email newsletter--it`s free!
I hereby certify that the above poem is my original work and that all rights to this poem are mine. I am entering this poem as an honest and true effort of my personal creativity and unique artistic vision, and I understand that it will be published on the Internet as my original work and under my own copyright by The International Library of Poetry (poetry.com). The community of poets who use this forum for self-expression will also be able to view and share my poem, always as my original work and under my own copyright in the various ways described on this website.
Please submit only one poem per month.
If you are having a problem submitting using this form, please e-mail your entry by clicking here. Don`t forget to include your name and full postal address, and you must paste the paragraph immediately above (starting ``I hereby certify . . . ``) into your email submission.
If you have any customer service questions, please click here or
contact our editorial offices at:
poetry.com
1 Poetry Plaza
Owings Mills, MD 21117
Phone (410) 356-2000
ENTER POETRY CONTEST | POETRY IN MOTION CONTEST | HAIKU CONTEST
PUBLICATIONS | YOUR WORDS ON PERSONALIZED PRODUCTS
PUBLISH YOUR OWN BOOK OF POETRY | POEMS WITH AUDIO
ABOUT US | RESOURCES AND LINKS | FAQ`S | RHYMING HELP
CONTACT US | GREETING CARDS
©2002 Watermark Press
http://www.poetry.com/contest/contest.asp?
Next $1,000 Winner 1/15/2002 POETRY IN MOTION CONTEST
$100 Winner Every Day HAIKU CONTEST
AND WINNERS XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
ENTER CONTEST
PREVIOUS WINNERS
POETRY IN MOTION
PREVIOUS WINNERS
POST YOUR POETRY
ON THIS SITE
100 GREATEST POEMS EVER WRITTEN
100 GREATEST LOVE POEMS EVER WRITTEN
NEED HELP RHYMING?
SEPTEMBER 11th DEDICATION POEMS
POETIC TECHNIQUES
SEND FREE
GREETING CARDS
POETRY LAUREATE COURSE
YOUR WORDS ON PERSONALIZED PRODUCTS
PUBLISH YOUR OWN BOOK OF POETRY
VIEW REAL TIME
ENTRIES IN OUR
$1,000.00 CONTEST!
LISTEN TO POEMS WITH AUDIO
ONLINE POETRY BASH
POETRY BASH
CARD-TOON
ANTHOLOGY SERIES
OUR WORLD OF POETRY
LIVE EVENTS
SPRING CONVENTION
WORLD POETRY BASH
ABOUT POETRY.COM
CONTACT US
RESOURCES AND LINKS
FAQ`S
HOME
The Official Rules | Last Month`s Winner | Previous Winners
1/15/2002
01/15/2002
FREE entry form! Bookmark this page!
Poetry.com will award 1175 prizes totaling $58,000.00 to amateur poets in the coming months. Type your name, street address, and poem below and then click submit!
Anyone can enter the competition simply by submitting an original poem, 20 lines or fewer, on any subject, in any style. All poets who enter this contest will receive correspondence concerning their artistry within seven weeks including a copy of their poem for proofing purposes.
First: Middle: Last:
Email Address:
(Please complete, winners notified by U.S. mail.)
Address:
City: State or Province: Zip or Postal Code:
Alabama Alaska Alberta Arizona Arkansas Armed Forces Army Army Post British Columbia California Colorado Connecticut Delaware District of Columbia Florida Georgia Hawaii Idaho Illinois Indiana Iowa Kansas Kentucky Louisiana Maine Manitoba Maryland Massachusetts Michigan Minnesota Mississippi Missouri Montana Nebraska Nevada New Brunswick New Hampshire New Jersey New Mexico New York Newfoundland North Carolina North Dakota Northwest Territories Nova Scotia Ohio Oklahoma Ontario Oregon Pennsylvania Prince Edward Island Puerto Rico Quebec Rhode Island Saskatchewan South Carolina South Dakota Tennessee Texas U.S. Virgin Islands Utah Vermont Virginia Washington West Virginia Wisconsin Wyoming Yukon
Country:
United States Afghanistan Albania Algeria American Samoa Andorra Angola Anguilla Antigua and Barbuda Argentina Armenia Aruba Australia Austria Azerbaijan Bahamas, The Bahrain Bangladesh Barbados Belarus Belgium Belize Benin Bermuda Bhutan Bolivia Bosnia and Herzegovina Botswana Brazil British Virgin Islands Brunei Bulgaria Burkina Faso Burma Burundi Cambodia Cameroon Canada Cape Verde Cayman Islands Central African Republic Chad Chile China Christmas Island Cocos Islands Colombia Comoros Congo, Dem. Rep. of the Congo, Republic of the Cook Islands Costa Rica Cote d`Ivoire Croatia Cuba Cyprus Czech Republic Denmark Djibouti Dominica Dominican Republic Ecuador Egypt El Salvador Equatorial Guinea Eritrea Estonia Ethiopia Falkland Islands Faroe Islands Fiji Finland France French Guiana French Polynesia Gabon Gambia, The Georgia Germany Ghana Gibraltar Greece Greenland Grenada Guadeloupe Guam Guatemala Guernsey Guinea Guinea-Bissau Guyana Haiti Holy See (Vatican City) Honduras Hungary Iceland India Indonesia Iran Iraq Ireland Israel Italy Jamaica Japan Jersey Jordan Kazakhstan Kenya Kiribati Korea, North Korea, South Kuwait Kyrgyzstan Laos Latvia Lebanon Lesotho Liberia Libya Liechtenstein Lithuania Luxembourg Macedonia Madagascar Malawi Malaysia Maldives Mali Malta Man, Isle of Marshall Islands Martinique Mauritania Mauritius Mayotte Mexico Micronesia Moldova Monaco Mongolia Montserrat Morocco Mozambique Namibia Nauru Nepal Netherlands Netherlands Antilles New Caledonia New Zealand Nicaragua Niger Nigeria Niue Norfolk Island Northern Mariana Islands Norway Oman Pakistan Palau Palestine Panama Papua New Guinea Paraguay Peru Philippines Pitcairn Islands Poland Portugal Puerto Rico Qatar Reunion Romania Russia Rwanda Saint Helena Saint Kitts and Nevis Saint Lucia Saint Pierre and Miquelon Samoa San Marino Sao Tome and Principe Saudi Arabia Senegal Serbia and Montenegro Seychelles Sierra Leone Singapore Slovakia Slovenia Solomon Islands Somalia South Africa Spain Sri Lanka St. Vincent and the Grenadines Sudan Suriname Svalbard Swaziland Sweden Switzerland Syria Taiwan Tajikistan Tanzania Thailand Togo Tokelau Tonga Trinidad and Tobago Tunisia Turkey Turkmenistan Turks and Caicos Islands Tuvalu Uganda Ukraine United Arab Emirates United Kingdom United States Uruguay Uzbekistan Vanuatu Venezuela Vietnam Virgin Islands Wallis and Futuna Yemen Zambia Zimbabwe Other
(Your poem must fit entirely in the box below to be eligible for the contest.)
Title of Your Poem:
I would like to receive your email newsletter--it`s free!
I hereby certify that the above poem is my original work and that all rights to this poem are mine. I am entering this poem as an honest and true effort of my personal creativity and unique artistic vision, and I understand that it will be published on the Internet as my original work and under my own copyright by The International Library of Poetry (poetry.com). The community of poets who use this forum for self-expression will also be able to view and share my poem, always as my original work and under my own copyright in the various ways described on this website.
Please submit only one poem per month.
If you are having a problem submitting using this form, please e-mail your entry by clicking here. Don`t forget to include your name and full postal address, and you must paste the paragraph immediately above (starting ``I hereby certify . . . ``) into your email submission.
If you have any customer service questions, please click here or
contact our editorial offices at:
poetry.com
1 Poetry Plaza
Owings Mills, MD 21117
Phone (410) 356-2000
ENTER POETRY CONTEST | POETRY IN MOTION CONTEST | HAIKU CONTEST
PUBLICATIONS | YOUR WORDS ON PERSONALIZED PRODUCTS
PUBLISH YOUR OWN BOOK OF POETRY | POEMS WITH AUDIO
ABOUT US | RESOURCES AND LINKS | FAQ`S | RHYMING HELP
CONTACT US | GREETING CARDS
©2002 Watermark Press
#54 Posted by semipreciousme on January 13, 2002 2:09:35 am
aamir ansari
re: Margaret Walker poem
…wow…now that’s what i call poetry….simple yet stirring…
re: Margaret Walker poem
…wow…now that’s what i call poetry….simple yet stirring…
#53 Posted by Deodrant on January 13, 2002 2:09:35 am
How can MUsharaff just give away support for Kashmir .DO YOU THINK THIS IS BOOLYWOOD LAAGAAN MOVIE ,THAT AAMIR KHAN WILL PLAN A UPSET WIN OF INDIA BY WRITING THE SCRIPT .INDIANS HAVE BEEN WATCHING BOLLYWOOD MAKE BELIEVE ,FEEL GOOD,WISHFULL THING, MOVIES FOR FAR TOO LONG
#51 Posted by saminashah on January 12, 2002 1:57:50 pm
soysauce
ouch?
Prem
So then he was, like,
really!
And I was like, yeah.
It`s like,
you know? You
know what I mean?
ouch?
Prem
So then he was, like,
really!
And I was like, yeah.
It`s like,
you know? You
know what I mean?
#50 Posted by aicha on January 12, 2002 1:57:50 pm
``I too thought/think they were about sex. ``
: ) somehow i thought as much
``... i`m just an ordinary joe with a dirty mind.``
taht we all are !! taht we all are !!
aicha
: ) somehow i thought as much
``... i`m just an ordinary joe with a dirty mind.``
taht we all are !! taht we all are !!
aicha
#49 Posted by semipreciousme on January 12, 2002 1:57:50 pm
Ansari:
...np:)...am doing good...
anNy:
….now we’re talking….i won’t even try since i write poetry about as well as i speak swahili….btw….dud?…c’mon anNy….such modesty…
#48 Posted by Brad Cruise on January 12, 2002 2:27:18 am
See the full story and a photo of the family at=20
http://abcnews.go.com/sections/us/DailyNews/detainee020111.html
ABCNews.com
Jan. 11, 2002
What`s Going On?
Wife of Detainee in Sept. 11 Probes Mourns Lack of Information
By Leela Jacinto
leela.jacinto@abc.com
PHOTO: Uzma Naheed, second left, with her sons Harris Anser, 11, far left,
Hassan Anser, 15 months, center, Umair Anser, 14, second right, and Uzair
Anser, 13, at their home in Bayonne, N.J. (Bebeto Matthews/AP Photo)
Jan. 11 -- More than three months after her husband was taken into custody
in the government`s investigations of the Sept. 11 attacks, Uzma Naheed
finally got the chance to see him in jail this week.
Her husband, Anser Mehmood -- the sole breadwinner in the household =97 has
been held at the Metropolitan Detention Center in the New York City
borough of Brooklyn since Oct. 3.
In a saga of loss, bureaucratic nightmare and desperate attempts to
understand an unfamiliar system with the odds seemingly stacked against
her, Naheed was not allowed to see Mehmood for more than nine weeks after
he was detained.=20
It was not until various community and immigration rights groups took up
her case that the 39-year-old immigrant from Pakistan was allowed to see
her husband through metal bars in a bleak high-security visiting room.
MORE MORE MORE
See the full story and photo at=20
http://abcnews.go.com/sections/us/DailyNews/detainee020111.html
http://abcnews.go.com/sections/us/DailyNews/detainee020111.html
ABCNews.com
Jan. 11, 2002
What`s Going On?
Wife of Detainee in Sept. 11 Probes Mourns Lack of Information
By Leela Jacinto
leela.jacinto@abc.com
PHOTO: Uzma Naheed, second left, with her sons Harris Anser, 11, far left,
Hassan Anser, 15 months, center, Umair Anser, 14, second right, and Uzair
Anser, 13, at their home in Bayonne, N.J. (Bebeto Matthews/AP Photo)
Jan. 11 -- More than three months after her husband was taken into custody
in the government`s investigations of the Sept. 11 attacks, Uzma Naheed
finally got the chance to see him in jail this week.
Her husband, Anser Mehmood -- the sole breadwinner in the household =97 has
been held at the Metropolitan Detention Center in the New York City
borough of Brooklyn since Oct. 3.
In a saga of loss, bureaucratic nightmare and desperate attempts to
understand an unfamiliar system with the odds seemingly stacked against
her, Naheed was not allowed to see Mehmood for more than nine weeks after
he was detained.=20
It was not until various community and immigration rights groups took up
her case that the 39-year-old immigrant from Pakistan was allowed to see
her husband through metal bars in a bleak high-security visiting room.
MORE MORE MORE
See the full story and photo at=20
http://abcnews.go.com/sections/us/DailyNews/detainee020111.html
#47 Posted by mfarooqui on January 12, 2002 2:27:18 am
Sorry, DRUMZ - I forgot to mention the link is called:``songs of love and devotion``
#46 Posted by mfarooqui on January 12, 2002 2:27:18 am
Chowk Editors and Chowkwallahs:
Apologies for sidetracking this board temporarily, but I have a request of all chowkwallahs:
I don`t know if I am the only one who has this difficulty, but many times on Chowk I`ve wanted to follow more than two reply threads and to have them visible on the screen at the same time. Rather than simply make a request, I`ve tried to solve this, and have put together a sample Chowk site at:
http://members.home.net/qawwalli1/
At the bottom of the page are links to the sample site. This is what you need to click on. To get into it the user name is: concept and the password is also: concept (both lower case). The page that comes up has a link called ``redesigned chowk``.
My humble request is to ask as many of you as possible to look at it and let me know if it just a waste of time or if it really is something useful. If useful, Chowk Editors, you may have it (if you like it of course!)
Now, for DRUMZ (and actually for others who may be interested as well): DRUMZ, a while ago you had made a comment that you did not find Islam deep enough or profound enough. That makes me ask of you a small favor: I`ve provided a link (named ``DRUMZ``) which will take you to an article on the same site. Hope you find it readable enough - I`d really like to hear your comments after you read it. No problem if you don`t (at worst you can always click right out of it!)
For those who explore the site further (there are visual goodies!) A warning!! This is a site that has Flash/audio and needs a cable or fast connection. Please explore, move the mouse around and click away everywhere on the fashion site page.
Apologies for sidetracking this board temporarily, but I have a request of all chowkwallahs:
I don`t know if I am the only one who has this difficulty, but many times on Chowk I`ve wanted to follow more than two reply threads and to have them visible on the screen at the same time. Rather than simply make a request, I`ve tried to solve this, and have put together a sample Chowk site at:
http://members.home.net/qawwalli1/
At the bottom of the page are links to the sample site. This is what you need to click on. To get into it the user name is: concept and the password is also: concept (both lower case). The page that comes up has a link called ``redesigned chowk``.
My humble request is to ask as many of you as possible to look at it and let me know if it just a waste of time or if it really is something useful. If useful, Chowk Editors, you may have it (if you like it of course!)
Now, for DRUMZ (and actually for others who may be interested as well): DRUMZ, a while ago you had made a comment that you did not find Islam deep enough or profound enough. That makes me ask of you a small favor: I`ve provided a link (named ``DRUMZ``) which will take you to an article on the same site. Hope you find it readable enough - I`d really like to hear your comments after you read it. No problem if you don`t (at worst you can always click right out of it!)
For those who explore the site further (there are visual goodies!) A warning!! This is a site that has Flash/audio and needs a cable or fast connection. Please explore, move the mouse around and click away everywhere on the fashion site page.
#45 Posted by soysauce on January 12, 2002 2:27:18 am
Saminashah
By technical writing i meant the ``publish or perish`` variety. I`m an academic. As for poems, i prefer the old-fashioned kind. Wordsworth is my favorite.
aicha
I happen to love soysauce. Actually i love chinese vegan food. My daughter goes nuts over (shoyu) soysauce too, on white rice, tofu, pretty much everything..BTW, thanks for being a good sport about my ``poem`` on the haiku board. I too thought/think they were about sex. I`d hate to disagree with Saima because i don`t want her thinking i`m just an ordinary joe with a dirty mind.
By technical writing i meant the ``publish or perish`` variety. I`m an academic. As for poems, i prefer the old-fashioned kind. Wordsworth is my favorite.
aicha
I happen to love soysauce. Actually i love chinese vegan food. My daughter goes nuts over (shoyu) soysauce too, on white rice, tofu, pretty much everything..BTW, thanks for being a good sport about my ``poem`` on the haiku board. I too thought/think they were about sex. I`d hate to disagree with Saima because i don`t want her thinking i`m just an ordinary joe with a dirty mind.
#43 Posted by saminashah on January 12, 2002 2:27:18 am
Aamir Ansari,
Much like you I read everything unless I am instructed specific works in a class or workshop. Just got the late, beautiful Agha Shahid Ali`s book Rooms Are Never Finished.
Love Symborska, ee cummings, Heaney is excellent; first time reading Walker. Simic`s got that tight, surreal Eastern European thing going. Just finished a huge research paper surveying three poems that focused on the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire (1911; NYC); one by Robert Pinsky called The Shirt. Check out the website Modern American Poetry for a fascinating essay on it.
Really into South Asian, Chinese and Korean poetry; hoping to get into other forms; working on ghazals...
cool conversation!
Much like you I read everything unless I am instructed specific works in a class or workshop. Just got the late, beautiful Agha Shahid Ali`s book Rooms Are Never Finished.
Love Symborska, ee cummings, Heaney is excellent; first time reading Walker. Simic`s got that tight, surreal Eastern European thing going. Just finished a huge research paper surveying three poems that focused on the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire (1911; NYC); one by Robert Pinsky called The Shirt. Check out the website Modern American Poetry for a fascinating essay on it.
Really into South Asian, Chinese and Korean poetry; hoping to get into other forms; working on ghazals...
cool conversation!
#42 Posted by Ansari on January 11, 2002 3:02:15 pm
I Want To Write
I want to write
I want to write the songs of my people.
I want to hear them singing melodies in the dark.
I want to catch the last floating strains from their sob-torn
throats.
I want to frame their dreams into words; their souls into
notes.
I want to catch their sunshine laughter in a bowl;
fling dark hands to a darker sky
and fill them full of stars
then crush and mix such lights till they become
a mirrored pool of brilliance in the dawn.
- Margaret Walker
Another poem that frames its sentiments in the simple language of people, for them that they may feel loved.
More poems by Margaret Walker at http://www.ibiblio.org/ipa/walker/
Aamir
I want to write
I want to write the songs of my people.
I want to hear them singing melodies in the dark.
I want to catch the last floating strains from their sob-torn
throats.
I want to frame their dreams into words; their souls into
notes.
I want to catch their sunshine laughter in a bowl;
fling dark hands to a darker sky
and fill them full of stars
then crush and mix such lights till they become
a mirrored pool of brilliance in the dawn.
- Margaret Walker
Another poem that frames its sentiments in the simple language of people, for them that they may feel loved.
More poems by Margaret Walker at http://www.ibiblio.org/ipa/walker/
Aamir
#41 Posted by Ansari on January 11, 2002 3:02:15 pm
Saminashah;
Thank you for the poem. I really enjoyed it. I hadn`t read Simic before but will look out for him from now on.
I read all sorts of things and to pinpoint a single favorite writer or style or genre would be difficult. You find yourself reading different things at different phases/times. By way of recommendation though, I would strongly suggest Wislawa Szymborska, Margaret Walker, Seamus Heaney, e e cummings. They got me started when I knew nothing about poetry except that it was something difficult at O`level.
Currently reading a book of short stories by Kenneth Grahame (of ``Wind in the Willows`` fame). The language is beautiful and precise, the stories charming. A delicious read. The book`s called ``The Reluctant Dragon``.
What do you read?
Aamir
Thank you for the poem. I really enjoyed it. I hadn`t read Simic before but will look out for him from now on.
I read all sorts of things and to pinpoint a single favorite writer or style or genre would be difficult. You find yourself reading different things at different phases/times. By way of recommendation though, I would strongly suggest Wislawa Szymborska, Margaret Walker, Seamus Heaney, e e cummings. They got me started when I knew nothing about poetry except that it was something difficult at O`level.
Currently reading a book of short stories by Kenneth Grahame (of ``Wind in the Willows`` fame). The language is beautiful and precise, the stories charming. A delicious read. The book`s called ``The Reluctant Dragon``.
What do you read?
Aamir
#40 Posted by saminashah on January 11, 2002 3:02:15 pm
anNy,
veeelly nice! It inspired me to write this couplet:
``Life is mystery; everyone must stand alone,
I hear you call my name and it feels like home...``
veeelly nice! It inspired me to write this couplet:
``Life is mystery; everyone must stand alone,
I hear you call my name and it feels like home...``
#39 Posted by anNy on January 11, 2002 12:12:38 pm
samina/semi
Ref: wasteland
hah! thats nothing..look what i came up with last night while doodling...
But come with old anNy, and leave the Lot
Of Kaikobad aand Kaikhosru forgot:
Let Rustum lay about him as he will,
Or Hatim Tai cry Supper- heeed them not.
nice no?
Ref: wasteland
hah! thats nothing..look what i came up with last night while doodling...
But come with old anNy, and leave the Lot
Of Kaikobad aand Kaikhosru forgot:
Let Rustum lay about him as he will,
Or Hatim Tai cry Supper- heeed them not.
nice no?
#38 Posted by saminashah on January 11, 2002 12:12:38 pm
Aamir Ansari
Since you posted the Sandburg poet...in a similar vein?
The Inner Man
It isn`t the body
Thats a stranger.
It`s someone else.
We poke the same
ugly mug
at the world
When I scratch
He stratches too.
There are women
Who claimed to have held him.
A dog follows me about.
It might be his.
If I`m quiet, he`s quieter.
So I forget him.
Yet, as I bend down
to tie my shoelaces,
He`s standing up.
We cast a single shadow.
Whose shadow?
I`d like to say:
``He was in the beginning,
and he`ll be in the end,``
But one can`t be sure.
At night as I sit
shuffling the cards of our silence,
I say to him:
``Though you utter
Every one of my words,
You are a stranger.
It`s time you spoke.``
-Charles Simic
Since you posted the Sandburg poet...in a similar vein?
The Inner Man
It isn`t the body
Thats a stranger.
It`s someone else.
We poke the same
ugly mug
at the world
When I scratch
He stratches too.
There are women
Who claimed to have held him.
A dog follows me about.
It might be his.
If I`m quiet, he`s quieter.
So I forget him.
Yet, as I bend down
to tie my shoelaces,
He`s standing up.
We cast a single shadow.
Whose shadow?
I`d like to say:
``He was in the beginning,
and he`ll be in the end,``
But one can`t be sure.
At night as I sit
shuffling the cards of our silence,
I say to him:
``Though you utter
Every one of my words,
You are a stranger.
It`s time you spoke.``
-Charles Simic
#37 Posted by freethinker on January 11, 2002 12:12:38 pm
Reply #14 by tahmad
I enjoyed reading your post; it was good and classy.
I enjoyed reading your post; it was good and classy.
#36 Posted by saminashah on January 11, 2002 12:12:38 pm
soysauce
Technical writing-I did that for a year! How do you like it? You`ve got a good eye for poems...
Aamir Ansari
Like the Sandburg poem. How long have you been writing for, who do you read?
Technical writing-I did that for a year! How do you like it? You`ve got a good eye for poems...
Aamir Ansari
Like the Sandburg poem. How long have you been writing for, who do you read?
#35 Posted by harimau on January 11, 2002 12:12:38 pm
Ref hydra #: 32
[Btw ..how much lakh donation for admission to medical college to NON govt.Medical colleges in Pakistan]
What happened? Has the Indian Medical Council again de-recognized your MBBS?
Do you want to do MBBS in Urdu?
Shouldn`t you study it in Arabic? Then you can talk about all the great Islamic anatomists of the 9th century AD.
Couldn`t your son or daughter get into a med school in the US and India won`t let them in?
[Btw ..how much lakh donation for admission to medical college to NON govt.Medical colleges in Pakistan]
What happened? Has the Indian Medical Council again de-recognized your MBBS?
Do you want to do MBBS in Urdu?
Shouldn`t you study it in Arabic? Then you can talk about all the great Islamic anatomists of the 9th century AD.
Couldn`t your son or daughter get into a med school in the US and India won`t let them in?
#34 Posted by Ansari on January 11, 2002 4:27:35 am
Anny;
I`ve passed on your address to Bina. She`ll be contacting you shortly and, about the review, you can axe her yourself.
Deepika;
Thanks for the update on semipreciousme. About the donation to private medical schools; I wouldn`t know the going rate these days. Shall I ask around?
Aamir
I`ve passed on your address to Bina. She`ll be contacting you shortly and, about the review, you can axe her yourself.
Deepika;
Thanks for the update on semipreciousme. About the donation to private medical schools; I wouldn`t know the going rate these days. Shall I ask around?
Aamir
#33 Posted by Deepika on January 11, 2002 12:50:01 am
#: 28
Ansari
semipreciousme;
``….aamir ansari and Aamir are two totally different entities…the former’s a very nice person, while the latter is part of the hydra ensemble. . .``
Shukriya sahab. Aur sunaiyay, aap kaisay hain? :o
Ansari
It should be shukriya SAHIBA ....She is she or at least that what she acts as .......Kaise Haine NOT kaisay Hain....just helping
Btw ..how much lakh donation for admission to medical college to NON govt.Medical colleges in Pakistan
Ansari
semipreciousme;
``….aamir ansari and Aamir are two totally different entities…the former’s a very nice person, while the latter is part of the hydra ensemble. . .``
Shukriya sahab. Aur sunaiyay, aap kaisay hain? :o
Ansari
It should be shukriya SAHIBA ....She is she or at least that what she acts as .......Kaise Haine NOT kaisay Hain....just helping
Btw ..how much lakh donation for admission to medical college to NON govt.Medical colleges in Pakistan
#32 Posted by soysauce on January 10, 2002 9:23:29 pm
saminashah
``Who wrote the second poem? Plus I am going to get the first work
you posted; really lovely...do you write?``
All but the very first one was by Bhartihari.
Do i write? Technical articles & inane interacts.
``Who wrote the second poem? Plus I am going to get the first work
you posted; really lovely...do you write?``
All but the very first one was by Bhartihari.
Do i write? Technical articles & inane interacts.
#31 Posted by anNy on January 10, 2002 5:00:19 pm
interested? terribly so...im at `annythedud@yahoo.com`...while ure at it, pls also ask bina if i may attempt a review of her book for chowk
#30 Posted by saminashah on January 10, 2002 5:00:19 pm
Aamir Ansari,
re: Collins
A compliment...plus a bit of gentle humor at the expense of those of us who participate in them. I myself am guilty of ``I like the line...``. Btw, there is an entire language of workshop jargon. Permit me to share some of the comments uttered at my last poets group meeting:
``This is nice work`` (me)
``What am I getting from this poem is that...is am I right?``
``Mark Doty told us in a class that after you have written the poem, you must chop off the last line. I`d lose the last three in this one...``
``This doesn`t work for me, because...``
``So, how do YOU feel about your poem?``
``I`m hearing that the sound of water would be better than my writing the phrase ``the sound of water``
``Can you stop talking about that &54@ * trip to the Sufi monastery in Algeria?! We`re here to talk about our poems!``
``I thought the line blahblahblah was particularly successful, but the line yaddayaddayadda really takes me out of the poem`` (``Takes me out`` is a hot, non confrontational phrase over here)
etc. Ahhh, constructive criticism...Looking forward to your next one...
re: Collins
A compliment...plus a bit of gentle humor at the expense of those of us who participate in them. I myself am guilty of ``I like the line...``. Btw, there is an entire language of workshop jargon. Permit me to share some of the comments uttered at my last poets group meeting:
``This is nice work`` (me)
``What am I getting from this poem is that...is am I right?``
``Mark Doty told us in a class that after you have written the poem, you must chop off the last line. I`d lose the last three in this one...``
``This doesn`t work for me, because...``
``So, how do YOU feel about your poem?``
``I`m hearing that the sound of water would be better than my writing the phrase ``the sound of water``
``Can you stop talking about that &54@ * trip to the Sufi monastery in Algeria?! We`re here to talk about our poems!``
``I thought the line blahblahblah was particularly successful, but the line yaddayaddayadda really takes me out of the poem`` (``Takes me out`` is a hot, non confrontational phrase over here)
etc. Ahhh, constructive criticism...Looking forward to your next one...
#29 Posted by Ansari on January 10, 2002 5:00:19 pm
semipreciousme;
``….aamir ansari and Aamir are two totally different entities…the former’s a very nice person, while the latter is part of the hydra ensemble. . .``
Shukriya sahab. Aur sunaiyay, aap kaisay hain? :o)
Aamir Ansari
``….aamir ansari and Aamir are two totally different entities…the former’s a very nice person, while the latter is part of the hydra ensemble. . .``
Shukriya sahab. Aur sunaiyay, aap kaisay hain? :o)
Aamir Ansari
#28 Posted by Ansari on January 10, 2002 5:00:19 pm
As I`ve said elsewhere, on another Board, it`s not often you see poetry being shared at the Chowk. Here`s my contribution to the cause.
Soup
I saw a famous man eating soup.
I say he was lifting a fat broth
Into his mouth with a spoon.
His name was in the newspapers that day
Spelled out in tall black headlines
And thousands of people were talking about him.
When I saw him,
He sat bending his head over a plate
Putting soup in his mouth with a spoon.
-- Carl Sandburg
I like this poem for its brutal honesty and the way it plainly reduces a popular icon with its simple words. This poem showed me how poetry is an inclusive art-form, a communal activity that aims to remove, not add to, the confusion in this world.
Aamir
Soup
I saw a famous man eating soup.
I say he was lifting a fat broth
Into his mouth with a spoon.
His name was in the newspapers that day
Spelled out in tall black headlines
And thousands of people were talking about him.
When I saw him,
He sat bending his head over a plate
Putting soup in his mouth with a spoon.
-- Carl Sandburg
I like this poem for its brutal honesty and the way it plainly reduces a popular icon with its simple words. This poem showed me how poetry is an inclusive art-form, a communal activity that aims to remove, not add to, the confusion in this world.
Aamir
#27 Posted by Ansari on January 10, 2002 11:30:17 am
Considering the extraordinary fact that there are two people on this board who enjoy the same name, ie Aamir, could I please request all those referring to me to use my full name.
Ras Siddiqui, Rsaxena, Kiran, Anoop Bhatt, Anny; Thank you for your kind words and the encouragement. These are harsh times and a gentle word goes a long way. But you already know that ;)
Anny;
Bina Shah was thinking about starting a writer`s group in Karachi, y`know, for tossing ideas (and ashtrays) around, ripping each other apart, constructive criticism and all that. You innarested?
Soysauce;
No hard feelings, mate. Thanks for the real poetry. We start out walking, then learn to run.
Saminashah;
Thank you for sharing Billy Collins` poem. It was really really good. Also not sure whether/how it applied to mine in the way of criticism or compliment. (You forget that in the real world I`m just another dumb medical student, who probably wouldn`t know a lullaby from a limerick if it came and rhymed him till his eyes went all goggly.) Thank you though.
Scout;
uh oh
Regards all,
Aamir
Ras Siddiqui, Rsaxena, Kiran, Anoop Bhatt, Anny; Thank you for your kind words and the encouragement. These are harsh times and a gentle word goes a long way. But you already know that ;)
Anny;
Bina Shah was thinking about starting a writer`s group in Karachi, y`know, for tossing ideas (and ashtrays) around, ripping each other apart, constructive criticism and all that. You innarested?
Soysauce;
No hard feelings, mate. Thanks for the real poetry. We start out walking, then learn to run.
Saminashah;
Thank you for sharing Billy Collins` poem. It was really really good. Also not sure whether/how it applied to mine in the way of criticism or compliment. (You forget that in the real world I`m just another dumb medical student, who probably wouldn`t know a lullaby from a limerick if it came and rhymed him till his eyes went all goggly.) Thank you though.
Scout;
uh oh
Regards all,
Aamir
#26 Posted by saminashah on January 10, 2002 11:06:58 am
Soysauce
Who wrote the second poem? Plus I am going to get the first work you posted; really lovely...do you write?
semiprecious
Sometimes, I can locate my sense of humor...
Who wrote the second poem? Plus I am going to get the first work you posted; really lovely...do you write?
semiprecious
Sometimes, I can locate my sense of humor...
#25 Posted by semipreciousme on January 10, 2002 9:03:02 am
soundmeister
“BTW, is Aamir Ansari the same as AAmir? Chota confused here....”
….aamir ansari and Aamir are two totally different entities…the former’s a very nice person, while the latter is part of the hydra ensemble, and makes it his/her/its duty to….well…do nothing…except harass people…and spout a new nick every day or so…..(and unashamedly pass off davies’ work as his/her/its own….)
samina:
...tongue-in-cheek, my ...
“BTW, is Aamir Ansari the same as AAmir? Chota confused here....”
….aamir ansari and Aamir are two totally different entities…the former’s a very nice person, while the latter is part of the hydra ensemble, and makes it his/her/its duty to….well…do nothing…except harass people…and spout a new nick every day or so…..(and unashamedly pass off davies’ work as his/her/its own….)
samina:
...tongue-in-cheek, my ...
#24 Posted by Lajwanti on January 10, 2002 2:03:23 am
Reply Tahmed #: 14
“As for the poet: Wm. Henry Davies (1871-1940) is to be considered as the poet of the tramps. Davies came to America from Great Britain and lived the life of a vagabond. One day, as the result of jumping a train, he lost one of his legs... This much is known about him and can be checked in any book about the poet. What the public does not know is that his detached leg was used by scientists to make a clone, which they named Aamir. The scientists then grew more clones from the leg tissue, which they named Fatimah, Bhardwaj, Sadhna, and so on. These clones were then sent to chowk to confuse newcomers, some of whom would simultaneously flirt with clone Fatimah while exchanging insults with clone Bhardwaj. Some clones specialized in harassing females who wondered if he did not have a mother or sisters at home (of course he did not, being a clone). One clone turned out as a sheep rather than as a chowk nick, and they named it Dolly and she spoke with a Scottish accent.”
Happy Made! Happy Made!
“As for the poet: Wm. Henry Davies (1871-1940) is to be considered as the poet of the tramps. Davies came to America from Great Britain and lived the life of a vagabond. One day, as the result of jumping a train, he lost one of his legs... This much is known about him and can be checked in any book about the poet. What the public does not know is that his detached leg was used by scientists to make a clone, which they named Aamir. The scientists then grew more clones from the leg tissue, which they named Fatimah, Bhardwaj, Sadhna, and so on. These clones were then sent to chowk to confuse newcomers, some of whom would simultaneously flirt with clone Fatimah while exchanging insults with clone Bhardwaj. Some clones specialized in harassing females who wondered if he did not have a mother or sisters at home (of course he did not, being a clone). One clone turned out as a sheep rather than as a chowk nick, and they named it Dolly and she spoke with a Scottish accent.”
Happy Made! Happy Made!
#23 Posted by Lajwanti on January 10, 2002 2:03:23 am
Reply Saminashah # 18
“We have some unwitting poetry here: ``Quiet obvious``= not so obvious? What chiputzah to suggest that snopy was trying to pass off that Davies poem as his own! :)”
Listen Madame, plagiarism is art form, ok? We can all learn lot from this person. Urstruly Saheb also says. So don`t pick on him for nothing, ok? Only I don`t like his name, he must be Hindian - no Muslim would use dog`s name like this. But even if he is Hindian, still, he is good at copying, ok, and we should respect him for this.
“We have some unwitting poetry here: ``Quiet obvious``= not so obvious? What chiputzah to suggest that snopy was trying to pass off that Davies poem as his own! :)”
Listen Madame, plagiarism is art form, ok? We can all learn lot from this person. Urstruly Saheb also says. So don`t pick on him for nothing, ok? Only I don`t like his name, he must be Hindian - no Muslim would use dog`s name like this. But even if he is Hindian, still, he is good at copying, ok, and we should respect him for this.
#22 Posted by Lajwanti on January 10, 2002 2:03:23 am
Reply Shah # 20
“QUIET = SILENCE
QUITE = SOME”
And QUIT = ?
(this is hint)
“IF MY 3RD LANGUAGE =YOUR FIRST LANGUAGE .I AM NOT GOING TO EVEN ASK YOU IN URDU ANY MORE ``ORHNI`` “
(language is virus from outer space.)
“QUIET = SILENCE
QUITE = SOME”
And QUIT = ?
(this is hint)
“IF MY 3RD LANGUAGE =YOUR FIRST LANGUAGE .I AM NOT GOING TO EVEN ASK YOU IN URDU ANY MORE ``ORHNI`` “
(language is virus from outer space.)
#21 Posted by Shah on January 9, 2002 8:01:40 pm
=== Interact Filtered ===
view this users filtered interacts
view this users filtered interacts
#20 Posted by soysauce on January 9, 2002 8:01:40 pm
#17 saminashah
Oh, i see. You were confused by the ending of the name. The poet was a man.
Oh, i see. You were confused by the ending of the name. The poet was a man.
#19 Posted by saminashah on January 9, 2002 3:40:31 pm
Semiprecious,
We have some unwitting poetry here: ``Quiet obvious``= not so obvious? What chiputzah to suggest that snopy was trying to pass off that Davies poem as his own! :)
My own typo of house: housu...a Korean pronunciation? I`ll look in the archives for a poem I wrote called The Wasteland...cough...maybe I`ll post it...Here are the first two lines
Let us go then, you and I
When the evening is spread out against the sky...
We have some unwitting poetry here: ``Quiet obvious``= not so obvious? What chiputzah to suggest that snopy was trying to pass off that Davies poem as his own! :)
My own typo of house: housu...a Korean pronunciation? I`ll look in the archives for a poem I wrote called The Wasteland...cough...maybe I`ll post it...Here are the first two lines
Let us go then, you and I
When the evening is spread out against the sky...
#18 Posted by saminashah on January 9, 2002 3:40:31 pm
tahmed
very funny...
soysauce
interesting except...is the narrator a female or a male? And what do you make of it?
very funny...
soysauce
interesting except...is the narrator a female or a male? And what do you make of it?
#17 Posted by tahmed321 on January 9, 2002 1:31:55 pm
Here is the complete poem by Mirza AAmir alias Henry Davies:
LEISURE
What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.
No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.
No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.
No time to turn at Beauty`s glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.
No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.
A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
By Wm. Henry Davies.
As for the poet: Wm. Henry Davies (1871-1940) is to be considered as the poet of the tramps. Davies came to America from Great Britain and lived the life of a vagabond. One day, as the result of jumping a train, he lost one of his legs... This much is known about him and can be checked in any book about the poet. What the public does not know is that his detached leg was used by scientists to make a clone, which they named Aamir. The scientists then grew more clones from the leg tissue, which they named Fatimah, Bhardwaj, Sadhna, and so on. These clones were then sent to chowk to confuse newcomers, some of whom would simultaneously flirt with clone Fatimah while exchanging insults with clone Bhardwaj. Some clones specialized in harassing females who wondered if he did not have a mother or sisters at home (of course he did not, being a clone). One clone turned out as a sheep rather than as a chowk nick, and they named it Dolly and she spoke with a Scottish accent.
LEISURE
What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.
No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.
No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.
No time to turn at Beauty`s glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.
No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.
A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
By Wm. Henry Davies.
As for the poet: Wm. Henry Davies (1871-1940) is to be considered as the poet of the tramps. Davies came to America from Great Britain and lived the life of a vagabond. One day, as the result of jumping a train, he lost one of his legs... This much is known about him and can be checked in any book about the poet. What the public does not know is that his detached leg was used by scientists to make a clone, which they named Aamir. The scientists then grew more clones from the leg tissue, which they named Fatimah, Bhardwaj, Sadhna, and so on. These clones were then sent to chowk to confuse newcomers, some of whom would simultaneously flirt with clone Fatimah while exchanging insults with clone Bhardwaj. Some clones specialized in harassing females who wondered if he did not have a mother or sisters at home (of course he did not, being a clone). One clone turned out as a sheep rather than as a chowk nick, and they named it Dolly and she spoke with a Scottish accent.
#16 Posted by soysauce on January 9, 2002 1:31:55 pm
#12 saminashah
The poem is from the book ``Bhartrihari and Bilhana: The hermit and the love-thief`` - translated from the sanskrit.
To my modern mind, the quality of the verses (more correctly, of the translated verses) varies greatly.
Here`s another verse:
When I knew but a little, I was blinded by pride,
as an elephant is by rut;
with my mind so stained I believed,
``I am a sage.``
But slowly I learned from the presence of men
wise in myriad of ways;
my pride, like fever, was subdued and I knew,
``I am a fool.``
Here`s a love poem:
A melodiuos song,
a graceful form,
a sweet draught
a heady fragrance,
then the touch of her breasts.
I whirl in sensations
which veil what is real.
I fall deceived by senses
cunning in seduction`s art.
The poem is from the book ``Bhartrihari and Bilhana: The hermit and the love-thief`` - translated from the sanskrit.
To my modern mind, the quality of the verses (more correctly, of the translated verses) varies greatly.
Here`s another verse:
When I knew but a little, I was blinded by pride,
as an elephant is by rut;
with my mind so stained I believed,
``I am a sage.``
But slowly I learned from the presence of men
wise in myriad of ways;
my pride, like fever, was subdued and I knew,
``I am a fool.``
Here`s a love poem:
A melodiuos song,
a graceful form,
a sweet draught
a heady fragrance,
then the touch of her breasts.
I whirl in sensations
which veil what is real.
I fall deceived by senses
cunning in seduction`s art.
#15 Posted by AAmir on January 9, 2002 1:31:55 pm
=== Interact Filtered ===
view this users filtered interacts
view this users filtered interacts
#14 Posted by scout on January 9, 2002 11:44:08 am
soysauce #6,
what happened to you? :)
stop reading poetry and everything will be just fine....really
by the way, thanks Chowk editors for failing to put up my post to this poem, i didn`t even have any swear words in it...
what happened to you? :)
stop reading poetry and everything will be just fine....really
by the way, thanks Chowk editors for failing to put up my post to this poem, i didn`t even have any swear words in it...
#13 Posted by saminashah on January 9, 2002 11:44:08 am
Soysauce
Great stuff you posted! Can you post the full text of the second work?
Here`s another one:
A Letter TO Lady T`ao Ch`iu
To the tune ``Walking through the Sedges``
All alone with my shadow,
I whisper and murmur to it,
And write strange characters
In the air, like Yin Hao.
It is not sickness, nor wine,
Nor sorrow for those who are gone,
Like Li Ch`ing-chao, that causes
A whole city of anxiety
To rise in my heart
There is no one here I can speak to
Who can understand me
My hopes and visions are greater
Than those of the men around me,
But the chance of our survival is too narrow.
What good is the heart of a hero
Inside my dress?
My perilous fate moves according to plan. I ask heaven
Did the heroines of the past
Encounter envy like this?
-Ch`iu Chin
also soysauce, Aamir Ansari, Kiran, Semiprecious, Rsax, Scout, here`s a poem by Billy Collins, (local boy made good; Poet Laureate of the USA, prof. at my English Dept) that I think is hilarious, because quite frankly, its true...enjoy..
Workshop
I might as well begin by saying how much I like the title.
It gets me right away because I`m in a workshop now
so immediately the poem has my attention,
like the ancient mariner grabbing me by the sleeve.
And I like the first couple of stanzas,
the way they establish this mode of self-pointing
that runs through the whole poem
and tells us that words are food thrown down
on the ground for other words to eat.
I can almost taste the tail of the snake
in its own mouth,
if you know what I mean.
But what I`m not sure about is the voice
which sounds in places very casual, very blue jeans,
but other times seems standoffish,
professorial in the worst sense of the word
like the poem is blowing pipe smoke in my face.
But maybe that`s just what it wants to do.
What I did find engaging were the middle stanzas,
especially the fourth one.
I like the image of clouds flying like lozenges
which gives me a very clear picture.
And I really like how this drawbridge operator
just appears out of the blue
with his feet up on the iron railing
and his fishing pole jigging-I like jigging-
a hook in the slow industrial canal below.
I love slow industrial canal below. All those ``l`s``.
Maybe its just me,
but the next stanza is where I start to have a problem.
I mean how can the evening bump into the stars?
And what`s an obbligato of snow?
Also, I roam the decaffeinated streets.
At that point I`m lost. I need help.
The other thing that throws me off,
and maybe this is just me,
is the way the scene keeps shifting around.
First, we`re in this big aerodrome
and the speaker is inspecting a row of dirigibles,
which makes me think this could be a dream.
Then he takes us into his garden,
the part with the dahlias and the coiling hose,
though that`s nice, the coiling hose,
but then I`m not sure where we`re supposed to be.
The rain and the mint green light,
that makes it feel outdoors, but what about this wallpaper?
Or is it a kind of indoor cememtary?
There`s something about death going on here.
In fact, I start to wonder if what we have here
is really two poems, or three, or four
or possibly none.
But then there`s that last stanza, my favorite.
This is where the poem wins me back,
especially the lines spoken in the voice of the mouse.
I mean we`ve all seen these images in cartoons before,
but I still love the details he uses
when he`s describing where he lives.
The perfect little arch of an entrance in the baseboard,
the bed made out of a curled back sardine can,
the spool of thread for a table.
I start thinking about how hard the mouse had to work
night afer night collecting all these things
while the people in hosue were fast asleep,
and that gives me a very strong feeling,
a very powerful sense of something.
But I don`t know if anyone else was feeling that.
Maybe that was just me.
Maybe that`s just the way I read it.
Great stuff you posted! Can you post the full text of the second work?
Here`s another one:
A Letter TO Lady T`ao Ch`iu
To the tune ``Walking through the Sedges``
All alone with my shadow,
I whisper and murmur to it,
And write strange characters
In the air, like Yin Hao.
It is not sickness, nor wine,
Nor sorrow for those who are gone,
Like Li Ch`ing-chao, that causes
A whole city of anxiety
To rise in my heart
There is no one here I can speak to
Who can understand me
My hopes and visions are greater
Than those of the men around me,
But the chance of our survival is too narrow.
What good is the heart of a hero
Inside my dress?
My perilous fate moves according to plan. I ask heaven
Did the heroines of the past
Encounter envy like this?
-Ch`iu Chin
also soysauce, Aamir Ansari, Kiran, Semiprecious, Rsax, Scout, here`s a poem by Billy Collins, (local boy made good; Poet Laureate of the USA, prof. at my English Dept) that I think is hilarious, because quite frankly, its true...enjoy..
Workshop
I might as well begin by saying how much I like the title.
It gets me right away because I`m in a workshop now
so immediately the poem has my attention,
like the ancient mariner grabbing me by the sleeve.
And I like the first couple of stanzas,
the way they establish this mode of self-pointing
that runs through the whole poem
and tells us that words are food thrown down
on the ground for other words to eat.
I can almost taste the tail of the snake
in its own mouth,
if you know what I mean.
But what I`m not sure about is the voice
which sounds in places very casual, very blue jeans,
but other times seems standoffish,
professorial in the worst sense of the word
like the poem is blowing pipe smoke in my face.
But maybe that`s just what it wants to do.
What I did find engaging were the middle stanzas,
especially the fourth one.
I like the image of clouds flying like lozenges
which gives me a very clear picture.
And I really like how this drawbridge operator
just appears out of the blue
with his feet up on the iron railing
and his fishing pole jigging-I like jigging-
a hook in the slow industrial canal below.
I love slow industrial canal below. All those ``l`s``.
Maybe its just me,
but the next stanza is where I start to have a problem.
I mean how can the evening bump into the stars?
And what`s an obbligato of snow?
Also, I roam the decaffeinated streets.
At that point I`m lost. I need help.
The other thing that throws me off,
and maybe this is just me,
is the way the scene keeps shifting around.
First, we`re in this big aerodrome
and the speaker is inspecting a row of dirigibles,
which makes me think this could be a dream.
Then he takes us into his garden,
the part with the dahlias and the coiling hose,
though that`s nice, the coiling hose,
but then I`m not sure where we`re supposed to be.
The rain and the mint green light,
that makes it feel outdoors, but what about this wallpaper?
Or is it a kind of indoor cememtary?
There`s something about death going on here.
In fact, I start to wonder if what we have here
is really two poems, or three, or four
or possibly none.
But then there`s that last stanza, my favorite.
This is where the poem wins me back,
especially the lines spoken in the voice of the mouse.
I mean we`ve all seen these images in cartoons before,
but I still love the details he uses
when he`s describing where he lives.
The perfect little arch of an entrance in the baseboard,
the bed made out of a curled back sardine can,
the spool of thread for a table.
I start thinking about how hard the mouse had to work
night afer night collecting all these things
while the people in hosue were fast asleep,
and that gives me a very strong feeling,
a very powerful sense of something.
But I don`t know if anyone else was feeling that.
Maybe that was just me.
Maybe that`s just the way I read it.
#11 Posted by soundmeister on January 9, 2002 4:12:33 am
AAmir #1:
Bloody plagiarist trying to pass off WH Davies` work as your own kya?
BTW, is Aamir Ansari the same as AAmir? Chota confused here....
SM
Bloody plagiarist trying to pass off WH Davies` work as your own kya?
BTW, is Aamir Ansari the same as AAmir? Chota confused here....
SM
#9 Posted by semipreciousme on January 9, 2002 4:12:33 am
FOR MOST PEOPLE)
AAmir
``Did you catch the poem i wrote some time ago
What is this life so full of Care
When we have no time to stand & stare
No ......? Let me see if i can dig it up from the archive .”
...that you wrote??!?!?….gimme a break….i’m sure william davies must be whirling in his grave right now…
AAmir
``Did you catch the poem i wrote some time ago
What is this life so full of Care
When we have no time to stand & stare
No ......? Let me see if i can dig it up from the archive .”
...that you wrote??!?!?….gimme a break….i’m sure william davies must be whirling in his grave right now…
#8 Posted by soysauce on January 9, 2002 12:17:30 am
OK dude, i was in a funny mood. Sorry if i offended you with my flippant comments. As penance, here`s something from Stanley Kunitz (i don`t know why but it touches something deep down inside me):
An Old Cracked Tune
My name is Solomon Levi,
the desert is my home,
my mother`s breast was thorny,
and father I had none.
The sands whispered, Be separate,
the stones taught me, Be hard.
I dance for the joy of surviving,
on the edge of the road.
And some from Bhartrihari (5th c. CE):
(Barbara Stoler Miller`s translation)
My girl, you perform a singular feat
with the archer`s bow.
You pierce hearts without arrows,
with only the bow-string of beauty.
An Old Cracked Tune
My name is Solomon Levi,
the desert is my home,
my mother`s breast was thorny,
and father I had none.
The sands whispered, Be separate,
the stones taught me, Be hard.
I dance for the joy of surviving,
on the edge of the road.
And some from Bhartrihari (5th c. CE):
(Barbara Stoler Miller`s translation)
My girl, you perform a singular feat
with the archer`s bow.
You pierce hearts without arrows,
with only the bow-string of beauty.
#7 Posted by soysauce on January 8, 2002 9:42:58 pm
Interesting structure. Must be the latest breakthrough in poetry writing. I think you`re going to make a convert out of Scout.
Let me try that again.
Interesting structure..
Must be the latest
breakthrough in poetry writing..
I think you`re going to
make a convert out of Scout
There! You have a brand new poem now and, as a bonus, i have immortalized Scout and she`ll probably write a few herself..
Remember now, rhyme is out so are rhythm and a tight structure. This is post-post-modern poetry. Congrats and best of luck.
Let me try that again.
Interesting structure..
Must be the latest
breakthrough in poetry writing..
I think you`re going to
make a convert out of Scout
There! You have a brand new poem now and, as a bonus, i have immortalized Scout and she`ll probably write a few herself..
Remember now, rhyme is out so are rhythm and a tight structure. This is post-post-modern poetry. Congrats and best of luck.
#6 Posted by Kiran- on January 8, 2002 7:39:55 pm
Excellent Mr. Ansari!
I can never get over my surprise when people tell me, they don`t understand and/or dislike poetry. True, everyone has their own opinion, but poetry is life, and it`s rather amazing when one doesn`t want to comprehend life. Oh well...your work and its tangible imagery might help some.
Regards,
Kiran
I can never get over my surprise when people tell me, they don`t understand and/or dislike poetry. True, everyone has their own opinion, but poetry is life, and it`s rather amazing when one doesn`t want to comprehend life. Oh well...your work and its tangible imagery might help some.
Regards,
Kiran
#5 Posted by Faisals on January 8, 2002 7:39:55 pm
``Most people, unlike some people...`` did you even read this rubbish. Do you read poetry?
Most people undermine the art of poetry...
``Till we be rotten, kan we not be rypen-`` Chaucer
Most people undermine the art of poetry...
``Till we be rotten, kan we not be rypen-`` Chaucer
#4 Posted by Kiran- on January 8, 2002 7:39:55 pm
Excellent Mr. Ansari!
I can never get over my surprise when people tell me, they don`t understand and/or dislike poetry. True, everyone has their own opinion, but poetry is life, and it`s rather amazing when one doesn`t want to comprehend life. Oh well...your work and its tangible imagery might help some.
Regards,
Kiran
I can never get over my surprise when people tell me, they don`t understand and/or dislike poetry. True, everyone has their own opinion, but poetry is life, and it`s rather amazing when one doesn`t want to comprehend life. Oh well...your work and its tangible imagery might help some.
Regards,
Kiran
#2 Posted by Ras Siddiqui on January 8, 2002 10:49:25 am
Good one here. A lesson certainly to be learned.
Ras
#1 Posted by AAmir on January 8, 2002 12:24:08 am
=== Interact Filtered ===
view this users filtered interacts
view this users filtered interacts
Interact Index
Latest Interacts
- masadi: HP writes "where the... There is no ‘honour’
- ahmedmadani: Can anybody explain why... US Commando Strike in
- masadi: HP writes "Lets just... There is no ‘honour’
- masadi: HP writes "Land Reforms... There is no ‘honour’
- anil: Masadi sahib: Your niceties are... Why Zardari Should Be
- HP: Asadi, Lets just forget the... There is no ‘honour’
- CreateAlpha: And tahmed, the FED... US Commando Strike in
- HP: Asadi, I am not... There is no ‘honour’
