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Subject: "Share ... One Of *YOUR* Favorite Poems" Previous topic | Next topic
PhotoSynthesis
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16101 posts
Tue Jul-01-08 07:51 PM

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"Share ... One Of *YOUR* Favorite Poems"


          

Here's mine:


IF


If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you
But make allowance for their doubting too.

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise...

If you can dream -- and not make dreams your master,
If you can think -- and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;

If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the "Will" which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much,

If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son!


--Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936)


I ain't a Man -- but I understand -- the lesson in ^this^ flow is for EVERYONE! --



~Next~




A guitar string vibrating, a measure of my soul, a breech in the silence --
I've always felt like words come through me & I write them down... they have no master --- gsquared ♥

http://www.soundclick.com/bands/2/photosynthesis_music.htm

  

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Topic Outline
Subject Author Message Date ID
RE: Share ... One Of *YOUR* Favorite Poems
Jul 02nd 2008
1
I Love It!!!
Jul 02nd 2008
4
Allen Ginsberg: Howl
Jul 02nd 2008
2
Geeeezusssss Kryst ...
Jul 02nd 2008
5
RE: Share ... One Of *YOUR* Favorite Poems
Jul 02nd 2008
3
It's by Franz Wright. I forget what it's called, but it's so great.
Jul 03rd 2008
6
Request ...
Jul 03rd 2008
7
Sylvia Plath
Jul 04th 2008
8
Sylvia Plath -- *No Doubt*
Jul 06th 2008
11
      yeah she committed suicide
Jul 06th 2008
12
RE: Share ... One Of *YOUR* Favorite Poems
Jul 05th 2008
9
CLASSIC ...
Jul 06th 2008
13
RE: CLASSIC ...
Aug 02nd 2008
20
RE: Share ... One Of *YOUR* Favorite Poems
Aug 02nd 2008
19
Suicide Letter (The Original)
Jul 06th 2008
10
RE: Suicide Letter (The Original)
Jul 06th 2008
14
      RE: Suicide Letter (The Original)
Jul 07th 2008
15
RE: Share ... One Of *YOUR* Favorite Poems
Jul 09th 2008
16
RE: Share ... One Of *YOUR* Favorite Poems
Jul 12th 2008
17
^up^
Aug 02nd 2008
18
RE: Share ... One Of *YOUR* Favorite Poems
Aug 02nd 2008
21
RE: Share ... One Of *YOUR* Favorite Poems
Aug 05th 2008
22
Aug 07th 2008
23
exactly, one of my faves by her too... nm
Sep 14th 2008
31
RE: Share ... One Of *YOUR* Favorite Poems
Aug 07th 2008
24
ALI BOOMBYE YEA
Sep 06th 2008
25
RE: Share ... One Of *YOUR* Favorite Poems
Sep 07th 2008
26
i used that in one of my mental health groups
Sep 10th 2008
27
hard to pick just one...but
Sep 10th 2008
28
Amiri Baraka
Sep 11th 2008
29
Same Cell by Aulelei Love (aka paperdollpoet)
Sep 14th 2008
30
Mine
Sep 17th 2008
32

Jahlovall3305
Member since Sep 25th 2007
73 posts
Wed Jul-02-08 01:05 AM

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1. "RE: Share ... One Of *YOUR* Favorite Poems"
In response to Reply # 0


  

          



Here's Mine/SB

One day my soul just opened up
and things started happenin'
things I can't quite explain
I mean
I cried and cried like never before
I cried tears of ten thousand mothers
I couldn't even feel anything because
I cried 'til I was numb.

One day my soul just opened up
I felt this overwhelming pride
what I was proud of
only God knows!
Like the pride of a hundred thousand fathers
basking in the glory of their newborns sons
I was grinnin' from ear to ear!

One day my soul just opened up
I started laughing
and I laughed for what seemed like forever
wasn't nothing' particularly funny goin'on
but I laughed anyhow
I laughed the joy of a million children playin'
in the mud
I laughed 'til my sides ached
Oh God! It felt so good!

One day, my soul just opened up
There were revelations, annihilations, and resolutions
feelings of doubt and betrayal, vengeance and forgiveness
memories of things I'd seen and done before
of places I'd been, although I didn't know when
there were lives I'd lived
people I'd loved
battles I'd fought
victories I'd won
and wars I'd lost.

One day, my soul just opened up
and out poured all the things
I'd been hiding
and denying
and living through
that had just happened moments before.

One day, my soul just opened up and I decided
I was good and ready!
I was good and ready
to surrender
my life
to God.

So, with my soul wide open,
I sat down
wrote Her a note
and told her so.

Gemmia L. Vanzant
The daughter of Iyanla Vanzant

Pain shared is Pain lessened. I'm right where I suppose to be.Right here, Right now.
As soon as healing takes place, go out and heal somebody else. Maya Angelou
No man is free until all men are free.

Jah*lov*all of YOU>>>>

  

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PhotoSynthesis
Charter member
16101 posts
Wed Jul-02-08 06:06 PM

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4. "I Love It!!!"
In response to Reply # 1


          

>So, with my soul wide open,
>I sat down
>wrote Her a note
>and told her so.

It speaks to ALL of us really -- but us "females" prolly feel it even moreso! --

Our souls really do (((OPEN UP/AND CLOSE UP))) -- depending on what's going on in our lives *at the time* ...


~Thank U 4 This~





A guitar string vibrating, a measure of my soul, a breech in the silence --
I've always felt like words come through me & I write them down... they have no master --- gsquared ♥

http://www.soundclick.com/bands/2/photosynthesis_music.htm

  

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gsquared
Member since Oct 26th 2002
3647 posts
Wed Jul-02-08 03:47 AM

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2. "Allen Ginsberg: Howl"
In response to Reply # 0


          

Howl
For Carl Solomon

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving
hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry
fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the
starry dynamo in the machinery of night,
who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the
supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of
cities contemplating jazz,
who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels
staggering on tenement roofs illuminated,
who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes hallucinating Arkan-
sas and Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of war,
who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene odes
on the windows of the skull,
who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burning their money in
wastebaskets and listening to the Terror through the wall,
who got busted in their pubic beards returning through Laredo with a belt
of marijuana for New York,
who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in Paradise Alley, death, or
purgatoried their torsos night after night
with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, alcohol and cock and
endless balls,
incomparable blind streets of shuddering cloud and lightning in the mind
leaping toward poles of Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the mo-
tionless world of Time between,
Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery dawns, wine drunk-
enness over the rooftops, storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon
blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree vibrations in the roaring
winter dusks of Brooklyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light of
mind,
who chained themselves to subways for the endless ride from Battery to holy
Bronx on benzedrine until the noise of wheels and children brought
them down shuddering mouth-wracked and battered bleak of brain
all drained of brilliance in the drear light of Zoo,
who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford's floated out and sat
through the stale beer afternoon in desolate Fugazzi's, listening to the
crack of doom on the hydrogen jukebox,
who talked continuously seventy hours from park to pad to bar to Bellevue
to museum to the Brooklyn Bridge,
a lost battalion of platonic conversationalists jumping down the stoops off fire
escapes off windowsills of Empire State out of the moon,
yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts and memories and
anecdotes and eyeball kicks and shocks of hospitals and jails and wars,
whole intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days and nights with
brilliant eyes, meat for the Synagogue cast on the pavement,
who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a trail of ambiguous
picture postcards of Atlantic City Hall,
suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grindings and migraines of
China under junk-withdrawal in Newark's bleak furnished room,
who wandered around and around at midnight in the railroad yard wonder-
ing where to go, and went, leaving no broken hearts,
who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing through snow toward
lonesome farms in grandfather night,
who studied Plotinus Poe St. John of the Cross telepathy and bop kabbalah
because the cosmos instinctively vibrated at their feet in Kansas,
who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking visionary indian angels
who were visionary indian angels,
who thought they were only mad when Baltimore gleamed in supernatural
ecstasy,
who jumped in limousines with the Chinaman of Oklahoma on the impulse
of winter midnight streetlight smalltown rain,
who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston seeking jazz or sex or
soup, and followed the brilliant Spaniard to converse about America
and Eternity, a hopeless task, and so took ship to Africa,
who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving behind nothing but
the shadow of dungarees and the lava and ash of poetry scattered in
fireplace Chicago,
who reappeared on the West Coast investigating the FBI in beards and shorts
with big pacifist eyes sexy in their dark skin passing out incompre-
hensible leaflets,
who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting the narcotic tobacco haze
of Capitalism,
who distributed Supercommunist pamphlets in Union Square weeping and
undressing while the sirens of Los Alamos wailed them down, and
wailed down Wall, and the Staten Island ferry also wailed,
who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked and trembling before
the machinery of other skeletons,
who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight in policecars for
committing no crime but their own wild cooking pederasty and
intoxication,
who howled on their knees in the subway and were dragged off the roof
waving genitals and manuscripts,
who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists, and
screamed with joy,
who blew and were blown by those human seraphim, the sailors, caresses of
Atlantic and Caribbean love,
who balled in the morning in the evenings in rosegardens and the grass of
public parks and cemeteries scattering their semen freely to whom-
ever come who may,
who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up with a sob behind
a partition in a Turkish Bath when the blond & naked angel came to
pierce them with a sword,
who lost their loveboys to the three old shrews of fate the one eyed shrew
of the heterosexual dollar the one eyed shrew that winks out of the
womb and the one eyed shrew that does nothing but sit on her ass
and snip the intellectual golden threads of the craftsman's loom.
who copulated ecstatic and insatiate with a bottle of beer a sweetheart a
package of cigarettes a candle and fell off the bed, and continued
along the floor and down the hall and ended fainting on the wall with
a vision of ultimate cunt and come eluding the last gyzym of con-
sciousness,
who sweetened the snatches of a million girls trembling in the sunset, and
were red eyed in the morning but prepared to sweeten the snatch of
the sunrise, flashing buttocks under barns and naked in the lake,
who went out whoring through Colorado in myriad stolen night-cars, N.C.,
secret hero of these poems, cocksman and Adonis of Denver--joy to
the memory of his innumerable lays of girls in empty lots & diner
backyards, moviehouses' rickety rows, on mountaintops in caves or
with gaunt waitresses in familiar roadside lonely petticoat upliftings
& especially secret gas-station solipsisms of johns, & hometown alleys
too,
who faded out in vast sordid movies, were shifted in dreams, woke on a
sudden Manhattan, and picked themselves up out of basements hung-
over with heartless Tokay and horrors of Third Avenue iron dreams
& stumbled to unemployment offices,
who walked all night with their shoes full of blood on the snowbank docks
waiting for a door in the East River to open to a room full of steam-
heat and opium,
who created great suicidal dramas on the apartment cliff-banks of the Hud-
son under the wartime blue floodlight of the moon & their heads shall
be crowned with laurel in oblivion,
who ate the lamb stew of the imagination or digested the crab at the muddy
bottom of the rivers of Bowery,
who wept at the romance of the streets with their pushcarts full of onions
and bad music,
who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the bridge, and rose up to
build harpsichords in their lofts,

who coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem crowned with flame under the
tubercular sky surrounded by orange crates of theology,
who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty incantations which in
the yellow morning were stanzas of gibberish,
who cooked rotten animals lung heart feet tail borsht & tortillas dreaming
of the pure vegetable kingdom,
who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for an egg,
who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot for Eternity outside
of Time, & alarm clocks fell on their heads every day for the next
decade,
who cut their wrists three times successively unsuccessfully, gave up and
were forced to open antique stores where they thought they were
growing old and cried,
who were burned alive in their innocent flannel suits on Madison Avenue
amid blasts of leaden verse & the tanked-up clatter of the iron regi-
ments of fashion & the nitroglycerine shrieks of the fairies of advertis-
ing & the mustard gas of sinister intelligent editors, or were run down
by the drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality,
who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this actually happened and walked
away unknown and forgotten into the ghostly daze of Chinatown
soup alleyways & firetrucks, not even one free beer,
who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of the subway window,
jumped in the filthy Passaic, leaped on negroes, cried all over the
street, danced on broken wineglasses barefoot smashed phonograph
records of nostalgic European 1930s German jazz finished the whis-
key and threw up groaning into the bloody toilet, moans in their ears
and the blast of colossal steamwhistles,
who barreled down the highways of the past journeying to the each other's
hotrod-Golgotha jail-solitude watch or Birmingham jazz incarnation,
who drove crosscountry seventytwo hours to find out if I had a vision or you
had a vision or he had a vision to find out Eternity,
who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who came back to Denver
& waited in vain, who watched over Denver & brooded & loned in
Denver and finally went away to find out the Time, & now Denver
is lonesome for her heroes,
who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying for each other's salva-
tion and light and breasts, until the soul illuminated its hair for a
second,
who crashed through their minds in jail waiting for impossible criminals
with golden heads and the charm of reality in their hearts who sang
sweet blues to Alcatraz,
who retired to Mexico to cultivate a habit, or Rocky Mount to tender Buddha
or Tangiers to boys or Southern Pacific to the black locomotive or
Harvard to Narcissus to Woodlawn to the daisychain or grave,
who demanded sanity trials accusing the radio of hypnotism & were left with
their insanity & their hands & a hung jury,
who threw potato salad at CCNY lecturers on Dadaism and subsequently
presented themselves on the granite steps of the madhouse with
shaven heads and harlequin speech of suicide, demanding instanta-
neous lobotomy,
and who were given instead the concrete void of insulin Metrazol electricity
hydrotherapy psychotherapy occupational therapy pingpong & am-
nesia,
who in humorless protest overturned only one symbolic pingpong table,
resting briefly in catatonia,
returning years later truly bald except for a wig of blood, and tears and
fingers, to the visible madman doom of the wards of the madtowns
of the East,
Pilgrim State's Rockland's and Greystone's foetid halls, bickering with the
echoes of the soul, rocking and rolling in the midnight solitude-bench
dolmen-realms of love, dream of life a nightmare, bodies turned to
stone as heavy as the moon,
with mother finally ******, and the last fantastic book flung out of the
tenement window, and the last door closed at 4 a.m. and the last
telephone slammed at the wall in reply and the last furnished room
emptied down to the last piece of mental furniture, a yellow paper
rose twisted on a wire hanger in the closet, and even that imaginary,
nothing but a hopeful little bit of hallucination--
ah, Carl, while you are not safe I am not safe, and now you're really in the
total animal soup of time--
and who therefore ran through the icy streets obsessed with a sudden flash
of the alchemy of the use of the ellipse the catalog the meter & the
vibrating plane,
who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time & Space through images
juxtaposed, and trapped the archangel of the soul between 2 visual
images and joined the elemental verbs and set the noun and dash of
consciousness together jumping with sensation of Pater Omnipotens
Aeterna Deus
to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human prose and stand before
you speechless and intelligent and shaking with shame, rejected yet
confessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm of thought in his
naked and endless head,
the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown, yet putting down here
what might be left to say in time come after death,
and rose reincarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in the goldhorn shadow
of the band and blew the suffering of America's naked mind for love
into an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone cry that shivered
the cities down to the last radio
with the absolute heart of the poem of life butchered out of their own bodies
good to eat a thousand years.



II

What sphinx of cement and aluminum bashed open their skulls and ate up
their brains and imagination?
Moloch! Solitude! Filth! Ugliness! Ashcans and unobtainable dollars! Chil-
dren screaming under the stairways! Boys sobbing in armies! Old
men weeping in the parks!
Moloch! Moloch! Nightmare of Moloch! Moloch the loveless! Mental Mo-
loch! Moloch the heavy judger of men!
Moloch the incomprehensible prison! Moloch the crossbone soulless jail-
house and Congress of sorrows! Moloch whose buildings are judg-
ment! Moloch the vast stone of war! Moloch the stunned govern-
ments!
Moloch whose mind is pure machinery! Moloch whose blood is running
money! Moloch whose fingers are ten armies! Moloch whose breast
is a cannibal dynamo! Moloch whose ear is a smoking tomb!
Moloch whose eyes are a thousand blind windows! Moloch whose skyscrap-
ers stand in the long streets like endless Jehovahs! Moloch whose
factories dream and croak in the fog! Moloch whose smokestacks and
antennae crown the cities!
Moloch whose love is endless oil and stone! Moloch whose soul is electricity
and banks! Moloch whose poverty is the specter of genius! Moloch
whose fate is a cloud of sexless hydrogen! Moloch whose name is the
Mind!
Moloch in whom I sit lonely! Moloch in whom I dream Angels! Crazy in
Moloch! Cocksucker in Moloch! Lacklove and manless in Moloch!
Moloch who entered my soul early! Moloch in whom I am a consciousness
without a body! Moloch who frightened me out of my natural ec-
stasy! Moloch whom I abandon! Wake up in Moloch! Light stream-
ing out of the sky!
Moloch! Moloch! Robot apartments! invisible suburbs! skeleton treasuries!
blind capitals! demonic industries! spectral nations! invincible mad houses
granite cocks! monstrous bombs!
They broke their backs lifting Moloch to Heaven! Pavements, trees, radios,
tons! lifting the city to Heaven which exists and is everywhere about us!
Visions! omens! hallucinations! miracles! ecstasies! gone down the American
river!
Dreams! adorations! illuminations! religions! the whole boatload of sensitive
bullshit!
Breakthroughs! over the river! flips and crucifixions! gone down the flood!
Highs! Epiphanies! Despairs! Ten years' animal screams and suicides!
Minds! New loves! Mad generation! down on the rocks of Time!
Real holy laughter in the river! They saw it all! the wild eyes! the holy yells!
They bade farewell! They jumped off the roofl to solitude! waving! carrying
flowers! Down to the river! into the street!




  

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PhotoSynthesis
Charter member
16101 posts
Wed Jul-02-08 06:22 PM

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5. "Geeeezusssss Kryst ..."
In response to Reply # 2


          

Yeah its long as hell -- but wouldn't be complete without the final steelo:

III

Carl Solomon! I'm with you in Rockland
where you're madder than I am
I'm with you in Rockland
where you must feel very strange
I'm with you in Rockland
where you imitate the shade of my mother
I'm with you in Rockland
where you've murdered your twelve secretaries
I'm with you in Rockland
where you laugh at this invisible humor
I'm with you in Rockland
where we are great writers on the same dreadful
typewriter
I'm with you in Rockland
where your condition has become serious and
is reported on the radio
I'm with you in Rockland
where the faculties of the skull no longer admit
the worms of the senses
I'm with you in Rockland
where you drink the tea of the breasts of the
spinsters of Utica
I'm with you in Rockland
where you pun on the bodies of your nurses the
harpies of the Bronx
I'm with you in Rockland
where you scream in a straightjacket that you're
losing the game of the actual pingpong of the
abyss
I'm with you in Rockland
where you bang on the catatonic piano the soul
is innocent and immortal it should never die
ungodly in an armed madhouse
I'm with you in Rockland
where fifty more shocks will never return your
soul to its body again from its pilgrimage to a
cross in the void
I'm with you in Rockland
where you accuse your doctors of insanity and
plot the Hebrew socialist revolution against the
fascist national Golgotha
I'm with you in Rockland
where you will split the heavens of Long Island
and resurrect your living human Jesus from the
superhuman tomb
I'm with you in Rockland
where there are twenty-five-thousand mad com-
rades all together singing the final stanzas of the Internationale
I'm with you in Rockland
where we hug and kiss the United States under
our bedsheets the United States that coughs all
night and won't let us sleep
I'm with you in Rockland
where we wake up electrified out of the coma
by our own souls' airplanes roaring over the
roof they've come to drop angelic bombs the
hospital illuminates itself imaginary walls col-
lapse O skinny legions run outside O starry
spangled shock of mercy the eternal war is
here O victory forget your underwear we're
free
I'm with you in Rockland
in my dreams you walk dripping from a sea-
journey on the highway across America in tears
to the door of my cottage in the Western night


I just ~chilled~ while listening to it here: http://www.audioport.org/audioport_files/specials/Howl-Final-128.mp3


:::WoW::: -- What a rush! --




A guitar string vibrating, a measure of my soul, a breech in the silence --
I've always felt like words come through me & I write them down... they have no master --- gsquared ♥

http://www.soundclick.com/bands/2/photosynthesis_music.htm

  

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HueyNewton
Member since Feb 27th 2005
1923 posts
Wed Jul-02-08 06:06 PM

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3. "RE: Share ... One Of *YOUR* Favorite Poems"
In response to Reply # 0


          

i'LL get back at'cha on this one . .

still struggle like the art form
-xxx

they showed us phYsically, we could reach infinitY, but mentally, through the century, we lost our identitY
-Rakim

  

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marywalsh
Member since Jun 29th 2007
117 posts
Thu Jul-03-08 06:07 AM

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6. "It's by Franz Wright. I forget what it's called, but it's so great."
In response to Reply # 0


  

          

Please love me
and I will play for you
this poem
upon the guitar
I myself made
out of cardboard and black threads
when I was ten years old.

Love me or else.

Art:

maryhoulihan.blogspot.com

  

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PhotoSynthesis
Charter member
16101 posts
Thu Jul-03-08 11:20 AM

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7. "Request ..."
In response to Reply # 6


          

The name of ^that^ flow is "REQUEST" --

... and such a lovely, simple, little ditty -- it is! -- *YeP*


My fav of Franz:

ENTRY AND PRAYER

-- for Gail Whitney

When you get tired of reading
all the beautiful words
by lousy human beings, and come to

the end of your patience with the voluminous
indeed inexaustible
mediocrities of goodness,

what to do? I suggest--
I don't know.
Let him think.

And if there are no words

to this place give him back
the illiterate sleep: no need
the haldol needle night-night;

let him go quietly, not
in horror,
not in glory.


(((Thank U Ms. Mary -- 4 reminding me of his greatness)))



A guitar string vibrating, a measure of my soul, a breech in the silence --
I've always felt like words come through me & I write them down... they have no master --- gsquared ♥

http://www.soundclick.com/bands/2/photosynthesis_music.htm

  

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mindful
Charter member
41306 posts
Fri Jul-04-08 09:14 PM

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8. "Sylvia Plath"
In response to Reply # 0


  

          

April 18

the slime of all my yesterdays
rots in the hollow of my skull

and if my stomach would contract
because of some explicable phenomenon
such as pregnancy or constipation

I would not remember you

or that because of sleep
infrequent as a moon of greencheese
that because of food
nourishing as violet leaves
that because of these

and in a few fatal yards of grass
in a few spaces of sky and treetops

a future was lost yesterday
as easily and irretrievably
as a tennis ball at twilight



~b/c she was, I believe way before her time.

Another favorite of mine is Maya Angelou's Phenomenal Woman. I've always loved that poem.

----------------------------------
http://www.clutchmagazine.com
http://www.lulu.com/content/132318

Negotiating means getting the
best of your opponent.©Marvin Gaye

  

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PhotoSynthesis
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Sun Jul-06-08 12:21 PM

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11. "Sylvia Plath -- *No Doubt*"
In response to Reply # 8
Sun Jul-06-08 12:22 PM by PhotoSynthesis

          

I started reading her Bio years ago, but I don't think I ever finished! -- -- *my bad*

I do know she wrote a lot of heartfelt humanity in2 her flows -- Seems she suffered depression more often than not --
but that just set the pace for her wonderful writings, I guess.

She committed suicide, didn't she? -- *I Forgets*


One of her lighter poems has a special place in my heart -- for some strange reason, it reminds me of me --


~You're~

Clownlike, happiest on your hands,
Feet to the stars, and moon-skulled,
Gilled like a fish. A common-sense
Thumbs-down on the dodo's mode.
Wrapped up in yourself like a spool,
Trawling your dark as owls do.
Mute as a turnip from the Fourth
Of July to All Fool's Day,
O high-riser, my little loaf.

Vague as fog and looked for like mail.
Farther off than Australia.
Bent-backed Atlas, our travelled prawn.
Snug as a bud and at home
Like a sprat in a pickle jug.
A creel of eels, all ripples.
Jumpy as a Mexican bean.
Right, like a well-done sum.
A clean slate, with your own face on.


And for sure -- "Phenomenal Woman" -- should be EVERY WOMAN'S anthem to be held close to the soul.


Thank U Ma'am --



A guitar string vibrating, a measure of my soul, a breech in the silence --
I've always felt like words come through me & I write them down... they have no master --- gsquared ♥

http://www.soundclick.com/bands/2/photosynthesis_music.htm

  

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mindful
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Sun Jul-06-08 12:26 PM

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12. "yeah she committed suicide"
In response to Reply # 11


  

          

she was I believe, 31 or 32 years old. she took a bottle of sleeping pills, then stuck her head in the kitchen oven... yeah, a hard ass way to go. *shrugs* but, her work... man, her work = greatness to me.



----------------------------------
http://www.clutchmagazine.com
http://www.lulu.com/content/132318

Negotiating means getting the
best of your opponent.©Marvin Gaye

  

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HueyNewton
Member since Feb 27th 2005
1923 posts
Sat Jul-05-08 01:59 PM

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9. "RE: Share ... One Of *YOUR* Favorite Poems"
In response to Reply # 0


          

here's one of my favs:

well, son, I'll tell you
Life for me ain't been no crystal stair.
It's had tacks in it,
And splinters,
And boards torn up,
And places with no carpet on the floor -
Bare.
But all the time
I'se been a-climbin' on
And reachin' landin's,
And turnin' corners,
And sometimes goin' in the dark
Where there ain't been no light.
So boy, don't you turn back.
Don't you set down on the steps
'Cause you finds it's kinder hard.
Don't you fall now -
For I'se still goin', honey,
I'se still climbin',
And life for me ain't been no crystal stair.

Langston Hughes
"Mother to Son"

I am an oxymoron
-xxx

they showed us phYsically, we could reach infinitY, but mentally, through the century, we lost our identitY
-Rakim

  

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PhotoSynthesis
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Sun Jul-06-08 02:39 PM

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13. "CLASSIC ..."
In response to Reply # 9


          


Hughes wrote this poem when he was 21 yrs. old -- *YeP*

(((THANK U FOR THIS)))


It's not simply an old woman talking to her son, but in some sense, the voice of African-American history itself, recounting its struggle "that the race might live and grow."

We can see the speaker of "Mother to Son" as representing a kind of collective voice, the voice of the generations of African-Americans whose troubled history--from the slave-ships, to the plantations, to Reconstruction, to the Great Migration to the urban North--"ain't been no crystal stair."


The old woman (speaker) equates the history of African-Americans with an endless flight of broken-down stairs, such as might be found in the the cramped & crumbling tenements in which many poor blacks found themselves forced to live in the ghetto neighborhoods of the northern cities. Yet no matter how frustrating or tiring the climb, no matter how many setbacks she suffered, she says, "I'se been a-climbin' on." The future of blacks in America, she suggests to her son and to the reader, depends on this willingness to keep climbing, to not turn back, to not "set down on the steps / 'Cause you finds it's kinder hard." We're not at the top of the stairs yet, she tells us, and we may feel like giving up, but it is only by continuing to climb that, in the words of the traditional African-American spiritual, "We shall overcome someday."


Picture This:

In this image we hear an echo of the Biblical story of Jacob's Ladder (Genesis, chapter 28, verses 10-22), in which Jacob sees in a dream a vision of a celestial stairway upon which angels climb and descend between earth and heaven. In the dream God tells Jacob, "This land on which you are lying I will give to you and your descendants they will be as countless as the dust of the earth." That land would become Israel and Jacob's sons, the Israelites. This story held an abiding significance within the African-American Christian tradition--especially in the pre- Civil-War slave-holding South--as it spoke to a faith that, like the Israelites, black Americans too would be delivered to a "Promised Land." The heavenly stairway became a powerful image of liberation and salvation, attainable only through suffering and faith in God. Hughes, along with most African-Americans of his time, would have been very familiar with the associations of Jacob's Ladder with the struggle for freedom and equality of blacks in America, especially in its expression in one of the best-known traditional spirituals, "We Are Climbing Jacob's Ladder."

This song, which would have been sung first in the fields and later in churches, involves a call-and-response between a singer and a chorus not unlike the relationship of Hughes's mother and son. It speaks of climbing "higher and higher" to become "soldiers of the Lord," includes the exhortation "Keep on climbing, we will make it," and ends with the question, "Children do you want your freedom?"

In this light, it's easy to see Hughes's mother figure as something like a racial matriarch addressing her scattered children and exhorting them to "keep on climbing" on their way to freedom. It also shows us how Hughes uses a single image, the "crystal stair," to evoke simultaneously the painful history of blacks in America while pointing to the tradition of faith and hope that has sustained them through it all.

. . . .

When we know the history behind the flow -- it adds more meaning to what we know --




A guitar string vibrating, a measure of my soul, a breech in the silence --
I've always felt like words come through me & I write them down... they have no master --- gsquared ♥

http://www.soundclick.com/bands/2/photosynthesis_music.htm

  

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ASIEM
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20. "RE: CLASSIC ..."
In response to Reply # 13


  

          

you know reading this excerpt of great honor I wonder with all the truly great writing that takes place in this forum how noone has ever to my knowledge come close to a reply response or critique that even closely exemplifies this sort of great writing. do people have to die to get such honor really? I mean the comparisons to scripture african traditions etc. do we see ourselves in this light why not? there is nothing more important than to learn from the past so if these lessons are reflected in the moment and it seems to me they are how do we in the present not see it?

"keep pennin till the earth birth's your rightful seed then nurture it wit more ink..."
ASIEM
"Kuun fiyah Kuun" Quran
(Be and it is)
" A writer takes his pen to write the words again that all in love is fair" Stevie Wonder




www.myspace.com/asiem61

  

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the_best_part
Member since Jan 13th 2005
1823 posts
Sat Aug-02-08 07:02 PM

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19. "RE: Share ... One Of *YOUR* Favorite Poems"
In response to Reply # 9


  

          

this is also my fav.

  

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cousin
Member since Jan 29th 2006
197 posts
Sun Jul-06-08 11:13 AM

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10. "Suicide Letter (The Original)"
In response to Reply # 0


  

          

I think this is one of my deepest writtens

~Written in 2001~...


Filled with trials...//
Since the hood of a child// All I ever seen was dark days, no reason to smile// Evil on the exterior, my heart was less foul, reached for success, tasted bitter defeat in that vile// tried to change for the better, attempts had failed, I guess GOD got his kicks from puttin me through hell// Unanswered prayers, can't move forward, this one tells the tale, of a man who only sunk deeper instead of excelled// I ly and wait// just for some sign, what would be my fate?// Became calloused, same time tryna maintain my faith// Believe, I surpassed my said point to break, you can see and feel my pain just as you look in my face// Witherin out// Feelin all my hope fizzle out// look for a ray of SUNSHINE, I can't figure it out// Whats more?, I get the sticks short end ONCE MORE, aint no sunshine in my forecast, just RAIN that poors// Water from clouds, steadily fallin' through open sores// wanna continue but I feel like I can't live no more// Can't get this feelin outta me, aint givin apologies, you just accept it, cause this is the way, that it gotta be// Put it simply, just wanna hear heavenly symphonies, tired of goin on, you would to if you lived my history// Soon as I'm done you can begin forgettin me// where I end up, its cool, cause no soul lives in me// Waited patiently, I just got jesus hatin' me// guess its the whole reason for the constant forsakin' me//
If you were to walk in my shoes, you'd be thankin me// Cause all I ever did was get fucked out the deal, quite frankly// I aint gotta worry about, nobody killin me blatantly, cause in this whole ordeal, its just me, takin' me...

*The Gun delivery, a smooth one takes, me mentally, Its all said and done now, I'm finally outta my misery*

  

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PhotoSynthesis
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Sun Jul-06-08 03:05 PM

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14. "RE: Suicide Letter (The Original)"
In response to Reply # 10


          

*WoW* -- This is one of "yours" right? -- (The Original)

Tight! -- Good to see you back on board again, Cuz --

Well ... Since this was back from 2001, and you're still alive -- I
sincerely hope things have gotten better 4 U since you wrote ^that^.


I guess it's kinda kool when ONE of your favorite flows is ONE of your own ... But you been on a suicidal frame of mind for a long
time tho, yaknow? --


I was touched by one of your OTHER suicidal flows back in 2007:


SUICIDE NOTE


Alone..//
Not accepting the calls on the phone//
Bullied by lifes, hardships,
had all I can condone//
Emotionless...//
No love left, to cope with this,
things just wouldn't get better,
which led me to devote to this//
Very Contingent//To reach a sentence,
With the use of a blade,
or if a lake buries the engine//
Nothin' positive THUS FAR,
So spare the remembrance,
The deeds done, please, don't I.D for resemblance,
Its Javan(Trust)//
If your readin this letter, I'm gone//
I just couldn't go on,
This is where I belong//
An Arch-angel had breached, passin me the baton//
I'm asleep in the storm now, no more people to harm//
Just a little fish, no longer a treat in the pond//
No more mental manipulation, from evil and charm//
Free from the arms, of envy, freedom resolved//
All I had to do was even the odds...


No more subliminal suicides, aaiight? --

Put a lil' sunshine and faith back in ya flow ...







A guitar string vibrating, a measure of my soul, a breech in the silence --
I've always felt like words come through me & I write them down... they have no master --- gsquared ♥

http://www.soundclick.com/bands/2/photosynthesis_music.htm

  

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Jahlovall3305
Member since Sep 25th 2007
73 posts
Mon Jul-07-08 09:26 PM

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15. "RE: Suicide Letter (The Original)"
In response to Reply # 14


  

          

NICE!!*Valley Story* 
Cuz That's Real and I'm feelin every word.
////////
It's good to know that I am not alone.
I have been in that space. 
Trying to erase 
what my heart couldn't take.
Hopping from one mountaintop to another because
there is a valley in between.  
Thought I knew who I was Cuz, 
Until I got stuck in the valley.
The valley is can be dark, bleak, 
ugly and frightening place. Afraid to let
go and let God. There is always value in the valley.
This time it was powerlessness along with surrender.  
I had to remembered what I did to get up and out.
I am taking the time to learn the value of the valley this
time
before it blows my mind, away.  
Thanks
PS
Photo, you are always hittin... Much love.   

   
As soon as healing takes place, go out and heal somebody else.
 Maya Angelou
No man is free until all men are free.

Jah*lov*all of YOU>>>>

  

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littleman23
Member since Jul 03rd 2008
28 posts
Wed Jul-09-08 05:48 PM

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16. "RE: Share ... One Of *YOUR* Favorite Poems"
In response to Reply # 0


          

Here's Mine

America I've given you all and now I'm nothing.
America two dollars and twenty-seven cents January 17, 1956.
I can't stand my own mind.
America when will we end the human war?
Go fuck yourself with your atom bomb
I don't feel good don't bother me.
I won't write my poem till I'm in my right mind.
America when will you be angelic?
When will you take off your clothes?
When will you look at yourself through the grave?
When will you be worthy of your million Trotskyites?
America why are your libraries full of tears?
America when will you send your eggs to India?
I'm sick of your insane demands.
When can I go into the supermarket and buy what I need with my good looks?
America after all it is you and I who are perfect not the next world.
Your machinery is too much for me.
You made me want to be a saint.
There must be some other way to settle this argument.
Burroughs is in Tangiers I don't think he'll come back it's sinister.
Are you being sinister or is this some form of practical joke?
I'm trying to come to the point.
I refuse to give up my obsession.
America stop pushing I know what I'm doing.
America the plum blossoms are falling.
I haven't read the newspapers for months, everyday somebody goes on trial for
murder.
America I feel sentimental about the Wobblies.
America I used to be a communist when I was a kid and I'm not sorry.
I smoke marijuana every chance I get.
I sit in my house for days on end and stare at the roses in the closet.
When I go to Chinatown I get drunk and never get laid.
My mind is made up there's going to be trouble.
You should have seen me reading Marx.
My psychoanalyst thinks I'm perfectly right.
I won't say the Lord's Prayer.
I have mystical visions and cosmic vibrations.
America I still haven't told you what you did to Uncle Max after he came over
from Russia.

I'm addressing you.
Are you going to let our emotional life be run by Time Magazine?
I'm obsessed by Time Magazine.
I read it every week.
Its cover stares at me every time I slink past the corner candystore.
I read it in the basement of the Berkeley Public Library.
It's always telling me about responsibility. Businessmen are serious. Movie
producers are serious. Everybody's serious but me.
It occurs to me that I am America.
I am talking to myself again.

Asia is rising against me.
I haven't got a chinaman's chance.
I'd better consider my national resources.
My national resources consist of two joints of marijuana millions of genitals
an unpublishable private literature that goes 1400 miles and hour and
twentyfivethousand mental institutions.
I say nothing about my prisons nor the millions of underpriviliged who live in
my flowerpots under the light of five hundred suns.
I have abolished the whorehouses of France, Tangiers is the next to go.
My ambition is to be President despite the fact that I'm a Catholic.

America how can I write a holy litany in your silly mood?
I will continue like Henry Ford my strophes are as individual as his
automobiles more so they're all different sexes
America I will sell you strophes $2500 apiece $500 down on your old strophe
America free Tom Mooney
America save the Spanish Loyalists
America Sacco & Vanzetti must not die
America I am the Scottsboro boys.
America when I was seven momma took me to Communist Cell meetings they
sold us garbanzos a handful per ticket a ticket costs a nickel and the
speeches were free everybody was angelic and sentimental about the
workers it was all so sincere you have no idea what a good thing the party
was in 1935 Scott Nearing was a grand old man a real mensch Mother
Bloor made me cry I once saw Israel Amter plain. Everybody must have
been a spy.
America you don're really want to go to war.
America it's them bad Russians.
Them Russians them Russians and them Chinamen. And them Russians.
The Russia wants to eat us alive. The Russia's power mad. She wants to take
our cars from out our garages.
Her wants to grab Chicago. Her needs a Red Reader's Digest. her wants our
auto plants in Siberia. Him big bureaucracy running our fillingstations.
That no good. Ugh. Him makes Indians learn read. Him need big black niggers.
Hah. Her make us all work sixteen hours a day. Help.
America this is quite serious.
America this is the impression I get from looking in the television set.
America is this correct?
I'd better get right down to the job.
It's true I don't want to join the Army or turn lathes in precision parts
factories, I'm nearsighted and psychopathic anyway.
America I'm putting my queer shoulder to the wheel.

-awesome poem by Ginsberg from the Beat Generation

************************************
YOUR LOGIC IS UNACCEPTABLE.... YOU NEED TO RELAX

  

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Nowachaoticthing
Member since Dec 24th 2002
2178 posts
Sat Jul-12-08 01:38 PM

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17. "RE: Share ... One Of *YOUR* Favorite Poems"
In response to Reply # 0


  

          

"Images by Tyrone Greene" (as played by Eddie Murphy)

Dark and lonely on a summer's night.
Kill my landlord. Kill my landlord.
Watchdog barking. Do he bite?
Kill my landlord. Kill my landlord.
Slip in his window. Break his neck.
Then his house I start to wreck.
Got no reason. What the heck?
Kill my landlord. Kill my landlord.
C-I-L-L my land lord!




"To be a poet is a condition, not a profession."
- Robert Frost

My crappy blog: http://www.livejournal.com/users/eyes_of_mine/

Blind Eye Turning: My book
http://www.lulu.com/content/187759

My other crappy blog:
http://inevitabletruth.blogspot.com/

  

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Nowachaoticthing
Member since Dec 24th 2002
2178 posts
Sat Aug-02-08 05:30 PM

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18. "^up^"
In response to Reply # 17


  

          


"To be a poet is a condition, not a profession."
- Robert Frost

My crappy blog: http://www.livejournal.com/users/eyes_of_mine/

Blind Eye Turning: My book
http://www.lulu.com/content/187759

My other crappy blog:
http://inevitabletruth.blogspot.com/

  

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ClickClack
Member since Jun 03rd 2008
5 posts
Sat Aug-02-08 10:15 PM

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21. "RE: Share ... One Of *YOUR* Favorite Poems"
In response to Reply # 0


  

          

WHO AM I?
I am the positivity that makes you strong
I am the negativity that becomes impossible for you to overcome
I am the purple haze that Henderix so loved
I am the spoon of the fiegns that can't get enough
I am that bubble Ė that thizzle - that bump
I am the flame that lights your blaze
That black light invaded by neon that leaves you in a daze
WHO AM I?
I am preeminent beauty
You see?
My beauty is enough to beat you into submission
I am the inventor of all emotion
The master of expression
I am the Queen of both good and evil
I'll have more than enough
But I'll still take yours then leave you
I am the beginning that has no end
While you're in comfort on your knees
I am what stands


Forever in thought
Always in motion
I am Willie Lynchism
Separation from within
I keep ignorance alive and destroy the knowledge instilled
Continuous struggle
The Almighty Power Structure
No matter how long you scream for your so called equality
I choose not to hear you
The fire hose
Tear gas
And that pack of German Shepherds?
Yea Ė that was me too

WHO AM I?
I am those dismembered, gutted, raped and maimed
I am the tree the noose and the body
I am the black & white picture of his-story saved
I am the message in living color that this picture made
The mis-education keeping you trapped
I am those chains
Whether it's the gold you wear around your neck now
Or the tin that strangled you in your bondage days

WHO AM I?
I am the oppressed and the oppressor
The controller of your subconscious
Dominion over all
I am above and beyond all royalty
You are blessed
I am the blessing

WHO AM I?
I am what's right
Working first from the inside
I am the lover of myself and of my people
I am the definition of unity
I am the essence of what all strive for
The daughter of Huey and Cleaver
For the panther is the mother from which I was born

WHO AM I?
I am the ignorant and the conscious
The visionary who is blinded
The truth of the innocent
The mask of the deceit
I am the patience of the wise
The Earth is my melody
The voice of the Wind
Fire is my harmony
I am what it takes to keep my community alive
I am everything that has destroyed my community






"Always choose water, never the cup...be like water my friend"

  

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ASIEM
Charter member
4154 posts
Tue Aug-05-08 07:59 PM

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22. "RE: Share ... One Of *YOUR* Favorite Poems"
In response to Reply # 0
Tue Aug-05-08 08:09 PM by ASIEM

  

          

there are two poems i have remembered since i believe i first heard them recited by Martin Luther King he recited them but I don't know thw author of the first one...i have never memorised any other poems in my life but these

It's only just a minute
sixty seconds in it
forced upon me
didn't choose it
but it's up to me
to use it
i must suffer if i lose it
give Account if i abuseit
it's only just a minute
but my whole eternity
is in it
----------------------------------------

a crust of bread
a corner to sleep in
a minute to smile
and an hour to weap in
a pint of joy
to a peck of trouble
and never to laugh that the moans
come double and that is LiFe
Paul Lawrence Dunbar

----------------------------------------------

My mother used to recite this one another favorite

IN THE MORNING by Paul Laurence Dunbar

'Lias! 'Lias! Bless de Lawd!
Don'you know de day's erbroad?
Ef you don' git up, you scamp,
Dey'll be trouble in dis camp.
Tink I gwine to let you sleep
W'ile I meks yo' boa'd an' keep?
Dat's a putty howdy do
Don' you hyeah me,'Lias --you?

Bet ef I come crost dis flo'
You won’ fin’ no time to sno'
Daylight all a-shinin’ in
W'ile you sleep --w'y hit's a sin!
Aint de can'le-light enough
To bu'n out wid out a snuff,
But you go de mo'nin' thoo
Bu'nin' up de daylight too?

'Lias, don’ you hyeah me call?
No use tu'nin' to'ds de wall;
I kin hyeah dat mattuss squeak,
Don' you hyeah me w’en I speak?
Dis hyeah clock done struck off six-
Ca'hne, bring me dem ah stick!
Oh, you down, suh; huh, you down-
Look hyeah, don' you daih to frown.

Ma'ch yo'se'f an wash you' face,
Don' you splattah all de place;
I got somep'n else to do,
'Sides jes' cleanin' aftah you.
Tek dat comb an' fix you' haid!
Looks jes’ lak a feddah baid.
Look hyeah, boy, I let you see
You sha'n't roll you' eyes at me.

Come hyeah, bring me dat ah strap!
Boy, I'll whup you 'twell you drap;
You done felt yo’se’f too strong,
An' you sholy got me wrong.
Set down at dat table thaih;
Jes' you whimpah ef you daih!
Evah mo’nin on dis place,
Seem lak I mus' lose my grace.

Fol' you' han's an' bow yo' haid-
Wait ontwell de blessin"s said'
'Lawd, have mussy on ouah souls-
(Don'you daih to tech dem rolls--)
'Bless de food we gwine to eat-"
(You set still - I see yo' feet,
You jes' try dat trick agin!)
'Gin us peace an' joy. Amen!'

"keep pennin till the earth birth's your rightful seed then nurture it wit more ink..."
ASIEM
"Kuun fiyah Kuun" Quran
(Be and it is)
" A writer takes his pen to write the words again that all in love is fair" Stevie Wonder




www.myspace.com/asiem61

  

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KnowOne
Charter member
39778 posts
Thu Aug-07-08 03:17 PM

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23. ""
In response to Reply # 0


  

          

Blk girls donít commit suicide
some of us
just drown in red nylon capes
riddled with holes and mismatched patches
our grandmaís made
quilts out of
backwood knowledge and myths
that became our nursery rhymes
strong&black
turned to ropes we double dutched with
overtime
we got hand-me-down issues
from fatherless mothers
who put sons
on pedestals
that their fathers left vacant
turning boys to niggas
that forget to say goodbye
when they leave
and
some of us
arenít allowed to cry out loud
so we learn we swallow tear shaped pride
and whisper peppermint scented prayers
into the bottom of collection plates
that theyíll return
in time
for next Sundayís service
cause
we
donít
leave
drawn out letters
craved into our pulses
and we donít delicately overdose on colorful prescriptions
some of us
just choke on pleas for help
we donít let anyone hold our doors
or carry our grocery bags
cause we feel empty
without
the extra weight on our backs
so
we store daintiness
between heavy breasts and folds of skin
like hidden treasures
for men to find
"please let me be weak for once"
is plastered against
vaginal brick walls
like faded promotional posters
we have learned to wait
for happiness
with name tags on
so it will recognize us
cause weíll be too busy
dancing between jobs and dreams
and
passionately fish frying failed relationships
that will turn to
the love handles on the emotional baggage
that we claim
is independence
but we ainít free yet
cause some of us
still got aunt jemima locíed up in our minds
aint yo momma
but weíll take care of you
and carry you
before we can take care of ourselves
cause
we
donít
ever
fall
gracefully off of rooftops
creating abstract art on concrete
cause
some of us are
already sidewalks
that
fear the heights
of glass ceilings
so we take part time jobs
suffocating our children
with "yo daddy ain't shit" bed time stories
cause every hero needs
a villian
to blame
for not finishing college
but we did take enough credit cards
to die
in debt
only leaving our children with
our capes
cause see
blk girls donít commit suicide
we are heros
that live our deaths
a thousands times
and thats why
with my dying breaths
Iíll whisper for my daughters
to cry
to be fragile
to have nervous break downs
to fail
to fall
to be
women.

_________________________________________
"Too weird to live.... too rare to die..."

PS+ ID: KnowOne215 | XBL GamerTag: KnowOne 215

  

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mindful
Charter member
41306 posts
Sun Sep-14-08 01:30 PM

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31. "exactly, one of my faves by her too... nm"
In response to Reply # 23


  

          


----------------------------------
http://www.clutchmagazine.com
http://www.lulu.com/content/132318

I used to want the words "She tried"
on my tombstone. Now I want the words,
"She did it." ©Katherine Dunham

  

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jayare214
Charter member
2209 posts
Thu Aug-07-08 03:41 PM

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24. "RE: Share ... One Of *YOUR* Favorite Poems"
In response to Reply # 0


          

read this in high school, and its been like a mantra since...


Baptism

Into the furnace let me go alone;
Stay you without in terror of the heat.
I will go naked in--for thus ''tis sweet--
Into the weird depths of the hottest zone.
I will not quiver in the frailest bone,
You will not note a flicker of defeat;
My heart shall tremble not its fate to meet,
My mouth give utterance to any moan.
The yawning oven spits forth fiery spears;
Red aspish tongues shout wordlessly my name.
Desire destroys, consumes my mortal fears,
Transforming me into a shape of flame.
I will come out, back to your world of tears,
A stronger soul within a finer frame.

Claude McKay

my music group:
http://www.facebook.com/beataroundabush
http://www.lastfm.com/beataroundabush
http://www.reverbnation.com/beataroundabush
http://www.myspace.com/beataroundabush

My beats:
www.myspace.com/jayarejohnson

http://www.soundclick.com/bands/3/no

  

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Rajeniro757
Member since Jun 08th 2003
6644 posts
Sat Sep-06-08 07:45 AM

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25. "ALI BOOMBYE YEA"
In response to Reply # 0


  

          

"Ding! Ali comes out to meet Frazier
But Frazier starts to retreat
If Frazier goes back any further
He'll wind up in a ringside seat

Ali swings to the left
Ali swings to the right
Look at the kid
Carry the fight

Frazier keeps backing
But there's not enough room
It's a matter of time
Then Ali lowers the boom

Now Ali lands to the right
What a beautiful swing!
And deposits Frazier
Clean out of the ring

Frazier's still rising
But the referee wears a frown
For he can't start counting
Till Frazier comes down

Now Frazier disappears from view
The crowd is getting frantic
But our radar stations have picked him up
He's somewhere over the Atlantic

Who would have thought that
When they came to the fight
That they would have witnessed
The launching of a coloured satellite!"

R.I.P. Martin alexander (Marty Gra) Alston - my brother, my mentor , my friend-

  

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InFluenCe
Member since Oct 19th 2004
1326 posts
Sun Sep-07-08 03:28 AM

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26. "RE: Share ... One Of *YOUR* Favorite Poems"
In response to Reply # 0


  

          

that poem is my brothers favorite poem.. he has it on his office wall and reads it every time before he starts to work lol

i hope youre doing well!

peace and love.

______________________
i try to practice my war like tactics, but in the clutch of your touch my armor just collapses - mighty mos def

www.myspace.com/methodicaleddie

  

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serpentinefire
Charter member
8874 posts
Wed Sep-10-08 11:38 PM

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27. "i used that in one of my mental health groups"
In response to Reply # 0


  

          

it's fresh to listen to severly mentally ill folks interpret poetry...
**************************************
some women wait for themselves
around the next corner
and call the empty spot peace
but the opposite of living
is only not living
...


Audre Lorde



http://selewa.etsy.com

www.myspace.com/selewa_wearable_art

  

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serpentinefire
Charter member
8874 posts
Wed Sep-10-08 11:59 PM

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28. "hard to pick just one...but"
In response to Reply # 0


  

          

Celebration (1993)
I will bring you a whole person
and you will bring me a whole person
and we will have us twice as much
of love and everything
I be bringing a whole heart
and while it do have nicks and
dents and scars,
that only make me lay it down
more careful-like
An' you be bringing a whole heart
a little chipped and rusty an'
sometime skip a beat but
still an' all you bringing polish too
and look like you intend
to make it shine
And we be bringing, each of us
the music of ourselves to wrap
the other in
Forgiving clarities
Soft as a choir's last
lingering note our
personal blend
I will be bringing you someone whole
and you will be bringing me someone whole
and we be twice as strong
and we be twice as true
and we will have twice as much
of love
and everything


~~~Mari Evans
**************************************
some women wait for themselves
around the next corner
and call the empty spot peace
but the opposite of living
is only not living
...


Audre Lorde



http://selewa.etsy.com

www.myspace.com/selewa_wearable_art

  

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Morehouse
Member since Feb 25th 2003
7568 posts
Thu Sep-11-08 03:38 PM

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29. "Amiri Baraka"
In response to Reply # 0


  

          

Balboa, The Entertainer


It cannot come
except you make it
from materials
it is not
caught from. (The philosophers
of need, of which
I am lately
one,
will tell you. ``The People,''
(and not think themselves
liable
to the same
trembling flesh). I say now, ``The People,
as some lesson repeated, now,
the lights are off, to myself,
as a lover, or at the cold wind.

Let my poems be a graph
of me. (And they keep
to the line where flesh
drops off. You will go
blank at the middle. A
dead man.

But
die soon, Love. If
what you have for
yourself, does not
stretch to your body's
end.
(Where, without
preface,
music trails, or your fingers
slip
from my arm

  

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mindful
Charter member
41306 posts
Sun Sep-14-08 01:29 PM

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30. "Same Cell by Aulelei Love (aka paperdollpoet)"
In response to Reply # 0


  

          

*because I am still placed in awe upon reading|hearing this.* a poem from one of my dearest, oldest, and best friends...

Same Cell
a love poem for women in prison

time don't move
like tina's hands can
it don't even try to move like i do
while her pale brown lips pinched shut
manage to squeeze out a

"bitch, i said don't move" whisper

that takes up my half of the bed
with her freshly filed fingers finding space
in a prison hole not big enough for 2
not big enough for 3
yet she manages to fit her penis envy in
and she's got rhythm like a man
'cept her two step last longer
because she's not trying to cum

she trying to run

me
trying to find power in pussy
that belongs to neither of us any more
but i let her
continue to search for days on a calendar she scratched inside of me
sheís hoping to one day reach my womb
by her hands
so she can feel close to her children
without glass in between
she trying to touch her children
in me
not realizing that i left my eggs at home too
but I let her
try
because eventually sheíll stumble around my clit
and if i find the right angle to look at tina thru
then squint my eyes slightly
she starts to look like
one of them fine high yella boys that usta whistle my name
then i get quiet and pretend that one of them is loving me
with old spice heavy on his neck
and malted lips that i take to the head
drowning out my moans with silence

because dyke still ain't dick

regardless how much i imagine it to be
I am not a dyke
i just need someone to hold on to
to remind me what the world feels like
and i betcha tina wasn't no dyke when she was free
she probably didn't even like the smell that fell
past her knees
when she bent over for a love
she'd end up shooting
and now she's looking in pussy for a past time
because love has fucked up her memory
so much
that she calculates her children's ages by
the number of times she seen their faces
and one of them has been 2 for too long
but tina still holds on
to baby pictures faded at the edges with push pin marks at the top
to remind her
how many times she was up for parole
how many times she was packing her stuff to leave
and how many times she ended up pushing pins
back in
to these walls

so, yeah i let tina search in me
because we're in the same cell
made of the same plea bargains
that got denied before we tried
to explain to justice that we too were blinded
we two are binded
trying not to be bound
in past tense
because we're still young enough to remember what old is
and thatís why
i let her leave salt on my nipples as she tries and taste life again
let her find prayers on her knees
that stay between me and her
not worrying bout if gods/or guards are listening
or watching
because we got our eyes closed
grinding pussies
to the tune of time
hoping that if we rub them right
we'll get our wishes
or at least cum
closer to turning
moments into days.


Copyright © 2001 Aulelei Love. All Rights Reserved.


----------------------------------
http://www.clutchmagazine.com
http://www.lulu.com/content/132318

I used to want the words "She tried"
on my tombstone. Now I want the words,
"She did it." ©Katherine Dunham

  

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marijane
Member since Feb 26th 2004
13093 posts
Wed Sep-17-08 11:09 AM

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32. "Mine"
In response to Reply # 0


  

          

A Glowing fire
glares in a dragon eye
I se it. real mad


this is a poem I wrote in 5th grade for my first published anthology


I still love it

along with an illustration I made of a dragon.

_____________________________________
WITH CUZ (STACEY) GONE, I'LL NEVER REALLY BE HERE AGAIN

I swear I'm a marry an OKP


Nakia Genevieve are my middle names... Not my attempt to morph Phenom with Novembersgift... But...

  

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