CORP$EY

no mickey mouse ting
I think my haiku was rather profound

The juxtaposition of the unbroken blue sky outside the office window with the dusty crumb covered black keyboard

Almost made me cry

;);););););););););););)
 

CORP$EY

no mickey mouse ting
They don't do much for me tbh

It's an interesting exercise for what it forces you to do and not do

Like writing tweets used to be
 

luka

Well-known member
sorry btw i didnt realise you had written those keyboard ones. i assumed you were copying and pasting from somewhere again.
 

Corpsey

bandz ahoy
59eb4258d5c0d79e9bce51c7c3b0d4a9674b9921.jpg
 

Leo

Well-known member
the ny times has a daily "poem-a-day" email, love this one from today:

Essay on The One Hand and One the Other
— James Richardson

Consider the palms. They are faces,
eyes closed, their five spread fingers
soft exclamations, sadness or surprise.
They have smile lines, sorrow lines, like faces.
Like faces, they are hard to read.

Somehow the palms, though they have held my life
piece by piece, seem young and pale.
So much has touched them, nothing has remained.
They are innocent, maybe, though they guess
they have a darker side that they cannot grasp.

The backs of my hands, indeed, are so different
that sometimes I think they are not mine,
shadowy from the sun, all bones and strain,
but time on my hands, blood on my hands—
for such things I have never blamed my hands.

One hand writes. Sometimes it writes a reminder
on the other hand, which knows it will never write,
though it has learned, in secret, how to type.
That is sad, perhaps, but the dominant hand is sadder,
with its fear that it will never, not really, be written on.

They are like an old couple at home. All day,
each knows exactly where the other is.
They must speak, though how is a mystery,
so rarely do they touch, so briefly come together,
now and then to wash, maybe in prayer.

I consider my hands, palms up. Empty, I say,
thought it is exactly then that they are weighing
not a particular stone or loaf I have chosen
but everything, everything, the whole tall world,
finding it light, finding it light as air.
 

Corpsey

bandz ahoy
Yeats 'Easter 1916' I last night realised to be a great poem but you do have to understand a bit of the context around it to get the full effect.

Poetry is an argument with the self, he said, and in his case it's pointedly an unresolved argument. Whereas with Milton the argument is unresolved against Milton's wishes.
 
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droid

Well-known member
Can we play guess the poet? Curious to what the scholars think of these.

"“Life is a flame that flickers in the wind,
A bird that crouches in the fowler's net—
Nor may between her flutterings forget
That hour the dreams of youth were unconfined.”


And

“The Grave and Cradle, the untiring twain,
Who in the markets of this narrow lane
Bordered of darkness, ever give and take
In equal measure—what’s the loss or gain?

Ay, like the circles which the sun doth spin
Of gossamer, we end as we begin;
Our feet are on the heads of those that pass,
But ever their Graves around our Cradles grin.

And what avails it then that Man be born
To joy or sorrow?—why rejoice or mourn?
The doling doves are calling to the rose;
The dying rose is bleeding o’er the thorn."
 

Corpsey

bandz ahoy
'Even on al-Maʿarri's epitaph, he wanted it written that his life was a wrong done by his father and not one that was done by himself.'

Seems like a cool guy
 
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