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I took a tour of a prison for poets, at the end the warden asked what I thought of it. I said it has its prose and cons. |
Tag: Poetry
Virtual Poetry
Remember when ram meant just a male sheep
And bugs and worms were just things that creep?
When a gopher and a mouse were li’l critters
And virus were microbes that gave one the shivers?
When a web was a sticky net that housed a spider
And nets were just strings all woven together?
When surfing was just riding an ocean wave
And a slip was dodging trouble with a close shave?
When a mime was a painted-face animated mute clown
And hackers were people who slashed things down?
When menus and servers were all about eating
And addresses and homes were places for living?
When Archie and Veronica were actually people
And trolls were pests that were considered mythical?
When mud was just slime and Spam was just food
And to ‘finger’ someone was not considered good?
When to chat and to talk still needed a voice…?
Now being online has all but mooted that choice.
Fountain Of Sorrow
The entertainment for this weekend: From the 1974 album Late for the Sky, Jackson Browne’s Fountain Of Sorrow.
This is one of Jackson Browne’s best songs. it seems so melancholy and reflective until the end, which is much more uplifting. It truly is poetry with chords.
Enjoy!
“Fountain Of Sorrow”
Looking through some photographs I found inside a drawer
I was taken by a photograph of you
There were one or two I know that you would have liked a little more
But they didn’t show your spirit quite as trueYou were turning ’round to see who was behind you
And I took your childish laughter by surprise
And at the moment that my camera happened to find you
There was just a trace of sorrow in your eyesNow the things that I remember seem so distant and so small
Though it hasn’t really been that long a time
What I was seeing wasn’t what was happening at all
Although for a while, our path did seem to climb
But when you see through love’s illusions, there lies the danger
And your perfect lover just looks like a perfect fool
So you go running off in search of a perfect stranger
While the loneliness seems to spring from your life
Like a fountain from a poolFountain of sorrow, fountain of light
You’ve known that hollow sound of your own steps in flight
You’ve had to hide sometimes, but now you’re all right
And it’s good to see your smiling face tonightNow for you and me it may not be that hard to reach our dreams
But that magic feeling never seems to last
And while the future’s there for anyone to change, still you know it’s seems
It would be easier sometimes to change the past
I’m just one or two years and a couple of changes behind you
In my lessons at love’s pain and heartache school
Where if you feel too free and you need something to remind you
There’s this loneliness springing up from your life
Like a fountain from a poolFountain of sorrow, fountain of light
You’ve known that hollow sound of your own steps in flightYou’ve had to hide sometimes but now you’re all right
And it’s good to see your smiling face tonightFountain of sorrow, fountain of light
You’ve known that hollow sound of your own steps in flight
You’ve had to struggle, you’ve had to fight
To keep understanding and compassion in sight
You could be laughing at me, you’ve got the right
But you go on smiling so clear and so bright
Obama’s Disturbing Poem On Man-Boy Relationship
Has everybody but me heard about this poem that Obama wrote when he was a sophomore at Occidental college?
Not that there’s anything wrong with that!
Originally Posted by Fellowship of the Minds
When Barack Obama was a 19-year-old student at Occidental College, he published two poems in the Spring 1982 issue of Occidental’s literary magazine, Feast. One is the cringe-worthy “Underground” about “apes that eat figs.” The other poem, “Pop,” is much more interesting, biographical, and disturbing.
“Pop”
Sitting in his seat, a seat broad and broken
In, sprinkled with ashes,
Pop switches channels, takes another
Shot of Seagrams, neat, and asks
What to do with me, a green young man
Who fails to consider the
Flim and flam of the world, since
Things have been easy for me;
I stare hard at his face, a stare
That deflects off his brow;
I’m sure he’s unaware of his
Dark, watery eyes, that
Glance in different directions,
And his slow, unwelcome twitches,
Fail to pass.
I listen, nod,
Listen, open, till I cling to his pale,
Beige T-shirt, yelling,
Yelling in his ears, that hang
With heavy lobes, but he’s still telling
His joke, so I ask why
He’s so unhappy, to which he replies…
But I don’t care anymore, cause
He took too damn long, and from
Under my seat, I pull out the
Mirror I’ve been saving; I’m laughing,
Laughing loud, the blood rushing from his face
To mine, as he grows small,
A spot in my brain, something
That may be squeezed out, like a
Watermelon seed between
Two fingers.
Pop takes another shot, neat,
Points out the same amber
Stain on his shorts that I’ve got on mine, and
Makes me smell his smell, coming
From me; he switches channels, recites an old poem
He wrote before his mother died,
Stands, shouts, and asks
For a hug, as I shrink, my
Arms barely reaching around
His thick, oily neck, and his broad back; ‘cause
I see my face, framed within
Pop’s black-framed glasses
And know he’s laughing too.The poem reads autobiographical — about a young Obama’s relationship with a much older man whom he calls Pop. In his article for WND on March 7, 2012, Dr. Jack Cashill singles out this passage from the poem:
“Pop takes another shot, neat/ Points out the same amber/ Stain on his shorts that I’ve got on mine, and/ Makes me smell his smell, coming/ From me;”
Cashill writes that the most innocent explanation for the “amber stain” on the shorts of Pop and young Obama or “his smell, coming/ From me” is that Pop got the teenaged Obama drunk, and they both spilled whiskey (Seagrams) on themselves. But that interpretation does not explain why the spill is specifically on their shorts and not on their shirts or how Pop’s smell is also on (“from”) Obama.
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