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03/06/2005 12:39:41 AM · #1 |
let us gather blackberries,
and eat them in the palms of our hands
until our gums are stained with the purple ink of death
...........because blackberries are blue;
Let us lie in the dark with forked tongues -
listening for a unnamed ancestor
laughing in a shell
....................because the sea holds many secrets;
let faces appear;
let tigers sleep;
let camels glow with white;
let people sniff for water wells.
We will lie together..............
elna m nel ( Because blackberries are blue, 2005)
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03/06/2005 12:54:02 AM · #2 |
let us eat peach cobbler
and eat it from the table top
until our guts are full and we have peach breath
..... because cobbler is fine
Let us lie in the dark with heart burn
listening to internal rumbles
floating the sheets
..... because the sheets hold many puffs
let ice cream appear
let spoons dig deep
let bannanas fall into chocolate
let no one discover my cobbler
We will pig out together..........
oh my stomach (papaya tablets please, 2005) ;)
Like your poem by the way... I have always wanted to do a project of artwork with poems as captions... still percolating in the back of my mind.
Message edited by author 2005-03-06 01:04:46. |
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03/06/2005 01:18:16 AM · #3 |
thats quite funny ron,
spontaneous.
you should think of publishing ;-) |
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03/06/2005 01:34:43 AM · #4 |
Originally posted by canoe3k:
let us eat peach cobbler
and eat it from the table top
until our guts are full and we have peach breath
..... because cobbler is fine
Let us lie in the dark with heart burn
listening to internal rumbles
floating the sheets
..... because the sheets hold many puffs
let ice cream appear
let spoons dig deep
let bannanas fall into chocolate
let no one discover my cobbler
We will pig out together..........
oh my stomach (papaya tablets please, 2005) ;)
Like your poem by the way... I have always wanted to do a project of artwork with poems as captions... still percolating in the back of my mind. |
what a hoot! i can't stop laughing! |
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03/06/2005 09:17:31 AM · #5 |
let us pick up our cameras
and hold them in the palms of our hands
until our shutter fingers begin to cramp
......because the camera gets heavy;
Let us lie in camouflaged blinds with mounted tripods-
listening for some unnamed bird
laughing in a tree
......because nature holds many secrets;
let feathers appear
let hatchlings sleep
let egrets glow with white
let bluebirds land on cockle shells
We will lie together......
et all me (because the camera gets heavy, 2005)
Message edited by author 2005-03-06 09:34:30.
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03/06/2005 11:29:59 AM · #6 |
Lesley,
Being a poet myself, this sort of project has always been in the back of my mind, though I've never managed to accomplish it very well.
The "surrealist" poem you posted sounds hauntingly familiar (especially the title) but it doesn't google for me. Can you tell us more? Or is "elna m nel" a pen-name for you?
Ignore those philistines with their (admittedly funny) parodies... :-)
Robt.
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03/06/2005 12:01:48 PM · #7 |
Burn the sleep light shows parade
figures die to dance perhaps twitch
as if to dance shadows soften the truth
Choke on life one last gasp
snuff the candle death of breath
dream your meaning gutters drain your dreams
Howl into fury triage from bottles
heaven in a pill rips mend the soul
screams sing soft lips smile
hum one last lullaby
RNB (Seizure Augustus, 2000)
My one attempt at surreal poetry - aside from my cobbler masterpiece. |
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03/06/2005 12:21:11 PM · #8 |
One of my favorite poems, it isn't necessarily Surreal but moreso modernist. I love the first three lines. It's The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Eliot. Here's the first few stanzas.
LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question â¦
Oh, do not ask, âWhat is it?â
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
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03/06/2005 12:47:20 PM · #9 |
hi robert,
that poem was written by a friend, elna nel is her name.
its not mine,
she has published and has some tremendous work.
[female version of zues] hi zues! :)
i liked that one, thought it went with the art, not
sure whether she wrote it for that particular pic or not.
flippin philistines! :):) |
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03/06/2005 01:00:46 PM · #10 |
Originally posted by goodman:
let us gather blackberries,
and eat them in the palms of our hands
until our gums are stained with the purple ink of death
...........because blackberries are blue;
Let us lie in the dark with forked tongues -
listening for a unnamed ancestor
laughing in a shell
....................because the sea holds many secrets;
let faces appear;
let tigers sleep;
let camels glow with white;
let people sniff for water wells.
We will lie together..............
elna m nel ( Because blackberries are blue, 2005)
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Look at this, look at that y'all.
Coming through the door y'all,
there's a skateboard on my feet on the floor.
Straight out I know where that came the base.
Who is the punk that blew up the place?
Shiver had me nervous can dreaming that I was a board.
Thought I saw a five and I want to be invisible.
Fuck me up if I don't know the time.
This is a test in the surreal rhyme.
Icerock |
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03/06/2005 01:14:15 PM · #11 |
Originally posted by xtabintun:
One of my favorite poems, it isn't necessarily Surreal but moreso modernist. I love the first three lines. It's The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Eliot. Here's the first few stanzas.
LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question â¦
Oh, do not ask, âWhat is it?â
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep. |
Many literary critics consider Prufrock to be a poem firmly rooted in the surrealist "world", although Eliot vehemenently denied that this was so, I believe.
Robt.
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03/06/2005 01:35:26 PM · #12 |
Originally posted by bear_music:
Many literary critics consider Prufrock to be a poem firmly rooted in the surrealist "world", although Eliot vehemenently denied that this was so, I believe.
Robt. |
Hence why I posted it :D |
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03/06/2005 01:38:07 PM · #13 |
Originally posted by xtabintun:
Originally posted by bear_music:
Many literary critics consider Prufrock to be a poem firmly rooted in the surrealist "world", although Eliot vehemenently denied that this was so, I believe.
Robt. |
Hence why I posted it :D |
Ayup :-) And you expressed your opinion, I thought I'd chime in with the academic perspective (or one academic perspective, rather; the poem's not commonly taught as "surrealist")...
Robt.
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03/06/2005 01:57:13 PM · #14 |
| As always, once the poem is penned, it takes wing and each observer logs it as thier own unique species. Argue as we may, the beauty of the poem is the life it assumes if we did our job well. |
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03/06/2005 02:20:43 PM · #15 |
dont know much about poetry but
i got this record of Hector Zazou titled Sahara Blue
i contains songs to the words of Arthur Rimbaud
one goes like this;
the impossible
Ah! My life as a child, the open road in every weather:
i was unnaturally abstinent, more detached than
the best of beggars, proud to have no country, no friends
-what stupidity it was! - and only now i realize it!
Philosophers will say: the world has no ages, thats all.
You are a western man, but quite free to live in our own Orient,
as old a one as you want... and to live in it as you like.
Don't be defeatist.
not that i pretend i totally dig it
but i like it anyhow
Message edited by author 2005-03-06 14:24:21. |
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03/06/2005 03:02:36 PM · #16 |
Originally posted by xtabintun:
One of my favorite poems, it isn't necessarily Surreal but moreso modernist. I love the first three lines. It's The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Eliot. Here's the first few stanzas.
LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question â¦
Oh, do not ask, âWhat is it?â
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep. |
absolutely one of my favorites...along with "when you are old" by w. b. yeats. |
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