# The Poetry Thread

**URL:** <https://boards.straightdope.com/t/the-poetry-thread/128746>\
**Category:** Cafe Society\
**Created:** [September 20, 2002, 6:30am UTC](https://boards.straightdope.com/t/the-poetry-thread/128746 "2002-09-20T06:30:48Z")\
**Posts on this page:** 20\
**Page:** 1

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**Author:** ![Triskadecamus](https://avatars.discourse-cdn.com/v4/letter/t/b19c9b/32.png) [@Triskadecamus](https://boards.straightdope.com/u/Triskadecamus)\
**Post date:** [September 20, 2002, 6:30am UTC](https://boards.straightdope.com/t/the-poetry-thread/128746/1 "2002-09-20T06:30:48Z")

</div>

**Telperion’s Child**  
There, surrounded by the still  
Sweet waters of the infant sea,  
In Pangea, at the dawn of time,  
Grew the scion of the eldest tree.

Long it stood, and grew alone,  
And lofted limbs above the barren land,  
And with it’s strong and slender roots,  
It crushed the virgin rock to sand.

To no one there it gently whispered,  
Softly in the borning breeze,  
The quiet growing memories,  
Upon the newborn mountain’s knees.

Long forgotten tales blew on,  
Through skies in which no bird had flown,  
To gather into cloudless rain  
And fall where never crop had grown.

And as the passing years advanced  
Through centuries, and eons, too,  
Mysteries like drifts of leaves,  
And wood and bark, and seed it grew.

And Oh! Imagine now the sound,  
The crashing echoes through the dales,  
And the mighty bones of Earth are rent,  
As the ancient trunk, is bent, and fails.

Soft now, the rotted trunk lies dead,  
As forests spring up where it stood,  
And poets merely dream of times,  
And places where the eldest stood.

---

<div class="post-metadata">

**Author:** ![RexDart](https://avatars.discourse-cdn.com/v4/letter/r/b77776/32.png) [@RexDart](https://boards.straightdope.com/u/RexDart)\
**Post date:** [September 20, 2002, 6:40am UTC](https://boards.straightdope.com/t/the-poetry-thread/128746/2 "2002-09-20T06:40:23Z")

</div>

Shifting brilliancies. Then winter light  
In a doorway, and on the stone doorstep  
A beggar shivering in silhouette.

So the particular judgement might be set:  
Bare wallstead and a cold hearth rained into–  
Bright puddle where the soul-free cloud-life roams.

And after the commanded journey, what?  
Nothing magnificent, nothing unknown.  
A gazing out from far away, alone.

And it is not particular at all,  
Just old truth dawning: there is no next-time-round.  
Unroofed scope. Knowledge-freshening wind.

–Seamus Heaney, _Lightenings_

Rather than include something of my own, though I do have a few verses tucked away, I thought I’d share a bit of the brilliance of the greatest living poet.

---

<div class="post-metadata">

**Author:** ![Genseric](https://avatars.discourse-cdn.com/v4/letter/g/3d9bf3/32.png) [@Genseric](https://boards.straightdope.com/u/Genseric)\
**Post date:** [September 21, 2002, 12:54am UTC](https://boards.straightdope.com/t/the-poetry-thread/128746/3 "2002-09-21T00:54:04Z")

</div>

**On The Lake, 1993**

The old ruins,  
Once a concrete dam,  
Rest grandly amidst the calm waters.  
Unknown to me the time  
or reason for its demolition.  
Upon it is a patched place,  
Newer, smoother concrete.  
Impressed on it a child’s hand,  
Initials and a date,  
Weathered to illegibility.  
Yet, as the Sun hangs low in the Western sky,  
Shadows pool in hollow places,  
and the inscription is revealed.  
As in a fading dream I see  
A young boy holding a stick,  
Leaving his handprint to harden to stone,  
Those eighty-two years ago.

---

<div class="post-metadata">

**Author:** ![pulykamell](https://sea3.discourse-cdn.com/straightdope/user_avatar/boards.straightdope.com/pulykamell/32/3166_2.png) [@pulykamell](https://boards.straightdope.com/u/pulykamell)\
**Post date:** [November 19, 2002, 12:36am UTC](https://boards.straightdope.com/t/the-poetry-thread/128746/4 "2002-11-19T00:36:41Z")

</div>

OK, I’ll post some lighter, children’s verse. I’m not ready to share my other work.  
Math Lesson

I’ll whisper a secret I’ve known all along:  
Even school teachers can sometimes be wrong.  
I swear I’m not lying, I swear this is true,  
My teacher believes one plus one equals two.

She said this today in front of the class,  
But I could not let such an oversight pass  
So I raised my hand high and said “I confess  
That I think the right answer’s a little bit less”

My math teacher struggled to stifle a laugh  
And broke a piece of chalk in half.  
“There’s one piece left and one piece right,  
That makes two.” I said, “Not quite.”

I took the one and then the other  
And proudly pieced them back together.  
“There you see as plain as the sun  
That one and one, in fact make one.”

---

<div class="post-metadata">

**Author:** ![Siege](https://avatars.discourse-cdn.com/v4/letter/s/dbc845/32.png) [@Siege](https://boards.straightdope.com/u/Siege)\
**Post date:** [November 19, 2002, 2:20am UTC](https://boards.straightdope.com/t/the-poetry-thread/128746/5 "2002-11-19T02:20:07Z")

</div>

OK, I used to be a pretty good poet. Here’s one inspired by two events in 2001: the death of a friend in March, and the bombings on September 11th. I’ve got a couple of others, if anyone’s interested.

CJ

_2001_  
This time I saved her.  
My feet were faster,  
My steps were surer,  
This time she came.

This time I saved her.  
My words were clearer,  
Her ears more open,  
This time she heard.

This time I saved her!  
One more cup of coffee,  
One less moment lingered,  
The timing was right!

This time I saved her.  
We laughed, safe, together  
Before I awoke  
To cold empty night.  
10/9/01  
5:00 pm

---

<div class="post-metadata">

**Author:** ![Tanaqui](https://avatars.discourse-cdn.com/v4/letter/t/3bc359/32.png) [@Tanaqui](https://boards.straightdope.com/u/Tanaqui)\
**Post date:** [November 19, 2002, 6:16am UTC](https://boards.straightdope.com/t/the-poetry-thread/128746/6 "2002-11-19T06:16:45Z")

</div>

**Foreign**

In India they make small cups  
out of mud and earth.  
They set them out to dry,  
but never fire them,  
so they are merely hard,  
not brittle. Then they are filled  
with the strong Chai tea of India and sold  
to the travelers who ride the trains.  
The buyers must  
drink the tea quickly or the mud  
melts; mixing the rich flavors  
with dirt.  
When the drink is gone,  
the cups are thrown,  
out of the windows  
of those fast-moving trains.  
And lay on the ground  
until the rains find them  
and make them again indistinguishable  
from the dark, rich earth.  
**On Building Bridges**

At the beach one summer afternoon,  
my sister and I constructed a bridge.  
This beach was a cold, windy Oregon beach,  
though at the time it was somewhat warmer  
then usual, true, and we had bare feet,  
splashing in a small stream.  
This small stream was what we  
wanted to tame.  
It was a meandering, tiny thing.  
just wide enough across  
for a child’s small legs to jump over  
without getting wet.  
It trickled down from the high worn  
cliffs above the sea to the ocean far out,  
spreading into the saturated sand  
of the shore line.  
We wanted to build a bridge across it,  
just because we could.  
Just because it was there, I think.  
So we took the stones, the shining ebony  
dark volcanic stones birthed by the ocean,  
rounded and tossed and tumbled  
till they were smooth and beautiful.  
We took the stones and piled them  
in small heaps and large heaps  
and if the water knocked them down, well,  
we made larger heaps, and cemented them  
with sand, and piled it on the top,  
making a smooth roadway,  
with easy access for everyone.  
And then at the end of the day  
we left, when mom called, and we  
walked away across the beach, not even  
looking back at our bridge, but wondering,  
wondering just the same what would happen  
to our bridge, once we were gone.  
And maybe weeks later, we came back  
and saw there was nothing there,  
not even one rock left, not one discernable rock,  
nothing there at all, and maybe not even the stream,  
for the beaches are very changeable here,  
and never the same two visits in a row.  
So, with the sun beating down on us,  
two small determined half naked children,  
covered in sand and saltwater,  
we would build a new bridge across a new stream.

---

<div class="post-metadata">

**Author:** ![NotWithoutRage](https://avatars.discourse-cdn.com/v4/letter/n/22d042/32.png) [@NotWithoutRage](https://boards.straightdope.com/u/NotWithoutRage)\
**Post date:** [November 19, 2002, 6:20am UTC](https://boards.straightdope.com/t/the-poetry-thread/128746/7 "2002-11-19T06:20:16Z")

</div>

when you died

Ohio  
the Sunday snow taunts  
as my stockings tear

photograph: Ann, the pious one, still half asleep,  
breathing  
the torments of another week  
eclipsed by mother’s heavy voice.

My pale black shoes:  
one and you and one again:  
the walk of Isaac.

1. 

the church is still  
The lives sedentary.  
Nay, this is not true.  
This is the church inside.

Fumbling with English prayer,  
I catch the glance of this professor  
or that one.  
And tell my heart  
to dis-believe.

Two weeks,  
the second thick and deep,  
gasping for breath enough  
to make you well.

1. 

You died the 25th,  
so far removed from  
Sunday  
that i knew it to be spite.  
and went back to my Jewishness.

Whose god, I thought,  
sleeping naked for the first time.

als 9/18/02

---

<div class="post-metadata">

**Author:** ![Angel\_of\_the\_Lord](https://sea3.discourse-cdn.com/straightdope/user_avatar/boards.straightdope.com/angel_of_the_lord/32/2949_2.png) [@Angel\_of\_the\_Lord](https://boards.straightdope.com/u/Angel_of_the_Lord)\
**Post date:** [November 19, 2002, 6:53am UTC](https://boards.straightdope.com/t/the-poetry-thread/128746/8 "2002-11-19T06:53:09Z")

</div>

I don’t post my work on the boards.

This is because the Reader technically can claim some rights to works posted on this board. Which…okay, I’m paranoid, but no.

If anyone wants to read my poetry (I doubt y’all will, but whatever), e-mail me :).

---

<div class="post-metadata">

**Author:** ![Liberal](https://avatars.discourse-cdn.com/v4/letter/l/848f3c/32.png) [@Liberal](https://boards.straightdope.com/u/Liberal)\
**Post date:** [November 19, 2002, 12:24pm UTC](https://boards.straightdope.com/t/the-poetry-thread/128746/9 "2002-11-19T12:24:39Z")

</div>

Death  
Torment  
Fallen angels  
Nightmarish horror  
No progress, no hope  
Vanishing will to try again  
Each attempt the folly of fools  
Dreaded task feared by every man  
Starved corpses languish in dungeons  
My kingdom for coffee filters that separate

---

<div class="post-metadata">

**Author:** ![Triskadecamus](https://avatars.discourse-cdn.com/v4/letter/t/b19c9b/32.png) [@Triskadecamus](https://boards.straightdope.com/u/Triskadecamus)\
**Post date:** [November 22, 2002, 4:22am UTC](https://boards.straightdope.com/t/the-poetry-thread/128746/10 "2002-11-22T04:22:59Z")

</div>

For La La  
My life has walls around it.  
I don’t know what is on the other side.  
Within the walls I have  
Safety, comfort, and things I know well.  
I don’t know what is on the other side.  
People come and go  
Into the room wherein I live my life  
And then go away outside the walls.  
And I remain within the walls,  
Safe, comfortable, with things I know well.  
I don’t know what is on the other side.

---

<div class="post-metadata">

**Author:** ![Angel\_of\_the\_Lord](https://sea3.discourse-cdn.com/straightdope/user_avatar/boards.straightdope.com/angel_of_the_lord/32/2949_2.png) [@Angel\_of\_the\_Lord](https://boards.straightdope.com/u/Angel_of_the_Lord)\
**Post date:** [November 22, 2002, 5:36am UTC](https://boards.straightdope.com/t/the-poetry-thread/128746/11 "2002-11-22T05:36:19Z")

</div>

…eh, feck rights. I just want to share.

Comments, criticism, flames welcome via e-mail or on the boards if you feel like being a hijacker; I live to improve.

_ **Statue of a nude** _

When I dress for mornings  
my slip of smooth silk slips  
from my fingers, and I feel  
I’ve become a statue of a nude.

And sometimes these mornings  
I dress for wear me down, sandstorms  
eroding my breasts. Though I cover  
with clothing, it fails to protect.

And these mornings, I paint a sign  
in makeup: _Look on my works, ye mighty,  
and despair_, though I see my words  
fading fast as every hour passes.

Some mornings I dress and reach the door;  
my stone limbs draw me back to bed.

---

<div class="post-metadata">

**Author:** ![Fatwater\_Fewl](https://avatars.discourse-cdn.com/v4/letter/f/4491bb/32.png) [@Fatwater\_Fewl](https://boards.straightdope.com/u/Fatwater_Fewl)\
**Post date:** [November 22, 2002, 10:20am UTC](https://boards.straightdope.com/t/the-poetry-thread/128746/12 "2002-11-22T10:20:17Z")

</div>

**On How Peeling an Apple Reduces, Locally, the Curvature of Space**

We have read myths in which apples are  
The genesis of gravity, of knowledge ….  
And it was as I peeled this apple that  
I knew we do not see each other

In the same way we do not  
See these words –  
But only what happens to light  
Between us (and its source).

This apple I have peeled  
For you is no different  
Than us – a mere wrinkle  
In spacetime: A spigot

Through which nothingness spouts  
And spreads like water; freezes  
Briefly into a structure of belief,  
A moment of meaning, containing

At its core  
The seed from which it will sprout  
Again into nothingness.

In peeling this apple  
I have made for you and me  
Space  
Slightly less concave.  
What this means is

I have made our moments together  
Lighter – unfortunately,  
The inescapable effect is this:  
Time quickens in its passage  
From emptiness to emptiness.

But still, this allows  
The seeming constant sea of light  
Which, in turn, allows us  
To say we see these words we use  
To fill in the blanks.

So, you see, everything would be  
So much heavier  
If I had not lessened this apple’s mass  
By peeling it for you. Eat slowly.

John Mackenzie  
(from July, 2002)

---

<div class="post-metadata">

**Author:** ![Laureen](https://avatars.discourse-cdn.com/v4/letter/l/85f322/32.png) [@Laureen](https://boards.straightdope.com/u/Laureen)\
**Post date:** [November 23, 2002, 5:19am UTC](https://boards.straightdope.com/t/the-poetry-thread/128746/13 "2002-11-23T05:19:39Z")

</div>

This Longing

The man across from you, dull-skinned and squat, says  
fascinating things: a scintillating toad.  
You’re listening, but kissing is  
out of the question. Tempted to discourtesy,  
you pop your knuckles, acute castinets, a symphonic fidget  
he doesn’t seem to notice.

You’re addicted to blind dates  
… expect adhesive, but so far none have stuck.  
Your optimism, although intact, periodically  
meanders toward bitterness.  
Alone is not bad. You love your  
little house with it’s sumptuous brick, and even  
forgive the lawn for stealing certain spring afternoons.  
You have supportive friends, interesting hobbies,

Still you want that  
dizzy, giddy, almost icky upset stomach of love…  
the heart’s meaty sussuration… the hopeful vulnerable  
rosy glow that takes ten years off you…  
a feeling that has not changed since you were thirteen.  
Only now you don’t always believe your body’s hype.  
Now you keep the butterflies to yourself a bit longer.

```
		-Laureen Evans 2002
```

---

<div class="post-metadata">

**Author:** ![Laureen](https://avatars.discourse-cdn.com/v4/letter/l/85f322/32.png) [@Laureen](https://boards.straightdope.com/u/Laureen)\
**Post date:** [November 23, 2002, 5:24am UTC](https://boards.straightdope.com/t/the-poetry-thread/128746/14 "2002-11-23T05:24:01Z")

</div>

Unbroken Heart

You didn’t, quite, but I wish you had  
broken my heart. I wish you’d  
backed over it with your truck, or  
smashed it to smithereens  
like a jack-o-lantern savaged by  
Halloween vandals.

Instead, Cruel You, you left it intact  
still fully functional, still  
feeling everything.

-Laureen Evans 1996

---

<div class="post-metadata">

**Author:** ![Fatwater\_Fewl](https://avatars.discourse-cdn.com/v4/letter/f/4491bb/32.png) [@Fatwater\_Fewl](https://boards.straightdope.com/u/Fatwater_Fewl)\
**Post date:** [November 23, 2002, 7:46am UTC](https://boards.straightdope.com/t/the-poetry-thread/128746/15 "2002-11-23T07:46:13Z")

</div>

**Strange Attractors (notes on time, tides, gravity etc.)**

```
 … all physical processes slow down when
the system in which they are taking place
changes its velocity.

… in a non-uniformly moving system
time flows more slowly.

	*-- George Gamow*

```

On the twenty-seventh of July,  
Maples spray up and out like fountains.  
Winter will be their punctuation,  
A moment of blankness. The way  
Time between us vanishes. Heavenly.  
0  
What have you done to time?  
When I see you, the tides seem brief  
As heartbeats. When I don’t see you,  
Every wave is constant, solid, unbreaking.  
Perhaps we live too quickly near the sea.  
0  
This brief whirlpool in the changing tide reminds me  
Of singularities, black holes; stars so inward they are graves  
For everything but gravity. Careful. If we were to fall  
Together we might be divided by zero, stretched  
All ways to infinity. Our tongues forever tied.  
0  
There must be an equation to describe  
How your fingers lift  
Strands of hair from your cheek,  
Brush them behind your ear. Allow me  
To study these figures. Your motion.

0  
I wondered if I should wait then; patiently,  
Unmoved, growing irrevocably old watching  
As your varied rhythms slowed  
Time for you. Sad, but untrue, I realized,  
As your every motion moves me.  
0  
Approaching you, everything seems shortened; all  
Wavelengths, the distance between sunset and sunrise,  
My breath – I hurry so my weight might  
Find the trajectory to drop me precisely  
As a heron into the tide’s ebb. Your stillness.  
0  
Like rivers flowering into oceans,  
There are nights that open slowly  
As petals, fall all around  
Delicate and rapid as mouths, scatter  
Us among them, extravagantly.

## July, 2002

**Ghosts of Flowers Loom**

Is this so difficult to be? The ear  
That hears the finest edge of shadow,  
The gasp of ocean as it begins

To brim and bell with night.  
The constant compression of sound  
Into stone. The contoured conviction

That ghosts of flowers loom  
In equations straining down from pens  
In fingers of white-haired men. How

Can you step back from the precipice  
Of transport that brinks in partings,  
In the wedge of distance that begins

Thinly in clocks, widens to calendars  
And layers upon layers of sandstone  
Worn by water, cracked by frost

And fallen seeds which sprout and pierce  
The eye with green as music pierces  
Hands and feet and causes them

To flail, to toss their finicky bones  
And cipher in white and flawless math  
Their moment of cessation? Gleeful.

John MacKenzie  
July, 2002

---

<div class="post-metadata">

**Author:** ![A1C\_Joe](https://avatars.discourse-cdn.com/v4/letter/a/d07c76/32.png) [@A1C\_Joe](https://boards.straightdope.com/u/A1C_Joe)\
**Post date:** [November 23, 2002, 8:33pm UTC](https://boards.straightdope.com/t/the-poetry-thread/128746/16 "2002-11-23T20:33:03Z")

</div>

Today, class, is something we call lunchtime  
We will appetize and dine in semi-secluded sunshine  
I’ll feel the crunch of breadcrumbs in our toes and feet  
You’ll see my hand hungering for more to reach

I’ll curse it as will you  
I’tll curse you as will it  
You curse I as will it  
Curse you as it for I have all the will

Chips on the painted window sill  
The cross to bear in plain view  
But, still out of focus for even you  
You only want to fill up more and have more to fill

and have more to fill  
use the dew on the pane  
the condensation of grandfather’s rain  
a reaction to a sould in full chill

Nothing else can move me as can this  
Riding through a story on a pavemented tricycle  
through the window is a fermented-frosted icycle  
tires grip the surface of the lucky ones  
of daughters and sons  
who get the gist

Egg salad and alphalpha sprouts  
a barrel bagged of pillowey saurkraut  
ripping cracks of leather bog my chair  
forced to eat your lunch can’t be seen as just fair

---

<div class="post-metadata">

**Author:** ![rmbnxs](https://avatars.discourse-cdn.com/v4/letter/r/b9e5f3/32.png) [@rmbnxs](https://boards.straightdope.com/u/rmbnxs)\
**Post date:** [November 23, 2002, 9:10pm UTC](https://boards.straightdope.com/t/the-poetry-thread/128746/17 "2002-11-23T21:10:41Z")

</div>

**Limericks**  
**Kirby Puckett**

There once was a player named “Puckett,”  
Who had range and a glove like a bucket:  
He’d go back on a ball,  
'Til he came to the wall,  
Then he’d reach for some ass and he’d pluck it.  
**Edward Van Halen**

There once was an Eddie Van Halen,  
Who would wow all the kids with his wailin’;  
But those butts in his mouth  
Caused his tongue to go southÑ  
And now his marriage is failin’.  
**Randy Rhoads**

There once was a player named “Randy,”  
Whose playing the kids thought was dandy;  
But the boy could not fly,  
Though he gave it a tryÑ  
It turned out he wasn’t so handy.  
**Jesus Christ**

There once was a fellow named “Jesus,”  
Whose coming, he said, was to please us,  
Unless we were badÑ  
So he said, the glib lad.  
I bet he just wanted to tease us.

**Haikus**  
**Little Dog**

Little dog outside  
Always goes “yip, yap, yip, yap”  
Drives me fucking nuts  
**Look What I Can Do**

Lines may end in mid-  
Thought. Many find it arty  
It’s called “poetry”

---

<div class="post-metadata">

**Author:** ![Triskadecamus](https://avatars.discourse-cdn.com/v4/letter/t/b19c9b/32.png) [@Triskadecamus](https://boards.straightdope.com/u/Triskadecamus)\
**Post date:** [November 25, 2002, 4:13am UTC](https://boards.straightdope.com/t/the-poetry-thread/128746/18 "2002-11-25T04:13:41Z")

</div>

Ten times, in an hour,  
The child’s face, at the window.  
Here comes the old man.

Slowly walking with his cane,  
Running, laughing in his joy.

The miles and the years,  
Cannot separate these hearts.  
“My Grandpa is here!”

* * *

Tiny hands, gripping  
Wide eyes serenely watching  
Everything is new.

Listen, baby, I will sing.  
Look at me, and we will laugh.

Sleepy eyes closing  
So much new to do each day  
Every tomorrow.

---

<div class="post-metadata">

**Author:** ![Ludovic](https://avatars.discourse-cdn.com/v4/letter/l/7ab992/32.png) [@Ludovic](https://boards.straightdope.com/u/Ludovic)\
**Post date:** [November 25, 2002, 5:47am UTC](https://boards.straightdope.com/t/the-poetry-thread/128746/19 "2002-11-25T05:47:31Z")

</div>

**3 am**

Lonely piano in a hotel lobby plays.  
Stainless steel tubes carry the money rolls to the bank.  
Breeze comes in cold, i can’t find you.  
The kids’ tracks from the pool have dried now.

Bellboys go out to the clubs, jumping, pushing,  
“What’s up, weinerboy?”  
then sleep in the musty cave of the ancient shrine to the fertility diva trance goddess.

This wasnt my conference but the food is just as good.  
Council on the Obstetrics of Business Soccer.

Firemen, Sailors, Cats, Wives, how many were going to St. Ives?  
The randy johnson in the leisure suit laughs, its just a joke like  
the toupee that jumped me in the lounge.

Do Not Disturb.

Skulking invisible past snoring executives in gravy-stained undershirts  
and lovers scheming to rise with the sun and breakfast on the hearts of meek souls and husbands.

Do Not Disturb.

---

<div class="post-metadata">

**Author:** ![Laureen](https://avatars.discourse-cdn.com/v4/letter/l/85f322/32.png) [@Laureen](https://boards.straightdope.com/u/Laureen)\
**Post date:** [November 25, 2002, 12:57pm UTC](https://boards.straightdope.com/t/the-poetry-thread/128746/20 "2002-11-25T12:57:10Z")

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Almost  
Like pain  
recalled in comfort;  
suggestions of song  
in a silent room;  
or the thought of chocolate  
on an empty mouth…  
I almost remember  
loving you.

```
		-Laureen Evans 1992

```

When They Kiss

```
“When two people kiss, the world changes.”
			-Octavio Paz

```

When these two kiss:  
polar ice caps melt,  
glaciers shift and begin to thaw,  
ice cubes in drinking glasses everywhere  
are in serious jeopardy.

```
		-Laureen Evans 2002
```

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