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Mar 2014 · 746
A Whisper Away From Darkness
Nat Lipstadt Mar 2014
A Whisper Away From Darkness
for our beloved Rebecca,
one mo' time,
until the next,
one mo' time



taking my time,
tho propelling compulsion
not just strong, but un-denying,

but care, Muse, warns,
be taken
when scribing re
one of my chosen ones

when you are
drawing from, drawing down,
dancing, edged
just one whisper
away from darkness
in order to homage the
brightest truth

the girl driving the dust,
the girl driving
the Canadian plains,
looking ages ahead,
ignoring the rear view mirror of
no fun house past distortions

who am I,
unrighteousness confessional,
no father, original sinner,
that tasked I am, to praise or save
who needs neither,
for who but she
dings our dents straight,
and brings us this:

like a whisper, a snowflake,
or a reassuring smile,
dreams are fleeting,
and can blink out,
as quickly as far away stars...
embrace the free,
the moments unknown,
with uplifted spirits
and open hands

this then is the whisper,
so so so so
far away from darkness,
that now my compulsion
to the ground winningly wrestled,

when she writes

she whisks away,

she **whispers us away,

the darkness,

away,

from us,

like no other
Continue reading...
Mar 2014 · 827
I once loved a woman so
Nat Lipstadt Mar 2014
I once loved a woman so
I once loved a woman so,
left my wife, my young baby children,
desperate desolate for a scrap of
a reason to exist.
her, the other woman,
welcome was unquestioning,
she was an answer.

you may judge me,
I've paid and pay on-

but this is not the taken tale,
verily, I have come to write.

Jennifer her name,
was my savior,
took me from the cross unbearable,
washed my feet, covered my wounds
rebirthed me a new man.

weak was me,
fell fallow to cries,
whimpers of the weak,
weakened me worse
and she said

go,
bewitched man,
magic enough to defeat
the wicked one,
but not
the weak ones,
I don't possess,
you have to have
metal in your mind,
rock steady,
maybe you do,
maybe you will,
but no crutch of steel
can I be forever.

but this is not the taken tale,
verily, I have come to write.

what I remember best,
the love I lost for
the lesser love I gave up
and took back
as a lessened and lessoned man
is this:

my chest, my heart,
for months, not weeks,
for months, not weaks
of words,
hurt so bad I
could not believe,
my life forfeit,
this heartache palpable,
was real beyond belief

when I went to the
emergency room, the doctors,
stethoscope-confirmed,
my tearing-warped, embodied mind,
had no prescription, no surgery,
for what ailed the failed man.

when in the street would see her,
in the elevator trap, smelled her smell,
for seconds I was triangulated,
until lost sight, and was ill-mis-positioned
once again in a shaft that could only go
down.

Shortly thereafter,
took up pen and paper
bad damage to repair
and began to write,
decades worn, pen nub'd
the writing,
never thereafter,
stopped or ceased.

now I ask you plain
straight from the
place of pain,
that is almost healed,
tho twenty years,
the damages are still
upon my persona claimed,

for this is the taken tale,
verily, I have come to write.

how do you like your poet's poet now?

not so much?
Continue reading...
Mar 2014 · 1.0k
Let us share our profits, even if just dreamt...
Nat Lipstadt Mar 2014
Let us share our profits, even if just dreamt...
woven and webbed in but words,
our profits are handsome,
kindness, tenderness,
the gold coins minted internal,
that
overflow up above from
deeply hidden,
earthen-vaulted,
unchambered hearts

sovereign wealth sharing,
one country of two,
income equality,
now worded beyond just two mortals,
t'is my duty charged
and discharged,
to both hide~disguise and
expose,
how the treasure grows

alpha-bet oxygen-increased,
ever larger,
for now,
the cellular-total
the divided parts,
far exceed the original whole

these profits,
are but the
gotten gains
of mere dreamers,
that the night sweeper
shall remove, replace

scheduled near midnight,
easy taken, like daily dust
once fallen, and now used,
no longer available,
for writing poems
on the floor

but the atmosphere be
nugget laden, bejeweled motes,
freshly fallen dew to drink,
snow to inscribe with ungloved fingertips,
fresh foolscap,
upon to decorate
with letters of many tongues
new letters rearranged,
the dreamt profits
of which
are only realized
when shared
nakasama kita kahit sa panaginip lamang...
Continue reading...
Mar 2014 · 690
What has the world got to do with my being well, if I may ask?
Nat Lipstadt Mar 2014
What has the world got to do with my being well, if I may ask?
at 3:37Am,
you ask,
I endeavor,
an answer
for you

an answer,
that is
intended
to last
a millennium

a millennium

a thousand years,
a thousand seconds,
a thousandth thousandth of
one second

the answer is firmament
the answer is permanent

the answer is plain
thy answer is fancy

You are my best poem
You are encased with in me

You are a piece of me

So, so selfishly
no endeavor needed,
but fervor'd
do I reply

Your being well is not
a sufficient condition
but a necessary one
for my own self-being

For whom the bell tolls,
For whom do I write?

I write for thee,
and in the words
are assured

the mutuality,
the betterment of us,
our private society

dare not deny me this!

for if denied,
I am
condemned

for a millennium
For you.
Continue reading...
Mar 2014 · 1.1k
The Sound of Rain
Nat Lipstadt Mar 2014
The Sound of Rain
the crystal clarity of each drop
Is my very own
Glass Menagerie.

You are beautiful
In Every Way...
what matters not,
boy or girl,
when entitled to
Beautiful Poet:
that covet,
covers and covets the world
in any language
Please read http://hellopoetry.com/soundofrain/
Continue reading...
Mar 2014 · 681
Who Knew
Nat Lipstadt Mar 2014
Who Knew
some ways back,
new babe poets
sought me out,
asking, seeking

The How
and the
Please Sir,
touch me,
here and there,
tell me secrets,
as if any I knew

but I did,
sotto voce,
behind the scenes
gladly,
for the greatest pleasure
man invented is
lending a hand,
a kind word

would write them
long essays
but never
sent them

two standards I could
never ever meet:

what did I know,
worth keeping,
whom am I
to judge

these days,
must stop to thank them
my voice is changing,
when I answered myself

now only simplest words
emerging
knowing that each of us,
value galore,
ad valorem

move quieter,
fingerprinting my modest stays
in your words and lives,
semi-loudly, and semi-humbly,
for they tell me
so much,
so well,
teaching that,
that all
is worth keeping.

and that is the best advice
I ever got
to give
For so many, but with Joe and Purple Orchid in the forefront of my consciousness
they understand.
I am awash in the deepest sense of being appreciated by so many, that I needed to tell you, you are my teachers, my guides...now,
I seek you out
Continue reading...
Mar 2014 · 1.8k
Genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood
Nat Lipstadt Mar 2014
Genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood
"Genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood"
T.S. Eliot (1888 - 1965)


~~~


perhaps.

can I communicate
what I cannot fully comprehend?

my voice poetic keener, age-softened,
grows less popular
for it
no longer reaches for
christmas ornament words and creamy cake-in-the-rain imagery

leave that to the better ones.

cherish simplest:
coming home to fresh sheets,
plumped pillows,
music,
tousled hair on pillowed histories,
river walks,
the lightest hand touch that rouses
the fireplace of contentment to glow briefly,
from logs that are more embered ash moments
than substance
capable of more flaming

the rumpled strivings of the young poets,
creativity of the masters of
voice and dancings bodies,
shopping lists of life~items that
reshape, restore my old~ness,
the revelations of the historians,
inducements to believe
in yet, more.

these exteriors are comprehendable.

don't forget the orange juice,
the first chilled swig from the plastic,
confirms I am breath-yet-capable,
one more poem-mission ready,
the mission objectives still not published.

Sun east welcomes me,
woman puttering kitchen coffee noises
it is neither spring yet or winter gone,
in-between like me,
in-between naissance and history remnant

question thy fiat,
Mr. Eliot,
cannot frame myself,
my who-I-am
six decades of myself.

can it then ere be said,
his poetry communicated
or ere contained ever a single
genuine word?

can I communicate
what I cannot fully comprehend?
Continue reading...
Mar 2014 · 1.7k
How to Read a Poem (Hint: Not With Your Eyes)
Nat Lipstadt Mar 2014
How to Read a Poem (Hint: Not With Your Eyes)
Touch

You cannot lift or load it,
over your shoulder, throw it,
to best assay its weight -
is it ponderous, full of big *** gravitas
or a snack, a parfait desert,
a haiku delight?

You cannot touch it,
but it can touch you,
It can grasp both your shoulders,
shake you from complacency,
put its hands upon thy throat,
gasp emit, a scream demanded,
paint whimsy lines on thy face,
from ear to ear.

See

With yours eyes, by a mere glance,
true reveal its length,
stanzas multiple or an itty bitty ditty,
but this gives no value clue,  
Ogden Nash vs. Tennyson,
in two minutes make you laugh,
in twenty, make you beg, mercy!

Smell

Some Poe poems do stink,
befouled mushrooms in
a dank place, some require nerve to read,
but your olfactory be ill suited for
poetic deconstruction and criticism.

Hear

Wake you with kisses upon thy face,
inject love poems into thy ears,
straight to the brain verbal crack *******
yet even the hearing the whisper
of words from my lips,
is an insufficient,
sensorily speaking methodology,
of how a poem, to best comprehend

How then?

If touch, vision, smell and cursory hearing alone
can't essence capture, what then, weary reader,
is the supposed Laureate's approved analytical tool?

Taste

Each letter, a morsel in your mouth,
Each phrase, a fork full of pleasure,
Each stanza, a full fledged member
in a tasting menu,
Perfect only in conjunction
with the preceding flavor,
and the one that follows,  and the one that follows.

Taste each poem upon thy tongue and then pass it on,
you know how....

Each word, whether chewed thoroughly,
or lightly placed upon a bud for flavor,
needs the careful consideration of your mouth.

Feel the light pressure of the tongues tip
upon the roof of your mouth
and the exalted exhalations of
air rushing past thy cheeks
as you messenger breath from
your chest to be shared with the world,
over the poem's interpreter, your tasting lips.

As I lay each word down,
a brick by brick edifice construct
of mine own design, I am sated, fulfilled only,
when with I see your lips move
as you savor my words,
my taste you share,
and we are closer for it.

*Deaf, dumb and blind,
all such travails can be conquered, assailed,
but when I cannot, no longer anymore taste
my poems upon thy lips, then I breathe no more.
an old favorite of mine reposted.
Continue reading...
Mar 2014 · 3.6k
Chalsey Wilder's Jigsaw Puzzle (Rebuilding)
Nat Lipstadt Mar 2014
Chalsey Wilder's Jigsaw Puzzle (Rebuilding)
for her


no special expertise claimed,
if anything, les contraries,
my non-expertise,
but nothing forbids
my heart from trying
red crossing,
rebuilding just this young one

build from the corners in,
like one starts a jigsaw puzzle,
the human, moving parts,
thus harder,
but eminently doable

the corners are straight edged, linear,
easier to spot, easier to start,
but for you to find them within,
go outside, and window winnow in
you will know them as your
truest words

pick the picture
of you,
you know
you must pick,
the puzzle picture
of you

that favorite one
when completed,
will, though cracked,
as jigsaw puzzles
by nature wont,
as all humans
are wont,
will be the one
that brings smiles
first, foremost

she asks:
"Where are these edges that define me,
help me to construct and the where to begin?"*

after sixty years more on this planet,
have been torn apart,
reconstructed, deconstructed,
more then ten finger and ten toe times
this I know,
there is but one beauty
in this crueled worn
every day weary-world,
it is you,
you words that betray
Beautiful You
oh so well

you see I have your picture,
you see I have your words,
deconstructed, reconstructed,
I love your picture,
I love your words,
start with me, start at the corners,
show me the pieces,
tho the world see the ex
terior,
I see the in
terior,
the shiny new
true sides, so beautiful,
wake knowing that
not just me dearest Chalsey,
I have found your chalice,
and  your grail,
and I say,
this is just one man,
this can be where you start,

this then be your mirror,
let us from the corners in,
from the eyes that penetrate,
accept that this is not debatable,
this is my poem where I do not lie,
this is my piece of you,
from inside of me
my straight edge piece was
born in your beautiful words,
and I say,
can you, see a voice,
can you, touch a voice,
no one can

but I can

your voice is transcendent,
it is the cover photo of a glossy mag,
this is the photo, the puzzle I see,
and heart each and every word
Sorry I took so long

Read this poet, this woman, this woman's beauty
in her every word
Continue reading...
Mar 2014 · 3.1k
An Intimate Courage
Nat Lipstadt Mar 2014
An Intimate Courage
on fine paper,
quality paper,
deserving of thoughtful
care and consideration,
summon courage,
write for one,
even if too many will indifferent read

write for the one,
who will wait for you,
long after closing time
for the need to say
Something
of thanks,
something that cannot go
unsaid

write for the one,
who cannot say
what they needs to say,
and in their stumbling style,
fumbling unsuccessful reach,
says it better than anyone

write for the blind and
sing for the deaf,
be their guide,
be their intimate,
aid them to escape boundaries,
by granting them the saws
to cut loose binding emotions,
share with them your most
intimate courage

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality, but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those who have personality and emotions know what it means to want to escape from these things."

T.S. Eliot (1888 - 1965)
#intimatecourage #an #intimate #courage #lipstadt
Continue reading...
Mar 2014 · 636
Sure Enough!
Nat Lipstadt Mar 2014
Sure Enough!
For Maria

with respect to the small matter of
human kindness,
I am sure there is never enough.

but sure enough,
there are the few,
who surely know
but one standard
to be met,
for sure,
that is
sure enough,*
no rest for them
till they are
sure enough!
Continue reading...
Mar 2014 · 886
Vignettes
Nat Lipstadt Mar 2014
Vignettes
Vignettes**



every read is not a feather
but a fearsome weight,
every poem~repast unique.
the desert,
toujours la même chose,
always the same thing,
self~loathing,
for now
thy questioning overwhelms you:
now what, what's next, what's left?
~~~
French bread speaks only in one tongue:
the earthy brown crust language of
soil and sun, announcing I am the flavor,
white flour is but a process
~~~
when the
breadwinner
can no longer provide,
he suffers twice:
once,
the hunger pains he inflicts,
felt more keenly,
then again,
for the dishonorific the world
does crown him,
man of no value,
bread-loser
~
my favorite raindrop is
the one that lands on my
nose and rolls slow
onto to my tongue:
a nose drop twofer!
~
all art begins with stimulus.
stimulus breaks the comfort of habit.
habit is the blackout shade
that strains out the light of creation
~
no two dancers will dance
the same choreography
exactly the same way,
no two poets will employ
the same words
exactly the same way,
the small differences
are the heart of the origins of our specie,
great art,
Vive la difference!
~
Let us give our worst performance,
Write our worst essay,
If it pleases but one,
Its success makes the great ones tremble
with envy
Random thoughts of the day, the few that were remembered.
Continue reading...
Mar 2014 · 15.5k
"A condition of complete simplicity"
Nat Lipstadt Mar 2014
"A condition of complete simplicity"
Everything in quotations marks and italics was written by TS Eliot.

eyes knowing glossy men,
sheer women, creatures,
not all artists, but artists,
always thus,
centrifugal, simple

from their core,
emanate, resonate,
expand the exterior
with interior precision sculpting

to the interior delve,
via brush or limb,
pen or music,
the exposition, the exploration,
the reconstruction of composing
one's self, creation and destruction
of your own myths

movement of arms and legs,
sparseness of simplicity
subsidiaries of centricity,
tributaries of complexity,
oriented to their locality

the simple purpose of inhalation,
to exhale, after transformation,
the calculus of thought into emotion:

"the tongues of flame are in-folded
into the crowned knot of fire and
the fire and rose are one"

the dancers hear the music:

"so deeply that it is not heard at all,
but you are the music
while the music lasts."

**”Quick now, here, now always –
A condition of complete simplicity
(Costing not less than everything)
And all shall be well and
All manner of thing shall be well"
"Immature poets borrow, mature poets steal." T.S. Eliot (1888 - 1965)

Inspired this evening by the Martha Graham Company, the words and wisdom of TS Eliot, from whom she took inspiration in her choreography of modern dance
#complete #simplicity #tseliot #condition
Continue reading...
Mar 2014 · 819
Pradip
Nat Lipstadt Mar 2014
Pradip
Dear Sir,

I can't keep
up with
your prolific, delighting,
creations

This must be
the third poem at least,
for and to you, I,
publicly address

the thought terrifying,
if you took a vacation,
and had really
some free time to write

I do believe man,
it's time for a unique,
reserved, deserved,
and as of yet,
unheard of special,
Hello Pradip Section
on this site

for this is yet one more
in a streaming video
of me acknowledging you,
Master of the Word,
Wright Templar,
Poet Extraordinaire,

Most Importantly,
Beloved Human,
whose vision sees the world
in ways that
I adore

S. suggests,
I
take a vaca
just to eat your words,
in the lazy, rushed fashion
they deserve

but tween us,
your secret kept,
your parrot and
street dog Hengloo
write
every other one,
cause no human could
thus excel,
without some help
of animal spirits
in between your beloved
Saturdays

Yours Devotedly,

An Exhausted Nat Lipstadt
Continue reading...
Mar 2014 · 1.4k
A Love Poem - I Love You More
Nat Lipstadt Mar 2014
A Love Poem - I Love You More
(An After Dinner Desert Conversation)

He: I love you

She: I love you more

(this repartee ballet, has been rehearsal~danced  since our first season)

He: Why? That surely cannot be!
(on certain paths, he is more skeptic, than convert)

She: Because you are
kind and generous,
to street beggars,
my single friends,
(all who want to meet your
non-existent brother)
good and smart,
love dance, the Giants, and art,
go to bad superhero movies,
accommodating me
(as if you wouldn't go secretly),
never let me down,
love my cooking,
kiss my neck like no other,
hand me a tissue just before
I sneeze (how you do that..)

leave space for others
when you car park,
go thru life making
waiters, doormen and ticket takers
smile and laugh-appreciated,
then you tip crazy generous,
money worries put aside

restful sleep for hours,
head on my bumpy hip,
write me crazy love poems,
Veal Chops and a Day at the Ballet,^
never show me your love poems,
(tho one can peek, when you're asleep)
lest I might cook for you every night,
which you would feel guilty about

woman-injured,
you let me
repair the damages,
and I wonder how
she missed the gentle,
what the world so easy sees
when you sneezes poetry
from its crazy atmosphere

always have a plan,
the best of which is when
you announce no plan today,
maybe bed, maybe movie,
maybe movie in bed,
maybe all maybe none,
and that was exactly
what I was thinking,
which you already knew,
but have reservations made for
our special days through 2024

He: This mystery boy,
whom I don't recognize,
can't be me, for I am the
restless and writing type,
in the wee morning hours,
not a planner or plotter,
a slow and steady plodder,
lazy as the day is long,
shaves but once a week,
keeps his inside stuff,
well hid and most discrete,
drives like a madman in the
video game of Manhattan's streets,
delays the pressing troublesome matters,
asking only workman's wages and
what's for dinner tomorrow night?

She: A ****

He: This mystery boy,
never met him, never seen,
his existence, Einstein failed to prove,
maybe he's roaming the hallways,
oblivious to gravity,
(but not hunger pains,)
overhearing poems,
in languages he doesn't speak,
while riding the M31 bus,
for free, on an expired Metrocard,
cause the bus drivers wave him on knowingly,
his poetry writing sanctuary, they drive,
where they will be perchance, immortalized

if **** is your menu upcoming,
set a table for three,
his heart and soul will be in attendance,
his growling stomach sending his
appointed messenger,
tin foiled wrapped communications

surely as sure can be,
this mystery boy,
gonna want an extra slice of
life tarted with you,
in order to prove gastronomically,
The Theory of Relativity Poetically,
*should I ever see him
Yes, I have a love poem called Veal Chops and a Day at the Ballet, of which, this is an excerpt, and is the After Dinner Desert Conversation conclusion.
Continue reading...
Mar 2014 · 1.3k
So many poems in shallow graves lay...
Nat Lipstadt Mar 2014
So many poems in shallow graves lay...
So many poems in shallow graves lay,
unremarked, disfigured by inattention,
undistinguished, death by ignorance,
yet all distinguishable,
in merited manner
and winsome way

numerical weight of observations
marks only quantity,
nor is it a critical mass
connoting value, criticality
only idol worship, pop rock popularity

are you genuine,
do you value place
on any handworked lettered trace,
its silver hallmark
even ever,
ever even,
magnifying glass faint?

does the fear, the knowing,
that the greatest poem
ever penned and ever posted,
has escape your inward glance,
laying stillborn and yet
just a click away?

are you truthful poet,
do you imbibe
from the word~waterfall,
poems sky-endless falling,
within which,
by their virtue,
you, too,
permissioned to
survive and be nurtured?

if you drink and think of but
the issue of your own spawn,
see in a one way mirror,
a contained reflection,
see then a limited version of one self,
a half-formed wordsmithy,
incapable of healthy mutation,
a child, unfully grown,
poisoned by reaching for only
only one's self from the bookshelf of
this miracle,
called poetry

integrate your integrity
with integers and alphabets,
from spice islands and faraway places
infect yourself
with dots and dashes
of other's mind,
thus your own composings,
healed, improved with injected
doses of vive la différence!
a verbal literary interferon

are we all laureates? no
are we all kith and kin?
assuredly yes,
assuredly no

Vive la Différence,
the only commandment,
the ruling motto,
sup with me

once I was a young man,
a younger man than now,
unaware the road less traveled
the veritable choice of the chosen few,
vanity from the page
reflected falsely upon me

I learned to be not~me~poet,
in the company of
scribblers and scribes,
who strove and tried,
some better, some for worse,
all enshrined

once he wrote:
***** your courage to the sticking point,
Begin to write then with reckless courage,
Unfettered abandon, make a fool of yourself!
Scout the competition.
Weep, for you and I will never surpass
The giants who preceeded us, and yet,
Laugh, cause they thought
the same thing as well...^

so these souls
to thee I do commend,
it is just the first snowfall,
I am buried neath drifts Minneapolis deep,
so help me,
lend me thy scalpel eyes,
thy tiny toy shovel,
six feet ain't much,
dig we must,
alert me to the names of
those who
must be uncovered, discovered,
rightfully celebrated
Spend too many hours reading poems.
I am a free heart giver, a list keeper
of the names that stumbled once upon,
I am instant devotee

lest I offend by absence decided to keep their names to myself,
but I crown their efforts with this poem and my unfettered
desire to bring them to your attention

^ http://hellopoetry.com/poem/379313/do-not-put-a-poem-here-until-you-have-bent-your-ear-to-shakespeares-sonnets/
Continue reading...
Mar 2014 · 904
When one poet provokes another to write,
Nat Lipstadt Mar 2014
When one poet provokes another to write,
When one poet in plaintive wail, bemoans his certain knowledge,
his efforts paled and pallored by compare to giants long immortalized,
and yet provokes a third, yet another to compose,
pledged has it that the grayed ashen bones
of Shakespeare, Marlowe and his ilk and crew,
neath sod and sand, and English loam and land,
but for an instant, a tradition says,
their remains glow and gleam,
a poet dead centuries, yet for a few seconds risen,
lighting and lifting, not just him, but those who
surround themselves with cherished words spent freely
For Marshall
Continue reading...
Mar 2014 · 1.9k
In Memoriam, Philip Roth: "If I did not do it, I would die"
Nat Lipstadt Mar 2014
In Memoriam, Philip Roth: "If I did not do it, I would die"
The excerpt below is from an interview Philip Roth gave to Daniel Sandstrom, the cultural editor at Svenska Dagbladet, for publication in Swedish translation in that newspaper, and in its original English in the Book Review of the New York Times (March 1, 2014).

It was laid out in normal article (paragraph) form, but I chose to re-present here, line by line, sentence by sentence, for it struck me as I first read it, as a prose poem, and a source of inspiration for me.  But then I realized, I could not improve upon his words, just risk diminishing them.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“The struggle with writing is over” is a recent quote. Could you describe that struggle, and also, tell us something about your life now when you are not writing?

Everybody has a hard job.
All real work is hard.
My work happened also to be undoable.
Morning after morning for 50 years,
I faced the next page
defenseless and unprepared.
Writing for me was a feat of self-preservation.
If I did not do it, I would die.

So I did it.
Obstinacy, not talent, saved my life.
It was also my good luck that
happiness didn’t matter to me
and I had no compassion for myself.
Though why such a task
should have fallen to me I have no idea.
Maybe writing protected me
against even worse menace.

Now?
Now I am a bird sprung from a cage
instead of (to reverse Kafka’s famous conundrum)
a bird in search of a cage.
The horror of being caged has lost its thrill.
It is now truly a great relief,
something close to a sublime experience,
to have nothing more
to worry about than death.
-------------------------------------------------------------­--­---

http://www.nytimes.com/2014/03/16/books/review/my-life-as-a-writer.html?_r=0
.
Continue reading...
Mar 2014 · 1.9k
Hearing Shakespeare
Nat Lipstadt Mar 2014
Hearing Shakespeare
hearing Shakespeare,
my-own-voice
crack'd, stilted,
stuttered-shut by the
mocking silence of still
waters on the brain

poverty exposed,
raggedy verbiage for a
raggedy man's
frayed fringed garments

ashamed of
every word I ever wrote,
not even ten survivors,
not enough to pray collectively
for muse~forgivement

****,
hush me not,
no chairs turned,
the public has not texted,
new tattoo:
write on for audience of one

a necessity, a life sentence

a single topic, a subject,
a life, mine,
still unmastered,
decades of trying

poverty exposed, unmasked
for what it is worth,
or what it is not
Continue reading...
Mar 2014 · 1.6k
the red, a quarter inch thin bra strap
Nat Lipstadt Mar 2014
the red, a quarter inch thin bra strap
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~




a little straight slip of a thing,
red, a quartier inch wide,
red, a quartier inch thin,
suggestive, inquisitive,
a political and philosophical,
lovely provocation to conjecture

as if it were a colored arrow,
pointing strangely down,
instead of up,
to the next handhold
on a rock climbing wall,
in this case,
handholds on a
woman's body

this way,
follow me,
to the barricades!
a tourist mapped-path to follow,
visit the glories of the republic,^
and the charming Quartier Latin!

entrap and entice,
the eyes willful blinded,
taken away to thoughtful solitary,
on-one-side-only,
does the
bra strap
conveniently,
consciously,
haphazardly,
(yes, that's it,
a hazard,)
invitingly, speaks to,
looks to me,
inquiring will you vote,
RSVP to red?

as if a line of lipstick on the body drawn,
the directive points,
this way, perhaps,
always, just perhaps,
this way tourist,
to the dome of the pantheon,
where the statutes
are the course,
or perhaps
disguised, well-placed, statuesque, (ha!),
improvised explosive devices,
purposely presented,
needy for a desired
psychological high impact detonation

If
that is its purpose
under heaven,
under sweater,
under halter,
under cutoff gym top,
under liberty,
to tempt and remove
the blindfold from the womanly scales of
under justice
to tilt him favorably one way

If
it, is theater,
I, the audience

then whatever is on stage,
(Ibsen's Doll House, ironie délicieuse)
is a failed distraction, naught to naughty,
to no avail,
his eyes fastened, stapled wide
to the quarter inch thin
red path
from her slender shoulder,
leading, stepping him ****** down to
his I-magination,
for which unknowingly,
he, ticket purchased,
months ago for
two hours and one intermission

He must go again,
the show was
superbly acted,
for so the reviews said,
Ibsen's play,
"an unremitting portrayal of the suffering of a women"





^republic ~ a state in which the power rests in the body,
of those entitled to vote, exercised by their representatives, their eyes, chosen directly by and for them.
A synthesis, a hybrid of recent actual adventures and thoughts in, on and about Ibsen's Doll House, rock climbing, Paris, and the exposed solitary bra strap, not in that order.
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Mar 2014 · 2.1k
he offers her a nipple
Nat Lipstadt Mar 2014
he offers her a ******
he offers her a ******

and

her mouth says

good morning

and he thinks

fleetingly

good love *****
Continue reading...
Mar 2014 · 949
Watt's Woolgatherings
Nat Lipstadt Mar 2014
Watt's Woolgatherings
Watt's Woolgatherings



woolgathering ~indulgence in idle fancies and in daydreaming; absentmindedness


Watt? Watt you say?

these words of yours,
they are mine own,
but in uterine conceived by you,
yet, birthed canal'd in my mouth,
when spoken aloud

call them the shared
jubilatio of the alleluia,
drink them as gospel bittersweet,
cups of AM coffee,
after midnight dregs

you know that coffee, where

love lies quiet
within the mute caresses
of skin to skin embrace.
the smile of a satisfied lover
and the smell of coffee brewing

for me.

so many of us birth poems in their java,
but only you taste

hints at the totality,
experiencing, rarified, extracted,
dramatic, lofty, brief insights
of being born every morning

with first day's breath,
by dawn's first light hints are provided,
thereafter, homebound, o yeah, mine now,
anew, renewed, kept reheated inside me

Watt? Watt you say?

beware those
the warts, bruises,
pus filled excretions,
(the chamber music accompaniments)
of a complete life?

always the spoilt milk,
reminders of the condition human,
have you not me charged
be thy union
am I not good enough to be
at least this,
at least a confederate,
guardian of your magnificent solitude?

but you are not always alone,
sleep with Jesus, kick him out of bed,
early coffee for him,
he needs to be alert,
finding the next day's
Mary Magdelene...

There are times when you jump a gust flings you into weightlessness and you float in the moment, forgetting about the fall. We all live for those moments; yearn for weightlessness when our souls don’t feel the captured form of our brief, earthbound existence.

Everyone bounces, right?

I chose to jump.
Again.

Watt, please take my small hand,
I want to jump,
fall and rise up,
be resurrected by the holiness of your words,
that you cannot see, self-blinded,
only the-needy-for-saving can

Like children
every poem is unique
I don't choose favorites.

but I am a sinner,
another amputated elephant
forced to choose,
I choose my poets carefully,
particularly the visionaries
in sidewalk cafés, notebook scribblers

Why Watt, Watt you remind me why

I will never be as goodly a poet as you,
but I will try, my birth's condition,
a man needing your permission to be
Resurrected, reimagined, because,

God as ocean deep
takes all, gives all,
caresses the fevered forehead
of brand new earth.

God as dark distance between
holds the lamp in the doorway
providing hope of a return home

God as the fragrant fecund flower
waits in innocent attraction
giving pollen to all who would receive.

God as woman born
took care to adorn the alter in pleasing raiment
exposed enough of the hidden treats
Enticements for the restless wanderer
to stay awhile and tend the hearth
raising a blazing fire.

God as woman born
endured the fear, the pain, the eternal longing helpless wait
mercifully forgotten at the first suckling sound.

God as woman born
slew Cain not
nor the others ever after.

God as woman born
removed the fruit from the soil with a tenderness
that wrung a universal sob
from the heart of creation.

so if woman must be,
resurrected as son of a woman poet,
let it be so,
beside you, you shear
wooly words,
from and for us,
gathering, gathering

~~~~~~~~~~~

This poem is dedicated to, inspired by the compositions here of Harriet Tecumsah Watt
She is one of the best writer and poets on this site, vastly under-appreciated. I proudly accept the title of her follower.  Read her and be infatuated, angry, enthralled and challenged. The words in italics are excerpts from her poems and messages.
Continue reading...
Mar 2014 · 4.6k
welcome poet, tell us...."Maligayang pagdating, Makata, Sabihin mo sa amin..."
Nat Lipstadt Mar 2014
welcome poet, tell us...."Maligayang pagdating, Makata, Sabihin mo sa amin..."
"sumulat ng mga "paano kung" sa buhay ng isang tao
may mga pag-ikot o pagbabago sa mga konklusyon
sansaglit nguni't mahaba nung nilikha
may mga tainga sa mundong ito, nag nagkukusang-loob
bukas and mga palad at bukas ang mga labi akong tatanggapin
nangingibabaw sa kanilang isipan ang pagbating ito:
"Maligayang pagdating, Makata,
Sabihin mo sa amin..."

welcome poet, tell us....

Translated-for me by Sally, who welcomes everyone...

Just an an excerpt from http://hellopoetry.com/poem/615068/where-has-writing-gotten-me/
"write of the ifs of a man's life,
and come aboutface to conclusions,
instant and long in the making,
there are willing ears on this globe,
welcoming me open armed, opened lipped,
knowing firstly this open-eyed greeting,
welcome poet, tell us."
Continue reading...
Mar 2014 · 2.5k
where has writing gotten me? (March 2014)
Nat Lipstadt Mar 2014
where has writing gotten me? (March 2014)
a fair question, deserving of thought,
goodly soft care and hard consideration,
strangely, instantly and undeniable,
one worldly, word achieves *******

whether first or foremost,
après ma raison d'être,
cannot list, nor rank or certain state,
yet my heart repeats, nation, nation,
my understanding, instant and complete

worthy journey to self-fulfillment,
contentedly unhappy to be permanently,
one poem short on the one continuum,
the-road-trip to salvation,
my end, my finality / our self-acualization

aking pagtatapos, ang aking katotohanan
my einde, my realiteit
fen m 'yo, reyalite mwen
akhir saya, realiti saya
ma fin, ma réalité
M
write of the ifs of a man's life,
and come aboutface to conclusions,
instant and long in the making,
there are willing ears on this globe,
welcoming me open armed, opened lipped,
knowing firstly this open-eyed greeting,
welcome poet, tell us

for we are one nation, everywhere invisible,
indivisible with liberty and justice inherent,
creation our common good, in fact it is our
lifelong wares and goods, letter by letter composing,
we sell for the price of free

This then single common currency,
our ouro, derivation of
languages multi and mellifluous here spoke,
this my/our nation where birthright and
citizenship ego-and-geo boundless,
my loves, continentally arrayed,
to whom I pledge until last breath
utter all, guttural devotion

when one of us creates,
good manifests, I care not
in what tongue,
for our tongues
intertwine and intertaste
this one flavor,
communitas,
meine gemeinschaft, meine gesellschaft
where spoken
goodness all the days of life,
it has goodly gotten me to you...
inspired by an overheard conversation on Facebook between two poets, and this article about Robert Frost asking, can bad people write poetry.

This poem is dedicated to the so, so many good friends, in my life now attained, on continents near and so far away, of you I thought first, first, when this question, self-imposed interrogatory,  demanded answers.

http://online.wsj.com/news/articles/SB10001424052702303650204579376813629376986?KEYWORDS=Robert+frost&mg;=reno64-wsj

if you cannot open the article, I will send if one asks..

Filipino, Afrikaans, Haitian Creole, Malay, French
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Feb 2014 · 1.2k
The Lines of Me (The 28th of February)
Nat Lipstadt Feb 2014
The Lines of Me (The 28th of February)
These Lines:
etched and edged,
well-distinct and ill-defining,
clarifying and disguising,
multifarious characters,
multivariate natures.
nefarious and courageous.

thickened thinnings,
straightforward curvings,
appointed and unanointed,
given, taken, and then
redrawn, misshapen.

both boundary and limitations,
goal reached, unending destinations,
a human's realm of indefinite definitions,
These Lines:
mappings of his domain,
recordings of his failings.

my great divide,
testimonies to my endings,
visual markers of
virtuous past successes,
virtual future failures invadings.

How can they be both simultaneous?

These Lines:
double etched and sword edged,
outbound-triumphant, defending,
inbound-plaintive, wailing,
both an indefensible and defensive blade,
cutting, both ways.

*PostScript:
The twenty eight of the month of Feb-rue-ary,
clear enough ending to the muddiest, contrary,
turgid month of the ifs of a man's life.
4:30am on that day, the tastings of my archaic bourn
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Feb 2014 · 1.1k
The Reckless Choice
Nat Lipstadt Feb 2014
The Reckless Choice
Please read the notes first.


Tally time, conclusion forming,
"Some day," grown nearer.
Tree's longest branch,
Coming to reach, reaching to come.
Soon to beat and plead upon
Cottage window and door.
Rooted whisperer, jealous reminder,
Revered warning, timely sounding,
Your time of *Reckless Choice arriving

Destination's unnamed coordinates, uncoordinated,
Journey from wherefrom to wherever, unrecorded,
Observed by silenced overlording sky,
Testimony of the seeing voiceless clouds,
All nought and to no avail, destination head-shaking,
These white witnesses,
Muted, deaf, dumbfounded,
Knowing, yet  incapable of telling

State of sated steady staid,
Sundered by sharp silent sounds,
Reckless surpasses Riskless,
Life is a recitation, an enunciation

When my less to say is soon none,
My Reckless Choice, now chosen,
Unforced but enforced,
I shall be gone
The Sound of Trees
BY ROBERT FROST

I wonder about the trees.
Why do we wish to bear
Forever the noise of these
More than another noise
So close to our dwelling place?
We suffer them by the day
Till we lose all measure of pace,
And fixity in our joys,
And acquire a listening air.
They are that talks of going
But never gets away;
And that talks no less for knowing,
As it grows wiser and older,
That now it means to stay.
My feet tug at the floor
And my head sways to my shoulder
Sometimes when I watch trees sway,
From the window or the door.
I shall set forth for somewhere,
I shall make the reckless choice
Some day when they are in voice
And tossing so as to scare
The white clouds over them on.
I shall have less to say,
But I shall be gone.
Continue reading...
Feb 2014 · 1.3k
The Disaffected
Nat Lipstadt Feb 2014
The Disaffected
these two hands, small, stubby,
nonetheless,
invite you to come aboard,
all, the unselected
all, the unprotected

the pretenders, outsiders,
hallway cool, self-collected,
girls who wear dresses,
boys who write in diaries,
Camus, Sartre hangers-on,
never-removed sunglasses wearers,
24/7

trip time,
comb your eyes,
system cleansing,
you, self-affected,
you, self-selected
you,
step away from the gallows,
get down from the scaffold

come to, for you, to get collected,
the unaffected,
the undirected,
road trip to the unexpected,
place where the disconnection is
disconnected,
where the unexpected, that's you,
expected

I know you well
I know you all

you are my desirables,
my touched untouchables,
wilderness voices,
no longer crying,
bound for greatness

from hands to pockets,
my chosen ones,
now my protected

No more unhappy birthday parties
that no one comes too
no need to pretend, sell love,
to the takers of advantage,

now on you breathe in an atmosphere
I've collected,
100% exhaled relief breaths,
purelled oxygen, fresh start air

no more disaffected,
now fuel injected,
now that you are
in and among the
touched, carried,
the affected,
the every poem read...
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Feb 2014 · 4.1k
The Spices of Life - Cinnamon, Vanilla and Paprika
Nat Lipstadt Feb 2014
The Spices of Life - Cinnamon, Vanilla and Paprika
slept and soaked
the sabbath Saturday away.
the body, achey breaky,
cranked and croaked,
slewed by a slew of common miscreants.
one, a stitch in my side,
feeling like someone's inside,
wanting to be born, feet first,
coming out the side of my chest,
instead of my ******

so,
promised poems and bills to pay,
put aside for a more poetic bill paying day.

awoke once near midday,
an unusual wake up call,
my nostrils do attend,
when the honey odors of
cinnamon and vanilla invade
the french shores of my subconscious.

I love three things French:
the elegance of their language grande,
their frenchified fries and frenchified toast.

was fed some french toast,
bathed in vanilla and cinnamon,
thus drugged,
went back to bed again.

as I drifted off for the third time today,
heard the woman dramatic say:
"must have, must have,"
two words that I from my past,
consider a curse,
a grave phrase of choice of my ex-wife,
her way of saying I didn't measure up.

must have
paprika
to roast your chicken
for Sunday dinner.

relieved beyond measure,
as I to dreamless sleep dispatched,
vague recall a poem forming about the
spices in my life.
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Feb 2014 · 556
Morning love is my coffee
Nat Lipstadt Feb 2014
Morning love is my coffee
For AR, whose blood and coffee might just be inherited...*

a morning celebration when men learn,    
taking is best when given.

and  I don't mean coffee
What I mean is this:

http://hellopoetry.com/poem/607564/morning-coffee/

real coffee
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Feb 2014 · 1.1k
the artist, the stranger in a world of beauty
Nat Lipstadt Feb 2014
the artist, the stranger in a world of beauty
for H*

let us write for one,
one another
~~~~~~~~
let us premise.
we are much the same.

despite the fact that we are all genetically
different,
we come with the same equipage.

this is the miracle.
this is the strange.

at the intersection
at the corners of
Strange St. and Beauty Avenue,
the street poets slam,
drawers chalk paint Chagalls
upon the sidewalk,
street musicians sing songs of
Beethoven and Billy Joel,

let us agree.
we see with eyes, we hear with ears, we tongue taste,
voices, make swears and tunes.
soldiers with a standard, life-issued backpack.

you have vocal chords, but can you sing?

some see a village.
some see a fiddler.
the artist see the fiddler on the roof,
sees the strange in the ordinary,
and from this makes the beauty,
that in its differing is its uniting.

we all know words.
then we unite them in different combinations,
and A Tale of Two Cities sits on shelves,
in different alphabets, even dots and dashes,
wherever, readers read.

it is always,
the best of times, the worst of times.
it will always be that way.

it will be the strange among us,
that see the music,
taste the words,
dance the paint,
sharing it with us,
purging the the common, the ordinary,
yet making the common, the ordinary,
extraordinary,
giving us beauty of art,
in an uncommon but shared vision.
Well at the risk of my masculinity, attended the ballet, where prior to the performance the conductor talked about the music of Prokofiev and Barber, and quoted a literary critic (Haydor?) that said that the artist sees the strange and from it makes beauty.
Continue reading...
Feb 2014 · 6.4k
Wherever (Synthesis)
Nat Lipstadt Feb 2014
Wherever (Synthesis)
~wherever, whenever and forever for Sally B.~


"Don’t urge me to leave you.              "If I could, then I would
To turn back from you.                          I'll go wherever you will go
Wherever you go,                                   Way up high or down low
I will go,                                                   I'll go wherever you will go
And where you stay,                              Run away with my heart
I will stay.                                                 Run away with my hope
Your people will be                                Run away with my love
My people                                                I know now, just quite how
And your God                                         My life and love
my God.                                                   Might still go on
Where you die, I will die,                      In your heart, in your mind
There I will be buried."                          I'll stay with you for all of time"

(Book of Ruth 1:16)                                  (Charlene Soria Lyrics)


Let it be writ,
Let it be sung,
All should know,
This I swear,
Where you are,
So, I shall be too.
Your hope, my hope.
Your heart, my heart.
Life and love,
But one.

Where you run,
I'll shall follow.
Now, today,
Forever,
If our bodies apart,
If our hands cannot
Grasp each other,
Yet, still,
In your heart,
In your soul,
I will be,
I cannot leave.

Where you are,
So, I shall be too.
Thank you all for loving this poem s much.  I have long thought of the symmetry between Ruth and the lyrics to the song Wherever You Go, when ever I hear them on Pandora....last nite around Two Am I decided to set up the side, by side and then to see what happened...and the merger, the synthesis was the obvious and only solution.

then much later I discovered this:
https://youtu.be/vmfxf1DLLkM
#lipstadt #wherever #synthesis #soria
Continue reading...
Feb 2014 · 1.3k
Yes, I am a rascal
Nat Lipstadt Feb 2014
Yes, I am a rascal
drank a pinot noir,
Rascal, they called it,
from Willamette Valley,
Oregon.

drank it at The Quarter,
a charming establishment
on Hudson Street,
in the cobblestoned West Village.

I love a good name
as much as
I love a good Pinot,
and to scribe about
the city I love
where I was born,
schooled and fooled in,
by many a woman.

The city where I named
and raised my children.

Will probably die in
this city, and when
I am long forgot,
my name never uttered,

you,

as my designated
rememberer,
will think of me
whenever someone says,
he was such a rascal

http://www.thequarternyc.com/
Posted a long time ago and fell between the tables...resubmitted for your reconsideration
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Feb 2014 · 1.2k
My favorite poem?
Nat Lipstadt Feb 2014
My favorite poem?
My favorite poem
is the next one, yet to be,
that I shall write....

Once, I wrote:
a flawless poem
if such there were,
will always be,
the next one^

When asked again,
I still thus answer

For everything I have ever writ,
flawed,
even if the imperfection,
minor,
the clarity, not the pristine perfect
I sought

Digging mining refining...
this process endless,
a life long condition of being
human

It is therefore and ironically godlike,
unchangingly immutable,
this, the divine spark within me,
my nizotz,
unceasingly immutable
in search of the flawless poem,
my favorite-yet-to-be, to be

my favorite poem
is the next one I shall write....
and the one there after,
until the flawless one is either created
or found, bound, full formed

or

until the inkwell empty,
the mind black blot dimmed,
the eyes yellowed-weakened,
the lips, white parched beyond repair,

whichever comes last,
conceding,
the last poem, perforce, must suffice.

Dayenu
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dayenu

^ see my banner

Nitzotzot (Lit. "sparks"). In Kabbalistic-Chassidic terminology refers to the sparks of holiness or Godliness inherent in all of creation. When something is used in its Divinely intended context, its sparks are said to be ‘liberated’ and re-absorbed into their Source, thus contributing to the establishment of the Divine dwelling on earth which is the ultimate purpose of creation.
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Feb 2014 · 104
Just Money (Prelude Feb. 2014)
Nat Lipstadt Feb 2014
Just Money (Prelude Feb. 2014)
(Prelude)

Conflicted notion:
Best bottle of unopened wine you own,
drink this new year's eve and disown,
or preserve for just one more forever,
a reservation made and unmade.
satisfaction of sustaining the unrealized,
a pleasured dream,
a middle class myth maintained,
that perfume lasts forever.

When allowing the earth's atmosphere to oxygenate
his best, his words lying dormant,
thus initializing the fulfilling of potential,
simultaneously sipping from the now ever diminishing reservoir
of future verbal, poetic spawn of discombobulation,
the finality of phoenix birth and destruction,
a poem created, is it not, but its
obituary notated?

This epic conflict has lain muddled,

Just Money

warming, chilling, for years,
just neath a man's breast,
for forty eight fears,
in the first sub-basement of the mind,
stimulated by the ******* receipt
of a first teenage paycheck,
compressed by the dim recalling of
youngest child's blurry memory,
someone arguing about,
just money.

This title, pro and pre scribed long time ago,
daily challenging the man like black phylacteries,
wrapping/rapping round, in and on
a man's head, arm piece pointed
at the heart, stabbing,
morning probing, what is it,
mourning daily over the spirit questioning,
where does honor and self actualization come from,
is it
just money?

This title,

Just Money

asking to be written,
asking for a rain delay,
a mockingbird, with every login,
was/is waiting, in the poets Notes icon,
wine aging for decades,
asking to let it be fully formed
in order to die,
after all, it is
just money.

This story, dark and macerated,
needed to dissolve in solution,
letting the pieces separate,
be distinguished, or be extinguished,
be inscribed, or let evaporate
incomplete even when completed.

Never-sure if/when it will be drinkable,
never-sure, all the muddled sediment,
will fully fall to the bottom.
liquid and stolid,
compositional elements of the
unity of self, destructing.

the question begs on the street,
drink, serve, or preserve,
answer the question,
is it just money deserved and earned or
Just Money?

Chances are this story will never
complete, sore-tempted to rinse, repeat,
then delete these words for after all,
it is just money. hah.
just and money
Two words that combine differently and tell me
It's a poem you need to write, completely.

Just Money
Feb. 2014
Continue reading...
Feb 2014 · 1.2k
Up to you babe, up to you
Nat Lipstadt Feb 2014
Up to you babe, up to you
Dedicated entirely to and for Marisa White

So many human cells,
trillions, not billions

staying alive, a constant balance
between losing and making more.
when young and growing,
like you babe,
like you babe,
making many more new,
than we lose.

when we "advance"
to advanced ages,
like me babe,
like me babe,
when old sick,
either body or heart,
starting to die,
losing more than we make.
new cells, no more,
past
tense,
yet, still have colorations of all kinds,
streaming residues inside yet thrive.

the youthful biologist,
you, know all this,
yet still needy seemingly,
for gentlest reminding,
by an inexorably dying man,
prime declining,
so care for these words well,
they won't come again.

for you to imagine a grain
inside you,
so wonderful envisioned,
that the yet uncorrected words
limbo, stasis,
are deleted from the textbooks
as yet unwritten,
on and of you,
writ by you.

I need
but one cell,
of your DNA,
freshly birthed this day,
a canvas of only you,
unsullied by pernicious infected hopelessness,
where, under the microscope electrifying,
I will paint with scalpel and brush,
away the limbo,
injecting the blue dye of
happyness,
to course through your red veins.

how cannot you see,
the potential vastness of the trillions
that awaits, so in need,
needy for coloration by a scientist~poetess,
when a lover good and true appears,
you will birth trillions
new cells in a new body, imagine that,
using only the brightest hues of your untapped potential.

which cell?

so many choices,
so many possibilities,
why that I leave that
up, to you babe,
up up up up up,*
up, to you babe.
------
The science is from:

http://www.madsci.org/posts/archives/2001-02/981770369.An.r.html

The inspiration is from:

http://hellopoetry.com/poem/601246/new-canvas-no-limbo-on-it/
Continue reading...
Feb 2014 · 1.1k
Erase All Brinks
Nat Lipstadt Feb 2014
Erase All Brinks
Erase All Brinks

*The title and the realization of this poem, commissioned unknowingly today by Pradip Chattopadhyay.  This poet's banner is empty, no history, no philosophy of life, no self-aggrandizement. He lets his poems do his walking, share-telling of his steep and steppe plains, journeys through the poetic minutiae of the city street, the hallowed hallways of his plain people who speak in meter and rhyme.  Thankfully, he lets us walk in the footsteps of his eyes, letting us sink into the soft sands of his visionary visions.  As I commence this essay, unknowing where it will begin, nor it's inevitable end, I pray I do his commission, and him, the justice and the honor due them.

~~~~~~~~~


Brink: the edge or margin of a steep place or of land bordering water; any extreme edge; verge;a crucial or critical point, especially of a situation or state beyond which success or catastrophe occurs.

~~~~~~~~~


if we would we could,
erase all the brinks,
write but of the simple,
mysteries of men and their marigolds,
speak only of daily treasures so oft,
overlooked and left unpronounceable
as merely common

if but could, would we not
do away, dull the extremes,
unsharpen the gorges and the verges,
no melodrama, but only mellow,
let life be more than lurching from
success into catastrophe,
the difference tween the two,
only a finale tally

boring?
walk the precise precipices of the daily
with eyes open, there be enough small plates
to satisfy the gourmand's need for beauty,
comedy and tragedy, all well supplied

take the cancer-struck, the love-unrequited,
the grandpa's passing, the joyous adoration of new births,
these hillocks, un-green valleys, mountain ranges of life will
n'ere be ended and will beg us, nay, demand of us
write!

in between, and of the days of in-between,
far the greater, more the numerous,
keen and ken, sift the softer edges of diurnal
takes and tales of simpler majesties,
write me in meter
of the meter man
who totals
your usage of the world,
your measured presence here,
in words of watts and volts

speak to me of a hard week's pay,
the working man's lunchbox,
his rules of thumbs for living clean,
wives, who through endless henpecking,
remind husbands that they are beloved,
endlessly,
of sneezes and mustard fields

Let us erase all the brinks,
scribble me words birthed in everyday
inkblots, mine the veins of the wonders of real life,
put aside the cutting of woeful veins that bleed your
demanding need to be paid attention,
to right now

step back from the brinkmanship of the dramatic,
find the sensitivity of the sensible shoes daily worn,
use your talents to celebrate your talents,
there will be plenty days when the tally ends red,
and you will be more skilled, better comprehending
the special needs of those days,
to speak and tell of the uncommon,
if only we practice to
write, speak well of the common
A Pradip passing comment outs a passable poem...
Continue reading...
Feb 2014 · 1.3k
Snow Burn
Nat Lipstadt Feb 2014
Snow Burn
The unexpected snow, disruptive,
in ways more burdensome,
than mere fender benders and
swapping travelogue commutation miseries

ah, the tv reporters regale
with snow tales, human fails,
but where do you hear
of the children
burnt once by fire
then again, now,
again!
burnt by snow.

here, hear, listen here

technology moves forward,
grafting new shells of skin
on burnt children,
but tonite you're cozy thinking
of your valentine's heart,
not of the little ones,
whose hearts are unprotected,
by what we take so for granted

beneath our protective gloves and coats, scarfs and boots,
our prophylactic human skin,
theirs, fire ravaged,
now re-hazardous,
by southern snows burning

these children hurt,
unexpectedly,
cannot play in the snow that came so
unexpectedly,
lest it burn them worse*

"in the children's burn unit, postponed all surgeries except 'emergency'.  Two days of outpatient clinic patients forced to reschedule,. That then, postpones their surgeries, second step grafting, etc. Our vents ran smoothly I heard via the generators, unlike last outage. We had to ambulance each individual patient.

I dread going in tomorrow but small comfort,
it will be warmer than my cold home."

Life first, poetry second
burnt too oft by the supposed caregiver, but not of that now, but later for surety, will I **** them
Continue reading...
Feb 2014 · 1.1k
Where all Poets Go
Nat Lipstadt Feb 2014
Where all Poets Go
Heaven, Where all Poets Go

dedicated soully to Kripi Mehra
who unknowingly commissioned this piece
with her love and feeling for those who
dare to fare on just words, only to
sally
forth unafraid and unashamed
~~~~~~~

to the conclusion cut,
not knowing how we know what we know,
       knowing that of this cut,
this one,
as real as anything worth writing about,
not knowing how but demonstrating a modicum of erudition

yet,  
clarity this time no stranger,
no remonstrating, endless debating, easy
come, and even easier go,
all poets (and lost-to-early children) go to heaven,
even the bad ones

stop with the teasing give us the reasoning

nah nah nah always in a hurry to get to the
bottom, move on, write yet another,
restless young'uns, girls and fellows,
even you old, small ones, who still can't spell
your own name
or rhyme, those slow mo yokels, national symbols,
the ones that seem never to ever catch their star,
the mothers across all oceans, who need childlike tendering,
Indian girl chiefs, boat captain historians, word magi-bus-riding hallway eavesdroppers, **** British girls, nurses, wonderers and after-life lusters,
burnt baby healers

learn that this self seal-selected profession
is an endless deal, profession rhymes with heaven,
you need to luxuriate in the long journey,
pink patience before you raise you glass

but OK, just this once,
the secret you have may have already read!
pass it along, as it was given to me
by one of us, poet laureate far better than I ever could be

Down in the sounding foam of primal things I
     reach my hands and play with pebbles of destiny.
I have been to hell and back many times.
I know all about heaven, for I have talked with God.
I dabble in the blood and guts of the terrible.
I know the passionate seizure of beauty
And the marvelous rebellion of man at all signs
     reading "Keep Off." ^

that is what poets do daily with each ecrive,
each line of metered musique mystique,
and with stanzas lighter than air,
a piece of you breaks off, floats upward,
and when the day is done,
the struggling striving breaking apart,
be now over,
all poets go to heaven to collect themselves,
their entire pieces of writings, called their collected works,
all the pieces reassembled,
you are at last, at last, at rest, whole, satisfied and undenied,
where poets, brave soldiers of all ages deserve to be,
heaven resting
Kripi Mehra: "A slogan- Always remain a fool
I wish I could write a poem on the title " Let's Convert Hello Poetry Into Heaven"..."
But you did, you did....

^  see http://hellopoetry.com/poem/600071/the-sounding-foam-of-primal-things/ where Mr. Sandburg is credited in full

"So raise your glass if you are wrong
In all the right ways, all my underdogs
We will never be, never be anything but loud
And nitty, gritty, *****, little freaks
Won't you come on and come on and
Raise your glass!
Just come on and come on and
Raise your glass!"
Lyrics by Pink, "Raise Your Glass"
Continue reading...
Feb 2014 · 956
Foolscap
Nat Lipstadt Feb 2014
Foolscap
Foolscap
now I understand better,
the ironic humor of naming
the plain white paper before me,
where the construction commences,
the scratched surfaces, entrance ways into
the best I can hope to offer and having yet to write

                          foolscap

laugh out loud,
move over great ones,
this fool had tipped his cap,
betrayed his intention and attention,
he has a kitbag of raggedy jumbled words
as yet unassembled, and had all life to snap them
colored Lego pieces of his own design together in a way
that takes the un from unremarkable and so let this newbie

commencement be a beginning,
not an ending célèbre but a transition to
translating the heart and head and a storied vision
retained therein, treasure chested into an assemblage
pleasing to those who peek over the foolscap's shoulder

the snow has dappled doused my lower legs,
wet, does not creation commence in the wetness,
even slush that is the residue of the brilliance of snow
as a concept, even the slush, disdained and discarded,
***** grayed, from it will come my firsts, my births,
my ***** grayed, my beloved unbeloved,
sculpture of words that resound
across the better days to yet,
yet yet yet yet - a hundred
Yeats yets, sweet vets,
all I need is the first
word, so chosen,
so apropos,
foolscap


Foolscap - a type of inexpensive writing paper
Dedicated to those measured few here who have nurtured me with gentle pushes and sweet perfumed praise to push myself harder yet, push harder than I ever dared.
You know who you are.
Pray I please you.

http://hellopoetry.com/poem/596769/poet-in-trouble/
Continue reading...
Feb 2014 · 3.7k
The Sounding Foam of Primal Things
Nat Lipstadt Feb 2014
The Sounding Foam of Primal Things
The Sounding Foam of Primal Things

*(The title and the poem, taken from and inspired by
Carl Sandburg's "Who Am I?")


wind and rain pound the surf.
snow falls on the beach, on the shore.
man-observer cannot tell:
has the earth gone mad, all wet?
do the seas rise, whipped up, filling the heavens,
or does the white rain replenishes the very body,
from whence it came, and now returns?

this matters greatly, yet nothing answers this, his question.

the furious soundings, the green foam churn,
the silence of no response inebriates,
drunk on the tempest's hard wet liquor,
weighed down, sodden with the despair,
solitude, silence, absent answers,
his natural walking companions!

No Stopping signs on almost every corner,
Do Not Pass, Do Not Enter,
One Way, Two Way, No Thru Passage,
but the one sign he seeks,
"Stay On The Path" absent.

Eluded,
dispassionate endings,
the essential quietude among
furious surround-sounds of creative destruction
he ceases to ask, for unanswered, undirected.

Concluded,
either
their is no one listening, or,
there is no one caring, or,

Deluded,
illusion is truth,
he is an illusion.

------------------
Who Am I?
By Carl Sandburg

My head knocks against the stars.
My feet are on the hilltops.
My finger-tips are in the valleys and shores of
     universal life.
Down in the sounding foam of primal things I
     reach my hands and play with pebbles of
     destiny.
I have been to hell and back many times.
I know all about heaven, for I have talked with God.
I dabble in the blood and guts of the terrible.
I know the passionate seizure of beauty
And the marvelous rebellion of man at all signs
     reading "Keep Off."

My name is Truth and I am the most elusive captive
     in the universe.
#sounding #foam #of #primal #things #ss
Continue reading...
Feb 2014 · 630
restraint? yes, that is the refrain answer of the refrainers
Nat Lipstadt Feb 2014
restraint? yes, that is the refrain answer of the refrainers
so i ask you, sage,
in all sincerity

sage - one who has made mistakes, and would share
the fragrance of his lesson plan, his historic failures and the knowing that fear can never be defeated but it can be
                                   deferred and differed until lessened

and asks,
how to put aside
a ridiculous pride...a palpable fear

this I know -
and you yourself have answered:
when necessary, I have made my self an object of
Ridiculous -
and endured the ridicule
and loved
the laughter of the fools,
and harmonized both
for this trite
is the best they have,
know that sages have
                                    bested fear, but never can it be defeated

to let fly
the asking?

start with a looking glass,
perforce speaks the truth,
and the answering machine image, undeniably,
                                              is you.

easy?
no.
i have found no easy thing worth doing
or loving.
   i don't want ease
i want l o v e

love - the rush of trust, the release of the unconditional sharing    Can never happen till you
trust yourself to say,
                                I am afraid


that i would burn bridges for
a struggle of understanding
that will keep me alive and whole
a sickening rush
worth every sacrifice.

paralyzing terror
because nothing is due me...
nothing should be expected
so nothing can be misplaced
    misguided

EVERYTHING IS DUE YOU,
ROAR WITH ANGERED FRUSTRATION,
      AT YOUR FRUSTRATED REFUSAL
TO BE ANGRY AT YOURSELF.
      BEAUTY INSIDE OUT AND OUTSIDE IN,
EVERYTHING IS EXPECTED, AND GIVEN
       THERE IS NO HIDEY HOLE FOR YOU TO BE MISPLACED ~
BURN BRIDGES THOSE BRIDGES OF REFRAIN AND RESTRAINT!

COME OUT COME OUT WHEREVER YOU ARE!

restraint,
restraint!!!
yes?!
   yes.
that must be the answer.

for if not restraint,
  then earth shaking love.
and if the earth shakes
  people might get hurt.

and i might be one of them.

              restraint, restraint,
this is your refrain?
                 retrain, retrain,
I believe, can you not too?
                  believe in you,
can you not too?
                  hard knocks endured, loveless years, disgrace
and more to come, yes love soothes and coos
                  but who can love but those brave enough to
love themselves first?
                  but my refrain will never be restrain,
only
                  unbowed undefeated asking for
the more
                  you deserve

I drop the BASS on you in your own words:

cast out fear and man up.
or at the very least
pretend to do those things.
then you might
have something to talk about.
Point/Counterpoint
The opening salvo
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/589053/hope/

My First Punch
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/593181/ask-for-more-than-you-can-give/

Counterpunch
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/598004/ask-for-more/

Right Hook
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/598071/hey-teach-can-i-ask-ya-something/

Combination Flurry
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/598109/if-you-would-just-ask/

http://hellopoetry.com/poem/598162/if-you-would-just-ask-then-here-is-the-answer/

Between the rounds, your feel this
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/598219/untitled/

The bell rings, and the fighters circle
and the ****** fight is over and the boxers embrace herein,
with live and affection and mutual admiration and as poets they say,
                                                    No mas, no mas!
Continue reading...
Feb 2014 · 6.6k
if you would just ask, then here is the answer
Nat Lipstadt Feb 2014
if you would just ask, then here is the answer
be direct
  direct me


have I not,
    but cannot more
                      be been strong for you,
            so I teach you to teach the power
of strength by daring to ask


ask me
   i will create anything it is
in my power
   to create for you
i will break anything for you
that needs to be broken

old poet old brok-en asking that you keep on
asking, I need nothing broke, busted but still needing you,
needing you whole for me to be whole,
from that hole of dark, we share different sides,
I need you creating
you anew

al green said
  no one told us about the sorrow
no one told me about today
no one told me about tomorrow    

if asking were my strength
  this deadly blind balance
would not be my act

but it is that you arrived here to survive here,
the balance is blind, but you are not,
you knew sorrow was a possible.
you want easy, I'll give you easy,
ask yourself above all,
what's next that
I want

answering
   l o v e...
i can answer
i can answer

*the old poet asks,
why is it this poem world always comes around to that
old tirade, that four letter word...the one you ask,
when is it
my turn, and I answer you twice,
for you asked and answered twice,
I do love you,
I do love you,
exactly as you are,
invisible but oh so visible to us all,
and that is why you must ask for
more, evermore,
never ceasing, believing this more
is due, due to you
Punch
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/593181/ask-for-more-than-you-can-give/
Counterpunch
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/598004/ask-for-more/

Right Hook
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/598071/hey-teach-can-i-ask-ya-something/
Combination Flurry
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/598109/if-you-would-just-ask/
Continue reading...
Feb 2014 · 836
Hey Teach! Can I ask ya something?
Nat Lipstadt Feb 2014
Hey Teach! Can I ask ya something?
for my tattoo girl

am admitting,
revealing, believing, expecting,
asking direct,
no inferring, no discerning,
needs answers,
need *more,
need art in my life
need teach in my life,
need teach me
how
what
to ask for more,

when get one sweet answer,
get two new quests,
get two new queries,
need you to teach me
how to ask, how to never be satisfy,
anything else would be madness
Punch counterpunch
http://hellopoetry.com/amanda-muller-1/
Continue reading...
Feb 2014 · 1.2k
Poet In Trouble
Nat Lipstadt Feb 2014
Poet In Trouble
See  please, if you have not yet,
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/594328/this-filled-a-need-i-had-no-name-for/
                     ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

got myself in trouble,
found me a problem
all of my own making/creating,
all my own to solve,
all by my lonesome

put/found myself
in a room with no exit at all,
only bookshelves upon the wall

with bookshelves full of
great poets who when they wrote,
they filled a need that had no name

said to myself,
how am I going to
get out of here,
or
find a space for me on that bookshelf?
or both?

this new standard, self-imposed,
discovering, exposing, sensing,
filling the aches and hopes
with a new satisfaction

it occurs me this is the precise atomic second
that if, can place the keystone,
then, can build the edifice,
floor by floor,
room by room,
poem by poem

so, trapped in this electronic/platonic youthful room,
a room with too many words,
but none mine,
my problem begins

so I have begun to solve my own one-problem,
alpha bet, word, line, stanza, poem,
one at a time

and never post what never meets the highest
standard of mine own creation,
fulfill
*the need you did not know needs filling
I have drowned in the geyser up, the waterfall down of too many poems.  I have decided to post less, but hopefully better.  I will read more but say less.  
I will be among those anonymous reads,
of whom, oft wondered,
who are you, you, who read and move on
with a nary a moment to comment or like, or dislike?
Look for my messages tho, for via stealth technology, I will be present here.

To write special, and leave special on the table, my goal now.
From here on, I write for me and to the highest standard, expecting to fail, hoping to succeed.
Knowing this:
I define success when I put the pen down,
having left breath ,tears, a poet's and a child's dream, and sweet perfume
as the residue.  Those of you, the readers, who come along, treasured but fewer, share my meal and leave the table satisfied and tell me too,
that you too write to me,
you will fill a need that we did not know needed filling,
One poem at a time.



*“Get yourself in trouble. If you get yourself in trouble, you don't have the answers. And if you don't have the answers, your solution will more likely be personal because no one else's solutions will seem appropriate. You'll have to come up with your own.”

"society is much too problem-solving oriented. It is far more interesting to [participate in] ‘problem creation’ … You know, ask yourself an interesting enough question and your attempt to find a tailor-made solution to that question will push you to a place where, pretty soon, you’ll find yourself all by your lonesome — which I think is a more interesting place to be."*

― Chuck Close*
Continue reading...
Feb 2014 · 866
"This filled a need I had no name for"
Nat Lipstadt Feb 2014
"This filled a need I had no name for"
just when the bitter
is not on the edges
of my spoiled food,

but my repast totaled and complete,

just when the heartache of living
infects the legs the head even
the fingertips I abuse leaking all I fear here

when composing,

just when I read another 1000 daily new tryings to say me bad sad utilizing
moon June eyes scarred scraps of love and pity-me broken rants,
cants of can't,
trending my deep desired purpose of delighting and inspiring
you into the thunderous waterfall of never ending poetic oblivion,

and I wonder what the hell am I doing here
(spending countless hours, draining personal  batteries)

then you tell me that some words,
words they say I wrote,
apple-core me
pushing momentarily out/aside the fear, the embattled hubris,
the anguish, the desperate wishes, you tell me just this:

"This filled a need I had no name for"

I am weeping only, ashamed and unashamed,
redeemed, you used my coupon, and spent it
on redeeming me
in a manner unknown and here I am composing once more having sworn I am done here,
only now to decompose myself in privy chambers for my dearest ones,
for too many words come to me, telling me of their hurting,
used up by overuse, crusted cliches,
drowning in images that no longer reflect in any mirror,

and you tell me that just what I felt,
wrote down precisely that,
one must  always
ask for more than you can give,
my communication into your sensations fulfilled a need,
some thing that

"filled a need I had no name for"

and it occurs me this is the precise atomic second
to put away my deckling paper, put the pencil down,
lock up that old sewing box, pink and white striped, where the pained and joyous monthly storage fee needs payment due,
where are kept yellowed poem-papers that they won't hesitate to throw out when cleaning out my last effects,
needs shutting down,
the last episode of this personal reality show,
"breaking __" (fill in the blanks with un blanched original sounds)

what more needs doing,
I inquire of my narcissism,
capstone, the keystone brick preserved,
what more could ever be achieved
having tendering myself raw and distinct, fine and finished,

there is no more I could ever write, or need to,
and I am contented in a way that my I ego
happily announces it's surrender and the end is not lacking in finality,
for this is the way to go out,

for you have given me something
weeping only, ashamed and unashamed, at last,
at the longingest at last,
filling a need I think knew existed and now no longer,
for who cannot say I am not whole,
holy satisfied after seeing this gift,
for you have all gifted me something I dare not,
even, did not know to how ask for,
nor know that I could ever give,
out loud and conscious,
and now need never ask for again,
but give    
again and again
and again
Thank you Emily Rose of Texas.
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/593181/ask-for-more-than-you-can-give/

Poetry by the numbers (in too many ways) diminishes me.
I cannot cease to write., but I paint by the letters, not by the numbers. These numbers corrupt, so now I must learn to be oblivious, and not obvious.
This poem is me exiting stage right-aligned, but not left.

"It is not how you start, but how you finish"
Not done, just private.
To a new standard am I held, everything new from now on must
fill a need we had no name for...
Continue reading...
Feb 2014 · 1.1k
no poem should ever be untitled
Nat Lipstadt Feb 2014
no poem should ever be untitled
For Helen
who wrote it first,
who wrote it better,
and in doing so,
makes me see more clearly
the why

~~~~~~~~~

no poem should ever be untitled
every face needs a name
every poem needs just
one read for completion,
but more than that, it is
a orphan still, deserving of,
due the
entitlement to be titled,
a parenting of sorts

what was the thought that born it
what was the emotion that conceived it
what was the sight that demanded sharing

this is the age of summary and synthesis,
140 and not one more,
so give direction, enable me to make
snap judgements, with so much on my plate,
we must predigest your concepts,
my multi-tasking slowed to levels unacceptable,
so I can adjudge you,
you worker poet,
before or never reading
after all,
why read anything untitled

more than this however,
for the few who chew
each morseled vowel,
ken each constant consonant,
celebrate stanzas that halt the breathing
and then,
god bless the whole child,
flaws and all,
they more than anyone deserve
your consideration in return

for the title is the essence spark
of you
and all the more so
of what you have  chosen *to share
of your essentials
After I wrote this I stumbled on the far superior, righteously angry version

http://hellopoetry.com/poem/559624/i-refuse-to-read-a-poem-

An aside: growing up you read I was just called "The Brother."
Even today when some calls me by my first name, it is a sudden shocking to my system.
Continue reading...
Feb 2014 · 941
Stuck in Acapulco
Nat Lipstadt Feb 2014
Stuck in Acapulco
Once I was stuck in Acapulco
in the rainy season,
for I didn't check the weather for
that time of year
when in need of a
quick getaway

when it is the rainy season
down Acapulco way,
it rains for a season,
not a day
and the roads are
the rivers unmarked on any map

apparently I was not the only idiot

a hotel full of newly weds  
with nothing to do after,
after doing what newly weds do,
they, these many couples
walked,
verily they cruised in D1
around in endless circles on the floor
around the newel post,
of the outdoor lobby,
jailed by the down pouring unceasing

like goldfish in a pond,
I fascinated watched,
expressionless, in motion constant,
speaking not a word to anyone,
even joined in for a splayed day ^

got the hell outta there,
went to Mexico City,
made me another
steve mcqueen quick getaway

had me a fine time there

over thirty yrs later,
the image of the
the fish pond of white humans
swimming in silent circles
still gives me
nightmares
Pre the internet.  
Whattya mean, there was time when there was no internet?

^. And died immediately
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Feb 2014 · 1.5k
Ask for more than you can give
Nat Lipstadt Feb 2014
Ask for more than you can give
read a thousand love stories,
pause, rest awhile,
read ten thousand more,
and then deny equality.

If you ask for no more than you can give,
you ask for not enough

love is imbalance not an equation,
with a single solution

love has both constants and variable factors

so you write of tribulations and tributes
so you write of lamentations and liftings

you think you are on the same page
perhaps
but do we not all read at different paces?

one of you is solid, one is dotted and dashed
one of you is straight, one is bent, forever curving

when you think you are
in balance
in the same place
in syncopation

perhaps you are for a moment
a calculus of one point on a trajectory

and you say I can only ask for what I give
and am given
and no more,
you have miscalculated

this flux
flummoxed
when the old terrain is flayed flat
but thru the windshield you see the
plateau ends, the geography unknown,

when you see unknown
when you seek the unknown
when you give from places you did not know
you had to give from
when you kiss a hand
for  twenty minutes more than than the one minute you intended
when you give more than is asked
when you ask for more than you can you think you can give
the imbalance is the only concert
the imbalance is the the only constant

how do I know this?
what are my credentials?
you are not a teenage girl,
what matters of what you know of this matters?

I am who I am
a diversity of man and manner
I am past prime and in decline
but this I know
for having failed ten thousand poem times
you must ask for more than one can give

but that's not fair!

silly one, still wretched confused,
even after one hundred
thousand poem times

you must ask of
yourself
more than you can give
and ask no less
demand no less

a body in emotion is not a body in rest
when the imbalance is too great or insufficient
then you write a poem
look in the mirror that cannot lie
and move
on
or
move
off

and begin to ask
yourself
to whom may I give myself
more than is asked
then you have finally asked
the correct solution to the
unsolvable equation
tired of love poems, especially my own.  Saying I love you is like reading a newspaper.... A constant of new stories....that are discarded for constant recycling ~ you better be writing a new story constantly or whatever.. But the audience of love druggies is huge so the ****** keeps on coming and I wonder what the fk do they know

Parts of, maybe all, of this poem inspired by this graphic which says what I tried to write...


(¯`v´¯)
`·.¸.·´
¸.·´¸.·¨) ¸.·¨)
(¸.·´ (¸.·´ (¸.·¨¯`♥

Sometimes you may notice that your heart has unexpectedly started to race or pound, or feels like it has skipped a beat. These sensations are called palpitations. For most people, palpitations are a once-in-a-blue-moon occurrence. Others have dozens a day, some so strong that they feel like a heart attack.

Most palpitations are caused by a harmless hiccup in the heart’s rhythm. A few reflect a problem in the heart or elsewhere in the body. Doctors can be quick to attribute them to anxiety, depression, or some other emotional or psychological problem. Although sometimes that’s exactly right, it’s important to first rule out harmful heart rhythms and other physical causes.

A palpitation primer

Palpitations are extremely common. Different people experience palpitations in different ways. You might feel as though your heart is fluttering, throbbing, flip-flopping, or pounding, or that it has skipped a beat. Some people feel palpitations as a pounding in the neck; others as a general sense of unease.

Some palpitations appear out of the blue and disappear just as suddenly. Others are linked with certain activities, events, or feelings. Exercise and physical activity can generate palpitations, as can anxiety or stress. Some people notice palpitations when they are drifting off to sleep; others, when they stand up after bending over.
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Feb 2014 · 1.5k
How to break up by text or email
Nat Lipstadt Feb 2014
How to break up by text or email
Check your courage, your humanity, your common decency, your *****, in the cloakroom of pathetic

2. Spend not a nanosecond thinking about how it would feel if it were done to you, reminding yourself how sad, justified, and relieved you feel

3. Debate tween text and email, choose text cause it is shorter, less time consuming, and packs more punch

4. Be proud of your courageous forthrightness in dealing with human problems so directly

5. Immediately (or prior) text all your friends what you have done

6. Make plans for a party so you can begin trolling the field.  Of course not! (invite the ex, that would be cruel)

7. Proceed to smear your ex in person, in secret, to justify how good and kind and used you are and were.  Laser focus on new target person who really turns you on

8. Show around all the ex's break up poems for laughs.

9.  Shampoo and rinse your soul with lye, and repeat, 2 - 3 times a week. If you notice any self improvement, call your doctor immediately!
Happened to a friend (email but sans the cruelty). Then I remembered my ex did the same to me - told "everybody" she was divorcing me, and then had our clergyman call me the Friday before we were supposed to go away with my son and his then new wife, to give me the news.  No, I will never forgive her. And yes, she still went on vaca with us but didn't tell the kids till they were leaving.
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Feb 2014 · 676
that too has a shadow...
Nat Lipstadt Feb 2014
that too has a shadow...
mountain ranges cast
mountainous shadows

men, just,
even just,
one odd
man

can cast ranges of
mountainous shadows

these shadows,
both
in and visible,
out and invisible

there is a looming large,
late in the day shadow
of substantive length

in and on me,
though shadows amorphous,
it's weight is crushing me

You cannot escape, Helen
a shadow
both
in and visible,
out and invisible
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