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Nat Lipstadt  Jul 2013
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2013

Part I

I mashup me, myself, and perhaps thee too.

Excerpts from my poems about poets, poetry and the process of compositions. In chronological order, earliest to latest.

With words we paint,
With syllables we embrace,
Tasked and ennobled,
We are forever fully employed,
Missionaries to all,
You too, are one as well,
Your fate can't be renounced,

when the rusted unborn poem notion is almost done,
but remains unpublished,
for no beginning, no title, can be found,

Then I recall the cornucopia days,
when poems spilled forth like
there would never be a when they wouldn't,

I revisit my old friends, couplets, twins and triplets,
seeded inside every tear, happy or sad,
sweetly and freely,

my old friends, reread,
words rearranged in new combinations,
old poems, plants bearing new fruits,
re-titled all of them, one name,
a collection entitled,
My Solace.

My eyes, my eyes, see only the
Totality of this moment.
When mastery of multi-tasking
Is the single best poem this man ever
Penned with his entirety,
Of which not word survived
For its unspoken silence was its glory.

My compact with you is to
remind us all, through
music, dance, words (poetry) and love,
This is the only compact
with the power of human law.

Color me flesh ****,
Color me blue bottled,
Red ripped asunder,
The sweetness ascribed to my love poetry,
A subtraction of the bitterness of a failed life.
Colorist of my seams, my woven words,
I am white now, my canvas completed,
Waiting for another poet to write over it,
And chaining new words to what was prior writ.

Al,  what you did not ask was this:
With each passing poem,
I am lessened within, expurgated,
In a sense part of me, expunged,
Part of me, passing too,
Every poems birth diminishes me.

You ask me how I find the time,
(To write)
But time is not the issue,
For they, are all prepared, needing only recognition,
For they, are all in readiness, needing only composition.

For who's who in poetry
is all of us!
saviors and failures,
recorders and decoders,
night writers of the oohs and aahs
of dreams and nightmares.

When this poet cannot,
no longer, anymore,
tastes his poems upon your lips,
keep your poems within his heart,
then he breathes no more,
and becomes one who was, yet is,
because of you, in poetry.

Awful poetry, some good, you will write.
But write and write till your heart be calmed,
For even ancient kings felt the anguish  of the soul,
And we profit even today by King David's psalms.

This wizened fool has his hands full,
Mouths to feed, bread to earn and bake,
As midnight is almost nigh,
He rests prone and adds a verse to this old poem
He long ago scribbled down, grimace-smiles now,
Realizing there is little difference tween him and the
Sad Eyed Teenagers of the Lowland.

For poetry salves his wounds still, even now,
Unashamedly, he thinks, hallelujah!

The poem is the afterbirth,
A conflicts resolution, an outcome,
Battlefield debris, the residue of
An exacting vision, a sentiment surging,
And your army of words, inadequate to the task,
Fighting to capture that insight flashed,
Each word a soldier, disheveled,
Crying, let me live, let me be saved,
Let me make a poem,
Let it be inscribed upon my victorious flag.

The poem is the sweat left upon the brow,
Having exercised the five senses,
The salt of struggle and debate,
It's completion, each word,
Both a victory and a defeat.

To write but a single line,
That uplifts the heart,
Eases pain, gives delight to strangers,
And makes you laugh out loud
With shivery pleasure,
That usurps a whole day and night,
That is a poet's true measure.

Mastery of the poetic,
Measured not in quantity,
But in tears of satisfaction
When others love the taste
Of newly born stanzas
Upon their lips,
couplets born and transcribed
In the wee hours of the morn.

You can have my love, my soul,
But leave to me the labor of poetry.
Loving you with words is my domain,
The speciality of my terrain,
So no more hasta la pasta if you please,
And by the bye, I would love some
Tonight, say around eight,
At a restaurant where the moon is
The only light illuminating our faces.

Until you have bent your ear to Shakespeare's sonnets,
Till you have laughed with Ogden Nash,
Wept with Frost, visited Byron's ghost,
Read the songs of King Solomon,
And once you
Despair of being their equal,
Shed your winter coat of worry,
***** 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...

All I can say is
En Garde!
I will be coming back soon enough.
because you are my best poem,
and the there will always be another stanza needed...

I am no Houdini, it's quite simple,
After 5 years, I read her like a book,
A book of my poems that she has inspired,
Entitled the Mysteries of True Love.

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.

When I hear Shakespeare
My own voice is stilled, it's poverty exposed,
I am ashamed of every word I ever wrote.
Hush me not, for t'is true,
Yet I write on for an audience of one, on but one subject,
A subject, a life, mine,
yet, still unmastered, even after decades of trying.

My poverty exposed, unmasked
for what it is worth, or not.

Lest you think this is paean to men
Another grand male boast,
Be advised this ditty be writty
By a man who, while no longer gritty,
Just put jelly on his scrambled eggs
And ketchup on his toast!

Mmmmmmm there might be a poem
Lurking in that too...

So baby,
shut it down,
turn me on,
make me warm for real,
glide your now practiced fingertips on my grizzled cheek,
whisper a phony "ugh,"
cause I know, you will read
this iPad love poem
and cherish us for evermore.

Soul of brevity, poetically,
I'll never be, this insightful critique,
("Your poems are too long")
I've received in multiplicity, from sources internationally,
perhaps, lucky me, you've read this far?

Surely still a chance that an angel will touch my lips,
my internal parts sign a final treaty, inside an armistice,
night sweats sighs a thing fully forgot,
poetry writing can now be dispatched,
maybe that will be my Act III,
if I can stay awake for it.

Walk a Single Word.
To write a poem, a single word select,
embrace it with a fullness that lovers, family and friends
and the *** who cut you off in the middle lane
do daily provide

Grasp said word, walk it onto a yellow, blue lined, legal pad,
touch said word with the whisper of a single tear, a single curse,
like a pebble in a pond,
said word will miracle expand
hugging you with concentric circles of lines of poetry,
visionary words and stanzas that almost complete themselves
and you

The rhymes you will require, the meter you will select,
no need to struggle, hug your child and as Abraham told Isaac,
God and Google will provide

The simple trickster, a wordsmiths, even your average poet laureate,
got nothing on you that you don't already possess, to offer them
Plenty stiff competition.

My life is mine to take,
Should I wish to choose the
Place, date, the time
To let the poetry cease,
I will announce it mostly gladly
with a blessing of
Shehecheyanu* and a
Smiling "by your leave."

Sometimes the pen, unnecessary.
The poem, fully formed, in his mouth, born.

Silent back labor, unbeknownst the existence
Of such a thing, yet knowing now
His contractions, coming fast and furious,
Eyes many centimeters dilated,
The sac's fluid breaks upon the poet's tongue,
He pronounces in a single breath his
Immaculate Completion

When his hand to mouth, goes,
Like Moses, when he touched the burning coals,
The words are signaled, freedom!
The words announce:
We are now created, conceived and
This new oxgenated atmosphere is now our
final resting place.

This child, the poem, this exhalation,
Once freed, is lost to him,
It's been renamed, retitled,
by hundreds of newly adopted parents as

Words needed to create another love poem for my beloved,
Nose and toes, ******* and eyes all regularly poetically,
Now I have knuckled under
And competed a full poetic body scan
And have paid tribute to each n'every part of you,
Even your knuckles...which I am busy kissing
While writing this poem in my distracted mind.

The next time it be for the morning meal,
I will eat it in bed,
far from their kitchen hiding places,
And celebrate my heroics with original
Frosted Flakes and milk,
And extra sugar just for spite!
The bedroom fairies, living under the pillow,
Emerge to beg in iambic pentameter,
Won't get nary a bite,
Until they they return the poems they stole
From my midnight dreams.

I am exhausted. So many gems to decorate
My body, my soul. I must stop here,
So many of you have reached out, none of you overlooked.

Overwhelmed, let us sit together now
And celebrate the silence that comes after the
Gasp, the sigh, that the words have taken from
Our selves, from within.

On and on thru the night,
Riffing, rapping, rambling, and spitting,
Ditties and darts, couplets and barbs,
Single words and elegies,
Free verse and a lot of fking curse words,
It was a moment, a time
that deserved
to be preserved,
and so this poem got writ

You may think this story apocryphal
Which is another way of saying untrue,
But I got his boarding pass and it is signed,
To this crazy poetry dude, long may you rasp,
And it is signed by Mr. P. Simon, a big fan,
And it has never since that day,
Left my grasp

Some poems never end,
Nor meant too.
Alliterative phrases, invitations,
Add a verse, a word, even a sound,
An exclamation of delight,
A stanza in its own right.

Unfinished work, forever additive, collaborative.
Modify mine, pass it on.

Read somewhere some poems never end,
Now I understand that better,
Cause there are no bandages, stitches that can close,
Cause there are no pills, switches that can shut off,
The ripping sound, the cutting noise, the raging inside
Heard blocks away, almost reaching a house where you live,
And dying in the same **** place that
Poems come from after midnight.

And even if I am stranger now,
I'll prove useful to have around,
Giving you poetry precisely couture designed by command,
So I fully expect to be hugging you happy
Soon enough.
You'll see.

No matter combo or organized, a good nights sleep
So poetry is my default rest position,
My screen savior.

**So when I warn,
All my poems are copywrighted,
My meaning simple, words crystal,
They belong to us, but mostly to you
Who are reading these words
Mashup Part II  Is now posted.

It appears that I write a lot on this topic.   Anyway all theses are indeed snippets from poems  I wrote  and have posted here.  Started with the oldest poems May 18 and working my way thru 'em
Still Crazy Sep 2014
I don't ask your permission
to make a fool of myself,
tell you publicly
what my near, dear ones
have almost no clue

my mental torment,
imperial and impervious
poetry, pills, therapy,
caring words
don't pay my kind of bills

a man has a job.
Feed you family.
Protect and serve.

do  it well,
there is no acceptable excuse.

was supposed to be easing on down,
slipping under.

come so far, my soul is old.
my tired is w/o definition.
the legs, knotted shoulders,
body aging faster than I can write.
the doctors only give me
if's and unless's,
contingencies in order
to die a little slower

warped, reversal of causality,
the older I get,
the more mouths to feed.
tough, this unexpected situation,
a nine lives time survivor,
do it again?

defraud myself,
living like I can afford
to write,
with courageous reckless abandon,
when earnest is deadly
and Lady Luck gave me the finger.

simply amazing.
eyes, constantly tearing,
nobody notices.

Do not ! Like this poem,
hate weak,
been strong so long.
this well, just got dregs left,
drudgery ain't potable, or even
worth drinking.

need nothing,
for myself, need nothing.
not one object on this planet
want to posses or be possessed by.

Monday wrestle with strife,
star in my reality show once again.
now, deny reality.

Do not!
Like this poem,
hate weak,
been strong so long.

my voice is stilled,
it's poverty exposed,
ashamed of every word I ever wrote.

hush me not, for tis true,
write on for an audience of one,
on but one subject,
a life, mine,
yet, still unmastered,
after decades of trying.

poverty exposed,
a life unmasked
for what it is worth,
or not.
aria xero Jun 2013
Sweat brow perculates,
unmastered tongue erased all evidence,
moist palms dripping anxious thoughts.
pursed lips crackled and dry
flow words like rapids,
blink open eyes crusted by innocence
each scar buried in rock,
fracture and fault.
heart uplifted bent in regrets,
memories unconformities,
missing from sight.
flash to love, metamorphosed in time
growing, blending to crystals born.
layered finely touched in pain,
like grains lithify
remain untouched, preserved
in stone jointed connections made.
meandering tears entrenched down-cutting
cheeks, bone exposed to roots.
once deposited feeling, now eroded to nothing,
blown by winds unforgiving
these days pass like eons.
onlylovepoetry Jun 2019
at present I am present on a small isle,
which is so green genteel
to the eyes and the ayes,
you might include it
among yet unmastered possibilities,
living here forever.

indeed, the crescent beach so welcoming that
francais et l'anglais des anglaise is spoken here,
but actuality
has a way of intruding,
Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Bleu,
saying I know you,
even if it doesn’t

this breeze bearing load suggests your name
as a candidate for future, honours, an MBE,
a practiced curtsy for a queen,
whatever is he babbling about?

why I am presenting an outline for a screenplay that
will make you a little rich and somewhat fameuse
so you buy a house on the water,
party all night,
write in the miracle wonder of the late afternoon
on a summery isle,
modestly hungover


where is this isle so sheltered,
where nooks are set aside for poets and drunks
to pub crawl, to stand on tables and Irish sing of
those things that poets endlessly babble?

so add :

come here and let us listen to all your possibilities
and cross just this one,
your presence here,
off the list
Nat Lipstadt Mar 2014
hearing Shakespeare,
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
Dylan Oscar Rowe Apr 2013
If I could walk years past or years later

like doors we pass

I'd go to you

and with I

we'd who it through the uni and the verse

no Dr fix or save

just the savouring of new days

long ago when

then before

before after

till our internal clocks

finish there unwind

our bodies lost in time

conscious to the space

the external clocks would continue

and our memories bloom shall wither

ash to the vortex

the complexity of our life's

shall remain unmastered

insignificant to passers of graves

but at least my love of free

we would have hold of each other

in those final hours

See old smiles once innocent and young

in those closing minutes

and breath our last

in them terminal seconds

If only time were as easy to control

as reading maps

I'd go to you

By Dylan Oscar Rowe
Marina James Apr 2019
Ashes to ashes
Dust to dust
Everyday a soul is lost

Souls of love
Souls of lust
Souls on endearment
Souls of trust

Souls full of knowledge
Leave people like us
With questions unanswered
And feelings unmastered

The void of their absence
Still lingers with longing
Tear drops of silence
will forever keep falling.
Nat Lipstadt Nov 2013
don't ask permission
to make a fool of myself,
tell you publicly
what my near, dear ones
have no clue.

my torment,
the headache-constant,
imperial and impervious
to poetry, pills, therapy,
caring words
don't pay the bills.

a breadwinner has a job.
feed the family.
protect and serve.

do it well.
because there is
no acceptable excuse.

am afraid.
when was supposed
to be easing on down,
am slipping under.

have come so far.
my soul is old.
my tired is w/o definition,
in the legs, knotted shoulders,
aging faster than
hungers, fingers, can write.

reversal of causality,
the older he gets,
the more mouths to feed.

man, it is tough,
this unexpected,
for me,
a nine lives survivor.

can he do it
one mo' time
on borrowed lives,

it is simply amazing.
my eyes,
constantly tearing,
nobody notices.

Do not!
like this poem,
hate weak,
have been strong
so long.
but this well,
just got dregs left,
drudgery dregs ain't potable,
worthy of your drinking.

need nothing,
for myself, need nothing.
there's not a single
object on this planet
wanted to posses
or worse,
possessed by.

more cannot say.
jutting chin,
stomach ****** in.
nothing gonna
change my world.

wrestle with strife once again.
today, on the sabbath,
deny reality.

Do not!
like this poem,
hate weak,
have been strong so long.

when hearing Shakespeare
my own voice, stilled,
it's poverty exposed,
am ashamed
of every word
ever wrote.

hush me not,
for tis true,
yet write on for
an audience of one,
on but one subject,
a subject, a life,
still unmastered,
even after
decades of trying.
Begun Sept. 5th, completed 11/23/13
Alan McClure Jul 2015
Startled by the crack they launch,
spread wings and soar
through rising summer breeze

Perfect black symmetry
wingtip to wingtip
recalling the first flight of courtship
seven years before

Circle the ripening corn
living the wind
feeling the sky
tilt, turn, circle again

Black eyes cast below
they see a figure,
watching, waiting
rifle lowered, patient

And she begins to falter
to mistrust the surging sky
her element, suddenly unmastered

He is oblivious, effortless.
Spiralling, alighting,
he turns his curious gaze
to seek his mate

And finds only empty blue
where she should be.
There is an animal
that loiters inside of me
and it takes shelter in these
broken blood vessels
you left on my neck

It sleeps
on the words
you left on
my pillow

It is a guessing game
of whether
I will awake
to your silhouette
in the dark
peacefully, deliriously

I swear
in those moments
if I blink
you will disappear

So this animal
it must hibernate
out of biological
instilled and
predetermined fear
that I cannot make
you reappear

It is both the paranoia
of an
unmastered magic trick
that makes this animal run

and the certainty
I felt
when I opened my eyes
one morning
and realized

I had never
quite experienced
a ******* thing
that has
felt even half
*as good as you
annh  Jun 2020
Carte Blanche
annh Jun 2020
play the
joker, *****
the knave, covet
the queen, and tuck
the ace of spades under my
pillow on a ringed moon night,
but I am forever shuffling the same
deck of cards. Marked cards, imprinted
with loss and patterned with misfortune. Co
urt cards dressed in ill-fitting suits, each face as
familiar as my own. Four seasons, four pips; twelve
months, twelve crowns. One card for each week of the
year. Sequentially pred  ictable, and as underwhelming
as a rigged roulette wheel. U ntil, unable to distinguish
between the red and the    b    lack, the picture and the
plain, I fold. Void of      co     ntracts, and bleeding
widowe                            d blanks.
deal­ me in,
but deal me unpainted
and unmastered. Deal me clean.

‘If I can just have one last cut.
Do you have a plan for the new?‘
- Alice Notley, In the Pines
Mitchell Duran Sep 2011
There was thought
Then thought waking
Lifted eyes of knowing
To go away

There rested word
A place inside every page
Word too
**** in the sun
Lifted eyes of weight
To go away

When I see the wind in the trees
With the birds the bugs the bees
I see there is nothing else to do
But believe
In this place and this place

There are heads turning
And mending

Towards objectives that turn to nothingness
Dissolve to ash to sand to a fine sawdust dance
Then the energy melts to sorrow
For the realization of that effort
Shows a painful hue of awakening truth


Water sacks float underneath bridges made of rickety wood

Chipped brick from wars I only can understand from pictures

The sound of maggot chewed drift wood gently rocks against the corpses of the beach

To be dead in life
Is to leave unfilled unremembered unmastered undone

Leaving you to come back again
Towards the like-wise pondering machines of mechananistic relapses
Churning in a cyclone of black matter

The self dissolving into the self into nothing
All like before

To not be forgotten or remembered
To turn to nothing
To be born again in nothing
To be but not to be
In the true nothingness
Of being

Sealed envelope claps its jaws shut
Biting its own tongue

Light shines on myself
My friends
On the creamed filled mountains floating silently above me

But maybe
Nat Lipstadt May 2013
When I hear Shakespeare
My own voice is stilled, it's poverty exposed,
I am ashamed of every word I ever wrote.
Hush me not, for tis true,
Yet I write on for an audience of one, on but one subject,
A subject, a life, mine,
yet, still unmastered, even after decades of trying.

My poverty exposed, unmasked
for what it is worth, or not.

— The End —