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Coleen Mzarriz Sep 2021
If dreams occur because reality shifts into sequences and give a human being series of the strange specific pathway to open the doors of truth over desires and fantasy over morality that sometimes predicts the future of someone, it may look like something out of a classic painting, or Van Gogh's, or Breton's manifesto surrealism or even the impressionist Claude Monet — or simply falling off a building.

Though in dreams, someone will say it is their escapade, their haven, their call of past, their deja vus and jamais vu — but the occurrence of dreams are a horror to someone. And that someone is me.

Nobodies are like masses of droplets of raindrops collapsing on the ground and vanishing like smoke; they lit as the fire and at the same time, water as it is called the rain. Nobodies are treated as no faces in a dream. They represent the being of a human in the realm of this world. Sometimes, they are the persona of our hidden self, sometimes, they are feelings, a place, or a person.

Although nobodies can have faces, it is often that they remain clueless and distinct faces. Faint like a whisper, their touch is almost as the ghostly one and in the gist of it, it is as if they never touch us.

And we forget about their existence. I wonder if nobodies are considered to exist in our realm but are used as a subject to define meanings behind our waking life?

I want to be somebody in someone's waking life. To escape the amenities of the horror the somebodies are facing. I want to be there to breathe a small fresh air and be like a little fairy guiding someone who lost their way.

I guess then in dreams, nobodies want to escape too.
After a month of being gone here, I am back with this piece. More like a thought for this day. I am glad I have a lot of drafts like this.
The poet is the writer
Many thoughts in his mind
Lay scattered as seeds
To be planted in words
That the birds should eat
The critic is the bird
That savours the fruit
Thus begins the journey
Of the poet and the critic
Together they flourish and thrive
On the tree of poetry
With rhythm and rhyme
The poet and the critic
Just some thoughts
Charlotte Ahern May 2020
Don't offer the fuel it needs
to set you on fire
it's true though don't you think?
YOUR LIFE IS A MOVIE THAT IS BEING DIRECTED BY YOU, PRODUCED BY THE YOU, YOU ARE THE PROTAGONIST AND YOU SHOULD BE THE ONLY CRITIC OF IT.. SO LIVE IT LIKE YOU WANT.
You don't owe anyone anything and everyone is different so embrace your uniqueness and live your life to the fullest.
Michael R Burch Mar 2020
Come Down
by Michael R. Burch

for Harold Bloom and the Ivory Towerists

Come down, O, come down
from your high mountain tower.
How coldly the wind blows,
how late this chill hour ...

and I cannot wait
for a meteor shower
to show you the time
must be now, or not ever.

Come down, O, come down
from the high mountain heather
blown to the lees
as fierce northern gales sever.

Come down, or your heart
will grow cold as the weather
when winter devours
and spring returns never.

NOTE: I dedicated this poem to Harold Bloom after reading his introduction to the Best American Poetry anthology he edited. Bloom seemed intent on claiming poetry as the province of the uber-reader (i.e., himself), but I remember reading poems by Blake, Burns, cummings, Dickinson, Frost, Housman, Eliot, Pound, Shakespeare, Whitman, Yeats, et al, and grokking them as a boy, without any “advanced” instruction from anyone. Keywords/Tags: Harold Bloom, literary, critic, criticism, elitist, elitism, ivory, tower, heights, mountain, winter, cold, frigid



Rant: The Elite
by Michael R. Burch

When I heard Harold Bloom unsurprisingly say:
Poetry is necessarily difficult. It is our elitist art ...
I felt a small suspicious thrill. After all, sweetheart,
isn’t this who we are? Aren’t we obviously better,
and certainly fairer and taller, than they are?

Though once I found Ezra Pound
perhaps a smidgen too profound,
perhaps a bit over-fond of Benito
and the advantages of fascism
to be taken ad finem, like high tea
with a pure white spot of intellectualism
and an artificial sweetener, calorie-free.

I know! I know! Politics has nothing to do with art
And it tempts us so to be elite, to stand apart ...
but somehow the word just doesn’t ring true,
echoing effetely away—the distance from me to you.

Of course, politics has nothing to do with art,
but sometimes art has everything to do with becoming elite,
with climbing the cultural ladder, with being able to meet
someone more Exalted than you, who can demonstrate how to ****
so that everyone below claims one’s odor is sweet.
You had to be there! We were falling apart
with gratitude! We saw him! We wept at his feet!
Though someone will always be far, far above you, clouding your air,
gazing down at you with a look of wondering despair.
Mark Toney Mar 2020
moustached monoku critic channels Seinfeld - no haiku for you



© 2020 by Mark Toney. All rights reserved.
1/4/2019 - Poetry form: Monoku - A type of poem which is made up of a single horizontal line consisting of seventeen syllables or less. Traditionally considered as a haiku writing, Monoku appeared as an independent style of poetry in the 1970s. The first letter should not be capitalized. - © 2020 by Mark Toney. All rights reserved.
Mark Toney Oct 2019
moustached monoku critic channels Seinfeld - no haiku for you
1/4/2019 - Poetry form: Monoku - Copyright © Mark Toney | Year Posted 2019
Nick Jul 2019
That phrase makes me shiver
Makes some solemn silent (?) resounding
Sends me flailing: **** **** **** (word choice is dodgy)
Supersedes sentience


Overall, I’m somewhat confused and disappointed by your work. Please reconsider your ******* of the English language.
The critic becomes a part of the work. Twice.
There’s something in me that wants to destroy me
A voice that works to punish without reason
A hand that is brought down undeservedly on an innocent conscience.  
A cane that leaves ****** lines across my mind
As it beats the positivity into submission
And a spear which impales my confidence
Like a soldier would do to its enemy.
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