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Oh Eliot, Poor Eliot, Your Fans Hung You in the Closet and I'm Feelin' So Sad^

<>
we tithed thee with donations plenty,
here a dollar, there a fiver, a coupon for free chips,
worthy of somebody’s eternal gratitude,
that would be you,
da Duke, Duke of York

the largest online free poetry site,
a million visitors a day, why you must be
the richest poet online billionaire, right?
you,
da Duke, Duke of York and

occasional poet...

in return, all we occasional poets demand
steady on instant access, immediate satisfaction,
after all, a part time job deserves your bestus-best,
just like every other large online site, that never crashes,
we’re not like just the rest, we are
p o e t s,
occasionally

so keep the servers engines, well stoked with Newcastle coal,
keep them up and running round the clock,
using only alternative energy,
of the unceasing sun light of merry old England!

quit that other job, you must,
instead of giving up on us,
give in to us,
a poetry break, a writing recharge,
though please add a limited liability
clause to the FAQ’s,
that poets’ lives must deal with the hiccup
occasional

you, da Duke, Duke of York,
newly now, an appointment royale as Major General,^^
you, the very model of a modern major general
possessing information vegetable, animal, mineral and
technical,
who knows the Queens  of England, who,
maybe even now is telling tales of your heroics with the hordes of
hysterical
occasional
poetical
globalists
demanding
light brigadests
charging the redoubt

and
when you have a moment spare,
a haircut, please.

no, that is not a request,
naturally

<>

10/19/19
Noontime NYC
natalino
^^Messers Gilbert and Sullivan

^ Oh Dad, Poor Dad,
Hung You In The Closet and I’m Feeling So Sad
By Arthur Kopit
Jonathan
Well, I made it out of lenses and tubing. The lenses I had because Ma-Ma-Mother gave me a set of lenses so I could see my stamps better. I have a fabulous collection of stamps, as well as a fantastic collection of coins and a simply unbelievable collection of books. Well sir, Ma-Ma-Mother gave me these lenses so I could see my stamps better. She suspected that some were fake so she gave me the lenses so I might be...able to see. You see? Well sir, I happen to have nearly a billion sta-stamps. So far I’ve looked closely at 1,352,769. I’ve discovered three actual fakes! Number 1,352,767 was a fake. Number1,352,768 was a fake, and number 1,352,769 was a fake. They were stuck together. Ma-Mother made me feed them im-mediately to her fly –traps. Well... (He whispers.) one day, when Mother wasn’t looking...that is, when she was out, I heard an air-plane flying...somewhere, far away. And I ran outside to the porch so that JI might see what it looked like. The airplane. With hundreds of people inside it. Hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of people. And I thought to myself, if I could just see...if I could just see what they looked like, the people, sitting at their windows looking out...and flying. If I Could see...just once...if I could see just once what they looked like...then I might...know what I-what I... (Slight pause.) So I...built a telescope in case the plane ever...came back again. The tubing from and old blowgun (He reaches behind the bureau and produces a huge blowgun, easily a foot larger than he Mother brought back from her last hunting trip to Zanzibar. The lenses were the lenses she had given me for my stamp. So I built it. My telescope. A telescope so I might be able to see. And... (He walks out to the porch.) and...and I could see! I could! I COULD! I really could. For miles and miles I could see. For miles and miles and miles! Only...
You take the time to build a telescope that can sa-see for miles, then there’s nothing out there to see. MA-Mother says it’s a lesson in Life. [Pause] But I’m not sorry I built my telescope. And you know why? Because, I saw you. Even if I didn’t see anything else, I did see you. And...and I’m...very glad.
Typed by: Jeremy Mash 2-16-06
you kinda cute

just kinda?
she objects,
oops,
clearly, a misspoken misadventure,
a middling-compliment

only, kinda?

she kinda further harrumphs
and goes back to a game of solitaire

“oh yes, everyone has their own cute,
yours, is kinda yours,
in a kinda cutie way,
don’t ask me to kinda define it,
that!
would be kinda impossible”

she drops the sujet and I
pat nat on the back
for his slick escape,
not realizing that he been played,
when she, informed a poem been writ,
said, oh is the kinda poem done then?

kinda
****
1/17/19 900am
Nat Lipstadt Sep 28
First Line: The Most Popular Words on HP

those  selected below, are copied from the current top line of the Words section on HP,  which I believe, represent the most often used/“popular” words on the site.

love      time      heart      life      eyes      feel      day      
mind      night      things      left      find      long

when  I find love next time, and the next time,
the heart that has powered this life,
will avoid the trapping eyes that initialize the
first feel, the first contact, those things that are
the mind seducers, whether,
one, if by day
two, if by night

which is it?
love is blind, but we all dream of love at first sight!

which’s why, I’ve left the world of find,
long ago, deciding that love will find me in its own
peculiar time, way, method, until that occurs,
dreaming of that happenstance will inspire
a poem of the day, each day,
until time postpones either my
heart or mind, my senses, or the search is concluded,
which will most likely be through my jewels,

my very own words
Nat Lipstadt Sep 24
Unabashedly Public (return of the babies; my broken ribs, Zenith poem)


~for Sue Huff~

“unabashedly public,” the accusation,
causes me no blushing consternation
for it’s true, no secret kept worse, than this,
my sleeves, all outside-stained, heartfelt red,
the poems hide so little, with exception of my multifarious,
multivariate, semi-secret identities y’all mostly ferret out

“had no plans to look you up,”
but you kept sending selected of the eldest children,
even from 2012, I remember an afternoon well,
the odors, the food, my friend Al, now passed,
who made me think, indeed,
where do the poems come from?

a bequest to my eldest, who still never calls,
never writes, but will call me for help when
he finds himself in jail, or needs my (car) services;
its been a couple of years, but suspect time
is on my side, life makes needs, those **** happenstances,
that are never happy, but require your lawful presence

and on and on,

men & women, discovered, by their poetry reveled, revealed,
in thigh highs and backhoes, keepers of tortuous promises,
doing the quiet way, always asking, what’s the honorable thing,
all uncovered here, and secret sharers, these poets grab a holt
of my eye ducts, gifting insights that my brain tearfully inquires,
how did they know that bout me, these new kin and kindred?

my broken ribs?

the knowers know i am a summertime creature.
What they do not know, that on the last day
on where I summer shelter, a thin ring, a tree ring,
appears around my chest, marking my annualization,
some rings thick, thin, a year of seasons, all at different paces,
a year of rain & pain, thicker, slower did it pass

What they do not know, these fateful poets, all of my one faith,
these rings deep go, beyond the surface, constricting contractions,
they tighten, squeezing the lungs, slowing the breadth of my breath,
breaking ribs, reminder to write better, now that time is shortening,
labored breathing is a breathtaking experience, do, be better, chances for kindnesses lessened, why hide, time to be unashamedly public

had no plans to write today, especially this one, but circumstances
of my added-on circumferential measurement appearing, triggered by y’all sending me my poems of long ago, played mind-gotcha, this rambling emerged, to celebrate my being nearer to thee, thee, my passing, nearer than thee, this, me old-crust pieces, cutting the mouth’s soft-inside, inside softness, place where weeping & writing
leak on the poem tongue directly

to live in harmony with the
unending quests that yet, always need doing,
all in, are you, am I, awaiting your best attentions,
giving you thy own reparations, given to yourself;
if this then be my own equinox, autumnal equinox,

when the sun is at zenith, directly above,
the equator, this then my reparation, my

                                          Zenith poem**


9/24/19 12:15p
Nat Lipstadt Sep 19
~for she who will know~

the Mother of Muses came to me

on bended knee
come for to confess
a lie so grand it boggled
the heart

we bring you nothing more
than what you already possess,
the jewels of rose gold are emplaced
in your dual ventricles,
the veins stained with blue green sapphires to
feed the right and left hemispheres,
where the emerald heat and the yellow gold,
raw melt the alpha word-finery awaiting,
the pinpointed pinprick of an eyed glimpse

to release the oxidizing words atmospheric
we are not needed, just proceeders,
*** stirrers? no. *** watchers? oh yes.

all contained within,
this then, the art of the human heart,
where the external stains rest awaiting,
completing, complimenting, coming
to fruition in a reforged new birthing

see how the child looks with adoration,
perceiving the art of the mothers heart,
the spilling of time at the precise moment
when the exchange is as long as an eye wink
and as short as an entire lifetime

We the Muses, not teachers, nor inspirers,
just peddlers, collecting thimbles of words,
polished with hued syllables of tarnish,
experienced watchers discerning the exacting,
the interactive interactions of the cells,
the DNA concoctions of singers and sinners,
priests and the unforgivable, trying to tie
what deserves untying, which is an everlasting
poem that needs, laughing, an original act
of the art of the heart, yours, permission to say
The End


11:14pm
nyc
Sept. 18, 2019
there is almost always a poem in the simple, where true art awaits your
sculpting...
Nat Lipstadt Sep 14
~for Sreetama Chatterjee, granddaughter of Pradip Chatterjee~

A first time grandfather observes,
“that one path ends, a new one begins”

A philosophy, an observation shared,
one that I am, in multiplicity acquainted

Sources inform me that Sreetama is
of Sanskrit origin, the meaning is
“gift of god”

how wonderful are the mysterious coincidences in this world!

For my Hebrew name,
Netanel, given to me at my birth, the meaning is
“gift of god”

Sources inform me that name of Sreetama has given you
the desire for creative, artistic or musical expression
in an original way.

I can pretend to be surprised, but who would I fool?

you, granddaughter of my friend, an esteemed poet,
Pradip Chatterjee,
who delights in you,
you, an exquisite of the small
you, so powerful already,
that he has shelved his writing,
(temporarily I suspect)
to tend to your upbringing

You, so powerful already,
you, will break his will, command his attention,
demanding, bringing out his issuance of a thousand poems,
all revealing and reveling in your mastery,
over him!

You, so powerful already,
in secret concert, listening secretly,
already composing silently, smilingly,
awaiting the arrival of your fine,
very fine, motor skills,
to grasp, own! his writing utensils,
with the strength of a child insistent

You, feeling the power within those instruments,
sparking a commencement and a continuation of
the generational gift residing in your senses

I await those artistic creature creations
most impatiently...

—————————————————————————————
“the charming patience is the wait time tween your visions of
the excellence of the common, the exquisites of the small,
the delights of loss and pain translated into mercurial milestones,
poems.”

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/3299027/pradip-im-a-charming-man-with-a-fragile-patience/

<>
छोटी की उत्तमता
[ *~ बालिका श्रीतमा चटर्जी के लिए कविता ~
]

प्रथम बार दादा ने महसूस किया,
"एक पथ पड़ाव तक पहुंचता है, एक नया प्रारम्भ होता है"

एक दर्शन, एक अवलोकन साझा करता हूँ
जिससे मैं भली भांति परिचित हूँ| कई गुना

स्त्रोत बताते हैं कि शब्द 'श्रीतमा' संस्कृत मूल का है,
जिसका अर्थ है - "ईश्वर का आशीर्वाद";

दुनिया में होने वाले रहस्यमय संयोग, कितने अद्भुत हैं!
मेरे हिब्रू भाषा के नाम - 'नेटानेल'

जिसे मेरे जन्म के समय, मुझे दिया गया
उसका भी अर्थ यही है - " ईश्वर का आशीर्वाद"

मुझे, सूत्र बताते हैं कि 'श्रीतमा' नाम ने तुम्हे
रचनात्मक, कलात्मक या संगीतमय -

अभिव्यक्ति की इच्छा दी है
बिलकुल नैसर्गिक और मूल तरीके से।

मैं आश्चर्यचकित होने का नाटक कर सकता हूं,
लेकिन आखिर मैं किसे मूर्ख बनाऊंगा?

तुम, मेरे दोस्त, एक सम्मानित कवि,
प्रदीप चटर्जी की पोती हो

जो तुम्हे देख कर प्रसन्न होता है
तुम, छोटी हो, श्रेष्ठ हो, उत्तम हो

तुम पहले से ही इतनी खुशनसीब हो कि,
उसने अपने लेखन को रोक कर दिया,
(अस्थायी रूप से, ऐसा मेरा मानना है)

केवल और केवल
तुम्हारी अच्छी परवरिश के लिए

तुम पहले से ही इतनी शक्तिशाली हो,
तुम उसकी इच्छाशक्ति को मोड़ सकोगी

उसके ध्यान को अपनी ओर खींचकर
अपनी महारत से उसके भीतर

हिलोरें मार रही हज़ारों कविताओं को
रहस्योद्घाटित होने का अवसर दे सकोगी

तुम पहले से ही इतनी शक्तिशाली हो,
तुम चुपके से धीरे धीरे सुन रही हो

तदात्म्य स्थापित कर रही हो
चुपचाप रच रही हो, गढ़ रही हो

इंतज़ार कर रही हो, समय आने का
अपनी मांसपेशियों पर नियंत्रण होने का

जिससे तुम लेखनी को पकड़ सको
सुदृढ़ता के साथ नियंत्रित कर सको

कुशलता से उसका उपयोग कर सको
एक बच्चे की ताकत और जिद के साथ|


तुम उन उपकरणों में निहित शक्ति महसूस कर रही हो,
जो शुरुआत से ही निरंतर तुम्हारे भीतर,

स्फुलिंग उत्पन्न कर, तुम्हारी इन्द्रियों के भीतर मौजूद
पीढ़ीगत उपहार को जारी रखते हैं

मुझे तुम्हारी उन कलात्मक, जीवंत कृतियों का,
इंतजार है, अधीरता के साथ, हाँ, पूरी अधीरता के साथ|


Many thanks to Shiv Pratap  Pal for his translation, advice and exquisite attention to the smallest detail.
Nat Lipstadt Sep 14
Hosannah (Mombo from Missoura)


<>

Hosannah (Hebrew): an exclamation of joy, adoration

<>
who says Hosannah anymore, I think, recalling
a question reversed,^ one, long ago, that she sent to me,
the answer comes, a puddle splashing grandmother,
Mombo from Missoura

a what?

doesn’t matter

Periodic perusals of the small fine poems here, jewels lost in the kerfuffle,
At once, a signet ringing word jumps into my historical consciousness,
That little place, where the childhood was puzzled, but purified, remembering
That little boy, in synagogue, lost amid a congregation chanting
             Hosannah! to
Yahweh, ghost god, user of intermediaries-whisperers,

Mombo from Missoura (today’s guest voice)

selected by greater forces to make him recall the unity of many voices

his squeaking tone, found among that pure noise
that went to god’s heart direct

exclaiming in joy, adoration of
a majesty unfound on Earth,
sealed with a Selah,
crowned with Hallelujah

that god who never, incapable of forgetting,
still chats with him, that boy, now a boy~poppy,
from time to time,
recalling when together,
they too, puddle jumped,
looking for oil drop rainbow spots
so they could unison shout out loud


Hosannah! A rainbow on Earth

Sabbath Sept. 14, 2019
<>

^ ”who writes poems like this?”
did you think that a poem would not be forthcoming,
mombo-from-missoura?

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/3323365/sudden-storm/
Nat Lipstadt Sep 13
https://artsofthought.com/2018/07/04/why-i-always-carry-tissues-2008-the-poem-i-love-the-best/
https://artsofthought.com/2018/07/04/why-i-always-carry-tissues-2008-the-poem-i-love-the-best/
Nat Lipstadt Aug 29
again, madness!

one eye tears, why must you return to the old familiar,
the poets prescribed, already so well covered?

why?

must. it is the only shade of my voice that persists,
all else vanity.
these are words handily eye-read, given.
all I need do is “repeat after me” somewhat well,
and fill in the blanks.
<>

he writes me, in another place, to another name, describing himself:

“I'm a charming man with a fragile patience.”

no sir, Muses order me to disagree,
you are a fragile man with a charming patience!

your fragility is a royal hallmark, embedded in every scribing,
this human indentation, always well hidden, on the underside of the wine cup, the base of the candlesticks, the inside of the wedding ring of your tying allegiance to the humbled humanity.

the charming patience is the wait time tween your visions of
the excellence of the common, the exquisites of the small,
the delights of loss and pain translated into mercurial milestones,
poems.

here I cease, for overly long praise is a river too long, no end in sight,
making great and wide just another poem.
<>

But!
he writes me, in another place, to another name, describing himself,
yet again:

”A thousand poems I don't write, but they get written
in my heart.


A thousand!
ours is the patience fragile, your innate screen that filters out

these thousand forbidden unwritten,
needs a cleaning, open the tiny apertures and release them, for we are the humans needing, for the breathing of your fragile charm.

<>
the Muses do thee attend.
their patience neither charming or fragile,
reminding me, they too have a thousand.

a thousand other ears into which to whisper that
imperative imperial command,
and they river no delay...
the days has come when I can only write of others, this is the only shade of my voices that survives.
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