"ibsen" poems
I thought I might be a musician
Mom couldn’t afford my lessons
My eyesight wasn’t great
I couldn’t read notes fast enough
Practicing annoyed the family
I only managed last chair, 2nd violins
But still
I got to play in High School concerts
In shiny dresses with glitter in my hair
However
I haven’t held a violin in years
I loaned mine to a Bluegrass band
The leader died - and it was gone
≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
I thought I might become a dancer
But my fingers can not touch the floor
I couldn’t kick much higher than my waist
Choreography was hard for me to learn
I had the stamina if not the skill
My partner wanted someone else
But still
I danced on stage in a college play
And Morris Danced at the Old Globe Theatre
However
I’ve forgotten how to keep the beat
And all the dance floor moves I made
I’m too self conscious now to try
≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
I fancied I could be a singer
I knew the words to all the songs
And I could keep the melody in tune
But I had a voice with no vibrato
And the quality was thin
My range was very limited
But still
I sang Blueberry Hill at a talent show
In a black lame’ dress and surprised a few
However
I couldn’t get the hang of harmony
And found I fit best in a choir
My family wouldn’t hear my solos
≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
I thought that I was born an actress
I practically got that one right
I had a lead in an Ibsen play
And toured the state with Macbeth
But Hollywood was one big casting couch
And I could see no way around it
But still
I got to be on TV shows
Winning games and merchandise
However
I sold the Firebird Convertible I won
I needed rent money more than a car
And rules allow you only three shows in a lifetime
≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
I always thought I was a poet
I started young and never stopped
But family ignored and scoffed
Then I got trapped inside my mirror
And only wrote when all was beak
Somebody said my stuff was dreary
But still
I stumbled on the HP website
And found a group who like the words I write
However
When I read the others’ writes
I realize how limited my skills
And fight the need to run away and hide.
∞
It seems I dabbled in all the arts
Looking for the one that fit me
And finding they all needed alteration
And I never had the proper needle
∞
Still, a moment in the sun
Is better than a lifetime in the shade
I had a taste of everything
Though the banquet was not mine.
ljm
Jul 8, 2017
Jul 8, 2017 at 12:24 PM UTC
Tolstoy was a boy,
Ibsen was Henrik's son
Hardy had a father,
And see how well they've done.
Byron was a grandson,
And Wordsworth had a wet nurse,
Thoreau had a 2 to go,
Shakespeare a bad marriage,
Austen was a loner,
Poor Sylvia was a goner,
And see how well they've done.
Joyce had a ***** mind,
Fitzgerald liked to drink,
Richler liked to smoke,
And Wolfe enjoyed a ****
And see how well they've done.
Fielding was a misogynist,
Wilde was a jailbird;
Virginia a misandrist,
And Kerouac a simple ****
Yet see how well they've done.
Still with all their drawbacks,
Look how well they've done;
Like our old friend John,
We surely come un-done.
Dec 20, 2018
Dec 20, 2018 at 10:39 AM UTC
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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.
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 3:50 PM UTC
I am the wind of thought
that flows through time.
I am Homer and Achilles
Sophocles, Shakespeare
Verdi, Ibsen, and Williams.
I flow through the generations,
following imagination,
leaving dark Chaos to rule the past.
I am Zeus and Hera,
And deeper, Mnemosyne
Ananke
and
Chronos.
I flitter it seems as I pass
from moment to moment,
memory to memory,
soul to soul.
I am
Cleopatra, Jenny Lind, and Jolie
teasing, singing and dancing
to the delight of the Muses
I am Jesus and Buddha
Epicurus, Epictetus
Even Chinese too.
I am Descartes and Newton
Einstein and Plank
Math and logic
Love and hate.
I am God.
I am the wind of thought that flows through our minds.
I am the wind of thought that flows through our time.
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 7:55 PM UTC
GRIEG being dead we may speak of him and his art.
Grieg being dead we can talk about whether he was any good or not.
Grieg being with Ibsen, Björnson, Lief Ericson and the rest,
Grieg being dead does not care a hell's hoot what we say.
Morning, Spring, Anitra's Dance,
He dreams them at the doors of new stars.
1.2k
"In Modern Drama we turn a critical eye
into the conditions of real life and morality." --- Arlen Rambush
Modern Drama 101
Her life had become an Ibsen scenario,
cloaked, as it was, in furtive AOL chat rooms,
seeking the romance no longer orbed in marriage,
rather to be panned from the internet wellspring.
It wasn't so much inconstancy, as it was whimsy;
more a channeling of Deneuve, than profiling Gabler.
And she found they flocked to her,
pigeons to be shooed away, should they get too close.
Soul of the house, everything to husband and family,
yet, it was in cyber tryst where she flourished,
that informed the powerful intellect at intervals
with mother and a carte blanche ingénue.
It's possible she sought to reform them,
tear them down --- or no --- it was conquest.
It was not she that needed men,
it was she that absorbed them in hedonistic pleasure.
Jul 27, 2015
Jul 27, 2015 at 9:01 PM UTC
“I’ve never been lonely. I’ve been in a room — I’ve felt suicidal. I’ve been depressed. I’ve felt awful — awful beyond all — but I never felt that one other person could enter that room and cure what was bothering me…or that any number of people could enter that room. In other words, loneliness is something I’ve never been bothered with because I’ve always had this terrible itch for solitude. It’s being at a party, or at a stadium full of people cheering for something, that I might feel loneliness. I’ll quote Ibsen, “The strongest men are the most alone.” I’ve never thought, “Well, some beautiful blonde will come in here and give me a fuck-job, rub my ***** and I’ll feel good.” No, that won’t help. You know the typical crowd, “Wow, it’s Friday night, what are you going to do? Just sit there?” Well, yeah. Because there’s nothing out there. It’s stupidity. Stupid people mingling with stupid people. Let them stupidify themselves. I’ve never been bothered with the need to rush out into the night. I hid in bars, because I didn’t want to hide in factories. That’s all. Sorry for all the millions, but I’ve never been lonely. I like myself. I’m the best form of entertainment I have. Let’s drink more wine!”
Jan 31, 2014
Jan 31, 2014 at 12:59 AM UTC
what alone used to mean
you start off thinking Ibsen and Bukowski
by second order effect
were right
being alone is a measure of strength
and in your own world
no weight
no body is stronger than yours
then the first one comes along
she
well
she is fast
its a firework
in a heart frame
she paints a picture
drop
whistle
boom
her hands end up down your pants
under a blanket
hoping your parents don't walk down stairs
basement touching
turns into basement loving
awkward fumbling
inhale
shes in pain
you don't know what you're doing
but you're sure its love
like the firework it fades
and you then are sure as before
alone is a measurement of strength
then the second and third
like plastic deck furniture
bright on the day you bought it
but sunshine and rainstorms
make it fade
you don't remember the time you used it last
but the sun felt nice
warmed your face
you can remember your shirt off
or was it hers?
it was certainly hers
or hers
no one seems to be able to remember
either way you ended up
alone in that sunshine
which still warmed your face
smiles and wrinkle lines
then came lightning strikes
you were older and
Ben Franklin wasn't the only man
in history that flew his kite
to understand something
humans still haven't mastered
some hurt and some
left your hair on end
sitting up in the morning
asking for round two
three and four
but you realize they aren't with you
they end up leaving in the morning
like it was nothing
after thunderstorms
comes
her
shes better
she isn't lawn furniture
or the first one to stroll through
shes this magical creature
where you want her to be the last one
she
proves Ibsen wrong
so very very wrong
your heart is opened
the depths of soul dance across page
your fingers grace her face
and your very life force jumps from you to her
shes different
you don't have to do her the same
you have to do right by her
candle dinners
gifts with undertones
that there is more to come
there is a life to come
there is a life with someone
besides yourself
there is a life with her
and she has made it
where you are incomplete
when she isn't around
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 10:22 PM UTC
Paris amused you,
gave you a second
take on life,
woke you
from your
domestic slumbers.
We had that room
in the small hotel
with the adjoining
shower and toilet
and bedit.
We lay on the bed
after our morning walk
to the Eiffel Tower
both reading.
You were reading
a play by Ibsen
and I was reading
Dostoyevsky.
In the afternoon
we were going
to see art then,
in the evening,
after a meal,
we were going
to a piano recital
of Bach pieces.
You put down your book
and lay down.
Afternoon siesta
you said.
I put down my book
and lay beside you.
You closed your eyes
and turned away.
I lay listening
to you breathe
and the rise and fall
of your breast.
I lay sensing you
taking in your scent
and trying to rest.
Jun 2, 2018
Jun 2, 2018 at 3:34 AM UTC
Catullus, you have lied.
You have lied, all of you.
You Shakespeare, have
fabulated sleep too in the
delve of the word.
Neruda, you have lied,
And only Ibsen braved
the fault of men:
I am alone
You are alone
And the quibbling breath
of this life will flower
inanimately in your ears,
and look below us!
a goading fall,
a threatening lunge
oh, vertiginous is this death!
i shout your name
and wait
for the quintessential echo:
a small muteness.
Oct 7, 2015
Oct 7, 2015 at 11:53 PM UTC
Hard to put into words
the extent of grief.
No cavalry of relief in sight
coming over the hill.
You, my son, those
last days, so ill.
Unlike you,
you soldier like
in life's fight.
Death took you unaware
that night
and again
the day after.
No present mirth,
no laughter,
no Shakespearean drama
set in tow,
no Chekhov way
with words,
no Ibsen dark talk,
just this, these words,
and a blown from palm kiss.
Silent words:
we love and miss.
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 2:10 AM UTC