we may be the generation
of the next
shakespeares,
curies,
vernes,
einsteins,
akeleys,
sagans.

h­ow can we be boiled down
to a 'standard'?

and when we refuse to stomach
this diluted broth you have served us,
it is force-fed:
teargas for forks,
riot shields for spoons,
tasers for knives;
until our tongues are so awfully burnt
that all we may say is this:

'we are the standard generation.
we are the future for the past.
we have standard answers to extraordinary problems.'

leaders say change will come in
2014,
2015,
2020,
2030,
2050,
please ensure that the numbers on your booklets
match those on your answer sheets.

we will bubble 'a' for global warming,
'b' for the debt crisis,
'c' for war and famine,
but this is a test we didn't study for.

how do you know
what you know
isn't an illusion
or a hologram
or a ruse to them
& theirs
why I do declare,
*******.

I am ******* bored
with this

I've been here before,
but I've changed a bit.

I know my soul
must be ******* ancient
& has taken spaceships
to different places
you know, most
don't own the patience
for any explanation that ain't
ready-made, microwave
layman safe.

as for shakespeares
as for lennons,
maybe they'll get it
if they've mastered dissipation
if they're versed in manipulation
if they keep contained
indecipherable ranges of
insane visions
to which ignorance
is malignant,
if they're excitable &
strange & incandiferous.

if they have eyes in their brains
& are made of diamonds,
if they're kinda like,
sadomasochistic.

wait, you're gunna miss it.

when the inexpensive lynchmen
get bent up & purple faced
pinched pens & been up for days
cause they seen some ****
& ain't been quite the same since.

nevermind it, they lookin frigid.
this **** is ridiculous.

**** it, quiet
silent, silence,
sigh then.
keep calm
remain indifferent.

this **** is ridiculous.

listen, listen.

if you see me missing,
please report it to the police
******* themselves in the street,
cause it's easy, it's easy.
tell em I only speak in
secret spells & ******,
but I know
some swears in dreamy.

the sleepy cellular subject
is defective, so ...
so be it, the pest shall be deleted
lest it spread disease
& eat up all the fleece,
then we'll all be cleaned -
no, not really.

the fiends are still fiending
the fields are still weeping
paint is still peeling
off walls
who couldn't talk
but were still breathing.

the truth is still
spooky ****,
nightmare things
on inviting screens
& the teeth keep screaming.

maybe they're thinking.

about the end
... ?

I am the owner of the sphere
Of the seven stars
and the solar year
Of Caesars hand
and Plato's brain
Of Lord Christ's heart
and Shakespeares strain

Familiar with the fear.
Panicked by a box full of,
Roads unclear.
Sticks created due to torn gloves.

When things start looking up,
I find new ways,
To slip up.
Mistakes made in lingerie.

I was never enough;
Yet, believed it to be untrue,
While in the buff.
Performing our pas de deux.

Now, I am late.
Which is nothing new,
But other symptoms indicate,
This to be more than the flu.

Our family is known for,
Starting eager fires.
For ***** looks, uproars,
Unquenchable desires.

I am not an outlier.
This is standard, here.
When it comes to kindling fires,
We're legendary Shakespeares.

Forget pre-Madonnas
We want to get away from all the self-proposed Shakespeares that think their opinions matter more here
Humanity should rid itself from elitism and stop being insincere
It would put our contributions in the clear.

I must have a stupid face.
The smiles, the cold hooks
Tugging at my heart like a lunging fish,
Narrowly breathing to keep itself
Alive, only for the moment.
Then gone.

I love this, this resurgence of things
That may come. All true, you believe,
Till they prove you wrong.
The murmurs, do you hear it?
Through the steel, the pages,
Shakespeares I and II.

Cold, but loud. They buzz all around
The years, old and new,
Stillborn and cursed.

Don’t stop, they want you too much now.
I turn and turn, I do not hear anything.
No one comes up to me,
I don’t want to hear anything else.

The cold surfaces, the white acetylene tables.
Burp burp, who goes there?
Who’s arranging all these?
Yours, yours?

I mock you,
I mock your noise,
The silent shudder of you deciding
To leave me.

The hurt, the stinging pain.
The loud crash of it.

This is the sinew of my curse.

Shalini Nayar
© 2004

I'm a survivor of 3 car wrecks
I'm no god
I'm an athiest till day I see one
I'm in love with the idea of love
I'm no man
I'm the boy hiding under his blanket
To scared of the night
I'm an orphan to emotions
Yet I still feel
The jaded truth to me
I'm just a mask
I'm a name with no face
A body without a soul
A life no longer worth living
If you saw me
You'd only know I'm as dead as corpses
I'm the jester making everyone laugh
Hiding tears so the mascara doesnt run
I'll take a bow making sure
I keep my head down when I leave the stage
I'm shakespeares tragedy come to fruition
I'm the chalkline on pavement
The bodybag only filled with sorrow
I'll take this time to bid goodbye
Idk if I'll survive this car wreck
The collision of rusty twisted steel with flesh
I only know the intent of why I'm walking the gallows
I'm a ghost coming and going
So maybe its my que
To take my final absence

Over recent years I've watched the ebb and flow of talent coming and going through our little pond of creativity. There is a steady group of consistent writers who contribute regularly to the pool. They interact with each other amiably, encourage, enthuse and occasionally, mildly criticize the work contributed. Many demonstrate their dissaproval with a stoney silence, some leap up and down, others pontificate.
Generally we all splash around and find satisfaction in our own damp sphere of appeal.

We who dwell in the creative waters of this pond are comfortable with our lot. We are satisfied that we are in common ground with like minded people. Few rock the boat.

Diversity is the theme where the offerings range from personal tragedy to outpourings of passion and love. Political posturing has been known to rile whilst others have been brought to tears of intense sorrow. Gales of laughter occur and the odd snicker of amused connivance sneaks out from many, quite involuntarily.

We have no William Shakespeares, no Nerudas, few of the calibre of
Leonard Cohen or Emily Dickinson....but we do have layers of excellence. Inspired outpourings frequently amaze from the most unexpected corners of our gathering. There are those who elevate themselves above the many on frequent occasions but any and all of us are capable of producing the odd inspired Masterpiece.
We all aspire to produce our very, very best as happily often as we are able.

Sadly there are those who choose to retreat into the ether, vanish with their art into obscurity for reasons of their own.... leaving a vacuum in their wake...and then there are they who tragically slip under the veil of death. All of us have lamented the passing of these dear souls, recalled the valued past moments shared in their verse and their companionship.

Occasionally, a gem wades into our pond, producing work of such clarity and inspired quality, words and phrases of such unqualified beauty and enchantment that they command universal attention and amazement. These poets shine like the sun and are the focus of the moment of the many....admiration, inspiration, enjoyment and occasionally, feelings of envy. Few of these shining stars endure for long, for they recognise and realise their talent, their potential, and aspire for higher things. They tend to migrate to poetic elevations in ponds of a higher strata.

Yea verily, there be elevated ponds in this domain, reaching right to the very top! Stratified ponds in rarified air where, unless you measure up, you don't belong! Expectancies are decreed and insisted upon in these regions. Membership is limited, controlled....and expensive. It costs to belong up there and membership is not without a constant level of stress. In these waterways you are dealing with the very top echelon of performers, the egos and the prima donnas and the fancy. There is an insistence on adherence and compliance. Here you are either in or you are out...and expulsion, from this  domain at these heady altitudes, can be sudden, permanent and quite malevolently viscious.

So thee, who may aspire to soar up there with the eagles, ponder the benefits of thy current caste, breathe the clear air and sip the nectar of this pleasant province. Count well thy blessings and then consider the quiescence and the harmony of your current company prior to making any descision to venture to take that leap!

With respect and gratitude to the denizens of HP.

M@Foxglove.Taranaki.NZ
24 March 2024

if not already , if I compared my worth to J. Paul Getty,
or my hymns to Shakespeares, or the length of
my thing to a **** stars,
I would be more arcane if I considered my value to be
the way I shine in comparison to a Van Gogh painting in
a museum, or a child's true smile,
my soft hand to a kittens meow,
my feet to a cows or my ******* to a sows,
my god given shine to the sun or stars, it is non-sensical
to compare oranges with a rotten apple.

I cant write like Shane.....
Or rhyme like Marshall....
My words are mine and I take full responsibility....
The advice you percieve is not what im trying to convey...
I am the village idiot in a society of Shakespeares...
Like I need a soapbox to visualise my plight...
The purest form of me is better left on paper....
Because when it bled into life... Nobody understood...
My laughter is captured in a joke I write meant for no none....
I never said it was funny only that nonsense is what makes me happy...
The moments of fear are in shaky etchings on prison walls.....
Where the only people who ever read it are destined for the hell I endured...
My sadness is the napkin after a holiday meal...
When I can only say I miss you using the medium of condiments....
A love note scars my heart and I now see beauty as a plateau...
The forgiveness letter is the sadness echoing from the valley....
Wish-lists are no longer lies about money or fame...
My bucket list is now a rewritten mess of hopes...
I cant write a story because they all turn into pop ups of memories I cant face....
Choose the adventure and Find waldos are the closest thing to my section...
Writing is now been the way I can send my dreams to the editor...
If inspiration was my muse it was taken mid-sentance ...
But if sadness means you will listen...
Than I guess writing is the gift that I wish i could return....

the critics tell me to be more poetic.

i admit that it is hard to smell the roses and stare up at blue skies
while cradling the hollow, echoing black hole that boy left me with;
it is hard to walk through meadows and think convoluted thoughts.
it is really just hard
to enjoy anything
these days.

instead of telling you what happened to me
i guess i could make it a metaphor
use nature
and frightening, twisting black words
to paint a landscape.
so you truly blessed, poetic ones
would respect me and what happened.

this is for you shakespeares
who need metaphor
to truly understand horror.

my life is a perfect confusion of pure, childlike, listless happiness
big smiling cheeks and full hearts that break because they are too happy
and a howling, screaming, heaving, ugly beast that hides in my shadow
that no one can know
towering over my small frame
wrapping his spindly arms around my torso
ripping into my stomach
voice dripping in my ear
that's a good girl
drooling on my shoulder
the monster trevor constructed for me
out of all his horror films
and naked women
and rough, rough fingers.

i hug everyone too tightly
my ghost body trembling to cling to something
someone
but too thin
not real enough to stay near anything too long.
it drifts away and stops replying to messages
lies in the corner of the green room that once frightened it
and waits for more wrong to be committed.
begs for every word
every wound
every scrap
waif-dog, waif-girl, gouge that cannot dissipate.

how much must i say
to get this terror out of me
to make this heaving monster leave my chest
how many poems must i write about a ****** that i loved
how many times must i doubt
how many times must i apologize
how many times must i cry
till it all comes out
till he leaves me alone at night
till i am able to not be frightened anymore?

how much must i say
and in what manner
for you to understand me
respect me
love me?

this beast cracks his way into my bones
and i will not be a daisy-chain rough-footed child much longer
i need you to find me
i need you to help me
i need you
to hide
me
in a secret place.

the english: they're peasants, but still deem themselves as speaking as: pheasants; they even dare to tickle the assurance of peacocks! **** me, shakespeares the whole lot of them? not with a geordie / cockney accent you ain't, you right ol' worth of bollocking worth of ****! that's the problem with english peasants, they all suddenly think they have the surname... Windsor! **** me, i've never met a bigger crap-eating-****-loading-people in my life! they don't even have the tenacity to be pedantic about their language being pristine: as long as it remain in slang... ah... all's fine matey! but the annoying bits of a people start to shine through... they're not the ******* ROY-AL inbreeding tact of a people deserving crown and carriage... plebs! i'm the same sort of peasant you are... but **** me, better check next time if you catch me playing on addressing airs!*

kraj, i te słowa,
i to tyle:
co ma znaczyć;
reszta?
  angola:
        blah blah,
i twoje badanie
gzymsu -
- czekać:
       by coś spadło.
bogini gniewu
nie zna słowa: przebacz;
mówi:
  przebacze kiedy:
zapomne;
węc? puki pamiętam,
ani nie kocham,
   ani nienawidze,
ani obliguje mnie zmuszenie
by wynagrodzić jedno
pierwszym: drugim,
czy też drugim: pierwszym
zwane to podobno "to samo".

ANOTHER SAD LOVE STORY
.
Let me tell you a tragic romantic tale
I won't bore you with Shakespeares
Not with Othello's tragic flaw
Nor with Romeo and Juliet's melodramatic flairs
And definitely not with the stupid love adventure of Prince of Tyre.
.
Let me tell you another sad story
Not Jack's hypothermic death in Titanic
Nor about my beloved Lucy whom I lost to the shadows of time
I won't make you snore with these
.
Love has lost her value with us
As she sits on the couch of poetry
I watch her sob, soaked in her own very tears
Because we have forgotten what she  means.
Yes, we no longer know the meaning of love
... And this is the sad love story
.
Balogun-tolulope-david
Drunk poet

I dont like poetry
as if its all under one catogory

as if its all the same

I dont like poetry

once a few years ago
a teacher asked me if I wrote poems

I dont like poetry

I was so young
Nieve

I didnt know that shakespeares words

actually meant something

I thought it was all the same

All rhyms
nothing more

but then I wrote my first poem
and it opened up a door

I could finally
see what all the hype was about

I saw what it does to people
did to me

I wasn't looking for poetry
but it found me

and now
I wouldn't be alive
if it wasn't for poetry

En todas las eternidades
que a nuestro mundo precedieron,
¿cómo negar que ya existieron
planetas con humanidades;
y hubo Homeros que describieron
las primeras heroicidades,
y hubo Shakespeares que ahondar supieron
del alma en las profundidades?
Serpiente que muerdes tu cola,
inflexible círculo, bola
negra que giras sin cesar,
refrán monótono del mismo
canto, marea del abismo,
¿sois cuento de nunca acabar?...

This is the 2nd poem I’ve come upon written in 1999, so woefully up to date I feel I must send it out.  Called Gone In A Minute.

                    Gone In A Minute

An avalanche, a mud slide ,
Every meter drenched and plastered,
Gliding and colliding, guided
By terrain alone,
And crash, boom, clang,
The whole shebang is gone.

People!  Yes, of course!
Their words and art;
The future’s start.
Centuries of minds,
Mines of thinking gone:  
In a non-thinking wink.

How long then, family name?
The worked for fame?
Volcanic ash, a lava stream,
Centuries of verse, and worse,
Memory all creamed away.

Fire, flood, the drowned, the charred:
Things no longer anything;
The best and worst on equal footing.

Wars: the scarred, disfigured, marred
And all the future Bachs, Picassos,
Jenny Linds, Carusos,
Shakespeares, Einsteins,
(not to mention Arlene Corwins)
Never to expand a wing,
Create a thing,

The crux is, what we bring to mind
How easy and complete,
How fast defeat
Comes to a globe
Once calamity’s in orbit.
And we wonder what is worth it, what is not,
Ask what lasts when pasts wiped out
Leave nothing.

Gone In A Minute 8 22.2020/improved from1.2.1999 Our Times, Our Culture II; Circling Round Experience; Arlene Nover Corwin

Strange
That William Shakespeares' birthday
Should also be his death day (allegedly)
His birthday present
Was also his birthday past
Unlike his writings
Which will live, and last

by Jemia