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"symbolism" poems
Municipal Gum was written by Oodjeroo Noonecaal. Municipal Gum is about the changes in society and the tendency of people to want to control everything. Oodjeroo uses various techniques to convey this idea. At the beginning of the poem Oodjeroo is addressing the tree. This immediately creates empathy for both the tree and her people. By the last line she has emphasised this with the pronoun “us” to show that they suffer a similar fate. This poem expresses how life in Australia has changes especially for Aboriginal people. In the first half of the poem Oodjeroo is talking about how life was for her and others. It explores the changes in society and the displacement of the Aboriginal people from their land. “Whose head hung…Its hopelessness”, the author uses this as further re-iteration of the immorality of the situation and by the use of analogy comparing the tree to her people to further emphasise the shame and lack control of that the Europeans have inflicted upon her and the environment. Oodjeroo uses extended metaphor technique in the very first line of the poem ‘Hard bitumen around your feet’. This means that the gumtree has been placed in the city scape where it is suppressed and not allowed to spread out and be unique in its own way. This is clear and immanently direct link to the pain and suffering endured by the Aborigines post European settlement. Oodjeroo uses vivid language to present these ideas. For example the use of the word castrated is very effective. The connotation of the word is very demeaning. With castration often comes a sense of a loss of pride and power. The word castration is symbolic of how Oodjeroo feels the European have treated Aboriginal people and the environment. Castration also refers to the fact that what is done is done. Nothing can undo what they did and the damaged they have caused. Other symbolism includes the title “Municipal Gum”, municipal meaning community, implies that the gumtree belongs to the community. One of the vast differences between European and Aboriginal law is that Aboriginal people did not believe in the ownership of land or of animals and plants. Municipal Gum is a reference to the Europeans assumptions that everything is theirs to own and control. The rhetorical question, “O fellow citizen, What have they done to us?” is the conclusion of the implications that have been made throughout the poem. Oodjeroo, is advocating for her people and all things wronged by the controlling behaviour of the Europeans. Rhetorical questions are used to provoke thought and to stimulate a pre-determined response. “What have they done to us?” They have “castrated, broken… strapped and buckled” and ultimately changed things to a point that they cannot be fixed. In conclusion, Municipal Gum is a poem about the constrictions and change that the European invaders forced upon the Aboriginal community and the environment she believes that the Europeans have deemed themselves ever powerful and practice their power in a manner that is immoral.
0
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 7:47 AM UTC
Municipal Gum
Municipal Gum was written by Oodjeroo Noonecaal. Municipal Gum is about the changes in society and the tendency of people to want to control everything. Oodjeroo uses various techniques to convey this idea. At the beginning of the poem Oodjeroo is addressing the tree. This immediately creates empathy for both the tree and her people. By the last line she has emphasised this with the pronoun “us” to show that they suffer a similar fate. This poem expresses how life in Australia has changes especially for Aboriginal people. In the first half of the poem Oodjeroo is talking about how life was for her and others. It explores the changes in society and the displacement of the Aboriginal people from their land. “Whose head hung…Its hopelessness”, the author uses this as further re-iteration of the immorality of the situation and by the use of analogy comparing the tree to her people to further emphasise the shame and lack control of that the Europeans have inflicted upon her and the environment. Oodjeroo uses extended metaphor technique in the very first line of the poem ‘Hard bitumen around your feet’. This means that the gumtree has been placed in the city scape where it is suppressed and not allowed to spread out and be unique in its own way. This is clear and immanently direct link to the pain and suffering endured by the Aborigines post European settlement. Oodjeroo uses vivid language to present these ideas. For example the use of the word castrated is very effective. The connotation of the word is very demeaning. With castration often comes a sense of a loss of pride and power. The word castration is symbolic of how Oodjeroo feels the European have treated Aboriginal people and the environment. Castration also refers to the fact that what is done is done. Nothing can undo what they did and the damaged they have caused. Other symbolism includes the title “Municipal Gum”, municipal meaning community, implies that the gumtree belongs to the community. One of the vast differences between European and Aboriginal law is that Aboriginal people did not believe in the ownership of land or of animals and plants. Municipal Gum is a reference to the Europeans assumptions that everything is theirs to own and control. The rhetorical question, “O fellow citizen, What have they done to us?” is the conclusion of the implications that have been made throughout the poem. Oodjeroo, is advocating for her people and all things wronged by the controlling behaviour of the Europeans. Rhetorical questions are used to provoke thought and to stimulate a pre-determined response. “What have they done to us?” They have “castrated, broken… strapped and buckled” and ultimately changed things to a point that they cannot be fixed. In conclusion, Municipal Gum is a poem about the constrictions and change that the European invaders forced upon the Aboriginal community and the environment she believes that the Europeans have deemed themselves ever powerful and practice their power in a manner that is immoral.
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9
she was leaving and got the gumption to see me before she did so we went to dinner she sat, crumpled at the edge of the booth playing with her silverware hands sweating our knees barely touching underneath the table they shook like the day we met they shook like floodgates when the clouds get upset her hair was drawn back into an apology and she didn't answer when the waiter asked for drinks she pans, tilts looking for the restroom but doesn't get up covers her mouth to hide her furled chin i cut her a piece of bread not sparingly i didn't want to ruin the symbolism of cutting a gangrenous thing from ones self she half wept out "tell me a joke" i thought to say "look at us." that's it. that's the joke. the premise & the punch line sharing some silence here in this ominous moment so thick with goodbye you could touch it i said "when they asked what the name was for the wait, i should've said "awkward, party of 2" but that's not the joke "knock knock" she whispered "who's there?" i sat for a moment and said "so we've come full circle.. we're even in the same seats, from all those months ago" her lips quivered and she hid her mouth "i just wanted to hear a joke" she said i came back with "if i fell for you in a quiet restaurant & no one was around to hear it, does the laughter of children i drempt we'd have make a sound?"
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Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 7:19 PM UTC
dialogue & jargon
1. Nymphomaniac-addicts, Overweight bisexual vegetarians Climbing trees to stay fit and eating 80’s fried chicken ******* 2. just imagine Aquarians full of class valedictorians Swimming on display for graduation ceremony… reverse-symbolism of how Moolch drowned His ***** 3. Better yet, just imagine Holy wars, Beautiful words written to describe the burning pains Of holocaust...the Kristallnacht nights Under the mistletoe, Watching Hall of fame ball hawks on pivot toes Driving through hoes After the whistle blows 4 College Literacy classes teaching basic: Ideas that good questions leads to good answers, Reading reminders Free association conceptual constructions 5. But ************ professor: free association **** shticks misfires, false alarms are all art, too, Like sticking a dagger into an apple, Not the edible, but the technology. 6. Go head, deconstruct the philosophy Of oral cute-tification, according to the Tautology of Leviticus, With the same three half truths, pogroms against biological deviant... FLAGS! 7. Cryptic gospels of a ************ Where three F.F.F’s Stands for six six six Like how 1mg of juxtaposition And a dose of metamorphosis is the repertoire of a king of curmudgeon ‘cause even the Holy Ghost drinks from the cup of Christ’s blood. 8. Reading, Self-flagellation gospel-manual of Pope John Paul II, At shrink sessions under the daze of heron Piper methysticum blunts With sweet phat butts like lit lickerish that droop eyes Like the psalm of Valeriana officinalis root extract.
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Feb 12, 2012
Feb 12, 2012 at 12:46 PM UTC
Phrenology of SAMO (from 1.Amativeness to 8. Acquisitiveness)
1. Nymphomaniac-addicts, Overweight bisexual vegetarians Climbing trees to stay fit and eating 80’s fried chicken ******* 2. just imagine Aquarians full of class valedictorians Swimming on display for graduation ceremony… reverse-symbolism of how Moolch drowned His ***** 3. Better yet, just imagine Holy wars, Beautiful words written to describe the burning pains Of holocaust...the Kristallnacht nights Under the mistletoe, Watching Hall of fame ball hawks on pivot toes Driving through hoes After the whistle blows 4 College Literacy classes teaching basic: Ideas that good questions leads to good answers, Reading reminders Free association conceptual constructions 5. But ************ professor: free association **** shticks misfires, false alarms are all art, too, Like sticking a dagger into an apple, Not the edible, but the technology. 6. Go head, deconstruct the philosophy Of oral cute-tification, according to the Tautology of Leviticus, With the same three half truths, pogroms against biological deviant... FLAGS! 7. Cryptic gospels of a ************ Where three F.F.F’s Stands for six six six Like how 1mg of juxtaposition And a dose of metamorphosis is the repertoire of a king of curmudgeon ‘cause even the Holy Ghost drinks from the cup of Christ’s blood. 8. Reading, Self-flagellation gospel-manual of Pope John Paul II, At shrink sessions under the daze of heron Piper methysticum blunts With sweet phat butts like lit lickerish that droop eyes Like the psalm of Valeriana officinalis root extract.
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52
Your first word was "Watermelon" It's funny because I'm black.
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Jan 28, 2015
Jan 28, 2015 at 3:07 AM UTC
Unnecessary Symbolism (10w)
At seventeen I am almost grown. Almost old enough to own a home of my own. Yet, i remain viewed as young, naive. Told I am too young to know what i believe. At seventeen the world drowns me in a sea of questions it doesn't want the answers to. At seventeen everyone thinks they know whats best for me, "....grow up, be a part of your society." Don't worry about happiness that's a selfish priority. "...grow up." But at seventeen its hard to differentiate between hopes and reality. It's sad you can do anything you believe, but i fear it's a lie, we've all been teased. The proof? On the streets. An endless stream of people who've had their dreams seized. I dread the thought of this stream consuming me. Me? Me? At seventeen I don't know if I am me. Or just everything that's ever been crammed down my throat into a part of my brain I cant pronounce. At seventeen I've fallen down a rabbit hole. The queen of hearts pounding me with every cliche ideal every adult has told me to believe. The white rabbit screaming to me the time. 17..18..19 I just want to leave. I am only seventeen. But if not this rabbit hole where? Just a new nightmare? Filled with symbolism I should get. Things I should know. Seventeen is plenty of time to grow... grow up. But I am only seventeen. I am only seventeen. Am only seventeen. Only seventeen. Seventeen. I am seventeen. At seventeen the world says I am almost grown. At seventeen I am scared to have a home of my own. At seventeen I question everything I ever knew. But remain unchanged. Remain floating through life without a clue.
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Jun 20, 2013
Jun 20, 2013 at 6:12 PM UTC
Seventeen
At seventeen I am almost grown. Almost old enough to own a home of my own. Yet, i remain viewed as young, naive. Told I am too young to know what i believe. At seventeen the world drowns me in a sea of questions it doesn't want the answers to. At seventeen everyone thinks they know whats best for me, "....grow up, be a part of your society." Don't worry about happiness that's a selfish priority. "...grow up." But at seventeen its hard to differentiate between hopes and reality. It's sad you can do anything you believe, but i fear it's a lie, we've all been teased. The proof? On the streets. An endless stream of people who've had their dreams seized. I dread the thought of this stream consuming me. Me? Me? At seventeen I don't know if I am me. Or just everything that's ever been crammed down my throat into a part of my brain I cant pronounce. At seventeen I've fallen down a rabbit hole. The queen of hearts pounding me with every cliche ideal every adult has told me to believe. The white rabbit screaming to me the time. 17..18..19 I just want to leave. I am only seventeen. But if not this rabbit hole where? Just a new nightmare? Filled with symbolism I should get. Things I should know. Seventeen is plenty of time to grow... grow up. But I am only seventeen. I am only seventeen. Am only seventeen. Only seventeen. Seventeen. I am seventeen. At seventeen the world says I am almost grown. At seventeen I am scared to have a home of my own. At seventeen I question everything I ever knew. But remain unchanged. Remain floating through life without a clue.
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43
Aquarius  ♒️ ~~~~~~~ Aquarius the symbolism for the water carrier. Quite an important member of our community Under spells by an association of the heart Aquarian crystals are Garnets and Amethyst Rainbow moonstone, Labradorite, Magnetite I would buy thee Lithium Quartz ,Moss agate. Under your care placing Crysoprase n Cryolite Some Rainforest Jasper for love of this lady. ~~~~~~~~ Written by Philip December 18th 2018.
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Dec 18, 2018
Dec 18, 2018 at 2:27 AM UTC
Aquarius ♒️ January 21 - February 19
my story will wander far and wide (as I myself do in my later life) in strange lands and strange tongues though strangeness never surprises me; and through centuries many will hear my story and watch an enactment, on stage or in other visual ways, and perhaps many will dismiss the story many might find it banal and strange a tale from a savage and mythic past and perhaps some will stand on grounds of purity and wonder that the story of Oedipus should even be remembered; and perhaps physicians of the mind might even analyze the symbolism - but surely, surely all who hear it will feel a discomfort an itch, an echo a nagging question or two: *why? what does Oedipus mean? why is this remembered?*
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Oct 18, 2010
Oct 18, 2010 at 2:38 AM UTC
Oedipus the wanderer
Like a meme of activism This women's coalition Mothers Sister Friends Pioneers and heroines There's courage in their convictions A guild of collectivism They hold luncheons in their kitchens Talk of abolition Mysticism Feminism Of heroes and magnetism Seduction Love Eroticism They scream like banshees at a crucifixion About injustice Dereliction Terrorism A tradition underwritten With symbolism Drums Violins Musicians They may be sitting They may be knitting Baking muffins Folding linen Running errands Stuffing chickens A juxtaposition to their ambition Of inspiring the unwilling Turning derision to optimism Their fire and brimstone Will have history rewritten Freedom of reproduction Liberalism Animism They have wisdom Intuition Rhythm They are fearsome This women's coalition
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Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 4:07 PM UTC
The Women's Coalition
Eating mushrooms, to her is yet another art she loves to perfect, in my ear she whispers with such visible pleasure,"I want to be a connoisseur in this" Her studio smelled herbs and wild flowers of inner forest, brought me back to the cardamom and cinnamon garden I played in my days of boyhood; spices build a  bridge for us. More of a herbalist than a paint smelling artist, she seems, mounted on the wall on irregular fashion were the mushrooms she painted with a passion rare, and a precision mirroring life; the paintings  brought her past in to the studio, only trained eyes would discern the cryptic symbolism, a consummate artist she certainly is!  The woman who smoked cigars in succession and untiringly danced, she said was her favorite, along the lake front we took a long walk comparing notes;  there were parallels that met, we found soon enough. "You too knew her so well, I am aware", she said. A room filled with smoke where we dance, make love, grow tired, fall down and sleep, wasn't it our life? No one can miss the signature smell of her dense cigar smoke on my dress!" I loved the smell of cloves she exhaled while eating mushrooms. though detachment she pretended, eating mushrooms never was that! I kept looking down at her eyes, a sailor about to sight the land, any panting moment that rushes with a monsoon song for me and her.
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Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 2:48 PM UTC
Eating mushrooms
They want to hear poems about love Because it rings a good melody in their ears and their heart Tears of joy in all Hence the symbolism of the turtle dove
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Nov 24, 2014
Nov 24, 2014 at 5:28 PM UTC
Dove
Centered around your neck, the prettiness of the stainless steel shines locked in to place, your Daddy loves you more this day. On bended knees, you wait, as I approach with it in my hand, tilt your head back as I place it around, and snap the lock down. Let it dangle, feel the weight, feel the love, the symbolism of you and I, is more then a piece of metal, it is pure love I say. Little One, you are the first, truly are to be offered this gift, No one before you, no not even her, your loved removed a frown. Ask yourself, are you worthy to be my submissive? Worthy to be my baby girl? Worthy to love me forever? Worthy to be mine. Remember this, remember it clearly, the answer to those questions is simple, the answer is yes, forever you will be. Only you will forever be my property, the stainless around your neck is the significance of this, missing with no shine. Never, forget my love, forget that I own you, please show the world in our own little way, that you are owned, not free.
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Jun 1, 2016
Jun 1, 2016 at 10:36 AM UTC
Collared
so, with israel being re-established... why do we, us,hit europeans... even need to bother establishing authority,          utilißing the new testament? i quiete like the old testament logic of: oculus per oculus                    (eye for an eye)... because the saxon concept of justice: i rather see... the implosion of    blackstone's formulation... the 10:1 imploding to the 1:10 ratio of...       a shawshank redemption... there is... redemption... since! there's no justice within the post scriptum of the hillsborough disaster... watching people walk, the lunatic walk, 20 years later?    disorientated by the court of justice?     re-dem-ption... the whole aspect of: innocent until proven guilty is horrid! this... saxon vernacular of that branch of philosophy that's bogus... namely... within origins      of the forbidden fruit... i.e. and you know?!     really?!       no... but i'll **** to make a standing pivot of a pawn on a chess-board.                           savvy? who, among the europeans... actually needs such artifacts as new testament texts, credo, orthodoxy, sign of the cross greek exports?              the state of israel has been re-established...       i don't want anything to do with this judeo-grecian banality... you can have you little affair over                                 n        e                                                 w                                  s... don't worry... i'll make sure that i'm watching... people tell a lie... yeah: hum hum bubbly hum-hum... am i, or are there any arizona inbreds? who, the hell, needs, the news testament, within the confines of history, dispossessing europe of it, of an established jewish state?       one book among many... hence the scent of a yawn...                          when entering a library... i'll do one gesture, and one gesture alone... inclined to a replica...     ecce libra!              i wash my hands from                   having any investment in it. **** the greeks can have it...       they can keep it, cherish it, but they better not spaghetti the old testament with their... "ingenious" plot... not when the nag hammadi library emerged...       no... not now... not ever...         i detest this greek book of overt symbolism...   their pristine alphabet, their diacritical application,   with the pseudo-romans toying with: deaf... or blind... whichever it is... sandpaper... instead of a kangaroo pouch... of inflated... soft... flesh? i'll rip your heart out and feed it to my neighbour's dog,                   beside a bowl of water.
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Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 8:32 PM UTC
ecce libra! re-emergence of israel **** liber)
so, with israel being re-established... why do we, us,hit europeans... even need to bother establishing authority,          utilißing the new testament? i quiete like the old testament logic of: oculus per oculus                    (eye for an eye)... because the saxon concept of justice: i rather see... the implosion of    blackstone's formulation... the 10:1 imploding to the 1:10 ratio of...       a shawshank redemption... there is... redemption... since! there's no justice within the post scriptum of the hillsborough disaster... watching people walk, the lunatic walk, 20 years later?    disorientated by the court of justice?     re-dem-ption... the whole aspect of: innocent until proven guilty is horrid! this... saxon vernacular of that branch of philosophy that's bogus... namely... within origins      of the forbidden fruit... i.e. and you know?!     really?!       no... but i'll **** to make a standing pivot of a pawn on a chess-board.                           savvy? who, among the europeans... actually needs such artifacts as new testament texts, credo, orthodoxy, sign of the cross greek exports?              the state of israel has been re-established...       i don't want anything to do with this judeo-grecian banality... you can have you little affair over                                 n        e                                                 w                                  s... don't worry... i'll make sure that i'm watching... people tell a lie... yeah: hum hum bubbly hum-hum... am i, or are there any arizona inbreds? who, the hell, needs, the news testament, within the confines of history, dispossessing europe of it, of an established jewish state?       one book among many... hence the scent of a yawn...                          when entering a library... i'll do one gesture, and one gesture alone... inclined to a replica...     ecce libra!              i wash my hands from                   having any investment in it. **** the greeks can have it...       they can keep it, cherish it, but they better not spaghetti the old testament with their... "ingenious" plot... not when the nag hammadi library emerged...       no... not now... not ever...         i detest this greek book of overt symbolism...   their pristine alphabet, their diacritical application,   with the pseudo-romans toying with: deaf... or blind... whichever it is... sandpaper... instead of a kangaroo pouch... of inflated... soft... flesh? i'll rip your heart out and feed it to my neighbour's dog,                   beside a bowl of water.
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86
After I graduated, I thought about two things, I’m certified, I am now apart of “the people”, (And) All I have to do is make a choice and I’ll find success, Gave it my best, “no test?”; I had to teach, No stress, I had to be, The O next to the V, The ego; “which is me” (Wait) V+V=4, it’s a six thing; you know love without the zeas, But with the zeal; well; Overcoming Variables was never a test, -Or a problem; I speak geometry, I took 2D, made it 3D, and that was simultaneously; how could I not be the best… (What is a, reiteration?) Two lovers, Zodiac signs, Balanced is equivalent to love, Be here, focus on now, Now look up the meaning of dove… If you think linear, you saw the O next to the V, If you think like me, you saw the six steps in between, I had to put my ego beside me or else I couldn’t teach, That only happened because I met a woman who was a reflection of me, It literally was a zodiac thing, that type of thing sparked protection with/in me; There’s no uncertainty in my reality; I’m certainly certain, I don’t see nature Changing, I see people Loopin, “Why” the (people) Shooting; Their mind: This isn’t Workin; Knowing for a fact; the solution occurs during the attempt; in working, (Cliff Swallow); People Symbolism; Outcome, United is; if chirping… Well… I’m just saying (it) worked, Because I no longer have belief; I’m a knower, I mastered Mind, no need to grow up, Please don’t say –“show us the-”-because the waves not for us, If for is four, I’m removing it; not us; Notice; Not Only That, Us… It’s time to meditate, Breathe and wait; Losing all my words; like I had no say, I’ve been a wave cause I flow with waaaves, Change is who I am… I’ll reiterate; By 7th grade, I was late, Happiness was mad; I had to elevate, When I graduate (-ed), Thought: “I couldn’t make “it”” Happiness was sad; that’s why I elevated, Didn’t have a voice; that’s why I hesitated, Now I have no voice because I -
0
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 9:07 PM UTC
But if I never Made it;
After I graduated, I thought about two things, I’m certified, I am now apart of “the people”, (And) All I have to do is make a choice and I’ll find success, Gave it my best, “no test?”; I had to teach, No stress, I had to be, The O next to the V, The ego; “which is me” (Wait) V+V=4, it’s a six thing; you know love without the zeas, But with the zeal; well; Overcoming Variables was never a test, -Or a problem; I speak geometry, I took 2D, made it 3D, and that was simultaneously; how could I not be the best… (What is a, reiteration?) Two lovers, Zodiac signs, Balanced is equivalent to love, Be here, focus on now, Now look up the meaning of dove… If you think linear, you saw the O next to the V, If you think like me, you saw the six steps in between, I had to put my ego beside me or else I couldn’t teach, That only happened because I met a woman who was a reflection of me, It literally was a zodiac thing, that type of thing sparked protection with/in me; There’s no uncertainty in my reality; I’m certainly certain, I don’t see nature Changing, I see people Loopin, “Why” the (people) Shooting; Their mind: This isn’t Workin; Knowing for a fact; the solution occurs during the attempt; in working, (Cliff Swallow); People Symbolism; Outcome, United is; if chirping… Well… I’m just saying (it) worked, Because I no longer have belief; I’m a knower, I mastered Mind, no need to grow up, Please don’t say –“show us the-”-because the waves not for us, If for is four, I’m removing it; not us; Notice; Not Only That, Us… It’s time to meditate, Breathe and wait; Losing all my words; like I had no say, I’ve been a wave cause I flow with waaaves, Change is who I am… I’ll reiterate; By 7th grade, I was late, Happiness was mad; I had to elevate, When I graduate (-ed), Thought: “I couldn’t make “it”” Happiness was sad; that’s why I elevated, Didn’t have a voice; that’s why I hesitated, Now I have no voice because I -
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49
Dealing so much with figurative language, I cannot help but notice how many people restrict themselves to either Mythos or Logos. Myth or Logic. Symbol or Reason. Yin or Yang. Firefox, by default, doesn't even recognize that Mythos is a word: Mythos- The aspect of the mind concerning itself with the figurative, the abstract; implications, symbolism and interpretation. Passive. 'Relative'.  Yin. Logos - The aspect of the mind concerning itself with reason, proof, tangibility and fact. Active. 'Absolute'. Yang. It is of utmost importance to take both with a grain of salt. It is of equal importance to ponder both for what they are worth. Mythos seeks not to always be correct; but to make one think what is right and true within one's self. Logos seeks to be accurate. To describe, define, calculate, forecast, and replicate the physical.   Most are biased towards one and away from the other; it is impossible to have a balanced existence if you embrace one and deny the other: If one fails to respect duality, duality will tear one in twain. The path to salvation is comprised of both of these styles of thought: To seek only one is to condemn oneself to Autosegragationistic Social Darwinianism.
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Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 4:04 AM UTC
If one fails to respect Duality, Duality will tear one in twain
/                           beelzebub *(given employs the spider a posteriori and spiderweb a priori, and then back into a bicemeral reverse psyche-analogy - the id est contra the id erat - but there is no latin revival - given that the latin encoding has been translated into a.i. algorithms... forget putting the pandora into a box into a box into a box, into an etc. or what is a russian cultural artefact... forget it... a black fly would not take upon itself to make a dustbin, a ******* maggoty brothel, like a green bottle fly might... black flies have character, style... they're the ones that take to tango, with spider architecture, akin to the theological spider analogy about an ad infinitum a priori argument)*:    a bit like watching a black fly - "washing" itself - rubbing it's front limbs together, "attempting" to start a fire...       god, those awful green bottle hypers -   with maggot excesses - in a potential well expressed into practice - black flies?      i can entertain them - like i might entertain spiders that do not require aquariums - the non-exotica types... so i sometimes find myself rubbing my hands together, like a catholic amounting to an altruistic prayer symbolism... so kommen faust,   so kommen faust,                    so ist pseudo-faust - or rather:    england?              deutschland jr. america?               deutschland sr. and if that wasn't the case?     oh me, little old slavic                     babuшka... i still can't explain rubbing my hands together, like a black fly might...       keeping standards of where to take a maggoty dump's worth of procreation value... black flies? compared to the others? the priests of the whole spectrum...      i sometimes wish they were red,    so i could call them: the cardinals... alas...    not to be, god said otherwise... but i can fathom the priesthood, like i can fathom -    an aspiration of a sleeping samurai, devoid of the zodiac delusion,    encouraged to make chiromancy initiatives                         (readings) to alleviate, ******** monotheism.
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Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 11:02 AM UTC
beelzebub (with revision)
/                           beelzebub *(given employs the spider a posteriori and spiderweb a priori, and then back into a bicemeral reverse psyche-analogy - the id est contra the id erat - but there is no latin revival - given that the latin encoding has been translated into a.i. algorithms... forget putting the pandora into a box into a box into a box, into an etc. or what is a russian cultural artefact... forget it... a black fly would not take upon itself to make a dustbin, a ******* maggoty brothel, like a green bottle fly might... black flies have character, style... they're the ones that take to tango, with spider architecture, akin to the theological spider analogy about an ad infinitum a priori argument)*:    a bit like watching a black fly - "washing" itself - rubbing it's front limbs together, "attempting" to start a fire...       god, those awful green bottle hypers -   with maggot excesses - in a potential well expressed into practice - black flies?      i can entertain them - like i might entertain spiders that do not require aquariums - the non-exotica types... so i sometimes find myself rubbing my hands together, like a catholic amounting to an altruistic prayer symbolism... so kommen faust,   so kommen faust,                    so ist pseudo-faust - or rather:    england?              deutschland jr. america?               deutschland sr. and if that wasn't the case?     oh me, little old slavic                     babuшka... i still can't explain rubbing my hands together, like a black fly might...       keeping standards of where to take a maggoty dump's worth of procreation value... black flies? compared to the others? the priests of the whole spectrum...      i sometimes wish they were red,    so i could call them: the cardinals... alas...    not to be, god said otherwise... but i can fathom the priesthood, like i can fathom -    an aspiration of a sleeping samurai, devoid of the zodiac delusion,    encouraged to make chiromancy initiatives                         (readings) to alleviate, ******** monotheism.
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75
sure, first we had the schism of the church & state... "oddly" enough... we now live in the 2nd tier of schism -   the segregation of                   state & media... no?     really?          we're not?!            i'm kind of enjoying this ongoing schismatics -     the segregation of church from state, at least left us with the Vatican (i.e. the church-state) - but this, current... segregation of state from the media?       **** me cram my testicles into a monkey-wrench and subsequently watch me laugh... and there i was thinking, that psychiatrists, were the new priests of the secular age... prescribing the alt. to the metaphor of cannibalism in the form of big pharmacological pills, to replace the wafer for bread, or the watered down wine / grape juice of the...     so how does that party trick goes? is that the wine turned into blood? symbolically:    turned water into wine:    flag-wise...   white,        cardinal...   and then burgundy of cardinal red teasing the bishopric coloring of purple? i'm not here to undermine the faith...    i'm here for the self-deprecating humo(u)r... you don't even require atheism to get a laugh out of the conundrum - you, simply need... the deviation from the catholic rites...            an apostasy - but sure as **** it's there... secularism has allowed journalism a monastic status... first came the schism of church from state -    which remained intact in the church-state of the Vatican... so... FAIL... secondly had to come the schism of the state from the media...                i'm watching a schism take place...   apparently...         the comparative concern of church's divorce from the state was easy, having imploded into the Vatican... but the divorce of the media from the state?         apparently... not so easy... the media is already locking-down on obstructing the schism - arguing from an entertainment perspective...        a century or so later, and still, the persistent, media symbolism -      of crafting caricatures of a state...    as the state embodied in nothing more than subordination to its will... media is the new church... and if the separation of the state from the church took so long... how much time, do you "think", it will it take, for the state to segregate itself, from the media baronage? i suspect - as much time as it took to segregate itself from the church's cardinal-lineage.
0
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 11:34 PM UTC
an apostasy humour
sure, first we had the schism of the church & state... "oddly" enough... we now live in the 2nd tier of schism -   the segregation of                   state & media... no?     really?          we're not?!            i'm kind of enjoying this ongoing schismatics -     the segregation of church from state, at least left us with the Vatican (i.e. the church-state) - but this, current... segregation of state from the media?       **** me cram my testicles into a monkey-wrench and subsequently watch me laugh... and there i was thinking, that psychiatrists, were the new priests of the secular age... prescribing the alt. to the metaphor of cannibalism in the form of big pharmacological pills, to replace the wafer for bread, or the watered down wine / grape juice of the...     so how does that party trick goes? is that the wine turned into blood? symbolically:    turned water into wine:    flag-wise...   white,        cardinal...   and then burgundy of cardinal red teasing the bishopric coloring of purple? i'm not here to undermine the faith...    i'm here for the self-deprecating humo(u)r... you don't even require atheism to get a laugh out of the conundrum - you, simply need... the deviation from the catholic rites...            an apostasy - but sure as **** it's there... secularism has allowed journalism a monastic status... first came the schism of church from state -    which remained intact in the church-state of the Vatican... so... FAIL... secondly had to come the schism of the state from the media...                i'm watching a schism take place...   apparently...         the comparative concern of church's divorce from the state was easy, having imploded into the Vatican... but the divorce of the media from the state?         apparently... not so easy... the media is already locking-down on obstructing the schism - arguing from an entertainment perspective...        a century or so later, and still, the persistent, media symbolism -      of crafting caricatures of a state...    as the state embodied in nothing more than subordination to its will... media is the new church... and if the separation of the state from the church took so long... how much time, do you "think", it will it take, for the state to segregate itself, from the media baronage? i suspect - as much time as it took to segregate itself from the church's cardinal-lineage.
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96
Poets, the disciples of the modern world. Followers of the great Almighty Lord of alliteration and symbolism. Their eccentric natures make them the pariahs of this world. We cannot wrap our minds around the words they artfully speak, so we refuse to accept them. Their eyes burn like fire in their skulls as they stare you down from a podium. In their hands, they hold their own hearts which they have ripped out of their chests, holding them out as if asking for you to accept it from them, wanting you to understand what every beat means. Poets are misunderstood beings, tortured creatures, but they are far stronger than any others, because they have the gall to speak their minds unforgivingly, bare their most inner secrets and struggles to an audience of strangers. They are quick of tongue, speaking faster than one's ear can hear, but somehow they still manage to work themselves into your head with every word. They're parasites, infecting your mind and soul, tugging at you and driving themselves into your brain until their poems are all you think of. But they are not evil parasites. They hurt us and make us feel to save us.
0
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 11:49 PM UTC
Parasites
If you grasp tight to your                          individualism, Give in to all the                       romanticism, Rid of any          materialism, Confide within                    professionalism, Drop all acts of                     favoritism, Eject from any              vulgarism, Open up to            socialism, Advocate          activism, Realize you are an                           organism, Forget about any                      perfectionism, And explore inside                          transcendentalism, You will look up into complete mesmerism of how all the stars are symbolism for the billion versions of creationism that you've ever lived, and will live.
0
Sep 13, 2011
Sep 13, 2011 at 8:57 PM UTC
Untitled
Winters can be tedious. Sun dips into early dusk. A dead fire refuses to ignite. There's a quick repetition of opening and closing blinds over a barred window. In need of reflection I search a familiar face in an unfamiliar landscape. I have her in my grasp, half illusion, half real, a symbolic mask denies her true face, her glittering crown divides us by its radiance. Groping in darkness, I stumble over objects of wood and stone, my unsteady tread tripping over their contours. I light a candle. Bathed in amber light, our shadows merge. A new door opens, stretching the perspective. No formal borders here, they wouldn't survive the present climate. In their place, intricately carved figureheads and totems- a vision of the past. My eye is a camera, retinas branded with imagery for the photographer's delight- coloured pebbles, carved wooden animals, tin cans, bones..... ....A Glass Sentinel (though she isn't visible) I can see right through her- a vision of smokescreens and subterfuge. Past stumps of driftwood, past the uncut grass, a few flowers... ...to the fabricated backdrop of a burning house, black smoke rising in a thin stream. At the open door - The Guardian, (I know her inside out) unmoved, (she didn't bat an eye) defiant in a new skin, a softer version- The Mother protecting her children, arms splayed, prepared for fight or flight. A russet flame Licking her spine exhales 'Get out of my way!' but she wasn't listening. Smile fixed, eyes of a phoenix, a lion, a raptor, protector. We all need feeding, but not this way! Throw me a cloth, a napkin, a man-size tissue a lifeline! She wanted this, no, wished it- this symbolism, this burning of ironic portraits, to clear the deck, make way for new. It shook the house, its fate sealed behind closed doors. I compose myself, pull her back from the perilous edge, gather her in my arms. Fragments of shattered words flutter in the ether. What is real? What is fiction? A carbon copy of thousands? A charred corner? A forgotten candle? WARNING: 'Eating fire' is a risky business but can attract a large audience.
0
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 11:29 AM UTC
On reading Margaret Atwood's selected poetry-'Eating Fire'
Winters can be tedious. Sun dips into early dusk. A dead fire refuses to ignite. There's a quick repetition of opening and closing blinds over a barred window. In need of reflection I search a familiar face in an unfamiliar landscape. I have her in my grasp, half illusion, half real, a symbolic mask denies her true face, her glittering crown divides us by its radiance. Groping in darkness, I stumble over objects of wood and stone, my unsteady tread tripping over their contours. I light a candle. Bathed in amber light, our shadows merge. A new door opens, stretching the perspective. No formal borders here, they wouldn't survive the present climate. In their place, intricately carved figureheads and totems- a vision of the past. My eye is a camera, retinas branded with imagery for the photographer's delight- coloured pebbles, carved wooden animals, tin cans, bones..... ....A Glass Sentinel (though she isn't visible) I can see right through her- a vision of smokescreens and subterfuge. Past stumps of driftwood, past the uncut grass, a few flowers... ...to the fabricated backdrop of a burning house, black smoke rising in a thin stream. At the open door - The Guardian, (I know her inside out) unmoved, (she didn't bat an eye) defiant in a new skin, a softer version- The Mother protecting her children, arms splayed, prepared for fight or flight. A russet flame Licking her spine exhales 'Get out of my way!' but she wasn't listening. Smile fixed, eyes of a phoenix, a lion, a raptor, protector. We all need feeding, but not this way! Throw me a cloth, a napkin, a man-size tissue a lifeline! She wanted this, no, wished it- this symbolism, this burning of ironic portraits, to clear the deck, make way for new. It shook the house, its fate sealed behind closed doors. I compose myself, pull her back from the perilous edge, gather her in my arms. Fragments of shattered words flutter in the ether. What is real? What is fiction? A carbon copy of thousands? A charred corner? A forgotten candle? WARNING: 'Eating fire' is a risky business but can attract a large audience.
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98
We talk about the past like it's a movie we watched together. You liked the cinematography. I didn't care for the cruelty of the protagonist. We disagree on the theme, and every scene holds different aspects of symbolism for us. I'm not sure I want there to be a sequel, despite the good acting.
0
Jun 8, 2025
Jun 8, 2025 at 11:00 AM UTC
Life, the Movie
i. the poem has a beginning exactly as you’d expect it: pa in sweatshirt, ma with purse; the funny thing is i never used to call them those names: “pa,” “ma,” always found them too cowboy-ish, too un-me, un-like us: who held chopsticks before dinner time and shared stories of how grandpa came over from china. ii. (at the dinner table) there is no symbolism here. there has been none for a while now. this household eats and eats in quiet. my grandmother is a poet but their books all burned down back in ’45 when mao stormed into fujian and all her uncles could eloquent on was that “the communists were coming!” “the communists were coming!” and instead of poems took with them their children, and their gold to pawn and their clothes on their muddy mortar-stained backs and the japanese iii. my grandfather now comes twice a week to the hospital for chemotherapy. it is a nice hospital. good view of the cleanest part of our ***** city. there are lights and white folks now. two things my dad said did not used to be there. they used to be spanish. they tilled our rice fields and spent the money on living rooms with lots and lots of space to sleep. we on the other hand, worked. he claims. your grandfather and his grandfather and i iv. awake every sunday morning at precisely 8:30. made to go down to the temple in kalesas and told to fetch the office paper for noontime reading. see we weren’t spoiled: grew up just next to the pasig river which back in the 70s did not smell as bad as sin only sweatshirts and the sweat we soaked them in we reeled along steamed fish heads and chopsticks for picking at them with and bowls of rice we never really ate with spoons. v. (back at the dinner table) i listen to my mom and dad sweat profusely in the evening heat only we can have here he in his sweatshirt and she with her golden purse, preparing to leave - a wedding party awaits - an jacket draped over his shirt just like grandfather used to do it in a sense, but gripping the chopsticks delicately for all us to see: “pa,” “ma,” v. it is not cowboys that give us our names.
0
Feb 11, 2016
Feb 11, 2016 at 11:55 AM UTC
Pa wears a sweatshirt, ma carries a golden purse:
i. the poem has a beginning exactly as you’d expect it: pa in sweatshirt, ma with purse; the funny thing is i never used to call them those names: “pa,” “ma,” always found them too cowboy-ish, too un-me, un-like us: who held chopsticks before dinner time and shared stories of how grandpa came over from china. ii. (at the dinner table) there is no symbolism here. there has been none for a while now. this household eats and eats in quiet. my grandmother is a poet but their books all burned down back in ’45 when mao stormed into fujian and all her uncles could eloquent on was that “the communists were coming!” “the communists were coming!” and instead of poems took with them their children, and their gold to pawn and their clothes on their muddy mortar-stained backs and the japanese iii. my grandfather now comes twice a week to the hospital for chemotherapy. it is a nice hospital. good view of the cleanest part of our ***** city. there are lights and white folks now. two things my dad said did not used to be there. they used to be spanish. they tilled our rice fields and spent the money on living rooms with lots and lots of space to sleep. we on the other hand, worked. he claims. your grandfather and his grandfather and i iv. awake every sunday morning at precisely 8:30. made to go down to the temple in kalesas and told to fetch the office paper for noontime reading. see we weren’t spoiled: grew up just next to the pasig river which back in the 70s did not smell as bad as sin only sweatshirts and the sweat we soaked them in we reeled along steamed fish heads and chopsticks for picking at them with and bowls of rice we never really ate with spoons. v. (back at the dinner table) i listen to my mom and dad sweat profusely in the evening heat only we can have here he in his sweatshirt and she with her golden purse, preparing to leave - a wedding party awaits - an jacket draped over his shirt just like grandfather used to do it in a sense, but gripping the chopsticks delicately for all us to see: “pa,” “ma,” v. it is not cowboys that give us our names.
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60
I'd never cared for flowers Symbols of affection that wilt And forget memories And fall apart in kitchens and bedrooms and strew their pieces on the floors Dried and broken after only days of being lovely Flowers with their alternating patterns of Unreliable determinations Claiming every other petal as an opposite declaration Of a determination Of love And I never liked removing thorns from roses Because they added something truthful and Poetic But when you gave me flowers I held them to my heart and let my eyes dance across the kaleidoscope that they created in a glass vase I let them live for longer than they did Because they were still pretty even when no one else seemed to think so And when they hang dried on a wall Still colorful but slightly brittle Maybe they'll stay like that if I just don't touch them When you gave me flowers I plucked off every other petal Into a bouquet of He-Loves-Me Because for once there was no doubt For once I believed the sentiment in the flowers and the words from your lips as you handed them over The lack of nots in the petals Pulling apart the knots in my stomach He loves me He loves me Truer than the dirt that holds Wilting symbols of affection Sweeter than the honey Of their pollinators He loves me He loves me A garden of something new and beautiful Perennial and built on symbolism after all Until you let me know that dead flowers were just dead flowers That they were past their worth And metaphors aren't worth the dirt they were grown in That perennials can't return When you've salted the soil And brittle flowers on the wall should always be removed But I always lived in metaphors anyway And I had a new appreciation for flowers that I didn't want to lose I was no longer a rose But a thorn I always thought smooth stems were so boring Not to mention dishonest But I didn't want to make you bleed So painfully I dug an olive branch from my rib cage Then realizing that a ****** token may not be so well received I decorated it with a bouquet of blue Forget-Me-Nots But you plucked off every other petal And handed back an array of He-Loves-Me-Nots He loves me not And there was no doubt in the sentiment The sentience of metaphors dying all around me When all I know is metaphors And flowers were never just flowers And words were never just words But both are found on gravestones and poems and apologies And parallels have fallen into nice and even spacing Reducing flowers to clichés Of alternating promises Of He loves me and He loves me not Of broken promises He loves me Not
0
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 6:04 PM UTC
Flowers
I'd never cared for flowers Symbols of affection that wilt And forget memories And fall apart in kitchens and bedrooms and strew their pieces on the floors Dried and broken after only days of being lovely Flowers with their alternating patterns of Unreliable determinations Claiming every other petal as an opposite declaration Of a determination Of love And I never liked removing thorns from roses Because they added something truthful and Poetic But when you gave me flowers I held them to my heart and let my eyes dance across the kaleidoscope that they created in a glass vase I let them live for longer than they did Because they were still pretty even when no one else seemed to think so And when they hang dried on a wall Still colorful but slightly brittle Maybe they'll stay like that if I just don't touch them When you gave me flowers I plucked off every other petal Into a bouquet of He-Loves-Me Because for once there was no doubt For once I believed the sentiment in the flowers and the words from your lips as you handed them over The lack of nots in the petals Pulling apart the knots in my stomach He loves me He loves me Truer than the dirt that holds Wilting symbols of affection Sweeter than the honey Of their pollinators He loves me He loves me A garden of something new and beautiful Perennial and built on symbolism after all Until you let me know that dead flowers were just dead flowers That they were past their worth And metaphors aren't worth the dirt they were grown in That perennials can't return When you've salted the soil And brittle flowers on the wall should always be removed But I always lived in metaphors anyway And I had a new appreciation for flowers that I didn't want to lose I was no longer a rose But a thorn I always thought smooth stems were so boring Not to mention dishonest But I didn't want to make you bleed So painfully I dug an olive branch from my rib cage Then realizing that a ****** token may not be so well received I decorated it with a bouquet of blue Forget-Me-Nots But you plucked off every other petal And handed back an array of He-Loves-Me-Nots He loves me not And there was no doubt in the sentiment The sentience of metaphors dying all around me When all I know is metaphors And flowers were never just flowers And words were never just words But both are found on gravestones and poems and apologies And parallels have fallen into nice and even spacing Reducing flowers to clichés Of alternating promises Of He loves me and He loves me not Of broken promises He loves me Not
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70
A black veil cloaked My cobalt heart My soul was scarlet Before being torn apart An iris clutched to my chest Petals fell by my toes When you chose the hyacinth Over the golden rose With shattered mirror shards You severed the chain Precious as a cat's eye Melted by flames
0
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 10:12 PM UTC
A Severed Friendship (Symbolism Poem)