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Mateuš Conrad Jan 2017
and i'm watching this spectacle... and i agree:
  female tennis is probably more
enjoyable than
  male tennis... there's so much
dialogue involved...
   and oh god, i am but a simple man,
i like my klinik, and my wumpscut
and my other fringe altars
of culture...
but i really like watching the 7 rectangles...
isn't a tennis court a case of 7 rectangles?
no? i thought it was...
  1 at the beginning, 2 are the side,
2 either side, and 2 for the served into "square"
across the net, service, 1st serve, net-first-service...
15 - love...
                then i watch a video by
black pigeon speaks and i'm fired up...
not that i have anything planned
in a year to come,
i'm too wrapped up in the bewilderment of
being able to **** out a bottle of wine,
but seem to never be able to **** out a bottle
of whiskey...
  dunno: it just happens...
i spent the past few hours cleaning the slates
of the bathroom from feline diarrhoea...
    so you know: i'd love to reach the summits
of gucci perfumes, if you'd care to
         allow me...
i really should wait for my ego to turn into
a phallus of slumbering pride,
but given the current situation in Sweden
    and me reading history of the deluge of Poland
by the Swedes, i'm sort of: hands in the air
with four thumbs signifying: i don't care.
   i like watching tennis,
it's the one sport where watching women is more
entertaining than watching men,
and it's not that you're even forced into it...
             women make more rallies in a match...
women tend to play with a double-handed forehand...
      but it really is a game based about 7 rectangles...
i'd love to see it as: Dali, dictates the rhombus
  at the Australian Open!
             i'd love to see it,
and i'd also love to see Oslo...
             but i'm not that bothered,
for all the media frenzy concerning western Europe,
i see Poland as a buffer zone smokescreen...
      the happenings at Ełk proved a point...
the dream of community translated into western
europe came so pronounced...
   people actually botehred to create a lynch mob...
the good "samaritan" had to die...
  and yes, the moroccan yielding the knife
was taken to a prison cell...
   but i guess knowing the polish language
i should feel more nationalistic pride in sweden being
gang-*****... it's an actual shame that i know
english and can't ingest the full potency of seeing
Sweden as it is... as i already said:
the deluge... by henry sienkiewicz...
    and later the recount by an incompetent king
in the works of kraszewski...
             but my: the tennis! it's spell-binding...
and the wine i made? it's digesting my brain to a proper
dehydration... and i love it!
              7 rectangles... and if the 7 rectangles
     were a circle, i'd be yearning for sumo!
           but no no, no... i'm, looking at these rabbits
represent a π radius squared movement,
given the matchsticks...
      i love tennis... it makes more sense watching
a female tennis match than it does a male one:
where it's always all about a fast serve and
           a quicker return... 7 rectangles, and these
fleshy vectors moving about the parameters...
           if i din't know a germanic language
i'd be gleeful, actually applauding the demise of
Sweden, having learned of the devestation
done to Poland by the Swedes in the deluge and
partition of the country, due to the House of Vasa...
it's a joke and i know it's a joke:
say i moved back to Poland and stirred up
    the national ghost?
                                     ha... ha ha... that would be
something...
          i'm a disciple of wine these days,
and i like watching tennis...
                         human history always meant
too much a case of: getting out of bed...
and hence my addiction: sleep...
as odd as it might sound, i'm actually addicted to it...
i'm a lion that pets two bonsai tigers...
    i have enough mane to laugh out a bellowing
word: lion! ha ha...
              but i sometimes like to retreat into
origins, and given i am highly volatile in my use of
english as an acquired tongue, i sometimes love to
re-acquire my ethnicity, and read a little bit of it...
how the Swedes desecrated Poland once upon a time...
how the Germans malnurished her with world war ii
and i... and i sort of love how Islam (for me), is
nothing but a chisel, a hammer... a useful idiot
that speaks more testicles and western female uninhibition
than anything... of boy... do i come across of grossly
nationalistic? i might have... oh gee!
   what a terrible plight!
                         but there's a secret theatre being staged
in Europe, most Americans don't know of it,
unless they managed to ask Joyce to **** his way
around a good translation of Finnegans Wake and
a whiskey bar in Krakow...  or ów... however you speak it...
     depends how you hide or don't hide
or expose the consonants...
                    and that's funny, most people find
the works of Kraszewski boring... to me they're the one
source of sanity having spent 3 weeks in Poland
over the holidays...
and why i invested my person in being bilingual...
   odd scare tactic: the usual typo of ****...
                        if you find the culture you're assimilating
into folding (in a poker sense), remain true to
the culture of your birth, keep the language...
you never know, you might have to move back
to the country of your birth... but only when you
see the host culture as *****-whipped... as England
is... or wait... antagonise the situation,
wait until they give up their capital,
and on the preiphery turn ultra-nationalistic in vox...
   i kept my native tongue, now i'm playing truant...
i have no symphany for the Swedes,
  and sympathy for England? well... if even events
in 1997 didn't happen... i might have more than
enough...
                   a Pole looks at the influx of Muslims to
Germany... and quiet frankly laughs...
                       it's not even a debate...
like the muslims talking about post-colonial
deconstructionalism...
                                     no wonder Russia has
come from the shadows to be the pawn-broker
of at least remaining true to the hunger
of media outlets... it just has to be there...
        so yeah, if you read kraszewski
and sienkiewicz, you might know a thing or two
about the Swedish deluge, that hit Poland
when John Casimir, of the house of Vasa
     "ruled" Poland at the time of the Cossack
uprising, magnified by the leadership of
      Khmelnytsky -
                but then again, all you hear in England
is the fate of the harem of the house of Tudor...
and how Charlie got shaved from owning a head,
and how Charlie Seconds had that
bad-*** poet in his pocket... john wilmot...
who i vaguely remember having cited
made epigram more noteworthy than an epitaph:
     we have a pretty witty king,
     and whose word no man relies on,
     he never said a foolish thing,
     and never did a wise one...

    great words demand the most despicable people
to invoke them... fortunately i live in a time
when great words can't be said,
because there are no great people to be surrounded with
in order that they might be despised...
   well, that is said in where i find solace,
exietential philosophy, for i do say: "fortunately",
as if i am borrowing something...
how can you write a poem, about a monarch,
when the monarch, as has happened with the english
crown, bid more toward philanthropy
than lechery? give me something i might want to esteem
in seeking out the basis for the basic human
depravity! you give me a monarch worth a penny's
toss into a hand of a pauper, you give me
a philanthropic king, and not a lecherous king...
you have sealed your existency,
by gauging out my eyes and giving them to worms,
and cut off my tongue, and lodged it, in the mosque
of a donkey's gob!
My brother was twelve years older so
I knew him not so well,
But heard of him in the taverns,
Getting drunk, and raising hell,
My mother said, ‘Keep away from him,’
And I did, for many years,
But blood is blood, and a brother should
Help out, though it ends in tears.

He’d done a spot of embezzling,
He’d picked the pockets of Earls,
You never left him to tend a horse
And he wasn’t safe with girls,
But he was my brother Toby,
And I was his brother Tim,
I’d often find him beneath my bed
When he said, ‘Don’t let them in!’

By ‘them’ he had meant the Runners
Who were active in the Bow,
And some of the old Thief-Takers
With their ruffians in tow,
They roamed the streets with their cudgels
And would lie, just out of sight,
Beyond the doors of the Taverns, when
They turned them adrift at night.

The streets were mean, and were far from clean
Where my brother used to roam,
Despite the pleas of our mother, who
Would beg him to come back home,
But father remained unbending, said
His eldest son was a swine,
‘His endless scrapes, a Jackanapes!
He is no son of mine!’

I heard he’d taken a horse and fled
From a stables in the Strand,
‘There’s little that anyone now can do,
When they catch him, he’ll be hanged!’
My mother, crying a flood of tears
As my father cursed and swore,
‘I’ll call the Runners, or I’ll be ******
If you let him through my door!’

So Toby galloped to Hounslow Heath
Along the Great West Road,
Teamed up with the brute Tom Wilmot,
Lay low in his abode,
They’d venture out on a moonlit night
To wait for the latest Stage,
But Tom was never the gentleman,
Or known to contain his rage.

They stopped the coach on a lonely night
‘Your money or your life!’
Dragged out a country gentleman,
His maid, and his homely wife,
He wanted the ring on the lady’s hand
But her finger held it tight,
So he sawed the finger off as well
With a sharp, serrated knife.

‘It was terrible,’ Toby told me
As they loaded him onto the cart,
‘The screams and the blood, unholy,’
As the horse was about to depart,
They hung him high on the Tyburn Tree
Next to the Wilmot pig,
Not undeserved, but I cried and cursed
As he danced the Tyburn jig.

David Lewis Paget
what matters in the end is you were kind
even to those you thought far in the wrong
which brought its wisdom and it made you strong
when the all the shouters said you undermined
goodness itself while you cursed them for blind
unpatriotic fools chanting their lone song
always so eager to make pain last long
while you desired to open up each mind
now that is in the past and what is left
is wisdom recollect gentle words and soft
suggestions made without pretence or guile
we see so clearly how all ends in theft
of those things we have held highest aloft
but we will all get to there in a while
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2017
praise our king (charles the 2nd),
who never did anything unwise,
but likewise, never said anything wise.*

                                        - john wilmot -

i was thinking long and hard,
      well... not really... the comparison
just popped into my head...
     of the french monarchy,
                philip the 2nd (augustus)
became the pre-dating machiavellian
genius, i'd say the prototype,
     if not the archetype...
           he cheated three angevin kings,
henry the 2nd, richard the 1st
                           and king john;
but this "poem" isn't about that...
  i was trying to make comparisons
of the french & english monarchies
what two kings of these monarchies
  could be confused as half-brothers?
obvious!
              charles the 2nd of england,
             and louis the 14th of france...
no two kings were ever alike as
these buggers.
            saying that...
         charles seems to have the upper-hand,
apart from the grand-court jester
  that was john wilmont -
          he also had a composer that
most people still remember...
   yet for some reason, i can't think of
anyone famous under the banner
                                   of the sun king;
maybe i just wasn't informed,
           but i guess if you get to
represent yourself in an ironic
   geocentric fashion... well...
        who ever dared to poke fun at louis?
versailles wasn't exactly close
   to a river, for a composer to be comissioned
to draft music for a fireworks display
              on the thames,
      that even the beggars could enjoy...
versailles? off limits.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

when i hear classical music on the radio:
i have this annoying hearing impediment,
i confuse mozart with beethoven,
      and beethoven with mozart...
for some reason, i can't quiet catch
                the necessary accents that might
clarify these siamese titans...
    but:                                      h
       ­                  ä (æ)
                                           n
         d
                                       e            l?
              no problem for some reason.
’Twas now the noon of night, and all was still,
Except a hapless Rhymer and his quill.
In vain he calls each Muse in order down,
Like other females, these will sometimes frown;
He frets, be fumes, and ceasing to invoke
The Nine, in anguish’d accents thus he spoke:
Ah what avails it thus to waste my time,
To roll in Epic, or to rave in Rhyme?
What worth is some few partial readers’ praise.
If ancient Virgins croaking ‘censures’ raise?
Where few attend, ’tis useless to indite;
Where few can read, ’tis folly sure to write;
Where none but girls and striplings dare admire,
And Critics rise in every country Squire—
But yet this last my candid Muse admits,
When Peers are Poets, Squires may well be Wits;
When schoolboys vent their amorous flames in verse,
Matrons may sure their characters asperse;
And if a little parson joins the train,
And echos back his Patron’s voice again—
Though not delighted, yet I must forgive,
Parsons as well as other folks must live:—
From rage he rails not, rather say from dread,
He does not speak for Virtue, but for bread;
And this we know is in his Patron’s giving,
For Parsons cannot eat without a ‘Living’.
The Matron knows I love the *** too well,
Even unprovoked aggression to repel.
What though from private pique her anger grew,
And bade her blast a heart she never knew?
What though, she said, for one light heedless line,
That Wilmot’s verse was far more pure than mine!
In wars like these, I neither fight nor fly,
When ‘dames’ accuse ’tis bootless to deny;
Her’s be the harvest of the martial field,
I can’t attack, where Beauty forms the shield.
But when a pert Physician loudly cries,
Who hunts for scandal, and who lives by lies,
A walking register of daily news,
Train’d to invent, and skilful to abuse—
For arts like these at bounteous tables fed,
When S——condemns a book he never read.
Declaring with a coxcomb’s native air,
The ‘moral’s’ shocking, though the ‘rhymes’ are fair.
Ah! must he rise unpunish’d from the feast,
Nor lash’d by vengeance into truth at least?
Such lenity were more than Man’s indeed!
Those who condemn, should surely deign to read.
Yet must I spare—nor thus my pen degrade,
I quite forgot that scandal was his trade.
For food and raiment thus the coxcomb rails,
For those who fear his physic, like his tales.
Why should his harmless censure seem offence?
Still let him eat, although at my expense,
And join the herd to Sense and Truth unknown,
Who dare not call their very thoughts their own,
And share with these applause, a godlike bribe,
In short, do anything, except prescribe:—
For though in garb of Galen he appears,
His practice is not equal to his years.
Without improvement since he first began,
A young Physician, though an ancient Man—
Now let me cease—Physician, Parson, Dame,
Still urge your task, and if you can, defame.
The humble offerings of my Muse destroy,
And crush, oh! noble conquest! crush a Boy.
What though some silly girls have lov’d the strain,
And kindly bade me tune my Lyre again;
What though some feeling, or some partial few,
Nay, Men of Taste and Reputation too,
Have deign’d to praise the firstlings of my Muse—
If you your sanction to the theme refuse,
If you your great protection still withdraw,
Whose Praise is Glory, and whose Voice is law!
Soon must I fall an unresisting foe,
A hapless victim yielding to the blow.—
Thus Pope by Curl and Dennis was destroyed,
Thus Gray and Mason yield to furious Lloyd;
From Dryden, Milbourne tears the palm away,
And thus I fall, though meaner far than they.
As in the field of combat, side by side,
A Fabius and some noble Roman died.
Sierra Wilmot Nov 2013
I gazed up
as I heard a loud roar,
saw a light shining through two
sliding doors.

Hovering above me
was a spaceship in flight
Is this real?
Is this real life?

I started to feel
my feet leave the ground,
stunned and confused
I fought the urge to
look down.

No one near
no one to hear me scream,
I let the force pull me through
this bright shining beam.

As I ascended into a large metal
room
danger, I didn't assume

There was a man
or at least that's what appeared
that's the costume
I suppose he volunteered

A chair rose below me,
and scooped me in
quickly I felt my
thoughts and feelings begin
to spin.

The alien too
now sat in a chair
and he put his hands in his lap
as if to say a prayer

Graciously he opened reassuring my thoughts
and slowly my stomach was empty of knots



I felt at peace
this ship it was kind
I felt my mind
begin to unwind

A conversation he said
thats all I seek
your planet to us,
it seems so unique
we are already
thrown by your fascinating physique

Traveling is where we've been
all of the galaxy
we have been within.

We need a place
to stop and rest
can you tell us why Earth
is the best.

Wondering why me?
Sitting here without a clue
I began to give him Earth's debut.

You see I come from a place
full of life,
oceans, mountains, rivers and love
but not all days
have all of the above
I mean sort of
it depends on who you are
nature is there
and happiness lives
but it matters on your perspective
and how you give.
Earth is selfish
and Earth is kind
but the majority are concerned with
what they can call “mine.”

We have the resources for growth
and knowledge
I myself am in college
but these resources
you must first
acknowledge
and then
work to shape
in your mind
deep in
your heart
from the inside
the peace Earth has
in you resides
but most people are stuck on the outside

This place can bring you joy
but like a storm
can destroy

we cherish
family, friends
and laughter
we dream of getting
our happily ever after
only to fight over where we will go
like “here after.”
We argue over religion, origin, and creator
over which team, athlete or place
is greater

We have war
disease
killing and hate
pain in the world
that not even the best medicine can sedate.

But deep down
we are all wired by love
so underneath all the mess
is something to be proud of
something you will be happy to meet
a feeling that will make you feel
complete.
Earth is love
full of compassion
truth and fun
you just have to be a visitor
that can see the beauty
under the sun.

He gazed at me
and reached out his hand
shaking mine
he said, I understand.
You,  come from a wonderful
land.
That my planet
was a place he'd like to see
from oceans to mountains
and the space in-between.

He said in his travels
he'd learned a great deal
but most important
is to find your own
truth that is real.

We can't listen
to others and soak in what they say
changing and making you different
by day.

We can learn
we can grow
guidance by others won't be a foe

Optimism is key
acceptance,
awareness
and the ability to be...
free.
To let your soul soar
through every feeling
thought and more.
Open every door
live this life
and seek to be better
be the best you
and then Earth to
will be better.

Love, love, love just like you say,
everyday, close up and far away.

Like words carved in stone
I tattooed his words in my brain
in my head they are stained
to remain
for the rest of my days.

Reading my mind
he smiled and said,
it was so nice to speak with you
my name is Ted.
Sierra, I smiled
as my chair slowly sunk
and I rose to my feet.
The door slid open and my heart
skipped a beat
he waved as I descended and I knowingly smiled
said he'd come find me one day
after he explored for a while.
I agreed and wished him the best
and before I knew it
my stomachs plummet was the test
as I started down
feeling the gravity
draw me to the ground.

I looked up as the ship
blitzed away
off into the galaxy
far far away
I looked around and walked back towards
my car
shaking my head
gazing out far.

Was that real
I feel so....
so enriched
like me and a movies
plots where just switched

I knew in that moment
after my decent
100 percent
that the content
that I learned
would forever stay with me, push me to yearn.
That I would share these teachings
for everyone to learn.
In each and every way
and to always
walk in love
every day.

-Sierra Wilmot
JRC Jan 2017
Intro
Words in play without meter or rhyme
Is poetry without respect for sounds or time
Like a military bugler playing his morning song
But jazzing it up, which for the morning sounds wrong.

1
Poems short of prose serve to play the edge
In which the abstract thought can its verses wedge
Poetry's an art - that can't be denied
But when ripped apart, leaves readers in divide.
On one hand we have free verse with all its liberties
Its flows, like ocean waves, give in to subtleties
The other hand holds form where order and beauty lie
Its sound there calms the mind and guides the reading eye.
Well, how can art transcend if it's to be confined?
Ask the poor man painting, what keeps his strokes refined.
Ask him what is richer: materials or mind-
How he affords true art: in color or design.
And could he paint with passion if he were also blind?
To what limit does art flow, that could liberty unwind??

2
If sentences were laid and in stanzas fitted to form,
The simplest thought now sparks, the layman poet is norm -
-A hand that holds a pen.. its wondrous poem adored
Ha! That relic sonnet lost 'cause the modern reader's bored.
The talentless recites: his poetry: my rage..
Where then is the poem, in the words or on the page?
I'll credit that the form of poetry can change:
Like ocean waves on shores where waters rearrange
And subtleties lay washed whence art can have a fad
And for a moment last despite what I think bad.
Words without art, conveyed for art-less brains
The verse that freely speaks as the older school disdains..

3
But rhyming, timing schemes of ancient preference
What novelty they yield in these times of rhyme suspense....
Just the thought of it and one can hear a beaten drum,
A percussive, tired sound for ears tired and numb
They're artifacts of effort that the ancients then called art
Confined to rhyme and metered verse, the caged poems impart-
Shakespeare, Wilmot, Behn, these are but forgotten names
A pantheon of "poets" whose works of words too tame
Did not taste the "modernness" that free verse giveth to thee...
The ghosts of poems past singing their songs but never free.
How lucky for us rebel writers, we laugh at silly rules!
Rule-less, ruthless poems we write with rhyme nor time as tools!
I prefer traditional metered and rhyming poetry. I like the challenge of trying to write it.
B E Cults Jul 2020
These days the
development of a style
is like trying to translate
the leaves blowing across
concrete into Naruda
at his most heartbroken.

You either try or lie about what
is dying in the background
of every family photograph
yet to be taken.

Being well received is a gold star
sticker by your name written in
yellow crayon;
I don't want you to like me.

Wilmot in the park,
the dregs hurled at the world,
teeth stained red or falling out.

I don't want you to like me.

I want you to feel something.

— The End —