Monday Poetry

Where the Sidewalk Ends

   My favorite book of poetry, courtesy of Shel Silverstein.

Friday Haiku

Friday Poetry

Thursday Poetry

Tuesday Poetry

    Just finished a book of poems by this guy.  Book review to follow, probably tomorrow.

Haiku Wednesday

    I'm a poet,
    I know it,
    Hope I don't blow it.

Retirement Job

    I'll be retiring, or at least be going to part-time hours, before the end of this year.  I do want to keep active though.  And if the part-time thing doesn't work out with my present company. I'm thinking Poems-R-Us is the answer.

Sunday Poetry

    This is a highbrow blog.  Only highbrow poetry gets posted here.

Haiku Thursday!

Wednesday Wookie Poetry

    To celebrate the new Star Wars movie about to come out.

Poetry Saturday

The fog comes

on little cat feet.

It sits looking

over harbor and city

on silent haunches

and then moves on.

    Give me Carl Sandburg over Robert Frost any day.

Waxing Poetic

Thursday Poetry

    Poets are visionaries, always pondering the future.

Poetry Monday

    Kinda reminds me of the song Highwayman by (of course) The Highwaymen.  Kinda.

Scintillate, Scintillate Globule Vivific

Scintillate, scintillate globule vivific,

Fain would I fathom thy nature specific;

Loftily poised in the ether capacious,

Strongly resembling a gem carbonaceous.

(author unknown)

Blue Curtains

    I had an incident like this a long time ago in (college) freshman English Lit.  The book - a play, actually - was Waiting For Godot.  The English teacher, making an effort to expand our minds, asked us what we thought of the play.

    Stupidly, I gave him my frank opinion - that it was a nonsensical piece of trash.  Needless to say, that was not the viewpoint he was looking for.

    I am happy to say that now, 40 years later, I have come to appreciate existentialism in general, and WFG in particular.  But it is still prudent to not overanalyze individual lines in Literature.

Thursday Culture

    American poetry is generally the pits, outside of Shel Silverstein, Carl Sandburg, and some of Charles Bukowski's stuff.  The above is probably the most powerful snippet of this genre.

RIP - Sylvia Plath

    Sylvia Plath (b. : 10/27/32) died on 11 February 1963.  Ever the dutiful mother, she protected her kids by placing moist towels underneath the kitchen door before turning on the oven's gas and sticking her head as far into the oven as possible.  In those days, depression and bipolar disorder were little understood, and the world of poetry lost a rising star way too early in her career.

   

An Ode to Jerome

    Said Jerome K. Jerome to Ford Madox Ford,

    "There's something, old boy, that I've always abhorred:

    When people address me and call me 'Jerome',

    Are they being standoffish, or too much at home?

   (William Cole, via Michael Quinlan)