Ishmael Reed

[ian-gazarek.livejournal.com]

"beware    :    do not read this poem"

tonite     ,       thriller was
abt an ol woman     , so vain she
surrounded herself w/
     many mirrors

it got so bad that finally she
locked herself indoors & her
whole life became the
     mirrors

one day the villagers broke
into her house     ,     but she was too
swift for them     .    she disappeared
     into a mirror

each tenant who bought the house
after that   ,   lost a loved one to
     the ol woman in the mirror  :
     first a little girl
     then a young woman
     then the young woman / s husband

the hunger of this poem is legendary
it has taken in many victims
back off from this poem
it has drawn in yr feet
back off from this poem
it has drawn in yr legs

back off from this poem
it is a greedy mirror
you are into this poem   .    from
    the waist down
nobody can hear you can they   ?
this poem has had you up to here
    belch
this poem aint got no manners
you cant call out frm this poem
relax now & go w / this poem
move & roll on to this poem
do not resist this poem
this poem has yr eyes
this poem has his head
this poem has his arms
this poem has his ringers
this poem has his fingertips
this poem is the reader & the
reader this poem

statistic    :       the us bureau of missing persons reports
                       that in 1968 over 100,000 people disappeared
                       leaving no solid clues
                              nor trace       only
         a space           in the lives of their friends

a favourite poem of mine

[rmurphy.livejournal.com]

Will

More or less sound
of mind and memory,
I venture this testament.

1
To the poets, in the perfect pitch
of your dangerous music,
I bequeath the fiber of quench and gravel,
slush and splinter, ratchet,
forage and fizz.
And though you will face the welter
of blizzard, tussle, and brawl, the scud
of umbrage, rankle, and jeer,
I leave you the spell
of periwinkle, condor, daffodil, velvet,
trickle, rapture, and pine.
Even in the wasteland of writer's block
and the quicksand of murderous deadlines,
you will find them sprouting up
somewhere in sunshine: impudent, racy,
passionate, irresistible.
Gather them in
with pleasure.

2
To the lovers, in the blooming
of each new moment, I hereby bequeath
a lifetime of honor and cherish.
I endow you with a glimpse of forsythia,
the shimmer of silk on a chair back,
the smell of bakeries at sunrise,
the secrets of sparrows.
And because there will be detours and chuckholes,
fields of nettles, and weeks of freezing rain,
I leave you my vested interest
in maple trees, jonquils, coral, and amber,
the flavour of raspberries, a taste of skin,
and yells of joy in troubled skies -
all of it for worse,
for better.

In witness whereof, this day
I set my hand-
and hope.

~Philip Appleman

Lochnagar

[georgiapeachy.livejournal.com]

Lochnagar
By Lord Byron

This is traditionally sung, but stands alone as a lovely poem

Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses,
In you let the minions of luxury rove,
Restore me the rocks where the snow-flake reposes,
Though still they are sacred to freedom and love.
Yet Caledonia, belov'd are thy mountains,
Round their white summits tho' elements war,
Though cataracts foam 'stead of smooth-flowing fountains,
I sigh for the valley of dark Lochnagar.

There my young footsteps in infancy wander'd,
My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid.
On chieftains long perish'd my memory ponder'd
As daily I strode thro' the pine-cover'd glade.
I sought not my home till the day's dying glory
Gave place to the rays of the bright Polar star,
For fancy was cheer'd by traditional story,
Disclos'd by the natives of dark Lochnagar.

Years have roll'd on, Lochnagar, since I left you,
Years must elapse ere I tread you again.
Though nature of verdure and flow'rs has bereft you,
Yet still are you dearer than Albion's plain.
England, thy beauties are tame and domestic
To one who has roamed over mountains afar
Oh, for the crags that are wild and majestic,
The steep frowning glories of dark Lochnagar.