Kitten's Litter

i have read some of your poetry here tonight, i can't keep reading as i will just get overloaded. but i'd just like to say that i am impressed and will keep coming back for readings!

 

dude, i WANT your gf! what a great bod!

 

senseless is just amazing, very captivating. i keep coming back and reading it again and again.

 

Always amazed, always finding something to take away with me that stirs the pot.

 

Listen poet,
the words you write
are cheap and old,
your lines are loaded
but they misfire.

You boast about
significance
of your
common cold,
wallow and overuse
the sorrow…

But what do you know about sorrow,
when you have never stepped outside
your shadow.

So gluttonous poet
when praise
becomes main motivation,
nicotine for the swollen
pride,
and approval
is the sweetest fruit of all,
temptation to cut corners
overwhelms and
in the process mutes the roar
of an afflicted soul.

Ok. Lets pause and bicker about
my poor word choice.

I make blatant, unsupported claims,
hence demonstrate the trite.
Look at me using
empty words like soul, sorrow,
and violating the holiness
of human pride.

But I’m not here to define,
or convert or moralize,
I am simply speaking
about my own distaste
at the state of poetic affairs
where every angst ridden ant
proclaims to be the master
of transmitting the frailty
of an emotional vent.

None of our words will survive
the torrents of time
or be softly whispered
by awed watery eyes.

This is not the art
that once had the
charge to change
the course of our lives.

It is the watered down,
filtered, remarkable
trash
fit to only satisfy
for a momentary rush.

 

Scathingly good. Your words cascade and tumble in just the right rhythm, and scratch at the core essence of the subject matter, without marring it.


Thanks.

 

-deleted coz I didn't like it..-

 

"I’m an imposter of true talent,
a fiend who shamelessly stole somebody else’s verse.
A fraud, clumsy poetic dabbler,
full of recycled phrases, reused emotions and restricted words."

Sometimes I feel the same way. Like I have to write. To get it out...no matter how many times I've wrote or felt it. You write very well. The last line of this stanza, you used 3 different examples and all 3 begin in re. I know that sounds silly, but it makes your words flow beautifully. I liked all of your poems, you write fluently and with depth.
Thank you for sharing
peace&love

 

I was born here,
in a brutal, unforgiving,
stubborn place,
where the wintry famine
has nourished me
and the sharp winds
cut through the dusty glass,
sounded of lullabies
so lonely
but growling,
raised me to growl back.

And I was born maybe starving
or suffering
but raised to
cherish hard black bread,
at night, secretly, softening
on my tongue
but later rolling all over the crumbs
on the bed.

I have sat on a window sill
through half sleep
listening for neighbors’ coughs,
and my mother’s voice
reminded me
that this kitchen, this snow, and this warmth
is my poor, familiar home.

 

I haven't read this thread in a long time, and I can't for the life of me understand why. On the upside, though, there is a wealth of great poems to go back and enjoy. I'll just comment on a couple right now. I loved Senseless, had a somber beauty to it, sad but somehow encouraging. And Paradise, reminds me of my own feelings about my home. I hate it but I love it. At least for me, you hit the nail square on the head with that one.

 

great to read some new stuff from you after what feels like an eternity! I especially love -boys- and -paradise- as both had a more personal nature to them, which as you know, is my cup o tea. there was a darker nature to both of these, not quite what I was expecting but more appealing anyways. hope you stick around for a while longer this time and kick out some masterpieces!

 

Excellent, clear and powerful...
I really enjoyed the sharp beauty of both
Paradise & Remarkable Trash.

 

eloquence takes time
and needless effort,
let's cut to the chase,
expose the farce,
leave melodrama to the young
with all their
sentimental chatter
about truth, and love, and purpose.
they are so clean
in their convictions of the useless
clatter,
elastic in accepting
all that shines.
unmarred and open
so let them toy with hope
for now,
who knows maybe
it is meant for them
alone,
since inexperience
leads to a steadfast faith
in better days,
if after all without it
there is no motivation
to initiate a change,
a ripple that could
resonate
through distance -
cause another crease
in the ruffled landscape
of our lives,
and so perhaps
they will be strong and new,
hold on to all that’s sacred,
preserve its meaning,
inciting latent power and will
to persevere through
the coldest years.

...too bad,

this dream of other’s revelation
can not come true,
when generation
after generation follows
the ancestral tendency
of falling prey to same mistakes.
and same dilemmas haunt us all,
at different times and contexts
the same emotions broil
under our frail lids,
explosive, permanent
like scars,
the first cuts, first stabs
and touch of spite
may go unnoticed,
but they are stored,
remembered and amassed
until
we are exposed as dirty
and all that once was
‘wrong’
will come to pass
and will be sold
under the tags of
‘right’.

 

stellar work there, girl! I especially liked the first half, there were a lot of bouncing syllables and off beat semi rhymes going on, and the subject matter is wonderfully pessimistic... I love it! The second half is excellent as well, it ties everything down nicely, but didn't feel as natural, as effortless as the first (hope that makes sense). anyways, yeah...

technically this one's about as good as anything I've read from you, it flows quite fluidly and there's a more developed edge of finesse to it that I haven't seen from you... keep em coming!

 

There is obviously room to grow
since when I stretch
I can not touch the ceiling,
and even if I could reach the height,
the satisfaction
would be fleeting and misleading.

I’d probably grow weary
of the ceiling,
get bored with all its plaster
and the electric light.

 

Summer smears linden tears,
I am sound asleep
in the tops of velvet trees
in the tremors of hardened palms,
among the bodies of brittle leaves.

I will forget this endless dawn,
wipe away the acrylic night
from the canvas sky.

I will remember countless Northern eyes,
rash mud streaks on broken windshields,
synthetic scent of the seats
and a parade of soft lights passing us by.

Soon sharp shots of autumn
will lodge into the leather,
burrow in deeper,
burrow through the layer
in order to settle
where the hearts must throb.

But I am disarmed.

Soon sharp shots will equip the weather.
Open fire. Full speed. Head-on.

With open sails down slick tails
without traction,
where the rustle lulls
and the distance now grows
shorter,
and that means we’re getting
closer
to being farther away from home.

 

I like petting, feeding, stroking kittie as much as possible.

 

-leaving- has a forlorn vibe to it... I liked the winter images tied into emotional sentiments mucho, it's so... appropriate! Again, you're weaving your words well... slick use of rhyme and not overdone, and excellent alliteration, my favorite of poetic techniques next to metaphore.

Those first two stanzas, by the way, are awesome... great hook!

One thing I think you could do, however, is tighten up some of the lines, loose some of the more unnecessary words... ie: With open sails down the slick tails would be better as: With open sails down slick tails

yeah yeah

 

To the Cynic:

There is that which undergoes the changes wrought from the unwavering ancestral tidal wave.

And there is that which seeks identity in the midst of all those shifting shadows.

When one becomes aware of the other, the distinction eventually dissolves, and only bliss remains.

Yet to the eyes of the observer, nothing seems to have changed. Or, rather, one might say that the changes undergone all seem to remain the same.

 

We were only passing by.

The slow traffic congregated,
blaring radio racket radiated
from every truck nearby.

But inside our crippled car
just like inside each one of us
stood an unwavering silence.

It was a late afternoon,
and already dust settled on the sun,
but we kept our windows down,
letting the hum, the continuous
breathing noise
synchronize with our anxious pulse.

We dragged down the broken cobblestones,
passing the long, indifferent faces of locals whose
black shimmering eyes invaded, imprinted,
their possible stories into our turbulent minds.

And then we stopped
and saw.

He sat on the steps,
with a grey woman standing in the back,
solemn, hands folded,
lips pressed into a single line.

He was tiny, untidy.

Looking point blank at us.
Sat and at times dug dirty fingernails
into the tender skin of his forearms.

That look on his face,
with swollen eyelids and grazes,
dry tear streaks on bronze cheeks,
spoke of a stifled tantrum.

We winced and simply stared,
dumb.

Then drove off with little care,
thinking, convinced
that we were only passing by.