Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

Ah
Beauty.
As the souls desire,
The willful manifestation
Of the souls pure desire.
The purity of silken smooth flesh
Wrapped around the unknowable core.
The inflammation of touch, taste, the tactile
Bliss of an sensual embrace. Ever burning
Ever aching, ever yearning to make
Itself felt within the Innermost Essence
Of life’s pure bliss. Undifferentiated
And complementary it lives inside
All beings and yearns forever
To make itself knows
To all who exist
With the very
Words
I AM
.

i wonder why
this seems like a memory to me
of a night in winter
when
what was her name?
mercy i foorgot
her name
but not the first full
swill of her body
next to mine
what was her name?
i was young
she was younger
damn!

now there is a gentler sensuality

what is her name?

mary!
at last!
yet lost long ago
to some mainstream beau
with a business degree
and this poor bohemian wandered
moved on into the abyss

now the light of day is enough
to fill my cup
without the burden of despair
and yes!
i yam

And some say even pain is better than no existence.
Not sure who they are...

poem shaped like a pointy breast
from the mind of the belly of the beast
better than the worst of the best
under and over above all the rest

Cuuute, Flaming Ace. In spite of your sarcasm the poem has some worth. It may be a bit obvious for your scholarly tastes, but poetry is supposed to be communication. To communicate with everyone your metaphors have got to REACH everyone. These days, what does that mean? Ezra Pound and his kind are DEAD, literally and literately, so kiss OFF.

Leave the guy alone. He'll probably replace Rod McKuen, if not Helen Steiner Rice .....

I do in fact believe that the object of poetry or any written language IS communication. In my sophomoric, pedestrian, undergraduate retarded times, I've gotten more from poets of the street than the hard-to-reach scholarly Miltons and Pounds. I can still quote Dickinson, but ask me to quote Milton. I sweated bullets over him, yet what is he to me?

I knew what this poet was saying, right away. That got me. Outside of the tired words he used, he still communicated something. In this "Babel" world we all live in, general communication seems to me to be worth a whole lot ... He did this. Outside of this, aren't we all alone?

Quite a talented hound
was the mad Ezra Pound;
He gazed long at the moon
then plucked with a plume.


(that said, ah enjoy Shem's poem (and JJ tag). Better a lil' sincerity than sinisterity)