|Old Poetry Corner |
What is that old poem doing stuffed into a folder in a box at the back of a cupboard;
or folded four times and slipped under the lining of the knicker and sock drawer?
Old poems need to be exercised; exorcised even. They could, if kept hidden, cause your subconscious a whole heap of trouble. One day, when you are leafing through miscellaneous papers looking for that recipe for trout in aspic, there it'll be, an old poem, gurning at you, undermining your self confidence and sending you spiralling backwards, hot with shame.
No contribution to old poetry corner will be rejected, on the basis that it takes real courage to let them out.
One of my resolutions is to have less fun.
Faced with world poverty, homelessness,
Heartache without cease, how can I please myself
Along with utter selflessness. A habit
Of course. Like a favourite coat, the mantle of
Constant sacrifice may be most long wearing.
When all the evidence points to hearts of stone,
How can mine be so warm?
Then there's the noble effort that I make.
What did happen to curmudgeonly sloth
That blunted my youth? Mornings on the divan,
Hand to breakfast cup, notebook open at
My thoughts then were all crowded. Now they're
Quite distinct. I must learn to action less and
Think much more assiduously.
Another resolution is to have less faith.
I will shade my eyes from the morning sun and
Seek out the shadow of doubt a worshipful
Conscience has rather cured me of.
How much more comradely
To stammer with the rest.
Never forgetting love.
I think of my life of passion as a triptych
Worked on satin in crimson and Aztec gold.
As the poet said, one can be loved too much
And grow to be too hallowed, like an old, old song.
So I shall keep reserves of love
For those much less deserving.
On Not Being Invited To Dinner
How to explain that sinking feeling,
Though sinking's not enough,
When friends divide their
Invitations and leave me standing
Outside; forsaken in one instant
Of the falling self-demise.
What is it that I read there
Where no call comes?
Blank card; mirror blank;
Reflections all turned inward.
A change of mind, of plan, brief war;
The loss of love or end of calculation?
There is a crossing and a turning
Back and, when the bridge
Is raised, a kind of slackness.
Then I stop, the prematurely ghost,
Short-breathed with shifted weight,
To feel what alteration brings,
And whether I can bear it.
On Being Denied
There was a man from Nantucket
Whose mouth was the shape of a bucket
He tried to drink gin
But it angered his kin
So he filled up with beer and slurred "Fruckit"
by Sylvia Plaque c 2001
This is not your: typical, lyrical, cynical, entity
nor factual collaterals of humanity.
This is not covert: love, lust, muck or whatís suits
the needs of those who want.
You see, this is not a lie nor is it the truth. Did my
first sentences not get through to you?
This is not me writing to earn a dime and making this
line happen to rhyme. How much attention would I get
if I would just slit my wrist with a knife? I would
like to live but several particles of my soul have
died. For I donít understand the true meaning of life.
I gave you my strength and you show me my weakness.
Like Martin Luther King, I did have a dream that once
was an ambition now my wishes seem to have no
existence. I did try to read and have some believes
but all that is good is a fantasy, and all that is
life is a reality. The verse in the text aims to you
as a mark man. I donít understand what your plan. When
the word ďmankindĒ separates itself as if it was two
different accomplishments. Is this punishment for
those who question or those who ignores the truth?
What did I ever do to you? I only played with the
borderlines of your rules, but I never meant to harm
you. What can I believe as you have never appeared
before me? Tears of pain and joy have concord my body
for I run with passion having no destination or place
to call home. My body is my shelter for my soul so
where is my real home? Point to my destiny as I meet
you one day at the crossroads. My complications and
frustration in my soul has me living in pain as
tomorrow is worried. I donít know what life leads me.
All I know I need to do something. How can I move on,
take it easy, when the horror I have gone through
lives within me. I look upon you with the saddest
tears ever seen. How come I canĎt never overcome this
tragedy. So many things have occurred but will I ever
be heard. I screamed for love, the truth, the last
option of hope. Listen to my story like Cher ďa song
for the lonelyĒ. Raised in New York City but in a
borough called a place of pity. Raped from my parents
and brought up in a place I was taught to call home.
You see, as you observed, I want to believe and have
faith and wish that all my worries would go away. I
believe in my spirit that can lift me up to ecstasy.
The more I think about my reality, it turns my
ambition to dreams, but the more I reckon on my
spirituality it gives me something to think about, it
gives me something to live by. Something to moralize
to future generations. This is not only about me,
itís about a prayer, can you hear it? Can you feel it?
I render my mind numb for I deem my purpose in life.
Without that Iím nothing. I lead my life on footsteps
and ladders where I trip I can stand and where I slip
I will land. This is my spirit. My reality. But who
by Felix Lugo January 23rd, 2005
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