The Solution to Global Warming

[_Doctor Steuss]

I think this t-shirt design is perfection for a few posters in this thread. Excluding myself, of course.

<--- Me bum has a high IQ.

RenegadeOfPhunk,I think we should find a poem with "Tosser" in it.

[_Bond...James Bond]

I think this t-shirt design is perfection for a few posters in this thread. Excluding myself, of course.

No...the design fits you quite nicely. But fits me better...

[_Doctor Steuss]

Ok, back to poetry:

Far or forgot to me is near;
Shadow and sunlight are the same;
The vanished gods to me appear;
And one to me are shame and fame.
They reckon ill who leave me out;
When me they fly, I am the wings;
I am the doubter and the doubt,
And I the hymn the Brahmin sings.
(Ralph Waldo Emerson)

Here's one written by some idiot with a smart bum:

Like a mild abrasion with no scar to prove the pain
I’m drowning in water, yet I’m praying for rain.
Like a burnt effigy whose likeness in unknown
Sitting… waiting… contemplating… better off alone.

[_Moniker]

I think this t-shirt design is perfection for a few posters in this thread. Excluding myself, of course.

No...the design fits you quite nicely. But fits me better...

There once was a young mod named Bond
Who was witty and all thought of him fond
Til one night he was found to choke
as he attempted a puerile joke
Aware of his shame he found it time to abscond

[Anonymous]

There once was a hottie named monk
Who has been know to act like a punk
This gal was quite rude
She started a feud
Anyone who messes with Bond is sunk

[_Moniker]

Ok, back to poetry:

I was thinking we could start doing dirty limericks? No?

I]Far or forgot to me is near;
Shadow and sunlight are the same;
The vanished gods to me appear;
And one to me are shame and fame.
They reckon ill who leave me out;
When me they fly, I am the wings;
I am the doubter and the doubt,
And I the hymn the Brahmin sings.[/I]
(Ralph Waldo Emerson)

Here's one written by some idiot with a smart bum:

Like a mild abrasion with no scar to prove the pain
I’m drowning in water, yet I’m praying for rain.
Like a burnt effigy whose likeness in unknown
Sitting… waiting… contemplating… better off alone.

I really like Emerson. Like yours too, Stu. Why don't you post some more of your poetry? I really like this line:

Like a mild abrasion with no scar to prove the pain

You really have a way with words.

Celestial Love by Emerson (fitting I thought for the board)

http://www.americanpoems.com/poets/emerson/7165

[_Doctor Steuss]

Why don't you post some more of your poetry? I really like this line:

That poem was almost 3 years in the making (I know; sad for only four lines). I had aspects of it, but each line came at different points. The finalization occurred while I was on my way to my friend's house while it was raining. I was in a particularly self-loathing mood, and I thought to myself that even though I was metaphorically drowning, I was hoping for more (metaphorical) rain.

The line that you dig is a testament to emotional pain. Even though we know the very real pain we experience through heartbreak and disappointment; we have nothing to show the world to prove we have experienced those pains. It was actually a very powerful moment when I (after completion of the poem) stumbled upon the Shakespeare line I had read many times before, yet had never appreciated (“He jests at scars that never felt a wound.”).:

Each line of that poem has at least a paragraph of personal meaning behind it. As for other poems of mine, I’ll have to think about sharing them. Although many people have seen many of my poems (either through the book that has portions of one of my journals published), or the “full” version that I have shared with countless people (I think I have shared it with CKSalmon), I still become somewhat self-conscious about exposing such a vulnerable part of myself. There are some of my poems that are whimsical and off-the-cuff comedy, but the majority of them are such an intimate Polaroid of my soul that I often fear someone mocking my lack of literary genius, and vicariously through such “mockings,” making fun of a portion of my soul.

[_Moniker]

Why don't you post some more of your poetry? I really like this line:

That poem was almost 3 years in the making (I know; sad for only four lines). I had aspects of it, but each line came at different points. The finalization occurred while I was on my way to my friend's house while it was raining. I was in a particularly self-loathing mood, and I thought to myself that even though I was metaphorically drowning, I was hoping for more (metaphorical) rain.

The line that you dig is a testament to emotional pain. Even though we know the very real pain we experience through heartbreak and disappointment; we have nothing to show the world to prove we have experienced those pains. It was actually a very powerful moment when I (after completion of the poem) stumbled upon the Shakespeare line I had read many times before, yet had never appreciated (“He jests at scars that never felt a wound.”).:

Each line of that poem has at least a paragraph of personal meaning behind it. As for other poems of mine, I’ll have to think about sharing them. Although many people have seen many of my poems (either through the book that has portions of one of my journals published), or the “full” version that I have shared with countless people (I think I have shared it with CKSalmon), I still become somewhat self-conscious about exposing such a vulnerable part of myself. There are some of my poems that are whimsical and off-the-cuff comedy, but the majority of them are such an intimate Polaroid of my soul that I often fear someone mocking my lack of literary genius, and vicariously through such “mockings,” making fun of a portion of my soul.

Wow! Stu, I can relate in so many ways. I have come up for air gasping for breath because I too felt as though I was drowning. I've pleaded for metaphorical rain as well. The scars that I feel are not evident for others -- yet I wish I could express them -- and find that I can't.

I understand if you don't wish to share anymore. I was very open, at one point, about my "Polaroid of my soul" and some chose to prey upon my vulnerabilities, others chose to mock, others chose to empathize and relate. I understand your hesitancy. Although, from reactions of others to my own soul baring I merely found the unneeded reminder that some in humanity find great joy in jests and torturing -- and found others that tapped into me in some way and shared their own "Polaroids". The best and worst of humanity was seen, for me, when I chose to share. I knew they were there, and was merely reminded of them. How some choose to respond to soul baring is no reflection of the soul torn open -- it is a reflection of their own.

[_Moniker]

We need some Auden in this thread.

As I Walked Out One Evening
by W. H. Auden

As I walked out one evening,
Walking down Bristol Street,
The crowds upon the pavement
Were fields of harvest wheat.

And down by the brimming river
I heard a lover sing
Under an arch of the railway:
'Love has no ending.

'I'll love you, dear, I'll love you
Till China and Africa meet,
And the river jumps over the mountain
And the salmon sing in the street,

'I'll love you till the ocean
Is folded and hung up to dry
And the seven stars go squawking
Like geese about the sky.

'The years shall run like rabbits,
For in my arms I hold
The Flower of the Ages,
And the first love of the world.'

But all the clocks in the city
Began to whirr and chime:
'O let not Time deceive you,
You cannot conquer Time.

'In the burrows of the Nightmare
Where Justice naked is,
Time watches from the shadow
And coughs when you would kiss.

'In headaches and in worry
Vaguely life leaks away,
And Time will have his fancy
To-morrow or to-day.

'Into many a green valley
Drifts the appalling snow;
Time breaks the threaded dances
And the diver's brilliant bow.

'O plunge your hands in water,
Plunge them in up to the wrist;
Stare, stare in the basin
And wonder what you've missed.

'The glacier knocks in the cupboard,
The desert sighs in the bed,
And the crack in the tea-cup opens
A lane to the land of the dead.

'Where the beggars raffle the banknotes
And the Giant is enchanting to Jack,
And the Lily-white Boy is a Roarer,
And Jill goes down on her back.

'O look, look in the mirror,
O look in your distress:
Life remains a blessing
Although you cannot bless.

'O stand, stand at the window
As the tears scald and start;
You shall love your crooked neighbour
With your crooked heart.'

It was late, late in the evening,
The lovers they were gone;
The clocks had ceased their chiming,
And the deep river ran on.

Epitaph on a Tyrant

Perfection, of a kind, was what he was after,
And the poetry he invented was easy to understand;
He knew human folly like the back of his hand,
And was greatly interested in armies and fleets;
When he laughed, respectable senators burst with laughter,
And when he cried the little children died in the streets.

[_Doctor Steuss]

Ama me fideliter!
Fidem meam noto:
De corde totaliter
Et ex mente tota,
Sum presentialiter
Absens in remota.

--Carl Orff