The Clock Is Ticking (From MySpace)
Current mood: horny
Category: Romance and Relationships
Ken says he wants to live in the south of France. So do I.
I get huge royalty checks from France - more than a hundred times what I make in domestic royalties. I get played in America. I just don't get paid in America. That's because in Europe, the performing rights agencies are state-run. They hold composers and lyricists in higher regard - and they distribute what they take in, unlike ASCAP,
and to a lesser extent BMI.
But I digress.
The following poem is from my novella-in-verse, Unreqwerty'd Love: The Story of Belle and Play.
A little background:
Ken (Play) believed I (Belle) was many different people. Most of them were women, but at least two were men. (Wishful thinking?) I was also a fifty foot statue in the desert, but let's not go there.
FROM YOUR WOULD-BE UNCOY MISTRESS
I can give you
South of France-ing.
And a little
Mattress dancing.
What's the point in
Backward glancing?
We both know that
Death's advancing.
Getting in each
Other's pantsing?
God, that would be
Life enhancing!
Do not fear Belle's
Necromancing.
In the nude she's
Quite entrancing.
(Deeplip, with apologies to Andrew Marvell)
Learics, Not Limericks (From MySpace)
Current mood: birthday-ish
Category: Writing and Poetry
From the online poetry list, E-VERSE RADIO:
Limerick of the Week, by Edward Lear:
There was an Old Person of Cromer,
Who stood on one leg to read Homer;
When he found he grew stiff,
He jumped over the cliff,
Which concluded the Person of Cromer.
Lear always goes off the cliff when he gets to the last line. Writer's block?
There was an Old Person of Cromer,
Who stood on one leg to read Homer;
Lear gave it a shot,
but a limerick, it's not.
To call it one is a misnomer.
Regards,
Connie
He Might Get Published Today, But He'd Never Get A Grant
Current mood: resigned
Category: Romance and Relationships
The Sorrow of Love William Butler Yeats
The brawling of a sparrow in the eaves,
The brilliant moon and all the milky sky,
And all that famous harmony of leaves,
Had blotted out man's image and his cry.
A girl arose that had red mournful lips
And seemed the greatness of the world in tears,
Doomed like Odysseus and the labouring ships
And proud as Priam murdered with his peers;
Arose, and on the instant clamorous eaves,
A climbing moon upon an empty sky,
And all that lamentation of the leaves,
Could but compose man's image and his cry.
Isn't this some tired, corny-ass, irrelevant shit? Thank Goodness today's poets reject rhythm and rhyme. And meaning.
As Archibald MacLeish famously said, "A poem should not mean, but be." (Ars Poetica)
He gave high school students permission to not understand poetry, and poets permission to not write it.
As I see it, most poetry today falls into one of the following categories:
1) Crotch-grabbing rants, à la Def Jam (performance poetry)
2) Greeting card verse (amateur poetry)
3) Spam with line breaks (academic poetry)
4) Bad Prose (prose poems)
(Deeplip, who always strives to be understood, rhymes because she can, and who, consequently, will never get a grant from The New Jersey Council on the Arts.)
Current mood: horny
Category: Romance and Relationships
Ken says he wants to live in the south of France. So do I.
I get huge royalty checks from France - more than a hundred times what I make in domestic royalties. I get played in America. I just don't get paid in America. That's because in Europe, the performing rights agencies are state-run. They hold composers and lyricists in higher regard - and they distribute what they take in, unlike ASCAP,
and to a lesser extent BMI.
But I digress.
The following poem is from my novella-in-verse, Unreqwerty'd Love: The Story of Belle and Play.
A little background:
Ken (Play) believed I (Belle) was many different people. Most of them were women, but at least two were men. (Wishful thinking?) I was also a fifty foot statue in the desert, but let's not go there.
FROM YOUR WOULD-BE UNCOY MISTRESS
I can give you
South of France-ing.
And a little
Mattress dancing.
What's the point in
Backward glancing?
We both know that
Death's advancing.
Getting in each
Other's pantsing?
God, that would be
Life enhancing!
Do not fear Belle's
Necromancing.
In the nude she's
Quite entrancing.
(Deeplip, with apologies to Andrew Marvell)
Learics, Not Limericks (From MySpace)
Current mood: birthday-ish
Category: Writing and Poetry
From the online poetry list, E-VERSE RADIO:
Limerick of the Week, by Edward Lear:
There was an Old Person of Cromer,
Who stood on one leg to read Homer;
When he found he grew stiff,
He jumped over the cliff,
Which concluded the Person of Cromer.
Lear always goes off the cliff when he gets to the last line. Writer's block?
There was an Old Person of Cromer,
Who stood on one leg to read Homer;
Lear gave it a shot,
but a limerick, it's not.
To call it one is a misnomer.
Regards,
Connie
He Might Get Published Today, But He'd Never Get A Grant
Current mood: resigned
Category: Romance and Relationships
The Sorrow of Love William Butler Yeats
The brawling of a sparrow in the eaves,
The brilliant moon and all the milky sky,
And all that famous harmony of leaves,
Had blotted out man's image and his cry.
A girl arose that had red mournful lips
And seemed the greatness of the world in tears,
Doomed like Odysseus and the labouring ships
And proud as Priam murdered with his peers;
Arose, and on the instant clamorous eaves,
A climbing moon upon an empty sky,
And all that lamentation of the leaves,
Could but compose man's image and his cry.
Isn't this some tired, corny-ass, irrelevant shit? Thank Goodness today's poets reject rhythm and rhyme. And meaning.
As Archibald MacLeish famously said, "A poem should not mean, but be." (Ars Poetica)
He gave high school students permission to not understand poetry, and poets permission to not write it.
As I see it, most poetry today falls into one of the following categories:
1) Crotch-grabbing rants, à la Def Jam (performance poetry)
2) Greeting card verse (amateur poetry)
3) Spam with line breaks (academic poetry)
4) Bad Prose (prose poems)
(Deeplip, who always strives to be understood, rhymes because she can, and who, consequently, will never get a grant from The New Jersey Council on the Arts.)
posted by Deeplip at 8:58 PM
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