Discussion Forum

Been wondering...

What is a poum?

Is it Robert Service saying: Since I left Plumtree down in Tennessee it's the first time I've been warm?

Can't do poums.

But looking back

If I get on track

Maybe one day I'll try.

Probably cry,

Because my iambic pentameters are all messed up

and I'm drinking beer from an old chipped cup

But I'll certainly give of my best.

No, I don't wear a vest.

Strangely, it's always beautiful ladies who ask me that.

Are you wearing a vest?

I say "What, on me chest?"

They tend to say, "Oh yes."

"Lord no," says I

Eyeing up a Holland's pie.

Then all the things I really sees,

Is Holland's pies with mushy peas.

Which is basically why I don't do poums. Or poems.

Regards

Mellowing slightly

Skoob.

And yet another fine one from The Collected Works of Sir Spoofer Skoob.

5 Iambics.

The Laters of Hasta,
Abel

Still mad,

Yet I ain't bad,

Seems double standards here apply,

Me, I'm just walking by.

Standards are standards, in your divine eye,

Me, I'm just walking by.

Eating a pie

As I stroll by.

With my pie.

You know what?

Yeah, I know what, that last line as originally written was just wrong.

Because I'm a nice guy. But occasionally a bad tempered asshole. Hopefully though, not often.

No sarcasm.

I hold my hands up.

I was wrong and I apologise.

Skoob.

Skoob,

One time in the very early 70's, I was taking a creative writing course on poetry. I was told my grades were not up to par and that my next offering would determine whether or not I could go on to the next level, etc.

I wrote this:



The faggy, anti-war, commie professor wanted to blow me for that. For those seven fuckin words that meant nothing to me.

What is poety? It's what the reader thinks is poetry.

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Quote: Frankie The J

Time was,
I was;
Now, you are.

---

What does this mean? To me, it's total tripe. Yes, seven words - in English, it has to be said - but from that point on, I'm stumped.

I'd have kicked you off the course, Frank.

Would you mind explaining it to me?

I did explain it.

IT IS TOTAL TRIPE!

I means absolutely nothing, and that is the point. Back in the day, poetry was being taught by people who had no clue whatsoever what poetry was. These TEACHERS gave rise to a generation of people in love with words that got them laid.

We all know what good poetry is--and believe me, I cannot write it. In fact, the very best poetry ever written usually never is seen or read in the lifetime of the poet (ED-the shoebox poet).

That fag prof I told you about tried to cram "free verse" down our throats. He called Poe a hack. He said T S Elliot droned on and on. Ezra Pound needed lessons.

Poetry is whatever the consumer chooses it to be. And since most of the consumers (students) are sold (taught) shit, shit is what sells.

Poetry, like any art, is up to an individual's interpretation.

I don't know about art, but I know what I like.

I agree that mostly, poetry is a lot of shash, just like throwing random splatterings of paint on a canvas is utter bollocks...I mean Pollock.

But some paintings can be beautiful and really thought provoking. Likewise, can some poetry. But one thing that separates art art from poetry is that any moron can write a poem. I certainly can't paint a still life. Random shit I could do though, same as any fool who wants to write a poem.

Agreed!

To paraphrase a US Supreme Court Justice:

"I cannot legally define (poetry), but I know it when I see it!"

The actual quote was about pornography.

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Quote: Mark Lowton

Poetry, like any art, is up to an individual's interpretation.

---

Correct. That's what I like about art: it's so easy.


Anyway, back to poetry. Can anyone explain poetry to me? If you like, take a famous, well-loved poem that I may be familiar with - but probably won't be - and dissect it line-by-line, explaining the intricacies of it, the eloquence, the wordsmithery, the bollox etc.

I'd love to hear it, so that I can attempt to debunk it. Sorry to sound so dismissive of something I know so little about, but isn't it just possible that Wordsworth, Coleridge et al decided amongst themselves that they were going to invent an art form that nobody could prove wasn't art.

Just like yer bicycle-wheel-covered-in-paint prints. Sorry, Mark, I don't even get paintings. The still life ones are OK, where you can see what has been painted - flowers, people, scenery, landscapes etc. But anything abstract just seems like either laziness or off-the-rails egotism to me.

Obviously, there is another viewpoint, so someone explain it to me, please.

What ever is written that speaks volumes to you in your soul of souls is poetry.

Most modern poets seem to lack any kind of staying power. They tend to be big fish in small ponds, so to speak. True poetry cannot be explained, at least not to my satifaction.

The same is true in all art, I suspect. It either is or it just misses (or completely misses) being there for you, for the audience, for all time.

Get bafck on the dooor younb ig fairy!!!!


Finnderfs.

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Quote: Frankie The J

Skoob,

One time in the very early 70's, I was taking a creative writing course on poetry. I was told my grades were not up to par and that my next offering would determine whether or not I could go on to the next level, etc.

I wrote this:

Time was,
I was;
Now, you are.

The faggy, anti-war, commie professor wanted to blow me for that. For those seven fuckin words that meant nothing to me.

What is poety? It's what the reader thinks is poetry.

---

Reading this,

These seven words,

"Time was, I was,"

"Now you are."

I'd probably take this to mean that once I was the most important thing in my life. But since I met you, you are. Seems to be about love, or maybe I'm totally wrong.

Suppose it's all down to interpretation.

I think I've said on here a couple of times that my favourite piece of art in the world is the sculpture, La Pieta, in St Peter's Basilica in Rome. It's exquisite and it conveys so many emotions. You don't have to be a Christian, or even religious in any way to appreciate it.

It's just a sublime piece of art.

As far as poetry goes, check out Robert Service, who hailed originally from Preston in Lancashire but emigrated and joined the Yukon gold rush in the 19th century.

Sublime wit, fantastic prose, and wicked humour.

Time for bed.

Regards to you all.

Skoob.

A when you wake again, your friend Frank will show his faith in you by printing the one and only poem I ever wrote that won any award.





Copyright JPG 1979

My father died in 1978. He was my greatest hero. I denied him this. You may find it silly or trite. But if ever, I felt poetic, it was the day these verses came out of me.

Frankie: Loved it. Here's to memories!



And one for the shit faced old farts at last call:

I CAN'T REMEMER MY MEMORIES

I tried to see your smile on my pillow as the glow from the window framed your face

I tried to smell the autumn leaves burning outside as the afternoon turned to dusk

I tried so hard to feel your softness buried next to me as the hours drifted by

And most of all I wanted to taste your tears after all these years


But I can't remember my memories


Time plays such tricks on the mind and those years have been left so far behind

Was it only yesterday we were young

Listening to the wind in the trees and the water rushing up on the shore

Secure in our touching and not needing any more

After all this time I can't be sure


'Cause I can't remember my memories


So many times to remember if I only could

If I could go back in time I often wonder if I would

With all of life thats passed its hard to think I'd find what I'm trying to recall

Trying hard to remember is like moving into the shadows of Fall


As the sunny November afternoon slowly turns to dusk

I can almost sense the whispy images of the past

But yet in the cool stillness of my mind I'm left wondering

Did it really ever happen at all


'Cause I can't remember my memories


Skoob, rack up one more on the bar for the Gang!


Morse, Table 5 Trying to Remember How I Got to this Place!

Frankie and Morse,

One word to describe each of your poems.

Beautiful!

Wow,
Abel

This place is abundant with so much talent it's fucking amazing, poets, SFO's (Seen Flying Objects) and Spoof specialists! I am honoured to lick your Jackboots, but please leave your Luger in its holster, Auschwitz was burnt out years ago! Arbeit Macht Frei!

---

Quote: Jaggedone

This place is abundant with so much talent it's fucking amazing, poets, SFO's (Seen Flying Objects) and Spoof specialists! I am honoured to lick your Jackboots, but please leave your Luger in its holster, Auschwitz was burnt out years ago! Arbeit Macht Frei!

---

JO: Free Pass at the Pub, one night only....

Dueling Tarts at 6 Paces....and all you can drink...

Bring your sword pen and we'll cut up a few of the Swine!

Regards,

Morse

---

Quote: Morse

---

Quote: Jaggedone

This place is abundant with so much talent it's fucking amazing, poets, SFO's (Seen Flying Objects) and Spoof specialists! I am honoured to lick your Jackboots, but please leave your Luger in its holster, Auschwitz was burnt out years ago! Arbeit Macht Frei!

---

JO: Free Pass at the Pub, one night only....

Dueling Tarts at 6 Paces....and all you can drink...

Bring your sword pen and we'll cut up a few of the Swine!

Regards,

Morse

---

I'm wiz you all ze way, Achtung and a German Lager!

.....got wurst?

---

Quote: Morse

.....got wurst?

---

Hey Morsey, you're up early (or late!) had too much Sauerkraut and Pils?!

JO: old habits prior to retirement. Got to get up early to stay on top of things. Plus, Cheerios for me and Bear, catch some ESPN sports, down the block for Bear's constitutional and then check the idiot box to catch up on Europeon
foolishness.

The Pub is usally a mess...stinks of beer and greasy 'chips'...gotta open up,air out the place...supervise the freakin' janitor who has a PHD in Superiority,
count the cash and then make sure Fergus shows up with his roller, pan, and fan brush and paints out all the graffitti in the loo. Talk about Poets...we got some here, let me tell ya!

Too hot over here yet for Kraut Soul Food...have to wait for the first frost up north, then the mail order sausages start arriving...back in the kitchen for me.

It's just a memory thing, like Frankie says...I think of my grandfolks cooking in the kitchen and us all sitting down together...and going with my grandfather to all the German Bakeries, ice cream stores and Deli's that his company delivered dairy products to...nothing like being 'in the kitchen' in one of those places...still remember the smell....

PROOST!

Morse

---

Quote: Jaggedone

This place is abundant with so much talent it's fucking amazing, poets, SFO's (Seen Flying Objects) and Spoof specialists! I am honoured to lick your Jackboots, but please leave your Luger in its holster, Auschwitz was burnt out years ago! Arbeit Macht Frei!

---

See Flying Objects..Good one! Mind if I borrow it?

---

Quote: BuckwheatsButt

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Quote: Jaggedone

This place is abundant with so much talent it's fucking amazing, poets, SFO's (Seen Flying Objects) and Spoof specialists! I am honoured to lick your Jackboots, but please leave your Luger in its holster, Auschwitz was burnt out years ago! Arbeit Macht Frei!

---

See Flying Objects..Good one! Mind if I borrow it?

---

BWB no problem, my pleasure, for fellow nutters JO always has his wallet open!

---

Quote: Morse

JO: old habits prior to retirement. Got to get up early to stay on top of things. Plus, Cheerios for me and Bear, catch some ESPN sports, down the block for Bear's constitutional and then check the idiot box to catch up on Europeon
foolishness.

The Pub is usally a mess...stinks of beer and greasy 'chips'...gotta open up,air out the place...supervise the freakin' janitor who has a PHD in Superiority,
count the cash and then make sure Fergus shows up with his roller, pan, and fan brush and paints out all the graffitti in the loo. Talk about Poets...we got some here, let me tell ya!

Too hot over here yet for Kraut Soul Food...have to wait for the first frost up north, then the mail order sausages start arriving...back in the kitchen for me.

It's just a memory thing, like Frankie says...I think of my grandfolks cooking in the kitchen and us all sitting down together...and going with my grandfather to all the German Bakeries, ice cream stores and Deli's that his company delivered dairy products to...nothing like being 'in the kitchen' in one of those places...still remember the smell....

PROOST!
Morse

---

I'm getting jetlag just by reading you!

I've just "served" mass. As soon as I ditch these duds and get into my poet clothes, I'm coming in to supervise the counting of the Oasis offering plates.

Hose off my bedstool, Morse, and crank up some American football for these uncircumsized philistines.

JO: drinks for you are free (if you can find me a woman with a 30' bass boat with a 180 HP I/O and a live well big enough for a keg and two nekkid womens).

$100 to the first person that convinces MB to dance on my table in a Girl Scout uniform, knee socks and penny loafers. Make the pennies 1951 D's.

Got my cabber under my kilt girlies. There's gonna be a Mississippi squirrel revival at the Oasis tonight!