186 lines
6.8 KiB
Plaintext
186 lines
6.8 KiB
Plaintext
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F U C K E D U P C O L L E G E K I D S
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- t h e p o e t r y v e n t u r e -
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Good poetry, as opposed to bad or mediocre poetry, speaks
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with a quality of universality. A poem tells a story or
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describes a scene that anyone can translate into a meaning
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of their own. There is no right or wrong way to read or
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write a poem, but what you get out of it as a writer or a
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reader depends on what you put into it. Poetry gets a bad
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rap because many "real writers" imagine that short works
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simply don't take as much effort to write as a novel or
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magazine article does. I disagree. A poet can put into 20
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lines what a writer might need 100 lines of prose to convey.
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So write and read, and have fun with it.
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May I Have This Dance?
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Two souls collide.
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Surprised,
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They stand startled.
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Mirror images,
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Each reaches out.
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Hesitation reigns.
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Slowly they begin their dance
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of exploration.
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Formal at first,
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Yet even from the beginning
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In perfect time.
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They step closer,
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Ever closer.
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Perfect partners
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In this dance
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Of life and being.
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Dancing on through the night,
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Melding,
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Each hoping
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The music never stops.
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-krystalia 02/98
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GOODNIGHT AMERICAN YOUTH
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Goodnight American youth:
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maybe you will dream fresh methods
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to keep non-consensus adversity bleeding
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instead of feeding your mind with lies;
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your truth does not rest in these -
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music, image, grades or popularity.
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Goodnight American youth:
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maybe you will dream about someone
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who is special in your life ... make love
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merely with your clothes on while
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staying clean from alcohol and drugs -
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responsibility isn't a disease; it's the cure.
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Goodnight American youth:
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maybe you will dream about yourself
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and where your position in the human race
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might be ... knowing you start in the middle,
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trapped between security and insecurity -
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you want to be alone; you need to be loved.
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Indiana Poet Jan. 5, 1998
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Poetry in Action
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Life is poetry in action.
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The poet conceives his artistry
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In the fancy of a mind feverish and frenzied,
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And finds, upon putting ink to fibers,
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That conceit is altered by the form:
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Language, meter, rhyme,
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And thought pattern.
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Words enscribed take on an aspect
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Entirely alien to the proposed plan.
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Hopes, goals, and desire are tossed overboard,
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As the poet, anchored in despair,
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'Tempts to save or salvage
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His flound'ring poesy,
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Or at least move it safely
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To the next port.
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He tacks and jibes,
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Heels and runs,
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Trying to set the conceived course aright.
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Life and poetry take on lives of their own.
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The poet stands aghast at the monstrosity he has created,
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Now unable to restrain or even check
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This beastly constrivance.
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Then he goes down on some unknown shoal,
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Unable even to recognize this foreign creation
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That has been this life, this poem.
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Screamin' Lord Byron
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the need to feel
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Curious insomnia keeping me from rest
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lyrical poems pour forth from another room
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verbal bondage. strong baseline. precarious angel.
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descend you godless bitch. take me now.
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wrap me in your wings and lift me from
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this mortality. Take me to your master.
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When it is over I will remove the hndcuffs
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and blindfold, before cleaning the fresh
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whip marks.
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Your job is done angel.
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Truth or dare. Shut up and lie.
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12-18-97
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Race with No Face
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I've lost my ability to see my hand in front of my face,
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since I realized that that was then and this is now,
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what was, was and is no longer.
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I can't seem to even be able to see my hand in front of my face.
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This crazy world, everyone has their pace,
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and it seems that they are all in some sort of race,
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where I sit back and I laugh now,
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because I have no place to go and run to be the first.
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Maybe this is what writer's block is all about,
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or maybe this is what happens when I let
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my heart tell me what I'm all about.
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I've lost my ability to see my hand infront of my face.
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Walking down the seamless, dark hallway,
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I wonder if I could just fall and never land.
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Fall away from this place, and have the bottom of my heart, fall out.
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That would be so nice, because they needn't worry about not seeing my
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hand infront of my face.
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I close my eyes, only to see traces of yesterdays,
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turning over only to feel the pain of what once was,
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I look up to the sky, and cry out loud
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"I've lost my ability to see my hand infront of my face!"
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Someone is trying to sweep me off my feet,
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or is that I just see what I want to see?
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I still can't see my hand infront of my face.
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Wondering what will become of this life long race.
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I've lost my ability to see my hand infront of my face.
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-Kamira February 6, 1998
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E D I T O R S: jericho@dim.com & demonika@dim.com
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to receive new issues via e-mail, send mail to
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jericho@dimensional.com with "subscribe poetry". if
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you do not have FTP access and would like back issues,
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send a list of missing issues and they will be sent.
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A V A I L A B I L I T Y:
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AnonFTP: FTP.DIMENSIONAL.COM/users/jericho/FUCK/POETRY
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WWW: http://www.dimensional.com/~jericho
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(c) Copyright. All poems copyright by original author.
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F O U N D E D: October 30, 1997
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