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*bursts into song*

  • Nov. 30th, 2009 at 11:54 PM
mwah
On the twelfth day of Christmas, kairon13 sent to me...
Twelve masks painting
Eleven poets writing
Ten cats a-drawing
Nine atcs bookcrossing
Eight rhinoceroses a-glamourbombing
Seven bubbles a-reading
Six gods a-freethinking
Five bo-o-o-ooks
Four wings
Three shiny things
Two tiny things
...and a knowledge in a classical mythology.
Get your own Twelve Days:

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Getting my resolutions in early

  • Nov. 30th, 2009 at 11:51 PM
mwah
In 2009, kairon13 resolves to...
Ask my boss for a surrealism.
Start a meditation fund.
Take evening classes in glitter.
Admit my true feelings to diamondlucy.
Stop bookcrossing with irascignavojo.
Drink four glasses of censorship every day.
Get your own New Year's Resolutions:

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I has an Etsy!

  • Nov. 24th, 2009 at 3:06 PM
chillee
Look!

http://www.etsy.com/shop/kairon13

I need to give it a cool name though - any suggestions?

Dragons live for ever...

  • Sep. 17th, 2009 at 10:09 AM
mwah
Farewell, Mary Travers.  Journey on the wings of dragons.




Yay! for Ben and Jerry's!

  • Sep. 8th, 2009 at 4:23 PM
civil rights
To celebrate the legalisation of same-sex marriage in Vermont, they've renamed their Tubby Hubby ice-cream in their Vermont stores for the month of September.

;-)

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Oh, and

  • Aug. 26th, 2009 at 2:33 PM
light twirl
I've made a few errors in the transcription, which I can't correct because you can only transcribe someone else's voice post once, I've discovered.  So if anyone else would like to tidy it up I'd appreciate it.

Bookczuk

  • Aug. 26th, 2009 at 1:47 PM
candles
For those who are on Bookczuk's friends list, you'll probably have heard her voice post by now.
If you haven't, or if you're not on her list, I'll just let you know that two close members of her family are very much in need of prayers and vibes - whatever you can send.
I've created a candle group at Gratefulness.org for those who want to light a virtual candle for them.

Jun. 18th, 2009

  • 11:18 PM
mwah
Open mic went really well, tired, a Bit tipsy. Going to bed, will updare tomorrow.

This be the verse...

  • Jun. 18th, 2009 at 2:11 PM
Love being a writer
The best of me is a bestiary

You say ‘beast’ like it’s a bad thing,
An epithet for screaming headlines:
“Beast Attacks Women”, “Cage These Beasts Now”.

But I celebrate the beast in me –
The best of me is a bestiary.

I celebrate the boneless cat-stretch, unashamed and sensual –
Stroke me right and I purr.

I celebrate the magpie lust for glitter
(Oooh, shiny!) –
I bring you pearls and crystals for your nest.

The best of me is a bestiary

I celebrate my inner squirrel
Hoarding provisions against a harsh winter.

I celebrate the butterfly flitting without clear direction,
Moving from brightness to brightness.

The best of me is a bestiary.

I celebrate my tiger fierceness –
Provoke me and my claws unsheathe.

I celebrate the sisterhood of the elephant -
A vast, slow loyalty.

The best of me is a bestiary.

I celebrate (often) the sloth.

I even celebrate the cockroach,
Stubborn, uncrushable.

The best of me is a bestiary.

And I celebrate the unicorn, the dragon, the chimaera,
The magical, the fantastical –
These beasts are in me too.
 
I celebrate
The phoenix rising from my own ashes.

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I have butterflies in my stomach

  • Jun. 18th, 2009 at 12:10 PM
mwah
I am going to my first poetry open mic evening in about 7 hours.  I am intending (if my bottle doesn't go) to read a newly-written poem, plus an older one if I have time.
And I'm beginning to think "Why the **** did I say I'd do this?"

Confident performance vibes would be much appreciated.

The Queen of Beads and Bubble-blowing

  • May. 27th, 2009 at 12:52 PM
bubbles2
The queen of beads and blowing bubbles
Stands in St Anne's Square sharing her shiny spheres;
In her jackets and jewels of purple splendour
She blows light airy bubbles that banish tears.

Yet I know fragments and elements of her life,
The findings that led only to pains and losses,
broken and lost beads,
The illnesses, the unkindnesses, the polluted bubbles,
Even betrayals and hatreds that she suffered.
Hatred isn't black, that's racist shite,
Black is sensuous, black gleams bright -
hatred is colourless, unimaginative, dull.
The thud of blunt clubs at a baby seal cull.

Yet she hasn't become dull and bitter, nor lost her glitter -
Has smiles for strangers, and carries spare bubble tubs
for any who want a go, to ease their troubles, their rubs.
When she was going to see Leonard Cohen
She took me; gave me a pocket goddess,
Made me a bracelet of sea-blue style success.

She has come through shining brightly
The queen of beads and bubble blowing
the bubbles like giggling schoolgirl gaggles
wherever they are going,
With laughing hope and loving beauty
By the stone spheres and war memorial
of St Anne's Square.


Cathy Bryant

Reproduced by kind permission of the delightful poet. Please visit her website :
http://cathybryant.co.uk (That Inking Feeling)
and leave lovely comments :)




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I like this so I'll steal it.

  • May. 8th, 2009 at 11:21 AM
mwah
'Suffering for your beliefs is called "principle". Making other people suffer because of your beliefs is called "being a jerk"'

(Seen in a comment in 'Ship of Fools' in this thread)

May. 2nd, 2009

  • 12:47 AM
mwah
What is this I see in my spam folder?  Why, it's my first swine flu medication spam!

Poetry Month day 30

  • May. 1st, 2009 at 12:09 AM
mwah
Cat's Dream

How neatly a cat sleeps,
sleeps with its paws and its posture,
sleeps with its wicked claws,
and with its unfeeling blood,
sleeps with all the rings--
a series of burnt circles--
which have formed the odd geology
of its sand-colored tail.

I should like to sleep like a cat,
with all the fur of time,
with a tongue rough as flint,
with the dry sex of fire;
and after speaking to no one,
stretch myself over the world,
over roofs and landscapes,
with a passionate desire
to hunt the rats in my dreams.

I have seen how the cat asleep
would undulate, how the night
flowed through it like dark water;
and at times, it was going to fall
or possibly plunge into
the bare deserted snowdrifts.
Sometimes it grew so much in sleep
like a tiger's great-grandfather,
and would leap in the darkness over
rooftops, clouds and volcanoes.

Sleep, sleep cat of the night,
with episcopal ceremony
and your stone-carved moustache.
Take care of all our dreams;
control the obscurity
of our slumbering prowess
with your relentless heart
and the great ruff of your tail.

Pablo Neruda (Translated by Alastair Reid)

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Poetry Month day 29

  • Apr. 30th, 2009 at 12:32 AM
mwah
The Seven Of Pentacles

Under a sky the color of pea soup
she is looking at her work growing away there
actively, thickly like grapevines or pole beans
as things grow in the real world, slowly enough.
If you tend them properly, if you mulch, if you water,
if you provide birds that eat insects a home and winter food,
if the sun shines and you pick off caterpillars,
if the praying mantis comes and the ladybugs and the bees,
then the plants flourish, but at their own internal clock.

Connections are made slowly, sometimes they grow underground.
You cannot tell always by looking what is happening.
More than half the tree is spread out in the soil under your feet.
Penetrate quietly as the earthworm that blows no trumpet.
Fight persistently as the creeper that brings down the tree.
Spread like the squash plant that overruns the garden.
Gnaw in the dark and use the sun to make sugar.

Weave real connections, create real nodes, build real houses.
Live a life you can endure: Make love that is loving.
Keep tangling and interweaving and taking more in,
a thicket and bramble wilderness to the outside but to us
interconnected with rabbit runs and burrows and lairs.

Live as if you liked yourself, and it may happen:
reach out, keep reaching out, keep bringing in.
This is how we are going to live for a long time: not always,
for every gardener knows that after the digging, after the planting,
after the long season of tending and growth, the harvest comes.

Marge Piercy

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Poetry Month day 28

  • Apr. 29th, 2009 at 12:04 AM
mwah
To A Teacher
[Dedicated to A. M. Klein (1909-1972)]

Hurt once and for all into silence.
A long pain ending without a song to prove it.
Who could stand beside you so close to Eden,
When you glinted in every eye the held-high
razor, shivering every ram and son?
And now the silent loony bin, where
The shadows live in the rafters like
Day-weary bats,
Until the turning mind, a radar signal,
lures them to exaggerate
Mountain-size on the white stone wall
Your tiny limp.
How can I leave you in such a house?
Are there no more saints and wizards
to praise their ways with pupils,
No more evil to stun with the slap
of a wet red tongue?
Did you confuse the Messiah in a mirror
and rest because he had finally come?
Let me cry Help beside you, Teacher.
I have entered under this dark roof
As fearlessly as an honoured son
Enters his father's house.

Leonard Cohen
 

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