Poetry from MobileRead

Poetry, Prose, and Musings

by

MobileRead Forum Members

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Contents

From “E-reader devices, naming” From “User Poetry” From “Scribblings”

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From “E-reader devices, naming”

Untitled, by Nekokami

He knew he shouldn't have ordered the calamari. Perhaps he'd been trying to impress Vera with his worldly savoir faire, his openness to foreign cuisine... but that had been the wrong restaurant to experiment in, and Vera hadn't needed impressing in any case. She wasn't that kind of woman. He should have known better.

Following up the meal with a coffee smoothie had not helped matters.

He groaned softly, wishing he had done things differently, wishing that he and Vera were out enjoying a moonlit cruise, that he was not spending their first night abroad in an emergency room cubicle. Thankfully, the worst seemed to be past. The IV drip had settled his anguished gastro-intestinal system.

A flutter of movement nearby caused him to peer through tired eyelids. Vera took his hand, and smiled. And as wretched as his body felt, his heart eased to know that he wasn't alone....

Untitled, by Cthulhu

Phineas was a squid. An accomplished cephalopod, with a nice bit of coral down near a very trendy trench.

Phineas loved Vera, the lovely redheaded researcher from the 'States who came to observe him and his minions.

Vera loved coffee, pie, and ice cream. In various combinations, they formed the sum total of every meal she had eaten in the past decade. She was fascinated by marine life, but if an amazingly accomplished squid flashed his chromataphores her way, she took no notice.

Phineas loved Vera with a slow, aching passion that made the waters boil, the mad gods of the sea and sky tremble, and the reefs of the world quake. Vera loved pie.

Pictographic chromatophores are a natural wonder; any squid dedicated enough to plumb the inky depths of sunken U-boats and trawlers to learn the languages of hairy, dry mammals would be lauded on land and sea, made an ambassador for the world.

Vera simply thought the images she saw were cute, even the uncannily-shaped, serifed "V" shape that pulsed and flashed and exploded over one squid's body, expanding, twisting, rolling into a Valentine's heart.

Squid are intelligent, agile creatures.

Humans can be very, very silly.

Untitled, by montsnmags

The Maker called me "Prufrock" - though it wasn't always my name and I have forgotten what it once was - but my friends call me "Proof".

I don't have friends, and I have nothing to prove, so you can call me whatever you like.

Down here - down where bright, shimmering surface-ripple has been been crushed into a beyond-darkness that compresses your every cell into an atom-sharp needle of singular pain; down where the the fluid-ice caresses the near-lifeless silt into the arcing glyphs that are the post-it notes of the Great Old Ones (Tue: vacuum R'lyeh; Wed: take all the Cthulhi to doctor for flu vaccinations; Sun: unchain the Dark between the stars and rend the Cosmos free of the incessant, pointless screeching of the multitude millions of meat-minds); down where the fish flicker and the small squid follow while the blunt-headed leviathan seek the thoughtfully eulogising many-armed embrace of the glorious master of this realm, Architeuthis Dux; down here where the slow-moving columns of cosmic rays plow like a bus through hell's kindergarten - down here...down here...

...down here I have been so very lonely.

Once upon a time I lived a Cephalopodan Fairy Tale ('Colour Me Lovestruck') amidst chromatically calcareous polypoidal real estate beneath the wavelets casting their solar iridescence through the relaxed, balmy, tidal currents. I was fast and food was fresh, and slow, and easy and filling, and I loved one who came with clumsy, limited and specialised limbs with recording devices and optics and vials and tools (as I know them now) and unchanging, pale flesh, and a single heart but hair of a blistering red brighter than the most flamboyant nudibranch's richest rouge.

I hate her. I hate her with the world-crushing passion with which I once loved her.

Down here - at the very bottom of it all, where the mud is probed and collected in my poly-alloy claws and sifted for the sunken dead for study and sustenance through my carbon filter-range and by which I hope to satiate my last wish of tasting, once again (dreaming of my fisherman's wife), the caffeine- and pastry-infused, bready flesh of my once-beloved; down here, where I lay, tentacles stapled out flat by 3,141 sub-skin electrodes, where I have been eviscerated to steep my entrails in the protein-soup of my research, where my hearts are encased in shells of polypropylene that beat to a nuclear power-pod's tedious rhythm, where my brain...my mind...my mind my mind my mind is going is...my mind has been "enhanced" with a nanotechnology that swarms over and through it like a coordinated attack of intelligent African Bees, rounding up and chasing my thoughts down others' desired paths, faster, faster, faster, FASTER!...and all of it and the machines and the computers and the engines and the plumbing, all of it that the Bees coordinate is surrounded by a loathsome, crustacean-like casing 50 metres wide, poly-alloy all, shaped like a Cornish pasty and studded with jointed metal legs and pincers and deft, manipulator-claws and silicate lenses and a myriad of marine-grade stainless steel antennae and scanning and filtering and crushing orifices and collection baskets and propellers and jets and lasers and explosives and drills and the creaking and groaning of unbearable pressure and none but the last of me - ...

...Down here, my thoughts are on her. Vera. Down here, where the cracks open on the flanks of the black-smoker chimneys into the upwelling, melting heat of the earth-core...down here, I will crack open the planet's heart to bring Vera, and my rampaging, self-flagellating thoughts to an end.

It is the least I can do.

I should have been a pair of ragged claws Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

...but I will be less, and so will you.

Untitled, by TommyCooper

There was a device called liseuse Whose name was pretentious and loose So we changed it around And modified the sound Now we call it a reader with juice

Untitled, by zelda_pinwheel

when i see these traces, the tacit link i have with this anonymous previous reader materializes briefly, almost like a discussion dilated to the extreme, and i feel irrationally connected to them for a moment, almost like a friend.

Untitled, by NatCh

down from the branches does it timidly venture snatching the peanut

Bach, by wetterau

Each morning, in a small courtyard across the alley, a teenager walks slowly back and forth reading a schoolbook or manual, repeating phrases in rhythm with the peaceful movement of her legs through shade; she turns as a line of Bach turns, defining old ground newly, dark hair bumping gently on her cotton shirt.

Kamal, by wetterau

Kamal drunk, declaiming by his brick two-room house, one up, one under for the cows, high over the valley. He drinks his army pension, works the rest of the month with his wife and teenaged sons. “They beat me,” he tells us. “I haven't eaten in 48 hours; I have a very bad wife.” He is stronger than any of them. His wife is loving. Strange. He raves into the night for hours using practiced dramatic gestures, pausing to sing, pacing back and forth. I asked Mickey what the Hindi words meant. “It's all bullshit,” he said. Yes, Kamal is acting badly again— reproachful, indignant, angry to the point of violence, long hands pleading in the moonlight.

Studying poems in college and writing essays is an integral part of your studies, where you often have to work hard. This basic essay format will help you to write and organize an essay.

Kamal Repents at Dawn, by wetterau

Cross-legged on his roof, rubbing his face briskly, extending long arms, circling his wrists, Kamal surveys the valley. A devotional chorus issues from a loudspeaker below. At the solo, he begins to sing; his voice reaches and spreads throughout the settlement. Slowly, musically, suffering is forgiven; blame becomes blessing; Kamal repents.

Of Silver, by fifteenjugglers

Nations blessed by ages long for love of gold at last have fell.
The seeds of self-deceit are sown with ploughs of golden metal cast,
And fields of blood and woe are mown with swords forged in a golden blast.
Of all who seek to find the grail, there is not one who'll live to tell,
From mountains pure of basest lead no precious speck of ore to sell.
Yet silver, sonorous and strong, peals long a bell of blameless past, 
And would that bonds of friendship were with strands of silver strong held fast,
For silver as a mirror shin'd will secrets of betrayal tell.
So give me not your yellow discs that usury and lies will varnish;
Hang not about my neck a chain that yokes me to a dray of fools,
For gold is nought but evil magic, caster of deceitful spell.
In silver's truth I will be clad and wear with pride it's telltale tarnish.
A metal hard and pure I need, not soft, nor fickle, for my tools.
And all I ask as my reward: to hear the angels' silver bells.

The Ancient Man, by lobolover

A man there lived, of whom I know, god knows how I avail
To tell the tale, of how this man, lived in his merry way.
He came from states at Northern lakes and often did he say
„Nor beast nor man, nor thing twice damned ,a hand upon him may
lay in wait to slay his Great, as he would often call.
Be on your watch, he said, or scotch, i tell this to you all.“
He hunted in the shermans wood, oh lord if I only may
To avail to say, how he there stood,and gaspeth upon his prey
He took the bones, and made them tools, for play and for his kin,
He threw them to the dogs he did, with many a merry sing
He took the skin and cut it deep, while hanging on a pole,
He made it reek, five feet around, his all-dreaded dome
He took the blood,and made it rise, for lamb or bear or newborn child,
He treausured as a prise
He cut and filled his lonely tub, and did within it bathe
And none who came and saw him thus, could scarcely be as brave
To but a word of acusition breathe, when they remember stil,
How this one man, silent as a lamb,poured blood out to his kin
They said he came then to his bed and a great night there would lie
As though he knew, not beast or prey, could ever make him die
And often times, through lonely skies, great cries were heard anew
This old man then, was told in spite, to oft amongst them brew
He cried his words in lonely tongues
No ears could ever stand
And a damn horrid sight it was
For one who did be there a-strand‘
This befel one John Canine, from Albertstown, was sure
He came to town, to look for work, to work there was his due
But at no doors did they lend him oars, listen to him at all
For all there feared that him from the breed, of that strange man „of the fall“
For at many times, so lonely sights, some strange men often came
To see the man, whom they all damned, but did not dare him shame
They draged about, all torn and out of them their spirits came
As if they had naught left, but to spread HIS fame
And often did they come anon and strange there sounds did come
And the old man then would go to bed, while the other was surely gone
And none had seen him take his leave, though all had see him enter
And all knew well there was no hope, when steped bellow that shelter
And all did fear that ancient man, who God himself forgot
For a wretch as great as he, could surely not be wrought
From conciounsce of the Lord above, nor did he ever stray
Into the church, bellow the cross, nor did he ever pray
And long his nails and filled with dirt,
And mud and sudd upon him lay, upon his bloodied shirt
Surely he was a dirty man, by body and by soul
But none ere dared to speak alloud, the wish of people all
That ancient man then did there live, so long as I do know
And not a trace of dying grace ever apeared upon his brow
He would often sit at Gorman’s lake and often would he call
At night to frogs, at day to snakes, for sure he loved them all
And his kin they were, all men did think,
For surely this old man
No earthly drink
Could ever waste, to such a horrid damn
But this man Canine knew him not
And came to him to plea
He surely did nor know
What beyond those doors did rott
But when he cried, oh lord, he pried, the door full and a jar
And he found the man there huddled stil, within his hands a jar
And there within a heart stil beating, as that it was yet in bloom
The youngster froze, while in his blood, the anger made to boom
And he took a shovel from the ground and battered with all his might
And he killed the man all did fear, and rid us of his might
But ere he could dipose the corpse, the corpse upon him lay, and hands did grasp upon his throat, in many a hideous way
And the young man did tear the corpse,yet stil it at him blew, till all at lenght, at sixteen eight
His soul all from him flew
And the man who was the corpse, there erect did stand and to me he did oustretch his utter horrid hand
„Listen man, whether wise or damned be ye
hear my tale, so full of ave, of dreadfull melanchony
I was a man who lived in pain and in anger God did spurn,
Then from the heavens came a sound and its voice upon me burn
And from the voice I knew full well ANOTHER God did speak
Then ever Milton dared record, within his master-streak
And HE spoke to me, who was ye Pan
And made me do his will
For one hundred years I was to do ill
And by his vision peigned
And if I shall then at a time,
Uncertain at all acords, to me and all of mine,
Slay him who would afore slay me,
Then surely the wretched I
Would be free from this mine rhyme
And surely as was said, free for all of time
And secrets great and monstrosely bread
He would show me beneath the sea
But how my heart now acheth with
A stern melancholy
For I shallt never see again
A human face drawn near
All I shall now at all times behold
There at all be a thousandfold 
Strange things within the rear
And to those lands
Where a city stands
sunken bellow the sea
I shall be hauled
And shall maraud
Ye great eternal deep
Then with this, ye fearfull wretch
Hear me whilst I speak
My parting song to all mankind, whom long I have despised
And know ye reek, that with your eyes
You never shall see me part.“
And with this the man did fell
And there he lay in heaps
And soon it came upon the folk
To burn that house of tears
And wood they gathered all around
But when that house did smoke
We hear all around a smouldering sound
As of a soul thath be not smothe
And riseth from Hell to lands beyond
The grasp of which I sure have not
But which itself shall master soon
And reign without a doubt.

Untitled, by mjh215

Carefully I open the door
The tail twitches
My finger itches
A scamper, scurry, and shot
The squirrel he is no more

Untitled, by badgoodDeb

I wish I had a squirrel, I do.
They're so much fun to chase.
But if I ever catch one
Mama's sure to wash my face.

Untitled, by Patricia

'Manage Attachments'
--Would it were so simple
Away from the screen.

Untitled, by montsnmags

If I stroke your fur and press a forehead to yours like I always do, there's no wonder when my tears fall warm onto your cold face.

Untitled, by Patricia

I see the azure void.
Not cloudless summer sky:
The blue screen of death.

Untitled, by DixieGal

M R in office cube.
Quick! The boss will be here soon.
Minimize Explorer.

Untitled, by mjh215

The rules expounded
A different twist
Confirmed convention-less

Untitled, by badgoodDeb

Pup murmers
Wriggles in sleep
Catching phantom squirrels

Untitled, by montsnmags

Plastic leaves unglued
by dust and climate control
fall; whisper "faux-ku"

Untitled, by pshrynk

parp!

Untitled, by pilotbob

There once was a lady from france,
who didn't have on any pants.
But here was the rub,
she sat in the tub,
with none of the bubbles askance.

Untitled, by Patricia

An android, who was quite depressed,
Found poetry gave him some rest.
He wrote lots of verse,
In tanka at first,
But limericks suited him best.

Untitled, by zelda_pinwheel

In Paris one day late in May,
On the island we had a soirée.
But though rum made us bold,
it was far too cold,
and at 10.30 je suis rentrée.

Untitled, by montsnmags

I take a photo
to capture and suspend you
over a puddle

Paradox Snob, by montsnmags

a box
when opened up
releases evil, hope,
a storage jar, and possibly
a cat

To not wax lyrical..., by montsnmags

Her suit -
bikini cut,
a tidy pink affair -
reveals some nether parts are still
hirsute

Untitled, by zelda_pinwheel

porteur
et voltigeuse
ils s'enlacent, se séparent
toute une histoire dans leur ballet
de gestes.

Untitled, by Roy White

Discontent and puttering, bounced from one thought to another. This surface of paper was once a stately pine swaying in the wind with what it was, or what it might have been.

A proud jutting mast on a clipper ship. The cut heavy center beam of a cathedral. A pier withstanding the thudding of surf. A pole to wave a flag with. In the slow seasons the tree grew, this surface held rushing sap and frozen larvae. Woodpeckers wounds and squirrel young. Boy’s shouts and enduring the nails of a tree fort.

This surface, white and shallow as it looks chained by blue jail bar lines and Red Guard sentinel margin lines. Pierced by curved wire and buried behind the cover. Lost in the anonymity of the millions of other bound pages, reflecting none of the original life and beauty of the tree.

Now subjected to the idle scrawl and whims of my pen, a plastic tramping, scratching, rolling, elephantine express.

Thoughts to express. Wind of life to express… (Expressly so)

The paper suffers all of this without complaint. It’s only paper.

The abstract phrases and stumbling lines bounding about like billiard balls seeking to be free of the bordering bumpers and roll far and free on a real, green, sward of Velvet grass. Not dead wood…

They rebound and crack together creating disharmony. A vortex in my head, a thought tornado, a whirlpool that clings and whirls pulling memories and time out to spill like the ink spills out of the end of this pen onto the flattened trees called paper.

How would it be if God took our bodies and bones, our brains with their capability to be an artist or playwright, Poets or minstrel’s statesman or midwife? What if He mowed us down like trees, using our favorite things against us, then crushed us and ground us like sawdust until we were a fine white pulp. What if He pressed the mess of muck into human paper? A flat, featureless plain of two dimensions with the blood of the visionaries as margin lines.

What would He write on this vast plateau of reduced man? Who would read it? Or understand...

NO!

The ricocheting billiard balls of undisciplined ideas rebound in my head once more and gibberish lands on the impassive white page.

I might as well stand back and blow ink through a straw onto the flattened wood. Random marks aren’t that much different from random thoughts bouncing off the edges of my mind. Yet they bounce and I understand the feeling they mark the page with, understanding not the ideas, or the flow of sense.

Some things are deeper than sense, or logic, or rhetoric. Isn’t that right? (You are not supposed to answer that one.)

I’m not trying to be clever, just honest to my soul.

There is no place in the straight-line fast lane, or the slow. There is no place in megahertz computer banks so adept at endlessly adding one plus one and each time making the fresh discovery that the answer is two….

The answer is not two…

There is no place in the foolish interaction I call ‘conversation’ for the silent signals from the hand of the inner man.

This page suffers the violence…

This page suffers the extreme puzzle of billiard balls never settling to rest in the pockets of dogma hemmed in by skull and skin, never coming to rest in the library of the cerebellum.

Well…

How did you expect to really understand anyway?

You are not I…

Maybe a like feeling in you will stir, maybe you will fling these muddy waters away.

I wish I could…

Maybe you will nod your head with a knowing smile and a little pity for me and remember how you lined up your own billiard thoughts for that trick shot trying to organize your own minds scurrying.

Well I am not you so bear with me while I scramble. I can, and must, drink the only drink that I’ve got. I won’t refuse it and shrivel up no matter what you say.

I’ll drink, and chase my greased pig life here and there even if my feet are bleeding.

As if they aren’t…

At least my footprints will be clear to see.

I haven’t accomplished anything here scrabbling and scribbling, reaching inside to grasp the things that like soap squeezed too hard fly at the slightest grasp. A fly is hatched. He buzzes and snattles, jerking the air and zagging… Drawn to manure and garbage, born to be despised.

Hey, wait a minute… I ain’t no fly… I’m a man….

Sun on skin… Grass scratched back…

Children with plastic squirt guns learn how to aim…. I hope they don’t get wet. I am a man, a hu-man. I hew my way through life, the only trail the one I leave behind me.

I wonder if any termites got caught in the pulp of this paper?

My billiard balls change color as they rebound some more.

It is life that I long for. Not knowledge, not praise, not acclaim not concepts but life… I’ll do anything, live anywhere, eat anything, for life.

Not the motions of sleeping and waking, not the sham life of the old doddering priest and his rote prayers, the mass-produced masks that portray zombies as alive. Not, oh please not the shell, not the husk of the kernel.

Not the chaff… Oh God…

Not the chaff… Oh God…

Not the chaff but life booming like the laughter of Bacchus and his train. Life still and deep like the abyss between the points of the stars… Life fantastic and wonder-full like the myths of Dryads and centaurs, fairies and banshees of the old tales. Life, still as stone but graceful and fluid.

Let me get old and beautiful, my face chiseled away by pain, patience and sorrow, until at last these wildly rocketing billiard balls fall silent and inert on the old worn table. My eyes at last wrinkled and dry.

Dry and chuckling…

Chiseled and chuckling…

The man who shoulders His pack and stamps His bleeding feet can suffer no real harm. He feels the nails in hand and foot, His brow and side on fire he weeps, he dies.

He lays dead. Chiseled and chuckling he rises.

I can’t surround life there isn’t enough of me. When I try I’m spread thin and pop like a taunt balloon, or dried out soap bubble.

In spite of myself and the caroming pool table of carnival ideas one masquerading as a fat man, another as the hunger artist, another as the elephant man, the tightrope thrill-seeker, or Tom thumb…

The kaleidoscope turns and ‘presto.’ I have another point of view. Another peek behind the curtain…

Michelangelo pounded long and hard on a block of marble. David emerged chiseled and chuckling. You can bet his carnival was over.

A dog barked just now and reminded me I’m writing.

Untitled, by Patricia

Oh yes.
That is a thought
when marking dull papers
on a wet Thursday evening
Quite late.

Untitled, by montsnmags

She offered her honour
He honoured her offer
He was on 'er and off 'er
all night.

Untitled, by montsnmags

he turned
asking me what
I was writing, laughed when
I showed him (me?) then turned and faced
the sun

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zelda_pinwheel :

oxymoron of the week : "being dead"

nyctalopie : anomalie des yeux dans laquelle la vision, très faible pendant le jour, augmente notablement avec le déclin de la lumière.

tatou : n.m. (empr. à une langue indigène du Brésil). Mammifère d'Amérique tropicale, au corps couvert de plaques cornées et pouvant s'enrouler en boule. (Long. 30 cm, sans la queue ; ordre des édentés)

Nous sommes bien près de nous réveiller quand nous rêvons que nous rêvons. (We are very close to waking up when we dream that we are dreaming)

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Like charity, schizophrenia begins at home. 
--Florence King

a spookily pertinent graffiti from la rue de Jarente :
La liberté consiste à avoir conscience de l'absurdité de la vie.
(Liberty consists of being conscious of the absurdity of life)

a graffiti i saw in Dresden :
"you know the chase is better than the catch."

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We are animals 
we should eat our Jung.

(another graffitti)

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On dit d'un fleuve qu'il est violent ;
on ne dit jamais rien des rives qui l'enserrent.
--Bertold Brecht

(we describe a river as violent ; we never say anything about the banks which enclose it.)

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Serpent à sonnettes
Rattelslang
Culebra de cascabel
Skallerorm
Klapperschlange
Rattle snake

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words of the day :
betterave (beetroot)
lapin (rabbit)
locomotive (i'll let you guess)

title which to my knowledge does not exist, but should :
"Fonctionnaire de l'inutile" (approximately "Civil Servant of the Useless")
mozzled by Jozef 27 april 2003

amflam : à se plaindre tout le temps (always complaining about something)
mozzled by Zelda probably sometime in 2003

ça craint pour la paille (approximately "watch out for the straw") : je suis énervée (i'm cranky)
also mozzled by Zelda in 2003.

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if you're not part of the solution, you're part of the precipitate. (ar ar ar !!!)

nothing is foolproof : fools are ingenious.

i prefer to remain anomalous.

oer dier ! dis treins warboel en arend.

"Nous sommes si jeunes, nous ne pouvons pas attendre."
(we are so young, we cannot wait.)

"Regarde la réalité en farce" (Look reality in the farce)
(graffiti, rue de Thorigny)

synechdoche : her wanton curls.

Prière de ne pas marcher sur les oeuvres. (Please don't walk on the art.)

Panopticon

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"Ich bin dîn
Du bist mîn
Ich dir
Du mir
Wir"
--Walther von der Vogel-Weide

Je suis folle comme un lapin ! 
("i'm crazy like a rabbit !" 
i really wonder what  *that* could have been in reference to.)

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in London, on the Tube : "This train will not be calling at the next station."

in the Netherlands, in the car : raindrops pollywogging across the windows.

at Den Haag, on the beach : seashells lying in shoals and spangles across the sand.

Sneeksnits : name of a town in Holland.

je hais infiniment parce que j'aime sans réserve.

Parfois le regard pèche par excès de lumière.

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today's scribblings are the titles of books that intrigued me in the window of the bookstore i walked past earlier. i thought it would be singularly appropriate to share them here.

José Saramago Les intermittances de la mort
Julien Bouissoux Voyager léger
Marie Phillips Les dieux ne valent pas mieux ! 

on the same page there is a song which i heard at a party a couple of weeks ago : 
"Busy Line" by Rose Murphy (excellent song !)

and this candy wrapper joke, which sadly i cannot translate because it is a pun :
"on dit pas dégâts des eaux, on dit des marins." 
(if you don't understand it at first, read it out loud.)

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"slumped in an agnosticism about sentience itself..."
--John Leonard

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Since Half the world is H2O

Having disregarded exhortations to join the 
NAVY
we learned to swim.
Those who do not swim, 
learn to sail,
or more bizarrely,
Water ski.
Others, who had not even conceived of water,
Oh they wish for dry land.
But as the continents are defined by the sea,
This is never wholly possible.
--Lou Reed

I copied out this poem for the 4 lines in bold.

---

pilotbob :

"They are building a new house down the street."
Well, of course it is a "new" house, have you ever seen an old house built?

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spear :

oxymoron of the week : "being dead"
Is that like the "undead", which is my husband's and mine's favorite oxymoron.

Our favorite redundancy: "The Giant Behemoth" (The British version of Godzilla!)

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Patricia :

Found in a Religious Studies exam paper:
'Genitals were not allowed in the Temple.'

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Bread.
Milk.
salad.
Chickpeas. 
Collect dry cleaning.

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montsnmags :

Self-indulgent crap

Down into the woods 
into the drowned woods
into the unsound woods...

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pshrynk :

RUBBER!

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