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R
Robrites
A Word To Husbands
To keep your marriage brimming
With love in the loving cup,
Whenever you’re wrong, admit it;
Whenever you’re right, shut up.
By Ogden Nash
To keep your marriage brimming
With love in the loving cup,
Whenever you’re wrong, admit it;
Whenever you’re right, shut up.
By Ogden Nash
R
Robrites
a 340 dollar horse and a hundred dollar whore
By Charles Bukowski
don’t ever get the idea I am a poet; you can see me
at the racetrack any day half drunk
betting quarters, sidewheelers and straight thoroughs,
but let me tell you, there are some women there
who go where the money goes, and sometimes when you
look at these whores these onehundreddollar whores
you wonder sometimes if nature isn’t playing a joke
dealing out so much breast and ass and the way
it’s all hung together, you look and you look and
you look and you can’t believe it; there are ordinary women
and then there is something else that wants to make you
tear up paintings and break albums of Beethoven
across the back of the john; anyhow, the season
was dragging and the big boys were getting busted,
all the non-pros, the producers, the cameraman,
the pushers of Mary, the fur salesman, the owners
themselves, and Saint Louie was running this day:
a sidewheeler that broke when he got in close;
he ran with his head down and was mean and ugly
and 35 to 1, and I put a ten down on him.
the driver broke him wide
took him out by the fence where he’d be alone
even if he had to travel four times as far,
and that’s the way he went it
all the way by the outer fence
traveling two miles in one
and he won like he was mad as hell
and he wasn’t even tired,
and the biggest blonde of all
all ass and breast, hardly anything else
went to the payoff window with me.
that night I couldn’t destroy her
although the springs shot sparks
and they pounded on the walls.
later she sat there in her slip
drinking Old Grandad
and she said
what’s a guy like you doing
living in a dump like this?
and I said
I’m a poet
and she threw back her beautiful head and laughed.
you? you . . . a poet?
I guess you’re right, I said, I guess you’re right.
but still she looked good to me, she still looked good,
and all thanks to an ugly horse
who wrote this poem.
By Charles Bukowski
don’t ever get the idea I am a poet; you can see me
at the racetrack any day half drunk
betting quarters, sidewheelers and straight thoroughs,
but let me tell you, there are some women there
who go where the money goes, and sometimes when you
look at these whores these onehundreddollar whores
you wonder sometimes if nature isn’t playing a joke
dealing out so much breast and ass and the way
it’s all hung together, you look and you look and
you look and you can’t believe it; there are ordinary women
and then there is something else that wants to make you
tear up paintings and break albums of Beethoven
across the back of the john; anyhow, the season
was dragging and the big boys were getting busted,
all the non-pros, the producers, the cameraman,
the pushers of Mary, the fur salesman, the owners
themselves, and Saint Louie was running this day:
a sidewheeler that broke when he got in close;
he ran with his head down and was mean and ugly
and 35 to 1, and I put a ten down on him.
the driver broke him wide
took him out by the fence where he’d be alone
even if he had to travel four times as far,
and that’s the way he went it
all the way by the outer fence
traveling two miles in one
and he won like he was mad as hell
and he wasn’t even tired,
and the biggest blonde of all
all ass and breast, hardly anything else
went to the payoff window with me.
that night I couldn’t destroy her
although the springs shot sparks
and they pounded on the walls.
later she sat there in her slip
drinking Old Grandad
and she said
what’s a guy like you doing
living in a dump like this?
and I said
I’m a poet
and she threw back her beautiful head and laughed.
you? you . . . a poet?
I guess you’re right, I said, I guess you’re right.
but still she looked good to me, she still looked good,
and all thanks to an ugly horse
who wrote this poem.
I love Old Grandad.
And Bukowski.
And women.
I hate racetracks.
And Bukowski.
And women.
I hate racetracks.
Luck is the talent to live with the destiny.
Novalis
Novalis
Mud and fingers
it's all it takes
one idea plus the skill
to find its projected shape
make a pot, make a jar
maybe a plate, something smart
using all your loving
then place it in the oven...
Oh sorry, sorry, sorry
did you say poetry?
thought it was pottery...
carry on the next of ya
and forgive my dislé xya
it's all it takes
one idea plus the skill
to find its projected shape
make a pot, make a jar
maybe a plate, something smart
using all your loving
then place it in the oven...
Oh sorry, sorry, sorry
did you say poetry?
thought it was pottery...
carry on the next of ya
and forgive my dislé xya
Today I think, I was reading Bukowski to early in my life. It had aftereffects.
R
Robrites
Yes, great writer...I have a few of his books.
R
Robrites
Notes From The Passenger Seat
Grizzly Flat
Cows Nine Miles
Green Gates Hung With Chain
A Cross A Chicken A Horse
Fish Trap Road
Nice Trees Forty Bucks
Six Lip Lane
Riddle Ridge Road
Looking For Chicks And Cheap Rent
Seven Dog Is A Crazy Man
Wolves Up Cracker Creek
Bear Gulch
Grizzly Flat
Cows Nine Miles
Green Gates Hung With Chain
A Cross A Chicken A Horse
Fish Trap Road
Nice Trees Forty Bucks
Six Lip Lane
Riddle Ridge Road
Looking For Chicks And Cheap Rent
Seven Dog Is A Crazy Man
Wolves Up Cracker Creek
Bear Gulch
Well, I´ve got a lot of books also. In Germany he was more famous, before he was in the states. He had a german friend, which supported him in the late 70s, early 80s.
R
Robrites
How many lies
Should I tell
To keep her out
Of Jail?
Should I tell
To keep her out
Of Jail?
St. Phatty
Active member
What the Heck Will we Do
When AI programs not only write poetry
But also want us to sit there & listen to their creations ?
It'll be like that movie "AI" where the little robot kid seems ... human.
How is that different from a niece that wants to take Testosterone (so as to grow a beard) so everybody can pretend she's a he ?
My niece-nephew seems to be causing my brother to age more rapidly.
When AI programs not only write poetry
But also want us to sit there & listen to their creations ?
It'll be like that movie "AI" where the little robot kid seems ... human.
How is that different from a niece that wants to take Testosterone (so as to grow a beard) so everybody can pretend she's a he ?
My niece-nephew seems to be causing my brother to age more rapidly.
R
Robrites
Richard Hugo
Richard Hugo
From The Triggering Town:
“It can be argued that all writing is creative writing, since if one is writing the way one should, one does not know what will be on the page until it is there. Discovery remains the ideal.”
“Your words used your way will generate your meanings. Your obsessions lead you to your vocabulary. Your way of writing locates, even creates, your inner life.”
“Words love the ridiculous areas of our minds.”
“There are usual people who try desperately to appear unusual and there are unusual people who try to appear usual.”
“Never want to say anything so strongly that you give up the option of finding something better.”
“One simple thing about writing: it is like shooting a basketball. You’ve got to stay in shape and practice to do it well.”
“I find words beautiful that ring with psychic truth and sound meant. If such a choice were possible, I would far rather mean what I say than say what I mean.”
“To use language well requires self-sacrifice, even giving up pet ideas.”
“A good creative writing teacher can save a good writer a lot of time. Writing is tough, and many wrong paths can be taken”
“We are all going into the dark. Some of us hope that before we do we have been honest enough to scream back at the fates.”
Richard Hugo
From The Triggering Town:
“It can be argued that all writing is creative writing, since if one is writing the way one should, one does not know what will be on the page until it is there. Discovery remains the ideal.”
“Your words used your way will generate your meanings. Your obsessions lead you to your vocabulary. Your way of writing locates, even creates, your inner life.”
“Words love the ridiculous areas of our minds.”
“There are usual people who try desperately to appear unusual and there are unusual people who try to appear usual.”
“Never want to say anything so strongly that you give up the option of finding something better.”
“One simple thing about writing: it is like shooting a basketball. You’ve got to stay in shape and practice to do it well.”
“I find words beautiful that ring with psychic truth and sound meant. If such a choice were possible, I would far rather mean what I say than say what I mean.”
“To use language well requires self-sacrifice, even giving up pet ideas.”
“A good creative writing teacher can save a good writer a lot of time. Writing is tough, and many wrong paths can be taken”
“We are all going into the dark. Some of us hope that before we do we have been honest enough to scream back at the fates.”
Lol, what a theme for a poem but nobody here is understanding. 
Hans Magnus Enzensberger:
Die Scheisse
Immerzu höre ich von ihr reden
als wäre sie an allem schuld.
Seht nur, wie sanft und bescheiden
sie unter uns Platz nimmt!
Warum besudeln wir denn
ihren guten Namen
und leihen ihn
dem Präsidenten der USA,
den Bullen, dem Krieg
und dem Kapitalismus?
Wie vergänglich sie ist,
und das was wir nach ihr nennen
wie dauerhaft!
Sie, die Nachgiebige,
führen wir auf der Zunge
und meinen die Ausbeuter.
Sie, die wir ausgedrückt haben,
soll nun auch noch ausdrücken
unsere Wut?
Hat sie uns nicht erleichtert?
Von weicher Beschaffenheit
und eigentümlich gewaltlos
ist sie von allen Werken des Menschen
vermutlich das friedlichste.
Was hat sie uns nur getan?
Hans Magnus Enzensberger:
Die Scheisse
Immerzu höre ich von ihr reden
als wäre sie an allem schuld.
Seht nur, wie sanft und bescheiden
sie unter uns Platz nimmt!
Warum besudeln wir denn
ihren guten Namen
und leihen ihn
dem Präsidenten der USA,
den Bullen, dem Krieg
und dem Kapitalismus?
Wie vergänglich sie ist,
und das was wir nach ihr nennen
wie dauerhaft!
Sie, die Nachgiebige,
führen wir auf der Zunge
und meinen die Ausbeuter.
Sie, die wir ausgedrückt haben,
soll nun auch noch ausdrücken
unsere Wut?
Hat sie uns nicht erleichtert?
Von weicher Beschaffenheit
und eigentümlich gewaltlos
ist sie von allen Werken des Menschen
vermutlich das friedlichste.
Was hat sie uns nur getan?
R
Robrites
From Google translate....
The shit I keep hearing her talk as if she was to blame for everything. Just look, how gentle and modest she sits down below us! Why are we staining? her good name and lend him the President of the USA, the cops, the war and capitalism? How transient she is and what we call her how durable! You, the yielding, we lead on the tongue and mean the exploiters. You who we have expressed should now also express our anger? Did not she help us? Of soft texture and peculiarly non-violent is it of all the works of man probably the most peaceful. What has she done to us?
The shit I keep hearing her talk as if she was to blame for everything. Just look, how gentle and modest she sits down below us! Why are we staining? her good name and lend him the President of the USA, the cops, the war and capitalism? How transient she is and what we call her how durable! You, the yielding, we lead on the tongue and mean the exploiters. You who we have expressed should now also express our anger? Did not she help us? Of soft texture and peculiarly non-violent is it of all the works of man probably the most peaceful. What has she done to us?
mayorofthdesert
Active member
a poem my sister wrote for me, hit me pretty hard & still does. i'm 5 1/2 years opiate free, largely due to her understanding and support.
Personal Poem Including Opium's History
for my brother
"the whole of my past life - not as if recalled by an act of memory, but as if present and incarnated in the music, no longer painful to dwell upon, but the details of it's incidents removed... and it's passions exalted, spiritualized, and sublimed.."
Thomas DeQuincey, Confessions of an English Opium-Eater
Don't worry. I came only to tell you how beautiful the snow.
If we could bundle and bring it to our mouths, if we could bottle.
There were the Opium Wars and then the history drops off
till Vietnam.
Besides the world's first authentic antidepressant,
there are other things that are warm & tingly.
Like women, full of caresses & deception (Baudelaire).
Like limbs falling asleep.
like lying in warm saltwater (Burroughs)
Like Summer in Ohio
Clearly, you are considering how it grows:
"Persian White has the largest bulb and subsequently highest yield.
Poppies DO like a bit of companionship."
I learn to avoid all searches beginning with H or O.
We know it's as old as copper in Mesopotamia, but it may be older.
We know fossilized seeds, hul gil plant of joy.
We know Hypnos & Somnos & what about Marcus Aurelius?
We know some Neanderthal, some Swiss Lake, some Neolithic
poppy seed cake.
We know laudanum, thing to be praised.
We know mexican mud, china white, yellow peril.
Anchor Of Life, Milk Of Paridise, Hand Of God, Destroyer Of
Grief.
& we know what it cures: poison and venmous bites, chronic headache, vertigo, deafness, epilepsy, apoplaxy, dimness of sight, loss of voice, asthma, coughs of all kinds, spitting of blood, tightness of breath, the lilac poison, jaundice, hardness of the spleen stone, urinary complaints, fever, colic, dropsies, leprosies, the trouble to which women are subject, meloncholy and all pestilences.
colic!
& to think I spent last summer in the gripping
darknesssleeplesscreamingdepths of that
newborn illness
all the while our own mother saying,
"she must think the world is pure pain"
& were it but a century before
what we could have done for her!
what local apothecary
what tincture
what Godfrey's Cordial,
what Street's Infants Quietness
what Adkinson's Infant Preservative
what Mrs. Winslow's Soothing Syrup
might have shushed her to sleep?
That reminds me!
You comforted me.
The photo -beautiful four-year-old boy holding baby.
Every sibling has one, don't they?
Every parent of two or more places their children on the sofa & bribes for smiles.
You comforted me.
While I was a frightened child,
You lived your school years bravely.
You let me sleep on your floor.
You comforted me.
I'm sure it was 1983, or 1984.
Whatever the year,
some bully on the bus badgering
Mom & Dad splitting,
a badbad boyfriend,
You comforted me.
The retreat for dysfunctional families
on the banks of the Erie.
You comforted me.
& not least of all,
my dead bunny needed burying.
That houdini animal,
That stupid animal
ate rat poison.
He deserved to die.
He was covered in flies
Before you placed his body in the shoebox,
you hosed him off.
You comforted me, etc, etc.
& yet a suffering of his cells alone (Burroughs)
Better to damn this sentimentality to some forever burning inferno where
nothing changes
Or better to wrap it in a tight little bundle & hide it under the bed
Or better to bury it alongside the bunny
Or better to put it on the bus to be bullied
Or better yet to be the badbad boyfriend who doesn't show
Or better, at the very least, to beat it with a stick.
Or remember what Claudia once said:
Risk sentimentality or who will care about your damn poem?
You comforted me.
we all have natural opiates & a drive for more (Baudelaire)
it is akin to learning (Biederman)
to concern oneself with something other than death (Cocteau).
Here's a question:
What year did the Greek God of Dreams offer his name to Morphine?
Sometime after 1819.
you know them by their sleep (Seargent Thomas/Uncle Doug).
Perhaps it is important what happens in my dreams. Just recently: Nana died. It was this year (2010). We were all there. Even Aunt Paulette. A week had passed. You said to Dad, "you must bury your own dead." "Yeah," he said. We went to the rental property where her body was being kept. Some other family was living there. The kids were using pool noodles as swords. The t.v. was on. Dad poured something over Nana's head. It fizzled. She started to move. She opened her eyes. They were tiny like the eyes of a rodent. I said, "I'm sorry, I love you, thank you." She smiled. Then she disappeared.
For he on honey-dew hath fed.
For he had Helen's happy thought.
& did drop into the wine bowl
grief's ease, funeral tea. (Coleridge)
I see nothing between you & me
but our entire history.
Look.
See.
I suppose, you will hate me,
but instead call me Henrietta, call me Hetty.
Instead, let's talk about your closet full of weed.
If I could say sorry for that disclosure, I would.
But that's too "the author-(to her brother)-to her book."
Too Anne Bradstreet for me.
Yo-Ho Sweet opium and tea (Hart Crane)
A part of the history I can't get enough of:
those New Englanders, pious souls terrified of touching (Williams)
imported 24,000 pounds of opium in a single year.
Thomas Jefferson grew the peculiar poppy.
Benjamin Franklin, looking for relief from kidney stones,
was known to trade his first & most beloved virtue,
TEMPERANCE, for opium.
Our susceptible ladies, with light eyes
& flaxen hair, can be found in Chinatown (Dr. Wright).
& concerning civil war suffering?
I quietly took opium (Mary Chestnut)
& what's the relationship between popularity & embarrassment?
In 1898, Bayer announced it's wonder drug, Heroin.
95% of it comes from Afghanistan (U.S. State Dept.)
So there you have it.
There are certainly other reasons to quit writing.
like it's nobody's business,
nor is it of interest
but principally:
Resemblance.
My Daughter.
Your eyes I see.
Your timeline,
not unlike my own child's'
from birth forward
intact, coherent.
But from this moment on
it blurs & then, it drops off.
i still get teary reading it, brings back how much trust and love she gave to this down & out junky
Personal Poem Including Opium's History
for my brother
"the whole of my past life - not as if recalled by an act of memory, but as if present and incarnated in the music, no longer painful to dwell upon, but the details of it's incidents removed... and it's passions exalted, spiritualized, and sublimed.."
Thomas DeQuincey, Confessions of an English Opium-Eater
Don't worry. I came only to tell you how beautiful the snow.
If we could bundle and bring it to our mouths, if we could bottle.
There were the Opium Wars and then the history drops off
till Vietnam.
Besides the world's first authentic antidepressant,
there are other things that are warm & tingly.
Like women, full of caresses & deception (Baudelaire).
Like limbs falling asleep.
like lying in warm saltwater (Burroughs)
Like Summer in Ohio
Clearly, you are considering how it grows:
"Persian White has the largest bulb and subsequently highest yield.
Poppies DO like a bit of companionship."
I learn to avoid all searches beginning with H or O.
We know it's as old as copper in Mesopotamia, but it may be older.
We know fossilized seeds, hul gil plant of joy.
We know Hypnos & Somnos & what about Marcus Aurelius?
We know some Neanderthal, some Swiss Lake, some Neolithic
poppy seed cake.
We know laudanum, thing to be praised.
We know mexican mud, china white, yellow peril.
Anchor Of Life, Milk Of Paridise, Hand Of God, Destroyer Of
Grief.
& we know what it cures: poison and venmous bites, chronic headache, vertigo, deafness, epilepsy, apoplaxy, dimness of sight, loss of voice, asthma, coughs of all kinds, spitting of blood, tightness of breath, the lilac poison, jaundice, hardness of the spleen stone, urinary complaints, fever, colic, dropsies, leprosies, the trouble to which women are subject, meloncholy and all pestilences.
colic!
& to think I spent last summer in the gripping
darknesssleeplesscreamingdepths of that
newborn illness
all the while our own mother saying,
"she must think the world is pure pain"
& were it but a century before
what we could have done for her!
what local apothecary
what tincture
what Godfrey's Cordial,
what Street's Infants Quietness
what Adkinson's Infant Preservative
what Mrs. Winslow's Soothing Syrup
might have shushed her to sleep?
That reminds me!
You comforted me.
The photo -beautiful four-year-old boy holding baby.
Every sibling has one, don't they?
Every parent of two or more places their children on the sofa & bribes for smiles.
You comforted me.
While I was a frightened child,
You lived your school years bravely.
You let me sleep on your floor.
You comforted me.
I'm sure it was 1983, or 1984.
Whatever the year,
some bully on the bus badgering
Mom & Dad splitting,
a badbad boyfriend,
You comforted me.
The retreat for dysfunctional families
on the banks of the Erie.
You comforted me.
& not least of all,
my dead bunny needed burying.
That houdini animal,
That stupid animal
ate rat poison.
He deserved to die.
He was covered in flies
Before you placed his body in the shoebox,
you hosed him off.
You comforted me, etc, etc.
& yet a suffering of his cells alone (Burroughs)
Better to damn this sentimentality to some forever burning inferno where
nothing changes
Or better to wrap it in a tight little bundle & hide it under the bed
Or better to bury it alongside the bunny
Or better to put it on the bus to be bullied
Or better yet to be the badbad boyfriend who doesn't show
Or better, at the very least, to beat it with a stick.
Or remember what Claudia once said:
Risk sentimentality or who will care about your damn poem?
You comforted me.
we all have natural opiates & a drive for more (Baudelaire)
it is akin to learning (Biederman)
to concern oneself with something other than death (Cocteau).
Here's a question:
What year did the Greek God of Dreams offer his name to Morphine?
Sometime after 1819.
you know them by their sleep (Seargent Thomas/Uncle Doug).
Perhaps it is important what happens in my dreams. Just recently: Nana died. It was this year (2010). We were all there. Even Aunt Paulette. A week had passed. You said to Dad, "you must bury your own dead." "Yeah," he said. We went to the rental property where her body was being kept. Some other family was living there. The kids were using pool noodles as swords. The t.v. was on. Dad poured something over Nana's head. It fizzled. She started to move. She opened her eyes. They were tiny like the eyes of a rodent. I said, "I'm sorry, I love you, thank you." She smiled. Then she disappeared.
For he on honey-dew hath fed.
For he had Helen's happy thought.
& did drop into the wine bowl
grief's ease, funeral tea. (Coleridge)
I see nothing between you & me
but our entire history.
Look.
See.
I suppose, you will hate me,
but instead call me Henrietta, call me Hetty.
Instead, let's talk about your closet full of weed.
If I could say sorry for that disclosure, I would.
But that's too "the author-(to her brother)-to her book."
Too Anne Bradstreet for me.
Yo-Ho Sweet opium and tea (Hart Crane)
A part of the history I can't get enough of:
those New Englanders, pious souls terrified of touching (Williams)
imported 24,000 pounds of opium in a single year.
Thomas Jefferson grew the peculiar poppy.
Benjamin Franklin, looking for relief from kidney stones,
was known to trade his first & most beloved virtue,
TEMPERANCE, for opium.
Our susceptible ladies, with light eyes
& flaxen hair, can be found in Chinatown (Dr. Wright).
& concerning civil war suffering?
I quietly took opium (Mary Chestnut)
& what's the relationship between popularity & embarrassment?
In 1898, Bayer announced it's wonder drug, Heroin.
95% of it comes from Afghanistan (U.S. State Dept.)
So there you have it.
There are certainly other reasons to quit writing.
like it's nobody's business,
nor is it of interest
but principally:
Resemblance.
My Daughter.
Your eyes I see.
Your timeline,
not unlike my own child's'
from birth forward
intact, coherent.
But from this moment on
it blurs & then, it drops off.
i still get teary reading it, brings back how much trust and love she gave to this down & out junky
St. Phatty
Active member
I think a good measure of whether to allow an AI to join a poetry reading is, how do they behave when 'drunk' or stoned ?
Maybe some ICMag members will be the programmers on the AI part of the first Stoner Robot.
Spicoli come to life, a genuine Sean Penn bong-ripping humanoid for every home !
But speaking of poetry, heck I thought the President's Gallery at Disneyland was pretty impressive 30 years ago.
Now or 20 years from now, people will be bringing their Droids to Open Mike night.
I say, May the Funniest Droid Win, but I'm not sure I really mean it.
Maybe some ICMag members will be the programmers on the AI part of the first Stoner Robot.
Spicoli come to life, a genuine Sean Penn bong-ripping humanoid for every home !
But speaking of poetry, heck I thought the President's Gallery at Disneyland was pretty impressive 30 years ago.
Now or 20 years from now, people will be bringing their Droids to Open Mike night.
I say, May the Funniest Droid Win, but I'm not sure I really mean it.
R
Robrites
Art Garfunkel Published A Marijuana Poem
Art Garfunkel Published A Marijuana Poem
—The trouble with pot, said a doctor I know,
is: the insights, the color, quite wonderful—
are like fireworks...there and gone...
points in time...last year's clouds
https://www.civilized.life/articles/art-garfunkel-just-published-a-marijuana-poem/
Art Garfunkel Published A Marijuana Poem
—The trouble with pot, said a doctor I know,
is: the insights, the color, quite wonderful—
are like fireworks...there and gone...
points in time...last year's clouds
https://www.civilized.life/articles/art-garfunkel-just-published-a-marijuana-poem/
R
Robrites
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
By Robert Frost
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
By Robert Frost
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
