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mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Oct 12, 2012 - 10:53pm PT
Oh yeah? What did you talk about?
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Oct 12, 2012 - 10:54pm PT
Poetry and verse and the distinction between the two. He asked me what I had been doing and I told him destroying a man's ego and writing poetry. He asked me to read him one of my poems, not a good idea, but I obliged.
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Oct 12, 2012 - 10:56pm PT
What did you read to him? Did he like it? Did he criticize it? Did he venture and opinion?
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Oct 12, 2012 - 11:27pm PT
I read to him Summertimer in the Yosemite Museum. He got lost. He didn't like. He said it didn't rhyme and he couldn't make out what I was saying about a woman after I'd been talking about some hill.

His opinion is that poetry should rhyme and he never cared for that which did not.

I explained that to him as the difference between poetry, which is not just rhymed, but is metered. Verse is a much broader realm and I asked him if he'd ever read any of the Eddas. He said he lacked the eddacation I had and that he hated Norwegians on principle because he tried lutefisk and his mother was scared by a Norwegian bachelor logger.

I often thought there was something weird about my verse, and it was because I thought it was poetry. Now I have reason to live.

And if you think I learned all this at some fancy-schmancy poet mill like old I.V. Leeg, the answer's no. I have The Complete Rhyming Dictionary by Clement Wood, and it is indeed complete. It's very first section, The Poet's Craft Book, begins with a chapter on Poetry and Versification.

It's rewarding reading.

Dad favored me with a poem he remembered and considered it his idea of what poetry should aspire to be. It is published yearly in all Hearst newspapers.

The Song of the River

The snow melts on the mountain
And the water runs down to the spring,
And the spring in a turbulent fountain,
With a song of youth to sing,
Runs down to the riotous river,
And the river flows to the sea,
And the water again
Goes back in rain
To the hills where it used to be.
And I wonder if life's deep mystery
Isn't much like the rain and the snow
Returning through all eternity
To the places it used to know.
For life was born on the lofty heights
And flows in a laughing stream,
To the river below
Whose onward flow
Ends in a peaceful dream.
And so at last,
When our life had passed
And the river has run its course,
It again goes back,
O'er the selfsame track,
To the mountain which was its source.
So why prize life
Or why fear death,
Or dread what is to be?
The river ran
Its alotted span
Till it reached the silent sea.
Then the water harked back
To the mountain-top
To begin its course once more.
So we shall run
The course begun
Till we reach the silent shore.
Then revisit earth
In a pure rebirth
From the heart of the virgin snow.
So don't ask why
We live or die,
Or whither, or when we go,
Or wonder about the mysteries
That only God may know.
--Wm. Randolph Hearst, d. 1951

Not bad for an entitled, shacking-up, yellow-journaling, walking-on-water ur-ego like his to even think in such terms.

mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Oct 12, 2012 - 11:29pm PT
If you say so it must be true. Did you explain to him why you write poetry?
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Oct 12, 2012 - 11:36pm PT
It would be like explaining why I climb. It's fruitless because I don't know why. I know how, and it's hard or it's easy. Depends. I'm not very good at it but will be. Look at Wilma McDaniel, the Okie Poet. she never had it handed to her. She wrote beautiful verse.

Dad heard me muttering over the phone when I set it down to pull up the poetry on the computer. He asked me did I talk to myself? I said of course, otherwise I'd go crazy.

We hung up friends, both knowing we were right. And the other wasn't full of sh#t, but could reason with each other and come away satisfied. It's all you can hope for.

mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Oct 13, 2012 - 05:05am PT
Burning Man.
Burning Man.
Credit: Blitzo

A Lighter Side of Papa Hemingway

Papa, may I please have a light?
Asked Hemingway's eldest one night.
Lucky Strike.

Jack, no light tonight. You're too much "me"
For you to smoke. It really shouldn't be.
But it is.

You're far too young to take that road
That makes you sick before you're old.
Don't do it.

It's not for me to tell you "no"
Except that I would see you grow.
Answer's still no.

Besides, you'll kill yourself with vice.
Old man's advice? Please don't think twice.
Quit right now.



I'm having a Swisher Sweet no filter, best on the market. For the price.

89 cents. It makes me feel all Eastwood-y.


Not Far Off Faron (Have a Seat, Walls)

Hey there, Chair, say something, please? I'm getting toxic
talking to myself. Gee, Shelf, do you want to talk?
And I just bet you dread to spend another night with me. One more time.
Hello, TV, (hello, hello) I see that you're still not very clear.
Don't tell me that it's the rain that's given me this f*#ked-up pain inside.
I can't seem to hide the shame and guilt and pride I felt when I hurt her.
And I've got a bad feeling that she'll be gone a long long time. This time.
Hello, Clock. I need a hand to hold, a friendly face to shine on me.
There is no place I'd really rather be, I guess, than Up In My Room.
Gloom. Doom. Loom. Boom. Sue'm. Screw'm.
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Oct 13, 2012 - 09:36pm PT
Did somebody say Okie?

Picking Grapes 1937

Magic seventeen
and new in California

working in bursting
sweet vineyards

hot sand on soul
one strap held by a
safety pin

a girl could be whatever
she desired

the first breath of
Eve in Paradise
--Wilma Elizabeth McDaniels
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Oct 17, 2012 - 11:19pm PT
Did somebody out there say S.Clay Wison? The Checkered Demon?

Here's a friend of Clay's you might like to hear from, Charley Plymell.

http://www.hesterglock.com/words/Charley%20Plymell%20%20Eat%20Not%20Thy%20Mind%20Review.htm
Fletcher

Trad climber
Fumbling towards stone
Oct 18, 2012 - 01:21am PT
So grateful this thread exists.

Liking the conversations of late.

Music and poety... Interesting mouse. I once was trying to write something that needed to be somewhat brief since I'd be reading it in front of a crowd (my wedding party). But old verbosity was having a hard time figuring out how to do that. So much to say, how to get at the essence?

Then it came to me... I was listening to a song, something that moved me from U2. Bono. I thought about the vastness that song inspired in me. And then it hit me: there were about 10 unique words in that song.

I then knew my screed had to be like a song. Terse, but speaking volumes. It worked.

Eric
Fletcher

Trad climber
Fumbling towards stone
Oct 18, 2012 - 01:22am PT
Do not depend much on guides. It is better for you to prepare yourself and remain awake. ~ Swami Rama

Double meaning in this forum!

Eric
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Oct 18, 2012 - 07:46pm PT
Cereal Dream

They're strange, the gifts that come in the night,
Or in the lobby of the place you live.

Some nights it's thoughts that turn to verse
Like chocolate-covered Cheerios.

I never expected them, yet there they are, free;
A-waiting for passionate milk's embrace and perhaps a piece of fruit.

Cheerios, the breakfast of mice and men:
But such a difference the chocolate makes!

Take your thoughts and spread them out
And lay them in a pattern on the table of your soul.

Play with them until the mother of consciousness
Comes and tells you it's time for bed again.

Then write them into the diary of your memory,
Turn off the light and say goodnight.

If you find Twinkies filled with butterscotch in the morning,
Please share them with the rest of us.
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Oct 19, 2012 - 04:09pm PT
Hiku-Hiku

Credit: mouse from merced
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Oct 19, 2012 - 09:35pm PT
Dave MacCleod, poetry in about 70 or so moves.

Fossil climber

Trad climber
Atlin, B. C.
Oct 19, 2012 - 11:27pm PT
Write a book, Mouse. Or have you?
BLUEBLOCR

Social climber
joshua tree
Oct 20, 2012 - 01:50am PT
Man... Or, Mouse;

That is one of the most,

finest displays,

of creativity,

exhibited,

by matter.

Of factt..

Jus

Say'in

BB
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Oct 20, 2012 - 01:57am PT
Thank you for the shot of assurance, Wayne. I never wrote for pudlication. Only private stuff, generally.

'Do not Depends prepare guides?'--Heanas Screed

'Friends do not drive guides to drink, they take a taxi.'--Braverly Samson

Big Bill Bierkhan tells this one:
'Two guides walk into a bar. The bartender adks 'What'll ya have?'
The first guide says, 'I'll have a Mountain Dew, on the rocks.'
The second says, 'I'll have what he's having, but use ice in mine.'--Offa Deszneid.

ba-dump!


/and BB, from BB, TY.
Calls for a celebration of blind mice chased by Women. Love is "Blind." Dig the rhythm. Now, you got your rhythm and you got euythmitic you got them mice all around the house, tired of hearing good ol' Mouse, he's so screwed up screwed up screwed up.

mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Oct 24, 2012 - 06:39pm PT
The Nouns of Time.

Not knowing much is better than knowing much of nothing.
Nothing is much more exciting than what I am doing right
Now.

Now then, having said that, itís time to get drunk.
Itís Friday night but the booze wonít flow
Tonight.

The message is that the message is in the bottle,
But I am just not getting it at the present
Moment.

I must put it off until later on when I have some dinero
And it is in my pocket waiting to get spent in a great flourish over
Vintage.

Because I have no money to allow booze to flow
I am saving something of my dignity, I suppose, by not getting drunk
Right away.

But Iíll see about
Saturday.
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Oct 24, 2012 - 06:52pm PT
Amor de Verdad or True Love Waits Down the Insinkerator
Words by Hubby Dolley

[Very saccharine. Real country sappy. A tad schmaltzy.]
I will bury thee
Or you will bury me,
For I canít love another
Just only you.

And no matter
Whatís the deal
Our fears will have seemed so unreal.
Weíll laugh at them and kneel for each otherís forgiveness.

And so trust me or go away
But please listen to what I must say.

Silence speaks volumes
When no one is talking
But I trust you to steer me straight
When I go off walking
Where I shouldnít have gone.

No, darling, no one else.
Only you.

Finely spun
Are my thoughts of you,
Held together
And woven through
For all time
By my feelings true.

We will come to the end of our days
Together.



[Up-tempo]
Corny verbs and silly words
Cannot express my absurd wishes
I'd really love to wash your dishes!

[Real good musical stuff guaranteed to burn your ears off and penetrate your soul. No less.]
Itís only suds down the drain,
Iím probably wishing in vain
And I wish you no pain;
To be the goal of your wishes
Would be oh so delicious.
So donít be suspicious,
Please, just let me wash your dishes.

[Wild-ass finish suspended by tepid, dish-watery muzak? I leave it to the musical director.]



mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Nov 3, 2012 - 08:21am PT
just fvcking haiku
no rhyme scheme and seventeen
such an odd number

Dante went to hell
finding thirteen circles be
divine poetry

Alighieri was
his own elegy since he
was terzarima

his cool divine wind
blows down the dry hillside
hell's heat now abated

yeah it seems to me
the haiku really does suck
it's very pointless

I am un-danteed
let us be friends signore
let's shake hands sonnet

5.13, let's get the hell out of here!

I know a coffee shop...
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