Sirrus, Grassy forwarded your poem and it is just right for reading.
Your poem has a certain existential/surreal quality like a Samuel Beckett
play, which I like. You might look at some of your line breaks; I think you
could shift some for more vital effectivity.
kol tuv, Ryfkah
The Gathering of Turtles on the Bank of Moss Pond
Why can't they shut their minds,
cease the babble, the nonsense-
withdraw to their shells?
Turtle I : Jolie Plays Keep Away with her Pussy in the Corner
Aw, where did you come from
you cute little pussy? I always
wanted one to pet and feed. Do you
want to play with my finger
wrapped in string, take it from me?
Turtle II : The Artist Lost his Stroke
What? You want me to do that,
take the chance to fall
into shadows? Why? I'm beginning
to appreciate the white, blanch canvas.
Turtle III : Charlie Forgets to Visit Anna on her Bed
Charlie, where have you gone,
to the mountaintop, the jagged edge
to reveal the rules I should live by-
the rules that I cannot abstain from
breaking? Come back here, climb down
to where I am. Contemplate living
without the tablets, the freedom of not
swallowing the chalk pills that control
the rules.
Turtle IV : The Claustrophobic Breathes Nothing
I can't breathe the air
in here any longer, that taste
of nothing taken in, the exhale
of nothing. Realization that nothing outside
these walls tastes better, but at least I was
able to dip the spoon, gather the flavor.
Turtle V : He Knows We Watch, but Never Stops
Damn it. Always surrounded,
fucking assholes lick their wounds-
real and imagined- but never disappear.
Our bank of cots face one another,
lined up against the walls. I know
they see the sheet move, billow of air blow
up, then release. They notice wetness
cream whiteness of starch. No one used to
watch, never cared that I preferred clean-
shaven balls to the matt of mangled hair;
difficult to brush back, to fully see me.
Everyone knows how slow they are,
but also how persistent- never
stopping
their chatter, or the crawl deeper
into the water, or out from under these walls.
Turtle VI : Elvis Lives on in the Worship of Others, Wrongly
Come on Elvis, you know you didn't write
those songs, those number one hits that play
over the radio waves. You stole them from me
and it's time to pay up, give me what I am worth,
admit you're a fat fake and I should be the one
gyrating in the moonbeam. My lawyer says
you have no chance to win this case, so give
up, tell the masses that worship
you how false a god you are, tell them
I am the one, the one to follow and praise.
Turtle VII : A Poet Searches for Control of the Muse
I am
a poet.
A poet
I am.
The medication cannot survive
without me, cannot have reason
without me, cannot have control
without me, without me medication
will die and fail to fulfill the goal,
die and fail, die and fail, die
before it can gain control, be pissed
out in a yellow stream, too many
nutrients, too much nourishment.
I am control,
I am medication,
I am poet,
poet I am.
Turtle VIII : She's Only Forty, but Looks as if She Died Years Ago
No one to miss
me, everyone has gone,
left me here to wrinkle
like the white sheets-
daddy died years ago,
my husband buried when he signed
the papers, children believe the grave
news I crawled away,
dug a nest on a beach,
covered myself then attempted
to lay new eggs, to begin again-
to start the process of becoming
real, to find out who I am
and that I could not be their mother,
his wife or a part of the living.
I am here
and know who I am; alive.
Turtle VIII : One Day I Know George Will Walk, Maybe Talk
Stay still.
Stay where I can see
you in front of me, talk to me-
forget that I will not answer,
forget that I will not move
you with conversation, or shake
your hand for the attention.
Put your hands on me,
they heal you know,
they heal the moment, the moment
right now, the moment you heal
me with those nails
that you always pull out,
away from the skin, away
from someone who knows you
are here, but cannot find the words
or the movement to take
control of the moment.
Stay.
Turtle X : Misty Contemplates Swimming
How come we are placed
before the pond, olive moss growing,
oppressing the banks?
How are we to feel
the coolness of the depths,
the cleansing of the water?
How are we to escape
the void in here, to walk
through white walls-
let our feet moan beneath
the weight, be free among algae,
pebble-littered sand?
How do we go for a swim,
be immersed, baptized with air
not generated for our survival-
in here, behind glass and plaster?
Stop the madness of this race,
let them come to the fact, as I have-
our skin lacks thickness, hard plates
to protect what's within, we must eat
leafy foliage, chew the bitter root,
swallow the possibility we will never
molt enough to shed these shells
and swim naked outside our own walls.
Sirrus
In a message dated 03/14/2004 2:53:14 PM, [log in to unmask] writes:
<< <div style='background-color:'><DIV class=RTE>
Hello Ryfkah,
Hmmm..now you have me wondering, the e-mail came back to me fine. I hope it
is not messed up for everyone. I used plain text format to copy and paste.
Hmmm...again.
Thanks for the heads up.
Sirrus
</DIV>
<DIV></DIV>>From: Ryfkah * <[log in to unmask]>
<DIV></DIV>>Reply-To: The Pennine Poetry Works <[log in to unmask]>
<DIV></DIV>>To: [log in to unmask]
<DIV></DIV>>Subject: Re: New Sub: The Gathering of Turtles on the Bank of
Moss Pond
<DIV></DIV>>Date: Sun, 14 Mar 2004 16:57:43 EST
<DIV></DIV>>
<DIV></DIV>>Your poem came to me garbled; please try plain or simple text
next time.
<DIV></DIV>>
<DIV></DIV>>kol tuv (all that is good), Ryfkah
<DIV></DIV></div><br clear=all><hr> <A
HREF="http://g.msn.com/8HMBENUS/2752??PS=">Find things fast with the new MSN Toolbar – includes FREE pop-up blocking!
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