I read ALT's "Type A Love" and this I let go - nowhere near as good as hers but fun none-the-less.
Type B Love
If only I had some,
You see everything's a mess
Boxes scattered and stacked,
Some even half open unable to close.
If only I could make my orderly list
But there's a conspiracy of this must flow first,
then you may plan
But my fingers itch and my heart palpitates.
The uneasiness of just let it be
What if something gets forgotten
Or is left undone,
the consequences of not getting it just right.
We are all still works of art in progress.
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8 comments:
My limited experience has suggested to me that the best love is the messy kind. In this way, I think your poem is a little truer.
Don’t sweat the jazz thing. You’re just a rock ‘n roll girl in a muzak sort of world. :-d
lol - love you too alt, and thank you
You two are so good at expressing this subject. I've been in/done/experienced both the types of love situations you two describe. Thanks for bringing me food for thought.
Lee
TYPE O NEGATIVE LOVE
Shall I compare thee to a Donor's blood?
Thou art more gushing, quick with sweet-tongued praise.
Rough pricks would stick my thirsty veins with crud.
Uncomely RH--'twould poison my days.
So long as O can flow, happy's my IV!
So long lives O, and O! gives life to me!
san: thank you for sharing your poetry.
I absolutely love San's poem. It reminds me of a poem I read in a collection by students from Palo Alto College 2002. It was a contest and the poem won second place. I think it is worth sharing so while it isn't exactly along the lines of love it does refer to some of the things San did. Warning, it is very graphic so I hope it doesn't squick anyone out. Here you go:
How to Resurrect a Cliche
by Lindsey Haak
Step 1: Pick a cliche
Example: She tore my heart out
Step 2: Read this poem.
Step 3: Elaborate
Example:
Hooking fingers in my ribs
A psycho surgeon
Throws open the curtains of my chest
Wrenches my sternum aside
And seizes my unsuspecting heart
Rhythmically it pulses against her fingers
Like the throat of a lovesick bullfrog
She yanks it from its moorings
The trap door of my chest springs shut
Behind her violent hand
Stretch then snap
Like broken bungee chords
Making wet thwacking noises
As they slap my chest
And then slip back
Through the oozing crevice
Like slurped spaghetti
My heart flops open
A leaky water bottle without a cap
Relentlessly she squeezes it flat
Then throws it to the ground
Grinds it beneath her heal
And leaves it lying there
A wet plastic baggie
Full of squashed strawberries
Totally abandoned
With tiny pools of sweet red juice
Resting in its rumpled crevices
Step 4: Voila!
lee: thank you for sharing Lindsey Haak's "How to Resurrect a Cliche" :-)
Lee, how very cool that my paltry little parody of Shakespeare reminded you of the ribcage piece. Since I was trying to stay in iambic pentameter--damnably difficult--mine is really flat, and short, but it was fun to do.
The Haak piece is exciting. And of course I enjoyed jsd and alt's pieces. They got this whole thing started and led to Murat's trailer park ditty. What a loopy group!
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