the Life and Times of Warrior Woman

blonde recluse. nihilarian pronk.

Posts Tagged ‘poetry

poem: preludes

leave a comment »

 

The winter evening settles down
With smell of steaks in passageways.
Six o’clock.
The burnt-out ends of smoky days.
And now a gusty shower wraps
The grimy scraps
Of withered leaves about your feet
And newspapers from vacant lots;
The showers beat
On broken blinds and chimneypots,
And at the corner of the street
A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps.
And then the lighting of the lamps.

II
The morning comes to consciousness
Of faint stale smells of beer
From the sawdust-trampled street
With all its muddy feet that press
To early coffee-stands.
With the other masquerades
That times resumes,
One thinks of all the hands
That are raising dingy shades
In a thousand furnished rooms.

III
You tossed a blanket from the bed
You lay upon your back, and waited;
You dozed, and watched the night revealing
The thousand sordid images
Of which your soul was constituted;
They flickered against the ceiling.
And when all the world came back
And the light crept up between the shutters
And you heard the sparrows in the gutters,
You had such a vision of the street
As the street hardly understands;
Sitting along the bed’s edge, where
You curled the papers from your hair,
Or clasped the yellow soles of feet
In the palms of both soiled hands.

IV
His soul stretched tight across the skies
That fade behind a city block,
Or trampled by insistent feet
At four and five and six o’clock;
And short square fingers stuffing pipes,
And evening newspapers, and eyes
Assured of certain certainties,
The conscience of a blackened street
Impatient to assume the world.
I am moved by fancies that are curled
Around these images, and cling:
The notion of some infinitely gentle
Infinitely suffering thing.
Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;
The worlds revolve like ancient women
Gathering fuel in vacant lots.

— T S Eliot

Written by Alexandra

4 October 2012 at 11:19 am

Posted in Uncategorized

Tagged with , ,

poetry of prompts.

leave a comment »

Many moons ago when I fancied myself a writer, I used to have a tonne of writing prompt gadgets on my iGoogle page.  Unfortunately, many of these gadgets are now gone, and I cannot remember the name of this particular one – but I want to share some of the prompts that it generated that I saved.  They read like poetry entirely on their own, thus creating complete visual image and story.  This makes them really bad prompts, but wonderful small pieces of writing.

Some of them make little sense as to time and place (“It is before the time of Christ or Buddha; a crowd is cheering, "vive la France!" is one example), but it doesn’t make them any less haunting.

I hope you’ll enjoy them as much as I did!

 

Tell of a spice trader in the orient

with a yearning to die.

A rainbow is nowhere to be seen;

a woman is hissing like a roasting lamb,

while the city of Athens burns.

.

A gaunt vagabond is begging change

with three spies dressed as nuns.

An old phonograph plays ragtime tunes;

a street urchin is selling stamps,

while the sound of bombs can be heard in the hills.

.

Imagine Penelope sewing a dress

with a broken mandolin.

A choirboy is singing a hymn;

a woman screams, "Ça y est! Ça y est!"

while a man in the shadows loads a rifle.

.

You are starving and miserable

in a fever of panic.

It is before the time of Christ or Buddha;

a crowd is cheering, "vive la France!"

while a woman covers her naked skin with a quilt.

.

A man is cheating on his wife

with a girl with eyes as slender as pearls.

The air is fragrant with hyacinth blossoms;

a man tiptoes past the closed door,

while the monks are drunk on wine.

.

Describe a princess and her chauffeur

with a loaded pistol.

Such pain only comes from wandering;

there is a pound of gold in a sleeping man’s bag

while a mother wonders about her forgotten son.

.

Tell of a spice trader in the orient

in a snow storm.

A train is leaving the station;

a woman screams, "Ça y est! Ça y est!"

while the children sing and play.

.

A cook is serving stale bread and tainted meat

with a basket of salamanders.

The moon travels over a soulless stretch of sand;

the world is falling apart,

while the king hides in the woods with a shameful secret.

.

Describe a game of Russian roulette

with two tramps licking cheese.

Watching the stream of traffic on the avenue,

a clairvoyant draws the hanged man,

while two children are lost in the street.

.

Describe Adam and Eve in an argument

with a humble family of corn farmers.

A gentle snow begins to fall;

a woman is hissing like a roasting lamb,

while a monk reads Ovid in his monastery cell.

.

You are sitting in a restaurant in Barcelona

with a wet rag.

The sky is of sweet buttered cream;

and we drink tea and eat cold apples,

while the king hides in the woods with a shameful secret.

.

Imagine a Nobel Prize winning writer

with a fresh flower coated in dew.

The sky is of sweet buttered cream;

a man tiptoes past the closed door,

while the executioner sharpens his sword.

.

A man is pawning stolen jewellery

with girls in white dresses.

Then evening comes to dim the vast wilderness;

two policemen enter,

while two children are lost in the street.

.

A clown escapes from the circus

with a wet rag.

Everything is plush velvet and satin;

a woman screams, "Ça y est! Ça y est!"

while the nurse enters with a sleeping pill.

.

You are at a bar in China Town

with a pouch of garlic and salt.

The clouds are swollen and yellow;

the nurses push blond babies in strollers,

while a servant wipes up the floor.

.

A dandy is strolling down the Nevsky Prospect

with a trunk filled with heroin.

Is it not great to be alive?..

a clairvoyant draws the hanged man,

while a woman weeps over things forever lost.

.

Imagine a man who has visions of ghosts

with a yearning to die.

The sky is of sweet buttered cream;

a baron walks in with a knife,

while the subway workers are on strike.

.

Describe Adam and Eve breaking up

with a wilted dandelion.

In the soft naivety of springtime noon,

you are kissing someone twice your age,

while a servant wipes up the floor.

.

The priest is healing all of the believers

with two lovers having a spat.

such love one has at times like these!..

swindlers are planning a heist,

while two children are lost in the street.

Written by Alexandra

27 September 2012 at 7:43 pm

for the men who still don’t get it, by carol diehl.

leave a comment »

I found this on tumblr some weeks ago, and thought that I’d share it here as well. There’s been some criticism of this being cissexist, and it may as well be (at least the line about menstruation is), but it still needs to be said. Warning: adult in nature.

What if all women were bigger and stronger than you? And thought they were smarter? What if women were the ones who started wars? What if too many of your friends had been raped by women wielding giant dildos and no K-Y Jelly? What if the state trooper who pulled you over on the New Jersey Turnpike was a woman and carried a gun? What if the ability to menstruate was the prerequisite for most high-paying jobs? What if your attractiveness to women depended on the size of your penis? What if every time women saw you they’d hoot and make jerking motions with their hands? What if women were always making jokes about how ugly penises are and how bad sperm tastes? What if you had to explain what’s wrong with your car to big sweaty women with greasy hands who stared at your crotch in a garage where you are surrounded by posters of naked men with hard-ons? What if men’s magazines featured cover photos of 14-year-old boys with socks tucked into the front of their jeans and articles like: “How to tell if your wife is unfaithful” or “What your doctor won’t tell you about your prostate” or “The truth about impotence”? What if the doctor who examined your prostate was a woman and called you “Honey”? What if you had to inhale your boss’ stale cigar breath as she insisted that sleeping with her was part of the job? What if you couldn’t get away because the company dress code required you wear shoes designed to keep you from running? And what if after all that women still wanted you to love them?

For the Men Who Still Don’t Get It, Carol Diehl

Found here (NSFW).

Written by Alexandra

26 September 2012 at 6:49 pm

poem: the naming of cats.

leave a comment »

I’m not big on poetry, but I’m an avid cat lady (there are seven of them in this household), so this particular poem by T.S. Eliot struck a chord.

The Naming of Cats is a difficult matter,
It isn’t just one of your holiday games;
You may think at first I’m as mad as a hatter
When I tell you, a cat must have THREE DIFFERENT NAMES.
First of all, there’s the name that the family use daily,
Such as Peter, Augustus, Alonzo or James,
Such as Victor or Jonathan, George or Bill Bailey–
All of them sensible everyday names.
There are fancier names if you think they sound sweeter,
Some for the gentlemen, some for the dames:
Such as Plato, Admetus, Electra, Demeter–
But all of them sensible everyday names.
But I tell you, a cat needs a name that’s particular,
A name that’s peculiar, and more dignified,
Else how can he keep up his tail perpendicular,
Or spread out his whiskers, or cherish his pride?
Of names of this kind, I can give you a quorum,
Such as Munkustrap, Quaxo, or Coricopat,
Such as Bombalurina, or else Jellylorum-
Names that never belong to more than one cat.
But above and beyond there’s still one name left over,
And that is the name that you never will guess;
The name that no human research can discover–
But THE CAT HIMSELF KNOWS, and will never confess.
When you notice a cat in profound meditation,
The reason, I tell you, is always the same:
His mind is engaged in a rapt contemplation
Of the thought, of the thought, of the thought of his name:
His ineffable effable
Effanineffable
Deep and inscrutable singular Name.

Written by Alexandra

18 June 2012 at 2:23 pm

Posted in Uncategorized

Tagged with , , ,