Err can a box be decalred a pocket? The only poem I’ve ever had published is in a box ready to go on a removalists truck
Cuttlefishsays
Here, Aliasalpha, that counts. Care to share?
Aliasalphasays
Well okay, I’ve got no idea how it was seen as good enough to publish. Frankly I wasn’t even writing poetry, I was zoning out during the poetry parts of one of my writing classes and ended up writing a vitriolic rant about a program I was developing instead.
Programmer
My digital better half refuses to appear
Her excuse is cryptic and unhelpful
“An unexpected error has occurred on line 306
Object Required: ‘First’”
I have created such a demanding girl
A capital O or the number 0
Makes little difference to most of us
But to her it is the end of the world
Like a spoiled soprano she will NOT work under these conditions
Will not even make an appearance to tell me what I should do
Just this never ending stream of esoteric notes
Telling me to look on line 306
But she really means the end of line 305
She’s far too impressive to dismiss
In fact she is essential to my construct of smoke and mirrors
And as a result to my self esteem and future
It’s just that she can be such a fucking BITCH!
lafranceprofondesays
A poem for a freethinker’s pocket
A. Swinburne 1837-1909
None hath beheld him, none
Seen above other gods and shapes of things,
Swift without feet and flying without wings,
Intolerable, not clad with death or life,
lafranceprofondesays
A poem for a freethinker’s pocket
A. Swinburne 1837-1909
None hath beheld him, none
Seen above other gods and shapes of things,
Swift without feet and flying without wings,
Intolerable, not clad with death or life,
Insatiable, not known of night or day,
The lord of love and bathing and of strife
Who gives a star and takes a sun away;
Who shapes the soul, and makes her a barren wife
To the earthly body and grievous growth of clay;
Who turns the large limbs to a little flame
And binds the great sea with a little sand;
Who makes desire, and slays desire with shame;
Who shakes the heaven as ashes in his hand;
Who, seeing the light and shadow for the same,
Bids day waste night as fire devours a brand,
Smites without sword, and scourges without rod;
The supreme evil, God.
Err can a box be decalred a pocket? The only poem I’ve ever had published is in a box ready to go on a removalists truck
Here, Aliasalpha, that counts. Care to share?
Well okay, I’ve got no idea how it was seen as good enough to publish. Frankly I wasn’t even writing poetry, I was zoning out during the poetry parts of one of my writing classes and ended up writing a vitriolic rant about a program I was developing instead.
A poem for a freethinker’s pocket
A. Swinburne 1837-1909
None hath beheld him, none
Seen above other gods and shapes of things,
Swift without feet and flying without wings,
Intolerable, not clad with death or life,
A poem for a freethinker’s pocket
A. Swinburne 1837-1909
None hath beheld him, none
Seen above other gods and shapes of things,
Swift without feet and flying without wings,
Intolerable, not clad with death or life,
Insatiable, not known of night or day,
The lord of love and bathing and of strife
Who gives a star and takes a sun away;
Who shapes the soul, and makes her a barren wife
To the earthly body and grievous growth of clay;
Who turns the large limbs to a little flame
And binds the great sea with a little sand;
Who makes desire, and slays desire with shame;
Who shakes the heaven as ashes in his hand;
Who, seeing the light and shadow for the same,
Bids day waste night as fire devours a brand,
Smites without sword, and scourges without rod;
The supreme evil, God.