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The Poet's Corner
1 year ago
I Went into the Maverick Bar

By Gary Snyder


I went into the Maverick Bar   
In Farmington, New Mexico.
And drank double shots of bourbon
                         backed with beer.
My long hair was tucked up under a cap
I’d left the earring in the car.

Two cowboys did horseplay
                         by the pool tables,
A waitress asked us
                         where are you from?
a country-and-western band began to play   
“We don’t smoke Marijuana in Muskokie”   
And with the next song,
                         a couple began to dance.

They held each other like in High School dances   
                         in the fifties;
I recalled when I worked in the woods
                         and the bars of Madras, Oregon.   
That short-haired joy and roughness—
                         America—your stupidity.   
I could almost love you again.

We left—onto the freeway shoulders—
                         under the tough old stars—
In the shadow of bluffs
                         I came back to myself,
To the real work, to
                         “What is to be done.”
1 year ago

CIA Dope Calypso

In nineteen hundred forty-nine
China was won by Mao Tse-tung
Chiang Kai Shek's army ran away
They were waiting there in Thailand yesterday

Supported by the CIA

Pushing junk down Thailand way

First they stole from the Meo Tribes
Up in the hills they started taking bribes
Then they sent their soldiers up to Shan
Collecting opium to send to The Man

Pushing junk in Bangkok yesterday
Supported by the CIA

Brought their jam on mule trains down
To Chiang Mai that's a railroad town
Sold it next to the police chief's brain
He took it to town on the choochoo train
Trafficking dope to Bangkok all day
Supported by the CIA

The policeman's name was Mr. Phao
He peddled dope grand scale and how
Chief of border customs paid
By Central Intelligence's U.S. aid

The whole operation, Newspapers say
Supported by the CIA

He got so sloppy and peddled so loose
He busted himself and cooked his own goose
Took the reward for the opium load
Seizing his own haul which same he resold

Big time pusher for a decade turned grey
Working for the CIA

Touby Lyfong he worked for the French
A big fat man liked to dine & wench
Prince of the Meos he grew black mud
Till opium flowed through the land like a flood

Communists came and chased the French away
So Touby took a job with the CIA

The whole operation fell in to chaos
Till U.S. intelligence came in to Laos

Mary Azarian/Matt Wuerker I'll tell you no lie I'm a true American
Our big pusher there was Phoumi Nosavan

All them Princes in a power play
But Phoumi was the man for the CIA

And his best friend General Vang Pao
Ran the Meo army like a sacred cow
Helicopter smugglers filled Long Cheng's bars
In Xieng Quang province on the Plain of Jars

It started in secret they were fighting yesterday
Clandestine secret army of the CIA

All through the Sixties the dope flew free
Thru Tan Son Nhut Saigon to Marshall Ky
Air America followed through
Transporting comfiture for President Thieu

All these Dealers were decades and yesterday
The Indochinese mob of the U.S. CIA

Operation Haylift Offisir Wm Colby
Saw Marshall Ky fly opium Mr. Mustard told me
Indochina desk he was Chief of Dirty Tricks
"Hitch-hiking" with dope pushers was how he got his fix

Subsidizing the traffickers to drive the Reds away
Till Colby was the head of the CIA

Allen Ginsberg

1 year ago

THE GRASS DANCES AS THE WIND BLOWS THROUGH
AS I START DOWN THE PATH
I WANT TO DANCE TOO
I MOVE AS THE GRASS DOES
WITH THE RHYTHM AND SONG
THAT THE WIND IS PLAYING
AND I SING ALONG

A WARNING THUNDER RUMBLE
I HEAR FAR AWAY
BUT FOR NOW I WILL DANCE
NOT LET IT RUIN MY DAY
I WILL DEAL WITH THE STORM
IN MY TIME AND MY WAY
BUT FOR NOW I WILL DANCE
FOR NOW I WILL STAY

AND AS THE STORM COMES
AND THE SONG CHANGES
THE GRASS IS NOW FRANTIC
OF THE ONCOMING DANGER
TRYING DESPERATELY TO FLY AWAY
AS THE WIND'S SONG CHANGES

IF I HAD WINGS
I COULD FLY AWAY TOO
LIKE THE BIRDS AND THE BUTTERFLIES
I COULD COME TOO
BUT WHERE CAN I GO
AS BABYLON COMES
I FALL ON MY FACE
CALL THE ALMIGHTY ONE

TO CARRESS ME,PROTECT ME
THROUGH BABYLON'S STORM
PROTECT ME FROM EVIL
AND KEEP MY HEART WARM
SO I AM NO COLD HEARTED
LIKE DA BABYLON MAN
ALMIGHTY PROTECTS"WHOSOEVER WILL"
IF YOU JUST TAKE HIS HAND

AND AS THE STORM BATTERS
REMEMBER WHO YOU ARE
DO NOT LOSE HOPE
WHEN YOU CAN'T FOLLOW YOUR STAR
THE STORM WON'T LAST FOREVER
IT WILL GO SOMEDAY
REMEMBER THAT THINGS WILL NOT
ALWAYS BE THIS WAY

(Justice K. Mcintosh)

1 year ago

Louis Alemayehu is a poet who resides in Minneapolis. Check this out..



1 year ago

...I love poetry as a way to express what's inside,literally or metaphoricallt,whether what is inside is positive or negative,it needs to come out.
...Music is the same......

1 year ago

In honor of Charles Bukowski's 93'rd birthday.

so you want to be a writer?   by Charles Bukowski
if it doesn't come bursting out of you in spite of everything, don't do it. unless it comes unasked out of your heart and your mind and your mouth and your gut, don't do it. if you have to sit for hours staring at your computer screen or hunched over your typewriter searching for words, don't do it. if you're doing it for money or fame, don't do it. if you're doing it because you want women in your bed, don't do it. if you have to sit there and rewrite it again and again, don't do it. if it's hard work just thinking about doing it, don't do it. if you're trying to write like somebody else, forget about it. if you have to wait for it to roar out of you, then wait patiently. if it never does roar out of you, do something else. if you first have to read it to your wife or your girlfriend or your boyfriend or your parents or to anybody at all, you're not ready. don't be like so many writers, don't be like so many thousands of people who call themselves writers, don't be dull and boring and pretentious, don't be consumed with self- love. the libraries of the world have yawned themselves to sleep over your kind. don't add to that. don't do it. unless it comes out of your soul like a rocket, unless being still would drive you to madness or suicide or murder, don't do it. unless the sun inside you is burning your gut, don't do it. when it is truly time, and if you have been chosen, it will do it by itself and it will keep on doing it until you die or it dies in you. there is no other way. and there never was. - See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/16549#sthash.1fBluLZT.dpuf

.

so you want to be a writer?   by Charles Bukowski
if it doesn't come bursting out of you in spite of everything, don't do it. unless it comes unasked out of your heart and your mind and your mouth and your gut, don't do it. if you have to sit for hours staring at your computer screen or hunched over your typewriter searching for words, don't do it. if you're doing it for money or fame, don't do it. if you're doing it because you want women in your bed, don't do it. if you have to sit there and rewrite it again and again, don't do it. if it's hard work just thinking about doing it, don't do it. if you're trying to write like somebody else, forget about it. if you have to wait for it to roar out of you, then wait patiently. if it never does roar out of you, do something else. if you first have to read it to your wife or your girlfriend or your boyfriend or your parents or to anybody at all, you're not ready. don't be like so many writers, don't be like so many thousands of people who call themselves writers, don't be dull and boring and pretentious, don't be consumed with self- love. the libraries of the world have yawned themselves to sleep over your kind. don't add to that. don't do it. unless it comes out of your soul like a rocket, unless being still would drive you to madness or suicide or murder, don't do it. unless the sun inside you is burning your gut, don't do it. when it is truly time, and if you have been chosen, it will do it by itself and it will keep on doing it until you die or it dies in you. there is no other way. and there never was. - See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/16549#sthash.1fBluLZT.dpuf

So You Want To Be A Writer

if it doesn't come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don't do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don't do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don't do it.
if you're doing it for money or
fame,
don't do it.
if you're doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don't do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don't do it.
if it's hard work just thinking about doing it,
don't do it.
if you're trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.
if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you're not ready.

don't be like so many writers,
don't be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don't be dull and boring and
pretentious, don't be consumed with self-
love.
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
don't add to that.
don't do it.

1 year ago

..unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don't do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don't do it.

when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.

© Charles Bukowski. All rights reserved

1 year ago

Ozymandias
11 months ago

. I MET a Traveler from an antique land,
    Who said, "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
    Stand in the desart. Near them, on the sand,
    Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
    And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
    Tell that its sculptor well those passions read,
    Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
    The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed:
    And on the pedestal these words appear:
    "My name is OZYMANDIAS, King of Kings."
    Look on my works ye Mighty, and despair!
    No thing beside remains. Round the decay
    Of that Colossal Wreck, boundless and bare,
    The lone and level sands stretch far away.

Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822)

Ozymandias

..

3 weeks ago

Benjamin Zephaniah is one of my favorite poets!

Dis poetry is like a riddim dat drops 
De tongue fires a riddim dat shoots like shots 
Dis poetry is designed fe rantin 
Dance hall style, big mouth chanting, 
Dis poetry nar put yu to sleep 
Preaching follow me 


Like yu is blind sheep, 
Dis poetry is not Party Political 
Not designed fe dose who are critical. 
Dis poetry is wid me when I gu to me bed 
It gets into me dreadlocks 
It lingers around me head 


Dis poetry goes wid me as I pedal me bike 
IÕve tried Shakespeare, respect due dere 
But did is de stuff I like. 

Dis poetry is not afraid of going ina book 
Still dis poetry need ears fe hear an eyes fe hav a look 
Dis poetry is Verbal Riddim, no big words involved 
An if I hav a problem de riddim gets it solved, 
IÕve tried to be more romantic, it does nu good for me 
So I tek a Reggae Riddim an build me poetry, 
I could try be more personal 


But youÕve heard it all before, 
Pages of written words not needed 
Brain has many words in store, 
Yu could call dis poetry Dub Ranting 
De tongue plays a beat 
De body starts skanking, 
Dis poetry is quick an childish 
Dis poetry is fe de wise an foolish, 
Anybody can do it fe free, 
Dis poetry is fe yu an me, 
DonÕt stretch yu imagination 
Dis poetry is fe de good of de Nation, 
Chant, 
In de morning 
I chant 
In de night 
I chant 
In de darkness 
An under de spotlight, 
I pass thru University 
I pass thru Sociology 
An den I got a dread degree 
In Dreadfull Ghettology. 

Dis poetry stays wid me when I run or walk 
An when I am talking to meself in poetry I talk, 
Dis poetry is wid me, 
Below me an above, 
Dis poetry's from inside me 
It goes to yu 
WID LUV. 

7 hrs ago
For the Children

by Gary Snyder

The rising hills, the slopes,
of statistics
lie before us,
the steep climb
of everything, going up,
up, as we all
go down.

In the next century
or the one beyond that,
they say,
are valleys, pastures,
we can meet there in peace
if we make it.

To climb these coming crests
one word to you, to
you and your children:

stay together
learn the flowers
go light