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Post by booklady on Dec 29, 2006 20:01:58 GMT -5
No, the 19th Century French poet.
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Post by joew on Dec 29, 2006 20:06:14 GMT -5
Yeah, that's the guy whom they honored by giving his name to the hero. ( ;D ) BTW, congrats on snagging another top of page, since it seems to mean so much to you.
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Post by booklady on Dec 29, 2006 20:08:07 GMT -5
The original was quite a wild one, I'm discovering.
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Post by slb2 on Jan 16, 2007 13:11:49 GMT -5
Tupelo Diner
Wait till you hear what Ruby Perlman did last night. What in tarnation she be thinking, I do not know. We was working the second shift at Woolworth’s and that girl, she stands behind the lunch counter serving the whole Crider family dessert. I think it was them little lemon custards with a dollop of whipped cream on top and a sprinklin of cinnamon. Looked just like what Miss Margaret served on TV last Sunday night. You know the one I’m saying, that new show with Jane Wyatt and Robert Young.
So’s anyway, Miss Ruby she pours coffee for the Mister and Missus gives ‘em cream, sugar lumps, whatever blessed thing they ask for. One of them Crider twins split his milk and the baby emptied a salt shaker on the floor, but that ain’t what set Ruby off.
Mr. Crider, he stands up and the whole family they leave. Eunice, that oughta be Mz Crider, now don’t you be telling her I using her Christian name, she tells Mr. Crider to leave a tip or sumptin, seeing as they left a mess, what with taters ‘n gravy slopped down the high chair and that bratty Betty shoving perfectly good black beans in all the clean straws.
So’s anyway, Mr. Crider, he looks at Ruby and grunts, then he gives his oldest boy a penny and tells him to leave it on the table.
Avis, that boy, he drops the coin in a glass of water and says with snakes in his eyes, “here ya go, nigger.”
Ruby-- she jes stands there looking at Avis, then she grabs the water glass and hustles over, her middle portion jiggling, squeezin’ her body in the doorframe, so’s Mz Crider can’t get round her.
Ruby’s bosom was a heavin’. She gets all panting, with her tongue flicking drops of sweat off her lip. Then she says, just like that, she says, “Mr. Crider, if’n you cain’t leave me more tip than one lousy cent, then I don’t want your money or your business!”
‘n she takes that glass of water an pours it over Mr. Crider’s head. And she takes that coin, pressing it on his greasy brow so’s the picture of Abraham Lincoln near branded on his forehead like he a bawlin’ calf. Not that it’ll do any good, but still, she done it. She did.
I swear, when they drug Miss Ruby off all 'cuffed and bound them cops prolly thinking Ruby gone dug her own grave.
But you mark my words, now. That Miss Ruby Perlman… some day she gonna fly.
--Susan Budig
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Post by brutus on Jan 16, 2007 13:29:35 GMT -5
slb, I don't see any credits listen after your poem. Is that of your own composition?? It's a very powerful poem. ~B~
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Post by slb2 on Jan 16, 2007 13:44:32 GMT -5
Hey cowboy, dancing over here to some incredibly HOT New Orleans tunes (not even Cajun), thinking of you as I shimmy. Yeah, the poem's mine. I'll amend it. And thanks. I think I posted over at the old site, but you know how that went.
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Post by brutus on Jan 16, 2007 17:25:26 GMT -5
Hey cowboy, dancing over here to some incredibly HOT New Orleans tunes (not even Cajun), thinking of you as I shimmy. Yeah, the poem's mine. I'll amend it. And thanks. I think I posted over at the old site, but you know how that went. Yah, it vent......POOF!!!! ~B~
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Post by hartlikeawheel on Jan 16, 2007 18:48:03 GMT -5
You betcha, ~B~.
Suze? I was right there. Thanks.
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Post by Gracie on Jan 16, 2007 20:04:04 GMT -5
SLB, that is a powerful piece of work. I'm not easily impressed by unknown poets, but yes ma'am, you're much too talented to be unknown.
Do you believe in divine synchronicity? Because I just finished reading "What You Owe Me." The wonderful, talented Bebe Moore Campbell died last month MUCH too young and it made me want to read and re-read all of her work (and dying in her fifties that list is far too short.)
I swear the wonderful characters of Hosanna and Gilda....well....this poem could've come from Miss Campbell's book(s.) And considering that she won an NAACP award for "Your Blues Ain't Like Mine" (a novel based on the Emmett Till story) I hope you know that this is a compliment of highest order--and it is equally highly deserved.
I exalt you!
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Post by juliastar on Jan 16, 2007 20:35:16 GMT -5
So many people to exalt and so little time!
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Post by joew on Jan 16, 2007 22:04:04 GMT -5
Great poem, slb2.
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Post by mike on Jan 17, 2007 4:52:07 GMT -5
Lawdy Mizz SueZee... Ya shore do shine at poem time.
Pure insperation!
Lovin' it darlin', Mike
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Post by mike on Jan 17, 2007 6:46:18 GMT -5
"A poem by a rat"
I held the letter in my hand I wrote it on my computer Could have sent it e-mail To my soon to be be, ex gal pal But I was trying to be a class act I can be like that
I prepared the envelope A sheet of address labels I made them myself on my PC To and from, so easy to come , I need a stamp When was the last time I sent a letter? I wish I felt better
Who's really who, paper e-mail, that's new? I'm dumping her before she dumps me Life was so simple before we fell in love But, one thing bothers me I see Because She gave her love to me, so free I'm such a rat
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Post by Trusty on Jan 17, 2007 10:28:03 GMT -5
Yeah, the poem's mine. I'll amend it. And thanks. I think I posted over at the old site, but you know how that went. I extremely honored that you posted it here. Thank you; I had not seen it before.
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Post by slb2 on Jan 17, 2007 14:06:28 GMT -5
Y'all are sure bolsters to my ego. Merci beaucoup, mes amis! but Mike, are you trying to tell me something!
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Post by mike on Jan 17, 2007 15:16:38 GMT -5
but Mike, are you trying to tell me something! No, not at all. The idea for my poem popped into my head when I overheard a snippet of conversation between a couple of guys at work yesterday. I'm still crazy about you!
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Post by hartlikeawheel on Jan 17, 2007 20:22:52 GMT -5
Sheesh. I get so danged jealous. . .
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Post by booklady on Jan 17, 2007 21:39:40 GMT -5
slb, I haven't chimed in with praise for your poem but I will now.
You are extraordinary, my friend.
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Post by booklady on Jan 29, 2007 20:57:04 GMT -5
The guy for whom Stallone's soldier character is named? The mind is a fabulous, fantastic, exciting, thrilling thing!! Point number one: I was listening to Dylan's "Blood on the Tracks" this morning on my way to work, and noticed his reference to "Verlaine and Rimbaud" in a song: Situations have ended sad, Relationships have all been bad. Mine've been like Verlaine's and Rimbaud. But there's no way I can compare All those scenes to this affair, Yer gonna make me lonesome when you go.I don't think I ever noticed it before, not enough to remark to myself upon anyway, and I had never fully thought about the pronunciation of "Rimbaud." In my head, even though I can speak some French, I'd always heard the first syllable as "Rim" not "Ram." Point number two: flash forward 13 hours, and I'm cleaning up the kitchen before climbing into bed with a book. All of a sudden, I remember what Joe wrote about the Stallone character, "Rambo," and I finally get it. OUT OF THE BLUE!!! Yes, it's true that I was dumb for weeks........but eventually the light came on. I'm stoked. Man, I love it when that happens.
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Post by slb2 on Jan 29, 2007 21:33:16 GMT -5
Stoke me, baby, cuz I still don't get it.
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Post by joew on Jan 29, 2007 22:49:38 GMT -5
The closest approximation to a phonetic spelling of Rimbaud's name — using letters as they sound in English, not the international phonetic system — would probably be "ram-BO."
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Post by slb2 on Jan 30, 2007 0:24:35 GMT -5
joew, are you trying to explain it to me? Or something else?
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Post by SeattleDan on Jan 30, 2007 0:28:35 GMT -5
I love the way Dylan pronounces "Delacroix' on 'Blood on the Tracks'. The line about Verlaine and Rimbaud is great if you know what the relationship was like between Verlaine and Rimbaud. No one remembers Verlaine's poetry. Rimbaud's " A Season in Hell" and "Drunken Boat" still are read and recited. Enid Starkie's biography of Rimbaud is highly recommended, not only as a portrait of the poet, but also as a history of French literary history from the late 19th century.
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Post by mike on Jan 30, 2007 4:40:27 GMT -5
Stoke me, baby, cuz I still don't get it. When I have the time, I'll write a song and that will be the opening line, as well as the title. It'll be a real smoky, jazzy, sexy, sexy number. People will listen to this song and get ideas... yes, those kind of ideas. It'll be the kind of number that Paul Desmond would play, Frank Sinatra would sing, and someone like Slb2 and I would listen to while curled up in front of a fire (we're sipping martinis, cloths are optional, lights are very low). Anyway, that's what I'm thinking.
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Post by booklady on Jan 30, 2007 5:48:42 GMT -5
I love the way Dylan pronounces "Delacroix' on 'Blood on the Tracks'. The line about Verlaine and Rimbaud is great if you know what the relationship was like between Verlaine and Rimbaud. No one remembers Verlaine's poetry. Rimbaud's " A Season in Hell" and "Drunken Boat" still are read and recited. Enid Starkie's biography of Rimbaud is highly recommended, not only as a portrait of the poet, but also as a history of French literary history from the late 19th century. Danno, me too on the "Delacroix" thing! Love to sing along on that line. I wonder how many people went looking to find out about Verlaine and Rimbaud because they heard Dylan singing about them. I don't think I ever would have heard of them otherwise.
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Post by mike on Jan 30, 2007 6:18:21 GMT -5
Fresh cut roses Goats milk cheese Mocha coffee I'm weak in the knees
Lemon dill salmon Merlot wine A starry night 'til forever be mine
The tide is the same Come east or come west The moon shines blue Reflecting my unrest
Yet, through it all In the hot afternoon A Latin illusion Is a love that's in tune
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Post by mike on Jan 31, 2007 4:32:32 GMT -5
First draft:
Stoke me, baby, cuz I still don't get it Don't cliche me with your ten cent terms Put your filthy lucre where your fresh mouth, Is talking Otherwise take flight you moonlit bird
I was walking the asphalt brick road Before Dorthy knew her ruby from her red When you swing the door wide open The lights may be on, But you're not spinning in my head
I grew up harder than a row house cockroach Stepping on me will only hurt your foot The one who makes it past my, Yonder window Will know the pleasures of staying put
I know, it needs a lot of work.
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Post by Tillie on Feb 1, 2007 14:40:50 GMT -5
'This mad carnival of loving, This wild orgy of the flesh, Ends at last and we two, sobered, Look at one another, yawning.
Emptied the inflaming cup That was filled with sensuous potions, Foaming, almost running over-- Emptied is the flaming cup.
All the violins are silent That impelled our feet to dancing, To the giddy dance of passion-- Silent are the violins.
All the lanterns now are darkened That once poured their streaming brilliance On the masquerades and murmurs-- Darkened now all the lanterns.'
The Mad Carnival of Loving by Heinrich Heine 1799-1856
Translated by: Louis Untermeyer
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Post by slb2 on Feb 2, 2007 8:03:49 GMT -5
First draft: Stoke me, baby, cuz I still don't get it Don't cliche me with your ten cent terms Put your filthy lucre where your fresh mouth, Is talking Otherwise take flight you moonlit bird I was walking the asphalt brick road Before Dorthy knew her ruby from her red When you swing the door wide open The lights may be on, But you're not spinning in my head I grew up harder than a row house cockroach Stepping on me will only hurt your foot The one who makes it past my, Yonder window Will know the pleasures of staying put I know, it needs a lot of work. Mike, one of your strengths is your keen attention to rhythm and rhyme. For me, I have a harder time getting to that point in a poem, so it's hard for me to tweak those details once they are there. Personally, I'm not the best at revision. I generally like to let stuff simmer inside my head and then when it's ready, it comes out close to it's final form. I notice that you used that line of mine. I remember telling the other forum that I liked a line used in a del McCoury song, five flat stones at the bottom of the river bed or something like that. gk said she was looking forward to seeing that poem. As you can see, it hasn't materialized. Still brewing, I guess. My point Mike, it that you didn't make us wait into a stupor (as I have) until you used that line. modified for clarity
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Post by mike on Feb 3, 2007 14:45:32 GMT -5
First draft: Stoke me, baby, cuz I still don't get it Don't cliche me with your ten cent terms Put your filthy lucre where your fresh mouth, Is talking Otherwise take flight you moonlit bird I was walking the asphalt brick road Before Dorthy knew her ruby from her red When you swing the door wide open The lights may be on, But you're not spinning in my head I grew up harder than a row house cockroach Stepping on me will only hurt your foot The one who makes it past my, Yonder window Will know the pleasures of staying put I know, it needs a lot of work. Mike, one of your strengths is your keen attention to rhythm and rhyme. For me, I have a harder time getting to that point in a poem, so it's hard for me to tweak those details once they are there. Personally, I'm not the best at revision. I generally like to let stuff simmer inside my head and then when it's ready, it comes out close to it's final form. I notice that you used that line of mine. I remember telling the other forum that I liked a line used in a del McCoury song, five flat stones at the bottom of the river bed or something like that. gk said she was looking forward to seeing that poem. As you can see, it hasn't materialized. Still brewing, I guess. My point Mike, it that you didn't make us wait into a stupor (as I have) until you used that line. modified for clarity Hi Slb2, thanks for taking notice. For me, poetry is merely lyrics without the music. The objective with either a poem or a song is to tell the fullest story with the least amount of words; to evoke a life time of images and emotions with a simple phrase. I get great satisfaction painting pictures using only the primary colors. In other words, the more one restricts one's self, the freer one is. Who said, one is the loneliest number that you'll ever see? That person never spent time with a single rose. Just because the tea kettle doesn't whistle, It dosen't mean that the water within isn't boiling Hence the poet, continues toiling Toil on! Mike
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