Muse, don't die

[Bombadil]

Like the softness of an instant,
a strand of hair grazing my hand
on your pillow, rising to leave,
you are heaven below the stars—

Venus born from sea unto sand—
a goddess in lust,
the world in your hand
and the angels at your feet.

Skin aglow with a visceral youth,
but years ago—
long ago that was,
and yet you outstand
time in my mind.

Your beauty; the curved glass,
spilling out grains of age across my face,
quitting herself from Time’s ugly abuse—
preserving all fineness as my years pass.

Your memory won’t suffer age’s disgrace—
you’re timeless, unfading—my only muse.

[POLYLOGICK]

Very nice piece here, AS. Reworking the third stanza would make this even better, I think. Perhaps:

Skin aglow with ardent youth--
long ago that was
and yet you outstand
time in my mind.

Just tossin' in my two cents...

[Bombadil]

Hmmm....I thought about what you said all day yesterday, in between actually working...and last night before bed, I think, this came to me: I wanted to keep the repetitive "but years ago—long ago that was," for the sake of forcing reminiscence (as well as for rhythym), but I didn't like the words "a visceral". So I thought...the dig of the poem would be lost if I knocked out a syllable...mustn't do that...what about "with impassioned youth" or "a sacrosanct truth?" Without the fourth syllable...all would be lost. Thanks for making me step back and think. Too often these little buggers pop out into print in twenty minutes or less and not a second look is granted them...Good thoughts.

--A.S.

[Bombadil]

and a funny little bastard I am indeed...

[camus]

you should have added:

I pondered your poem, delved through your psyche, ruffled your posts and appeared like a dog, wagging my tail at my masters side, yes i love you unconditionally.

only kidding.

You're great. Are you a little bastard? I'm 5ft 8 and that pisses me off, my partner says its average, but its not really, I'm Napoleonised.

[Bombadil]

Being the same height as you, I suppose I could claim to be Napoleonised as well. So perhaps we are indeed average... Not knowing my biological father was until I was 19 takes care of the bastard part...

I have delved your psyche, ruffled your posts and managed (with great difficulty and a now pinched neck) to lick my own balls and I have a question for you, Camus:

Is there any point in pointing out life's pointlessness (however poignantly)?

Hehehe...

And yes I love you...but only if you continue to put out.

"Give me the fodder for my oblivion gun!"
"What gun?"
"The one that rids us of all this fodder!"

[camus]

well A.S.

I still don't know mine, so that makes me a supreme bastard. I'm guessing he was a bit of a twat though.

[Bombadil]

Bastard brothers unite!

What say you on the question of pointlessness mein Herr?

I like the way you use the word twat, its not very common state side...perhaps Bob Dylan is your daddy...I seem to remember you calling him thusly.

Quite a poetic lineage you have there, Camus, poetic if not a bit tone-deaf...

[camus]

The pointlessness question is a good one, I suppose ultimately everything leads to a point, which is death. We are constantly shifting the goal posts toward the inevitable, so even the seemingly pointless things we do are done for some reason or other. So I guess from that statement I don't actually believe in pointlessness. Although if you do,then please go ahead and stream forth, I guess pointlessness can be highly amusing.

[Bombadil]

I do not actually believe that life is pointless, I simply wondered if you did. Much of your work seems to have a certain nihilistic quality to it, a tone that seems to beg for meaning from the meaningless, and then scorn or mock it (for the lack thereof)... Just made me curious.

[camus]

I see what you mean,

Yeh I often can be heard pissing and moaning using phrases such as "This is pointless" I can't help but see the darker side of life.

[Bombadil]

Welcome to the dark side, then. And remembering: pissing and moaning is much better than pissing and missing.

[Bombadil]

Camus,

Incidentally...the question was predicated on life being pointless...then asking if there was any point (after accepting that life hasn't any tangible point) in pointing it out...

Not to be duplicious, but I suppose I fibbed earlier...I believe that life has no definitive point, save those we make for it. Perhaps the best examples of my thought strain are these:

"Vanity of vanities, all is vanity." --Ecclesiastes 1


"So I saw that there is nothing better for a man than to enjoy his work, because that is his lot. For who can bring him to see what will happen after him?" --Ecclesiastes 3

[The Moose]

There are two things perhaps to get out of the way first:

First: Does anyone know what the joke is? And a subtext of that would be to ask, then, if anyone truly cares about the joke?

I'll hazard some guesses.

The joke probably is this: Swordy wrote himself a sonnet here, but passed it off as something else, probably because someone accused him of being stuck on form (which he is, I've been saying so for years). He sees this as humorous, probably because he's the bastard son of someone like Andy Kaufman, who may have been mentally ill and was certainly unbalanced. Swordy assumed that, should this poem be praised as good free verse, this would make the joke all the more entertaining. He also assumed that no one would try counting out the pentameter. Chuckle chuckle. Anyone else peeved?

Second: "Is there any point in pointing out life's pointlessness (however poignantly)?" The answer may lie in the question, but how pompous are you for the asking? Life may have no explicit point, only those to which we have chosen to give explicit meaning. Its a cocksure question, however cerebral.

At last we come to the poem itself: It works well, but it is better in its true form...that of a sonnet. You're better off not trying to trick people, my friend, someone eventually will find you out.