"You've found your Voice,
friend, after all else
I recognize fast the
Strong sure tones of
a poet
was it a question
search or of strangling?
I wonder
We never talked
But welcome here
to the camp fire
Share our meal
w/us
& tell us of your life
& the hanging..."

--Jim Morrison from Wilderness: The Writings of Jim Morrison

Let this be a refuge for the lovers of literature among us, those who find light in old books, those who dance to new tunes.

Let us share thoughts and interpretations, songs, poems, and other writings. Let us venture shyly to offer a little of our own.

Flowers never won my heart, nor chocolates, nor shining gems, but words spoken low around the fire draw me in and I will follow the Voice through light and shadow and into the waves of the sea, so long as it sings for me. ~m

A haven, my dears, for those of us who love the voices.

The harp that once through Tara's halls
The soul of music shed,
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls,
As if that soul were fled.--
So sleeps the pride of former days,
So glory's thrill is o'er,
And hearts, that once beat high for praise,
Now feel that pulse no more.

No more to chiefs and ladies bright
The harp of Tara swells;
The chord alone, that breaks at night,
Its tale of ruin tells.
Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes,
The only throb she gives,
Is when some heart indignant breaks,
To show that still she lives.
Thomas Moore
from Irish Melodies (1807)

This message has been edited. Last edited by: <Gravedigger>,

Poetry
by Marianne Moore

I, too, dislike it: there are things that are important beyond
all this fiddle.
Reading it, however, with a perfect contempt for it, one
discovers in
it after all, a place for the genuine.
Hands that can grasp, eyes
that can dilate, hair that can rise
if it must, these things are important not because a

high-sounding interpretation can be put upon them but because
they are
useful. When they become so derivative as to become
unintelligible,
the same thing may be said for all of us, that we
do not admire what
we cannot understand: the bat
holding on upside down or in quest of something to

eat, elephants pushing, a wild horse taking a roll, a tireless
wolf under
a tree, the immovable critic twitching his skin like a horse
that feels a flea, the base-
ball fan, the statistician--
nor is it valid
to discriminate against "business documents and

school-books"; all these phenomena are important. One must make
a distinction
however: when dragged into prominence by half poets, the
result is not poetry,
nor till the poets among us can be
"literalists of
the imagination"--above
insolence and triviality and can present

for inspection, "imaginary gardens with real toads in them,"
shall we have
it. In the meantime, if you demand on the one hand,
the raw material of poetry in
all its rawness and
that which is on the other hand
genuine, you are interested in poetry.

Talk to me While i'm Listening
Nanci Griffith

I should have known that you
were gone back in Germany
You told me in the dark
while I was sleeping
Then you slept through the sunrise
As it washed across your face
And all that I had heard
were our hearts beating
(chorus)
Talk to me while I'm listening
While this love has a voice that we both
Can hear
Before you let it go...
The greatest love I've ever known
Won't you please
Talk to me
While I'm listening

I cannot find a place to
put this love away
Or lose the thought of
sunlight on your face
I thought I heard your voice
Say I love you today
But it was only the sound
of my heart breaking
(repeat chorus)
How I wish that I could take
us back to Germany
I would stay awake and
you would talk to me
Yet for every drop of rain I hear
There's bound to fall another tear
Upon this page of song of my heart aching
(repeat chorus)
(tag)
Before you let it go...
This greatest love I've ever known
Won't you please
Talk to me
While I'm listening
Talk to me
Talk to me

Black Bear Road
(c.w. mccall, bill fries, chip davis)

Me an rj an the kids was on a camp-out in the mountains, and we had us onea them u-drive-em army jeep cars which we rented from a fella by the name of Kuboske for thirty bucks a day, buy your gas along the way, take a rabbits foot and leave a pint of blood for a dee-posit.

And he splained it all to us how we was supposed to get to Telluride, which is fifty miles away by way of the regular highway, however, there was a shortcut BUT unless we had drove the black bear road before, wed be better off to stay in bed and sleep late. (pay no attention to the gitar there.)

Well, we took up offn the highway and we come upon a sign sez black bear road. you dont have to be crazy to drive this road, but it helps. I sez, rj, this must the shortcut road
Kuboske's a talkin about. she didnt pay no mind, cause she was makin peanut butter sandwiches for the kids in the back seat throwin rocks and drinkin kool-aid and playin count-the-license-plates on cars. but they wasnt havin too much fun playin count the license plate or cars, well cause there werent no other cars.

We went about a mile-and-a-half in about four hours, busted off the right front fender, an' tore a hole in the oil pan on a rock as big as a hall closet. went over a bump and spilt the kool-aid and roy gene stuck his bolo knife right through the convertible top and the dog threw up all over the back seat. peanut butter dont agree with him see.

So we had to stop and take off the top and air everything out and clean it up. the dog run off and rj says she felt her asthma comin on. I's sittin there wonderin what to do when the en-tire senic san gee-juan u-drive-em army jeep car sank in the mud. at thirteen thousand feet above sea level.

Well, we shoveled it out and ate our lunch, the dog made a yellow hole in the snow and roy gene got out his instamatic and took a snapshot of it. mary elizabeth drawed a picture of the road; it looked like a whole bunch a zs and ws all strung together. and rj took one look at it and said that the only way shes gonin down that jeep car road is over her dead body. then a rock slipped out under the wheel and the u-drive-em army jeep car well it went right over the edge of a cliff. whaw-haa-haa-hoo-hoo-hoo!

Doggone-it, roy gene! when I tell you to put a rock under the wheel, I mean ROCK! now look at that what you had there is no bigger than a grapefruit!

_____________________________________________

I have driven this road and there did used to be that sign that said you have to be crazy to drive this road but they took it down. It's one of the most beautiful roads in the state but when you get to the stairsteps it's terrifying. But I'd take it again in a heartbeat, yep, I'm crazy!

This message has been edited. Last edited by: <Gravedigger>,

Oh.

What a feast.

I've wandered about the forum tonight reading posts and thinking and responding to some, but left this to last. Delayed gratification. And such excellent selections.

MissG, in this time of political upheaval and endangerment of our own freedoms, you've started us off with that most poignant of Irish laments--loss of freedom. Art is freedom, the articulation of forbidden thoughts hidden in words layered with meaning.

The walls of Tara, fortress-keep of the Ard Ri, high king of a country that seldom acknowledged a high king. The dream fortress, the heart of Ireland--Kathleen ne Houlihan--fierce mistress. Yeats and Lady Gregory and my hero, John Synge writing poems and plays and innocent songs beneath the eyes of the English--laying furtive fingers on the harp of the blind harper--calling hearts to fire and flame and Rebellion.

No gentle song, though it looks it on the surface.

And, X!, you bring into the camp that tough Missouri gal who birthed as many poets as poems--her concrete images, her no-nonsense approach. No rosebuds or rainbows, just good imagic prose turned poetic. Stoutly denying she's taking us anywhere but where we already are as she opens our eyes to the wonder of language wherever we find it, even in an invoice or textbook.

She offers us the real, in sly disdain: wild horse taking a roll, tireless wolf--and my favorite: the immovable critic twitching his skin like a horse that feels a flea. My poet-master stole from her, telling us to learn the difference between ambiguity and obfustication. But she is the master demanding that we accept the wildness with the real--feet firmly planted on terra firma but accepting the howling of wolves in our brains. She taught Ginsburg, you know.

And Secrets, you bring the deeply personal, the emotional, a song that particularly touches every one of us who have come from the 50's and the 60's when love was supposed to be forever.

The images of lost connection--whispers in the dark unheard by the sleeper, the wash of sunlight seen by the lover but unheeded by the sleeper--two hearts beating together but not together. And every lonely lover who lives with one who has ceased to love or who can no longer love, understands the song.

Talk to me. The lonely plea of a constant lover who shares a house, a bed, a life with one who sleeps back turned, arms folded--two together but apart.

"I cannot find a place to put this love away..." Dreary days with no exit, two sleepers dreaming separate dreams.

Three songs, so different, so alive.

What do you all see in them?

Sorry, but I had to do another on by C. W. McCall. I'm not into poetry that much but this one always called to me not that it's a love song but that it's a love song to something I really cared about and had to give up.

Rocky Mountain September

By Bill Fries & Chip Davis

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------


When the skies are grey, and the wind is cold, I remember
How the snow was silver, and the leaves were gold, when I left her
It was early morning on a Rocky Mountain September
And she was gone...

Well now it's five AM, and I'm a hundred and ten miles from Denver
And the snow is silver, and the leaves are gold, and I miss her
Cause it's another mornin' on another mountain September
And I'm alone

Yeah we climbed the mountain together
And we stood on top of the world
But now I gotta remember it all
Alone

When the fire is warm, and the sun is cold, in November
When my heart is young, and my mind is old, I remember
An early mornin' on a Rocky Mountain September
And she's gone

Well now it's fall again, and I'm a thousand miles, from nowhere
And I can hear her voice, and I can see her smile and I miss her
And it's another mornin' on another mountain September
And I'm alone

Yeah we climbed the mountain together
And we stood on top of the world
But now I gotta try to remember it all
Alone
___________________________________________

This was a love song to a Brown Jeep CJ7. What I had to give up was a brown Jeep CJ8, Scrambler, the pick up version of a 7. That bugger became my identity, anyone who saw it knew where I was. Now I gotta go watch San Juan Odessey and boo hoo!!

quote:

Originally posted by GraveDigger:
Black Bear Road
(c.w. mccall, bill fries, chip davis)


_____________________________________________

I have driven this road and there did used to be that sign that said you have to be crazy to drive this road but they took it down. It's one of the most beautiful roads in the state but when you get to the stairsteps it's terrifying. But I'd take it again in a heartbeat, yep, I'm crazy!

Girl! You slipped in while I was thinkin' and typin' and left us a song that might have made Ms. Moore smile!

It's real.

quote:

Originally posted by GraveDigger:



This was a love song to a Brown Jeep CJ7. What I had to give up was a brown Jeep CJ8, Scrambler, the pick up version of a 7. That bugger became my identity, anyone who saw it knew where I was. Now I gotta go watch San Juan Odessey and boo hoo!!

Why do I find this difficult to believe?

quote:

Originally posted by LibraryKat:

quote:

Originally posted by GraveDigger:



This was a love song to a Brown Jeep CJ7. What I had to give up was a brown Jeep CJ8, Scrambler, the pick up version of a 7. That bugger became my identity, anyone who saw it knew where I was. Now I gotta go watch San Juan Odessey and boo hoo!!

Why do I find this difficult to believe?

You know how I felt about my 8 and how I love Ouray!!

Um hm.

'TIS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER


'TIS the last rose of summer,
Left blooming alone ;
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone ;
No flower of her kindred,
No rose-bud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,
Or give sigh for sigh.

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one !
To pine on the stem ;
Since the lovely are sleeping,
Go sleep thou with them.
Thus kindly I scatter
Thy leaves o'er the bed,
Where thy mates of the garden
Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow,
When friendships decay,
And from Love's shining circle
The gems drop away.
When true hearts lie wither'd,
And fond ones are flown,
Oh ! who would inhabit
This bleak world alone ?

Thomas Moore (1779-1852)

Thank you for this poem, I haven't heard this in years. I was a kid when this was read to me and I loved it then. wow.

You're welcome, this is probably my favorite poem. I memorized it when I was eleven and had no idea what it meant. I have remembered it all of this time and strangely find peace in it.

quote:

Originally posted by GraveDigger:
Thank you for this poem, I haven't heard this in years. I was a kid when this was read to me and I loved it then. wow.

Probably ought to go to bed, but I have the luxury of a Saturday when I can sleep in and I'm still thinking about Ms. Moore and her raw poetry--genuine lines.

Poets turn themselves inside out looking for raw material, like a pauper turning out his pockets hoping for a penny. And so often what spills out is one of the ghosts of lovers long gone. We are so mobil, we garner many loves along the way, and love once given can't really be taken back. It can't even be turned to hate, though hate or anger may take its place.

Love is always love--the raw truth. It may warm us for a lifetime or surprise us--come and go like wind before snow and leave us perplexed. What was that masked emotion?

Love songs are so volitile--they call up ghosts that we try to keep locked away. How can we love one another wholeheartedly when so many ghosts clamor for attention? Products of divorce and remarriage and divorce, how do we love again? Standing on that hill in Colorado with the new wife by your side, do you see the first one and mourn the loss, berift and lost, though hand in hand? How do I make you see me?

How many ghosts do we bring into our marriages, and how do we sort them out and shoo them away and turn to one another for the genuine--hands, eyes, hair--and hold one another close against the ghosts?