jss (04/17/83)
Were Helen Faithful... Were Helen faithful, and the world at peace, Then Troy still stands, and white-haired Priam reigns. In Greece, Orestes' parents watch with pride Their son and daughters play at childish games. Odyseus sleeps at home, all snugly wrapped In blankets from his dear wife's busy loom, While soldiers everywhere tend sheep, Their thoughts unnburdened by averted doom. Women and children pass their lives Serene in love and safety, without dread, And far away in Carthage, Dido's crown Remains securely on that Queen's untroubled head. The fields of Greece are not neglected now, But yield their proper harvest every fall. What's Homer, then? A blind old man, Mumbling of nothing by a garden wall.
vax1:swifty (04/26/83)
POEM (FOR A GOOD AND BEAUTIFUL WOMAN) I tried to talk Joy In the eternal sadness of my way. Foul in the Foreground Down in the room Cry and moon. I wish deep in the pit of me To offer more Than can be taken To overwhelm the bad Talk the good Take Her on my heart -- And swallow up Eat It Take the awful To myself (From "When the Sun's Aboard the Wind," by Timothy F. Crews, 1966. Does anyone if he is still around?) Steve Swift ...microsof!fluke!swifty
rene@umcp-cs.UUCP (11/03/83)
Green Dreams
Finally
I can shed heavy robes, and official jewelry
and take to the simple skies
on the back that fits so smoothly
I hurry to her den
shaking my hair loose
from the encumbering diadem
greeted gleefully with a snarling roar
We rise, Nasha and I
wings thrusting great hurricane gusts as we
defiantly greet nebulous clouds
Wings stretched taut,
we glide and circle
ignoring the tug of earth
free
simple
alone (together)
woman and dragon
common thirst binds tight
(open expanses
blue-green sky
cold whistling wind past my blinking eyes)
Nasha flies
green dream
sparkling, sinuous
snaking tail curls and twists
the world turns beneath us
leaps upward
Landing, we belong
to the world
I have
responsibilities
obligations
(green dreams)
--
Arpa: rene.umcp-cs@CSNet-relay
Uucp:...{allegra,seismo}!umcp-cs!renebob@security.UUCP (Bob Jordan esq.) (01/30/85)
INTERLUDE
(In memory of Chris)
We are given
so little time-
therefore, one
should never dwell
upon that which
cannot be altered.
I presented many things
to you,
received your gratitude
but rarely acknowleged;
performing the right actions
for the wrong reasons.
Yes,
there could have
been more
so much more...
and yet (for you)
it sufficed.
We had been though this
before,
even talked about it.
What we know
we somehow manage
to learn again.
In a very short span
of time
I have been forced
to understand many
things;
-I have
come to know
of Love-
and death
is not a conclusion;
it's just
a brief interlude.sol@tty3b.UUCP (9-13-84"Solveig 94120) (02/15/85)
Last Night
I dreamt last night of a flying place
A place that no one knows and
Red-winged gulls were gathered in
The evening sky
Where no one goes.
The ocean roared and sighed to me
Of things no one can hear as
Blue-eyed through the misty breeze I
Walked alone
Along the pier.
I saw a fire as hot as suns
I felt the monster's breath as
Yellow-haired she stalked the earth
The song of life
The chant of death.
I dreamt last night of a flying place
A place that no one knows and
Black was the color
White was the sound and
Grey was I
A shadow
on the
Ground.
Solveig Whittle
1-14-85purtell@reed.UUCP (Elizabeth Purtell) (02/27/85)
I met him not so long ago, And yet, things are very different now. I saw him then, And now, though he looks the same, I see him very differently. He is an actor. He is also a person. But I am not always certain, When he is one, And when the other. He told me that I was beautiful, Once, what seems like long ago. But did he really mean it? Or was it just a line from a play, From Shaw or O'Neill? When he sees me, Does he see who I am? Or does he only see another player, Someone who is saying their lines on cue? Does he even care which one I am? I remember, the first time we made love. It was right after a play he had acted in. But was it really making love to him, Or was he still on stage, Just playing another role, In which I was merely a bit part? Elizabeth Purtell (Lady Godiva)
tag@ucbvax.ARPA (Todd Gross) (07/03/85)
Sonnet I I stand before my love, consumed in trembling fire Kept safe within a hearth, enveloped by desire. His fingers are like flames alight upon my skin That pop and flicker almost aimlessly about. One can't but sense a golden soul lay deep within Where pale orange and pink dance fluidly about. But cannot flaming arrows set to ruin the steady fort? And cannot fingers cage the bird they mean to but support? Where can the fortress hide, pray tell, and where the songbird sing Her song of restfulness, if mockingbirds lie back in wake? I stand aglow from treasures that my love sought fit to bring But he stays unilluminated by the gifts he take. If Lyric be the means for Man to have his yearnings heard Poetic justice t'be to put to him his blessed word. -- Todd Gross "I don't am, I meta-am"
bob@security.UUCP (Bob Jordan) (09/23/85)
FLOWERS
When the inside of a flower
has been sniffed repeatedly
some of the powder is rubbed off
and there is little smell left.
This not diminish in any way
the beauty of the flower.
We men can be very ignorant
at times, we can be so cruel.
As you became my flower, unfolding,
I idled away many hours
delighting in your smell. Eventually
I became used to it, so that
it had become commonplace. Well,
we both remember what followed.
I tried to discard my
little blossom because I imagined
the smell had left it.
And if you had never come to me,
standing bravely before me-
no, I wouldn't have seen your tears;
and would have
never known the beauty
of my flower's petals
sparkling with dew.
--
"OK guys. Blues in B. Watch me for the changes, and try to keep up."
security!bob@mitre-bedford.ARPA (MIL)
{allegra,ihnp4,utzoo,philabs,uw-beaver}!linus!security!bob (UUCP)parris@itcatl.UUCP (01/25/86)
I used to think I knew What the world was all about I used to think I knew Where people hurt... I used to belive that anyone or anybody Was capable of knowing what was wrong and I used to want to stop the pain and want. But the years have made me tired And the embers are dying out And even if I wanted to I think I'm too old to care... If I had a son I think that I could live And if I had a daughter I think that I could give But in a world that lacks any sense Could he make a difference? Would anybody listen? Would anybody Care? Would anybody want to try to change? Or does everybody feel as old as I? Just another late night rambling from gatech!itc!parris... Parris
parris@itcatl.UUCP (Parris Hughes) (02/06/86)
I don't like to try to name these things. I never should have named
"Guilt...". By the way, I only got one (mixed) response on that. Please
voice your opinions. My CORRECT net addr is gatech!itcatl!parris.
Meanwhile in a place
That we all call forgotten
Is a man with a memory
A piece of what was left.
A chorus never sung
Waters never tested
A branch in the tree of time
Where no bird has ever nested
He looks upon its surface
And sees the dreams he used to know
Before the truth of life had touched him
Before the tide of youth ebbed low
And every day he holds it up
And every day he shines it...
He blows hot breath upon it
And when he sleeps he binds it
But every day the colours
Wash away with tears
And as it fades so does the man
Who only now knows what he really fears.
Parris
gatech!itcatl!parrisrobin@gitpyr.UUCP (Robin Cutshaw) (02/06/86)
I really don't like naming these things. I never should have named "Guilt...".
I only got one (mixed) response on that. Voice your opinion. My CORRECT
net addr is gatech!itcatl!parris.
Meanwhile in a place
That we all call forgotten
Is a man with a memory
A piece of what was left.
A chorus never sung
Waters never tested
A branch in the tree of time
Where no bird has ever nested
He looks upon its surface
And sees the dreams he used to know
Before the truth of life had touched him
Before the tide of youth ebbed low
Every day he looks upon it
And every day he shines it
He blows hot breath upon it
And when he sleeps he binds it
But every day the colours
Wash away with tears
And as it fades so does the man
Who only now knows what he really fears.
Parrissara@mhuxj.UUCP (TRIGS) (02/08/86)
*** REPLACE THIS LINE WITH YOUR MESSAGE *** Hamlet knew it, when Shakespeare sent him early to his death, for practice; and two millenia before them, Socrates as wise as anyone, I suppose, knew it maintaining philosophers should spend their lives rehearsing one breathless moment's movement toward the unknown; and you know it: sometime, anytime, toothbrush in hand, or fork, or at the office when the vault of some filecabinet yawns more ominously than usual, or later in bed with your lover, perhaps, practicing at life, you hear a click, or your ear buzzes you dizzy on a summer's day, or against the cool, fresh pillow you make out a muted thumping, and behind it, beyond it, around it, nothing, for the rest IS silence.
sara@mhuxj.UUCP (TRIGS) (02/23/86)
*** REPLACE THIS LINE WITH YOUR MESSAGE *** FIRST STEPS On the cool September morning after rain in an old house shuttered against the unexpected weather the baby stands over and again and walks and falls. Though it is much easier to crawl from one point to another, more efficient, safer the baby stands over and again and walks and falls. I see in her how many millions? Man must walk, man must raise the aristocracy of his hands reachers for far, high things, man must sieze his Adam. On the cool September morning with this one gesture the jungle is put by, the ritual of our deepest instinct repeats itself: the race rises from its knees to claim dominion: the baby walks.
sara@mhuxj.UUCP (TRIGS) (02/23/86)
*** REPLACE THIS LINE WITH YOUR MESSAGE *** DEATH MASK OF A GIRL DROWNED IN PARIS--1895 About the forehead only a slight grimace speaks of something human, something flawed. The mouth large, open like a kiss. The eyes tightly closed, as if she were a saint seeing God in the darkness. The cheeks hard and smooth, like stone water has polished for an eternity. Did someone really live in this face?
sw088909@sjuvax.UUCP (walker) (02/28/86)
Trapped Within a Dream
Here I am
Emersed in a love I cannot show
Here I am
Trapped within a dream that you'll never know
The silly games I play
Because I cannot say
My feelings grew each day
Until I knew I was in love with you
Here I am
Hoping that you'll understand how I feel
Here I am
Wondering why I'm telling you what I feel
I'm tired of this lie
So I'll just have to try
To come to terms with my
Love for you and hope my dream comes true
Here I am
Knowing that I'm just wishing on a star
Here I am
Knowing that dreaming won't get me far
This is reality
There is no you and me
I know you'll never see
How much I care and always will be there
Here I am
Locked within a love that I can't break
Here I am
Not knowing how much more of this I can take
I know you love her so
And I will never show
My feelings as I go
Out on my own living my life alone.sara@mhuxj.UUCP (TRIGS) (03/06/86)
*** REPLACE THIS LINE WITH YOUR MESSAGE *** Like a fig, or maybe like the universe I open you, and this is the emblem of my love like a rose, or a ring. Older than youth your body beckons, and through a moment from eternity to eternity I pass. Your hair is a jungle hot with endless August, your breasts fresher and smoother than sand-dunes in the morning, teased by a Sophoclean sea; for there is something ageless to you, like the sea, some prism in you of this human life counting its minutes in ashes, and yielding its moments to eternity. Like a fig you define for me this moment, like that one when we watched a dove sing through the air on a day in spring too fragile to remember except in you, when we clung together under the universe in our passing.
sara@mhuxj.UUCP (TRIGS) (03/06/86)
*** REPLACE THIS LINE WITH YOUR MESSAGE ***
THE LACEMAKER CA 1665
The light as usual enters from the left
To fill the almost empty room;
Her hands, practiced, meticulous, and deft,
Attend the rich laces on her loom.
In detailed miniature she pours her fine
Devotion, soul, and female heart.
Her eyes, like Milton's, someday may go blind
From the long peering of her art.sara@mhuxj.UUCP (TRIGS) (03/19/86)
"Pygmalion" I enter the black room like a cave. After a few minutes, which a clock somewhere remarks, my eyes follow after me. She is standing near the high, old-fashioned bed. Under the silk of the nightgown her body quivers and trembles like a young doe, or the sun melting in a tree in evening. My eyes dive on her like eagles and hold her as we wrestle into nakedness. Clad only in the transparent dark, I adore her, I kiss her into stillness, into stone. by Jeffery Alan Triggs
sara@mhuxj.UUCP (TRIGS) (03/19/86)
As I return home from you the sky embraces me in your stead, the landscape in reverse rises to greet me with strange familiarity like an early hour. Though I am still wearing the kisses you clothed me with, I grow small and cold under the breathing galaxies of night. Everything tempts me from you: the road, the voluptuous flowered air, the full moon riding in my windshield, the forest's lush and laboring undergrowth. If I am to return to you some night so full of ardor and high hope I must scatter bits of my love along the way. by Jeffery Alan Triggs
dmf2@lcuxb.UUCP (Giget) (03/20/86)
Why can't we be honest
even me
who hates those who deceive, pretend to be
just what I want
Vulnerable, waiting
yet so damn strong
sometimes unaffected
all alone
by myselfsara@mhuxj.UUCP (TRIGS) (03/30/86)
"Overtime" After a meeting the men of importance vanish away (as we have known they would) the boardroom empties of its echoes and events. Only a typewriter sounds: an etude stripped of its melody a last, dry protest against silence (doubtless, the secretary at her work preserving the minutes where time and tide won't wait). Jeffery Alan Triggs
at8j@batcomput (04/29/86)
Laughter white lips split like shattered procelain eyes dead where has he gone? the sweet dream whisperer gifter of madness, supreme and sublime stale smoke tasting of withered mother's teats suffocates and deludes wind, eternal wind blow me away I am not of this place I am lost and the sun sets and sets and sets by Ryerson Schwark
jeltz@vogon.UUCP (Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz) (05/10/86)
Oh freddled gruntbuggly! Thy micturations are to me As plurdled grabbleblotchits in a lurgid bee. Groop! I implore thee, my foonting turlingdromes And hooptiously drangle me with crinkly bindle werdles For otherwise I will rend thee in the gobberwarts With my blurglecruncheon see if I don't.
sara@mhuxj.UUCP (TRIGS) (06/06/86)
IN PASSING: FOR CHARLOTTE ELENA, TWO YEARS AND TWO MONTHS OLD Each day you plunge with glee into your future, eagerly trying on our words and customs like new clothes, tearing into the world around you like a Christmas package, and there is no stopping you. You belie in a moment the thousand snapshots we have taken. In one, you stand in your bliss of Christmas morning in the midst of half an hour's crumpled wrapping paper. Morning sunlight streams in the window to light up your hair (golden and bronze) and the bubbles that your mother blows to you, drawing from your face its fascinated, grave look. Absurdly long I've pondered the forms of the bubbles round, or elliptical with the force of your mother's breath, each with a drop of sunlight. These lasted a wink and burst before they'd floated to the floor, yet together with the wrapping paper, and you, then, they are here made immemorial forms: I have stopped time then-- but, of course, this is a lie. Sometimes I do not sleep, thinking of the bubbles. Sometimes it grieves me to see you so precocious, so eager, throwing away your Eden with two hands. Sometimes I would beg forgiveness for the future I have bequeathed you, full of unexplainable pain. Yet my real gift will be to help you there, where you want to go, to seasons sweet as this incipient spring, to mornings like this, rinsed with sunlight and the song of birds and beautiful in their passing.
ahr@ariel.UUCP (T.A.ROOLAART) (07/16/86)
I am mainly a songwriter/musician by hobby and heart but have
found many times the feeling to write jsut words without melodies...
Ton Roolaart ..!oberon!ahrbh
w
LLLLeeeeaaaarrrrnnnneeeedddd SSSSoooonnnngggg
(September 6, 1982)
_E_n_l_i_g_h_t_e_n_e_d _e_x_p_e_r_i_e_n_c_e_s _I _p_a_s_s _o_n _m_y _w_a_y
_E_n_g_r_a_v_e _r_e_s_o_u_n_d_i_n_g _s_e_n_s_a_t_i_o_n_s _f_i_l_l_i_n_g _m_y _d_a_y
_P_o_n_d_e_r_i_n_g _o_n _t_h_e _t_h_i_n_g_s _I _p_a_s_s _o_n _m_y _w_a_y
_I _f_e_e_l _t_h_e _s_p_a_c_i_o_u_s_n_e_s_s _o_f _m_y _s_u_r_r_o_u_n_d_i_n_g_s
_T_h_e_n, _t_h_e _h_a_r_m_o_n_i_o_u_s _t_o_n_e_s _o_f _t_h_e _r_e_s_o_u_n_d_i_n_g _s_e_n_s_a_t_i_o_n_s
_w_i_t_h_i_n _m_e _c_o_m_b_i_n_e _i_n_t_o _a _l_e_a_r_n_e_d _s_o_n_g _a_n_d
_I _s_i_n_g _o_u_t _f_r_e_e_l_y - _r_e_f_l_e_c_t_i_n_g _i_n_n_e_r _v_i_b_r_a_t_i_o_n_s _t_h_a_t
_f_i_l_l _a_n _i_n_s_t_r_u_m_e_n_t _o_f _t_h_e _o_r_c_h_e_s_t_r_i_a_l _w_o_r_l_d
_r_e_s_o_u_n_d_i_n_g _i_n_n_e_r _s_e_n_s_a_t_i_o_n_s
_r_e_s_o_u_n_d_i_n_g _m_y _s_u_r_r_o_u_n_d_i_n_g_s
_r_e_s_o_u_n_d_i_n_g _l_i_f_e _a_n_d _l_o_v_esara@mhuxj.UUCP (TRIGS) (08/15/86)
A Problem of Shadows- for Charlotte Elena On our evening walk inexplicable shadows grow about us nets of branches and leaves, huge trunks thrown down in our path, strange, dark elongated likenesses of ourselves. You are frightened by your own shadow, sometimes behind, sometimes in front of you, now vanishing suddenly under a light. It is no use to offer the explanations of scientists; for you these phenomena are still magical, in your eyes, still the wild lights. Not wishing to hurt your shadow stepping on it, you stop, still. Now there are no practicalities of destination, only existential terror, existential pity. And am I now to help you over the magic of this vague, airy thing that clings to your body and will cling for as long as you are in the light? by Jeffery Alan Triggs
alm@tekecs.UUCP (10/20/86)
The following is appended to a painting my wife did of a lighthouse on the
Oregon coast. Try to envision it as you read:
I Care
On barren rock, the lighthouse stood,
The sea, the rain, the wind withstood.
But now it makes no mournful sound
To tell the sailors rocks abound.
No lighthouse keep is living there.
The lights are gone, the moorage bare -
Just barnacles, and nests of birds,
And lonliness to great for words.
The sea care not for works of men:
The waves will pound, and pound again.
The sun will beat, the wind will blow.
Windows will break, and rot will grow.
The day will come when nought is there.
The sea will win, and who will care?
But I have cared - this view will last,
To help you know what then is past.