Jump to content
Objectivism Online Forum

Americonorman's Poetry

Rate this topic


AMERICONORMAN

Recommended Posts

The following poem I did give more effort than some of my others.  I went over it several times.  And I definately hear my music.  My approach to this poem, though, I have it with others is:  Stress the hard parts of words;  thus, because of the stress, the soft parts that follow will flow more smoothly.  Also, obviously, verse is slower than prose, and thus, one must hear the sounds.  (Yes, often one can judge a good poem by reading faster, yes.  But that is not always the case.)  I am satisfied with this poem, although, I know in a week or two I can change;  I can add stanzas, I can expand lines, I can change synonyms and homonyms, and the poem will be that much better.  But as of now, I cannot change a thing.  So take it slow; on the second time go somewhat faster; give it time; and you will hear my deepest song.

Also, when I space, I would like you to pause at your discretion.  This, because I respect your own tempo. 

The object is someone concrete--but it doesn't have to be--because, as I am confident--others can relate and add Quasimodo or even Narcissus.

Americo.

A Key For An Hour—By Jose Gainza

Eternally I wait for thy precious hour

          With thee.

How do you rate an hour?

A glimpse?  Some single plume?  Your winged power

          From your own dower? –

All are what I ask of thee.

I will not ask you make it free

          For me—

Though you have that in your power.

Especially, with thee flies

          time.

Before long sixty minutes

          chime.

Please don’t send me

          blame.

If you wish it I will tame

          The gushing of my blood

When you in me flood.

I ask of thee to hearken to thy knocker,

          My beckoned wish:

The breaking of your knocker:

Uninterrupted time with you, sweet talker.

Fuel within thy tanker

          Is the sip I wish.

That you be so selfish,

          Even “hellish”,

Seek I vitally from thee, dear talker.

Especially, with thee flies

          time.

Before long sixty minutes

          chime.

Please don’t send me

          blame.

If you wish it I will tame

          The gushing of my blood

When you in me flood.

My final wish is to win myself a key,

          A spare—

No knocker but a key!

Have I sung with volume right this kind plea?

          Must I climb thy tree

To sing this post I dare?

Surely you will prove quite fair.

              Aware

                      Are you of this enrapture I do plea?

Especially, with thee flies

          time.

Before long sixty minutes

          chime.

Please don’t send me

        blame.

If you wish it I will tame

          The gushing of my blood

When you in me flood.

P.S.  Not part of the poem.  I for many years read Kipling's "IF" in a slow and saddened manner.  However, it is, I do believe, a very happy poem ... actually danceable.  Even rappers can appreciate it, if you show them how to read it.  (Obviously rappers are not the standard of poetry but they do know about "song" ... some of them at least.

A.M.

So it seems that I cannot post and space. So Every other line there should be a space at the beginning ... but not always.

Americo.

Link to comment
Share on other sites

This morning I happened to stop for a moment on Regis and Kelly on t.v. They were marrying a pair of long lost lovers for their Valentine's Day special. So I thought of some wedding vows.

It is not that you complete me

For I am nothing flawed.

And I know you don't deceive me

And yet you have me clawed.

Now around this growing heart lives

A hand that always presses.

Sweet caresses it gives and gives.

It blesses and blesses!

Within my mind is joyous thought

And inspiriation to investigate.

All within that is self-taught

I know you do appreciate.

The work by which I'm driven

You understand.

I am shared amidst our heaven,

And together we stand.

Two powerful beings unite as one,

And toast to their achievmements:

Their pride gracefully won--

Of most sacred commitments.

The delight of your harmony face--

The audacity of your smile,

Your soul they do not deface--

Your pride they do not defile.

I want to live my life with you

In days of ecstasy.

I want to cook delight for you

And realize your fantasy.

I promise to remain true to you--

This you cannot doubt.

I vow to bring challenges to you--

This I do not flout.

I promise to support you if life hurts,

And massage your limbs with ease.

I'll take it easy when my loving hurts.

I'll woo you like a breeze.

I love you as never before nor again,

As your eternal lover,

My worship is part of the bargain.

I am bare without a cover.

And am yours,

while you are mine,

down on fours,

or upright fine.

Jose Gainza.

Edited by AMERICONORMAN
Link to comment
Share on other sites

The following poem I enjoyed writing, and I enjoy reading it. In the future I will have to give it some more work. But I think can be appreciated. I had finished half of it about a month ago. And very recently I completed the rest.

BEAUTY--By Jose Gainza

Even before the first ancient idylls that uttered your graces

Your were there

Before the eyes of men to delight in such harmony faces

Oh so fair!

In their dreams you re-emerged in fluttering traces

Hard to bear

So you branded the lines of many countless races

We still stare

At the likes who emerged from your ancestral basis

Oh so fair

Then some genius found the means to paint your picture

Everywhere

Even in the shadows of the clouds’ changing fissure

He does dare

Despite the torment that ensues from his passion rupture

Shooting flare

Signalling the wooing of his muse from a lofty juncture

That none compare

To the combination that he sees without a fracture

Oh so fair

Now today and on this phone I have the way

I do fare

On this line where your voice will always stay

Some fanfare

I can always flip the cover everyday

And I stare

Once the highlight pinpoints beauty without delay

And I dare

To kiss your face that is a screen—I say, “Hey!”

You’re so fair!

Then I call you with impatience for you here

Us a pair

And you promise to run to me like a deer

This you dare

And I’m certain of your passion I do steer

Now you’re there

And those brown eyes pierce within me, oh my dear

And your hair

Tangled ‘round my fingers while I kiss you without fear

You’re so rare!

Link to comment
Share on other sites

The following poem I enjoyed writing, and I enjoy reading it.  In the future I will have to give it some more work.  But I think can be appreciated.  I had finished half of it about a month ago.  And very recently I completed the rest.

BEAUTY--By Jose Gainza

Even before the first ancient idylls that uttered your graces

    Your were there

Before the eyes of men to delight in such harmony faces

    Oh so fair!

In their dreams you re-emerged in fluttering traces

    Hard to bear

So you branded the lines of many countless races

    We still stare

At the likes who emerged from your ancestral basis

    Oh so fair

Then some genius found the means to paint your picture

    Everywhere

Even in the shadows of the clouds’ changing fissure

    He does dare

Despite the torment that ensues from his passion rupture

    Shooting flare

Signalling the wooing of his muse from a lofty juncture

    That none compare

To the combination that he sees without a fracture

    Oh so fair

Now today and on this phone I have the way

    I do fare

On this line where your voice will always stay

    Some fanfare

I can always flip the cover everyday

    And I stare

Once the highlight pinpoints beauty without delay

    And I dare

To kiss your face that is a screen—I say, “Hey!”

  You’re so fair!

Then I call you with impatience for you here

    Us a pair

And you promise to run to me like a deer

    This you dare

And I’m certain of your passion I do steer

    Now you’re there

And those brown eyes pierce within me, oh my dear

    And your hair

Tangled ‘round my fingers while I kiss you without fear

    You’re so rare!

AMERICONORMAN, excellent! Don't be afraid of punctuation, it will aid in giving your passionate feeling more point, and thus strengthen, not weaken the expression and effect. Punctuation represents a mind that is still in control, no matter how strong the feelings. The modernist idea that no punctuation enables the reader to pause where he wants (based upon his feelings) is wrong. It would be like a painter painting objects on a canvas with no particular spatial relations,

leaving it up to the viewer to make his own. Remember, it's not the viewer's work of art, it's yours. The idea of comparing your loved one to the beauties of past times and at the same time symbolizing the very idea of beauty is very well done.

It is a pleasure to read.

Link to comment
Share on other sites

VIEWER DISCRETION IS ADVISED. THE WORDS OF THE POEM THAT FOLLOWS EXPRESS A SEXUAL CONNOTATION. THOUGH SEX IS NOT EVIL, MINORS OF THE WORLD MIGHT WANT TO GET THEIR PARENTS' APPROVAL BEFORE READING THIS. IRONICALLY, THERE IS NO SWEARING. BUT THE WORDS AS USED, DO ENLIST SEX IMAGERY.

This poem is a pleasure for me to read, it is like dancing. I could literally read it over and over for hours. I think that the rhyming and rythm scheme is quite simple yet fruitful, and should inspire the poet in the rest of you. For those familiar with Latin American music, this poem sounds to me like a slowed down Cumbia. If one were dancing cumbia there would be a forwards and a backwards but with a hop and the bouncing of one's hips, as if one were riding a horse in the mountains of Colombia.

Coincidentally, Cumbia is my favorite dance music and my sense of life music.

Enjoy.

SEX NIGHT

By Jose Gainza, of Toronto, Canada

I was missed? … Teeth on fist? … Here’s my wrist …

Now’s the test of no rest, this is best.

We may kiss, please don’t hiss, this is bliss.

We are one; we have won so much fun.

Oh, don’t guess nothing less, we’re no mess.

I am in with no sin; I will win.

There’s my pen in the den … you’re my hen.

We are one; we have won so much fun.

I’m the cock from the block that you “stalk”.

I’m your prick, but not sick, I’m your dick.

I don’t lack, I don’t slack, there’s your back.

We are one; we have won so much fun.

I will bite all this night; we won’t fight.

If you let I will bet you won’t fret.

I ain’t fat, there’s the mat, there you’re at.

We are one; we have won so much fun.

Dance we two, I love you—yes you too.

You won’t go, I’m a pro; this you know.

We will lay, you will stay, we will “play”.

We are one; we have won so much fun.

You will fly, I don’t lie, you will sigh.

So much glee, we are free, it’s our spree.

There’s your feet, oh, so neat, take a seat.

We are one, we have won so much fun.

“I love you,”

I won’t dodge that adage … I’ll massage.

You will judge, with no grudge, as I nudge.

At some peg you will beg: bite your leg.

We are one; we have won so much fun.

Growing big—oh, no twig—let us frig:

I will lick, I will flick, I will stick—

When I park, you’ll remark, “We embark…”

We are one; we have won so much fun.

I reckon you beckon my seek’in:

With reason I’m shoot’in my lov’in

For your pride, deep inside, like a tide.

We are one; we have won so much fun.

Link to comment
Share on other sites

I thought that I would share this poem solely with its muse. However, since I had an unusually busy day at work, and my body is in pain (mostly because of the gym), and all I wanted was to come home have a glass of wine and get some inspiration, and Brian Faulkner succeeded at that with his latest, I will share the following poem that is quite special to me. (It is actually for a story; and it actually works well with the plot of the story ... a story about twin brothers in love with the same woman).

I ASK YOU, IF? Or

(THE GAY MALE WRITER’S DILEMMA)

By Jose Gainza

If a lover sought to woo you;

If this lover was an artist, was a writer—

If he raised you as his muse, as his glory—

If he made you in a story—

If he showed you shining brighter,

And fairly standing stronger—

Showed you things about yourself

Hidden from your ego, from you power—

Only having but a sample

Of your striving virtues ample—

Yet penned a glowing flower

Of your spirit to him closed—

If he spoke you from within

His self, his only resource—

Showed you a mirror by his plot—

Made from a pinch of sand, a mere dot—

A pinch that stung his heart with so much force,

And stung his soul but made his work that easy—

If he loved you from his distance,

Lived bewildered by his passion,

Felt some fit intoxication,

And a driven inspiration

Down a road of adoration—

Impossible, yet remarkable—

If though he feared his hope

Would send him plunging down the cliff,

Reaching heaven, losing you,

Knowing bliss without your kiss,

Scoring virtue, missing value,

Missing you—

If the story showed you rich

And showed you happy—

Drew your own poetic mind

For the conquest of your kind—

Brought your glass enticement,

Brought it saddened tears,

Brought it shattered tortures,

For the purpose of one stress—

To stress her own affection,

To isolate her passion,

To show her that love hurts,

When a lover is not loved— …

To see her cute serenity,

To hear her courage verses,

To feel her wise caresses— …

When the impossible shatters,

When hope’s extinguished,

When love is kissed and spoken:

When the rejection is a farce,

And the hero’s longing is:

Her— for eternity! –

Would you love him for his story?

Would you help him feel your glory?

Would you love him, would you love him?

Would you kiss him, would you kiss him?

Would you accept his ecstasy?

Link to comment
Share on other sites

The Worker—By Jose Gainza

The type who puts his work first

Though his throat is dry with thirst.

He’ll take his mother’s loving meals

In place of her conversation deals.

He’ll miss his brother’s wedding,

And forget to make his bedding.

All so that he can work his love,

The crest to which he climbs above.

His beloved finds him tortuous,

His patient ruthlessness tremendous.

He stakes his life ten times a day,

And always gets away.

His life’s scaffold rises daily,

His achievements growing fairly.

He seems to think that none will miss his shine,

Or the smiling glow that always is so fine.

He’ll run amiss if you dare to let him go,

And leave you hanging long after the show.

Though he’ll return when it is time,

His absence stings like lime.

But when he’s there he makes you see

The deeper things of life for thee.

He helps you dance and skip,

And counsels you tip to tip.

Even when in love he’ll make one wait

For he is aware of his love’s fate.

Even in the midst of nagging hunger,

When the ashes spread asunder.

Even when the lover does the best

And never ever fails a test,

It pleases him to fan the flames,

No matter if love him blames.

Link to comment
Share on other sites

The following, strictly speaking, is not poetry. Though, there are poetic elements, namely, ryhme and rhythm. It is philosophy but not an essay. The closest thing I call it, is Aphorism. Like Nietzsche; his writing is deep yet short and "catchy". He is popular partly because his philosophy writing is "poetic".

Religion and You--By Jose Gainza

I respect religion in this way: it is a swirling gas perhaps a spot within the furnace of philosophy, the sun of knowledge; this system of deep roots expresses the roots of nature, the roots of man, and man’s relationship to the whole; so that humans can adhere to their “reality”. This biological need of man allows for his brain to work with success and proper. When faced with a sunrise vista, his theory of reality will tell him whether it is really there or but a dream—whether it just happens to be or first caused by a super-cosmic creator. And when faced with the doubt of metaphysics’ answer, he will look into his mind and answer how he knows what’s true. Do the symbols I speak integrate that forest of trees—or did the tree’s name come before even any tree ever existed for men to see? And though the radiating sun is pleasing, he realizes that presently he cannot touch its heart—his wings won’t go that far. But he knows that when he greets the moon, life will grow colder. He asks for permission to enter that forest … he is allowed to touch that tree … he is allowed to cut its limbs to make his warming fire for the night. He says that tree is real; he confirms that it is true; he knows that he can walk and he can cut; he knows that life is his, though all alone; he sees no guilt in wanting to be warm; he sees no guilt in working for the torch.

Conceive of a religion speaking thus: “O supreme creator, I owe my existence to thee. Though the masses gathering there are real and life is here, they would not be my friends without your grace, they would not yet exist, and neither I. And you have promised, dreams have told, that this earth is not all: If I keep my faith, walk blindly forth, don’t question you, things will improve: Once I am dead, when you command, if I have lived as you demand, then I shall rise, rise up to you: My sanction springs from how I treat the gatherers below, how I’ll starve so they can eat, because this way I will sup with you, O mighty Lord: If a lovely enemy shall strike my face, I won’t lash back, I won’t attack—I’ll cut the timber, and cast the nails, and weave the crown of thorns, by which I’ll hang like your crucified son, that sun of ours…”

Though thus speaks one set of mystics, and share by their adherence to “ideas” with philosophy, they speak not for me. When I pose the question to myself of how I know, I do not know this “Lord”. When I seek to identify with the tools of my mind, this “god” I can’t identify. They may say that my eyes are flawed because I cannot grasp their dreams. At bottom all I know is this: It is. From this I know that things are such and I am such that sees. I know then that I can learn to live for my own goodness, so long as I teach myself them words and use them expertly … and follow through with motion. And I know that when I’m living I feel good … because I’m living. And since there is no need to ask another for his life, I will not ask it, nor hear it asked of me. If I need water from another’s well, I’ll gladly pay with gold, and drink life’s basic nectar from the golden cup I cast. And I will not pray to Blah—I’ll descend down to my mine.

Because look at what some ask of me! To blind myself to what is possible to open eyes. To dream yet miss the so real splendour of your face. They ask that in the darkness I seek for light—but that sought light can only be by that first bulb that opened up my world—and the bulbs that still do cast my sweet vision of you. My God! Some even sing that to reach happiness with you is by the empty hemlock flask! But you are here before my eyes and I love you. I love your mind that has mapped my passion ways. That you are striving to Atlantis within your soul is what I love. The way to heaven is through your earth brown eyes! The way to heaven is through my work well done.

Still in a lightning flash I work out that you exist, for your lips I still do taste. O how simple to confirm that you are you, for I have searched: And none but you are just like me. And that I live for me by living right by you is law once ecstasy I earn. It’s when you meet me at the gate overloaded with our gold; and when you extend your hand to wipe my dusty face; and in the bath sponging off the rest … and when I pull you in to join me. This is heaven, this is earth, this is life, this is truth, this is right, and us this is.

And thus I tolerate religion for at least it answers questions that I need ask—and that is all. But the heaven of all questions is the arrow of my ego. And I quivered thus to heaven on the day I married you.

Edited by AMERICONORMAN
Link to comment
Share on other sites

This one I wrote over three years ago. Ironically as I just finished writing it, I got the most frightened attack by a woman, a stranger who I let read because she was interested. It was a mistake to show her. Although she thought she was attacking the poem with her commentary she was actually attacking the idea of me writing it at all. She revealed that once, long ago, she wanted to be a professional poet but she gave up that for something more practical. I think she was then a legal assistant. She made it seem that if there is no market for poetry, then one should not write poetry or show it to anyone. I did not write this poem merely to sell it, I wrote it merely to write it, as I did enjoy doing so. My friend N.B. loved it, though--that was nice.

Americo.

Untitled--By Jose Gainza

When I can climb the mountain I’ve always dreamed about,

I wont’ fear ugly ‘giants’ I’ve so feared to bout.

I’ll sing those passion songs I’ve so longed to shout.

Here, inside my soul will grow that flower I have promised.

I’ll catch that shooting star that in my daze I almost missed.

I’ll save that precious love that in my madness was dismissed.

I’ll tempt that luring snake that wooed me with his wisdom.

I’ll fly like iron eagles that - in war- saved every kingdom.

I won’t cry like whining lambs fearing blood-bathed martyrdom.

For if it has to come to that I’ll be a wolf that lives on meat.

Or an ascending, roaring lion from his crowned golden seat.

Or toil daily in a brother’s work destined to repeat.

But if I find those precious stones all past ages have forgotten,

I may make those new- found metals never before begotten.

And so deny those barren lands where dying spirits still lay rotten.

This is the song of man and not of priest and not of king.

It is the youthful chorus of every child that can still sing.

It is the shot between the eye from David’s worn out sling.

And so I’ll fan that burning fire kindling from my passion.

And so guide it to its goal with my hand’s controlled possession.

And set it on its way to that release which is my mission.

Link to comment
Share on other sites

This one was also over three years ago.

MAN WAKES--By Jose Gainza

Man wakes up one dawn—a child—to a world already made.

The cause can be given if he’ll just think and wade.

He vaguely carries the knowledge: Man once lived in caves—

He sees the tips of towers like a thousand ocean waves.

They are forward moving motors of past first-hand creators.

Motors often doubted by non-creative mob-spectators.

They sought their life with passion—intransigently.

They built their “towers” with a great spirit—reverently.

These are the builders of innovation, now, almost forgotten.

Not, the waders and swimmers in a cesspool smelling rotten.

Rather Giants walking upright in all fields made of dreams.

Not the Ostrich—in fear—hiding a beak from sunbeams.

Eagles of pride climbing heights—now crumbling.

Not modern-spirit hunchbacks raised to break a wing.

Wise snakes slithering in ecstasy through the ages.

Not apathetic convicts self-tortured in mind cages.

These men understood the teachings of the greatest of all the sages.

If they lived in B.C. time, they would gladly give him his due wages.

For, they profited and prospered from logical pages after pages.

“A is A” was the crucial and fertile teaching of all those adages.

If he were an army soldier, he’d be an officer with many badges.

If he were a guest at a grand table he’d surpass the other personages

Almost every one of our schools is one that he—dead—manages.

But he’s dead and dying—so his predators and students produce savages.

He rejected the great-beyond of his teacher ‘Father Plato.”

He’s the angel of this earth—but an angel with no halo!

Two millennia later all hear his philosophic bellow.

Yet fewer now respect the toil of this industrious fellow.

Amidst his grand Corpus incomplete, why should one live mellow?

Possessing his defined Virtue Crown, one should not be yellow!

At his dying spirit in our culture, one should not feel sorrow.

For, by the grace of Nature, we will revive him tomorrow!

In defining the “how” in the mind, he gave future labs orders.

And success, so long as one does not fall off axiomatic borders.

From him followed: “Nature to be commanded, must be obeyed!”

And from then on the progress in science could not be delayed.

For Newton discovered the laws that make things fall.

Like the multi-colored leaves that float down in the Fall.

Machine replaced Muscle in satisfying people’s ends.

And harnessed power can come from the once mysterious heavens!

One should teach the little boy with the still sleepy eyes:

Do not let your spirit sink by weaklings’ little lies.

Don’t deny the cars that you see in the street.

Or feather light shoes that help hard-worked feet.

Or the palm-held message sender that can bolt to Australia.

Nor your Patriotism that first rang with a bell in early Philadelphia.

Remember: Your mind must be free to achieve.

Don’t let the children of Kant make you a man to deceive.

Link to comment
Share on other sites

This one is also from over three years ago.

Thinking and Modern Teaching—By Jose Gainza

The world inside my head is my own domain,

Bordered and linked by chain after chain.

Some links are broken and there lies the strain:

It’s like a bridge collapsed and a fallen train.

This state of mind I do disdain:

When I cannot conquer the ruthless terrain,

Feeling like fuel being poured down the drain,

And time shooting down grain after grain.

Even success in this task causes pain.

The more weight on your back the more you gain.

In this process one cannot abstain!

Though it arouses the urge to stay lain.

But a steady focus, it asks I maintain.

The past ‘dozen’ steps, I should try to retain.

As well, a fresh interest, I must sustain.

In my dungeon, my drives, I detain.

And a ruthless logic is what I ordain.

If I stumble my steps, they, I still must regain.

So at my writing table is where I remain.

Even if Mother and Brother lie-outside being slain.

Or if my roof—dilapidated—let’s in the rain.

(These last two are exaggerations I entertain

So to suggest of the passion that I contain.)

If I want fulfillment of the dream I wish to obtain,

Many tricky-enigmas I should succeed to explain.

Too, answers to old Sages’ questions to ascertain.

Thus, the life of sloth, in the dark, I must restrain

In the long run, it’s a job one cannot feign—

Better off to have learned by the force of the cane.

Trash the excuse! : “It was their envy and deign!”

That: “Politicians and teachers are madly insane!”

That: “For the child of solitude there is no reign!”

Yes, most of the textbooks are nothing but bane.

And true Philosophy’s lure is on a critical wane.

And their methods of probing are not so humane.

And their poetry comes out like sounds too profane!

In the end, you will have occasion for Champagne:

These “institutions” will be amidst a grand Hurricane!

Before them will wait a giant demolition crane!

A Judge will ascend for his time to arraign!

Before our children will lie a splendid lane.

For, finally their sense of life will seem so sane.

Past pedantic torture will appear all in vain!

And the men of the mind will dominate again!

Link to comment
Share on other sites

After reading THE GREAT LONGING from Nietzsche's ZARATHUSTRA.

THE EGO TO ITS BASEMENT

By Jose Gainza

Oh, thank me, you basement!

For giving you everything you have.

For still giving you everything, daily,

Every hour that I wake until I die.

My eyes give you the beauty of the earth

And of the heavens…

All which you can never forget.

And my nose gives you the aromas of pleasure,

The fragrance of ecstasy, the stink of toil…

All which you can never forget.

And my ears give you the music of love

And the sounds of production…

All which you can never forget.

And my tongue gives you the taste

Of delicacies; yes, the bitterness of sand—

But the sweetness of ecstasies…

All which you can never forget.

And my skin gives you the warmth of the sun,

And the coldness of ice, the goose bumps of love,

And the beloved’s touch…

All which you will never forget.

You possess the play times of my childhood,

The angry storming of it too,

The stunting fear and shame, and yet the thrills at root…

All which you can never forget.

All the thoughts I gave were new to you.

All the errors I have made you still possess.

And I have ordered the system that you are…

All which you will never forget.

The songs that I have loved are still in you.

The verses that I’ve penned you have them too.

The essays I have thought still move you.

The wisdom that I’ve sought you have it too.

All the lovers I have loved you still possess.

And the dream of some new hero comes from you.

For storing all my words and values I thank you.

Don’t think I don’t appreciate all you’ve given me.

Don’t think I’ll stop inducing things to you.

Don’t think I’ll stop observing this bright heaven

That we share.

I know I cannot keep on striving without you…

And now all this I’ve spoken you will keep

In you…

None will you forget…

Just give me one more thing

Out of all that you can bring!

Let me hear it ring.

Grant the masterpiece to conquer

My new love:

You can thank me in this way…

Oh, and dry my current sweating writing palms.

Link to comment
Share on other sites

These one's are over three years old too and I guess the theme is "strife".

And So We Dare You Not To Dread Our Wrath.

How dare you smash two planes into our tallest twin towers!

How dare you try to sink the source of all our powers!

How dare you take our strong, our brave, our weak!

How dare you say to us, “Freedom you shall not seek”!

How dare you forget the wisdom by which we started!

How dare you think our golden economy will remain retarded!

How dare you use your “god” to stop American ambition!

How dare you leave ten blocks beyond all recognition!

How dare you leave our thousands buried dead!

How dare you think we will betray what we have always said!

How dare you slap the face of “life, freedom, and happiness”!

How dare you dance proud of your damned wretchedness!

How dare you not have learned our pledge to: liberty or death!

How dare you make them scream before one last breath!

How dare you believe that we will let you survive!

How dare you not have known our history we shall revive!

How dare you not have feared our knives, our guns, our bombs, our minds!

How dare you evade the justice no holy war defines!

And so we dare you not to dread our wrath…

I’ve Been Stood Up

I sat here waiting to see you “soon”-

I packed my bag to observe the coming moon.

I heard your voice that said: “Just wait.”

And fed my cat what she always ate.

I gave approval to my reflection in the mirror.

But still dreaded a subtle horror.

That a promise made in all sincerity

Would grab my heart with a short severity.

And so I waited hour upon hour,

Until this interest could no longer lower.

So I popped the calling cork.

And grabbed some olives with an eager fork.

I numbed my senses and my pain.

I filled my sac to keep me sane.

There is a lie I do believe:

That someone loves me even up their sleeve.

I’ve met those who want to see me smile,

Like a leading runner on his last mile.

And so it follows I can be “king.”

But I’ll deny the title if I don’t have to sting.

For the other way is that of trader.

And so with your gold I’ll see you later –

Alligator.

Link to comment
Share on other sites

TO THE LAUGHER

By Jose Gainza

You laughed with dramatic irony

Before you plunged

Into the sky defiantly.

Your nostalgic cliff remained

As it lost you finally.

On your will did you rely.

A breakthrough you did see

As to Stanton you did fly,

Instead of swimming to the sun.

Your clothes lay on the rocks;

I did not read you run.

I was a bird not from the flocks,

Flying close to watch you nude,

You with that orange do.

I was your navel ant, high dude—

Ant yet you couldn’t have a clue,

Though I could be seen for buttons missing.

And if I bugged you, surely,

Surely you would shoo me, flicking.

Or your feet I’d rub them tenderly.

I’d remove those leathers sandles.

I’d mend that hanging shirt.

I’d feed you among candles.

I can’t even dare to flirt.

I’d press that faded denim.

I’d be the water in the tub

To clean off your body’s rim,

Clean off dust of granite in the tub.

But you soon walked past the dump

And past the useless church.

Still in my mind were you nude without a hump,

Though no longer you were naked as a birch.

You passed them in the street,

And you walked up the Keating steps.

(And passed the obese cheat).

And with your proud footsteps,

You marched straight on and to your drafts

(Thus forgetting of her news).

You were not a man who laughs

As you resolved some structure’s use.

You drew your pencil-cure

Striking at the structure still not seen.

Yea! The right way, you were now so sure;

(You almost missed the meeting with the Dean).

(She stood shocked by your disinterest) …

Then you shocked him with your daring:

Really your sweet truth, your self-interest.

You preached to him of building;

You spoke of fusing forms

By harmony and commitment.

You defined innovations and not the norms,

Though he could not learn what you meant.

You seemed the first father of hierarchy;

A subject taught by none before.

“How” was all you needed, it the key,

For you to sanction your own “whyfore”.

He could not question why,

And thus he did not understand.

You spoke of happiness for which you’ll die—

“You’re not allowed” was in his hand.

You spoke of life-long joyous years—

But “the Ancients they have spoke”.

We learned that you had toiled all these years:

You built and walked the girders when you were broke.

I learned that you were all alone

But you were not for I saw you.

You spoke of how you build: all alone:

Holding to one form right all through and through.

I’ll paraphrase—thus you said:

That , “A painter’s picture comes

Of its theme, context, paint, and by the head.

The hero’s courage will beat diverse drums

To battle dragons or roaches.

(Clients will be fought only to build).

The orchard house no desert approaches—

Skyscrapers are not water filled—

Ancient temples can’t house a Roark—

A Hugo is not a Rand—

A knife is not a fork—

And in war by my sword I’ll stand.”

Thus began your trying battle.

(There might be crying you could bet).

And so without a horse and saddle,

You walked out to catch the sunset.

AFTER RE-READING THE OPENING CHAPTER OF THE FOUNTAINHEAD.

Link to comment
Share on other sites

  • 2 weeks later...

For a French beauty I ran into in my neighborhood.

Americo.

JUSTICE TO THE DIAMOND RUNNER—By Jose Gainza

Your beauty, O, how perfect!

I will not lie and say—

Though I see no defect—

“None like-seen until this day.”

It is true that you stand

Up on high among the best—

Please do understand

You are grouped among the best.

You are grouped with so few—

Though grouped none the less—

Perhaps there are two, one is you,

That today I still bless.

It is true you are new,

Yet you stood as the test,

When you ran as you flew,

With your flash as my fest.

There you were … you were gone …

I was thrilled … then a wound …

Your return … a swift “swan” …

You saw me … I looked around.

All right! I won’t stall:

You are rare and so fair.

I forget “the best of all”

Yet you too live up there.

You come from “diamond land,”

A place where nature always shines,

Beauties running in the sand,

Faces drawn by glorious harmony lines.

This is where your face belongs

And where my dream does run.

So I sing such happy songs

Because a face like yours is so much fun.

Though the “utter perfect face,”

I can’t name yours just yet,

Prior jewels left but a trace

But yours remains; it’s set.

You exist and I am sure:

That your rareness brings a tear,

Yet your gift is sadness’ cure,

Seeing you has made my year.

Others may fear to reveal

That your face hides their smiles,

That your form drowns their thrill,

That their loves are lost files.

In Justice I speak the true,

I grant as good what you deserve:

I dare say, “Exquisite: This is you!” –

Words your mirror does reserve.

Link to comment
Share on other sites

I did enjoy the thematic aspects, i.e., I have read the works. However, I have spent the last few weeks writing poetry and thus I could not give you my commentary. I will post one in this section as proof.

Learning Not To Cry—Jose Gainza

I must say that I had no words,

Thus I let salty teardrops roll,

Down my cheeks and passed my lips.

Why did I plead with empty words,

Grunting for your drying dole?

Babies ask with tears and shake their hips,

While Cyranos woo with rising verse,

And do not profit, no, from crying,

Knowing hiccough screams naught denote.

That you exist, nature I do bless.

I approve you at a height quite edifying.

I’ll say it simply, just as a note:

Your beauty made my world more so.

My eyes did bask on action yours.

They saw you run, and saw you play.

They saw you walk, dance to and fro.

They saw you dance with me on fours.

They saw us dance a jazzy twist away.

My arms got used to holding you in bed

And everywhere.

Your words they spoke to me so expertly.

They spoke with confidence and upright head—

They spoke so fair.

They instructed your treatises made easy.

They spoke of freedom we deserve instead

Of shackles by our shackled brothers.

They, your words, expected me to stay committed to

My own vision for leading straight ahead,

A vision shared by moral forefathers,

Even if that vision did extinguish you.

They demanded that I tell the world my story,

The themes that have always moved my life,

And themes that I will learn are my right way:

Like recluse love from land of excepted glory;

Like courage fierce for midgets causing strife

… Or ruthlessness, that shows the justice way.

They taught that I should only love myself

And thus need no one else.

They advised that I should never choose the middle:

So long as people live around myself,

There’s utter love for no one else.

With no one else I’ll share my fiddle.

There is no one single one for whom I’ll die

If he’s no longer there to bring me joy…

Well there was one, you said …

That’d be the spouse on high.

The need of this one man still seems a ploy,

It floats abstractly still inside my head.

Until that day then I need no spouse.

I will suffice to produce essential joy.

If you begin to do things simply for the “they”,

And in that style decide to build your house,

You might find that your life has been a toy:

Your promised joy did not need your delay.

By that you will lose the joy in doing,

And lose the excellence eventually.

You made me want to change my running form,

To run the course with stronger, wider striding,

And ache but still breathe air gently.

All of this became my striving norm.

And now you’re gone—I still remember.

Though I won’t forget, I’ll stop the useless fret.

My tears won’t bring you back; I know

In memory you’ll remain a glowing ember,

For I walked the tantrum out and lock did set.

I’ll name the problem that attempted not to go,

And find the changes that I have to make.

I’ll call the means by which I’ll change.

I’ll call the joy to drive me to my goal,

Endless longing I won’t have to fake,

Or keeping you so beyond my range,

Or keeping you as my lance pole,

A torture arrow deep inside of me…

I’ll take the steps that will bring me thee:

Sing the songs that will bring such glee.

Or decide it finally that you are not for me;

Realize that there’s more to see.

I will define what was not thee—

Something else that is running free.

I’ll place you right with my values bright.

Something else that can match the joy,

Something else that will keep me free,

Bring enrichment to my goals aright,

Strengthen armour of this adult boy.

I guess storm tears can dull the gold,

And waves can cut the giant rock,

And screams can blur beacons of light,

And men can lament like the bards of old,

But I rather share my happy talk,

This I’ve done right now just right.

Link to comment
Share on other sites

This poem is sweet. I will post "II" tomorrow.

CUPID’S RETIREMENT—By Jose Gainza

I

Call me cupid; call me winged Eros

For daring to arouse sweet love in men

With verses piercing souls as arrows.

If they could only find their number ten

More inventive gifts would follow then.

For love inspires work in men, I know.

And this is what I gladly show

When my hearty verses flow

Off the page and into them—them, them.

Childish hate I toil to stem—

I cut such weeds with an edged sword,

So my dear lovers receive their only Lord.

Link to comment
Share on other sites

From CUPID'S RETIREMENT--By Jose Gainza

II

“The noble soul has reverence for itself,”

Said Nietzsche, that madman German poet.

One’s ego, everyman should own it,

Everyman should learn to worship that.

But how easy men do forfeit—

And seek to love to love themselves,

And then love blindly as a bat—

Or seeking trophies for their shelves

Making love seem but a game,

Having sex that turns out lame,

Then trying not to feel self-blame.

Thus I chose to be a guiding poet.

Link to comment
Share on other sites

From CUPID'S RETIREMENT by Jose Gainza

III

Call me cupid; call me Eros …

Who will unite all stubborn lovers.

Beware my shot that hovers, lovers!

There is one who fights my love with “no”.

I follow so that she can say just, “Go. Go!”

But in her eyes I see the truth that sneaks

Past the anger in her face that shrieks.

Incessant I love her for once showed she

That really, truly, she loves me:

It was a day she found some verses in her mail—

Then she shook Justin’s hand but sunk a nail:

The scar from which he cherished so.

Link to comment
Share on other sites

From CUPID'S RETIREMENT By Jose Gainza

IV

And I won’t deny her eyes did pierce—

They showed a conflagration fierce.

This type of woman can surely love a man,

But me, the abstraction great, she vows to hate.

She doesn’t think me of life’s plan

And yet Justin she would surely date.

The woman thinks I cannot be because the swine

Roam around as if they’re drunk on wine—

And call it love, and pray that passion will return.

But I am passion, so I know how I can burn—

Exhaust and waste without right fuel—

Feed and warm—oh, this ironic duel!

Link to comment
Share on other sites

From CUPID'S RETIREMENT By Jose Gainza

V

And yet we love Leona, Justin and I,

Even when in snub she passes by.

But we know she does read our verse

When sent to her in, oh, so various ways.

Surely some are folded in her purse.

Surely we remain with her for several days.

She awaits our praises, though she won’t admit

That I am nearing her sole ideal,

That my Justin she will want to fit

Inside her life like some big deal.

And once she lets him in her whole being,

It is me that she will keep on seeing.

Link to comment
Share on other sites

From CUPID'S RETIREMENT By Jose Gainza

VI

I promise you they will get married,

Though she thinks she wants to see,

Him lying in some gutter, wearied.

And even on her honeymoon she

Will scorn me still, “no this can’t be!”—

How blinded was this dame to think

That life was made from pain,

And man walks always on the brink—

That tempter god I have to slain.

For she will feel the power that is love

Within her loins and on Justin’s face,

While I send them both to ecstasy.

Link to comment
Share on other sites

From CUPID'S RETIREMENT By Jose Gainza

VII

But they are but the highlight of

All the lovers I have fused together—

O so many clients of me, Love.

There’ve been those who found

So soon, upon one glance, that forever

They will surely live together.

I’m sad to say there’ve been a few

Who praised me with a hemlock flask:

Those dolts! They thought I lived in heaven.

But it is where they dance— or where I write my brew.

And so it’s time to end the task

Of shooting folks with sheets of heaven.

(VIII will follow tomorrow ...)

Link to comment
Share on other sites

From CUPID'S RETIREMENT By Jose Gainza

VIII

I am glad to say that I’m in love,

Yes, cupid is in love.

He has these small brown eyes,

And black long waving hair.

He stands so tall and fair,

Without a hunch as “posture lies”

(As they in shame of their great height).

He stands with pride, this guy—

He grins so wide, this god—

His sculpted muscles must be tight,

I guess,

For I haven’t seen him nude—

Only in my dreams have I had this dude.

IX

The thing is that he’s like Leona:

He won’t accept he wants me yet.

He thinks that I will interfere

With the working of his life.

Losing him I do not fear—

I think he’s turned on by the strife.

Seeing him he still won’t let

But I will win a date, I bet.

I’ll still compose my verses sweet

But only for his sole gusto.

It’s time to park away my fleet

And save them for the battle with my sweet.

Link to comment
Share on other sites

This one is for Brian Faulkner since he appreciated this poem but requested better punctuation--it is finally finished.

Beauty—By Jose Gainza

Even before the first ancient idylls that uttered your graces—

Your were there;

Before the eyes of men to delight in such harmony faces—

Oh so fair!

In their dreams you re-emerged in fluttering traces—

Hard to bear;

So you branded the lines of many countless races.

We still stare

At the likes who emerged from your ancestral basis—

Oh so fair!

Then some genius found the means to paint your picture—

Everywhere;

Even in the shadows of the clouds’ changing fissure—

He does dare,

Despite the torment that ensues from his passion rupture—

Shooting flare—

Signalling the wooing of his muse from a lofty juncture—

That none compare,

To the combination that he sees without a fracture—

Oh so fair.

Now today and on this phone I have the way—

I do fare,

On this line where your voice will always stay—

Some fanfare—

I can always flip the cover everyday—

And I stare

Once the highlight pinpoints beauty without delay—

And I dare

To kiss your face that is a screen—I say, “Hey!”

You’re so fair!

Then I call you with impatience for you here,

Us a pair,

And you promise to run to me like a deer—

This you dare—

And I’m certain of your passion I do steer—

Now you’re there,

And those brown eyes pierce within me, oh my dear …

And your hair

Tangled ‘round my fingers while I kiss you without fear:

You’re so rare!

Link to comment
Share on other sites

Join the conversation

You can post now and register later. If you have an account, sign in now to post with your account.

Guest
Reply to this topic...

×   Pasted as rich text.   Paste as plain text instead

  Only 75 emoji are allowed.

×   Your link has been automatically embedded.   Display as a link instead

×   Your previous content has been restored.   Clear editor

×   You cannot paste images directly. Upload or insert images from URL.

Loading...
  • Recently Browsing   0 members

    • No registered users viewing this page.

×
×
  • Create New...