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AMERICONORMAN

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I couldn't seem to find the old thread on poetry.

So I will start a new one. (Click here)

I wrote a poem on my break today. I definately like it. To understand the title, you can replace the phrase before the colon for "Hank Rearden: The Bracelet I wear", merely to help you understand my meaning with the help of Atlas figures.

In this thread participants can post poems that they like for a variety of possible reasons. If you come across a poem that you end up liking in your day-to-day lives, or if you write a poem that you like, I suggest you share it here.

Now here's my poem. One of my aliases is Americo Norman.

TO MY ALTER EGO: THE CHAIN I WEAR

By Jose Gainza

All o’ sudden you stood shining

Right before my very eyes.

In that moment I stood sweating

Waiting for my heart’s demise.

As it pitter-pattered endlessly

I grasped my strength before your light

Could send me falling hopelessly

And reveal my futile might.

As it happened, though, I stood there!

Braced before my smoking tears

Were your hair and lips so fair—

So unmatched in all my years!

What you said but could not utter,

Was that I looked at you so strong

Your stern mind began to flutter:

“With you, sweet dear, I do belong.”

This is why my darling precious:

Because although you may not know it,

Though of the feeling you are conscious,

Your eyes command that I shall forfeit.

But I do not intend to lose,

And neither you—we will both win!

Your unique song is what I’ll choose

When our clenched lips won’t be our sin.

Edited by softwareNerd
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The following poem I wrote most recently:

Two Heroes At Thirty—By Jose Gainza

In the prime of his life he travelled in spirits

Not knowing which to take hold of,

To grant to the fortune of merit

The safe in the depths of his love.

He trekked in his youth with blossoming flowers

Basking in each of their scents for awhile,

Until the time of exchange, increasing his powers,

And to welcome the next with that smile.

What did he win by trading in spirits?

Why did those bullions allow it?

Was he acting just like brute pirates?

Did he expect some fatal bullet?

He gave much of his glory to them,

Those who exchanged their worship,

For the chance to share in his diadem,

Their reward: eternal friendship.

But never once in his life—for so long—

Could he give his whole self completely.

Never could his motive be a “thou,”

He showed them in action sincerely.

The prime of his life, those something twenties,

Is when he discovered his power for art.

It was the time to create all his fancies,

To speed forward straight as a dart.

These were the years when he doubted

The adulation of social engagements.

For in an hour his trap could be mounted,

Feeling shy of fain for eternal commitments.

Thus he always returned to his muse,

That beacon that inspired his work.

Never, for so long, did he meet this fuse;

Of it merely his perception did lurk.

He imagined a being so lovely and lustrous

But never one picture could hold.

Though ere his garden was prosperous,

None were bestowed as his timeless mold.

What he loved of his crew were their eyes.

What he saw inside them was longing.

He saw himself fair in their sighs,

Then he left just to see them pouting.

One day in his work he was playing with light,

He was studying the modes of reflection.

Here he stumbled upon his lost plight:

In the mirror was his utter perfection.

How many times had he looked in that glass

To wipe the paint clean from his face?

How many times had he let the time pass

Creating mere mirrors on canvass?

Many mountains upturned in the lakes

At heights where fists did not bar him.

His palette of pale dawns and fierce dusks

Painted the following dictum:

To see myself real as a rock,

To show my soul with all its splendour,

To shatter my consciousness’ lock,

Vain would be the will of a philosopher.

A statue can reveal my beauteous virtue,

Oil can paint my eyes and their sorrow,

Verse can make my thoughts shine through.

But from sense a theory can merely borrow.

Only through art can an essence be found,

The medium by which to give birth to oneself.

And even then are mere fragments that bound

No matter how much is tossed up in delve.

It’s good so that the struggle never wanes, though.

Evermore are inner parts transported

Past the frontier firmly where my eyes can see me new,

Where the fact of my existence is re-recorded.

I once thought that as an actor I could make the most

Of the time I need to spend creating.

Often times with inspiration I would make a toast

To extract the drama from another being.

Soon I found that it is only while alone

I could engage in my self-genesis

Of such dimensions to never reach the bone:

The contemplation of the purest bliss.

Then one day when he was finally thirty

He saw a stranger on the bus.

Very handsome his face was dirty.

Shaven cheeks were too much of a fuss.

From behind what he could only study

Were sporadic turns of a profile,

A snapping jaw always ready,

A direct nose to lips it can’t defile.

Something in his face said he was forty.

And in the way he stood to leave,

With a grey cloak thin and sporty,

Cut so that you would not believe

That he looked half the age he was!

He was the epitome of Statuesque,

Gave the effect of marble lines,

And wore a subdued humoresque.

Then the artist knew for once

These were not so wasted years.

It was not his time for penance,

He had lost the age of tears.

The muse that he had sought for

Was before his very eyes.

Still he had to wait some more,

The man was just a sign for the skies.

What he knew was he could be

For another in this world,

On this his very decade three,

A moral idol now unfurled.

The bus now left to him alone

He was thinking of his past:

A crackling voice on the phone

Volunteering to be last.

Now the new role he would play

For the boy who claimed no chains,

And further more without delay,

Is of a love that never feigns.

The boy grown up walking in the park

On the day that he turned thirty,

Was the end of days still dark,

With his soul no longer dirty.

There was standing his old friend

Like a statue in his dreams,

A statue shattered by some fiend,

Of old Barbarians in teams.

This is where we used to come, I know.

I knew that you would be here on this day.

I thought then we could take it slow

Until this day when I choose to always stay.

Your face is now untouched by tragedy.

My love has ceased to be your crutch.

Now our discord is a blessed harmony.

I am no longer wounded by your touch.

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Here follows my latest poem. I wonder whether Ayn Rand wrote verse poetry. I can't see why she couldn't. If they do exist, they are probably Peikoff's private treasure.

Enjoy,

Americo.

LOVE INSPIRED AMONG VERSES

By Jose Gainza

I saw you there among the blessèd books,

Leafing through pages charmed with wordy hooks.

You sang aloud despite the taboo rules

That said you must respect the silent fools,

Who would not praise your voice if present there—

At least they dare not miss your visage fair!

Cause we live in times of poetic drought

The bards we love are whom they often flout.

We were alone among the works of men

Who spoke as if they were a lyre Titan.

I wasn’t sad for their respect forgone.

Then, dear, you were a graceful pacing swan.

Now! to the wall I want to smash this glass!

Because they praise “poets” from some morass!

It is but an instant feel of justice,

I know,

You say that I should end this spiteful hiss,

I know,

Should return to the telling of our tale,

And how I came to be your only male.

So now that swan will become this jewel—

One now embracing a happy Sentinel.

No! Don’t touch me there I want to tell it:

The moment when I caught your pure spirit,

A voice to bring them in their graves to tears—

Those men who gave us strength to face our fears.

The song that you were singing was that one—

Creature of the priestess who grasped the sun—

Self-reverence became her torch of pride—

All duty for the folk she set aside—

The battle she fought was filled with honor—

The verses of Alicia O’Connor!

Remember when at last he published them?

Melodies of Nineteen-twenty Harlem,

Commingled with erotic, Latin sounds,

They were her healthy working heart that pounds.

Sure, we have to thank sagacious Leo,

Student of her work so very thorough!

Now one book of verse stands among the greats—

Browning, Tennyson, Byron, Shelley, Keats—

And I can’t forget the wondrous Kipling—

All for whom our English was their foundling.

How they nurtured it to move the world right.

Yes, there love for verse was a risky fight.

What she spoke about was his seduction,

The tall man she tripped during production,

Who seemingly then vanished from the earth.

Somewhere inside she could not keep her mirth …

In the building looking for a good book,

She then saw him fair reading at some nook …

Soon they wed-locked with a happy ending,

As we two will in the final spending.

Doll, I’m so glad that you heard my whispers,

Trembling in unison with my whiskers.

I’m glad that I knew the stanza after yours,

And the way that inflamed melody soars.

Yes, I too found you in a library,

And,

Us two alone was then not so scary.

Other people in that room were not missed;

Love, with them there we would not have then kissed,

As I kiss you now on those sexy lips,

As I clench my arms around your tight hips!

Are not you glad that I told the story?

It is time to celebrate in glory.

All these hours that we have yet left to us,

Tomorrow over them we’ll reminisce,

And when you pant and I control the plot,

We’ll earn the awesome ecstasy we ought.

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Below you will find my latest poem. It is modelled actually from a poem of Cyrano's in Rostand's Cyrano De Bergerac. It is his introduction of his regiment to DeGuiche at Rageneau's shop in Act II. I keep the same essential structure and I have similar theme, I have changed it to reflect a more objective philosophy, or a deeper spiritual aspect than Rostand's.

Enjoy,

Americo.

Galt’s Boys—By Jose Gainza

The Right Reason Fighters—ego Praisers!

Of Galt from the mountain on high—

Free thinkers, true lovers, gold traders—

The Right Reason fighters, ego Praisers

Of new jewels, Virtue—these good heirs

On logic they always rely!

The Right Reason fighters—ego Praisers

Of Galt from the mountain on high!

Minds sharp, they expose evil pretenders!

Like Lions their pride does defy—

For Perfection they’re moral misers!

(Minds sharp, they expose evil pretenders)

Of Old bad mores they are their betters,

Old masks they do not dignify.

Minds sharp, they expose evil pretenders—

Like Lions their pride does defy!

Transformed are denials—naught mind warpers—

It’s justice they do not deny.

Condemners when production falters—

Transformed are denials—naught mind warpers!

They grant their market price to renters

Without even batting an eye!

Transformed are denials—naught mind warpers—

It’s justice they do not deny!

Behold them, Right Reason Praisers,

It’s praise for the sacred word “I”.

They want the last one who surrenders—

Behold them, Right Reason Praisers!

So absurd for them to need masters,

Another self would make them sigh.

Behold them, Right Reason Praisers:

It’s praise for the sacred word “I”!

Below is the poem from Cyrano the play:

The Cadets of Gascoyne—the defenders

Of Carbon de Castet-Jaloux:

Free fighters, free lovers, free spenders—

The Cadets of Gascoyne—the defenders

Of old homes, old names, and old splendors—

A proud and a pestilent crew!

The Cadets of Gascoyne, the defenders

Of Carbon de Castel Jaloux.

Hawk-eyed, they stare down all contenders—

The wolf bares his fangs as they do—

Make way there, you fat money-lenders!

(Hawk-eyed, they stare down all contenders)

Old boots that have been to the menders,

Old cloaks that are worn through and through—

Hawk-eyed, they stare down all contenders—

The wolf bares his fangs as they do!

Skull-breakers they are, and sword-benders;

Red blood is their favorite brew:

Hot haters and loyal befrienders,

Skull-breakers they are, and sword-benders

Wherever a quarrel engenders,

They’re ready and waiting for you!

Skull-breakers they are, and sword-benders;

Red blood is their favorite brew!

Behold them, our Gascon defenders

Who win every woman they woo!

There’s never a dame but surrenders—

Behold them, our Gascon defenders!

Young wives who are clever pretenders—

Old husbands who house the cuckoo—

Behold them—our Gascon defenders

Who win every woman they woo!

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Here is Rostand's French original, to compare.

Enjoy,

Americo.

The Gascon Cadet of Castel-Jaloux:

By Cyrano De Bergerac (Rostand)

Ce sont les cadets de Gascogne

De Carbon de Castel-Jaloux;

Bretteurs et menteurs sans verogne,

Ce sont les cadets de Gascogne!

Parlant blason, lambel, bastogne!

Tous plus nobles que des filous,

Ce sont les cadets de Gascogne

De Carbon de Castel-Jaloux :

Œil d’aigle, jambe de cigogne,

Moustache de chat, dents de loups,

Fendant la canaille qui grogne,

Ils vont, -- coiffes d’un vieux vigogne

Dont la plume cache les trous! –

Œil d’aigle, jambe de cigogne,

Moustache de chat, dents de loups!

Perce-Bedaine et Casse-Trogne

Sont leurs sobriquets les plus doux;

De gloire, leur ame est ivrogne!

Perce-Bedaine et Casse-Trogne,

Dans tous les endroites ou l’on cogne

Ils se donnent des rendez-vous …

Perce-Bedaine et Casse-Trogne

Sont leurs sobriques les plus doux!

Voici les cadets de Gascogne

Qui font cocus tous les jaloux!

O femme, adorable carogne,

Voici les cadets de Gascogne!

Que le vieil epoux se renfrogne :

Sonnez, clairons! Chantez, coucous!

Voici les cadets de Gascogne

Qui gonto cocus tous les jaloux!

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Please see below a more literal translation, amateur though because done by myself, of the previous Cyrano poem. The translation I posted was by Brian Hooker. I discovered after translating the original that Hooker is not as literal as I had thought. I misses much of the literal meaning. However, it was Hooker's rhythm in translation that inspired my modern adaptation.

Please note that some of the French words were not in my bilingual dictionnary so I had to improvise.

Thank you,

Americo.

THE POEM: my literal translation:

These are the Cadets of Gascogne

Of Carbon Castel-Jaloux;

Brawlers and Liars without humility,

These are the Cadets of Gascogne!

Coat of Arms, the House Cadets, heraldic kin,

All no longer thus, now just noble rogues,

These are the Cadets of Gascogne

Of Carbon Castel-Jaloux:

Eye of the eagle, long leg of the stork

Cat whiskers, wolf like fangs,

Thus they taunt the dog that growls,

Eye of the eagle, long leg of the stork,

They go, — hairdos of an old lama

Strands mask facial features!

Eye of the eagle, long leg of the stork,

Cat whiskers, wolf fangs!

Pierced-belly, broken face

Are nick named their brutish foe;

Glory, his soul with it drunk!

Pierced-belly and broken face,

In all their rights where they knock

They themselves are generous of arranging…

Pierced-belly and broken face

Are nick named their brutish foe!

These are the cadets of Gascogne

Who make cuckold all the jealous!

O ladies, adorable carrion,

These are the cadets of Gascogne!

That the old husbands scowl:

Sound, bugles! Sing, cuckoos!

These are the cadets of Gascogne

Who make cuckold all the jealous!

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  • 3 weeks later...

Here's my latest. I thought I heard a man scatting melodiously through the ceiling; I liked the melody. It turned out to be the wind.

Love’s Hurrah!

By Jose Gainza

Here I go

Killing this foe—

A gun’s son!

Oh-ooh-oh….

Longing of my blessed soul,

Oh-ooh-oh!

Here I am the waif of love,

Oh-ooh-oh!

Tantamount I am to hope—

This I’ve been for all my life—

Waiting for my dear to come—

Trigger pulled and out I go—

Oh-ooh-oh!

Tenderness has been my gun,

Out I dart with so much fun,

Care for them it has been done,

And then one day they are gone—

Oh-ooh-oh….

Never can I use a rope,

So I had to let them go.

I hate the praise for a pope,

I would toss it to and fro—

Oh-ooh-oh….

I deny that love is strife,

This is something I do know.

Love’s ideal has been my wife,

Stitches that my needles sew.

Oh-ooh-oh….

The rivers of my kingdom,

Through my gushing vessels flow;

The passion of my fiefdom,

My beloveds felt it blow.

Oh-ooh-oh….

The trigger pulled and out I go,

An old man is what I throw,

He who grief he used to tow,

Prayers no more will he sow.

Oh-ooh-oh….

Here I go

Killing this foe—

A gun’s son!

Oh-ooh-oh.

Wishes will not bring me love.

Weeds of love I have to mow.

Now my soul will be a dove,

Even lonely I will glow.

Hurrah-hurrah!

Arrived is my kindred soul,

Hurrah-hurrah!

I stand now a god of love,

Hurrah-hurrah!

My tenderness does remain.

Hardly a flaw,

Does my value code contain,

Hurrah, hurrah!

There it is,

I killed my foe,

Tragedy inside my soul;

No need for another’s dole!

Hurrah-hurrah.

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Americonorman,

Back to "love's Hurrah!" In stanza 4, line 3, does "them" refer to light, unserious loves? In stanza 5 what does "use a rope " mean? And how does "hate the praise for a pope" tie in? In stanza 6 who or what is sewing stitches into what---your soul? In stanza 8 what is the "old man"? In the last stanza you say "I killed my foe", but how? Were these questions answered within the poem, so that they disappeared, it would be even more enjoyable. But, again, I'm glad you wrote it and I have enjoyed reading it aloud.

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BrianFaulkner:

For many years I couldn't get over a love that I had lost. Most recently, the torture seems so silly. (Roark waited for Dagny, I think, 11 years! But not with the tragic sense.) So "them" refers to that person, among others prior and since, that have left my life; it refers to all the people of my past that I have seriously loved. (Kind of like Willy Nelson's, "to all the girls I loved before.") The difference is that Romantic love is something new that I have discovered. When I fall in love it will be so much better than what I had even hoped of with those past people. The line mentions my care for them; that was true. And I think this can be a universal attitude and advise.

Since the people eventually left, and that loss was painful, I could not use a "rope" to keep them, i.e., hostage. "If you love some one, set them free."

The love for a "pope" is causeless. You're a child, unphilosophical, and yet you have to love a sage without reason. And it should be the highest devotion next to God, so high that you must obey out of duty. I won't give it, nor expect it. I hate the idea of unconditional love.

The sewing stitches part is there to contrast with the idea of love is strife, or opposites attract. The sentence of that line begins with the abstraction of love has been my wife, I was in love with the idea of being in love, i.e., not strife but fitting together like fabrics being stitched together to make a beautiful garment.

Early in the poem I said I was love's waif, i.e., love's abandoned child. But this tragic longing for love has been there all my life that he has become an old man.

I killed the foe through philosophy, through understanding the true nature of love. In Atlas the advise is to, "check one's premises". Similar idea.

Thanks for the compliments and your enthusiasm. I'll tell you a secret, I wrote that in about an hour. One day I'll make it more objectively intelligible.

The Midas poem was very nice. I enjoyed the others too.

Americo.

Americonorman,

  Back to "love's Hurrah!"  In stanza 4, line 3, does "them" refer to light, unserious loves?  In stanza 5 what does "use a rope " mean?  And how does "hate the praise for a pope" tie in?  In stanza 6 who or what is sewing stitches into what---your soul?  In stanza 8 what is the "old man"?  In the last stanza you say "I killed my foe", but how?  Were these questions answered within the poem, so that they disappeared, it would be even more enjoyable.  But, again, I'm glad you wrote it and I have enjoyed reading it aloud.

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The following is my latest poem. It is not as good as my previous poems but it is competent.

Keep one's wing intact--By Jose Gainza

If I

Could just fly

With the birds I view--

Seeing things,

What existence brings—

Just a few

Obstacles blocking

Our way to continue flocking,

Zooming down to our healthy prey,

Clawing our ideal.

It I saw from the distance glow

When my youth did flow.

Hearken to ages now past,

Fair songs time dare not out last,

So long as I soar

And my spirit still dares to roar!

Sped through envy’s agony

Did I,

And discovered,

And recovered,

The eggs that shattered when I so erred.

Do not be wooed by vultures,

Don’t poop on man sculptures.

Fly eagle-like with your pride,

Don’t eat dead if you feed on the living,

End the kidding,

Do your stout reasoned passion’s bidding.

Strut not with your aeronautic wings,

Croak not if you have a breast that lyre-like sings.

Hard it is to keep a fresh crown,

But then otherwise will endure a bitter frown.

So speaks this earthling with dreams enamoured

Of the flight

To a reality where my shadow follows my steps.

Fight!

For the right to walk with nude soul unashamed,

Thinking head up high—

Their fists by applause restrained—

Along with your worth,

Grown since birth,

On it rely.

Integrity,

I thought it was a dream

To be kept

In word but not feet.

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  • 1 month later...

Here is my latest poem. I have no title for it yet.

Untitled--By Jose Gainza

This torch that was forbidden

Is a wing of ascension and metamorphosis,

So that values all with me convoy.

I have risen!

Now this stage forbids The Ploy

Because happiness is

A state of non-contradictory joy.

This is candy that will thrill

Your will—

Its flames do not exhaust

To ash—

The kindling one will always use,

The thrash not from the thrill,

Leaves no tears profuse.

This joy does not slash

Your values.

This sun rolls as one’s constant ally,

As a ceremony to encounter,

When your kernel’s benediction

Is the calling of your belfry,

As you advance in your production.

It does not work for your

destruction.

As the warm light in the morning,

The rolling sanction of the drum,

It is the satisfaction always left behind—

Until the next to which you’re climbing.

It’s the joy of an efficacious find,

Not the joy of escaping from

Your mind.

When you struggle for that thing you wish

With your will and strength the mightiest—

When you grow the power

To satisfy your important wish—

It is not the failure that left you feeling sour,

It’s the attempt of using your mind’s fullest

Power!

To design and build a jewel-like tower,

Giving your style devoutest loyalty—

It is the pleasure that you feel—

Though enshrined within your shining dower—

As the deepest onion peel:

Not the joy of faking reality

But of achieving values real.

Like the champagne glass ending ten years of battle,

Like commitment day crystal joyously shattered,

It’s the tantalization of the omnipresent seducer

Who may whisper but does prattle.

It’s the serenity of a temperate consumer

Not the joy of a drunkard

But of a straight-line producer.

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Here is my latest poem.  I have no title for it yet.

Untitled--By Jose Gainza

This torch that was forbidden

Is a wing of ascension and metamorphosis,

So that values all with me convoy.

I have risen!

Now this stage forbids The Ploy

"Because happiness is

A state of non-contradictory joy."

This is candy that will thrill

Your will—

Its flames do not exhaust

To ash—

The kindling one will always use,

The thrash not from the thrill,

Leaves no tears profuse.

"This joy does not slash

Your values."

This sun rolls as one’s constant ally,

As a ceremony to encounter,

When your kernel’s benediction

Is the calling of your belfry,

As you advance in your production.

"It does not work for your

destruction."

As the warm light in the morning,

The rolling sanction of the drum,

It is the satisfaction always left behind—

Until the next to which you’re climbing.

It’s the joy of an efficacious find,

"Not the joy of escaping from

  Your mind."

When you struggle for that thing you wish

With your will and strength the mightiest—

When you grow the power

To satisfy your important wish—

It is not the failure that left you feeling sour,

"It’s the attempt of using your mind’s fullest

  Power!"

To design and build a jewel-like tower,

Giving your style devoutest loyalty—

It is the pleasure that you feel—

Though enshrined within your shining dower—

As the deepest onion peel:

"Not the joy of faking reality

But of achieving values real".

Like the champagne glass ending ten years of battle,

Like commitment day crystal joyously shattered,

It’s the tantalization of the omnipresent seducer

Who may whisper but does prattle.

It’s the serenity of a temperate consumer

"Not the joy of a drunkard

But of a straight-line producer".

I realized that I committed plagarism in this poem, but actually with the intention of tribute. At least I should give credit where it is due, and admitt the lack of complete originality in this poem. It is meant in tribute to Ayn Rand's ideas on Happiness. If you notice the last two lines of every stanza, you should be able to recognize them as from Galt's speech. Where it is isolated as a quote is in OPAR (SC) page 338. I wanted to capture those ideas in a poem. It was those lines that I quote from her that actually inspired the structure of the poem. I wrote the poem around those lines. Notice in blue that I added quotation marks to correct the error.

Americo.

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  • 3 weeks later...

Well, since B. Royce has returned then I will add a poem. Actually B. Royce, I see your one poem and raise you one. (Actually these poems are from a story I am working on which I doubt I will post on this forum. So enjoy.)

Running Man—By Jose Gainza

Running man, running man, don’t run away,

I’m riding near right next to you.

Come on, come on my friend, won’t you just stay?

I’m riding, not hiding, confiding in you.

I’m trying, attempting, to will one play day.

And you want to go turn one buck into two.

I’ve cooled your heat, and still you say, nay.

What say they—If love, set him free, with glee?

Don’t even try to take joy in the pain?

Be glad for the joy that he feels without thee?

He’s producing himself so that friends can remain?

It’s time that is short, not from me do you flee.

And so for your work, thee I will not detain.

Just promise to feel, if not think, with me you shall be.

You will feel when you read what I write

I can touch you as if we were bonded by fate.

I can hold you and wound you as if I would bite.

Or suck you as if I had tentacles eight.

But as you can see there are no chains in sight.

I am close by the wheels of the cycle, dear mate.

I respect your individual right.

This is my chance, fair man, to contemplate.

Somewhere For Me—By Jose Gainza

Somewhere in this city you exist

As my jealous longing does persist

When you let others hear your words.

And our time continues onwards.

Without me knowing who you are,

Our meeting time is still too far.

I see the blackness of your hair

Within my dreams.

I see the passion of your stare,

True sunbeams.

My consciousness cannot resist.

Why this dream do I insist?

Somewhere in some window you look on.

Even while I’m working you’re not gone.

Still I see you searching for your love,

Pure you are inside me like a dove.

Even though I cannot see your face,

Even though you touch me …with no trace.

I see the blackness of your hair,

And your shadow, oh so fair,

Within my dreams.

I see the passion of your stare

Everywhere

True sunbeams.

I want to find your spirit’s fords

So I can walk ere I plunge onwards.

Somewhere in my future you will come

Silencing my protest then so dumb.

Chestnut eyes plunging into mine

Growing into visions, oh so fine.

Taking in the wetness of your tongue,

Us ascending to love’s highest rung.

I see the blackness of your hair

And the black coat that you wear

Within my dreams.

I see the passion of your stare,

The sweet verses that you dare,

True sunbeams.

When will you wipe away my scar?

Or scrape away the shameful tar?

Somewhere in this city you exist.

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The Philosoflyer

By Jose Gainza

Terrific people do you find,

With whom you want to spend no time?

With who are you so kind?

Mountaineers to who you want to climb,

From you they need no dime.

They trade with you in pounds—

They put their money down—

You like the dropping gold that sounds.

They surely are no clowns,

These neither fickle hounds!

Would be farmers they would be

On whom townsmen could rely.

But with shooting towers free,

Hoes they must deny.

Rearden metal saucers hold their tea,

As some pen “philosofly,”

That can carry you so high.

Deep they’re skilled to dig,

Balancing on sturdy leg.

You, as to a ship, they can rig,

With graceful sails as they peg.

You won’t mature a pig

From the hatching of their egg.

These have an able minded soul,

Not madness in a howl.

Inside you they can overflow your bowl,

Inspire vision like an acute owl,

And it will not even seem their dole,

Nor cause you then one awful foul.

The “Philosoflyer” sees the giant whole,

And yet sings with songs that soar.

They proudly lift you up the flagpole;

With sounds of trumpets for you do they roar:

You’re the charge upon which they roll.

And for this them you must adore.

With him witness pride flying as an eagle.

He struts embracing with a panache cock.

So no tragic, mocking ravens belittle

And no parrots mimic talk.

Even you’ll salute the hawk regal,

In Miami where flamingo’s dock.

These dancers thrilling you with beat,

Even lonely with no dancing mate,

Will turn you as ice cubes in the heat,

Splashing at their tempest rate,

From the table to your feet.

Your precious joy is what they mandate.

Terrific people do you find,

With whom you want to spend no time?

With who are you so kind?

Mountaineers to who you want to climb,

From you they need no dime.

They want your love—

They want your thought

From up above—

What you’ve been taught—

By your own glove—

Deny them not—

Be his dove, with so much love.

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TO PATRICK VERDER

With glee you let his self in

But don’t let yourself out

Nor let yourself in

The man you take in

LIVING IN DAYLIGHT

Are you one who doesn’t want to miss one minute of the day—

And therefore sleeps at night?

Are you really missing out sometimes working by the moon?

Is it different if you fall asleep at noon?

I could imagine on some summer nights you will want to feel the night—

Or a humid day when all you need is sleep.

Perhaps it is because one perceives it all with light.

And so to take advantage of perception

It is wise to seek to see with light.

THIS VERY EARLY MORNING IT WAS VERY FOGGY

The fog bogs down on us—

Actually on me—

For on this lonely night the sky I cannot see—

Not to mention vibrant stars—

Forget about that planet mars.

But it tickles my cute cheeks

Though it hides the high peaks

But refreshes my nose:

An enigma I pose.

But at the distance where you are

It blinds me to your face

In the middle of its haze—

So forget about your spirit,

Right now I cannot see it.

A LETTER OF COSMIC PROPORTIONS

Surfer Dude,

I have drenched you with my verses,

I have struck you with my prose,

You have felt my hidden kisses,

You have drowned when I compose,

I have flooded your foundation,

I have waved across the sea,

Still I thrill you with temptation.

Still I am yours truly,

The Magnificent Tsunami.

P.S. Can I be your ami?

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Untitled—By Jose Gainza

Yes, I enjoy the expressive irony on your brow.

And I know how within me you will gladly plough.

But we have to face reality,

We must apply our dexterity.

It won’t be like sacrificing tasty calves.

It won’t be nice to only deal in halves.

I know you’re filled with golden worth.

It will be hard for us to keep our mirth.

I will admit that I like it when you flirt.

Don’t think I want to make you feel like dirt

For I would fail to rid you as my habit.

Eventually we’ll have our chance to have it.

It would be unfair to you to be your friend right now

For how could I resist interaction with your personality?

Once I start I will have to take more draughts, more draughts

Like the sweetest wine ever harnessed from the earth.

The truth is I’m so busy that you will really only hurt.

I’m so committed to my work that right now you just don’t fit.

I know there is a blessing in your soul you want to endow

To me a kindred spirit with the same mentality.

I can imagine that our kinship will be filled with joyous laughs.

I can imagine we were brothers even shortly after birth.

I know that you have bared your naked soul with an audacity pert.

And I love you but right now I can’t to you commit.

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TO PATRICK VERDER

With glee you let his self in

But don’t let yourself out

Nor let yourself in

The man you take in

LIVING IN DAYLIGHT

Are you one who doesn’t want to miss one minute of the day—

And therefore sleeps at night?

Are you really missing out sometimes working by the moon?

Is it different if you fall asleep at noon?

I could imagine on some summer nights you will want to feel the night—

Or a humid day when all you need is sleep.

Perhaps it is because one perceives it all with light.

And so to take advantage of perception

It is wise to seek to see with light.

THIS VERY EARLY MORNING IT WAS VERY FOGGY

The fog bogs down on us—

Actually on me—

For on this lonely night the sky I cannot see—

Not to mention vibrant stars—

Forget about that planet mars. 

But it tickles my cute cheeks

Though it hides the high peaks

But refreshes my nose:

An enigma I pose.

But at the distance where you are

It blinds me to your face

In the middle of its haze—

So forget about your spirit,

Right now I cannot see it.

A LETTER OF COSMIC PROPORTIONS

Surfer Dude,

I have drenched you with my verses,

I have struck you with my prose,

You have felt my hidden kisses,

You have drowned when I compose,

I have flooded your foundation,

I have waved across the sea,

Still I thrill you with temptation.

Still I am yours truly,

The Magnificent Tsunami.

P.S.  Can I be your ami?

By the way all these are still by me, Jose Gainza, a.k.a., americonorman, a.k.a., Paine Sailor.

Americo.

Edited by AMERICONORMAN
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AMERICONORMAN, It is not your writing that keeps me here. I would be here if I was the only one here. In regard to your poems, however, I do have this to say: it sure would be nice if you would put out the effort required to make them smoother finished products; some of them are in abominable shape---rugged uncouth word combinations and disjointed rhythms. Poetry is supposed to be a pleasure to speak; make it so. As for your personal feelings for anyone---those I am not interested in at all.

Brian Faulkner

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Brian:

You are bitingly honest. It is nice to read. Yes, I think it is appropriate to stick to the poetry. I am surprised that you found my poetry disturbing. Which one's exactly were most agonizing? You're right that I don't put enough effort in them. It's because I have to move on to the more serious things in my life. I write the poetry for the experience of writing it. Forunately, I understand and feel a "right" melody to the poetry. Perhaps mine are still too subjective. I definately have much to learn about the art. It would be nice to get the inspiration to write about something other than love and relationships. I'm sure the time will come, as I am in the first stages of my adult life: twenty something.

Writing poetry, though, is a very thrilling and mood changing activity and creation. It's a "high".

Americo.

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Brian:

You are bitingly honest.  It is nice to read.  Yes, I think it is appropriate to stick to the poetry.  I am surprised that you found my poetry disturbing.  Which one's exactly were most agonizing?  You're right that I don't put enough effort in them.  It's because I have to move on to the more serious things in my life.  I write the poetry for the experience of writing it.  Forunately, I understand and feel a "right" melody to the poetry.  Perhaps mine are still too subjective.  I definately have much to learn about the art.  It would be nice to get the inspiration to write about something other than love and relationships.  I'm sure the time will come, as I am in the first stages of my adult life: twenty something.

Writing poetry, though, is a very thrilling and mood changing activity and creation.  It's a "high".

Americo.

AMERICONORMAN, since you know that you "don't put enough effort in them" to make them as good as possible, why write them at all? How can writing poetry half-heartedly be considered "the experience of writing it"? It sounds more like giving oneself an illusion. And, since you know you have much to learn about writing poetry and, at the same time, you know that it's not that important to you, I shall not waste my time pointing out your poems' problems.

Brian

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AMERICONORMAN, since you know that you "don't put enough effort in them" to make them as good as possible, why write them at all?  How can writing poetry half-heartedly be considered "the experience of writing it"?  It sounds more like giving oneself an illusion.  And, since you know you have much to learn about writing poetry and, at the same time, you know that it's not that important to you, I shall not waste my time pointing out your poems' problems.

Brian

Alright. My poems definately sound good to me. Whether every ear can hear my song is a different matter. You wrote before that you liked the poem I wrote called, "Love's Hurrah," so I assume that if I can write more poetry like that then it would be fine to write and even post here. It's simply this, it's a matter of time, I don't have the time to polish my poetry. It is a task for later. Right now I am working on two novels, learning some principles, and new habits of action. This is poems one likes, not poems one loves. Perfect, polished poetry, I doubt I would publish here. Only if I wrote one maybe twenty years ago and then decided to share part of my achievements (that may have not been recognized in those years by the poetry market).

I think my poetry is good enough to share but probably not good enough to expect revenue from their consumers.

It is true that your limited criticism can still serve as a standard for me to improve, and thus I need no greater detail. If poetry is objective then I will, in time, come to the right standards of appraisal, that may or may not coincide with yours. I don't know yet.

I have noted poems by old famous poets that I definately like. Maybe I'll devote my time to sharing their work.

And by the way, I just bought a Swindburne book, and am certainly interested. I hope to learn some things. Honestly, before you mentioned the man I doubt I ever have heard of him.

Americo.

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AMERICONORMAN, fair enough; remember, anything you do, do it to the best of your ability---for your own sake; that has to come first. And don't start so many projects at once. You make it very easy to give yourself an excuse for not fully finishing anything. Best wishes to your endeavors, Brian

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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.

Edited by AMERICONORMAN
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