A novel situation
She looked not unlike the anti-heroine
of her own novels
or was it the other way around?
mousey but together,
neatly dressed
in an understated way
like her Paris dressmaker mother
who'd fled Vienna
Though in fact she was a brilliant bluestocking lecturer
and trenchant critic
who'd embarked, on the side,
on novel writing
However the British
don't like people who do two things well
and the critics - mostly men -
panned her rotten
while the women reserved judgment.
She had a standard plot -
mousey, together spinster
meets possible, quiet Him
who might be The One
but who turns out too morally wet
for Her.
But her increasing sublety with variations to this
and increasing literary skills
won her praise from feminist critics
and even a minor prize.
I had expressed envious admiration for her trenchant criticism
to a colleague; one day
the unsolicited word came:
she had expressed interest in meeting me...
A shared life of letters -
the Sunday papers read in bed -
with her reviews in them -
the flow of sparkling wit -
a shared life of letters -
the plot of all her books the same..
the failed romance,
the material to hand...
the literary world's knowing gossip..
I flunked it
Subsequently,
on Friday afternoons,
I sat opposite her on the bus
from Piccadilly
to her small but dress-maker- neat flat
just off King's Road, Chelsea
bought with the prize-money, I guess
and the increased royalties
(the men still scoffing at her standard plot,
the women admiring her subtlety in describing
the bruised but knowing human heart...)
I knew her face, from in the press;
she didn't know mine.
I sat opposite her on the bus
- neatly dressed, together -
contemplating
in bittersweet incongruity
the novel I never lived
and she never wrote
differently
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Related quotes
Busy Booked Hooker
Dressed nice and neatly.
She looked so hot.
With a weave that fizzled.
Dressed nice and neat,
Dressed nice and neatly.
With composure there.
Dressed nice and neat,
Dressed nice and neatly.
She avoided disaster.
Dressed nice and neat,
She played it sweet,
And undeterred.
She had wisdom and the drive...
To keep my interest flowing.
While 'peaking' as I'm growing,
To maximize the widening of her thighs.
Dressed nice and neat,
Dressed nice and neatly.
With composure there.
Dressed nice and neat,
Dressed nice and neatly.
She avoided disaster.
Dressed nice and neat,
She played it sweet,
And undeterred.
She had wisdom and the drive...
To keep my interest flowing.
While 'peaking' as I'm growing,
To maximize the widening of her thighs.
Dressed nice and neat,
Dressed nice and neatly.
She was not that sweet.
Dressed nice and neat,
Dressed nice and neatly.
She was a noonday hooker.
Dressed nice and neat,
Dressed nice and neatly.
Just an overbooked hooker.
On a call,
To meet.
She's just an overbooked hooker.
On a call,
To meet.
A busy booked hooker
On a call,
To meet.
She's just an overbooked hooker.
On a call,
To meet.
A busy booked hooker
On a call,
To meet.
A crooked booked hooker,
On a call,
To meet.
A crooked busy hooker,
On a call,
To meet.
A busy booked hooker,
On a call,
To meet.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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I always start with characters rather than with a plot, which many critics would say is very obvious from the lack of plot in my films - although I think they do have plots - but the plot is not of primary importance to me, the characters are.
quote by Jim Jarmusch
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Love Letters
She held a pack of love letters tied with ribbons and bows.
these were the love letters that she would never show.
Every one of them was dated first to last
These were the letters that held a life past.
Times may pass and things may change
But memories stay the same.
The writing of love letters had slowly disappeared
But she held on to them from year to year.
She sat with the letters in her lap.
As the tears rolled down her eyes
He had said he would be with her
Till the day he died
And fifty years later
He met his maker
And was carried to the cemetery
by the undertaker.
The letters had been written
with tenderness and love
Proclaiming every thing
Even the stars above.
He said life was meaningless if with her
His life he could not share.
And losing her was something
he could not bear.
Now that he was gone and she
Was left all alone.
The house didn’t seem
like much of a home.
She knew her children would not understand
Why she held the love letters in her hand.
These were the memories that kept her alive
And on that she couldn’t deny.
But her mind and body was fading fast
And she knew she could not last.
So to her children she bequeathed
The letters that she cherished all her life
For that was her husband, and she was his wife.
These are the love letters that your father
Wrote to me when we were young and carefree.
He told me of all that life had to offer.
And of all the love he had for me
And that he wanted to raise a family.
When you read his letters you will know
Why I loved this man so.
And now it’s time for me to go.
Because your father awaits me on the other side
And we’ll be together for all of time
poem by Louis Rams
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Sunday Papers
Mother doesnt go out any more
Just sits at home and rolls her spastic eyes
But every weekend through the door
Come words of wisdom from the world outside
If you want to know about the bishop and the actress
If you want to know how to be a star
If you want to know about the stains on the mattress
You can read it in the sunday papers, sunday papers
Mothers wheelchair stays out in the hall
Why should she go out when the tvs on
Whatever moves beyond these walls
Shell know the facts when sunday comes along
If you want to know about the man gone bonkers
If you want to know how to play guitar
If you want to know about the other suckers
You can read it in the sunday papers, read it in the sunday papers
Sunday papers dont ask no questions
Sunday papers dont get no lies
Sunday papers dont raise objection
Sunday papers dont got no eyes
Brothers heading that way now I guess
He just read something made his face turn blue
Well I got nothing against the press
They wouldnt print it if it wasnt true
If you want to know about the gay politician
If you want to know how to drive your car
If you want to know about the new sex position
You can read it in the sunday papers, read it in the sunday papers
Sunday papers dont ask no questions
Sunday papers dont get no lies
Sunday papers dont raise objection
Sunday papers dont got no eyes
Sunday papers dont ask no questions
Sunday papers dont get no lies
Sunday papers dont raise objection
Sunday papers dont got no eyes
Read all about it, sunday papers
song performed by by Joe Jackson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Letters To No One
I wrote a letter to my love
and never received a reply.
I've often wondered why that was.
Did he up and die?
Yes, he did. It's a fact.
And because I didn't know
I kept writing letters
and kept feeling low.
These letters went to no one.
So no one wrote to me.
I've often wondered if all my words
would come back home to me?
And then one day they all came back.
'Undeliverable'
is what they said.
I guess my lover moved away
or maybe he was dead.
And so I stopped my letters.
I never wrote again.
I still have all those letters,
unopened and unread.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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More Letters
More letters found stuffed
Beneath his brown best shoes,
Which had yellowed with age.
Love letters with small crosses
For kisses at the bottom
Of the page. Words neatly penned,
Love spoken of, gifts thanked for,
Places seen, shared and remembered.
He was a dark horse, Mother said,
Never knew he had these, so many here,
Stuffed, forgotten or out of sight and mind.
Granddad had had some woman
On the go at some time and place
Years ago, before Gran, before
The whole circus of living had ended.
A photograph tucked between pages,
Some woman in old-fashioned hat
And dress and wide-open eyes.
Secrets hidden and kept, words
Upon words on pages, scribbled
By a hand now sure to be dead.
Best burn them, Mother sighed,
Nothing to be gained, best nothing’s said.
poem by Terry Collett
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On My Worth As A Writer
On my worth as a writer I do cast great doubt
Though one could never run out of things to write about
And poetasters are many and poets they are rare
Yet so much to write on of the big World out there
One can say I've written a whole heap of stuff
Yet out of millions of writers few are good enough
To make a success out of the wordsmith trade
So many there are and so few make the grade
Not many writers the literary critics impress
And so few out of writing become a success
For every literary success of which we do read
So many are destined to never succeed
And only a tiny minority do make writing pay
But then such is life as some are known to say.
poem by Francis Duggan
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To My Friends and Critics
Come all you friends and critics,
And listen to my song,
A word I will say to you,
It will not take me long,
The people talks about me,
They've nothing else to do
But to criticise their neighbors,
And they have me now in view.
Perhaps they talk for meanness,
And perhaps it is in jest,
If they leave out their freeness
It would suit me now the best,
To keep the good old maxim
I find it hard to do,
That is to do to others
As you wish them do to you.
Perhaps you've read the papers
Containing my interview;
I hope you kind good people
Will not believe it true.
Some Editors of the papers
They thought it would be wise
To write a column about me,
So they filled it up with lies.
The papers have ridiculed me
A year and a half or more.
Such slander as the interview
I never read before.
Some reporters and editors
Are versed in telling lies.
Others it seems are willing
To let industry rise.
The people of good judgment
Will read the papers through,
And not rely on its truth
Without a candid view.
My first attempt at literature
Is the "Sweet Singer" by name,
I wrote that book without a thought
Of the future, or of fame.
Dear Friends, I write for money,
With a kind heart and hand,
I wish to make no Enemies
Throughout my native land.
Kind friends, now I close my rhyme,
And lay my pen aside,
Between me and my critics
I leave you to decide.
poem by Julia A Moore
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The Same Mother
They each shared
the same mother
shared the same loss of her
when the time came
gave the same
last wave
when she was
driven off
to crematorium
and then grave
but each had
their own mother
whom they shared
with no other
one with whom
they shared
a particular time
or place
sitting quietly
face to face
sharing a secret
or confessing
a deed done
or just
the mother to child meeting
with just the two
at some given time
at some particular place
some given year
to share a problem
or tears or anxieties
or deeper fears
and knowing
she would listen
as only mother's can
or do
sharing the time and love
with each particular
person called you
whether daughter or son
she shared
her equal love and time
and yet each knew her
each thought
they knew her best
and carried away
their own best times
in her company
without the rest
their own moments shared
but deep down
they knew
she had her love for each
and each was equal
to the rest
for she never had
a favourite
nor considered
any one the best
so they all shared
the same mother
in the end
all grieved her going
each in their own way
hoping or believing
they would share her
once again
some better place
some future day.
poem by Terry Collett
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Literary critics, however, frequently suffer from a curious belief that every author longs to extend the boundaries of literary art, wants to explore new dimensions of the human spirit, and if he doesn't, he should be ashamed of himself.
quote by Robertson Davies
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My books are primarily plot driven but the best plot in the world is useless if you don't populate them with characters that readers can care about.
quote by Jeffery Deaver
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Green (card) With Envy
GREEN (CARD) WITH ENVY
Edward Iacona
The search for a special partner
Can be frustrating and it vexes,
Re-joining the new world of dating
In the hope of finding my nexus.
Putting oneself on the Internet
Is a mix of ego and vulnerability.
So I delighted in the E-Mails from
Some women that want to know me.
Sure, I had some mixed feelings
But, why would I complain
About getting flirty letters from gals
That live in Ghana, Russia or Ukraine.
After a short while I realized with
Some Virgo like logic and clarity
That with some variations these
Letters have remarkable similarity.
It's sad to face life all alone.
I would love an arrow from Cupid.
But the absence of a soul mate
Just does not make me stupid.
I've seen her photo and she's seen mine
And this is real romance she'll insist.
I'm not bad looking for my age but
She might need a good optometrist.
Her pictures are simply gorgeous.
And, her wanting me is made clear.
There is no remorse in her writing
About giving up her modeling career.
Knowing the difference in our ages
Has not slowed her nor has stopped her
So? What relationship should I seek?
Should I date her or adopt her?
I'd relish some passionate foreplay
And doing what lover's oughta.
But, should I want that and more play with
A girl old enough to be my daughter.
I write back long thoughtful letters
And ask about some things she'd feel?
But, her letters in reply answer nothing
So, it is most likely she's not real.
She writes of her yearning for my true love
And wanting money from me, not a penny.
So, when she will no doubt ask for some,
I won't feel bad for not sending her any.
Wanting to be with me is her worthy goal.
Wanting to be with me so that we are whole.
Wanting to be my life mate is her desired role.
All her thoughts are of me, and part of her soul.
Such loving words bring smiles
This is what a true heart seeks
But real love is rare in life or text
Within only a matter of weeks.
This all flies in the face of reason.
Could she want to be my consort?
It's just a fantasy at any stage or age
But an image that's hard to thwart.
My letter to her is a simple one,
As I try to be of a fair sort.
'If you can get here let me know,
And I'll come get you at the airport.'
poem by Edward Iacona
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Better, Deeper, More Intelligent
Better, deeper, more intelligent,
and sensitive than us, Jane Austen
provides a literary environment
in which we all, by getting lost in
admiration for her heroines,
feel so diminished we conclude
whichever of the many heroes wins
their heart is an unlucky dude.
Riding with her, dressed by Abercombie
and Fitch is not the sort of way
I’d like to spend my time. I’m not a zombie.
Perhaps because I am not gay
I can’t relate to all the topics Jane
obsesses on, and in Northanger
Abbey heroines would all complain
I was a crashing bore and wanker.
“Why couldn’t all these heroines go out
and get a job? ” was asked by Emma––
not Jane’s, Ms. Thompson’s Emma, without doubt
a heroine who’s not a femi-
nist––oh horrid word––but understands
how prejudice which is their pride
lands nearly all of them in Jane’s badlands
composed of English countryside.
Who needs a woman who is deeper than
themselves, far better, surely, and
far more intelligent? I’m not that man.
Although I think I understand
what all her heroines are saying, I
don’t look for girls who're good or deep.
I’m merely looking for the sort who’ll lie
with me before I fall asleep.
Inspired by an article by Jennifer Schuessler on “Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, ” by Seth Grahame-Smith (“I Was a Regency Zombie, ” NYT, February 22,2009) :
The classic examples of that would be any speech by Judi Dench — her accent certainly helps — or Emma Thompson’s understated, wryly funny acceptance speech at the 1996 Oscars, when she won the award for best adapted screenplay for “Sense and Sensibility.”
“Before I came, I went to visit Jane Austen’s grave in Winchester Cathedral to pay my respects, you know, and tell her about the grosses, ” she said. She also thanked Sidney Pollack “for asking the right questions, like, ‘Why couldn’t these women go out and get a job? ’ ” Ms. Thompson — who accepted another award, at the Golden Globes, with a speech in the style of Jane Austen herself — then did what cool British award winners do: she put the Oscar in her guest bathroom.
These days, America is menaced by zombie banks and zombie computers. What’s next, a zombie Jane Austen? In fact, yes. Minor pandemonium ensued in the blogosphere this month after Quirk Books announced the publication of “Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, ” an edition of Austen’s classic juiced up with “all-new scenes of bone-crunching zombie mayhem” by a Los Angeles television writer named Seth Grahame-Smith. (First line: “It is a truth universally acknowledged that a zombie in possession of brains must be in want of more brains.”) … In fact, “Pride and Prejudice” may already be a zombie novel, contends Brad Pasanek, a specialist in 18th-century literature at the University of Virginia. “The characters other than the protagonist are so often surrounded by people who aren’t fully human, like machines that keep repeating the same things over and over again, ” Professor Pasanek said. “All those characters shuffling in and out of scenes, always frustrating the protagonists. It’s a crowded but eerie landscape. What’s wrong with those people? They don’t dance well but move in jerky fits. Oh, they are headed this way! ” While the vast industry of Austen sequels and pastiches runs heavily toward the romance-novel end of the literary spectrum - see “The Private Diary of Mr. Darcy” by Maya Slater, to be published in the United States in June - scholars have long emphasized the mean-girl side of Jane’s personality. Professor Pasanek, who has collaborated on a project that uses spam-detection software to analyze Austen fan fiction, cites the psychologist D. W. Harding’s 1940 essay “Regulated Hatred, ” which sounds more like a death-metal band than a piece of influential Austen scholarship.“Most people try to ignore the fact that Austen’s novels are sort of acid baths, ” Professor Pasanek said. “She’s so much better, deeper, more sensitive and intelligent than everyone around her that she has to regulate her own misanthropy. Her novels are hostile environments.”
2/22/09
poem by Gershon Hepner
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The one thing I would like more credit for is being part of a movement which involves recognising the importance of plot and asserting that books of literary worth could be written that had plots.
quote by Scott Turow
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Romance, Love, Sex, Dislike and Dispose
Romance is a fascination
For a person, normally of the other sex
Expressed or otherwise
Irrespective of the other person
Having a similar emotion
It remains often gentle
Waiting for an occasion
To demonstrate the passion
When given a green signal
Romantic expressions surface
Which need not be anything material
But just can be a word, wink, wave of fingers
And a similar lot subtle things
Which only the partners understand and enjoy
Romance can even be maintained
Between people unmet
Exchanging these signals remotely
With no one else knowing what is on between them
Love follows romance
When people meet in person
It requires physical presence
Direct conversation
Exchange of gifts
Not necessarily physical intimacy
Expressed romance, established love
Grow fast
Both the partners longing for other
Intolerance towards separation
Restlessness if the partner is not available
Unexplainable anxiety
Irritability all these manifest
Self questioning on the genuineness of this feeling
Rehearsing a dialogue while preparing to meet
Why, at times, a strong dislike towards partner
Also surfaces
Relishing the mutual dependency
Romance and love often strike
Between those, who have a lot mismatch
With regard to a range of qualities
These are blind and at times termed irrational
Sex, the biological process
Is where all the above lead to
It is the final expression of these
And this physically intimate act
Is the climax and designed by nature
For reproduction of a genetic mix
Of the people in love
Scientifically it is the culmination
Of a wide range of physiological
And psychological requirements of
Two opposite genders
Leading to an emotional dependence
Between them
This dependence makes them feel
They are made for each other
Irrespective of what others feel about them
They live in a world of their own
Sometimes, brushing aside
Even the social resistance and disapproval
There are occasions where they have sex
Taking all precautions against
Conceiving a life which is a blend of their genes
This is the case when there is
Expressed disapproval from their families
And the society
And when one of them, if not both,
Has a family of his or her own
Community and social pressures at times
Are so strong
That people in unapproved relationship
Find it difficult to go ahead their way
With no one to fall back upon
With no one to stand in their support
They are made to feel
It is better they part with
This feeling gets expressed earlier
In petty quarrels on very trivial issues
And slowly assumes the shape of dislike for each other
Distrust engulfs them to the extent
That given an opportunity they will run away
In case of people with power and money
They even plan to eliminate the other
And probably this is what has happened
In case of two women
One committing suicide
And the other found dead mysteriously
Romance, love, sex, dislike and dispose
poem by Bashyam Narayanan
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The Wicked Postman
Why do you sit there on the floor so quiet and silent, tell me,
mother dear?
The rain is coming in through the open window, making you all
wet, and you don't mind it.
Do you hear the gong striking four? It is time for my brother
to come home from school.
What has happened to you that you look so strange?
Haven't you got a letter from father today?
I saw the postman bringing letters in his bag for almost
everybody in the town.
Only father's letters he keeps to read himself. I am sure the
postman is a wicked man.
But don't be unhappy about that, mother dear.
Tomorrow is market day in the next village. You ask your maid
to buy some pens and papers.
I myself will write all father's letters; you will not find
a single mistake.
I shall write from A right up to K.
But, mother, why do you smile?
You don't believe that I can write as nicely as father does!
But I shall rule my paper carefully, and write all the letters
beautifully big.
When I finish my writing do you think I shall be so foolish
as father and drop it into the horrid postman's bag?
I shall bring it to you myself without waiting, and letter by
letter help you to read my writing.
I know the postman does not like to give you the really nice
letters.
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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A Change Of Time!
A change of time changes everything in life!
Glorious poetry turned into prose for use earlier;
Stories, novels and articles ruled prominent;
With the coming of computer poetry resurrected!
Now everybody enjoys indulging in poetry for fun;
Articles, stories and novels are superseded by poetry!
Many poetry websites entertain new poets daily;
Many enjoy poetry reading and writing at anytime!
Poetry has become cheap product for all to use;
Nobody thought that such a thing could happen!
Nobody buys poetry books but novels and magazines;
Is poetry a use and throw material only in market now?
The things that cannot be expressed in stories, novels
Are done in poetry to satisfy heart, thought and spirit!
poem by Ramesh T A
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The Declining Art Of Communication
We all seem to be living our lives
At an ever increasing pace.
We are finding less and less time
To meet up with people face to face.
You often read stories in the press,
About people being fired or dumped by text.
The way in which we communicate has changed so much,
That you do find yourself wondering 'Whatever next? '
There are some things, which by text or email,
You just really shouldn't say:
Like, if you're telling someone that they're no longer wanted,
Or that someone they know has just passed away.
You can check your email at your leisure,
Unlike if someone contacts you by phone,
But like they say, it's good to talk,
So you really shouldn't moan.
I love receiving letters on fancy paper from my friends,
And hear them dropping through my letterbox,
But the whole idea of 'snail' as opposed to email,
Is a concept which, nowadays, is often mocked.
If you're talking face to face,
You're less likely to get the wrong impression.
You can connect more to people's thoughts and feelings,
If you are able to read their facial expressions.
Tackling a sensitive subject with someone,
Often has us trembling with fear,
But is it really better for it to be discussed
Electronically, rather than ear to ear?
Sometimes, you can spend hours together,
During which time, very little of importance is said.
Then, later, you log on to your computer,
And discover all the gossip is on there instead!
If you put all of your news on Facebook,
You may find your face to face conversation is suddenly dead.
When you next meet up with someone and mention your news,
They will turn to you, and say 'Yeah, you said'!
The world of communication has come on in leaps and bounds,
But, in some ways, it has advanced too much.
Communication can now be so impersonal,
That we seem to have lost the human touch.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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Another Language
The whole world is flat
& I am round.
Even women avert their eyes,
& men, embarrassed
by the messy way
that life turns into life,
look away,
forgetting they themselves
were once this roundness
underneath the heart,
this helpless fish
swimming in eternity.
The sound of O,
not the sound of I
embarrasses the world.
My friends, who voluntarily have made
their bodies flat,
their writings flat as grief,
look at me in disbelief.
What is this large unseemly thing-
a pregnant poet?
an enormous walking O?
Oh take all the letters of the alphabet but that!
We speak the Esperanto of the flat!
Condemned to sign
language & silence, pregnant poems
for men to snicker at,
for women to denounce,
I live alone.
My world is round
& bounded by the mountain of my fear;
while all the great geographers agree
the world is flat
& roundness cannot be.
poem by Erica Jong
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Sunday Afternoons
I sit at home
at my desk alone
as I used to do
on many sunday afternoons
when you came back to me,
your arms ached for me,
and your arms would close me in
though they smelled of other women.
I think of you
on Sunday afternoons.
Your sweet head would bow,
like a child somehow,
down to me -
and your hair and your eyes were wild.
We would embrace on the floor-
You see my back´s still sore.
You knew how easily I bruised,
It´s a soreness I would never lose.
I think of you
on Sunday afternoons.
poem by Erica Jong
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