| Pretty men wonder where my secret lies. I say, It�s in my large hands, large legs, Large torso, large arms, Large head. The fingers, the waist, the back... It�s the smooth arch -in St. Louis; A man made that, you know. I�m a man Phenomenally. Phenomenal man, That�s me. I�d walk into a room Just as cool as you please And the eyes would turn If only I could my broad, manly shoulders Through this damned door! O! Phenomenal man, How phenomenal are thee? Reeeeeeeal phenomenal. I�m a man Phenomenally. Phenomenal man, That�s me. Now you understand... I say, It�s because I can carry a package Betwixt my legs And make people laugh when I say �betwixt.� See? Real phenomenal. I�m a man Phenomenally. Phenomenal man, That�s- Shit! Sportscenter�s on! |
| Phenomenal Man |
| If you have not read Maya Angelou's "Phenomenal Woman," read no further! Instead, first click here, to get to know her "fine" piece of poetry/literature which may or may not be feminist... Then return and read the clearly far superior, "Phenomenal Man." |
| Poetry |
| There is so much And I want to grab everything Every sound, the M.C.�s hat, The tiny, little lamp, Her. The crumbling bricks And the coldness of the steel table, The Runts, the bass, The ugliness of the booths, The wispy smoke curling like decrepit fingers, Encircling my neck, The smell of......the bass, smoke, licorice.... And I want to put it all In my pocket So I can examine it When a larger lamp is near, To illuminate everything And make it mean something. So I can make it mine. So I can be everything. So I can be something. |
| --untitled-- |
| He twists the words and makes them speak and sound A smith in mountain forge hunched o�er the flames Then steel table on which he plys and pounds. Under Hephaestus, the Tyger is tamed. The wizened carpenter sits �fore his work Meekly gripping his care-worn tools of trade. But the passion is there and swiftly he jerks his arm. Then hammer slams and Beauty is made. High-God, creation master, hands in clay Molds and plays, gently pulling splendor from the raw. Sculpting as sandbox-children play; Working for pleasure, youth�s labor of fun. Through perspiration, creation is sought. True pen/book sculptors endure sweat of thought. |
| Creation |
| Her hair shines with luster from ev�ry side To the touch, softer than the softest down And waving gentle as the cool-morning tide: Cascading torrents, a halo, a crown. Her smile more radiant than the noontime sun, Still whiter than the night�s dimpled sphere Certain to bait a new suitor anon, From its coral-frame lips, does it appear. Her song more sweet than all which issue forth From the lips and bellies of songstresses. To add talent to superficial worth Ensnares men in still thicker messes. Yet for the tales of smile and song and hair, She�s just a girl, belied with false compare. |
| Not My Mistress |
| Resting atop my thumb I note there�s not much to a penny: A simple disk of copper With a stamp which gives it worth. This cent a bit corroded, with the seal worn down to smooth. This cent the vehicle of any wish I choose. Penniless, save this one, I want only to be able to give Yuletide gifts in a few short weeks. And I wish it, And I flip my penny. It soars, Toward the crashing water falling, And as it does I am pleased with the selflessness of my wish. Yet somewhere on the body of this rust-encrusted coin, A spot with sheen remains And the light catches, And holds in my eye. I begin to rethink. Looking beside me I see her clutching her coins, eyes shut fiercely, Wishing. At the same time I can see in her place Her, my, our Saviour, Doing the same While he wishes with all his fear The wish of his life. I look back to my coin, dangling in mid-air And close my eyes and smile, Wishing that a wish can be changed. I wish for her�s to come true. As my penny drops downward, Destined to lay among The dreams which have come before I only hope that it is fare enough to ferry my wish away. |
| Mid-Air |
| If life were a math equation, It would be constant over variable: The finite options to be chosen, Divided by what has already been done. And you, You would be the removable discontinuity At some coordinate On my arc. |
| In Adequate |
| Just a little of my work... I really dropped the ball in college and haven't written much since, hence the amateurish quality of this work. But enjoy. Or at least pretend like you do, for Pete's sake! |
| If you would like to be a published poet, then go to www.poetry.com where they will publish anything, and then send you fake awards to try to get you to buy stuff. So you get your work copyrighted AND people act like its good! (Not that its not...I'm just saying that you aren't necessarily-- ah hell...) And you can see what other people around the world are writing. In fact, if you're curious whether someone named Pegleg MacGoo is an aspiring poet, well you can search his name and find out! |
| As for great poems and poets... Its hard to stay on top of all the best writers anyway, but even harder when you are a student with assigned readings to be doing. But some of my favorite writers and writings include: |
| "To His Coy Mistress," Andrew Marvell "Valediction: Forbidding Mourning," John Donne (really, I recommend any of Donne's work) any of Shakespeare's sonnets (#18, 116, 130 are both famous and accessible) Robert Frost: "After Apple Picking" "Mending Wall" These are only a very few: there is so much good poetry out there. Buy a cheap anthology and dive in. |
| (You can follow the names and titles to places on the web where you can read these works.) |