[wiggle]

Remind me never to get into a drunken argument with you.

[Weirdelves]

I disagree. The poet and every individual reader has the right to deem whatever they think irrelevant in a piece. Whoever reads or writes a piece has the right to form a subjective opinion on it which can't be questioned purely because it's a personal response.

[Jordan~]

But there's a distinction between the act of producing something and the act of reading it, between expression and interpretation. For one, something does not have to be written to be read: most forms of divination are the reading of something unintended, like natural phenomena which are, for all intents and purposes, random. The poet must decide what to express; the reader cannot, effectively, decide what to make of anything interpreted as readable. You are, as such, right that the response to a piece is subjective by dint of its being a personal response. We don't disagree about that.

But the question was, "who has the authority to deem an expression irrelevant?": a question not answered by pointing out that everyone who encounters anything that can be read forms a subjective opinion regarding it. The right to hold a subjective opinion (or the fact that anyone, whether they will it or not, will automatically hold a subjective opinion) regarding the relevance of any given expression doesn't constitute authority. Thus I say that authority lies with the expresser, because only they can decide whether or not it will be possible for others to deem anything they express relevant or otherwise by deciding whether or not to express it. If the expresser first decides that their expression is irrelevant and consequently does not choose to express - if the poet decides it's not worth writing the poem they were going to write - they've wielded authority over the relevance of their expression. They deemed it irrelevant, and theirs is the only subjective opinion about that expression that will ever exist, making them the authority on it.

That's the distinction: anyone interpreting anything expressed cannot decide whether or not it will be interpreted again. They can't decide for everyone else that it's irrelevant. Only the person who expressed it could have done that, by choosing not to express it.

[queenofnerds]

Jordan you can like speak and shit. I wish I was as articulate!

[Weirdelves]

That's the distinction: anyone interpreting anything expressed cannot decide whether or not it will be interpreted again. They can't decide for everyone else that it's irrelevant. Only the person who expressed it could have done that, by choosing not to express it.

Aight, I feel ya. But the reader has the right to say whether they feel something is relevant or not, if not the authority to deem it objectively unnecessary.

[wiggle]

With thanks to my housemate for providing the inspiration to this one.

I Was Thinking About

I was thinking about
the point distance becomes
Long-distant between two
Lovers in the future,
And how technology
Will speed everything up:
The journey to her house
Or the journey to yours;
When you can go to mum
And say: I’ve met a girl
In Buenos Aires, and
She will say: “Thank goodness
You’ve found someone local",
And when dad hears the news,
You’d see his shoulders drop
In relief as he thought
How much petrol he’d save
In a deep depression
One thousand recessions
From now. Neither would know
Where Buenos Aires was,
But they were both certain
They’d been: “Didn’t you have
a birthday party there?
Or was it to collect
Those photos we had framed
And mounted in the hall?”
It’s a journey simpler
than a turn of a key,
A blink to anywhere
As long as it’s on earth:
A slingshot snapped skywards,
Wait for the world to turn,
Then bullet-drop back down,
A ballistic missile
For two love-struck youngsters.
But I trust the future
As much as I can trust
Chicken after falling
Ill with food poisoning.
I now cook it so well
That it’s as good nuked,
But back to the future:
I wish you lovers well,
But have reservations
If things are forgotten.
I hope you have balloons,
selection boxes and
The concept of surprise
Is still available
To keep you sane, and once
Settled, can consider
Through quadruple glazing
That bizarre purple tree
That grows in your garden
Your young wife is convinced
Is a smoke bush. Then there’s
Laughing. But the kind you
Drudge from the very tips
Of your toes, that ripples
Up underneath your skin
Like a skydive upwards
From two booted feet, that
Bounces upon impact
Out of your mouths, chapping
Lips from that joyful sound,
And almost above all,
I wish to Whomever,
That you have an uncle
Who gets smashed on red wine
At family parties,
Who talks about days that
Are religions away,
And is five times over
The drink-fly limit, slumped,
In the summer, against
A space, held to the light.

[dwaink]

that is quite a journey wiggle

dwain

[queenofnerds]

Wiggle I like how non pretentious you poetry is.

I am now going to be pretentious :p


Why would I want to leave this dream
when his eyes are splashed with green and grey
with strands of hair like harp strings
plucked and played by the wind.


Lol I am so loved up :p

[wiggle]

Thanks very much

Death at the Blue Lagoon

It was that first scream that came to pierce the water, snapping away the beauty of his crime. A second later, wading legs jostled fruitlessly in twos, shouts mere muffles from beneath. The figure, anchored still, had been looking up from his lagoon bed, his body relaxed as the pump and valves worked so delicately to a stop, his breathing set to a bubbling whisper. He shared a polite word with the bright blue above: a promise, perhaps.

The figure was reminded of a scene from his childhood. A party. Invitation only. By that stage, his mother rarely left the house, but she delivered the R.S.V.P personally. He found out later that she had gone without his father’s knowing. Grave Danger, his father said upon their return, Grave Danger. Insurmountable. Going alone is bad enough. Why did you take the boy? His mother walked briskly to the house, a young figure herself. Please keep up, darling. Her hands were clammy. She kept him as close as if they had been led together. They walked blindly around corners. Eyes lowered, she never once looked back. And finally, a word with the sentry, she stepped through the gates, reducing their speed to a casual stroll. She bent down and brushed the figure out as a maid would linen. The greatest oak door soaked up her knock as if muffled by a glove. The figure looked up to mother as she straightened out her pleated skirt. [Absolutely!] Yes. Formal dress. A sweeping staircase glimpsed as she balanced against the threshold.

Just over a month later, stepping across it. A low-hanging cloud of smoked tobacco was second to greet them - his father contributed, smoking on until his nerves were choked. What else? Women in gowns with outstretched smiles; chewing, laughing, cracking new hairlines through porcelain cheeks. How old must he have been? His mother and father were still together. Eight, nine? Young enough to sense that something was wrong. Now twice the age of his father, grasping at his memory as the older man.

The trail of red mapped out a course in front of him. He was reminded of the lazy tobacco smoke of that night as it clotted in the air. Black ties and evening gowns. The occasional uniform of High Command. His thoughts lingered among those forgotten scholars for a while. The fluid could have left his wound as if lazily dragged and expelled from those cigarettes set in holders stamped silver. It may have considered a style close to the one adopted by the thickening haze, rising at the leisure of the night, shunning the pull from above, picturing the flaws it could find in laughing faces. And later, it could have wound in derision of a crystal chandelier, talking it down - a lecture on the attention it can no longer attain, of bygone glory, and of the aristocracy it had once hung for - before knotting in an intentional tangle of bitterness, then finally – finally - dispersing.

The blood did not want to linger as the smoke once did, and so the diluted maroon haze shot to its greatest twisted height, all of its winding destinations magnetised to one. Marking the spot, the ink blot punctured the crystal blue. The figure watched a shadow creep over him as his sun-soaked blood blossomed outwards. And he saw that it did so cleanly, honest as a blush.

[queenofnerds]

You are far away again, I can't feel a thing.
Do I cause you pain?
Forget my face, forget my name
nothing good can come from me.
I get lost when you get gone
the truth Is I don't deserve the things I have,
the love I get, when will it be enough?
Maybe never.
I can't be happy until I destroy
the grey witch calls in my dreams again
stopping rain dead in the sky
and breezes rush to die.

[queenofnerds]

"We will save our money and settle down"
Am I the first to feel a shiver when these words are spoken?
"It's all one pot, each penny and pound"
he's selfless but I feel I like I've just been woken.
"wake up! you're always asleep"
I know, but there is nothing to stay awake for
"stop working you're always in too deep"
but there is nothing to come home for.

[wiggle]

Bores For Thought

As you dig your hole,
I can believe the
Spine-
Tingling,
Mind-
Altering,
Mouth-
Watering,
Earth-
Shattering
Explosion
of dimensions.
I do not judge;
What
Is fine
By
You
Is fine
By
Me,
But your hole -
When it comes
Right
Down
To
It –
Is
Just
That:
Your
Finger
Nails
Are
Scratchcard
Stumps,
Dead ends.

[queenofnerds]

Every finger pointing at the wall
and every word suggests that he'd just let me fall
wouldn't even try to catch me.
Because why would you try
when logic finds a hole to wriggle through.
I'm beginning to worry about him.
Paper tales of rape and murder
he tried cover trails left long before he met me
and I don't like where I've ended up.
It's murky, dark and twisted.
What is he into? when he jokes he's not lying
this strange erotica, what is he into?
Did you take my words and make them public
do you share the secret gifts I give?
And our hiding place, is it sacred?
Am I a game? Are you winning?

[wiggle]

Written with the greatest respect for all troops serving on the frontline.


The Ideal War

We would count our boys into war
After their six week basic training
A mere box-ticking exercise
Just to say they played soldiers

And tasted mud
And felt the burn
Of old rope
And got soaked
to the core
At least twice
And blinded by sweat
On the warmer days
And knowing firsthand
The science of lactic acid
And weeping having stabbed
The dummy
Fixed bayonet
Up through the throat
And the letters home
Telling of these horrors
Hardest thing I ever had to do.
Ghastly business, truly ghastly.
I would never ever, ever do that
To our scarecrow,
Mummy, truly I wouldn’t.

Then the call-up
Heading to enemy shores
Pressing sweat into their bibles
Trembling away their training
The world a swinging mirror
But in the distance they see
Blue Yellow Red Green
Blue Yellow Red Green
Blue Yellow Red Green
Not a beach
Of sand or pebbles
But of dots laid out in formation
An enemy next to each mat
And holding a name
As if in an arrivals lounge
Waiting expectantly
Muttering
Twister
Twister
Twister
A mat and a spinner
And in row
After row
After row
The enemy limbering up

Counting the same number back
Zero losses, sir.
Each clutching a certificate
A certificate for the winner
A certificate for the runner up
A certificate for those who just wanted to watch

[queenofnerds]

I'm picking up on something sexual in this one but that may be my mood

[queenofnerds]

They are making plans, not quite sure how to feel about it.
I asked in another life, would you? in another life and he said "yes"
relief?...
She read his palm on the train, told him he was smart
don't need to read his plam for that, just look at him!
She is making plans, but he can't read the subtext,
the early morning messages, laden with kisses,
he could never read the subtext.
How good we are at this, experts I think
but who is watching? They never get it.
What do we do with this chance to start again,
would you like to start again my love?

[wiggle]

Like a warm shower,
Next to an open window,
Amid an early Autumn frost:
Run an iron through me,
Warm my bones.

[queenofnerds]

That was definitely sexual anyone?

[queenofnerds]

Ok so I was laughing at the sexual content but this may have sexual content. Let see how it goes.


With needle and thread I pledge to keep our secret bed
5 days till time takes him away.
Feather quilted, peacocks, Pheasants
to rest his form while in my presence.
Weave his fur to calm my mate
while fragile in his grizzly state, I love him.
I love with artful hands and lips
till she sways through and off he slips
but I love him... too
he turns, I get no recognition
but I know he'll be back in remission, in my arms.
My bear.
I make attemps to tame his nature
persistant, sempre, fiery, temper
still I'm trying without claim
to make him happy, but in vain.
Clumsy in my common ways
no dainty hands, no chiffon swathe
just cotton words to bind him.

[wiggle]

I love the internal rhyme of the first line. The ending's really strong as well. Really strong.