Six-• Show poetry

Welcome to my page
please check out a great friend of mine on this site

her sn is : Dusty allpoetry.com/poets/Dusty


a new quote by me: Don't ever be afraid to follow the blind eyes of your wishful thinking.

Quotes from freud:

"The great question that has never been answered, and which I have not yet been able to answer, despite my thirty years of research into the feminine soul, is 'What does a woman want?'"
-Sigmund Freud.

"Everywhere I go I find a poet has been there before me."
-Sigmund Freud

". . . most people do not really want freedom, because freedom involves responsibility, and most people are frightened of responsibility."
-Freud


"The goal of all life is death"
-Freud

"Anatomy is Destiny"
-Freud.

"One feels inclined to say that the intention that man should be 'happy' is not included in the plan of 'Creation.'"
-Freud

"Poets…are masters of us ordinary men, in knowledge of the mind, because they drink at streams…not yet made accessible to science."
-Freud



This is a poem I read in English class, and finally found my copy of it,
couldn't find it on the internet for some reason, but it is in my opinion the greatest poem I've ever read, mainly because of the meaning it has, or so my teacher said it had, regardless I love it.


keep in mind that i typed it so please excuse any mistakes


Now they Bury Her Again
-Carl Sandburg

Poetry is dead? So they say.
yes , ya betcha, ja ja, oui oui, si si.
quite so, indeed, to be sure,
correct, right on the nose, the button.
And the next bus is a long wait,
don't run anymore, been taken off.

aye aye, poetry is done for, vanished, kicked the bucket
and gone up the flue and lost in the mountain snows of
the latest plane crash, hunting parties on the way to
gather the remains and study the debris

okay let'er go, in every time and age someone must
stand up and say it again: "Ah me, tut tut, alas and
alack, woe is us or maybe it's just as well, poetry is
on a slab in the morgue, nameless, unidentified, two
blue holes in her back from an ice pick, a clean job,
one more ice pick murder, as sweet a gal as Lehigh Valley
Nell, done in by her own pals and that's no malarky,
gangway now, give her the gate to a free public grave-
yard"-this though the coroner, the jurors, six men good
and true, must yet sift every scintilla of evidence
bearin on the two blue holes and who drove the ice pick.

Or she could be a cadaver we have seen certified as
dead from anemia and lack of love and they conducted
a ritual service in a mortuary establishment dedicated
to the dignity of death and the rakeoff on the coffin
they carry you off in: one grand, a thousand smackers
of the coin of the realm, for a casket of copper lined
lush mauve velvet and draped with silver silk and guar-
anteed weatherproof and wormproof for the sake of a hand-
ful of dust,five fingers of ashes and nobody knows the
trouble I've seen,nobody knows but Jesus

A modern mortician in a morning coat, or tails and white
tie, let him stand at a door with frozen phizzog, a
mug meant to be solemn, let him welcome the witnesses
to the last rites while a console delivers Rock of Ages,
Cleft for Me, while a hired quartet intones paid-for
grief and calls it nice work if they can get it: let
the black limousines with crepe and insignia follow the
motorized slick glass hearse to the grave where a
slow gray rain drizzles on the mourners: there let an
animated mummy in prinzalber and tophat pronounce a few
lines:

"She was a star who dropped from her orbit.
"Annie doesn't live here any more.
"Sorry that number is discontinued
"The deceased was born, had a little life of it,
made her reservations, and is now checked out
"She knew the meaning of meaning and then
forgot it before she could tell it"


Always in each passing and phantom age
they give her short shrift and a burial.
Under the sod with regrets and emebellishments
they lay away a lady in lavender and old lace,
in arsenic and old lace.
Or again
into the waters of a makebelieve ocean, a painted pretense
of a beneficent and everlasting sea, they fling the sawdust
cadaver of an overstuffed mockery of a beatufiful girl made
to be thrown a way, a prop, a theatre prop, a horselaugh prop
for the caverns of the briny deep,
to be rocked in the cradle of the deep,
locked in the stable with the sheep.

The illusion has gravity and consquences
like a couple of satisfied vaudevillians
sawing a woman in two:
Watch them closely, she bleeds if mirrors bleed,
sawing a woman in two.

Let her down easy, boys.
Shovel the dirt in softly,
Hang up a skull-and-crossbones
with clean eye-sockets and a significant grin.
On your honor say no word anywhere
of the two blue holes in her back
from an ice-pick.
or tell it she was one more naked woman

sawed in two and not a dribble of
blood stain for a clue.
Or repeat in a mummy voice: "She was a
star who dropped from her orbit. She
knew the meaning of meaning and then
forgot it before she could tell it."