From: owner-eda-thoughts-digest@smoe.org (eda-thoughts-digest) To: eda-thoughts-digest@smoe.org Subject: eda-thoughts-digest V3 #193 Reply-To: eda-thoughts@smoe.org Sender: owner-eda-thoughts-digest@smoe.org Errors-To: owner-eda-thoughts-digest@smoe.org Precedence: bulk eda-thoughts-digest Thursday, May 11 2000 Volume 03 : Number 193 * If you ever wish to unsubscribe, send an email to * eda-thoughts-digest-request@smoe.org with ONLY * the word unsubscribe in the body of the email * . * PLEASE :) when you reply to this digest to send a post TO the list, * change the subject to reflect what your post is about. A subject * of Re: eda-thoughts-digest V3 #xxx or the like gives readers no clue * as to what your message is about. Today's Subjects: ----------------- ET: That's a poem? & It's just boring [Reecord2@aol.com] ET: ~for tomorrow may be too late~ [shivergirl ] ET: ~missing my old womb~ [shivergirl ] ET: ~barrie's babies~ [shivergirl ] ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Date: Wed, 10 May 2000 00:20:30 EDT From: Reecord2@aol.com Subject: ET: That's a poem? & It's just boring < I am beautiful. > I am a good person. > I have saved a life, I am intellectual >> > > that's a poem? Of COURSE it's a poem. "He ate." can be a poem, practically anything you write can be considered a poem if that's what you want it to be. Well if those thousands of people put their heart into those thousands of lines, then it's not boring to them. Maybe it means something to them. I really can't believe you'd make a comment like that, but hey, it's your opinion. Here's mine: I think all those poems that are overloaded with big and complicated words in order to sound better or professional are extremely boring! If the author's going for a colorful mental pictures to put in the readers head fine, but more often than not the feeling and emotion gets lost and it just fails to do anything for me. And I see it sooo many times and I have even done it myself. At least those unoriginal Me poems have some feeling in them, ja know? "I am amazing" oddly enough seems to be more powerful than "I am a sunkissed dewdrop sunday morning wispy buttercup rosey snowflake." But hey, that's your bash on a paticular kind of poem, that's my bash on another. That's just what I think, and whenever I think, trouble ensues :-) ------------------------------ Date: Wed, 10 May 2000 20:13:46 -0400 From: shivergirl Subject: ET: ~for tomorrow may be too late~ + read my soul like its language and pictures are something you already envisioned half a world away from hurt, where heaven and summerland stroll together, hand in hand, and all our human concepts and transcendent depths interweave in a tapestry of combined perspective, not free of flaws or pulls, just irrespective of the need for translation + he does not ask me what i've come here for; he tells me, gently calling out my demons, culling out the worst parts of me; unknowingly performing subtle exorcisms on all my ancient self-made enemies, at the same time soothing the festering spiritual lesions lost amidst the lucky charms perversions + now i am almost living inside my favorite songs, listening and feeling, eyes closed, still breathing somehow; and each track is on repeat, like old, tired arguements that refuse to admit defeat; but despite the lush sonic retreat and wonder of instant comfort, i hear something disturbing whispering in the earpiece; and the sounds in the headphones sound all wrong, for even though i am hearing heaven's soundtrack at long last, a revelation strikes me like the sudden silence left waiting after a track is done: there is no more what next, because i am no longer singing along. ------------------------------ Date: Wed, 10 May 2000 20:13:36 -0400 From: shivergirl Subject: ET: ~missing my old womb~ + verbal punches and silent slaps echo within the space of sleeping anger, monosyllabic answers and tuesday-night prayers; and all that remains is stretched across the estrogen synapse where seratonin once existed, but now there is only an empty gap where a daughter used to live; that chemicals could fill, that genes never will, overcompensating and uncomprehending the passed-down family lapse + underneath the wordless exchange of hostile messages stuck to the fridge and out of the loop, outside interchanges witnessed from without, the mother's day card i bought seems foolish and childish, and just like us, it seems to shout out the scared words, the remnants of hurt, of a bond shifting shape, altering in importance, the maternal input, weight lessening cutting apron strings only to develop foetal wings as she aborts me outside the womb + i have not been discarded in a garbage bin, innocent and lifeless, a tangible consequence of my mother's sin; i have not been hit or raped or abused, wrapping myself in literature's comfort, steadfastly clinging to the colour blue; but my knocked-about heart feels like it never stops coming into contact with the worst entries in the encyclopedia of emotions; and each encounter with adversity, each mental scuffle with you creates an aftermath of falling apart, but the police don't come this time, there's nothing that they could do; because it's only when all the porch lights have been turned out, that neighbours, friends, and outsiders alike are finally able to see the truth; witness the psychological trouble and rubble within, observe the arrested development of youth, that is visible only in smeared little handprints plastered on the walls, covered with blood, scrubbed and washed away in the daylight, cleverly concealing the non-seasonal flood. ------------------------------ Date: Wed, 10 May 2000 20:13:58 -0400 From: shivergirl Subject: ET: ~barrie's babies~ +
an eight-year-old child
crept up the stairs to the attic,
quietly, but not soundlessly,
serious-minded, but not stoic;

and as he crossed the room
and spied the hope chest,
he didn't know it
was all over,
he could never have guessed

that children's games and playing,
frolic and fun,
would die over the weekend;

he only knew as he pried open the
never-before locked lid on the dusty
old chest, that he had found the hidden,
that he was king of the castle
at last;

but today is monday,
and the weekend is past,
and now he's sitting in a grief-designated
quiet room, and his three hide-and-seek
friends are never coming back;

and all the television trucks,
microphones and video cameras
bigger than dad's will all disappear
when the triple funeral is over,

and then it's only silent footfalls
that he will hear ringing in his ears,
as he pulls out out the picture
in the paper he cut out,

of three little pairs of empty shoes,
lined up on the step,
solemn and sad, surrounded by flowers,
so lonely they are see-through.

+ ------------------------------ End of eda-thoughts-digest V3 #193 **********************************