Here you can post YOUR OWN poems, prose, music, or art inspired by the 'Muses nine'.

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Postby Saturn » Fri Apr 09, 2010 10:50 pm


"Before us stands yesterday" - Ted Hughes

Tomorrow is too soon, too near to yesterday.
I can't promise tomorrow, will you take today?
Today is a burning candle dribbling down into
The slops of yesterday; a molten slag heap of
Detritus of failed hope, and of expectations
Worn down to the nub, white ash and dust.

Tomorrow is a horizon too broad, a canvas
Too vast to pinpoint certainty, to move the
Chess piece, to formulate a masterplan.
I cannot marshal the way, cannot shade
My eyes from the blinding bright face
Of that tomorrow's pregnant burning zone.

Tomorrow is a cat call away, a birdsong
To come, a radar blip, a faint impulse,
A tremor unfelt, but cruelly predictable
As it ripples its way like a flash torrent
Flood, washing our lives away, drowning
Yesterday like an old tyrant's proscription.

Tomorrow I cannot give you, nor can see
The sun for the clouds of rain that patter
O'er my sorry head. I cannot halt the hail
That batters down my spirits so, the snow
That leaves me cold in heart and low,
I beg you do not ask me for the future now
Tomorrow's great fears have yet to grow.
"Oh what a misery it is to have an intellect in splints".
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Re: Tomorrow

Postby marwood » Thu Apr 15, 2010 4:41 pm

I agree, good work Saturn.
Take care.
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen.
At Parnassus' foot
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Re: Tomorrow

Postby steffen » Sun Apr 18, 2010 7:23 pm

Your poem is full of a self-revelation that moves deeply and tells so much of who we really are and how circumstance often irremediably affects the way we live out the "failed hopes" of our todays, somehow trapped between "the slops" of our yesterdays, and our "cruelly predictable" tomorrows. Saying this so clearly -and beautifully- you become Everyman.

Goethe yearned for that quality of personal honesty and openness so often hidden behind the masks with which we present ourselves to the world around us, and makes this complaint: "And where is the man who is true, and shows himself as he is?". Somewhere else he humorously admits: "Know myself ? If I knew myself I would run away !" But I think he did know himself, and very well at that, although it must have been gained at great cost.

I'll most likely never meet you personally, but I do know and won't easily forget how much I have learned from your well-turned verse, and with what truthfullness and mastery you open up your poet's heart, which is all yours and very much so. But most of all I am grateful for how your poetry makes me think, and how it makes me feel.
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Re: Tomorrow

Postby Saturn » Sun Apr 18, 2010 11:04 pm

You are too kind Steffen, I cannot claim my poems as art, or even poems in the strictest sense but rather a necessary outlet for unexpressed feelings, emotions, thoughts; a yelp, a primal scream; deeply personal: the stricken heart articulating in song through a rudimentary instrument.

If the excellence of every art is in it's intensity as Keats said, then if nothing else what I wrote is intense and purposely so, but I am no artist.

Thank you for your comments though.
"Oh what a misery it is to have an intellect in splints".
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Re: Tomorrow

Postby steffen » Mon Apr 19, 2010 10:36 am

Dear Saturn,
I understand your hesitation to accept the opinion of that dingle-bat of an admirer of yours, Steffen, who lauds you as an artist and poet. Praise or blame has but a momentary effect on a man like yourself, whose love of beauty in the abstract makes him a severe critic of his own work. But your philosophy would clip an angel's wings! It seems to me that you are in a temper that if you were under water you would scarcely kick to come to the top, although I hope that is not the case.

Are you tempted to follow the example of your namesake, the deity Saturn, by eating your very own children? Indeed your poems are your children and as such have a life all their own, although like that powerful Roman god you may not trust them. But don't forget that Jupiter did manage to escape from being eaten alive by his cannabalistic father ----- Poetic justice, I'd call that !

Before closing let me express my gratitude to you for your excellelent work on what I like to refer to as my Web site. I feel truly honored. You know very well that I did want very much to be remembered, although given the circumstances I doubted that possibility.

Your affectionate friend,

Nota bene: Please forgive this patch-work attempt at piecing together these brazenly lifted quotes taken from Keats' letters as well as what I have added on my own, speaking in his name. I couldn't resist the temptation to resort to this little farce as a way of capturing your atttention, to make you sit up and take notice.
Last edited by steffen on Wed Apr 21, 2010 7:11 am, edited 1 time in total.
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Re: Tomorrow

Postby Raphael » Wed Apr 21, 2010 12:43 am

I like the poem and reply by Junkets- very good! :D did not live to see-
who we are because of what you left,
what it is we are in what we make of you.

Peter Sanson, 1995.
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