Ode to Bolivian Organic

[DrZeus]

Come to me
Bolivian.
Come to me, my sweet
Bolivian.
You writhe before my senses
Like a Dancer,
Seductive and sensous.
You Beckon.
You Taunt.
You Tease.
Let me touch you
Bolivian.
Let me smell you
Bolivian.
Let me taste you
Bolivian.
Give yourself to me...my organic.
(Yes! Yes!)
'Tis better to lose myself in
Your enchantment
Than to sup the bitter dregs of life
Any longer.
Aye, come to me
My Bolivian.

[phil]

Erm yes, very good John. Very beautiful.

When I got to the Yes! Yes! bit I recalled that in the near future Alyson Hannigan is to play on the London stage in the role made famous by Meg Ryan.

But I guess I have no soul

[DrZeus]

Well, you know, that's part of what good coffee is all about...spontaneous poetry, romance, adventure, and mysticism!

Besides, it just came to me while drinking it this morning. I purposely took it to a Turkish/Dark French roast, just to try it, and I must say, it's delicious!

[Steve]

I like it John even if Phil without his soul doen't

[DrZeus]

Thanks!

[Danny]

You've inspired a haiku from me.
Disclaimer: I thought it up on a less-than-sober 2am bike ride home in -7deg weather.

I went for the 5-7-5 form and tried to include a "seasonal word". I perfer haiku to be like that.

Sweet espresso shot...
Elusive and inviting.
Hidden in dry air.

I'm not much of a poet and it's been a while.... anyone want to better it?

[michel]

Hé... I'm of for a weekend to Groningen... come back and everyone is into the poetry... GREAT. I love it.
Dr.ZEUS, great poem... which has almost everything in it: (as you wrote: spontaneous poetry, romance, adventure, and mysticism!). Even the 'sex-part' is present in your longing: 'come to me...'

And MrFollies. Great haiku too, especially the 'dry air' gives it something mysterious... Wonder what happens if you turn it around though (and if that would be better?):

Hidden in dry air.
Elusive and inviting.
Sweet espresso shot...

(btw. DrZEUS's poem can be read from the bottom up too... Funny with a touch of mysterie and quite suprising...)

[Danny]

Yup... I like it better.
I'm all for poetry.

Although I find it more fun to go for the modern stuff.. Like, making the poem a bit of a cryptic puzzle. I dont get into the rhyme and ordered poetry at all.

With the exception of Haiku. But that's just the geek in me I think.

[michel]

MrFollies,
Do you read Dutch poetry too? And if so: 'Which 'modern' poets do you like..? If you don't mind me asking... (Sorry, but the only english poets I'm familiar with are the oldies... a bit.)

Me myself and I, like contemporary poets a lot... although a lot (not all) the cryptic 'things' seem to be hollow (meaningless) after some time of study (or a 'firm' talk to the poet himselve... where they most of the time answer your questions about: 'How? When? Where? Because? but especially: Why?' with: 'Hé, don't ask me what it means... It means whatever you see/read in it' (the same you hear from 'modern' painters and musicians a lot...). I don't buy this anymore... I think that a 'justification' can be, and should be given; unless it's a work of pure beauty, as beauty is a 'Why and a How and... (all the rest)' itselve.
(And ofcourse they don't have to 'justificate' themselves to the standards of this time... but, they have to 'prove' somehow that their work is more than just deposit of their hangover...
Just to 'philosophize' a bit more:
Suppose I make the following (am just doing a mind experiment):
I take a floor (preferably in a museum). On that floor I scatter words, words that were cut out of books of cryptic-poets. (poetry words). The title would be: 'No comment'.
Pretty cryptic in my opinion. And I love it, because it is (as I see it) a statement against cryptic-poetry, in the form of cryptic-poetry.
Well, a young man comes towards me (while I'm celebrated because of this great work of art) and he asks me: 'Sir. Why? How? When? Because? but especially Why?'
And I would answer him: 'Don't ask me that. I'm a poet. A cryptic-poet to be precise. It is whatever you see in it, and I made it because I was to lazy - after a hangover - to think things over, besides I was frustrated because my cat (sorry Hugh) pissed all over the couch... so after cutting out the velours of my second-hand couch, I started - frustrated as I was - cutting in the poetry of poets I never understood... and never will understand... because when I was your age... I asked a poet the same questions you ask me... And you know what he answered me... aso.

Bit of long muddled prose. Sorry. Hope you will still share with me which poets you like, and what you like about them.

[Danny]

About the closest I got to Dutch poets is reading the GVB poetry comp. winners on the busses in Utrecht. (I'd be into reading some real Dutch poetry BTW)
The one I remember:
Er was een man uit rijsnweerd
Hij roept door de bus "Ik zit verkeerd".
Hij begon om te huilen.
"Ik wil niet naar Zuilen",
Toen was de cheuffer.... (Something rhyming with verkeerd)

Sorry for demolishing that one it's been a few months since I have been in Utrecht.

Anyway, the way you describe cryptic poetry is how I think of modern (visual) art. You had a reason for your example. Most modern visual art, I just dont get... Tracey Emin leaps to mind. (Surrealism and Cubism, I tend *not* to put into this basket tho.)

But I digress.

I think, to me anyway, modern form poetry is easier to interpret. You see it in more places than you think, because it's based on symbolism. I like a good poem as much as I like a great film script. For example...

Donnie Darko. Weird film, that kept me thinking for weeks. There is one scene where Drew Barrymore gives a lecture to Donnie, telling him that "Celler Door" is a beautiful phrase. It does not become poetic till you put it into context of what happens later in the film. The whole film is a mish mash of symbols and hints to let you know what happens at the end.

Poetry, cryptic poetry especially for me, provides hints to some truth (or not) that the poet is trying to convey.

Here is an example, and as it happens one of my most favourites.

plato told him: he couldn't believe it (jesus told him; he wouldn't believe it. lao tze certainly told him, and general (yes m'am) sherman: and even (believe it or not) you told him: i told him; we told him (he didn't believe it, no sir) it took a nipponized bit of the old sixth avenue el in the top of his head: to tell him.

I'm tempted to explain what it means right now, but I'll give you a day to enjoy it. If you figure it out I will be very impressed, because out of a class 30 students, nobody had any idea.

No googling for the answer either....

[michel]

Great poem. I should really read more of EE Cummings. Thanks for that.

And about the solution..?:

We all say to him: 'Only the dead will see the end of war'

correct?
Sorry, that was with a bit googling... (although I'm still not sure about my answer...)
To be honest... in first instance (before googling) I thought the HE was God, and that everybody told him: 'You are going to die' (but it took that piece of metal in his head to actually believe it).

[Danny]

It's war for sure. In the 30's (I think), New York city dismantled the 6th ave. elevated railway.
They sold the scrap metal to Japan, not with controversy. The irony that Japan then turned this metal into weapons and ammunition certainly goes to the argument that war is frutile.

Jesus taught, turn the other cheek, even if they will kill you.
Lao Tze wrote Tao te Ching which is a fundamental writing of Taoism. Taoists believe in a non-agressive "way" of living.
Plato wrote about society and a responsible existence in society.
Sherman, is attributed with the quote "War is hell" even after on of the most succesful pushes of the American civil war.
The bit about "you and I" telling him, is the bit that does not *totally* fit in... I see this as friends and relatives trying to persuade "him" not to go to war.
Kind of like: everyone knew it but him.

So: "Only the dead see the end of war" pretty much sums it up. Or maybe: "Only the dead of war see its frutility".

p.s. I thought he was god first as well...

[michel]

Fascinating word: 'Fruitility'. In first instance I assumed you meant 'futility' as I looked in my big english dictionary and couldn't find the word 'fruitility'. After a little googling I found the following though:

Harrison's 'Three Poems from Bosnia', written in 1995, describe the brutality of all ethnic cleansing with as much pathos and sympathy for the individuals caught up in war as any great anti-war poem. However, anger and suffering are not the dominant theme. The one thing which links the vigorous polemics and outrage against death with the humour of poems like 'Doncaster' (yes, a poem about Saturday night in 'Donny') is Harrison's ability to show where, despite everything, we can find joy.

'Fuck philosophy that sees
life itself as some disease
we sicken with until released,
supervised by Pope or priest,
into a dry defruited zone'.

The alternative is to enjoy what he calls 'fruitility', the pleasure that exists in sensual things, in eating fruit, in sex, in music: 'Meaningless our lives may be/but blessed with deep fruitility'.
(Phil, this last paragraph has everything to do with coffee too... So you don't have to worry were 'way of track' (is that a correct saying..?)

Thanks btw for the fascinating internetjourney I made to discover all the facts you sum up (although I disagree about the Taoist... as they seem to be peacefull, but when digging deeper it's just indifference what you find. (a buddhist can't kill a fly, a taoist can). Furthermore they can be very agressive, especially when trained in martial arts (Taoist-fighting-monks who train over 10 hours a day) as there is no purpose training fighting techniques for self-defense (as it was in the old days) but it is still done, just because )
I was writing: the facts you sum up. I discovered new sites and new insights which are worth to remember...
Last night in bed, I kept thinking about the poem, as it rooted somehow in my brain... as I wondered about why he deliberately not mentioned Buddha (although he did so (indirect), when he writes: 'we all told him...'). This is somehow a contradictio in terminis. Buddha (who dissolves the 'sufferering' self through a technique which is called nowaday's in the west: 'Living in the now') and as there is no 'Me' who can suffer, there is no Me at all, noticing things. There just is, what is. So he deliberately did not mention boeddha... although he writes a few sentences further that: 'we all told him'...

Strange, and it kept me out of sleep till 3 'O clock. But is was worth it. Every minute.
thanks.

[Danny]

Lol... Ahem, no I meant futility
The disadvantage of living in another country and trying to learn the language. My english grammer and spelling decline seems irrepressible.
Sometimes I catch myself speaking in engderlands. The other day I actually said to my mum on the phone: "I was to the shop." (By the way, it's "way off track")

Is the martial art thing not a spiritual thing now (instead of needed defence)? The art of self control, and attaining the peak of fitness and dexterity that is possible? Like a tribute to the gift of your body... At least that is the way I always thought of it.

The I, you, we told him part of the poem is the only thing that always threw me.... To elaborate on what I said last night: "Everyone knew it but him". Maybe that's not clear. To me it's a little like "Everyone says it, but you only know about it when you get that bullet in the head." Kinda like everyone wants to save the earth, but few are willing to give up their cars. (I tried it for 6 months and did OK till I got a contract in Eindhoven....)

Interesting thoughts about Buddha tho...

I am really enjoying this thread, I'd love somebody else to contribute a poem, inspired by coffee. Does not have to be one of your own!!!!

[michel]

About the Taoist Monks... I've practiced martial arts for over 8 years, studied the history... and there is no link whatever which binds enlightenment and martial arts at this point in time and space. I've stopped with the martial arts stuff already 10 years ago, but the eager for enlightenment continued. So I studied more... till I found out (but thats very personal - and with a little help of Tony Parsons - that all you see, is what you get. No more. No less. And excepting that with every cell in your body is true enlightenment... (this is a bit of a short cut, but for more info you can always visit: theopensecret.com).

Yes we need another poem indeed. And although this poem is from me, and not that cryptic, I 'enjoy' it to this day, everytime I read it...
It's best to read it in German (original) and yes it's about the second world-war to stay in tune with preceding. The Dutch translation is great, but I have to give the english version (as english is thé european language on this site...) Which makes me wonder btw... If you take all the people in europe and count them, and curve the language they speak... What will be the biggest group..?)
Oke here is the poem. Written by Paul Celan. And while you read it, you feel/hear the cadans of the trains taking of to Germany... (but not being very cryptic, this poem has a raw realism over it, while still 'talking' of 'graves in the air'... (but thats just a metaphor or a metonymia.. or..?)

Fugue of Death

Black milk of daybreak we drink it at nightfall
we drink it at noon in the morning we drink it at night
drink it and drink it
we are digging a grave in the sky it is ample to lie there
A man in the house he plays with the serpents he writes
he writes when the night falls to Germany your golden hair Margarete
he writes it and walks from the house the stars glitter he whistles his dogs up
he whistles his Jews out and orders a grave to be dug in the earth
he commands us strike up for the dance

Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night
we drink in the mornings at noon we drink you at nightfall
drink you and drink you
A man in the house he plays with the serpents he writes
he writes when the night falls to Germany your golden hair Margarete
Your ashen hair Shulamith we are digging a grave in the sky it is ample to lie there

He shouts stab deeper in earth you there and you others you sing and you play
he grabs at the iron in his belt and swings it and blue are his eyes
stab deeper your spades you there and you others play on for the dancing
Black milk of daybreak we drink you at nightfall
we drink you at noon in the mornings we drink you at nightfall
drink you and drink you
a man in the house your golden hair Margarete
your ashen hair Shulamith he plays with the serpents

He shouts play sweeter death's music death comes as a master from Germany
he shouts stroke darker the strings and as smoke you shall climb to the sky
then you'll have a grave in the clouds it is ample to lie there

Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night
we drink you at noon death comes as a master from Germany
we drink you at nightfall and morning we drink you and drink you
a master from Germany death comes with eyes that are blue
with a bullet of lead he will hit in the mark he will hit you
a man in the house your golden hair Margarete
he hunts us down with his dogs in the sky he gives us a grave
he plays with the serpents and dreams death comes as a master from Germany

your golden hair Margarete
your ashen hair Shulamith.

Oke, I got carried away again. Sorry. And Yes: We need more coffee-poems. In fact it would be a nice idea to have a section of coffee-poems, coffee-wisdom, coffee-aphorisms, coffee-sayings, coffee-jokes aso.
Let me start with a quotation from Mark Helprin, out of 'Memoir from Antproof Case':
The voodoo priest and all his powders were as nothing compared to espresso, cappuccino, and mocha, which are stronger than all the religions of the world combined, and perhaps stronger than the human soul itself.