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*Over two years ago before the poetry link was established as a separate thread (de-linked from books & other arts/humanities), a few veteran poets/critics, like Lady Annabella, may recall this seemingly simple love poem. Yes, there have been many better-written poems. However, it earns position 7 on my subjective list of the top-ten most memorable poems to have graced these links since I joined. If a poem were to be judged 'great' on the basis of the number of responses it generates, then 'yuyu' (the poet) is unbeatable!

This poem generated not 40, not 50, not 60, not 70 and not 80 answers but a whopping 88 answers!!

*You may view my profile - "starred questions" and look for yuyu's question - "what do you think of this poem?" You may also access her public profile to read her other poems and the 88 responses this poem generated. The poet may still be around. What a record!!

What's so special about the poem?

7.

What do you think of this poem?

- By yuyu

When he walks he talks and there is no doubt about that

He reminds me of a thousand warriors

In a battle where he’s the winner

A taste of his kiss reminds me of honey molasses

There’s just no way to describe his scent

It is like no other

He’s got me caught up mentally, spiritually

He got me feeling like spring

With its blossoming flowers

Light of my life he is

Shining brightly through my soul

Emancipating me from girl to woman

Deep as the ocean I feel his touch

His masculinity has bewitched me forever

*Down memory lane: Ours is the "Age of Testimony." Bearing witness to events is a discursive mode of our time. This gothic poem poignantly showed how psychic trauma and testimony are related. By using poetry as a means of historicizing and mediating traumatic experience, the poet produced this type of poem that reverberates long after the encounter. . . and a deserved position 8 of the top-ten most memorable poems to have graced this link. Don't you think so?

8.

Answered Questions*

By Elysabeth Faslund

Should I lock the door behind me...

Shut questions out...

Satin pillowcase dreams...

Spirits walk in the bedroom...

My Father carries his pool cue...

My Mother, her dish towel...

Many years. Time stops...

Memories wet the pillowcase...

Tennessee, my beautiful wolf...

Tiptoes to my bed...

Touches her cold nose to my cheek...

Tickles with her eyelashes...

I didn't lock the door...

Pillowcase is dry...

Morning pools of sun...

Light fur, chalk dust on the floor.

(9 months ago)

Fifth Philosopher's Song

- by Aldous Huxley (1920)

A million million spermatozoa

All of them alive;

Out of their cataclysm but one poor Noah

Dare hope to survive.

And among that billion minus one

Might have chanced to be Shakespeare, another Newton, a new Donne-

But the One was Me.

Shame to have ousted your betters thus,

Taking ark while the others remained outside!

Better for all of us, froward Homunculus,

If you'd quietly died!

*Down Memory Lane: More than one year ago, this powerfully-crafted magnificent poem graced this link. The masterly deployment of apt, graceful images while exploring the complex isolation and pain of the human condition, simply transformed a ridiculous subject into the sublime! Don't you think so?

For this exceptional creative skill, the piece earns position nine as top-ten most memorable poems to have appeared in these links since I joined. (Watch out soon for my number eight in this subjective count-down).

Premature

By Todd

The Birthing was like bloating

from that extra slice of cheesecake.

Nothing expansive:

the rack of lamb, red potatoes

of normal mothers with smiles,

not pained closed zippers.

It was like a gallstone,

a boring sting with no reward,

to be forgotten

not spoken above whispers.

It was astonishing

that this tinyredwrinkled thing could

breathe its wet wheezes.

No bigger than one of those asthmatic handbag

dogs, silent judges

and mocking,

pretty, pale blue bows.

There would be no cigars, handshakes,

glad slaps on shoulders.

The room filled with embarrassed grins,

vague apologies,

like sitting constipated

in a public bathroom stall

listening for each quick rattle,

each agitated

successive

Bang!

As patrons come and go.

It lingered afterwards

like a bad meal in a greasy spoon.

You paid, and paid, and paid,

too sickened to eat, too guilty to leave

the Styrofoam box behind--

The damning evidence

of leftovers

unwanted, undigested.

1 year ago

<<The poet's comments: "This is the result of some ideas I've been kicking around--highly personal ones, but not sure if they fully work yet. This is a very early draft. I want to thank ObscureB and Margot for some invaluable pre-posting comments. Any feedback is appreciated.

Lori: I was a little over two pounds and did not come home from the hospital for over two months. I can relate to your sister quite well.

Thank you>>.

*my top-ten most memorable poems that have graced these links:

- just sharing. <no.9 - next week>

no.10.

~How was your first time?

by Gorge

It was my first time ever, And I'll never forget.

I'd do it again, Without a single regret.

The sky was dark, The moon was high,

We were all alone: Just she and I.

Her hair was soft, Her eyes were blue,

I knew just what She wanted to do.

Her skin so soft,Her legs so fine,

I ran my fingers Down her spine.

I didn't know how But I tried my best,

I started by placing My hands on her breast.

I remember my fear, My fast beating heart,

But slowly she spread Her legs apart.

And when I did it, I felt no shame;

All at once The white stuff came.

At last it's finished, It's all over now.

My first time ever At milking a cow...

a poetic response to AC Tesla

- anonymous

a Gogol-ian array of dead souls,

this link compares.

hard to tell the indolent old bachelor

from the languid love-sick maid;

the pale banquo's ghost

from the wavering hamlet.

hard to differentiate

the jealous spaniard

from the impetuous poet

all dangling the satan's damocle's sword

with the modesty of doves, merriment of larks,

liberal magnanimous thumb-ing,

blessed be, the hideous witch of Endor

relentless, persistent & punctual.

mirror mirror on weblink, who shall, saint-like,

sing this song for my characteristic eternal delight!!

"Large sections of current literary theory are preposterous, too wrong-headed to be worth untangling by the professional philosopher, an affront to commonsense and practical experience.

But the older procedures of marshaling fact and argument are apparently tainted with the shortcomings of western society, complicit with its cheap intellectualizations, its hypocrisies and technical barbarism.

Perhaps the personal and the authentic, what literature has championed down the ages, have been set aside by a rampant materialism.

Academic life has been terrorized by crass market forces, literature prostituted, the publishing houses hijacked by lawyers and accountants indifferent to art."

I have known since my Sunday school days that being polite, graceful, and considerate in language and behavior are cardinal virtues. But recently I found myself faced with a situation when being rude elicited valuable results. Just wondering whether you've also experienced similar situations when being polite is completely a waste time and effort.

Hope is the thing with feathers

That perches in the soul,

And sings the tune without the words,

And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;

And sore must be the storm

That could abash the little bird

That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chilliest land

And on the strangest sea;

Yet, never, in extremity,

It asked a crumb of me.

--Emily Dickinson

*****

The Thing With Feathers

Hope is a horny outgrowth

of the heart, a central axis

along which you branch.

Inside, a hollow portion known

as emptiness. And a solid barb-bearing

part called the self, where

contour feathers grow – large, crude,

capable of much flapping. Surrounded

by small stunted hairlike feathers

of soft down, for insulation. When dry,

they leave a waxy powder you polish

each day with your tongue.

You dust yourself off, lick

your plumes, gaudy or plain,

it doesn’t matter. You hold them

in front of you, crooked

like the wing of a swan.

-- Elizabeth Zetlin