Poem180+Poetry

//Ron Koertge // your house or apartment. Go out into the world. ** one is best, with pages the color of weak tea and on the front a kitten or a space ship. ** three people are wearing turtlenecks. Beware any snow-covered chalet with deer tracks across the muffled tennis courts. ** And the perfect place in a library is near an aisle where a child a year or two old is playing as his mother browses the ranks of the dead. ** The title, the author's name, the brooding photo on the flap mean nothing. Red book on black, gray book on brown, he builds a tower. And the higher it gets, the wider he grins. ** falls, be like that child. Laugh so loud everybody in the world frowns and says, "Shhhh." ** I liked this poem, because I felt like I could use the advice given today. You see I am just about to enter this crazy unknown place called the world. So any great advice I can get I will so take. Although I am not so sure I will want to laugh so loud the world yells at me. = Bad Day =
 * //“Do You Have Any Advice For Those of Us Just Starting Out?" //**
 * Give up sitting dutifully at your desk. Leave
 * It's all right to carry a notebook but a cheap
 * Avoid any enclosed space where more than
 * Not surprisingly, libraries are a good place to write.
 * Often he will pull books from the bottom shelf.
 * You who asked for advice, listen: When the tower
 * Then start again. **

// Kay Ryan //
Not every day is a good day for the elfin tailor. Some days the stolen cloth reveals what it was made for: a handsome weskit or the jerkin of an elfin sailor. Other days the tailor sees a jacket in his mind and sets about to find the fabric. But some days neither the idea nor the material presents itself; and these are the hard days for the tailor elf. Well I thought this poem was funnier to read than the advice or message I got from it. I am very much aware that it is possible to have a bad day, because I have bad days all the time. That’s what I would call a normal day. = Fat Is Not a Fairy Tale =

// Jane Yolen //
I am thinking of a fairy tale, Cinder Elephant, Sleeping Tubby, Snow Weight, where the princess is not anorexic, wasp-waisted, flinging herself down the stairs. I am thinking of a fairy tale, Hansel and Great, Repoundsel, Bounty and the Beast, where the beauty has a pillowed breast, and fingers plump as sausage. I am thinking of a fairy tale that is not yet written, for a teller not yet born, for a listener not yet conceived, for a world not yet won, where everything round is good: the sun, wheels, cookies, and the princess. I really like this poem, because it coincides with my life time goal….. of being fat. Being fat is the only sensible way of living in this fast food world. = To Help the Monkey Cross the River, =

// Thomas Lux //
which he must cross, by swimming, for fruits and nuts, to help him I sit with my rifle on a platform high in a tree, same side of the river as the hungry monkey. How does this assist him? When he swims for it I look first upriver: predators move faster with the current than against it. If a crocodile is aimed from upriver to eat the monkey and an anaconda from downriver burns with the same ambition, I do the math, algebra, angles, rate-of-monkey, croc- and snake-speed, and if, if it looks as though the anaconda or the croc will reach the monkey before he attains the river’s far bank, I raise my rifle and fire one, two, three, even four times into the river just behind the monkey to hurry him up a little. Shoot the snake, the crocodile? They’re just doing their jobs, but the monkey, the monkey has little hands like a child’s, and the smart ones, in a cage, can be taught to smile. Well after reading this poem, I asked my friend john if he would help a monkey across a river. He said yes he would. Then I said but what if as you started across the river and got to the midpoint and foam started to come out of the monkey’s mouth. Then it started to attack him. John then decided that he would at that time attempt to drown the monkey and so I said to him, “You would drown a monkey? Dude your sick in the head.” //Kay Ryan // A barely mobile hard roll, a four-oared helmet, She can ill afford the chances she must take In rowing toward the grasses that she eats. Her track is graceless, like dragging A packing-case places, and almost any slope Defeats her modest hopes. Even being practical, She’s often stuck up to the axle on her way To something edible. With everything optimal, She skirts the ditch which would convert Her shell into a serving dish. She lives Below luck-level, never imagining some lottery Will change her load of pottery to wings. Her only levity is patience, The sport of truly chastened things. **  **I choose to read this poem because my brother use to have two small pet turtles. However after reading this poem I decided that it seemed like nothing more than an epic love poem for turtles. I think the person should consider looking into humans. **
 * Turtle **
 * Who would be a turtle who could help it?