When I was 22 (mere metaphorical minutes ago) I thought Dylan Thomas was a social scientist and I read his poem as a political manifesto. I embraced it like Baptists do the Bible and, like them, committed it to memory - sharing my scholarship with, well, everyone - never realizing that memorizing a poem impressed no one but myself. Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief
Tag Archives: Poem
I joined a writing group and made enemies. They were looking for an emotional support animal but I was a laughing hyena who found all their tender elegies hysterical. Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief
The Power of Prayer
Sheer frustration and desperation drove me to my knees, naked before the Lord - certain I heard snickering somewhere. But I persisted and prayed for you to turn up on time, not make simple mistakes, or embarrass me before clients. And you, who glued bumper stickers to your Prius proclaiming miracles happen every day - you have made me an atheist through the power of prayer. Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief
The Great White Heron in a Floppy Hat
My father, long retired and recently afraid of becoming irrelevant, has become a pest. A master gardener, himself, he has volunteered to teach the Wampanoag children of Cape Cod how to grow vegetables the way 80 year old white men do - by stabbing cold metal hand shovels into the sandy soil and throwing dry seeds in the gaping wounds. The Wampanoag women of Cape Cod prefer their traditional methods. The warm heels of their feet create the needed homes for the pregnant seeds. Dad visits their community garden unannounced, uninvited, and unaware he may be perceived as a great white heron in a floppy hat attempting to poach fish from their pond. The tortured history here would recommend a gentler approach, but he is forever surprised by the frosty welcome. He suspects they want his money more than his help. His plans for Thanksgiving, my sister and I think, are bound to make matters worse. Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief
Thoughts on the Dangers of Pretending to be a Poet (Part 5)
Delusions of grandeur. Pretend poets think they’re special. Which is ridiculous. Poetry never saved a life. It hasn’t cured cancer. I’m certain it never will considering how much liquor it drinks.
Have you read Lewis Carroll? Pure nonsense.
So this is a message to everyone who pretends to be a poet (and that is every poet living and/or dead): get a real job. You will be happier and so will your family. Poetry has never solved any problem. You know what has? Money and hotels.
If my lazy-ass son had a real job, instead of masturbating all day and calling it a poetry blog, he wouldn’t keep asking me for money. I wouldn’t keep telling him no, and I would love him.
Poetry is easy. I will show you. I literally wrote this off the top of my head three minutes ago.
The Ballad of Knowgood Carp I know damn well when I cast my spell I will be okay on the Judgment Day because I have more money so I can buy God's honey and if I want to bone ya' what I'll do is phone ya'. Do better than that, B.S. Eliot. I defy you. Knowgood Carp, Owner of all the Hotels on Block Island and Some in Connecticut
A cow covered with hundreds of mouth-like lesions each containing a tongue that lovingly licks my ear - tells me all the black lies I desperately want to hear; a massive udder with hundreds of mottled leathery teats and I suck the sour milk. Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief
Having written a poem I now realize I am a genius.
So I take what I want and need not ask forgiveness - because I do these things for you, dear reader. I have stolen William's plums - the ones he originally stole himself. I devoured them. They were, indeed, delicious so sweet and so cold. But I need not ask forgiveness. His plums nourished me as my sweet lyrics now nourish you, dear reader. I watched another William as he plucked silver and golden apples and when he bent over to put them in his sack I plucked him. I plucked him good and hard and for a long time. Then I trampled his dappled grass. But I need not ask forgiveness. His apples sustained me as these graceful notes now sustain you, dear reader. I heard a third William as he obsessed about his stewed prunes, which had caused him to grow horns where his rapidly receding hair had been. I grabbed his wrinkled prunes and squeezed the sour juice. From that weak stream I concocted a cocktail, which I drink to his health even as he steams in the stew. But I need not ask forgiveness. His prunes seduced me, as these charming melodies now seduce you, dear reader. I shall now write my second poem. It will be a sonnet.
Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief
I have seen some who appear lost in a maze with only a crust of bread in their pockets as they turn from dead end to dead end unable to see over the high thick hedges and only later did I learn they weren't lost at all. They were making maps. Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief
The 4th of July
A straw man riding a sacred cow pulling a tethered scapegoat arrived in a town named Trope just when they were needed most. Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief
The Girl With Ocean Eyes
A spiced-rum girl with ocean eyes big-bellied sailboats and osprey cries the climbing sun in full splendor but foolishly I did not surrender. I had promising places to be. My spiced-rum girl would wait for me. The osprey and big bellied boats gone all my assumptions of the future wrong pink fingers release a sinking sun. Girls with ocean eyes wait for no one. Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief