Celebrity
#1
                       Celebrity



We make assumptions about the rain;
this and that of another's life— 
What is the rain, anyway? What is
this life that's living?

Less than half a century to make fourth-class citizens
the new pantheon of queens and kings;
from black and white to sexual color,
we groundlings throw flowers and souls, no tomatoes.
Not to mention what women throw.

As we sleep, drenched stars fall
and don't fall on us. In what gutters 
do you find them? I've looked over-down
every hill. The Constellation never dims.

Why the child of God is so often like me
it's hard to tell but for the Father.
With the Son so rarely visible, I check the screen,
the magazines. I write letters to my own.
Ocean dreams flowing, overwhelming the sky . . . 

My God is afraid of me.
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#2
(05-14-2021, 11:41 PM)rowens Wrote:                         Celebrity



We make assumptions about the rain;
this and that of another's life— 
What is the rain, anyway? What is
this life that's living?                                          seems to cancel itself out                   

Less than half a century to make fourth-class citizens
the new pantheon of queens and kings;
from black and white to sexual color,
we groundlings throw flowers and souls, no tomatoes.
Not to mention what women throw.

As we sleep, drenched stars fall
and don't fall on us. In what gutters 
do you find them? I've looked over-down
every hill. The Constellation never dims.

Why the child of God is so often like me
it's hard to tell but for the Father.
With the Son so rarely visible, I check the screen,
the magazines. I write letters to my own.                              to your own what?
Ocean dreams flowing, overwhelming the sky . . . 

My God is afraid of me.
"Poetry is the rhythmic, inevitably narrative, movement from an overclothed blindness to a naked vision."  Dylan Thomas
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#3
(05-15-2021, 12:07 AM)TranquillityBase Wrote:  
(05-14-2021, 11:41 PM)rowens Wrote:                         Celebrity



We make assumptions about the rain;
this and that of another's life— 
What is the rain, anyway? What is
this life that's living?                                          seems to cancel itself out       


Is this a poem about the beginning of the 20th century, or a poem about the beginning of the 21st century?

            

Less than half a century to make fourth-class citizens
the new pantheon of queens and kings;
from black and white to sexual color,
we groundlings throw flowers and souls, no tomatoes.  Stars are picky with their orders. 
Not to mention what women throw. Women throw their unmentionables.

As we sleep, drenched stars fall
and don't fall on us. In what gutters  I'd prefer some fell on me.  
do you find them? I've looked over-down
every hill. The Constellation never dims.

Why the child of God is so often like me
it's hard to tell but for the Father.
With the Son so rarely visible, I check the screen,
the magazines. I write letters to my own.                              to your own what?       My . . . all of the above.
Ocean dreams flowing, overwhelming the sky . . . 

My God is afraid of me.
Reply




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