Thread: Another Carl Poem...

Originally Posted by MickR

...Now if you were in the US...Did you know America is in the United States by the way? Yep it sure is...
Mick

Are you correcting me on this Mick? If so, fair call, I generally use the word America to mean the US, it's probably wrong. I don't want to upset anyone, but sometimes I use the spelling 'Amerika' as in the Ramstein song if I want to use it in a negative way...

Originally Posted by carlmaloschneider

Are you correcting me on this Mick? If so, fair call, I generally use the word America to mean the US, it's probably wrong. I don't want to upset anyone, but sometimes I use the spelling 'Amerika' as in the Ramstein song if I want to use it in a negative way...

No, just my little joke. I heard it somewhere and laughed, but it was a 'had to be there' moment.


Mick

Originally Posted by carlmaloschneider

Are you correcting me on this Mick? If so, fair call, I generally use the word America to mean the US, it's probably wrong. I don't want to upset anyone, but sometimes I use the spelling 'Amerika' as in the Ramstein song if I want to use it in a negative way...

This is why I adopted the term Unitedstatesian a number of years ago to describe out neighbours to the south. It helps avoid the confusion of "American" which really could describe anyone from Ellesmere Island, Tierra del Fuego, and all points between.

I live in a country I call Ameri-stralia. The more I listen to the way Australian's speak, spell, and what people wear and how they act, the music that they listen to I would say that the majority of them come from the fringes of Harlem and all points out from there.


Mick

About the small things. Not at all about straight razor shaving. Or is it?

Small Things

It's the small things.
What is important and needs to be explained is the small things.
Those really small, tiny little meek and mild things.
Those colours, feels and sights of things.
Those surfaces of things.
The feel of things.
Their texture and grit.
Their slime and sludge.
Even the evil of them.
Even the evil of them.
But importantly the small, tiny and mild things.
Even the meek things.
And the colour of things.
The colour of them.
The colour.
At just past dawn and just before night.
With the humming of insect things,
And the thinking of thinking things,
After the being of being things;
To serve the institution of institution things;
Comes the thinking of small things.
The thinking of small things.
Of meek and mild and small things.
Of those colours and feels and sights of things.
Those surfaces of things.
But not even the evil things.
But not even the evil things.
It's the small things,
What is important and needs to be explained is the small things.

Not about SR shaving, per se, but about life, and all the things that make our being, SR shaving being a small part of that.
And the small parts of SR shaving, such as blade, brush and soap.
And the small parts of soap, such as texture, scent, color and lather.
And the small parts of lather, such as creaminess and body
...
all no more than a small part of the whole.

Originally Posted by BDRebel

Not about SR shaving, per se, but about life, and all the things that make our being, SR shaving being a small part of that.
And the small parts of SR shaving, such as blade, brush and soap.
And the small parts of soap, such as texture, scent, color and lather.
And the small parts of lather, such as creaminess and body
...
all no more than a small part of the whole.

Like that, nice...

Developing a different style?? Like it.

Another 'poem'. Got all lyrical in an email to a friend and thought it would make a nice poem.



I’m Sure You’ll be OK with Your Sadness

I’m Sure You’ll be OK with Your Sadness

I'm sure you'll be OK with your sadness.
Maybe you're just being poetic. You know; Byronic?
I like Byronicanism (new word), very Gothic; Victorian mourning cufflinks and all.
Course, black suits. Handmade leather boots. Interesting ink colours for your fountain pen (dark purple?).
Reading Tolstoy on the train.
Sitting in your room on a sad winter day smoking and pouring aged port from a coloured glass decanter.
Old books from antique shops with stiff, incredibly thick and yellow pages adrift from the spine.
Staring at people on the bus in an angry, isolated way.
Liking clouds. Thinking about how, in class, as a child, you would look up and pretend they were islands and continents; a little 'Heart of Darkness' like, and 'navigate' through the blue bits around the white and grey bits.
Remembering how you wanted to kill pretty much everyone when you were 12 and your twin brother got worried about it.
Teachers were bastards, they didn't know you or recognise you.
You think graveyards are nice.
You plan your funeral. It involves a horse and cart. Black. Dawn. The route to the site is through a welsh mining town.
You like the sea in winter; dramatic.
Sadness is an elation.

Carl M Schneider


Carl M Schneider

And so what is this life?

Is it anything or not?
Is it the love of sons?
The love of daughters?
The love of birds?

Grape vines in autumn…
with the late afternoon golden sun?

Is it the love of books?
Words?
Philosophy?

The love of one’s body?
Moving.
Doing.
Being.

The love of light?
Of dark?
Of thoughts?

Is it the love of love?
Is it the love of hate?
The love of despondency?
The love of the dark mood?

Is life just about feeling?
If one feels does one live?

If one touches, caresses, sees
If one deciphers, analyses, tears apart
If one sees, sees
Does one then live?
Is that life?

And so what is this life?