Mo Thoughts From Moe

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Moe X

Indianapolis, IN

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#1
Apr 8, 2013
 
Guess the poet. It sounds like several goofy fascists here are being describe. This poem is one of my favorites.

You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.

Daddy, I have had to kill you.
You died before I had time--
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,
Ghastly statue with one gray toe
Big as a Frisco seal

And a head in the freakish Atlantic
Where it pours bean green over blue
In the waters off beautiful Nauset.
I used to pray to recover you.
Ach, du.

In the German tongue, in the Polish town
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But the name of the town is common.
My Polack friend

Says there are a dozen or two.
So I never could tell where you
Put your foot, your root,
I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.

It stuck in a barb wire snare.
Ich, ich, ich, ich,
I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you.
And the language obscene

An engine, an engine
Chuffing me off like a Jew.
A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.
I began to talk like a Jew.
I think I may well be a Jew.

The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna
Are not very pure or true.
With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck
And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.

I have always been scared of you,
With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.
And your neat mustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You--

Not God but a swastika
So black no sky could squeak through.
Every woman adores a Fascist,
The boot in the face, the brute
Brute heart of a brute like you.

You stand at the blackboard, daddy,
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot
But no less a devil for that, no not
Any less the black man who

Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.

But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue.
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look

And a love of the rack and the screw.
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I'm finally through.
The black telephone's off at the root,
The voices just can't worm through.

If I've killed one man, I've killed two--
The vampire who said he was you
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.

There's a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through.
Moe X

Indianapolis, IN

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#2
Apr 8, 2013
 

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Sounds like words to a theme song that AA1 wants to inflict on the country.
Ralph

Bloomingdale, IN

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#3
Apr 8, 2013
 

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Moe X wrote:
Sounds like words to a theme song that AA1 wants to inflict on the country.
Too long a read to generate interest.

Since: Feb 13

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#4
Apr 8, 2013
 

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Ralph wrote:
<quoted text>Too long a read to generate interest.
Ramblings of a lunatic. Yawnnnn
Perry

Wessington Springs, SD

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#5
Apr 8, 2013
 

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Moe X wrote:
Guess the poet. It sounds like several goofy fascists here are being describe. This poem is one of my favorites.

You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.

Daddy, I have had to kill you.
You died before I had time--
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,
Ghastly statue with one gray toe
Big as a Frisco seal

And a head in the freakish Atlantic
Where it pours bean green over blue
In the waters off beautiful Nauset.
I used to pray to recover you.
Ach, du.

In the German tongue, in the Polish town
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But the name of the town is common.
My Polack friend

Says there are a dozen or two.
So I never could tell where you
Put your foot, your root,
I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.

It stuck in a barb wire snare.
Ich, ich, ich, ich,
I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you.
And the language obscene

An engine, an engine
Chuffing me off like a Jew.
A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.
I began to talk like a Jew.
I think I may well be a Jew.

The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna
Are not very pure or true.
With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck
And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.

I have always been scared of you,
With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.
And your neat mustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You--

Not God but a swastika
So black no sky could squeak through.
Every woman adores a Fascist,
The boot in the face, the brute
Brute heart of a brute like you.

You stand at the blackboard, daddy,
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot
But no less a devil for that, no not
Any less the black man who

Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.

But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue.
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look

And a love of the rack and the screw.
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I'm finally through.
The black telephone's off at the root,
The voices just can't worm through.

If I've killed one man, I've killed two--
The vampire who said he was you
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.

There's a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through.
It must be about the Ducheeds. Green beans !
MoMo

Indianapolis, IN

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#6
Apr 9, 2013
 
A great poem of Sylvia Plath called "Daddy".
MoMo

Indianapolis, IN

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#7
Apr 9, 2013
 

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Duchess 29631 wrote:
<quoted text>Ramblings of a lunatic. Yawnnnn
Typical drip dry tea bagger.
Moe Beautiful

Indianapolis, IN

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#8
Apr 10, 2013
 
An emotionally packed poem that stays with you.
Moe

Indianapolis, IN

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#10
Apr 10, 2013
 
"Ariel," the title poem of Sylvia Plath’s posthumous volume of the same name is one of her most highly regarded, most often criticised, and most complicated poems. The ambiguities in the poem begin with its title, which has a three fold meaning. To a reader uninformed by Plath’s biography "Ariel" would probably most immediately call to mind the "airy spirit" who in Shakespeare’s The Tempest is a servant to Prospero and symbolizes Prospero’s control of the upper elements of the universe, fire and air. On another biographical or autobiographical level, "Ariel," as we know from reports about the poet’s life, was the name of her favorite horse, on whom she weekly went riding. Robert Lowell, in his forward to Ariel, says, "The title Ariel summons up Shakespeare’s lovely, though slightly chilling and androgynous spirit, but the truth is that this Ariel is the author’s horse." Ted Hughes, Plath’s husband, adds these comments,

ARIEL was the name of the horse on which she went riding weekly. Long before, while she was a student at
Cambridge (England), she went riding with an American friend out towards Grantchester. Her horse bolted, the stirrups fell off, and she came all the way home to the stables, about two miles, at full gallop, hanging around the horse’s neck.

These two allusions, to The Tempest and to her horse "Ariel," have often been noticed and pointed out, with the emphasis, from a critical perspective, being placed on the biographical referent. But there is another possible referent in the title of the poem which no one has yet noted, although the poet, apparently, went out of her way to make reference, even obvious reference, to it. I refer to "Ariel" as the symbolic name for Jerusalem. "Ariel" in Hebrew means "lion of God." She begins the second stanza of the poem with the line "God’s lioness," which seems to be a direct reference to the Hebrew or Jewish "Ariel."

Plath’s obsession with Judaism and the Jewish people is clearly indicated in many of her poems.

[….]

Indeed, some of the imagery which informs the passage concerning "Ariel" in the Book of Isaiah (29:1-7) appears to have been drawn on directly by Plath for her imagery in her poem "Ariel." In Isaiah 29-5-6 we read,

And in an instant, suddenly,
You will be visited by the Lord of hosts
With thunder and with earthquake and great noise,
With whirlwind and tempest,
And the flame of a devouring fire

In short, then, the poet seems to be combining these three references to "Ariel" in her poem, and creating a context where each of the possible meanings enriches the others. She even seems to imply this when she says, in the second stanza, "How one we grow." Each of the three "Ariel’s" contributes its part to the totality of the poem, and each of them merges into the others so that, by the end of the poem, they are all "one."

by Wm Davis
Ralph

Bloomingdale, IN

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#11
Apr 10, 2013
 

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Moe Beautiful wrote:
An emotionally packed poem that stays with you.
El loado of crappo.

Since: Feb 13

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#12
Apr 10, 2013
 

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Ralph wrote:
<quoted text>El loado of crappo.
Isn't that the truth.
Gary

Indianapolis, IN

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#13
Apr 10, 2013
 

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Moe thank you fr everything!
Ralph

Bloomingdale, IN

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#14
Apr 10, 2013
 

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Gary wrote:
Moe thank you fr everything!
Even the crappo.
Gary

Indianapolis, IN

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#15
Apr 10, 2013
 
Ralph wrote:
<quoted text>Even the crappo.
Yes,,,,,,,, even you......
Perry

Indianapolis, IN

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#16
Apr 10, 2013
 

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Ralph wrote:
<quoted text>Even the crappo.
You have better wipe!
Moe Mania

Indianapolis, IN

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#17
Apr 10, 2013
 

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Perry wrote:
<quoted text>You have better wipe!
ESP. If there is gong to be salad tossing!

Since: Mar 13

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#18
Apr 11, 2013
 

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Apparently, this is the kind of poetry that appeals to the ignorant, and functionally illiterate among us.
Duke 57894

Indianapolis, IN

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#19
Apr 11, 2013
 
ALL AM 1 wrote:
Apparently, this is the kind of poetry that appeals to the ignorant, and functionally illiterate among us.
Pig, Where is my wife?
Gary

Indianapolis, IN

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#20
Apr 11, 2013
 
ALL AM 1 wrote:
Apparently, this is the kind of poetry that appeals to the ignorant, and functionally illiterate among us.
Hey dn't try that reach around crap om me boy
The White Knight Duke

Indianapolis, IN

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#21
Apr 11, 2013
 

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Duchess 29631 wrote:
<quoted text>Isn't that the truth.
That's what brought Duchess and I together. Our mutual hate of literature. The only things we like to read are books by Glenn Beck and Michael Savage.

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