This Poem was Submitted By: Mark Andrew Hislop On Date: 2005-10-02 00:31:18 . . . Click Here To Mail this Poem to a Friend!

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Crying in a rugby context

My theory? That I can explain why I cried as I online-voted  my opinion of who’d win this year’s rugby grand final,  explain why the fuck any tears should fall  for something so ... trivial. To answer this, I first used my default settings and trawled my way across  all the internet ‘how to write better poetry’ sites  until I finally realised this has nothing to do with poetry,  then sat down here to let my fingers do the talking  in case they know something I don’t. Is that so stupid? At this point the frustration really set in, like a car that with a half-whir and a blank clunk you realise  will not start because you left the lights on last night  after another attempt to get laid failed when God  or someone equally vicious raised the scarlet curtain  for your inner wife so she could watch how you perform  when you’re overseas and, God bless it, your dick,  not knowing what the fuck else to do, shrank into its noose  of shame and hanged itself like a dead eel. It’s like that,  this trying to explain crying over a rugby vote, the dead-battery frustration of The Fuck that Wasn’t. Pure poetic justice. I mean, as if my innards are of any special interest to you,  as if you’d spend your precious life like a jeweller  searching out the flaws of a paste diamond (Duh!),  when, more comfortingly, you could have your head up the arse of your own workings. Are your innards as dazzlingly  attention-seeking as mine? Do you hoist them up  like I do over the desert of my life, as if beneath my angst  over state-sanctioned violence, or just beneath my angst—period—,  lies some miraculous oasis, some holy water grail point  to these wacky poetic races, where others can heal their sores,  restore their sight and generally call me some kind  of fucking genius? Probably not. It’s too tall an order,  a stupid adventure which really should end in humiliation but,  since so few will ever see my flag, fewer will salute and then only because they’re in a foreign country and, well, it seems  the polite thing to do, I’m relatively safe. Fuck I feel sorry  for myself. And, really, that’s all I’m really crying about, as usual.  So as usual I’ll write a bit of poetry to try to make myself  feel better, fired by the vain hope that I might learn why I cried when I voted my opinion of who’d win  this year’s rugby grand final when I didn’t cry at all when I buried my Nanna last Friday. You know,  if you think about it, there’s something very sad about that.

Copyright © October 2005 Mark Andrew Hislop


This Poem was Critiqued By: Terry A On Date: 2005-11-03 00:04:55
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
A marvellous stream of consciousness like poem. You hit close to just how absurd, how rich, how profoundly human a poem/poet can be. Candor in your confessions; without self-pity, no window-dressing. That takes guts. Original and brave. Terry


This Poem was Critiqued By: Joanne M Uppendahl On Date: 2005-11-01 23:38:46
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Mark: You would be disbelieving if I told you how many times I've read this, thinking I would respond later. And later is finally here. Your strokes of honesty are too bold to be ignored. Why do we get our feelings enwrapped in the shufflings of this site or any other, for that matter? Why does it matter to us? What in hell are we doing, revealing our attention-seeking innards? You ask: "Do you hoist them up like I do over the desert of my life, as if beneath my angst over state-sanctioned violence, or just beneath my angst—period—, lies some miraculous oasis, some holy water grail point to these wacky poetic races, where others can heal their sores, restore their sight and generally call me some kind of fucking genius?" Yes, and, no. And we all suffer, hence we write. Some of us write for other reasons, I think. It never makes sense, when you think about it and you have thought about it and given us the benefit of your thoughts. You show clearly how life is a desert and this makes no difference at all in the scheme of things, as violence continues, and these races have no ultimate ability to affect anything. Under cynicial veil, you don't hide very deeply that your caring and your personal chargin that this contest, any contest, makes no difference whatsoever. But writing does. The spoken and written word with the power to change things - to affect emotions, one way or another - is demonstrated amply here by you. I wish I could write a poem so honest for my own state of being in this moment. This poem has an effect, which is to make me reflect upon the reasons for doing anything. For that alone, congratulations! I think that it will undoubtedly do well in the contest. I like it for reasons that are difficult to explain, except that I admire its grit. And on the other hand, you show deep tenderness. I am very sorry for the loss of your Nanny. It is never easy. Best to you, Joanne
This Poem was Critiqued By: arnie s WACHMAN On Date: 2005-10-15 14:50:55
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Well Mark, I adore this piece. Fuck man, I've been trying to write something like that for years and here you got it down all because of a rugby thing...(did you win anyway?). Yes, it is very sad about your "Nanna"...there is some existential thing between her and the game.>>maybe your team got buried in the score? It was lopsided perhaps? I really liked the flow of this free wheeling piece from computers to Nanna. Enjoyable. Will only the Alpha Male think otherwise?
This Poem was Critiqued By: marilyn terwilleger On Date: 2005-10-10 15:54:30
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Hi Mark, As I read through this piece the first time I was thinking....'can't he find another word to express himself wihout using (fu..) evey few lines. I found myself being somewhat disappointed because you write with such brilliance...but then I read...'I didn't cry at all when I buried my Nanna last Friday' and my soft heart just sank. Then the rantings became painfully clear to me and the thrid time I read it and you said...'God bless it your dick, not knowing what the f... else to do shrank into it's noose of shame and hanged itself like a dead eel'...this is priceless and I have to admit I about fell off my chair laughing. Not at you, of course, but at how funny you made such a dire situation sound! I know that is a 'dire' thing to happen to a man...but they just need to pull up their big boy panties and carry on with their life! I can almost feel you gnashing your teeth as you wrote this and I do hope you came away feeling much better than when you started. I'm sorry about your Nanna...I have lost so many family members but it never gets easier...just more familure. Also I hope you didn't just through that part in about your Nanna if it is not true because that would be unforgivable! And another thing...I don't know how in the hell you can post a poem when you haven't answered my last crit of one I critiqued a week or so ago. I'm not nagging, you understand, just asking. Seriously, I hope you are okay and will return to your old brilliant self soon. Peace...Marilyn
This Poem was Critiqued By: charles r pitts On Date: 2005-10-08 06:14:15
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 1.00000
impressive SOC piece here. reads like it came unhindered straight from your thoughts, like your fingers had little brains in them and your words didnt have to travel at all to get out, thus they escaped intact. this is a genuine, guilt-ridden, raging, angry, ashamed,blaming rant!straight-from-the-tap! well-done
This Poem was Critiqued By: Thomas Edward Wright On Date: 2005-10-06 21:15:51
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 1.00000
Keep drinking. And don't quit your day job.
This Poem was Critiqued By: Jillian K Sorenson On Date: 2005-10-06 20:35:42
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 1.00000
If you were a woman I'd blame it on hormones, that's what I usually blame my nonsensical crying bouts on. This "poem" has both poetic and prose elements. I'm not sure it's a poem at all, except that the ending has quite a bit of finality to it and therefore cannot really be used in context of a novel/short story. I like the ending very much. I also like the way this poem moves, very quickly without barely pausing for breath. This poem is interesting in that it insults the reader and nearly forces them to leave....I've never done that with a poem, and thus find it interesting. The vulgarity is a bit over the top, but again serves it's dual purpose of offending and enticing the reader. Nicely done.
This Poem was Critiqued By: Dellena Rovito On Date: 2005-10-02 17:45:29
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 1.00000
Mark, I know emotions pile up. One upon the other until there's a ton. The slightest bump or nothing touch can tumble it all down around and over you. You take the sorrows and disappointments upon yourself, some big, some little, until your full up........hence you must empty them. and it repeats. The good and the bad are alike As they fill and unfill in the system. It's all normal. Fill your cup/empty your cup... You were sad when Nanna died. Because your tears didn't fall means nothing. You arn't one to cry and especially if you feel forced. Thats the compromising way. You should feel proud that you are being true to yourself as Nanna would have wanted. I'm very proud to know you through your writing and sharing of yourself. It takes a man to show himself! When any emotion in life comes......experience/wallow in it, mourn or rejoice in it. And it will pass. You would have dealt with it and settled with it, and it can move on through you. And you will grow/learn and be the better for it. my best to you, Dellena
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