"If a writer of prose knows enough about what he is writing about he may omit things that will have a feeling of those things as strongly as though the writer had stated them. The dignity of movement of an iceberg is due to only one-eighth of it being above water. A good writer does not need to reveal every detail of a character or action."
—Ernest Hemingway
Thursday, May 1
Wednesday, April 30
like father like son
my poetry is very similiar to my father's.
He has recently changed his style and I am now adopting and adapting it.
I love him and his amazing vision.
He has recently changed his style and I am now adopting and adapting it.
I love him and his amazing vision.
Dad's poem
my dad wrote this poem. he used a short story of mine as his inspiration.
nothing was there
brown tie his loosen
polished amonia
gibberish terrif
ying
spitting
alleys catching up to me
bitch like a stung hollered bolted
ac
ross honk
ed cars
screeched skin
flesh te aring
my self over crotch
tree trunks
watermelons pointe
d
nose smiling a wrapped a
nkle
behind a wall hidden torture toys
on the ground bl
ood i
breathed cold air conditioned air
initial surge died hobbled
halls my waist no
thing
there
clean wrists
fogged memory
of me take care
nothing was there
swung head i my on
th
e floor
keep movingflatonmyback
i couldn't hear anyone
my feet at saw him
it ended
and i was a gorilla
playing three decker c
hess
head floating down in cement
winning money
it
- gishi bian
- robert payne
30 april 2008
well your revised edition of this paper was again full of images
i could use!
it was a completely different paper
polished
thoughtful changes
exciting
well done
i noted it was a bit longer
it seemed like a slice of turkey from the breast
just a eye into a longer piece
leaves one wondering and wanting more
i hope you like my poetic version
i started from the end
and went up
reversed some things and added an ending
comments welcome
love love love dad
nothing was there
brown tie his loosen
polished amonia
gibberish terrif
ying
spitting
alleys catching up to me
bitch like a stung hollered bolted
ac
ross honk
ed cars
screeched skin
flesh te aring
my self over crotch
tree trunks
watermelons pointe
d
nose smiling a wrapped a
nkle
behind a wall hidden torture toys
on the ground bl
ood i
breathed cold air conditioned air
initial surge died hobbled
halls my waist no
thing
there
clean wrists
fogged memory
of me take care
nothing was there
swung head i my on
th
e floor
keep movingflatonmyback
i couldn't hear anyone
my feet at saw him
it ended
and i was a gorilla
playing three decker c
hess
head floating down in cement
winning money
it
- gishi bian
- robert payne
30 april 2008
well your revised edition of this paper was again full of images
i could use!
it was a completely different paper
polished
thoughtful changes
exciting
well done
i noted it was a bit longer
it seemed like a slice of turkey from the breast
just a eye into a longer piece
leaves one wondering and wanting more
i hope you like my poetic version
i started from the end
and went up
reversed some things and added an ending
comments welcome
love love love dad
Monday, April 28
thunder
thunder
clapssmile
a scarf a
hooded sweatshirt
he has a beard and
the other knows it
all; metaphysics as a pillow.
the last one is French
and I'm just learning.
unimaginably arrogant,
pretentious, and elegant.
teeth chat
er and we breath
e our hands.
clapssmile
a scarf a
hooded sweatshirt
he has a beard and
the other knows it
all; metaphysics as a pillow.
the last one is French
and I'm just learning.
unimaginably arrogant,
pretentious, and elegant.
teeth chat
er and we breath
e our hands.
Sunday, April 27
she me
a frog to the sewer and over the drain while the trees
up in the air and back with the leaves.
She me and kisses while
mine are closed,
but still
she me with her smiling eyes.
up in the air and back with the leaves.
She me and kisses while
mine are closed,
but still
she me with her smiling eyes.
Thursday, April 24
Tuesday, April 22
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