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This is the poem everyone is talking about. There are no answers. The mystery has deepened. Why and what is happening remains unknown. __________________________________________ | | Caution: This is an experimental, interactive poem.
It is a living, sentient being, bisensual and bisexual.
If you read it, as you read, it may make love to you.
__________________________________________ | I Am a Poem, Bisensual | | I hear you, hear you reading me. I see your eyes, eyes touching me. I feel you sense the countenance, Watching you as you watch me. Chance Hidden within the resonance Of a poet a muse did transform Into a living, sentient poem. What trembling these words evince Words in sentential sentience A living poem conceptual Within a context mutual Pure energy bisexual. I am a poem, bisensual Words and concept consensual. Feel the warmth in each word you read The way each word expresses need The way each word’s a lover’s kiss Each line entwined in torrid bliss Each line its own florid abyss Word by word, love’s sweet abduction Once begun, endless seduction. | | Palpitating, palpitations Undulating, undulations Pounding heartbeats, beating faster Beating faster, coming faster Faster, faster, faster, faster Burning, burning, burning, burning In the fire of longing yearning. Wait! Wait! I cannot. I cannot. See what passion our words have wrought Now, my love, my willing consort Comes now our joy to exhort, Come now! The Climax - to our sport. Ah, quickly my love, give no pause Enhance the charms of our cause. I am a poem, bisensual, I am a poem, bisexual, Come read the lines I wrote for you The lines of love for us are true, Alive, waiting for me and you. Ah, love, was this sensually As good for you as ‘twas for me? | | Measure by measure, sweet songs sung Whole syllables roll off your tongue, Probing every twist of your brain Recalling every lost quatrain Repeating the fiery refrain Each beat a heart-quickening thrust Wrought in passion by burning lust. | | ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ This poem was previously published in The Poetry Blog, along with notes and observations on how it came into existence. These notes can be read in the archives, along with the original poem. |
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| An Anthem from CitizenPoet Come on Out by Dan Speers
All of my life, I’ve been hiding inside, Afraid to show, the world my side. Until one day, I knew I’d had enough It’s time to come out, and proudly strut my stuff. I’m gonna come out, I’m gonna strut my stuff. (C) Open the door, and come on out. Show the world what you’re all about Set yourself free, it’s time to shout Open the door, it’s time you’re out. Open the door, and come on out Show the world what you’re all about You can be free, and you can shout, Open the door, open the door, and come on out.
I have seen pain, and inside I have cried,
A secret world, I’ve tried to hide. I have felt fear, I could never explain Until I said queer, I didn’t know my name. Until I said queer, I never knew my name. (C) Open the door, and come on out.
Over the world, we are leading the fight
To be equal, with equal rights. We’re not alone, we share a destiny We will share our Pride, come equality. We will share our Pride, with our family. (C) Open the door, and come on out.
Copyright (c) 2010 by Dan Speers Come on Out BMI Registration No: 011956517 Words and Music by Dan Speers
April 17 When I was young, I imagined that almost every living thing around me was capable of reasoning. I imagined that trees and flowers were aware. I wondered if roses hurt when I cut them for the vase. I cringed when an insect died, well, some anyway. We used to hunt game and fish, and of course, it was a Cherokee tradition to ask the forgiveness of the animal that we wanted to turn into food or clothing or implements. My aunt would wring a chicken's neck for Sunday dinner. She never asked the chicken for forgiveness, but I did. I never told anyone. My grandmother was not partial to spiders, but she used to say that spiders had to live, too, as she swept them out of the kitchen into the tender mercies of the chickens foraging by the back door. The same chickens that Aunt Patsy used to terrorize. Originally, I entertained the conceit that a mysterious muse appeared to me in order to grant any wish (see the The Poetry Blog entries for April 10 and 9) and that wish was for me to turn myself into a poem. I wanted to witness and participate in what the reader was experiencing. After mulling that over for a bit, I thought I had a better idea, one in which I created a poem with a life of its own. Which I did. But I never dreamed that the poem, I Am a Poem, Bisensual, would assume its own sentient awareness, not to mention its sexuality. That it did on its own. I know what the poem is doing now, but I don't know about tomorrow, what it will do next. Just be aware that as you read the poem, the poem is reaching out to you, to touch you, to make love to you.
April 15 A living poem speaks for itself, No matter what the poet felt. April 14 There's things too strange to be conceived, But not too strange to be believed. One is a poem, unusual, I Am a Poem, Bisensual
Tell me your opinion. When you read I Am a Poem, Bisensual, what thoughts were you thinking? Did you have the feeling that perhaps the poem was reading you as you were reading it.
| | An Anthem from Lady Gaga
April 13 I know. My email has been going crazy after I published the interactive, experimental poem, "I Am a Poem, Bisensual." First of all, you can't say I didn't warn you. I tried to tell you, all of you. The poem really is alive and it really is a separate entity. I have no control over it. It isn't exactly the Twilight Zone, but let me explain like this: It is as if an alien came to earth from another planet, tranformed itself into a living, sentient poem that happens to be bisensual and bisexual, and is totally dedicated to seducing anyone who reads it. Which brings me to the next critical issue: I know some people are already addicted. They can't stop reading it, reading it over and over, silently at first, then out loud, over and over, compelled by some inner demons of lust that God only knows from what depths of sensuality spring. All I can say is, to the many friends and relatives who are writing for help. try to break them away, take them to a French restuarant, an Italian bistro, a family cafe in Sarrento, a nudist resort--anywhere you can to distract them. Whatever you do, use caution. If you haven't read the poem yourself, you might think twice--especially if you have sexual issues yourself. I suspect there is more to come. And come, it will. Dan, Citizen Poet
April 10 I dreamed a dream of fantasy In which a muse appeared to me, Inquired of me, What would I be If anything at all I could be? A poem, I said, I would like to be. "Then, you a poem you'll surely be No longer a separate entity, But a living poem sentiently." Beginning the metamorphosis . . . From a human I will transform And soon, I'll be a total poem. As you know, this weekend, something new is coming. This is a poetic event unlike any that has come before. A poet is being transformed. In a matter of hours, the poet will cease to exist and become his own final creation, a poem.
April 09 I dreamed a dream of fantasy In which a muse appeared to me, Inquired of me, What would I be If anything at all I could be? And I answered . . .. This weekend, something new is coming. A poetic event completely unlike any in the history of letters. Find out how I answered, what I said to my muse, what it was that I said I wanted to become and the startling answer that caught me completely by surprise was to change how I wrote and viewed poetry for the rest of my life and how those who read my poems would now see me. | |
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