Writing Unleashed with Laura M. Harkins

Source Music fills in the empty spaces inside me. One of my all-time favorite songwriters, Billy Corgan, always knows what to say.  Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness grabbed hold of me so tight, I never returned the borrowed 2-Disc set to my friend back in 9th grade. It's still in my cd collection. My adoration for Corgan goes beyond his music and lyrics to his poetry. My copy of Blinking with Fists went missing for about six months only to find it at the bottom of a pile of books on my nightstand. Scatterbrained am I. So, as a tribute to him I would like to share one of his poems from the collection on this warm, sunny Sunday. on the maypole billy corgan around the maypole with childish eye rushing thru autumn days wrapping blankets around frames wishing in the sky no matter where you stand you stand here with me missing simple times mixing blood with rose oil we are leaving too soon to make new friends we shall not remember

jazzagemusic.blogspot.com Ah! Sweet Mystery of Life By Rida Johnson Young AH! sweet mystery of life, at last I've found thee; Ah! I know at last the secret of it all; All the longing, striving, seeking, waiting, yearning, The burning hopes, the joys and idle tears that fall! For 'tis love, and love alone, the world is seeking; And it's love, and love alone, that can reply; 'Tis the answer, ti's the end and all of living, For it is love alone that rules for aye!

famouspoetsandpoems.com Dreamers Seigfried Sassoon 
 S OLDIERS are citizens of death's gray land, 
 Drawing no dividend from time's to-morrows. 
 In the great hour of destiny they stand, 
Each with his feuds, and jealousies, and sorrows. 
 Soldiers are sworn to action; they must win 
Some flaming, fatal climax with their lives. 
 Soldiers are dreamers; when the guns begin 
 They think of firelit homes, clean beds, and wives. 

 I see them in foul dug-outs, gnawed by rats, 
 And in the ruined trenches, lashed with rain, 
 Dreaming of things they did with balls and bats, 
 And mocked by hopeless longing to regain 
 Bank-holidays, and picture shows, and spats, 
 And going to the office in the train. 



burnhamplan100.uchicago.edu On the Train By Harriet Monroe          I THE lady in front of me in the car, With little red coils close over her ears, Is talking with her friend; And the circle of ostrich foam around her hat, Curving over like a wave, Trembles with her little windy words. What she is saying, I wonder, That her feathers should tremble And the soft fur of her coat should slip down over her shoulders? Has her string of pearls been stolen, Or maybe her husband?            II He is drunk, that man -- Drunk as a lord, a lord of the bibulous past.             [sic] He shouts wittily from his end of the car to the man in the corner; He bows to me with chivalrous apologies. He philosophizes, plays with the wisdom of the ages, Flings off his rags, Displays his naked soul -- Athletic, beautiful, grotesque. In the good time ...

Body of A Woman Body of a woman, white hills, white thighs, you look like a world, lying in surrender. My rough peasant's body digs in you  and makes the son leap from the depth of the earth. I was alone like a tunnel.  The birds fled from me, and night swamped me with its crushing invasion. To survive myself I forged you like a weapon, like an arrow in my bow, a stone in my sling. But the hour of vengeance falls, and I love you. Body of skin, of moss, of eager and firm milk. Oh the goblets of the breast! Oh the eyes of absence! Oh the roses of the pubis! Oh your voice, slow and sad! Body of my woman, I will persist in your grace. My thirst, my boundless desire, my shifting road!  Dark river-beds where the eternal thirst flows and weariness follows, and the infinite ache.