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Poetry Thread Activate!

    • Deus_X_M disse...
    • Usuário
    • Jun 23 2010, 7h49
    Phoenixme said:
    There once was a man from Nantucket....

    Meh, forget it.

    Did he now the man from Madras?

    Happy-Few said...
    Why smlie humans?
    Perhaps from the problem is the escape route.Perhaps this nothingness.Who knows?
    • [Usuário excluído] disse...
    • Usuário
    • Jun 26 2010, 2h56
    The pillar towers of Ireland, how wondrously they stand,
    By the lakes and rushing rivers through the valleys of our land
    Around these walls of battle, the Viking and the Dane;
    the Norman and the Saxon, and the cavaliers of Spain

  • Mrs. Mister Master's World

    Dear my love,
    I am waiting to escape
    From the eighteenth dimension
    Please listen
    You trapped me here with your licorice whips
    One whip, the atmosphere tore
    Second whip, the window to the dimension
    Appeared before my four eyes
    By the third whip,
    My face was dripping in fear
    Before I could even beg,
    You sent me twirling into this
    Dimension of grey colour
    Trees cried the rain
    Clouds provided the fruits
    And flowers sang our sweet melodies
    This backwards world
    Our 'happiness' was their 'horror'
    Our 'terror' was their 'joy'
    How can you love
    When love is just an expression of hate
    The more I think,
    The more I realise
    Is this really so different
    Is this really so insane and crazy
    Or has it just opened my eyes
    To possibilities
    A different view
    A different perspective
    One little mistake I made
    I thought this was punishment
    But, it was just to teach me
    I thought it was all your fault
    When it was just mine
    I guess, I guess
    I'm just writing you
    From the heart of eyes
    This world isn't so different
    I think I learned
    I think I'm ready
    To go back to
    Mrs. Mister Master's World.

    Haha, I don't know.
    I did this off the top of my head and was jumping from place to place.
    It basically jumps and doesn't make sense all too much
    But whatever<3

    `v i v a L A f e t e
  • FOUND by Goethe

    ONCE through the forest
    Alone I went;
    To seek for nothing
    My thoughts were bent.

    I saw i' the shadow
    A flower stand there
    As stars it glisten'd,
    As eyes 'twas fair.

    I sought to pluck it,--
    It gently said:
    "Shall I be gather'd
    Only to fade?"

    With all its roots
    I dug it with care,
    And took it home
    To my garden fair.

    In silent corner
    Soon it was set;
    There grows it ever,
    There blooms it yet.

    • [Usuário excluído] disse...
    • Usuário
    • Jul 15 2010, 6h18
    "On the Eve of the Apocalypse - (the air choked with horsehair) - the Four Horsemen betray their steeds - slitting open the animal throats - and in doing so release the Second Great Deluge - Horsegore - Infinite Divisibles Split - an infinity of open sewers - the Four then fashion an immense earthmoving device from the collective jawbones - The Horse Rotorvator - with which to plough up the waiting world - (ROTA turns through 180° to TARO) - wheels replace horses - Dark Horses Run - Dark Horses Run Deep - and Hell is paved with horseflesh... (we plough the fields and scatter Our Dead Steeds on the land)"

    Coil, Horse Rotorvator

  • Had enough of poetry thanks to this bitch carol ann duffy during my time at school

    • [Usuário excluído] disse...
    • Usuário
    • Jul 16 2010, 2h30
    Hahah i think i've read like one of her poems...but she is poet laureate so she must be good...in some shape or form.

    Andrew Motion was a great poet laureate. well i liked his taste in poetry.

  • they're not bad poems really, i just found them really hard to analyse and explain which is what we had to do. plus, she's a feminist... lol

    • Babs_05 disse...
    • Moderador
    • Jul 17 2010, 0h41
    That was probably the point. She's extremely clever with words. I don't think we studied her at school, at least I don't remember her name from then.

    There's a poet who writes in very simple language yet explores fairly big ideas who I really like. She gets me thinking every time. And she's so funny too. Wendy Cope. This is brilliant, she did some text poems for Valentine's day once:

    My heart and mind agree?/& this is what they say:/ U r the one 4 me/ 2day and every day.

  • Phoenix

    Out of my ashes
    will rise a new phoenix.

    A soaring being
    returning from death
    proving once again
    that life is eternal.

    I live forever
    because the spirit
    never dies.

    I will return
    in another body
    in another time,
    but it is me.

    The me who is me now
    will always be.

    As long as I live,
    I learn.
    And I live
    F o r e v e r

  • Toke a lid, smoke a lid, shoot the methadrino.
    Hop a hill, pop a pill, for ol' Tim Benzadrino.

    • [Usuário excluído] disse...
    • Usuário
    • Nov 22 2010, 19h36
    Speak not, lie hidden, and conceal
    the way you dream, the things you feel.
    Deep in your spirit let them rise
    akin to stars in crystal skies
    that set before the night is blurred:
    delight in them and speak no word.

    How can a heart expression find?
    How should another know your mind?
    Will he discern what quickens you?
    A thought, once uttered, is untrue.
    Dimmed is the fountainhead when stirred:
    drink at the source and speak no word.

    Live in your inner self alone
    within your soul a world has grown,
    the magic of veiled thoughts that might
    be blinded by the outer light,
    drowned in the noise of day, unheard...
    take in their song and speak no word.

    Silentium! By Fyodor Tyutchev

    trans. by Vladimir Nabokov

    • [Usuário excluído] disse...
    • Usuário
    • Nov 23 2010, 13h36
    You'd think (with me being a massive modern art fag) i'd be all over poetry like smegma on an unwashed extremity. But i've always let it slip away from my attention. I've just never been able to get into it. Theres something a bit flowery and superfluous in much of the poetry i've come across, and it puts me off.

    • [Usuário excluído] disse...
    • Usuário
    • Dez 6 2010, 22h28
    Busie olde foole, unruly Sunne;
    Why dost thou thus,
    Through windowes, and through curtaines call on us?
    Must to they motions lovers seasons run?
    Sawcy pedantique wretch, goe chide
    Late schoole boyes, and sowre prentices,
    Goe tell Court-huntsmen, that the King will ride,
    Call countrey hands to harvest offices;
    Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clyme,
    Nor houres, dayes, months, which are the rags of time.

    Thy beames, so reverend, and strong
    Why shouldst thou thinke?
    I could eclipse and cloud them with a winke,
    But that I would not lose her sight so long:
    If her eyes have not blinded thine
    Looke, and tomorrow late, tell mee,
    Whether both the India's of spice and Myne
    Be where thou leftst them, or lie here with mee.
    Aske for those Kings whom thou saw'st yesterday,
    And thou shalt heare, All here in one bed lay.

    She is all States, and all Princes, I,
    Nothing else is;
    Princes doe but play us; compar'd to this,
    All honor's mimique; All wealth alchimie,
    Thou sunne art halfe as happy as we,
    In that the world's contracted thus;
    Thine ages askes ease, and since thy duties bee
    To warme the world, that's done in warming us.
    Shine here to us, and thou art every where;
    This bed thy center is, these walls, thy spheare.

    - John Donne, "The Sunne Rising".

    • [Usuário excluído] disse...
    • Usuário
    • Dez 7 2010, 2h05
    He told her his mom would rub raw egg over his chest
    whenever he felt the heat had leapt from the skin
    softened still to years coming

    Smelling of earth and sunned cake batter,
    he pressed his body firm against erratic beatings
    of her own heart hidden well under stretched flesh
    calmed finally by the movement of his breath


    And this spiral where we find ourselves, strangers,
    not alone but filling space,
    hands held warm over skin-fires
    until our mouths fill with dry timber,
    smoking ceaseless till the morning
    washes the soot from our childs' faces

    • [Usuário excluído] disse...
    • Usuário
    • Jan 11 2011, 23h41
    Break, break, break,
    On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
    And I would that my tongue could utter
    The thoughts that arise in me.

    O, well for the fisherman's boy,
    That he shouts with his sister at play!
    O, well for the sailor lad,
    That he sings in his boat on the bay!

    And the stately ships go on
    To their haven under the hill;
    But O for the touch of a vanished hand,
    And the sound of a voice that is still!

    Break, break, break,
    At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!
    But the tender grace of a day that is dead
    Will never come back to me.

    Break, Break, Break by Alfred Lord Tennyson

    Pretty bleak poem, the sorrow of death...

    • sgath92 disse...
    • Usuário
    • Jan 12 2011, 0h33
    • mmynxx disse...
    • Usuário
    • Jan 12 2011, 1h51


    I wonder what will happen...now
    That the day has come
    When I must leave you...

    I wonder will you cry
    I wonder will you be happy
    I wonder will you miss me...

    Will you lie awake at night
    Remembering all the good times
    Or will you sit
    And only think of the bad...

    Will you wonder where I am at night
    Will you wonder what I'm doing
    Or will you just not care...

    Will it hurt you to think
    Of all the times we've shared
    Or will they just slip your mind
    Like they were never there...

    Will you remember all the laughs
    Or will you forget those
    And put them in your past...

    Will you remember all the tears
    Or replace them with all of your fears...

    Will you pretend like we never happened
    And let us go along the years...

    Will you drown out all of your sorrows
    With laughter and cheers...

    Will you forget that yesterday was here
    And wave goodbye to all of our memories...

    Will you try to hold on to everything that we had...
    Or say goodbye to old times
    And go on with everything you are not...?
    What will happen...now.

    for the one love I lost for ever....4/22/2000)

    • [Usuário excluído] disse...
    • Usuário
    • Jan 14 2011, 21h57
    since you've been gone, I've been alone.
    like an arm without a bone.
    dangling limply like a phone that's out of charge.
    like homer without marge.
    like an egg without a spoon.
    like a dugong on the moon.
    like a clownfish without nemo.
    like twilight without emo.
    like hardy without laurel.
    like high ground without the moral.
    like disney without walt.
    like battery without assault.
    like a pet shop without gerbils.
    like Hitler without Goebbels.
    like a dilemma without the di,
    just a lemma and a sigh.
    like déjà without vu,
    I am nothing without you.
    till the day that you come back,
    I'm like Whitney without crack.

    Since you've been gone, I've been alone by Bill Bailey


    • bobcot87 disse...
    • Usuário
    • Jan 14 2011, 22h07
    Genius!! I thought I knew all Bill Bailey!!

    On a slightly different tone, one of my all time favourites :)

    Lay your sleeping head, my love,
    Human on my faithless arm;
    Time and fevers burn away
    Individual beauty from
    Thoughtful children, and the grave
    Proves the child ephemeral:
    But in my arms till break of day
    Let the living creature lie,
    Mortal, guilty, but to me
    The entirely beautiful.

    Soul and body have no bounds:
    To lovers as they lie upon
    Her tolerant enchanted slope
    In their ordinary swoon,
    Grave the vision Venus sends
    Of supernatural sympathy,
    Universal love and hope;
    While an abstract insight wakes
    Among the glaciers and the rocks
    The hermit's sensual ecstasy.

    Certainty, fidelity
    On the stroke of midnight pass
    Like vibrations of a bell,
    And fashionable madmen raise
    Their pedantic boring cry:
    Every farthing of the cost,
    All the dreaded cards foretell,
    Shall be paid, but from this night
    Not a whisper, not a thought,
    Not a kiss nor look be lost.

    Beauty, midnight, vision dies:
    Let the winds of dawn that blow
    Softly round your dreaming head
    Such a day of sweetness show
    Eye and knocking heart may bless,
    Find the mortal world enough;
    Noons of dryness see you fed
    By the involuntary powers,
    Nights of insult let you pass
    Watched by every human love.
    -- W H Auden

    To live in the hearts we leave behind
    Is not to die

  • rain falling up

    rain falling up
    on the rivers of the suns -
    our heads are the clouds

    spheres of fishes
    are flying to the beach
    to suntan at the
    lousy rays of the soul

    (28 june 2008)

    • messo disse...
    • Usuário
    • Jan 16 2011, 21h05

    Sway, coast, levitate
    Exempt from gravity I rise above
    Backstroking thru condensed droplets
    Eluding my errant callousness

    Stray, float, elevate
    Relieved from ground I climb beyond
    Breaststroking with celestial bodies
    Exuding my unkempt anomie

    Here I be! Impervious! Effervescent!
    In darkened void, in unparalleled joy
    In peerless beauty I sovereign hover
    No conscience, nothing but elation…

    Now, wake up!

    - Yours truly

    • [Usuário excluído] disse...
    • Usuário
    • Jan 19 2011, 6h05
    Hold fast to dreams
    For if dreams die
    Life is a broken-winged bird
    That cannot fly.

    Hold fast to dreams
    For when dreams go
    Life is a barren field
    Frozen with snow.

    by Langston Hughes

    • [Usuário excluído] disse...
    • Usuário
    • Jan 25 2011, 20h01
    I know that I shall meet my fate
    Somewhere among the clouds above;
    Those that I fight I do not hate,
    Those that I guard I do not love;
    My country is Kiltartan Cross,
    My countrymen Kiltartan's poor,
    No likely end could bring them loss
    Or leave them happier than before.
    Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
    Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
    A lonely impulse of delight
    Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
    I balanced all, brought all to mind,
    The years to come seemed waste of breath,
    A waste of breath the years behind
    In balance with this life, this death.

    "An Irish Airman foresees his Death" by William Butler Yeats

    A Poem on Irish National Identity and a much sought Irish Indepedence from the British Empire

    • [Usuário excluído] disse...
    • Usuário
    • Fev 23 2011, 20h12
    I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,

    dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,

    angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,

    who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz,

    who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated,

    who passed through universities with radiant eyes hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of war,

    who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull,

    who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burning their money in wastebaskets and listening to the Terror through the wall,

    who got busted in their pubic beards returning through Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York,

    who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their torsos night after night

    with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, alcohol and cock and endless balls,

    incomparable blind streets of shuddering cloud and lightning in the mind leaping towards poles of Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the motionless world of Time between,

    Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops, storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brooklyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind,

    who chained themselves to subways for the endless ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine until the noise of wheels and children brought them down shuddering mouth-wracked and battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance in the drear light of Zoo,

    who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford's floated out and sat through the stale beer afternoon in desolate Fugazzi's, listening to the crack of doom on the hydrogen jukebox,

    who talked continuously seventy hours from park to pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brooklyn Bridge,

    a lost batallion of platonic conversationalists jumping down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills off Empire State out of the moon

    yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts and memories and anecdotes and eyeball kicks and shocks of hospitals and jails and wars,

    whole intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days and nights with brilliant eyes, meat for the Synagogue cast on the pavement,

    who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a trail of ambiguous picture postcards of Atlantic City Hall,

    suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grindings and migraines of China under junk-withdrawal in Newark's bleak furnished room,

    who wandered around and around at midnight in the railway yard wondering where to go, and went, leaving no broken hearts,

    who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing through snow toward lonesome farms in grandfather night,

    who studied Plotinus Poe St John of the Cross telepathy and bop kabbalah because the universe instinctively vibrated at their feet in Kansas,

    who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking visionary indian angels who were visionary indian angels,

    who thought they were only mad when Baltimore gleamed in supernatural ecstasy,

    who jumped in limousines with the Chinaman of Oklahoma on the impulse of winter midnight streetlight smalltown rain,

    who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston seeking jazz or sex or soup, and followed the brilliant Spaniard to converse about America and Eternity, a hopeless task, and so took ship to Africa,

    who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving nothing behind but the shadow of dungarees and the larva and ash of poetry scattered in fireplace Chicago,

    who reappeared on the West Coast investigating the FBI in beards and shorts with big pacifist eyes sexy in their dark skin passing out incomprehensible leaflets,

    who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting the narcotic tobacco haze of Capitalism, who distributed Supercommunist pamphlets in Union Square weeping and undressing while the sirens of Los Alamos wailed them down, and wailed down Wall, and the Staten Island ferry also wailed,

    who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked and trembling before the machinery of other skeletons,

    who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight in policecars for committing no crime but their own wild cooking pederasty and intoxication,

    who howled on their knees in the subway and were dragged off the roof waving genitals and manuscripts,

    who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists, and screamed with joy,

    who blew and were blown by those human seraphim, the sailors, caresses of Atlantic and Caribbean love,

    who balled in the morning in the evenings in rosegardens and the grass of public parks and cemeteries scattering their semen freely to whomever come who may,

    who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up with a sob behind a partition in a Turkish Bath when the blond & naked angel came to pierce them with a sword,

    who lost their loveboys to the three old shrews of fate the one eyed shrew of the heterosexual dollar the one eyed shrew that winks out of the womb and the one eyed shrew that does nothing but sit on her ass and snip the intellectual golden threads of the craftsman's loom,

    who copulated ecstatic and insatiate and fell off the bed, and continued along the floor and down the hall and ended fainting on the wall with a vision of ultimate cunt and come eluding the last gyzym of consciousness,

    who sweetened the snatches of a million girls trembling in the sunset, and were red eyed in the morning but were prepared to sweeten the snatch of the sunrise, flashing buttocks under barns and naked in the lake,

    who went out whoring through Colorado in myriad stolen night-cars, N.C., secret hero of these poems, cocksman and Adonis of Denver—joy to the memory of his innumerable lays of girls in empty lots & diner backyards, moviehouses' rickety rows, on mountaintops in caves or with gaunt waitresses in familiar roadside lonely petticoat upliftings & especially secret gas-station solipsisms of johns, & hometown alleys too,

    who faded out in vast sordid movies, were shifted in dreams, woke on a sudden Manhattan, and picked themselves up out of basements hungover with heartless Tokay and horrors of Third Avenue iron dreams & stumbled to unemployment offices,

    who walked all night with their shoes full of blood on the snowbank docks waiting for a door in the East River to open full of steamheat and opium,

    who created great suicidal dramas on the appartment cliff-banks of the Hudson under the wartime blue floodlight of the moon & their heads shall be crowned with laurel in oblivion,

    who ate the lamb stew of the imagination or digested the crab at the muddy bottom of the rivers of the Bowery,

    who wept at the romance of the streets with their pushcarts full of onions and bad music,

    who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the bridge, and rose up to build harpsichords in their lofts, who coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem crowned with flame under the tubercular sky surrounded by orange crates of theology,

    who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty incantations which in the yellow morning were stanzas of gibberish,

    who cooked rotten animals lung heart feet tail borsht & tortillas dreaming of the pure vegetable kingdom,

    who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for an egg,

    who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot for an Eternity outside of Time, & alarm clocks fell on their heads every day for the next decade,

    who cut their wrists three times successively unsuccessfully, gave up and were forced to open antique stores where they thought they were growing old and cried,

    who were burned alive in their innocent flannel suits on Madison Avenue amid blasts of leaden verse & the tanked-up clatter of the iron regiments of fashion & the nitroglycerine shrieks of the fairies of advertising & the mustard gas of sinister intelligent editors, or were run down by the drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality,

    who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this actually happened and walked away unknown and forgotten into the ghostly daze of Chinatown soup alleyways & firetrucks, not even one free beer,

    who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of the subway window, jumped in the filthy Passaic, leaped on negroes, cried all over the street, danced on broken wineglasses barefoot smashed phonograph records of nostalgic European 1930s German jazz finished the whiskey and threw up groaning into the bloody toilet, moans in their ears and the blast of colossal steamwhistles,

    who barreled down the highways of the past journeying to each other's hotrod-Golgotha jail-solitude watch Birmingham jazz incarnation,

    who drove crosscountry seventytwo hours to find out if I had a vision or you had a vision or he had a vision to find out Eternity,

    who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who came back to Denver & waited in vain, who watched over Denver & brooded & loned in Denver and finally went away to find out the Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes,

    who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying for each other's salvation and light and breasts, until the soul illuminated its hair for a second,

    who crashed through their minds in jail waiting for impossible criminals with golden heads and the charm of reality in their hearts who sang sweet blues to Alcatraz,

    who retired to Mexico to cultivate a habit, or Rocky Mount to tender Buddha or Tangiers to boys or Southern Pacific to the black locomotive or Harvard to Narcissus to Woodlawn to the daisychain or grave,

    who demanded sanity trials accusing the radio of hypnotism & were left with their insanity & their hands & a hung jury,

    who threw potato salad at CCNY lecturerson Dadaism and subsequently presented themselves on the granite steps of the madhouse with the shaven heads and harlequin speech of suicide, demanding instantaneous lobotomy,

    and who were given instead the concrete void of insulin Metrazol electricity hydrotherapy psychotherapy occupational therapy pingpong & amnesia,

    who in humorless protest overturned only one symbolic pingpong table, resting briefly in catatonia,

    returning years later truly bald except for a wig of blood, and tears and fingers, to the visible madman doom of the wards of the madtowns of the East,

    Pilgrim State's Rockland's and Greystone's foetid halls, bickering with the echoes of the soul, rocking and rolling in the midnight solitude-bench dolmen-realms of love, dream of life a nightmare, bodies turned to stone as heavy as the moon,

    with mother finally *****, and the last fantastic book flung out of the tenement window, and the last door closed at 4 A.M. and the last telephone slammed at the wall in reply and the last furnished room emptied down to the last piece of mental furniture, a yellow paper rose twisted on a wire hanger on the closet, and even that imaginary, nothing but a hopeful little bit of hallucination—

    ah, Carl, while you are not safe I am not safe, and now you're really in the total animal soup of time—

    and who therefore ran through the icy streets obsessed with a sudden flash of the alchemy of the use of the ellipse the catalog the meter & the vibrating plane,

    who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time & Space through images juxtaposed, and trapped the archangel of the soulbetween 2 visual images and joined the elemental verbs and set the noun and dash of consciousness together jumping with sensation of Pater Omnipotens Aeterna Deus

    to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human prose and stand before you speechless and intelligent and shaking with shame, rejected yet confessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm of thought in his naked and endless head,

    the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown, yet putting down here what might be left to say in time come after death,

    and rose incarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in the goldhorn shadow of the band and blew the suffering of America's naked mind for love into an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone cry that shivered the cities down to the last radio

    with the absolute heart of the poem butchered out of their own bodies good to eat a thousand years.

    - Allen Ginsberg, Howl pt. 1

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