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Poetry Thread Activate!

 
    • Absurd93 schrieb...
    • Benutzer
    • 9. Mai. 2012, 1:03
    Hound Voice - W.B. Yeats

    Because we love bare hills and stunted trees
    And were the last to choose the settled ground,
    Its boredom of the desk or of the spade, because
    So many years companioned by a hound,
    Our voices carry; and though slumber-bound,
    Some few half wake and half renew their choice,
    Give tongue, proclaim their hidden name - 'Hound Voice.'

    The women that I picked spoke sweet and low
    And yet gave tongue. 'Hound Voices' were they all.
    We picked each other from afar and knew
    What hour of terror comes to test the soul,
    And in that terror's name obeyed the call,
    And understood, what none have understood,
    Those images that waken in the blood.
    Some day we shall get up before the dawn
    And find our ancient hounds before the door,
    And wide awake know that the hunt is on;
    Stumbling upon the blood-dark track once more,
    Then stumbling to the kill beside the shore;
    Then cleaning out and bandaging of wounds,
    And chants of victory amid the encircling hounds.

    • Gduwen schrieb...
    • Benutzer
    • 9. Mai. 2012, 1:45
    One I always liked: Mean as Hell by Johnny Cash

    The devil in hell we're told was chained, a thousand years he there remained
    He neither complain nor did he groan but was determined to start a hell of his own
    Where he could torment the souls of men without being chained in a prison pen
    So he asked the Lord if he had on hand anything left when he made this land
    The Lord said yes there's a plenty of hand but if I left it down by the Rio Grande
    The fact is ol' boy the stuff is so poor, I don't think you could use it as the hell anymore
    But the devil went down to look at the truck, And said if he took it as a gift he was stuck. For after lookin' that over carefully and well he said this place is too dry for hell
    But in order to get it off his hand the Lord promised the devil to water the land
    So trade was closed and deed was given and the Lord went back to his home in heaven.

    And the devil said now I got all what's needed to make it good hell and he succeeded
    He began by putting thorns all over the trees
    He mixed up the sand with millions of fleas
    He scattered tarantulas along the road put thorns on cactus and horns on toad
    Lengthened the horns of the Texas steer put an addition to the rabbits ear
    Put a little devil in the bronco steed and poisoned the feet of the centipede
    The rattlesnake bites you the scorpion stings
    The mosquito delights you with his buzzing wings
    The sunburst are there and so the ants
    And if you sit down you'll need have soles on your pants
    The wild boar rooms on a black chaparral it's a hell of a place that he has for hell
    The heat in the summers are hundred and ten too hot for the devil too hot for men
    The red pepper grows upon the banks of the brook
    The Mexican use it in all that he cook
    Just dine it with one of 'em and you're bound to shout
    I've hell on the inside as well as it out

    My hands are calloused July to July I use a Big Dipper to navigate by
    Fight off the wolves to drink from my well so I have to be mean as hell
    A sheep herder came and put up the fence
    I saw him one day but I ain't seen him since
    But if you need a mutton we got mutton to sell
    We're cowpunchers and we're mean as hell
    Neighter me nor my pony's got a pedigree but he takes me where I'm wantin' to be
    I'll ride him to death and when he is fell I'll get me another one mean as hell
    I shot me a calf and I cut off her head
    Cause the boys in the bunkhouse are waitin' to be fed
    They rise in chime with the five thirty bell
    And the best one of any of 'em is mean as hell

    Bearbeitet von Gduwen am 3. Jun. 2012, 20:19
    • messo schrieb...
    • Benutzer
    • 10. Mai. 2012, 10:23
    Sand, it is poured in my side
    when it is still, and it is night
    and ground on even lines rests in sleep.
    When sheets and pillows and smooth mounds
    that comfort and are like home-safe
    distort to move in to what is pain for me.
    Then I move, and then I ask for my dream again

    I'm sorry, can I start over? No.
    And that's a point, for I can never really be sorry
    I can only apologize for you...
    For you, she said; "It's plain that nothing can
    be added to the mind already full..."
    Now I truly believe that; only it must be as when,
    in our ignorance of innocence, we had our choice of things,
    because we left things the way they are

    Without sand. It is poured in my side.
    When it is still
    and it is night
    and I see plain
    and my error remains
    and I choose to lose my senses
    to sand... again.

    - Val Kilmer

    Bearbeitet von messo am 12. Jul. 2012, 10:23
    • fgsfds- schrieb...
    • Benutzer
    • 10. Mai. 2012, 19:31
    I saw sick again today

    Her clothes are out of style
    like the meaning in a suicide

    She doesn’t talk much, looks away
    and promises to change
    Wants to be alone
    and knows that nothing’s safe

    I try not to love her but I can’t

    What’s wrong?
    wipe all your mouthpaint off

    Touch me, till we know
    what to say for the pain


    By this anonymous poet: http://jecairiyuki.deviantart.com/

    Talk nerdy to me
  • Bit of Keats - When I have Fears that I may Cease to Be

    When I have fears that I may cease to be
    Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain,
    Before high grav'd books, in charact'ry,
    Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain;
    When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,
    Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
    And think that I may never live to trace
    Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;
    And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,
    That I shall never look upon thee more,
    Never have relish in the faery power
    Of unreflecting love!—then on the shore
    Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
    Till Love and Fame to Nothingness do sink.

    'An old man stands naked in front of a mirror, eating soup. He is a fool.'
    - Jacques-'Jacques' Liverot
    • Kennoth schrieb...
    • Benutzer
    • 20. Mai. 2012, 13:20
    When I try to get up
    When I try to stand alone
    You are here to put me down
    And I end up on the floor

    When I try not to hate myself
    When I try to stop the blade
    That split-second I realize
    It's all the same; it's all the same!

    Yeah, most of my poems are depressive, don't judge

    Sweet Mother, sweet Mother, send your child unto me. For the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear.

  • Don't know whether this has been posted already, but it's one of my favourites:

    Ozymandias - Percy Bysshe Shelley

    I met a traveller from an antique land
    Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
    Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
    Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
    And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
    Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
    Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
    The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed:
    And on the pedestal these words appear:
    "My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
    Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
    Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
    Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
    The lone and level sands stretch far away.

    'An old man stands naked in front of a mirror, eating soup. He is a fool.'
    - Jacques-'Jacques' Liverot
  • Water pooled around her feet
    Tears of joy mixing with the rapid waves
    Crashing into her toes
    painted red.

    Her smiled stayed for a second longer
    When he held onto her hand
    Red-nailed fingers intertwining bare-nailed fingers.

    And with sandy legs and sunburned faces
    They reveled in the magic
    Of the setting sun.
    ...

    On the darkest night of early winter
    The wind beated at my back
    Whipped at my hair
    And threw me to the ground
    It howled along to the screeching of the ravens’ calls.

    Eyes of bright yellow glowed from behind dying trees
    Covered in a dusting of freshly fallen snow
    Still falling
    The tracks behind me, disappearing.

    The moon above revealed itself under dark clouds
    Briefly lighting the holes between the trees
    And lighting my way

    Copper burned my tongue
    From chapped lips
    The harsh wind making its way into my throat
    Turning tongue to sandpaper.

    The moon, fat and round
    Now hides behind wispy clouds
    Teasing the world
    Teasing me with its light and its absence.

    Fingers, red and numb
    Are stuffed deep into pockets
    Cheeks are raw
    Wind, lashing into my eye sockets
    Is blinding

    My pace, however, does not slow
    And I hum a childhood song that tickles my chapped lips
    To pass the time.

    The ravens’ caws draw to an end
    As the eyes behind the trees gently close
    My frozen fingers still encased at my sides
    My wind-burned flesh still red and raw
    Full moon peeks its head out from inside the clouds
    My watery eyes, freezing, shut softly
    Lips no longer make a sound.


    I can't remember the Poet's name..

    Please let there be light In a darkened room
  • I've been reading a lot of Langston Hughes lately. I find his poetry very moving: it beautifully articulates the dreams and aspirations of those committed to social change. [/pretentious lefty posturing]

    Democracy

    Democracy will not come
    Today, this year
    Nor ever
    Through compromise and fear.

    I have as much right
    As the other fellow has
    To stand
    On my two feet
    And own the land.

    I tire so of hearing people say,
    Let things take their course.
    Tomorrow is another day.
    I do not need my freedom when I'm dead.
    I cannot live on tomorrow's bread.

    Freedom
    Is a strong seed
    Planted
    In a great need.

    I live here, too.
    I want freedom
    Just as you.

    'An old man stands naked in front of a mirror, eating soup. He is a fool.'
    - Jacques-'Jacques' Liverot
  • The Heart Asks Pleasure First - Emily Dickinson

    The heart asks pleasure first
    And then, excuse from pain-
    And then, those little anodynes
    That deaden suffering;

    And then, to go to sleep;
    And then, if it should be
    The will of its Inquisitor,
    The liberty to die!

    'An old man stands naked in front of a mirror, eating soup. He is a fool.'
    - Jacques-'Jacques' Liverot
    • JBThazard schrieb...
    • Benutzer
    • 11. Jul. 2012, 22:44
    Guys, too much Yeats ITT.

    Anyone else into experimental/avant-garde poetry? We should see more of that here.

    Bearbeitet von JBThazard am 11. Jul. 2012, 22:45
    • JBThazard schrieb...
    • Benutzer
    • 11. Jul. 2012, 22:45
    "The Snow Man" by Wallace Stevens

    One must have a mind of winter
    To regard the frost and the boughs
    Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

    And have been cold a long time
    To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
    The spruces rough in the distant glitter

    Of the January sun; and not to think
    Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
    In the sound of a few leaves,

    Which is the sound of the land
    Full of the same wind
    That is blowing in the same bare place

    For the listener, who listens in the snow,
    And, nothing himself, beholds
    Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

    • Absurd93 schrieb...
    • Benutzer
    • 12. Jul. 2012, 1:31
    JBThazard said:
    Guys, too much Yeats ITT.

    You can never have too much Yeats.

    A Cold Coming - Tony Harrison

    I saw the charred Iraqi lean towards me from bomb-blasted screen,
    his windscreen wiper like a pen ready to write down thoughts for men,

    his windscreen wiper like a quill he's reaching for to make his will.
    I saw the charred Iraqi lean like someone made of Plasticine

    as though he'd stopped to ask the way and this is what I heard him say:
    "Don't be afraid I've picked on you for this exclusive interview.

    Isn't it your sort of poet's task to find words for this frightening mask?
    If that gadget that you've got records words from such scorched vocal cords,

    press RECORD before some dog devours me mid-monologue."
    So I held the shaking microphone closer to the crumbling bone:

    "I read the news of three wise men who left their sperm in nitrogen,
    three foes of ours, three wise Marines with sample flasks and magazines,

    three wise soldiers from Seattle who banked their sperm before the battle.
    Did No 1 say: God be thanked I've got my precious semen banked.

    And No 2: O praise the Lord my last best shot is safely stored.
    And No 3: Praise be to God I left my wife my frozen wad?

    So if their fate was to be gassed at least they thought their name would last,
    and though cold corpses in Kuwait they could by proxy procreate.

    Excuse a skull half roast, half bone for using such a scornful tone.
    It may seem out of all proportion but I wish I'd taken their precaution.

    They seemed the masters of their fate with wisely jarred ejaculate.
    Was it a propaganda coup to make us think they'd cracked death too,

    disinformation to defeat us with no post-mortem millilitres?
    Symbolic billions in reserve made me, for one, lose heart and nerve.

    On Saddam's pay we can't afford to go and get our semen stored.
    Sad to say that such high tech's uncommon here. We're stuck with sex.

    If you can conjure up and stretch your imagination (and not retch)
    the image of me beside my wife closely clasped creating life . . ."

    (I let the unfleshed skull unfold a story I'd been already told,
    and idly tried to calculate the content of ejaculate:

    the sperm in one ejaculation equals the whole Iraqi nation
    times, roughly, let's say, 12.5 though .5's not now alive.

    Let's say the sperms were an amount so many times the body count,
    2,500 times at least (but let's wait till the toll's released!).

    Whichever way Death seems outflanked by one tube of cold bloblings banked.
    Poor bloblings, maybe you've been blessed with, of all fates possible, the best

    according to Sophocles ie "the best of fates is not to be"
    a philosophy that's maybe bleak for any but an ancient Greek

    but difficult these days to escape when spoken to by such a shape.
    When you see men brought to such states who wouldn't want that "best of fates"

    or in the world of Cruise and Scud not go kryonic if he could,
    spared the normal human doom of having made it through the womb?)

    He heard my thoughts and stopped the spool: "I never thought life futile, fool!
    Though all Hell began to drop I never wanted life to stop.

    I was filled with such a yearning to stay in life as I was burning,
    such a longing to be beside my wife in bed before I died,

    and, most, to have engendered there a child untouched by war's despair.
    So press RECORD! I want to reach the warring nations with my speech.

    Don't look away! I know it's hard to keep regarding one so charred,
    so disfigured by unfriendly fire and think it once burned with desire.

    Though fire has flayed off half my features they once were like my fellow creatures',
    till some screen-gazing crop-haired boy from Iowa or Illinois,

    equipped by ingenious technophile put paid to my paternal smile
    and made the face you see today an armature half-patched with clay,

    an icon framed, a looking glass for devotees of 'kicking ass',
    a mirror that returns the gaze of victors on their victory days

    and in the end stares out the watcher who ducks behind his headline: GOTCHA!
    or behind the flag-bedecked page 1 of the true to bold-type-setting SUN!

    I doubt victorious Greeks let Hector join their feast as spoiling spectre,
    and who'd want to sour the children's joy in Iowa or Illinois

    Or ageing mothers overjoyed to find their babies weren't destroyed?
    But cabs beflagged with SUN front pages don't help peace in future ages.

    Stars and Stripes in sticky paws may sow the seeds for future wars.
    Each Union Jack the kids now wave may lead them later to the grave.

    But praise the Lord and raise the banner (excuse a skull's sarcastic manner!)
    Desert Rat and Desert Stormer without the scars and (maybe) trauma,

    the semen-bankers are all back to sire their children in their sack.
    With seed sown straight from the sower dump second-hand spermatozoa!

    Lie that you saw me and I smiled to see the soldier hug his child.
    Lie and pretend that I excuse my bombing by B52s,

    pretend I pardon and forgive that they still do and I don't live,
    pretend they have the burnt man's blessing and then, maybe, I'm spared confessing

    that only fire burnt out the shame of things I'd done in Saddam's name,
    the deaths, the torture and the plunder the black clouds all of us are under.

    Say that I'm smiling and excuse the Scuds we launched against the Jews.
    Pretend I've got the imagination to see the world beyond one nation.

    That's your job, poet, to pretend I want my foe to be my friend.
    It's easier to find such words for this dumb mask like baked dogturds.

    So lie and say the charred man smiled to see the soldier hug his child.
    This gaping rictus once made glad a few old hearts back in Baghdad,

    hearts growing older by the minute as each truck comes without me in it.
    I've met you though, and had my say which you've got taped. Now go away."

    I gazed at him and he gazed back staring right through me to Iraq.
    Facing the way the charred man faced I saw the frozen phial of waste,

    a test-tube frozen in the dark, crib and Kaaba, sacred Ark,
    a pilgrimage of Cross and Crescent the chilled suspension of the Present.

    Rainbows seven shades of black curved from Kuwait back to Iraq,
    and instead of gold the frozen crock's crammed with Mankind on the rocks,

    the congealed genie who won't thaw until the World renounces War,
    cold spunk meticulously jarred never to be charrer or the charred,

    a bottled Bethlehem of this come- curdling Cruise/Scud-cursed millennium.
    I went. I pressed REWIND and PLAY and I heard the charred man say:

    • JBThazard schrieb...
    • Benutzer
    • 12. Jul. 2012, 6:43
    Absurd93 said:
    JBThazard said:
    Guys, too much Yeats ITT.

    You can never have too much Yeats.


    I knew someone would say this. He's great but spamming him when there should be more diversity is a little annoying. I love Eliot but there's such a thing as too much him if we're neglecting Emerson, Coleridge, etc.. Bah ignore my old grandpa ranting...

    • JBThazard schrieb...
    • Benutzer
    • 12. Jul. 2012, 18:33
    The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock by Thomas Stearns Eliot

    S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
    A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
    Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
    Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
    Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
    Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.


    LET us go then, you and I,
    When the evening is spread out against the sky
    Like a patient etherized upon a table;
    Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
    The muttering retreats
    Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
    And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
    Streets that follow like a tedious argument
    Of insidious intent
    To lead you to an overwhelming question….
    Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
    Let us go and make our visit.

    In the room the women come and go
    Talking of Michelangelo.

    The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
    The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
    Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
    Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
    Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
    Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
    And seeing that it was a soft October night,
    Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

    And indeed there will be time
    For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
    Rubbing its back upon the window panes;
    There will be time, there will be time
    To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
    There will be time to murder and create,
    And time for all the works and days of hands
    That lift and drop a question on your plate;
    Time for you and time for me,
    And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
    And for a hundred visions and revisions,
    Before the taking of a toast and tea.

    In the room the women come and go
    Talking of Michelangelo.

    And indeed there will be time
    To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
    Time to turn back and descend the stair,
    With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
    (They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)
    My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
    My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
    (They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)
    Do I dare
    Disturb the universe?
    In a minute there is time
    For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

    For I have known them all already, known them all:
    Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
    I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
    I know the voices dying with a dying fall
    Beneath the music from a farther room.
    So how should I presume?

    And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
    The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
    And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
    When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
    Then how should I begin
    To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
    And how should I presume?

    And I have known the arms already, known them all—
    Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
    (But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
    Is it perfume from a dress
    That makes me so digress?
    Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
    And should I then presume?
    And how should I begin?
    . . . . . . . .
    Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
    And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
    Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…

    I should have been a pair of ragged claws
    Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
    . . . . . . . .
    And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
    Smoothed by long fingers,
    Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
    Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
    Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
    Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
    But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
    Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
    I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
    I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
    And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
    And in short, I was afraid.

    And would it have been worth it, after all,
    After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
    Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
    Would it have been worth while,
    To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
    To have squeezed the universe into a ball
    To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
    To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
    Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
    If one, settling a pillow by her head,
    Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;
    That is not it, at all.”

    And would it have been worth it, after all,
    Would it have been worth while,
    After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
    After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
    And this, and so much more?—
    It is impossible to say just what I mean!
    But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
    Would it have been worth while
    If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
    And turning toward the window, should say:
    “That is not it at all,
    That is not what I meant, at all.”
    . . . . . . . .
    No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
    Am an attendant lord, one that will do
    To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
    Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
    Deferential, glad to be of use,
    Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
    Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
    At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
    Almost, at times, the Fool.

    I grow old … I grow old …
    I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

    Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
    I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
    I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

    I do not think that they will sing to me.

    I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
    Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
    When the wind blows the water white and black.

    We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
    By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
    Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

    • Madelines schrieb...
    • Benutzer
    • 12. Jul. 2012, 19:31
    "Oh Day of Fire and Sun" by Sarah Teasdale

    Oh day of fire and sun,
    Pure as a naked flame
    Blue sea, blue sky and dun
    Sands where he spoke my name;

    Laughter and hearts so high
    That the spirit flew off free,
    Lifting into the sky
    Diving into the sea;

    Oh day of fire and sun,
    Like a crystal burning
    Slow days go one by one,
    But you have no returning.

    Has our Autumn died...Help me find you again
    • Absurd93 schrieb...
    • Benutzer
    • 23. Jul. 2012, 1:21
    Prometheus - Goethe

    Shroud your heaven, Zeus,
    With cloudy vapours,
    And do as you will, like the boy
    That beheads thistles,
    With oak-trees and mountain-tops;
    You must my Earth
    Now abandon to me,
    And my hut, which you did not build,
    And my hearth,
    Whose glow
    You begrudge me.

    I know of nothing poorer
    Under the sun, than you, Gods!
    You are barely nourished
    By sacrificial offerings
    And prayerful exhalations
    Your Majesty
    And would starve, were
    Not children and beggars
    Hopeful fools.

    When I was a child,
    And did not know the in or out,
    I turned my wandering eyes toward
    The sun, as if beyond it there were
    An ear to hear my lament,
    A heart like mine,
    To take pity on the afflicted.

    Who helped me
    Against the Titans' mischief?
    Who delivered me from Death,
    From Slavery?
    Did you not accomplish it all yourself,
    Holy, burning Heart?
    And glowed, young and good,
    Deceived, your thanks for salvation
    To the sleeping one above?

    I should honour you? For what?
    Have you softened the sufferings,
    Ever, of the burdened?
    Have you stilled the tears,
    Ever, of the anguished?
    Was I not forged as a Man
    By almighty Time
    And the eternal Fate,
    My masters and yours?

    Do you somehow imagine
    I should hate life,
    Flee to the desert,
    Because not every
    Flowering dream may bloom?

    Here I sit, forming people
    In my image;
    A race, to be like me,
    To suffer, to weep,
    To enjoy and delight themselves,
    And to mock you –
    As I do!

    • messo schrieb...
    • Benutzer
    • 23. Jul. 2012, 11:15
    Should Lanterns Shine

    Should lanterns shine, the holy face,
    Caught in an octagon of unaccustomed light,
    Would wither up, an any boy of love
    Look twice before he fell from grace.
    The features in their private dark
    Are formed of flesh, but let the false day come
    And from her lips the faded pigments fall,
    The mummy cloths expose an ancient breast.

    I have been told to reason by the heart,
    But heart, like head, leads helplessly;
    I have been told to reason by the pulse,
    And, when it quickens, alter the actions' pace
    Till field and roof lie level and the same
    So fast I move defying time, the quiet gentleman
    Whose beard wags in Egyptian wind.

    I have heard may years of telling,
    And many years should see some change.

    The ball I threw while playing in the park
    Has not yet reached the ground.

    - Dylan Thomas

    • Absurd93 schrieb...
    • Benutzer
    • 22. Aug. 2012, 17:25
    I Hear an Army Charging Upon the Land - James Joyce

    I hear an army charging upon the land,
    And the thunder of horses plunging, foam about their knees:
    Arrogant, in black armour, behind them stand,
    Disdaining the reins, with fluttering whips, the charioteers.

    They cry unto the night their battle-name:
    I moan in sleep when I hear afar their whirling laughter.
    They cleave the gloom of dreams, a blinding flame,
    Clanging, clanging upon the heart as upon an anvil.

    They come shaking in triumph their long, green hair:
    They come out of the sea and run shouting by the shore.
    My heart, have you no wisdom thus to despair?
    My love, my love, my love, why have you left me alone?

  • Avant garde poetry?

    repeat { exhausted // frustrated // isolated // wilted } until ( if sadness, weep; if joy, cry ) while { a or b : fulfillment, rage } if ( alive ) && heart !=brain?ego:discipline.

    - Thich Nat Hanh

  • It’s no use
    Mother dear, I
    can’t finish my
    weaving
    You may
    blame Aphrodite

    soft as she is

    she has almost
    killed me with
    love for that boy
    - Sappho, "Blame Aphrodite"

  • BELIGERENT, CONSIDERATE, INTELLEGENT AND IGNORANT
    I CAN'T HELP IF I'M DIFFERENT
    BUT MY INTENT IS DELIBERATE WHEN I'M BEING BLATANT
    CAUSE MY ACTIONS ARE STATEMENTS. COMPLACENT
    IMPATIENT. MAN, BEFORE I LACKED PLACEMENT
    FOUNDTATION, PAVEMENT. WASTED. FLAGRANT.
    ENSLAVEMENT. USIN' THREAD WITHOUT A NEEDLE
    FEEBLE. I WAS ONE OF THOSE PEOPLE IN A FETAL.
    JUST A SPECK OF BLACK THAT BUILDS DON CHEADLE
    SPOON FED BULLSHIT LIKE A DUNG BEETLE
    EXCUSE ME! I NEED TO BE ESTRANGED, RE-ARRANGED
    POPS SAID THINGS FALL APART WITHOUT CHANGE
    DERANGED. MOMS SAID TO STOP SMOKIN' POT
    AND NOW I CAN RECOGNIZE THIS FUCKIN' EXCHANGE
    BETWEEN LOVE AND AFFECTION, HATE, AGRESSION
    RECIEVIN' THE ATTENTION AND NEVER BEIN' MENTIONED
    QUESTIONS. LIKE WHAT'S THE WEIGHT OF MY ANCHOR?
    I USED TO BE A THUMBPRINT ON A SKYSCRAPER
    I NEVER USED TO REACH OUT FOR THOSE LIFESAVERS
    A BROKEN VIBRATOR. A DARK LIGHTSABER
    HATERS. CRITICS. HOWEVER YOU EASE THA PAIN
    DEVIL DEFANGED. LIFE'S A TICKET. YOU'LL MISS IT
    I COULDN'T CLOSE MY EYES AND TIP OVER THAT RAIL
    FRAIL. YOU AIN'T A SNAIL ONCE YOU BREAK YOUR SHELL
    TASTELESS. EVERYONE I MEET IS FUCKIN' FACELESS
    SO I HATE EVERYONE, NOW HOW AM I RACIST?
    BASSIST. DEEP. TRASHING A PAIR OF ACES
    WHENEVER THE POT RAISES. I LIVE MY LIFE IN PHASES
    CAUSE ONE CHAPTER CAN BE NOVEL. COLOSSAL
    AND MY SOUL'S SO OLD THAT IT'S GROWIN' MOLD
    FOSSIL. HOSTILE. TWELVE LINES UP MY NOSTRILS
    APOSTLE. FORCE SATAN TO SING THE GOSPEL

    Believe it or not, I wrote this when I was about 16 years old.

    Bearbeitet von Aristoxenous am 2. Okt. 2012, 11:55
  • I wrote this for an old band I was in. Its not technically poetry, but I think it portrays a story.

    "A lover once left; left again
    left like a young baby bird.
    Young but full of potential,
    full of wonder and question.

    And you ask why were lonely,
    why we gave into necessity.
    Into our own personal desires,
    into the things were conditioned to need

    The feeling of loss overwhelming,
    loss of trust and love for the world.
    Love for the ones who gave in,
    the ones who vanished when needed.

    Who are you to judge me?
    to judge the life I want to live.
    I hope one day you can relate,
    one day you can feel this pain.

    One day you will feel lonely,
    feel what has consumed me.
    What little strength I have left,
    what patience has regressed.

    And you ask why were lonely,
    why we gave into necessity.
    Into our own personal desires,
    into the things were conditioned to need

    What name will you pick up and bear?
    what can you do differently than me?
    Different so you don't end up hurt,
    so you don't end up deserted."

    We're like captains at war, we'll get followed to hell
  • Yeah, bro. That's poetry.

  • This Aristoxenous guy above me have some anger issues. Watch out for this one.

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