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View Full Version : ~The official POETRY thread~



chica
September 8, 2006, 08:43 PM
Here you can post other people's poems that you like. Deep or superficial - it's up to you, but necessarily outstanding!


We Real Cool

THE POOL PLAYERS.
SEVEN AT THE GOLDEN SHOVEL.

We real cool. We
Left school. We
Lurk late. We
Strike straight. We
Sing sin. We
Thin gin. We
Jazz June. We
Die soon.


Gwendolyn Brooks

davdavon
September 8, 2006, 10:53 PM
Charles Bukowski
How To Be A Good Writer

you've got to fuck a great many women
beautiful women
and write a few decent love poems.

and don't worry about age
and/or freshly-arrived talents.

just drink more beer
more and more beer

and attend the racetrack at least once a

week

and win
if possible

learning to win is hard -
any slob can be a good loser.

and don't forget your Brahms
and your Bach and your
beer.

don't overexercise.

sleep until moon.

avoid paying credit cards
or paying for anything on
time.

remember that there isn't a piece of ass
in this world over $50
(in 1977).

and if you have the ability to love
love yourself first
but always be aware of the possibility of
total defeat
whether the reason for that defeat
seems right or wrong -

an early taste of death is not necessarily
a bad thing.

stay out of churches and bars and museums,
and like the spider be
patient -
time is everybody's cross,
plus
exile
defeat
treachery

all that dross.

stay with the beer.

beer is continuous blood.

a continuous lover.

get a large typewriter
and as the footsteps go up and down
outside your window

hit that thing
hit it hard

make it a heavyweight fight

make it the bull when he first charges in

and remember the old dogs
who fought so well:
Hemingway, Celine, Dostoevsky, Hamsun.

If you think they didn't go crazy
in tiny rooms
just like you're doing now

without women
without food
without hope

then you're not ready.

drink more beer.
there's time.
and if there's not
that's all right
too.

chica
September 8, 2006, 11:45 PM
This is great, I had been reading Bukowski just before I started this thread :) Does anyone know his poem about a stray cat that he adopted? I read it long time ago, I can't remember the title. It was beautiful.

Here's another one:


the trash can

this is great, I just wrote two
poems I didn't like.

there is a trash can on this
computer.
I just moved the poems
over
and dropped them into
the trash can.

they're gone forever, no
paper, no sound, no
fury, no placenta
and then
just a clean screen
awaits you.

it's always better
to reject yourself before
the editors do.

especially on a rainy
night like this with
bad music on the radio.

and now--
I know what you're
thinking:
maybe he should have
trashed this
misbegotten one
also.

ha, ha, ha,
ha.

Charles Bukowski


P.S. I didn't start my post with those words on purpose :o Subconscious?

Cream Cakes
September 9, 2006, 12:43 PM
How about this poem people???

The Lonely Millionaire

The tour eventually ends.
He's between homes
His furniture's in a friend's cellar.
It doesn't matter where he lives.
It's beans on toast when he's at home,
Or he goes to a restaurant with a friend.
Always the people-watcher,
If he had any less presence,
He'd be invisible.
He drinks a little too much at the bar,
And silently slags off,
Each woman as she enters.
In some ways he's the ultimate playboy,
No woman good enough.
The only life that greets him,
When he gets home,
Is his dog,
Grateful to be out of kennels.


Naomi Kiowa Anyos Cunningham

Copyright ©2006 Naomi Kiowa Anyos Cunningham

chica
September 9, 2006, 01:08 PM
Here you can post other people's poems that you like.

But anyway, serves me right :p

Sinefil
September 9, 2006, 11:02 PM
ON LIVING

I

Living is no laughing matter:
you must live with great seriousness
like a squirrel, for example-
I mean without looking for something beyond and above living,
I mean living must be your whole occupation.
Living is no laughing matter:
you must take it seriously,
so much so and to such a degree
that, for example, your hands tied behind your back,
your back to the wall,
or else in a laboratory
in your white coat and safety glasses,
you can die for people-
even for people whose faces you've never seen,
even though you know living
is the most real, the most beautiful thing.
I mean, you must take living so seriously
that even at seventy, for example, you'll plant olive trees-
and not for your children, either,
but because although you fear death you don't believe it,
because living, I mean, weighs heavier.


II

Let's say you're seriously ill, need surgery -
which is to say we might not get
from the white table.
Even though it's impossible not to feel sad
about going a little too soon,
we'll still laugh at the jokes being told,
we'll look out the window to see it's raining,
or still wait anxiously
for the latest newscast ...
Let's say we're at the front-
for something worth fighting for, say.
There, in the first offensive, on that very day,
we might fall on our face, dead.
We'll know this with a curious anger,
but we'll still worry ourselves to death
about the outcome of the war, which could last years.
Let's say we're in prison
and close to fifty,
and we have eighteen more years, say,
before the iron doors will open.
We'll still live with the outside,
with its people and animals, struggle and wind-
I mean with the outside beyond the walls.
I mean, however and wherever we are,
we must live as if we will never die.


III

This earth will grow cold,
a star among stars
and one of the smallest,
a gilded mote on blue velvet-
I mean this, our great earth.
This earth will grow cold one day,
not like a block of ice
or a dead cloud even
but like an empty walnut it will roll along
in pitch-black space ...
You must grieve for this right now
-you have to feel this sorrow now-
for the world must be loved this much
if you're going to say ``I lived'' ...


Nazim Hikmet
February, 1948
(Trans. Randy Blasing and Mutlu Konuk - 1993)

I hope you can understand.
And please:
http://www.cs.rpi.edu/~sibel/poetry/nazim_hikmet_NF.html

chica
September 10, 2006, 12:15 AM
that even at seventy, for example, you'll plant olive trees-
and not for your children, either,
but because although you fear death you don't believe it,
because living, I mean, weighs heavier.

I miss that enthusiasm at 23 :o

The Cat's Mother
September 10, 2006, 01:23 AM
Three of my favourite little poems by Stevie Smith:


1. Bag-Snatching in Dublin

Sisely
Walked so nicely
With footsteps so discreet
To see her pass
You'd never guess
She walked upon the street.

Down where the Liffey waters' turgid flood
Churns up to greet the ocean-driven mud,
A bruiser in fix
Murdered her for 6/6.

2. I Remember

It was my bridal night I remember,
An old man of seventy-three
I lay with my young bride in my arms,
A girl with t.b.
It was wartime, and overhead
The Germans were making a particularly heavy raid on Hampstead.
What rendered the confusion worse, perversely
Our bombers had chosen that moment to set out for Germany.
Harry, do they ever collide?
I do not think it has ever happened,
Oh my bride, my bride.

3. Pad, Pad

I always remember your beautiful flowers
And the beautiful kimono you wore
When you sat on the couch
With that tigerish crouch
And told me you loved me no more.

What I cannot remember is how I felt when you were unkind
All I know is, if you were unkind now I should not mind.
Ah me, the power to feel exaggerated, angry and sad
The years have taken from me. Softly I go now, pad pad.

****

Ah! I shall be up reading her all night, now.....

chica
September 10, 2006, 01:39 AM
When you sat on the couch
With that tigerish crouch
And told me you loved me no more.

This sounds like something Moz would come up with :) All three of them do, actually. They are so gentle and harsh at the same time.

Busy Clippers
October 30, 2006, 09:01 PM
Happy Birthday, Ezra Pound,
You understand me.
Thank you, and rest easy.


The Lake Isle
by Ezra Pound



O God, O Venus, O Mercury, patron of thieves,
Give me in due time, I beseech you, a little tobacco-shop,
With the little bright boxes piled up neatly upon the shelves
And the loose fragment cavendish and the shag,
And the bright Virginia loose under the bright glass cases,
And a pair of scales not too greasy,
And the votailles dropping in for a word or two in passing,
For a flip word, and to tidy their hair a bit.

O God, O Venus, O Mercury, patron of thieves,
Lend me a little tobacco-shop, or install me in any profession
Save this damn'd profession of writing, where one needs one's brains all the time.

chica
October 31, 2006, 01:50 PM
Favourite poet. Current mood.


Sumatra

Now we are carefree, light and tender.
We just think: how quiet are the snowy
peaks of the Urals.
If a pale figure makes us sad,
the one we lost to an evening,
we also know that somewhere, instead of it a rivulet
flows and is all red.
Each love, each morning in a foreign land
envelops our soul closer by its hand
in an endless tranquility of blue seas,
in which red corals glitter
like the cherries of my homeland.
We wake at night and sweetly smile
at the Moon with its bent bow
and we caress those distant hills
and the icy mountains with our tender hand.

Milos Crnjanski, 1920

Chartres
October 31, 2006, 02:00 PM
THE NIGHTJAR


Half awake the summer night broods
quietly on dreams that no one knows.
The tarns' glistening floods
reflect a twilight sky's
infinity, pale, morose,
Whiter grow the stars on high.
Afar, afar
the nightjar
sings alone her toneless, comfortless melody.

Never boldly, towards the heights she swings,
because of her lowness hovers low.
Downy twilight wings
seem bound to the earth,
by dust and soil weighed down below.
Woe to him whose wings in pair
cannot rise,
only linger,
helplessly drawn to the mud, whose colours they bear.

But the whitest of white among swans,
that travel in morning's bright space
their royal lanes,
never cherished a yearning
such as the nightjar has.
None has a longing so true
for the distant and far
as the nightjar
for the ever beckoning, ever yielding blue.

//Karin Boye, translation David McDuff. 1922

Busy Clippers
October 31, 2006, 02:17 PM
Happy Birthday, John Keats, flower of manhood, beautiful consumptive boy, beloved of Fanny Brawne. Twenty six years was not long enough!

Where's the Poet?
by John Keats
composed 1816 (age 21).

Where's the Poet? show him! show him,
Muses nine! that I may know him.
'Tis the man who with a man
Is an equal, be he King,
Or poorest of the beggar-clan
Or any other wondrous thing
A man may be 'twixt ape and Plato;
'Tis the man who with a bird,
Wren or Eagle, finds his way to
All its instincts; he hath heard
The Lion's roaring, and can tell
What his horny throat expresseth,
And to him the Tiger's yell
Comes articulate and presseth
On his ear like mother-tongue.

prisoner77
October 31, 2006, 02:40 PM
Your harsh words only resonate in the way you turn your back to me
holding back the tears trembling, I grab both of your ears, I'll take it anywhere I can get it, toss the tenderness aside it's going to be a bumpy ride.

Codreanu
November 1, 2006, 02:02 AM
Happy Birthday, John Keats, flower of manhood, beautiful consumptive boy, beloved of Fanny Brawne. Twenty six years was not long enough!
Tuberculosis is beautiful, is it not? I can't think of a more romantic fatal illness. I mean, you have the slow wasting, the jaded Pre-Raphaelite complexion, and, most blessed of all, that peculiar mental agility and amorous exhilaration of its later stages. No wonder Kafka and St. Thérèse experienced profound joy after their first haemoptyses.

Too many 19th century Russian novels? Perhaps.

Regardless, I'm thinking a quick jaunt through the shanties of India or South Africa might be necessary to provide me the inspiration to write something worthy of you; I could always load up on antibiotics before becoming too awfuly wretched. :p Until then I will just read Keats' letters to Fanny, think of you, and work upon my 'Ode to the Tubercle Bacillus'.

http://img325.imageshack.us/img325/4/keatsyt5.gif

wolve
November 1, 2006, 02:06 AM
This may sound extremely mellow, but nevertheless:


Percy B. Shelley - Love's Philosophy

The fountains mingle with the river,
And the rivers with the ocean,
The winds of heaven mix forever
With a sweet emotion:

Nothing in the world is single;
All things by law divine
In one another's being mingle;
Why not I with thine?

See the mountains kiss high heaven
And the waves clasp one another
No sister flower would be forgiven
If it disdained its brother:

And sunlight clasps the earth,
And the moonbeams kiss the sea;
What are all these kissings worth
If thou kiss not me?

no one in particular
November 1, 2006, 02:27 AM
Tuberculosis is beautiful, is it not? I can't think of a more romantic fatal illness. I mean, you have the slow wasting, the jaded Pre-Raphaelite complexion, and, most blessed of all, that peculiar mental agility and amorous exhilaration of its later stages. No wonder Kafka and St. Thérèse experienced profound joy after their first haemoptyses.

Too many 19th century Russian novels? Perhaps.

Regardless, I'm thinking a quick jaunt through the shanties of India or South Africa might be necessary to provide me the inspiration to write something worthy of you; I could always load up on antibiotics before becoming too awfuly wretched. :p Until then I will just read Keats' letters to Fanny, think of you, and work upon my 'Ode to the Tubercle Bacillus'.


cod, can you make my illness sound so lovely? (then maybe more would not be so afraid of me) ;)

Codreanu
November 1, 2006, 02:53 AM
cod, can you make my illness sound so lovely?
You wouldn't have emphysema would you, no one? Or do you only hyperventilate during exchanges with chica? :eek:

(then maybe more would not be so afraid of me) ;)
Are you anything like my shadow? Then I'm afraid it's hopeless. :(

Busy Clippers
November 1, 2006, 03:16 AM
Regardless, I'm thinking a quick jaunt through the shanties of India or South Africa might be necessary to provide me the inspiration to write something worthy of you; I could always load up on antibiotics before becoming too awfuly wretched. :p Until then I will just read Keats' letters to Fanny, think of you, and work upon my 'Ode to the Tubercle Bacillus'.


Don't forget, my dear, that I live in the tropics. There's tubercle bacillus lurking everywhere, as sure as if it dripped like dew from the stamens of the red hibiscus. No need to go so far as India; I'll have the IV antibiotics, a laptop with voice recognition software, and a comfortable bed ready.

(:eek:)

As a matter of fact, tomorrow I am scheduled for my annual TB test. Let's hope my recent output is due more to the stirrings of the heart than to the wheezing of the lungs.

Codreanu
November 1, 2006, 05:05 AM
There's tubercle bacillus lurking everywhere, as sure as if it dripped like dew from the stamens of the red hibiscus.
Kali's flower! How appropriate. ;)

No need to go so far as India; I'll have the IV antibiotics, a laptop with voice recognition software, and a comfortable bed ready.
How deeply neurotic must I be to find myself so warm-hearted and enthralled over the above, your suggestion? :p

And what if, despite the most virulent strain of TB the tropics has to offer, I still suffer writer's block (the dumb state of bliss from having you near)? I'm bringing my pastels, just in case.

http://img281.imageshack.us/img281/1750/rossettistudiobx9.jpg

Let's hope my recent output is due more to the stirrings of the heart than to the wheezing of the lungs.
My hopes are already in the stirrings of your heart. x

BoyRacer
November 1, 2006, 05:27 AM
Family Man
by Henry Rollins

do you want the family man or do you want the swingin' man?

family man

you get the family man
family man
FAMILY man
with your glances my way, takin no chance on the new day
family man, with your life all planned;
your little sand castle built, smilin through your guilt, family man
here i come
here i come family man
i come to infect; i come to rape your women;
i come to take your children into the street;
i come for YOU family man, with your christmas lights already up,
your such a MAN when your puttin up your christmas lights,
first on the block;
family man
i wanna crucify you to your front door with the nails
from your well stocked garage family man;
family man;
FAMILY MAN
saint dad! father on fire! ive come to incinerate you
ive come home

Busy Clippers
November 1, 2006, 12:41 PM
My hopes are already in the stirrings of your heart. x

You couldn't possibly be more wonderful (but don't let that stop you trying).

andy_fozzy
November 1, 2006, 12:43 PM
Here's one of my faves:

Here I sit, broken hearted,
tried to shit but only farted!!!

:D

the more you explore me!
November 4, 2006, 03:34 PM
Requiescat

oscar wilde




TREAD lightly, she is near *
**Under the snow, *
Speak gently, she can hear *
**The daisies grow. *
**
All her bright golden hair *********
**Tarnished with rust, *
She that was young and fair *
**Fallen to dust. *
**
Lily-like, white as snow, *
**She hardly knew **
She was a woman, so *
**Sweetly she grew. *
**
Coffin-board, heavy stone, *
**Lie on her breast, *
I vex my heart alone
**She is at rest. *
**
Peace, Peace, she cannot hear *
**Lyre or sonnet, *
All my life’s buried here, *
**Heap earth upon it.
AVIGNON. *

chica
December 4, 2006, 03:13 PM
http://i52.photobucket.com/albums/g31/zvon-chica/rakic.jpg

I couldn't be bothered to type.

Busy Clippers
December 4, 2006, 03:41 PM
thanks, chica, I really like that one.

which reminds me...

Happy Birthday Ranier Maria Rilke

Slumber Song
Some day, if I should ever lose you,
will you be able then to go to sleep
without me softly whispering above you
like night air stirring in the linden tree?

Without my waking here and watching
and saying words as tender as eyelids
that come to rest weightlessly upon your breast,
upon your sleeping limbs, upon your lips?

Without my touching you and leaving you
alone with what is yours, like a summer garden
that is overflowing with masses
of melissa and star-anise?
-Translated by Albert Ernest Flemming

http://www.literatura.hu/irok/szimbol/images/rilke.jpg



(From "Letters To A Young Poet")

Letter Nine
Furuborg, Jonsered, in Sweden
November 4, 1904

My dear Mr. Kappus,

During this time that has passed without a letter, I have been partly traveling, partly so busy that I couldn't write. And even today writing is difficult for me, because I have already had to write so many letters that my hand is tired. If I could dictate, I would have much more to say to you, but as it is, please accept these few words as an answer to your long letter.

I think of you often, dear Mr. Kappus, and with such concentrated good wishes that somehow they ought to help you. Whether my letters really are a help, I often doubt. Don't say, "Yes, they are." Just accept them calmly and without many thanks, and let us wait for what wants to come.

There is probably no point in my going into your questions now; for what I could say about your tendency to doubt or about your inability to bring your outer and inner lives into harmony or about all the other thing that oppress you - : is just what I have already said: just the wish that you may find in yourself enough patience to endure and enough simplicity to have faith; that you may gain more and more confidence in what is difficult and in your solitude among other people. And as for the rest, let life happen to you. Believe me: life is in the right, always.

And about feelings: All feelings that concentrate you and lift you up are pure; only that feeling is impure which grasps just one side of your being and thus distorts you. Everything you can think of as you face your childhood, is good. Everything that makes more of you than you have ever been, even in your best hours, is right. Every intensification is good, if it is in your entire blood, if it isn't intoxication or muddiness, but joy which you can see into, clear to the bottom. Do you understand what I mean?

And your doubt can become a good quality if you train it. It must become knowing, it must become criticism. Ask it, whenever it wants to spoil something for you, why something is ugly, demand proofs from it, test it, and you will find it perhaps bewildered and embarrassed, perhaps also protesting. But don't give in, insist on arguments, and act in this way, attentive and persistent, every single time, and the day will come when instead of being a destroyer, it will become one of your best workers - perhaps the most intelligent of all the ones that are building your life.

That is all, dear Mr. Kappus, that I am able to tell you today. But I am sending you, along with this letter, the reprint of a small poem that has just appeared in the Prague German Labor. In it I speak to you further of life and death and of how both are great and glorious.

Yours,
Rainer Maria Rilke

meat_is_murder19
December 4, 2006, 03:54 PM
in memory of my best friend rachel who died last week

From the way she spoke i could tell
she was not from around here
she spoke without hope only fear
i could sense pain and desperation
she was cold and crying out the end is near
in her mind she kept telling herself she was fine
she took the easy was out i was not in time
if only i saw the signs whos fault was it could it be mine

love u forever

CharethCutestory
December 4, 2006, 04:54 PM
If I had to live my life without you near me
The days would all be empty
The nights would seem so long
With you I see forever oh so clearly
I might have been in love before
But it never felt this strong
Our dreams are young and we both know
They'll take us where we want to go
Hold me now
Touch me now
I don't want to live without you

Nothing's gonna change my love for you
You ought to know by now how much I love you
One thing you can be sure of
I'll never ask for more than your love
Nothing's gonna change my love for you
You ought to know by now how much I love you
The world may change my whole life through
But nothing’s gonna change my love for you

If the road ahead is not so easy
Our love will lead the way for us
Like a guiding star
I'll be there for you if you should need me
You don't have to change a thing
I love you just the way you are
So come with me and share the view
I'll help you see forever too
Hold me now
Touch me now
I don't want to live without you

Nothing's gonna change my love for you
You ought to know by now how much I love you
One thing you can be sure of
I'll never ask for more than your love
Nothing's gonna change my love for you
You ought to know by now how much I love you
The world may change my whole life through
But nothing’s gonna change my love for you
Nothing's gonna change my love for you
You ought to know by now how much I love you
One thing you can be sure of
I'll never ask for more than your love

Nothing's gonna change my love for you
You ought to know by now how much I love you
One thing you can be sure of
I'll never ask for more than your love
Nothing's gonna change my love for you
You ought to know by now how much I love you
The world may change my whole life through
But nothing’s gonna change my love for you
Nothing's gonna change my love for you
You ought to know by now how much I love you
One thing you can be sure of
I'll never ask for more than your love

Glen Medeiros - 1988

Busy Clippers
December 4, 2006, 05:06 PM
Damn, Chareth! I was too busy listening to Rank in 1988 to pay Glenn much notice. This night has opened my eyes.

CharethCutestory
December 4, 2006, 05:11 PM
Damn, Chareth! I was too busy listening to Rank in 1988 to pay Glenn much notice. This night has opened my eyes.

http://www.vinyltap.co.uk/gallery/gl/glennnm6481349409600.jpg

Maybe you should have paid more attention back then.

chica
December 4, 2006, 06:53 PM
I'm so sorry to hear about your friend, meat_is_murder19. Thanks for sharing the poem with us.

Busy Clippers
December 11, 2006, 01:55 PM
http://img247.imageshack.us/img247/6373/emilydickinsonux5.jpg


Happy Belated Birthday, Emily Dickinson. I beg your pardon and hope you don't mind, but then again, you might:

There is A Word

There is a word
Which bears a sword
Can pierce an armed man.
It hurls its barbed syllables,—
At once is mute again.
But where it fell
The saved will tell
On patriotic day,
Some epauletted brother
Gave his breath away.

Wherever runs the breathless sun,
Wherever roams the day,
There is its noiseless onset,
There is its victory!
Behold the keenest marksman!
The most accomplished shot!
Time’s sublimest target
Is a soul “forgot”!

and one more, as a favor from one woman to another, because I must forage for that which I cannot forge:

Wild Nights

Wild nights! Wild nights!
Were I with thee,
Wild nights should be
Our luxury!
Futile the winds
To a heart in port,
Done with the compass,
Done with the chart.

Rowing in Eden!
Ah! the sea!
Might I but moor
To-night in thee!

;)

sonof77
December 11, 2006, 03:08 PM
like mascarra, coaldust runs down your cheek
your sweaty aching body curls up in a heap
broken, the time stands still a final blessing for Bevans kid's.

virtually dead
December 11, 2006, 05:17 PM
Ae Fond Kiss

Ae fond kiss and then we sever;
Ae fareweel, and then for ever!
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee -

Who shall say that Fortune grieves him,
While the star of hope she leaves him:
Me, nae chearful twinkle lights me;
Dark despair around benights me-

I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy,
Naething could resist my Nancy:
But to see her, was to love her;
Love but her, and love for ever-

Had we never lov'd sae kindly,
Had we never lov'd sae blindly!
Never met - or never parted,
We had ne'er been broken hearted-

Fare-thee weel, thou first and fairest!
Fare-thee-weel thou best and dearest!
Thine be ilka joy and treasure,
Peace, Enjoyment, Love and Pleasure! -

Ae fond kiss and then we sever!
Ae fareweel! Alas, for ever:
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee-

ROBERT BURNS

CharethCutestory
December 11, 2006, 10:40 PM
http://i80.photobucket.com/albums/j193/csepics/vanilla_ice.jpg

Yo VIP let's kick it

Ice ice baby (x2)
All right stop collaborate and listen
Ice is back with my brand new invention
Something grabs a hold of me tightly
Flow like a harpoon daily and nightly
Will it ever stop yo I don't know
Turn off the lights and I'll glow
To the extreme I rock a mic like a vandal
Light up a stage and wax a chump like a candle
Dance go rush to the speaker that booms
I'm killing your brain like a poisonous mushroom
Deadly when I play a dope melody
Anything less than the best is a felony
Love it or leave it you better gain weight
You better hit bull's eye the kid don't play
If there was a problem yo I'll solve it
Check out the hook while my DJ revolves it

CHORUS
Ice ice baby vanillla (x4)

Now that the party is jumping
With the bass kicked in and the vegas are pumpin'
Quick to the point to the point no faking
I'm cooking MC's like a pound of bacon
Burning them if you ain't quick and nimble
I go crazy when I hear a cymbal
And a hi-hat with a souped up tempo
I'm on a roll and it's time to go solo
Rollin' in my 5.0
With my rag-top down so my hair can blow
The girlies on standby waving just to say hi
Did you stop no I just drove by
Kept on pursuing to the next stop
I busted a left and I'm heading to the next block
The block was dead
Yo so I continued to A1A Beachfront Avenue
Girls were hot wearing less than bikinis
Rockman lovers driving Lamborghinis
Jealous 'cause I'm out getting mine
Shay with a guage and Vanilla with a nine
Reading for the chumps on the wall
The chumps acting ill because they're so full of eight balls
Gunshots rang out like a bell
I grabbed my nine all I heard were shells
Falling on the concrete real fast
Jumped in my car slammed on the gas
Bumpet to bumper the avenue's packed
I'm trying to get away before the jackers jack
Police on the scene you know what I mean
They passed me up confronted all the dope fiends
If there was a problem yo I'll solve it
Check out the hook while my DJ revolves it

REPEAT CHORUS

Take heed 'cause I'm a lyrical poet
Miami's on the scene just in case you didn't know it
My town that created all the bass sound
Enough to shake and kick holes in the ground
'Cause my style's like a chemical spill
Feasible rhymes that you can vision and feel
Conducted and formed
This is a hell of a concept
We make it hype and you want to step with this
Shay plays on the fade slice like a ninja
Cut like a razor blade so fast other DJs say damn
If my rhyme was a drug I'd sell it by the gram
Keep my composure when it's time to get loose
Magnetized by the mic while I kick my juice
If there was a problem yo I'll solve it
Check out the hook while Shay revolves it

Ice ice baby vanilla
Ice ice baby (oh-oh) vanilla
Ice ice baby vanilla
Ice ice baby vanilla ice
Yo man let's get out of here
Word to your mother
Ice ice baby too cold
Ice ice baby too cold too cold (x2)
Ice ice baby

Vanilla ice - 1990

Christine
December 11, 2006, 11:10 PM
Daddy by Sylvia Plath

You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.

Daddy, I have had to kill you.
You died before I had time---
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,
Ghastly statue with one gray toe
Big as a Frisco seal

And a head in the freakish Atlantic
Where it pours bean green over blue
In the waters off the beautiful Nauset.
I used to pray to recover you.
Ach, du.

In the German tongue, in the Polish town
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But the name of the town is common.
My Polack friend

Says there are a dozen or two.
So I never could tell where you
Put your foot, your root,
I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.

It stuck in a barb wire snare.
Ich, ich, ich, ich,
I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you.
And the language obscene

An engine, an engine,
Chuffing me off like a Jew.
A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.
I began to talk like a Jew.
I think I may well be a Jew.

The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna
Are not very pure or true.
With my gypsy ancestress and my weird luck
And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.

I have always been sacred of you,
With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.
And your neat mustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You----

Not God but a swastika
So black no sky could squeak through.
Every woman adores a Fascist,
The boot in the face, the brute
Brute heart of a brute like you.

You stand at the blackboard, daddy,
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot
But no less a devil for that, no not
Any less the black man who

Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.

But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue.
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look

And a love of the rack and the screw.
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I'm finally through.
The black telephone's off at the root,
The voices just can't worm through.

If I've killed one man, I've killed two---
The vampire who said he was you
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.

There's a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through.

CharethCutestory
December 11, 2006, 11:19 PM
http://www.nofear.org/images/mc_hammer.jpg

That's word,we pray(pray,pray)
We got to pray
Just to make it today
I said we pray(pray) ah,yeah,pray(pray)
We got to pray
Just to make it to pray
That's word,we pray

All my life I wanted to make it to the top
(That's word,we pray)
Some said I wouldn't
They told me no,but I didn't stop
(That's word,we pray)
Working hard,making those movies everyday
(That's word,we pray)
And on my knees every night,you know I pray

That's word,we pray(pray)
Ah,yeah,pray(pray) we got to pray
Just to make it today
I said we pray(pray) ah,yeah,pray(pray)
We got to pray
Just to make it today
That's word,we pray

Now I just think that you
Can do what ever you want
(That's word,we pray)
I'm bustin' these rhymes
Making this money and I won't
(That's word,we pray)
Forget my people or may town or my ways
(That's word,we pray)
And on my knees.every night I'm still gonna pray

That's word,we pray(pray)
Ah,yeah,pray(pray) we got to pray
Just to make it today
I said we pray(pray) ah,yeah,pray(pray)
We got to pray
Just to make it today
That's word,we pray

Time and time and time and time again
(That's word,we pray)
I kept on knocking,but
These people wouldn't let me in
(That's word,we pray)
I tried and tried and tried and tried to make a way
(That's word,we pray)
But nothing happened till that day I prayed

That's word,we pray(pray)
Ah,yeah,pray(pray) we got to pray
Just to make it today
I said we pray(pray) ah,yeah,pray(pray)
We got to pray
Just to make it today
That's word,we pray

Childrem dying,oh,so fast from this or that
(That's word,we pray)
Needing that money
Smoking that dope and doing that crack
(That's word,we pray)
Ten years old stand outside
Better look out
(That's word ,we pray)
Dead and gone,necer had a chance
What's it all about?

That's word,we pray(pray) ah,yeah,pray
We need to pray
Just to make it today
I need to pray(pray),ah,yeah,pray
We need to pray
Just to make it today
That's word,we pray

That's word,we pray( x3)

That's word,we pray(pray) ah,yeah,pray
We need to pray
Just to make it today
I need to pray(pray),ah,yeah,pray
We need to pray
Just to make it today
That's word,we pray

On a mission start to doubt.here we go
(That's word,we pray)
Kicking back,read these words we need to know
(That's word,we pray)
Living high,living good,living long
(That's word,we pray)
Take a minute,bust a prayer
And you're good to go

That's word,we pray(pray) ah,yeah,pray
We need to pray
Just to make it today
I need to pray(pray),ah,yeah,pray
We need to pray
Just to make it today
That's word,we pray

We're sending this one out to the Lord
(That's word,we pray)
And we thank you and we know we need to pray
(That's word,we pray)
Cause all the blessings that are good they come from above
(That's word,we pray)
And once again we want
To say "thank you" to the Lord with all our love

That's word,we pray(pray) ah,yeah,pray
We need to pray
Just to make it today
I need to pray(pray),ah,yeah,pray
We need to pray
Just to make it today
That's word,we pray

That's word,we pray(pray,pray) (x4)
That's word,we pray

MC Hammer - 1990

Oh my god, it's Robby!
December 12, 2006, 12:00 AM
James Graham, Marquis of Montrose (1612-1650)
warrior, poet, hero!

My Dear and Only Love

My dear and only love, I pray
That little world of thee
Be govern'd by no other sway
But purest monarchy:
For if confusion have a part
Which virtuous souls abhor,
I'll call a synod in my heart,
And never love thee more.

As Alexander I will reign,
And I will reign alone,
My thoughts did evermore disdain
A rival on my throne.
He either fears his fate to much
Or his deserts are small,
Who dares not put it to the touch,
To gain or lose it all.

But I will reign and govern still,
And always give the law,
And have each subject at my will,
And all to stand in awe.
But 'gainst my batt'ries if I find
Thou storm or vex me sore,
As if thou set me as a blind,
I'll never love thee more,
I'll never, never love thee more.

But if no faithless actions stain
Thy love and constant word,
I'll make thee famous by my pen,
And glorious by my sword.
I'll serve thee in such noble ways
As ne'er was known before;
I'll crown and deck thee all with bays,
And love thee more and more.

http://i3.photobucket.com/albums/y86/gulrober/fls.jpg

Mmmmmm
December 12, 2006, 03:22 AM
One of my favorite poems, although it might simply be a scathing office memo by G. Chaucer in the last 1300's:

ADAM Scrivener, if ever it thee befall
Boece or Troilus for to write anew,
Under thy long locks thou may'st have the scall
But after my making thou write more true!
So oft a day I must thy work renew, composing
It to correct, and eke to rub and scrape;
And all is through thy negligence and rape.

Translated it reads someting like:

Adam, my copier, if you ever have to write Boethius or Troilus (& Cressida) again, I hope you get a painful scalp inflamation because I keep having to rub out all of the mistakes you make out of carelessness and haste.

Oh my god, it's Robby!
December 12, 2006, 03:24 AM
Daddy by Sylvia Plath

.

i have an mp3 of her presenting it
her voice is/was divine
:)

Oh my god, it's Robby!
December 14, 2006, 02:38 AM
my dinner has inspired me

Ode to Cold Pizza

I do not love thee
You do not warm me

But you do have a beauty
That I break when I eat thee

Hey pizza!

Won't you bleed for me*?

Then maybe
I will not add more cheese
To thee


*this refers to the red sauce, which is not liquid @ the moment

no one in particular
December 14, 2006, 02:43 AM
what's up with that? no microwave in your kitchen?

Oh my god, it's Robby!
December 14, 2006, 02:46 AM
what's up with that? no microwave in your kitchen?

nope or dishwasher
its f*ckin barbaric
but its a big place
and i think it was a 'cathouse'
long ago
during the gold rush
i keep havin sexy old west dreams
:)

no one in particular
December 14, 2006, 02:48 AM
hmm... for some reason i read that as "wet dreams"

Oh my god, it's Robby!
December 14, 2006, 02:48 AM
hmm... for some reason i read that as "wet dreams"

just the one
so far?

chica
December 15, 2006, 02:56 AM
Apprehension

by Desanka Maksimović (1898-1993)



No… don’t come to me! I want to adore
and love your two eyes from far, far away.
For joy is beautiful just while waited for—
when only allusion comes out of its way.

No… don’t come to me! There is more allure
in waiting with sweet apprehension, fear.
Just while seeking out everything is pure;
It’s nicer when only foreboding is near.

No… don’t come to me! Why that, and what for?
Only from afar all stars spark and glee;
Only from afar we admire all.
No… let not your eyes come closer to me.

chica
December 15, 2006, 03:00 AM
Warning

by Desanka Maksimović (1898-1993)


Listen, I'll tell you my secret:
Never leave me alone
when music plays.

It could seem to me
that some eyes gray
are so deep and soft -
the eyes that are actually plain.

It could seem to me
that I dive into the sound
and I could give my hands
to anyone around.

It could seem to me
se easy, so gay
to love someone
for only one day.

Or, I could tell someone
my dearest,
magically growing secret
how much I love you.

Oh, never leave me alone
when music plays.
It could seem to me that again,
somewhere in a forest,
my tears flow through a new well.

It could seem to me that a black butterfly
makes patterns on heavy water -
those that no one feels free to tell.

It could seem to me that, somewhere in the dark zone,
someone sings and touches my heart
with a bittter flower - right where the incurable wound stays.
Oh, never leave me alone,
never alone
when music plays.

Oh my god, it's Robby!
December 15, 2006, 04:43 AM
ok, now will you pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease
translate my poem* into Serbian
or some other Slavic tongue is cool too

*=mine is 'ode to cold pizza'

chica
December 15, 2006, 05:51 AM
Serbian:

Oda hladnoj pici


Ja te ne volim
Nit' me greješ ti

Al' ima lepote u tebi
Koju grizući te lomim

Hej, pico!

Hoćeš li za me krv proliti?

Onda može da se desi
Da neću jos sira dodati
Tebi


Autor: O bože, pa to je Robi!

chica
December 15, 2006, 05:55 AM
Russian:

Ода к холодной пицце


Я не люблю тебя
Tы не греешь меня

Но есть красота у тебя
Kоторую при еде ломлю

Эй, пицца!

Ты кровоточишь для меня?

Тогда, может быть
Больше сыра
К тебе не добавлю



Автор: Господи, да это же Робби!

Oh my god, it's Robby!
December 15, 2006, 05:57 AM
Serbian:

Oda hladnoj pici


Ja te ne volim
Nit' me greješ ti

Al' ima lepote u tebi
Koju grizući te lomim

Hej, pico!

Hoćeš li za me krv proliti?

Onda može da se desi
Da neću jos sira dodati
Tebi


Autor: O bože, pa to je Robi!

you may now be my hero
&
cyrillic is hard to read

chica
December 15, 2006, 06:01 AM
Too bad
Господи, да это же Робби! sounds wicked :cool:

Oh my god, it's Robby!
December 15, 2006, 06:17 AM
Too bad
???????, ?? ??? ?? ?????! sounds wicked :cool:
now ur makin me think of
http://www.rosianotomo.com/tatu/tatu-live-kiss.jpg

my comp, no speak russian
:(

chica
December 15, 2006, 06:31 AM
Ah. Don't worry, you didn't miss anything of that kind.

http://i52.photobucket.com/albums/g31/zvon-chica/EDIE/ode.jpg

-----------------------

http://i52.photobucket.com/albums/g31/zvon-chica/EDIE/OMG.jpg

Oh my god, it's Robby!
December 15, 2006, 06:33 AM
Ah. Don't worry, you didn't miss anything of that kind.

http://i52.photobucket.com/albums/g31/zvon-chica/EDIE/ode.jpg

-----------------------

http://i52.photobucket.com/albums/g31/zvon-chica/EDIE/OMG.jpg

damn!

chica
December 16, 2006, 03:33 AM
Song of the Last Meeting

by Anna Akhmatova (1889-1966)



My breast grew helplessly cold,
But my steps were light.
I pulled the glove from my left hand
Mistakenly onto my right.

It seemed there were so many steps,
But I knew there were only three!
Amidst the maples an autumn whisper
Pleaded: "Die with me!

I'm led astray by evil
Fate, so black and so untrue."
I answered: "I, too, dear one!
I, too, will die with you..."

This is a song of the final meeting.
I glanced at the house's dark frame.
Only bedroom candles burning
With an indifferent yellow flame.

chica
December 16, 2006, 03:36 AM
damn!
Damn indeed, I used the wrong tense, it should have been http://i52.photobucket.com/albums/g31/zvon-chica/EDIE/correction1.jpg or http://i52.photobucket.com/albums/g31/zvon-chica/EDIE/correction2.jpg.

Dave
December 16, 2006, 04:07 AM
http://videodetective.com/photos/727/030538_28.jpg

So I...pull over to the side of the road
I heard "Son do you know why I'm stoppin' you for?"
Cause I'm young and I'm black and my hats real low?
Do I look like a mind reader sir, I don't know
Am I under arrest or should I guess some mo'?
"Well you was doin fifty-five in a fifty-fo' "
"License and registration and step out of the car"
"Are you carryin' a weapon on you I know a lot of you are"

http://img.otvali.ru/news/7451/s__klipy__jay-z--99_problems.jpg

Busy Clippers
December 16, 2006, 04:07 AM
When you're an open wound, Russian poetry is the shit, even in translation. Here are two of my favorites from Russian Poetry For Dummies:

Silentium
Silence: hide yourself, conceal
your feelings and your dreams –
let them rise and set once more
in the abyss of your spirit,
silent, white stars in the night –
wonder at them – and be silent.

How can one’s own heart speak?
How can another know?
Will they see what you live by?
A thought once spoken is a lie:
troubling the streams, you cloud them –
drink from them – and be silent.

Know how to live deep inside –
there’s a universe in your mind
of mysterious thoughts, enchantments:
they’ll be drowned by World outside
they’ll be driven off by daylight –
hear them singing – and be silent!
-Fëdor Tyútchev

Immortal Love
Desolate the victories
of mysterious non-meeting,
phrases unspoken,
voiceless words.
Un-meeting glances
not knowing where to rest:
and tears alone are glad
to go on flowing.
Wild roses, ah, near Moscow
are in it! Who knows why…
and all this will be called
immortal love.
-Anna Akhmátova

duchess_of_fork
December 16, 2006, 04:12 AM
Apprehension

by Desanka Maksimović (1898-1993)



No… don’t come to me! I want to adore
and love your two eyes from far, far away.
For joy is beautiful just while waited for—
when only allusion comes out of its way.

No… don’t come to me! There is more allure
in waiting with sweet apprehension, fear.
Just while seeking out everything is pure;
It’s nicer when only foreboding is near.

No… don’t come to me! Why that, and what for?
Only from afar all stars spark and glee;
Only from afar we admire all.
No… let not your eyes come closer to me.

my mom adores her
when i was young, she made me recite her poetry
and i had a hat just like hers
:D

Busy Clippers
December 16, 2006, 04:23 AM
http://videodetective.com/photos/727/030538_28.jpg

So I...pull over to the side of the road
I heard "Son do you know why I'm stoppin' you for?"
Cause I'm young and I'm black and my hats real low?
Do I look like a mind reader sir, I don't know
Am I under arrest or should I guess some mo'?
"Well you was doin fifty-five in a fifty-fo' "
"License and registration and step out of the car"
"Are you carryin' a weapon on you I know a lot of you are"

http://img.otvali.ru/news/7451/s__klipy__jay-z--99_problems.jpg

How do I know you're the real Dave and not some be-wigged imposter??

Oh my god, it's Robby!
December 16, 2006, 09:20 PM
Bloody Awful by me;

I talk
but nobody listens

I see
but am blind

I know
but am empty

I love!
but am hated

I feel
but am forgotten...

chica
December 16, 2006, 09:31 PM
Who hurt your feelings, Robby?

Oh my god, it's Robby!
December 16, 2006, 09:37 PM
Who hurt your feelings, Robby?

her, a him too, the dead god, and my country!
:(

chica
December 16, 2006, 09:44 PM
When will it be better?

Oh my god, it's Robby!
December 16, 2006, 09:47 PM
When will it be better?

when i die
:confused:

chica
December 16, 2006, 09:51 PM
Oh no, you're wrong. I'll tell you. This time next year. Trust me, I know a thing or two ;)

Chartres
December 16, 2006, 09:59 PM
Anyone who wants to become a beatnick?
:)

Busy Clippers
December 16, 2006, 10:07 PM
Haiku

When you are crying
Just pretend to be Russian
No one feigns concern

Oh my god, it's Robby!
December 16, 2006, 10:08 PM
Anyone who wants to become a beatnick?
:)

my father, when he lived
http://i3.photobucket.com/albums/y86/gulrober/me/maynard.gif
oft, affectionately referred to me as Maynard G. Krebs
so much so, i had to watch Dobie Gillis to find out what the heck he was talkin about
therefore, i may already qualify

ps:when i lived in hollywood
i voted for
http://www.politicsnationwide.com/Photos/1376.jpg
Zelda!
http://www.classictvhits.com/shows/dobiegillis/pics/Dobie18.jpg

Oh my god, it's Robby!
December 16, 2006, 10:12 PM
Haiku

When you are crying
Just pretend to be Russian
No one feigns concern

pretend to be russsian
https://hn.afnews.af.mil/PFPhotos/AWE/AWE2nc.jpg
been there
done that
:D

Montague Terrace
December 17, 2006, 02:40 AM
"'tis the season to be jolly, Simon Bates is such a Wally"

BBC Radio One Mid 1980's

Practising Troublemaker
December 18, 2006, 07:51 PM
Angelic Upstart

Through the night I drove by,
I cast aside my watchful eye,
The terrain is tearfully breath taking;
The full white moon on still lakes and the stars glisten above,
I'm humbled by the elegance of the place,
There is no time and never has there been,
The notions of love seeped through the palms that clutched the wheel and to the heart that melted with each on look of this incredulous charm,
The owl swoops from its height and clasps at the prey,
Each leaf is still upon this glorious night and the atmosphere clutches at my chest and refuses to leave,
Tonight the evils seem rather coy and are replaced by bliss and immaculate joy,
The vehicle that I am controlling saunters on down the valley hills and to new out of reach bridges of life,
I glide round the corner and the dusk falls upon the sweet harmony of the mountains top.
Calum Ousby

The High Rise Estates

A needle, such a simple instrument, and one that can produce the sweetest music and the most gratifying feeling,
But, now we walk through the park glaring with utter vulgarity at the twelve year old children pushing their infantile in prams stolen from the mucky beck the previous night,
The unknown, unseen and unspeakable father slouches on the rotting sofa submersed in 10 foot of smoke and drowning any chances of life into the open neck of the whisky bottle,
The brother that is in jail for the Arndale shoplifting and the sister, who can’t tell her parents about the prospect of motherhood,
The broken bicycle chain catches on the Stella tin and trips the ill-clad vagrant to the stone floor,
At night a terrified man breaks into a sweat on hearing the screeching tyres and police sirens,
Mucky spoons and dirty leather belts that will send you spiralling up to heaven but then right back into the bottomless pit that is ‘your life’,
Then there are the words of your ‘supporting friends ‘,
Take your chance whilst you can, Get out whilst you can, Do what you must do,
I see the rope transform itself in the familiar rotary fashion, I know what to do.
Calum Ousby

I wrote both these poems when I was very bored at school. The first is inspired by what Moz said once about Scandinavia, enjoy:)

Oh my god, it's Robby!
December 18, 2006, 07:56 PM
i like, but, all bold face
hurt me eyes

Practising Troublemaker
December 18, 2006, 07:59 PM
I am truely sorry for my boldness

Oh my god, it's Robby!
December 18, 2006, 08:30 PM
The Enochian Angel Of The 7th Aethyr

"I am the Daughter of Fortitude
and ravished every hour of my youth,
for behold, I am understanding
and science dwelleth in me,
and the heavens oppress me,
they cover and desire me with an infinite appetite,
where none other has embraced me?
for I am shadowed with circle of the stars
and covered with the morning clouds.
My feet are swifter than the winds
and my hands are swifter than the morning dew
and my garments are from the beginning
and my dwelling place is in myself.
The lion knoweth not where I walk,
neither do the beasts of the field understand me.
I am deflowered, yet a virgin.
I sanctify and am not sanctified.
Happy is he that embraceth me,
for in the night season, I am sweet
and in the day, full of pleasure.
My company is a harmony of many symbols
and my lips sweeter than health itself.
I am a harlot for such as ravish me
and a virgin for such as know me not.
Purge your streets,
O ye sons of men and wash your houses clean.
Make yourselves holy and put on righteousness.
Cast out your old strumpets and burn their clothes,
then I'll bring forth children unto you
and they shall be the sons of comfort
in the age that is to come".

Practising Troublemaker
December 18, 2006, 08:36 PM
The Enochian Angel Of The 7th Aethyr

"I am the Daughter of Fortitude
and ravished every hour of my youth,
for behold, I am understanding
and science dwelleth in me,
and the heavens oppress me,
they cover and desire me with an infinite appetite,
where none other has embraced me?
for I am shadowed with circle of the stars
and covered with the morning clouds.
My feet are swifter than the winds
and my hands are swifter than the morning dew
and my garments are from the beginning
and my dwelling place is in myself.
The lion knoweth not where I walk,
neither do the beasts of the field understand me.
I am deflowered, yet a virgin.
I sanctify and am not sanctified.
Happy is he that embraceth me,
for in the night season, I am sweet
and in the day, full of pleasure.
My company is a harmony of many symbols
and my lips sweeter than health itself.
I am a harlot for such as ravish me
and a virgin for such as know me not.
Purge your streets,
O ye sons of men and wash your houses clean.
Make yourselves holy and put on righteousness.
Cast out your old strumpets and burn their clothes,
then I'll bring forth children unto you
and they shall be the sons of comfort
in the age that is to come".

Very nice and interesting :)

Busy Clippers
December 22, 2006, 03:42 PM
http://img99.imageshack.us/img99/6019/kenneth20rexroth20youngtx8.gif


Happy Birthday Kenneth Rexroth



THE ADVANTAGES OF LEARNING

I am a man with no ambitions
And few friends, wholly incapable
Of making a living, growing no
Younger, fugitive from some just doom.
Lonely, ill-clothed, what does it matter?
At midnight I make myself a jug
Of hot white wine and cardamon seeds.
In a torn grey robe and old beret,
I sit in the cold writing poems,
Drawing nudes on the crooked margins,
Copulating with sixteen year old
Nymphomaniacs of my imagination
(1944)

and


QUIETLY
Lying here quietly beside you,
My cheek against your firm, quiet thighs,
The calm music of Boccherini
Washing over us in the quiet,
As the sun leaves the housetops and goes
Out over the Pacific, quiet --
So quiet the sun moves beyond us,
So quiet as the sun always goes,
So quiet, our bodies, worn with the
Times and the penances of love, our
Brains curled, quiet in their shells, dormant,
Our hearts slow, quiet, reliable
In their interlocked rhythms, the pulse
In your thigh caressing my cheek. Quiet
(1956)

and


Married Blues
I didn’t want it, you wanted it.
Now you’ve got it you don’t like it.
You can’t get out of it now.

Pork and beans, diapers to wash,
Too poor for the movies, too tired to love.
There’s nothing we can do.

Hot stenographers on the subway.
The grocery boy’s got a big one.
We can’t do anything about it.

You’re only young once.
You’ve got to go when your time comes.
That’s how it is. Nobody can change it.

Guys in big cars whistle.
Freight trains moan in the night.
We can’t get away with it.

That’s the way life is.
Everybody’s in the same fix.
It will never be any different.

wolve
December 22, 2006, 03:51 PM
Thank you, never heard of Rexroth before but I really liked "the advantages of learning"

Oh my god, it's Robby!
December 23, 2006, 05:31 PM
speakin of charlie12 and poetry
my fave 'epic poem' by Byron is

Mazeppa

found here;
http://readytogoebooks.com/MZP21.htm

ill list part 1 now;

"Twas after dread Pultowa's day,

When fortune left the royal Swede,

Around a slaughter'd army lay,

No more to combat and to bleed

The power and glory of the war,

Faithless as their vain votaries, men,

Had pass'd to the triumphant Czar,

And Moscow's walls were safe again,

Until a day more dark and drear,

And a more memorable year,

Should give to slaughter and to shame

A mightier host and haughtier name;

A greater wreck, a deeper fall,

A shock to one - a thunderbolt to all.

wolve
December 23, 2006, 07:07 PM
Hugo Claus


Mother

I am not, I am only in your earth.
When you screamed and your skin quivered
My bones caught fire.

(My mother, caught in her skin,
Changes with the measure of the years.

Her eye is bright, escaped from the urge
Of the years through looking at me and
Calling me her happy son.

She was no stony bed, no animal fever,
Her joints were young cats,

But my skin remains unforgivable to her
And the crickets in my voice are motionless.

‘You have outgrown me,’ she says dully
Washing my father’s feet, and she is silent
Like a woman without a mouth.)

When you screamed my bones caught fire.
You put me down, I can never rebear this picture,
I was the invited but deadly guest.

And now, later, I in my manhood am strange to you.
You see me approach you, you think: ‘He is
The summer, he makes my flesh and keeps
The dogs in me alive.’

While you must die every day, not together
With me, I am not, I am not except in your earth.
In me your life perishes in rotation, you do not
Return to me, from you I do not recover.



Claus is one of my favourite Belgian poets, he was part of the Experimentalists (along with other writers and painters like Appel). This is a pretty lame translation, because the original (http://belgium.poetryinternationalweb.org/piw_cms/cms/cms_module/index.php?obj_id=891) is written in an old form of Dutch.


http://www.cultuurweb.be/cnetportal/images/img_stat/nom/Hugo210.jpg

Busy Clippers
December 23, 2006, 10:40 PM
http://img174.imageshack.us/img174/2724/xmasdecsheaderza0.jpg


'Twas the Second Day before Christmas


While they last all manger accessories
marked drastically down --

wise men, three for ten dollars;
with gold, frankincense and myrrh, twenty-five;
frankincense, myrrh only, thirteen-fifty;
angels, your choice, two dollars each;
Joseph and Mary, each nine ninety-nine;
the Christ Child with swaddling clothes, twenty dollars,
without, fourteen even; and, oh yes,
assorted shepherds, four bucks each;
picturesque manger with straw, wooden cradle,
twelve seventy-five.

End of sale.
No returns or exchanges.

Raymond Souster

virtually dead
December 27, 2006, 07:51 PM
This is the poem of a girl called Lor
and of the dungarees that she wore
she lives in Bulgaria
she drives me to hysteria
and she'll always have me writhing on the floor

Busy Clippers
January 3, 2007, 06:19 PM
http://img226.imageshack.us/img226/5277/baudelaireqb6.jpg

Anywhere Out of the World
by Charles Baudelaire

Life is a hospital where every patient is obsessed by the desire of changing beds. One would like to suffer opposite the stove, another is sure he would get well beside the window.

It always seems to me that I should be happy anywhere but where I am, and this question of moving is one that I am eternally discussing with my soul.

"Tell my, my soul, poor chilly soul, how would you like to live in Lisbon? It must be warm there, and you would be as blissful as a lizard in the sun. It is a city by the sea; they say that it is built of marble, and that its inhabitants have such a horror of the vegetable kingdom that they tear up all the trees. You see it is a country after my own heart; a country entirely made of mineral and light, and with liquid to reflect them."

My soul does not reply.

"Since you are so fond of being motionless and watching the pageantry of movement, would you like to live in the beatific land of Holland? Perhaps you could enjoy yourself in that country which you have so long admired in paintings on museum walls. What do you say to Rotterdam, you who love forests of masts, and ships that are moored on the doorsteps of houses?"

My soul remains silent.

"Perhaps you would like Batavia better? There, moreover, we should find the wit of Europe wedded to the beauty of the tropics."

Not a word. Can my soul be dead?

"Have you sunk into so deep a stupor that you are happy only in your unhappiness? If that is the case, let us fly to countries that are the counterfeits of Death. I know just the place for us, poor soul. We will pack up our trunks for Torneo. We will go still farther, to the farthest end of the Baltic Sea; still farther from life if possible; we will settle at the Pole. There the sun only obliquely grazes the earth, and the slow alternations of daylight and night abolish variety and increase that other half of nothingness, monotony. There we can take deep baths of darkness, while sometimes for our entertainment, the Aurora Borealis will shoot up its rose-red sheafs like the reflections of the fireworks of hell!"

At last my soul explodes! "Anywhere! Just so it is out of the world!"

Busy Clippers
January 6, 2007, 09:29 PM
Yeah, it's Carl Sandburg's birthday. Sufjan Stevens would want us to remember.


http://img166.imageshack.us/img166/3839/sandburg02am8.jpg

Statistics

Napoleon shifted,
Restless in the old sarcophagus
And murmured to a watchguard:
"Who goes there?"
"Twenty-one million men,
Soldiers, armies, guns,
Twenty-one million
Afoot, horseback,
In the air,
Under the sea."
And Napoleon turned to his sleep:
"It is not my world answering;
It is some dreamer who knows not
The world I marched in
From Calais to Moscow."
And he slept on
In the old sarcophagus
While the aeroplanes
Droned their motors
Between Napoleon's mausoleum
And the cool night stars.

Oh my god, it's Robby!
January 6, 2007, 09:36 PM
riddle me this;


oops
wrong thread
:o

sonof77
January 6, 2007, 09:42 PM
Do you like big dippers
or do they make you heave
I have rode on plenty that made me want to scream
others never thrill me, cannot wait till it's over
on solid ground I meander through the 4 leafed clover

Oh my god, it's Robby!
January 6, 2007, 09:45 PM
Do you like big dippers
or do they make you heave
I have rode on plenty that made me want to scream
others never thrill me, cannot wait till it's over
on solid ground I meander through the 4 leafed clover

ur kind of deep
aint u
Saint Helen?

the more you explore me!
January 6, 2007, 09:50 PM
john lennon:

The Fat Budgie

I have a little budgie
He is my very pal
I take him walks in Britain
I hope I always shall.

I call my budgie Jeffrey
My grandads name's the same
I call him after grandad
Who had a feathered brain.

Some people don't like budgies
The little yellow brats
They eat them up for breakfast
Or give them to their cats.

My uncle ate a budgie
It was so fat and fair.
I cried and called him Ronnie
He didn't seem to care

Although his name was Arthur
It didn't mean a thing.
He went into a petshop
And ate up everything.

The doctors looked inside him,
To see what they could do,
But he had been too greedy
And died just like a zoo.

My Jeffrey chirps and twitters
When I walk into the room,
I make him scrambled egg on toast
And feed him with a spoon.

He sings like other budgies
But only when in trim
But most of all on Sunday
Thats when i plug him in.

He flies about the room sometimes
And sits upon my bed
And if he's really happy
He does it on my head.

He's on a diet now you know
From eating ear too much
They say if he gets fatter
He'll have to wear a crutch.

It would be funny wouldn't it
A budgie on a stick
Imagine all the people
Laughing til they're sick.

So that's my budgie Jeffrey
Fat and yellow too
I love him more than daddie
And I'm only thirty-two.

wolve
January 7, 2007, 04:22 PM
THE SONG OF WANDERING AENGUS (W.B. Yeats)


I WENT out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread:
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.


When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire aflame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And some one called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.

Oh my god, it's Robby!
January 7, 2007, 04:27 PM
wow, yeats
what a smarty pants
wolve is

(ahem)
and now for one about an Easter
long? ago....

I HAVE met them at close of day
Coming with vivid faces
From counter or desk among grey
Eighteenth-century houses.
I have passed with a nod of the head
Or polite meaningless words,
Or have lingered awhile and said
Polite meaningless words,
And thought before I had done
Of a mocking tale or a gibe
To please a companion
Around the fire at the club,
Being certain that they and I
But lived where motley is worn:
All changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

That woman's days were spent
In ignorant good-will,
Her nights in argument
Until her voice grew shrill.
What voice more sweet than hers
When, young and beautiful,
She rode to harriers?
This man had kept a school
And rode our winged horse;
This other his helper and friend
Was coming into his force;
He might have won fame in the end,
So sensitive his nature seemed,
So daring and sweet his thought.
This other man I had dreamed
A drunken, vainglorious lout.
He had done most bitter wrong
To some who are near my heart,
Yet I number him in the song;
He, too, has resigned his part
In the casual comedy;
He, too, has been changed in his turn,
Transformed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

Hearts with one purpose alone
Through summer and winter seem
Enchanted to a stone
To trouble the living stream.
The horse that comes from the road.
The rider, the birds that range
From cloud to tumbling cloud,
Minute by minute they change;
A shadow of cloud on the stream
Changes minute by minute;
A horse-hoof slides on the brim,
And a horse plashes within it;
The long-legged moor-hens dive,
And hens to moor-cocks call;
Minute by minute they live:
The stone's in the midst of all.

Too long a sacrifice
Can make a stone of the heart.
O when may it suffice?
That is Heaven's part, our part
To murmur name upon name,
As a mother names her child
When sleep at last has come
On limbs that had run wild.
What is it but nightfall?
No, no, not night but death;
Was it needless death after all?
For England may keep faith
For all that is done and said.
We know their dream; enough
To know they dreamed and are dead;
And what if excess of love
Bewildered them till they died?
I write it out in a verse -
MacDonagh and MacBride
And Connolly and Pearse
Now and in time to be,
Wherever green is worn,
Are changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

Oh my god, it's Robby!
January 16, 2007, 06:38 AM
an idiot like me is into
Bertolt Brecht
like, alot

From the play "Mother Courage"

You saw sagacious Solomon
You know what came of him,
To him complexities seemed plain.
He cursed the hour that gave birth to him
And saw that everything was vain.
How great and wise was Solomon.
The world however did not wait
But soon observed what followed on.
It's wisdom that had brought him to this state.
How fortunate the man with none.

You saw courageous Caesar next
You know what he became.
They deified him in his life
Then had him murdered just the same.
And as they raised the fatal knife
How loud he cried: you too my son!
The world however did not wait
But soon observed what followed on.
It's courage that had brought him to that state.
How fortunate the man with none.

You heard of honest Socrates
The man who never lied:
They weren't so grateful as you'd think
Instead the rulers fixed to have him tried
And handed him the poisoned drink.
How honest was the people's noble son.
The world however did not wait
But soon observed what followed on.
It's honesty that brought him to that state.
How fortunate the man with none.

Here you can see respectable folk
Keeping to God's own laws.
So far he hasn't taken heed.
You who sit safe and warm indoors
Help to relieve our bitter need.
How virtuously we had begun.
The world however did not wait
But soon observed what followed on.
It's fear of god that brought us to that state.
How fortunate the man with none.

-though i prefer it 'auf Deutsch'
also
a wonderful band that a moron like me likes is
The Dead Can Dance
they put the poem to music
sadly with the dude singing
not the
http://i3.photobucket.com/albums/y86/gulrober/movie%20posters/lisag.jpg
angelic Lisa Gerrard

Busy Clippers
January 19, 2007, 05:55 PM
Happy Birthday, Edgar Allen Poe, you delicious old spook. Next year your party is at my house, I promise.

http://img247.imageshack.us/img247/235/poell5.jpg

A Dream Within a Dream

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow-
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand-
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep- while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?

wolve
January 21, 2007, 12:07 PM
How clear, how lovely bright,
How beautiful to sight
Those beams of morning play;
How heaven laughs out with glee
Where, like a bird set free,
Up from the eastern sea
Soars the delightful day.

To-day I shall be strong,
No more shall yield to wrong,
Shall squander life no more;
Days lost, I know not how,
I shall retrieve them now;
Now I shall keep the vow
I never kept before.

Ensanguining the skies
How heavily it dies
Into the west away;
Past touch and sight and sound
Not further to be found,
How hopeless under ground
Falls the remorseful day.
—AE Houseman

Tbevie
January 21, 2007, 12:46 PM
Requiescat

oscar wilde




TREAD lightly, she is near *
**Under the snow, *
Speak gently, she can hear *
**The daisies grow. *
**
All her bright golden hair *********
**Tarnished with rust, *
She that was young and fair *
**Fallen to dust. *
**
Lily-like, white as snow, *
**She hardly knew **
She was a woman, so *
**Sweetly she grew. *
**
Coffin-board, heavy stone, *
**Lie on her breast, *
I vex my heart alone
**She is at rest. *
**
Peace, Peace, she cannot hear *
**Lyre or sonnet, *
All my life’s buried here, *
**Heap earth upon it.
AVIGNON. *


I love Requiescat.

And so does Morrissey it would appear ;)

http://i27.photobucket.com/albums/c155/mozzerr50/Requiescat.jpg

chica
February 21, 2007, 07:31 AM
http://i52.photobucket.com/albums/g31/zvon-chica/pushkin-poem.gif



I loved you

I loved you, and I probably still do,
And for a while the feeling may remain...
But let my love no longer trouble you,
I do not wish to cause you any pain.

I loved you; and the hopelessness I knew,
The jealousy, the shyness - though in vain -
Made up a love so tender and so true
As may God grant you to be loved again.

A.S.Pushkin, 1829

Oh my god, it's Robby!
February 21, 2007, 07:38 AM
http://i52.photobucket.com/albums/g31/zvon-chica/pushkin-poem.gif



I loved you

I loved you, and I probably still do,
And for a while the feeling may remain...
But let my love no longer trouble you,
I do not wish to cause you any pain.

I loved you; and the hopelessness I knew,
The jealousy, the shyness - though in vain -
Made up a love so tender and so true
As may God grant you to be loved again.

A.S.Pushkin, 1829

so pushkin was a quitter? :o
i counter with Byron!

Fare Thee Well

Fare thee well! and if for ever,
Still for ever, fare thee well:
Even though unforgiving, never
'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.

Would that breast were bared before thee
Where thy head so oft hath lain,
While that placid sleep came o'er thee
Which thou ne'er canst know again:

Would that breast, by thee glanced over,
Every inmost thought could show!
Then thou wouldst at last discover
'Twas not well to spurn it so.

Though the world for this commend thee -
Though it smile upon the blow,
Even its praise must offend thee,
Founded on another's woe:

Though my many faults defaced me,
Could no other arm be found,
Than the one which once embraced me,
To inflict a cureless wound?

Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not;
Love may sink by slow decay,
But by sudden wrench, believe not
Hearts can thus be torn away:

Still thine own its life retaineth,
Still must mine, though bleeding, beat;
And the undying thought which paineth
Is - that we no more may meet.

These are words of deeper sorrow
Than the wail above the dead;
Both shall live, but every morrow
Wake us from a widowed bed.

And when thou wouldst solace gather,
When our child's first accents flow,
Wilt thou teach her to say "Father!"
Though his care she must forego?

When her little hands shall press thee,
When her lip to thine is pressed,
Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee,
Think of him thy love had blessed!

Should her lineaments resemble
Those thou never more may'st see,
Then thy heart will softly tremble
With a pulse yet true to me.

All my faults perchance thou knowest,
All my madness none can know;
All my hopes, where'er thou goest,
Wither, yet with thee they go.

Every feeling hath been shaken;
Pride, which not a world could bow,
Bows to thee - by thee forsaken,
Even my soul forsakes me now:

But 'tis done - all words are idle -
Words from me are vainer still;
But the thoughts we cannot bridle
Force their way without the will.

Fare thee well! thus disunited,
Torn from every nearer tie.
Seared in heart, and lone, and blighted,
More than this I scarce can die.

slum mum 1974
February 21, 2007, 09:45 AM
I never saw a wild thing
sorry for itself.
A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough
without ever having felt sorry for itself.

D.H.Lawrence.

slum mum 1974
February 21, 2007, 09:47 AM
William Wordsworth.

ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN REPUBLIC

ONCE did She hold the gorgeous east in fee;
And was the safeguard of the west: the worth
Of Venice did not fall below her birth,
Venice, the eldest Child of Liberty.
She was a maiden City, bright and free;
No guile seduced, no force could violate;
And, when she took unto herself a Mate,
She must espouse the everlasting Sea.
And what if she had seen those glories fade,
Those titles vanish, and that strength decay;
Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid
When her long life hath reached its final day:
Men are we, and must grieve when even the Shade
Of that which once was great, is passed away.

Lost
March 9, 2007, 12:17 AM
Best Society by Philip Larkin


When I was a child, I thought,
Casually, that solitude
Never needed to be sought.
Something everybody had,
Like nakedness, it lay at hand,
Not specially right or specially wrong,
A plentiful and obvious thing
Not at all hard to understand.

Then, after twenty, it became
At once more difficult to get
And more desired - though all the same
More undesirable; for what
You are alone has, to achieve
The rank of fact, to be expressed
In terms of others, or it's just
A compensating make-believe.

Much better stay in company!
To love you must have someone else,
Giving requires a legatee,
Good neighbours need whole parishfuls
Of folk to do it on - in short,
Our virtues are all social; if,
Deprived of solitude, you chafe,
It's clear you're not the virtuous sort.

Viciously, then, I lock my door.
The gas-fire breathes. The wind outside
Ushers in evening rain. Once more
Uncontradicting solitude
Supports me on its giant palm;
And like a sea-anemone
Or simple snail, there cautiously
Unfolds, emerges, what I am.

Philip Larkin

Oh my god, it's Robby!
March 9, 2007, 12:23 AM
My Dear and Only Love

My dear and only Love, I pray
This noble world of thee
Be govern'd by no other sway
But purest monarchy;
For if confusion have a part,
Which virtuous souls abhor,
And hold a synod in thy heart,
I'll never love thee more.

Like Alexander I will reign,
And I will reign alone,
My thoughts shall evermore disdain
A rival on my throne.
He either fears his fate too much,
Or his deserts are small,
That puts it not unto the touch
To win or lose it all.

But I must rule and govern still,
And always give the law,
And have each subject at my will,
And all to stand in awe.
But 'gainst my battery, if I find
Thou shunn'st the prize so sore
As that thou sett'st me up a blind,
I'll never love thee more.

Or in the empire of thy heart,
Where I should solely be,
Another do pretend a part
And dares to vie with me;
Or if committees thou erect,
And go on such a score,
I'll sing and laugh at thy neglect,
And never love thee more.

But if thou wilt be constant then,
And faithful of thy word,
I'll make thee glorious by my pen
And famous by my sword:
I'll serve thee in such noble ways
Was never heard before;
I'll crown and deck thee all with bays,
And love thee evermore.

by James Graham, 1st Marquis of Montrose, 1612-1650
soldier, hero, poet & Scotsman!

slum mum 1974
March 10, 2007, 07:47 PM
Conceit

It is conceit that kills us
and makes us cowards instead of gods.

Under the great Command: Know thy self, and that thou art mortal!
we have become fatally self-conscious, fatally self-important, fatally entangled in the Laocoön coils of our conceit.

Now we have to admit we can't know ourselves, we can only know about ourselves.
And I am not interested to know about myself any more,
I only entangle myself in the knowing.

Now let me be myself,
now let me be myself, and flicker forth,
now let me be myself, in the being, one of the gods.





- D.H.Lawrence

Oh my god, it's Robby!
March 10, 2007, 07:53 PM
thats a good one slum
me also like this by dh;

What would you fight for?

I am not sure I would always fight for my life.
Life might not be worth fighting for.

I am not sure I would always fight for my wife.
A wife isn't always worth fighting for.

Nor my children, nor my country, nor my fellow-men.
It all deprnds whether I found them worth fighting for.

The only thing men invariably fight for
Is their money. But I doubt if I'd fight for mine, anyhow
not to shed a lot of blood over it.

Yet one thing I do fight for, tooth and nail, all the time.
And that is my bit of inward peace, where I am at one
with myself.

And I must say, I am often worsted.

chica
March 10, 2007, 07:57 PM
Somebody mentioned Bukowski...

The History Of One Tough Motherfucker


he came to the door one night wet thin beaten and
terrorized
a white cross-eyed tailless cat
I took him in and fed him and he stayed
grew to trust me until a friend drove up the driveway
and ran him over
I took what was left to a vet who said,"not much
chance…give him these pills…his backbone
is crushed, but is was crushed before and somehow
mended, if he lives he'll never walk, look at
these x-rays, he's been shot, look here, the pellets
are still there…also, he once had a tail, somebody
cut it off…"
I took the cat back, it was a hot summer, one of the
hottest in decades, I put him on the bathroom
floor, gave him water and pills, he wouldn't eat, he
wouldn't touch the water, I dipped my finger into it
and wet his mouth and I talked to him, I didn't go any-
where, I put in a lot of bathroom time and talked to
him and gently touched him and he looked back at
me with those pale blue crossed eyes and as the days went
by he made his first move
dragging himself forward by his front legs
(the rear ones wouldn't work)
he made it to the litter box
crawled over and in,
it was like the trumpet of possible victory
blowing in that bathroom and into the city, I
related to that cat-I'd had it bad, not that
bad but bad enough
one morning he got up, stood up, fell back down and
just looked at me.
"you can make it," I said to him.
he kept trying, getting up falling down, finally
he walked a few steps, he was like a drunk, the
rear legs just didn't want to do it and he fell again, rested,
then got up.
you know the rest: now he's better than ever, cross-eyed
almost toothless, but the grace is back, and that look in
his eyes never left…
and now sometimes I'm interviewed, they want to hear about
life and literature and I get drunk and hold up my cross-eyed,
shot, runover de-tailed cat and I say,"look, look
at this!"
but they don't understand, they say something like,"you
say you've been influenced by Celine?"
"no," I hold the cat up,"by what happens, by
things like this, by this, by this!"
I shake the cat, hold him up in
the smoky and drunken light, he's relaxed he knows…
it's then that the interviews end
although I am proud sometimes when I see the pictures
later and there I am and there is the cat and we are photo-
graphed together.
he too knows it's bullshit but that somehow it all helps.

Oh my god, it's Robby!
March 10, 2007, 07:59 PM
i was @ a reading he gave in 93
he was rad
even then

slum mum 1974
March 10, 2007, 08:16 PM
Thanks Robby...:)

Let us talk, let us laugh, let us tell
all kinds of things to one another;
Men and women, let us be
Gay and amusing together, and free
From airs and from false modesty.

But at the same time, don’t let’s think.
That this quite real intimacy
Of talk and thought and me-to-thee
Means anything further and physical.

Nay, on the very contrary
All this talking intimacy
Is only real and right if we
Keep ourselves separate physically
And quite apart.

To proceed from mental intimacy
To physical, is just messy,
And really, a nasty violation,
And the ruin of any decent relation
Between us -

meat_is_murder19
March 10, 2007, 08:26 PM
I wandered through each chartered street,
Near where the chartered Thames does flow,
A mark in every face I meet,
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.


In every cry of every man,
In every infant's cry of fear,
In every voice, in every ban,
The mind-forged manacles I hear:


How the chimney-sweeper's cry
Every blackening church appals,
And the hapless soldier's sigh
Runs in blood down palace-walls.


But most, through midnight streets I hear
How the youthful harlot's curse
Blasts the new-born infant's tear,
And blights with plagues the marriage-hearse.

slum mum 1974
March 10, 2007, 08:26 PM
Sane and Insane

The puritan is insane
and the profligate is insane
and they divide the world.

The wealthy are insane
and the poverty-stricken are insane
and the world is going to pieces between them.

The puritan is afraid
and the profligate is afraid

The wealthy are afraid
and the poverty-stricken are afraid.

They are afraid with horrible and opposing fears
which threaten to tear the world in two, between them.

D.H. Lawrence

Oh my god, it's Robby!
March 10, 2007, 08:31 PM
1st of all
where is Electric ladyland?
now for more DH
i can even recite this one:

Glory

Glory is the sun, too, and the sun of suns,
and down the shafts of his splendid pinions
run tiny rivers of peace.

Most of his time, the tiger pads and slouches in a burning
peace.
And the small hawk high up turns round on the slow pivot of
peace
Peace comes from behind the sun, with the peregrine falcon,
and the owl.
Yet all of these drink blood.

slum mum 1974
March 10, 2007, 08:40 PM
At Last

When things get very bad, they pass beyond tragedy.
And then the only thing we can do is to keep quite still
and guard the last treasure of the soul, our sanity.

Since, poor individuals that we are,
if we lose our sanity
we lose that which keeps us individual
distinct from chaos.

In death, the atom takes us up
and the suns.

But if we lose our sanity
nothing and nobody in the whole vast realm of space
wants us, or can have anything to do with us.

We can but howl the lugubrious howl of idiots,
the howl of the utterly lost
howling their nowhereness

D.H.Lawrence

Oh my god, it's Robby!
March 10, 2007, 08:45 PM
man
that was a real drag :(
good though :o
ok
one last dh from me;

All I ask

All I ask of a woman is that she shall feel gently towards
me
when my heart feels kindly towards her,
and there shall be the soft, soft tremor as of unheard bells
between us.
It is all I ask.
I am so tired of violent women lashing out and insisting
on being loved, when there is no love in them.

slum mum 1974
March 10, 2007, 08:47 PM
I love that one Robby, thank you:)......in fact i love D.H.Lawrence...

Elemental

Why don’t people leave off being loveable
Or thinking they are loveable, or wanting to be loveable,
And be a bit elemental instead?

Since man is made up of the elements
Fire, and rain, and air, and live loam
And none of these is loveable
But elemental,
Man is lop-sided on the side of the angels.

I wish men would get back their balance among the elements
And be a bit more fiery, as incapable of telling lies
As fire is.

I wish they’d be true to their own variation, as water is,
Which goes through all the stages of steam and stream and ice
Without losing its head.

I am sick of loveable people,
Somehow they are a lie.

slum mum 1974
March 10, 2007, 08:59 PM
Last one (for now:D)

Fidelity

Fidelity and love are two different things, like a flower
and a gem.
And love, like a flower, will fade, will change into some-
thing else
or it would not be flowery.

O flowers they fade because they are moving swiftly; a
little torrent of life
leaps up to the summit of the stem, gleams, turns over
round the bend
of the parabola of curved flight,
sinks, and is gone, like a comet curving into the invisible.

O flowers they are all the time travelling
like comets, and they come into our ken
for a day, for two days, and withdraw, slowly vanish again.

And we, we must take them on the wind, and let them go.
Embalmed flowers are not flowers, immortelles are not
flowers;
flowers are just a motion, a swift motion, a coloured
gesture;
that is their loveliness. And that is love.

But a gem is different. It lasts so much longer than we do
so much much much longer
that it seems to last forever.
Yet we know it is flowing away
as flowers are, and we are, only slower.
The wonderful slow flowing of the sapphire!

All flows, and every flow is related to every other flow.
Flowers and sapphires and us, diversely streaming.
In the old days, when sapphires were breathed upon and
brought forth
during the wild orgasms of chaos
time was much slower, when the rocks came forth.
It took aeons to make a sapphire, aeons for it to pass away.

And a flower it takes a summer.

And man and woman are like the earth, that brings forth
flowers
in summer, and love, but underneath is rock.
Older than flowers, older than ferns, older than fora-
miniferae
older than plasm altogether is the soul of a man under-
neath.

And when, throughout all the wild orgasms of love
slowly a gem forms, in the ancient, once-more molten
rocks
of two human hearts, two ancient rocks, a man’s heart
and a woman’s,
that is the crystal of peace, the slow hard jewel of trust,
the sapphire of fidelity.
The gem of mutual peace emerging from the wild chaos of love.


Probably one of my all time favourites....:)

Oh my god, it's Robby!
March 10, 2007, 09:03 PM
Elementa
thats a great
now
moving on...

this one can bring a tear to my eye if i read it out loud;

O Captain! My Captain!

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;
The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring.
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red!
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

O captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up! For you the flag is flung, for you the bugle trills:
For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths, for you the shores a-crowding:
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning.
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head;
It is some dream that on the deck,
You've fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won!
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
But I with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

by Walt Whitman

slum mum 1974
March 10, 2007, 09:21 PM
I can see why that would bring a tear to your eye ....very good poem though.:)

Albion
March 10, 2007, 09:26 PM
L' Aube Apirituelle Charles Baudelaire
Quand chez les débauchés l'aube blanche et vermeille
Entre en société de l'Idéal rongeur,
Par l'opération d'un mystère vengeur
Dans la brute assoupie un ange se réveille.

Des Cieux Spirituels l'inaccessible azur,
Pour l'homme terrassé qui rêve encore et souffre,
S'ouvre et s'enfonce avec l'attirance du gouffre.
Ainsi, chère Déesse , Être lucide et pur,

Sur les débris fumeux des stupides orgies
Ton souvenir plus clair, plus rose, plus charmant ,
A mes yeux agrandis voltige incessamment.

Le soleil a noirci la flamme des bougies ;
Ainsi, toujours vainqueur, ton fantôme est pareil,
Ame resplendissante, à l'immortel soleil !

English translation The Spiritual Dawn
When white and ruby dawn among the rakes
Breaks in, she's with the harrying Ideal,
And by some strange retributive appeal
Within the sleepy brute, an angel wakes

The perfect blue of Spiritual Skies-
For the lost man who dreams and suffers, this
Pierces him, afscinates like the abyss.
And so, dear Goddess, lucid, pure and wise,

Over debris the origies leave behind
Your memor, more rosy, more divine
Constantly flickers in my vision's sight.

The sun has blackened candles of the night;
Your phantom does the same, o conquering one,
Resplendent soul, of the immortal sun!

L'Infinito Giacomo Leopardi
Sempre caro mi fu quest'ermo colle,
E questa siepe, che da tanta parte
Dell'ultimo orizzonte il guardo esclude.
Ma sedendo e mirando, interminati
Spazi di là da quella, e sovrumani
Silenzi, e profondissima quïete
Io nel pensier mi fingo, ove per poco
Il cor non si spaura. E come il vento
Odo stormir tra queste piante, io quello
Infinito silenzio a questa voce
Vo comparando: e mi sovvien l'eterno,
E le morte stagioni, e la presente
E viva, e il suon di lei. Così tra questa
Immensità s'annega il pensier mio:
E il naufragar m'è dolce in questo mare

English translation Infinitive
I've always loved this lonesome hill
And this hedge that hides
The entire horizon, almost, from sight.
But sitting here in a daydream, I picture
The boundless spaces way ou there, silences
Deeper than human silence, an unfathomable hush
In which my heart is hardly a beat
From fear. And hearing the wind
Rush rustling through these bushes,
I pit its speech against infinite silence-
And a notion of eternity floats to mind,
And the dead seasons, and the season
Beating here and now, and the sound of it. So,
In this immensity my thoughts all drown;
And its easeful to be wrecked in seas like these.

Albion
March 10, 2007, 09:27 PM
She Walks In Beauty Lord Byron
She walks in beauty like the night
of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
meets in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
had half impair'd the nameless grace
which waves in every raven tress,
or softly lightens o'er her face -
where thoughts serenely sweet express
how pure, how dear their dwelling - place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
so soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
the smiles that win, the tints that glow,
but tells in days of goodness spent,
a mind at peace with all below,
a heart whose love is innocent.

How to Die Siegfried Sassoon

Dark clouds are smouldering into red
While down the craters morning burns.
The dying soldier shifts his head
To watch the glory that returns;
He lifts his fingers toward the skies
Where holy brightness breaks in flame;
Radiance reflected in his eyes,
And on his lips a whispered name.

You’d think, to hear some people talk,
That lads go West with sobs and curses,
And sullen faces white as chalk,
Hankering for wreaths and tombs and hearses.
But they’ve been taught the way to do it
Like Christian soldiers; not with haste
And shuddering groans; but passing through it
With due regard for decent taste.

To Autumn John Keats

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, --
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

Albion
March 10, 2007, 09:28 PM
We Are Seven William Wordsworth

A Simple Child, dear brother jim
That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage Girl:
She was eight years old, she said;
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That clustered round her head.

She had a rustic, woodland air,
And she was wildly clad:
Her eyes were fair, and very fair;
--Her beauty made me glad.

"Sisters and brothers, little Maid,
How many may you be?"
"How many? Seven in all, " she said
And wondering looked at me.

"And where are they? I pray you tell."
She answered, "Seven are we;
And two of us at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea.

"Two of us in the church-yard lie,
My sister and my brother;
And, in the church-yard cottage, I
Dwell near them with my mother."

"You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea,
Yet ye are seven!--I pray you tell,
Sweet Maid, how this may be."

Then did the little Maid reply,
"Seven boys and girls are we;
Two of us in the church-yard lie,
Beneath the church-yard tree."

"You run about, my little Maid,
Your limbs they are alive;
If two are in the church-yard laid,
Then ye are only five."

"Their graves are green, they may be seen, "
The little Maid replied,
"Twelve steps or more from my mother's door,
And they are side by side.

"My stockings there I often knit,
My kerchief there I hem;
And there upon the ground I sit,
And sing a song to them.

"And often after sunset, Sir,
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there.

"The first that died was sister Jane;
In bed she moaning lay,
Till God released her of her pain;
And then she went away.

"So in the church-yard she was laid;
And, when the grass was dry,
Together round her grave we played,
My brother John and I.

"And when the ground was white with snow,
And I could run and slide,
My brother John was forced to go,
And he lies by her side."

"How many are you, then, " said I,
"If they two are in heaven?"
Quick was the little Maid's reply,
"O Master! we are seven."

"But they are dead; those two are dead!
Their spirits are in heaven!"
'Twas throwing words away; for still
The little Maid would have her will,
And said, "Nay, we are seven!"

Auguries of Innocence William Blake
To see a World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower,
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour.

A Robin Red breast in a Cage
Puts all Heaven in a Rage.
A dove house fill'd with doves & Pigeons
Shudders Hell thro' all its regions.
A dog starv'd at his Master's Gate
Predicts the ruin of the State.
A Horse misus'd upon the Road
Calls to Heaven for Human blood.
Each outcry of the hunted Hare
A fibre from the Brain does tear.
A Skylark wounded in the wing,
A Cherubim does cease to sing.
The Game Cock clipp'd and arm'd for fight
Does the Rising Sun affright.
Every Wolf's & Lion's howl
Raises from Hell a Human Soul.
The wild deer, wand'ring here & there,
Keeps the Human Soul from Care.
The Lamb misus'd breeds public strife
And yet forgives the Butcher's Knife.
The Bat that flits at close of Eve
Has left the Brain that won't believe.
The Owl that calls upon the Night
Speaks the Unbeliever's fright.
He who shall hurt the little Wren
Shall never be belov'd by Men.
He who the Ox to wrath has mov'd
Shall never be by Woman lov'd.
The wanton Boy that kills the Fly
Shall feel the Spider's enmity.
He who torments the Chafer's sprite
Weaves a Bower in endless Night.
The Catterpillar on the Leaf
Repeats to thee thy Mother's grief.
Kill not the Moth nor Butterfly,
For the Last Judgement draweth nigh.
He who shall train the Horse to War
Shall never pass the Polar Bar.
The Beggar's Dog & Widow's Cat,
Feed them & thou wilt grow fat.
The Gnat that sings his Summer's song
Poison gets from Slander's tongue.
The poison of the Snake & Newt
Is the sweat of Envy's Foot.
The poison of the Honey Bee
Is the Artist's Jealousy.
The Prince's Robes & Beggars' Rags
Are Toadstools on the Miser's Bags.
A truth that's told with bad intent
Beats all the Lies you can invent.
It is right it should be so;
Man was made for Joy & Woe;
And when this we rightly know
Thro' the World we safely go.
Joy & Woe are woven fine,
A Clothing for the Soul divine;
Under every grief & pine
Runs a joy with silken twine.
The Babe is more than swadling Bands;
Throughout all these Human Lands
Tools were made, & born were hands,
Every Farmer Understands.
Every Tear from Every Eye
Becomes a Babe in Eternity.
This is caught by Females bright
And return'd to its own delight.
The Bleat, the Bark, Bellow & Roar
Are Waves that Beat on Heaven's Shore.
The Babe that weeps the Rod beneath
Writes Revenge in realms of death.
The Beggar's Rags, fluttering in Air,
Does to Rags the Heavens tear.
The Soldier arm'd with Sword & Gun,
Palsied strikes the Summer's Sun.
The poor Man's Farthing is worth more
Than all the Gold on Afric's Shore.
One Mite wrung from the Labrer's hands
Shall buy & sell the Miser's lands:
Or, if protected from on high,
Does that whole Nation sell & buy.
He who mocks the Infant's Faith
Shall be mock'd in Age & Death.
He who shall teach the Child to Doubt
The rotting Grave shall ne'er get out.
He who respects the Infant's faith
Triumph's over Hell & Death.
The Child's Toys & the Old Man's Reasons
Are the Fruits of the Two seasons.
The Questioner, who sits so sly,
Shall never know how to Reply.
He who replies to words of Doubt
Doth put the Light of Knowledge out.
The Strongest Poison ever known
Came from Caesar's Laurel Crown.
Nought can deform the Human Race
Like the Armour's iron brace.
When Gold & Gems adorn the Plow
To peaceful Arts shall Envy Bow.
A Riddle or the Cricket's Cry
Is to Doubt a fit Reply.
The Emmet's Inch & Eagle's Mile
Make Lame Philosophy to smile.
He who Doubts from what he sees
Will ne'er believe, do what you Please.
If the Sun & Moon should doubt
They'd immediately Go out.
To be in a Passion you Good may do,
But no Good if a Passion is in you.
The Whore & Gambler, by the State
Licenc'd, build that Nation's Fate.
The Harlot's cry from Street to Street
Shall weave Old England's winding Sheet.
The Winner's Shout, the Loser's Curse,
Dance before dead England's Hearse.
Every Night & every Morn
Some to Misery are Born.
Every Morn & every Night
Some are Born to sweet Delight.
Some ar Born to sweet Delight,
Some are born to Endless Night.
We are led to Believe a Lie
When we see not Thro' the Eye
Which was Born in a Night to Perish in a Night
When the Soul Slept in Beams of Light.
God Appears & God is Light
To those poor Souls who dwell in the Night,
But does a Human Form Display
To those who Dwell in Realms of day.

Her Voice Oscar Wilde
The wild bee reels from bough to bough
With his furry coat and his gauzy wing.
Now in a lily-cup, and now
Setting a jacinth bell a-swing,
In his wandering;
Sit closer love: it was here I trow
I made that vow,

Swore that two lives should be like one
As long as the sea-gull loved the sea,
As long as the sunflower sought the sun, --
It shall be, I said, for eternity
'Twixt you and me!
Dear friend, those times are over and done,
Love's web is spun.

Look upward where the poplar trees
Sway and sway in the summer air,
Here in the valley never a breeze
Scatters the thistledown, but there
Great winds blow fair
From the mighty murmuring mystical seas,
And the wave-lashed leas.

Look upward where the white gull screams,
What does it see that we do not see?
Is that a star? or the lamp that gleams
On some outward voyaging argosy, --
Ah! can it be
We have lived our lives in a land of dreams!
How sad it seems.

Sweet, there is nothing left to say
But this, that love is never lost,
Keen winter stabs the breasts of May
Whose crimson roses burst his frost,
Ships tempest-tossed
Will find a harbour in some bay,
And so we may.

And there is nothing left to do
But to kiss once again, and part,
Nay, there is nothing we should rue,
I have my beauty, --you your Art,
Nay, do not start,
One world was not enough for two
Like me and you.

Oh my god, it's Robby!
March 10, 2007, 09:29 PM
L' Aube Apirituelle Charles Baudelaire
Quand chez les débauchés l'aube blanche et vermeille
Entre en société de l'Idéal rongeur,
Par l'opération d'un mystère vengeur
Dans la brute assoupie un ange se réveille.

Des Cieux Spirituels l'inaccessible azur,
Pour l'homme terrassé qui rêve encore et souffre,
S'ouvre et s'enfonce avec l'attirance du gouffre.
Ainsi, chère Déesse , Être lucide et pur,

Sur les débris fumeux des stupides orgies
Ton souvenir plus clair, plus rose, plus charmant ,
A mes yeux agrandis voltige incessamment.

Le soleil a noirci la flamme des bougies ;
Ainsi, toujours vainqueur, ton fantôme est pareil,
Ame resplendissante, à l'immortel soleil !

English translation The Spiritual Dawn
When white and ruby dawn among the rakes
Breaks in, she's with the harrying Ideal,
And by some strange retributive appeal
Within the sleepy brute, an angel wakes

The perfect blue of Spiritual Skies-
For the lost man who dreams and suffers, this
Pierces him, afscinates like the abyss.
And so, dear Goddess, lucid, pure and wise,

Over debris the origies leave behind
Your memor, more rosy, more divine
Constantly flickers in my vision's sight.

The sun has blackened candles of the night;
Your phantom does the same, o conquering one,
Resplendent soul, of the immortal sun!

L'Infinito Giacomo Leopardi
Sempre caro mi fu quest'ermo colle,
E questa siepe, che da tanta parte
Dell'ultimo orizzonte il guardo esclude.
Ma sedendo e mirando, interminati
Spazi di là da quella, e sovrumani
Silenzi, e profondissima quïete
Io nel pensier mi fingo, ove per poco
Il cor non si spaura. E come il vento
Odo stormir tra queste piante, io quello
Infinito silenzio a questa voce
Vo comparando: e mi sovvien l'eterno,
E le morte stagioni, e la presente
E viva, e il suon di lei. Così tra questa
Immensità s'annega il pensier mio:
E il naufragar m'è dolce in questo mare

English translation Infinitive
I've always loved this lonesome hill
And this hedge that hides
The entire horizon, almost, from sight.
But sitting here in a daydream, I picture
The boundless spaces way ou there, silences
Deeper than human silence, an unfathomable hush
In which my heart is hardly a beat
From fear. And hearing the wind
Rush rustling through these bushes,
I pit its speech against infinite silence-
And a notion of eternity floats to mind,
And the dead seasons, and the season
Beating here and now, and the sound of it. So,
In this immensity my thoughts all drown;
And its easeful to be wrecked in seas like these.

Baudelaire!
http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/e/e0/Charles_Baudelaire.jpg
what a glorious madman he was :)

Codreanu
March 10, 2007, 09:38 PM
Canto XLV
by Ezra Pound

(click here (http://www.salon.com/src/ads/popup.html?audio=http://media.salon.com/mp3s/pound.mp3) to hear it read by the author)

With usura hath no man a house of good stone
each block cut smooth and well fitting
that design might cover their face,

with usura

hath no man a painted paradise on his church wall
harpes et luthes(1)
or where virgin receiveth message
and halo projects from incision,

with usura

seeth no man Gonzaga(2) his heirs and his concubines
no picture is made to endure nor to live with
but it is made to sell and sell quickly

with usura, sin against nature,
is thy bread ever more of stale rags
is thy bread dry as paper,
with no mountain wheat, no strong flour

with usura the line grows thick(3)

with usura is no clear demarcation
and no man can find site for his dwelling
Stone cutter is kept from his stone
weaver is kept from his loom

WITH USURA

wool comes not to market
sheep bringeth no grain with usura
Usura is a murrain, usura
blunteth the needle in the the maid's hand
and stoppeth the spinner's cunning. Pietro Lombardo
came not by usura
Duccio came not by usura
nor Pier della Francesca; Zuan Bellin' not by usura
nor was "La Callunia" painted.
Came not by usura Angelico; came not Ambrogio Praedis,
Came no church of cut stone signed: Adamo me fecit(4).

Not by usura St. Trophime

Not by usura St. Hilaire,

Usura rusteth the chisel
It rusteth the craft and the craftsman
It gnaweth the thread in the loom
None learneth to weave gold in her pattern;
Azure hath a canker by usura; cramoisi is unbroidered
Emerald findeth no Memling

Usura slayeth the child in the womb
It stayeth the young man's courting
It hath brought palsey to bed, lyeth
between the young bride and her bridegroom

         CONTRA NATURAM

They have brought whores for Eleusis
Corpses are set to banquet

at behest of usura.

(1) harpes et luz: "harps and lures"; part of line 896 from Villon's Testament in the ballad for his mother, where she speaks of seeking paradise painted.

(2) refers to a fresco by Mantegna, part of the point being that a fresco is an integral part of the building, the sort of thing you don't do on a bank's money. A house build via urura is an anonymous shell that can be repossessed and sold.

(3) line grows thick: Pound wrote: "I suggest that finer and future critics of art will be able to tell from the quality of a painting the degree of tolerance or intolerance of usury extant in the age and milieu that produced it"

(4) Adamo me fecit: "Adam made me": Inscription on pillar in Church of San Zano, Verona. Pound makes much of this column, which the artist was proud enough of to sign, and contrasts it with columns turned out by the hundreds in modern times.


http://img408.imageshack.us/img408/6438/ezrapoundbooking759443np8.jpg

Oh my god, it's Robby!
March 10, 2007, 09:46 PM
thx for that cod :)
and speaking of crazy, that ezra :rolleyes:

Albion
March 10, 2007, 09:54 PM
Suicide in the Trenches Siegfried Sassoon
I knew a simple soldier boy
Who grinned at life in empty joy,
Slept soundly through the lonesome dark,
And whistled early with the lark.

In winter trenches, cowed and glum,
With crumbs and lice and lack of rum,
He put a bullet through his brain.
No one spoke of him again.



You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye
Who cheer when soldier lads march by,
Sneak home and pray you'll never know
The hell where youth and laughter go.

A Little Boy Lost William Blake

v'Nought loves another as itself,
Nor venerates another so,
Nor is it possible to thought
A greater than itself to know.

'And, father, how can I love you
Or any of my brothers more?
I love you like the little bird
That picks up crumbs around the door.'

The Priest sat by and heard the child;
In trembling zeal he seized his hair,
He led him by his little coat,
And all admired the priestly care.

And standing on the altar high,
'Lo, what a fiend is here! said he:
'One who sets reason up for judge
Of our most holy mystery.'

The weeping child could not be heard,
The weeping parents wept in vain:
They stripped him to his little shirt,
And bound him in an iron chain,

And burned him in a holy place
Where many had been burned before;
The weeping parents wept in vain.
Are such thing done on Albion's shore?

Albion
March 10, 2007, 09:54 PM
Far away, near the sea
I met the most beautiful girl
Who one day said to me
"How did you ever find your way here?"
Silence came and conquered all
I was struck by the strangest fear
To fill the space
I said something stupid and untrue
Though deep inside; I know that she knew
From there on it only spelled the end
For the fair haired girl who had become my friend
I saw her off that very night
Watched as her lifeless body
Was drowned beneath the tide
Looking back it was such a shame
Though to be perfectly honest
She only had herself to blame
For reading through my notes and diary
Discovering the truth; revealing the real me
That sealed her sad and tragic fate
From their on she could only ever be
DECEASED

Oh my god, it's Robby!
March 10, 2007, 10:01 PM
Siegfried Sassoon
http://i3.photobucket.com/albums/y86/gulrober/IM.jpg
one of the 'great war poets'

Attack
http://www.geocities.com/capitolhill/8103/Assault.jpg
AT dawn the ridge emerges massed and dun
In the wild purple of the glow'ring sun,
Smouldering through spouts of drifting smoke that shroud
The menacing scarred slope; and, one by one,
Tanks creep and topple forward to the wire.
The barrage roars and lifts. Then, clumsily bowed
With bombs and guns and shovels and battle-gear,
Men jostle and climb to meet the bristling fire.
Lines of grey, muttering faces, masked with fear,
They leave their trenches, going over the top,
While time ticks blank and busy on their wrists,
And hope, with furtive eyes and grappling fists,
Flounders in mud. O Jesus, make it stop!

Oh my god, it's Robby!
March 11, 2007, 12:22 AM
Poems, Potato

The word, defining, muzzles; the drawn line
Ousts mistier peers and thrives, murderous,
In establishments which imagined lines

Can only haunt. Sturdy as potatoes,
Stones, without conscience, word and line endure,
Given an inch. Not that they're gross (although

Afterthought often would have them alter
To delicacy, to poise) but that they
Shortchange me continuously: whether

More or other, they still dissatisfy.
Unpoemed, unpictured, the potato
Bunches its knobby browns on a vastly
Superior page; the blunt stone also.

by Sylvia Plath

lilybett
March 12, 2007, 10:14 PM
I will never ever get over how lovely this poem is. It's so sort-of sick, I can only ever enjoy it on my own. I think I'd vomit if I had to share the experience with anybody else!

It's untitled, by Simon Armitage and in the 'The Book of Matches' collection (which is excellent cover-to-cover)

Let me put it this way:
if you came to lay

your sleeping head
against my arm or sleeve,

and if my arm went dead,
or if I had to take my leave

at midnight, I should rather
cleave it from the joint or seam

than make a scene
or bring you round.

There,
how does that sound?

chica
March 24, 2007, 08:48 PM
Leonard Cohen - A Thousand Kisses Deep (http://www.sendspace.com/file/a209j2)

A poem that became a song.

http://www.leonardcohenfiles.com/news3.html

Oh my god, it's Robby!
April 2, 2007, 09:46 PM
DEATH be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then;
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.
by
John Donne
(1572-1631)

Busy Clippers
April 16, 2007, 01:25 PM
Ode to the Lemon

From blossoms
released
by the moonlight,
from an
aroma of exasperated
love,
steeped in fragrance,
yellowness
drifted from the lemon tree,
and from its planetarium
lemons descended to the earth.

Tender yield!
The coasts,
the markets glowed
with light, with
unrefined gold;
we opened
two halves
of a miracle,
congealed acid
trickled
from the hemispheres
of a star,
the most intense liqueur
of nature,
unique, vivid,
concentrated,
born of the cool, fresh
lemon,
of its fragrant house,
its acid, secret symmetry.

Knives
sliced a small
cathedral
in the lemon,
the concealed apse, opened,
revealed acid stained glass,
drops
oozed topaz,
altars,
cool architecture.

So, when you hold
the hemisphere
of a cut lemon
above your plate,
you spill
a universe of gold,
a
yellow goblet
of miracles,
a fragrant nipple
of the earth's breast,
a ray of light that was made fruit,
the minute fire of a planet.

-- Pablo Neruda

in_a_loveless_world
April 16, 2007, 06:56 PM
Speak!-Wordsworth

WHY art thou silent! Is thy love a plant
Of such weak fibre that the treacherous air
Of absence withers what was once so fair?
Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant?
Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant—
Bound to thy service with unceasing care,
The mind's least generous wish a mendicant
For nought but what thy happiness could spare.
Speak—though this soft warm heart, once free to hold
A thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine,
Be left more desolate, more dreary cold
Than a forsaken bird's-nest filled with snow
'Mid its own bush of leafless eglantine—
Speak, that my torturing doubts their end may know!

in_a_loveless_world
April 16, 2007, 06:57 PM
I buried myself, my thoughts, and everything I said
Is that a reason to deny me?
I’ve already fallen in your trap,
your secret one,
Incase you didn’t know, love.
Oh, can I call later?
Can you call?
I put the note under my pillow but its still there and
The magic didn’t work.
I didn’t want anything
Just more of your time
But time isn’t there.
Do you even feel it?
Its been too long to say
But I can still remember like I remember that way I am.
It sits still in my head, dormant.
A dead star never grows.
Oh what a thought,
I thought it would only last for eight years.
-By Me :)

Oh my god, it's Robby!
April 16, 2007, 06:59 PM
Ode to the Lemon

From blossoms
released
by the moonlight,
from an
aroma of exasperated
love,
steeped in fragrance,
yellowness
drifted from the lemon tree,
and from its planetarium
lemons descended to the earth.

Tender yield!
The coasts,
the markets glowed
with light, with
unrefined gold;
we opened
two halves
of a miracle,
congealed acid
trickled
from the hemispheres
of a star,
the most intense liqueur
of nature,
unique, vivid,
concentrated,
born of the cool, fresh
lemon,
of its fragrant house,
its acid, secret symmetry.

Knives
sliced a small
cathedral
in the lemon,
the concealed apse, opened,
revealed acid stained glass,
drops
oozed topaz,
altars,
cool architecture.

So, when you hold
the hemisphere
of a cut lemon
above your plate,
you spill
a universe of gold,
a
yellow goblet
of miracles,
a fragrant nipple
of the earth's breast,
a ray of light that was made fruit,
the minute fire of a planet.

-- Pablo Neruda


http://i3.photobucket.com/albums/y86/gulrober/footwear/lemon.jpg

Dougal
April 16, 2007, 08:04 PM
Shadwell Stair by Wilfred Owen

I am the ghost of Shadwell stair.
Along the wharves by the water-house,
And through the dripping slaughter-house,
I am the shadow that walks there.

Yet I have flesh both firm and cool,
And eyes tumultuous as the gems
Of moons and lamps in the lapping Thames
When dusk sails wavering down the pool.

Shuddering the purple street-arc burns
Where I watch, always, from the banks
Dolorously the shipping clanks,
And after me a strange tide turns.

I walk till the stars of London wane
And dawn creeps up the Shadwell Stair.
But when the crowing syrens blare
I with another ghost am lain.

chica
May 20, 2007, 12:18 AM
Scarlet Ribbons

I peeked in to say goodnight
And I heard my child in prayer
"And for me some scarlet ribbons
Scarlet ribbons for my hair"
All the stores were closed and shuttered
All the streets were dark and bare
In our town, no scarlet ribbons
Scarlet ribbons for her hair
Thru the night my heart was aching
Just before the dawn was breaking
I peeped in and on her pillow
On her pillow lying there
Lovely ribbons, scarlet ribbons
Scarlet ribbons for her hair
If I live to be a hundred
I will never know from where
Came those ribbons, scarlet ribbons
Scarlet ribbons for her hair

slum mum 1974
May 20, 2007, 03:22 AM
Scarlet Ribbons

I peeked in to say goodnight
And I heard my child in prayer
"And for me some scarlet ribbons
Scarlet ribbons for my hair"
All the stores were closed and shuttered
All the streets were dark and bare
In our town, no scarlet ribbons
Scarlet ribbons for her hair
Thru the night my heart was aching
Just before the dawn was breaking
I peeped in and on her pillow
On her pillow lying there
Lovely ribbons, scarlet ribbons
Scarlet ribbons for her hair
If I live to be a hundred
I will never know from where
Came those ribbons, scarlet ribbons
Scarlet ribbons for her hair


That was lovely :)