~The official POETRY thread~

Discussion in 'Off-topic archive (read-only)' started by chica, Sep 8, 2006.

  1. chica

    chica v2.0

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    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
     
  2. davdavon

    davdavon Don't ask

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    Location:
    Tel Aviv
    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.
     
  3. chica

    chica v2.0

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    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?
     
    Last edited: Sep 9, 2006
  4. Cream Cakes

    Cream Cakes New Member

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    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
     
  5. chica

    chica v2.0

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    But anyway, serves me right :p
     
  6. Sinefil

    Sinefil Cinephilia

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    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
     
  7. chica

    chica v2.0

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    I miss that enthusiasm at 23 :o
     
  8. The Cat's Mother

    The Cat's Mother Unmentionable

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    Location:
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    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.....
     
  9. chica

    chica v2.0

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    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.
     
  10. Busy Clippers

    Busy Clippers New Member

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    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.
     
  11. chica

    chica v2.0

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    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
     
  12. Chartres

    Chartres New Member

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    Location:
    Sverige
    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
     
  13. Busy Clippers

    Busy Clippers New Member

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    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.
     
  14. prisoner77

    prisoner77 Member

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    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.
     
  15. Codreanu

    Codreanu Ohimè.

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    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'.

    [​IMG]
     
  16. wolve

    wolve the sad punk

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    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?
     
  17. no one in particular

    no one in particular clingy

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

    Codreanu Ohimè.

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    You wouldn't have emphysema would you, no one? Or do you only hyperventilate during exchanges with chica? :eek:
    Are you anything like my shadow? Then I'm afraid it's hopeless. :(
     
  19. Busy Clippers

    Busy Clippers New Member

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    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.
     
  20. Codreanu

    Codreanu Ohimè.

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    Kali's flower! How appropriate. ;)
    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.

    [​IMG]
    My hopes are already in the stirrings of your heart. x
     
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