Has anyone written a poem lately?

yeah, i'm always writing poetry. it's my favourite thing.
 
and i thought eggs were
or hattie :cool:

well, yeah, i guess you've got a point, there.

(incidentally, it's eggs and hattie)

g'night, sir
 
well, yeah, i guess you've got a point, there.

(incidentally, it's eggs and hattie)

g'night, sir
*cries* I'm his favourite thing! That's so sweet! (this is where he is meant to jump in with declorations of a haertfelt poem he is penning for our wedding)
 
*cries* I'm his favourite thing! That's so sweet!

yes, it's you, then jaffa cakes, then mushy peas, then eggs. oh yes... and poetry.


(this is where he is meant to jump in with declorations of a haertfelt poem he is penning for our wedding)

*tries desperately to think of an excuse, quickly*

i can't just start reciting my ...ummm..... poetry that is supposed to be for our Big Day, now, can i?! :rolleyes:
 
I've got a few penned myself but, I'm like Chartres. I would never post them here.

Most of them are morbid, gloomy, Poe-esch and miserable pieces of work when I was downward-spiraling into deepend saddness. Think Poe meets Twin Peaks meets Dark Shadows meets Six Feet Under...

Now, that I have a new-found positive, no-care attitude on the love aspect, I should try writing about the "joy" I feel in my heart. :)
 
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NIGHT
The sun descending in the west,
The evening star does shine;
The birds are silent in their nest.
And I must seek for mine.
The moon, like a flower
In heaven's high bower,
With silent delight
Sits and smiles on the night.

Farewell, green fields and happy grove,
Where flocks have took delight:
Where lambs have nibbled, silent move
The feet of angels bright;
Unseen they pour blessing
And joy without ceasing
On each bud and blossom,
On each sleeping bosom.

They look in every thoughtless nest
Where birds are cover'd warm;
They visit caves of every beast,
to keep them all from harm:
If they see any weeping
That should have been sleeping,
They pour sleep on their head,
And sit down by their bed.

When wolves and tigers howl for prey,
They pitying stand and weep,
Seeking to drive their thirst away
And keep them from the sheep.
But, if they rush dreadful,
The angels, most heedful,
Receive each mild spirit,
New worlds to inherit.

And there the lion's ruddy eyes
Shall flow with tears of gold:
And pitying the tender cries,
And walking round the fold:
Saying, 'Wrath by His meekness,
And, by His health, sickness,
Are driven away
From our immortal day.

'And now beside thee, bleating lamb,
I can lie down and sleep,
Or think on Him who bore thy name,
Graze after thee, and weep.
For, wash'd in life's river,
My bright mane for ever
Shall shine like the gold
As I guard o'er the fold.'
 
[...] Most of them are morbid, gloomy, Poe-esch and miserable pieces of work when I was downward-spiraling into deepend saddness. Think Poe meets Twin Peaks meets Dark Shadows meets Six Feet Under... [...]

heavy.
 
Not lately, but in December.

***
Evelyn, the love vendor
on the corner
in the woods
Evelyn, the red lips
that invite
or repel
I used to lie to her
you are my angel, you are my devil
you're just a girl
aren't you afraid of God's wrath?
Evelyn, my contempt, my nemesis,
my fate
she just laughed in my face
and her lips were red
like an open wound
 
yes, it's you, then jaffa cakes, then mushy peas, then eggs. oh yes... and poetry.




*tries desperately to think of an excuse, quickly*

i can't just start reciting my ...ummm..... poetry that is supposed to be for our Big Day, now, can i?! :rolleyes:
I suppose not...it had better be good! (and highly complimentary as well, if it is in the style of Burnad Manning Jokes you will be in big trouble.
And you are, of course, my favourite thing too, followed by the cat, cigarettes, alcahol, food, Morrissey, Pulp, The Feeling and clean white cotton bed linen (can you tell I like making lists?)
 
The breeze sighed lazily through the trees,
Dappled sunlight upon their heads.
Lovers entwined on a river side,
Minds devoid of dreads,
Worry,
Concern,
Filled with love,
The sun above did shine only for them,
And the breeze caressed them with lover's hands.


I read too much poetry...
 
Young and grubby, you flee out of doors
And parade cold streets where romance adores
- the desperate folk, with their desperate plea's
For a life that escapes them, you kneel to you knee's

And when the deed is done, so is the day
And the night closes in, like shadows at play
And the stars shine mockingly at the grime below
- a life so mired, in sadness and woe

The money you earn, and the status you seek
Is not befitting of each terrible week
As you stalk cold streets in familiar un-wash
You know it must be, as it always has been
 
Leather apron

You can ride via white chapel road
And you may trace his footsteps now
On the busy street corners, and bustling transport
That wasn’t there
When he scared London to its knees
He would Rise like water from the soil, to find
The next victim in a sorry state of mind
Well his victims lie
In the swamp in secluded recesses
He enjoys the song of the bleeding throat
Polly Nichols, Annie Chapman, Elizabeth Stride
Catherine Eddowes and Mary Ann Kelly
All met there end
On the London streets
But if they didn’t do
What they were paid to do
With there low slung dresses
Revealing the poor skin underneath
With a neck that wont be there
Well maybe the ending of her life
Was such a relief?
Well down the east end of town
Leather keeps finding girls
On constant downs
These girls
Were to drunk to sense
The fingers on their shoulder
Starting to tense
The doctors knife
Trying to end their strife
Mutilation of the body
He’s getting pleasure out
Of blood on his hands
When leather says he’s going
To get you
You better believe he’s going to get you
And when leather says he’s going
To get her
You better believe he’s going to get her


Its getting pathetic

I see you writhing up, to get closer to him
And I'm not the only that can see it
You writhe up the sofa
To get some recognition
You look into his eyes,
Just to make some sort of contact.
Your looking a little desperate
Has it actually come to this?
You writhe up closer to him,
But as you writhe, he recoils
And when he looks in your eyes
Its not love, its despise

Its getting pathetic
That you could let it
Get so bad,

I see you looking at him,
You would give anything to be under those hips
And you’d do anything to stroke his tongue with your lips
You stroke his knee, in a unashamed plea
For him to recognise you,
But all he does is roll his eyes
To the very top of his head
You look like a lost little girl
A girl who didn’t get to use her dancing shoes
But still its getting fraught
And I think you need to be taught
When to give up the ghost

Its getting pathetic
That you cant see
What you look like tonight

You fall asleep half stoned to death
And you still need to be near him
He needs room to breathe
He needs to be alone for a while
He needs to rediscover that luck-lustre smile
That I love so, so please get off him.
 
You get up on a Monday,
A job without a title,
Sit behind your computer and try not to think,
Remember that band you were in?
You were gonna be famous,
But something happened,
You grew up,
Now you live in the real world,
Although, as you sang,
You were bored before you even began,
That old cover you did,
Of a band you can't remember the name of,
But just keep on
Pretending to be happy,
Listening to radio 2,
The weekend's coming soon.
 
If you are imprisoned for being,
Then I should be imprisoned too.
Who is to say what is being?
But why is it true that we hold equal rights but
Are not made equal?
For we are not equal in any form.
This land was made to be unequal and unfair to some.
It is written on faces and painted in the right places.
If they want to buy it for themselves,
Then I shall be blest.
But they will not let me make mine.
How is this tolerable?
This is the moral of the book,
That nobody follows.
Then what’s the use.
What is the purpose of obeying
If it is your excuse.
And that makes you worthy?
Well, taunt and tease
And delight yourself.
But remember your options.
Equal, no.
Because I possess what you do not,
And you, I.
A single monocle needs varnish.
And the eye, directness.


...Be kind! :p
 
A despondent boy rests alone at a bus stop
As the rain descends from the grey British sky
Wearing tight and unusual raiment
Reciting to the dead an inaudible lament
Resting on his neck a mask of pallid complexion
Many throngs saunter along never glancing in his direction
If the coarse faced cynics could only open their eyes
The young man would awaken with a song or poesy
And vividly portray the visions inhabiting his mind.

A good ship wrought many moons a go
Gazed at locations pure souls should not know
Destinations customarily mentioned in buccaneers old sea songs.
Manned by a crew with skin black and blue
The schooner is heading northwest
To unspoiled wilderness where the mighty Pan rests
Where shepherds roam the idyllic pastures
Where exquisite nymphs frolic in bowers
Neighbouring the evergreen trees
To the virtuous land that is called Arcady
 
I'm not a poet. I wrote some poems years ago, but I stopped.
My favourite "poem" among the ones I've written is a dadaistic verse (and the title), but it's in Italian and I won't translate it.
 
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