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Thread: poems

  1. #1

    Default poems

    i'm sure there's threads like this already. i'm just bored and fucking around on pinterest and saw the poems i pinned there and figured i could copy some of them into a thread here and maybe other people would want to share some too. for some reason i'm kind of embarassed to notice that i've mostly saved love poems, lol.















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    Okay, squirrel.

    Anyway, Marry Howitt's poems are fine, especially The Spider and the Fly.

    http://rinabeana.com/poemoftheday/in...y/mary-howitt/

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    poems r dum

    alone with everybody

    the flesh covers the bone
    and they put a mind
    in there and
    sometimes a soul,
    and the women break
    vases against the walls
    and the men drink too
    much
    and nobody finds the
    one
    but keep
    looking
    crawling in and out
    of beds.
    flesh covers
    the bone and the
    flesh searches
    for more than
    flesh.

    there's no chance
    at all:
    we are all trapped
    by a singular
    fate.

    nobody ever finds
    the one.

    the city dumps fill
    the junkyards fill
    the madhouses fill
    the hospitals fill
    the graveyards fill

    nothing else
    fills.



    Charles Bukowski

  5. #5

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    ur face is dum

  6. #6

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    <3

    i was going to post that one leger but the image was ugly

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    INFP ~ 9w1 5w4 4w5 ~ sx/sp ~ EII ~ RCUA ~ OIANC ~ Neutral Good ~ Negotiator/Explorer

    “Love is not affectionate feeling, but a steady wish for the loved person's ultimate good as far as it can be obtained.” ~ C.S. Lewis

    "Love all, trust a few, do wrong to none." ~ William Shakespeare
    "I'm not very good at being domesticated. I've tried." ~ Ralph Fiennes



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    http://zenpencils.com/comic/william-...nley-invictus/

    This poem will be my five years sober tattoo.
    Easy Day

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    In honor of the day on which I remember that I have a black hole in the place of a heart, I present to you my favorite Catullus:

    I will sodomize you and face-fuck you,
    bottom Aurelius and catamite Furius,
    you who think, because my poems
    are sensitive, that I have no shame.

    -Catullus

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    This living hand, now warm and capable

    Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold

    And in the icy silence of the tomb,

    So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights

    That thou wouldst wish thine own heart dry of blood

    So in my veins red life might stream again,

    And thou be conscience-calmed—see here it is—

    I hold it towards you.



    John Keats

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    Sonnet to the River Otter - Samuel Taylor Coleridge

    Dear native brook! wild streamlet to the West!

    How many various-fated years have past,
    What happy, and what mournful hours since last

    I skimmed the smooth thin stone along thy breast,
    Numbering its light leaps! yet so deep imprest
    Sink the sweet scenes of childhood, that mine eyes

    I never shut amid the sunny ray,

    But straight with all their tints thy waters rise,

    Thy crossing plank, thy marge with willows grey,

    And bedded sand that, veined with various dyes,
    Gleamed through thy bright transparence! On my way,

    Visions of childhood! oft have ye beguiled

    Lone manhood's cares, yet waking fondest sighs:
    Ah! that once more I were a careless child!

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    London - William Blake

    I wander thro' each charter'd street,
    Near where the charter'd Thames does flow.
    And mark in every face I meet
    Marks of weakness, marks of woe.

    In every cry of every Man,
    In every Infants cry of fear,
    In every voice: in every ban,
    The mind-forg'd manacles I hear

    How the Chimney-sweepers cry
    Every blackning Church appalls,
    And the hapless Soldiers sigh
    Runs in blood down Palace walls

    But most thro' midnight streets I hear
    How the youthful Harlots curse
    Blasts the new-born Infants tear
    And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse
    EII-Ne
    5w4 or 1w9 Sp/So

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    "Will you walk into my parlour?" said the Spider to the Fly, "
    'Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy;
    The way into my parlour is up a winding stair,
    And I have many curious things to show you when you are there."
    "Oh no, no," said the Fly, "to ask me is in vain;
    For who goes up your winding stair can ne'er come down again."

    "I'm sure you must be weary, dear, with soaring up so high;
    Will you rest upon my little bed?" said the Spider to the Fly.
    "There are pretty curtains drawn around, the sheets are fine and thin;
    And if you like to rest awhile, I'll snugly tuck you in!"
    "Oh no, no," said the little Fly, "for I've often heard it said
    They never, never wake again, who sleep upon your bed!"

    Said the cunning Spider to the Fly, "Dear friend, what can I do
    To prove that warm affection I've always felt for you?
    I have within my pantry, good store of all that's nice;
    I'm sure you're very welcome - will you please take a slice?"
    "Oh no, no," said the little Fly, "kind sir, that cannot be,
    I've heard what's in your pantry, and I do not wish to see!"

    "Sweet creature," said the Spider, "you're witty and you're wise;
    How handsome are your gauzy wings, how brilliant are your eyes!
    I have a little looking-glass upon my parlour shelf;
    If you step in one moment, dear, you shall behold yourself."
    "I thank you, gentle sir," she said, "for what you're pleased to say;
    And bidding good morning now, I'll call another day."

    The Spider turned him round about, and went into his den,
    For well he knew the silly Fly would soon come back again;
    So he wove a subtle web in a little corner sly,
    And set his table ready to dine upon the Fly.
    Then he came out to his door again, and merrily did sing,
    "Come hither, hither, pretty Fly, with the pearl and silver wing;
    Your robes are green and purple, there's a crest upon your head;
    Your eyes are like the diamond bright, but mine are as dull as lead."

    Alas, alas! how very soon this silly little Fly,
    Hearing his wily, flattering words, came slowly flitting by;
    With buzzing wings she hung aloft, Then near and nearer drew, -
    Thinking only of her brilliant eyes, and green and purple hue;
    Thinking only of her crested head - poor foolish thing! At last,
    Up jumped the cunning Spider, and fiercely held her fast.
    He dragged her up his winding stair, into his dismal den
    Within his little parlour - but she ne'er came out again!

    And now, dear little children, who may this story read,
    To idle, silly, flattering words, I pray you ne'er heed;
    Unto an evil counsellor close heart, and ear, and eye,
    And take a lesson from this tale of the Spider and the Fly.

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    Lady Lazarus
    ---Sylvia Plath

    I have done it again.
    One year in every ten
    I manage it-----

    A sort of walking miracle, my skin
    Bright as a Nazi lampshade,
    My right foot

    A paperweight,
    My featureless, fine
    Jew linen.

    Peel off the napkin
    O my enemy.
    Do I terrify?-------

    The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
    The sour breath
    Will vanish in a day.

    Soon, soon the flesh
    The grave cave ate will be
    At home on me

    And I a smiling woman.
    I am only thirty.
    And like the cat I have nine times to die.

    This is Number Three.
    What a trash
    To annihilate each decade.

    What a million filaments.
    The Peanut-crunching crowd
    Shoves in to see

    Them unwrap me hand and foot ------
    The big strip tease.
    Gentleman , ladies

    These are my hands
    My knees.
    I may be skin and bone,

    Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
    The first time it happened I was ten.
    It was an accident.

    The second time I meant
    To last it out and not come back at all.
    I rocked shut

    As a seashell.
    They had to call and call
    And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

    Dying
    Is an art, like everything else.
    I do it exceptionally well.

    I do it so it feels like hell.
    I do it so it feels real.
    I guess you could say I've a call.

    It's easy enough to do it in a cell.
    It's easy enough to do it and stay put.
    It's the theatrical

    Comeback in broad day
    To the same place, the same face, the same brute
    Amused shout:

    'A miracle!'
    That knocks me out.
    There is a charge

    For the eyeing my scars, there is a charge
    For the hearing of my heart---
    It really goes.

    And there is a charge, a very large charge
    For a word or a touch
    Or a bit of blood

    Or a piece of my hair on my clothes.
    So, so, Herr Doktor.
    So, Herr Enemy.

    I am your opus,
    I am your valuable,
    The pure gold baby

    That melts to a shriek.
    I turn and burn.
    Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

    Ash, ash---
    You poke and stir.
    Flesh, bone, there is nothing there----

    A cake of soap,
    A wedding ring,
    A gold filling.

    Herr God, Herr Lucifer
    Beware
    Beware.

    Out of the ash
    I rise with my red hair
    And I eat men like air.

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    This is a poem I studied at school, which I think I posted before a long time ago. It's by the UK's poet laureate, Carol Ann Duffy.

    Stealing

    The most unusual thing I ever stole? A snowman.

    Midnight. He looked magnificent; a tall, white mute

    beneath the winter moon. I wanted him, a mate

    with a mind as cold as the slice of ice

    within my own brain. I started with the head.

    Better off dead than giving in, not taking

    what you want. He weighed a ton; his torso,

    frozen stiff, hugged to my chest, a fierce chill

    piercing my gut. Part of the thrill was knowing

    that children would cry in the morning. Life's tough.

    Sometimes I steal things I don't need. I joy-ride cars

    to nowhere, break into houses just to have a look.

    I'm a mucky ghost, leave a mess, maybe pinch a camera.

    I watch my gloved hand twisting the doorknob.

    A stranger's bedroom. Mirrors. I sigh like this - Aah.

    It took some time. Reassembled in the yard,

    he didn't look the same. I took a run

    and booted him. Again. Again. My breath ripped out

    in rags. It seems daft now. Then I was standing

    alone amongst lumps of snow, sick of the world.

    Boredom. Mostly I'm so bored I could eat myself.

    One time, I stole a guitar and thought I might

    learn to play. I nicked a bust of Shakespeare once,

    flogged it, but the snowman was strangest.

    You don't understand a word I'm saying, do you?

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    Can I post spoken word poetry?







    "In the gentle fall of rain from heaven I hear my God, but in the thunder I still hear Thor. That is my agony."

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    "In the gentle fall of rain from heaven I hear my God, but in the thunder I still hear Thor. That is my agony."

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    This one is great for kids.

    "In the gentle fall of rain from heaven I hear my God, but in the thunder I still hear Thor. That is my agony."

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    A Description of a City Shower - Jonathan Swift

    They, as each torrent drives with rapid force,
    From Smithfield, or St 'Pulchre's shape their course,
    And in huge confluent join'd at Snow Hill ridge,
    Fall from the Conduit prone to Holborn-bridge.
    Sweepings from butchers' stalls, dung, gnats, and blood,
    Drown'd puppies, stinking sprats, all drench'd in mud,
    Dead cats and turnip-tops come tumbling down the flood.

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    Going, Going - Philip Larkin

    I thought it would last my time -
    The sense that, beyond the town,
    There would always be fields and farms,
    Where the village louts could climb
    Such trees as were not cut down;
    I knew there’d be false alarms

    In the papers about old streets
    And split level shopping, but some
    Have always been left so far;
    And when the old part retreats
    As the bleak high-risers come
    We can always escape in the car.

    Things are tougher than we are, just
    As earth will always respond
    However we mess it about;
    Chuck filth in the sea, if you must:
    The tides will be clean beyond.
    - But what do I feel now? Doubt?

    Or age, simply? The crowd
    Is young in the M1 cafe;
    Their kids are screaming for more -
    More houses, more parking allowed,
    More caravan sites, more pay.
    On the Business Page, a score

    Of spectacled grins approve
    Some takeover bid that entails
    Five per cent profit (and ten
    Per cent more in the estuaries): move
    Your works to the unspoilt dales
    (Grey area grants)! And when

    You try to get near the sea
    In summer . . .
    It seems, just now,
    To be happening so very fast;
    Despite all the land left free
    For the first time I feel somehow
    That it isn’t going to last,

    That before I snuff it, the whole
    Boiling will be bricked in
    Except for the tourist parts -
    First slum of Europe: a role
    It won’t be hard to win,
    With a cast of crooks and tarts.

    And that will be England gone,
    The shadows, the meadows, the lanes,
    The guildhalls, the carved choirs.
    There’ll be books; it will linger on
    In galleries; but all that remains
    For us will be concrete and tyres.

    Most things are never meant.
    This won’t be, most likely; but greeds
    And garbage are too thick-strewn
    To be swept up now, or invent
    Excuses that make them all needs.
    I just think it will happen, soon.

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    Love
    - Pablo Neruda


    Because of you, in gardens of blossoming flowers I ache from the
    perfumes of spring.
    I have forgotten your face, I no longer remember your hands;
    how did your lips feel on mine?
    Because of you, I love the white statues drowsing in the parks,
    the white statues that have neither voice nor sight.
    I have forgotten your voice, your happy voice; I have forgotten
    your eyes.
    Like a flower to its perfume, I am bound to my vague memory of
    you. I live with pain that is like a wound; if you touch me, you will
    do me irreparable harm.
    Your caresses enfold me, like climbing vines on melancholy walls.
    I have forgotten your love, yet I seem to glimpse you in every
    window.
    Because of you, the heady perfumes of summer pain me; because
    of you, I again seek out the signs that precipitate desires: shooting
    stars, falling objects.

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    I know why the caged bird sings by Maya Angelou
    A free bird leaps on the back
    Of the wind and floats downstream
    Till the current ends and dips his wing
    In the orange suns rays
    And dares to claim the sky.

    But a BIRD that stalks down his narrow cage
    Can seldom see through his bars of rage
    His wings are clipped and his feet are tied
    So he opens his throat to sing.

    The caged bird sings with a fearful trill
    Of things unknown but longed for still
    And his tune is heard on the distant hill for
    The caged bird sings of freedom.

    The free bird thinks of another breeze
    And the trade winds soft through
    The sighing trees
    And the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright
    Lawn and he names the sky his own.

    But a caged BIRD stands on the grave of dreams
    His shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
    His wings are clipped and his feet are tied
    So he opens his throat to sing.

    The caged bird sings with
    A fearful trill of things unknown
    But longed for still and his
    Tune is heard on the distant hill
    For the caged bird sings of freedom.

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    E. E. Cummings

    Let’s Live Suddenly Without Thinking
    let’s live suddenly without thinking

    under honest trees,
    a stream
    does.the brain of cleverly-crinkling
    -water pursues the angry dream
    of the shore. By midnight,
    a moon
    scratches the skin of the organised hills

    an edged nothing begins to prune

    let’s live like the light that kills
    and let’s as silence,
    because Whirl’s after all:
    (after me)love,and after you.
    I occasionally feel vague how
    vague idon’t know tenuous Now-
    spears and The Then-arrows making do
    our mouths something red,something tall

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    The Speed of Darkness


    -- Muriel Rukeyser

    Whoever despises the clitoris despises the penis
    Whoever despises the penis despises the cunt
    Whoever despises the cunt despises the life of the child.

    Resurrection music, silence, and surf.


    II

    No longer speaking
    Listening with the whole body
    And with every drop of blood
    Overtaken by silence

    But this same silence is become speech
    With the speed of darkness.


    III

    Stillness during war, the lake.
    The unmoving spruces.
    Glints over the water.
    Faces, voices. You are far away.
    A tree that trembles.

    I am the tree that trembles and trembles.


    IV

    After the lifting of the mist
    after the lift of the heavy rains
    the sky stands clear
    and the cries of the city risen in day
    I remember the buildings are space
    walled, to let space be used for living
    I mind this room is space
    this drinking glass is space
    whose boundary of glass
    lets me give you drink and space to drink
    your hand, my hand being space
    containing skies and constellations
    your face
    carries the reaches of air
    I know I am space
    my words are air.


    V

    Between between
    the man : act exact
    woman : in curve senses in their maze
    frail orbits, green tries, games of stars
    shape of the body speaking its evidence


    VI

    I look across at the real
    vulnerable involved naked
    devoted to the present of all I care for
    the world of its history leading to this moment.


    VII

    Life the announcer.
    I assure you
    there are many ways to have a child.
    I bastard mother
    promise you
    there are many ways to be born.
    They all come forth
    in their own grace.


    VIII

    Ends of the earth join tonight
    with blazing stars upon their meeting.
    These sons, these sons
    fall burning into Asia.


    IX

    Time comes into it.
    Say it. Say it.
    The universe is made of stories,
    not of atoms.


    X

    Lying
    blazing beside me
    you rear beautifully and up—
    your thinking face—
    erotic body reaching
    in all its colors and lights—
    your erotic face
    colored and lit—
    not colored body-and-face
    but now entire,
    colors lights the world thinking and reaching.


    XI

    The river flows past the city.

    Water goes down to tomorrow
    making its children I hear their unborn voices
    I am working out the vocabulary of my silence.


    XII

    Big-boned man young and of my dream
    Struggles to get the live bird out of his throat.
    I am he am I? Dreaming?
    I am the bird am I? I am the throat?

    A bird with a curved beak.
    It could slit anything, the throat-bird.
    Drawn up slowly. The curved blades, not large.
    Bird emerges wet being born
    Begins to sing.


    XIII

    My night awake
    staring at the broad rough jewel
    the copper roof across the way
    thinking of the poet
    yet unborn in this dark
    who will be the throat of these hours.
    No. Of those hours.
    Who will speak these days,
    if not I,
    if not you?

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    I

    Complacencies of the peignoir, and late
    Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair,
    And the green freedom of a cockatoo
    Upon a rug mingle to dissipate
    The holy hush of ancient sacrifice.
    She dreams a little, and she feels the dark
    Encroachment of that old catastrophe,
    As a calm darkens among water-lights.
    The pungent oranges and bright, green wings
    Seem things in some procession of the dead,
    Winding across wide water, without sound.
    The day is like wide water, without sound,
    Stilled for the passing of her dreaming feet
    Over the seas, to silent Palestine,
    Dominion of the blood and sepulchre.


    II

    Why should she give her bounty to the dead?
    What is divinity if it can come
    Only in silent shadows and in dreams?
    Shall she not find in comforts of the sun,
    In pungent fruit and bright, green wings, or else
    In any balm or beauty of the earth,
    Things to be cherished like the thought of heaven?
    Divinity must live within herself:
    Passions of rain, or moods in falling snow;
    Grievings in loneliness, or unsubdued
    Elations when the forest blooms; gusty
    Emotions on wet roads on autumn nights;
    All pleasures and all pains, remembering
    The bough of summer and the winter branch.
    These are the measures destined for her soul.


    III

    Jove in the clouds had his inhuman birth.
    No mother suckled him, no sweet land gave
    Large-mannered motions to his mythy mind.
    He moved among us, as a muttering king,
    Magnificent, would move among his hinds,
    Until our blood, commingling, virginal,
    With heaven, brought such requital to desire
    The very hinds discerned it, in a star.
    Shall our blood fail? Or shall it come to be
    The blood of paradise? And shall the earth
    Seem all of paradise that we shall know?
    The sky will be much friendlier then than now,
    A part of labor and a part of pain,
    And next in glory to enduring love,
    Not this dividing and indifferent blue.


    IV

    She says, “I am content when wakened birds,
    Before they fly, test the reality
    Of misty fields, by their sweet questionings;
    But when the birds are gone, and their warm fields
    Return no more, where, then, is paradise?”
    There is not any haunt of prophecy,
    Nor any old chimera of the grave,
    Neither the golden underground, nor isle
    Melodious, where spirits gat them home,
    Nor visionary south, nor cloudy palm
    Remote on heaven’s hill, that has endured
    As April’s green endures; or will endure
    Like her remembrance of awakened birds,
    Or her desire for June and evening, tipped
    By the consummation of the swallow’s wings.


    V

    She says, “But in contentment I still feel
    The need of some imperishable bliss.”
    Death is the mother of beauty; hence from her,
    Alone, shall come fulfilment to our dreams
    And our desires. Although she strews the leaves
    Of sure obliteration on our paths,
    The path sick sorrow took, the many paths
    Where triumph rang its brassy phrase, or love
    Whispered a little out of tenderness,
    She makes the willow shiver in the sun
    For maidens who were wont to sit and gaze
    Upon the grass, relinquished to their feet.
    She causes boys to pile new plums and pears
    On disregarded plate. The maidens taste
    And stray impassioned in the littering leaves.


    VI

    Is there no change of death in paradise?
    Does ripe fruit never fall? Or do the boughs
    Hang always heavy in that perfect sky,
    Unchanging, yet so like our perishing earth,
    With rivers like our own that seek for seas
    They never find, the same receding shores
    That never touch with inarticulate pang?
    Why set the pear upon those river banks
    Or spice the shores with odors of the plum?
    Alas, that they should wear our colors there,
    The silken weavings of our afternoons,
    And pick the strings of our insipid lutes!
    Death is the mother of beauty, mystical,
    Within whose burning bosom we devise
    Our earthly mothers waiting, sleeplessly.


    VII

    Supple and turbulent, a ring of men
    Shall chant in orgy on a summer morn
    Their boisterous devotion to the sun,
    Not as a god, but as a god might be,
    Naked among them, like a savage source.
    Their chant shall be a chant of paradise,
    Out of their blood, returning to the sky;
    And in their chant shall enter, voice by voice,
    The windy lake wherein their lord delights,
    The trees, like serafin, and echoing hills,
    That choir among themselves long afterward.
    They shall know well the heavenly fellowship
    Of men that perish and of summer morn.
    And whence they came and whither they shall go
    The dew upon their feet shall manifest.


    VIII

    She hears, upon that water without sound,
    A voice that cries, “The tomb in Palestine
    Is not the porch of spirits lingering.
    It is the grave of Jesus, where he lay.”
    We live in an old chaos of the sun,
    Or old dependency of day and night,
    Or island solitude, unsponsored, free,
    Of that wide water, inescapable.
    Deer walk upon our mountains, and the quail
    Whistle about us their spontaneous cries;
    Sweet berries ripen in the wilderness;
    And, in the isolation of the sky,
    At evening, casual flocks of pigeons make
    Ambiguous undulations as they sink,
    Downward to darkness, on extended wings.

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    The Arrival of the Bee Box - Sylvia Plath

    I ordered this, clean wood box
    Square as a chair and almost too heavy to lift.
    I would say it was the coffin of a midget
    Or a square baby
    Were there not such a din in it.

    The box is locked, it is dangerous.
    I have to live with it overnight
    And I can't keep away from it.
    There are no windows, so I can't see what is in there.
    There is only a little grid, no exit.

    I put my eye to the grid.
    It is dark, dark,
    With the swarmy feeling of African hands
    Minute and shrunk for export,
    Black on black, angrily clambering.

    How can I let them out?
    It is the noise that appals me most of all,
    The unintelligible syllables.
    It is like a Roman mob,
    Small, taken one by one, but my god, together!

    I lay my ear to furious Latin.
    I am not a Caesar.
    I have simply ordered a box of maniacs.
    They can be sent back.
    They can die, I need feed them nothing, I am the owner.

    I wonder how hungry they are.
    I wonder if they would forget me
    If I just undid the locks and stood back and turned into a tree.
    There is the laburnum, its blond colonnades,
    And the petticoats of the cherry.

    They might ignore me immediately
    In my moon suit and funeral veil.
    I am no source of honey
    So why should they turn on me?
    Tomorrow I will be sweet God, I will set them free.

    The box is only temporary.



    (Probably my fave poem about depression!

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    .
    Last edited by Skeptitron; 09-05-2015 at 03:50 AM.

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    And Am I Born to Die?
    -by Charles Wesley

    And am I born to die?
    To lay this body down?
    And must my trembling spirit fly
    Into a world unknown -
    A land of deepest shade,
    Unpierced by human thought,
    The dreary regions of the dead,
    Where all things are forgot?

    Soon as from earth I go,
    What will become of me?
    Eternal happiness or woe
    Must then my portion be;
    Waked by the trumpet's sound,
    I from my grave shall rise,
    And see the Judge with glory crowned,
    And see the flaming skies.

    How shall I leave my tomb?
    With triumph or regret?
    A fearful or a joyful doom,
    A curse or blessing meet?
    Will angel-bands convey
    Their brother to the bar?
    Or devils drag my soul away,
    To meet its sentence there?

    Who can resolve the doubt
    That tears my anxious breast?
    Shall I be with the damned cast out,
    Or numbered with the blest?
    I must from God be driven,
    Or with my Saviour dwell;
    Must come at his command to heaven,
    Or else - depart to hell.

    O thou that wouldst not have
    One wretched sinner die,
    Who died'st thyself; my soul to save
    From endless misery!
    Show me the way to shun
    Thy dreadful wrath severe,
    That when thou comest on thy throne
    I may with joy appear.

    Thou art thyself the Way;
    Thyself in me reveal;
    So shall I spend my life's short day
    Obedient to thy will;
    So shall I love my God,
    Because he first loved me,
    And praise thee in thy bright abode,
    To all eternity.

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    O May I Join the Choir Invisible - George Eliot

    O may I join the choir invisible
    Of those immortal dead who live again
    In minds made better by their presence: live
    In pulses stirr'd to generosity,
    In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn
    For miserable aims that end with self,
    In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like stars,
    And with their mild persistence urge man's search
    To vaster issues.
    So to live is heaven:
    To make undying music in the world,
    Breathing as beauteous order that controls
    With growing sway the growing life of man.
    So we inherit that sweet purity
    For which we struggled, fail'd, and agoniz'd
    With widening retrospect that bred despair.
    Rebellious flesh that would not be subdued,
    A vicious parent shaming still its child,
    Poor anxious penitence, is quick dissolv'd;
    Its discords, quench'd by meeting harmonies,
    Die in the large and charitable air.
    And all our rarer, better, truer self,
    That sobb'd religiously in yearning song,
    That watch'd to ease the burthen of the world,
    Laboriously tracing what must be,
    And what may yet be better,—saw within
    A worthier image for the sanctuary,
    And shap'd it forth before the multitude,
    Divinely human, raising worship so
    To higher reverence more mix'd with love,—
    That better self shall live till human Time
    Shall fold its eyelids, and the human sky
    Be gather'd like a scroll within the tomb Unread forever.
    This is life to come,
    Which martyr'd men have made more glorious
    For us who strive to follow. May I reach
    That purest heaven, be to other souls
    The cup of strength in some great agony,
    Enkindle generous ardor, feed pure love,
    Beget the smiles that have no cruelty,
    Be the sweet presence of a good diffus'd,
    And in diffusion ever more intense!
    So shall I join the choir invisible
    Whose music is the gladness of the world.

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    Clair de lune / Moonlight - Paul Verlaine

    Your soul is a select landscape
    Where charming masqueraders and bergamaskers go
    Playing the lute and dancing and almost
    Sad beneath their fantastic disguises.

    All sing in a minor key
    Of victorious love and the opportune life,
    They do not seem to believe in their happiness
    And their song mingles with the moonlight,

    With the still moonlight, sad and beautiful,
    That sets the birds dreaming in the trees
    And the fountains sobbing in ecstasy,
    The tall slender fountains among marble statues.

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    Default Allen Ginsberg's Sunflower Sutra



    Such a beautiful poem.

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    The Revenge: A Ballad of The Fleet - Alfred Tennyson

    At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard Grenville lay,
    And a pinnace, like a fluttered bird, came flying from far away:
    'Spanish ships of war at sea! We have sighted fifty-three!'
    Then sware Lord Thomas Howard: ''Fore God I am no coward;
    But I cannot meet them here, for my ships are out of gear,
    And half my men are sick. I must fly, but follow quick.
    We are six ships of the line; can we fight with fifty-three?'

    Then spake Sir Richard Grenville: 'I know you are no coward;
    You fly them for a moment to fight with them again.
    But I've ninety men and more that are lying sick ashore.
    I should count myself the coward if I left them, my Lord Howard,
    To these Inquisition dogs and the devildoms of Spain.'

    So Lord Howard passed away with five ships of war that day,
    Till he melted like a cloud in the silent summer heaven;
    But Sir Richard bore in hand all his sick men from the land
    Very carefully and slow,
    Men of Bideford in Devon,
    And we laid them on the ballast down below;
    For we brought them all aboard,
    And they blest him in their pain, that they were not left to Spain,
    To the thumbscrew and the stake, for the glory of the Lord.

    He had only a hundred seamen to work the ship and to fight,
    And he sailed away from Flores till the Spaniard came in sight,
    With his huge sea-castles heaving upon the weather bow.

    'Shall we fight or shall we fly?
    Good Sir Richard, tell us now,
    For to fight is but to die!
    There'll be little of us left by the time this sun be set.'
    And Sir Richard said again: 'We be all good English men.
    Let us bang these dogs of Seville, the children of the devil,
    For I never turned my back upon Don or devil yet.'

    Sir Richard spoke and he laughed, and we roared a hurrah, and so
    The little Revenge ran on, sheer into the heart of the foe,
    With her hundred fighters on deck, and her ninety sick below;
    For half of their fleet to the right and half to the left were seen,
    And the little Revenge ran on through the long sea-lane between.

    Thousands of their soldiers looked down from their decks and laughed,
    Thousands of their seamen made mock at the mad little craft
    Running on and on, till delayed
    By their mountain-like San Philip that, of fifteen hundred tons,
    And up-shadowing high above us with her yawning tiers of guns,
    Took the breath from our sails, and we stayed.

    And while now the great San Philip hung above us like a cloud
    Whence the thunderbolt will fall Long and loud,
    Four galleons drew away
    From the Spanish fleet that day,
    And two upon the larboard and two upon the starboard lay,
    And the battle-thunder broke from them all.

    But anon the great San Philip, she bethought herself and went
    Having that within her womb that had left her ill content;
    And the rest they came aboard us, and they fought us hand to hand,
    For a dozen times they came with their pikes and their musketeers,
    And a dozen time we shook 'em off as a dog that shakes his ears
    When he leaps from the water to the land.

    And the sun went down, and the stars came out far over the summer sea,
    But never a moment ceased the fight of the one and the fifty-three.
    Ship after ship, the whole night long, their high-built galleons came,
    Ship after ship, the whole night long, with her battle-thunder and flame;
    Ship after ship, the whole night long, drew back with her dead and her shame.
    For some were sunk and many were shatter'd, and so could fight us no more -
    God of battles, was ever a battle like this in the world before?

    For he said 'Fight on! fight on!'
    Though his vessel was all but a wreck;
    And it chanced that, when half of the short summer night was gone,
    With a grisly wound to be dressed he had left the deck,
    But a bullet struck him that was dressing it suddenly dead,
    And himself he was wounded again in the side and the head,
    And he said 'Fight on! fight on!'

    And the night went down, and the sun smiled out from over the summer sea,
    And the Spanish fleet with broken sides lay around us all in a ring;
    But they dared not touch us again, for they feared that we still could sting,
    So they watched what the end would be.
    And we had not fought them in vain,
    But in perilous plight were we,
    Seeing forty of our poor hundred were slain,
    And half of the rest of us maimed for life
    In the crash of the cannonades and the desperate strife;
    And the sick men down in the hold were most of them stark and cold,
    And the pikes were all broken or bent, and the powder was all of it spent;
    And the masts and the rigging were lying over the side;
    But Sir Richard cried in his English pride:
    'We have fought such a fight for a day and a night
    As may never be fought again!
    We have won great glory my men!
    And a day less or more
    At sea or ashore,
    We die - does it matter when?
    Sink me the ship, Master Gunner - sink her, split her in twain!
    Fall into the hands of God, not into the hands of Spain!'

    And the gunner said 'Ay ay,' but the seamen made reply:
    'We have children, we have wives,
    And the Lord hath spared our lives.
    We will make the Spaniard promise, if we yield, to let us go;
    We shall live to fight again and to strike another blow.'
    And the lion there lay dying, and they yielded to the foe.

    And the stately Spanish men to their flagship bore him then,
    Where they laid him by the mast, old Sir Richard caught at last,
    And they praised him to his face with their courtly foreign grace.
    But he rose upon their decks and he cried:
    'I have fought for Queen and Faith like a valiant man and true.
    I have only done my duty as a man is bound to do.
    With a joyful spirit I, Sir Richard Grenville, die!'
    And he fell upon their decks and he died.

    And they stared at the dead that had been so valiant and true,
    And had holden the power and the glory of Spain so cheap
    That he dared her with one little ship and his English few;
    Was he devil or man? He was devil for aught they knew,
    But they sank his body with honour down into the deep,
    And they manned the Revenge with a swarthier alien crew,
    And away she sailed with her loss and longed for her own;
    When a wind from the lands they had ruined awoke from sleep,
    And the water began to heave and the weather to moan,
    And or ever that evening ended a great gale blew,
    And a wave like a wave that is raised by an earthquake grew,
    Till it smote on their hulls and their sails and their masts and their flags,
    And the whole sea plunged and fell on the shot-shattered navy of Spain,
    And the little Revenge herself went down by the island crags
    To be lost evermore in the main.

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    Default Pink by M Katharine Makkai

    Pink is disappearing
    and do you know why?
    Because pink offends people
    The other day I saw a rose hued Geo
    and was completely out-raged
    how dare pink be so... pink
    and not some other, more appropriate, color.
    Pink offends people.

    Pink never makes cars go or stop
    Pink is not a belt in the hierarchy of
    any martial art. Pink is strictly for careless
    extravagancies
    Like foaming body wash
    A flippant frivolity, pink has no place
    in a utilitarian society.

    Pink is...

    Pink is laughing at them
    Pink won't take anyone seriously

    Pink

    Pink was my mother's breasts and lips.
    Pink is the unactualized ballerina
    pirouetting through every woman's history,
    the color little boys actually liked before their
    homophobic fathers told them not to,
    the color of our lungs before we started
    smoking...
    before this
    before that
    before a whole lot of shit went down...
    Pink was a fuckin' cool color.

    But pink wouldn't move on,
    pink didn't get the whole picture
    Pink dares to remain ethereally pretty
    despite the serious state of affairs in the world
    today.
    We changed but pink didn't,
    pink reminds us of just how bad it's gotten.

    Pink is taboo
    a controversy.
    Pink will cause more riots in the streets than
    championship sports teams.
    Pink will go on trial
    and stand alone before the judge with no alibi and
    no character witnesses.
    Every one will disavow any knowledge
    and have no recollection of
    pink.

    Pink's parents, Red and White, will hang their
    heads, wondering how their child could've
    gone so wrong
    and be unable to meet anyone's gaze in the
    grocery store.

    Pink will become a fugitive.
    Blushing will be a crime,
    pink lemonade: a narcotic,
    Sunrises and Sunsets: a federal offense.
    Then, only the most hardened, bad-ass chromatic
    criminals
    will deal in pink.
    They'll have secret, orgy-like meetings where
    they'll stare
    entranced at uncensored photos of Mr. Bubble.
    When pink is outlawed, only outlaws will have
    pink.
    So start hanging around hardware stores,
    pocketing pink paint-chips.
    Start hoarding Pepto-bismol,
    because someday soon,
    mark my words...
    pink is going to be a fuckin' cool color again.

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    ^^lol @epheme cool poem....almost as cool as the color pink

  35. #35

    Default

    “This is an apology letter to the both of us
    for how long it took me to let things go.
    It was not my intention to make such a
    production of the emptiness between us
    playing tuba on the tombstone of a soprano
    to try and keep some dead singer’s perspective alive.
    It’s just that I coulda swore you had sung me a love song back there
    and that you meant it
    but I guess sometimes people just chew with their mouth open
    so I ate ear plugs alive with my throat
    hoping they’d get lodged deep enough inside the empty spots
    that I wouldn’t have to hear you leaving”
    — Buddy Wakefield | “Hurling Crowbirds At Mockingbars”

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    Something Something Something Grand

    Sandra Lim

    I adore you: you’re a harrowing event.

    I like you very ugly, condensed to one

    deep green pang. You cannot ask the simplest

    question, your hold is all clutch and sinker.

    Cannibal old me,

    with my heart up my throat, blasting on all sides

    with my hundred red states. Hidden little striver.

    How not to know it, the waist-deep trance of you,

    the cursing, coursing say of you.

    Curiouser and curiouser,

    your body is a mouth, is a night of travel, your body

    is tripling the sideways insouciance. The muscle

    in you knows gorgeous, in you knows tornadoes.

    In an instant’s compass, your blood flees you like a cry.

    You put on my heat,

    (that’s the way you work) I’m a bandit gripping

    hard on the steal. The substitutions come swiftly,

    hungering down the valley, no one question to cover

    all of living. I arrange myself in the order of my use.

    You’re wrong and right

    at the same time, a breathless deluxe and a devouring

    chopping down the back door. You slap my attention

    all over the dark. What’s in me like a chime?

    Sometimes, sometimes, I come to you for the surprise.

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    I'm posting this one for @Kim . . . in honor of the pleasures of writing criticism.


    TO THOMAS PYNCHON REGARDING THE CRYING OF LOT 49

    Amanda J. Bradley

    You wrote this slim volume and then I wrote one

    hundred eleven pages about it in a dissertation

    I abandoned. One hundred eleven seemed so

    significant as I randomly landed there, those binary,

    singular numbers lined up so neatly like three straws.

    God damn you, Pynchon! You know, J. Kerry Grant’s

    companion to Lot 49 notes you use the word

    god thirty-three times in your novel. On purpose?

    Was that on purpose?! I want to punch

    your reclusive face. Where are you, Pynchon?

    So, I’ll use the word god here three times and then you

    can decide to what extent or in what capacity

    I may or may not believe in such notions as purpose

    and entropy and preterite versus elect. By the time I was

    done, I had underlined and starred in color-coded

    markings nearly every sentence of both Lot 49

    and its companion with comments in the margins

    such as Irigaray? Lacan? Countercultural symptom?

    Commodity fetish?—always ending with a question mark.

    I told my advisor I’d write about all of your works,

    but I got obsessed with underground postal systems

    and Jacobean revenge tragedies, and Oedipa Maas and I?

    We became one and the same! I was her in the flesh,

    which does not refer to communion wafers metonymically,

    unless it does so subconsciously, which it could,

    I suppose. Anything’s possible in your world, Pynchon.

    You could mean so many things couldn’t you?

    You aren’t just being cute, are you? You must mean

    something. What do you want to point out here,

    Pynchon? Why are you writing at all, Pynchon?

    I read about the “massive axiological

    catastrophe that provides the normative context

    for this lived caricature of life” and wrote about the

    “omni-contextual nature of reality and identity”

    and said that some people accept a “consensual reality

    over a solipsistic or a nihilistically paranoid one,”

    but by page 111, I couldn’t believe myself.

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    Quote Originally Posted by GOLDEN View Post
    I'm posting this one for @Kim . . . in honor of the pleasures of writing criticism.


    TO THOMAS PYNCHON REGARDING THE CRYING OF LOT 49

    Amanda J. Bradley

    You wrote this slim volume and then I wrote one

    hundred eleven pages about it in a dissertation

    I abandoned. One hundred eleven seemed so

    significant as I randomly landed there, those binary,

    singular numbers lined up so neatly like three straws.

    God damn you, Pynchon! You know, J. Kerry Grant’s

    companion to Lot 49 notes you use the word

    god thirty-three times in your novel. On purpose?

    Was that on purpose?! I want to punch

    your reclusive face. Where are you, Pynchon?

    So, I’ll use the word god here three times and then you

    can decide to what extent or in what capacity

    I may or may not believe in such notions as purpose

    and entropy and preterite versus elect. By the time I was

    done, I had underlined and starred in color-coded

    markings nearly every sentence of both Lot 49

    and its companion with comments in the margins

    such as Irigaray? Lacan? Countercultural symptom?

    Commodity fetish?—always ending with a question mark.

    I told my advisor I’d write about all of your works,

    but I got obsessed with underground postal systems

    and Jacobean revenge tragedies, and Oedipa Maas and I?

    We became one and the same! I was her in the flesh,

    which does not refer to communion wafers metonymically,

    unless it does so subconsciously, which it could,

    I suppose. Anything’s possible in your world, Pynchon.

    You could mean so many things couldn’t you?

    You aren’t just being cute, are you? You must mean

    something. What do you want to point out here,

    Pynchon? Why are you writing at all, Pynchon?

    I read about the “massive axiological

    catastrophe that provides the normative context

    for this lived caricature of life” and wrote about the

    “omni-contextual nature of reality and identity”

    and said that some people accept a “consensual reality

    over a solipsistic or a nihilistically paranoid one,”

    but by page 111, I couldn’t believe myself.
    Are you hiding in my closet? Get out of MY HEAD!
    “Let us forget with generosity those who cannot love us”
    ― Pablo Neruda

  39. #39
    2 EVIL I golden's Avatar
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    Quote Originally Posted by Kim View Post
    Are you hiding in my closet? Get out of MY HEAD!

  40. #40
    Haikus Persephone's Avatar
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    A une passante

    La rue assourdissante autour de moi hurlait.
    Longue, mince, en grand deuil, douleur majestueuse,
    Une femme passa, d'une main fastueuse
    Soulevant, balançant le feston et l'ourlet ;

    Agile et noble, avec sa jambe de statue.
    Moi, je buvais, crispé comme un extravagant,
    Dans son oeil, ciel livide où germe l'ouragan,
    La douceur qui fascine et le plaisir qui tue.

    Un éclair... puis la nuit ! - Fugitive beauté
    Dont le regard m'a fait soudainement renaître,
    Ne te verrai-je plus que dans l'éternité ?

    Ailleurs, bien loin d'ici ! trop tard ! jamais peut-être !
    Car j'ignore où tu fuis, tu ne sais où je vais,
    Ô toi que j'eusse aimée, ô toi qui le savais !

    To a Passer-By

    The street about me roared with a deafening sound.
    Tall, slender, in heavy mourning, majestic grief,
    A woman passed, with a glittering hand
    Raising, swinging the hem and flounces of her skirt;


    Agile and graceful, her leg was like a statue's.
    Tense as in a delirium, I drank
    From her eyes, pale sky where tempests germinate,
    The sweetness that enthralls and the pleasure that kills.


    A lightning flash... then night! Fleeting beauty
    By whose glance I was suddenly reborn,
    Will I see you no more before eternity?


    Elsewhere, far, far from here! too late! never perhaps!
    For I know not where you fled, you know not where I go,
    O you whom I would have loved, O you who knew it!


    — William Aggeler, The Flowers of Evil (Fresno, CA: Academy Library Guild, 1954)


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