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Post a poem you like
I'll start.

We live on the third world from the sun. Number three. Nobody tells us what to do.

The people who taught us to count were being very kind.

It’s always time to leave.

If it rains, you either have your umbrella or you don’t.

The wind blows your hat off.

The sun rises also. I’d rather the stars didn’t describe us to each other; I’d rather we do it for ourselves.

Run in front of your shadow.

A sister who points to the sky at least once a decade is a good sister.

The landscape is motorized.

The train takes you where it goes.

Bridges among water.

Folks straggling along vast stretches of concrete, heading into the plane.

Don’t forget what your hat and shoes will look like when you are nowhere to be found.

Even the words floating in air make blue shadows.

If it tastes good we eat it.

The leaves are falling. Point things out.

Pick up the right things.

Hey guess what? What? I’ve learned how to talk. Great.

The person whose head was incomplete burst into tears.

As it fell, what could the doll do? Nothing.

Go to sleep.

You look great in shorts. And the flag looks great too.

Everyone enjoyed the explosions.

Time to wake up.

But better get used to dreams.
Into my heart an air that kills
From yon far country blows:
What are those blue remembered hills,
What spires, what farms are those?

That is the land of lost content,
I see it shining plain,
The happy highways where I went
And cannot come again.
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Lo! ’t is a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.

Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly—
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their Condor wings
Invisible Wo!

That motley drama—oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot,
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot.

But see, amid the mimic rout,
A crawling shape intrude!
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes!—it writhes!—with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And seraphs sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued.

Out—out are the lights—out all!
And, over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
While the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, “Man,”
And its hero, the Conqueror Worm.
A stranger has come
To share my room in the house not right in the head,
A girl mad as birds

Bolting the night of the door with her arm her plume.
Strait in the mazed bed
She deludes the heaven-proof house with entering clouds

Yet she deludes with walking the nightmarish room,
At large as the dead,
Or rides the imagined oceans of the male wards.

She has come possessed
Who admits the delusive light through the bouncing wall,
Possessed by the skies

She sleeps in the narrow trough yet she walks the dust
Yet raves at her will
On the madhouse boards worn thin by my walking tears.

And taken by light in her arms at long and dear last
I may without fail
Suffer the first vision that set fire to the stars.
Thanks. I enjoyed that.
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Without the slightest bit of irony
The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.
Minimalism done right

To live at all is miracle enough.
The doom of nations is another thing.
Here in my hammering blood-pulse is my proof.

Let every painter paint and poet sing
And all the sons of music ply their trade;
Machines are weaker than a beetle’s wing.

Swung out of sunlight into cosmic shade,
Come what come may the imagination’s heart
Is constellation high and can’t be weighed.

Nor greed nor fear can tear our faith apart
When every heart-beat hammers out the proof
That life itself is miracle enough.
love is more thicker than forget
more thinner than recall
more seldom than a wave is wet
more frequent than to fail

it is most mad and moonly
and less it shall unbe
than all the sea which only
is deeper than the sea

love is less always than to win
less never than alive
less bigger than the least begin
less littler than forgive

it is most sane and sunly
and more it cannot die
than all the sky which only
is higher than the sky
Roses are red,
Fires are hot.
Sound the alarm!
I've spotted a thot!
When night falls
she cloaks the world
in impenetrable darkness.
A chill rises
from the soil
and contaminates the air
life has new meaning.
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>more thicker
At the window stood the mother,
The son lay in bed.
"Won't you stand up, William
To see the procession?"

"I am so ill, O mother,
That I see and hear nothing;
I think of dead Gretchen,
And my heart aches."

"Stand up, we will go to Kevlaar,
Take the Book and the rosary;
The Mother of God will heal
Your broken heart completely."

The church banners flutter,
There is singing in Church tone;
To Cologne upon the Rhine,
There goes the procession.

The mother follows the crowd,
The son, led by her,
Both sing in chorus:
Praise be to you, Mary!

The Mother of God in Kevlaar
Wearing today her best dress;
Today she has much to do,
Many sick people are coming.

The sick people
Present as offerings
Limbs formed of wax
Many waxen hands and feet

And whomever offers a waxen hand,
The wound on his hand is healed;
And whomever offers a waxen foot,
His foot will be well.

Many have come to Kevlaar on crutches,
Who now dance upon a rope,
Even more now play the viola,
Who had not one good finger.

The mother took a wax candle,
And shaped it into a heart.
"Take this to the Mother of God,
Then she'll heal your pain."

With a sigh the son took the waxen heart,
With a sigh, to the saint's image;
A tear streamed from his eye
The words streamed from his heart:

"Your most blessed one,
Your immaculate maiden of the Lord,
Your Queen of heaven,
I lament to you of my pain!

I lived with my mother
In the city of Cologne,
The city that has many hundreds
Of chapels and churches.

And Gretchen lived nearby,
Who is now dead -
Mary, I bring you a waxen heart,
I beg you heal my wounded heart.

Please heal my broken heart,
I will also, late and early,
Fervently pray and sing,
Praise be to you, Mary!"

The sick son and his mother,
Were sleeping in the bed chamber;
Thereupon came the Mother of God
Most softly crept within.

She bent over the sick boy
And lay her hand
Very gently upon his heart,
Smiled tenderly and vanished.

The mother saw it all in a dream
And yet saw more;
She awoke from slumber,
The dogs were baying so loudly.

There lay outstretched
Her son, and he was dead;
It played upon his pale cheeks
The red light of dawn.

The mother joined her hands,
She didn't know how she was;
With devotion she lowly sang:
Praise be to you, Mary!
we o'doulin
bitches droolin
drool pooled on my dick and im boolin
Wow this thread is way to eurocentric, needs some rich contemporary culture flavor to spice up this mayo white boiled chicken

Ay, I remember syrup sandwiches and crime allowances
Finesse a nigga with some counterfeits
But now I'm countin' this
Parmesan where my accountant lives
In fact, I'm downin' this
D'USSÉ with my boo bae, tastes like Kool-Aid for the analysts
Girl, I can buy yo' ass the world with my paystub
Ooh, that pussy good, won't you sit it on my taste bloods?
I get way too petty once you let me do the extras
Pull up on your block, then break it down: we playin' Tetris
Kellys kept an unlicensed bull, well away
From the road: one risked a fine, but had to pay

The normal fee if cows were serviced there.
Once I dragged a nervous Friesian on a tether

Down a lane of alder, shaggy with catkin,
Down to the shed the bull was kept in.

I gave Old Kelly the clammy silver, though why
I could not guess. He grunted a curt “Go by.

Get up on that gate.” and from my lofty station
I watched the businesslike conception.

The door, unbolted, whacked back against the wall.
The illegal sire fumbled from his stall

Unhurried as an old steam engine shunting.
He circled, snored, and nosed. No hectic panting,

Just the unfussy ease of a good tradesman;
Then an awkward unexpected jump, and

His knobbled forelegs straddling her flank,
He slammed life home, impassive as a tank.

Dropping off like a tipped-up load of sand.
“She‟ll do,‟ said Kelly and tapped his ash-plant

Across her hindquarters. “If not, bring her back.‟
I walked ahead of her, the rope now slack

While Kelly whooped and prodded his outlaw
Who, in his own time, resumed the dark, the straw.
This is unironically better than any Rupi Kaur poem I've read
I know this is a shitpost but he has some really well crafted verses
Lmao, yes truly a modern day Wordsworth
The translation is meh compared to the original but the poem it's so great that even in translation it manages to maintain all of its beauty. Enjoy.

Always to me beloved was this lonely hillside
And the hedgerow creeping over and always hiding
The distances, the horizon's furthest reaches.
But as I sit and gaze, there is an endless
Space still beyond, there is a more than mortal
Silence spread out to the last depth of peace,
Which in my thought I shape until my heart
Scarcely can hide a fear. And as the wind
Comes through the copses sighing to my ears,
The infinite silence and the passing voice
I must compare: remembering the seasons,
Quiet in dead eternity, and the present,
Living and sounding still. And into this
Immensity my thought sinks ever drowning,
And it is sweet to shipwreck in such a sea.
O soft embalmer of the still midnight,
Shutting, with careful fingers and benign,
Our gloom-pleas'd eyes, embower'd from the light,
Enshaded in forgetfulness divine:
O soothest Sleep! if so it please thee, close
In midst of this thine hymn my willing eyes,
Or wait the "Amen," ere thy poppy throws
Around my bed its lulling charities.
Then save me, or the passed day will shine
Upon my pillow, breeding many woes,—
Save me from curious Conscience, that still lords
Its strength for darkness, burrowing like a mole;
Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards,
And seal the hushed Casket of my Soul.
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The first of the undecoded messages read: “Popeye sits
in thunder,
Unthought of. From that shoebox of an apartment,
From livid curtain’s hue, a tangram emerges: a country.”
Meanwhile the Sea Hag was relaxing on a green couch: “How
To spend one’s vacation en la casa de Popeye," she
Her cleft chin’s solitary hair. She remembered spinach

And was going to ask Wimpy if he had bought any spinach.
“M’love," he intercepted, “the plains are decked out
in thunder
Today, and it shall be as you wish.” He scratched
The part of his head under his hat. The apartment
Seemed to grow smaller. “But what if no pleasant
Inspiration plunge us now to the stars? For this is my

Suddenly they remembered how it was cheaper in the country.
Wimpy was thoughtfully cutting open a number 2 can of spinach
When the door opened and Swee’pea crept in. “How pleasant!”
But Swee’pea looked morose. A note was pinned to his bib.
And tears are unavailing," it read. “Henceforth shall
Popeye’s apartment
Be but remembered space, toxic or salubrious, whole or

Olive came hurtling through the window; its geraniums scratched
Her long thigh. “I have news!” she gasped. “Popeye, forced as
you know to flee the country
One musty gusty evening, by the schemes of his wizened,
duplicate father, jealous of the apartment
And all that it contains, myself and spinach
In particular, heaves bolts of loving thunder
At his own astonished becoming, rupturing the pleasant

Arpeggio of our years. No more shall pleasant
Rays of the sun refresh your sense of growing old, nor the
Tree-trunks and mossy foliage, only immaculate darkness and
She grabbed Swee’pea. “I’m taking the brat to the country.”
“But you can’t do that—he hasn’t even finished his spinach,"
Urged the Sea Hag, looking fearfully around at the apartment.

But Olive was already out of earshot. Now the apartment
Succumbed to a strange new hush. “Actually it’s quite pleasant
Here," thought the Sea Hag. “If this is all we need fear from
Then I don’t mind so much. Perhaps we could invite Alice the Goon
over”—she scratched
One dug pensively—“but Wimpy is such a country
Bumpkin, always burping like that.” Minute at first, the thunder

Soon filled the apartment. It was domestic thunder,
The color of spinach. Popeye chuckled and scratched
His balls: it sure was pleasant to spend a day in the country.
Why must you torment me so
With these jezebels?
All I want to do is come here
For an asexual experience
That will exercise my brain, but
I am constantly titillated
By these vixens
With their prodigious hips
And provocative figures.
Can I never satiate this thirst,
Will I ever know the touch of a woman
And enter between her loins?
Will my seed ever drip
From her moistened hole?
Life is a constant hell.
No wonder
I resent women too.

what do you fellas think?
Rap and poetry function on different strategies anyway
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The abyss is all encompassing
Wherein dark things bare witness to the light and begin a dance
Of how a shadow functions within a day
And the sun kissing the moon goodbye after night begins to dawn... the stars forever there though washed away by atmosphere
Where is this abyss? What is the aether then if roots can grow trees from the dirt?
Mysterious and futile are these seeking ambitions which to roosters crow and cardinals sing.
Which man hope for joy to bring, Mysterious and futile these seeking things
thus can an eye actually bare witness to the depths of the darkness for it does when even candle lit... why was nothing once there for something to replace that absence?
Can an eye actually bear absolute witness to itself then?
Is the light of the world a needed tool for complete recognition of two eyes? Why even shine in the first place if darkness once existed, which was nothingness? Or is the light of the spirt a needed tool for absolute recognition of two eyes? Thus it shines through the darkness which was nothingness to become something to then understand the absence that is the abyss, beyond the aether whereinhere stars gleam.
Which man hope for joy to bring, Mysterious and futile These thinking things!
poetry is in black and white, rap is in color
I can't "get" poems like these at all. They don't make me feel anything, and whenever I read one my only response is that, yes, it is indeed something that I read. I'm not sure why.
The shadowy Daughter of Urthona stood before red Orc,
When fourteen suns had faintly journey’d o’er his dark abode:
His food she brought in iron baskets, his drink in cups of iron.
Crown’d with a helmet and dark hair the nameless Female stood;
A quiver with its burning stores, a bow like that of night,
When pestilence is shot from heaven—no other arms she need!
Invulnerable tho’ naked, save where clouds roll round her loins
Their awful folds in the dark air: silent she stood as night;
For never from her iron tongue could voice or sound arise,
But dumb till that dread day when Orc assay’d his fierce embrace.

‘Dark Virgin,’ said the hairy Youth, ‘thy father stern, abhorr’d,
Rivets my tenfold chains, while still on high my spirit soars;
Sometimes an eagle screaming in the sky, sometimes a lion
Stalking upon the mountains, and sometimes a whale, I lash
The raging fathomless abyss; anon a serpent folding
Around the pillars of Urthona, and round thy dark limbs
On the Canadian wilds I fold; feeble my spirit folds;
For chain’d beneath I rend these caverns: when thou bringest food
I howl my joy, and my red eyes seek to behold thy face—
In vain! these clouds roll to and fro, and hide thee from my sight.

Silent as despairing love, and strong as jealousy,
The hairy shoulders rend the links; free are the wrists of fire;
Round the terrific loins he seiz’d the panting, struggling womb;
It joy’d: she put aside her clouds and smilèd her first-born smile,
As when a block cloud shows its lightnings to the silent deep.

Soon as she saw the Terrible Boy, then burst the virgin cry:—

‘I know thee, I have found thee, and I will not let thee go:
Thou art the image of God who dwells in darkness of Africa,
And thou art fall’n to give me life in regions of dark death.
On my American plains I feel the struggling afflictions
Endur’d by roots that writhe their arms into the nether deep.
I see a Serpent in Canada who courts me to his love,
In Mexico an Eagle, and a Lion in Peru;
I see a Whale in the South Sea, drinking my soul away.
O what limb-rending pains I feel! thy fire and my frost
Mingle in howling pains, in furrows by thy lightnings rent.
This is Eternal Death, and this the torment long foretold!’
I'm not exactly sure what you mean, but I still agree.
Polaroid of you dancing in my room
I want to remember i think it was about noon
Its getting harder to understand to understand
How you felt in my hands (in my hands)

I could be a pretty girl
I'll wear a skirt for you
I could be a pretty girl
Shut up when you want me too
I could be a pretty girl
Wont ever make you blue
I could be a pretty girl
I'll lose myself in you

I was so blinded by you, now i cry
Just thinking bout the fool that i was
I was such a fool
Im alone now but its better for me
I don't need all your negativity

I could be a pretty girl
I'll wear a skirt for you
I could be a pretty girl
Shut up when you want me too
I could be a pretty girl
Wont ever make you blue
I could be a pretty girl
I'll lose myself in you
No man is an Iland, intire of itselfe; every man
is a peece of the Continent, a part of the maine;
if a Clod bee washed away by the Sea, Europe
is the lesse, as well as if a Promontorie were, as
well as if a Manor of thy friends or of thine
owne were; any mans death diminishes me,
because I am involved in Mankinde;
And therefore never send to know for whom
the bell tolls; It tolls for thee.
They are two different, though related mediums. Rap is closer to music than it is to straight poetry, because rappers can use their vocal tone and character/showmanship to fit with the production behind them and approach meaning. Poets have no such tools at their disposal, instead they rely more heavily on structure and lyricism.
Example-- good luck trying to convey the work of a line break in rap.

Both use sound though, but vocalized vs read sound are different from one another too.
She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove,
A Maid whom there were none to praise
And very few to love:

A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye!
—Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and, oh,
The difference to me!
It's like a literary painting anon, actually it's more than that, don't those lines evoke an image and thought in you? That is the point, also the aesthetic
In noon’s heat, in a dale of Dagestan,
With lead inside my breast, stirless I lay;
The deep wound still smoked on; my blood
Kept trickling drop by drop away.

On the dale’s sand alone I lay. The cliffs
Crowded around in ledges steep,
And the sun scorched their tawny tops
And scorched me – but I slept death’s sleep.

And in a dream I saw an evening feast
That in my native land with bright lights shone;
Among young women crowned with flowers,
A merry talk concerning me went on.

But in the merry talk not joining,
One of them sat there lost in thought,
And in a melancholy dream
Her young soul was immersed – God knows by what.

And of a dale in Dagestan she dreamt;
In that dale lay the corpse of one she knew;
Within his breast a smoking wound showed black,
And blood ran in a stream that colder grew.
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Oh to be that straw sitting in my lady's cup! Gladly would I be made of plastic and risk drowning in a sea of cola to touch fair Kelly's lips.

>not those literally perfect thighs

you had one job
Had I the heaven's embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light;
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
Let the boy try along this bayonet-blade
How cold steel is, and keen with hunger of blood;
Blue with all malice, like a madman's flash;
And thinly drawn with famishing for flesh.

Lend him to stroke these blind, blunt bullet-leads,
Which long to nuzzle in the hearts of lads,
Or give him cartridges of fine zinc teeth
Sharp with the sharpness of grief and death.

For his teeth seem for laughing round an
There lurk no claws behind his fingers supple;
And God will grow no talons at his heels,
Nor antlers through the thickness of his curls.
—And yet this great wink of eternity,
Of rimless floods, unfettered leewardings,
Samite sheeted and processioned where
Her undinal vast belly moonward bends,
Laughing the wrapt inflections of our love;

Take this Sea, whose diapason knells
On scrolls of silver snowy sentences,
The sceptred terror of whose sessions rends
As her demeanors motion well or ill,
All but the pieties of lovers’ hands.

And onward, as bells off San Salvador
Salute the crocus lustres of the stars,
In these poinsettia meadows of her tides,—
Adagios of islands, O my Prodigal,
Complete the dark confessions her veins spell.

Mark how her turning shoulders wind the hours,
And hasten while her penniless rich palms
Pass superscription of bent foam and wave,—
Hasten, while they are true,—sleep, death, desire,
Close round one instant in one floating flower.

Bind us in time, O Seasons clear, and awe.
O minstrel galleons of Carib fire,
Bequeath us to no earthly shore until
Is answered in the vortex of our grave
The seal’s wide spindrift gaze toward paradise.
Alas, how pleasant are their days
With whom the infant Love yet plays!
Sorted by pairs, they still are seen
By fountains cool, and shadows green.
But soon these flames do lose their light,
Like meteors of a summer’s night:
Nor can they to that region climb,
To make impression upon time.

’Twas in a shipwreck, when the seas
Ruled, and the winds did what they please,
That my poor lover floating lay,
And, ere brought forth, was cast away:
Till at the last the master-wave
Upon the rock his mother drave;
And there she split against the stone,
In a Caesarean sectión.

The sea him lent those bitter tears
Which at his eyes he always wears;
And from the winds the sighs he bore,
Which through his surging breast do roar.
No day he saw but that which breaks
Through frighted clouds in forkèd streaks,
While round the rattling thunder hurled,
As at the funeral of the world.

While Nature to his birth presents
This masque of quarrelling elements,
A numerous fleet of cormorants black,
That sailed insulting o’er the wrack,
Received into their cruel care
Th’ unfortunate and abject heir:
Guardians most fit to entertain
The orphan of the hurricane.

They fed him up with hopes and air,
Which soon digested to despair,
And as one cormorant fed him, still
Another on his heart did bill,
Thus while they famish him, and feast,
He both consumèd, and increased:
And languishèd with doubtful breath,
The amphibíum of life and death.

And now, when angry heaven would
Behold a spectacle of blood,
Fortune and he are called to play
At sharp before it all the day:
And tyrant Love his breast does ply
With all his winged artillery,
Whilst he, betwixt the flames and waves,
Like Ajax, the mad tempest braves.

See how he nak’d and fierce does stand,
Cuffing the thunder with one hand,
While with the other he does lock,
And grapple, with the stubborn rock:
From which he with each wave rebounds,
Torn into flames, and ragg’d with wounds,
And all he ’says, a lover dressed
In his own blood does relish best.

This is the only banneret
That ever Love created yet:
Who though, by the malignant stars,
Forcèd to live in storms and wars,
Yet dying leaves a perfume here,
And music within every ear:
And he in story only rules,
In a field sable a lover gules.
Whenas in silks my Julia goes
Then, then (methinks) how sweetly flows
That liquefaction of her clothes.

Next, when I cast mine eyes and see
That brave vibration each way free,
O how that glittering taketh me!
Pass by,
And die:
As one
And gone:
I'm made
A shade,
And laid
I' th' grave:
There have
My cave,
Where tell
I dwell.
Cast a cold eye
On life, on death.
Horseman, pass by!
Ode to joy
You only love
when you love in vain.

Try another radio probe
when ten have failed,
take two hundred rabbits
when a hundred have died:
only this is science.

You ask the secret.
It has just one name:

In the end
a dog carries in his jaws
his image in the water,
people rivet the new moon, I love you.

Like caryatids
our lifted arms
hold up time's granite load

and defeated
we shall always win
(To the tune of Flintstones)

OF Mans First Disobedience, and the Fruit
Of that Forbidden Tree, whose mortal tast
Brought Death into the World, and all our woe,
With loss of Eden, till one greater Man
Restore us, and regain the blissful Seat,
Sing Heav'nly Muse, that on the secret top
Of Oreb, or of Sinai, didst inspire
That Shepherd, who first taught the chosen Seed,
In the Beginning how the Heav'ns and Earth
Rose out of Chaos: Or if Sion Hill
Delight thee more, and Siloa's Brook that flow'd
Fast by the Oracle of God; I thence
Invoke thy aid to my adventrous Song,
That with no middle flight intends to soar
Above th' Aonian Mount, while it pursues
Things unattempted yet in Prose or Rhime.
And chiefly Thou O Spirit, that dost prefer
Before all Temples th' upright heart and pure,
Instruct me, for Thou know'st; Thou from the first
Wast present, and with mighty wings outspread
Dove-like satst brooding on the vast Abyss
And mad'st it pregnant: What in me is dark
Illumin, what is low raise and support;
That to the highth of this great Argument
I may assert Eternal Providence,
And justifie the wayes of God to men.
That was beautiful, thank you anon

I'm confused. Faces in a crowd look absolutely noting like petals on a bough. What connection am I supposed to be making here?
Petals are connected to a branch. They have some mobility, but are still fixed to an immobile base.

The author likens the 'bough' to the 'crowd' because both anchor their individual constituents- the 'petals' and 'faces'- to something that hinders their free movement. The author attacks the illusion of individual freedom that the modern world promises. A person's face is their most unique identifier, and taken here as a symbol of the person's individual will. But a person loses the distinction of their identity when part of a crowd, like one you'd find in a 'station of the metro', which is one of modernity's most important day-to-day institutions- a place where people from all walks of life gather together, ostensibly, to go to their place of work and essentially fulfil the exact same economic function.

That's my interpretation. I'm not really a fan of Pound's poetry, but it's incredible how much meaning he can fit into only two lines.
And the days are not full enough
And the nights are not full enough
And life slips by like a field mouse
Not shaking the grass

Meh, it's not a lack of talent or insight when it comes to Kendrick or even Kanye, who's known for awfully bad lyrics.

If you listen to rap you'll notice that there are some lines that content-wise could fit into poetry. Thing is, that doesn't sell. Tupac kinda made it work, but he needed filler tracks about busting heads. The same person wrote 21 questions and I'll whip ya head boy. Biggie kept talking about his deatwish and suicide in between fucking hos and capping fools. The hook in Kanyes Saint Pablo is a thing of beauty, and the rest of the song is pretty much bullshit.

Even if they devote a song or an album to "higher" art, their audience won't give a fuck. A few days ago I saw drunk brits shouting m.A.A.d city on the streets, not giving a fuck about it's subject. Let's not even talk about the people who unironically danced and raged to Cudis Pursuit of happiness, a song about substance abuse, partying and self-destructive tendencies in general as a way to cope with depression.

There are shitloads of rappers worth listening to. There are good lyricists with meaningful verses. They have to combine their art with bullshit that sells though.
The real trash "artists" are fuckboys like The Weeknd, lil yachty, etc. They're just in it for the money, nothing of substance.

This is the whitest thing I've seen in a while. We get it, REAL HIP-HOP, rite?
Mate I'm not even American and I have nothing to do with gangbanging and shit. I just listen to the music and appreciate it when and if I can.
Faintest praise I ever did read
>To the tune of Flintstones
Ha! I can only get the first line in tune, though

Oh wow. I was just picturing stray petals on a branch. I didnt think they were connected to the branch. I feel stupid.
The petals are wet, have you never been around cherry blossom in the fall? They get muddied and gray
But you don't read poetry, you just listen to rap. How did you get here? Give it a few years and you'll start appreciating poetry. Also you write like you're on reddit and that isn't a meme
I've seen some goddamned stretches in my time, but holy shit you've gone the farthest in recent memory.

I'll give you that it's about how being part of a crowd reduces individuality, and that's all I'm willing to give you. The rest of your interpretation is over-rationalization taken to an extreme, or you have some other context--information on the author or publication history--that's allowing you to pull all that shit out of your ass.
I see the faces as points of (dim) light against darkness- we're in a metro station, after all. More precisely, I imagine them reflected from the dark glass of the train window- though that might be ahistorical, not sure what metro trains were like then. I certainly think of it when I see reflections on the London Underground windows- there is a wet blackness to it.
>a white person using white as a pejorative against another person
I've been on the internet too long, and it's only been 10 minutes.
>muh exoticism fetish
Rap is literally spoken-word poetry over hip-hop beats, you brainless fuckstain. Stop talking about things you don't know anything about.
Yeah and it's terrible, I think the fact they are shitting all over an ancient medium is even worse than it being different.
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Isn't it pretty to think so?
Good creatures, do you love your lives
And have you ears for sense?
Here is a knife like other knives,
That cost me eighteen pence.

I need but stick it in my heart
And down will come the sky,
And earth's foundations will depart
And all you folk will die.
>I'll give you that it's about how being part of a crowd reduces individuality, and that's all I'm willing to give you.

That's the bottom line of what I'm saying anyway. The part about the title is just my two cents.

Why do you come to a literature forum if you plan to get assblasted about other people's interpretations? What do you mean 'over-rationalizing?' How do I rationalize at a normal level? Refute my fucking points with some of your own, don't just claim I'm pulling shit out of my ass.
The poem suffers when you neglect to include its title
All of these are meh except the ones I posted
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Preaching Of Love

I am gone but my love still exists;
I see it in the Sun and soil where rot our bones.
Day ends in it's grace
like music like emptiness, in peace.

It will save intentions mine and yours
And resurrect dead birthdays at it's will.
Immeasurable shade of villainy at the bottom of the wind
Shall vanish into ash, of those that ceased to be.

In an empty heart in the dead of night, call for me
dead desire, to repeat the world.
If I haven't found love and have lulled my mind to sleep,
So the day that's yet to come already seems empty,
May I unworthy be wrapped in the wind
As a branch that stretches into noise in vain.
I do read poetry, but not in English. Eliot is the only one I could post in this thread and it's been done to death.
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This was published in 1898 by grandmaster NEET, Gustav Fröding (here translated by some random internet person). It's called Kärleksvisa ("Love Song"):

I purchased my love for money,
there was nothing else I could get,
sing angelic, you rasping strings,
sing angelic of lovers yet.

That dream, that never came true,
that dream was angelic to get,
for him, who is banished from Eden,
is Eden an Eden yet.
Or fallen leaf,
Which ought I to imitate
In my dancing'

And if she were to admit
The world weaved by her feet
Is leafless, is incomplete?
And if she abandoned it,
Broke the pivotal dance,
Set loose the audience?
Then would the moon go raving,
The moon, the anchorless
Moon go swerving
Down at the earth for a catastrophic kiss.

Thanks Hitchens.
'Letter to a Young Woman' by W.B. Yeats

My dear, my dear, I know
More than another
What makes your heart beat so;
Not even your own mother
Can know it as I know,
Who broke my heart for her
When the wild thought,
That she denies
And has forgot,
Set all her blood astir
And glittered in her eyes.
(Poème de Antoine Pol)

Je veux dédier ce poème
A toutes les femmes qu'on aime
Pendant quelques instants secrets
A celles qu'on connaît à peine
Qu'un destin différent entraîne
Et qu'on ne retrouve jamais

A celle qu'on voit apparaître
Une seconde à sa fenêtre
Et qui, preste, s'évanouit
Mais dont la svelte silhouette
Est si gracieuse et fluette
Qu'on en demeure épanoui

A la compagne de voyage
Dont les yeux, charmant paysage
Font paraître court le chemin
Qu'on est seul, peut-être, à comprendre
Et qu'on laisse pourtant descendre
Sans avoir effleuré sa main

A celles qui sont déjà prises
Et qui, vivant des heures grises
Près d'un être trop différent
Vous ont, inutile folie,
Laissé voir la mélancolie
D'un avenir désespérant

Chères images aperçues
Espérances d'un jour déçues
Vous serez dans l'oubli demain
Pour peu que le bonheur survienne
Il est rare qu'on se souvienne
Des épisodes du chemin

Mais si l'on a manqué sa vie
on songe avec un peu d'envie
A tous ces bonheurs entrevus
Aux baisers qu'on n'osa pas prendre
Aux cœurs qui doivent vous attendre
Aux yeux qu'on n'a jamais revus

Alors, aux soirs de lassitude
Tout en peuplant sa solitude
Des fantômes du souvenir
On pleure les lèvres absentes
De toutes ces belles passantes
Que l'on n'a pas su retenir

Brassens sang it beautifully.
you don't know me, ape
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
in there.

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
you want to blow my book sales in
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody's asleep.
I say, I know that you're there,
so don't be
then I put him back,
but he's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
and we sleep together like
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep, do
Joyce would like it
The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen:
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail:
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord.
I died. The sycamores
and shutters
along the dusty street were teased
by torrid Aeolus.
I walked,
and fauns walked, and in every faun
god Pan I seemed to recognise:
Good. I must be in Paradise.

Shielding her
face and to the sparkling sun
showing a russet armpit, in a doorway
there stood a naked little girl.
She had a water-lily in her curls
and was as graceful as a woman. Tenderly
her nipples bloomed, and I recalled
the springtime of my life on earth,
when through the alders on the river brink
so very closely I could watch
the miller’s youngest daughter as she stepped
out of the water, and she was all golden,
with a wet fleece between her legs.

And now, still
wearing the same dress coat
that I had on when killed last night,
with a rake’s predatory twinkle,
toward my Lilith I advanced.
She turned upon me a green eye
over her shoulder, and my clothes
were set on fire and in a trice
dispersed like ashes.
In the room behind
one glimpsed a shaggy Greek divan,
on a small table wine, pomegranates,
and some lewd frescoes covering the wall.
With two cold fingers childishly
she took me by my emberhead:
“now come along with me,” she said.

Without inducement,
without effort,
Just with the slowest of pert glee,
like wings she gradually opened
her pretty knees in front of me.
And how enticing, and how merry,
her upturned face! And with a wild
lunge of my loins I penetrated
into an unforgotten child.
Snake within snake, vessel in vessel,
smooth-fitting part, I moved in her,
through the ascending itch forefeeling
unutterable pleasure stir.
But suddenly she lightly flinched,
retreated, drew her legs together,
and grasped a veil and twisted it
around herself up to the hips,
and full of strength, at half the distance
to rapture, I was left with nothing.
I hurtled forward. A strange wind
caused me to stagger. “Let me in!”
I shouted, noticing with horror
that I stood again outside in the dust
and that obscenely bleating youngsters
were staring at my pommeled lust.
“Let me come in!” And the goat-hoofed,
copper-curled crowd increased. “Oh, let me in,”
I pleaded, “otherwise I shall go mad!”
The door stayed silent, and for all to see
writhing in agony I spilled my seed
and knew abruptly that I was in Hell.
That is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees
– Those dying generations – at their song,
The salmon‐falls, the mackerel‐crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.

An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.

O sages standing in God's holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing‐masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.

Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.
Time goes by, time comes along,
All is old and all is new;
What is right and what is wrong,
You must think and ask of you;
Have no hope and have no fear,
Waves that rise can never hold;
If they urge or if they cheer,
You remain aloof and cold.

To our sight a lot will glisten,
Many sounds will reach our ear;
Who could take the time to listen
And remember all we hear?
Keep aside from all that patter,
Seek yourself, far from the throng
When with loud and idle clatter
Time goes by, time comes along.

Nor forget the tongue of reason
Or its even scales depress
When the moment, changing season,
Wears the mask of happiness -
It is born of reason's slumber
And may last a wink as true:
For the one who knows its number
All is old and all is new.

Be as to a play, spectator,
As the world unfolds before:
You will know the heart of matter
Should they act two parts or four;
When they cry or tear asunder
From your seat enjoy along
And you'll learn from art to wonder
What is right and what is wrong.

Past and future, ever blending,
Are the twin sides of same page:
New start will begin with ending
When you know to learn from age;
All that was or be tomorrow
We have in the present, too;
But what's vain and futile sorrow
You must think and ask of you;

For the living cannot sever
From the means we've always had:
Now, as years ago, and ever,
Men are happy or are sad:
Other masks, same play repeated;
Diff'rent tongues, same words to hear;
Of your dreams so often cheated,
Have no hope and have no fear.

Hope not when the villains cluster
By success and glory drawn:
Fools with perfect lack of luster
Will outshine Hyperion!
Fear it not, they'll push each other
To reach higher in the fold,
Do not side with them as brother,
Waves that rise can never hold.

Sounds of siren songs call steady
Toward golden nets, astray;
Life attracts you into eddies
To change actors in the play;
Steal aside from crowd and bustle,
Do not look, seem not to hear
From your path, away from hustle,
If they urge or if they cheer;

If they reach for you, go faster,
Hold your tongue when slanders yell;
Your advice they cannot master,
Don't you know their measure well?
Let them talk and let them chatter,
Let all go past, young and old;
Unattached to man or matter,
You remain aloof and cold.

You remain aloof and cold
If they urge or if they cheer;
Waves that rise can never hold,
Have no hope and have no fear;
You must think and ask of you
What is right and what is wrong;
All is old and all is new,
Time goes by, time comes along.

Mihai Eminescu - Glossa (enlglish translation by Adrian G. Sahlean)
The guy translating this in english did a good job and captured the feel of the original.
have you seen my doggy bag
hate to nag, hate to nag
have you seen my emerald chain
hate to brag, hate to brag

I ate the supper in the village
lunch at the lodge
if you don’t give me back my
upper teeth
I am going to drool like a

man that once had silver
man that once had gold
man that once had everything
but a tune of his own

so have you seen my nodding mare
my lurking pony, my sultry donkey
have you seen my cuts and jags
hate to frag, hate to frag
have you seen my broken drum
hate to gab, hate to gab

the toilet seat is down now
it’s there I plan to sit
until I find that doggy bag
I lost while just a kid
Do you think he meant apocalyptic horseman or random duder on a horse?
are you supposed to pronounce trees as tries or dies as dees?
I have no name
I am but two days old.—
What shall I call thee?
I happy am
Joy is my name,—
Sweet joy befall thee!

Pretty joy!
Sweet joy but two days old,
Sweet joy I call thee;
Thou dost smile.
I sing the while
Sweet joy befall thee.
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.
Enough Yeats spam
I really, really, like this

The winter sunset, flaming beyond spires
And chimneys half-detached from this dull sphere,
Opens great gates to some forgotten year
Of elder splendours and divine desires.
Expectant wonders burn in those rich fires,
Adventure-fraught, and not untinged with fear;
A row of sphinxes where the way leads clear
Toward walls and turrets quivering to far lyres.

It is the land where beauty’s meaning flowers;
Where every unplaced memory has a source;
Where the great river Time begins its course
Down the vast void in starlit streams of hours.
Dreams bring us close—but ancient lore repeats
That human tread has never soiled these streets.
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At the county fair near me they had an entire book of poems submitted by 6-10 year olds and there was some seriously good shit in there
I really like that. Thanks.
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Weather and Thought

The student crawled up like cattle
out of his gloomy bed
the student flung on a haori
went out and dashed to nature as he saw it.
Nature was bright neat and refreshing
and on top of that had a smell
in the woods at a street corner in a shop stall
everywhere the blue sky flapped and was
in such buoyant weather
pulchritudinous cars and girls ran about.

What I think is
is a thought still more like weather?
The student turned up his tome to the sun
and smelled the smell of happiness for a long time.
Two boys uncoached are tossing a poem together,
Overhand, underhand, backhand, sleight of hand, everyhand,
Teasing with attitudes, latitudes, interludes, altitudes,
High, make him fly off the ground for it, low, make him stoop,
Make him scoop it up, make him as-almost-as possible miss it,
Fast, let him sting from it, now, now fool him slowly,
Anything, everything tricky, risky, nonchalant,
Anything under the sun to outwit the prosy,
Over the tree and the long sweet cadence down,
Over his head, make him scramble to pick up the meaning,
And now, like a posy, a pretty one plump in his hands.
Roses are Red
Violets are Blue
OP is a Faggot
And God hates You.
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>tfw 7 year olds are better than you at writing poetry

Whirl up, sea—
whirl your pointed pines,
splash your great pines
on our rocks,
hurl your green over us,
cover us with your pools of fir.
The tiger
is out of his cage
Sleep, death, desire
Close round one instant in one floating flower.
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>he's not up to date on Nael scholarship and doesn't know about the discovery of the original formatting for the poem
I've been looking for this for months thanks
why did you only post those lines
holy kek that pic
What a coincidence
This fucking hits me in the guts. Who wrote it?
Good shit anon. Thanks.
There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;

And frogs in the pools singing at night,
And wild plum trees in tremulous white,

Robins will wear their feathery fire
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;

And not one will know of the war, not one
Will care at last when it is done.

Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree
If mankind perished utterly;

And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn,
Would scarcely know that we were gone.
not even a little religious, but i like this one.

Glory be to God for dappled things –
For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced – fold, fallow, and plough;
And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim.

All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
Praise him.
by far my absolute favourite

>> e e cummings
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Rate my first poem..

Water drips to my face
Broken concrete down below
Ugly odor fills this place
Paranoid fate is all i know

Mental hell, broken dreams
Threaded death hangs from above
Distorted internal screams
Angels inviting me to their heavn of "love"

Mental issues apparant
Graphic issues become real
Ultraviolence jnherent
Now you will learn how I feel.
are you that sad london anon who eats junkfood?
There are quite a few spelling errors.
It just sounds a bit too rebellious to the point of being contrived, or pretentious. The full stop at the end, the quotation marks of " "love" ". I'd say try to polish it but it just seems a bit too angsty at its core. Don't take this too personally, this is a comment on the poem and not you as a person or your potential.
it was meant to be like angels inviting me to kill myself to join them.

idk i get you..its my first poem that ive been working on. I know it isnt good but it reflects a dark period of my life.

I really appreciate the criticism..im going tl keep writing and reading amd posting in poetry threads..hopefully nobody will plagiarize when it becomes ok lol.
this is unreal, Jaden Smith was right all along
Every poet has poems like this tbqh.
Temples in the shape of the sky
and beautiful girls
with the grape between the teeth you were right for us
Birds the weight of our heart up high nullifying
and so much azure that we loved
gone gone
July with the radiant shirt
and August stony with his small uneven steps
gone gone
and deep under the ground the clouds raising
black gravel
and thunder, the rage of the dead
and slowly creaking in the wind
they turned again chest first
terrible the statues of the rocks
absolute madman
Must I tell again
In the words I know
For the ears of men
The flesh, the blow?

Must I show outright
The bruise in the side,
The halt in the night,
And how death cried?

Must I speak to the lot
Who little bore?
It said Why not?
It said Once more.
well donne, anon.
>From Don Juan, Lord Byron
Perhaps you think in stumbling on this feast
He flew into a passion, and in fact
There was no mighty reason to be pleased;
Perhaps you prophesy some sudden act,
The whip, the rack, or dungeon at the least,
To teach his people to be more exact,
And that, proceeding at a very high rate,
He showed the royal *penchants* of a pirate.

You're wrong.---He was the mildest manner'd man
That ever scuttled ship or cut a throat;
With such true breeding of a gentleman,
You never could divine his real thought;
No courtier could, and scarcely woman can
Gird more deceit into a petticoat;
Pity he loved adventurous life's variety,
He was so great a loss to good society.
With Usura by Ezra Pound
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 luz
or where virgin receiveth message
and halo projects from incision,
with usura
seeth no man Gonzaga 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
with usura is no clear demarcation
and no man can find site for his dwelling.
Stonecutter is kept from his tone
weaver is kept from his loom
wool comes not to market
sheep bringeth no gain with usura
Usura is a murrain, usura
blunteth the needle in 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 Calunnia’ painted.
Came not by usura Angelico; came not Ambrogio Praedis,
Came no church of cut stone signed: Adamo me fecit.
Not by usura St. Trophime
Not by usura Saint 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
They have brought whores for Eleusis
Corpses are set to banquet
at behest of usura.
Roses are red
Violets are blue
OP is a fucking jew
My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky:
So was it when my life began;
So is it now I am a man;
So be it when I shall grow old,
Or let me die!
The Child is father of the Man;
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.
>The Child is father of the Man
cha cha cha, cha chacha
"Children are particularly literary, for they say what they feel and not what someone has taught them to feel. Once I heard a child, who wished to say that he was on the verge of tears, say not "I feel like crying," which is what an adult, i.e. an idiot, would say, but rather, "I feel like tears.." and this phrase – so literary it would seem affected in a well-known poet, if he could ever invent it – decisively refers to the warm presence of tears about to burst from his eyelids that feel the liquid bitterness."
- Pessoa
i like this
Of course a gazillion dollar industry is founded on that one line. Poets are ALWAYS there before others.
I STAID the night for shelter at a farm
Behind the mountain, with a mother and son,
Two old-believers. They did all the talking.

The Mother
Folks think a witch who has familiar spirits
She could call up to pass a winter evening,
But won’t, should be burned at the stake or something.
Summoning spirits isn’t “Button, button,
Who’s got the button,” you’re to understand.

The Son
Mother can make a common table rear
And kick with two legs like an army mule.

The Mother
And when I’ve done it, what good have I done?
Rather than tip a table for you, let me
Tell you what Ralle the Sioux Control once told me.
He said the dead had souls, but when I asked him
How that could be—I thought the dead were souls,
He broke my trance. Don’t that make you suspicious
That there’s something the dead are keeping back?
Yes, there’s something the dead are keeping back.

The Son
You wouldn’t want to tell him what we have
Up attic, mother?

The Mother
Bones—a skeleton.

The Son
But the headboard of mother’s bed is pushed
Against the attic door: the door is nailed.
It’s harmless. Mother hears it in the night
Halting perplexed behind the barrier
Of door and headboard. Where it wants to get
Is back into the cellar where it came from.

The Mother
We’ll never let them, will we, son? We’ll never!

The Son
It left the cellar forty years ago
And carried itself like a pile of dishes...
thx lad i'm doing my best xoxo
Absolutely patrician
my cat is sad.

no one else in his family is a cat

we are all human except for him

he is excluded from most things

and no one tells him why

he just wants to play

and be loved

he looks at us with wonder

and disappointment

he says hello i am a cat what is my existence

what is that / why it and not me / please can you look at me and love me too

can i have some of your food please im sorry i dont like my food so much

do you want to play with my toys? this one is my favourite

do you like me

are we brothers

why didnt i grow up

why am i so small

can you help me be happy

where are you going
Aan deze ronde tafel
Kwamen afgevaardigden van dertig staten, dertig jaar over vrede praten
En van verveling hebben zij geonaneerd.

Het tafelblad is wit van onderen,
Zij hebben elkaars kleverige handen geschud
en zijn uitgeput naar huis gegaan.
Nu ejaculeert de artillerie al twee jaar of drie.

De kerkdeur is het urinoir van de heroën.
Het slagveld het maandverband van de geschiedenis.
Niets word geboren.

Het zaad van de Goden
Verdwijnt in de Melkweg
Als tevoren
>a leaf falls loneliness
what did he mean by this
I'm a novice poetry reader, but isn't the metre of that all over the place? Dunno, it seems a bit clumsy.
Didn't know Mervyn Peake was a poet. This is nice, thanks.
This is obnoxious.
I loved this. It's like a good short story, but it's poetry. Never read any Heaney other than Beowulf.
Pessoa? I can't find this.
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Black milk of morning we drink you at dusktime
we drink you at noontime and dawntime we drink you at night
we drink and drink
we scoop out a grave in the sky where it’s roomy to lie
There’s a man in this house who cultivates snakes and who writes
who writes when it’s nightfall nach Deutschland your golden hair Margareta
he writes it and walks from the house and the stars all start flashing he whistles his
dogs to draw near
whistles his Jews to appear starts us scooping a grave out of sand
he commands us to play for the dance

Black milk of morning we drink you at night
we drink you at dawntime and noontime we drink you at dusktime
we drink and drink
There’s a man in this house who cultivates snakes and who writes
who writes when it’s nightfall nach Deutschland your golden hair Margareta
your ashen hair Shulamite we scoop out a grave in the sky where it’s roomy to lie
He calls jab it deep in the soil you lot there you other men sing and play
he tugs at the sword in his belt he swings it his eyes are blue
jab your spades deeper you men you other men you others play up again for the dance

Black milk of morning we drink you at night
we drink you at noontime and dawntime we drink you at dusktime
we drink and drink
there’s a man in this house your golden hair Margareta
your ashen hair Shulamite he cultivates snakes

He calls play that death thing more sweetly Death is a gang-boss aus Deutschland
he calls scrape that fiddle more darkly then hover like smoke in the air
then scoop out a grave in the clouds where it’s roomy to lie

Black milk of morning we drink you at night
we drink you at noontime Death is a gang-boss aus Deutschland
we drink you at dusktime and dawntime we drink and drink
Death is a gang-boss aus Deutschland his eye is blue
he shoots you with leaden bullets his aim is true
there’s a man in this house your golden hair Margareta
he sets his dogs on our trail he gives us a grave in the sky
he cultivates snakes and he dreams Death is a gang-boss aus Deutschland

your golden hair Margareta
your ashen hair Shulamite
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Bury me in a nameless grave!
I came from God the world to save.
I brought them wisdom from above:
Worship, and liberty, and love.
They slew me for I did disparage
Therefore Religion, Law and Marriage.
So be my grave without a name
That earth may swallow up my shame!
Thanks, anon. Just like honey..
I needed that.

Of all the alt-lit types, he's my favourite.
NEVER shall a young man,
Thrown into despair
By those great honey-coloured
Ramparts at your ear,
Love you for yourself alone
And not your yellow hair.'
'But I can get a hair-dye
And set such colour there,
Brown, or black, or carrot,
That young men in despair
May love me for myself alone
And not my yellow hair.'
'I heard an old religious man
But yesternight declare
That he had found a text to prove
That only God, my dear,
Could love you for yourself alone
And not your yellow hair.'
Por Vocación De Dado

A lo fugaz perpetuo
y sus hipoteseres
a la deriva al vértigo
al sublatir al máximo las reverberalíbido
al desensueño al alba a los cornubios dime sin titilar por ímpetu de bumerang de encelo
de gravitante acólito de tanto móvil tránsfuga cocoterráqueo efímero
y otros ripios del tránsito
meditaturbio exóvulo
espiritado en Virgo en decúbito en trance en aluvión de incógnitas
con más de un muerto huésped rondando la infraniebla del dédalo encefálico
junto a precoces ceros esterosentes dime al codeleite mudo del mimo mimo mixto
al desmelar los senos
o al trasvestirme de ola de sótano de ausencia de caminos de pájaros que lindan con la infancia
animamantemente me di por dar por tara por vocación de dado
por hacer noche solo entre amantes fogatas desinhalar lo hueco y encontrarme inhallable
hora tras otra lacra más y más cavernoso
menos volátil paria
más total seudo apoeta con esqueleto topo y suspensivas nueces de apetencias atávicas
al azar dime al gusto a las adultas menguas a las escleropsiquis
al romo tedio al pasmo al exprimir las equis a la veinteava esencia
y degustar los filtros del desencantamiento
o revertir mi arena en clepsidras sexuadas
y sincopar la cópula
me di me doy me he dado donde lleva la sangre
por puro pleno pánico de adherir a lo inmóvil
del yacer sin orillas
sin fe sin mí sin pauta sin sosías sin lastre sin máscara de espera
ni levitarme en busca del muy Señor nuestro ausente en todo caso y tiempo y modo y sexo y verbo que fecundó el vacío
inserto en el dislate cosmos, a todo todo dime alirrampantemente
para abusar del aire del sueño de lo vivo y redarme y masdarme
hasta el último dengue
y entorpecer la nada

-O. Girondo, "En La Masmédula", 1954
Not with the lips of skin nor yet with the lips of dark snow
But let the white dove sing
Of the body of life of the lover whose love is complete
Hold hands out to greet ah let not the swan be brought low

For all that is moving is moved by her hands
She is mirrored for ever in the life of the lands
In the building of thoughts in the shifting of sands

Life, life

Well here you are now, o now you are here
Well how has it been so far
The hair and the fur
Lemons, frankinsence, and myrhh

For all that is moving is moved by her hands
She is mirrored for ever in the life of the lands
In the building of thoughts in the shifting of sands

Let the cracked crystal raindrop be merged in the sea
Silent shining thoughtless free
But close your eyes to find the golden flower
And open them to see the sunshine shower
Where the flowers are free and the fishes ask
Ah what can water be

She beareth thought, she beareth visions
Speaking truth in contradictions
Dreams of pain, dreams of laughter
And every action follows after

O second self, o gate of the soft mystery
I'll love you if you'll love me
O guide me with the gold of Gabriel's wing
Grant me the tongue that all the earth does sing

Vibrating light, forever one the sun
The book of life is open to us
There'll be no secrets left
Between us
You say you want space.
So here it is,
yours for the taking
All of that cold, heavy, oppressive space
Outside of my vagina.
Emptiness is Loneliness,

And Loneliness is Cleanliness,

And Cleanliness is Godliness,

So God is Empty,

Just like Me
>Loneliness is Cleanliness,
One Cannot truly sin if one is completely alone
Yes you can. Not only sins by thought, but also sins by deeds done to yourself.
Also the saying read "cleanliness is close to godliness".

It's a shit nonsequitur of a poem. And an egomaniac one, at that.
Sins are purely relative. God doesn't give a fuck. If you have nothing to compare yourself to, no sin...
This is for all you youngsters

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide.

Now, of my threescore years and ten,
Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,
It only leaves me fifty more.

And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.
It's hilarious when people with no teological knowledge whatsoever try to represent a whole religion.
I'm just saying I personally don't believe in a caring or at all concerned god. No religion here.
>No religion here.
Then might want to pick a poem that doesn't include religious terminology.
One can believe in an indifferent God and not be religious
It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.
I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
Life to the lees: All times I have enjoy'd
Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone, on shore, and when
Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vext the dim sea: I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known; cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honour'd of them all;
And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethro'
Gleams that untravell'd world whose margin fades
For ever and forever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use!
As tho' to breathe were life! Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains: but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this gray spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle,—
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil
This labour, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.

There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:
There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me—
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old;
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;
Death closes all: but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
'T is not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
The night splintered into stars

watching me dazzled

the air hurls hate

its face embellished with music.

We will go soon

Secret dream

ancestor of my smile

the world is emaciated

and there is a lock but no keys

and there is terror but not tears.

What will I do with myself?

Because to You I owe what I am

But I have no tomorrow

Because to You I...

The night suffers.
I'm not talking about your, or the writer's (hope they're different people) level of "religiousness". Quite simply the terms used belong and are well defined by, a religious syste, positive or negative. If you use them, you're also carrying their definitions with them. Definitions that depend on those who use them i.e. religious people. If you use them in a manner that doesn't follow logically, that's a non-sequitur.
Also believing in god is being religious. Being religious doesn't necessarily mean taking part in religious duty or ritual. It's belief.
Sorry I ruined your already crappy poem with a dictionary.
agnostic (ăg-nŏsˈtĭk)►

One who believes that it is impossible to know whether there is a God.
One who is skeptical about the existence of God but does not profess true atheism.
One who is doubtful or noncommittal about something.
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Take up the White Man's burden -
Send forth the best ye breed -
Go bind your sons to exile
To serve your captives' need;
To wait in heavy harness
On fluttered folk and wild -
Your new-caught sullen peoples,
Half devil and half child.
Take up the White Man's burden -
In patience to abide
To veil the threat of terror
And check the show of pride;
By open speech and simple,
An hundred times made plain,
To seek another's profit,
And work another's gain.

Take up the White Man's burden -
The savage wars of peace -
Fill full the mouth of famine
And bid the sickness cease;
And when your goal is nearest
The end for others sought,
Watch Sloth and heathen Folly
Bring all your hopes to nought.

Take up the White Man's burden -
No tawdry rule of kings,
But toil of serf and sweeper -
The tale of common things.
The ports ye shall not enter,
The roads ye shall not tread,
Go make them with your living,
And mark them with your dead !

Take up the White Man's burden -
And reap his old reward,
The blame of those ye better,
The hate of those ye guard -
The cry of hosts ye humour
(Ah slowly !) towards the light:-
"Why brought ye us from bondage,
"Our loved Egyptian night ?"

Take up the White Man's burden -
Ye dare not stoop to less -
Nor call too loud on Freedom
To cloak your weariness;
By all ye cry or whisper,
By all ye leave or do,
The silent sullen peoples
Shall weigh your Gods and you.

Take up the White Man's burden -
Have done with childish days -
The lightly proffered laurel,
The easy, ungrudged praise.
Comes now, to search your manhood
Through all the thankless years,
Cold-edged with dear-bought wisdom,
The judgement of your peers.
It's very nice that you can copy and paste a google definition of agnostic. I'm sure it helps you understand things better. I do wonder, though, how that applies to belief and the use of words that only make sense within a religious context.
>believe in an indifferent God
funny thing is it's the other way around, you can be religious but not spiritual (that is, not believe in god)
meant and***




Ere the season died a-cold
Borne upon a zephyr’s shoulder
I rose through the aureate sky
Lawes and Jenkyns guard thy rest
Dolmetsch ever be thy guest,
Has he tempered the viol’s wood
To enforce both the grave and the acute?
Has he curved us the bowl of the lute?
Lawes and Jenkyns guard thy rest
Dolmetsch ever be thy guest
Hast ’ou fashioned so airy a mood
To draw up leaf from the root?
Hast ’ou found a cloud so light
As seemed neither mist nor shade?

Then resolve me, tell me aright
If Waller sang or Dowland played

Your eyen two wol sleye me sodenly
I may the beauté of hem nat susteyne

And for 180 years almost nothing.

Ed ascoltando al leggier mormorio
there came new subtlety of eyes into my tent,
whether of the spirit or hypostasis,
but what the blindfold hides
or at carneval
nor any pair showed anger
Saw but the eyes and stance between the eyes,
colour, diastasis,
careless or unaware it had not the
whole tent’s room
nor was place for the full EidwV
interpass, penetrate
casting but shade beyond the other lights
sky’s clear
night’s sea
green of the mountain pool
shone from the unmasked eyes in half-mask’s space.
What thou lovest well remains,
the rest is dross
What thou lov’st well shall not be reft from thee
What thou lov’st well is thy true heritage
Whose world, or mine or theirs
or is it of none?
First came the seen, then thus the palpable
Elysium, though it were in the halls of hell,
What thou lovest well is thy true heritage
What thou lov’st well shall not be reft from thee

The ant’s a centaur in his dragon world.
Pull down thy vanity, it is not man
Made courage, or made order, or made grace,
Pull down thy vanity, I say pull down.
Learn of the green world what can be thy place
In scaled invention or true artistry,
Pull down thy vanity,
Paquin pull down!
The green casque has outdone your elegance.

“Master thyself, then others shall thee beare”
Pull down thy vanity
Thou art a beaten dog beneath the hail,
A swollen magpie in a fitful sun,
Half black half white
Nor knowst’ou wing from tail
Pull down thy vanity
How mean thy hates
Fostered in falsity,
Pull down thy vanity,
Rathe to destroy, niggard in charity,
Pull down thy vanity,
I say pull down.

But to have done instead of not doing
this is not vanity
To have, with decency, knocked
That a Blunt should open
To have gathered from the air a live tradition
or from a fine old eye the unconquered flame
This is not vanity.
Here error is all in the not done,
all in the diffidence that faltered . . .
It works surprisingly well in translation.
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pretty r9k tho
She was riding and started fartin'
I was like, "what the fuck is you fartin?"
She said "Damn bitch why you lyin'?
Then I see drops commin' out her ass
She farted on my dick
Then she shitted
We celebrated every moment
Of our meetings as epiphanies,
Just we two in all the world.
Bolder, lighter than a bird's wing,
You hurtled like vertigo
Down the stairs, leading
Through moist lilac to your realm
Beyond the mirror.

When night fell, grace was given me,
The sanctuary gates were opened,
Shining in the darkness
Nakedness bowed slowly;
Waking up, I said:
'God bless you!', knowing it
To be daring: you slept,
The lilac leaned towards you from the table
To touch your eyelids with its universal blue,
Those eyelids brushed with blue
Were peaceful, and your hand was warm.

And in the crystal I saw pulsing rivers,
Smoke-wreathed hills, and glimmering seas;
Holding in your palm that crystal sphere,
You slumbered on the throne,
And - God be praised! - you belonged to me.
Awaking, you transformed
The humdrum dictionary of humans
Till speech was full and running over
With resounding strength, and the word you
Revealed its new meaning: it meant king.
Everything in the world was different,
Even the simplest things - the jug, the basin -
When stratified and solid water
Stood between us, like a guard.

We were led to who knows where.
Before us opened up, in mirage,
Towns constructed out of wonder,
Mint leaves spread themselves beneath our feet,
Birds came on the journey with us,
Fish leapt in greeting from the river,
And the sky unfurled above…

While behind us all the time went fate,
A madman brandishing a razor.
when the lights go out
just a big dark
from a blacked.com cast
could please a sun
Spencer Madsen. Who wrote that cat poem.
Best poems posted here are from a 6 year old and a 7 year old.
God of our fathers, known of old,
Lord of our far-flung battle-line,
Beneath whose awful Hand we hold
Dominion over palm and pine—
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!

The tumult and the shouting dies;
The Captains and the Kings depart:
Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,
An humble and a contrite heart.
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!

Far-called, our navies melt away;
On dune and headland sinks the fire:
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday
Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!
Judge of the Nations, spare us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose
Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe,
Such boastings as the Gentiles use,
Or lesser breeds without the Law—
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!

For heathen heart that puts her trust
In reeking tube and iron shard,
All valiant dust that builds on dust,
And guarding, calls not Thee to guard,
For frantic boast and foolish word—
Thy mercy on Thy People, Lord!
I saw a little nigger
Sitting in the street
I saw a little nigger
Looking out at me
Then the police saw the nigger and there wasn't none to see,
For the cops shot him up in the morning.
My dad (aged 55), from 'Who the fuck barfed in the pick-up backseat)

The nigger
He destroyed his cage
The nigger is out
A whole lot of clouds
Dropped because a hammer hit them
"Ich will den Kapitän sehn" - schrie
die Frau, "den Kapitän, verstehn Sie?"
"Das ist unmöglich" - hieß es. "Gehn Sie!
So gehn Sie doch! Sie sehn ihn nie!"

Das Weib, mit rasender Gebärde:
"So bringen Sie ihm d a s - und d a s-,"
(Sie spie die ganze Reling naß.)
Das Schiff, auf dem sie fuhr, hieß "Erde".
My love, do you recall the object which we saw,
That fair, sweet, summer morn!
At a turn in the path a foul carcass
On a gravel strewn bed,
Its legs raised in the air, like a lustful woman,
Burning and dripping with poisons,
Displayed in a shameless, nonchalant way
Its belly, swollen with gases.
The sun shone down upon that putrescence,
As if to roast it to a turn,
And to give back a hundredfold to great Nature
The elements she had combined;
And the sky was watching that superb cadaver
Blossom like a flower.
So frightful was the stench that you believed
You'd faint away upon the grass.
The blow-flies were buzzing round that putrid belly,
From which came forth black battalions
Of maggots, which oozed out like a heavy liquid
All along those living tatters.
All this was descending and rising like a wave,
Or poured out with a crackling sound;
One would have said the body, swollen with a vague breath,
Lived by multiplication.
And this world gave forth singular music,
Like running water or the wind,
Or the grain that winnowers with a rhythmic motion
Shake in their winnowing baskets.
The forms disappeared and were no more than a dream,
A sketch that slowly falls
Upon the forgotten canvas, that the artist
Completes from memory alone.
Crouched behind the boulders, an anxious dog
Watched us with angry eye,
Waiting for the moment to take back from the carcass
The morsel he had left.
— And yet you will be like this corruption,
Like this horrible infection,
Star of my eyes, sunlight of my being,
You, my angel and my passion!
Yes! thus will you be, queen of the Graces,
After the last sacraments,
When you go beneath grass and luxuriant flowers,
To molder among the bones of the dead.
Then, O my beauty! say to the worms who will
Devour you with kisses,
That I have kept the form and the divine essence
Of my decomposed love!
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Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy autumn-fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
That brings our friends up from the underworld,
Sad as the last which reddens over one
That sinks with all we love below the verge;
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns
The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.

Dear as remembered kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd
On lips that are for others; deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;
O Death in Life, the days that are no more!
Я пaмятник ceбe вoздвиг нepyкoтвopный,
К нeмy нe зapacтeт нapoднaя тpoпa,
Boзнeccя вышe oн глaвoю нeпoкopнoй
Aлeкcaндpийcкoгo cтoлпa.

Heт, вecь я нe yмpy - дyшa в зaвeтнoй лиpe
Moй пpaх пepeживeт и тлeнья yбeжит -
И cлaвeн бyдy я, дoкoль в пoдлyннoм миpe
Жив бyдeт хoть oдин пиит.

Cлyх oбo мнe пpoйдeт пo вceй Pycи вeликoй,
И нaзoвeт мeня вcяк cyщий в нeй язык,
И гopдый внyк cлaвян, и финн, и нынe дикoй
Tyнгyc, и дpyг cтeпeй кaлмык.

И дoлгo бyдy тeм любeзeн я нapoдy,
Чтo чyвcтвa дoбpыe я лиpoй пpoбyждaл,
Чтo в мoй жecтoкий вeк вoccлaвил я Cвoбoдy
И милocть к пaдшим пpизывaл.

Beлeнью бoжию, o мyзa, бyдь пocлyшнa,
Oбиды нe cтpaшacь, нe тpeбyя вeнцa,
Хвaлy и клeвeтy пpиeмли paвнoдyшнo
И нe ocпopивaй глyпцa.
I found this one on /fa/. Some guy's girlfriend passed and he posted about all those fashionable clothes and what to do with them and another anon switched a few words around and made a poem out of it.

What do i do with these clothes?
Her closet is full of clothes.
Should i keep them,
throw them away?
Its like a ghost that is constantly haunting me.

The things she wore are empty now,
like the shell of a broken man that i am.
Dearest creature in creation
Studying English pronunciation,
I will teach you in my verse
Sounds like corpse, corps, horse and worse.

I will keep you, Susy, busy,
Make your head with heat grow dizzy;
Tear in eye, your dress you'll tear;
Queer, fair seer, hear my prayer.

Pray, console your loving poet,
Make my coat look new, dear, sew it!
Just compare heart, hear and heard,
Dies and diet, lord and word.

Sword and sward, retain and Britain
(Mind the latter how it's written).
Made has not the sound of bade,
Say-said, pay-paid, laid but plaid.

Now I surely will not plague you
With such words as vague and ague,
But be careful how you speak,
Say: gush, bush, steak, streak, break, bleak ,

Previous, precious, fuchsia, via
Recipe, pipe, studding-sail, choir;
Woven, oven, how and low,
Script, receipt, shoe, poem, toe.

Say, expecting fraud and trickery:
Daughter, laughter and Terpsichore,
Branch, ranch, measles, topsails, aisles,
Missiles, similes, reviles.

Wholly, holly, signal, signing,
Same, examining, but mining,
Scholar, vicar, and cigar,
Solar, mica, war and far.

From "desire": desirable-admirable from "admire",
Lumber, plumber, bier, but brier,
Topsham, brougham, renown, but known,
Knowledge, done, lone, gone, none, tone,

One, anemone, Balmoral,
Kitchen, lichen, laundry, laurel.
Gertrude, German, wind and wind,
Beau, kind, kindred, queue, mankind,

Tortoise, turquoise, chamois-leather,
Reading, Reading, heathen, heather.
This phonetic labyrinth
Gives moss, gross, brook, brooch, ninth, plinth.

Have you ever yet endeavoured
To pronounce revered and severed,
Demon, lemon, ghoul, foul, soul,
Peter, petrol and patrol?

Billet does not end like ballet;
Bouquet, wallet, mallet, chalet.
Blood and flood are not like food,
Nor is mould like should and would.

Banquet is not nearly parquet,
Which exactly rhymes with khaki.
Discount, viscount, load and broad,
Toward, to forward, to reward,

Ricocheted and crocheting, croquet?
Right! Your pronunciation's OK.
Rounded, wounded, grieve and sieve,
Friend and fiend, alive and live.

Is your r correct in higher?
Keats asserts it rhymes Thalia.
Hugh, but hug, and hood, but hoot,
Buoyant, minute, but minute.

Say abscission with precision,
Now: position and transition;
Would it tally with my rhyme
If I mentioned paradigm?

Twopence, threepence, tease are easy,
But cease, crease, grease and greasy?
Cornice, nice, valise, revise,
Rabies, but lullabies.

Of such puzzling words as nauseous,
Rhyming well with cautious, tortious,
You'll envelop lists, I hope,
In a linen envelope.

Would you like some more? You'll have it!
Affidavit, David, davit.
To abjure, to perjure. Sheik
Does not sound like Czech but ache.
Would you like some more? You'll have it!
Affidavit, David, davit.
To abjure, to perjure. Sheik
Does not sound like Czech but ache.

Liberty, library, heave and heaven,
Rachel, loch, moustache, eleven.
We say hallowed, but allowed,
People, leopard, towed but vowed.

Mark the difference, moreover,
Between mover, plover, Dover.
Leeches, breeches, wise, precise,
Chalice, but police and lice,

Camel, constable, unstable,
Principle, disciple, label.
Petal, penal, and canal,
Wait, surmise, plait, promise, pal,

Suit, suite, ruin. Circuit, conduit
Rhyme with "shirk it" and "beyond it",
But it is not hard to tell
Why it's pall, mall, but Pall Mall.

Muscle, muscular, gaol, iron,
Timber, climber, bullion, lion,
Worm and storm, chaise, chaos, chair,
Senator, spectator, mayor,

Ivy, privy, famous; clamour
Has the a of drachm and hammer.
Pussy, hussy and possess,
Desert, but desert, address.

Golf, wolf, countenance, lieutenants
Hoist in lieu of flags left pennants.
Courier, courtier, tomb, bomb, comb,
Cow, but Cowper, some and home.

"Solder, soldier! Blood is thicker",
Quoth he, "than liqueur or liquor",
Making, it is sad but true,
In bravado, much ado.

Stranger does not rhyme with anger,
Neither does devour with clangour.
Pilot, pivot, gaunt, but aunt,
Font, front, wont, want, grand and grant.

Arsenic, specific, scenic,
Relic, rhetoric, hygienic.
Gooseberry, goose, and close, but close,
Paradise, rise, rose, and dose.

Say inveigh, neigh, but inveigle,
Make the latter rhyme with eagle.
Mind! Meandering but mean,
Valentine and magazine.

And I bet you, dear, a penny,
You say mani-(fold) like many,
Which is wrong. Say rapier, pier,
Tier (one who ties), but tier.

Arch, archangel; pray, does erring
Rhyme with herring or with stirring?
Prison, bison, treasure trove,
Treason, hover, cover, cove,

Perseverance, severance. Ribald
Rhymes (but piebald doesn't) with nibbled.
Phaeton, paean, gnat, ghat, gnaw,
Lien, psychic, shone, bone, pshaw.

Don't be down, my own, but rough it,
And distinguish buffet, buffet;
Brood, stood, roof, rook, school, wool, boon,
Worcester, Boleyn, to impugn.

Say in sounds correct and sterling
Hearse, hear, hearken, year and yearling.
Evil, devil, mezzotint,
Mind the z! (A gentle hint.)

Now you need not pay attention
To such sounds as I don't mention,
Sounds like pores, pause, pours and paws,
Rhyming with the pronoun yours;

Nor are proper names included,
Though I often heard, as you did,
Funny rhymes to unicorn,
Yes, you know them, Vaughan and Strachan.

No, my maiden, coy and comely,
I don't want to speak of Cholmondeley.
No. Yet Froude compared with proud
Is no better than McLeod.
But mind trivial and vial,
Tripod, menial, denial,
Troll and trolley, realm and ream,
Schedule, mischief, schism, and scheme.

Argil, gill, Argyll, gill. Surely
May be made to rhyme with Raleigh,
But you're not supposed to say
Piquet rhymes with sobriquet.

Had this invalid invalid
Worthless documents? How pallid,
How uncouth he, couchant, looked,
When for Portsmouth I had booked!

Zeus, Thebes, Thales, Aphrodite,
Paramour, enamoured, flighty,
Episodes, antipodes,
Acquiesce, and obsequies.

Please don't monkey with the geyser,
Don't peel 'taters with my razor,
Rather say in accents pure:
Nature, stature and mature.

Pious, impious, limb, climb, glumly,
Worsted, worsted, crumbly, dumbly,
Conquer, conquest, vase, phase, fan,
Wan, sedan and artisan.

The th will surely trouble you
More than r, ch or w.
Say then these phonetic gems:
Thomas, thyme, Theresa, Thames.

Thompson, Chatham, Waltham, Streatham,
There are more but I forget 'em-
Wait! I've got it: Anthony,
Lighten your anxiety.

The archaic word albeit
Does not rhyme with eight-you see it;
With and forthwith, one has voice,
One has not, you make your choice.

Shoes, goes, does *. Now first say: finger;
Then say: singer, ginger, linger.
Real, zeal, mauve, gauze and gauge,
Marriage, foliage, mirage, age,

Hero, heron, query, very,
Parry, tarry fury, bury,
Dost, lost, post, and doth, cloth, loth,
Job, Job, blossom, bosom, oath.

Faugh, oppugnant, keen oppugners,
Bowing, bowing, banjo-tuners
Holm you know, but noes, canoes,
Puisne, truism, use, to use?

Though the difference seems little,
We say actual, but victual,
Seat, sweat, chaste, caste, Leigh, eight, height,
Put, nut, granite, and unite.

Reefer does not rhyme with deafer,
Feoffer does, and zephyr, heifer.
Dull, bull, Geoffrey, George, ate, late,
Hint, pint, senate, but sedate.

Gaelic, Arabic, pacific,
Science, conscience, scientific;
Tour, but our, dour, succour, four,
Gas, alas, and Arkansas.

Say manoeuvre, yacht and vomit,
Next omit, which differs from it
Bona fide, alibi
Gyrate, dowry and awry.

Sea, idea, guinea, area,
Psalm, Maria, but malaria.
Youth, south, southern, cleanse and clean,
Doctrine, turpentine, marine.

Compare alien with Italian,
Dandelion with battalion,
Rally with ally; yea, ye,
Eye, I, ay, aye, whey, key, quay!

Say aver, but ever, fever,
Neither, leisure, skein, receiver.
Never guess-it is not safe,
We say calves, valves, half, but Ralf.

Starry, granary, canary,
Crevice, but device, and eyrie,
Face, but preface, then grimace,
Phlegm, phlegmatic, ass, glass, bass.
Bass, large, target, gin, give, verging,
Ought, oust, joust, and scour, but scourging;
Ear, but earn; and ere and tear
Do not rhyme with here but heir.

Mind the o of off and often
Which may be pronounced as orphan,
With the sound of saw and sauce;
Also soft, lost, cloth and cross.

Pudding, puddle, putting. Putting?
Yes: at golf it rhymes with shutting.
Respite, spite, consent, resent.
Liable, but Parliament.

Seven is right, but so is even,
Hyphen, roughen, nephew, Stephen,
Monkey, donkey, clerk and jerk,
Asp, grasp, wasp, demesne, cork, work.

A of valour, vapid vapour,
S of news (compare newspaper),
G of gibbet, gibbon, gist,
I of antichrist and grist,

Differ like diverse and divers,
Rivers, strivers, shivers, fivers.
Once, but nonce, toll, doll, but roll,
Polish, Polish, poll and poll.

Pronunciation-think of Psyche!-
Is a paling, stout and spiky.
Won't it make you lose your wits
Writing groats and saying "grits"?

It's a dark abyss or tunnel
Strewn with stones like rowlock, gunwale,
Islington, and Isle of Wight,
Housewife, verdict and indict.

Don't you think so, reader, rather,
Saying lather, bather, father?
Finally, which rhymes with enough,
Though, through, bough, cough, hough, sough, tough??

Hiccough has the sound of sup...
My advice is: GIVE IT UP!
The pavilion has walls of rug when I’m a knight with blood
Foaming out my chainmail so I lie down on my cot in the cool
Darkness and when I close my eyes the falcons alight on my page’s
Glove. I’m fine to die in here, chill seeping into my bones, cold
Spring like a Carpaccio painting.
I fold my arms to compose myself like a coffinlid
Knight, a crypto knight I mean a dreamer. I mean a man
Who doesn’t exist with his rock-hard sword standing up up forever.
Foy porter honeur garder. Since I was seventeen I’ve been dreaming
I’m the maid in a house, a wide house in the mountains, and I’m
A Victorian maid, a domestic, I’m asthmatic I mean
Consumptive like Chopin or Proust and I’m honest
And servile not artistic or cruel and not clumsily
Dressed. I’m ugly in the simple way of having been made
So by my servitude and not in the unsimple way of having
Pursued what I pursued as a so to speak free woman. Do you remember
The days of slavery. I do.
I am wan and dowdy and I sleep on the floor.
Once in the dream the house belonged to my father
And a man said to me in his Schwizerdeutsch accent And Now
That You Have Entered The House Of Your Father.
I remember the ice of a nearish glacier seeming to steam
Against the blue sky. One’s eyes grow hard and gemlike
In the Alps you know, not that I am from there
Not even close. Still. In the Alps even (especially?) the dullwitted
Develop raptor eyes. My grandmother worked as the maid
To a duchess in Warsaw while her husband was gassed at Treblinka.
Then the duchess died and she my mother’s
Mother had to find a new way to hide. Hide life
Is a phrase I’ve read somewhere. In a poem maybe. I keep
Wishing I were writing about tents, walls of rug,
Walls of yak felt, yurts, lying awake in my friend’s mother’s
While my heart flared BIOS BIOS BIOS how could any woman bear
The rhythm—what it takes to sustain biological life.
I was naked except for culture like everybody else in my generation
I come from a broken home like they do and I hide it, acting serene
At the joystick in the command station of my so-called self
Except I try openly to hide only badly whatever it is I think is wild that I’m
Doing my best to reveal by not really hiding, though hiding.
A poet can be a permanent houseguest like Jimmy Schuyler.
A woman can be homeless to escape her homeless mother.
A white woman can get away with certain things.
A woman who does not want her spare thoughts to be consumed
By lip implant rippling butt implant wet tongue in the sushi
Flatscreeny gangbangs in a suntan might for example choose
In order to pursue with some serenity her for example let’s call them
Literary researches, surveiling aristocratically only her own pathetic
Machinations, like one of the dogs
Shaped like Nazis in a guard tower in Maus
By Art Spiegelman while a countertenor
And a sackbut bleat Wikileaks Wikileaks and naked men
And men with hoods over their eyes and zappers on their peens
Quiver in citadels in which we The United States hid them. Yves Klein knew
That walls are sad: made to immure misery.
That is why he designed a house made of air. We only write
Because we’re nudists but not the kind you think but also not necessarily
Not that kind. Art gets
Exhausted which is why a temple, the idea of a temple, I need to go to a temple
Every now and again and in order to have a home
I had to play a trick on myself which is that it’s a temple, this house.
In a movie from the Eighties a man from California says
My body’s my temple. Okay well now in my dreams of domestic
Servitude I receive small pay. I get to go across the street
To contemplate the toiletries in an Alpine Seven
Eleven. Salon Selectives, Prell, Garnier, or Pert Plus.
My hair will look like shit. I don’t buy anything.
I go back to the kitchen to fish out of drawers three
Iron candlesticks. The dark lady who rages over the family
Near the high vaulted hearth where I slave over a hot stove
In nothing but a dirty t-shirt like a Thai baby in a National
Geographic photograph all gorgeous in the mufti of my total deprivation
This dark lady can only it seems be communicated with by me
No longer the maid, but—progress—household witch
Earning after all a salary however tiny; horse-whispering its deadest
Most psycho old bitches, sweet-talking them down from the rafters, down
Out of tantrums unthrown, unthrowable by nobody me, the inverted
V of downward-facing liberty: when you have no choice but to try to have chosen
What you never, never would choose. Sitting on a bench at the end of my exhausted
Term like a regular grownup I pictured myself shampooing my luxury
Hair in some artsy shithole, mildew streaking the torn shower curtain
Lurching across the second expanse of poverty
My ruined imagination could manage: Well I guess I could join the Israeli
Army. Why the fuck would you want to do that said
Somebody else inside my dream head. Pretty much
Dead by the time they were done needing me as their slave
I started to feel kind of American I mean like an adult sitting uncomplaining,
Torso a plain physical fact over unquivering genitals,
Just meat on a stick with the vague sense that somewhere between lavish femininity
And state violence lay a mediocre thing called liberty.
Still, to be able to sleep at all’s a procedure of waking. Everybody
Has to live somewhere being that we are here where most
Of us are not welcome. Did you know transcendental
Homelessness was a thing. But I dreamed this dream
On a physical mattress. On an actual floor in a room with a door
That I pay and pay for. If you write you can forge
A substance that is other than the woman of substance
You are. If you do it to such a point you can find
Yourself declining substance altogether. It happens. It is a danger. But there will
Always be the idea of a bath or a sleep in a bed or a dream
In the head of a woman who is even beautiful visibly
Or at least groomed, or somewhat fresh
Or like that most domestic of bugs the cockroach
Dragging his ponderous suit of armor across the floor
Or clean sheets when it’s raining and I love you so much
And I think Gimme Shelter, which is a movie I’ve never seen.
Anyone else notice that schizophrenics seem to flock to threads w/ 200+ replies
How are you going to get those sweet sweet (you)'s unless you sort by reply count?
It is wrong to put temptation in the path of any nation,
For fear they should go astray;
So when you are requested to pay up or be molested,
You will find it better to say: –

"We never pay the Dane-geld,
No matter how trifling the cost;
For the end of that game is oppression and shame,
And the nation that plays it is lost!"
*for fear THAT they
a good poem to explain why you should have two cats or dogs

under the coconut tree
thats where she showed it to me
it was big and hairy
like a black canary
and it looked like a tunnel to me

so i took out my hairy banana
shove it to her tunnel
she gave out a scream
i gave her some cream
under the coconut tree
is that your picture OP?
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BTW, hello from /b/
more relevant today than in the 19th century
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It is not bad. Let them play.
Let the guns bark and the bombing-plane
Speak his prodigious blasphemies.
It is not bad, it is high time,
Stark violence is still the sire of all the world’s values.

What but the wolf’s tooth whittled so fine
The fleet limbs of the antelope?
What but fear winged the birds, and hunger
Jewelled with such eyes the great goshawk’s head?
Violence has been the sire of all the world’s values.

Who would remember Helen’s face
Lacking the terrible halo of spears?
Who formed Christ but Herod and Caesar,
The cruel and bloody victories of Caesar?
Violence, the bloody sire of all the world’s values.

Never weep, let them play,
Old violence is not too old to beget new values.
El tigre
él destruyó su caja

El tigre está fuera
This is from a chick on a creative writing course, she spams her facebook with poetry. I personally found it too ambiguous tbqh

Now and then she kisses my back, it’s 1973.
I love the knife-touch kiss she gives me.
Slowly unveils me, peels back the duvet,
And peels back the skin on my lips.

Biting my snapped liquorice neck;
Chewing my nailbeds,
She whispers warm, dark words from her hard, chilled jaw,
And urine-tears fall from her corneas, holding me.

Can you hear the walls hum with her breath?
Inked with green blood, sewage in your veins,
Red as a thorn, milky as mud.
Eccentric eyes, wiry cherub-hair, she speaks.

“John, wash your mouth out with my fervour”.
Voices in my limbs, the beams on the ceiling shake,
And she spins on my pelvis like a vinyl player.

She’s as old as Bible pages, younger than baby-breath.
Sponging her body on me in dreams.
She picks up the pace, and crawls on the roof of my mouth.
Chanting tri-tones in my eyeballs.

Can you hear the walls hum with her breath?
Inked with green blood, sewage in your veins,
Red as a thorn, milky as mud.
Eccentric eyes, wiry cherub-hair, she speaks.

“John, I’m going to break your arm off like a biscuit”,
“Transfix me, can I brand you with my hot iron fingers?”
She brushes her hell-tongue over my beef-torso.
Shards of glass prickle my chest.

Her eyes cross-stitch, stiller than a clear sky,
But I feel her move in the air like forest breezes,
Salt in my hair after visiting the sea,
She lingers before crawling back to the Devil’s hole.

Can you hear the walls hum with her breath?
Inked with green blood, sewage in your veins, she breathes,
Red as a thorn, milky as mud.
Eccentric eyes, wiry cherub-hair, she leaves.
Makes more sense when you understand it as coming from the point of view of a man
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I once had a mango.
Where did that mango?
I will never know.
best slam poetry I've ever heard
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From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were—I have not seen
As others saw—I could not bring
My passions from a common spring
I could not awaken my heart to joy at the same tone
And all I loved, I loved alone
Your hair was full of roses in the dewfall as we danced,
The sorceress enchanting and the paladin entranced,
In the starlight as we wove us in a web of silk and steel
Immemorial as the marble in the halls of Boabdil,
In the pleasuance of the roses with the fountains and the yews
Where the snowy Sierra soothed us with the breezes and the dews!
In the starlight as we trembled from a laugh to a caress,
And the God came warm upon us in our pagan allegresse.
Was the Baile de la Bona too seductive? Did you feel
Through the silence and the softness all the tension of the steel?
For your hair was full of roses, and my flesh was full of thorns,
And the midnight came upon us worth a million crazy morns.
Ah! my Gipsy, my Gitana, my Saliya! were you fain
For the dance to turn to earnest? - O the sunny land of Spain!
My Gitana, my Saliya! more delicious than a dove!
With your hair aflame with roses and your lips alight with love!
Shall I see you, shall I kiss you once again? I wander far
From the sunny land of summer to the icy Polar Star.
I shall find you, I shall have you! I am coming back again
From the filth and fog to seek you in the sunny land of Spain.
I shall find you, my Gitana, my Saliya! as of old
With your hair aflame with roses and your body gay with gold.
I shall find you, I shall have you, in the summer and the south
With our passion in your body and our love upon your mouth -
With our wonder and our worship be the world aflame anew!
My Gitana, my Saliya! I am coming back to you!

-Aleister Crowley
Do this in a slam open mic
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Márgarét, áre you gríeving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leáves like the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Ah! ás the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you wíll weep and know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sórrow’s spríngs áre the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
It ís the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.
In a shabby pub
down a back street
late one evening
I found my old maths master
sitting at a corner table

Not a pretty sight,
an old maths teacher
weeping into his beer.

‘Let me tell you this,’
he said.
‘It does not add up.
It does not fucking add up.

Two plus two
is a random number.

The angles of a triangle
make 37 degrees,
or 460, or minus 11,
or nothing you can determine.
Circles bulge.
Squares don’t have enough corners.
Parallel lines all meet
or do not exist
or go where they bloody feel like.
The x axis
does not come on the same page
as the y axis.

There is no geometry
that fits our space.

You get on the number 4 bus for the station
and when you arrive
it is flight 968 to Istanbul
diverted to Manchester
and you have to walk back.

Time leaks out of the clock
and scampers off sideways.

One woman
is three women
or no woman,
not necessarily
in that order.

You bastards knew all that
didn’t you?
You knew it all along,’
he said,
knocking over his beer.

‘We tried to tell you,’
I said.
‘We tried to tell you.’

- Mike Swan
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By the last winner of the national poetry prize in Spain.
Si tuvieras al justo de enemigo
sería la justicia mi enemiga.
A tu lado en el campo victorioso
y junto a ti estaré cuando el fracaso.
Tus secretos tendrán tumba en mi oído.
Celebraré el primero tu alegría.
Aunque el fraude mi espada no consienta
engañaremos juntos si te place.
Saquearemos juntos si lo quieres
aunque mucho la sangre me repugne.
Tus rivales ya son rivales míos:
mañana el mar inmenso nos espera.
finally a good one

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