>>23305348
Pound was such a hack. Walt Whitman was leagues above that faggot

William Cowper "Lines Written in a Fit of Insanity:

"The Castaway" is good too.

"Windsor Forest" --- Alexander Pope
"Rich Industry sits smiling on the plains,
And peace and plenty tell, a Stuart reigns."

>>23305430
I'm trans btw, I forgot to mention that in my comment. Thought it might be relevant.

>>23305430
Wow you completely missed the point of the poem, retard.

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>>23305348
There are far too many, anon. What kind are you looking for? Hard in what way? There are even poems which go hard that I won't recommend because they conflict with my ethics. That's how much there is. Here's a few, at least and of various sorts, to give you something:

The Keepsake; Noguchi, Yone
Pain; Vernon Scannell
A Man; Louis Untermeyer
[i carry your heart with me(i carry it in]; Edward Estlin Cummings
The Redeemer; Siegfried Sassoon
To A Friend Whose Work Has Come to Nothing; William Butler Yeats
I Am!; John Clare
Stopping By The Woods on a Snowy Evening; Robert Frost
Ulysses; Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Lyrics IX, XXIII, XXIV, & XXV; Sappho of Lesbos (Bliss Carmen translation—perhaps the first and last thing a Canadian has done right!)


And here are a few which are not quite my taste, but are beloved by some, and by those some, I expect, they should say that they "go hard."

Invictus; William Earnest Henley
Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night; Dylan Thomas

I was tempted to add more—bits of old Chinese or Japanese poetry, but it's gotten too long already! I hope you enjoy.

Bliss Carman is spelt with two a's not an e. I forgot to alter that mistake.

>>23305348
I really like that poem. I am, interestingly enough, a fan of Pound's and a loose opponent of Whitman's—though I acknowledge his poetic spirit and ability as something which could only have attracted great attention.

>>23305348
Poetry sucks.

>>23305737
>/lit/ in 2024
I wish all you zoomer faggots died

>>23305348
Pasolini recited an italian translation of this exact poem back to Pound but by changing Whitman with Pound's name as he was interviewing him.

>>23305348
This is genuinely bad poetry. No cadence, no rhyme, no intelligence, no clever imagery. If it was a random instead of Pound, this shit would have stayed in the dark where it belongs

>>23305771
I'm older than you, bud. I'm just too stupid for poetry, hence its suckage.

>>23305813
If one had never heard of him and read this, it'd be fair to assume that it came off tumblr or the desk of some pretentious New Yorker columnist.
>>23305348
"When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom’d,
And the great star early droop’d in the western sky in the night,
I mourn’d, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.

Ever-returning spring, trinity sure to me you bring,
Lilac blooming perennial and drooping star in the west,
And thought of him I love."

Pound can fuck right off. The whole of his works are practically weightless to those six lines alone.

>>23305813
>t. never really Whitman

>>23305825
>I'm just too stupid for poetry
No you're not, anon. Don't let the pretentious hacks who think themselves gatekeepers turn you away. Poetry is not about obscuring meaning and forcing the reader to solve the puzzle. Anyone who writes like that is a self-indulgent prick who compensates for insecurity by 'needing' others to feel stupid. If you find pleasure in the lyrics of any song - if you've read anything that presents something commonplace in an uncommon way and it has you look upon this thing that you thought you knew in a different light, then you are NOT too stupid for poetry. And damn everyone who would disagree!

It's obvious that people stopped reading after the 4th line just to make an angry post.

>I am old enough now to make friends.
>It was you that broke the new wood,
>Now is a time for carving.
>We have one sap and one root—
>Let there be commerce between us.

ITT idiots. How do you faggots call yourselves literary? The poem is a bittersweet acknowledgement of the huge influence Whitman had on Pound. Pound casts himself as a belligerent child.
Seriously kill yourselves you illiterate morons.

>>23305848
>t. retard who didn't read the thread

>>23305430
>>23305833
>retards ITT think this poem is Pound insulting Whitman and/or saying he’s better than him
Genuine illiteracy.

Damn, serious respect for Pound. Used to think he was the Wagner of poetry, now I’m not so sure. I do want to eventually read the Cantos though.

>>23305348
I Shall Not Care
WHEN I am dead and over me bright April

Shakes out her rain-drenched hair,
Tho' you should lean above me broken-hearted,
I shall not care.
I shall have peace, as leafy trees are peaceful

When rain bends down the bough,
And I shall be more silent and cold-hearted
Than you are now.

>>23306862
Wagner is the Wagner of poetry. His librettos are poetry retard.

>>23305461
>William Cowper "Lines Written in a Fit of Insanit
just read it. does Cowper compare himself with Judas or the devil with Judas? I don't quite get it.

>>23305568
>bits of old Chinese or Japanese poetry
Go ahead and share these for me anon, I will be grateful.

>>23305348
did whitman agree to the truce ?

>>23305348
Sea-Fever
BY JOHN MASEFIELD

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;
And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.

>>23306862
>Used to think he was the Wagner of poetry
Is that meant to be a bad thing?

>>23305476
It was understood

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>>23305348
Revelation

I worshipped, when my veins were fresh,
A glorious fabric of this flesh,
Where all her skill in living lines
And colour (that its form enshrines)
Nature had lavished: in that guess
She had gathered up all loveliness.
All beauty of flesh, and blood, and bone
I saw there; ay, by impulse known,
All the miracle, the power,
Of being had come there to flower.
Each part was perfect in the whole;
The body was one with the soul;
And heedful not, nor having art,
To see them in a several part,
I fell before the flesh, and knew
All spirit in terms of that flesh too.

But blood must wither like the rose:
’Tis wasting as the minute goes;
And flesh, whose shows were wonders high,
Looks piteous when it puts them by.
The shape I had so oft embraced
Was sealed up, and in earth was placed—
And yet not so; for, hovering free,
Some wraith of it remained with me:
Some subtle influence that brings
A new breath to all beautous things,
Some sense that in my marrow stirs
To make things mute its ministers.
I fall before the spirit so,
And flesh in terms of spirit know—
The Holy Ghost, the truth that stands
When turned to dust are lips and hands.

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>2024
>all but forgotten

Retarded cunt: fuck off
Off – from me – fuck!
I no longer accommodate you; the profoundly unintelligent rabble
I no longer tolerate your babble
Retarded cunt.

>>23306944
>>23307486
it’s meant to be in the vein of a overly transgressive genius

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posting some selections from Stevens, my favorite ever.

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>>23307111
I'll share a some, but East Asian poems which "go hard," at least, of those with which I am familiar, go hard in a very different way, and that has given me reluctance for sharing. To me, if we were to look at Western [European-American] Culture and Eastern [Asian] Culture, you could frame the difference as West being Yang and East being Yin, or else, as West being light of stars and East being dark, empty space between them. I've once tried to show this difference of perspective using two musical performances—Valerié Milot on harp, playing Vltava (Moldau), surrounded by bright, hanging lights youtube.com/watch?v=TnYCW8eWqQo, and Kumada Kahori on Satsuma biwa, playing Nasuno Yoichi, surrounded by clear, hollow globes and shades of dark. youtube.com/watch?v=bnt4CSZVJy8

The portrayals are similar, but what is dissimilar, in both music and stage design, reveals cultural emphasis. Chinese and Japanese art is often delicate and soft, even when it goes hard. Hopefully, you're not put off by my selections. Some of these may require a bit of explanation, and if that is the case, I will do the best I can as a laymen; in certain cases, my books may give some commentary.

>Majestic, from the most distant time,
>The sun rises and sets.
>Time passes and men cannot stop it.
>The four seasons serve them,
>But do not belong to them.
>The years flow like water.
>Everything passes away before my eyes.
The Emporer Wu of Han, Liu Ch'u (156-187)

>At fifteen I joined the army.
>At twenty-five I came home at last.
>As I entered the village
>I met an old man and asked him,
>"Who lives in our house now?"
>"Look down the street,
>There is your old home."
>Pines and cypresses grow like weeds.
>Rabbits live in the dog's house.
>Pigeons nest in the broken tiles.
>Wild grass covers the courtyard.
>Rambling vines cover the well.
>I gather wild millet and make a pudding
>And pick some mallows for the soup.
>When soup and pudding are done,
>There is no one to share them.
>I stand by the broken gate,
>And wipe tears from my eyes.
Anonymous, Han dynasty

To The Tune "Glittering Sword Hilts"
>I have always been sorry
>Our words were so trivial
>And never matched the depths
>Of our thoughts. This morning
>Our eyes met,
>And a hundred emotions
>Rushed through our veins.
Liu Yu Hsi (772-842)

The Bamboo By Li Ch'e Yun's Window
>Don't cut it to make a flute.
>Don't trim it for a fishing
>Pole. When the grass and flowers
>Are all gone, it will be beautiful
>Under the falling snow flakes.
Po Chu I (772-846)

Those were all translated by Kenneth Rexroth. There are many great poems among his translations. Here are some Kobayashi Issa (1763-1847) from memory which I couldn't track down (sadly, I never saw these particular poems in the original Japanese).

Picking up the moon
in the washbasin
and spilling it.

If you are kind to them
the little birds
will poop on you.
(con't)

>You tell me to do this
>He tells me to do that
>You're all bastards
>Go fuck your mother

"A poem about bastards" by Chinese Warlord Zhang Zongchang

>>23308947
Those are lovely, thank you! I am a bit of an autist about translations so I haven't checked out Rexroth's yet but I do want to someday.
In general I think the differences you talk about are often a bit overstated, but they're definitely part of the picture and they constitute an important part of the particular value of the tradition. More specifically, I would say that we tend to think of Chinese poetry as dealing in observation and understatement - the observation, imo, is a consistent and salient feature, whereas the understatement is moreso a feature of a particular period. Anyway I love talking about this stuff, and I'd love to hear more of your thoughts about it. I've been reading more or less nothing but various Chinese poets this year.

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>>23308947
A couple of famous Matsuo Basho (1644-1694) poems.

>Kyou nitemo
>kyou natsukashi ya
>hototogisu
trans.
>Even in Kyoto—
>hearing the cuckoo’s cry—
>I long for Kyoto
Something which, as I understand it, is lost in translation: hototogisu, the name of the bird, like many things in Japanese, is onomatopoetic.

>Furu ike ya—
>Kawazu tobikomu—
>Mizu no oto.
trans.
>The old pond—
>A frog jumps in.
>The sound of water.
There are a few things here. "Furu," also has the meaning of ancient. "Kawazu," is not merely a frog. It is a Spring frog—a frog which has just awoken from hibernation under the ground from Winter. And "oto," "sound," can be looked at almost graphically here as a reflection of the first two lines itself. O-T-O. A singular vowel or sound, momentarily broken, by the tapping of the tongue to make the "t" sound. I won't tell you what to think of it, but with that information, I hope you'll get more out of it.

Otomo Yakamochi (718-785), translations by Paula Doe.

>Kyo yori wa
>kaerimi nakute
>okimi no
>shiko no mitate to
>idetatsu ware wa
trans.
>From today on,
>With never a look back,
>I go to be the emperor's damn shield.
"Shiko," which is sometimes here translated as "strong" or "humble," is often written with the character "ugly" in the Man'Yoshu, and implies "stupid," "damn," or "cursed," and so here has been translated as "damn."

>Chichi haha ga
>kashira kakinade
>saku are te
>iishi ketoba ze
>wasurekanetsuru
trans.
>I cannot forget my parents' words
>As they stroked my head
>And prayed that I be safe
Something which I feel might be lost by this translation, though my Japanese is not perfect, is that this poem begins with Father and Mother, moves to the sensation of his head, then to the words, and finally to their unforgettableness. It begins with the concrete and moves into the abstract; it unfolds into the conclusion of "wasurekanetsuru," and is very powerful in this way—more powerful than the English rendering.

Okay, here's a longer one because it's fun to read aloud.

>Sumeroki no toki miyo ni mo
>oshiteru naniwa no kuni ni
>ame no shita shirashimeshiki to
>ima no you ni taezu iitsutsu
>kakemaku mo aya ni kashikoshi
>kamu nagara wa go okimi no
>uchinabiku haru no hajime wa
>yachi kusa ni hana saki nioi
>yama mireba mi no tomoshiku
>kawa mireba mi no sayakeku
>mono goto ni sakayuru toki to
>meshitamai akirametamai
>shikamaseru naniwa no miya wa
>kikoshi osu yomo no kuni yori
>tatematsuru mitsuki no fune wa
>horie yori miobikitsutsu
>asa nagi ni kaji hiki nobori
>yu shio ni sao sashi kudari
>aji mura no sawaki kioite
>hama ni idete unahara mireba
>shiranami no yae oru ga ue ni
>ama obune harara ni ukite
>omike ni tsukaematsuru to
>ochikochi ni izari tsurikeri
>sokidaku mo ogironaki kamo
>kokibaku mo yutakeki kamo
>koko mireba ubeshi kamiyo yu
>hajimekerashi mo
trans. (con't)

>>23308985
You're welcome. That's a good way of putting it.

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>>23309015

>Down to this generation
>It has constantly been told
>Of how the emperors of long ago
>Ruled all the underheaven
>From Naniwa shining afar.
>To speak of it is awesome beyond words.
>When in lithe spring
>Bright with eight thousand kinds of flowers,
>Our godlike sovereign looked upon the mountains,
>The view was wondrous,
>When he looked upon the rivers
>The scene was good.
>Delighting to see that all was prospering,
>He built a palace here
>And here resided.
>Barges bearing tribute
>From the four directions of the realm
>Are pulled through the canal;
>Boats row upstream in the morning calm,
>Pole downstream on the evening tide,
>Thronging to be first
>Like flocking waterfowl.
>As I look out upon the sea plain from the shore,
>Small boats are scattered everywhere
>Over the eightfold whitecapped waves,
>Fishing for food to offer to our lord.
>How wide the land,
>How vast the scene—
>Truly it is fit to have made a palace here
>From ages past.
This poem, a chōka, is written in the old palace praising form, but is entitled, "Expressing My Own Humble Thoughts."

And I'll stop with a long time favorite of mine by Ōshikōchi no Mitsune (898-922).

>Yuki furite
>hito mo kayowanu
>michi nare ya
>ato haku mo naku
>omoikiyu ran
trans.
>The snow falls on
>the road where
>not a person comes to see me
>and will I melt in lonely grief
>leaving no trace of my transitory life?
I forget who the translation is by, sadly.

I'm glad you enjoyed, anon. I would love to discuss more, but thoughts of tomorrow's labors are knocking on my thoughts. I must off to bed. If the thread is still up tomorrow, maybe we can chat then.

"Imma go fuck that bish,
Imma go thrash that bish.
Shawty gon suck this dick,
shawty gon suck this dick."

- Jordan Terrell Carter

>>23309031
Knocking on my head*, I meant to say. You see? I'm getting sleepy. Also, it was "ato haka* mo naku." *shakes head in self-directed exasperation*

>>23309015
>>23309031
Wonderful, and inspiring for my own language studies, thank you again. Sleep well anon, hope to see you anon (haha!).

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Robinson Jeffers, "For Una".

I

I built her a tower when I was young -
Sometime she will die -
I built it with my hands, I hung
Stones in the sky.

Old but still strong I climb the stone -
Sometime she will die -
Climb the steep rough steps alone,
And weep in the sky.

Never weep, never weep.

II

Never be astonished, dear.
Expect change,
Nothing is strange.

We have seen the human race
Capture all its dreams,
All except peace.

We have watched mankind like Christ
Toil up and up,
To be hanged at the top.

No longer envying the birds,
That ancient prayer for
Wings granted: therefore

The heavy sky over London
Stallion-hoofed
Falls on the roofs.

These are the falling years,
They will go deep,
Never weep, never weep.

With clear eyes explore the pit.
Watch the great fall
With religious awe.

III

It is not Europe alone that is falling
Into blood and fire.
Decline and fall have been dancing in all men's souls
For a long while.

Sometime at the last gasp comes peace
To every soul.
Never to mine until I find out and speak
The things that I know.

IV

To-morrow I will take up that heavy poem again
About Ferguson, deceived and jealous man
Who bawled for the truth, the truth, and failed to endure
Its first least gleam. That poem bores me, and I hope will bore
Any sweet soul that reads it, being some ways
My very self but mostly my antipodes;
But having waved the heavy artillery to fire
I must hammer on to an end.

To-night, dear,
Let's forget all that, that and the war,
And enisle ourselves a little beyond time,
You with this Irish whiskey, I with red wine
While the stars go over the sleepless ocean,
And sometime after midnight I'll pluck you a wreath
Of chosen ones; we'll talk about love and death,
Rock-solid themes, old and deep as the sea,
Admit nothing more timely, nothing less real
While the stars go over the timeless ocean,
And when they vanish we'll have spent the night well.

>>23305348
I dont understand poetry that doesnt rhyme or have a flowing pattern
Free verse might as well be a poorly written paragraph in a book

>>23309110
Whitman pioneered free verse, which is the joke.

>>23306854
>can't detect the condescension in the OP's poem
Genuine autism.

>>23305813
It's not bad. Just mediocre.

>>23309110
>I dont understand poetry that doesnt rhyme or have a flowing pattern
This is your mind on only speaking English.

>>23309469
There is none. Give us some examples of where this lies in the poem, otherwise I will presume you are just mad.

>>23309592
NTA, but my assumption would be "Now is a time of carving."

>>23309015
>The old pond—
>A frog jumps in.
>The sound of water.

I like it. Here's one by Li Bai:

The birds have vanished down the sky.
Now the last cloud drains away.

We sit together, the mountain and me,
until only the mountain remains.

>>23309616
Whitman laid out the broad strokes of the method, he chose the tree and felled it, sounding his presence to the surrounding forest. To me it seems Pound is suggesting that he now partake in the carving of the aforementioned tree, with Whitman. Refining the method further, the method/work that Whitman started.

It'd take a lot of mental gymnastics to turn the poem into something else (the complete opposite), in my opinion.

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>>23307493
I’m so heckin euphoric christsister…… this was so frickin holy

>>23309632
I see it the same way, that verse was just the only one which had the possibility to be potentially read as condescending to me.

>>23309015
>>23308947
Brilliant

>>23305430
Honestly Whitman was pretty hackish too. Few things say hack like re-editing your one good work over and over and over again because you can't muster the creativity or grit to try something new.

>>23305348

Bound
by Aline Murray Kilmer


If I had loved you, soon, ah, soon I had lost you.
Had I been kind you had kissed me and gone your faithless way.
The kiss that I would not give is the kiss that your lips are holding:
Now you are mine forever, because of all I have cost you.

You think that you are free and have given over your sighing,
You think that from my coldness your love has flown away:
But mine are the hands you shall dream that your own are holding,
And mine is the face you shall look for when you are dying.

>>23308943
based stevens appreciator

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On transience the Aztecs also have some (shattered) gems.

>I, Nezahualcoyotl, ask
>this:
>Is it true one really lives
>on the earth?
>Not forever on earth,
>only a little while here.
>Though it be of jade it
>falls apart,
>though it be gold it
>wears away,
>though it be quetzal plumage
>it is torn asunder.
>Not forever on earth,
>Only a little while
>here.

>I comprehend the secret,
>the hidden:
>O my lords!
>Thus we are,
>we are mortal,
>humans through
>and through
>we all will have to go
>away,
>we all will have to die on
>earth . . .
>Like a painting
>we will be erased.
>Like a flower, we will dry up
>here on earth.
>Like the plumed vestment of the precious bird,
>that precious bird with the agile neck,
>we will all come to an end . . .
>Think on this, o lords,
>eagles and tigers,
>though you be of jade,
>though you be of gold,
>you will also go there,
>to the place of the fleshless.
>We will have to disappear,
>no one can remain.

>>23309815
That's pretty good.

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>>23305348
12th Epode (Quid tibi vis), by Horace

‘What’s up, lady most apt for elephantine niggers?
Why send me presents and letters, although
I am no strapping youth, have no distended nose –
yet I sniff out the polyp or goat that beds
in your armpits’ bushes more shrewdly
than does the keenest hound where the boar lies hid.’
– The cock gone slack, what sweat, what evil stench,
envelops all her withered limbs
as she hastes to placate her invincible madness;
foundation cream tinted with crocodile crap,
damp powdered chalk, will not adhere; her lust
makes the overtaxed bedding and canopy split.
Or else she mocks my revulsion with these fierce jibes:
‘You flag with Inachia less than with me:
you manage Inachia thrice in one night, to me
you are nice and make the effort just once.
An ill death may that Lesbia die who discovered
your impotence when I looked for a bull,
when Amyntas of Cos was mine for the taking,
in whose invincible groin is stuck a member
more resolute than a burgeoning mountain tree.
For whom are those woollens hurriedly dyed
again and again in Tyrian purples? For you,
of course, in case in your age-group
there should be found a guest whose mistress values him
more highly than you. Oh! I am so unhappy;
you flee me as lambs fear wolves, as deer fear lions.’

>>23309902
Horace is fantastic, but your translation sucks ass.

>>23310023
*all translations suck ass

>>23310084
But yours are particularly adept at sucking ass.

>>23310111
No they aren't.

As falls by fate between wolves and lambs,
so is the strife ’twixt me and you,
whose flanks are callous’d from Spanish bonds
and shanks from hard shackles.
Although you stroll puffed up with wealth,
Fortune does not change your kind.
Don’t you see, as you perambulate
the Sacred Way in your toga of twice three yards,
the faces of passers-by, this side and that,
express the most patent indignation?
– ‘This creature, once flogged with the magistrates’ lash
till the crier himself was sickened,
now ploughs a thousand acres of good Falernian land.
His ponies wear out the Appian Way.
Defying Otho’s law, he takes his place
like an eminent knight in the foremost seats.
What can be gained by sending so many
beaked warships of massive tonnage
against the pirates and bands of slaves
when this, this thing, is an army tribune?’

>>23305348
>let there be commerce
nigga whitman had been dead for like 20 years when pound wrote this poem, was he retarded?

>>23310206
It's not literal, brother. Pound was referring to making peace with the American poetic tradition as exemplified by Whitman. Pound was a Europhile and grew up thinking Whitman represented everything bad about American poetry his excessive and rambling style. In this poem he seems to be accepting that as an American poet, he's inevitably a part of the same tradition.

>>23305848
>The poem is a bittersweet acknowledgement of the huge influence Whitman had on Pound

That doesn't make it good.

“All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.

From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring;
Renewed shall be blade that was broken,
The crownless again shall be king.”

>>23307500
Funny thing about that poem is yes it's forgotten on /lit/ and rarely posted for years but I've seen a resurgence of it on retvrn chud twitter spheres so much so that users even have started using it as their header image on their profiles.

>>23310170
I take it back. That's ace.

>>23308884
imagine catullus posting in 2024

>>23309644
The writer was a materialist pagan. You don't understand metaphor?

>>23305348
I got an F in college for a creative writing free verse poem
Teacher basically said it didnt fulfill any characteristics of a free verse poem

>>23305848
So what you're saying is Poundcucks have been BTFO? How will they ever recover? I'm confused, who is coping and seething here? Who won the debate?

>>23310994
>Le Pound vs Le Whitman
False equivalence.

How were poems published historically and now?
Does a poet get a bunch of stuff he has worked on together and it gets put in his own full book? How many poems would be typical?
I figure this would change depending on the nature of the poem, such as longer epics or big story poems.

For example, now quite often we have 'The Complete Works of Shakespeare.' That's combining his poems and other works, but how did his poems originally get propagated?

Look at thy ass and tell the place thou viewest,
Now is the time that place should warm another,
Thy fleshly pear is now my fruit to chew, rest
Thy bust upon my face and let it smother.
For why is it unfair thy cum filled womb
Should stain with spillage all thy silken panties
Moan for me, this bondage be thy tomb
For my self-love, slap thy posteriori
This art thy mother’s ass, and she in thee
Throw back the lovely apricot sublime;
So thou through windows street urchins shall see,
In spite of shackles, spray a golden slime.
But if thou lives, remember not to pee,
Death tickles, and thy peepee flies with thee.

>>23309619
That's great.

>>23309031
>palace praising form
Yes, this is part of what I was alluding to about different periods! That genre is the exact opposite of understatement. It's just interesting to me to see where the conventional wisdom holds up and where it breaks down.
And as much as I love China and its poetry, it does always strike me what a beautiful language Japanese is. Although certain words do sound hilarious to an English speaker
>ground shakes
>Mt. Fuji starts rumbling
>tsunami appears on the horizon
>"oshiteru!!"
I love your comments though, the stuff about the frog poem is very insightful as is the "wasurekanetsuru" poem, that one is so touching. I also love the name of the cuckoo, reminds me very much of the "Otototoi!" of Greek tragedy.

>>23305825
I'd like to recommend some poems to you if that's okay, anon.

Cities and Thrones and Powers
Tyger, Tyger
Invictus
Chapter Heading
Brahma

Those are my recs. Have a good day

>>23309619
I haven't read much Eastern poetry, but you've inspired me to start.

>>23305476
faggot

>>23312208
Thanks. Yes, it is grandiose and heartfelt. I love it. I also love your Agamemnon reference.

"Who hath marked out for thee that mystic path through thy woe's wilderness?"

>>23309057
Thanks for reminding me of picrel; Una was just right after an evening sea breeze.

>>23312223
For me it was very exciting to discover how much is out there. There's a decent amount of "filler" because they wrote so much occasional poetry, but there is exponentially more good stuff than you would think given how little it's discussed in Western lit circles.

>>23312246
It's just such an enchanting word, I fell in love with it the instant I read it. Beautifully excessive just like the play itself. Cassandra so perfectly embodies the spirit of tragedy.

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>>23305348

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If someone can identify this poem for me I will post some bangers from oop books

>>23313325
>... and you learn about yourself
>that you are definitely not one who, when fucking
>on a fat chick, that, if he cannot fuck the fat, then folds
>the fat and fucks the fold
Sonically excellent.

>>23312307
branch broken, grand parent cry

>>23312307
>BN
?

>>23308947
Thread about high literature, misspells "emperor"

>>23314327
/lit/ truly makes being a worthless nitpicking pedant into a fine art.

>>23314327
John 8:7

>>23314327
Only normies fuss over typos. This isn't a report. You're getting that information for free.

>>23310711
Fedoras don't understand anything. They took a bad shortcut.

Gerontion

Thou hast nor youth nor age
But as it were an after dinner sleep
Dreaming of both.

Here I am, an old man in a dry month,
Being read to by a boy, waiting for rain.
I was neither at the hot gates
Nor fought in the warm rain
Nor knee deep in the salt marsh, heaving a cutlass,
Bitten by flies, fought.
My house is a decayed house,
And the Jew squats on the window sill, the owner,
Spawned in some estaminet of Antwerp,
Blistered in Brussels, patched and peeled in London.
The goat coughs at night in the field overhead;
Rocks, moss, stonecrop, iron, merds.
The woman keeps the kitchen, makes tea,
Sneezes at evening, poking the peevish gutter.
I an old man,
A dull head among windy spaces.


Signs are taken for wonders. ‘We would see a sign!’
The word within a word, unable to speak a word,
Swaddled with darkness. In the juvescence of the year
Came Christ the tiger

In depraved May, dogwood and chestnut, flowering judas,
To be eaten, to be divided, to be drunk
Among whispers; by Mr. Silvero
With caressing hands, at Limoges
Who walked all night in the next room;

By Hakagawa, bowing among the Titians;
By Madame de Tornquist, in the dark room
Shifting the candles; Fräulein von Kulp
Who turned in the hall, one hand on the door. Vacant shuttles
Weave the wind. I have no ghosts,
An old man in a draughty house
Under a windy knob.

After such knowledge, what forgiveness? Think now
History has many cunning passages, contrived corridors
And issues, deceives with whispering ambitions,
Guides us by vanities. Think now
She gives when our attention is distracted
And what she gives, gives with such supple confusions
That the giving famishes the craving. Gives too late
What’s not believed in, or is still believed,
In memory only, reconsidered passion. Gives too soon
Into weak hands, what’s thought can be dispensed with
Till the refusal propagates a fear. Think
Neither fear nor courage saves us. Unnatural vices
Are fathered by our heroism. Virtues
Are forced upon us by our impudent crimes.
These tears are shaken from the wrath-bearing tree.

/1

>>23314511
The tiger springs in the new year. Us he devours. Think at last
We have not reached conclusion, when I
Stiffen in a rented house. Think at last
I have not made this show purposelessly
And it is not by any concitation
Of the backward devils.
I would meet you upon this honestly.
I that was near your heart was removed therefrom
To lose beauty in terror, terror in inquisition.
I have lost my passion: why should I need to keep it
Since what is kept must be adulterated?
I have lost my sight, smell, hearing, taste and touch:
How should I use it for your closer contact?

These with a thousand small deliberations
Protract the profit of their chilled delirium,
Excite the membrane, when the sense has cooled,
With pungent sauces, multiply variety
In a wilderness of mirrors. What will the spider do
Suspend its operations, will the weevil
Delay? De Bailhache, Fresca, Mrs. Cammel, whirled
Beyond the circuit of the shuddering Bear
In fractured atoms. Gull against the wind, in the windy straits
Of Belle Isle, or running on the Horn,
White feathers in the snow, the Gulf claims,
And an old man driven by the Trades
To a sleepy corner.

Tenants of the house,
Thoughts of a dry brain in a dry season.

/end

>>23314511
One of Eliot's more pseudy poems, but I used to like it.

>>23314524
Whatever you say, pseud.

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>>23309644
But it's anti-Christian if anything, it affirms the superiority of the flesh and senses over the spirit, even concluding with a mockery of the Holy Ghost by saying its still an imperfect vehicle for "lips and hands"

The Emperor of Ice Cream

>>23314551
Oh, lol. Hurt your feelings did I?

>>23314569
>including a mockery of the Holy Ghost
That dude is SIZZLIN' rn fr.

>>23313406
it's incredible, I really want to find out who wrote this

>poems that go hard
>no charge of the light brigade
Anons...

>>23308892
Oh okay then.

>>23314647
Sure, pseud. Why not?

>>23314569
The Holy Ghost is just a metaphor for the artistic vision which, in old age, replaces the deed itself. He's surprised at this discovery, as many young artists are, and the poem charts the progress from the material towards the spiritual, the spiritual which culture's are built around, but which he is not giving any literal metaphysical credence, or viewing from a Christian perspective. Christianity was the religion of Western civilisation for over a thousand years so it makes sense to use its terminology even in a non-Christian context.

>>23305430
They should never have let him out of that cage.

https://voca.ro/1gr5GWv5KsyS

Could man be drunk for ever,

With liquor, love or fights,

Lief should I rouse at morning

And lief lie down at nights.
But men at whiles are sober

And think by fits and starts,

And if they think, they fasten

Their hands upon their hearts.

—A. E. Housman

>>23305848
Proclaimest you idiots fill this thread anew
Barely bright to comprehend sentences, if only a few
Are you truly wise, high above and whole?
O pride of mind that blights your soul
To demand innocent 4channers to end themselves in woe
I wonder what maketh you angry so?

>>23309644
is this discord troon attempt at being witty?