>>23607657
Hmmmm

Thanatopsis by William Cullen Bryant

i dont like poetry

>>23609249
This does possess certain humorous aspects.

>>23607657
Asphodel, The Greeny Flower- William Carlos Williams

>>23607657
Quand un bon vin meuble mon estomac,
Je suis plus savant que Balzac —
Plus sage que Pibrac;
Mon bras seul faisant l’attaque
De la nation Cosaque,
La mettroit au sac:
De Charon je passerois le lac,
En dormant dans son bac;
J’irois au fier Eac,
Sans que mon cœur fit tic ni tac,
Présenter du tabac.

He thought he saw an Elephant
That practised on a fife:
He looked again, and found it was
A letter from his wife.
"At length I realise," he said,
"The bitterness of Life!"

He thought he saw a Buffalo
Upon the chimney-piece:
He looked again, and found it was
His Sister's Husband's Niece.
"Unless you leave this house," he said,
"I'll send for the Police!"

He thought he saw a Rattlesnake
That questioned him in Greek:
He looked again, and found it was
The Middle of Next Week.
"The one thing I regret," he said,
"Is that it cannot speak!"

He thought he saw a Banker's Clerk
Descending from the bus:
He looked again, and found it was
A Hippopotamus.
"If this should stay to dine," he said,
"There won't be much for us!"

He thought he saw a Kangaroo
That worked a coffee-mill:
He looked again, and found it was
A Vegetable-Pill.
"Were I to swallow this," he said,
"I should be very ill!"

He thought he saw a Coach-and-Four
That stood beside his bed:
He looked again, and found it was
A Bear without a Head.
"Poor thing," he said, "poor silly thing!
It's waiting to be fed!"

He thought he saw an Albatross
That fluttered round the lamp:
He looked again, and found it was
A Penny-Postage-Stamp.
"You'd best be getting home," he said,
"The nights are very damp!"

He thought he saw a Garden-Door
That opened with a key:
He looked again, and found it was
A Double Rule of Three:
"And all its mystery," he said,
"Is clear as day to me!"

He thought he saw an Argument
That proved he was the Pope:
He looked again, and found it was
A Bar of Mottled Soap.
"A fact so dread," he faintly said,
"Extinguishes all hope!"

Goldbrown upon the sated flood
The rockvine clusters lift and sway:
Vast wings above the lambent waters brood
Of sullen day.

A waste of waters ruthlessly
Sways and uplifts its weedy mane,
Where brooding day stares down upon the sea
In dull disdain.

Uplift and sway, O golden vine,
Thy clustered fruits to love's full flood,
Lambent and vast and ruthless as is thine
Incertitude!

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>>23607657
The poem likely has more rhythm to it in its original Russian but I still find it oddly funny.

>>23607657
Aquí yace Misser de la Florida,
y dicen que le hizo buen provecho
a Satanás su vida.
Ningún coño le vio jamás arrecho.
De Herodes fue enemigo, y de sus gentes,
no porque degolló los inocentes,
mas porque, siendo niños, y tan bellos,
los mando degollar, y no jodellos,
pues tanto amó los niños, y de suerte
(inmenso bujarrón hasta la muerte)
que si él en Babilonia se hallara,
por los tres niños en el horno entrara.

¡Oh tú, cualquiera cosa que seas,
pues por su sepultura te paseas,
o niño o sabandija,
o perro o lagartija,
o mico o gallo o mulo,
o sierpe o animal que tengas cosa
que de mil leguas se parezca a culo:
Guárdate del varón que aquí reposa,
que tras un rabo, bujarrón profundo,
si le dejan, vendrá del otro mundo!

No en tormentos eternos
condenaron su alma a los infiernos;
mas los infiernos fueron condenados
a que tengan su alma y sus pecados.
Pero si honrar pretendes su memoria,
di que goze de mierda, y no de gloria;
y pues tanta lisonja se le hace,
di: «Requiescat in culo, mas no in pace.»

Francisco de Quevedo

>>23609814
Hehehe looks like fish scales and doesn't need any translations.

>>23609244
I don't like you

Barbie's Tender Clothing


*

under her dress
you can sometimes
find the woman
who later causes
girls
to kiss the soft paws
of toy Soviet gynecologists

*

the latest Barbie
is made of such tender plastic
her underwear
leaves a mark
that is
of course
if for a prolonged time
the doll sits uncomfortably on the lap of a stranger

*

inside this woman
is that
for which
the policemen of small American cities
get paid

*

in the complete Barbie set
is a tiny object
the use of which
is not obvious

when you finally figure out
what it's for
the doll
suddenly
grabs the object
from your hands

*

she never came to me
in a dream
however
those 1970's Soviet dolls did
with their honest
innocuous fingers
always grown together
> Andrei Sen-Senkov, translated by Peter Golub

>>23609814
The deepest German poem.

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>>23607657

William Blake - Day
"The Sun arises in the East,
Cloth'd in robes of blood and gold;
Swords and spears and wrath increast
All around his bosom roll'd
Crown'd with warlike fires and raging desires."

>>23609814
Its '''read''' in most German schools, its a pretty famous poem and the first instance of reddit humour

>>23607657
Rilke:
Durch mein Leben zittert ohne Klage,
Ohne Seufzer ein tiefdunkles Weh.
Meiner Träume reiner Blüthenschnee
Ist die Weihe meiner stillsten Tage.

Öfter aber kreuzt die grosse Frage
Meinen Pfad. Ich werde klein und geh
Kalt vorüber wie an einem See,
Dessen Flut ich nicht zu messen wage.

Und dann sinkt eine Leid auf mich, so trübe
Wie sad Grau glanzarmer Sommernächte,
Die ein Stern durchflimmert-dann und wann-:

Meine Hände tasten dann nach Liebe,
Weil ich gerne Laute beten möchte,
Die mein heisser Mund nicht finden kann...

Through my life there trembles without complaint
Without a sigh a deep dark pain/sore/melancholy.
The pure and snowy blossoming of my dreams
Is the sanctification/consecration of my quiet days.
But oftentimes the great question crosses my path. I become small and pass by coldly as though along some lake whose depth I dare not measure.
And then a sorrow sinks upon me, dusky/dull as the gray lusterless/sparse summer nights
Through which a star glimmers-now and then-:
My hands then grope for love,
Because I want so much to pray aloud
That my hot mouth cannot find...

>>23609976
That one is amazing
I just wish my French would be better

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>>23612518
>we invented reddit humour, we invented everything, we're the Kulturnation of Kulturnationen
lol

>>23612573
This, but unironically
Its actually amazing how one single nation is responsible for something like 78% of the worlds cultural achievements

I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain—and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,

But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still at an unearthly height,
One luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.

כל עלילותינו כל גבורותינו כל תהילותינו
שיצאו להן מוניטין בסביבה הקרובה
מחרת אל-טנאק ועד בוגרשוב
ומדרך המלכים עד קצה דרך האבק
כל ברבורינו, מלח הארץ, בכתב ובעל פה
כל שירי הנשמה, כל הבקבוקים שהתרוקנו כל ספלולי הקפה
כל אהבותינו שהיו לשם דבר, לאין מרפא
והמדורות ההן שהבהבו לילה בעינינו בשובנו מדרך השריפה
ופני האויבים שידענו שהכירו אותנו יותר משהכרנו את פנינו
פני הכלב ופני התקופה הטובה

הייתי ממשיכה אבל השיר הזה אבד מזמן בתהום הנשיה

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>>23612581
lol

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>>23610403
Basadísimo.

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Algo se me ha quebrado esta mañana
de andar, de cara en cara, preguntando
por el que vive dentro.

Y habla y se queja y se me tuerce
hasta la lengua del zapato,
por tener que aguantar como los hombres
tanta pobreza, tanto oscuro
camino a la vejez; tantos remiendos,
nunca invisibles, en la piel del alma.

Yo no entiendo; yo quiero solamente,
y trabajo en mi oficio.
Yo pienso: hay que vivir; dificultosa
y todo, nuestra vida es nuestra.
Pero cuánta furia melancólica
hay en algunos días. Qué cansancio.

Cómo, entonces,
pensar en platos venturosos,
en cucharas calmadas, en ratones
de lujosísimos departamentos,
si entonces recordamos que los platos
aúllan de nostalgia, boquiabiertos,
y despiertan secas las cucharas,
y desfallecen de hambre los ratones
en humildes cocinas.

Y conste que no hablo
en símbolos; hablo llanamente
de meras cosas del espíritu.

Qué insufribles, a veces, las virtudes
de la buena memoria; yo me acuerdo
hasta dormido, y aunque jure y grite
que no quiero acordarme.

De andar buscando llego.
Nadie, que sepa yo, quedó esperándome.
Hoy no conozco a nadie, y sólo escribo
y pienso en esta vida que no es bella
ni mucho menos, como dicen
los que viven dichosos. Yo no entiendo.

Escribo amargo y fácil,
y en el día resollante y monótono
de no tener cabeza sobre el traje,
ni traje que no apriete,
ni mujer en que caerse muerto.

-Rubén Bonifaz Nuño

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>>23607657
>Xanadu!

>>23607657
'Tis the year's midnight, and it is the day's, Lucy's, who scarce seven hours herself unmasks;
The sun is spent, and now his flasks
Send forth light squibs, no constant rays;
The world's whole sap is sunk;
The general balm th' hydroptic earth hath drunk,
Whither, as to the bed's feet, life is shrunk,
Dead and interr'd; yet all these seem to laugh,
Compar'd with me, who am their epitaph.
Study me then, you who shall lovers be
At the next world, that is, at the next spring;
For I am every dead thing,
In whom Love wrought new alchemy.
For his art did express
A quintessence even from nothingness,
From dull privations, and lean emptiness;
He ruin'd me, and I am re-begot
Of absence, darkness, death: things which are not.
All others, from all things, draw all that's good,
Life, soul, form, spirit, whence they being have;
I, by Love's limbec, am the grave
Of all that's nothing. Oft a flood
Have we two wept, and so
Drown'd the whole world, us two; oft did we grow
To be two chaoses, when we did show
Care to aught else; and often absences
Withdrew our souls, and made us carcasses.
But I am by her death (which word wrongs her)
Of the first nothing the elixir grown;
Were I a man, that I were one
I needs must know; I should prefer,
If I were any beast,
Some ends, some means; yea plants, yea stones detest,
And love; all, all some properties invest;
If I an ordinary nothing were,
As shadow, a light and body must be here.
But I am none; nor will my sun renew.
You lovers, for whose sake the lesser sun
At this time to the Goat is run
To fetch new lust, and give it you,
Enjoy your summer all;
Since she enjoys her long night's festival,
Let me prepare towards her, and let me call
This hour her vigil, and her eve, since this
Both the year's, and the day's deep midnight is.

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>>23607657
A huge favorite <3

I have sent for thee, holy friar;
But ’twas not with the drunken hope,
Which is but agony of desire
To shun the fate, with which to cope
Is more than crime may dare to dream,

That I have call'd thee at this hour:
Such father is not my theme —
Nor am I mad, to deem that power
Of earth may shrive me of the sin
Unearthly pride hath revell'd in —

I would not call thee fool, old man,
But hope is not a gift of thine;
If I can hope (O God! I can)
It falls from an eternal shrine.

>english
The apparition of these faces in the crowd:
Petals on a wet, black bough.

>non-english
二人見し雪は
今年も
降りけるか

Sapardi Djoko Damono - Dukamu Abadi
"Dukamu adalah dukaku,
Air matamu adalah air mataku.
Kesedihan abadimu
Membuat bahagiamu sirna,
Hingga ke akhir tirai hidupmu,
Dukamu tetap abadi.

Bagaimana bisa aku terokai perjalanan hidup ini,
Berbekalkan sejuta dukamu,
Mengiringi setiap langkahku,
Menguji semangat jituku,
Karena dukamu adalah dukaku,
Abadi dalam duniaku!

Namun dia datang,
Meruntuhkan segala penjara rasa,
Membebaskan aku dari derita ini.
Dukamu menjadi sejarah silam,
Dasarnya 'ku jadikan asas,
Membangunkan semangat baru,
Biar dukamu itu adalah dukaku,
Tindakanku biarkan ia menjadi pemusnahku!"

The Brain — is wider than the Sky —
For — put them side by side —
The one the other will contain
With ease — and You — beside —

The Brain is deeper than the sea —
For — hold them — Blue to Blue —
The one the other will absorb —
As Sponges — Buckets — do —

The Brain is just the weight of God —
For — Heft them — Pound for Pound —
And they will differ — if they do —
As Syllable from Sound —

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>>23607657

>>23607657
When I die, fuck it, I wanna go to hell
'Cause I'm a piece of shit, it ain't hard to fuckin' tell (What you talkin' 'bout, man?)
It don't make sense, goin' to heaven with the goodie-goodies
Dressed in white, I like black Timbs and black hoodies (Aw, man)
God'll probably have me on some real strict shit
No sleepin' all day, no gettin' my dick licked
Hangin' with the goodie-goodies, loungin' in paradise
Fuck that shit, I wanna tote guns and shoot dice (Aw, you talkin' some crazy shit now, nigga)
All my life I been considered as the worst
Lyin' to my mother, even stealin' out her purse (Ah)
Crime after crime, from drugs to extortion
I know my mother wish she got a fuckin' abortion
She don't even love me like she did when I was younger (Yo, get a hold of yourself, nigga)
Suckin' on her chest just to stop my fuckin' hunger
I wonder; if I died, would tears come to her eyes?
Forgive me for my disrespect, forgive me for my lies (You're buggin', B)
My baby mother's eight months, her little sister's two
Who's to blame for both of them? (Nah, nigga, not you)
I swear to God I want to just slit my wrists and end this bullshit
Throw the Magnum to my head, threaten to pull shit (Buggin', nigga, what the fuck?)
And squeeze until the bed's completely red (Yo, it's too late for this shit, man)
I'm glad I'm dead, a worthless fuckin' Buddha head
The stress is buildin' up, I can't, I can't believe (Ayo, I'm on my way over there, man)
Suicide's on my fuckin' mind, I wanna leave
I swear to God I feel like death is fuckin' callin' me
But nah, you wouldn't understand
Nigga, talk to me please, man!
You see, it's kinda like the crack did to Pookie in New Jack (The fuck?)
Except when I cross over, there ain't no comin' back (Ayo, ayo, man, I'm out)
Should I die on the train track like Ramo in Beat Street? (I'ma call you when I get in the car)
People at the funeral frontin' like they miss me (Ayo, ayy, where your girl at, man?)
My baby mama kiss me, but she glad I'm gone (Yo, put your girl on the phone, nigga!)
She know me and her sister had somethin' goin' on
I reach my peak, I can't speak (Ayo, you listenin' to me, motherfucker?)
Call my nigga Chic, tell him that my will is weak (Ayo, c'mon, nigga)
I'm sick of niggas lyin' (Cut that), I'm sick of bitches hawkin' (Ayo)
Matter of fact, I'm sick of talkin' (Nigga, yo, yo, Big! Ayo, chill!)
*Gunshot*
Ayo, Big! Ayo, Big!

>>23612436
Alfred Tennyson- The Eagle
He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ring'd with the azure world, he stands.

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.

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>>23607657
They say the sea is cold, but the sea contains
the hottest blood of all, and the wildest, the most urgent.

All the whales in the wider deeps, hot are they, as they urge
on and on, and dive beneath the icebergs.
The right whales, the sperm-whales, the hammer-heads, the killers
there they blow, there they blow, hot wild white breath out of
the sea!

And they rock, and they rock, through the sensual ageless ages
on the depths of the seven seas,
and through the salt they reel with drunk delight
and in the tropics tremble they with love
and roll with massive, strong desire, like gods.
Then the great bull lies up against his bride
in the blue deep bed of the sea,
as mountain pressing on mountain, in the zest of life:
and out of the inward roaring of the inner red ocean of whale-blood
the long tip reaches strong, intense, like the maelstrom-tip, and
comes to rest
in the clasp and the soft, wild clutch of a she-whale's
fathomless body.

And over the bridge of the whale's strong phallus, linking the
wonder of whales
the burning archangels under the sea keep passing, back and
forth,
keep passing, archangels of bliss
from him to her, from her to him, great Cherubim
that wait on whales in mid-ocean, suspended in the waves of the
sea
great heaven of whales in the waters, old hierarchies.

And enormous mother whales lie dreaming suckling their whale-
tender young
and dreaming with strange whale eyes wide open in the waters of
the beginning and the end.

And bull-whales gather their women and whale-calves in a ring
when danger threatens, on the surface of the ceaseless flood
and range themselves like great fierce Seraphim facing the threat
encircling their huddled monsters of love.
And all this happens in the sea, in the salt
where God is also love, but without words:
and Aphrodite is the wife of whales
most happy, happy she!

and Venus among the fishes skips and is a she-dolphin
she is the gay, delighted porpoise sporting with love and the sea
she is the female tunny-fish, round and happy among the males
and dense with happy blood, dark rainbow bliss in the sea.

>>23612782
Hermoso. I will check this anthology out!

Of all creatures women be best:
Cuius contrarium verum est.

In every place ye may well see,
That women be trewe as tirtyll on tree,
Not lyberall in langage, but ever in secree,
And gret joye amonge them ys for to be.
Cuius contrarium verum est.

The stedfastnes of women will never be don,
So jentyll, so curtes they be everychon,
Meke as a lambe, still as a stone,
Croked nor crabbed fynd ye none!
Cuius contrarium verum est.

Men be more cumbers a thowsandfold,
And I mervayll how they dare be so bold,
Agaynst women for to hold,
Seyng them so pascyent, softe and cold.
Cuius contrarium verum est.

For tell a women all your cownsayle,
And she can kepe it wonderly well;
She had lever go quyk to hell,
Than to her neyghbowr she wold it tell!
Cuius contrarium verum est.

For by women men be reconsiled,
For by women was never man begiled,
For they be of the condicion of curtes Gryzell
For they be so meke and mylde.
Cuius contrarium verum est.

Now say well by women or elles be still,
For they never displesed man by ther will;
To be angry or wroth they can no skill,
For I dare say they thynk non yll.
Cuius contrarium verum est.

Trow ye that women list to smater,
Or agaynst ther husbondes for to clater?
Nay, they had lever fast bred and water
Then for to dele is suche a mater.
Cuius contrarium verum est.

Thowgh all the paciens in the world were drownd,
And non were lefte here on the grownd,
Agayn in a woman it myght be fownd,
Suche vertu in them dothe abownd!
Cuius contrarium verum est.

To the tavern they will not goo,
Nor to the ale-hows never the moo,
For, God wot, ther hartes wold be woo,
To spende ther husbondes money soo.
Cuius contrarium verum est.

Yff here were a woman or a mayd,
That lyst for to go fresshely arayed,
Or with fyne kyrchers to go displayed,
Ye wold say, 'they be prowde!' It is yll said.
Cuius contrarium verum est.

Explicit

>>23610311
This is very charming
>>23614768
Came here to post the Pound, it’s a little overdone in these circles but it really is special.

>>23615016
Who's this one by? I loved it.
>>23614018
Larkin never misses.

>>23615592
It’s Emily Dickinson

Erinnerung an die Marie A.
(Bertolt Brecht)
1
An jenem Tag im blauen Mond September
Still unter einem jungen Pflaumenbaum
Da hielt ich sie, die stille bleiche Liebe
In meinem Arm wie einen holden Traum.
Und über uns im schönen Sommerhimmel
War eine Wolke, die ich lange sah
Sie war sehr weiß und ungeheur oben
Und als ich aufsah, war sie nimmer da.
2
Seit jenem Tag sind viele, viele Monde
Geschwommen still hinunter und vorbei.
Die Pflaumenbäume sind wohl abgehauen
Und fragst du mich, was mit der Liebe sei?
So sag ich dir: ich kann mich nicht erinnern
Und doch, gewiß, ich weiß schon, was du meinst.
Doch ihr Gesicht, das weiß ich wirklich nimmer
Ich weiß nur mehr: ich küßte es dereinst.
3
Und auch den Kuß, ich hätt ihn längst vergessen
Wenn nicht die Wolke dagewesen wär
Die weiß ich noch und werd ich immer wissen
Sie war sehr weiß und kam von oben her.
Die Pflaumebäume blühn vielleicht noch immer
Und jene Frau hat jetzt vielleicht das siebte Kind
Doch jene Wolke blühte nur Minuten
Und als ich aufsah, schwand sie schon im Wind.

>>23615608
That is a good one, to capture the impermanence and yet seemingly concrete nature of a tryst in all sense affirmation.

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desart.[d] Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
No thing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

>23616259
Goddamn anon, this had been such a great thread with a lot of unique poetry and brilliant little gems and you really had to ruin it by posting the most basic and most worn out poem that everyone and their mother has seen a million times already?
Is this really the best you can think of?

>>23616330
>OP is Kubla Khan

>>23615016
Emily... easy on the em dashes

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Sonnet 30, William Shakespeare. Love this one, probably my favorite of his sonnets.

>>23616330
OP said to post a poem I like, I haven't read that many

It's amazing how many people try this shit but have no understanding of rhythm or syllable structure.

>>23616619
What is this about?

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Virocon—Virocon—
Still the ancient name rings on
And brings, in the untrampled wheat,
The tumult of a thousand feet.

Where trumpets rang and men marched by,
None passes but the dragon-fly.
Athwart the grassy town, forlorn,
The lone dor-beetle blows his horn,

The poppy standards droop and fall
Above one rent and mournful wall:
In every sunset-flame it burns,
Yet towers unscathed when day returns.

And still the breaking seas of grain
Flow havenless across the plain:
The years wash on, their spindrift leaps
Where the old city, dreaming, sleeps.

Grief lingers here, like mists that lie
Across the dawns of ripe July;
On capital and corridor
The pathos of the conqueror.

The pillars stand, with alien grace,
In churches of a younger race;
The chiselled column, black and rough,
Becomes a roadside cattle-trough:

The skulls of men who, right or wrong,
Still wore the splendour of the strong,
Are shepherds' lanterns now, and shield
Their candles in the lambing field.

But when, through evening's open door,
Two lovers tread the broken floor,
And the wild-apple petals fall
Round passion's scarlet festival;

When cuckoos call from the green gloom
Where dark, shelving forests loom;
When foxes bark beside the gate,
And the grey badger seeks his mate

There haunts within them secretly
One that lives while empires die,
A shrineless god whose songs abide
Forever in the countryside.

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>Goddamn anon, this had been such a great thread with a lot of unique poetry and brilliant little gems and you really had to ruin it by posting the most basic and most worn out poem that everyone and their mother has seen a million times already?
>Is this really the best you can think of?

>>23607657
Get Drunk
Always be drunk.
That's it!
The great imperative!
In order not to feel
Time's horrid fardel
bruise your shoulders,
grinding you into the earth,
Get drunk and stay that way.
On what?
On wine, poetry, virtue, whatever.
But get drunk.
And if you sometimes happen to wake up
on the porches of a palace,
in the green grass of a ditch,
in the dismal loneliness of your own room,
your drunkenness gone or disappearing,
ask the wind,
the wave,
the star,
the bird,
the clock,
ask everything that flees,
everything that groans
or rolls
or sings,
everything that speaks,
ask what time it is;
and the wind,
the wave,
the star,
the bird,
the clock
will answer you:
"Time to get drunk!
Don't be martyred slaves of Time,
Get drunk!
Stay drunk!
On wine, virtue, poetry, whatever!"
Original French version:

Enivrez-Vous
Il faut être toujours ivre.
Tout est là:
c'est l'unique question.
Pour ne pas sentir
l'horrible fardeau du Temps
qui brise vos épaules
et vous penche vers la terre,
il faut vous enivrer sans trêve.
Mais de quoi?
De vin, de poésie, ou de vertu, à votre guise.
Mais enivrez-vous.
Et si quelquefois,
sur les marches d'un palais,
sur l'herbe verte d'un fossé,
dans la solitude morne de votre chambre,
vous vous réveillez,
l'ivresse déjà diminuée ou disparue,
demandez au vent,
à la vague,
à l'étoile,
à l'oiseau,
à l'horloge,
à tout ce qui fuit,
à tout ce qui gémit,
à tout ce qui roule,
à tout ce qui chante,
à tout ce qui parle,
demandez quelle heure il est;
et le vent,
la vague,
l'étoile,
l'oiseau,
l'horloge,
vous répondront:
"Il est l'heure de s'enivrer!
Pour n'être pas les esclaves martyrisés du Temps,
enivrez-vous;
enivrez-vous sans cesse!
De vin, de poésie ou de vertu, à votre guise

16-bit Intel 8088 chip
with an Apple Macintosh
you can't run Radio Shack programs
in its disc drive.
nor can a Commodore 64
drive read a file
you have created on an
IBM Personal Computer.
both Kaypro and Osborne computers use
the CP/M operating system
but can't read each other's
handwriting
for they format (write
on) discs in different
ways.
the Tandy 2000 runs MS-DOS but
can't use most programs produced for
the IBM Personal Computer
unless certain
bits and bytes are
altered
but the wind still blows over
Savannah
and in the Spring
the turkey buzzard struts and
flounces before his
hens.

>>23607657

A Whiteness

As sibilant as snow, that awfulness:
The light of Heaven on the weight of Earth;
Consummate, absent, call it what you will,
It does not waver, bend, but only streams
Endless assent, in möbii of ribands
That inlay beauty on all that they have
Predestined us to love, and we are lost,
Ever to mark those plays of passing light.

Under the name of God, under its sword,
Under the shoals of late pale fallen snow,
Under the penitence of shadowy walls
Whose every stone is spectral, under boughs
Where there is no deception, lies a whiteness:
Time’s limitless forehead, stung. The prick of thorns.

from The Age Of Steel
by Rudi Matić

Bump

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>>23618412
Based bumper

"Worse than the sunflower," she had said.
But the new dimension of truth had only recently
Burst in on us. Now it was to be condemned.
And in vagrant shadow her mothball truth is eaten.
In cool, like-it-or-not shadow the humdrum is consumed.
Tired housewives begat it some decades ago,
A small piece of truth that is it was honey to the lips
Was also millions of miles from filling the place reserved for it.
You see how honey crumbles your universe
Which seems like an institution – how many walls?

Then everything, in her belief, was to be submerged
And soon. There was no life you could live out to its end
And no attitude which, in the end, would save you.
The monkish and the frivolous alike were to be trapped
in death's capacious claw
But listen while I tell you about the wallpaper –
There was a key to everything in that oak forest
But a sad one. Ever since childhood there
Has been this special meaning to everything.
You smile at your friend's joke, but only later, through tears.

For the shoe pinches, even though it fits perfectly.
Apples were made to be gathered, also the whole host of the
world’s ailments and troubles.
There is no time like the present for giving in to this temptation.
Once the harvest is in and the animals put away for the winter
To stand at the uncomprehending window cultivating the desert
With salt tears which will never do anyone any good.
My dearest I am as a galleon on salt billows.
Perfume my head with forgetting all around me.

For some day these projects will return.
The funereal voyage over ice-strewn seas is ended.
You wake up forgetting. Already
Daylight shakes you in the yard.
The hands remain empty. They are constructing an osier basket
Just now, and across the sunlight darkness is taking root anew
In intense activity. You shall never have seen it just this way
And that is to be your one reward.

Fine vapors escape from whatever is doing the living.
The night is cold and delicate and full of angels
Pounding down the living. The factories are all lit up,
The chime goes unheard.
We are together at last, though far apart

>>23607657
Pan Tadeusz wszedł pierwszy, drżącymi rękami
Drzwi za sobą zamyka, och! Nareszcie sami.
Ach! Zosiu, ach Zosieńko, jak mi niewygodnie
Popatrz, jak mi odstaje, spójrz no na moje spodnie.
Zosia łzy rzewne roni i za pierś się chwyta,
Że to była dzieweczka z chłopcem nie obyta,
Nie wiedziała zaiste, czy ma się całować
Ze swym mężem, czy płakać, czy pod ziemię schować.
Stoi tedy i milczy, Tadeusz pomału
Jął się przygotowywać do ceremoniału.
Od chwili, gdy ich ślubna przywiozła kareta,
Tadeusz miał myśl jedną - myśl ta to mineta.
(Sztuka wówczas na Litwie nikomu nie znana,
Dziś już rozpowszechniona, ale źle widziana
Przez strzegące cór swoich sędziwe matrony
I księży, którzy nieraz gromią ją z ambony).
Tadeusz, że we Francji długie lata bawił,
Wielce się w używaniu sztuki onej wprawił,
Niezmiernie lizać lubiał, wyrażał mniemanie,
Że mineta o wiele przewyższa jebanie,
Bo kutas zmysł dotyku zaledwie posiada,
Język natomiast smakiem prócz dotyku włada,
Poza tym wszystkim zmysły, z wyłączeniem słuchu,
Spełniają pewną rolę, kiedy język w ruchu.
Na przykład powonienie cipy... Wzrok się raczy
Tym, czego ślepy kutas nie zobaczy.
Tak myśląc, jął Tadeusz pieścić swoją żonę.
Najpierw z galanteryją ucałował dłonie,
Potem na łóżku sadza i macając ręką,
Dwa cycuszki jak pączki wyczuł pod sukienką,
Wziął też do ręki cycuś, a zaraz i drugi,
Oba były jednakie, żaden nazbyt długi.
I począł je całować - długo pożądliwie,
Wreszcie usta oderwał i, w nagłym porywie,
Suknię swej lubej Zosi zarzucił na głowę,
ściągnął na dół majteczki, śliczne, koronkowe,
Dar ciotki Telimeny, ku nóżkom się schylił,
Najpierw na nie popatrzał, potem je rozchylił,
Całując pożądliwie od wewnętrznej strony,
Aż Zosia zapomniała zupełnie obrony
I dziewicze opory zaraz odrzuciła,
Bo Zosia chociaż młoda, ale dziewką była.
I chowając w poduszki, zawstydzone lice,
Pokazała mężowi całą tajemnicę,
Co ukryta głęboko wśród złocistych włosów
Różowiała niewinnie, jak kwiatek wśród kłosów.

>>23619225
Alfred "Serve Ace" Tennyson

>>23619225
Sublime.

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Stupid new phone can't take scrolled screenshot, so I copied it here, I see this as separate to the rest of the track. I think it's the perfect poem for the Black color in Magic the gathering
>[Spoken Word: Kanye West]
The most beautiful thoughts are always besides the darkest
Today, I seriously thought about killing you
I contemplated, premeditated murder
And I think about killing myself
And I love myself way more than I love you, so…
Today, I thought about killing you, premeditated murder
You'd only care enough to kill somebody you love
The most beautiful thoughts are always besides the darkest
(Mhm—mhm—mhm—mhm—mhmm)
Just say it out loud to see how it feels
People say "don't say this, don't say that"
Just say it out loud, just to see how it feels
Weigh all the options, nothing's off the table
Today, I thought about killing you, premeditated murder
I think about killing myself
And I, I love myself way more than I love you
The most beautiful thoughts are always besides the darkest
(Mhm—mhm—mhm—mhm—mhm—mhm—mhm—mhm—mhmm)
I think this is the part where I'm supposed to say somethin' good to compensate it so it doesn't come off bad
But sometimes I think really bad things
Really, really, really bad things
And I love myself way more than I love you
See, if I was tryin' to relate it to more people
I'd probably say I'm struggling with loving myself
Because that seems like a common theme
But that's not the case here
I love myself way more than I love you
And I think about killing myself
So, best believe, I thought about killing you today
Premeditated murder