Talk about poems/poets you like, post your own work, and critique others.
Under two stones of water lies the crack-fish The thirstiest of thingsseeing outside of light with the tail that snaps in half mid biteor does he simply swallowhowever it is, it knows to swim easy between plastic and coral
storybook as you entered the darkforest lost to light the shadowsribbons played in wind of dreamstime shifted into floating emerald light the king’s flashing teeth andmad eyes sparkled gloom up and down with the black trees nowyou knew the sadness of birdswheeling twilight mournful criesnaked further like light never camenever dawned the mind lay downits stilettos of night and embraceddarkness soon remains . . . ?
What's the best collection of T.S. Eliot poems? I'm browsing online and there's a lot of editions. Ideally, one with commentary of some kind? For his prose work I'm eyeing pic related.
>>25071161I've got the Faber edition - I wouldn't worry about commentary. Let yourself come to your own conclusions on the poemshere's a poem I wrote for my grandmahttps://egregoreandi.substack.com/p/mourning-englands-sun
dem hoes wat dey dont knowswon't hurt emless is me dat dey dont knowsi squirt emin dey pussies make em call me daddyain gibbem no name no numba neva find my addydon't come lookin fo no money bitchain't got itdont come lookin fo no daddy bitchcuz im not itdon't ya pull up on my blockima real niggapull up on yo social workaif yousa gold niggaget dat snap n dat section 8 dem checks niggaden da hole where ima bury youima grave diggayaready know I pull my 9on a dime n pull da triggafo I put my cheese on da linefo a bitch n a lil niggathoughts?
I wrote this one called Roman Font in Japan:Western writing inthe land of the rising sun.Typeface irregularity;it bothers me none.Letters twisted slightly,charming in their waymake the world feel biggerdespite the modern day.
Who are the essential english poets?
Out of curiosity, do you guys handwrite your poems or just type them out on your computer?
Favorite underrated poet?
>>25072747There are no underrated poets.
>>25072721Depends on the poem. Most of them I write by hand, but if it's something throwaway for 4chins then I usually just type in the box with no proof
I was supposed to go down to New York to read some of my work yesterday, but I couldn't make it. I'm kinda choked, honestly.
When most I wink, then do mine eyes best see,For all the day they view things unrespected;But when I sleep, in dreams they look on thee,And darkly bright are bright in dark directed.Then thou, whose shadow shadows doth make bright,How would thy shadow's form form happy showTo the clear day with thy much clearer light,When to unseeing eyes thy shade shines so!How would, I say, mine eyes be blessed madeBy looking on thee in the living day,When in dead night thy fair imperfect shadeThrough heavy sleep on sightless eyes doth stay!All days are nights to see till I see thee,And nights bright days when dreams do show thee me.
Winter. Time to eat fatand watch hockey. In the pewter mornings, the cat,a black fur sausage with yellowHoudini eyes, jumps up on the bed and triesto get onto my head. It’s hisway of telling whether or not I’m dead.If I’m not, he wants to be scratched; if I amHe’ll think of something. He settleson my chest, breathing his breathof burped-up meat and musty sofas,purring like a washboard. Some other tomcat,not yet a capon, has been spraying our front door,declaring war. It’s all about sex and territory,which are what will finish us offin the long run. Some cat owners around hereshould snip a few testicles. If we wisehominids were sensible, we’d do that too,or eat our young, like sharks.But it’s love that does us in. Over and overagain, He shoots, he scores! and faminecrouches in the bedsheets, ambushing the pulsingeiderdown, and the windchill factor hitsthirty below, and pollution poursout of our chimneys to keep us warm.February, month of despair,with a skewered heart in the centre.I think dire thoughts, and lust for French frieswith a splash of vinegar.Cat, enough of your greedy whiningand your small pink bumhole.Off my face! You’re the life principle,more or less, so get goingon a little optimism around here.Get rid of death. Celebrate increase. Make it be spring.
Can't hide or hope for a lucky hit.There's trouble in the wind.Can't lie about my part in it,it came because I sinned.
>>25073133Garbage kys
do (you) think "us here" or "here us" is more an iamb?
Every time the sameSeething ugly trannyI see through your gameAnd your artificial fanny
>>25073739it depends on the context
Mention piety in the slightest,Christian, Roman or Greek.And creatures come out to protest,to tell us virtue is hating the meek.
>>25073105Like as the waves make towards the pebbl’d shore,So do our minutes hasten to their end;Each changing place with that which goes before,In sequent toil all forwards do contend.Nativity, once in the main of light,Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown’d,Crooked eclipses ‘gainst his glory fight,and Time that gave doth now his gift confound.Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth, And delves the parallels in beauty’s brow,Feeds on the rarities of nature’s truth,And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow;And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand,Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.
>>25073916in a poem
>>25070924Is the anon who posted this poem in a poetry thread a few months ago still around?I am the space you inhabit,the dead leaves you trample uponwhile walking to your faculty.I am that stone that nearly trips you,that fit a decade ago, but nowis just a passing annoyance.i am the still-looking air thatexpands and contracts to yourvoice, like water waves.i am the walls of lecture hallsthat absorb those sounds eternally -though you have left for years.you pay no mind to me,but somehow i know,dead leaves are not dead, but live eternally.
Yo when my plato of potato seamin still bark a laugh in 1917what up europoorly the ego and the x own, rat republics but no, ayy sciaoo! relegated tie now time for cock-structuralism in sunglas baguettes oi who wanna phd with me we have the balls to invent a zipperno gulag for susy if she's cool with this
>>25070924Moving back to the "poetry for" is the future. The abstract space of the poem for a book of poetry, the newspaper journal ect, is a deadzone. It's an old online video game universe where discourse and thought go to die or at least ruminate. There is no purpose to write for an audience in the west except for money and prestige, and that doesn't require the type of elitism necessary to produce good poetry. To escape, the audience must be a distinct community and the poem their culture, ir it must be a poem to friend or lover. Dissemination is the final battle. If I can have no community separate from those mandates from the hegemon, I choose my friends and family to write poetry to, I choose the world to mock with ephemeral bosh. If we can not establish a community as the warrior-poets of other nations because we live subjugated isolated alienated and our devices subsumed, then I want kindness first to myself. I do not want an audience, I do not want to be read. I want to write poetry that none will know is there.
Pear by a bear eatenA mare ravaged by a man The woman’s cat plowed and turnedEggplant by a vixen milk’d
>>25075274
I wrote this poem forthe piercing eyes of seers.In truth they're all blind and poor,my dickless illiterate peers.
>>25073739>us here
>>25075282Great>>25075430Good
Pride for me but not for theeMarching culture's guardsPillaging with rabid gleeMurderous rapist retards
>>25070924How to know if poetry is bad or I am too dumb to understand?
>>25075681thanks.
>>25075915Is it poetry? Then it's bad.
All day, the world blinds me,the stars hover like ghosts above rooftops,and I feel the tremor of worlds unseen.
>>25072747>Favorite underrated poet?Underrated by whom? Not sure there are any, if you ignore the opinion of idiots. Time is a good critic, I think.That said:— Robert GravesMaybe. He gets overlooked because he basically acted as though the twentieth century didn't exist. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that’s a positive advantage but it certainly doesn’t matter. The last two lines of ‘She tells her love while half-asleep’ are as good as any two last lines by anyone ever.— Thom GunnSlightly surprising he has been forgotten as much as he has, given he was homosexual and became gradually more open (even militant) about it as he went on. Not a first-rank writer but did produce half a dozen decent pieces, which is half a dozen than most people manage. If you haven't met him, try— Touch— Considering the Snail— Moly— The Discovery of the Pacific
>>25076303I think you should trim down the last one so it's more like the cutting line image of a haiku>the tremor of worlds unseenIt over personalises the poem to have me... and I feel, and kind of redundant, because is it a tremor if it's not felt?, whereas you can universalise your feelings in a moment of interstellar pathetic fallacy which follows on from the second line if you trim it. Overall I like it>>25075904Better
Feel the tremor of worlds whenfatso steps this thread uponNever reply to me againor my wife's son
>>25076958Worse
Well, I wish you good night, but first,Shit in your bed and make it burst.Sleep soundly, my loveInto your mouth your arse you'll shove
In Nebka's day the Lector-Priest Ubaöner ycleped woulde walk biside Celestialls and feeste on Godly nectar wyne and draukeAthwart Them at his tabel wide within his dwellynge cool and cleneHem’d in by Foldes on ev’ry side its marbel walls of perfit sheneAnd Ubaöner's Wife was thereAnd oft did Hathor breyde her hair.Styll did that blessed ladie spy a handsom Merchaunt's Sonne in touneAnd sought by him to satisfie impious Lusts e’en in that LouneFrom him she bought by envoys swift a Warde-robe spunne of softest flaxAnd deemyng it a paultrie Gift whereto she tooke a grey-wacke axe,She sent a mayde so to enveyghAnd summon him to her that day.Inside the wisard’s sightly Parc a shadie high Gazeboe stoodAnd in the crysp and fragraunt darke concernyng the Credenza-woodAppear’d the handsom Merchaunt’s Sonne to audience the queenlye ShapeOf her whom Ubaöner won withdrauen to her greene Escape.A warkand fate befell the ChurlWho dabl’d with that sely Girl.>>25073105good
Too fat to fleeFace fated for leadSown sins seed treeBees buzz in his head
x consumption has gone upmy pay has been steadymy patience is running lowi have so many pockets nowthey carry things warm for mei fall asleep in your dreamand still rearrange spoons and starsyou best believe i will get back to itwhen i'm finished dusting offfrom the nap of days
Brown rags concealed the factsGleaming armor revealedA line of elite cataphractsHoly light that melts your shield
Faoiseamh a gheobhadsaSeal beag gairidI measc mo dhaoineAr oileán maraAg siúl cois cladaighMaidin is tráthnónaÓ Luan go SatharnThiar ag baileFaoiseamh a gheobhadsaSeal beag gairidI measc mo dhaoineÓ chrá ó croíÓ bhuairt aigneÓ uaigneas duaircÓ chaint ghontachThiar ag baile
A thousand sheep have marchedO misery to meDon’t pick apart a beautiful dayA thousand men have marchedO misery I seeDon’t let your holy God get his wayYour fate is not tangled in constellation Nor between your hands at dusk Is but the purest of young determination Realise what you must you mustA thousand sheep have starvedO misery is oursDon’t humanise our Mother NatureA thousand men have starvedO misery was farDon’t offer your delay to the creatorYour fate is not defined by hesitation Nor hiding in the risk that you missIs but the fortunate ones stark elation That leads you towards false blissO misery to meO misery I seeO misery is oursO misery was far
the Baronessyou really are justa nasty old cunt—are you?no heartjust an internal publicrelations department.wherein others a soul,in you a shapeshifting hole a cist for the innocentcrawling up your wallscriminal.it is trueyou are the Baroness.a scum-encrusteddecrepit narcissistdevouringhole
Censure the centMoney down goes And capital accumulated isGoes up labor isThe slaves aggregate The rich dwindle Everywhere are commodities Wages up go, commodities with themEveryone rich is Everyone is poor
>>25070924If e'er thou pored o'er falsest quotations Hearken to scholars which hath boldly spake: "These sagely words may bloom exhortations,'To read the text may be for thine own sake!'For reading dulls the sting of Ignorance And sharpens Wit as true as Virtues' points,To feel the touch of God's deliverance And know the Good that light itself anoints; It brings to fruit the buds of Pleasure's seeds And snuffs the sparks of Wrath's own blinding fire; Thou rent the thorns of Artificial deeds,To poison minds with spells that Lies may sire. The vice of every heart has stayed the handsThat turned a page that every Text demands!"
>>25070924Though as a ghostI shall lightly treadthe summer fields
I fall into the night.The dark, healing night.Where my bright faceobscures my darker mask.Follow me...We will dance in blissFar away from any other taskBecause all that comeswill come and passFollow me..And listen to my heartFollow me..So you can danceFollow me..And let us fall into the nightThe dark, healing night
Mountain's misogynySherpa mansplainingMy body fatphobiclyFreezing and failing
There is a book bound in skin-thin paper,ink trembling with push-ups and counted abs.Fathers teach with weight and water,while the summit favours prepared flesh.Predation learned to speak politely.
>>25072711Chaucer,spenser,eliot,milton, Wordsworth,donne,Herbert,keats,dryden,gawain poet,Byron,Tom O’Bedlam poet,yeats,Tennyson,Hopkins,Coleridge,Auden,Shelley,Marvell,blake,Robert burns,and >Shakespeare
>>25079302>O DireainNice
As a poor writer working minimum wage, when putting two square meals on the table was a luxury, I would frequently go to Sikh temples. Everyday, their community kitchen services (langar) offer free hot meals to anyone. I also love that food at langar is so delicious and wholesome as well (restaurants often put way too much salt and oil). I highly recommend anyone struggling with food and financial security to visit your local Gurudwara; they are accepting of all races and religions.
Built by love but lost to sinLucifer rules this ageBeast marked them with their brown skinRust breaks our gilded cage
i'm letting you go so you'll come back to me,and i'll relish in that pleasure, just as whenwe lift things up in the air and let themfall, miseries and joys repeating endlessly.even if i must wait till stars darkenand distances fold like parchment,or like our respective bedsheets seperately connected,meeting through seperate paths.
Proteas, roo-pawcolour mid-FebruaryA year in full bloom
what form of poetry would you use to send a letter to a childhood pen-pal who you lost contact with?
Hello pal, remember me?I'm that gay retard you hateWondering if you want to seeMy dick while I masturbate
>>25077804Chatterton back from the grave?
the streets where emptyexcept the smell of rainand the soft summer sun sinking into the earth like the asteroid that killed the dinosaursthe buzzing pulse of cricketsjihadi moths entering the bright lightand the sound of car tires on gravel roadsshe was just a memory now, a half recalled songa string of blurslike she never occurred
The Female of the Species by Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936)When the Himalayan peasant meets the he-bear in his pride,He shouts to scare the monster, who will often turn aside.But the she-bear thus accosted rends the peasant tooth and nail.For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.When Nag the basking cobra hears the careless foot of man,He will sometimes wriggle sideways and avoid it if he can.But his mate makes no such motion where she camps beside the trail.For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.When the early Jesuit fathers preached to Hurons and Choctaws,They prayed to be delivered from the vengeance of the squaws.'Twas the women, not the warriors, turned those stark enthusiasts pale.For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.Man's timid heart is bursting with the things he must not say,For the Woman that God gave him isn't his to give away;But when hunter meets with husbands, each confirms the other's tale—The female of the species is more deadly than the male.Man, a bear in most relations—worm and savage otherwise,—Man propounds negotiations, Man accepts the compromise.Very rarely will he squarely push the logic of a factTo its ultimate conclusion in unmitigated act.Fear, or foolishness, impels him, ere he lay the wicked low,To concede some form of trial even to his fiercest foe.Mirth obscene diverts his anger—Doubt and Pity oft perplexHim in dealing with an issue—to the scandal of The Sex!But the Woman that God gave him, every fibre of her frameProves her launched for one sole issue, armed and engined for the same;And to serve that single issue, lest the generations fail,The female of the species must be deadlier than the male.1/2
2/2She who faces Death by torture for each life beneath her breastMay not deal in doubt or pity—must not swerve for fact or jest.These be purely male diversions—not in these her honour dwells—She the Other Law we live by, is that Law and nothing else.She can bring no more to living than the powers that make her greatAs the Mother of the Infant and the Mistress of the Mate.And when Babe and Man are lacking and she strides unclaimed to claimHer right as femme (and baron), her equipment is the same.She is wedded to convictions—in default of grosser ties;Her contentions are her children, Heaven help him who denies!—He will meet no suave discussion, but the instant, white-hot, wild,Wakened female of the species warring as for spouse and child.Unprovoked and awful charges—even so the she-bear fights,Speech that drips, corrodes, and poisons—even so the cobra bites,Scientific vivisection of one nerve till it is rawAnd the victim writhes in anguish—like the Jesuit with the squaw!So it comes that Man, the coward, when he gathers to conferWith his fellow-braves in council, dare not leave a place for herWhere, at war with Life and Conscience, he uplifts his erring handsTo some God of Abstract Justice—which no woman understands.And Man knows it! Knows, moreover, that the Woman that God gave himMust command but may not govern—shall enthral but not enslave him.And She knows, because She warns him, and Her instincts never fail,That the Female of Her Species is more deadly than the Male.
Rags lie.Wages stand still.Time desynchronizes.Dogs lift their muzzles,when you fly south before the roses bloom.I walk the shore like a suspect.
>>25084805o penpal, o penpal, of tits large and sweetprithee be a sweetie and choke on my meat!i'll buy you a birkin and call you my muffinso long as your mouth is my wiener soon stuffin.dear penpal, my penpal, my penis doth acheprithee consider how hot you me makeand bounce on my johnson and moan loud and clearand make plainly sure that your neighbors can hear>>25084847thank you anon
I need some rec's, fellers - anyone know of any authors/poets with the prose of a madman? Fragmented, abstract, with all the juicy drippings of the hymen psyche, but still delicious to read, etc. All the rawness of canine poetry perhaps, too. I've been searching for something in that vein for a while but I trust in *your* divine opinion, anon
>>25072747Thomas Moore. His content gets kind of sappy and he leans into clichés but he was ridiculously talented. Music and imagery seemed totally effortless for him, along with having an endless supply of emotions to express because the man wrote reams
fish without eyes feed mewater drips down wallsdim green light falls on runesa story about salvationin a lost language
Echoes tremble between leaf and stone,slithering along the edges of the yard,hovering in the hush where darkness thickens,carrying whispers of feet,carrying the weight of unseen hands.Its breath brushes the edges of the world,a chill rolling across the empty street.
some vday poetryLove AgainBy Philip LarkinLove again: wanking at ten past three (Surely he’s taken her home by now?), The bedroom hot as a bakery,The drink gone dead, without showing how To meet tomorrow, and afterwards,And the usual pain, like dysentery.Someone else feeling her breasts and cunt, Someone else drowned in that lash-wide stare, And me supposed to be ignorant,Or find it funny, or not to care,Even ... but why put it into words?Isolate rather this elementThat spreads through other lives like a tree And sways them on in a sort of sense And say why it never worked for me. Something to do with violenceA long way back, and wrong rewards, And arrogant eternity.fug
>>25086760Henry Miller>“I love everything that flows,” said the great blind Milton of our times. I was thinking of him this morning when I awoke with a great bloody shout of joy: I was thinking of his rivers and trees and all that world of night which he is exploring. Yes, I said to myself, I too love everything that flows: rivers, sewers, lava, semen, blood, bile, words, sentences. I love the amniotic fluid when it spills out of the bag. I love the kidney with its painful gallstones, its gravel and what-not; I love the urine that pours out scalding and the clap that runs endlessly; I love the words of hysterics and the sentences that flow on like dysentery and mirror all the sick images of the soul; I love the great rivers like the Amazon and the Orinoco, where crazy men like Moravagine float on through dream and legend in an open boat and drown in the blind mouths of the river. I love everything that flows, even the menstrual flow that carries away the seed unfecund. I love scripts that flow, be they hieratic, esoteric, perverse, polymorph, or unilateral. I love everything that flows, everything that has time in it and becoming, that brings us back to the beginning where there is never end: the violence of the prophets, the obscenity that is ecstasy, the wisdom of the fanatic, the priest with his rubber litany, the foul words of the whore, the spittle that floats away in the gutter, the milk of the breast and the bitter honey that pours from the womb, all that is fluid, melting, dissolute and dissolvent, all the pus and dirt that in flowing is purified, that loses its sense of origin, that makes the great circuit toward death and dissolution. The great incestuous wish is to flow on, one with time, to merge the great image of the beyond with the here and now. A fatuous, suicidal wish that is constipated by words and paralyzed by thought.”― Henry Miller, Tropic of Cancerone of my favorite authors
>>25087986one of the most memorable first lines of any poem. larkin was immense in his time.
Start with the Greeks:Hydra gives the best headSappho's all in pieces People don't question horses.
So do I just sit down and read a book of poetry like I would a novel or do I take it do the lake and read one poem and dwell on it for a week or what?
>>25088716read it, either it takes you in or it doesn’t.
>>25088716Like a collection of short stories, I suppose. Read as many as you want in one sitting, return to any individual one as you desire.
>>25087995Do you have any other specific favourite passages from this book?
>>25088716Poetry is all about the feels man. The poem either clicks or it doesn't. Or part of it clicks enough so that you want to reexamine the rest of it
>>25089055Hah, it's one of my favorite books that had a major impact on me. I could open it up and find a quotable passage on almost every other page.>In every poem by Matisse there is the history of a particle of human flesh which refused the consummation of death. The whole run of flesh, from hair to nails, expresses the miracle of breathing, as if the inner eye, in its thirst for a greater reality, had converted the pores of the flesh into hungry seeing mouths. By whatever vision one passes there is the odor and the sound of voyage. It is impossible to gaze at even a corner of his dreams without feeling the lift of the wave and the cool of the flying spray. He stands at the helm peering with steady blue eyes into the portfolio, of time. Into what distant corners has he not thrown his long, slanting gaze? Looking down the vast promontory of his nose he has beheld everything — the Cordilleras falling away into the Pacific, the history of the diaspora done in vellum, shutters fluting the froufrou of the beach, the piano curving like a conch, corollas giving out diapasons of light, chameleons squirming under the book-press, seraglios expiring in oceans of dust, music issuing like fire from the hidden chromosphere of pain, spore and madrepore fructifying the earth, navels vomiting their bright spawn of anguish … He is a bright sage, a dancing seer who, with a sweep of the brush, removes the ugly scaffold to which the body of a man is chained by the incontrovertible facts of life. He it is, if any man to-day possesses the gift, who knows where to dissolve the human figure, who has the courage to sacrifice an harmonious line in order to detect the rhythm and murmur of the blood, who takes the light that has been refracted inside him and lets it flood the keyboard of color. Behind the minutiae, the chaos, the mockery of life, he detects the invisible pattern; he announces his discoveries in the metaphysical pigment of space. No searching for formulae, no crucifixion of ideas, no compulsion other than to create. Even as the world goes to smash there is one man who remains at the core, who becomes more solidly fixed and anchored, more centrifugal as the process of dissolution quickens.
>>25087986Great poem
My world still ends on the coasts of Portugal:a place I've never been. Here's what little remains of memories —Aunt Lucy's cassette tapes that always needrewinding; and my mother's eye condemning his "tomorrows".To be chained by a chain so long it looks like freedom, youth, stripped bare A balloon show that cost Monday's dinnerBread unadorned, the missing dessert.And my sister's cherry eyes for this or that loneliness that finds nocompanion — what of visions and dreamsin such a sparse room.I'm somewhere else now, in someone else's mending:A footnote unsure of itself to a long lost text.This too is life.
>>25086760If you've never read picrel now's the time>>25089128>>25087995never read a word of miller but now you're talking me into it. is ToC the best starting place?
>>25090440You'll be okay Paddington
>>25090467>never read a word of miller but now you're talking me into it. is ToC the best starting place?Yes, easily. Then I'd recommend Colossus of Marousi next, instead of the obvious Tropic of Capricorn, you can save that for after.
>>25087986>arrogant eternityWhat does this mean?
[Step in]The unshaken eye finds no burden,Long as he looks and seeks life’s breezes,Steps in path high or low untrodden,With confidence which breaks diseases
>>25072038I like this, post more
>>25090808He thinks he knows better than the process of life. He's a Satan resenting God's creation and a product of anti-nazi propaganda that turned into anti-life/anti-God propaganda.
>>25091221>He thinks he knows better than the process of life.That would make the speaker arrogant, but why “arrogant eternity” like eternity is arrogant?
In times of old one must summon and prayTo the Muses who dwell near HelikonWhich the ancient poets say was the source Of inspiration and divine right toAssay the condition of God and Man.In modern time one might call the great fiveAnd their two-syllable immortal names:Homer, Virgil, Ovid, Shakespeare, Milton.The triumph of El Shaddai throughout thisFine Globe, makes Pagan wont useless to thoseWith access to God's font of thought sublime.I now bring to mind songs of the chosen:The celebratory praise of MiriamAnd the victory hymn of Judge Deborah,The words of the prophets and the Psalms ofSundry origin, all had one true author.The defeat of Sisera and Pharaoh With Mount Tabor and Sea of Reeds as witnessAre in themselves worthy of epic verse.But to choose my legacy for my tribeI must seek themes of triumph and conquestThrough obedience. Hence to their promised landThat flows with milk and honey come the dustyAnd contracted and attractive peopleWho stand across the Jordan lamentingTheir beloved and departed lawgiver. What brought them here? Was it when the Shepherd With faltering lips spoke to God in burning bush disguised? Or did they attain this Great enterprise when covenant was made withThe Father of Nations who had a name Changed to signal greatness?
>>25090659Good taste. What other writers do you like?
>>25084208what is this about?
I have no space to string togetherfor clever words, cannot focus enough to create. My technique is non-existent, there is no art to what I am feeling.You do not care for me. That is all. And this—this pain—overshadows everything else.
Two birds, one stone, a sandwich. Don't put the stone in the sandwich.Don't sit on the park bench As if you were innocentWhen you know they're hungry.Fuck.
>>25092610What are you even talking about? This makes no sense.
>>25092623The thread is called poetry general after all.
>>25092634Yeah, I get that what you posted is an attempt at a poem, but it does not function as a poem because it is nonsensical. What idea were you getting at?
>>25091852God/the process is arrogant, violent, wrong and le bad.
I'll cry, if the longing Breaks; for when its Swelling tidesAffect the transomWith a gushing torrentIt is that I've Given wayYou bob, like a paleDrawing from a wellFaye: through timeA vagabond-passengerFlutters; I'll cry if it breaksEntombed lakes Precious aquifer
>>25092638Christ you're stupid. Shouldn't you be posting about feces over on /b/?
>>25092669If your poem had some sort of actual theme or idea behind it, you should be able to explain what you were aiming at instead of getting mad and calling me names. What is your poem about?
>>25092643Where do you get God from? He’s not mentioned in the poem
>>25092673Not me. My poem was written between a fart and a BigMac bite. It doesn't mean anything.
>>25092658whenever i’m reading a poem and there’s some random woman’s name in it it ruins it for me
I was surprised to learn that T.S. Eliot is not unanimously considered as a "great" poet. Have I just frequented the wrong corners of the internet?
>>25092710Faye means fairy-like, not a name. Means she's buoyant.
Fuck off retard.
>>25092780 “fey” is the word you were looking for
>>25092819No it isn't. Stop shitting up the thread with your braindead illiterate spam.
>>25092833Thank you for vouching for me. I'm up against a lot of adversity; much of it deserved. But this guy is a lot.
>>25092833yes it is. “Faye” is not in any standard dictionary. it’s a woman’s name, not an adjective. fucking retard.
>>25092911Nigga, I can't spell, sorry. I composed that in like 3 minutes.
>>25092973We don't say that word here. We say nigger.
>>25092911I also should have put an apostrophe after the word 'lakes.'
>>25092911You're completely braindead, all you do is demand others spoonfeed you the most basic shit while pretending you're not a retard. It wasn't used as an adjective. "Fey" is from feig meaning death while faye is from faie meaning fairy. The author used intuition not dictionaries, which is both more interesting and representative of reality than your braindead reddit ackshually posts.
>>25092638Feed the fucking birds retard.
>>25092658Interesting poem. Is it about unrequited love or something?
>>25093052Bingo.
O, Robert DuvallConsigliere to the familyTHXLived to mount Plato's caveGus McCraeLover grape by grapeApostle E.F.Trying to get saved by ChristFather of KarlNigh caught a sling-blade, but nayA Valkyrie-Lieutenant ColonelCharlie don't surf, but shouldA Hollywood legend95 is pretty good
I sat at Rock BottomOn sharp beds of coral.As schools of fish went by.Came a curious one,He was pygmy in size,He came to float by my side.(He spoke)”This is no place for manGod has gifted you land,And to us he has given the sea.”Can’t you see?I’m sat at Rock Bottom.”You have taken my homeAs Pelagian throne,But leviathans circle around.For a terrible snakeWith its mouth all agape,I have seen just beyond the light’s bound.”All this terror here bores me, come take my life too.For this watery grave I have chosen.To sink in this bliss, all alone in abyss.A new womb I will make of the ocean.”And why remain? I find it most strange? There’s no wish for the surface?In the night, if I muster the spirit, I swim up to escape my durance.And I stare in all awe of that heavenly mawAnd the hercu’lan feat of the stars in their sheathsAnd my head it will crest and my gills scream for breathtill my body falls into the current.”There is nothing up there, just all pain and despair.I am tossed from extreme to another.And the furies they find, and they scorn and they bind,And old Achlys pulls deep and she covers.(He paused)”You are stronger than I, and here untouched by tides.While I’m tossed by tempestuous motion.When I’m thrown to extremes in the oceanly streamsI found freedom to drift in devotion.”Is there a better way to distinguish the dialogue than using quotations for one member here?
>>25092658Are you the same guy who kept posting that poem about the tree with roots that reached an underground lake? I liked that one.
Dwarfed by ducts delivering lifeI sit in awe as stone crumblesRivers turn to dragon's blood"New normal" Caesar mumblesStumbling falls off the stage
Has anybody got a clue what the fuck any of this means.
>>25094267It's some northerner's sentiments about the American civil war and society since, obscured from the reader and the poet by meditations on tree planting in Savannah (potentially the one in Georgia)
>>25094267this isn't that hard anon, here's a quick gloss "plot"wise, the speaker's walking around in Savannah GA to look at ancient trees, probably live oaks, a species of tree native to/common in the US South. as they walk around they think about degradation, history, renewal, and deathanalysis wise, few different angles here>first salvosalvo = artillery discharge, savannah was one of the core cities of the confederacy during the US civil war. this slots in with "spring's mauve detonation" at the end, so the "first salvo" is the first coming of spring. dialectic between death/new life happening here>mercy should not be counted on(in?)famously the confederacy was granted mercy after the end of the civil war -- no trials, no hangings, etc. in the poem this history's palpable; the city of savannah has rebel statues, the oaks are "senatorial," the city is genteel like southern planter aristocracy>travel south/to lands decided by your forebearsie the US South was "decided" (ambiguous; does the speaker mean victory, do they mean conquered, do they mean claimed, do they mean discovered, etc) by the speaker's ancestors >ancient trees [this stanza and the next]"the past is present" etc. the poem toys with this idea, that the past and the present occur simultaneously -- the trees are living things but simultaneously are very, very old. they have "buried ties" (roots) to the land, which is "falling" (seasonal quibble) all around, like a rebel nation may "fall" to an opposing army, or like how a society can be said to "fall." the yeats reference here inclines me to think that the poem means the latter, but I think all of those are at play >last stanzaalready touched on the detonation thing, but to talk about it again, the poem's tinkering with the relationship between death, life, war, and peace here by condensing those four concepts into a seasonal image -- think of how spring is often thought of as a renewal of life after the deathly cold of winter, here spring inflicts a metaphorical artillery barrage which nevertheless brings new life. the pelican immediately after's a nice touch, pelicans are a christian symbol of self-sacrifice/charity (from the myth that a pelican would pierce its own chest w its beak to feed its young with its blood). so again we've got the death/life pairing here but in a different frame, this time in a hazily christian context. "white as a shroud" should be obvious, so should "close enough to touch" (death not distant but right in front of you etc) but specifically a pelican instead of a seagull or pigeon gives the image an interesting undertone of charity, which is a small nod to the poem's start ("mercy should not be counted on"). yet the poem ends not on mercy but on something close to it -- is the poem suggesting that mercy isn't possible but maybe something akin to it could be with death? idk. I liked this anon. Thx for sharing. Some anon is going to get very upset because the poem doesn't rhyme. Ignore them
>>25094338I'm not American so for me it was impenetrable. My English is really not great either, so already at "senatorial oaks" I was like what? Thanks for the effort post
>>25094400glad I could help anon
>>25093581No. Sounds neat though.
She says history didn't happenHer Chinese tattoo is hecking neatLife with her is heavier than the penBarbie doll bogged and beat
>>25092658I interpreted this as being about holding back feelings you can’t express and worrying that you’ll give in.
>>25084805There once was a small girl I missedCherry lips that I dreamt I had kissedSo I wrote her this letterWhich would've gone betterIf I hadn't been totally pissed
The way the yogis sitRank with the dew of many morningsLike foo-dogs at rocky shrinesOr cans in the subway fosse,On the mind's keen spear point satAnd slipping neverI stare ἠτένισα as the gypsy girlIn Big George's little city biding everFor her husband invisible impersonalBehind an oily screenThis is the beginning of something that's an excuse to use the line "baby gronk rizzed! clavicular mogged!"
Know what all booksellersWish: a buyer keenAnd bursting kingpin's wallet,Barely keeping wíthout audit; KWABK-words are hard and I am not good even normally, what a bad acronym to write over. Do you think it makes sense?
You all disgust me This world is hellAlways singing and dancingI don't feel well I've had enoughYou look like clownsI hate your smilesYou invert my love You kill my soulAnd I smell you And it itchesUntil I sleep And you're forgottenUntil next time Bye for now Bye
>>25098097>in English
>>25098177It's funny though I should have specified
Women in my family inheritthings that anchor themselves beyond speech.Cup and spoon caught in invisible tempests,and I sit with the cup whose contents glow.
>>25096686LOVE this poem thanks for reminding me of it anon
I yearn and yearnTo bury myself deepIn your most hidden dellI burn and burnTo kiss your alabaster feetAnd worship each part wellAnd at your hand’s turnDrop supplicant to my kneesAnd happily meet the swellA reward I won’t spurnUntil you’re climb’s completeAnd your desire dispelled
>>25099277I also just saw that poem on Twitter
boy they think i'm writing but i'm cursing milkis this even from a cow or whatthe date says it's still good but god the colourmedium rare coffee thank you i subscribed but i still won’t watch the anthologyi get my refund when you leave your hair therea burnt mosquito, don't rest on a flaming stoneand several other things i don't say i make holes in city corners but not for the ratsonly for your curious fingerif you ask the price i won't sell it to you
>>25100100I just took a shit. Why do yo think that's worth sharing?
Crouching under the gentle arches of her flesh,warm valleys rise like coral cliffs,and stars drip tears of silver fireonto the hills that pulse beneath my lips.
>>25101755hot desu
The books whispered behind wood and dust.The small dog at the gate remembers,guardian of a darker catalog:blood, scent, belonging.
i looked at the reflection and founda bloated corpse in stead of myimage. a foolish corpse who thinksand hopes in stead of scaring childrenaway from catacombs or wakingmen from spiraling deep in to hopeful nightmares and dreadful dreams.ah a man was i, but died three yearsago, and rot away.
>>25103770I looked at the reflection and foundA bloated corpse instead of my image.A foolish corpse who thinks and hopes,Instead of scaring children away from catacombs,Or waking men from spiraling deep intoHopeful nightmares and dreadful dreams.Ah, a man was I, but died three years ago,And rot away.
In my aimless wander I met a witch,she spoke to spirits on the moon. I scoffed and said "whatever, bitch",but I drank her brew.On the moon the spirits showed to me,the ruin wrought on Earth.The fate I chose for each man is free,a new world from every birth.My aimless hollow lack of fear,led to this desert with no air.In space I shed a frozen tear,with no one left to care.
>>25101755is this about lactation kink
Raindrops are chipping at my redInfernal flame: humbledIn the misty-mirthless dayB.J. Thomas doesn't fly My company's not charmedMy heart is not speckled roadSolitary I, can't drop a lineThe muse would meetIf it were not the streetProud, and not looking, IAm at my feetYou aren't towing at my wakeAnd by a threshold wait?You don't existYou, my trist?Muse you're not to me?So then it's said . . .Raindrops are chipping at my redInfernal flame: humbledIn the misty-mirthless dayThe misty-mirthless day
Please enjoy this free PDF of my poetry.>https://archive.org/details/echolalia-review-an-anti-poetry-collection-by-jasper-ceylon-aaron-barry/page/(4)/mode/2up
Has anyone here read pic related? I read a few online and was intrigued, but part of me wonders if they're just the best of a niche bunch.It was recommended by someone who also recc'd Siken's Crush and Alice Notley. I generally liked Crush, though I flipped through some pages of War of the Foxes and his new one and wasn't so interested. My appreciation of Notley is maybe painted too much by my having read a lot of WC Williams and Denise Levertov recently, so I think I might have to come back to her later.
>>25104290It's about about watching a girl get wet as you go down on her, that specific moment her pussy begins to glisten lmao
The shadows around me murmur lessons in patience,my gaze sharpening, my shoulders straightening,as the world leans forward, eager to listen.A quiet fire rises from the ashes.
>>25081725Kek
I bow before each word I summon,Carving Gilgamesh into voices I command.Cities weep beneath silver rain,Yet I find solace in all that endures.
>>25104397I've read it. It's pretty good. Berman could actually write poetry. >Siken's CrushAlso very good, IMO his best>Alice NotleyRIP. Legend in the game>WC WilliamsClassic>LevertovWhen she's bad she's intolerable but when she's hitting she's on fire. You read picrel? Think you'd like it -- Levis wrote it as he was dying. Filled with shadows and haunting images. "Poem Ending With A Hotel On Fire" is one of my all-time favs.
>>25105217I actually picked up the hardcover collection of Levis’ poems when it came out because of having read “Prayer”, “Picking Grapes in an Abandoned Vineyard”, “My Story in a Late Style of Fire”, and the two that appeared in the recent Poetry issue: “The Orchard” and “À bout de Souffle”. I’m waiting to have some quiet time to read them because the few I read were so affecting and touching that I’d hate to rush through them. I may need to pick up Notley’s Grave of Light to just dig in. You're right about Levertov, I’ll flip through her Selected or Collected books and randomly find a killer piece and then wade through some baffling stuff.Thanks for your take on Berman.
She will like the flowersThe flowers she will..and she.. and the flowers..And I.. And her.. and.. and the flowersThe flowers will like herDid you see how calm! ..how calmHey, did you see? .. did you? ..heyhey.. can you give me a hug?and see how calm..And somehow.. somehow that youand you somehow can.. And I and..the flowers.. somehow calm.. and..and i? She.. and.. and her..and somehow the flowersAnd I'm somehow totally hersbros, it's springtime and I'm falling in love again
Any recs on Cesar Vallejo?
I don’t know how I can feel this all the way through, there is no through, there’s just you, there’s just me feeling hurt and you at a distance talking to me, telling me cryptically and socially and indirectly how you’d like to see some progress before you’d consider something, how rational, how unloveable, how you’re not close and too far from being in love with me, it sickens me, and It sickens me how I can’t get over this, you’re too good to not get over, i need you, i just need something, but you are more than something and it hurts to see me stand beside you, you couldn’t keep me around, and yet I Worry that I am delusional or obsessed, and yet, I break out into a thousand I wish you’s, a thousand I wish you woulds, I don’t know of any gods, but i got you, here, at least, talking to me, sometimes, it’s not enough, could it have ever been enough? There’s no end to this, and you are the one end, so lets keep going until i’m worn out or the sun explodes and I can’t fly so close, I just wish we could eat some more meals, together, you and I, in any weather, a thousand trips abroad, a thousand meals ashored, a billion plane rides of sitting together and reading, a dozen beaches of chasing each other and stealing, a hundred loves made on every kind of surface, a year where we tread and make this world our purpose, a billion puzzles that spell i love you, i love you, i love you, i could never hate you, in pure defeat i fall and crater, in pure pure love i obsess in pure unbroken sense in pure reflexive sense i love you, in sense and spirit I love you, in love itself i love you.
How do I write seriously without feeling like a try hard?
Going through a hard time
>>25105480>>25106054can you stop spamming your bullshit here?
Any particular Byron anthology you would recommend?
>>25106472Yeah, the one by Byron.
>>25106427i just wanted to post my poetry like everyone else here anon, sheesh
>>25106612that's not poetry, it’s a wall of text
streetlight on the cornerdread tower with a lamp on topwhere leaning drunk eruct some glopand yellow in the fog betraysome fomentor bestride his sleighfierce whip crack, now mark the gloomand foaming breathe the nag with spumeout of the beach-head roiling darkinto the blaze below this spark
I hate youBecause you’re white.Your white meatIs nightmare food.White is the skin of evil.You’re my Moby Dick,White Witch,Symbol of the rope and hanging tree,Of the burning cross.Loving you thusAnd hating you so,My heart is torn in two . . .
>>25106758unironically appreciate the compliment
Gary used to wear tweed and check his watch compulsively. One year in Malaysia And now he’s emptying bottles on the floorAnd releasing sharks in the gallery.Gary we’re going to need somethingMore functional here *Just before the boom Gary, the ironed shirt Gary, the ear-to-ear GaryThe one and only We’ve lost him somewhere In the AtlanticSo much for a work trip Inspecting containers for legitimate cargo Gary
Go, go, go, said the bird: human kindCannot bear very much reality.Time past and time futureWhat might have been and what has beenPoint to one end, which is always present.>>25106427pls don't be rude anon>>25106472the Oxford one seems solid
>>25104369notime vampire
>>25106427Posted two others in here but not that one :-)Anyways thanks for the (You). it seemed to have triggered something in you. That's what it's about, right?
If a dog I were,would I husband myself?Nourish the coat,with proteins and alike.The responsibility to play, and exercise. Enrichment. So then I may wonder,if I am not a dog, or better than such,why don't I husband myself?
I need time to thinkinverse speed law disappears come back as yourself
>>25107639try writing haiku without the 5-7-5 thing
but, to note, >>25107639 is a rather decent joint actually.
We sat on the stone dais aboveThe Templo, más allá de la iglesiaAnd thought we saw turtles in TexcocoBut it was only styrofoam takeout boxes.I play the instrument; I am the instrument;I think I see mammoths washing in AgassizThat float between the brush and the glacier!
>>25106054>I just wish we could eat some more meals, together, you and I, in any weather, a thousand trips abroad, a thousand meals ashoredobese mf detected
>>25070924O. P.Alas! was ever such fine weather seen!How dusty are the roads, the streets how clean!How long, ye almanacks, will it be dry?Empty my cart how long, and idle I?Once other days, and diff'rent fate we knew,That something had to carry, I to do.Now e'en at best the times are none so good,But 'tis hard work to scrape a livelihood.The cattle in the stalls resign their life,And baulk the shambles, and the bloody knife.Th' affrighted farmer pensive sits at home,And turnpikes threaten to compleat my doom.WIFE.Well! for the turnpike, that will do no hurt,The roads, they say, are n't much the better for't.But much I fear this murrain, where 'twill end,For sure the cattle did our door befriend.Oft have I prais'd them as they stalk'd along,Their fat the butchers pleas'd, but me their dung.O. P.See what a little dab of dirt is here!But yields all Warwick more, O tell me where?Lo! where this ant-like hillock scarce is seen,Heaps upon heaps, and loads on loads have been:Bigger and bigger the proud dunghill grew,'Till my diminish'd house was hid from view.WIFE.Ah! gaffer Pestel, what brave days were those,When higher than our house, our muck-hill rose?The growing mount I view'd with joyful eyes,And mark'd what each load added to its size.Wrapt in its fragrant steam we often sate,And to its praises held delightful chat.Nor did I e'er neglect my mite to pay,To swell the goodly heap from day to day;For this each morn I plied the stubbed-broom;'Till I scarce hobbled o'er my furrow'd room:For this I squat me on my hams each night,And mingle profit sweet with sweet delight?A cabbage once I bought, but small the cost,Nor do I think the farthing all was lost:Again you sold its well digested store,To dung the garden where it grew before.
you are softwith skin like porcelain pink and whitewarm and brightas the rain drops upon usas the clouds gatheras the winds howl and lightning stutters i am nowhere near youbut long to bury my headin the curve of your shoulderto feel your breath leave you.
I thought I'd return to FairylandA word from the queen to seekOne golden wintery eveningDown by the silvery creekBut that land is not homeTo fair things aloneAnd a nameless thing showed me out
>>25106054>>25108187obviously the same person your style is repetitive
>>25108232im not that guy but okay
>>25108232these two are me>>25108187>>25084964i would never write in prose and i would never say out right "i love you"
There he is — revertingto horizontal lamentations.Hydraulic necessities leftto huff and puffin the drawer.Not a day yetfor flopping awayfrom the mattress,the soliloquy againstmorning’s tyrannypostponed.I’m working out the kinks,arching back and forth —the theatrical groan.Miracle Suze,come help me.Shared weariness,mild amusement.You’ve seen it allwithout me knowingbut I always know.We’re going to be latefor the domesticity seminar —it doesn’t coverthe way the birdcocks his headin disbeliefwhen I do get upbefore you.
The wind smells of wet earth and maize,and I kneel among the blossoms,while perhaps unseen eyes peer over the walls.
I stepped beyond the silver water,Frogs hummed the gospel of the lost moon,their song folding the night into itself.
>>25108267baka this guy is scared of love fr
>>25110065rule number 1 of fight club: show dont tell
My hair club is not for dykesBurned down my own placeI dislike IKEA kikesSo I hit myself hard in the face
A silent nod to all hydrologically deprived somethingsIn the margins, the forklift incidentIt still fosters speculation and wonder, like a good love bottle.Someone keeps checking in twice weeklyUnbothered by pre-departure theatrics.Loitering is field work Writing sonnet sequences on banana peelsA dare to time itselfHow grand, this little bedHow small, the airport's stoic kiss All this inevitable ying yanging That leaves us in the centre still
>>25110858dislike line 2 and stanza 3, the rest I found strangely moving
>>25107802This is really impressive>>25107639This is good
I never understood poetry outside of song and ancient method of storytelling. Who are some poets worth reading ?
>>25110858>love bottleNope
The Queen of Fairie is a cruel loverShe lures me to lonely placesAnd makes of me sweet mockeryFrom just outside my sightI pick out paths her feet have trodIn glamoured woodland gardensI hear her lightsome laughterFrom just beyond a bendAnd still, I have never seen herShe tires of my tormentAnd beckons beasts invisibleTo send me from her sightThe Queen of Fairie is a cruel loverHer vengeance visits me by nightI dare not leave the lights outLest I meet dead things in the dark
From the trees came the ibises’ cries,one breath passed among many throats,low and irrevocable,as if the sky had asked for witnesses.
>>25111364The last line is awful, rework it until it fits the quality of the rest>>25112221Love it
>>25111263was written under durex
>>25112779I'll allow it if you can spell it in Hangul
The tree with 733 leaves, north of Fiesole Between Giorgio’s farm and the Pozzi well. What happened there? Well nothingIt’s where I stayed curled and naked After a night of grappa and singingThe morning sun finding me In the shade and cursing the poor tree.He was just there for centuries, probablyNot to shield me – perhaps I even Disturbed his roots with my stench Or crushed an innocent mushroom With my big nose. My head was hurting and the frogsHad drunk all the water.And where was my wallet now, In a foreigner’s pocket Or at the station.But I’m still alive now to tell youThis inconsequential story That swapped merit for more grappa.
It was hard times all around, and that guy who was once famous for farting the national anthem to a key in tune, was now desperately farting under a pot of water to try to bring it to a boil. The days were all blending together into a warp that consumed his sanity and woke him up in a panic on most nights; but tonight would be different. Tonight would be macaroni night
Invocation To James JoyceWritten by Jorge Luis BorgesScattered over scattered cities,alone and manywe played at being that Adamwho gave names to all living things.Down the long slopes of nightthat border on the dawn,we sought (I still remember) wordsfor the moon, for death, for the morning,and for man's other habits.We were imagism, cubism,the conventicles and sectsrespected now by credulous universities.We invented the omission of punctuationand capital letters,stanzas in the shape of a dovefrom the librarians of Alexandria.Ashes, the labor of our hands,and a burning fire our faith.You, all the while,in cities of exile,in that exile that wasyour detested and chosen instrument,the weapon of your craft,erected your pathless labyrinths,infinitesimal and infinite,wondrously paltry,more populous than history.We shall die without sightingthe twofold beast or the rosethat are the center of your maze,but memory holds its talismans,its echoes of Virgil,and so in the streets of nightyour splendid hells survive,so many of your cadences and metaphors,the treasures of your darkness.What does our cowardice matter if on this earththere is one brave man,what does sadness matter if in time pastsomebody thought himself happy,what does my lost generation matter,that dim mirror,if your books justify us?I am the others. I am all thosewho have been rescued by your pains and care.I am those unknown to you and saved by you.
>>25112863>After a night of grappa and singingSomething about this makes me want this to read song instead of singing. It's a good story, well told. I'm pretty sure frogs don't drink water but it sounds better than the truth
Here's a poem about clearing the mindThe imagination, the hive I'll rush to chideIt's thinking a harbour of what is all unlikeA goodly shine. Delicate, innocent ChristDove-like each day, shrewd in being slightA simple kind; You, determined, beholdSeek and find. Bear up better angels-quaintFare we better, shore us thus, thereon finer sandsThese better times, these expressible loves.
Gimme your number you fucking cunt
Gimme it you stupid bitch
No waking lover have INor waifu from a screenA deathless vision love IFair Elfland's golden queenShe beckons through the windowShe whispers in my dreamsTo go to her through shadowTo fly from all that seems
Give it to me
>>25113974>>25113985>>25114090What the fuck does this have to do with poetry?
I said number, you shrew
Give it to me, you babbling monkey
Smoking from my dad's shotgunWhile our rocket prepares to landFrogs drinking the water in my luggageBlackness surrounding us turning blue
Shut the fuck up you dumb broad and gimme your damn number
>>25106054why do you worry that you’re delusional?
A world tired of equalityYet there's no other option I seeJust appeals to homo and fearAfter laughter come tears
I haven't written anythingIn months. (weeks?) DaysElide, time melds allOne into the otherLike a skipped syllableOr a forgotten verseThough there are Eternities in flow, or evenThe frustrated momentCan fills its void withExpletives, words, latelyHave a tendency toDripIn.
Merry Margaret,As midsummer flower,Gentle as a falconOr hawk of the tower:With solace and gladness,Much mirth and no madness,All good and no badness;So joyously,So maidenly,So womanlyHer demeaningIn every thing,Far, far passingThat I can indite,Or suffice to writeOf Merry MargaretAs midsummer flower,Gentle as falconOr hawk of the tower.As patient and stillAnd as full of good willAs fair Isaphill,Coriander,Sweet pomander,Good Cassander,Steadfast of thought,Well made, well wrought,Far may be soughtEre that ye can findSo courteous, so kindAs Merry Margaret,This midsummer flower,Gentle as falconOr hawk of the tower.This one is called To Mistress Margaret Hussey by John Skelton. I really like it, what are some other good Skeltonic works?
Here I split and spit againStinking of the pastShitting out my fartsWhile playing with my testiclesI grab my cock and think of womenBitches, nuns and moms of whoresMake. Me. Ejaculate.
>>25070924Never posted in one of the threads or read poetry until I bought an English translation of Petrarch. I want to kill myself more than ever before. Jesus, forgive? Here be my two sad attempts:Secrets entrusted to my careUnwillingly, I am, bewareFilled with sickness and pervertedShe justly left me desertedEventually Heaven sentIt is where the decayed wentI'm alone, all of them are wed I'm waiting for my turn, I said I feel great with the pain in my headI sure hope you like to sufferI can see the torture from my bedI would stalk, drug, rape and cuff herI did not stop until she was dead What happened next came as a surpriseThere's no reward for my enterpriseI wanted to fuck herI expected succorRisen from grave, after my lifeDedication, such a good wife Hiding the best I can, filled with fearThe closet is not too discreetFootsteps shambling closer, I can hearIs it finally my defeat?Now she reaches incredibly near Doors ripped straight from their hinges off the frameScreaming, I pleaded her former nameI met controversyI expected mercy Shredded, mutilated tenfoldShe could only be stopped when told Hands filled full with my entrails, I bleedAs she is called to the masterPurpose satisfied, quickly she fleedBetter behaved, mine be fasterAn end to it all is what we need
I kill you. I murder you. I use my Walther PPK and shoot you point blank with a silver bullet. I take your remains to a hilly area. I set up a funeral pyre and burn your dead body until it is nothing but ash. I walk away, smiling.
He summoned a car and vanished into shadow,leaving the woman and the tension behind,larger than the instant itself.This is enough:To carry the story without stepping back,alive.
Nigger, nigger, faggot!My hands are shaking and fingers unable to closeSo I write a poem because I can not write proseInsides dearly ache and are sour, so why did I drink?What ideas went through my mind? Did I ever think?Tramadol is not enough to assuage my diseaseThe only cure is alcohol. God, forgive me, pleaseI am free born, but I am not free willed, You should knowPerhaps, in the last of my hours, I'll watch creation Thank you, Ohio. I love the winter chill and snowThoughts of love while my body suffers desecration I look at my eyes in the mirror until I dissappearMy fever dreams of Achilles and Hector fill me with fearMama, I don't wanna be a soldier. Sword and shield; bulletNor rifle make me patriotic. Finest dreams not candyOr sunshine. Christianity, pointless, for me is. I wouldRather be Francesco and Dagny! Until the dreaded HankWho is John Galt? The electric rack, it means nothing to me.Did Pip get Estella? Or Dante, Beatrice? Too divineFor me. Sit in Hell with Homer and Plato forevermore.Ahoy, matey! I shpy wish my vittle eye an anchor o'White that will sink this ship! Harness lightening, Ahab, and strike!On second thought, I see the albatross in flight, feathers whiteWho is at fault? Survival of the fittest, I will suppose. My piss is colored like amberFossil, a dinosaur, she/herHow do French people eat a frog?Put legs over the head; agog Bring back to life! Revelation Not quite me? Insinuation?Despite all, life, uh, finds a wayTyrannosaurus Rex is gay!
A poem I wrote to my mate asking if he wanted to study at the university library today:To join in scholarly rigour, rejoice! To speak in whisper and lower ones voice; in whisper'd tones to affirm and to jest, and draw out laughter from thy jovial breast. To pore over tomes of heft and of weight, to sharpen thy tongue and alter one's fate. To sit in hallowed halls of oaken solitude, to scribe at thy vellum with calligraphy crude. To join together our mighty cerebrum, and to seek out new knowledge, and to lighten our feel'n.
>>25071776>Let yourself come to your own conclusions on the poemsThe so-called “analysts” are killing thinking and encouraging the sheeple culture phenomenon. We live in the mediaeval times all over again.
Tired of office riffing I guess.-Where is he. What does the unease coordinator say?I am unable to accept your Rejection letter at this time.HR? Exactly, just throw bodies at itThen we cross.I know you were scheduled at 5But be flexible.Your wife can wait, it's all she doesWith what you bring to the table.Real estate pictures omit the binYou know how it goesI'm still putting together a dream teamWe gobble up the valium and pray.Deep dives into barsThe family heads there selling stoicsAnything female and they get in love or annoyed.
i wrote this slop for some undergrad magazine. I feel the tremors of dispute That echo in young ears,And this has chained me, resolute, To dampen ev’ry fear.I feel the road beneath my feet; I walk without a sole,And it is paved so fine and neat So easy is my role.But there are rules to tread this path, And cross them if you dare!Be ready, then, for righteous wrath If you chase wishes there.Thus soulless is my path, alas, A moving captive here.But I wish not to brave the grass; I wish to but adhere.Why chide the patrons of the way? What Cross they have bestowed!I’ll pinch my tongue and bow to they, To they who paved the road.I’m titled coward by a crowd, My virtue to deride.A choir of the great unbowed Does naught to sway my stride.Regrets may chew and tear my mind But I am self-assuredThat I am happily confined Within another’s word.The road has turned to shining shards That pierce my feet and handsFor I have shattered my regards In loathing of my spansI walk without a mind or aim, I speak no tremor sound.And now I have forgot my name. It weighed and slowed me down.I’ll never dine to thank this deal. “Please! let me stand instead.”A biting silence is my meal, Abiding is my end.
let be be finale of seemthe only emperor's the emperor of ice cream(anyone else like wallace stevens?)
>>25117084Really dropped in quality after the first line.
you should kill yourself with a rock,you should kill yourself with a sock,you should kill yourself with a glock,you should kill yourself choking on cock!
Among those who stay after closing,after laughter comes salt.The conflict leaves an office hollow;for the war has taken one man away.
Peeling carrots is a joy.I've truck loads:Cindy Crawford can wait.Love is undergroundPeeking out when it's time to.You know how tidyThe garden is No matter how impatientThe stems are.The sun hits marginallyLess than the truthAnd it's still enough to grow.European watering policies I print them in their entiretySay sorry to the treePen aphrodisiac recipes on themGo and make a mess out of the kitchenYou scream toward the fire dept. But I know you love me.
Has anyone here read Charles Bukowski's poetry books?In general, I don't like poems, with exceptions such as Charles Baudelaire, and of course, epic poetry.I've already read his essays and prose books and enjoyed them, but I'm hesitant to spend money buying Love Is a Dog from Hell
>>25117417yep he's one of my favourite poets, in general I think english poetry reached its apex with modernismOne must have a mind of winterTo regard the frost and the boughsOf the pine-trees crusted with snow;And have been cold a long timeTo behold the junipers shagged with ice,The spruces rough in the distant glitterOf the January sun; and not to thinkOf any misery in the sound of the wind,In the sound of a few leaves,Which is the sound of the landFull of the same windThat is blowing in the same bare placeFor the listener, who listens in the snow,And, nothing himself, beholdsNothing that is not there and the nothing that is.
These words appeared to me spontaneously in a dream:Life is a plane through which I sailThorough field, thorough grove, thorough dale.
The double doors are openOur king will never dieThe end of this age of menBut the stork will still fly
Wrote this thinking about my peers at university
Eggs milk why do we breatheLooking at the back of a snail Slur or wonderThe stone under the sun The us on the stoneModerately cheeky.Mules will mule.I'm not thinking about freedomwhen it's not me thinking.Light and shade are evenIf you can move.
>>25119918Chill, man. Join a uni club or something.
>>25119918schoolshooter-corebut not bad!
i finna get basedi phineas and ferb
Midday allows none to know shadow most yetDark in these bodies spun still ever restsFor sun skips along skin but so too setsBefore it has time to find the true breast—Tender light, be still! Rest over their head!May you two slowly soften as spousesSo that mere skin may melt into pure goldAnd your ray rest in their holy of heartsSo may ever run their ray of dark.
>>25120440She sounded across soundWeighted and unwantingWaited as her weary disembarkedHe hurtled towards horizonsWanting and unweighted Took like from above light and below darkTwo took upon the tidesBoth weighted as one wantingEach into the sea parted forth part
>>25070924Recently read "If" by Rudyard Kipling and now I'm suddenly interested in poetry. Where do I start bros, the greeks? I want to delve into the rabbit hole here.
>>25120440This is really good. And similar to how I write verse. Plagiarist!
>>25120925Start with a collection of the greatest English poems. Here's one I really like. Also Harold Blooms' The Best Poems of the English Language.
>>25118236disjointed; hard to tell what's going on. I might be an idiot but what does cindy crawford have to do with carrots? the second half (from "the sun hits marginally" on) is good>>25119613too short to get its point across>>25119918good until the fourth stanza. have sex
>>25119984disjointed, but good opening>>25120241revolutionary>>25120440it's ok but the slant rhymes are distracting>>25120445sounds ridiculous and some of the word choices ("her weary", "took like", "parted forth part") make it so I can't really understand what's going on. also the rhythm and rhyme is all over the place; sounds like (bad) song lyrics. sorry to be an asshole>>25120925Pound's cantos
Are Emily Bronte's poems worthwhile?
The edge is the pointMoot, blunt and dulledPaging doctor deathEight nine then culled
salt belt, 3-5-26What love has skinned my being Has flayed my fat from fleshFrom muscle that groans. But does so in such a way thatA cool stone upon a cool place upon a cool current can have no real edgesAnd yet it has cut me. Time is its true suitorForms it from the walking of solitude On sidewalks without streetlamps Thinking on from the space treadedAnd it has a dull taste, like copperLike unsalted rice, which ferments In the teeth waiting for a brush. But still the slow and subtle taste of loveIn its little grain form lingers. Like a fawn in a ditch calling for a motherLike a schooner mid shoal searching for Coastlight. I am awake. I am in love.Rust is a thing made by salt and neglectUpon a sad frame, but the softness of metalIs a thing to be revered from it. It’s desperation against the humid and acidic airIs itself an act of love, choosing to go on. Choosing to feel the grains in the steel.And so my love is thisTo go without goingFor not too long to be just enoughThis is where I am flayedThis is where I chooseTo bleed.
La Chica, 01-13-26 La Chica, La MamaLa thing that doesnt care if I dont speak spanishShe is a cave in the midst of Utah, somewhere unseenThe way water moves between rocks and makes them erodeShe’s la Chica, la Muerta. Having seen the soul like a mule in its barnPlastic has no elasticity in her presence, nor rubber with the fortuneShe is drinking through paper straws and tasting their latter softnessShe is the sweat in a field, the worm on the leaves biting with hunger.My gorgeous, my sweet, let there be no delay that is behind youLet all men be jealous, let them think me a hunchback in your vicinity. I once saw her on a corner of concrete, and her steps birthed cracksWith flowers sprouting along the cigarette buds. Schoolchildren could Smell her lavender. Smell her satisfaction. That was her way. My muse. My dark haired demon with jade eyes who holds souls.I know who you are. I have seen you in the nightmares of lesser menBut not my own. For you are only born of my dreams. My contradictions.There is nothing God could have said that I did not know upon first seeing You.
red eye, fighting sleepsad eye, cannot weeptwice you lied and twice you toretwice you fled and shut the doorI am broke and battered donejust some bloke who's got a gungive me silence darkness deadpress my gun into the redpull the trigger happy popnot my problemget a mop
>>25122211Stronger start but weaker imagery and metaphor as it goes >>25122276Weaker start, but great use of metaphor and description>>25122316Roses are red, violence is blue, this is so >i'm 14 and deep I can't even with you
Lines Composed on a Rainy DayThe rain brought with it old memories Of sunny days and sweet reveriesOn our future and what it holdsHow children would look like? we'll never knowWhat lies we've told, what truth we've buriedAs to our parting I can say that it was hurriedAnd the pain that lingers and gnashes the soul How young we were, too brash and boldThe drumming of waters hitting the groundThe smell of the earth and the sweet serenading soundTakes my being to a place no more foundBut in that place shall I seekA moments respite when days are bleak
RevelationA specter invades a nightly retreat,to a land of lost wants and thoughts incomplete.Upon barren soil i stand, bewildered at the sightof a pale apparition shining bright! and bold she stood,Towering against the ocean dark sky.Her eyes beamed upon my soulInquiring on days of old,of when her hands i held, herlips i felt, and soul i explored.Her voice trickled down to my earsQuestioning decisions made o’er the years.The siren’s song closed with a gongasking if I'm happy to be where i belongTo her i say “tis’ futile to liefor you’ve seen the truth, in the depths of my eyewhy ponder upon a question, if the answer is known?tis’ not fair to torment a soul, foul as it is,with questions such as those.But here i present, for your ears to hear,The sorrow of loss of a lover once held dear.”On her ears befell my woes and fearsan empty vessel drowning in tearsmy words came to a stop, and from her a faint smileShe gathered her thoughts then she whispered, “sweet child,remember not what we had, nor what we could have been.Seek instead for a fire within, for i see your ember fading,your mind waning, and your soul wandering.I pray the Sun grant you Strength to bearA world lost to ambition and despair.”Her Revelations Ceased, The Specter fades into the evanescent blue.No more real than memory, yet eternally true.A Fire grew to the west, on the lush green grass of the Prairie,A glimmer darted into the Moon’s domain,in rebellion against the night’s tyranny.
movement backward do not goturning chest and spine do showdespite the moon and rain and snowwhich turn the tides of eartha natural ebb and flowbeneath the soil roots do growand sow the seeds of lifefor man to come with scythe and hoeand lo'are trees felledfor iron meldcars and golden bars diamond rings and ships to marsforgotten blissthe wind and starsa man destroys the earthto reform selfand so forgetwho we are
In the faded sunDuring certain monthsThe driveway is wetYou moved my fingerWho touched a rosebudDaring that I shouldToo much pressureAfter having funThe rose returns to its budRose puts on her shirtAnd everything is to start again
Isn't work such a damn tiresome thing?Wake up early, drive, take a train or bus?This is what I thought before I met you.You struck my heart like vehicles crashing.We hurt each other but who was at fault?Was there even road to commute blame?I hope your insurance covered this mess.I know, in the end, this was good for me.In painful directions crossed, I met you.From that intense smoke and flame: Poetry.I hope you think of me in the same way.Your eyes, your smile, I'll always treasure.
To you, life is, say, a walk in the park.Birds sing, perhaps your hand is held gently,Couples and friends sit, play, and be merry."Nature is something to enjoy briskly,"You may think to yourself with honestyOn a bench overlooking a calm pond.Partner in hand, your free one holds a bagOf stale bread for you to crumble and throwAt your convenience, feeding wild ducks.You smile, you laugh, engaged in the moment.Alas, when one comes too close you recoil.It notices and pulls back in response.You recompose and make your offeringOnce more, perhaps out of guilt or maybeThis moment was something special to you.Should it accept and receive you fully?Do you understand why this happened?If only you were Tony Soprano.
Prose poetry is for people who can't write poetry
>>25123727twere very easy writing these, i'll say.during breaks I wrote both of them today
suckling upon oriental perked teats,char siu, Asian pork belly, processed meats,a succulent Chinese meal was judo thrownwith Australian drunkard's right to speak.see the headlock, remove hands from that bone!they were waiting for flaccid cock's soft beak.democracy manifest made men weak.
Here is cruel Frederick, see!A horrid wicked boy was he;He caught the flies, poor little things,And then tore off their tiny wings,He killed the birds, and broke the chairs,And threw the kitten down the stairs;And oh! far worse than all beside,He whipped his Mary, till she cried.The trough was full, and faithful TrayCame out to drink one sultry day;He wagged his tail, and wet his lip,When cruel Fred snatched up a whip,And whipped poor Tray till he was sore,And kicked and whipped him more and more:At this, good Tray grew very red,And growled, and bit him till he bled;Then you should only have been by,To see how Fred did scream and cry!So Frederick had to go to bed:His leg was very sore and red!The Doctor came, and shook his head,And made a very great to-do,And gave him nasty physic too.But good dog Tray is happy now;He has no time to say "Bow-wow!"He seats himself in Frederick's chairAnd laughs to see the nice things there:The soup he swallows, sup by sup—And eats the pies and puddings up.
old chart from the wiki
>>25070924Gibberish 1482, 10-1-25 Thin razor snap at which the best of lilacs drive the comingAnd you the prose of being shine from sun and even flameYou scornful, lornful witch, o’ ever due process of becomingHas mastered which the deluge pitch in play of humless gameThough darkness tween the key of type and I have felt a bone The hairs that lay upon my knees have grown but seldom longerFastbatch danube, Hegsmatic field, this tale of you upsewn.I’ll ask of you that only which I knew when we were younger.
The book starts. Something happens or doesn't. The book ends.So much for plot. Why did Jackie leave the house?It was on fire. Pigeons are a recurrent theme but it's about the crumbsAnd the people throwing them. I requested thin paper for the subtext. There's an index tooBut it's for another book entirely. What of Suzie's review? It's twenty minutes long Interrupted by a dental floss ad The comments are something to do with compound interest.But if you squint really hard after emptying a bottleYou can see a love story buried under the plastic grass.It's not a tragedy and it's not specialBut it's there. Password sharing couples won't get it and it's fine.It's just fine like everything.
Rape chungus sneedsThe rapist becomes the rapeeHe who rape feeds
>>25125145Film starts, the film endsNothing is said in betweenJust sudden moments from someone else's storyWill it ever be the same again?Hours filled with conversation, no attention paidToo distracting convention, no need for friendsWill it ever be the same againWill it ever be the same again?You're original with your own pathYou're original, got your own wayYou're original with your own pathYou're original, got your own way
You are why beautiful names end in 'A'.Shall I compare thee to a Summer's day?Nay, the radiance that is thine brings chills,Russian darling, Winter's love, looks that kill. Because of you I drank crystal liquor.In the past; on the rocks, my drink of choice.The water that burns like candle wick, yourFirst impression. From bitterness, rejoice! I don't really drink anymore, for my healthAnd from adultery I'd witnessed, too. An awful betrayal done in blurred stealth.I've tea and espresso as substitute. I've come to love black caffeine from you,In the darkness, in the clear; that's what's true.This was my lesson: Take things as they are.So when I think of you I'll be sat at the bar.
I jerk off to trannies;They have such nice fannies;But they'll never be grannies;For women they're not.
You, I'll remember: We were too alikeIn the ways we were hurt. Hearts pierced by pikes,At distance, killed in cowardice's waves.From this pain we regressed into our caves.Time we shared in the dark ages, lightsome,The mess of history's ignorant youth.Alive in spite of the dangerous truth,Enlightenment, Maturity's war drum.It's arrival was quick, adulthood's horn.Awash were we, bathed in Reality,It's blood stained us. We were hurt, this world torn.Suicide, drugs: Escapism's decree.You ran away, and so did I, from pain,Whilst in standstill amidst the bullet rain.When life and love are war, pacifismIs as weak a shield as crude sophism.
>>25125573*For women, they are not
In a tiny little houseThere's an itty bitty mouseIn his teeny tiny bed Rests his eeny weeny headBut he just can't fall asleepHe has trouble counting hseepHe already drank his milkAnd his sheets are made of silkMr Mouse will need his restEvery day for him's a testBut it's too noisy in his houseI feel sorry for the mouseHe has faggots in his wallsHe can hear them slapping ballsThey go at it every nightMr Mouse thinks that's not rightHe knows being gay's a choicePenises don't go in boysJesus Christ can't save their soulsIf they're in each other's holesEvery night the poor mouse praysFor God to give those faggots AIDSBut so far his prayer's unansweredAnd they still fuck behind the plasterMr Mouse has had enoughHe's going to call the faggot's bluffWe'll see who gets penetratedWhen he has the whole place fumigated!
bump
Any anons use this site. https://allpoetry.com/Almost everyone on there is bad in a "not really trying, probably doesn't know what trying means" kinda way, and their feedback generally amounts to "keep it up!" levels of useless, but I have encountered some gems, and I myself have gotten pretty good at giving critique.Anyway. A poem of mine.> Silent snows is what he knows, like tangerine and rind> Quiet distant singing, sounds the bell fast tines.> fingers gummed and sugar stung, sleep gizzard blood and gall> but that he knew the things which came, when nothing came at all
