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do you like poetry? poetry is cool. post poems you like itt, and talk about poets you like. let us enjoy the art form. thank you.
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Apr 21, 2023 05:35
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| # ? May 9, 2024 08:25 |
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elon mcmonkeymcbean invited them into his blue off machine and then from then on as you can probably guess, his sycophants really got in to a horrible mess all that day on the shitposting twitter chuds almost felt brave enough to scream the word n
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Apr 21, 2023 05:45
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The Wasteland is the only poem you need
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Apr 21, 2023 05:48
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The furies are at home in the mirror; it is their address. Even the clearest water, if deep enough can drown. Never think to surprise them. Your face approaching ever so friendly is the white flag they ignore. There is no truce with the furies. A mirror’s temperature is always at zero. It is ice in the veins. Its camera is an X-ray. It is a chalice held out to you in silent communion, where gaspingly you partake of a shifting identity never your own - Raphaël Ambrosius Costeau R.S. Thomas, "Reflections"
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Apr 21, 2023 06:17
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hate the furry in the mirror
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Apr 21, 2023 06:18
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i've read gently caress all poetry but i rly like this one (seven levels of despair by john berger)  To search each morning to find the scraps with which to survive another day. The knowledge on waking that in this legal wilderness no rights exist. The experience over the years of nothing getting better only worse. The humiliation of being able to change almost nothing, and of seizing upon the almost which then leads to another impasse. The listening to a thousand promises which pass inexorably beside you and yours. The example of those who resist being bombarded to dust. The weight of your own killed a weight which closes innocence for ever because they are so many.
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Apr 21, 2023 07:01
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I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day. What hours, O what black hours we have spent This night! what sights you, heart, saw; ways you went! And more must, in yet longer light's delay. With witness I speak this. But where I say Hours I mean years, mean life. And my lament Is cries countless, cries like dead letters sent To dearest him that lives alas! away. I am gall, I am heartburn. God's most deep decree Bitter would have me taste: my taste was me; Bones built in me, flesh filled, blood brimmed the curse. Selfyeast of spirit a dull dough sours. I see The lost are like this, and their scourge to be As I am mine, their sweating selves; but worse. Gerard Manley Hopkins
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Apr 21, 2023 11:18
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War and Pieces posted:The Wasteland is the only poem you need unironically this
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Apr 21, 2023 13:13
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tristeham posted:I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day. hopkins is incredible to read aloud. hes so good. love this.
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Apr 21, 2023 13:14
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Oh me! Oh life! of the questions of these recurring, Of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities filld with the foolish, Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?) Of eyes that vainly crave the light, of the objects mean, of the struggle ever renewd, Of the poor results of all, of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me, Of the empty and useless years of the rest, with the rest me intertwined, The question, O me! so sad, recurringWhat good amid these, O me, O life? Answer. That you are herethat life exists and identity, That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.
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Apr 21, 2023 13:14
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ww, who do you think that is, huh? woodrow wilson? willy wonka?
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Apr 21, 2023 13:16
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this is thi six a clock news thi man said n thi reason a talk wia BBC accent iz coz yi widny wahnt mi ti talk aboot thi trooth wia voice lik wanna yoo scruff. if a toktaboot thi trooth lik wanna yoo scruff yi widny thingk it wuz troo. jist wanna yoo scruff tokn. thirza right way ti spell ana right way to tok it. this is me tokn yir right way a spellin. this is ma trooth. yooz doant no thi trooth yirsellz cawz yi canny talk right. this is the six a clock nyooz. belt up.
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Apr 21, 2023 13:19
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milk, milk (lemonade) around the corner FUDGE is made.
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Apr 21, 2023 13:37
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heres a poem by wallace stevens that i like, the world as meditation Is it Ulysses that approaches from the east, The interminable adventurer? The trees are mended. That winter is washed away. Someone is moving On the horizon and lifting himself up above it. A form of fire approaches the cretonnes of Penelope, Whose mere savage presence awakens the world in which she dwells. She has composed, so long, a self with which to welcome him, Companion to his self for her, which she imagined, Two in a deep-founded sheltering, friend and dear friend. The trees had been mended, as an essential exercise In an inhuman meditation, larger than her own. No winds like dogs watched over her at night. She wanted nothing he could not bring her by coming alone. She wanted no fetchings. His arms would be her necklace And her belt, the final fortune of their desire. But was it Ulysses? Or was it only the warmth of the sun On her pillow? The thought kept beating in her like her heart. The two kept beating together. It was only day. It was Ulysses and it was not. Yet they had met, Friend and dear friend and a planets encouragement. The barbarous strength within her would never fail. She would talk a little to herself as she combed her hair, Repeating his name with its patient syllables, Never forgetting him that kept coming constantly so near.
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Apr 21, 2023 13:43
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Venomous posted:this is thi fun to read out loud
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Apr 21, 2023 20:29
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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8crmLqvBt3w
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Apr 21, 2023 21:23
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Lenin walks around the world. Frontiers cannot bar him. Neither barracks nor barricades impede. Nor does barbed wire scar him. Lenin walks around the world. Black, brown, and white receive him. Language is no barrier. The strangest tongues believe him. Lenin walks around the world. The sun sets like a scar. Between the darkness and the dawn There rises a red star.
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Apr 21, 2023 23:31
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lobster shirt posted:heres a poem by wallace stevens that i like, the world as meditation me and who
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Apr 22, 2023 00:10
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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sasEATpeguw&t=8s
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Apr 22, 2023 01:59
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The three men coming down the winter hill In brown, with tall poles and a pack of hounds At heel, through the arrangement of the trees, Past the five figures at the burning straw, Returning cold and silent to their town, Returning to the drifted snow, the rink Lively with children, to the older men, The long companions they can never reach, The blue light, men with ladders, by the church The sledge and shadow in the twilit street, Are not aware that in the sandy time To come, the evil waste of history Outstretched, they will be seen upon the brow Of that same hill: when all their company Will have been irrecoverably lost, These men, this particular three in brown Witnessed by birds will keep the scene and say By their configuration with the trees, The small bridge, the red houses and the fire, What place, what time, what morning occasion Sent them into the wood, a pack of hounds At heel and the tall poles upon their shoulders, Thence to return as now we see them and Ankle-deep in snow down the winter hill Descend, while three birds watch and the fourth flies. -John Berryman
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Apr 22, 2023 02:28
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There are people so wretched, they dont even have a body, their hair quantitative, their wise grief, low, in inches; their manner, high; dont look for me, the oblivion molar, they seem to come out of the air, to add up sighs mentally, to hear bright smacks on their palates! They leave their skin, scratching the sarcophagus in which they are born and climb through their death hour after hour and fall, the length of their frozen alphabet, to the ground. Pity for so much! pity for so little! pity for them! Pity in my room, hearing them with glasses on! Pity in my thorax, when they are buying suits! Pity for my white filth, in their combined scum! Beloved be the sanchez ears, beloved the people who sit down, beloved the unknown man and his wife, my fellow man, with sleeves, neck and eyes! Beloved be the one with bedbugs, the one who wears a torn shoe in the rain, the one who wakes the corpse of a bread with two tapers, the one who catches a finger in the door, the one who has no birthdays, the one who lost his shadow in a fire, the animal, the one who looks like a parrot, the one who looks like a man, the rich poor man, the extremely miserable man, the poorest poor man! Beloved be the one who is hungry or thirsty, but has no hunger with which to satiate all his hungers! Beloved be the one who works by the day, by the month, by the hour, the one who sweats out of pain or out of shame, the person who goes, at the order of his hands, to the movies. the one who pays with what he does not have, the one who sleeps on his back, the one who no longer remembers his childhood, beloved be the bald man without hat, the thief without roses, the one who wears a watch and has seen God, the one who has honour and does not die! Beloved be the child who falls and still cries and the man who has fallen and no longer cries! Pity for so much! pity for so little! pity for them! -Cesar Vallejo
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Apr 22, 2023 02:37
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F Stop Fitzgerald posted:There are people so wretched, they dont even drat i love this
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Apr 22, 2023 03:17
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Morgan the drover explained, As he drank from his battered quart-pot, Many a slut I have trained; This is the best of the lot. Crossing these stringybark hills, Hungry and rocky and steep This is the country that kills Weakly and sore-footed sheep. Those that are healthy and strong Battle away in the lead, Carting the others along, Eating the whole of the feed. That's where this little red slut Shows you what's bred in the bone; Works it all out in her nut, Handles it all on her own. Backwards and forwards she'll track, Gauging the line at a glance, Keeping the stronger ones back, Giving the tailers a chance. Weary and hungry and lame, Sticking all day to her job, Thin as a rabbit, but game, Working in front of the mob. Tradesmen, I call 'em, the dogs, Those that'll work in a yard; Bark till they're hoarser than frogs, Makin' 'em savage and hard. Others will soldier and shirk While there's a rabbit to hunt: This is an artist at work; Watch her -- out there -- in the front. - Banjo Paterson
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Apr 27, 2023 01:09
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heres a political poem i read recently that i liked a lot Build a tent and say the world is dry Zoom the camera out and see the lie Forecast to be falling yesterday Only in the past is what they say Raised your neighborhood insurance rates Makes us happy 'livin in a gate Made me cross the street the other day Made you turn your head the other way History quickly crashing through your veins Using you to fall back down again History quickly crashing through your veins Using you to fall back down again Seldom mentioned on the radio It's the fear your leaders call control Worse than swearing worse than calling names Say it publicly and you're insane No one wants to hear about it now Wish real hard it goes away somehow Makes the best of friends begin to fight But did they know each other in the light? Every February washed away Stays behind as colors celebrate The same crime has a higher price to pay The judge and jury swear it's not the face History quickly crashing through your veins Using you to fall back down again History quickly crashing through your Using you to fall back down again Dirty secrets of economy Turns that body into GDP The bell curve blames the baby's DNA But test scores are how much the parents make Flippin' cars in France the other night Cleans the sewers out beneath Mumbai 'Cross the world and back it's all the same Angels cry and shake their heads in shame Lifts the ark of paradise in sin Which part do you think you're livin' in? More than marchin', more than passing law Remake how we got to where we are History quickly crashing through your veins Using you to fall back down again History quickly crashing through your veins Using you to fall back down again -TZ, 2007
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Apr 28, 2023 19:37
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For one short year or two I suckled you with potent milk of truth and learning. You know my strength you know my weakness. They are in you for I am Harvard And I am yours.
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May 1, 2023 11:23
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we gotta do something about this guy from nantucket imo
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May 1, 2023 15:55
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thinking about catullus today I did not (may the gods love me) think it mattered, whether I might be smelling Aemiliuss mouth or arse. The ones no cleaner, the others no dirtier, in fact his arse is both cleaner and nicer: since its no teeth. Indeed, the other has foot long teeth, gums like an old box-cart, and jaws that usually gape like the open oval office of a pissing mule in heat. He fucks lots of women, and makes himself out to be charming, and isnt set to the mill with the rear end? Shouldnt we think, of any girl touching him, shes capable of licking a foul hangmans arse? and I will sodomize you and face-gently caress you, cocksucker Aurelius and butt-boy Furius, who think, from my little verses, because they're a little soft, that I have no shame. For it is right for the devoted poet to be chaste himself, but it's not necessary for his verses to be so. [Verses] which then indeed have taste and charm, If they are delicate and have no shame, And because they can incite an itch, And I don't mean in boys, but in Those hairy men who can't move their loins. You, because [about] my many thousands of kisses You've read, you think me less of a man? I will sodomize you and face-gently caress you.
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May 1, 2023 16:05
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croup coughfield posted:we gotta do something about this guy from nantucket imo Joe Hackett??
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May 1, 2023 16:08
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Mountain. I whip my quick horse and don't dismount and look back in wonder. The sky is three feet away. Mountain. The sea collapses and the river boils. Innumerable horses race insanely into the peak of battle. Mountain. Peaks pierce the green sky, unblunted. The sky would fall but for the columns of mountains.
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May 1, 2023 16:11
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Looking by chance in at the open window I saw my own self seated in his chair With gaze abstracted, furrowed forehead, Unkempt hair. I thought that I had suddenly come to die, That to a cold corpse this was my farewell, Until the pen moved slowly on the paper And tears fell. He had written a name, yours, in printed letters One word on which bemusedly to pore: No protest, no desire, your naked name, Nothing more. Would it be tomorrow, would it be next year? But the vision was not false, this much I knew; And I turned angrily from the open window Aghast at you. Why never a warning, either by speech or look, That the love you cruelly gave me could not last? Already it was too late: the bait swallowed, The hook fast.
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May 1, 2023 16:14
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https://twitter.com/ConnieTrouble/status/1651752596942770176?s=20
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May 1, 2023 16:54
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exmarx posted:i've read gently caress all poetry but i rly like this one (seven levels of despair by john berger)
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May 28, 2023 04:45
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Twenty carpet weavers stand there in the evening Shivering with fever, in front of their humble loom. Fever runs riot: the railway station Teeming with buzzing mosquitoes a thick cloud Arising from the swamp behind the old camel cemetery. But the train, which Once in two weeks brings water and smoke, brings Also the news one day That the day for honouring Lenin lies ahead And so decide the people of Kuyan-Bulak Carpet weavers, poor folk That for the Comrade Lenin also in their village A gypsum bust would be installed. But as the money is collected for the bust All of them stand Trembling with fever and contribute Their hard earned kopecks with wobbling hands. And the Red Army soldier Stepa Jamal, who Carefully counts and meticulously watches, Sees the readiness, to honour Lenin, and is filled with joy. But he also sees the uncertain hands. And all of a sudden he makes a proposal To buy petroleum with the money collected for the bust In order to pour it on the swamp behind the camel cemetery From where the mosquitoes come, which Cause the fever Thus to combat the fever in Kuyan-Bulak, and indeed To honour the late, but Not to be forgotten Comrade Lenin. brecht
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May 28, 2023 04:47
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 Kobayashi Issa (1763-1828) posted:O snail quote:Writing poo poo about new snow
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May 28, 2023 05:21
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May 28, 2023 08:37
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Well sure, I can spare a couple minutes. The WWI poetry of Wilfred Owen   Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs, And towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots, But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind; Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots Of gas-shells dropping softly behind. Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!An ecstasy of fumbling Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time, But someone still was yelling out and stumbling And floundring like a man in fire or lime. Dim through the misty panes and thick green light, As under a green sea, I saw him drowning. In all my dreams before my helpless sight, He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace Behind the wagon that we flung him in, And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, His hanging face, like a devils sick of sin; If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs, Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, My friend, you would not tell with such high zest To children ardent for some desperate glory, The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori.
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May 28, 2023 08:42
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Good morning to the day; and next, my gold, Open the shrine that I may see my saint: Hail the world’s soul, and mine … … let me kiss With adoration, thee, and every relic Of sacred treasure, in this blessed room. Ben Johnson, Volpone (1606)
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May 28, 2023 12:24
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I love poetry, I haven't written many memorable ones and a few are shamefully offensive so I won't share them with anyone here's one that was a hit in the trump thread There once was a man named Trump His daughter he wanted to hump She begged him "please no" So he started to go Then in his pants he loosed a dump
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May 28, 2023 18:43
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| # ? May 9, 2024 08:25 |
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Sorgrid posted:Raphaël Ambrosius Costeau R.S. Thomas, "Reflections" Venomous posted:six a clock nyooz exmarx posted:seven levels of despair by john berger War and Pieces posted:The Wasteland Janitor Ludwich IV posted:elon mcmonkeymcbean invited them into his blue off machine Pepe Silvia Browne posted:Oh me! Oh life! tristeham posted:Gerard Manley Hopkins __________________________________ Thanks for sharing, guys. A very enriching night. Prescott has issued a correction as of 04:14 on May 29, 2023 |
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May 29, 2023 04:09
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