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I've always found it's 50% shitposting and trolling and 50% genuine love of the subject matter with an eagerness to share in that love. Which is a pretty decent ratio as far as I am concerned.
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# ? Sep 7, 2018 20:46 |
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# ? Jun 5, 2024 09:00 |
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chernobyl kinsman posted:you're thinking of meter in general, not pentameter specifically. 'meter' means any pattern of stressed and unstressed syllables; the 'penta' prefix just means 5 (see also pentagram). you're right that shakespeare usually writes in iambic pentameter; his verse lines have 5 "iambs". an iamb is an unstressed syllable followed by a stressed syllable. errr yeah basically this
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# ? Sep 7, 2018 20:56 |
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I find that a really good way to get a grip of basic meter is to read highly structured verse, with a favourite being double dactyls. A dactyl is stressed-unstressed-unstressed (DUM da da) and double dactyls are poems of 6 lines of 6 syllables (stressed-unstressed-unstressed stressed-unstressed-unstressed) and 2 lines of 4 syllables going stressed-unstressed-unstressed-stressed with the first line being nonsense, the second line being a title of the poem, the seventh line being a single double dactylic word, and the fourth and eighth lines rhyming. This sounds difficult but a few examples should help: Higgledy piggledy, Benjamin Harrison, Twenty-third president Was, and, as such, Served between Clevelands and Save for this trivial Idiosyncrasy, Didn't do much. Battery Flattery Trial of the century This man’s been found making Youth’s brains enlarged He offers no defence And so our judge declares Apologetically “Guilty as charged!” Any two fluent speakers of English are going to read those poems (out loud ofc) with almost exactly the same rhythm and delivery. That's meter. Now the extent to which meter is useful to poetry is pretty contentious, but the general idea is that certain meters give poems certain sorts of feelings. Double dactyls are inherently quite comic, that's just how they move. Something like a sonnet in iambic pentameter tends to seem very romantic and cliché in English, which is what makes Shakespeare's more satirical sonnets work in the way they do. Poetry is exactly about this interplay of what the words say, what they sound like, and what associations those sounds bring. This is why people that say poetry is prose with line breaks are disgusting idiots, and any poet who claims to write actually free verse is a charlatan. If the rhythm and sound of your words isn't vitally important to their meaning, you're not a poet.
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# ? Sep 7, 2018 21:16 |
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this is all a trick to get you to yell poems to yourself out loud all the time until you completely alienate yourself from civilized society btw
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# ? Sep 7, 2018 21:52 |
im actually just going to trick him into reciting the Shahada and receiving the blessed light of Islam
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# ? Sep 7, 2018 23:54 |
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It makes sense to do that in this, the Sufism thread
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# ? Sep 8, 2018 00:12 |
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I've been slowly going through Ovid's Metamorphosis and it's wonderful. Probably my favorite pre-1960's poetic work I've read.
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# ? Sep 8, 2018 00:15 |
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Tree Goat posted:this is all a trick to get you to yell poems to yourself out loud all the time until you completely alienate yourself from civilized society btw the joke's on you pal, i'm already alienated from civilized society
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# ? Sep 8, 2018 01:42 |
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what's the cool William Blake to read if i've never read anything by him btw?
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# ? Sep 8, 2018 01:42 |
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Songs of innocence and experience are a pretty nice intro if youre stupid but if you want the primo poo poo just read Jerusalem (the book not the shite song)
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# ? Sep 8, 2018 02:00 |
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OscarDiggs posted:I've always found it's 50% shitposting and trolling and 50% genuine love of the subject matter with an eagerness to share in that love. Which is a pretty decent ratio as far as I am concerned.
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# ? Sep 8, 2018 02:05 |
CestMoi posted:Songs of innocence and experience are a pretty nice intro if youre stupid but if you want the primo poo poo just read Jerusalem (the book not the shite song) ya this but also read it on http://blakearchive.org/ so you can read them as they were meant to be read: as part of a bugfuck crazy series of prints engraved and inked by a lunatic here are the songs of innocence, for example
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# ? Sep 8, 2018 02:37 |
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chernobyl kinsman posted:ya this but also read it on http://blakearchive.org/ so you can read them as they were meant to be read: as part of a bugfuck crazy series of prints engraved and inked by a lunatic
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# ? Sep 8, 2018 02:56 |
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chernobyl kinsman posted:ya this but also read it on http://blakearchive.org/ so you can read them as they were meant to be read: as part of a bugfuck crazy series of prints engraved and inked by a lunatic pro loving click
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# ? Sep 8, 2018 03:23 |
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chernobyl kinsman posted:ya this but also read it on http://blakearchive.org/ so you can read them as they were meant to be read: as part of a bugfuck crazy series of prints engraved and inked by a lunatic ty, this is good because the complete poems i have just has a thing like 'plate here' where the artworks are supposed to be
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# ? Sep 8, 2018 05:30 |
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I picked up the only poetry anthology I could find in a used bookstore in Bangkok, The Rag and Bone Shop of the Heart, edited by Robert Bly and others. There is something very corny about Robert Bly, but I think he is a good translator. I liked his version of Walking Around by Neruda better than WS Merwin's. Here it is: Walking around It so happens I am sick of being a man. And it happens that I walk into tailorshops and movie houses dried up, waterproof, like a swan made of felt steering my way in a water of wombs and ashes. The smell of barbershops makes me break into hoarse sobs. The only thing I want is to lie still like stones or wool. The only thing I want is to see no more stores, no gardens, no more goods, no spectacles, no elevators. It so happens I am sick of my feet and my nails and my hair and my shadow. It so happens I am sick of being a man. Still it would be marvelous to terrify a law clerk with a cut lily, or kill a nun with a blow on the ear. It would be great to go through the streets with a green knife letting out yells until I died of the cold. I don’t want to go on being a root in the dark, insecure, stretched out, shivering with sleep, going on down, into the moist guts of the earth, taking in and thinking, eating every day. I don’t want so much misery. I don’t want to go on as a root and a tomb, alone under the ground, a warehouse with corpses, half frozen, dying of grief. That’s why Monday, when it sees me coming with my convict face, blazes up like gasoline, and it howls on its way like a wounded wheel, and leaves tracks full of warm blood leading toward the night. And it pushes me into certain corners, into some moist houses, into hospitals where the bones fly out the window, into shoeshops that smell like vinegar, and certain streets hideous as cracks in the skin. There are sulphur-colored birds, and hideous intestines hanging over the doors of houses that I hate, and there are false teeth forgotten in a coffeepot, there are mirrors that ought to have wept from shame and terror, there are umbrellas everywhere, and venoms, and umbilical cords. I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes, my rage, forgetting everything, I walk by, going through office buildings and orthopedic shops, and courtyards with washing hanging from the line: underwear, towels and shirts from which slow dirty tears are falling.
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# ? Sep 16, 2018 16:36 |
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Since the thread loves translated poetry, I'm curious if anyone can find the reference in this passage from Nabokov's Pale Fire. One line is a literal translation taken from another poem, and it's not just trivia - the effect is really neat when you spot it. For background, this is right in the middle of a long poem embedded in a novel. The fictional author, John Shade, is addressing his wife, who has some of the dialog. Vladimir Nabokov posted:That tasteless venture helped me in a way,
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# ? Sep 26, 2018 00:45 |
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i'm sad that mary oliver died, so therequote:You do not have to be good.
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# ? Jan 21, 2019 03:31 |
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Annie B., "What Resembles the Grave but Isn’t""What Resembles The Grave But Isn't posted:Always falling into a hole, then saying “ok, this is not your grave, get out of this hole,” getting out of the hole which is not the grave, falling into a hole again, saying “ok, this is also not your grave, get out of this hole,” getting out of that hole, falling into another one; sometimes falling into a hole within a hole, or many holes within holes, getting out of them one after the other, then falling again, saying “this is not your grave, get out of the hole”; sometimes being pushed, saying “you can not push me into this hole, it is not my grave,” and getting out defiantly, then falling into a hole again without any pushing; sometimes falling into a set of holes whose structures are predictable, ideological, and long dug, often falling into this set of structural and impersonal holes; sometimes falling into holes with other people, with other people, saying “this is not our mass grave, get out of this hole,” all together getting out of the hole together, hands and legs and arms and human ladders of each other to get out of the hole that is not the mass grave but that will only be gotten out of together; sometimes the willful-falling into a hole which is not the grave because it is easier than not falling into a hole really, but then once in it, realizing it is not the grave, getting out of the hole eventually; sometimes falling into a hole and languishing there for days, weeks, months, years, because while not the grave very difficult, still, to climb out of and you know after this hole there’s just another and another; sometimes surveying the landscape of holes and wishing for a high quality final hole; sometimes thinking of who has fallen into holes which are not graves but might be better if they were; sometimes too ardently contemplating the final hole while trying to avoid the provisional ones; sometimes dutifully falling and getting out, with perfect fortitude, saying “look at the skill and spirit with which I rise from that which resembles the grave but isn’t!”
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# ? Jan 26, 2019 05:21 |
no one gives a. e. housman's very goth poem 'her strong enchantments failing' enough credit for how kickin rad it isquote:Her strong enchantments failing,
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# ? Jan 29, 2019 07:03 |
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I found out my favorite poet, W.S. Merwin, died last Friday. as I understand it, he died in his sleep, in his home in Hawaii, where he planted a grove of native trees to counter deforestation.
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# ? Mar 20, 2019 03:10 |
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bump
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# ? May 12, 2019 14:54 |
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i'm reading a website which has this about section: Atop The Cliffs aims to publish poetry from the Right. Whether you are a Western Chauvinist, a Hoppean Libertarian, or an Identitarian we aim to cultivate a home for organically grown right-leaning poetry. We stand for Beauty, Truth, and Justice, in art. and feeling very good about the future of western civilisation
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# ? May 12, 2019 14:55 |
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I've been reading D'Annunzio. "Notturne" and his novels are very good, but the only English translation of his poetry I can find is Alcyone by J.G. Nichols. Someone should translate the whole rest of his Laudi for me, thanks. quote:"The Victory of Samothrace" quote:"The vulture of the Sun"
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# ? May 13, 2019 03:03 |
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I really like Tony Hoagland. He died last year. Two Trains Tony Hoagland Then there was that song called “Two Trains Running,” A Mississippi blues they play on late-night radio, that program after midnight called FM in the AM, –well, I always thought it was about trains. Then somebody told me it was about what a man and woman do under the covers of their bed, moving back and forth like slow pistons in a shiny black locomotive, the rods and valves trying to stay coordinated long enough that they will “get to the station” at the same time. And one of the trains goes out of sight into the mountain tunnel, but when they break back into the light the other train has somehow pulled ahead, the two trains running like that, side by side, first one and then the other, with the fierce white bursts of smoke puffing from their stacks, into a sky so sharp and blue you want to die. So then for a long time I thought the song was about sex. But then Mack told me that all train songs are really about Jesus, about how the second train is shadowing the first, so He walks in your footsteps and He watches you from behind, He is running with you, He is your brakeman and your engineer, your coolant and your coal, and He will catch you when you fall, and when you stall He will push you through the darkest mountain valley, up the steepest hill, and the rough chuff chuff of his fingers on the washboard and the harmonica woo woo is the long soul cry by which He pulls you through the bloody tunnel of the world. So then I thought the two trains song was a gospel song. Then I quit my job in Santa Fe and Sharon drove her spike heel through my heart and I got twelve years older and Dean moved away, and now I think the song might be about good-byes– because we are not even in the same time zone, or moving at the same speed, or perhaps even headed toward the same destination– forgodsakes, we are not even trains! What grief it is to love some people like your own blood, and then to see them simply disappear; to feel time bearing us away one boxcar at a time. And sometimes, sitting in my chair I can feel the absence stretching out in all directions– like the deaf, defoliated silence just after a train has thundered past the platform, just before the mindless birds begin to chirp again –and the wildflowers that grow beside the tracks wobble wildly on their little stems, then gradually grow still and stand motherless and vertical in the middle of everything.
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# ? May 15, 2019 02:39 |
https://twitter.com/lake_scum/status/1127982075611578369 Anyway, Franchescanado posted:My dad read me this poem when I was a kid and I always enjoyed it. I'm interested in thoughts/criticisms about it. Thanks for posting this, I hadn't seen before and yeah it's great. I think there's a specific kipling poem it's imitating but I'm not sure which one . Hrm. maybe https://www.poetryloverspage.com/poets/kipling/mandalay.html maybe https://www.bartleby.com/364/121.html I also recommend Orwell's essay on Kipling every time Kipling's mentioned: https://www.george-orwell.org/Rudyard_Kipling/0.html quote:
Hieronymous Alloy fucked around with this message at 15:36 on May 15, 2019 |
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# ? May 15, 2019 15:23 |
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kipling is just a racist edward lear
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# ? May 15, 2019 17:41 |
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I They went to sea in a Sieve, they did, In a Sieve they went to sea: In spite of all their friends could say, On a winter’s morn, on a stormy day, In a Sieve they went to sea! And when the Sieve turned round and round, And every one cried, ‘You’ll all be drowned!’ They called aloud, ‘Our Sieve ain’t big, But we don’t care a button! we don’t care a fig! In a Sieve we’ll go to sea!’ Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live; Their heads are green, and their hands are blue, And they went to sea in a Sieve. II They sailed away in a Sieve, they did, In a Sieve they sailed so fast, With only a beautiful pea-green veil Tied with a riband by way of a sail, To a small tobacco-pipe mast; And every one said, who saw them go, ‘O won’t they be soon upset, you know! For the sky is dark, and the voyage is long, And happen what may, it’s extremely wrong In a Sieve to sail so fast!’ Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live; Their heads are green, and their hands are blue, And they went to sea in a Sieve. III The water it soon came in, it did, The water it soon came in; So to keep them dry, they wrapped their feet In a pinky paper all folded neat, And they fastened it down with a pin. And they passed the night in a crockery-jar, And each of them said, ‘How wise we are! Though the sky be dark, and the voyage be long, Yet we never can think we were rash or wrong, While round in our Sieve we spin!’ Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live; Their heads are green, and their hands are blue, And they went to sea in a Sieve. IV And all night long they sailed away; And when the sun went down, They whistled and warbled a moony song To the echoing sound of a coppery gong, In the shade of the mountains brown. ‘O Timballo! How happy we are, When we live in a sieve and a crockery-jar, And all night long in the moonlight pale, We sail away with a pea-green sail, In the shade of the mountains brown!’ Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live; Their heads are green, and their hands are blue, And they went to sea in a Sieve. V They sailed to the Western Sea, they did, To a land all covered with trees, And they bought an Owl, and a useful Cart, And a pound of Rice, and a Cranberry Tart, And a hive of silvery Bees. And they bought a Pig, and some green Jack-daws, And a lovely Monkey with lollipop paws, And forty bottles of Ring-Bo-Ree, And no end of Stilton Cheese. Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live; Their heads are green, and their hands are blue, And they went to sea in a Sieve. VI And in twenty years they all came back, In twenty years or more, And every one said, ‘How tall they’ve grown!’ For they’ve been to the Lakes, and the Torrible Zone, And the hills of the Chankly Bore; And they drank their health, and gave them a feast Of dumplings made of beautiful yeast; And everyone said, ‘If we only live, We too will go to sea in a Sieve,— To the hills of the Chankly Bore!’ Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live; Their heads are green, and their hands are blue, And they went to sea in a Sieve.
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# ? May 15, 2019 17:41 |
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You can't post "The Cremation of Sam McGee" and not include Service's other most famous poem, "The Shooting of Dan McGrew." quote:A bunch of the boys were whooping it up in the Malamute saloon;
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# ? May 15, 2019 17:45 |
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Maggie Nelson, "A Misunderstanding"quote:I thought Zen poems
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# ? May 19, 2019 22:27 |
Tree Goat posted:Maggie Nelson, "A Misunderstanding" this sucks
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# ? May 20, 2019 05:34 |
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chernobyl kinsman posted:this sucks she lives in california so we must excuse the narrowing of her horizons
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# ? May 20, 2019 12:54 |
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depending on where she is in california then $5 can buy no beers at all --poo poo, it's a koan!!!!
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# ? May 20, 2019 17:07 |
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"archy interviews a pharaoh," Don Marquis, 1927. archy, as you may or may not know, is a poet who was reincarnated in the body of a cockroach, and who allegedly filed many columns like this by hopping on the keys of Marquis's typewriter. quote:boss i went Selachian fucked around with this message at 11:33 on May 22, 2019 |
# ? May 22, 2019 11:22 |
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"The Morning Song of Senlin," Conrad Aiken (1918). This is part of a much longer series of poems that Aiken published under the title Senlin, a Biography.quote:It is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning
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# ? May 30, 2019 16:05 |
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"At the Fishhouses" by Elizabeth Bishopquote:Although it is a cold evening,
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# ? May 30, 2019 18:15 |
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"The Gods Are Here" by Jean Toomerquote:This is no mountain,
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# ? Jul 29, 2019 04:22 |
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I've been reading the poems of alexander Search Whether we write or speak or do but look We are ever unapparent. What we are Cannot be transfused into word or book. Our soul from us is infinitely far. However much we give our thoughts the will To be our soul and gesture it abroad, Our hearts are incommunicable still. In what we show ourselves we are ignored. The abyss from soul to soul cannot be bridged By any skill of thought or trick of seeming. Unto our very selves we are abridged When we would utter to our thought our being. We are our dreams of ourselves, souls by gleams, And each to each other dreams of others' dreams.
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# ? Jul 30, 2019 02:05 |
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I finally decided to pick up some Yeats today. I'd been meaning to try some poetry because I'm not a lovely teenager in school anymore and I realised a lot of my favourite songs I liked because of the lyrics and wasn't too bothered about the music. So I decided to pick a famous one from my home country and I grew up holidaying in Sligo too because my da's family is from there. This is my poetry story.
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# ? Aug 31, 2019 23:08 |
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# ? Jun 5, 2024 09:00 |
My favorite Irish poet is probably Seamus Heaneyquote:Scaffolding quote:The Guttural Muse Hieronymous Alloy fucked around with this message at 23:25 on Aug 31, 2019 |
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# ? Aug 31, 2019 23:15 |