I'm going to a poetry slam today. We're allowed to read any poem as long as we acknowledge the author...

I'm going to a poetry slam today. We're allowed to read any poem as long as we acknowledge the author. Give me something good to read. I'm especially interested in lyrics.

Other urls found in this thread:

youtube.com/watch?v=YrMOxASAmP0
youtu.be/bEG2uamc324
youtube.com/watch?v=f4mb6gzu60U
youtube.com/watch?v=w6CCePrJlaU
twitter.com/SFWRedditGifs

youtube.com/watch?v=YrMOxASAmP0

OP here. Actually, I had the same idea earlier today and am still very tempted by it.

I gotchu
youtu.be/bEG2uamc324

virgin detected

Read some Francis E. Dec
youtube.com/watch?v=f4mb6gzu60U

"The Holy Office"
(1905)

Myself unto myself will give
This name, Katharsis-Purgative.
I, who dishevelled ways forsook
To hold the poets' grammar-book,
Bringing to tavern and to brothel
The mind of witty Aristotle,
Lest bards in the attempt should err
Must here be my interpreter:
Wherefore receive now from my lip
Peripatetic scholarship.
To enter heaven, travel hell,
Be piteous or terrible
One positively needs the ease
Of plenary indulgences.
For every true-born mysticist
A Dante is, unprejudiced,
Who safe at ingle-nook, by proxy,
Hazards extremes of heterodoxy,
Like him who finds joy at a table
Pondering the uncomfortable.
Ruling one's life by common sense
How can one fail to be intense?
But I must not accounted be
One of that mumming company –
With him who hies him to appease
His giddy dames' frivolities
While they console him when he whinges
With gold-embroidered Celtic fringes –
Or him who sober all the day
Mixes a naggin in his play –
Or him whose conduct 'seems to own'
His preference for a man of 'tone' –
Or him who plays the ragged patch
To millionaires in Hazelpatch
But weeping after holy fast
Confesses all his pagan past –
Or him who will his hat unfix
Neither to malt nor crucifix
But show to all that poor-dressed be
His high Castilian courtesy –
Or him who loves his Master dear –
Or him who drinks his pint in fear –
Or him who once when snug abed
Saw Jesus Christ without his head
And tried so hard to win for us
The long-lost works of Aeschylus.
But all these men of whom I speak
Make me the sewer of their clique.
That they may dream their dreamy dreams
I carry off their filthy streams
For I can do those things for them
Through which I lost my diadem,
Those things for which Grandmother Church
Left me severely in the lurch.
Thus I relieve their timid arses,
Perform my office of Katharsis.
My scarlet leaves them white as wool:
Through me they purge a bellyful.
To sister mummers one and all
I act as vicar-general
And for each maiden, shy and nervous,
I do a similar kind of service.
For I detect without surprise
That shadowy beauty in her eyes,
The 'dare not' of sweet maidenhood
That answers my corruptive 'would',
Whenever publicly we meet
She never seems to think of it;
At night when close in bed she lies
And feels my hand between her thighs
My little love in light attire
Knows the soft flame that is desire.

But Mammon places under ban
The uses of Leviathan
And that high spirit ever wars
On Mammon's countless servitors
Nor can they ever be exempt
From his taxation of contempt.
So distantly I turn to view
The shamblings of that motley crew,
Those souls that hate the strength that mine has
Steeled in the school of old Aquinas.
Where they have crouched and crawled and prayed
I stand, the self-doomed, unafraid,
Unfellowed, friendless and alone,
Indifferent as the herring-bone,
Firm as the mountain-ridges where
I flash my antlers on the air.
Let them continue as is meet
To adequate the balance-sheet.
Though they may labour to the grave
My spirit shall they never have
Nor make my soul with theirs as one
Till the Mahamanvantara be done:
And though they spurn me from their door
My soul shall spurn them evermore.

Go full nationalist and see all the sjw's get buttblasted by heroism, catholcism and blood sacrifice. Joseph Mary Plunkett was one of the executed leaders of teh 1916 Easter Rising in Ireland, this is one of his most famous poems that exemplifed the period

I SEE his blood upon the rose
And in the stars the glory of his eyes,
His body gleams amid eternal snows,
His tears fall from the skies.

I see his face in every flower;
The thunder and the singing of the birds
Are but his voice—and carven by his power
Rocks are his written words.

All pathways by his feet are worn,
His strong heart stirs the ever-beating sea,
His crown of thorns is twined with every thorn,
His cross is every tree.

>Wanting to embarrass op
Reading these would be the equivalent of playing death metal at a high school talent show. It wouldn't impress anyone or make anyone buttblasted. It would just be awkward, embarrassing and make you look autistic.

Also Patrick Pearse's "The Mother" is strongly militaristic, this is the cenetary of the Rising so it is apt

The Mother

I do not grudge them: Lord, I do not grudge
My two strong sons that I have seen go out
To break their strength and die, they and a few,
In bloody protest for a glorious thing,
They shall be spoken of among their people,
The generations shall remember them,
And call them blessed;
But I will speak their names to my own heart
In the long nights;
The little names that were familiar once
Round my dead hearth.
Lord, thou art hard on mothers:
We suffer in their coming and their going;
And tho' I grudge them not, I weary, weary
Of the long sorrow - And yet I have my joy:
My sons were faithful, and they fought.

Blood upon the Rose is one of the most oft repeated poems in Ireland, it's become a cliche

youtube.com/watch?v=w6CCePrJlaU

Who goes with Fergus?
W. B. Yeats, 1865 - 1939

Who will go drive with Fergus now,
And pierce the deep wood's woven shade,
And dance upon the level shore?
Young man, lift up your russet brow,
And lift your tender eyelids, maid,
And brood on hopes and fear no more.

And no more turn aside and brood
Upon love's bitter mystery;
For Fergus rules the brazen cars,
And rules the shadows of the wood,
And the white breast of the dim sea
And all dishevelled wandering stars.

Ugh, just reading threw the comments.

"Fat Black Dyke," by D'boi Oshee Twaddup

Fat black dyke about to collapse from standing for so long on a stage
Croco tears falling along trembling sausage fingers that clasp a wrinkely page
That features a story of chasing boogeymen, which seems unsightly for a girl her age
She's sweating ravioli and screaming because CFO's get paid more than a Starbuck's Barista's wage

The dyke's fatty fat rolls are jiggling up and she's speaking quietly now
while some beta numale cucks are snapping for the cow
and their flannels, beards and glasses look as if their wondering how
they'll get the sows, whom they orbit, to consider them highbrow

Fat black dyke weeping quietly
as she says "life's easier for you
Because I'm black, a dyke and fat,
and you're a fucking white male too"

Long shrill screams for the fat black dyke whose up and swallow'd the coffee shop's mic
and who should have spent tonight on an exercise bike
or looking less like black hagrid and more womanlike

lug lug LUG
lug LUG lug
lug lug LUG
lug lug

Fat black dyke walking off the stage and clucthing her sweat sodden bitch-list
and taking shallow breaths as the nu-male cucks each hold up a black power fist
And you can probably see the future of this recidivist
that the fat black dyke never makes the appointment about the stick
with the proctologist

>And you can probably see the future of this recidivist
>that the fat black dyke never makes the appointment about the stick
>with the proctologist

As someone with fetishes for fat black asses and medical play this is dicklikeastick/10

Got you senpai (1/2)

If you want to kill yourself, why don't you want to kill yourself?
Now's your chance!
I, who greatly love both death and life,
Would kill myself too, if I dared kill myself...
If you dare, then be daring!
What good to you is the changing picture of outer images
We call the world?

What good is this cinema of hours played out
By actors with stock roles and gestures,
This colorful circus of our never-ending drive to keep going?
What good is your inner world which you don't know?
Kill yourself, and maybe you'll finally know it...
End it all, and maybe you'll begin...

If you're weary of existing, at least
Be noble in your weariness,
And don't, like me, sing of life because you're drunk,
Don't, like me, salute death through literature!

You're needed? O futile shadow called man!
No one is needed; you're not needed by anyone...
Without you everything will keep going without you.
Perhaps it's worse for others that you live than if you kill yourself...
Perhaps your presence is more burdensome than your absence...

Other people's grief? You're worried
About them crying over you?
Don't worry: they won't cry for long...

The impulse to live gradually stanches tears
When they're not for our own sake,
When they're because of what happened to someone else,
especially death,
Since after this happens to someone, nothing else will...

First there's anxiety, the surprise of mystery's arrival
And of your spoken life's sudden absence...
Then there's the horror of your visible and material coffin,
And the men in black whose profession is to be there.

Then the attending family, heartbroken and telling jokes,
Mourning between the latest news from the evening papers,
Mingling grief over your death with the latest crime...

And you merely the incidental cause of that lamentation,
You who will be truly dead, much deader than you imagine...
Much deader down here than you imagine,
Even if in the beyond you may be much more alive...

Next comes the black procession to the vault or grave,
And finally the beginning of the death of your memory.
At first everyone feels relieved
That the slightly irksome tragedy of your death is over...
Then, with each passing day, the conversation lightens up
And life falls back into its old routine...
Then you are slowly forgotten.

(2/2)

You're remembered only twice a year:
On you birthday and your death day.
That's it. That's all. That's absolutely all.
Two times a year they think about you.
Two times a year those who loved you heave a sigh,
And they may sigh on the rare occasions someone mentions your name.

Look at yourself in the face and honestly face what we are...
If you want to kill yourself, then kill yourself...
Forget your moral scruples or intellectual fears!
What scruples or fears influence the workings of life?
What chemical scruples rule the driving impulse
Of sap, the blood's circulation, and love?
What memory of others exists in the joyous rhythm of life?

Ah, vanity of flesh and blood called man,
Can't you see that you're utterly unimportant?
You're important to yourself, because you're what you feel.
You're everything to yourself, because for you you're the universe,
The real universe and other people
Being mere satellites of your objective subjectivity.
You matter to yourself, because you're all that matters to you.
And if this is true for you, O myth, then won't it be true for others?

Do you, like Hamlet, dread the unknown?
But what is known? What do you really know
Such that you can call anything "unknown"?

Do you, like Falstaff, love life with all its fat?
If you love it so materially, then love it even more materially
By becoming a bodily part of the earth and of things!

Scatter yourself, O physicochemical system
Of nocturnally conscious cells,
Over the nocturnal consciousness of the unconsciousness of bodies,
Over the huge blanket of appearances that blankets nothing,
Over the weeds and grass of proliferating beings,
Over the atomic fog of things,
Over the whirling walls
Of the dynamic void that is the world...


Suicide by Álvaro de Campos (aka Fernando Pessoa)

She has beautiful skin.

there is nothing worse than slam poetry. i would rather read a 700 page self-published book than have to listen to 30 seconds of this shit. what is wrong with you people?

Poetry slam is a competition (a slam) where people read poetry. Typically it's garbage, yes, but people itt are recommending legit, good poetry to op to read.

A Clear Midnight by Walt Whitman

This is thy hour O Soul, thy free flight into the wordless,
Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson done,
Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the themes thou lovest best,
Night, sleep, death and the stars.