Do any of you Veeky Forums mathematicians find pleasure in reading poetry?

Do any of you Veeky Forums mathematicians find pleasure in reading poetry?

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only if it's depressive and nihilistic as fuck
if it's some love shitty bullshit i get bored very easily

I'm the exact opposite

yes of any kind. be it sexual, be it about love, be it about hate, or whatever.

Any kind of pleasure reading that is not manga is fucking gay.

Kill yourself faggot.

I like manga too.

Vagabond is my favorite; it is one of the works of art that I love the most, in all media.

>Vagabond
Never read that shit.

But I am currently following like 10 ongoing manga about one guy surrounded by 6 bitches with huge tits and asses.

That makes me a connoiseur. ..
...
...

And One Piece, Berserk and Holyland are the true masterpieces.

You are not OP, I am.

But go for Vagabond, you will really like it.

why?

>You are not OP, I am.
Ah shit, I put on that name to troll another thread

that one. Faggot OP actually put on OP as a name and I just felt like trolling him.

>But go for Vagabond, you will really like it.

I can't right now. I am behind on my sluts with huge tits and asses schedule. I also only read manga at class in university and right now I have semester finals so I don't think I can force myself to read manga when I can just watch anime instead in my house.

I'm a pseudo-intellectual and pretentious fuckwit, so of course I like poetry.

no

NO

yes but only in my language
in english I like ocar wilde and edgar allan poe

Yeah good writing is pretty amazing, but I either have to read something 10 times or have it explained to me.

Jean Luc got me into Shakespeare
>In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes,
>For they in thee a thousand errors note;
>But ’tis my heart that loves what they despise,
>Who in despite of view is pleased to dote.

Vagabond user? really? I read a couple issues into it and i got to where what's his fuck takes on the monk and just stopped caring, it was pretty jap trashy.

what's your interest?

Yes, I've been slowly getting into poetry in the last few months. It's like anything else worth doing: it gives exactly in proportion to what you bring as a reader. The more you read the more you are able to read, the more you are able to enjoy difficult writing. Poetry is extremely difficult.

Yes because striving, especially in one's daydreams, is something one should feel embarrassed about, lest the one's who are content to sit where they are and twiddle their thumbs begin to feel otherwise.

The opening is not very good. It starts to be great when musashi goes to kyoto with 21 years of age.

I like you.

Harut: What deities are your judges?
The masters of the world: who are they?
The only solid laws and unchanging
Orders are in nature,
But she has no morals; she does not judge,
She does not sown convictions and awards:
She just exists, just float in the middle of nowhere,
Without requiring of herself any sense or meaning.
But justice: anyone has seen her face,
Held her hand, kissed her lips?
It is justice who guide the elements?
They are dogs in your yard? Do they restrict
their pleasures by the orders of moral?
If the darkness of night gives you fear
Can any god drink her, like coffee,
And then burp warm morning
And the gem of the sun spit only for you?
Is electromagnetism your monkey,
Golden-lion-tamarin of incandescent mane?
The snap of your fingers will make he
Dance? Will he eat peanuts
In your hands? What laws will refine and smooth
The misshapen features of gravity?
How to prevent her strong hands
And her dissonant fingers
to suffocate the running feet of time
And dig slots in the flesh of space?
Who puts a leash on the brilliant fire
That, salivating smoke, with pelage and fur
Of flame runs over the tender woods?
What rules follows the hurricane, of stomach
Filled with fermenting storms,
When he devours the heavens, when the hands and nails
Of the winds and gales eviscerate and gut the cities?
The choreography of the tornadoes:
Who wrote it? What mind drafted
The logical treatises that rays and thunders,
The electric travelers of the clusters,
Studied? Who guides their dives?
Prayers will prevent the seaquake
Of swallowing islands with green throats
And with armies of liquid tongues
Dissolve buildings, trample on people and populations,
Vomiting a mortar and plaster of corpses,
Rotten porridge of ruins
And confusing swamp of wreckage?
What orders serve as a barricade
For the arctic cyclone, the hungry
Polar Bear of cloudy and nebulous fur?
How to contain the freezing carnage and slaughterhouse
Of the sharp spiral jaw?

Here are the actual laws, behold our judges,
But it will be useful to beg their ears?
When rains drown the crops
And choke the wheat and corn in the mold,
Melting the plains in a sludge of tears,
Do they feel sorry for the hungry?
When the flood waters plantations
While they are still a nursery for
Viscous babies sprouts and slender
Teenage branches with fragile hair,
Do they feel moral pain? When the farmer
Pours his sweat on the rough lips
Of the dried earth of the desert
Does he moves her? Makes he a pact with her?
Offerings of the offering will be born?
The white chest and crystalline breath
Of the blizzard's will no longer howl ice
By hearing a baby crying from the cold,
With little arms and bluish legs
At her mother's lap, poor and homeless?
The sparkling glory of the snowflakes
And the silver flowers of the frost
Do not feel sorry for the bastards
That they hug and embrace with their ghostly sheets.
Nature is moved?

When massacres dirty up the planet
And violence, ovulating and in heat, emanates blood,
The birds, mourning, sing no more?
The sun hides his face whose glory
Parading about the world (the features that
Revive the skies with bright pomp)
Behind dark clouds and bitter
Vapors, to cry sad frost and oppressed tears of ice?
No! A tower of carrion and bodies,
The host and inn to flies, can rest
About a field of white daisies
Without hurting the nostrils of no flower:
Neither of them will close their petals in pain.
Do you want justice? Well, then answer:
What justice is there for the wild boar
When the lions are opening his belly,
Dipping their noses into his body?
What ears will feel sorry for his cries
When the sound of his pain
Crawl in the savannas? Where is the justice
When the snake injects its poisonous
Horror in the nest of the naked and frail
Babies of some defenseless bird?
The fear in the pupils of the gazelle
Will make justice
Be moved, rescuing the impala from the jaws
Of the Crocodile? There are laws against his teeth?
When death transforms herself in clouds of virus,
And the plague, in a dark mist,
Is pumped in the air as black and corrosive
Blood, toward the heart
Of the countries, what laws will bar them?
Court orders can stop them?
The fact that a boy had lived
Few years will dissolve in shame
The cancer that devours him? What moral
Will muzzle the hunger of that pus-gingiva
Gangrene that swallows the members
Of that unfortunate? What articles vetoed
The march of the armies of leprosy
Upon the sick flesh? You have answers
To solve so many problems?
How to force the larvae to cease
Their feast on the body in the coffin?
How to sue worms that open tunnels
In the bowels with mouths and suckers?

You can stop them with possessory actions,
Bar the spreading parasites
In their wild Usucapion?
For what reason human death is sad
But nobody cries when Star
Explode their spherical fires
In supernovas? What is the human body
Compared to them? Lice, nits, fleas?
Why to your people such giants
Are just pimples inflamed
With fire in the face of the night, mere
Pores to sweat light, while babies
(Which, in the eyes of existence, are no more
That meatballs, stuffed
With bowels and blood) are miracles:
The rosy cheeks of hope
And soft faces where sleeps the future?
The human tribe has a queen
On vanity: they want that the cosmic laws
Be remodeled to the taste
Of their pleasure and pain, of the eternal undulating
Sea and surging tides of their humor.
But you are not legislators;
And your gods also do not scrawl laws:
Morale does not hibernate in the ink-bottles of the sky.
Existence, that ripped the womb of nothingness
And the belly of emptiness, is the true author
Of the laws that govern us.
This primordial embryo of fire,
Misshapen soup, evolved into the Infinite body
And dark anatomy
(Dotted with the golden chickenpox
Of the stars) of the cosmos, the Shadowy
Leopard, stained by archipelagos
Of Galaxies, of which we are just cells.
The universe: that is the owner of the right;
The biological laws of his body
Are immutable, are general, are unique:
None pencil will ever scratch them,
No act is ever going to break them.
May then our toughs, the dreams
That live in us, in us, simple atoms,
Have some value for the absolute?
How much does it matters to the whole the whisper of the molecules?
Light and darkness, order and chaos,
Good and bad: such pillars say nothing,
They mean nothing, but only are.
But if every nation here on Earth
Has its laws, I will fulfill my own.

TL:DR?

Boring shit you'll never use in life

Do you read any literature?

That's a hot guy on the pic, yummy

Great work: it looks like the speech from god inside the storm in the end of The Book of Job. But the english is bad; it's a terrible translation.

My favorite poems are the ones like these:

Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies.
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain,
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp,
Dare its deadly terrors clasp!

When the stars threw down their spears
And water'd heaven with their tears:
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger Tyger burning bright,
In the forests of the night:
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

Or:

In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said, “Is it good, friend?”
“It is bitter—bitter,” he answered;

“But I like it
“Because it is bitter,
“And because it is my heart.”

Or:

warpoetry.co.uk/owen1.html

Or:

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
(...)
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.

nice taste. I like this one the most:

DarknessRelated Poem Content Details
Turn annotations off
BY LORD BYRON (GEORGE GORDON)
I had a dream, which was not all a dream.
The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space,
Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;
Morn came and wentand came, and brought no day,
And men forgot their passions in the dread
Of this their desolation; and all hearts
Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light:
And they did live by watchfiresand the thrones,
The palaces of crowned kingsthe huts,
The habitations of all things which dwell,
Were burnt for beacons; cities were consum'd,
And men were gather'd round their blazing homes
To look once more into each other's face;
Happy were those who dwelt within the eye
Of the volcanos, and their mountain-torch:
A fearful hope was all the world contain'd;
Forests were set on firebut hour by hour
They fell and fadedand the crackling trunks
Extinguish'd with a crashand all was black.
The brows of men by the despairing light
Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits
The flashes fell upon them; some lay down
And hid their eyes and wept; and some did rest
Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smil'd;
And others hurried to and fro, and fed
Their funeral piles with fuel, and look'd up
With mad disquietude on the dull sky,
The pall of a past world; and then again
With curses cast them down upon the dust,
And gnash'd their teeth and howl'd: the wild birds shriek'd
And, terrified, did flutter on the ground,
And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutes
Came tame and tremulous; and vipers crawl'd
And twin'd themselves among the multitude,
Hissing, but stinglessthey were slain for food.

And War, which for a moment was no more,
Did glut himself again: a meal was bought
With blood, and each sate sullenly apart
Gorging himself in gloom: no love was left;
All earth was but one thoughtand that was death
Immediate and inglorious; and the pang
Of famine fed upon all entrailsmen
Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh;
The meagre by the meagre were devour'd,
Even dogs assail'd their masters, all save one,
And he was faithful to a corse, and kept
The birds and beasts and famish'd men at bay,
Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead
Lur'd their lank jaws; himself sought out no food,
But with a piteous and perpetual moan,
And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand
Which answer'd not with a caresshe died.
The crowd was famish'd by degrees; but two
Of an enormous city did survive,
And they were enemies: they met beside
The dying embers of an altar-place
Where had been heap'd a mass of holy things
For an unholy usage; they rak'd up,
And shivering scrap'd with their cold skeleton hands
The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath
Blew for a little life, and made a flame
Which was a mockery; then they lifted up
Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld
Each other's aspectssaw, and shriek'd, and died
Even of their mutual hideousness they died,
Unknowing who he was upon whose brow
Famine had written Fiend. The world was void,
The populous and the powerful was a lump,
Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless
A lump of deatha chaos of hard clay.

yeah, i read some manga + chemistry journals

why

The rivers, lakes and ocean all stood still,
And nothing stirr'd within their silent depths;
Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea,
And their masts fell down piecemeal: as they dropp'd
They slept on the abyss without a surge
The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,
The moon, their mistress, had expir'd before;
The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air,
And the clouds perish'd; Darkness had no need
Of aid from them: She was the Universe.

Found the Engineer

I find pleasure in your mom. Like I did last night.

I just think you are losing great pleasures, and the opportunity to live other than your own. Great books are well known for having the ability of constructing fictional human beings that look like real people (and often more colossal and palpable than real people). Such books also allow you to make, like Darwin, some sort of naturalistic mental-trip, where the writer examines in detail all the landscapes of the human spirit, collecting beetles, worms, crustaceans, reptiles, mammals and birds nested in hidden burrows of the spirit, unknown, strange, but at the same time wonderful.

In great literature, the main characters are gigantic figures, as if the creator invites us to walk through the mazes of his creatures brains, over the mental veins of his characters. In such rare works of art we penetrate deeply into the bowels of its creations; we become familiar with their souls, as if we could smell and taste them: only in great writing this phenomenon occurs. The great masters of literature open a deep incision in the flesh of those who they creates; they open the skin, the muscles, exposing the organs, and then pushes us into the cavity: they makes us plunging into the flesh, into the guts of their creations.

I hate poetry.

When you have something you want to say why not just write it out in clear language?

Some people are so passionate or moved by poetry and I've never understood it.

>When you have something you want to say why not just write it out in clear language?
Poets can't do this due to their dementia.

Some poetry is simply bad; actually, most poems are bad (and that even when we talk about famous poets). If there is one field of human activity where mediocrity is intolerable it is poetry.

But, among this ocean of mediocrity, there is always some islands of marble. One option that is surely great is Shakespeare. He is never going to present you new thoughts, original ideas, and visionary philosophies. No, he will only offer you the common-wisdom of several ages of sages and the common sense of the folk.

Here, for example, one man (a dictator, murderer and usurper of the throne) is talking that, after months of killing, torturing, oppression and tyranny, he finally sees that his life worths nothing, that he finds no delight in his days, that all his hours are tedious, that he cannot find any pleasure in life. He then extends this feeling to the whole walk of human existence (also, he has just recently heard the news of his wife’s death):

She should have died hereafter;
There would have been a time for such a word.
— To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury
Signifying nothing.

Now, he could have said the same thing in a direct way, in a common language form of talk. But you would lose a tremendous beauty if this were just plain stamen. You would lose the metaphors and the imagery, the sounds, the echoes.

It is like music. What’s the use of music? Music is sound, but it dosent have any meaning or utility. Beethoven’s symphony’s are useless: they don’t convey any specific and logical message; there is no knowledge being transmitted. Yet how beautiful and touching they are, and just because of their aesthetic value.

Great poetry mostly just states the common knowledge of mankind, but it does so in the most memorable way: it kind of sculpts in marble things that were made of clay.

mah nigga pound