Name a better poet
protip: you literally cant
Name a better poet
Sylvia Plath
>muh depression
boooring
It's about things that matter, none of this gay gay-love
As for minute joys: as I was saying: do you realize the illicit sensuous delight I get from picking my nose? I always have, ever since I was a child–there are so many subtle variations of sensation. A delicate, pointed-nailed fifth finger can catch under dry scabs and flakes of mucous in the nostril and draw them out to be looked at, crumbled between fingers, and flicked to the floor in minute crusts. Or a heavier, more determined forefinger can reach up and smear down-and-out the soft, resilient, elastic greenish-yellow smallish blobs of mucous, roll them round and jelly-like between thumb and forefinger, and spread them on the under surface of a desk or chair where they will harden into organic crusts. How many desks and chairs have I thus secretively befouled since childhood? Or sometimes there will be blood mingled with the mucous in dry brown scabs, or bright sudden wet red on the finger that scraped too rudely the nasal membranes. God, what a sexual satisfaction! It is absorbing to look with new sudden eyes on the old worn habits: to see a sudden luxurious and pestilential “snot green sea”, and shiver with the shock of recognition.
really makes you think
Overnight, very
Whitely, discreetly,
Very quietly
Our toes, our noses
Take hold on the loam,
Acquire the air.
Nobody sees us,
Stops us, betrays us;
The small grains make room.
Soft fists insist on
Heaving the needles,
The leafy bedding,
Even the paving.
Our hammers, our rams,
Earless and eyeless,
Perfectly voiceless,
Widen the crannies,
Shoulder through holes. We
Diet on water,
On crumbs of shadow,
Bland-mannered, asking
Little or nothing.
So many of us!
So many of us!
We are shelves, we are
Tables, we are meek,
We are edible,
Nudgers and shovers
In spite of ourselves.
Our kind multiplies:
We shall by morning
Inherit the earth.
Our foot's in the door.
>what did she mean by this?
Girls run the world
He writes with so much fervor and passion. Reading his poems got me back into reading. I ordered his collected poems and letters book last night.
how about the original rimbaud, charles baudelaire
To me a lot of french poets got farther than Rimbaud, namely Valéry, Perse, Char, etc., but Rimbaud is still good. Un truc de sauvage, que sa poésie.
Blake
18 year old upper middle class bisexual feminist detected.
>literally
>judging poetry with hierarchical terms
overrated brat
Villon
Blake, Shelley, Wordsworth, Housman, the list is endless from Engerland alone.
it doesn't even rhyme
Rimbaud is pretty tyte
I'd say Milton though
Pleb here, how do I into Rimbaud?
Any particular order I should read his work in?
rilke
lol
this
poetry in translation isn't as good and I don't know enough french to read him
only poetry i'll read in translation are epics desu
The penguin collected poems book on him is a pretty good translation and has the french next to it so you can use it as a tool to learn ar but of french.
*A bit
oh that's pretty neat actually. are there a lot of poetry collections published like that?
Keats.
/thread
I think a lot of the penguin selected poems of french writers are published like that. For instance, Baudelaire has one too.
post some of ur fav poems luv
I'm the only real Rimbaud fan, the rest of you are fakes who don't even deserve mentioning his name.
my nazi nigger right here, Ezra Pound
...
You got a book you recommend
joyce used 'snot green sea' in the first chapter of Ulysses to parody the odyssey's 'wine dark sea'. just thought someone else might laugh at this as well.
WHITMAN WHITMAN WHITMAN WALT FUCKIN WHITMAN
same language too
the greeks
Charles Oldon, bc everyone else started with the wrong Greeks
*olson
Superior poet, superior boipussy.
Read Borges
Eliot
inb4after names of poets
which edition
That was pretty good
Rumi
Pound
Baudelaire
Shelley
Yeats
Milton
It has the translation of a season in hell that is present in this video. youtu.be
Homer
Vergil
Joke's on you, I'm 21.
I'm not sure studying Rimbaud is the best way to learn French, he uses many rare words, even slang that was only used in North-Western, late XIXth century France, nobody talks or writes like him, not even close. It would probably be counterproductive unless your French is already solid.
Sappho
And how you laugh your charming laugh. Why it
makes my heart flutter within my breast
It's not my only tool so it's not really debilitating.
Rimbaud is based.
Seigneur, quand froide est la prairie,
Quand dans les hameaux abattus,
Les longs angélus se sont tus...
Sur la nature défleurie
Faites s'abattre des grands cieux
Les chers corbeaux délicieux.
Armée étrange aux cris sévères,
Les vents froids attaquent vos nids !
Vous, le long des fleuves jaunis,
Sur les routes aux vieux calvaires,
Sur les fossés et sur les trous,
Dispersez-vous, ralliez-vous !
Par milliers, sur les champs de France,
Où dorment les morts d'avant-hier,
Tournoyez, n'est-ce pas, l'hiver,
Pour que chaque passant repense !
Sois donc le crieur du devoir,
0 notre funèbre oiseau noir !
Mais, saints du ciel, en haut du chêne,
Mât perdu dans le soir charmé,
Laissez les fauvettes de mai
Pour ceux qu'au fond du bois enchaîne,
Dans l'herbe d'où l'on ne peut fuir,
La défaite sans avenir.
What French lit would you recommend in regards to learning French?
I understand the stranger is widely used as an educational tool
I am also considering learning with Godard and Truffant films
Frank Stanford
John Green.
my asshole
>Godard
>Truffaut
Two shitty filmmakers. Try this movement:
criterion.com
Gerard Manley Hopkins.
what do you think of the translation?
...
I can't believe the first this mother fucker was spitting. Read this shit. He fucking stepped straight to a nigga and walked out of the club after this shit. Just read this aloud. Work a beat. Damn.
As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame;
As tumbled over rim in roundy wells
Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell's
Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name;
Each mortal thing does one thing and the same:
Deals out that being indoors each one dwells;
Selves — goes itself; myself it speaks and spells,
Crying Whát I dó is me: for that I came.
I say móre: the just man justices;
Keeps grace: thát keeps all his goings graces;
Acts in God's eye what in God's eye he is —
Chríst — for Christ plays in ten thousand places,
Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his
To the Father through the features of men's faces.
I don't like Godard much but Truffaut shitty? Goddamn. Are you a fan of Malle?
never fails to make me giggle lol
Bukowski
whoa, that is very nice
Bukowski is good at stories, but his poetry sucks
Giosue Carducci
DMX
...
Ahh I know about Jean Renoir but I have never watched any PR films. I will watch rules of the game at some point thanks for the rec
This guy is Veeky Forums incarnate
satirically genuine
funny thing that Joyce didn't know at the time: Homer literally thought that the sea and sky were wine red. he, and his people, did not identify blue, as, say, Russians identify blue, today. look it up