Poetry share-thread?

Poetry share-thread?

To help broaden some peoples poetic horizons and introduce them to some lesser known poets. They don't have to be obscure, just poems that you liked. I'll start:

Man on a Fire Escape by Edward Hirsch

He couldn’t remember what propelled him
out of the bedroom window onto the fire escape
of his fifth-floor walkup on the river,

so that he could see, as if for the first time,
sunset settling down on the dazed cityscape
and tugboats pulling barges up the river.

There were barred windows glaring at him
from the other side of the street
while the sun deepened into a smoky flare

that scalded the clouds gold-vermilion.
It was just an ordinary autumn twilight–
the kind he had witnessed often before–

but then the day brightened almost unnaturally
into a rusting, burnished, purplish red haze
and everything burst into flame:

the factories pouring smoke into the sky,
the trees and scrubs, the shadows
of pedestrians singed and rushing home . . .

There were storefronts going blind and cars
burning on the parkway and steel girders
collapsing into the polluted waves.

Even the latticed fretwork of stairs
where he was standing, even the first stars
climbing out of their sunlit graves

were branded and lifted up, consumed by fire.
It was like watching them start of Armageddon,
like seeing his mother dipped in flame . . .

And them he closed his eyes and it was over.
Just like that. When he opened them again
the world had resembled beyond harm.

So where had he crossed to? Nowhere.
And what had he seen? Nothing. No foghorns
called out to each other, as if in a dream,

and no moon rose over the dark river
like a warning—icy, long-forgotten—
while he turned back into an empty room.

Other urls found in this thread:

poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poems/detail/51138
poets.org/poetsorg/poem/one-train-may-hide-another
twitter.com/NSFWRedditGif

Sucking dick
Ill give it a lick
Hope youre free
Of herpes

Not obscure, but Familiale by Jacques Prévert:

La mère fait du tricot
Le fils fait la guerre
Elle trouve ça tout naturel la mère
Et le père qu'est-ce qu'il fait le père?
Il fait des affaires
Sa femme fait du tricot
Son fils la guerre
Lui des affaires
Il trouve ça tout naturel le père
Et le fils et le fils
Qu'est-ce qu'il trouve le fils?
Il ne trouve rien absolument rien le fils
Le fils sa mère fait du tricot son père des affaires lui la guerre
Quand il aura fini la guerre
Il fera des affaires avec son père
La guerre continue la mère continue elle tricote
Le père continue il fait des affaires
Le fils est tué il ne continue plus
Le père et le mère vont au cimetière
Ils trouvent ça tout naturel le père et la mère
La vie continue la vie avec le tricot la guerre les affaires
Les affaires les affaires et les affaires
La vie avec le cimetière

Translation:
The mother knits
The son wages war
This seems only natural to her, the mother
And the father what is he doing the father?
He works
His wife does the knitting
His son the war
Him his work
This seems only natural to him the father
And the son and the son
How does it seem to him the son?
It doesn't seem like anything anything at all to him the son
The son his mother tends to the knitting his father his work him the war
When he will have finished with war
He will work with his father
The war keeps going the mother keeps going she knits
the father keeps going he works
The son is killed he doesn't keep going any more
The father and the mother go to the cemetery
This seems only natural to them the father and the mother
Life keeps going life with knitting war work
work work and work
Life with the cemetery

The Sun woke me this morning loud
and clear, saying "Hey! I've been
trying to wake you up for fifteen
minutes. Don't be so rude, you are
only the second poet I've ever chosen
to speak to personally
so why
aren't you more attentive? If I could
burn you through the window I would
to wake you up. I can't hang around
here all day."
"Sorry, Sun, I stayed
up late last night talking to Hal."

"When I woke up Mayakovsky he was
a lot more prompt" the Sun said
petulantly. "Most people are up
already waiting to see if I'm going
to put in an appearance."
I tried
to apologize "I missed you yesterday."
"That's better" he said. "I didn't
know you'd come out." "You may be
wondering why I've come so close?"
"Yes" I said beginning to feel hot
wondering if maybe he wasn't burning me
anyway.
"Frankly I wanted to tell you
I like your poetry. I see a lot
on my rounds and you're okay. You may
not be the greatest thing on earth, but
you're different. Now, I've heard some
say you're crazy, they being excessively
calm themselves to my mind, and other
crazy poets think that you're a boring
reactionary. Not me.
Just keep on
like I do and pay no attention. You'll
find that people always will complain
about the atmosphere, either too hot
or too cold too bright or too dark, days
too short or too long.
If you don't appear
at all one day they think you're lazy
or dead. Just keep right on, I like it.

And don't worry about your lineage
poetic or natural. The Sun shines on
the jungle, you know, on the tundra
the sea, the ghetto. Wherever you were
I knew it and saw you moving. I was waiting
for you to get to work.

And now that you
are making your own days, so to speak,
even if no one reads you but me
you won't be depressed. Not
everyone can look up, even at me. It
hurts their eyes."
"Oh Sun, I'm so grateful to you!"

"Thanks and remember I'm watching. It's
easier for me to speak to you out
here. I don't have to slide down
between buildings to get your ear.
I know you love Manhattan, but
you ought to look up more often.
And
always embrace things, people earth
sky stars, as I do, freely and with
the appropriate sense of space. That
is your inclination, known in the heavens
and you should follow it to hell, if
necessary, which I doubt.
Maybe we'll
speak again in Africa, of which I too
am specially fond. Go back to sleep now
Frank, and I may leave a tiny poem
in that brain of yours as my farewell."

"Sun, don't go!" I was awake
at last. "No, go I must, they're calling
me."
"Who are they?"
Rising he said "Some
day you'll know. They're calling to you
too." Darkly he rose, and then I slept.

Not obscure at all, but hey:

Digging
By Seamus Heaney
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.

Under my window, a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked,
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

By God, the old man could handle a spade.
Just like his old man.

My grandfather cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner’s bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, going down and down
For the good turf. Digging.

The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I’ll dig with it.

Perhaps it is to avoid some great sadness,
as in a Restoration tragedy the hero cries "Sleep!
O for a long sound sleep and so forget it!"
that one flies, soaring above the shoreless city,
veering upward from the pavement as a pigeon
does when a car honks or a door slams, the door
of dreams, life perpetuated in parti-colored loves
and beautiful lies all in different languages.

Fear drops away too, like the cement, and you
are over the Atlantic. Where is Spain? where is
who? The Civil War was fought to free the slaves,
was it? A sudden down-draught reminds you of gravity
and your position in respect to human love. But
here is where the gods are, speculating, bemused.
Once you are helpless, you are free, can you believe
that? Never to waken to the sad struggle of a face?
to travel always over some impersonal vastness,
to be out of, forever, neither in nor for!

The eyes roll asleep as if turned by the wind
and the lids flutter open slightly like a wing.
The world is an iceberg, so much is invisible!
and was and is, and yet the form, it may be sleeping
too. Those features etched in the ice of someone
loved who died, you are a sculptor dreaming of space
and speed, your hand alone could have done this.
Curiosity, the passionate hand of desire. Dead,
or sleeping? Is there speed enough? And, swooping,
you relinquish all that you have made your own,
the kingdom of your self sailing, for you must awake
and breathe your warmth in this beloved image
whether it's dead or merely disappearing,
as space is disappearing and your singularity.

Lines For The Fortune Cookies

I think you're wonderful and so does everyone else.

Just as Jackie Kennedy has a baby boy, so will you--even bigger.

You will meet a tall beautiful blonde stranger, and you will not say hello.

You will take a long trip and you will be very happy, though alone.

You will marry the first person who tells you your eyes are like scrambled eggs.

In the beginning there was YOU--there will always be YOU, I guess.

You will write a great play and it will run for three performances.

Please phone The Village Voice immediately: they want to interview you.

Roger L. Stevens and Kermit Bloomgarden have their eyes on you.

Relax a little; one of your most celebrated nervous tics will be your undoing.

Your first volume of poetry will be published as soon as you finish it.

You may be a hit uptown, but downtown you're legendary!

Your walk has a musical quality which will bring you fame and fortune.

You will eat cake.

Who do you think you are, anyway? Jo Van Fleet?

You think your life is like Pirandello, but it's really like O'Neill.

A few dance lessons with James Waring and who knows? Maybe something will happen.

That's not a run in your stocking, it's a hand on your leg.

I realize you've lived in France, but that doesn't mean you know EVERYTHING!

You should wear white more often--it becomes you.

The next person to speak to you will have a very intriquing proposal to make.

A lot of people in this room wish they were you.

Have you been to Mike Goldberg's show? Al Leslie's? Lee Krasner's?

At times, your disinterestedness may seem insincere, to strangers.

Now that the election's over, what are you going to do with yourself?

You are a prisoner in a croissant factory and you love it.

You eat meat. Why do you eat meat?

Beyond the horizon there is a vale of gloom.

You too could be Premier of France, if only ... if only...

> (OP) #
The Sun woke me this morning loud
and clear, saying "Hey! I've been
trying to wake you up for fifteen
minutes. Don't be so rude, you are
only the second poet I've ever chosen

I really hope you wrote this and are trying to sneak-a-puss it in under the radar. The thought that this actually being pubed somewhere is really depressing.

I wanted to be sure to reach you;
though my ship was on the way it got caught
in some moorings. I am always tying up
and then deciding to depart. In storms and
at sunset, with the metallic coils of the tide
around my fathomless arms, I am unable
to understand the forms of my vanity
or I am hard alee with my Polish rudder
in my hand and the sun sinking. To
you I offer my hull and the tattered cordage
of my will. The terrible channels where
the wind drives me against the brown lips
of the reeds are not all behind me. Yet
I trust the sanity of my vessel; and
if it sinks, it may well be in answer
to the reasoning of the eternal voices,
the waves which have kept me from reaching you.

Please offer constructive criticism if it honestly is all that offensive. The least it's got going for it is a layered, nuanced meaning.

O'Hara, nice one.

Epic

I have lived in important places, times
When great events were decided, who owned
That half a rood of rock, a no-man's land
Surrounded by our pitchfork-armed claims.
I heard the Duffys shouting "Damn your soul!"
And old McCabe stripped to the waist, seen
Step the plot defying blue cast-steel -
"Here is the march along these iron stones."
That was the year of the Munich bother. Which
Was more important? I inclined
To lose my faith in Ballyrush and Gortin
Till Homer's ghost came whispering to my mind.
He said: I made the Iliad from such
A local row. Gods make their own importance.

Patrick Kavanagh

...

More beautiful than ships or planes
Are lighting-flash and thunderbolt
Of runaway night-frightened trains

Swift, brutal in a wild assault
Of frantic wings and flying heels,
They leap from out the catapult

Of distance, thunder in their wheels
And lightning in their Cyclops' eye
And serpent tail, with warning squeals

As if the shaken stars and sky
Were falling through the hole they rip
In night and silence. Demon cry

And dragon flight, receding, slip
Into the reticence of space--
More terrible than plane or ship
In fiery speed and iron grace

cool

Some little splinter
Of shadow purls
And weals down
The slewed stone
Chapel steps,
Slinks along
The riverrock wall
And disappears
Into the light.
Now ropy, riffled,
Now owlish, sere,
It smolders back
To sight beneath
A dwarfish, brindled tree
That chimes and sifts
And resurrects
In something’s sweet
And lethal breath.
This little shadow
Seems to know
(How can it know?
How can it not?)
Just when to flinch
Just where to loop and sag
And skitter down,
Just what to squirrel
And what to squander till
The light it lacks
Bleeds it back
And finds
My sleeping dark-haired girl —
O personal,
Impersonal,
Continual thrall —
And hammocks blue
In the hollows of her eyes.

This downpour of bad reasoning, this age-old swarm,
this buzzing about town, this kick and stomp
through gardens, this snag on the way to the mall,
this heap and toss of fabric and strewn shoes, this tangled
beauty, this I came here not knowing, here
to be torched, this fumbling ecstasy, this ecstasy of fumbling,
this spray of lips and fingers, this scrape of bone, this raid
of private grounds, this heaving and rocking, this scream
and push, this sightless hunger, this tattered perishing,
this rhythmic teeth knocking, this unbearable
music, this motionless grip, grimace, and groan.

I wish there was a good site for poetry. I find random stuff I like and just save it all to a giant notepad file. I like retreading some of the ideas I come across when I write and use the imagery from some of this crap, which is why I'm putting it here.

-----

For seventeen years I was caught in the surf.
Drubbed and scoured, I’d snatch a breath
and be jerked down again, dragged across
broken shells and shingle. I loved it,
mostly, the need, how I fed the frantic.

I’d skipped into that sea. Certainly not
a girl, but I could still turn a head as I took
the foam between my thighs.
Then it was over.

Hiss of a match
snuffed with spit. The sea had trotted off.
I stood in the stink of flapping fish.
At first it stung. A galaxy of dimes
eyed my sag and crinkles and dismissed
me like a canceled stamp,

but something tugged at me, silver braids
weaving and unweaving themselves
and either the path was shrinking
or I was getting bigger, for soon the way
was just a hair, the extra bit of wit

a grandma leaves on her chin
to scare the boys, and it led me
into a cave crackling like a woodstove
with laughter.

A landslide opened
a seam of rubies and we stepped inside.

The Circus Animals' Desertion

I

I sought a theme and sought for it in vain,
I sought it daily for six weeks or so.
Maybe at last, being but a broken man,
I must be satisfied with my heart, although
Winter and summer till old age began
My circus animals were all on show,
Those stilted boys, that burnished chariot,
Lion and woman and the Lord knows what.

II

What can I but enumerate old themes,
First that sea-rider Oisin led by the nose
Through three enchanted islands, allegorical dreams,
Vain gaiety, vain battle, vain repose,
Themes of the embittered heart, or so it seems,
That might adorn old songs or courtly shows;
But what cared I that set him on to ride,
I, starved for the bosom of his faery bride.

And then a counter-truth filled out its play,
'The Countess Cathleen' was the name I gave it;
She, pity-crazed, had given her soul away,
But masterful Heaven had intervened to save it.
I thought my dear must her own soul destroy
So did fanaticism and hate enslave it,
And this brought forth a dream and soon enough
This dream itself had all my thought and love.

And when the Fool and Blind Man stole the bread
Cuchulain fought the ungovernable sea;
Heart-mysteries there, and yet when all is said
It was the dream itself enchanted me:
Character isolated by a deed
To engross the present and dominate memory.
Players and painted stage took all my love,
And not those things that they were emblems of.

III

Those masterful images because complete
Grew in pure mind, but out of what began?
A mound of refuse or the sweepings of a street,
Old kettles, old bottles, and a broken can,
Old iron, old bones, old rags, that raving slut
Who keeps the till. Now that my ladder's gone,
I must lie down where all the ladders start
In the foul rag and bone shop of the heart.

PF?

I use it. The search function is ass though.

Like, I'm trying to find good innovative inspirational ideas for describing a face chiseled out of stone. You'd think if I used the keyword 'stone' I might get something useful, but I usually just get a lot of bland stuff, or just pages of articles about poets whose name is stone.

Today was a mild day for so late in February.
Spring sang early with a windy tributary,
which played away the cold decay of December.
There was a green-leaf applause for all to remember:

All the red-breasted robins chirping wildly-
in hopes of calling new love blindly-
and all of the dogs who's lonely, friendly barking
echo into the falling curtain of night.

And in my house seat I preside
by the window open wide
as a distant rushing wind
and a bellowing train blend
into a calming-sort-of-static.

Watching the street with vague intent,
hoping to witness nothing at present,
cool air gently plays with my hair
and brightness of my marijuana cigarette.

I went by the Druid stone
That broods in the garden white and lone,
And I stopped and looked at the shifting shadows
That at some moments fall thereon
From the tree hard by with a rhythmic swing,
And they shaped in my imagining
To the shade that a well-known head and shoulders
Threw there when she was gardening.

I thought her behind my back,
Yea, her I long had learned to lack,
And I said: ‘I am sure you are standing behind me,
Though how do you get into this old track?’
And there was no sound but the fall of a leaf
As a sad response; and to keep down grief
I would not turn my head to discover
That there was nothing in my belief.

Yet I wanted to look and see
That nobody stood at the back of me;
But I thought once more: ‘Nay, I’ll not unvision
A shape which, somehow, there may be.’
So I went on softly from the glade,
And left her behind me throwing her shade,
As she were indeed an apparition—
My head unturned lest my dream should fade.

After Akhnaton's grand experiment
Biology looked about and made a note
(Shades of Matthew Arnold): The innate
Role of the Scribe must now be to supplant
Religion. For the priest-king's fingerprints
Had bloodied the papyrus, as the neat
Iamb or triad or cube root would not.
Less a matter of judicial sense
Than of a gift which hallows as it grows,
This law sheds light, now on the cult of Liszt,
Now on the stutter of the physicist,
And banishes to outer darkness those
Who grimace when the lingo's vatic antics
Deck with green boughs the ways of God to man.

A well-known Japanese poet was asked how to compose a Chinese poem.

"The usual Chinese poem is four lines," he explained. "The first line contains the initial phrase; the second line, the continuation of that phrase; the third line turns from this subject and begins a new one; and the fourth line brings the first three lines together. A popular Japanese song illustrates this:


Two daughters of a silk merchant live in Kyoto.
The elder is twenty, the younger, eighteen.
A soldier may kill with his sword,
But these girls slay men with their eyes."

No need to drive a nail into the wall
To hang your hat on;
When you come in, just drop it on the chair
No guest has sat on.

Don’t worry about watering the flowers—
In fact, don’t plant them.
You will have gone back home before they bloom,
And who will want them?

If mastering the language is too hard,
Only be patient;
The telegram imploring your return
Won’t need translation.

Remember, when the ceiling sheds itself
In flakes of plaster,
The wall that keeps you out is crumbling too,
As fast or faster.

this is nice.
source?

poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poems/detail/51138

Anyone know of the poem I'm thinking of? I can't find it anywhere. Forget the author. I think it might be obscure too. I half memorized part of it at one point 'cause I liked the rhythm, but ironically, I can't remember. It's a poem about memory fading with time.

It goes something like:

"One day this will all be taken from you. This exactitude of color, this..." something something, I already forgot. I know it also contains the phrase: plumbing, swift


Not much to go on, but if anyone knows it off the top of their head, please post it here. I always liked the severity of it, sort of admonishing you for letting time take away significant moments.

lol why did a janitor remove the post if the content is publicly available

sorry, i deleted my own post after finding it 2s later via google.

wtf how you delet your own post

Can you delet your own post? I didn't that was possible.

Not a poem, but a song. The music is implied even without accompaniment.

An Island Sheiling Song

Last night by the sheiling was Mairi, my beloved,
Out on the hillside by the sheiling, my Mairi, my beloved.
Mo Mhairi, mo leannan, mo Mhairi my beloved.
On the hillside by the sheiling, my Mairi, my beloved.

Like the white lily floating in the peat hag’s dark waters,
Pure and white as the lily in the peat hag’s dark waters.
Mo Mhairi, mo leannan, mo Mhairi my beloved.
Like the lily white, floating in the peat hag’s dark waters.

Like the blue gentian blooming wet wi’dew in the sunshine
are the eyes of my Mairi, purple blue in the sunshine,
Mo Mhairi, mo leannan, mo Mhairi my beloved.
Lily white, pure, gentian eyed is my Mairi, my beloved.

Am I dumb for not understanding 95% of the poetry I come across? I think it's the only reason I like Blake - his Songs are simple and easy to comprehend.

WHEN you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

Understanding poetry is pretty tuff. Good poetry is efficient. Like cute girls wear the tightest shorts, or something, there's no wasted fabric.

You have to treat a poem like you do a novel. Except, since it's usually much shorter, you have to reread the poem over and over and over, analyzing the content meticulously. It's kinda boring, but once you get the hang of it, it takes fewer readings to get the gist of what it's saying.

Also, most modern poetry is allusion-based, so if you lack the context of other poetry, the poem you're reading may be even harder to parse.

Just read what works for you honestly, don't let pretentious academia get to you.

The Postlude – William Carlos Williams

Now that I have cooled to you
Let there be gold of tarnished masonry, Temples soothed by the sun to ruin
That sleep utterly.
Give me hand for the dances,
Ripples at Philae, in and out,
And lips, my Lesbian,
Wall flowers that once were flame.

Your hair is my Carthage
And my arms the bow
And our words arrows
To shoot the stars,
Who from that misty sea
Swarm to destroy us.
But you're there beside me
Oh, how shall I defy you
Who wound me in the night
With breasts shining
Like Venus and like Mars?
The night that is shouting Jason
When the loud eaves rattle
As with waves above me
Blue at the prow of my desire!
O prayers in the dark!
O incense to Poseidon!
Calm in Atlantis.

Both by T.E. Hulme:

>The Embankment

(The fantasia of a fallen gentleman on a cold, bitter night.)

Once, in finesse of fiddles found I ecstasy,
In the flash of gold heels on the hard pavement.
Now see I
That warmth’s the very stuff of poesy.
Oh, God, make small
The old star-eaten blanket of the sky,
That I may fold it round me and in comfort lie.

>Above the Dock

Above the quiet dock in midnight,
Tangled in the tall mast's corded height,
Hangs the moon. What seemed so far away
Is but a child's balloon, forgotten after play.

THE host is riding from Knocknarea
And over the grave of Clooth-na-Bare;
Caoilte tossing his burning hair,
And Niamh calling Away, come away:
Empty your heart of its mortal dream.
The winds awaken, the leaves whirl round,
Our cheeks are pale, our hair is unbound,
Our breasts are heaving, our eyes are agleam,
Our arms are waving, our lips are apart;
And if any gaze on our rushing band,
We come between him and the deed of his hand,
We come between him and the hope of his heart.
The host is rushing 'twixt night and day,
And where is there hope or deed as fair?
Caoilte tossing his burning hair,
And Niamh calling Away, come away.

Does anyone know any good poems featuring Shahrazad? I'm itching to read a new spin on that sort of thing...

you dont necessarily have to understand poetry to aestethically or emotionally appreciate it
although it can help

We so Firmly Believed* by Nabokov

We so firmly believed in the linkage of life,
but now I’ve looked back–and it is astonishing
to what a degree you, my youth,
seem in tints not mine, in traits not real.

If one probes it, it’s rather like a wave’s haze
between me and you, between shallow and sinking,
or else I see telegraph poles and you from the back
as right into the sunset you ride your half-racer.

You’ve long ceased to be I. You’re an outline–the hero
of any first chapter; yet how long we believed
that there was no break in the way from the damp dell
to the alpine heath.


* rewrite of an earlier poem--"To my Youth"

That fucking sucked.

Why? He is playing with the poetic tradition.

nvm it was alright

This is such an interesting reaction.

When I first read it long ago, I was moved? I mean, it's only more moving you realize the guy who wrote it died not longer after.

The subtext is he's talking about his accomplishments as a poet and his eventual death. At the time, nobody knew anything about it really. His body of work is rather small, too.

So why does it suck? I mean, maybe it does, but I don't see how personally.

i lov e poetry

Idk. If this really was written by a poet, sure. But it would honestly be better as a short excerpt of prose that would read rhythmically. I feel like the line breaks detract from the sentiment and clutter the overall thought by trying to make what is a lovely little conversation of being poetic. Which isn't a bad thing, but the idea itself is strong enough without a poetic medium and would, in my opinion, strengthen without it. I'd requote without the line breaks, but I'm not feeling that work right now. But reading it straight through reads better than taking the slight pause indicated by the line breaks. Idgaf if the subject is of poetic nature, I think the irony of it being in a non poetic form would strengthen the message and story itself.

But to each their own, and by no means is this a bad piece; I just believe it is bad as a poem.

Tell me what you think Veeky Forums.


“i love you,” she said
lying through her teeth
and i responded in turn
treated her to a good meal
and a warm bed
crawled in beside her and tried
to ward off the coming dreams.
every night i had nightmares
of her sleeping
with other men
behind my back.
one day she told me
“i want you to be happy
but it can’t be with me”
and then she disappeared
haven’t seen her since.
we were two lonely kids
in a café where the drinks
were never good. should’ve known
the company couldn’t be
much better.

i'ts great

I think the little enjambments would be weird in a prose structure and those enjambments do add a little to the piece (highlighting specific phrases which are significant).

The context of the "poem" is that it was never officially published. It was found stashed away after his death and later published. It might have ever been intended to be a poem, or something. Who knows.

I rather like this one, though it wears a little on me towards the end: poets.org/poetsorg/poem/one-train-may-hide-another

I really liked it, too.

To the Postboy


Son of a whore, God damn you! Can you tell
A peerless peer the readiest way to Hell?
I’ve outswilled Bacchus, sworn of my own make
Oaths would fright Furies, and make Pluto quake;

I’ve swived more whores more ways than Sodom’s walls
E’er knew, or the College of Rome’s Cardinals.
Witness heroic scars — Look here, ne’er go! —
Cerecloths and ulcers from the top to toe!

Frightened at my own mischiefs, I have fled
And bravely left my life’s defender dead;
Broke houses to break chastity, and dyed
That floor with murder which my lust denied.

Pox on’t, why do I speak of these poor things?
I have blasphemed my God, and libeled kings!
The readiest way to hell — Come, quick!
N’er stir:
The readiest way, my Lord, ‘s by Rochester.

Love poem by Alexander Swedock

Embers
And ashes, on their journeys you could see
Passing, as an unpronounced call
Shaping and beckoning
Branches, and
Apples, leaning
To the sun
Hanging on a tree.

I can’t rip through a process
Set before us,
Of the land
Or idly catch nature, reaching
with it’s
generous hands
but in a brutal, clouded motion
I felt your denial,
All at once
And it would stay on my skin
Like a dive into flame
Dry,
As the place behind your tongue.

Blake can actually get incredibly dense if you read his less popular stuff such as Milton, Europe a Prophecy, America a Prophecy, and The Book of Urizen. He's definitely worth reading past his songs.

The book 'Fearful Symmetry' by Northropo Frye has some fantastic insights into how all of his poetry links together to create this self contained universe that explains his beliefs.

Also, it's worth looking at the illuminatedversions of his poetry, as the accompanying drawings help to further the meanings of his poems.

What if the willow has then thousand strings;
Can they tie down the spring breeze?
What if the bees and butterflies search out nectar;
Can they stop the falling blossoms?
What if we feel secure in out time of love;
What will become of it if she leaves me alone?

Yi Won-ik (1547-1634)

Lost of swearing, this poem was way ahead of its time

edgar allan poe?

sounds familiar

Bump for the only good thread on Veeky Forums right now

Lucretia, by Edwin Markham

A poet was penning a lofty praise
Of that noble matron of old days;
Whereat a scholar, hot-foot, came
To cool the poet's lyric falme:
'Blot out the praises of her life,
Her honour and victorious strife.
If true, the tale were worth a rhyme;
But 'tis a fable of old time.
Lucretia never lived and died:
The Romans feinged her in their pride
To let Rome's high ideal shine,
That men might say it was divine -
To let the eyes of the future see
How great Rome's woman-dream could be.
Lucretia is only a flash of foam,
Air-blown, to feed the boast of Rome.'

'Go to', the poet cried, all flame:
'Your words take nothing from her name.
If Rome could build so fair a dream,
Lucretia is a lyric theme.
Rome had the greatness to conceive:
I have the daring to believe!'

My notebook has remained blank for months
thanks to the light you shower
around me. I have no use
for my pen, which lies
languorously without grief.

Nothing is better than to live
a storyless life that needs
no writing for meaning—
when I am gone, let others say
they lost a happy man,
though no one can tell how happy I was.

Weep you no more, sad fountains;
What need you flow so fast?
Look how the snowy mountains
Heaven’s sun doth gently waste.
But my sun’s heavenly eyes
View not your weeping,
That now lie sleeping
Softly, now softly lies
Sleeping.

Sleep is a reconciling,
A rest that peace begets.
Doth not the sun rise smiling
When fair at even he sets?
Rest you then, rest, sad eyes,
Melt not in weeping
While she lies sleeping
Softly, now softly lies
Sleeping.

I
Don’t you know the poems of Han-shan?
They’re better for you than scripture-reading.
Cut them out and paste them on a screen,
Then you can gaze at them from time to time.

II
Where’s the trail to Cold Mountain?
Cold Mountain? There’s no clear way.
Ice, in summer, is still frozen.
Bright sun shines through thick fog.
You won’t get there following me.
Your heart and mine are not the same.
If your heart was like mine,
You’d have made it, and be there!

III
Cold Mountain’s full of strange sights
Men who go there end by being scared.
Water glints and gleams in the moon,
Grasses sigh and sing in the wind.
The bare plum blooms again with snow,
Naked branches have clouds for leaves.
When it rains, the mountain shines –
In bad weather you’ll not make this climb.

IV
A thousand clouds, ten thousand streams,
Here I live, an idle man,
Roaming green peaks by day,
Back to sleep by cliffs at night.
One by one, springs and autumns go,
Free of heat and dust, my mind.
Sweet to know there’s nothing I need,
Silent as the autumn river’s flood.

V
High, high, the summit peak,
Boundless the world to sight!
No one knows I am here,
Lone moon in the freezing stream.
In the stream, where’s the moon?
The moon’s always in the sky.
I write this poem: and yet,
In this poem there is no Zen.

VI
Thirty years in this world
I wandered ten thousand miles,
By rivers, buried deep in grass,
In borderlands, where red dust flies.
Tasted drugs, still not Immortal,
Read books, wrote histories.
Now I’m back at Cold Mountain,
Head in the stream, cleanse my ears.

VII
Bird-song drowns me in feeling.
Back to my shack of straw to sleep.
Cherry-branches burn with crimson flower,
Willow-boughs delicately trail.
Morning sun flares between blue peaks,
Bright clouds soak in green ponds.
Who guessed I’d leave that dusty world,
Climbing the south slope of Cold Mountain?

VIII
I travelled to Cold Mountain:
Stayed here for thirty years.
Yesterday looked for family and friends.
More than half had gone to Yellow Springs.
Slow-burning, life dies like a flame,
Never resting, passes like a river.
Today I face my lone shadow.
Suddenly, the tears flow down.

IX
Alive in the mountains, not at rest,
My mind cries for passing years.
Gathering herbs to find long life,
Still I’ve not achieved Immortal.
My field’s deep, and veiled in cloud,
But the wood’s bright, the moon’s full.
Why am I here? Can’t I go?
Heart still tied to enchanted pines!

X
If there’s something good, delight!
Seize the moment while it flies!
Though life can last a hundred years,
Who’s seen their thirty thousand days?
Just an instant then you’re gone.
Why sit whining over things?
When you’ve read the Classics through,
You’ll know quite enough of death.

My spirit is of pensive mould,
I cannot laugh as once of old,
When sporting o'er some woodland scene,
A child I trod the dewy green.

I cannot sing the merry lay,
As in that past unconscious day;
For time has laid existence bare,
And shown me sorrow lurking there.

I would I were the lonely breeze,
That mourns among the leafless trees,
That I might sigh from morn till night
O'er vanished peace and lost delight.

I would I were the heavy show'r,
That falls in spring on leaf and bow'r,
That I might weep the live-long day
For erring man and hope's decay.

For all the woe beneath the sun,
For all the wrong to virtue done,
For every soul to falsehood gain'd,
For every heart by evil stain'd.

For man by man in durance held,
For early dreams of joy dispell'd,
For all the hope the world awakes,
In youthful hearts and after breaks.

But still, though hate, and fraud, and strife,
Have stain'd the shining web of life,
Sweet Hope the glowing woof renews,
In all its old, enchanting hues.

Flow on, flow on, thou shining stream!
Beyond life's dark and changeful dream,
There is a hope, there is a joy,
This faithless world can ne'er destroy.

Sigh on, sigh on, ye gentle winds!
For stainless hearts and faithful minds,
There is a bliss abiding true,
That shall not pass and die like you.

Shine on, shine on, thou glorious sun!
When Day his latest course has run,
On sinless hearts shall rise a light,
That ne'er shall set in gloomy night.

Buried at Springs
BY JAMES SCHUYLER
There is a hornet in the room
and one of us will have to go
out the window into the late
August midafternoon sun. I
won. There is a certain challenge
in being humane to hornets
but not much. A launch draws
two lines of wake behind it
on the bay like a delta
with a melted base. Sandy
billows, or so they look,
of feathery ripe heads of grass,
an acid-yellow kind of
goldenrod glowing or glowering
in shade. Rocks with rags
of shadow, washed dust clouts
that will never bleach.
It is not like this at all.
The rapid running of the
lapping water a hollow knock
of someone shipping oars:
it’s eleven years since
Frank sat at this desk and
saw and heard it all
the incessant water the
immutable crickets only
not the same: new needles
on the spruce, new seaweed
on the low-tide rocks
other grass and other water
even the great gold lichen
on a granite boulder
even the boulder quite
literally is not the same

II
A day subtle and suppressed
in mounds of juniper enfolding
scratchy pockets of shadow
while bigness—rocks, trees, a stump—
stands shadowless in an overcast
of ripe grass. There is nothing
but shade, like the boggy depths
of a stand of spruce, its resonance
just the thin scream
of mosquitoes ascending.
Boats are light lumps on the bay
stretching past erased islands
to ocean and the terrible tumble
and London (“rain persisting”)
and Paris (“changing to rain”).
Delicate day, setting the bright
of a young spruce against the cold
of an old one hung with unripe cones
each exuding at its tip
gum, pungent, clear as a tear,
a day tarnished and fractured
as the quartz in the rocks
of a dulled and distant point,
a day like a gull passing
with a slow flapping of wings
in a kind of lope, without
breeze enough to shake loose
the last of the fireweed flowers,
a faintly clammy day, like wet silk
stained by one dead branch
the harsh russet of dried blood.

Stand still, and I will read to thee
A lecture, love, in love's philosophy.
These three hours that we have spent,
Walking here, two shadows went
Along with us, which we ourselves produc'd.
But, now the sun is just above our head,
We do those shadows tread,
And to brave clearness all things are reduc'd.
So whilst our infant loves did grow,
Disguises did, and shadows, flow
From us, and our cares; but now 'tis not so.
That love has not attain'd the high'st degree,
Which is still diligent lest others see.

Except our loves at this noon stay,
We shall new shadows make the other way.
As the first were made to blind
Others, these which come behind
Will work upon ourselves, and blind our eyes.
If our loves faint, and westwardly decline,
To me thou, falsely, thine,
And I to thee mine actions shall disguise.
The morning shadows wear away,
But these grow longer all the day;
But oh, love's day is short, if love decay.
Love is a growing, or full constant light,
And his first minute, after noon, is night.

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