Author Topic: The Poetry thread  (Read 5343 times)

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Offline DJ_NUFC

  • General Member
The Poetry thread
« on: Thursday 18 December 2008, 09:52:30 PM »
Any favourites? Bored at work so I got to thinking what pieces have moved me over the years. Amateur, professional, comtemporary, classics, all welcome for sharing. Here's are a couple that've been floating around me the past few days:

The Second Coming

By William Butler Yeats

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

The City in the Sea

by Edgar Allan Poe.

Lo! Death has reared himself a throne
In a strange city lying alone
Far down within the dim West,
Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best
Have gone to their eternal rest.
There shrines and palaces and towers
(Time-eaten towers that tremble not!)
Resemble nothing that is ours.
Around, by lifting winds forgot,
Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters lie.

No rays from the holy heaven come down
On the long night-time of that town;
But light from out the lurid sea
Streams up the turrets silently—
Gleams up the pinnacles far and free—
Up domes—up spires—up kingly halls—
Up fanes—up Babylon-like walls—
Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers
Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers—
Up many and many a marvelous shrine
Whose wreathèd friezes intertwine
The viol, the violet, and the vine.

Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters lie.
So blend the turrets and shadows there
That all seem pendulous in air,
While from a proud tower in the town
Death looks gigantically down.

There open fanes and gaping graves
Yawn level with the luminous waves;
But not the riches there that lie
In each idol's diamond eye—
Not the gaily-jeweled dead
Tempt the waters from their bed;
For no ripples curl, alas!
Among that wilderness of glass—
No swellings tell that winds may be
Upon some far-off happier sea—
No heavings hint that winds have been
On seas less hideously serene.

But lo, a stir is in the air!
The wave—there is a movement there!
As if the towers had thrust aside,
In slightly sinking, the dull tide—
As if their tops had feebly given
A void within the filmy Heaven.
The waves have now a redder glow—
The hours are breathing faint and low—
And when, amid no earthly moans,
Down, down that town shall settle hence,
Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,
Shall do it reverence.

The Red Wheelbarrow

by William Carlos Williams.
   
 
so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.


 
 

Offline madras

  • Philosoraptor
  • General Member
Re: The Poetry thread
« Reply #1 on: Thursday 18 December 2008, 09:58:18 PM »
Stevie Smith - Not Waving But Drowning

Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he's dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.
Bullshitters misrepresent themselves to their audience not as liars do, that is, by deliberately making false claims about what is true. In fact, bullshit need not be untrue at all.

Rather, bullshitters seek to convey a certain impression of themselves without being concerned about whether anything at all is true. They quietly change the rules governing their end of the conversation so that claims about truth and falsity are irrelevant.

Offline madras

  • Philosoraptor
  • General Member
Re: The Poetry thread
« Reply #2 on: Thursday 18 December 2008, 10:00:23 PM »
I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
`My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

ozymandias--Shelley
Bullshitters misrepresent themselves to their audience not as liars do, that is, by deliberately making false claims about what is true. In fact, bullshit need not be untrue at all.

Rather, bullshitters seek to convey a certain impression of themselves without being concerned about whether anything at all is true. They quietly change the rules governing their end of the conversation so that claims about truth and falsity are irrelevant.

LucaAltieri

  • Guest
Re: The Poetry thread
« Reply #3 on: Thursday 18 December 2008, 10:02:07 PM »
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on";

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run -
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man my son!


"If" - The original Mr. Kipling

Offline midds

  • Administrator
Re: The Poetry thread
« Reply #4 on: Thursday 18 December 2008, 10:02:48 PM »
Excalibur

by D. Brent

I froze your tears,
and made a dagger
and stabbed it in my cock, forever
it stays there like Excalibur
Are you my Arthur? Say you are.
Take this cool dark steeled blade
steal it, sheathe it in your lake
I'd drown with you to be together
Must you breath? 'Cause I need heaven.

Offline catmag

  • General Member
  • Cat Lady
Re: The Poetry thread
« Reply #5 on: Thursday 18 December 2008, 10:02:50 PM »
Warning!

When I am an old woman,
I shall wear purple - -
With a red hat which doesn't go,
and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension
on brandy and summer gloves and satin sandles,
And say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired
and gobble up samples in shops
and press alarm bells
and run with my stick along public railings,
and make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
and pick flowers in other people's gardens
and learn to spit!
You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
and eat three pounds of sausages at ago,
or only bread and pickles for a week,
and hoard pens and pencils
and beermats and things in boxes.
But now we must have clothes that keep us dry,
and pay our rent
and not swear in the street,
and set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner
and read the papers.
But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me
are not too shocked and surprised
when suddenly I am old,
And start to wear purple.

--Jenny Joseph

Offline DJ_NUFC

  • General Member
Re: The Poetry thread
« Reply #6 on: Thursday 18 December 2008, 10:02:57 PM »
I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
`My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

ozymandias--Shelley

Fuckin' great, that. Yeats was inspired by Shelley if I'm not mistaken, and one can see why.

Offline Jill

  • Don't really care what.
  • General Member
Re: The Poetry thread
« Reply #7 on: Thursday 18 December 2008, 10:06:57 PM »
Excalibur

by D. Brent

I froze your tears,
and made a dagger
and stabbed it in my cock, forever
it stays there like Excalibur
Are you my Arthur? Say you are.
Take this cool dark steeled blade
steal it, sheathe it in your lake
I'd drown with you to be together
Must you breath? 'Cause I need heaven.

 bluelaugh.gif bluelaugh.gif bluelaugh.gif Every time.

Offline DJ_NUFC

  • General Member
Re: The Poetry thread
« Reply #8 on: Friday 19 December 2008, 06:55:53 AM »
The Hollow Men

by T.S. Elliot.

Mistah Kurtz—he dead.

      A penny for the Old Guy

      I

We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats’ feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar

Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;

Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death’s other Kingdom
Remember us—if at all—not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.

      II

Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death’s dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind’s singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.

Let me be no nearer
In death’s dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat’s coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer—

Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom

      III

This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man’s hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.

Is it like this
In death’s other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.

      IV

The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms

In this last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river

Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death’s twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.

      V

Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o’clock in the morning.

Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow
                                For Thine is the Kingdom

Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow
                                Life is very long

Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
                                For Thine is the Kingdom

For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.

Offline OzzieMandias

  • General Member
Re: The Poetry thread
« Reply #9 on: Friday 19 December 2008, 06:59:41 AM »
I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
`My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

ozymandias--Shelley

Oi!  :angry:

Offline OzzieMandias

  • General Member
Re: The Poetry thread
« Reply #10 on: Friday 19 December 2008, 07:04:06 AM »
From memory, so probably slightly wrong...

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I think that I would favour fire.
But if it had to perish twice
I think from what I know of hate
That for destruction ice is also great
And would suffice.

(Robert Frost)

Offline BlufPurdi

  • Administrator
  • Speaking truth to stupid since 2005.
Re: The Poetry thread
« Reply #11 on: Friday 19 December 2008, 07:13:02 AM »
Quote
On window panes, the icy frost
Leaves feathered patterns, crissed & crossed,
But in our house the christmas tree
Is decorated festively
With tiny dots of colored light
That cozy up this winter night.
Christmas songs, familiar, slow,
Play softly on the radio.
Pops and isses from the fire
Whistle with the bells and choir.

My tiger is now fast asleep
On his back and dreaming deep.
When the fire makes him hot,
He turns to warm whatever's not.
Propped against him on the rug,
I give my friend a gentle hug.
Tomorrow's what I'm waiting for,
But I can wait a little more.

Calvin & Hobbes

:D
Making mistakes is how you learn.
Every generation must fight the same battles again and again and again. There is no final victory, and there is no final defeat, and so a little bit of history may help.
“What power have you got? Where did you get it from? In whose interests do you exercise it? To whom are you accountable? And how can we get rid of you?” If you cannot get rid of the people who govern you, you do not live in a democratic system.
That is why no one with power likes democracy and that is why every generation must struggle to win it and keep it – including you and me, here and now.

Offline GG

  • General Member
Re: The Poetry thread
« Reply #12 on: Friday 19 December 2008, 11:51:11 AM »
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries for them; no prayers nor bells,
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, -
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.

What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds
 
Spoiler
[close]

Offline bulivye

  • General Member
Re: The Poetry thread
« Reply #13 on: Friday 19 December 2008, 12:02:55 PM »
The Fall of Rome     
by W. H. Auden 

 
(for Cyril Connolly)

The piers are pummelled by the waves;
In a lonely field the rain
Lashes an abandoned train;
Outlaws fill the mountain caves.

Fantastic grow the evening gowns;
Agents of the Fisc pursue
Absconding tax-defaulters through
The sewers of provincial towns.

Private rites of magic send
The temple prostitutes to sleep;
All the literati keep
An imaginary friend.

Cerebrotonic Cato may
Extol the Ancient Disciplines,
But the muscle-bound Marines
Mutiny for food and pay.

Caesar's double-bed is warm
As an unimportant clerk
Writes I DO NOT LIKE MY WORK
On a pink official form.

Unendowed with wealth or pity,
Little birds with scarlet legs,
Sitting on their speckled eggs,
Eye each flu-infected city.

Altogether elsewhere, vast
Herds of reindeer move across
Miles and miles of golden moss,
Silently and very fast.
altogether elsewhere vast
herds of reindeer move across
miles and miles of golden moss
silently and very fast

Offline johnnypd

  • General Member
Re: The Poetry thread
« Reply #14 on: Friday 19 December 2008, 12:37:32 PM »
to his coy mistress - andrew marvell

Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, Lady, were no crime
We would sit down and think which way
To walk and pass our long love's day.
Thou by the Indian Ganges' side
Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the Flood,
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow;
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, Lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.

But at my back I always hear
Time's wingèd chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song: then worms shall try
That long preserved virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust:
The grave's a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.

Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may,
And now, like amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour
Than languish in his slow-chapt power.
Let us roll all our strength and all
Our sweetness up into one ball,
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life:
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.

Offline OzzieMandias

  • General Member
Re: The Poetry thread
« Reply #15 on: Friday 19 December 2008, 12:59:38 PM »
I always loved that line, "Vaster than empires, and more slow"

Offline fuhg

  • General Member
Re: The Poetry thread
« Reply #16 on: Friday 19 December 2008, 02:43:48 PM »
                           S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
                           A persona che mai tornasse al mondo
                           Questa fiamma staria sensa piu scosse.
                           Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
                           Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero
                           Sensa tema d’infamia ti rispondo.

 

                Let us go then, you and I,
                When the evening is spread out against the sky
                Like a patient etherized upon a table;
                Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
                The muttering retreats
                Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
                And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
                Streets that follow like a tedious argument
                Of insidious intent
                To lead you to an overwhelming question . . .
                Oh, do not ask, ‘What is it?’
                Let us go and make our visit.

                In the room the women come and go
                Talking of Michelangelo.

                The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
                The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,
                Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
                Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
                Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
                Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
                And seeing that it was a soft October night,
                Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

                And indeed there will be time
                For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
                Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
                There will be time, there will be time
                To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
                There will be time to murder and create,
                And time for all the works and days of hands
                That lift and drop a question on your plate;
                Time for you and time for me,
                And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
                And for a hundred visions and revisions,
                Before the taking of a toast and tea.

                In the room the women come and go
                Talking of Michelangelo.

                And indeed there will be time
                To wonder, ‘Do I dare?’ and, ‘Do I dare?’
                Time to turn back and descend the stair,
                With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
                [They will say: ‘How his hair is growing thin!’]
                My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
                My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
                [They will say: ‘But how his arms and legs are thin!’]
                Do I dare
                Disturb the universe?
                In a minute there is time
                For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

                For I have known them all already, known them all—
                Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
                I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
                I know the voices dying with a dying fall
                Beneath the music from a farther room.
                So how should I presume?

                And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
                The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
                And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
                When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
                Then how should I begin
                To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
                And how should I presume?

                And I have known the arms already, known them all—
                Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
                [But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
                Is it perfume from a dress
                That makes me so digress?
                Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
                And should I then presume?
                And how should I begin?

                                         .      .      .      .      .
 

                Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
                And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
                Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? . . .

                I should have been a pair of ragged claws
                Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

                                         .      .      .      .      .
 

                And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
                Smoothed by long fingers,
                Asleep . . . tired . . . or it malingers
                Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
                Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
                Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
                But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
                Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter
                I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
                I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
                And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
                And in short, I was afraid.

                And would it have been worth it, after all,
                After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
                Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
                Would it have been worth while
                To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
                To have squeezed the universe into a ball
                To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
                To say: ‘I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
                Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all’—
                If one, settling a pillow by her head,
                Should say: ‘That is not what I meant at all.
                That is not it, at all.’

                And would it have been worth it, after all,
                Would it have been worth while,
                After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
                After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
                And this, and so much more?—
                It is impossible to say just what I mean!
                But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
                Would it have been worth while
                If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
                And turning toward the window, should say:
                ‘That is not it at all,
                That is not what I meant at all.’

                No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
                Am an attendant lord, one that will do
                To swell a progress, start a scene or two
                Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
                Deferential, glad to be of use,
                Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
                Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
                At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
                Almost, at times, the Fool.

                I grow old . . . I grow old . . .
                I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

                Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
                I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
                I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

                I do not think that they will sing to me.

                I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
                Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
                When the wind blows the water white and black.

                We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
                By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
                Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
No more Waterloo, no more rural country halts, no more solitude: no more becoming, just interminable being.

Offline cubaricho

  • General Member
Re: The Poetry thread
« Reply #17 on: Friday 19 December 2008, 08:45:51 PM »
This one always gets me.  I really love the use of concrete details mixed with intangible meanings.

This Room And Everything In It
Li-Young Lee

Lie still now
while I prepare for my future,
certain hard days ahead,
when I'll need what I know so clearly this moment.

I am making use
of the one thing I learned
of all the things my father tried to teach me:
the art of memory.

I am letting this room
and everything in it
stand for my ideas about love
and its difficulties.

I'll let your love-cries,
those spacious notes
of a moment ago,
stand for distance.

Your scent,
that scent
of spice and a wound,
I'll let stand for mystery.

Your sunken belly
is the daily cup
of milk I drank
as a boy before morning prayer.

The sun on the face
of the wall
is God, the face
I can't see, my soul,

and so on, each thing
standing for a separate idea,
and those ideas forming the constellation
of my greater idea.
And one day, when I need
to tell myself something intelligent
about love,

I'll close my eyes
and recall this room and everything in it:
My body is estrangement.
This desire, perfection.
Your closed eyes my extinction.
Now I've forgotten my
idea. The book
on the windowsill, riffled by wind...
the even-numbered pages are
the past, the odd-
numbered pages, the future.
The sun is
God, your body is milk...

useless, useless...
your cries are song, my body's not me...
no good ... my idea
has evaporated...your hair is time, your thighs are song...
it had something to do
with death...it had something
to do with love.

Offline cp40

  • General Member
Re: The Poetry thread
« Reply #18 on: Friday 19 December 2008, 08:48:34 PM »
f*** reading all that s***, its far too cultured in here for me,.. now wheres the big tits thread.

Offline Cajun

  • General Member
Re: The Poetry thread
« Reply #19 on: Friday 19 December 2008, 08:50:23 PM »
My colleague asked me to write him a poem at work yesterday...

I wandered lonely as a cloud
I got raped by a camel, it was loud
I went to bed with a bleeding anus
I wish I was raped by Samantha Janus

Offline Pilko

  • General Member
  • Bunsen burner
Re: The Poetry thread
« Reply #20 on: Friday 19 December 2008, 09:04:45 PM »
A Poem about Dennis Wise:

Dennis Wise
Has beady eyes
"Does a struggling salesman start turning up on a bicycle? No, he turns up in a newer car. Perception." - David Brent

Offline DJ_NUFC

  • General Member
Re: The Poetry thread
« Reply #21 on: Friday 19 December 2008, 09:10:13 PM »
:lol: let's keep the standard up, lads. There's the 'girls you normally wouldn't tap' thread where one can get their baser instincts to get better of themselves.

fuhg, that was breathtaking. Any info?

Offline johnnypd

  • General Member
Re: The Poetry thread
« Reply #22 on: Friday 19 December 2008, 10:53:55 PM »
^it's prufrock by ts eliot

A Green Crab's Shell       
by Mark Doty

Not, exactly, green:
closer to bronze
preserved in kind brine,

something retrieved
from a Greco-Roman wreck,
patinated and oddly

muscular. We cannot
know what his fantastic
legs were like--

though evidence
suggests eight
complexly folded

scuttling works
of armament, crowned
by the foreclaws'

gesture of menace
and power. A gull's
gobbled the center,

leaving this chamber
--size of a demitasse--
open to reveal

a shocking, Giotto blue.
Though it smells
of seaweed and ruin,

this little traveling case
comes with such lavish lining!
Imagine breathing

surrounded by
the brilliant rinse
of summer's firmament.

What color is
the underside of skin?
Not so bad, to die,

if we could be opened
into this--
if the smallest chambers

of ourselves,
similarly,
revealed some sky.

Offline Mowen

  • General Member
  • Sepp Blatter w*****
Re: The Poetry thread
« Reply #23 on: Saturday 20 December 2008, 01:49:40 AM »
I always loved that line, "Vaster than empires, and more slow"

Does your username come from a Keates poem? Could have sworn blind I heard Paxo mention it on Uni challenge the other week.
Under-21 coach David Platt added: "If Shola recognises what he's got, all hell could break loose."

Offline DJ_NUFC

  • General Member
Re: The Poetry thread
« Reply #24 on: Saturday 20 December 2008, 02:09:36 AM »
A Song of Despair
     
by Pablo Neruda

The memory of you emerges from the night around me.
The river mingles its stubborn lament with the sea.

Deserted like the dwarves at dawn.
It is the hour of departure, oh deserted one!

Cold flower heads are raining over my heart.
Oh pit of debris, fierce cave of the shipwrecked.

In you the wars and the flights accumulated.
From you the wings of the song birds rose.

You swallowed everything, like distance.
Like the sea, like time. In you everything sank!

It was the happy hour of assault and the kiss.
The hour of the spell that blazed like a lighthouse.

Pilot's dread, fury of blind driver,
turbulent drunkenness of love, in you everything sank!

In the childhood of mist my soul, winged and wounded.
Lost discoverer, in you everything sank!

You girdled sorrow, you clung to desire,
sadness stunned you, in you everything sank!

I made the wall of shadow draw back,
beyond desire and act, I walked on.

Oh flesh, my own flesh, woman whom I loved and lost,
I summon you in the moist hour, I raise my song to you.

Like a jar you housed infinite tenderness.
and the infinite oblivion shattered you like a jar.

There was the black solitude of the islands,
and there, woman of love, your arms took me in.

There was thirst and hunger, and you were the fruit.
There were grief and ruins, and you were the miracle.

Ah woman, I do not know how you could contain me
in the earth of your soul, in the cross of your arms!

How terrible and brief my desire was to you!
How difficult and drunken, how tensed and avid.

Cemetery of kisses, there is still fire in your tombs,
still the fruited boughs burn, pecked at by birds.

Oh the bitten mouth, oh the kissed limbs,
oh the hungering teeth, oh the entwined bodies.

Oh the mad coupling of hope and force
in which we merged and despaired.

And the tenderness, light as water and as flour.
And the word scarcely begun on the lips.

This was my destiny and in it was my voyage of my longing,
and in it my longing fell, in you everything sank!

Oh pit of debris, everything fell into you,
what sorrow did you not express, in what sorrow are you not drowned!

From billow to billow you still called and sang.
Standing like a sailor in the prow of a vessel.

You still flowered in songs, you still brike the currents.
Oh pit of debris, open and bitter well.

Pale blind diver, luckless slinger,
lost discoverer, in you everything sank!

It is the hour of departure, the hard cold hour
which the night fastens to all the timetables.

The rustling belt of the sea girdles the shore.
Cold stars heave up, black birds migrate.

Deserted like the wharves at dawn.
Only tremulous shadow twists in my hands.

Oh farther than everything. Oh farther than everything.

It is the hour of departure. Oh abandoned one!