Author Topic: The Poetry thread  (Read 5292 times)

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Offline B-more Mag

  • General Member
  • Amartya Sen, motherfucker
Re: The Poetry thread
« Reply #75 on: Wednesday 11 June 2014, 11:09:21 PM »
Howay man, we have f***ing poetry thread as well  :lol:

This I did not know

This very forum
Everything is in it now
Mind totally blown

Completion by B-more Mag

Offline Belfast Mags

  • General Member
Re: The Poetry thread
« Reply #76 on: Wednesday 11 June 2014, 11:15:00 PM »
It's an aladdin's cave for the mind
Quote from: Mike
Am I really coming out of this thread the biggest asshole again?
:snod:

Offline Mr. Snrub

  • General Member
  • Messi
Re: The Poetry thread
« Reply #77 on: Wednesday 11 June 2014, 11:18:21 PM »
Howay man, we have f***ing poetry thread as well  :lol:

This I did not know

Embarrassing, isn't it?

Offline Belfast Mags

  • General Member
Re: The Poetry thread
« Reply #78 on: Wednesday 11 June 2014, 11:21:44 PM »
It's all good
Quote from: Mike
Am I really coming out of this thread the biggest asshole again?
:snod:

Offline B-more Mag

  • General Member
  • Amartya Sen, motherfucker
Re: The Poetry thread
« Reply #79 on: Saturday 1 November 2014, 07:57:36 PM »
JON SANDS
Decoded

You / I
take / nurture
my / your
bag / blood
and / and
pour / fill
its / your
contents / emptiness
on / from
the / the
sidewalk / sky

If / When
I / I
wear / undress
my / your
hoodie / skin
it / it
is not / is
in / from
danger / safety
it / it
is not / is
in / from
solidarity / alienation
it / it
is / is not
showmanship / reality

The / A
Interviewer / God
asked / answered
if / when
I / I
studied / neglected
how / why
Buddy Holly / Little Richard
disarmed / provoked
all / one
black / white
audiences / emptiness

My / Your
primary / final
album / silence
in / on
middle / infinite
school / repeat
was / is
Warren G’s / Kenny G’s
Regulators / lawlessness

“If / When
I / you
had / lose
a / the
son / moon
he’d / it
look / blinds
like / unlike
Trayvon” / anything

Our / Your
children / ancestors
will / won’t
be / be
responsible / forgiven
for / despite
the / any
debts / surplus
we / you
have not / have
paid / assumed
in / from
blood / myths

The / A
white / black
girl / boy
on / in
stage / reality
said / listened
she / he
prayed / knew
Trayvon / Trayvon
reached / left
for / despite
the / a
gun / prayer

Offline Mike

  • General Member
Re: The Poetry thread
« Reply #80 on: Saturday 1 November 2014, 08:09:27 PM »
:lol: White people f***ing love some Regulate.

Offline Froggy

  • Ok at Rocket League
  • General Member
  • Faster than a cannonball
Re: The Poetry thread
« Reply #81 on: Saturday 1 November 2014, 08:26:23 PM »
Kvothe hates poetry.

Offline B-more Mag

  • General Member
  • Amartya Sen, motherfucker
Re: The Poetry thread
« Reply #82 on: Saturday 1 November 2014, 08:39:03 PM »
:lol: White people f***ing love some Regulate.

:lol:

Offline OpenC

  • General Member
  • NN989989
Re: The Poetry thread
« Reply #83 on: Thursday 25 June 2020, 08:16:30 PM »
Heard this on Radio 4 the other day having previously read it in some climate change thing or other. It's a bit clumsy but charmingly so, and I thought it was fairly powerful and a great illustration of the way we take amazing things completely for granted. Never heard of Nan Craig.


The loss of birds by Nan Craig

Of all the losses I think the loss of birds
has been the hardest. Strangest.
Whole days pass, now, as
I struggle to explain them to you.

I begin: they were very light.
Light as lizards made of
wire and buttons. But
covered in tiny leaves,
leaves softer than the softest fur.
Shinier. Sleeker.
Suspiciously, you say: Fur-leaves?

Exactly, I say. Their legs
were little sticks. Snapped twigs.
The small ones anyway. The biggest ones
had feet like grappling hooks.
Their arms were half-furled
umbrellas. Elbows on backwards.
Stretching, they became sails
snapping in high winds.
Covered in those silky scales –
fur-leaves, you repeat – yes, I say – which
lay flat like scales but ruffled
sometimes in the breeze, like fur.

Fur but not, I say, again and again.

Their bones were hollow and they moved
from ground to
air to sky to speck
faster than thought. They could not
be caught, I lie: they moved too fast
for human hands
or animals.

They listened carefully to everything,
but had no ears. (what?
I really start to lose you here)
Their heads were round knobs
and one angry claw stuck out
the middle of their heads
for a mouth
and they ate through the claw.
Sometimes a yellow claw. Sometimes black.
Thinking of ducks, I add: Sometimes the claw was blunt
like a thumb. It could be blue. Or red. Also,
they birthed these little stones with goo
and flesh inside, that you could crack and eat.

You listen to me but I understand
you don’t believe me,
can’t believe me. How can you, I am raving,
nothing I say makes any sense.

They were everywhere, I insist. Everywhere.
You smile politely and begin to drift away.
WAIT! I shout. They also sang!

They sang.

At that point, I go silent,
seeing as by now
I don’t even believe myself.

Offline AyeDubbleYoo

  • General Member
  • Ian W
Re: The Poetry thread
« Reply #84 on: Friday 26 June 2020, 01:52:16 AM »
I’ve been listening to the Poetry Unbound podcast a bit, the first episode I heard was this poem by Brad Aaron Modlin.

I thought it was an amazing depiction of things you learn as you get older, and such a clever way to introduce it. That it was taught, but just when you weren’t there.




What You Missed That Day You Were Absent From Fourth Grade

Mrs. Nelson explained how to stand still and listen
to the wind, how to find meaning in pumping gas,

how peeling potatoes can be a form of prayer. She took
questions on how not to feel lost in the dark

After lunch she distributed worksheets
that covered ways to remember your grandfather’s

voice. Then the class discussed falling asleep
without feeling you had forgotten to do something else—

something important—and how to believe
the house you wake in is your home. This prompted

Mrs. Nelson to draw a chalkboard diagram detailing
how to chant the Psalms during cigarette breaks,

and how not to squirm for sound when your own thoughts
are all you hear; also, that you have enough.

The English lesson was that I am
is a complete sentence.

And just before the afternoon bell, she made the math equation
look easy. The one that proves that hundreds of questions,

and feeling cold, and all those nights spent looking
for whatever it was you lost, and one person

add up to something.

Offline Lotus

  • General Member
Re: The Poetry thread
« Reply #85 on: Friday 26 June 2020, 10:51:41 AM »
Heard this on Radio 4 the other day having previously read it in some climate change thing or other. It's a bit clumsy but charmingly so, and I thought it was fairly powerful and a great illustration of the way we take amazing things completely for granted. Never heard of Nan Craig.


The loss of birds by Nan Craig

Of all the losses I think the loss of birds
has been the hardest. Strangest.
Whole days pass, now, as
I struggle to explain them to you.

I begin: they were very light.
Light as lizards made of
wire and buttons. But
covered in tiny leaves,
leaves softer than the softest fur.
Shinier. Sleeker.
Suspiciously, you say: Fur-leaves?

Exactly, I say. Their legs
were little sticks. Snapped twigs.
The small ones anyway. The biggest ones
had feet like grappling hooks.
Their arms were half-furled
umbrellas. Elbows on backwards.
Stretching, they became sails
snapping in high winds.
Covered in those silky scales –
fur-leaves, you repeat – yes, I say – which
lay flat like scales but ruffled
sometimes in the breeze, like fur.

Fur but not, I say, again and again.

Their bones were hollow and they moved
from ground to
air to sky to speck
faster than thought. They could not
be caught, I lie: they moved too fast
for human hands
or animals.

They listened carefully to everything,
but had no ears. (what?
I really start to lose you here)
Their heads were round knobs
and one angry claw stuck out
the middle of their heads
for a mouth
and they ate through the claw.
Sometimes a yellow claw. Sometimes black.
Thinking of ducks, I add: Sometimes the claw was blunt
like a thumb. It could be blue. Or red. Also,
they birthed these little stones with goo
and flesh inside, that you could crack and eat.

You listen to me but I understand
you don’t believe me,
can’t believe me. How can you, I am raving,
nothing I say makes any sense.

They were everywhere, I insist. Everywhere.
You smile politely and begin to drift away.
WAIT! I shout. They also sang!

They sang.

At that point, I go silent,
seeing as by now
I don’t even believe myself.


Think that’s very sweet. Can see why it caught your attention.
The aim of science is not to open the door to infinite wisdom, but to set a limit to infinite error.

Offline Mike

  • General Member
Re: The Poetry thread
« Reply #86 on: Friday 26 June 2020, 12:52:14 PM »
Heard this on Radio 4 the other day having previously read it in some climate change thing or other. It's a bit clumsy but charmingly so, and I thought it was fairly powerful and a great illustration of the way we take amazing things completely for granted. Never heard of Nan Craig.


The loss of birds by Nan Craig

Of all the losses I think the loss of birds
has been the hardest. Strangest.
Whole days pass, now, as
I struggle to explain them to you.

I begin: they were very light.
Light as lizards made of
wire and buttons. But
covered in tiny leaves,
leaves softer than the softest fur.
Shinier. Sleeker.
Suspiciously, you say: Fur-leaves?

Exactly, I say. Their legs
were little sticks. Snapped twigs.
The small ones anyway. The biggest ones
had feet like grappling hooks.
Their arms were half-furled
umbrellas. Elbows on backwards.
Stretching, they became sails
snapping in high winds.
Covered in those silky scales –
fur-leaves, you repeat – yes, I say – which
lay flat like scales but ruffled
sometimes in the breeze, like fur.

Fur but not, I say, again and again.

Their bones were hollow and they moved
from ground to
air to sky to speck
faster than thought. They could not
be caught, I lie: they moved too fast
for human hands
or animals.

They listened carefully to everything,
but had no ears. (what?
I really start to lose you here)
Their heads were round knobs
and one angry claw stuck out
the middle of their heads
for a mouth
and they ate through the claw.
Sometimes a yellow claw. Sometimes black.
Thinking of ducks, I add: Sometimes the claw was blunt
like a thumb. It could be blue. Or red. Also,
they birthed these little stones with goo
and flesh inside, that you could crack and eat.

You listen to me but I understand
you don’t believe me,
can’t believe me. How can you, I am raving,
nothing I say makes any sense.

They were everywhere, I insist. Everywhere.
You smile politely and begin to drift away.
WAIT! I shout. They also sang!

They sang.

At that point, I go silent,
seeing as by now
I don’t even believe myself.
Like that.

Offline Infinitely Content

  • General Member
  • Life imitates art
Re: The Poetry thread
« Reply #87 on: Friday 26 June 2020, 01:18:42 PM »
Keep re-reading this one by Ocean Vuong from Night Sky with Exit Wounds to try and grasp some meaning. The line "Gravity breaking our kneecaps just to show us the sky" is very striking and potent for me, but I don't know why. Either way, he's an extremely creative writer.

It’s more like the sound
a doe makes
when the arrowhead
replaces the day
with an answer to the rib’s
hollowed hum. We saw it coming
but kept walking through the hole
in the garden. Because the leaves
were bright green & the fire
only a pink brushstroke
in the distance. It’s not
about the light—but how dark
it makes you depending
on where you stand.
Depending on where you stand
his name can appear like moonlight
shredded in a dead dog’s fur.
His name changed when touched
by gravity. Gravity breaking
our kneecaps just to show us
the sky. We kept saying Yes—
even with all those birds.
Who would believe us
now? My voice cracking
like bones inside the radio.
Silly me. I thought love was real
& the body imaginary.
But here we are—standing
in the cold field, him calling
for the girl. The girl
beside him. Frosted grass
snapping beneath her hooves.
Your vision will become clear only when you can look into your own heart. Who looks outside, dreams; who looks inside, awakes.

Offline Haz

  • formerly known as Haswell
  • General Member
Re: The Poetry thread
« Reply #88 on: Saturday 27 June 2020, 11:53:23 AM »
But horrors, portion'd to a giant nerve, oft-made Hyperion ache.


John Keats.

Any line from hyperion(unfinished) but far too long to post in here.
Drinking alcohol never solves anything. But neither does drinking milk.

It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll. I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul.
- William Ernest Henley

Offline Infinitely Content

  • General Member
  • Life imitates art
Re: The Poetry thread
« Reply #89 on: Friday 31 July 2020, 04:09:05 PM »
Your vision will become clear only when you can look into your own heart. Who looks outside, dreams; who looks inside, awakes.