/lit/ - Literature

>>15056537
>Ezra Pound
>meme poet

>Morning Poem - Mary Oliver

Every morning
the world
is created.
Under the orange

sticks of the sun
the heaped
ashes of the night
turn into leaves again

and fasten themselves to the high branches—
and the ponds appear
like black cloth
on which are painted islands

of summer lilies.
If it is your nature
to be happy
you will swim away along the soft trails

for hours, your imagination
alighting everywhere.
And if your spirit
carries within it

the thorn
that is heavier than lead—
if it's all you can do
to keep on trudging—

there is still
somewhere deep within you
a beast shouting that the earth
is exactly what it wanted—

each pond with its blazing lilies
is a prayer heard and answered
lavishly,
every morning,

whether or not
you have ever dared to be happy,
whether or not
you have ever dared to pray.

>>15056541
reading comprehension

The Study in Aesthetics-Ezra Pound

The very small children in patched clothing,
Being smitten with an unusual wisdom,
Stopped in their play as she passed them
And cried up from their cobbles:

Guarda! Ahi, guarda! Ch’ è be’ a!

But three years after this
I heard the young Dante, whose last name I do not
know--
For there are, in Sirmione, twenty-eight young Dantes
and thirty-four Catulli;
And there had been a great catch of sardines,
And his elders
Were packing them in the great wooden boxes
For the market in Brescia, and he
Leapt about, snatching at the bright fish
And getting in both of their ways;
And in vain they commanded him to stafermo!
And when they would not let him arrange
The fish in the boxes
He stroked those which were already arranged,
Murmuring for his own satisfaction
This identical phrase:

Ch’ è be’ a

And at this I was mildly abashed.

How can you guys be interested in poetry after the holocaust?

>>15056784
The holocaust was poetry

>>15056784
Adorno was, in a sense, correct but he was too much of a doomer to understand that poetry still has validity

Bride and Groom Lie Hidden for Three Days - Ted Hughes

She gives him his eyes, she found them
Among some rubble, among some beetles

He gives her her skin
He just seemed to pull it down out of the air and lay it over her
She weeps with fearfulness and astonishment

She has found his hands for him, and fitted them freshly at the wrists
They are amazed at themselves, they go feeling all over her

He has assembled her spine, he cleaned each piece carefully
And sets them in perfect order
A superhuman puzzle but he is inspired
She leans back twisting this way and that, using it and laughing
Incredulous

Now she has brought his feet, she is connecting them
So that his whole body lights up

And he has fashioned her new hips
With all fittings complete and with newly wound coils, all shiningly oiled
He is polishing every part, he himself can hardly believe it

They keep taking each other to the sun, they find they can easily
To test each new thing at each new step

And now she smoothes over him the plates of his skull
So that the joints are invisible

And now he connects her throat, her breasts and the pit of her stomach
With a single wire

She gives him his teeth, tying the the roots to the centrepin of his body

He sets the little circlets on her fingertips

She stitches his body here and there with steely purple silk

He oils the delicate cogs of her mouth

She inlays with deep cut scrolls the nape of his neck

He sinks into place the inside of her thighs

So, gasping with joy, with cries of wonderment
Like two gods of mud
Sprawling in the dirt, but with infinite care
They bring each other to perfection

>>15056537
>Any mention of meme poets like Rupi Kauer and Ezra Pound
I don't get why Era Pound is so hated, like I get that he was right wing but only a moron could think he wasn't by far the greatest poet of the 20th century, other than of course maybe someone like Rilke or Joyce(if he can be called a poet).

>>15056991
Either I'm a retard who's shit at constructing a readable sentence or this thread is full of retards with no reading comprehension. Probably both.

>>15056991
You have to be a polyglot to appreciate his mastery of poetry

Nicotine- Ezra Pound

Hymn to the Dope


Goddess of the murmuring courts,
Nicotine, my Nicotine,
Houri of the mystic sports,
trailing-robed in gabardine,
Gliding where the breath hath glided,
Hidden sylph of filmy veils,
Truth behind the dream is veiléd
E'en as thou art, smiling ever, ever gliding,
Wraith of wraiths, dim lights dividing
Purple, grey, and shadow green
Goddess, Dream-grace, Nicotine.

Goddess of the shadow's lights,
Nicotine, my Nicotine,
Some would set old Earth to rights,
Thou I none such ween.
Veils of shade our dream dividing,
Houris dancing, intergliding,
Wraith of wraiths and dream of faces,
Silent guardian of the old unhallowed places,
Utter symbol of all old sweet druidings,
Mem'ry of witched wold and green,
Nicotine, my Nicotine:

Neath the shadows of thy weaving
Dreams that need no undeceiving,
Loves that longer hold me not,
Dreams I dream not any more,
Fragrance of old sweet forgotten places,
Smiles of dream-lit, flit-by faces
All as perfume Arab-sweet
Deck the high road to thy feet

As were Godiva's coming fated
And all the April's blush belated
Were lain before her, carpeting
The stones of Coventry with spring,
So thou my mist-enwreathéd queen,
Nicotine, white Nicotine,
Riding engloried in they hair
Mak'st by-road of our dreams
Thy thorough-fare.

>>15056537
>Rupi Kauer and Ezra Pound
You're frankly a retard op, though I like the thread idea. /lit/ needs more focus on poetry.

>>15057055
If you read the rest of the sentence is it really that confusing?

Ah Moon - Galway Kinnell

I sat there as boy
On these winter rocks, watching
The moon-shapes change on the skies;
Nor did I know when the moon
Only affects her mortality.

Now no more does a boy
Ah Moon! From these rocks
Or through a frosted window, cry;
And for a dying curve
The wiser heart weeps not.

for me it's gerard manley hopkins

Nothing is so beautiful as Spring –
When weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush;
Thrush’s eggs look little low heavens, and thrush
Through the echoing timber does so rinse and wring
The ear, it strikes like lightnings to hear him sing;
The glassy peartree leaves and blooms, they brush
The descending blue; that blue is all in a rush
With richness; the racing lambs too have fair their fling.

What is all this juice and all this joy?
A strain of the earth’s sweet being in the beginning
In Eden garden. – Have, get, before it cloy,
Before it cloud, Christ, lord, and sour with sinning,
Innocent mind and Mayday in girl and boy,
Most, O maid’s child, thy choice and worthy the winning.

>>15057068
>If you read the rest of the sentence is it really that confusing?
This needed a break, but yes.

>>15056537
Poetry is for faggots.

>>15057089
It's nice, but it seems purely aesthetical. I guess not everything has to be "GOETHE!! DANTE!!! AESCHYLUS!!! KEATS!!!!!"

>>15056537
>calling Ezra Pound a meme poet
As the other anon said, but why is it always these kids that dislike Pound.

Where between sleep and life some brief space is, With love like gold bound round about the head, Sex to sweet sex with lips and limbs is wed, Turning the fruitful feud of hers and his To the waste wedlock of a sterile kiss; Yet from them something like as fire is shed That shall not be assuaged till death be dead, Though neither life nor sleep can find out this. Love made himself of flesh that perisheth A pleasure-house for all the loves his kin; But on the one side sat a man like death, And on the other a woman sat like sin. So with veiled eyes and sobs between his breath Love turned himself and would not enter in.

Algernon Charles Swinburne

Any Carl Sandburg fans?

How do I better understand poetry? I’m very interested in it. I would like to write some good poetry. I barely know any poets and I have no idea what I’m doing though.

>>15057251
Read more of it, break down each line a time and then break down the whole poem as one. Pick a poet and start reading, if you don't like it pick another

>>15057229

>>15057270

Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir,
Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine,
With a cargo of ivory,
And apes and peacocks,
Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine.

Stately Spanish galleon coming from the Isthmus,
Dipping through the Tropics by the palm-green shores,
With a cargo of diamonds,
Emeralds, amethysts,
Topazes, and cinnamon, and gold moidores.

Dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smoke stack,
Butting through the Channel in the mad March days,
With a cargo of Tyne coal,
Road-rails, pig-lead,
Firewood, iron-ware, and cheap tin trays.

John Masefield

>>15056784
IF THERE IS A GOD HE SOULD BEG FOR MY FORGIVENESS

>>15057279

Dickinson

>>15057251
Read some of the suggestions in the sticky. I read The Ode Less Traveled and it gave a great analysis of poetry and practice excercises

I want to know how /lit/ feels about oldie
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date;
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm'd;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st;
Nor shall death brag thou wander’st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

>>15057200
Get glasses nigger

>>15057200
lmao people just keep misreading the op

>>15056596
>>15057007
>>15057068
>>15057853
HAHA PRANKED!

>>15057845
I like Shakespeare but his sonnets are crap for the most part. There's no depth, it's all just flowery language about how beautiful his boy-lover is.

Emily Bronte

No coward soul is mine
No trembler in the world's storm-troubled sphere
I see Heaven's glories shine
And Faith shines equal arming me from Fear

O God within my breast
Almighty ever-present Deity
Life, that in me hast rest,
As I Undying Life, have power in Thee

Vain are the thousand creeds
That move men's hearts, unutterably vain,
Worthless as withered weeds
Or idlest froth amid the boundless main

To waken doubt in one
Holding so fast by thy infinity,
So surely anchored on
The steadfast rock of Immortality.

With wide-embracing love
Thy spirit animates eternal years
Pervades and broods above,
Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates and rears

Though earth and moon were gone
And suns and universes ceased to be
And Thou wert left alone
Every Existence would exist in thee

There is not room for Death
Nor atom that his might could render void
Since thou art Being and Breath
And what thou art may never be destroyed.

>>15057879
yeah and then he goes and writes a poem where he calls his girlfriend ugly and it becomes his most famous one lol

>>15057845
I've been reading his sonnets and agree with >>15057879. They are enjoyable to me though.

>>15057879
Are you serious? Firstly, it may be purely trying to create a "beautiful" type emotion but it is not what a modern might call "merely aesthetic poetry".

How penetrating are the end of autumnal days! Ah! so penetrating it hurts! because there are certain delicious sensations and their vagueness do not diminish their intensity; there are none sharper than those belonging to Infinity.
What a grand delight to plunge one's eyes into the immensity of the sky and sea! Solitude, silence, the incomparable chastity of the azur! a small sail shakes in the horizon. Its smallness and isolation imitates my irremediable existence, the monotone melody of the water's swell, all these things think for me, or I for them (because in the greatness of dreams, the "I" disappears quickly!) ; they think, I say, but musically and picturesquely, without arguments, without syllogisms, without deductions. However, these thoughts, either emanating from me or from external things, become too much, unbearable, intense.Voluptuous energy creates sickness and a positive suffering. My much too tensed nerves only give themselves over to sharp and painful vibrations.
And now the sky's profundity alarms me; its limpidness exasperates me. The sea's indifference, the spectacle's immutability, disgust me...Ah! must we eternally have to suffer? or escape eternally from the beautiful? Nature, merciless sorceress, the undefeated rival, leave me alone! Stop trying to tempt my desires and my pride! Beauty's study is a battle in which the artist cries out from fright before being slain.

Rimbaud

Rêvé Pour l'hiver.

L'hiver, nous irons dans un petit wagon rose
Avec des coussins bleus.
Nous serons bien. Un nid de baisers fous repose
Dans chaque coin moelleux.

Tu fermeras l'oeil, pour ne point voir, par la glace,
Grimacer les ombres des soirs,
Ces monstruosités hargneuses, populace
De démons noirs et de loups noirs.

Puis tu te sentiras la joue égratignée…
Un petit baiser, comme une folle araignée,
Te courra par le cou...

Et tu me diras : "Cherche !", en inclinant la tête,
- Et nous prendrons du temps à trouver cette bête
- Qui voyage beaucoup...

>>15056991
imo Yeats is better than Pound, even though Pound was an influence on his best work

>>15057879
>>15057922
It's a narrative retards, most of shakespeare's sonnets are written as part of some sort of narrative
Even fucking wikipedia knows better than you guys holy shit

Here I Love You - Pablo Neruda

Here I love you.
In the dark pines the wind disentangles itself.
The moon glows like phosphorous on the vagrant waters.
Days, all one kind, go chasing each other.

The snow unfurls in dancing figures.
A silver gull slips down from the west.
Sometimes a sail. High, high stars.
Oh the black cross of a ship.
Alone.


Sometimes I get up early and even my soul is wet.
Far away the sea sounds and resounds.
This is a port.

Here I love you.
Here I love you and the horizon hides you in vain.
I love you still among these cold things.
Sometimes my kisses go on those heavy vessels
that cross the sea towards no arrival.
I see myself forgotten like those old anchors.

The piers sadden when the afternoon moors there.
My life grows tired, hungry to no purpose.
I love what I do not have. You are so far.
My loathing wrestles with the slow twilights.
But night comes and starts to sing to me.

The moon turns its clockwork dream.
The biggest stars look at me with your eyes.
And as I love you, the pines in the wind
want to sing your name with their leaves of wire.

>>15056541
Read it again. It took me three tries to get what he was saying.

>>15058457
>dude read my boy loving narration
Shakespeare was gay as fuck

>>15056596
I could read Mary Oliver all damn day.
I've never got stuck into Pound. Did he ever write a poem about his imprisonment?

>>15058742
Yea he wrote some Canto on tp

>>15057363
>>15057344
>>15057279
Cool tome breh

Pound is based to be honest family.

Sail of Claustra, Aelis, Azalais,
As you move among the bright trees;
As your voices, under the larches of Paradise
Make a clear sound,
Sail of Claustra, Aelis, Azalais,
Raimona, Tibors, Berangere,
'Neath the dark gleam of the sky;
Under night, the peacock-throated,
Bring the saffron-coloured shell,
Bring the red gold of the maple,
Bring the light of the birch tree in autumn
Mirals, Cembelins, Audiarda,
Remember this fire.
Elain, Tireis, Alcmena
'Mid the silver rustling of wheat,
Agradiva, Anhes, Ardenca,
From the plum-coloured lake, in stillness,
From the molten dyes of the water
Bring the burnished nature of fire;
Briseis, Lianor, Loica,
From the wide earth and the olive,
From the poplars weeping their amber,
By the bright flame of the fishing torch
Remember this fire.
Midonz, with the gold of the sun, the leaf of the poplar,
by the light of the amber,
Midonz, daughter of the sun, shaft of the tree, silver of
the leaf, light of the yellow of the amber,
Midonz, gift of the God, gift of the light, gift of the
amber of the sun,
Give light to the metal.
Anhes of Rocacoart, Ardenca, Aemelis,
From the power of grass,
From the white, alive in the seed,
From the heat of the bud,
From the copper .of the leaf in autumn,
From the bronze of the maple, from the sap in the
bough;
Lianor, loanna, Loica,
By the stir of the fin,
By the trout asleep in the gray-green of water;
Vanna, Mandetta, Viera, Alodetta, Picarda, Manuela
From the red gleam of copper,
Ysaut, Ydone, slight rustling of leaves,
Vierna, Jocelynn, daring of spirits,
By the mirror of burnished copper,
O Queen of Cypress,
Out of Erebus, the flat-lying breadth,
Breath that is stretched out beneath the world:
Out of Erebus, out of the flat waste of air, lying beneath
the world;
Out of the brown leaf-brown colourless
Bring the imperceptible cool.
Elain, Tireis, Alcmena,
Quiet this metal!
Let the manes put off their terror, let them put off their
aqueous bodies with fire.
Let them assume the milk-white bodies of agate.
Let them draw together the bones of the metal.
Selvaggia, Guiscarda, Mandetta,
Rain flakes of gold on the water
Azure and flaking silver of water,
Alcyon, Phaetona, Alcmena,
Pallor of silver, pale lustre of Latona,
By these, from the malevolence of the dew
Guard this alembic.
Elain, Tireis, Allodetta
Quiet this metal.

>Rigor of beauty is the quest. But how will you find beauty when it is locked in the mind past all remonstrance?"

I promise I'm not going to procrastinate on reading Paterson anymore.

>>15057251
read random poems from a very diverse list of poets, classic and contemporary, until you find a poem/poet you like
then try to understand why you liked it
don't bother with poem reviews, poetry transcends any explanation of it

Last stanza:
Altogether elsewhere, vast
Herds of reindeer move across
Miles and miles of golden moss
Silently and very fast.

>>15056537
LOQUITUR: En Betrans de Born.
Dante Alighieri put this man in hell for that he was a stirrer-up of strife.
Eccovi!
Judge ye!
Have I dug him up again?

The scene is his castle, Altaforte. “Papiols” is his jongleur. “The
Leopard,” the device of Richard (Cœur de Lion).

I

Damn it all! all this our South stinks peace.
You whoreson dog, Papiols, come! Let’s to music!
I have no life save when the swords clash.
But ah! when I see the standards gold, vair, purple, opposing
And the broad fields beneath them turn crimson,
Then howl I my heart nigh mad with rejoicing.

II

In hot summer have I great rejoicing
When the tempests kill the earth’s foul peace,
And the light’nings from black heav’n flash crimson,
And the fierce thunders roar me their music
And the winds shriek through the clouds mad, opposing,
And through all the riven skies God’s swords clash.

III

Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash!
And the shrill neighs of destriers in battle rejoicing,
Spiked breast to spiked breast opposing!
Better one hour’s stour than a year’s peace
With fat boards, bawds, wine and frail music!
Bah! there’s no wine like the blood’s crimson!

IV

And I love to see the sun rise blood-crimson.
And I watch his spears through the dark clash
And it fills all my heart with rejoicing
And prys wide my mouth with fast music
When I see him so scorn and defy peace,
His lone might ’gainst all darkness opposing.

V

The man who fears war and squats opposing
My words for stour, hath no blood of crimson
But is fit only to rot in womanish peace
Far from where worth’s won and the swords clash
For the death of such sluts I go rejoicing;
Yea, I fill all the air with my music.

VI

Papiols, Papiols, to the music!
There’s no sound like to swords swords opposing,
No cry like the battle’s rejoicing
When our elbows and swords drip the crimson
And our charges ’gainst “The Leopard’s” rush clash.
May God damn for ever all who cry “Peace!”

VII

And let the music of the swords make them crimson
Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash!
Hell blot black for always the thought “Peace”!

>>15057187
all namefags are imbeciles, but you in particular (I've read your posts) should attain an hero

>>15057251
It will take years of reading. The time is necessary for your mind to mature.

>>15058805
The recording of Pound reading this is the most intense poetry-reading I've ever heard. If you haven't listened before, do, although it is kind of loud.

https://youtu.be/LbK3oh10m_w

https://www.poetryloverspage.com/poets/pushkin/to_poet.html

>>15056596
Mary Oliver is Rupi Kaur but good

>>15058887
God damn...the first part took off like lightening

>>15056541
He's saying that Rupi is a meme poet, and that Pound will rise from the grave and fist your asshole

>>15058742
The Pisan Cantos are his best work, written while he was imprisoned

>>15056596
>>15056752
>>15056950
>>15057089
>>15057286
>>15058775
>>15057279
Nonsense with random line breaks is not poetry

>>15058499
>>15058805
>>15056820
>>15057229
>>15057270
>>15057344
Not Poetry

>>15057894
>>15057363
Poetry, but shit at it

>>15057100
>>15057845
Fails to invoke any deeper feelings, but doesnt suck

>>15057030
Fantastic though very pretentious

>>15058795
Best one ITT

>>15059627
Mary Oliver writes about nature in a style that is detached from any sense of ego or self. Rupi Kauer writes about her body and feelings, in a way that's totally self-absorbed. The only thing they really have in common is that they're women.

>>15058742
>>15059781
The Pisan Cantos are excellent but are an extremely difficult read.

>>15059798
Go back to the 17th ce nigger

i'm a sucker for yeats :')

>>15056784
How can I be interested in pottery after the holocaust? Easy, I use a kiln instead of an oven.

>>15057187
Ah, the Nabokov imitator! How is your literary career going? Still on its last legs?

>>15059798
Q: And you are...?
A: A total fucking faggot.

>>15056537
>No Robinson Jeffers

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J2ixVJqQYiM

>>15058805
Jeez he was an edgy one wasn't he? wonderful language, but the themes are summed up by an Amon Amarth track

>>15059989
here's some more for you:

The Lake Isle of Innisfree

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

>>15059989
What the fuck is he even on about? I studied English poetry for my MA, I love Irish writers, but I have never understood Yeats. He gives me a feeling of nauseous guilt like when you see a retarded person do something bad. That poem of his about women being like birds makes me want to stop reading and play video games for the rest of the day.
>>15060520
This is sweet and nice. It's tough being Irish but it's nice to be outdoors. I wish he'd written more like it so I wouldn't be the only Anglophone on the planet who's bamboozed by the guy.