/lit/ - Literature

no

>>21051516
down the toilet, look at me
what a silly thing to do
hope nobody takes a pee
yippy dippy dippy doo
- thomas pynchon

typed it from memory, too

a lot probably... perhaps under milk wood

that time of year thou may'st in me behold
when yellow leaves, or few, or none do hang
upon the boughs which shake against the cold
bare ruined briars, where late the sweet birds sang
In me thou see'st the twilight of such day
as when the sunset fadeth in the west
which by and by black night doth take away
deaths second self, which seals up all in rest
In me thou seest the glowing of such fire
that upon the ashes of its youth doth lie
as the deathbed whereon it must expire
consumed by that it was nourished by
this thou perceivest, which makes your love more strong
to love that well which thou must leave 'ere long

something
...about..
...rai......
.......n....
......d.....
..............
.......r......
.........o...
.......p....
.............
.......s....

>>21051516
Which board has the best poets?
My nomination goes to /ck/

>>21051516
A true masterpiece

>>21051688
this isnt 4chan bro wtf is this
4chan is blue or orange

>>21051729
>Dark mode chrome exstention. https://chrome.google.com/webstore/detail/dark-reader/eimadpbcbfnmbkopoojfekhnkhdbieeh?hl=en

Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy’s Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota

Over my head, I see the bronze butterfly,
Asleep on the black trunk,
Blowing like a leaf in green shadow.
Down the ravine behind the empty house,
The cowbells follow one another
Into the distances of the afternoon.
To my right,
In a field of sunlight between two pines,
The droppings of last year’s horses
Blaze up into golden stones.
I lean back, as the evening darkens and comes on.
A chicken hawk floats over, looking for home.
I have wasted my life.

(Ekaterinburg, Russia,17 July 1918)

His mouth agape, as though still asking questions,
the Tsar lies at the end of his long reign.
(Blue lips almost struggle to explain,
caught in the halfway realm of last expressions.)

The Empress sprawls, hands crossing her stained bodice.
Behind her rest the bayoneted heirs,
blood in pools around their jewelled stares.
Yurovsky stands above the heap of bodies.

A Chekist practiced in the art of killing,
he commends his men as gun smoke settles.
Their trigger-fingers, though, are cocked and curled,

their executioner eyes more than willing—
all of them, like him, poor boys from shtetls,
still eager to help mend the broken world.

>>21051516
sex with this

>>21051797
this

"Love seeketh not itself to please,
Nor for itself hath any care,
But for another gives its ease,
And builds a Heaven in Hell's despair."

So sung a little Clod of Clay
Trodden with the cattle's feet,
But a Pebble of the brook
Warbled out these metres meet:

"Love seeketh only self to please,
To bind another to its delight,
Joys in another's loss of ease,
And builds a Hell in Heaven's despite."

there once was a man from Nantucket,
whose dick was so long he could suck it.
he said with a grin, as he wiped off his chin
"if my ear were a cunt, I could fuck it."

I'm Nobody! Who are you?
Are you – Nobody – too?
Then there's a pair of us!
Don't tell! they'd advertise – you know!

How dreary – to be – Somebody!
How public – like a Frog –
To tell one's name – the livelong June –
To an admiring Bog!

This is the Night Mail crossing the border
Bringing the cheque and the postal order
Letters for the rich
Letters for the poor
The shop at the corner
And the girl next door

>>21052369
Based Auden enjoyer

She is hollow she is weak
Sex with girls is what I seek
Longest shaft I bring with me
Fresh and clean For the world to see!
Femcel takes me by the hand
Takes me to her merry band
I show her my sweaty pearls
She grins and shows me hers
Bandmates turn out to be guys
Sex and herpes on the rise!
I go home and wash my hair
It's not enough I do declare
Sex and herpes caused by lust
I go home and bite the dust

>>21051634
have you read carpenter's gothic?

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=er83Icj4RYk

>>21051729
this >>21051748 or an archive

>>21051758
This is weirdly soulless. Is it become it's commie shit?

>>21051516
The Raven, my favorite Poe-m

I, son of carbon and ammonia, monster of murk and splendor, I’ve
suffered the zodiac’s malign influence since infancy’s epigenesis.

Profoundly hypochondriac, I detest my environment....

Anguish rises to my mouth like the death-cries fleeing the mouth of
a heart-attack.

Already the worm—this laborer of ruins—eats the addled blood of
carnage and declares war against life in general.

It takes a peek at my eyes to gnaw on them and grants me just my
hair in the inorganic indifference of the earth!

I before me
Except after pee

woman on the street
by
Charles Bukowski

her shoes themselves
would light my room
like many candles.

she walks like all things
shining on glass,
like all things
that make a difference.

she walks away.

Candy is Dandy,
But Liquor is Quicker.

Roald Dahl.

>yes, it does appear in poetry collections.

>>21051516
She turned into a ho. Plato was right that you have to wait. Youth is deceptive.

Here I sit
All broken hearted
Came to shit
But only farted

To see a World in a Grain of Sand, and
A Heaven in a Wild Flower
Hold Infinity in the palm of your Hand
And Eternity in an hour

>>21051516
I wish I could talk to girls

>>21052369
Also has the letter
For Herr Himmler

Timing him proper
For the world uncover

Thousand year freedom
From gypsy behavior

That's what's promised
From the aid of the savior

I wanna be something good
I wanna do something right
But how can I live when I can barely survive

>>21051516
like the hyacinth
in the mountains
that the shepherds crush underfoot

- sappho

O rose thou art sick
The invisible worm
That flies through the night
In howling storm

Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy
And his dark, secret love
Will thy life destroy

I think The Prophet by Stephen Crane was the first I memorised.

Stopping by Woods and The Road Not Travelled, I learned them next. Larkin, This be the Verse. To be or Not to Be speech. Poem 40 from Shropshire Lad. The Sick Rose. I know a number of others, maybe 12 total.

I wish I knew all of Prufrock but I never bothered to remember more than a few lines.

>>21051756
That is one of my favourite poems. I love the book it's from, The Branch . . .

Forbidden Magic
There came to me a Man one summer night,
When all the world lay silent in starlight bright,
And moon crossed my room with ghostly bars.
He whispered hints of weird, unhallowed yarns;
I followed – then in waves of spectral cold
And mounted shimmery ladders within my soul
Where moon-pale spiders, huge as dragons, fight –
Great forms like moths, with wings of white.

In the waking world the sighing fool sings
To little things wrapped under false-dawn’s gleams;
Rose tinted shone the sky-line’s sight;
I then rose in fear, and with blood and might
Beat out the iron fabrics of my dreams,
And shaped them to a web and took the moon for me.

>>21051516
I wandered lonely as a cloud,
that floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once something something,
Something something daffodils.

William Wordsworth

>>21051516
Some of God's creatures you look at and think:
does this maiden's poop even stink?

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-Percy Bysshe Shelley

Herinnering aan Holland - H. Marsman

Denkend aan Holland
zie ik breede rivieren
traag door oneindig
laagland gaan,
rijen ondenkbaar
ijle populieren
als hooge pluimen
aan den einder staan;
en in de geweldige
ruimte verzonken
de boerderijen
verspreid door het land,
boomgroepen, dorpen,
geknotte torens,
kerken en olmen
in een grootsch verband.
de lucht hangt er laag
en de zon wordt er langzaam
in grijze veelkleurige
dampen gesmoord,
en in alle gewesten
wordt de stem van het water
met zijn eeuwige rampen
gevreesd en gehoord.

>>21051516
https://youtu.be/UfR7I_rPFMk

Mlačna noć; u selu lavež; kasan
Ćuk il' netopir;
Ljubav cvijeća - miris jak i strasan
Slavi tajni pir.

Sitni cvrčak sjetno cvrči, jasan
Kao srebren vir;
Teške oči sklapaju se na san,
S neba rosi mir.

S mrkog tornja bat
Broji pospan sat,
Blaga svjetlost sipi sa visina;

Kroz samoću, muk,
Sve je tiši huk:
Željeznicu guta već daljina.
Croatian i know but its a wonderful poem by a wonderful author about the passage of life

Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead
etc.

The tiger
He destroyed his cage
Yes
YES
The tiger is out

>>21051516
Wee, sleeket, cowran, tim’rous beastie,
O, what a panic’s in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi’ bickerin brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee
Wi’ murd’ring pattle!

I’m truly sorry Man’s dominion
Has broken Nature’s social union,
An’ justifies that ill opinion,
Which makes thee startle,
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
An’ fellow-mortal!

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen-icker in a thrave
’S a sma’ request:
I’ll get a blessin wi’ the lave,
An’ never miss ’t!

Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin!
It’s silly wa’s the win’s are strewin!
An’ naething, now, to big a new ane,
O’ foggage green!
An’ bleak December’s winds ensuin,
Baith snell an’ keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare an’ waste,
An’ weary Winter comin fast,
An’ cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell,
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro’ thy cell.

That wee-bit heap o’ leaves an’ stibble
Has cost thee monie a weary nibble!
Now thou’s turn’d out, for a’ thy trouble,
But house or hald,
To thole the Winter’s sleety dribble,
An’ cranreuch cauld!

But Mousie, thou art no thy-lane,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men
Gang aft agley,
An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain,
For promis’d joy!

Still, thou art blest, compar’d wi’ me!
The present only toucheth thee:
But Och! I backward cast my e’e,
On prospects drear!
An’ forward tho’ I canna see,
I guess an’ fear!

>it is the blight man was born for
>it is margaret you mourn for
did I get that right? Does it really end in "for" twice?

Back out of all this now too much for us, back in a time made simple by the loss of detail, burned, dissolved, and broken off like graveyard marble sculpture in the weather. There is a house that is no more a house, upon a farm that is no more a farm, and in a town that is no more a town. The road there, if you let a guide direct you, who only has at heart your getting lost, may seem as if it should have been a quarry; great monolithic knees the former town long since gave up pretense of keeping covered. And there's a story in a book about it. Beside the wear and tear of iron wagon wheels, the ledges show lines ruled southeast northwest, the chisel marks of an enormous glacier that braced its feet against the arctic pole. You need not mind a certain coolness form him, still said to haunt this side of panther mountain; nor need you mind the serial ordeal of being watched from forty cellar holes as if by eye pairs out of forty firkins. As for the woods' excitement over you, that sends light rustle rushes to their leaves, charge that to upstart inexperience. Where were they all not twenty years ago? They think too much of having shaded out a few old pecker fretted apple trees. Make yourself up a cheering song of how someone's road home from work this once was, who may be just ahead of you on foot, or creaking with a buggy load of grain. The height of the adventure is the height of country, where two village cultures faded into each other. Both of them are lost; and if you're lost enough to find yourself by now, pull in your ladder road behind you and put a sign up closed to all but me. Then make yourself at home. The only field now left is no bigger than a harness gall. First there's the children's house of make believe, some scattered dishes underneath a pine, the playthings in the playhouse of the children. Weep for what little things could make them glad. Then for the house that is no more a house, but only a belilaced cellar hole, slowly closing like a dent in dough. This is no playhouse, but a house in earnest. Your destination and your destiny's, a brook which was the water of the house, cold as a spring, as yet so near its source, too lofty and original to rage. We know the valley streams that when aroused will leave their tatters hung on barb and thorn. I have kept hidden in the instep arch of an old cedar at the waterside, a broken drinking goblet like the grail, kept hidden so the wrong ones can't find it, so can't get saved, as St. Mark says they mustn't. I stole the goblet from the children's play house. Here are your waters and your watering place. drink and be whole again beyond confusion.

>>21056321
Impressive.

In some new brain the sleeping dust will waken;
Courage and love that conquered and were done,
Called from a night by thought of man forsaken,
Will know again the gladness of the sun.

>>21051516

Agnes’ song by Lee Chang-dong

How is it over there?
How lonely is it?
Is it still glowing red at sunset?
Are the birds still singing on the way to the forest?
Can you receive the letter I dared not send?
Can I convey…
the confession I dared not make?
Will time pass and roses fade?
Now it’s time to say goodbye
Like the wind that lingers and then goes,
just like shadows
To promises that never came,
to the love sealed till the end.

To the grass kissing my weary ankles
And to the tiny footsteps following me
It’s time to say goodbye
Now as darkness falls
Will a candle be lit again?
Here I pray…
nobody shall cry…
and for you to know…
how deeply I loved you
The long wait in the middle of a hot summer day
An old path resembling my father’s face
Even the lonesome wild flower shyly turning away
How deeply I loved
How my heart fluttered at hearing faint song
I bless you
Before crossing the black river
With my soul’s last breath
I am beginning to dream…
a bright sunny morning…
again I awake blinded by the light…
and meet you…
standing by me.

>>21051516
some kid made a better haiku than I could ever think of
I consider myself pretty creative but I don't think I'll ever be THIS creative

>>21051516

>>21051659
It's pleasing to me that I'm not the only who screenshots 4chan posts like that.

>>21051729
why is anyone not using style: Tomorrow?

>>21051516
Hickory dickory dock
Your bitch jumped on my cock
I gave her my boner
She was the moaner
Woke up and it was my just my sock

>>21051516
More than annoyed
Sad.

More than sad
Unhappy.

More than unhappy
Suffering.

More than suffering
Abandoned.

More than abandoned
Alone in the world.

More than alone
Exiled.

More than exiled
Dead.

More than dead
Forgotten.

Plus qu’ennuyée
Triste.

Plus que triste
Malheureuse.

Plus que malheureuse
Souffrante.

Plus que souffrante
Abandonnée.

Plus qu’abandonnée
Seule au monde.

Plus que seule au monde
Exilée.

Plus qu’exilée
Morte.

Plus que morte
Oubliée.

Marie Laurencin. 1917

this certified hood classic i learned in italian elementary school
La nebbia a gl’irti colli
piovigginando sale,
e sotto il maestrale
urla e biancheggia il mar
ma per le vie del borgo
dal ribollir dei tini
va l’aspro odor de i vini
l’anime a rallegrar.
Gira su’ ceppi accesi
lo spiedo scoppiettando:
sta il cacciator fischiando
su l’uscio a rimirar
tra le rossastre nubi
stormi d’uccelli neri,
com’esuli pensieri,
nel vespero migrar