/lit/ - Literature

Ohara

No poetry gives one feels. It simply bring one closer to one's own feels; it bridges the feel gap created by insecurity and self-awareness. I don't read much poetry so I just like your typical Wordsworth and Blake.

>Which poetry
>What poet
choose one, fool.
I like Bly. He gives me intellectual boners.

sharon olds
ted hughes

poetry in the form of a blowjob

All of the English Romantics except Blake, but especially Keats & Shelley. Hart Crane, Elizabeth Bishop, Allen Grossman, Jonathan Swift, Alexander Pope, and Shakespeare. None had an effect on me greater than Allen Grossman, though. His ideas 'saturated sight' and helped me experience poetry in a completely different way

for fuck's sake it's FEELINGS not FEELS

>>2843828
I haven't seen that archaic version of the word in like 6 months

>>2843828
it's feels

I carry your heart with me (I carry it in
my heart) I am never without it (anywhere
I go you go, my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling)

I fear
no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet ) I want
no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart

I carry your heart (I carry it in my heart)
- e.e. cummings

>>2843828
>feelings
I know that's an acceptable alternate version of the word but it gives me an awkward feel.

>>2843828
>2012
>still using "feelings"
ISHYGDDT

For Anne Gregory, by Yeats

'NEVER shall a young man,
Thrown into despair
By those great honey-coloured
Ramparts at your ear,
Love you for yourself alone
And not your yellow hair.'
'But I can get a hair-dye
And set such colour there,
Brown, or black, or carrot,
That young men in despair
May love me for myself alone
And not my yellow hair.'
'I heard an old religious man
But yesternight declare
That he had found a text to prove
That only God, my dear,
Could love you for yourself alone
And not your yellow hair.'

>>2843845
>tfw your exgf sent you that poem in a facebook message a month after you broke up with her

>>2843873
>tfw someone breaks up with a girl who likes cummings

I wish I could break up with someone like that!

>>2843873
>>2843890

>tfw girl you love loves cummings and eliot and you're not sure if she loves you back

Hey shitheads, this is a poetry thread, not a lament for your mediocre and in all likelihood, brain-dead ex-girlfriends.

Out, Out, by Robert Frost

The buzz-saw snarled and rattled in the yard
And made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood,
Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it.
And from there those that lifted eyes could count
Five mountain ranges one behind the other
Under the sunset far into Vermont.
And the saw snarled and rattled, snarled and rattled,
As it ran light, or had to bear a load.
And nothing happened: day was all but done.
Call it a day, I wish they might have said
To please the boy by giving him the half hour
That a boy counts so much when saved from work.
His sister stood beside them in her apron
To tell them “Supper.” At the word, the saw,
As if to prove saws knew what supper meant,
Leaped out at the boy’s hand, or seemed to leap—
He must have given the hand. However it was,
Neither refused the meeting. But the hand!
The boy’s first outcry was a rueful laugh,
As he swung toward them holding up the hand
Half in appeal, but half as if to keep
The life from spilling. Then the boy saw all—
Since he was old enough to know, big boy
Doing a man’s work, though a child at heart—
He saw all spoiled. “Don’t let him cut my hand off—
The doctor, when he comes. Don’t let him, sister!”
So. But the hand was gone already.
The doctor put him in the dark of ether.
He lay and puffed his lips out with his breath.
And then—the watcher at his pulse took fright.
No one believed. They listened at his heart.
Little—less—nothing!—and that ended it.
No more to build on there. And they, since they
Were not the one dead, turned to their affairs

>>2843892
Loves Eliot? That's the sign of a true whore.

>>2843933

Blasphemy.

I bought a book of poetry written by my teacher. I absolutely love a poem in it:

Displacement
Take that last night in Rome.

The alley's streaks of light
brushed gold into the air.
Music from a cafe sang stay, stay
stay another month amores,
notes that tugged our coat sleeves,
slowed our walk to a stroll
and then a stop below a balcony
lined with tomato plants,
their red more seductive
than any we could grow back home.

You looked at me as if my hair were black
instead of blonde, as if I sang instead of spoke.
When I rolled the language off my tongue
you bent to kiss a different pair of lips
than the one you know from home.
That alone was enough
to make me want to stay.

Let the fingerprints you left on my skin
in that country, that city, that villa
floating with dim light and distant voices
in the universe -- let these fingerprints
stand for the syllables of a new language,
words we're learning all over

Let the displacement of love into a strange land
stamp the body's passport with palmarosa
and sweet orange, cinnamon and frangipani,
scents we carry home when this journey ends.

>>2844007
Forgot to mention: her name is Carla Funk

http://vocaroo.com/i/s0M9NzbGFQdt
Banjo Paterson gives me srs feels.

feels? pretty much any good poem will do. i love poetry!

here's a lovely one

SONG.
by John Donne


GO and catch a falling star,
Get with child a mandrake root,
Tell me where all past years are,
Or who cleft the devil's foot,
Teach me to hear mermaids singing,
Or to keep off envy's stinging,
And find
What wind
Serves to advance an honest mind.

If thou be'st born to strange sights,
Things invisible to see,
Ride ten thousand days and nights,
Till age snow white hairs on thee,
Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me,
All strange wonders that befell thee,
And swear,
No where
Lives a woman true and fair.

If thou find'st one, let me know,
Such a pilgrimage were sweet;
Yet do not, I would not go,
Though at next door we might meet,
Though she were true, when you met her,
And last, till you write your letter,
Yet she
Will be
False, ere I come, to two, or three.

>>2844007
oh, man, this frost one is great. first time reading it. thanks for posting it.

Not Waving but Drowning by Stevie Smith.

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.

got me all introspective and shit when I read it in high school. Sorta hard to get into nowadays, tome anyway.

They flee from me, by Sir Thomas Wyatt


They flee from me that sometime did me seek
With naked foot, stalking in my chamber.
I have seen them gentle, tame, and meek,
That now are wild and do not remember
That sometime they put themself in danger
To take bread at my hand; and now they range,
Busily seeking with a continual change.

Thanked be fortune it hath been otherwise
Twenty times better; but once in special,
In thin array after a pleasant guise,
When her loose gown from her shoulders did fall,
And she me caught in her arms long and small;
Therewithall sweetly did me kiss
And softly said, “Dear heart, how like you this?”

It was no dream: I lay broad waking.
But all is turned thorough my gentleness
Into a strange fashion of forsaking;
And I have leave to go of her goodness,
And she also, to use newfangleness.
But since that I so kindly am served
I would fain know what she hath deserved.

and here's a reading of it:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-wPv1HNCRzQ

The pest pulled up, propped his pushbike at a pillar box, pulled his 'peen, paused at a post and pissed.

'Piss in the proper place' pronounced a perturbed pedestrian, and presently, this particular part of the planet was plunged into a panorama of public pressure and pleasure through pain.

The pandemonium prompted the police, who patrolled the precinct in panda cars, to pull up and peruse the problem, while pickpockets picked pockets in pairs.

'Arrest the pest who so pointedly pissed in that public place' pleaded the peeved people, practically palpitating.

The powerful police picked up the pest: pronounced him a poof, a pansy, a punk rocker, a pinko, a poodle poker. they picked him up, pummeled his pelvis, punctured his pipes, played ping-pong with his pubic parts, and packed him in a place of penal putrifaction.

The period in prison prooved pitiless. the pendulous pressure of a painless personality purge prompted the pest to ponder upon progessive politics... and a workable prognosis.

He put pen to paper and provatively and persuasively propogated his personal political premise -- pity: a police provacateur put poison pellets in the pest's porridge. the police provacateur was promoted, and the pest was presented with the Pulitzer peace prize... posthumously.