/lit/ - Literature

[Anonymous No.10974362]

I seriously need some inspiration. Show me the absolute best poems of all time.

[Anonymous No.10974369]

>>10974362

[Anonymous No.10974471]

>>10974369
fpbp

[Anonymous No.10974478]

>>10974362

[Anonymous No.10974496]

>>10974478
t. Nelson Mandela

[Anonymous No.10974500]

>>10974369
Isn't this death grips?

[Anonymous No.10974501]

>>10974478
Shit

[Anonymous No.10974520]

>>10974500
It's Neutral Milk Hotel.

[Anonymous No.10974524]

>>10974501
why is victorian poetry so shit

[Anonymous No.10974551]

this poem is fucking savage. he will go down in history for this masterpiece

[Anonymous No.10974559]

>>10974524
Imagine actually thinking this

To Autumn, by John Keats
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,--
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft,
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

[Anonymous No.10974574]

It was Christmas Eve babe
In the drunk tank
An old man said to me, won't see another one
And then he sang a song
The Rare Old Mountain Dew
I turned my face away
And dreamed about you
Got on a lucky one
Came in eighteen to one
I've got a feeling
This year's for me and you
So happy Christmas
I love you baby
I can see a better time
When all our dreams come true
They've got cars big as bars
They've got rivers of gold
But the wind goes right through you
It's no place for the old
When you first took my hand
On a cold Christmas Eve
You promised me
Broadway was waiting for me
You were handsome
You were pretty
Queen of New York City
When the band finished playing
They howled out for more
Sinatra was swinging,
All the drunks they were singing
We kissed on a corner
Then danced through the night
The boys of the NYPD choir
Were singing "Galway Bay"
And the bells were ringing out
For Christmas day
You're a bum
You're a punk
You're an old slut on junk
Lying there almost dead on a drip in that bed
You scumbag, you maggot
You cheap lousy faggot
Happy Christmas your arse
I pray God it's our last
The boys of the NYPD choir
Still singing "Galway Bay"
And the bells were ringing out
For Christmas day
I could have been someone
Well so could anyone
You took my dreams from me
When I first found you
I kept them with me babe
I put them with my own
Can't make it all alone
I've built my dreams around you

[Anonymous No.10974578]

>>10974500

[Anonymous No.10974596]

>>10974362
There was another poem like this that was pretty good. It was about leaves, or something. Anyone got it?

[Anonymous No.10974628]

>>10974520
baka

[Anonymous No.10974640]

>>10974559
All poets think this. The Victorian era was horrid all around.

[Anonymous No.10974643]

>>10974496
That’s a funny way to spell Tim McVeigh

[Anonymous No.10974646]

>>10974596
that one wasn't as good

[Anonymous No.10974654]

>>10974640
Tennyson and Hopkins are two of the greatest poets in the language. I don't really care for Victorian prose but it's silly to dismiss it as horrid

[Anonymous No.10974657]

>>10974596
Nathan is /ourguy/

[Anonymous No.10974682]

>>10974646
This is true, nothing can match the sheer dynamism and force behind Nael's magnum opus
but i liked it

[Anonymous No.10974692]

The walls of this hotel are paper-thin
Last night I heard you making love to him
The struggle mouth to mouth and limb to limb
The grunt of unity when he came in
I stood there with my ear against the wall
I was not seized by jealousy at all
In fact a burden lifted from my soul
I heard that love was out of my control
A heavy burden lifted from my soul
I heard that love was out of my control

I listened to your kisses at the door
I never heard the world so clear before
You ran your bath and you began to sing
I felt so good I couldn't feel a thing

I stood there with my ear against the wall ...

And I can't wait to tell you to your face
And I can't wait for you to take my place
You are The Naked Angel In My Heart
You are The Woman With Her Legs Apart
It's written on the walls of this hotel
You go to heaven once you've been to hell

A heavy burden lifted from my soul
I heard that love was out of my control

[Anonymous No.10974717]

>>10974654
I wouldn't count either of those two as poets at all really. The old ornate Victorian tradition was totally broken. English poetry was reborn with the war poets who had to throw off that poetic system

[Anonymous No.10974756]

friends! if i may interrupt right quick

i know y’all working, busy smoking & busy
trying not to smoke, busy with the kids & moms

& busy with alone, but i have just seen
two boys—yes, black—on bikes—also—summer children
basketball shorts & they outside shoes, wild

laughing bout something i couldn’t hear
over my own holler, trying to steady
the wheel & not hit they asses as they swerved
frienddrunk, making their little loops, sun-lotioned

faces screwed up with that first & cleanest love
we forget to name as such, &, hear me out
i’m not trying to dis lil dude, but in this gold hour
he kind of looked like Francine off Arthur
same monkey mouth & all, ole & i say hey looking-ass boy

tho in a beautiful way, the best beautiful
same as i know all of us have looked
like something off when backlit by love. o loves,
y’all ugly asses have crowned me the worst names:
wayne brady, gay wiz khalifa, all kinds of bitches
& fags (tho only with my bitches & fags), all kinds

of shit &, once, mark of buddha that year acne
scored my forehead with its bumpy faith.
my niggas & my niggas who are not niggas
i been almost-pissed myself, almost been boxin’
been tears & snot off your dozen wonders
been the giddy swine dancing the flame.
o my many hearts, y’all booty-faced

weird-ass ole mojo-jojo-looking asses
dusty chambers where my living dwells
roast me. name me in the old ways, your shit-
talk a river i wade, howling until it takes me.
i can’t stop laughing, more river wades
down my throat. could be drowning
could be becoming the water, could be
a baptism from the inside out.

don’t save me, i don’t wanna be saved.
i’ve died laughing before, been seen
god’s face & you have her teeth, my nig.
but hers ain’t as yellow as them saffron shits
you keep stashed in your gloryfoul mouth
my friend! my friends! my niggas! my wives!
i got a crush on each one of your dumb faces
smashing into my heart like idiot cardinals into glass
but i am a big-ass glass bird, a stupid monster

crashing through the window & becoming
it just to make you laugh. Andrew used to say
friendship is so friendship & ain’t it
even after Andrew gave it on over to whatever
he was still my nigga. when they turned his body
to dust he was still my dusty-ass boy.
don’t you hear it? the dust on the fan calls me
a bum, says my hairline looks like it’s thinking
about retirement. the dust in the car says i look
like a chubby slave, says i look too drunk, takes

1/2

[Anonymous No.10974762]

my keys, drives me home. the wind is tangled
with the dust of the dead homies, carrying us over
to them, giggling in the mirror. hear them. hear
your long-gone girl tease your hair on the bus. hear them
rolling when you sweep broom across the beaten floor.
i miss them. all the dead. how young. how silly
to miss what you will become. i apologize.
sometimes it just catches up in me. love
& ghost gets caught up in us like wind & birds
trapped in a sheet just the same. & my friends
is some birds, some chicken-head muhfuckas

who i would legit stomp a nigga for, do you feel me?
when they buried my nigga i put on my timbs
walked into that hot august tried to beat his name
out the dirt. i beat the earth like a nigga.
i threw hands at the earth like a punk muhfucka
& the ground chuckled, said my nigga. what is you doing!
you can’t hear the wind drunk off the kindred lent?
can you hear that great roll from way off like a big nigga
laughing in an alley! how your dead auntie laugh
when she see you still ain’t grew into that big-ass head!
like your real friend laugh when you still the same ugly
as yesterday! same ugly as always! same ugly as their last life!

2/2

[Anonymous No.10974771]

>>10974717
Neither Tennyson nor (especially) Hopkins can be considered part of the "old ornate Victorian tradition." Hopkins was as much as innovator as Eliot, let alone the war poets. And a determination to reject traditional form as a criterion in aesthetic judgement is as silly as an obsession with it.

[Anonymous No.10974786]

Start with the /lit/

Travelogue

"Pray What is the news from Babylon?
Does Xerxes ancient town,
Still hold inside the Lion's Pride?
where once the world bowed down?"
"There is no tale of Babylon,
that great long-storied land
The Lion's gates are broken now.
The fields are choked with sand"

"You Tread the Path from Illion
Where gods and men did greet,
Does Priams mighty forteress still,
Show all assault defeat?"
"What gods have sown, the raven reaps,
I offer you no joy
neath broken stones her treasure sleeps
I bear no news of Troy."

"Speak, pilgrim, of Jerusalem,
I know you passed that way.
The palmer's badge adorn's you yet:
does David's line hold sway?"
"Where prophets sowed the seed of love,
the weeds of hate now grow:
the peace that was Jerusalem
was broken long ago."

"well, traveller, What of Camelot?
does Arthur's blood still reign?
Do boldy go the shining knights
across the feudal plain?"
"A trusted friend's betrayal;
a bastard's vaunting greed.
The moon that watches camelot
sees stones upon a mead."

"Good host, I beg you, ask no more
you waken in my mind
the shadows of vain, fallen hopes
I fain would leave behind.
You long for comfort; this i know,
that grandeur might abide,
that strength of stone and arms and hearts
can bear the waxing tide,
And Gilgamesh the strong yet stands
upon his mighty wall.
That works endure the waning sands,
that towers might not fall.
Content yourself that legends live
where men are just or brave,
and deeds of lives may yet survive
their castles in the grave.
I will not comfort you with hopes
that Rome may live again;
don't ask me of Tenoctitlan,
I've no news from Berlin.
In sorrow i depart you now;
regretting lenten cheer.
But the road is long
towards London town,
i cannot linger here."

[Anonymous No.10974798]

THE GARRETT
by Ezra Pound

Come, let us pity those who are better off than we are.
Come, my friend, and remember
that the rich have butlers and no friends,
And we have friends and no butlers.
Come, let us pity the married and the unmarried.

Dawn enters with little feet
like a gilded Pavlova
And I am near my desire.
Nor has life in it aught better
Than this hour of clear coolness
the hour of waking together.

[Anonymous No.10974799]

[Anonymous No.10974811]

>>10974798
That was lovely, thank you anon

[Anonymous No.10974834]

>>10974771
In England, Tennyson is identified with what has become unpopular in Victorianism, look at what Hardy said about him. And the war poets didn't reject tradition (many picked up old Irish or Welsh tradition), just this particular tradition, and in a way that no one preceding them had (Hopkins resembled Wordsworth more than you might think)

[Anonymous No.10974844]

>>10974798
Pound was such a fraud wasn't he

[Anonymous No.10974856]

>>10974362
Apparently with no surprise
To any happy flower,
The frost beheads it at its play
In accidental power.
The blond assassin passes on,
The sun proceeds unmoved
To measure off another say
For an approving God.

[Anonymous No.10974872]

>>10974692
strongly relate, happened recently ?

[Anonymous No.10974922]

My love,
Like an ocean,
Big--fuck. Fuck watering;
Plants wither--
They die.
So shall you.
Someday, I will too.
Curse him--
Curse the greedy Jew.
Love me.

[Anonymous No.10974932]

My favorite poem

I

Sur l'onde calme et noire où dorment les étoiles
La blanche Ophélia flotte comme un grand lys,
Flotte très lentement, couchée en ses longs voiles...
- On entend dans les bois lointains des hallalis.

Voici plus de mille ans que la triste Ophélie
Passe, fantôme blanc, sur le long fleuve noir
Voici plus de mille ans que sa douce folie
Murmure sa romance à la brise du soir

Le vent baise ses seins et déploie en corolle
Ses grands voiles bercés mollement par les eaux ;
Les saules frissonnants pleurent sur son épaule,
Sur son grand front rêveur s'inclinent les roseaux.

Les nénuphars froissés soupirent autour d'elle ;
Elle éveille parfois, dans un aune qui dort,
Quelque nid, d'où s'échappe un petit frisson d'aile :
- Un chant mystérieux tombe des astres d'or

II

O pâle Ophélia ! belle comme la neige !
Oui tu mourus, enfant, par un fleuve emporté !
C'est que les vents tombant des grand monts de Norwège
T'avaient parlé tout bas de l'âpre liberté ;

C'est qu'un souffle, tordant ta grande chevelure,
À ton esprit rêveur portait d'étranges bruits,
Que ton coeur écoutait le chant de la Nature
Dans les plaintes de l'arbre et les soupirs des nuits ;

C'est que la voix des mers folles, immense râle,
Brisait ton sein d'enfant, trop humain et trop doux ;
C'est qu'un matin d'avril, un beau cavalier pâle,
Un pauvre fou, s'assit muet à tes genoux !

Ciel ! Amour ! Liberté ! Quel rêve, ô pauvre Folle !
Tu te fondais à lui comme une neige au feu :
Tes grandes visions étranglaient ta parole
- Et l'Infini terrible éffara ton oeil bleu !

III

- Et le Poète dit qu'aux rayons des étoiles
Tu viens chercher, la nuit, les fleurs que tu cueillis ;
Et qu'il a vu sur l'eau, couchée en ses longs voiles,
La blanche Ophélia flotter, comme un grand lys.

Arthur Rimbaud

[Anonymous No.10974959]

>>10974811
no prob.

>>10974844
he has a few gems tho.

[Anonymous No.10975009]

Hark ser Pavel, and good day,
My Christian name is CIA.

We journeyed to the meeting zone,
But the doctor was not alone.

I fear doctor this party ends,
Our deal did not include your friends.

Nay agent, you are incorrect.
These men do not my life protect.

Worry not, ser CIA.
For these men you need not pay.

Good ser, I plainly fail to see,
What use these men would be to me.

Well agent, these hooded knaves,
Nearly put us in our graves.
They laid in wait to spring their trap,
Ser Pavel they aimed to kidnap.
The rogue who set them on their task,
Was the man who wears the mask.

Surely you do not mean Bane?
Alright, embark upon our plane.
Our Lords in Langley I'll notify,
That with the doctor we now fly.

[Anonymous No.10975018]

>>10975009
rewrite this in iambic pentameter you fag

[Anonymous No.10975110]

i was
born
in a small
village

i was
just
a child
when the soldiers came

[Anonymous No.10975119]

Banjo the motherfucking Patterson.

I served my time, in the days gone by,
In the railway’s clash and clang,
And I worked my way to the end, and I
Was the head of the ‘Flying Gang.’
’Twas a chosen band that was kept at hand
In case of an urgent need;
Was it south or north, we were started forth
And away at our utmost speed.

If word reached town that a bridge was down,
The imperious summons rang —
‘Come out with the pilot engine sharp,
And away with the flying gang.’

Then a piercing scream and a rush of steam
As the engine moved ahead;
With measured beat by the slum and street
Of the busy town we fled,
By the uplands bright and the homesteads white,
With the rush of the western gale,
And the pilot swayed with the pace we made
As she rocked on the ringing rail.

And the country children clapped their hands
As the engine’s echoes rang,
But their elders said: ‘There is work ahead
When they send for the flying gang.’

Then across the miles of the saltbush plain
That gleamed with the morning dew,
Where the grasses waved like the ripening grain
The pilot engine flew,
A fiery rush in the open bush
Where the grade marks seemed to fly,
And the order sped on the wires ahead,
The pilot must go by.

The Governor’s special must stand aside,
And the fast express go hang;
Let your orders be that the line is free
For the boys of the flying gang.

[Anonymous No.10975151]

>>10974657
that's pretty clever for a nine year old

[Anonymous No.10975202]

>>10974478
When I was in high school I memorized this and recited it in my head over and over during cross country races. Made me feel better and I could fit the rhythm to my pace.

[Anonymous No.10975210]

>>10975202
did you swing your arms side to side in a necklacing motion?

[Anonymous No.10975212]

>>10974799
I don't speak Chinese anon what does it say

[Anonymous No.10975216]

>>10975210
No. What're you talking about

[Anonymous No.10975240]

>>10974844
Yes, the man that discovered Eliot and Joyce, and revived Provencal poetry for modernity was a fraud.

[Anonymous No.10975243]

>>10974369
unironically I believe Jeff publishes poems and fiction under a pseudonym. Almost guarantee it. I bet it's good.

[Anonymous No.10975250]

>>10974844
What the fuck do these posts even mean? I've seen several posts on /lit/ complaining about Pound, but without exception they're never qualified or expanded upon.
It's as if these posts are just parroting some prior unsubstantiated claim.

[Anonymous No.10975261]

>>10974657
>>10975151
explain it, i'm a brainlet

[Anonymous No.10975266]

>>10975261
it's a robot, it has no notion of poetry or beauty, it is simply performing a calculation

[Anonymous No.10975279]

>>10975202
I have this memorized too. Despite it being a tad bit cliched, it really hits the spot when I need to get out of a slump.

[Anonymous No.10975280]

>>10975261
It's unironically a postmodern masterpiece. The poem fits the technical definition of a haiku, but lacks any substance. It's just three sequential numbers. In essence, how a robot would write a poem. It's a satire from Nathan of his instructor teaching about poetry by giving the rote assignment of putting syllables in place rather than the actual soul of poetry.

[Anonymous No.10975290]

[Anonymous No.10975318]

somebody post that "poem" by the ready player one guy

[Anonymous No.10975319]

>>10974362
Daddy
BY SYLVIA PLATH
You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.

Daddy, I have had to kill you.
You died before I had time——
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,
Ghastly statue with one gray toe
Big as a Frisco seal

And a head in the freakish Atlantic
Where it pours bean green over blue
In the waters off beautiful Nauset.
I used to pray to recover you.
Ach, du.

In the German tongue, in the Polish town
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But the name of the town is common.
My Polack friend

Says there are a dozen or two.
So I never could tell where you
Put your foot, your root,
I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.

It stuck in a barb wire snare.
Ich, ich, ich, ich,
I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you.
And the language obscene

An engine, an engine
Chuffing me off like a Jew.
A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.
I began to talk like a Jew.
I think I may well be a Jew.

The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna
Are not very pure or true.
With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck
And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.

I have always been scared of you,
With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.
And your neat mustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You——

Not God but a swastika
So black no sky could squeak through.
Every woman adores a Fascist,
The boot in the face, the brute
Brute heart of a brute like you.

You stand at the blackboard, daddy,
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot
But no less a devil for that, no not
Any less the black man who

Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.

But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue.
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look

And a love of the rack and the screw.
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I’m finally through.
The black telephone’s off at the root,
The voices just can’t worm through.

If I’ve killed one man, I’ve killed two——
The vampire who said he was you
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.

There’s a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I’m through.

[Anonymous No.10975912]

My love for you
Is like a truck

[Anonymous No.10976100]

>>10974657
my god

[Anonymous No.10976156]

>>10974657

That boy is too powerful

[Anonymous No.10976329]

[It's Dutch, title De Mus = The Tit. Highly underrated in the field of linguistics and system-theory]

De Mus

Tjielp tjielp - tjielp tjielp tjielp
tjielp tjielp tjielp - tjielp tjielp
tjielp tjielp tjielp tjielp tjielp tjielp
tjielp tjielp tjielp

Tjielp
etc.

[This is where the singularity truly begins]

[Anonymous No.10976409]

It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.
I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
Life to the lees: All times I have enjoy'd
Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone, on shore, and when
Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vext the dim sea: I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known; cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honour'd of them all;
And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethro'
Gleams that untravell'd world whose margin fades
For ever and forever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use!
As tho' to breathe were life! Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains: but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this gray spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle,—
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil
This labour, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.

[Anonymous No.10976411]

>>10976409

There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:
There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me—
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old;
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;
Death closes all: but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
'T is not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield

[Anonymous No.10976415]

>>10976411
Ulysses - Tennyson

[Anonymous No.10976641]

[Anonymous No.10976657]

[Anonymous No.10976667]

DOES MY SASSINESS UPSET YOU?

[Anonymous No.10976701]

>>10975243
He probably doesn't care enough to publish them. Lots of people have work they are happy keeping to themselves.

[Anonymous No.10976705]

>>10974578
That actually is some good shit DG

[Anonymous No.10976708]

>>10976329
Dutch poetry has quite a unique feel to it, it is more drug-fueled and free-spirited than other countries top-tier poetry. Here's one of my personal favorite poems of all time:

In Madurodam

De kroketten in het restaurant
zijn aan de kleine kant.

[Anonymous No.10976881]

>>10976708
Heh, reminded me of P Kouwes, only structured.
It might, thinking about it, have to do with 'words are just words' attitude of people in general and that Dutch is a small language. It's hard to live in a bubble of 'difficult' language use because that bubble is really small in the Dutch language (even with Vlaams, Frysk etc. included), so everything in arts will have a connection with the 'plebs' and in turn 'plebs' can (more) easily be introduced into these bubbles and take off.
Not saying Vaandrager is pleb or anything but the first thing I hit on while searching that poem was:
"Vaandrager heeft schijt aan poëzie."

[Anonymous No.10977645]

Your hair is winter fire
January embers
My heart burns there, too.

[Anonymous No.10977663]

Chase a check
Never chase a bitch
Percocet
Molly Percocet

[Anonymous No.10977753]

>>10974799
So this is Trakl.
Recommend me a good edition of his works please.

[Anonymous No.10977799]

>>10974574
this is so fucking good

[Anonymous No.10977820]

Susser, Komm Todd by Hideaki Ano

I know, I know I've let you down
I've been a fool to myself
I thought that I could
live for no one else
But now through all the hurt & pain

It's time for me to respect
the ones you love
mean more than anything

So with sadness in my heart
I feel the best thing I could do
is end it all
and leave forever

what's done is done it feels so bad
what once was happy now is sad
I'll never love again
my world is ending

I wish that I could turn back time
cos now the guilt is all mine
can't live without
the trust from those you love
I know we can't forget the past
you can't forget love & pride
because of that, it's killin' me inside

It all returns to nothing, it all comes
tumbling down, tumbling down,
tumbling down
It all returns to nothing, I just keep
letting me down, letting me down,
letting me down

In my heart of hearts
I know that I called never love again
I've lost everything
everything
everything that matters to me, matters
in this world

I wish that I could turn back time
cos now the guilt is all mine
can't live without
the trust from those you love
I know we can't forget the past
you can't forget love & pride
because of that, it's kill'in me inside

It all returns to nothing, it just keeps
tumbling down, tumbling down,
tumbling down
It all returns to nothing, I just keep
letting me down, letting me down,
letting me down
It all returns to nothing, it just keeps
tumbling down, tumbling down,
tumbling down
It all returns to nothing, I just keep
letting me down, letting me down,
letting me down

[Anonymous No.10978009]

>>10974478
The fedora creed.

[Anonymous No.10978056]

>>10974786
who wrote this? google gets me nothing

[Anonymous No.10978624]

>>10975243
Wouldn't be shocked if he really was Dara.

[Anonymous No.10978637]

When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain,
Before high-pilèd books, in charactery,
Hold like rich garners the full ripened grain;
When I behold, upon the night’s starred face,
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
And think that I may never live to trace
Their shadows with the magic hand of chance;
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,
That I shall never look upon thee more,
Never have relish in the faery power
Of unreflecting love—then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.

[Anonymous No.10978938]

>>10978056
the irishman you newfriend

[Anonymous No.10978946]

I have outlasted all desire,
My dreams and I have grown apart;
My grief alone is left entire,
The gleanings of an empty heart.

The storms of ruthless dispensation
Have struck my flowery garland numb,
I live in lonely desolation
And wonder when my end will come.

Thus on a naked tree-limb, blasted
By tardy winter's whistling chill,
A single leaf which has outlasted
Its season will be trembling still.

[Anonymous No.10978989]

I smoke two joints in the morning
I smoke two joint at night
I smoke two joint in the afternoon
It makes me feel alright
I smoke two joints in time of peace
And two in time of war
I smoke two joints before I smoke two joints
And then I smoke two more

[Anonymous No.10979051]

>>10974362
I will never not be impressed by how good that poem is for a six year old.

[Anonymous No.10979064]

>>10978938
joyce? some /lit/ trip by that name?

[Anonymous No.10979075]

>>10979064
Not him, but the Irishman was an anon on here that never trip/namefagged and wrote very nice poetry.

[Anonymous No.10979258]

>>10979075
nice, its a good poem.