/lit/ - Literature

[Anonymous No.13378398]

What are your favorite poems?

[Anonymous No.13378517]

>>13378398
The Cantos by E Pound. Can’t get more based than ol’ Ezra.

[Anonymous No.13378523]

>>13378398
Really didn't like this until the last line.

[Anonymous No.13378547]

>>13378523
Carver’s poems are weird this way

[Anonymous No.13378562]

>>13378547
It appears to barely be poetry, and then a line will change the whole thing.

[Anonymous No.13378589]

>>13378398
Lorca's Martirio de Santa Olalla. Won't bother posting the full text because it's obviously in Spanish.
I don't know why I like it so much, to be entirely honest. I guess the imagery just speaks to me, specially these four verses:

Por el suelo, ya sin norma,
brincan sus manos cortadas
que aún pueden cruzarse en tenue
oración decapitada.

[Anonymous No.13378610]

>>13378562
Photograph of My Father in His Twenty-Second Year

October. Here in this dank, unfamiliar kitchen
I study my father's embarrassed young man's face.
Sheepish grin, he holds in one hand a string
of spiny yellow perch, in the other
a bottle of Carlsbad Beer.

In jeans and denim shirt, he leans
against the front fender of a 1934 Ford.
He would like to pose bluff and hearty for his posterity,
Wear his old hat cocked over his ear.
All his life my father wanted to be bold.

But the eyes give him away, and the hands
that limply offer the string of dead perch
and the bottle of beer. Father, I love you,
yet how can I say thank you, I who can't hold my liquor either,
and don't even know the places to fish?

[Anonymous No.13378696]

>>13378398
This is like Rupi but good.

[Anonymous No.13378700]

Ognuno sta solo sul cuor della terra
trafitto da un raggio di sole:
ed è subito sera.

[Anonymous No.13378813]

Ozymandias

[Anonymous No.13378908]

>>13378517
I agree. Was Ezra the most based poet to ever live?

[Anonymous No.13378910]

Giaccio fra l’erbe
sulla schiena del monte, e beve il sole
il mio corpo che il vento m’accarezza
e sfiorano il mio capo i fiori e l’erbe
ch’agita il vento
e lo sciame rombante degl’insetti. –
il volo affaccendato Delle rondini
segna di curve rotte il cielo azzurro
e trae nell’alto vasti cerchi il largo
volo dei falchi…
Vita?! Vita?! qui l’erbe, qui la terra,
qui il vento, qui gl’insetti, qui gli uccelli,
e pur fra questi sente vede gode
sta sotto il vento a farsi vellicare
sta sotto il sole a suggere il calore
sta sotto il cielo sulla buona terra
questo ch’io chiamo «io», ma ch’io non sono.
No, non son questo corpo, queste membra
prostrate qui fra l’erbe sulla terra,
più ch’io non sia gl’insetti o l’erbe o i fiori
o i falchi su nell’aria o il vento o il sole.
Io son solo, lontano, io son diverso. –
altro sole, altro vento e più superbo
volo per altri cieli è la mia vita….
Ma ora qui che aspetto? e la mia vita
perché non vive, perché non avviene?
Che è questa luce, che è questo calore,
questo ronzar confuso, questa terra,
questo cielo che incombe? M’è straniero
l’aspetto d’ogni cosa, m’è nemica
questa natura! basta! voglio uscire
da questa trama d’incubi! la vita!
la mia vita! il mio sole! (altro…)

[Anonymous No.13378971]

I wish I could "get" poetry, but I fear my faulty education precludes me from doing so. I know shit about meter, rhyme and poetic rhythm, and I feel that makes me too illiterate to really appreciate poetry. I can still like a few poems, but knowing that most of what other people appreciate goes over my head.

That being said, my favourite one is Rudyard Kipling's "If".

[Anonymous No.13378973]

>>13378908
He was a fucking fascist

[Anonymous No.13379006]

>>13378971
You don't need a rational knowledge of what makes a poem good for it to affect you on a raw primal level. In fact, such intellectualising can be an impediment.

>T. robin williams in dead poets society

[Anonymous No.13379014]

[Anonymous No.13379018]

STILL THE BEST 1921

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

>actually, my all time favourite poem was written by an anon on /lit/, but it's too long to post here.
>it's the one that ends "go tell them in gomorrah"

[Anonymous No.13379034]

>>13378973
So?

[Anonymous No.13379036]

>>13379018
>actually, my all time favourite poem was written by an anon on /lit/, but it's too long to post here.
>it's the one that ends "go tell them in gomorrah"
yeah, that dude's stuff was good. someone compiled some of it here https://4poet.tumblr.com/

since you're posting Yeats it makes sense why you'd like him.

[Anonymous No.13379052]

The Mother

“When your mother has grown older,
When her dear, faithful eyes
no longer see life as they once did,
When her feet, grown tired,
No longer want to carry her as she walks –

Then lend her your arm in support,
Escort her with happy pleasure.
The hour will come when, weeping, you
Must accompany her on her final walk.

And if she asks you something,
Then give her an answer.
And if she asks again, then speak!
And if she asks yet again, respond to her,
Not impatiently, but with gentle calm.

And if she cannot understand you properly
Explain all to her happily.
The hour will come, the bitter hour,
When her mouth asks for nothing more.”

[Anonymous No.13379074]

>>13379036
The idea of modern society and progress being a folly or just the first act in a tragedy affects me strongly, so yeah. I love this kind of shit.

[Anonymous No.13379157]

Locksley Hall
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45362/locksley-hall
When I dipt into the future far as human eye could see;
Saw the Vision of the world and all the wonder that would be.—

[Anonymous No.13379176]

Radnóti Miklós: Bájoló

Rebbenő szemmel
ülök a fényben,
rózsafa ugrik
át a sövényen,
ugrik a fény is,
gyűlik a felleg,
surran a villám
s már feleselget
fenn a magasban
dörgedelem vad
dörgedelemmel,
kékje lehervad
lenn a tavaknak
s tükre megárad,
jöjj be a házba,
vesd le ruhádat,
már esik is kint,
vesd le az inged,
mossa az eső
össze szivünket.

https://youtu.be/PcPmokVbz3A?t=78

[Anonymous No.13379513]

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/browse?contentId=20722
Does anyone here memorize poetry?

[Anonymous No.13379519]

>>13378523
why?

[Anonymous No.13379585]

>>13378696

it's like a flintstone's kids vitamin commercial

[Anonymous No.13379588]

le tiger
le tiger out of cage
rawr yes :3

[Anonymous No.13380486]

>>13379052
This one offers advice I acquired too late. Lost my father and a couple friends to extended ailments before I realized how uninvolved I was in the lives of the people I care about. Always so annoyed that others wanted my time; never willing to just give them the small but sweet grace of simple effort.

I now find myself middle aged and mostly alone, just wishing they were still around to come ask me for little nothings again.

[Anonymous No.13380850]

>>13378398
this is downright ghastly

[Anonymous No.13380861]

The Twelve by Aleksandr Blok

[Anonymous No.13380866]

[Anonymous No.13380868]

>>13378973
Fascist lit is off limits or something? An ubermensch isn’t shamed out of studying anything.

And I can’t blame anyone for being a fascist before it was vilified by all the western governments. Especially if you were in Europe after fuckin WW1.

Some of the most mind expanding stuff I’ve read was fascist or tangential. Some euphoric moments. a real fucking trip.

[Anonymous No.13380869]

>>13378973
A based fascist though

[Anonymous No.13380943]

>>13380869
If you’re a fascist and an intellectual you’re probably based.

[Anonymous No.13381109]

>>13378517
What they even is be about? (I be really out here tryna cop a pdf for a nigga phone but cain’t be finding no type of shit!)

[Anonymous No.13381145]

>>13379034
What do you mean so? Fascism is unacceptable. If you’re a fascist you’re simply cancelled. This is true for anyone who showers and has sex and has an income over 30,000. Does that exclude you, dearest?

[Anonymous No.13381147]

>>13378971
Unironically go see poetry being read. Sure, there will be droves of pretentious faggots; without them we lose our way.

[Anonymous No.13381156]

Then out spake brave Horatius,
The Captain of the Gate:
"To every man upon this earth
Death cometh soon or late.
And how can man die better
Than facing fearful odds,
For the ashes of his fathers,
And the temples of his gods,

XXVIII

"And for the tender mother
Who dandled him to rest,
And for the wife who nurses
His baby at her breast,
And for the holy maidens
Who feed the eternal flame,
To save them from false Sextus
That wrought the deed of shame?

XXIX

"Haul down the bridge, Sir Consul,
With all the speed ye may;
I, with two more to help me,
Will hold the foe in play.
In yon strait path a thousand
May well be stopped by three.
Now who will stand on either hand,
And keep the bridge with me?"

XXX

Then out spake Spurius Lartius;
A Ramnian proud was he:
"Lo, I will stand at thy right hand,
And keep the bridge with thee."
And out spake strong Herminius;
Of Titian blood was he:
"I will abide on thy left side,
And keep the bridge with thee."

XXXI

"Horatius," quoth the Consul,
"As thou sayest, so let it be."
And straight against that great array
Forth went the dauntless Three.
For Romans in Rome's quarrel
Spared neither land nor gold,
Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life,
In the brave days of old.

XXXII

Then none was for a party;
Then all were for the state;
Then the great man helped the poor,
And the poor man loved the great:
Then lands were fairly portioned;
Then spoils were fairly sold:
The Romans were like brothers
In the brave days of old.

XXXIII

Now Roman is to Roman
More hateful than a foe,
And the Tribunes beard the high,
And the Fathers grind the low.
As we wax hot in faction,
In battle we wax cold:
Wherefore men fight not as they fought
In the brave days of old.

[Anonymous No.13381166]

>>13381145
Find a new dialectic. This one is weak and boring.

[Anonymous No.13381182]

Hugo von Hofmannsthal's "Die Beiden". A tale of two autists, each masters of their own spheres - and each lost in retardation when once in contact with the other. Truly the chan of poetry.

Sie trug den Becher in der Hand
— Ihr Kinn und Mund glich seinem Rand —,
So leicht und sicher war ihr Gang,
Kein Tropfen aus dem Becher sprang.

So leicht und fest war seine Hand:
Er ritt auf einem jungen Pferde,
Und mit nachlässiger Gebärde
Erzwang er, daß es zitternd stand.

Jedoch, wenn er aus ihrer Hand
Den leichten Becher nehmen sollte,
So war es beiden allzuschwer;
Denn beide bebten sie so sehr,
Daß keine Hand die andre fand
Und dunkler Wein am Boden rollte.

[Anonymous No.13381216]

>>13381182
I'm very glad I learned German.

[Anonymous No.13381228]

>>13378610

you brought me to tears.

Thank you.

[Anonymous No.13381235]

>>13381145
Oh, you’re a woman. Nothing to see here fellas.

[Anonymous No.13381245]

Are memes the successors to visual poems?

[Anonymous No.13381512]

>>13381245

[Anonymous No.13382926]

>>13381145
I generally agree, but you can't deny Ezra's complete body of work and mastery of language.

[Anonymous No.13382932]

>>13381245
Should I be putting emojis in my poetry?

[Anonymous No.13383118]

Still have yet to find anything that hits me the way Wallace Stevens does, but I have enjoyed Malachi Black and Frederick Seidel lately.

[Anonymous No.13383126]

Poo I eat
Yes I do
It's my treat
How about you?

[Anonymous No.13383173]

[Anonymous No.13383184]

And here face down beneath the sun
And here upon earth’s noonward height
To feel the always coming on
The always rising of the night:

To feel creep up the curving east
The earthy chill of dusk and slow
Upon those under lands the vast
And ever climbing shadow grow

And strange at Ecbatan the trees
Take leaf by leaf the evening strange
The flooding dark about their knees
The mountains over Persia change

And now at Kermanshah the gate
Dark empty and the withered grass
And through the twilight now the late
Few travelers in the westward pass

And Baghdad darken and the bridge
Across the silent river gone
And through Arabia the edge
Of evening widen and steal on

And deepen on Palmyra’s street
The wheel rut in the ruined stone
And Lebanon fade out and Crete
High through the clouds and overblown

And over Sicily the air
Still flashing with the landward gulls
And loom and slowly disappear
The sails above the shadowy hulls

And Spain go under and the shore
Of Africa the gilded sand
And evening vanish and no more
The low pale light across that land

Nor now the long light on the sea:

And here face downward in the sun
To feel how swift how secretly
The shadow of the night comes on ...

[Anonymous No.13383955]

[Anonymous No.13384724]

>>13379052
Based.
Any more good poems by this charming man?

[Anonymous No.13384779]

>>13378398
I

That is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees,
—Those dying generations—at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.


II

An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.


III

O sages standing in God's holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.


IV

Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.

[Anonymous No.13385369]

https://anglosaxonpoetry.camden.rutgers.edu/the-seafarer/

The Seafarer

[Anonymous No.13385658]

>>13378971
You don’t need to understand musical theory to enjoy music do you? Comprehension is the only hurdle to overcome and that comes with reading.

[Anonymous No.13385670]

>>13379018
>gibber incomprehensibly about birds
>mention politics once in a while
>repeat over entire oeuvre
Can someone explain Yeats to me?

[Anonymous No.13385706]

>>13381145
>you're cancelled
What does this even mean? I shouldn't appreciate Ezra's poetry because he was a fascist?

[Anonymous No.13385711]

Now all the truth is out,
Be secret and take defeat
From any brazen throat,
For how can you compete,
Being honor bred, with one
Who were it proved he lies
Were neither shamed in his own
Nor in his neighbors' eyes;
Bred to a harder thing
Than Triumph, turn away
And like a laughing string
Whereon mad fingers play
Amid a place of stone,
Be secret and exult,
Because of all things known
That is most difficult.

[Anonymous No.13385733]

who are some poets who are really lyrical? i want to read someone who uses a lot of multi-syllabic rhyme schemes

[Anonymous No.13386121]

>>13378398
Howl by Allen Ginsberg
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/49303/howl

The Problem Net
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4-EwIbfx6FY

[Anonymous No.13386239]

>>13385670
>Can someone explain Yeats to me?
Incel naturalist inspired to foment a rising against a military power that occupied his homeland for 800 years - all in one convenient package.

[Anonymous No.13386245]

>>13385706
Not him, but I believe that is antifa-speak for "excluded from normie society".

[Anonymous No.13386284]

>>13385733
Robert Service, Gerard Manley Hopkins

[Anonymous No.13386331]

>>13380486
We all learn that one too late

[Anonymous No.13386672]

Du hast Diamanten und Perlen,
Hast alles, was Menschenbegehr,
Und hast die schönsten Augen —
Mein Liebchen, was willst du mehr?
Auf deine schönen Augen
Hab ich ein ganzes Heer
Von ewigen Liedern gedichtet —
Mein Liebchen, was willst du mehr?
Mit deinen schönen Augen
Hast du mich gequält so sehr,
Und hast mich zugrunde gerichtet —
Mein Liebchen, was willst du mehr?

[Anonymous No.13386804]

The lore is powerful.

[Anonymous No.13386840]

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.”

[Anonymous No.13386862]

Aedh Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

-W. B. Yeats


--

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Dylan Thomas

[Anonymous No.13387298]

>>13386121
>It's a vortex that feels as though if one looks away then the evil will creep in. Purely speculative forms of agency. The world feels dark. Nowhere men [science is the new rock and roll] and it feels so lame. The problems of science and philosophy and art |are so big| all the low hanging fruit /missing/ -gone- to glamorize science is to glamorize the institutions which sit behind it, bloated and dying, embarrassingly corrupt, slow and stale. .. *The problems loom like an enigma of such a scale.*** The institution creates a VR whose speed can't keep up with it [the] |problem| net. One might .. ! need to know a dozen languages across a dozen real subtle mediums. And maybe, there's a small shot it'll connect, just to touch the ground to push ;net; further, a small bit, and we walk in tanks, and we've seen the shades of love. I still remember how it used to feel. Rooms. Wwwwould open up and the curtains wavered. We were startled by ourselves and happy we could, fame granted. In our shadow a strange pauperization, first steps into abstraction, you know instability now. The layers thinning. A square might rise from your sheet effortlessly, and you were in a bed. And sex has formed a radial. coursed like a human river and you were the loan kayaker off the cliff and the water flys off, rotates to a storm, slows down. Turns. Into mist. If randomness is only the rendering of ignorance, I was skinny dipping in an empty pool. I didn't want them to see me. Best plan I had anyways. And it was working! Any position, any model, approach, talent, any performance can be leveled. Off. The strength of a thing, known as timelessness, is a factor of an intelligence that phenomenal singularities, as it rises up through adolescences, can destroy will it? To think we went from invisible politics you eat drink and breathe. Steps into a wonderful autism -- to music videos! You or I dance the dance of as the relatively delayed if one hand is placed on its edge -- until a total grasp, until you understand it so well you can do it better, and then, no matter the value, it falls apart when you see its origin. So what could survive the complete understanding of the brain? Nothing. See the origin such that a perfect genius is rendered derivative, if the poppies allow, necessarily, from where it originates. Miracle to chance, humor explained. The religions know we only face ultimate destruction, and the hope is beyond the veil. That such excess. That such *power* and *good will*,,, that a simulation can appropriately cut off understanding at the teeth. Any understanding murders interest. To allow the sublime to stand still and to stand from under. The animated by the transparent treadmill, and the oft echoed derivation: nothing is new under the sun.

[Anonymous No.13387301]

>>13387298
>And then the folk wisdom stops! Never to remark that the world and its selves combine, in each cross-section, such a rich, idiosyncratic composition to a point of infinity, impossibility never to be replicated, passed over in a completed history in all her scales. .. the AI rise. We war across her face and wonder about expression. Everyone has a wall of red string and clippings. You're too afraid. And faith is that layer of intelligence that can stem the tide -- I mean flood -- I mean antification. Ants. It is the power of humility that self-retards to shapeShapes understanding before it forms You or I take the piece lovingly and foolishly as if realizing a perfect oral sex. Using our words, the longer held, we complicate across an organic shape, the vulva, the cock damned by acceleration, that we accelerate towards this knowing of holding itself, the act, the protrusion which re-orders all understanding to its service. When you *can* still gasp at the miracle, deeper and ever deeper as you hold it in your hands, is it understanding you seek? Relativity! I writhe in predictable ways.

[Anonymous No.13387302]

>>13378398
ha doesnt even rhyme (trash)

[Anonymous No.13387317]

>>13378813
based

[Anonymous No.13387324]

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

[Anonymous No.13387362]

>>13378610
This is fucking beautiful. Where can I read more like this?
>>13379018
I'm sad because I'm too dumb to understand poetry like this. I'm sure it's great though.

[Anonymous No.13387478]

>>13387362
>This is fucking beautiful. Where can I read more like this?
In the collected poems of Raymond Carver, you FUCKING RE TARD!

[Anonymous No.13387482]

>>13378398
>the usual early morning stuff that passes for thought

dropped

[Anonymous No.13387542]

>>13387362
Literally nobody understands that potatonigger. Yeats is the last poet you should allow to make you feel dumb.

[Anonymous No.13388038]

>>13378398
Schicksalslied

[Anonymous No.13388474]

you went from us. from string & bow
the olive leaf,
your jian of blazing
green, thunderbound
has flung again.

slow riverbeds of yolk, quiet
weight & loose glass

smolder by the wave
under pink tapestry—

our bellies were hard
but the rain
would flitter. i documented
moons, white patinas, the attar;

young fruit against wind
split out to float & wilt.
float pearl-eye compass—

well under the bramble
of the natures
two, sweltering again,
but to float of burning?

[Anonymous No.13388500]

>>13378971
I identify to everything you said, anon.

[Anonymous No.13388527]

A Study Of Reading Habits

When getting my nose in a book
Cured most things short of school,
It was worth ruining my eyes
To know I could still keep cool,
And deal out the old right hook
To dirty dogs twice my size.

Later, with inch-thick specs,
Evil was just my lark:
Me and my cloak and fangs
Had ripping times in the dark.
The women I clubbed with sex!
I broke them up like meringues.

Don't read much now: the dude
Who lets the girl down before
The hero arrives, the chap
Who's yellow and keeps the store
Seem far too familiar. Get stewed:
Books are a load of crap.

[Anonymous No.13389428]

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.

[Anonymous No.13389602]

>>13378398
Mid-Term Break, by Seamus Heaney, written about the death of his 4-year-old brother while he was away at school:

"I sat all morning in the college sick bay
Counting bells knelling classes to a close.
At two o'clock our neighbours drove me home.

In the porch I met my father crying—
He had always taken funerals in his stride—
And Big Jim Evans saying it was a hard blow.

The baby cooed and laughed and rocked the pram
When I came in, and I was embarrassed
By old men standing up to shake my hand

And tell me they were 'sorry for my trouble'.
Whispers informed strangers I was the eldest,
Away at school, as my mother held my hand

In hers and coughed out angry tearless sighs.
At ten o'clock the ambulance arrived
With the corpse, stanched and bandaged by the nurses.

Next morning I went up into the room. Snowdrops
And candles soothed the bedside; I saw him
For the first time in six weeks. Paler now,

Wearing a poppy bruise on his left temple,
He lay in the four-foot box as in his cot.
No gaudy scars, the bumper knocked him clear.

A four-foot box, a foot for every year."

Brings tears to my eyes every time.

[Anonymous No.13389621]

>>13379018
Yeats wrote another of my favorites, "An Irish Airman Foresees his Death:"

I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight I do not hate
Those that I guard I do not love;
My country is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan’s poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.

[Anonymous No.13389630]

>>13378398
love song of j alfred prufrock and the waste land, no fucking contest
>>13386121
howl is also pretty good

[Anonymous No.13389654]

The tiger
He has destroyed his cage
yes
YES
The tiger is out

[Anonymous No.13389699]

>>13387482
>what is casual irony
Lrn2Crvr

[Anonymous No.13389750]

>>13381245
yes — pay attention whenever a millennial comments "this is a mood." It's a small art, in its own way.

[Anonymous No.13390026]

>>13389750
yeah that’s some real Da Vinci shit imo

[Anonymous No.13390052]

>>13378398
Into my Heart an Air that Kills by A.E Housman

[Anonymous No.13390154]

>>13381182
Gutes, Brudi