what is your favourite poem?

[Anonymous No.17079914]

pic related is mine

[Anonymous No.17079925]

the one in V. about someone fucking their nose job surgeon

[࿇ C Œ M G E N V S ࿇ !KNDYwWWmRs No.17080253]

NO TENGO UN POEMA FAVORITO, PERO EL MEJOR POEMA POR LA MEJOR POETA UNIVERSAL TIENE POR TÍTULO: «PRIMERO SUEÑO».

[Anonymous No.17080291]

[Anonymous No.17080305]

The tiger

He destroyed his cage

Yes

YES

The tiger is out

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17080321]

Really hard question, if I can count the psalms it’s psalm 73, if not, its really difficult to say, so a tie between mallarme’s igitur, the prose translation of hallaj’s work, paradise Lost, the Divine comedy, the Third and fourth hymne of Spenser, The metamorphoses, and the final poem of Petrarch to Mary upon his deadbed and the “Quando il soave mio fido conforto” of his has such an ethereal beauty that I feel I would never attain to that level even if i dedicated much of my life to trying to do so. It’s really hard because I like different poems for different reasons.

[Anonymous No.17080398]

>>17079914
I don't know about favorite bur Burns' "The Cotter's Saturday Night" is extremely comfy

[Anonymous No.17080477]

Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi' bickering 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,
What makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
An' fellow-mortal!

I doubt na, whiles, 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 mony 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 dreaer!
An' forward, tho' I canna see,
I guess an' fear!

[Anonymous No.17080484]

>>17079914
Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.

[Anonymous No.17080496]

>>17079914
The Bridge by Hart Crane

[Anonymous No.17080531]

I'm not 5 years old, so I don't have a favorite poem. But here's some Rimbaud :)


For a whole week I had ripped up my boots
On the stones of the roads. I walked into Charleroi;
Into the Green Inn: I asked for some slices
Of bread and butter, and some half-cooled ham.

Happy, I stuck out my legs under the green
table: I studied the artless patterns of the
Wallpaper - and it was charming when the girl
With the huge breasts and lively eyes,

- A kiss wouldn't scare that one! -
Smilingly brought me some bread and butter
And lukewarm ham, on a coloured plate; -

Pink and white ham, scented with a clove of garlic -
And filled my huge beer mug, whose froth was turned
Into gold by a ray of late sunshine.

[Anonymous No.17080536]

>>17080531
>I'm not 5 years old, so I don't have a favourite poem.
Congrats on turning 6 champ!

[Anonymous No.17080537]

me chinese
me no dumb
me put finger
up my bum

[Anonymous No.17080544]

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.”

Even though Ozymandias has become a meme by now I still feel a sense of dread whenever I read it

[Anonymous No.17080546]

>>17079914
I cri everytim :(

[Anonymous No.17080553]

>>17080544
same. it's just so good

[࿇ C Œ M G E N V S ࿇ !KNDYwWWmRs No.17080605]

>>17080536


IF YOU HAVE ONE FAVOURITE POEM, EITHER: (I) YOU HAVE READ LITTLE POETRY IN YOUR LIFE, OR (II) THAT POEM IS PARTICULARLY IMPORTANT & SIGNIFICANT TO YOU.

[Anonymous No.17080615]

>>17080605
Thank you captain obvious, we'd truly be lost without your insight.

[࿇ C Œ M G E N V S ࿇ !KNDYwWWmRs No.17080619]

>>17080615


YOU ARE WELCOME.

[Anonymous No.17080623]

>>17080531
>I'm not 5 years old
>likes Rimbaud
anon...

[Anonymous No.17080658]

>>17080253
>>17080605
>>17080619
You’re worse than butterfly, you just post less

[Anonymous No.17080680]

Poetry is for faggots

[Anonymous No.17080710]

>>17080680
Poetry is by faggots not for faggots. Learn the difference

[Anonymous No.17080966]

[Anonymous No.17081251]

The best poem is Beowulf.

[Anonymous No.17081270]

>>17080658
Neither are bad, unironically the autists that spam their every post are more annoying, and I think both of them can be pretty dumb.

[Anonymous No.17081290]

>>17079914
it's unironically this >>17080305
it's so simple, short, and full of spirit

[Anonymous No.17081335]

Charles Baudelaire - The Lamentations Of An Icarus

The lovers of prostitutes are
Happy, cheerful, well-fed;
As for me, my arms are broken
Through having hugged the clouds.

It is thanks to the incomparable stars,
Blazing in the depths of the sky,
That my devoured eyes see only
The memories of suns.

In vain I wished to find
The centre and the end of space;
I know not under what fiery eye
I feel my wings breaking;

And burnt up by love of beauty,
I shall not have the splendid honour
Of giving my name to the abyss
Which will serve as my grave.

[Anonymous No.17081350]

The sea is calm tonight.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits; on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.

Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the Ægean, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.

The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth’s shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.

Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17081447]

Hey anons would you tell me how a poem of mine came out?

[Anonymous No.17081556]

>>17080531
that's a nice one, op. thanks.

[Anonymous No.17081792]

Five Bells:

Time that is moved by little fidget wheels
Is not my time, the flood that does not flow.
Between the double and the single bell
Of a ship's hour, between a round of bells
From the dark warship riding there below,
I have lived many lives, and this one life
Of Joe, long dead, who lives between five bells.

Deep and dissolving verticals of light
Ferry the falls of moonshine down. Five bells
Coldly rung out in a machine's voice. Night and water
Pour to one rip of darkness, the Harbour floats
In the air, the Cross hangs upside-down in water.

Why do I think of you, dead man, why thieve
These profitless lodgings from the flukes of thought
Anchored in Time? You have gone from earth,
Gone even from the meaning of a name;
Yet something's there, yet something forms its lips
And hits and cries against the ports of space,
Beating their sides to make its fury heard.

Are you shouting at me, dead man, squeezing your face
In agonies of speech on speechless panes?
Cry louder, beat the windows, bawl your name!

But I hear nothing, nothing...only bells,
Five bells, the bumpkin calculus of Time.
Your echoes die, your voice is dowsed by Life,
There's not a mouth can fly the pygmy strait -
Nothing except the memory of some bones
Long shoved away, and sucked away, in mud;
And unimportant things you might have done,
Or once I thought you did; but you forgot,
And all have now forgotten - looks and words
And slops of beer; your coat with buttons off,
Your gaunt chin and pricked eye, and raging tales
Of Irish kings and English perfidy,
And dirtier perfidy of publicans
Groaning to God from Darlinghurst.
Five bells.

Then I saw the road, I heard the thunder
Tumble, and felt the talons of the rain
The night we came to Moorebank in slab-dark,
So dark you bore no body, had no face,
But a sheer voice that rattled out of air
(As now you'd cry if I could break the glass),
A voice that spoke beside me in the bush,
Loud for a breath or bitten off by wind,
Of Milton, melons, and the Rights of Man,
And blowing flutes, and how Tahitian girls
Are brown and angry-tongued, and Sydney girls
Are white and angry-tongued, or so you'd found.
But all I heard was words that didn't join
So Milton became melons, melons girls,
And fifty mouths, it seemed, were out that night,
And in each tree an Ear was bending down,
Or something that had just run, gone behind the grass,
When blank and bone-white, like a maniac's thought,
The naphtha-flash of lightning slit the sky,
Knifing the dark with deathly photographs.
There's not so many with so poor a purse
Or fierce a need, must fare by night like that,
Five miles in darkness on a country track,
But when you do, that's what you think.
Five bells.

Etc.

[Anonymous No.17081825]

>>17079914
The Tiger.

[Anonymous No.17081857]

>>17080291
based yuleposter