/lit/ - Literature

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17565352]

Another poetry thread,

Post your favorite poems, talk about poets, ask questions about poetry

Post your own poems & Rate
Do both
No rate No feedback

Write a poem for the thread if you have to.


Remember, Art should be made for one’s self and All that matters is if you enjoy your own Art.

>previous thread
>>17549314

>how to read/write poetry
Read any of the following books(1 is fine, 2 if you really need it drilled into you.)

Poetic Meter & Poetic Form by Paul Fussel
Rhyme's reason - John Hollander

Western Wind by John Frederick Nims
A Poetry Handbook by Mary Oliver

>what should I read first?
Begin with The Norton Anthology of poetry or a similar anthology of English(or your father language) poetry throughout the years.

If anyone needs a prompt, select three options from these pools and create your poem.

>Imagery Pool
Plants
Specific Animals
Urban Setting
Rural Setting
Chaos
Winter
Spring
Rust
Death
>Structure Pool
Iambic (X)meter that shifts into Trochaic (X)meter
A Spenserian Sonnet (ABAB BCBC CDCD EE)
a standard Sonnet (ABAB CDCD EFEF GG)
Terza rima (ABA, BCB etc)
Acrostic
Heavy alliteration (four times per line)
Acrostic
>Culture Pool
Eurpoe
Arabia
Asia
Latin America
Antiquity


A ballad of dreamlands - Swinburne

I hid my heart in a nest of roses,
Out of the sun's way, hidden apart;
In a softer bed then the soft white snow's is,
Under the roses I hid my heart.
Why would it sleep not? why should it start,
When never a leaf of the rose-tree stirred?
What made sleep flutter his wings and part?
Only the song of a secret bird.

Lie still, I said, for the wind's wing closes,
And mild leaves muffle the keen sun's dart;
Lie still, for the wind on the warm seas dozes,
And the wind is unquieter yet than thou art.
Does a thought in thee still as a thorn's wound smart?
Does the fang still fret thee of hope deferred?
What bids the lips of thy sleep dispart?
Only the song of a secret bird.

The green land's name that a charm encloses,
It never was writ in the traveller's chart,
And sweet on its trees as the fruit that grows is,
It never was sold in the merchant's mart.
The swallows of dreams through its dim fields dart,
And sleep's are the tunes in its tree-tops heard;
No hound's note wakens the wildwood hart,
Only the song of a secret bird.


ENVOI

In the world of dreams I have chosen my part,
To sleep for a season and hear no word
Of true love's truth or of light love's art,
Only the song of a secret bird.

[Anonymous No.17565485]

I'll check back in a little while and rate what anyone else has written.

Bird in the Corner

The ashen falcon's curtain coats
Draped around the perch;
Blinded and afraid, it's head
Twitched in search of any sound
To catch with battered ears
As it shifted on claws
Torn and weary.

Out from under
Shaggy mane of hair,
draped upon my ears,
I watched the broken image
of the young man mumbling
of a mother and a wife, and I
tried to pay attention but
the words fail me.

[Anonymous No.17565515]

>>17565485
same anon, here's a poem by Ezra Pound I particularly like.
Sestina: Altaforte

I
Damn it all! all this our South stinks peace.
You whoreson dog, Papiols, come! Let’s to music!
I have no life save when the swords clash.
But ah! when I see the standards gold, vair, purple, opposing
And the broad fields beneath them turn crimson,
Then howl I my heart nigh mad with rejoicing.

II
In hot summer have I great rejoicing
When the tempests kill the earth’s foul peace,
And the light’nings from black heav’n flash crimson,
And the fierce thunders roar me their music
And the winds shriek through the clouds mad, opposing,
And through all the riven skies God’s swords clash.

III
Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash!
And the shrill neighs of destriers in battle rejoicing,
Spiked breast to spiked breast opposing!
Better one hour’s stour than a year’s peace
With fat boards, bawds, wine and frail music!
Bah! there’s no wine like the blood’s crimson!

IV
And I love to see the sun rise blood-crimson.
And I watch his spears through the dark clash
And it fills all my heart with rejoicing
And prys wide my mouth with fast music
When I see him so scorn and defy peace,
His lone might ’gainst all darkness opposing.

V
The man who fears war and squats opposing
My words for stour, hath no blood of crimson
But is fit only to rot in womanish peace
Far from where worth’s won and the swords clash
For the death of such sluts I go rejoicing;
Yea, I fill all the air with my music.

VI
Papiols, Papiols, to the music!
There’s no sound like to swords swords opposing,
No cry like the battle’s rejoicing
When our elbows and swords drip the crimson
And our charges ’gainst “The Leopard’s” rush clash.
May God damn for ever all who cry “Peace!”

VII
And let the music of the swords make them crimson
Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash!
Hell blot black for always the thought “Peace”!

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17566193]

oh so silently the snows fall
in the deep lands of dreaming sleep
all can hear the summoning call
As the Alicorn weeps and leaps

past alder, ash and acacia
frost forms an eidolon of ice
phantoms of her phantastia
fill the image with paradise

in silence now sits another
with whirling winter winds for feet
she greets her, “come, i am mother”
and as they meet, so also ends my sweet dream

[Anonymous No.17566270]

>>17565352
I've been trying to get into Gerard Manley Hopkins and came back to his terrible sonnets with sprung rhythm in mind. I actually really really enjoy them now. Looking for more poems in sprung rhythm.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17566310]

>>17566270
Ever heard of the grail psalms? They’re a translation of the psalms into sprung rhythm.

Psalms 63

2 O God, you are my God; at dawn I seek you; for you my soul is thirsting.
For you my flesh is pining,
like a dry, weary land without water.
3 I have come before you in the sanctuary, to behold your strength and your glory.
4 Your loving mercy is better than life; my lips will speak your praise.
5 I will bless you all my life;
in your name I will lift up my hands.
6 My soul shall be filled as with a banquet; with joyful lips, my mouth shall praise you.
7 When I remember you upon my bed,
I muse on you through the watches of the night. 8 For you have been my strength;
in the shadow of your wings I rejoice.
9 My soul clings fast to you;
your right hand upholds me.
10 Those who seek to destroy my life shall go down to the depths of the earth. 11 Put to the power of the sword,
they shall be left as prey for the jackals.
12 But the king shall rejoice in God;
all that swear by him shall exult,
for the mouth of liars shall be silenced.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17566353]

>>17565485
>The ashen falcon's curtain coats

Ashen falcon is a strong start but curtain coat might not lead into a strong enough image.

>Draped around the perch;

Feels like a utility line.

>Blinded and afraid, it's head

I know you probably see if already but “its head” not It’s. It’s=It is,

>Twitched in search of any sound
>To catch with battered ears

I don’t believe you need two lines to express this idea.

>As it shifted on claws
>Torn and weary.

Better voice, but feels like you lost your original energy/feeling.

>Out from under
>Shaggy mane of hair,

“Shaggy mane of hair” comes off stilted as does saying under prior, watch say it. “Out from under shaggy mane of hair”

>draped upon my ears,
>I watched the broken image
>of the young man mumbling
>of a mother and a wife, and I
>tried to pay attention but
>the words fail me.

In general just a weak ending with too sporadic of imagery and not enough sound elements to justify it. I’m not saying make a smaller poem, I’m saying you have enough skill to pack more meaning, beauty and image into the poem on a line by line basis.

[Anonymous No.17566401]

>>17566310
Thats pretty great stuff.
I'm still really bad at identifying sprung rhythm though, but either way the free association led me to a great hughes poem called relic that i'll post a pic of.
Yeah hughes was a terrible guy to plath but another poem of his called daffodils is objectively beautiful, even if it is like allowing him to gaslight you

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17566459]

>>17566401
Oh dude, I’m of the belief that beautiful art is beautiful art. If the most terrible possible person produced a sublime piece of art I would consume that art like anything else. Besides I’m not particularly fond of what little I’ve read of Plath.

Here have some sea poetry, beginning with lowest quality to highest quality.

Lowest quality: coming home for the first time (I wrote it)

more lovely than the sunset on these waters
is that glimmering city seen from afar
joy and delight are the names of her daughters
for she shines brighter than any silver star
and as I come to port to its harbour bar
before my eyes the souls of the breathless bay
rise as the sounds of crashing waves, so bizarre
you can hear their voices clear even this day
“away sailor, a trap, away” they say
but the light weaves as a strange gossamer there
and the voice of rest and tiredness beg “stay”
what dwells in you city, that can ensnare
like flies men of freedom and will to power?
“i will leave” yet passes another hour


Middle quality: on the Sea by John Keats

It keeps eternal whisperings around
Desolate shores, and with its mighty swell
Gluts twice ten thousand caverns, till the spell
Of Hecate leaves them their old shadowy sound.
Often ’tis in such gentle temper found,
That scarcely will the very smallest shell
Be moved for days from whence it sometime fell,
When last the winds of heaven were unbound.
Oh ye! who have your eye-balls vexed and tired,
Feast them upon the wideness of the Sea;
Oh ye! whose ears are dinned with uproar rude,
Or fed too much with cloying melody—
Sit ye near some old cavern’s mouth, and brood
Until ye start, as if the sea-nymphs choired!


Highest quality, Blake from his poem Milton.

FIRST Milton saw Albion upon the Rock of Ages,
Deadly pale, outstretch’d, and snowy cold, storm-cover’d—
A Giant form of perfect beauty, outstretch’d on the Rock
In solemn death: the Sea of Time and Space thunder’d aloud
Against the Rock, which was enwrappèd with the weeds of Death. 5
Hovering over the cold bosom in its vortex, Milton bent down
To the bosom of Death: what was underneath soon seem’d above,
A cloudy heaven mingled with stormy seas in loudest ruin;
But as a wintry globe descends precipitant, thro’ Beulah bursting,
With thunders loud and terrible, so Milton’s Shadow fell 10
Precipitant, loud thund’ring, into the Sea of Time and Space.
A lovely prose piece you could read is Poltarnees, Beholder of Ocean, also idle days on the river yahn, both by Dunsany. Lovely short stories.

[Anonymous No.17566522]

>>17566401
Ezra Pound is still well regarded poet and he was an actual factual nazi.

[Anonymous No.17566556]

I am in the darkest room of my life -
.Chad Chadwick

[Anonymous No.17566568]

>>17566556
Rupi Kaur cross poster

[Anonymous No.17566597]

>>17566459
Jesus christ thats good stuff. Honestly most blake i've read really annoyed me but i oughtta check more of him out.

I honestly kind of fuck with yours. Its a pleasant read and i enjoy the tension between alluring and trapping the narrator is dealing with. There is a sense of overwrought-ness that i get from it but i read that in the context of pound's the seafarer, the wanderer, etc it kinda fits the style.

Heres a trash imagist poem i finished a while ago called My Last Visit Before the Funeral. There nothing really flashy about the writing but i'm still curious what you think about it.

Your brick and mortar face,
Blushed and haggard in the cold,
Barely peeps out of your wintery nursing home blanket.
Your eyes gleam with some vague recollection of me.

Looking at your own daughter
Your eyes betray no reflection,
Only long-dead tenants
Hopelessly fiddling with a broken clock.
Mom's grown used to them.

I look away as long as possible until leaving
And try to remember the Nana
I've known my entire life until now.

[Anonymous No.17566680]

>>17566597
This is me.

Here's an old petrarchan sonnet of mine. I really like the formal parts of it but the content is riddled with slip ups.

Once psychosis ended no abundant
Self defeat absolved or punished fairly:
All were gentler than deserved. It barely
Seemed enough to lose those jobs. Redundant
Suicidal thoughts evoked a blunted
Payment - numb and incomplete but very
Fruitful. Anxious fear was secondary:
Ample benefits would leave me stunted.
With treatment, mouldering success has ceased.
Defying habits rooted through my cells
Has fostered joy impossible to stain.
But, idle since and knowing it, i beat
My iron crib in tantrums. Past its walls
I see a million destinies to waive.

Good try for my 5th sonnet though.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17566714]

>>17566597
>Jesus christ thats good stuff. Honestly most blake i've read really annoyed me but i oughtta check more of him out.

Oh dude, Blake is one of my favorite poets, you just need to find which of his types of poetry you’re into and I’m sure you’ll love him.

And thanks anon for finding mine alright! I know it’s overwrought and maybe trying too hardly but I find I can only write with my full strength, care, authenticity when I am going for that older style.


>Your brick and mortar face,
>Blushed and haggard in the cold,

Has a flaw I see common to the lesser imagists. Economy of words isn’t an excuse not to develop an image, you’re trying to mingle multiple images but aren’t giving them enough time to settle into the mind.

>Barely peeps out of your wintery nursing home blanket.

I’m sure you see how far this feels in terms of imagery, not narrative but imagery.

>Your eyes gleam with some vague recollection of me.
>Looking at your own daughter
>Your eyes betray no reflection,

While the voice is good, I feel it could still be written in a more aesthetically pleasing way, sure this isn’t utility tier verse, but it feels much like normative speech, which I personally am not a fan.

>Only long-dead tenants

Again, develop your imagery. Give it a few moments for fruition.

>Hopelessly fiddling with a broken clock.

Kinda cliche but it’s fitting aesthetically.

>Mom's grown used to them.
>I look away as long as possible until leaving
>And try to remember the Nana
>I've known my entire life until now.

Kinda a weak ending, you ought to control your narrative more, the first 2 lines conveyed/had the most emotional impact.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17566754]

>>17566680
>Once psychosis ended no abundant
>Self defeat absolved or punished fairly:
>All were gentler than deserved. It barely
>Seemed enough to lose those jobs. Redundant
>Suicidal thoughts evoked a blunted
>Payment - numb and incomplete but very
>Fruitful. Anxious fear was secondary:
>Ample benefits would leave me stunted.
>With treatment, mouldering success has ceased.
>Defying habits rooted through my cells
>Has fostered joy impossible to stain.
>But, idle since and knowing it, i beat
>My iron crib in tantrums. Past its walls
>I see a million destinies to waive.


You know, I notice whenever I read early attempts at more formal stuff, they seem to have a way of blending a feeling of the free verse style with it. I’ve been thinking of trying to back-engineer that purposefully. Personally I found the imagery and language too far away from my pleasure and since it’s such a early poem it wouldn’t be fair to critique it as you can probably see a hundred more flaws than any other.

Oh, here’s a poem I wrote intentionally trying to produce a delirium where the narrative and image is vague and alien feeling.

It’s also an elder poem.

Holy Spirit of oblivion

what did I have to do, I now forget
I am a moon of cold delirium
my eyes are heavy and my head is light
am I dreaming or is this fantasy? 
my eyes lose their luster but not my eye
i imagine things and then forget them
everything is fading but becomes clear
health or leprosy, am I Miriam?
as quick as they appear they take their flight
i see gold-glass cities in majesty
across an azure-amber field I fly
human-faced plants become a melting Gem
I blink and return, i sweat and feel drear
now I am a sun of melancholy
ash-apples from sodom covered with blight
fantasy and dream both fade, I feel drear
am I Haman or am I mordecai?
Gems become my tired eyes then a stem
awake I feel dead, without majesty
return to there land, but it is folly
apples turn to ash when I take a bite
I long for the land where the sky’s are clear
Wines of memory I did glorify
tried to get up but I coughed up some phlegm from my dead dreams something breached the limit
“come with me beyond wake, sleeping and dream”
I lay my head down and become the night
I met the very dreams of my spirit
I grasped the light of the divine morning
I remembered I am the holy star

[Anonymous No.17566756]

>>17566714
Yeah, i agree with a lot of what you said here. There are a million ways to clean these two up. The imagist poem is a really difficult thing to do well and its easy to not detatch from confessional poems in the moment enough to be objective about them, so when i look back on them afterwards i feel very different. Thanks!

[Anonymous No.17566771]

>>17566459
>Lowest
>Middle
>Highest
I think I "get it" but please explain the goal in sharing in this way.

freed, flown; seed blown; breeze forced; too needs known; knees of eyes seized; fore freed; eyed bleed; too know; eye thrown

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17566795]

>>17566771
Honestly, I figured I’d rank them based on quality at first, but then decided to select them based on which felt like it has the most turmoil. With Milton’s having the highest waters/turmoil. But it was only a few minutes thought anon.

>>17566756
Totally understandable, honestly the thing I find I most dislike to write, the thing I have no skill nor desire in, is heavily confessional and human to human emotional stuff. It’s just not in my feelings or mind. I’m much more comfortable with the topic is god, nature or some concept or vague aesthetic. What do you think anon, ought we write in accordance with what feels most comfortable to our interiors?

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17566801]

>>17566795
Blake’s miltion* sorry!

[Anonymous No.17566828]

>>17566754
>You know, I notice whenever I read early attempts at more formal stuff, they seem to have a way of blending a feeling of the free verse style with it.
Yeah, i think that would be the shift from tangled trochees/enjambment/caesura/slant rhyme to cleaner iambs.
Either way, sonnets are incredibly fucking difficult. To be able to employ those formal techniques whenever they fit and keep a decent reading experience and coherency is just incredible and i think shows true talent and discipline.

[Anonymous No.17566911]

>>17566795
I wrote much of that stuff when i first started out and couldn't produce anything any other way. Now i've been getting out of that a bit but i've usually been driven to write to understand things in my life. Usually it doesnt make for great stuff, especially in poetry, its just the only thing that i can use to get me to write after a long dry spell.
Now its mostly trying to understand forces that have been impacting me and then getting distant and approaching them with different styles and angles. Things like post secondary education, workplaces and how we lose ourselves in them, apathy and pessimism versus drive for social change etc, identity. Writing dogshit poetry isnt something i do for other people.
So yeah, we should when we have to start the engine, but we (i) shouldn't let that stuff cloud our judgement on the stuff we (i) produce. Once its started we should do whatever we can and want. It isnt doing the same thing that allows for artistic growth, right.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17566913]

>>17566828
I try to write in sonnet form sometimes for funsies. It’s likely much easier for me because I consciously choose to use syllabic and make my stresses based solely on what sounds right according to inspiration. I actually really like writing in Spenserian sonnet because I grinded my head against terza rima for a long time until I became somewhat okay with it in my opinion. But here’s a Shakespearean sonnet I wrote at some point, do tell if the voice/imagery is right.

How chance the roses there do fade so fast?
and the virgin marble must be broken?
because the light of life must never last
and calm silence is the last word spoken


Shall I then silent be, or shall I speak?
and will I wake or shall I stay asleep?
the young trees are soft and terribly weak
yet the strong tree is slain and cannot weep

will the mother who’s maw mangles her young
mingle my breath with the briar’s own blight ?
or will the Welkin’s Wyvern whirl his ancient tongue
and let me dwell in eternal delight?

the question of the bard I shall not wait
my heart has chose to have undying faith

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17566925]

>>17566911
Yeah, I think the ultimate question is what is it that you yourself finds beautiful, if that requires a more confessional style for you personally, so be it.

[Anonymous No.17566938]

What's a good collection of haikus? Both "babby's introduction to haiku" and "the literal best collection ever made"

[Anonymous No.17566979]

>>17566754
feeling that nerval energy here

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17567000]

>>17566979
Hey that’s actually a really high compliment in my eyes, thank you! I consider him very potent in terms of that dreamy delirious feeling.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17567013]

>>17566938
While it’s technically not haiku it’s highly relevant. And kino.

https://www.wikipedia.org/wiki/Man%27yōshū

The Man'yōshū

[Anonymous No.17567039]

>>17567013
>https://www.wikipedia.org/wiki/Man%27yōshū
Cheers

[Anonymous No.17567044]

>>17565352
My new masterpiece. Its longer than my usual stuff.

Caught with a thot
It isn't what you thought

We were shot
And short on sleep

So we collapsed
On the bed in a heap

But you reap what you sow
Shouldn't have married a jealous hoe

Just leave me and this bitch be
I hate what you've become you see
>>17565485
I don't get the meaning behind the first stanza
>>17566193
Flows nicely for the most part. Is it about winter? Good length.
>>17566401
I don't like it. Long and repetitive. Bad flow

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17567053]

>>17567044
Another anon asked folks to write stories based on the image that I posted in that post, figured I’d write a poem using the image as the basis. No deeper meaning than the image. Took approximately 10 minutes to write so I understand if it’s not the best.

[Anonymous No.17567075]

>>17567053
I thought it was alright. Is my work alright. Any way to improve it?

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17567078]

>>17567044
Here have two poems, both by Dunsany. Tell me what you think of them. While I don’t think Dunsany is the best poet I certainly really like his poetry and would wish to see him shilled.

In Wild-Rose garden

AN evening like an opal,
The air one scent of may,
A nightingale beginning
To practise at his lay.

A moth along a laneway
Of air goes like a ghost,
A sense grows deeper round me
Of something near, but lost.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17567102]

>>17567044

Try to listen to a beat, copy the patterns of your preferred music. I can see hints of it already just give yourself to it.

>Caught with a thot
>It isn't what you thought

While my critique will be lessened due to this being an aesthetic I don’t prefer, I would say drop the “it”

>We were shot
>And short on sleep

Drop the and maybe.

>So we collapsed
>On the bed in a heap
>But you reap what you sow

Put another internal rhyme within these three lines.

>Shouldn't have married a jealous hoe
>Just leave me and this bitch be
>I hate what you've become you see

Last line could be better. Listen to some biggie smalls and follow his flow, listen to the greats like Barry white, Stevie wonder and Marvin Gaye. You want smoothness right? Don’t be ashamed to imitate as long as you innovate.

[Anonymous No.17567189]

>>17567102
Thanks for the advice I took most of it. But I can't think of a better last line.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17567406]

Another older Gypsy song, this one is called a $20 gold piece


A 20 dollar gold piece, a 20 dollar piece, a 20 dollar gold piece, made of gold

Oh there’s this woman
This lovely woman
Oh there’s this woman
The woman I love

I see yeki Sha-wi-gha
Kai mai molem
I see yeki sha-wi-gha
Kai mai wolev

Ay logo Dod o bavalo
Ay laki day, chi mongel dei dal
Ay bish dee-dat-ah soo-nik-kai
Ay bish dee-dat-ah soo-nik-kai
Sod ando soo nik-kai

I see yeki sha-wi-gha
Kai mai wolev

A 20 dollar gold piece, a 20 dollar piece, a 20 dollar gold piece, made of gold

I see yeki Sha-wi-gha
Kai mai molem
I see yeki sha-wi-gha
Kai mai wolev
Translation

I see yeki Sha-wi-gha
Kai mai molem
I see yeki sha-wi-gha
Kai mai wolev

I see a Woman,
And I died (as in, from so much desire, that it has annihilated him)
I see a woman
Who I will to have(in marriage)
Ay logo Dod o bavalo
Ay laki day, chi mongel dei dal
Ay bish dee-dat-ah soo-nik-kai
Ay bish dee-dat-ah soo-nik-kai
Sod ando soo nik-kai

And her father is Rich
And her mother doesn’t wish to sell her into marriage
A twenty dollar gold piece
A twenty dollar gold piece
All in gold

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17567512]

Another translation, again focusing on literalism and not poetics. This one is called shay bodie, shay bodie has two meanings. “Oldest/largest daughter” but it’s a Euphemism for a girl who is a virgin when being spoken of by the parents especially when the topic is planning for marriage.
Oy shay bodie
So mai dey kud-ov on-dah du-tay?
Oy shay bodie, moogah yelo tu pa-gah-dan
Oy shay Bodie, so tey Kud-ov on-dah du tay?
Oy kam Medav kai pa-gu-wav, yoy nai-mon devla so kid-av

Tu pendan-ah tu-mal-es sai Mach-ee-Lan-ah

Moogo-yelo pag-ah-dan-ah

Oy shay Bodie, so tey Kud-ov on-dah du tay?
Oy kam Medav kai pa-gu-wav, yoy nai-mon devla so kid-av
Absolute literal translation

Oh eldest daughter, what am I to do with you? Oh eldest daughter my heart you have broken Oh eldest daughter what am I to do with you? Oh I will die, I will burst and break apart, oh God I don’t have anything to do, oh God what am I to do?

You could have told me how you had gotten drunk, my heart you have broken and I now die

Oh eldest daughter, what am I to do with you? Oh eldest daughter my heart you have broken Oh eldest daughter what am I to do with you? Oh I will die, I will burst and break apart, oh God I don’t have anything to do, oh God what am I to do?


Context=the song is of a mother lamenting and crying that her eldest virgin daughter has gotten drunk and (it is implied) has had sex and has now lost her virginity, driving the mother into suicide, as the eldest daughter can no longer be married off into a good and rich family, but will be forever now known as a whore. Causing the mother to wish to kill herself for her daughter’s foolish and heart breaking actions.

[Anonymous No.17567632]

Janny, my darling, awaken
Do it for free #momsbasement
I keep it /lit/, you troglodyte
Imma cook us a thread #walterwhite
In the meantime I write these lines
You wet your bed another damn time
Last but not least fuck poetry
All anons hate you for your virginity

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17567690]

A much newer Gypsy song, to be played to the tune of “native New Yorker”

Av-ee-lem may on-doh sav-tho, rodav mai life-O
Ada-slem-ah on dai New Yorkah
May ge-lem kai moo-go fren-oh
was sas ay shot-oh
Nevo moo-bee-tee nevo jhas-oh
May dee-klem devla chay pho-toh blay
Sod de-khas shoi-oh dey bez tu drinko on dah New Yorkah blay

Po streeto pendem, ay lah may adah-khem
Ondah New Yorkah
So ked-as kat-ay onday New York

Av-ee-lee wayy kad-ing mon-day, wayy chi lie-shai-lee
Ay tem mon goo-ji New York-kok-ee
Wayy pendas “hai-dee tu monsah, laz-mongah drinko”
Kadat lat pedem o streeto

Ay may deeklem onday lak-ee yak-ah blay
Lako phas ning-kid-em, lak-ee mo-oi chu-mee dem ondah New Yorkah blay.

Ay lay mongem ay Lah may Lem
Oh, ondah new yorkah
Chi-mai jhav kitay ondah-new Yorkah
Pho-tho chi soval, ay lath wayy chi-dah-vel

(It then continues with the normal song of native New Yorker.)

No one opens the door
For a native New Yorker

You grew up riding the subways running with people
Up in Harlem, down on Broadway
You're no tramp but you're no lady, talkin' that street talk
You're the heart and soul of New York City
And love, love is just a passing word
It's the thought you had in a taxi cab
That got left on the curb
When he dropped you off at East 83rd
Oh, oh, oh
(Oh, oh, oh)
You're a native New Yorker
You should know the score by now
(You should know by now)
You're a native New Yorker
New York girl, ooh, ooh, ooh


No one opens the door for a native New Yorker
New York City girl.
Context prior to translation:

This song uses much more pseudo-Gypsy instead of actual Romani/Gypsy terms, these have developed due to the complexity of the older terms and our language also has various levels of speech relating more or less to how formal you wish to be (though this itself is not formalized) as such the language used here is to amplify the imagery of the song, the rhythm, the rhyme and so forth. Example, Life-o is exactly what it sounds like, Life. The proper Gypsy form would be “try-oh” and many such cases litter the song.


Literal Translation:

Cont

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17567696]

>>17567690
I came from the country/rustic/southern area, looking for a new life
I slipped my way into New York
I went to my friend (who lived there)
He was a big shot(rich, high class)
(He had) a new car, (he had) a new Watch(implied to be a Rolex of some sort)
I seen, oh God, what a town/city, my friend
You can see a show, you can get a drink friend (common expression, contrasting the emptiness of the rustic country where you do not have anything available)
In New York my friend.

On the streets (of New York) I walked, and her I found, in New York
“What are we doing here in New York?”

She came close to me, she felt no embarrassment/shame (in Gypsy culture showing any public romantic interest, even just going close to the opposite sex is seen as shameful activity)
And I thought to myself “she’s a New Yorker “ (therefore she’s different)
She said to me “come with me, buy me a drink!”
All that night we walked the streets.


And I looked into her eyes, my friend
Her hand I held, her face I kissed
In New York my friend.

And for her I asked (from her parents, her hand in marriage) and her I had gotten (in marriage)
Oh in New York.
I will never leave from here, from New York.
The city never sleeps and all night she (the wife) cooks (the song ends here, this is because it’s a cultural symbol that cooking represents the family, a complete family and so forth. Her cooking for him within his home representing he is now fully a part of the place and developed.)

[Anonymous No.17567782]

I'm frivolous with my money until it's almost spent.
And I turn the music up just loud enough to hear it over my ear plugs.
And I walk directly through the water to avoid the bridge.
And I delete my messages and wonder what they said, and why no one talks to me anymore after I told them not to.
And I say, "Don't go, I'll miss you too much," and they had already left.
And you gotta run around, and go to work, and do all this shit.
And then you do what you didn't mean to, so you say you meant to, and you say, "Fuck, I don't want to, but I'm gonna."
And the cat dies, and it rains out. Your best friend forgets your first name. Hit a deer, get cancer, keep smoking. Hit another deer. Spill your cup. Get a job. Go on vacation. School's closed. It only snows on Tuesdays...
But it's okay, you're powerless, it's fine, it's only natural.
God laughs, and the bees buzz. Green lights over the stop signs.
It's okay, you're fine.
It's only natural.

[Anonymous No.17567800]

Italian meatballs on Monica Belucci
God give me strength, in love with her coochie
Pulcinello is my dad, a fool in a mask
I only act please dont Ask dont Ask
Janitor sweeps the floor with a Bloom
Harold hates blackies and other goons
I love Mexican cuisine and farting
Rice beans and chilli me likey

I'm out
*drops Mike*

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17567816]

Final translation for the night, an older song. “For her I die”

An-dal-at-ay may medov
An-dal-at-ay pa-gu-wav
An-dal-at-ay may motov

Oy shay Andah-tuday may medovah
Ay mon meglen chai gho-go-oh
Ay pay delo mon-chot-no

Ay Hidee monsah pra-pah-lay
Ay ash-hoon so mai pen-ooovov
Ay Hidee monsah pra-pah-lay
Ay ash-hoon so mai penov
Ay kai rodem tu chidemay

Translation

In passion for her, I would die
In passion for her, I would burst apart
In passion for her, I say this

Oh lovely, oh daughter, for you I would die
Oh and you left me to be all alone
Oh to be with a foolish drunkard

Oh come back to me
Oh listen to the words I speak-eak
Oh come back to me
Oh listen to the words I speak
Oh for you who I have cried for in vain

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17567986]

Posting this poem then I’m out for the night

his breath is the frost of the breeze
his sight is the sun in the south
his altar is the ancient trees
to him the Hoepoe and hippo shout

“we praise him with the praise of Mouth,
we praise him with the song of sighs
we praise him with the beak and snout “
and all shall praise him with their cries

EL ROI! to you I turn my eyes!
show me your uncreated Light!
EL SHADDAI! the mighty and Wise!
come and rend the veil of my Sight!

the world’s glory is for your fame
as earth and heaven speak your Name!

[Anonymous No.17568044]

I need new thrills new deals and pills
Came so hard she still feels chills
I operate in LA not new Delhi
Keep my pockets full and my dick ready
Cant Go steady, I dont steal Chevys
Hit the floor my manager hates the poor
I cant satiate it I like to see it soar
Went to a stripclub came all over the door
Ask me what for, dont front gimme more and more

*Hits Blunt*

[Anonymous No.17568050]

[Anonymous No.17568833]

bump

[Anonymous No.17568837]

>>17568050
based

[Anonymous No.17569424]

Bump

[Anonymous No.17569731]

>>17565352
what should I read to understand e e cummings and that type of stuff?

Some of his poems seem to be all about being in the shape of what they represent. And while it is nice to read a description of a wave like Fl-oWWing FLLOOwwii nng, I feel like I don't get it.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17569787]

>>17569731
Not so straight forward. You just need to read one or two of those basic introductory texts and then familiarize yourself with the modernists. He like many other modernists (when not creating traditional poetry which you wouldn’t find hard or grasp) are just trying to push the envelop and form itself as much as they can. The pleasure people get and knowledge of what they’re doing comes from studying the poem itself there. So just essays on particular poems will do it. And if you don’t get it/enjoy it, drop it, otherwise just keep reading while sharply analyzing.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17570255]

Fragment from an incomplete poem

1 Lustrous myrrh wrapped in gossamir

essence eld of the balsam tree
glorified with glittering light
of the amber arachnid’s toil


2 Invoke the Cœlestic Royal

bearing jewels engraved with White
sigils of the Tyrian Sea
ensouled by the Stellar Shamir

3 come thirty voiced Simurgh! appear!

your thousand Peacock Plumb eyes see
the secrets of purple twilight
and make your human head joyful

conjured was the Breath, The Royal and the Bird
“Sah!” simurgh singed, “Bah!” breathed breath, “OTH” Roared Our Rex
in heaven is written this covenant word
thrice hidden thrice exalted and when thrice heard
the supernal hosts of Hod and netzach haunt

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17570612]

This poems another experiment, it’s called “The ring upon her finger” do tell your thoughts on it.
the ring of gold and emerald
upon my lover’s finger
her hair of Gold and blue eyes
covers my form with a flame

when she sighs and calls my name
her eyes melt my form like Gold
like metal forged in the night
gently adorned with a Gem

her pink painted nails, on them
is Worn my every Will
crushed is my every thought
into a jewel she Wears

The ring upon her finger
the desire of my flesh

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17570617]

>>17570612


the ring of gold and emerald
upon my lover’s finger
her hair of Gold and blue eyes
covers my form with a flame

when she sighs and calls my name
her eyes melt my form like Gold
like metal forged in the night
gently adorned with a Gem

her pink painted nails, on them
is Worn my every Will
crushed is my every thought
into a jewel she Wears

The ring upon her finger
the desire of my flesh

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17570674]

Slight modification in order to make it more singable

an experiment purely for technical purposes

The ring upon her finger

the ring of gold and emerald
upon my lover’s finger
her hair of Gold and blue eyes
covers my form with a flame

when she sighs and calls my name
her eyes melt my form like Gold
like metal forged in the night
gently adorned with a Gem

her ring of gold and emerald
upon her finger
her hair of Gold and blue eyes

her pink painted nails, on them
is Worn my every Will
crushed is my every thought
into a jewel she Wears

her ring of gold and emerald
upon her finger
her hair of Gold and blue eyes

The ring upon her finger
the desire of my flesh

her ring of gold and emerald
upon her finger
her hair of Gold and blue eyes

[Anonymous No.17570774]

This is lower quality than a lot of the stuff posted in the thread thus far but here are some song lyrics I really like:

Cat killing dogs, pigs eating rats
Every mouth will eat you up the king bug laughs
Belly of the heart Belly full of bats
The chromosomes seem not to want the fetus

They beat you up
They make you leave
Sticking needles in your knees
Knowing God will be pleased
Should make it easy

Snakes eating frogs, toads eating gnats
When the spaceship beams you up boy, get drunk fast
Rubber bullet barn, titty sucking calf-
Goats and roosters, Bees and bugs, Amoebas!!

They blow you up, make it breathe
Make it feel like a disease
And though it's hard to believe it makes it easy

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17570831]

>>17570774
Hey man! Everyone’s got their own taste dude. Vaguely psychedelic stuff right?

[Anonymous No.17571281]

Motion-fading crystal greys
Void-full feeling counterfeit
Half-a-prayer half-a-gaze
Ceaseless falling endless days

[Anonymous No.17571308]

Okay how about this, any subject matter, any structure. BUT
It must be in Anglish (Modern English, with no loan words from Romance languages, only Germanic words)
If no word exists for what your looking for you may use an Old-English word.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17571339]

>>17571308
Could be fun, try one out first friend.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17571353]

Wrote/beautified a short horror story I wrote, my first horror story of course, it’s pretty short and there’s various poems within. If anyone’s interested do tell how it is.

https://pastebin.com/hwEwhvfg

[Anonymous No.17571378]

>>17570831
Yeah, reminds me (and I think might directly allude to) Poe's "The Conqueror Worm"

Lo! ’t is a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.

Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly—
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their Condor wings
Invisible Wo!

That motley drama—oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot,
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot.

But see, amid the mimic rout,
A crawling shape intrude!
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes!—it writhes!—with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And seraphs sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued.

Out—out are the lights—out all!
And, over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
While the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, “Man,”
And its hero, the Conqueror Worm.

[Anonymous No.17571530]

This Is Just To Say
By William Carlos Williams

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

[Anonymous No.17571907]

>>17571530
the origins of surf-rock

[Anonymous No.17572104]

>>17571339
I met met an outland man
a song-crafter with a flute of only a span
I asked if it was new
he called it a kazoo
and buzzed like flies on a lam'

The trick to Anglish is not use the modern version of old words, so since musician is a loan word from Greek, you use the old English word Sóncræft, and use the modern version Songcraft.
Here's a fun video on it https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IIo-17SIkws&feature=youtu.be

[Anonymous No.17572875]

Reminder.
Post+RATE=Thread
This thread does not work otherwise.

[Anonymous No.17572950]

>>17572875
I don't rate cause my taste is shit and my rating is worthless

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17572959]

>>17572950
Don’t worry Anon, whatever your take is, people appreciate critique and differing tastes/opinions

[Anonymous No.17573229]

>>17565352
What best to achieve in life, I wonder.
Immortal glory through conquest?
What's it take to be Caesar, I ponder.
Or ought I aim for good rest?

Should one but focus on building a nest?
Is it worthwhile to take from another?
Are they all valid, and simply a test?
Should one with power not bother?

If not, how can I not worry 'bout others?
Need I just have faith in the higher?
How safeguarded will be sons and mothers,
If all men do nought but play lyre?

I wish not for slavery on myself nor my friends.
So it seems to me that the means create ends.

>>17566193
Very nice nature imagery. Flows well too.
>>17566680
I like it. A sense of dread and hopelessness, yet also an air of "all is not lost". Or maybe I'm just a sucker for lost causes, heh.

[Anonymous No.17573689]

Bumpin

[Anonymous No.17573734]

>>17565352
My dog wrote this using a scrabble pieces


I see some of these shills are starting to believe some of the shit they be peddlin
child bully veterans
on antidepressant medicine
and these traitor to humanity groups fond of the word "intelligence"
irony has prevalence
there not deemed relevant
what sparked into light like heavy 115 element
with the authority to trample out snakes like a elephant
in this construct reality what's your definition of benevolent
the first shall be last (to know) should be evident.

Even a traitor of man with cognitive disodence sentiment
And a higher security clearance then your senile puppet president
kept on a leach feed lies for his betterment
His normalcy bias and ego prevalent
This degenerate may actually think he was chose because he's intelligent
Between knowledge and truth the difference is reverent
To step outside his box he'd be hesitant
Looks up to see a glass ceiling so elegant
But he can't break through now that he's a resident
In the strutue of truth he's basement of the tenement
Oh little traitor of man don't you be penitent
You were always too late..................
...............times irrelevant ; )

[Anonymous No.17573764]

Forget up in the firma your premonition lies deep beneath the sediment
Where malevolent scaler waves move right through your skeletoin
I see your thrust for truth as your connection to sorce is severin
Dark Intel veterans drinking their own piss like thirsty bedouin
Timelines kettlein
Escape routes jettison
A lesson in
cavity magnetrons jiggling cells like gelatin
Could never win
turning on a microwave putting a peace of metal in
Drone self-proclaimed gentlemen
With unplayable deaths to be settlein
This ain't a pome
It's a riddle tesla wrote to Edison

Titled the limitations of chaff traitor of men specimen
Lesser men
Who couldn't be "as wise as serpents" than BETTERTHEM
Spit in their face
Just who the fuck you think you're threatenin
I just ate two ayy burgers with extra cheese and iceberg lettucein
I can taste your fear like a slice of venison
Blessed are the children unless you work for dem government
lesser men
"Yes sir" men
Who's better then Who is like onto god
No there's never Ben
Who connected to sorce
Can't you see it theatherin
Rep it round a snakes throte feel the power treblein
It's neurons spark those elections are now my brethren
They ripple through space time like I drop a pebble in
One just came back form a ceremonial medel pin
says "who's venomously bright" in ancient ogham letterin
Ark Michelle smiles says They No Not What They MeddlIN
They Let Us In
Hay Shut up Mike don't you be telling them
These traitors of men are to remain in the box we keep the old relic in
Small fry pond scum get eaten up by a pelican .........

Go's on for another 6 pages ;)

But I wouldn't want to traumatise you.
Its too lit.

[Anonymous No.17574701]

>>17573734
Your dog's pretty smart and schizo

[Anonymous No.17574771]

Still a draft because I'm unsatisfied with the way it flows and I think it's too short but I don't want to work on it tonight anymore.

le cri le ciel
celui qui veille
depuis est né
dans ton matin
il est pour toi
pour que tes mains
vides ne cherchent
que d'autres mains
le ciel aîné
pourtant au matin
reçoit la lumière
le cri
le cri très-haut
articulera en révolutions
ce qui est dans le ciel

>shitty translation

the scream the skies
the one who watches
since was born
in your morning
it is for you
so that your hands
empty seek nothing
but other hands
the skies elder
yet than the morning
receive the light
the scream
the most high scream
will articulate in revolutions
what is in the skies

>>17573229
Not sure if that meant but I think the fourth verse has a very good comedic side. My problem then, was that if it was meant to be comedic, I didn't find it afterwards, and if it wasn't meant to be comedic, well... That being said I like the subject. One of the most well-known French poem is precisely about this: "Heureux qui comme Ulysse" by du Bellay. I'm sure you can find a good translation somewhere, and if you can read French read him: he's great and his Regrets/Antiquités de Rome have a lot of poems focusing on this.
>>17571530
This one always cracks me up.
>>17570774
I like the beginning. The ninth verse got me a little out of it because it seems kind of obvious and poor in comparaison with your first verse (that being said I didn't know the word "gnat" and I love it, so thank you for that).
>>17570674
I like the repetition frater. I'm struck right now about the coincidence between the words gold and God in English, almost as obvious as l'amour/la mort/l'humour (love/death/humour). Do you know any poem playing on this?
>>17568050
I usually liked Yeats a lot but this feels like second-hand Ronsard.
>>17571378
Poe really was a genius, he was the first to understand (European) decadence and symbolism while being in the US. A true aristocrat of the mind. Really a shame he died the way he did, but really fitting too.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17574818]

>>17574771
Most obvious one would be the hymn to Pan written by Crowley. This is actually one of his best poems.

Thrill with lissome lust of the light,
O man! My man!
Come careering out of the night
Of Pan! Io Pan!
Io Pan! Io Pan! Come over the sea
From Sicily and from Arcady!
Roaming as Bacchus, with fauns and pards
And nymphs and satyrs for thy guards,
On a milk-white ass, come over the sea
To me, to me!
Come with Apollo in bridal dress
(Shepherdess and pythoness)
Come with Artemis, silken shod,
And wash thy white thigh, beautiful god,
In the moon of the woods, on the marble mount,
The dimpled dawn of the amber fount!
Dip the purple of passionate prayer
In the crimson shrine, the scarlet snare,
The soul that startles in eyes of blue
To watch thy wantonness weeping through
The tangled grove, the gnarled bole
Of the living tree that is spirit and soul
And body and brain — come over the sea,
(Io Pan! Io Pan!)
Devil or god, to me, to me,
My man! my man!
Come with trumpets sounding shrill
Over the hill!
Come with drums low muttering
From the spring!
Come with flute and come with pipe!
Am I not ripe?
I, who wait and writhe and wrestle
With air that hath no boughs to nestle
My body, weary of empty clasp,
Strong as a lion and sharp as an asp —
Come, O come!
I am numb
With the lonely lust of devildom.
Thrust the sword through the galling fetter,
All-devourer, all-begetter;
Give me the sign of the Open Eye,
And the token erect of thorny thigh,
And the word of madness and mystery,
O Pan! Io Pan!
Io Pan! Io Pan Pan! Pan Pan! Pan,
I am a man:
Do as thou wilt, as a great god can,
O Pan! Io Pan!
Io Pan! Io Pan Pan! I am awake
In the grip of the snake.
The eagle slashes with beak and claw;
The gods withdraw:
The great beasts come. Io Pan! I am borne
To death on the horn
Of the Unicorn.
I am Pan! Io Pan! Io Pan Pan! Pan!
I am thy mate, I am thy man,
Goat of thy flock, I am gold, I am god,
Flesh to thy bone, flower to thy rod.
With hoofs of steel I race on the rocks
Through solstice stubborn to equinox.
And I rave; and I rape and I rip and I rend
Everlasting, world without end,
Mannikin, maiden, Maenad, man,
In the might of Pan.
Io Pan! Io Pan Pan! Pan! Io Pan!

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17574908]

>>17574771
Before anything, I know this suffers from translation so you get leeway.


>the scream the skies

A good line if you would have continued this manner of speech.

>the one who watches
>since was born

Very stilted and artificial, speak it out loud.

>in your morning
>it is for you
>so that your hands
>empty seek nothing

I’ll try to judge based on just imagery, potentially good imagery but the language is rough.

>but other hands
>the skies elder
>yet than the morning
>receive the light
>the scream

Again, I like the idea, execution could be much more fine

>the most high scream
>will articulate in revolutions
>what is in the skies

Again, good imagery and evolution of the imagery, bad manner of speaking. But literal translations can be rough.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17574963]

>>17573734
>>17573764
Kinds feels like slam poetry/rap, I can’t really comment well because of this.

>>17573229
>What best to achieve in life, I wonder.

Should have stopped right here and began anew. “What best to achieve” feels strained, forced, like its trying to fit a syllable or stress count and not natural. It has to flow like you put no thought into it.

>Immortal glory through conquest?
>What's it take to be Caesar, I ponder.

While points for not being a generic love or nature theme, there’s really not a lot of imagery here and ponder Is just a repetition of wonder, it doesn’t feel satisfying enough.

>Or ought I aim for good rest?
>Should one but focus on building a nest?

Better rhyme, but again, it feels strained.

>Is it worthwhile to take from another?
>Are they all valid, and simply a test?
>Should one with power not bother?

Could be lovely and show more imagery or the like. Recommendation, when not using pretty imagery or pretty sounds, adapt a more proverb-like feeling to your lines. Blake’s short poems are pretty good for examples of this, as are the epigrams of J. V. Cunningham
>If not, how can I not worry 'bout others?

‘Bout ruins the voice you built up. Terrible word to use.

>Need I just have faith in the higher?

Feels like you had more to say but couldn’t.

>How safeguarded will be sons and mothers,
>If all men do nought but play lyre?

This line doesn’t feel fully justified.

> I wish not for slavery on myself nor my friends.
>So it seems to me that the means create ends.

Better for that proverb feeling I mentioned earlier, but it still feels somewhat abrupt.

[Anonymous No.17574970]

Count
Colonel
Vasily Shuvalevsky
How long had he wished for the
Amur Winds
to Grace his presence
His clean, green uniform
with a sword
high boots
Tapered mustache
At the end of a line
of riflemen
with the Prince in front of them
How long it had been since then
10? 20 Years?
It was 1928, it had to be 20
Dancing in far East dance halls
with beautiful women
leaving early
to go to his soldiers
at the orient bar
a firm, asiatic gaze
but that was all gone now
the Germans and Bolshevik had seen to that
Nearly a Decade wasted
Fighting for a
Dream
That would never
Come to be.

Vasily remembered his star pupils,
The Officer Cadets of Vladivostok
With American Arms
Proud
And Cheering for the Admiral
When they all fell to pieces
He Remembered when
He lost all feeling for the women
They no longer mattered, only the war
He remembered that madman
Sternberg
The Mongols showing their hand
The Jewish traders that fell

Vasily had seen it all
A Decade of Bloodshed
Mud
Gore
Destruction
Total War
It scarred him
So many medals he had
from the Manchurian Campaign
to Semyenov's last hurrah
So many medals
He clutched them, as he looked up to the sign
"PEIPING FOREIGN CORNER"
He had ran out of money

His uniform was no longer clean
It was dirtied
His hair was uncombed
unshapen
And his eyes were wide
His honor had been
violated
more than once
just for a few
silver dollars
to stay alive

And so
Count
Colonel
Vasily Shuvalevsky
Continued to beg
Begging any Chinaman for coin
Rich, poor, in-between
Selling off more of his medals
Pictures
His dignity
Just to eat
No one cared
for his experience.
His lost dreams.
Not even the foreigners.

Count
Colonel
Vasily Shuvalevsky
Burned that night.
His body
Was not set ablaze.
But his heart burned.
For a dream
That would never
Be realized.

[Anonymous No.17574975]

>>17574771
Oh shit, we did the antiquités de Rome in 7eme in my foreign lycée. Thanks for reminding me. Desu idk what was humorous about my poem but I'll take it.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17575002]

>>17572104
Could be fun to try later, I sometimes mix in other languages, Middle English and so forth into my normal speech. And it’s pretty fun.

Only person of your poem I didn’t much like were the kazoo and buzzed personally.

[Anonymous No.17575132]

>>17574701
Why thanks :) I'm not sure about smart but he sure is schizo
he says I don't even have a dog and

Are you actually that smart for knowing something's as fact others dont. I think not ;)

[Anonymous No.17575188]

>>17574963
Thank you for the feedback. What do you think of the following?

The hammer strikes the jaw to mush
The teeth turned all to dust
The lad's cursed with a painful push
His mouth filled with the taste of rust

Lie in agony he must
Giving way to earthen pull
Victim of the warrior's lust
Resenting his lot in full

Over regrets the mind does mull
His body drowsy and numb
A target of hateful Ares' cull
He clings to biting his thumb

Yet the strength has left him broken and bare
And his soul ascends to the afterlife's care

[Anonymous No.17575209]

>>17575132
I feel like we've met on another board, on another mainstaple thread.

[Anonymous No.17575371]

>>17574963
>>17573734
>>17573764
>>kinds feels like slam poetry/rap, I can’t really comment well because of this.

Slam poetry lol you mean like it was written using a mobile phone over a sick UK drill beat by maniac beats called War Time. just to shit on the shills and echo chamber book worms of 4chan.
You can't comment lol try singing it. Or what about shouting it over a blind man could see it by james brown :) that's kinda fancy isn't it.

What if replace word's and say yeee alot would it be up to lit standards; )

Now I just need to get a 16 year old uk black kid to say this shit and red flag his block.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17575446]

>>17575371
Eh I’m pretty happy with being a bookworm anon, it’s pretty comfy.

[Anonymous No.17575544]

Waiting for the Barbarians
BY C. P. CAVAFY
TRANSLATED BY EDMUND KEELEY

What are we waiting for, assembled in the forum?

The barbarians are due here today.


Why isn’t anything going on in the senate?
Why are the senators sitting there without legislating?

Because the barbarians are coming today.
What’s the point of senators making laws now?
Once the barbarians are here, they’ll do the legislating.


Why did our emperor get up so early,
and why is he sitting enthroned at the city’s main gate,
in state, wearing the crown?

Because the barbarians are coming today
and the emperor’s waiting to receive their leader.
He’s even got a scroll to give him,
loaded with titles, with imposing names.


Why have our two consuls and praetors come out today
wearing their embroidered, their scarlet togas?
Why have they put on bracelets with so many amethysts,
rings sparkling with magnificent emeralds?
Why are they carrying elegant canes
beautifully worked in silver and gold?

Because the barbarians are coming today
and things like that dazzle the barbarians.


Why don’t our distinguished orators turn up as usual
to make their speeches, say what they have to say?

Because the barbarians are coming today
and they’re bored by rhetoric and public speaking.


Why this sudden bewilderment, this confusion?
(How serious people’s faces have become.)
Why are the streets and squares emptying so rapidly,
everyone going home lost in thought?

Because night has fallen and the barbarians haven't come.
And some of our men just in from the border say
there are no barbarians any longer.


Now what’s going to happen to us without barbarians?
Those people were a kind of solution.

[Anonymous No.17575883]

Blessed are you a passing guest
Our moon waits petrified
Drawing with his halo of torch blue
Naked on the bed of black ashes
My charred corpse, hook of violent discord
It will lie inert; icy as the core of the most expensive sapphire
Unrecognizable as a gem on the seabed
Even more so now, if this female and her breast in bloom
Press harder and harder against mine
Deifying the macabre yearning
To hear the last beat of every night
By the tide of colorless folds
Sheet frigates converge in haste
In a single whirlwind of deadly gasps
Disfiguring the face of days
Desorbiting the blind man with absent pupils
Albino leopard with fiery cheekbones! Scented waterfall!
Fire me, so I yelled at him! Be my blood sweet bile or bitter moonlight!
A flash possesses us O Almighty Death!
Stinger that you unzip the laughter; my limbs
Drifting from luck, you have me Trembling without end!
Longing for perpetual blindness, longing for perpetual oblivion
Never fearing, never waking up!
Free us from this reverie Oh sweet longing desire!
Dream of fruitless harvests
I dream of masks of forged smiles
Let us return
In Complete Death
No name there
One by one, belonging to each other

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17575976]

Choriambics by Swinburne

Love, what ailed thee to leave life that was made lovely, we thought, with love?
What sweet visions of sleep lured thee away, down from the light above?

What strange faces of dreams, voices that called, hands that were raised to wave,
Lured or led thee, alas, out of the sun, down to the sunless grave?

Ah, thy luminous eyes! once was their light fed with the fire of day;
Now their shadowy lids cover them close, hush them and hide away.

Ah, thy snow-coloured hands! once were they chains, mighty to bind me fast;
Now no blood in them burns, mindless of love, senseless of passion past.

Ah, thy beautiful hair! so was it once braided for me, for me;
Now for death is it crowned, only for death, lover and lord of thee.

Sweet, the kisses of death set on thy lips, colder are they than mine;
Colder surely than past kisses that love poured for thy lips as wine.

Lov'st thou death? is his face fairer than love's, brighter to look upon?
Seest thou light in his eyes, light by which love's pales and is overshone?

Lo the roses of death, grey as the dust, chiller of leaf than snow!
Why let fall from thy hand love's that were thine, roses that loved thee so?

Large red lilies of love, sceptral and tall, lovely for eyes to see;
Thornless blossom of love, full of the sun, fruits that were reared for thee.

Now death's poppies alone circle thy hair, girdle thy breasts as white;
Bloodless blossoms of death, leaves that have sprung never against the light.

Nay then, sleep if thou wilt; love is content; what should he do to weep?
Sweet was love to thee once; now in thine eyes sweeter than love is sleep.

[Anonymous No.17576037]

>>17565352
Pure reddit
Yes I said it

And you read it
Get it

[James No.17576329]

Nora farts because of her diet
Her Irish arse gets oh so tired
I try to be supportive, not mean
In the borroughs they call me fart fiend
I write verse and prose all the same
Fart-fueled art alleviates my pain

[Anonymous No.17576388]

If I have freedom in my Love,
And in my soul am free,
Angels alone that soar above,
Enjoy such Liberty.
—Richard Lovelace, To Althea, from Prison

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17576760]

D'autra guiz e d'autra razo (In another way, on another subject) By Arnaut Daniel.


D'autra guiz e d'autra razo
m'aven a chantar que no sol,
e no'us cugetz que de mon dol
esper a far bona chanso,
mas mestier m'es qu'ieu fassa merceiar
a mans, chantan lieis qui m'encolp a tort,
qu'ieu n'ai lezer qu'estiers non parl'ab tres.

Merce dei trobar e perdo
si'l dreitz uzatges no'm destol
tal que de merceiar no'm tol;
ja salvet Merces lo lairo
que autre be no'l podia salvar;
ieu non ai plus ves ma vida cofort
que, si'l dreitz qu'ai no'm val, valha'm Merces.

Donc a hom dreg en Amor? No,
mas cujarion-s'o li fol
qu'ela'us encolpara, si's vol,
quar li Frances no son Guasco
e quar la naus frai ans que fos a Bar:
las! per aital colpa sui pres de mort,
que d'als, per Crist, no sai qu'ieu tort l'agues.

Ar conosc ieu e sap mi bo
qu'om nos part leu de so que vol,
ans n'a cor plus humil e mol
si tot l'estrai un temps son do:
per mi'us o dic qu'anc non puec dezamar
selha que'm tolh del tot joy e deport,
ans m'afortis ades on pieger m'es.

Hueimais, senhor e compagno,
per Dieu, ans quei del tot m'afol
preiatz lieis don m'amor no's tol
que n'aia merce cum del so,
e diguas tug, pus non l'aus nominar:
bela, prendetz per nos n'Arnaut en cort
e no metatz son chantar en deves.

In another way, on another subject,
from what I'm used to, I'd better sing;
and don't you think that out of my grief
I hope to compose a good song,
but I have to move to mercy
many, singing about her who blames me wrongly,
since I have a chance, lest I'd talk but to three.

I must find compassion and forgiveness,
unless the rightful usage has gone
that doesn't prevent me from begging for compassion;
Compassion saved the thief
whom no other good could save;
as for my life, I have no more comfort:
therefore, if right doesn't help me, let Compassion do it.

Then, has man any right in love? No,
but fools could think so
just as, if one'd like to, he could accuse
the French of not being Gascon
or the ship of sinking before reaching Bari:
alas! for such a crime I'm taken by death,
because otherwise, by Christ, I don't know what I did wrong.

Now I know, and I like it so,
that one does not part lightly from the one whom he craves,
instead, he gets a humble and tender heart,
even if she denies her grace temporarily:
I say this about me, who cannot stop loving
her that took all my joy and my pleasure away,
instead, the worse she treats me, the more I persist.

At last, lords and companions,
by god, before she utterly wastes me,
pray her to whom my love clings
to pity me as hers,
and say, you all, since I don't dare name her:
"Fair one, take Arnaut in your heart for us
and don't throw his singing away".

[Anonymous No.17577071]

Bump

[Anonymous No.17577102]

>>17574970
It's good, but I don't see why you had to break it into so many lines. It feels like stutter sometimes.

[Anonymous No.17578673]

Bump

[Anonymous No.17579375]

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting;
The Soul that rises with us, our life’s Star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting
And cometh from afar;
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home:
Heaven lies about us in our infancy!
Shades of the prison-house begin to close
Upon the growing Boy,
But he beholds the light, and whence it flows,
He sees it in his joy;
The Youth, who daily farther from the east
Must travel, still is Nature’s priest,
And by the vision splendid
Is on his way attended;
At length the Man perceives it die away,
And fade into the light of common day.”

— William Wordsworth, Ode on Intimations of Immortality

[Anonymous No.17579634]

>>17565352
What do I need to read to appreciate poetry, like what exactly constitutes a good poem? Is it just intuitive and I'm a retard?

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17579719]

>>17579634
Poetic Meter & Poetic Form by Paul Fussel
Rhyme's reason - John Hollander

Either one of these will do.

And it depends, In my opinion most poetry should be Able to be appreciated whether you understand anything about it or not. Simply by how it sounds, the story it conveys etc. but many poets especially beginning with modernism onwards assume you have knowledge of poetics and they write for other poets. It’s like if every movie or song was made for directors or musicians to appreciate aspects of the craft. This in my opinion is shit, it’s not universal of course but it’s a very common thing.

In any case understanding the very basics of meter will help you appreciate various poetry but just interact with them like you would really short stories or like songs, most poetry has its full power only when said/vocalized so you can hear what’s the subtle nuances the author has placed in.

What constitutes a good poem is a matter of taste, but it in general should sound good, have beautiful imagery and should be memorable/impactful on an emotional or intellectual level. But again, taste, it’s like asking what constitutes a good film or a song. You can point to generals only.

Again check out something like The Norton Anthology of poetry and go to random years/poets and see what styles and authors you personally like. I always shill Blake for example.

[Anonymous No.17580198]

>>17579719
cheers bro

[Anonymous No.17580206]

>>17579719
cheers bro will check those out

[Anonymous No.17580529]

I wrote a translation of a poem by my fav Polish author, Zbigniew Herbert. He fought in the Warsaw uprising and declined to cooporate with the communists when they took over after the war which made him unpublishable for decades. Pretty interesting biography to say the least. He was also a big proponent of stoic philosophy and stoic tropes can often be traced in his works. This eulogy to Marcus Aurelius is one example of that. It is worth noting that it was at the same time directed at his teacher and guru, Henryk Elzenberg, a profesor of philosophy in pre-War Lwów, who, much like Herbert, refused to abide by the new regime.

It's pretty hard to keep the rhythm with the strict word order English has. If I did any dumb mistakes let me know. I just wanted some people outside Poland to be able to experience this poet.

[Anonymous No.17580543]

>>17580529
To Marcus Aurelius

Goodnight now Mark turn off the lamp
and close the book as overhead
rises a silver call of stars
it is the heaven’s foreign tongue
it’s a barbaric cry of awe
which your old Latin does not know
it is the fear the ageless fear
as it begins to raze the shores

It will succeed You hear a noise
It is the tide The tireless flow
will wash the letters of your prose
and every of the world’s four walls
And as for us Why would we stand
and shudder in the wind and blow
the ashes stir the air and bite
our fingers seeking needless words

Take off your calm then Mark and raise
your hand above the darkness Five
senses struck by world’s blind hand
will tremble like a frail lyre
We’ll be betrayed by it and stars
will too betray us so will grass
and your grandeur too great to bear
and the helpless cry of mine, o Mark

[Anonymous No.17581155]

>>17566459
You got the order confused, brother.
Lowest: Keats
Middle: You
Highest: Blake

And i like Keats.

The second half reminds me of "The Lotus Eaters" by Tennyson. Are you familiar with it? Here's an excerpt:

They sat them down upon the yellow sand,
Between the sun and moon upon the shore;
And sweet it was to dream of Fatherland,
Of child, and wife, and slave; but evermore
Most weary seem'd the sea, weary the oar,
Weary the wandering fields of barren foam.
Then some one said, "We will return no more";
And all at once they sang, "Our island home
Is far beyond the wave; we will no longer roam."

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17581179]

Oblivion by Written by José-Maria de Heredia
Translated from the French by Larry Beckett

L'Oubli

Le temple est en ruine au haut du promontoire.
Et la Mort a mêlé, dans ce fauve terrain,
Les Déesses de marbre et les Héros d'airain
Dont l'herbe solitaire ensevelit la gloire.

Seul, parfois, un bouvier menant ses buffles boire,
De sa conque où soupire un antique refrain
Emplissant le ciel calme et l'horizon marin,
Sur l'azur infini dresse sa forme noire.

La Terre maternelle et douce aux anciens Dieux
Fait à chaque printemps, vainement éloquente,
Au chapiteau brisé verdir un autre acanthe;

Mais l'Homme indifférent au rêve des aïeux
Écoute sans frémir, du fond des nuits sereines,
La Mer qui se lamente en pleurant les Sirènes.


The temple is in ruin on the promontory.
And Death has mingled, in the sallow dust,
Goddesses in marble, Heroes in bronze,
in the desolate grass, that shroud, their glory.

This oxherd walks his animals to water,
out of his conch, old tune, sighing, filling
the quiet sky, out to the sea’s horizon,
against the blue infinite, his dark figure.

The Earth, dear mother to the ancient Gods,
in the spring, with a vain eloquence, greens
that cracked capital with a living leaf;

but we, indifferent to our forebears’ dreams,
listen without a shiver, in the night’s deeps,
to the Ocean mourning, in tears, the Sirens.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17581249]

>>17580543

Before I begin anon, two things, it’s wonderful to translate poetry and don’t worry so much about word order, some of our best poets take a more Latin word order or copy other word orders and syntax. All that matters is if it can be read and flows elegantly.

>To Marcus Aurelius
>Goodnight now Mark turn off the lamp
>and close the book as overhead
>rises a silver call of stars

Good imagery but as over head rises doesn’t feel smooth.

>it is the heaven’s foreign tongue
>it’s a barbaric cry of awe

Feels like it can be reduced/made tighter but it’s a translation so I understand.

>which your old Latin does not know
>it is the fear the ageless fear
>as it begins to raze the shores

Pretty good, shouldn’t it be “the it is the fear, the ageless fear”? Or is it intended as a singular breath with no stop?

>It will succeed You hear a noise

Again, it will succeed feels like another stop.

>It is the tide The tireless flow
>will wash the letters of your prose
>and every of the world’s four walls
>And as for us Why would we stand
>and shudder in the wind and blow

All very good.

>the ashes stir the air and bite
>our fingers seeking needless words
>Take off your calm then Mark and raise

Feels like you’re losing grip of it again and being led on.

>your hand above the darkness Five
>senses struck by world’s blind hand

Five
Senses feels abrupt, “world’s blind hand” also doesn’t flow elegantly. The world’s blind hand would perhaps Be better.

>will tremble like a frail lyre
>We’ll be betrayed by it and stars
>will too betray us so will grass
>and your grandeur too great to bear

All in all good. I liked it but I can definitely feel strain. I think if you put a little more into it that would be a phenomenal translation.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17581269]

>>17581155
Huh, thanks a lot actually, I really like Keats. That’s pretty high praise in my Eyes.

And yeah the lotus eaters is one of my favorite Tennyson poems, have you ever read tennysons the day-dream? Here’s the beginning of it.

O LADY FLORA, let me speak:
A pleasant hour has passed away
While, dreaming on your damask cheek,
The dewy sister-eyelids lay.
As by the lattice you reclined,
I went thro’ many wayward moods
To see you dreaming—and, behind,
A summer crisp with shining woods.
And I too dream’d, until at last
Across my fancy, brooding warm,
The reflex of a legend past,
And loosely settled into form.
And would you have the thought I had,
And see the vision that I saw,
Then take the broidery-frame, and add
A crimson to the quaint Macaw,
And I will tell it. Turn your face,
Nor look with that too-earnest eye—
The rhymes are dazzled from their place
And order’d words asunder fly.


THE SLEEPING PALACE
I.
THE varying year with blade and sheaf
Clothes and reclothes the happy plains,
Here rests the sap within the leaf,
Here stays the blood along the veins.
Faint shadows, vapours lightly curl’d,
Faint murmurs from the meadows come,
Like hints and echoes of the world
To spirits folded in the womb.
II.
Soft lustre bathes the range of urns
On every slanting terrace-lawn.
The fountain to his place returns
Deep in the garden lake withdrawn.
Here droops the banner on the tower,
On the hall-hearths the festal fires,
The peacock in his laurel bower,
The parrot in his gilded wires.
III.
Roof-haunting martins warm their eggs:
In these, in those the life is stay’d.
The mantles from the golden pegs
Droop sleepily: no sound is made,
Not even of a gnat that sings.
More like a picture seemeth all
Than those old portraits of old kings,
That watch the sleepers from the wall.

[Anonymous No.17581358]

>>17581269
Most welcome, my dude. Keats is great.
I haven't read The Day Dream. I'll check it out, thanks! His Ulysses is probably tied for my favorite poem with Fern Hill. I know they're both pretty cliche but fuck they're good.
I'm still working my way reading through the thread, I'll let you know if anything else jumps out to me.

[Anonymous No.17581387]

>>17575188
Anyone?

[Anonymous No.17581665]

>>17581249
Thanks so much for the feedback! While translating a poem one has to oscillate between faithfulness to the meaning and esthetic merit of the poem in the language one is translating into. I tried to even those out, but it's a difficult task, and now, considering your remarks, I think I might have clung to the wording too tenaciously in some parts. One example of that is the punctuation, of which in the original poem there is none, so I decided not to use it, even when I felt the need to. And maybe I should have.
I will look into those parts you've pointed out and hopefully amend them. I've got a feeling that if I were to ask Herbert if he'd rather have his poems translated in a literal or an esthetic way, he'd have preferred the latter. So will strive to do just that.

[Anonymous No.17581754]

>>17570612
>on them is Worn my every Will
Great idea, maybe not the best application. I really like the concept of her "wearing" a part of you. The juxtaposition of the pink nails doesn't do an interesting idea like that justice, it cheapens it in my opinion. Maybe you can take the concept and apply it to another poem/setting?

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17581948]

>>17581754
Oh definitely, I know the pink of the nail and so forth doesn’t do much, I was mostly focusing on the technical aspect and the narrative, however I figured the pink would be a nice color contrast. In general I’m terrible at erotic and emotional heavy poetry because I don’t really feel those emotions strongly unless it’s towards God(which I know, I know, silly sounding but it’s the truth.)

>>17581387
Oh sorry dude, I forgot to reply to this one.
>>17575188
Before I begin, while perhaps it’s an intended effect I dislike the first rhyme sets, mush-dust-push-rust, the reason being that the similarly but differences in the four when echoed don’t make a smooth feeling but a kind of ugly feeling, very easy to produce a mis-pronunciation as well. But if this is intentional so be it.

>The hammer strikes the jaw to mush
>The teeth turned all to dust

Points on again, the odder imagery, but the first two lines sound more appropriate for perhaps a metal song or with a heavy beat behind them. Say them out loud, yeah?

>The lad's cursed with a painful push

That metal-like-quality would be fine in of itself would have been fine if you continued it, but “Lad” takes the style/aesthetic and shifts it far too much. So far it’s not the best blending of technical aspects and imagery.

>His mouth filled with the taste of rust

Better with the imagery but this line feels like a mouthful (pun intended, Kek) it’s a lot of syllables for a little amount of meaning.

>Lie in agony he must
The language feels inelegant and like you were forced to say it to get the rhyme off.
It feels in elegant because your word order/manner of speech suddenly changed.

>Giving way to earthen pull

“Earthen pull” sounds nice

>Victim of the warrior's lust

Again, good metal-like quality

>Resenting his lot in full

Feels like a utility line, just there to move the narrative forward but it’s fine.

>Over regrets the mind does mull

Again, the “does” demonstrates weakness in language control and the rhyme feels forced.

>His body drowsy and numb

Feels like a utility line, you can definitely say this in a nicer way.

>A target of hateful Ares' cull

While I like the idea, again, rhyme doesn’t flow naturally.

When you rhyme it has to either come as a surprise, as a note of satisfaction/completion or as a means of creating a more musical/sing-songy quality.

>He clings to biting his thumb

Could be good if you actually developed this imagery further.

>Yet the strength has left him broken and bare

Line feels too long again.

>And his soul ascends to the afterlife's care

Fair enough ending but the rhyme again feels forced.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17582007]

Reposting an older somewhat longer poem. It’s called “ a vision seen while reading Purgatorio”
I sign this by the holy purgatorial fire
and the river of lethe and fivefold Eunoia
transmute me in accordance with the Lord’s desire
that is my sole fruit, bread, meat, milk and euphoria


in the midst of a mist covered land stand I
let me try to recall how and why
I pry first from my memory a woodland
old and deserted, now a wasteland
save for the Sphinx statue which made me tremble
it guarded an abandoned temple
its incense was all pervading dread
lit by a river of clouds blood red
fearing the night fall and the ferocious beasts
i entered the temple lacking priests

the once worshipped idols no longer hallowed
are now by the dark abyss hollowed
something seemed amiss in the yawning darkness
I heard mourning cries of a goddess
and saw the monstrous idol with Dew adorned

“he who is rejected and Adored”

I heard as I stepped towards the vile image
with courage I relate its visage

the legs of scorpions and a lizards face
and a crab’s claw bearing a cruel mace
and its other hand a bear’s paw lifted up
and before it was a dark red cup
its color was heaven’s own starry tincture
i stepped forth to grab the admixture

but again I heard that goddess siren cry
I stepped back in fear that I may die
then I beheld from whence the cup I would rip
the stone fleshed hand of a statue’s grip
and with the cruel goddess voice she spake to me
“I have mingled the blood of the free
and the astral cross of the four Royal hosts
with the beheaded one and his ghosts
brought to him by the gorgons dread face
which bound to dark ignorance the human race”

then opened her delirious eyes
they shined not with darkness, for they were her lies
in them layed a million blasphemies
my soul was trapped in her pleasing agonies
I was nearly beguiled but came three
who came to this tenebrous place to save me

they held outstretched three swords, longest was their chiefs
(this is naught but a Christian’s beliefs
be not alarmed as if a strange new doctrine
for I veil the only truth sovereign)
their swords pierced through my soul‘s every part
revealing even my inmost heart
then I arosed free from my dark stone prison
thrice infused by the great lord risen

then I beheld that object of derision
that former idol in my vision
crippled, divided and laying there prostrate
in the name of love, hope and of faith
I seized the cup from the abomination
by the lord of true combination
I blessed it saying “i bless you with marriage
and I rebuke your confused mirage
love without the lovers be not truest love
for the marriage of heaven above
is with the earth below in obedience
a curse then on disobedience “

and as I spoke these words a pearl of great price
arose from the dark cup shining thrice
thrice perfect, thrice holy, thrice infused and blest
I seized the pearl and entered deep rest

Cont

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17582017]

>>17582007
I awaken now in the midst of the mist
in a small boat, with no human to assist
nor to grant direction nor grant me guidance
but as I sat in the fog and deep silence
I remember that my sole captain and guide
is the captain of eternity who died
and now lives and reigns forever in power
neither poet, Sybil nor pomp could scour
the white robes stained with the cracks of broken clay
gained when Adam had ate of the fruit that day
how then can they lead me across the river
into the green pasture, shining like silver
decked with glories more splendid than the whole earth?
through this my faith, I saw he of virgin birth

though he stood far off and upon the waters
I knew it was he, the groom of earths daughters
and he cried out to me “ be thou unafraid!
it is I, through me was your soul knit and made”

and I shout to him “to the lord I now pray
if it be you who calls out, leave me not stay
but call thou me upon the waters to come”
and my lord with utter peace said to me “come “

I stepped out of the boat and upon the waves
for a moment I looked down and saw the graves
of men within the waters, as if they slept
they lay there motionless in the darkest depth

in that moment I fell into the dark deep
but the shepherd clenches with his hand his poor sheep
the fog vanishes like darkness slain by light
he embraces me, wiping my tears and blight
and he leads me to the place which knows not night

[Anonymous No.17582601]

I know you all, and will awhile uphold
The unyoked humour of your idleness:
Yet herein will I imitate the sun,
Who doth permit the base contagious clouds
To smother up his beauty from the world,
That, when he please again to be himself,
Being wanted, he may be more wonder'd at,
By breaking through the foul and ugly mists
Of vapours that did seem to strangle him.
If all the year were playing holidays,
To sport would be as tedious as to work;
But when they seldom come, they wish'd for come,
And nothing pleaseth but rare accidents.
So, when this loose behavior I throw off
And pay the debt I never promised,
By how much better than my word I am,
By so much shall I falsify men's hopes;
And like bright metal on a sullen ground,
My reformation, glittering o'er my fault,
Shall show more goodly and attract more eyes
Than that which hath no foil to set it off.
I'll so offend, to make offence a skill;
Redeeming time when men think least I will.

Prince Hal from Henry IV part1

[Anonymous No.17583228]

The elfin knight


MY plaid awa, my plaid awa,
And ore the hill and far awa,
And far awa to Norrowa,
My plaid shall not be blown awa.

1 The elphin knight sits on yon hill,
Ba, ba, ba, lilli ba
He blaws his horn both loud and shrill,
The wind hath blown my plaid awa

2 He blowes it east, he blowes it west,
He blowes it where he lyketh best.

3 'I wish that horn were in my kist,
Yea, and the knight in my armes two.'

4 She had no sooner these words said,
When that the knight came to her bed.

5 'Thou art over young a maid,' quoth he,
'Married with me thou il wouldst be.'

6 'I have a sister younger than I,
And she was married yesterday.

7 'Married with me if thou wouldst be,
A courtesie thou must do to me.

8 'For thou must shape a sark to me,
Without any cut or heme,' quoth he.

9 'Thou must shape it knife-and-sheerlesse,
And also sue it needle-threedlesse.'

10 'If that piece of courtesie I do to thee,
Another thou must do to me.

11 'I have an aiker of good ley-land,
Which lyeth low by yon sea-strand.

12 'For thou must eare it with thy horn,
So thou must sow it with thy corn.

13 'And bigg a cart of stone and lyme,
Robin Redbreast he must trail it hame.

14 'Thou must barn it in a mouse-hell,
And thrash it into thy shoes sell.

15 'And thou must winnow it in thy looff,
And also seek it in thy glove.

16 'For thou must bring it over the sea,
And thou must bring it dry home to me.

17 'When thou hast gotten thy turns well done,
Then come to me and get thy sark then.'

18 'I'l not quite my plaid for my life;
It haps my seven bairns and my wife.'
The wind shall not blow my plaid awa

19 'My maidenhead I'l then keep still,
Let the elphin knight do what he will.'
The wind's not blown my plaid awa

[Anonymous No.17583310]

>>17570774
>The chromosomes seem to laugh at coelacanths
Fun one

>>17573229
Make a Latin version. Sounds good

>>17574771
>the crack in the sky
>of one who abides
>by me since my birth
>at the dawn of being
>You I give a free hand
>to grasp at nothing
>except another’s hand
>Elders of the dawn
>older than night
>they call out
>the Most High’s command
>they will herald the voices
>of the celestial spheres

A little more analogical license than the last, hopefully not a too shit rendering again, for you

>>17574970
vivid

>>17580543
Looks a decent rendering on this end

>>17581179
>High atop the hill the shrine lies in ruin
>And commingled in death with the tall grass
>Goddess in marble and bronzed hero pass
>To dust enveloped, former glory undone

[Anonymous No.17583311]

Here's an exercice for you /lit/. This is a very small French poem by Toulet, translate it into English while keeping the rhyme and the rhythm:

Étranger, je sens bon. Cueille-moi sans remords :
Les violettes sont le sourire des morts.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17583761]

Translation of another Gypsy song “wipe my tears” would be the translated title.

Devla, may khin-div-as Kay chi sash-tol moogo dukh.
Devla, may khin-div-as pay-chi khon dee-kus pay mon.

Ashune Ajes devla, so-may mongav tuudod,
chay meela dey avel pay mon.
Tey kos-us moogo aswah.

Ajes avav tuuday, sash-jod tu moogo dukh, ay kos moogo aswah, chay yak-ah tey aven pay mon

Ashune Ajes devla, so-may mongav tuudod,
chay meela dey avel pay mon.
Tey kos-us moogo aswah.

Ajes avav tuuday, sash-jod tu moogo dukh, ay kos moogo aswah, chay yak-ah tey aven pay mon.


More or less literal translation

Lord, I think that this pain/suffering/sorrow shall not end/heal.

Lord, I think that you will look upon me.

Listen to me, this day, Lord, what I want from you
Let your compassion/sadness be upon me/wash over me
May you wipe my eyes

Today I come to you, Come heal my pain/suffering/sorrow,
And wipe my tears, and let your eyes be upon me.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17584006]

Another old Gypsy song, one of my favorites.

Badow chi-no Christo wo-ghatah,
Kana sas po Golgotha
O trisul po pestay nik-kud-ah
Say avel ah-menday yeti-mos

Kana las o bes-akah lum-yak-ah,
O besekh badow pay pestay Lah.
Du-nati-go kud-e-las o Lumia
Ay pendes peska Dod-es-ka

Eli Eli lama sabachthani
Yetisod lang-uh chi jhan-en so-kid-un
Katha-la sas lay wud-Be lay christoka
Kana wo Mulo

O bris-un shode-el-as ay lesko roth pe-chalas
Hum-ee-sa-was o pai pesko roth-es-ah
Kad-oh si ah-mang-uh yetimos
Kad-oh si ah-mang-uh skup-ee-mos

Kana las o bes-akah lum-yak-ah,
O besekh badow pay pestay Lah.
Du-nati-go kud-e-las o Lumia
Ay pendes peska Dod-es-ka

Eli Eli lama sabachthani
Yetisod lang-uh chi jhan-en so-kid-un
Katha-la sas lay wud-Be lay christoka
Kana wo Mulo

Eli Eli
Eli Eli
Eli Eli
Lama sabachthani

Kana las o bes-akah lum-yak-ah,
O besekh badow pay pestay Lah.
Du-nati-go kud-e-las o Lumia
Ay pendes peska Dod-es-ka

Eli Eli lama sabachthani

Translation

Great suffering did the Christ devour
When we was at Golgotha
The Cross on himself he held
So that we may have forgiveness

When he took the sin of the world,
Great transgression/sin he put upon himself
The world became black
And he said to his father

Eli Eli lama sabacthani (my God, My God, why have you forsaken me?)
“Forgive them, they know not what they do”
These were the words of Christ
When he died

The rain fell and his blood poured
The water and his blood mixed
That is for us forgiveness
That is for us salvation

When he took the sin of the world,
Great transgression/sin he put upon himself
The world became black
And he said to his father

Eli Eli lama sabacthani (my God, My God, why have you forsaken me?)
“Forgive them, they know not what they do”
These were the words of Christ
When he died

Eli Eli
Eli Eli
Lama sabachthani

When he took the sin of the world,
Great transgression/sin he put upon himself
The world became black
And he said to his father

Eli Eli lama sabacthani

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17584032]

>>17584006
Whoops two errors.

> Say avel ah-menday yeti-mos

Should be “sai avel ah-menday yeti-mos“

And

>When we was at Golgotha

Should be “ When he was at Golgotha

[Anonymous No.17584582]

>>17566938
Basho

[Anonymous No.17584944]

>>17583311
Stranger, I smell good. Seize me without regret:
Violets are the smile of the dead

[Anonymous No.17585218]

>>17565352
Orange trees, yellow walls and pink birds
catastrophic red rhymes and those great big brick walls
Those purple cows and magnificent trees catapulted over
They trample the shepherd who walks through those moonlit blue nights
The shepherd's path follows a road, the road in which fate will have him dead
Ran over by that ghost car with night lights

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17585252]

>>17585218
I’ll be honest. While the imagery went by too fast to leave an impact of the colored landscape you’re trying to write, I really enjoyed the assault of rapid fire colors and the few words which did expand enough to draw an image worked very well with your use of color. I liked it Anon.

[Anonymous No.17585287]

>>17585252
Thanks frater reading this tonight hopefully it inspires me(although I really should finish my reading of the Iliad). I'm obviously inspired by Rimbaud but I really love that language focused writing that Gertrude Stein does.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17585317]

>>17585287
Haven’t read Gertrude Stein, In general besides a few specific folks I’m pretty ignorant of modernism/American modernists. Think she writes anything I’d like? And do tell how you like nerval, I’ve tried to shill him to a decent amount around /lit/ I think you’ll find a heavy does of oneiric mystic delirium.

[Anonymous No.17585425]

>>17585317
Yea you got me on it awhile back yet to still read through(i read that long poem). Modernism is very language-focused, technical, and less ethereal so I don't think you'll like her but I shilled Rilke's Duino Elegies to you last thread(or was it the one before that?). Who are those folks? Do tell and have you written anything long since? Idk why I want to read something akin to that again. I keep thinking of the scene of the Dad chopping wood and singing a song and the kid debating on going out at night against his father's will, the ending, and then all that for you to tell me it's Rukia(she is cute) inspired-I was expecting Blake or something haha.

I know all your poems are very specific and well composed to have that mysticness that is at this point in your very nature. Would you mind pointing me in a direction that could get me writing poems that involve mysticism? Idk what thread it was but I saw you posted a screenshot of your reply to someone on /x/(with your own poem) that had written a poem steeped in that mysticism and wanted to try my hand at it since. I always get lost in the lingo but I suppose it takes a real commitment to the study of esotericism instead of interest

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17585493]

>>17585425
>Modernism is very language-focused, technical, and less ethereal

Yeah, while I get language and technical focus I still want it to be towards aesthetic effects and I find a lot of modernists just don’t do it for me. Even pound who I like is hit or miss for me.

>have you written anything long since?

Beautified a bit a short horror I wrote.

https://pastebin.com/hwEwhvfg

It’s in a pretty different style, not really going for fear but rather the wrathful presence/aesthetic.

> Would you mind pointing me in a direction that could get me writing poems that involve mysticism?

To me that’s a hard question, I implement the mystical stuff both in the content and in the form, so for content that would require knowledge of any mystical or religious theme you’d want to use and surely you know how to do that, alternatively for form, the biggest influences for me would be cryptography the likes of trithemius, Crowley and John dee and general utilization of gematria, but even beyond that mystical schema can be implemented. I keep posting that Sweven poem and I think I’ll write up a little essay at some point explaining all of the stuff I hid in it.

I’ll link the thread where I explain how I constructed that curse, perhaps use that to replicate the style.

>>/lit/thread/S17452381#p17461450

As for the lingo, I mean I could probably pastiche very well the high reference High lingo stuff that I’ve seen the modernists do, it’s just I don’t think that’s what a beautiful poem is made of. Know what I mean.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17585506]

>>17585493
>>17585425
Do tell if you like the horror story, Kek. Soon I’ll be done completing a much more refined story though in the style of Chinese fu and Arabian saj poetry.

[Anonymous No.17585988]

Bump

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17586259]

This is my favorite secular poem written by a woman, it’s really a translation but still. And perhaps it may not be objectively the best but I like it.


La Solitude de St. Amant translated by Katherine Phillips

1
O! Solitude, my sweetest choice
Places devoted to the night,
Remote from tumult, and from noise,
How you my restless thoughts delight!
O Heavens! what content is mine,
To see those trees which have appear'd
From the nativity of Time,
And which hall ages have rever'd,
To look to-day as fresh and green,
As when their beauties first were seen!

2
A cheerful wind does court them so,
And with such amorous breath enfold,
That we by nothing else can know,
But by their hieght that they are old.
Hither the demi-gods did fly
To seek the sanctuary, when
Displeased Jove once pierc'd the sky,
To pour a deluge upon men,
And on these boughs themselves did save,
When they could hardly see a wave.

3
Sad Philomel upon this thorn,
So curiously by Flora dress'd,
In melting notes, her case forlorn,
To entertain me, hath confess'd.
O! how agreeable a sight
These hanging mountains do appear,
Which the unhappy would invite
To finish all their sorrows here,
When their hard fate makes them endure
Such woes, as only death can cure.

4
What pretty desolations make
These torrents vagabond and fierce,
Who in vast leaps their springs forsake,
This solitary Vale to pierce.
Then sliding just as serpents do
Under the foot of every tree,
Themselves are changed to rivers too,
Wherein some stately Nayade,
As in her native bed, is grown
A queen upon a crystal throne.

5
This fen beset with river-plants,
O! how it does my sense charm!
Nor elders, reeds, nor willows want,
Which the sharp steel did never harm.
Here Nymphs which come to take the air,
May with such distaffs furnish'd be,
As flags and rushes can prepare,
Where we the nimble frogs may see,
Who frighted to retreat do fly
If an approaching man they spy.

6
Here water-flowl repose enjoy,
Without the interrupting care,
Lest Fortune should their bliss destroy
By the malicious fowler's snare.
Some ravish'd with so bright a day,
Their feathers finely prune and deck;
Others their amorous heats allay,
Which yet the waters could not check:
All take their innocent content
In this their lovely element.

7
Summer's, nor Winter's bold approach,
This stream did never entertain;
Nor ever felt a boat or coach,
Whilst either season did remain.
No thirsty traveller came near,
And rudely made his hand his cup;
Nor any hunted hind hath here
Her hopeless life resigned up;
Nor ever did the treacherous hook
Intrude to empty any brook.

Cont

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17586266]

>>17586259
8
What beauty is there in the sight
Of these old ruin'd castle-walls
Of which the utmost rage and spight
Of Time's worst insurrection falls?
The witches keep their Sabbath here,
And wanton devils make retreat.
Who in malicious sport appear,
Our sense both to afflict and cheat;
And here within a thousand holes
Are nest of adders and of owls.

9
The raven with his dismal cries,
That mortal augury of Fate,
Those ghastly goblins ratifies,
Which in these gloomy places wait.
On a curs'd tree the wind does move
A carcase which did once belong
To one that hang'd himself for love
Of a fair Nymph that did him wrong,
Who thought she saw his love and truth,
With one look would not save the youth.

10
But Heaven which judges equally,
And its own laws will still maintain,
Rewarded soon her cruelty
With a deserv'd and mighty pain:
About this squalid heap of bones,
Her wand'ring and condemned shade,
Laments in long and piercing groans
The destiny her rigour made,
And the more to augment her right,
Her crime is ever in her sight.

11
There upon antique marbles trac'd,
Devices of past times we see,
Here age ath almost quite defac'd,
What lovers carv'd on every tree.
The cellar, here, the highest room
Receives when its old rafters fail,
Soil'd with the venom and the foam
Of the spider and the snail:
And th'ivy in the chimney we
Find shaded by a walnut tree.

12
Below there does a cave extend,
Wherein there is so dark a grot,
That should the Sun himself descend,
I think he could not see a jot.
Here sleep within a heavy lid
In quiet sadness locks up sense,
And every care he does forbid,
Whilst in arms of negligence,
Lazily on his back he's spread,
And sheaves of poppy are his bed.

13
Within this cool and hollow cave,
Where Love itself might turn to ice,
Poor Echo ceases not to rave
On her Narcissus wild and nice:
Hither I softly steal a thought,
And by the softer music made
With a sweet lute in charms well taught,
Sometimes I flatter her sad shade,
Whilst of my chords I make such choice,
They serve as body to her voice.

14
When from these ruins I retire,
This horrid rock I do invade,
Whose lofty brow seems to inquire
Of what materials mists are made:
From thence descending leisurely
Under the brow of this steep hill
It with great pleasure I descry
By waters undermin'd, until
They to Palaemon's seat did climb,
Compos'd of sponges and of slime.

Cont

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17586274]

Next posts will have the original
>>17586266

15
How highly is the fancy pleas'd
To be upon the Ocean's shore,
When she begins to be appeas'd
And her fierce billows cease to roar!
And when the hairy Tritons are
Riding upon the shaken wave,
With what strange sounds they strike the air
Of their trumpets hoarse and brave,
Whose shrill reports does every wind
Unto his due submission bind!

16
Sometimes the sea dispels the sand,
Trembling and murmuring in the bay,
And rolls itself upon the shells
Which it both brings and takes away.
Sometimes exposed on the strand,
Th'effect of Neptune's rage and scorn,
Drown'd men, dead monsters cast on land,
And ships that were in tempests torn,
With diamonds and ambergreece,
And many more such things as these.

17
Sometimes so sweetly she does smile,
A floating mirror she might be,
And you would fancy all that while
New Heavens in her face to see:
The Sun himself is drawn so well,
When there he would his picture view,
That our eye can hardly tell
Which is the false Sun, which the true;
And lest we give our sense the lie,
We think he's fallen from the sky.

18
Bernieres! for whose beloved sake
My thoughts are at a noble strife,
This my fantastic landskip take,
Which I have copied from the life.
I only seek the deserts rough,
Where all alone I love to walk,
And with discourse refin'd enough,
My Genius and the Muses talk;
But the converse most truly mine,
Is the dear memory of thine.

19
Thou mayst in this Poem find,
So full of liberty and heat,
What illustrious rays have shin'd
To enlighten my conceit:
Sometimes pensive, sometimes gay,
Just as that fury does control,
And as the object I survey
The notions grow up in my soul,
And are as unconcern'd and free
As the flame which transported me.

20
O! how I Solitude adore,
That element of noblest wit,
Where I have learnt Apollo's lore,
Without the pains to study it:
For thy sake I in love am grown
With what thy fancy does pursue;
But when I think upon my own,
I hate it for that reason too.
Because it needs must hinder me
From seeing, and from serving thee.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17586284]

>>17586274
O que j'ayme la solitude!
Que ces lieux sacrez à la nuit, Esloignez du monde e du bruit,
Plaisent à mon inquietude!
Mon Dieu! que mes yeux sont contens
De voir ces bois, qui se trouverent
A la nativité du temps,
Et que tous les siècles everent,
Estre encore aussi beaux et vers,
Qu'aux premiers jours de l'univers!


Un gay zephire les caresse
D'un mouvement doux et flatteur.
Rien que leur extresme hauteur
Ne fait remarquer leur vieillesse.
Jadis Pan et ses demi-dieux
Y vinrent chercher du refuge,
Quand Jupiter ouvrit les cieux
Pour nous enoyer le deluge,
Et, se sauvans sur leurs rameaux,
A peine virent-ils les eaux.


Que sur cette espine fleurie
Dont le printemps est amoureux,
Philomele, au chant langoureux,
Entretient bein ma resverie!
Que je prens de plaisir à voir
Ces monts pendans en precipices,
Qui, puor les coups du desespoir,
Sont aux malheureux si propices,
Quand la cruauté de leur sort,
Les froce a rechercher la mort!


Que je trouve doux le ravage
De ces fiers torrens vagabonds,
Que se precipitent par bonds
Dans ce valon vert et sauvage!
Puis, glissant sour les arbrisseaux,
Ainsi que des serpens sur l'herbe,
Se changent en plaisans ruisseaux,
Où quelque Naïade superbe
Regne comme en son lict natal,
Dessus un throsne de christal!


Que j'ayme ce marets paisible!
Il est tout bordé d'aliziers,
D'aulnes, de saules et d'oziers,
Q qui le fer n'est point nuisible.
Les nymphes, y cherchans le frais,
S'y viennet fournir de quenouilles,
De pipeaux, de joncs et de glais;
Où l'on voit sauter les grenouilles,
Qui de frayeur s'y vont cacher
Si tost qu'on veut s'en approcher.


Là, cent mille oyseaux aquatiques
Vivent, sand craindre, en leur repos,
Le giboyeur fin et dispos,
Avec ses mortelles pratiques.
L'un tout joyeux d'un si beau jour,
S'amuse à becqueter sa plume;
L'autre allentit le feu d'amour
Qui dans l'eau mesme se consume,
Et prennent tous innocemment
Leur plaisir en cet élement.


Jamais l'esté ny la froidure
N'ont veu passer dessus cette eau
Nulle charrette ny batteau,
Depuis que l'un et l'autre dure;
Jamais voyageur alteré
N'y fit servir sa main de tasse;
Jamais chevreuil desesperé
N'y finit sa vie à la chasse;
Et jamais le traistre hameçon
N'en fit sortir aucun poisson.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17586292]

>>17586284

Que j'ayme à voir la décadence
De ces vieux chasteaux ruinez,
Contre qui les ans mutinez
Ont deployé leur insolence!
Les sorciers y font leur savat;
Les demons follets y retirent,
Qui d'un malicieux ébat
Trompent nos sens et nous martirent;
Là se nichent en mille troux
Les couleuvres et les hyboux.


L'orfraye, avec ses cris funebres,
Mortels augures des testins,
Fait rire et dancer les lutins
Dans ces lieux remplis de tenebres.
Sous un chevron de bois maudit
Y branle le squelette horrible
D'un pauvre amant qui se pendit
Pour une bergère insensible,
Qui d'un seul regard de pitié
Ne daigna voir son amitié.


Aussi le Ciel, juge équitable,
Qui maintient les loix en vigueur,
Prononça contre sa rigueur
Une sentence epouvantable:
Autour de ces vieux ossemens
Son ombre, aux peines condamnée,
Lamente en logs gemissemens
Sa malheureuse destinée,
Ayant, pour croistre son effroy,
Tousjours son crime devant onions.


Là se trouvent sur quelques marbres
Des devises du temps passé;
Icy l'âge a presque effacé
Des chiffres taillex sur les arbres;
Le plancher du lieu le plus haut
Est tombé jusques dans la cave,
Que la limace et le crapaud
Souillent de venin et de bave;
Le lierre y croist au foyer,
A l'ombrage d'un grand noyer.


Là dessous s'estend une voûte
Si sombre en un certain endroit,
Que, quand Phebus y descendroit,
Je pense qu'il n'y verrroit goutte;
Le Sommeil aux pesans sourcis,
Enchanté d'un morne silence,
Y dort, bien loing de tous soucis,
Dans les bras de la Nonchalence,
Laschement couché sur le dos
Dessus des gerbes de pavots.


Au creux de cette grotte fresche,
Où l'Amour se pourroit geler,
Echo ne cesse de brusler
Pour son amant froid et revesche,
Je m'y coule sans aire bruit,
Et par la celeste harmonie
D'un doux lut, aux charmes instruit,
Je flatte sa triste manie
Faisant, repeter mes accords
A la voix qui luy sert de corps.


Tantost, sortant de ces ruines,
Je monte au haut de ce rocher,
Dont le sommet semble chercher
En quel lieu se font les bruïnes;
Puis je descends tout à loisir,
Sous une falaise escarpée,
D'où je regarde avec plaisir
L'onde qui l'a presque sappée
Jusqu'au siege de Palemon,
Fait d'esponges et de limon.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17586297]

>>17586292
Que c'est une chose agreable
D'estre sur le borde de la mer,
Quand elle vient à se calmer
Après quelque orage effroyable!
Et que les chevelus Tritons,
Hauts, sur les vagues secouées,
Frapent les airs d'estranges tons
Avec leurs trompes enrouées,
Dont l'eclat rend respectueux
Les ventes les plus impetueux.


Tantost l'onde brouillant l'arène,
Murmure et fremit de courroux
Se roullant dessus les cailloux
Qu'elle apporte et qu'elle r'entraine.
Tantost, elle estale en ses bords,
Que l'ire de neptune outrage,
Des gens noyex, des monstres morts,
Des vaisseaux brisez du naufrage,
Des diamans, de l'ambre gris,
Et mille autres choses de pris.


Tantost, la lus claire du monde,
Elle semble un miroir flottant,
Et nous represente à l'instant
Encore d'autres cieux sous l'onde.
Le soleil s'y fait si bien voir,
Y contemplant son beau visage,
Qu'on est quelque temps à savoir
Si c'est loy-mesme, ou son image,
Et d'abord il semble à nos yeux
Qu'il s'est laissé tomber des cieux.


Bernières, pour qui je me vante
De ne rien faire que de beau,
Reçoy ce fantasque tableau
Fait d'une peinture vivante,
Je ne cherche che les deserts,
Où, resvant tout seul, je m'amuse
A des discours assez diserts
De mon genie avec la muse;
Mais mon plus aymable entretien
C'est le ressouvenir du tien.


Tu vois dans cette poesie
Pleine de licence et d'ardeur
Les beaux rayons de la splendeur
Qui m'esclaire la fantaisie:
Tantost chagrin, tantost joyeux
Selon que la futeur m'enflame,
Et que l'objet s'offre à mes yeux,
Les propose me naissent en l'ame,
Sans contraindre la liberté
Du demon qui m'a transporté.


O que j'ayme la solitude!
C'est l'element des cons esprits,
C'est par elle que j'ay compris
L'art d'Apollon sans nulle estude.
Je l'ayme pour l'amour de toy,
Connaissant que ton humeur l'ayme
Mais quand je pense bien à moy,
Je la hay pour la rasion mesme
Car elle pourroit me ravir
L'heur de te voir et te servir.

[Anonymous No.17586559]

>>17585317
tender buttons is an interesting experiment but it's not a good read

[Anonymous No.17586644]

>>17585218
kinda flat, if you break it into two parts, you can see what works and what doesn't

>Orange trees, yellow walls and pink birds
>catastrophic red rhymes and those great big brick walls
>Those purple cows and magnificent trees catapulted over
>They trample the shepherd who walks through those moonlit blue nights

descriptions with colours, there's certainly something to work with, "magnificent trees catapulted over/They trample" is kinda clumsy. "moonlit blue nights" is also pretty weak, especially in comparison to your other coloured noun phrases

>The shepherd's path follows a road, the road in which fate will have him dead
>Ran over by that ghost car with night lights

borders on cliche, road/fate is pairing you probably should avoid, especially following "path follows". i'd probably even scrap this part, since the poetic turn here isn't so compelling. you have something going with the coloured imagery, but then end on what feels unnecessary. the turn already happens on your fourth line with "They trample the shephard" and the final two lines just prolong with not really anthing new

[Anonymous No.17586772]

>>17586644
I have rigidness with my language as my poems get longer. I think it comes from a lack of focus and overzealousness. I think you're right on most of what you said but the last line
>Ran over by that ghost car with night lights
I really like it, it is better by far than what comes before it, and if a better line preceded that fits the colored style from before I think it'd fit nicely. Thanks for your feedback though, much appreciated.

>>17585493
>https://pastebin.com/hwEwhvfg
I have yet to get through all of it but I will after I get this work done. Enjoying it so far!

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17586836]

I’ve been really enjoying the aesthetic writings of Schiller, think I’m going to go over his poetry and maybe even forcibly translate some. In any case here’s one of his poems.

Shakespeare's Shade by Schiller

Finally I too saw the mighty Hercules' power,
That of his shade. For he, sadly, no more could be seen.
All around, like shrieks of a bird, tragedians are shrieking
And the dog-barking sound of dramaturgists round him.
Terrible stood the monstrous one there. His bow was extended
And the shaft on the string constantly struck at the heart.
``What more bold-spirited deed, unlucky one, dare you at present
To now descend by yourself to the deceased in the grave!''
'Tis for Tiresius I must go hence, to question the prophet,
Where ancient buskin I'd find, which is no more to be seen.
``If they believe not in Nature and Greece o'the ancients, then do you
Only in vain fetch dramaturgy there upwards for them.''
O it is Nature, shows up here again on our stages,
Starkly naked, that one might thereby count every rib.
``What? Then truly by you the old buskin is still to be sighted,
Which to fetch I myself climbed down to Tartarus' night?''
There's no more from this tragical ghost. But barely once yearly
Passes your fiery soul over the boards of the stage.
``That's good! Philosophy gave youemotions refinement
And 'fore the humor so gay flies black emotional state.''
Yes, there is nothing better than jest tat's unvarnished and robust,
But even sorrow does please, if it is oly but moist.
``Does one see then with you the nimbl dance of Thalia,*
Next to the solemn step with which Melomene* treads?''
Nothing of either! We only are stirred by he Christian and moral
And what is downright plain, homely and opular, too.
``What! No Caesar's permitted appearanceto make on your stages?
No Achilles, Orestes no more, no Andromea there?''
No! One sees with us only parsons, commercal advisers,
Officers, magistrates, those who lead calvary toops.
``But, I do beg you, my friend, to know whereinthen can this mis'ry
Greatness encounter, how then can what is greathappen through them?''
What? They fashion cabals and they lend on securties, they pilfer
Ladels of silver plate, venture the pill'ry and more.
``But then whence do you seize hold of destiny, great nd gigantic,
Which uplifts all mankind e'en as it grinds him to dust?'
'These are mere whim! Ourselves and our worthy compaions,
Our own sorrow and need, seek and discover right he
``But that you have with more comfort and better at home in your houses!
Why do you flee from yourselves, if it's yourselves that you seek?''
Don't mistake it, my hero, for that's a quite different question:
Destiny, it is blind, and is the poet e'er just.
``Therefore {your} wretched nature it is that one meets on your stages,
Only the great never there, only the infinite not?''
'Tis the poet's the host and the last act's always the reck'ning:
Whene'er depravity's sick, virtue sits down for the meal.

[Anonymous No.17587233]

Odorous and obese, Janny purged the thread
Scratched his ass, farted and shat himself dead
Is there a moral to his story?
Yes, to move his body you'll need a lorry

[Anonymous No.17588299]

>>17587233
You should work on a consistent poetic meter.
Scrolling through the thread a bit I couldnt really make out any other OC, so I'll just dump my poem and see if anyone cares.

Fathers song

Stranger is the women
you brought to our place;
Mother saw it comin'
and won't give her grace.
Understand her, please,
or live with our tease
Let away your pride:
Marry not this bride!

For thousand years, my son,
we married our kin!
You'll break this chain anon,
what are you to win?
A fleeting feel, exotic?
A mix of kids, chaotic!
Let away your pride:
Marry not this bride!

Its not about her worth,
not about our creed.
When she's given birth
You won't look like your seed...
Don't be your nations vulpture
And give your kids a culture
Let away your pride:
Marry not this bride!

[Anonymous No.17588348]

>>17588299
There’s a lot of OC
Like this one
>>17585218

[Anonymous No.17589135]

Bump will post my poem later

[Anonymous No.17589158]

bump

[Anonymous No.17590101]

Who’s the best Portuguese poet?

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17590737]

>>17588299

Before I begin, why use the double Syllable our and not the single syllable our? It would fit the voice you’re using and would give you more space to work with. Also why did you pick 6 syllables? Just because or did that rhythm and sound have a purpose vocally?

>Stranger is the women
>you brought to our place;

Stranger is the women doesn’t flow good, when I recite it I want to say “stranger is the woman”, I think it would feel more smooth to say if it was “stranger are the woman”

>Mother saw it comin'
>and won't give her grace.

Vaguely rustic/country vibe, women-comin is a bit of a stretch but it’s doable.

>Understand her, please,

Utility line, doesn’t give me imagery or any special sound. Progresses the narrative.

>or live with our tease

Doesn’t flow good, seems it only exists to complete a rhyme.

>Let away your pride:
>Marry not this bride!

Too much of a tone/imagery shift, comin’ followed by these two is a completely different voice, shows the poem as artificial.

>For thousand years, my son,

I get that a thousand years makes sense as a really long time, but (coming from a person who loves his numbers.) they in specific don’t do anything in terms of imagery and sound, also for thousand years tells me you’re struggling against the 6 syllable limit you put on yourself.

>we married our kin!

This works fine even with the two voices you’re struggling to balance.

>You'll break this chain anon,

Doesn’t feel buyable

>what are you to win?

Again, syllable count is choking you.

>A fleeting feel, exotic?
>A mix of kids, chaotic!

Cute/fun if you kept this voice up the entire time.

>Let away your pride:
>Marry not this bride!

Repetition is fine.

>Its not about her worth,

This line flows better

>not about our creed.
>When she's given birth

Utility line

>You won't look like your seed...

Best rhyme and a good reveal but I’d have liked if you elaborated upon this image/concept in more depth.

>Don't be your nations vulpture
>And give your kids a culture

Strained syllables and a strained rhyme. Redo it.

>Let away your pride:
>Marry not this bride!

Repetition is fine.


I think you just need to read it out loud anon and think about what affects you want on the reader.

[Anonymous No.17591365]

Whenever I read poetry I just get distracted thinking of rhythm and word choices, and I can never pay attention to the message of the poem. How do you read poems? I think I'd need to read it at least 5 times to start paying attention to the actual semantic content.

[Anonymous No.17591505]

>>17591365
Recite it and sometimes you have to forget you’re reading a poem

[Anonymous No.17591924]

>>17591365
You want to pay attention to all of the details that’s part of the fun

[Anonymous No.17593027]

Bump

[Anonymous No.17593484]

how you hear this is your mood
how you hear this is—
I love you—”overused,
predictable, undoubtable,”
always the same thing from me,
but has it become boring?
well it’s predictable,
always audible,
but have we become boring?

[Anonymous No.17593721]

>>17567696
really funny and good but you lost me on the last line. got too unsubtly cynically in a un-funny way

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17593744]

>>17593721
? No humor or cynicism was implied.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17593783]

>>17593721
It also works really really well in the original due to the rhyme and cultural stuff.

Pho-tho chi soval, ay lath wayy chi-dah-vel Works pretty well.

If you want I could dig up a video of someone singing it

[Anonymous No.17594154]

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)

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17595084]

Vivien’s song by Tennyson

‘In Love, if Love be Love, if Love be ours,
Faith and unfaith can ne’er be equal powers:
Unfaith in aught is want of faith in all.

‘It is the little rift within the lute,
That by and by will make the music mute,
And ever widening slowly silence all.

‘The little rift within the lover’s lute
Or little pitted speck in garnered fruit,
That rotting inward slowly moulders all.

‘It is not worth the keeping: let it go:
But shall it? answer, darling, answer, no.
And trust me not at all or all in all’.

[Anonymous No.17595442]

>>17594154
Bump
Fucking love that one

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17596034]

Almost done writing a basic explanation on the Sweven Sweven Sweven poem, going to post it once done.

[Anonymous No.17596090]

What does /lit/ think of my favorite poem

[Anonymous No.17596171]

All men beware,
The treacherous Jezebel
Ascends from her spider’s lair,
Readied to take ye to hell,
She’ll empty your coffers,
She’ll sap you of life,
She’ll pretend she’s on offer,
But she’ll never be your wife.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17596354]

The following poem was constructed for a longer poem but due to the density of it I think it Merits an elaboration on the various hidden portions of its construction.

First the poem.
I Sing a Song of Sweven

Seven are the Secret names
Written in the White Welkin.
Ere Eternity the flames
Veiled in the black Void of Sin.
Eons pass, Evil conceals.
Nails of Night pierce Sacred Skin.
I Sing a Song of Sweven

Seven are the Sacred Seals
Wet With the blood of the lamb.
Each man Earns what he reveals,
Vanity Views not I am.
Each who Earns the holy Stamp
Negates his Name, like Abram.
I Sing a Song of Sweven

Seven Spirits of the Lamp
Weave the Wyrd into a Web
Elder than the Evening Camp.
Visions Of Verses Of Geb
Envelop all of Elphame.
Now Not Even Naught shall Ebb.


First the basics, Sweven means a dream or a vision, each stanza produces an acrostic of “SWEVEN” and this word is played/rhymed in the first line of each stanza with seven” of which each line is 7 syllables long.

On an aesthetic level let us break down each stanza.

“I sing a song of Sweven”

Saving the letter mysteries for later, this line is repeated three times, it connotes that the next stanza will be a “Sweven” a dream or a vision. The full acrostic because of this line becomes “I dream, I dream, I dream” these mirror the Hebrew god name AHYH AShR AHYH(I am who I am or your preferred translation) and the Trinitarian formulation of Jacob boehme, within Kabbalah AHYH is God in his transcendental nature, which through self relation and unfoldment (AShR, which is symbolically like a mirror) he comes to know himself in the Temporal and immanent, and he is both, This is God as both the man, the mirror and the man reflected in the mirror. (This reflecting the tantric doctrine of the trika unity of Shiva, shakti and Anu)

I sing=creation as an act of speech, the Singer being the Father. AHYH

A Song=the creative words itself, the speech which creates and pervades creation, the Logos, Christ, the way by which the father/singer reveals himself by his mirror/song, AShR

Of Sweven=within the system of boehme, Paracelsus, tantra and so forth, the world of shakti, the Holy Spirit, is the entirety of creation, the holy Spirit being the life which pervades material existence, invisibly, thus it is invisible just as the father is, but because it is so all pervading, whereas the father is hidden in transcendental darkness, the Holy Spirit is hidden in blinding immanent Light. As the creation is the will of the godhead and his will pervades and formulates it, it is a dream, a “Sweven, for what is a dream but ones Ego and mental processes echoing and folding into themselves creating a object world out of its own subjective materia? This idea of the world as dream and pervaded by Godhead is almost universal. This would constitute the final AHYH of the AHYH AShR AHYH formula.

Cont

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17596355]

>>17596354


This God name, AHYH AShR ahyh contains within it the entirety of the Supernal three sephiroth in unity. (Roughly speaking, binah being emptiness/absence, which is married to being/fullness/presence, this intermingling generates representation which is Nondual to knowledge, which is a reflection of kether/truth which is pure becoming/absolute becoming, to quote Schiller “ the play impulse would aim at the extinction of time in time and the reconciliation of becoming with absolute being, of variation with identity.” The play impulse being the harmonization of the sensual and formal within Schiller, effectively the absolute in hegel

In any case, this line like all of the lines of the poem has precisely 7 syllables, 7 in the Christian tradition has a number of meanings, some of which will be elaborated upon in the Analysis of each line. Fundamentally it represents the 7 days, 7 planets, 7 churches, 7 7 angels, 7 names of God and the 7 spirits before God’s throne, to summarize it represents perfection, in the sense of complete rational manifestation. A complete harmonization of actuality with potential/essence.

In this specific example, it represents the 7 remaining lower sephiroth of the tree of life, which constitute the entire range of phenomenological experience. (Various other essays explain this.)

Thus the rhyme of Sweven with seven signifies the union/harmony the manifest world, creation, perfection, the creation power of god and the Holy Spirit.

Thus the first line contains within it the Trinitarian Godhead, the doctrine of Lila, the doctrine of AHYH AShR AHYH and the entirety of creation brought to perfection.

The following stanzas are thus elaborations upon the parts of godhead and their interactions and movements within time, the first Stanza representing the unknowable transcendental nature of Godhead, specifically the Father.

“Seven are the Secret names”

there are various mysteries hidden in the alliteration and pseudo-alliteration but those shall be explained later.

As previously noted, the mystery of seven, but the name is Hidden, the seven names are clearly the seven divine names which rule over the manifest/phenomenologically relevant sephiroth, they are hidden/secret because they are at this point in creation hidden within the Ain Soph, within the darkness of the father, not yet lightened by the creative logos bringing them into manifest creation.

“Written in the White Welkin”

Written=inscribed, in Hebrew mysticism because of the correspondence of the word for soul with ink, written signifies that it is a part of the soul or essential essence of a thing. Thus, written means dwelling within the essence/heart of.

“The white welkin”

Cont

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17596366]

>>17596355
Welkin is a middle/old English word meaning heaven, specifically Sky, white herein is another obscure Hebrew reference, The “true Torah” according to lurianic Kabbalah is not the actual book, but rather the black of nothingness/ain written upon the white of soph/limitation, producing the endless and limitless, “black fire on white fire” as the Talmud calls it, thus this is all of the divine properties and aspects of god and creation written in the true Law, the transcendental being of the Father.

“Ere Eternity the flames “

Ere eternity meaning, before eternity. Temporal and dividable time begins within the kabbalistic and hermetic systems in Saturn/binah, whereas eternal and undividable time (Olam, the Aeon of Aeons) begins with Kether, which is signified by its partzuf/countenance (think a kind of symbolic anthropomorphic representation of the alchemical processes) of Atik Yomin, the highest and first of the partzufim, thus before eternity would signify before Kether, once again, pointing to Ain soph.

“The flames” the flames of course being the true Torah previously described as the names, the totality of the divine attributes, names, titles, potential of creation and so forth.


“Veiled in the black Void of Sin.”

A mysterious doctrine from the core of my own developments but largely reflected in the Christian and tantrik tradition, veiled denoting hidden, hiding, not revealed, not processed.

“Black” denotes the lack of color, lack of possibility of perception (light denoting truth, knowledge, etc)

“Void” denoting emptiness

Thus the black void is the emptiness and lack of perception that occurs because of Sin, one may ask why is sin occurring at this level? It is because in my model, Sin is identical to the universality/invisibility/lack of knowledge of god, Sin is the hiding place of the Good and the veil worn by the Good, this is key to my interpretation of the Dionysian doctrine of the self penetration of nothingness by nothingness.

As such, simply put, the totality of the divine attributes were hidden in the transcendental mystery of the divine nature.

“Eons pass, Evil conceals.”

Eons=aeons, periods/divisions of time, which is to say, the process from Ain soph all the ways down to binah occurs, time is divided, as such the hiddenness of godhead is revealed/appears within time.

It is revealed as Evil, which as previously stated conceals, conceals what? The divine attributes and Will of God, in fact this evil begins with the first evil, the sin of adam(and of Satan) thus, this line brings us through the entirety of the creation process prior to the Christ.

Cont

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17596375]

>>17596366

Note, within Christian thought history is divided into three phases, the creation, the fall and the redemption. As such, so also are the stanzas divided into three phases, as evil and temporal time has been ushered in, in order that this line be perfect and the father be revealed in the Son, the next line naturally must be of redemption and the opening of the nature of Christ.

“Nails of Night pierce Sacred Skin.”

The final line of the stanza, The first meaning is easy and clear, the redemption/overcoming of sin and evil occurs through the nails piercing the skin of the savior, the Christ. But this is intensified if we look deeper.

“Nails”

Within the Hebrew alphabet, The letter Vav(letter V/W/U) means “nail” however, Vav is one of the letters of the Hebrew name of God jehovah/YHVH.

YHVH is interpreted in lurianic Kabbalah according to the partzufim doctrine and also in hermetic alchemical literature as being the following.

Y=the Father
H=the mother
V=the Son
H=the daughter

This four fold family-marriage being a circle, a eternal recreative logarithmic spiral.

The father denotes Chokmah and the father himself, especially as the partzuf Abba(father)

The mother denotes binah and in this regard the holy Spirit in appearance as the shekinah, but especially as the partzuf Ima(mother)

The Son represents the sephira Da’ath(knowledge gnosis, which descends as tiphereth=beauty within creation) he Christ as manifesting messiah, and especially the partzuf of zeir anpin (means small face, to denote how it reflects arich anpin, the large face, which is the outer/external form of Atik Yomin)

The daughter represents Malkuth, shekinah descended among creation, the manifest church, the anima Mundi/spirit of the world, the material world and especially the partzuf Nukvah(the Bride, the partner of zeir anpin, each of the partzufim have alchemical relationships.)

“Night”

Night in Latin is NOX, night in the thelemic system and within some portions of Christian mysticism denotes the Supra-divine light of the godhead which is invisible/non-perceivable to man, it is the night which shines brighter than day light.

Finally, knowledge by its nature must be a multiplicity whereas the totality of knowledge constitutes truth, truth is kether(truth=AMTh=441=21x21)

And the manifest reflection of kether, Daat, which is knowledge which manifests through the rational as tiphereth (meaning beauty, harmony, reason, etc.) must reflect truth through the parts of knowledge.

Thus “nails of night” denotes gnosis, all knowledge, the multiplicity of information manifest from the mysterious portion of the godhead.

“Pierce sacred skin”

Pierce denotes integration, penetration, absorption and so forth through a phallic allegory,

“Sacred”

Sacred means to be set apart, to be special

“Skin”

Cont

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17596386]

>>17596375
The flesh/skin which is “the concrete coincidence of immanence and transcendence in the phenomenon of the lived body”(see merleau ponty, M C Dillon etc) the locust of perception, the invisible and all present center of phenomena, thus it is pierced, the perception of man and his being is pierced/penetrated by the gnosis.

It is “sacred “ because the flesh is Nondual to the ego, which is the unique-within-phenomena, this is why a name of daat is I AM I(which equals 61, same as Ain) thus

“Nails of night pierce sacred skin” at once means Christ is placed upon the cross for the sins of man, but also the descent of gnosis from in high into the perception and flesh and ego of man and broadly speaking humanity.

Thus, the transcendental darkness of the father’s unknowable alien nature is ended and replaced with knowledge of the son, thus the next “Sweven” song begins.
“Seven are the Sacred Seals”

As this is now the stanza of the Christ, the Son, the manifesting/revealing of the divine nature of godhead, it begins with a reference to the Seven seals of revelation, now denoting revelation of spiritual mysteries as a whole.


“Wet With the blood of the lamb.”

Another reference, we read in the book of revelation only the lamb can open the seals, and he appears as a slain yet living lamb who has seven horns and seven eyes, thus the mysteries of all creation are revealed by the manifesting power of Christ as both messiah who reveals the literal seven seals, and our metaphorical seven seals (all divine attributes) being revealed by the Christ as Logos.

“Each man Earns what he reveals,”

Again, another apocalyptic reference to the judgment of man, this line has a double meaning.


The first=each man earns (gains in terms of knowledge) what he reveals (of his hidden potential, of the will of God he enacts, how much he mirrors the Christ in his daily life.)

The second=each man has fallen into judgment of God in accordance to what God shall reveal they have done and not have done, and they must sit and understand they deserve it.

“Vanity Views not I am.”

Elaborates on the judgment seat meaning, those who are Vain, which is to say, those who obsess over the external form and for their own pride shall not view, shall not experience the nature of harmonious love and unity with Godhead, with “I Am”(AHYH)

Note vanity here is obviously in reference to the Ecclesiastes usage, vanity being a translation of “hevel” which means breath, but specifically it is breath used up as if a cold day and then you see it fade away, thus it means passing, transience. Thus those who cleave to transient things and not the eternal things, these do not gain experience of the eternal nature of AHYH.

“Each who Earns the holy Stamp “

Again reference to revelation especially 9:4 and others, each man who has abided in the will of god is stamped/sealed in an opposite way to the mark of the beast.

Cont

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17596393]

>>17596386
“Negates his Name, like Abram. “

The final line references both revelation a final time but also links it to the Old Testament and the name through which it connects us to the creation world and thus the final stanza.

Revelation 2:17


17He who has an ear, let him hear what the Spirit says to the churches. To the one who conquers I will give some of the hidden manna, and I will give him a white stone, with a new name written on the stone that no one knows except the one who receives it.’
Thus the redeemed are changed and transmuted in nature/being, negating their old existence and gaining a Nondual existence with God with a new name. This reflects how Abram (high father, high exalted) becomes Abraham (father of multitude/many) in Genesis 17:5

And just as we have changed from the father in exaltation (Christ as the visible image which brings glory to the father) to the father as father of the multitude (all men, creation, etc) so also do we transition into the final stanza denoting being, creation and the Holy Spirit


“Seven Spirits of the Lamp”

This line has a changed from the other two opening lines, instead of the seven being analyzed “seven are the names, seven are the seals” it is the spirits which are in activity, performing an action. This denotes how the Holy Spirit is active in creation as the paraclete, how in the tantric systems this is identical to shakti, the energetic and activity aspect, the seven spirits of the lamp is also a revelation reference which also exists in the Old Testament thus linking the last line and this first line.

Isaiah 11:1-2

11And there shall come forth a rod out of the stem of Jesse, and a Branch shall grow out of his roots:
2And the spirit of the Lord shall rest upon him, the spirit of wisdom and understanding, the spirit of counsel and might, the spirit of knowledge and of the fear of the Lord;

Revelation 4:5: And out of the throne proceeded lightnings and thunderings and voices: and there were seven lamps of fire burning before the throne, which are the seven Spirits of God

Revelation 5:6: And I beheld, and, lo, in the midst of the throne and of the four beasts, and in the midst of the elders, stood a Lamb as it had been slain, having seven horns and seven eyes, which are the seven Spirits of God sent forth into all the earth.


(The holy Spirit descending upon Christ occurs at his baptism, see Matthew 3:13-17)

These seven are the seven faculties and aspects of the One Holy spirit, who illuminates creation by his very existence, by his Being nature. His light.


Cont

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17596398]

>>17596393
These seven denote the following.

Fear=yirah=Bhairava=Fearful-realization, but also the fear of a son towards his father
Knowledge=daat=to know=gnosis, experience
Power=geburah=Divine supremacy, Phenomenal Laws
Counsel=etsah=design/purpose=all things having intentionality and Logical structure within phenomena
Understanding=Binah=BNYH=BeN-Yh, the son of the father YH, therefore the mutual interrelation shared by the entire divine structure, non-separation, understanding.
Wisdom=Chokmah=cognizance=Consciousness as nondual to Awareness=perfect intentionality=Wisdom
Spirit of The Lord=Ruach YHVH=his presence within creation.

Thus, this line denotes the holy Spirit As the part of divinity which dwells ever in creation, which causes the divine aspects of godhead to materialize as sensuous forms and is Nondual to these sensuous forms.
>Weave the Wyrd into a Web

What is the Wyrd? In Anglo-Saxon culture it fundamentally is identical to the Moirai/three fates, but also the thread/fate itself. The Wyrd is the web of all interrelations in space-time, all relationships. Wyrd itself by etymology means “becoming, to turn, turning, twisting, rotating” thus the holy seven fold spirit of God weaves (makes Affixed, patterns) the Wyrd(becoming, into being.) into a web(a set structured ordered cosmos of relationships)
“Elder than the Evening Camp.”

Elder than the evening camp, or simply put, older than civilization, older than the placing of men in tents and camps and structuring, older than any human or non divine structuring.

Thus this line denotes that the holy Spirit structured and has structured the cosmos since the beginning of temporal time.

Visions Of Verses Of Geb

We move into the final revelation in which temporal time itself is infused with the hidden divinity, visions(unveiling, revelations) of verses (allegorically songs, ultimately knowledge/gnosis ) of Geb(geb meaning earth, but being the Egyptian deity of deified earth.) occur.

Which is to say, all men begin to see the divinity which pervades immanent within the creation upon the final apocalypse.

“Envelop all of Elphame.”

Continues the previous narrative of the unveiling of the holy Spirit in creation, now normative earth is called Elphame, meaning the dwelling of elves, within some strands of medieval and sabbatian thought, it is said that 1/3 of the angels sided with Satan, 1/3 sided with Satan and the final 1/3 chose neither side.

In this theology, Satan and the devils are cast into the subterranean prisons and into hell, whereas the undecided angels fall to the earth, being undecided they serve the earth spirit itself or their Grigori master, shemyaza, and these angels of neither heaven nor earth, ultimately become servants and lords over the local regions of the earth, forgetting their natures and becoming the fey, elves, elemental spirits and so forth.

Cont

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17596399]

>>17596398
Key in this is the mystery of elphame becoming ALPhYM (Alphym), ALPh=Aleph,111, the Nondual unity of Godhead, YM=a suffix which denotes multiplicity, multiplicity, example El=God Elohim=Gods

Thus Alphym=the Nondual unity of Godhead manifest as the multiplicity, and this equal 161, the gematria value of Adam kadmon, which is the primal man, the man from Heaven, all of creation as the soul of Adam.

“Now Not Even Naught shall Ebb.”

Alphym being attained, Now(as in, the manifest moment in time.) not even (creation and non being have been reconciled.

Not even naught (ain ) shall ebb(change) denoting that all of the hidden aspects of Ain, God in his most Supra rational form have become fully material, rational and manifest. Thus Heavenly Zion upon the Earth. Is attained.


Final gematric notes.

Cont

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17596404]

>>17596399
The first stanza contains 13 (when counting both true and pseudo forms ) of alliteration, denotes both Achad(the unity of godhead ) and AHBH(divine love)

The second stanza as reflection of the first also Contains 13 alliterations. (Note 13+13 is a common formula for describing the god name YHVH, Love and unity conjoint under one name.)

The final stanza has 19 alliterations, the value Of IT(a name of Kether) but more importantly the same value as the Hebrew terms meaning “union” “concealing “ and most importantly “breathing” this word CVh is actually the proper name of Eve, thus this stanza is the fullness of creation, humanity, the female shakti, the breath, the harmony of union and concealing and so forth, all being realized in the final stanza.


Thus the 3 stanzas when taken together have 13+13+19 alliterations, which is 45, 45 is ADM, Adam, which means both literal Adam but also the earth.


Uncounted would be the repeated “ I sing a song of Sweven “ lines, each of which has 3 alliterations to signify the triune Godhead.

Each stanza when counted with the “I sing a song of Sweven” has exactly 49 syllables, 49 is 7 x 7, 49 is also the amount of gates of wisdom/loagaeth within the enochian system of magic, these gates being actually 49 divisions of speeches that god gave which formulated the structure of every particular thing. It would also denote absolute perfection and perichoresis.

Similarly when counted as a whole it has 147 syllables, which has many idiosyncratic meanings to me concerning my own system of mysticism but in general, it would denote perichoresis of creation with the Triune Godhead.

Finally it has precisely 454 letters, this is the same gematria as Signet ring, which is in western ceremonial magic the symbol of authority, divine providence and the symbol of the unity of man with God.


Man, that felt great to write out.

[Anonymous No.17596414]

rough OC, be harsh.

When the seas sighed
and my breast was left bereft of breath
I gasped and awed at the gaping maw
and things I saw
Till mourning's morn
No urn could intern

waiting to post so i don't break up the write up
>>17596398
so 2/3 sided with satan? or is that a typo. this is a nice read by the way, thank you

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17596454]

>>17596414
1/3 sided with Satan, 1/3 chose to follow no one, the stories then hook into grigori lore and say that they instead fell to their own sense pleasures, took human wives (producing nephilim, giants) and thus over indulging in sense pleasures they forgot their one nature and became spirits of the natural world. Technically not serving Satan but still bad.

But yeah, sorry for the spam post guys, figured I made that poem so dense, but I don’t think it would be very possible to interpret normally. So ya know. Just give the meaning.

[Anonymous No.17596464]

>>17565352
The Brain—is wider than the Sky—
For—put them side by side—
The one the other will contain
With ease—and you—beside—
The Brain is deeper than the sea—
For—hold them—Blue to Blue—
The one the other will absorb—
As sponges—Buckets—do—
The Brain is just the weight of God—
For—Heft them—Pound for Pound—
And they will differ—if they do—
As Syllable from Sound—

[Anonymous No.17596467]

>>17596454
>it is said that 1/3 of the angels sided with Satan, 1/3 sided with Satan and the final 1/3 chose neither side.
This is what confused me. Sorry if I'm being dense it's late for me.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17596478]

>>17596467
Oh no it’s fine, 100% my mistake. It’s just that I had the entirety of the meaning of The poem before writing up the analysis so I was a bit excited to write it all down. Ya know.

1/3 chose heaven and God(in this anyways, in normative stuff 2/3s go with God)
1/3 goes to Satan
1/3 goes to nature.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17596486]

>>17596467
In a bit anon I’ll try to critique you and a few other anons poems.

[Anonymous No.17596503]

>>17596478
Ah, thank you for clarifying.

[Anonymous No.17596534]

I look every morning
into the lonely skies
and see
grey clouds.
But I stand tall
and hope
that maybe-
just maybe-
they will part.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17596865]

>>17596414
Nice alliteration but it feels flat/empty, need to develop the imagery a bit more.

No urn could intern is a pretty weak ending. In general though I liked what little of it there was.

>>17596464
I like it.

>>17596534
Like the line breaks but it’s ultimately forgettable because it’s so minimal.

[Anonymous No.17597311]

i think of this every time i see a boomer w/ thai wife barely out her teens:

What can a young lassie, what shall a young lassie,
What can a young lassie do wi' an auld man?
Bad luck on the pennie, that tempted my Minnie [mother]
To sell her poor Jenny for siller and lan'! [silver]

He's always compleenin frae morning to e'enin,
He hosts and he hirpls the weary day lang: [coughs, hobbles]
He's doyl't and he's dozin, his blude it is frozen. [dazed]
O, dreary's the night wi' a crazy auld man!

He hums and he hankers, he frets and he cankers, [stammers, complains]
I never can please him do a' that I can;
He's peevish, and jealous of a' the young fellows,
O, dool on the day I met wi' an auld man! [sorrow/pity]

My auld auntie Katie upon me taks pity,
I'll do my endeavour to follow her plan;
I'll cross him, and wrack him until I heartbreak him, [ruin]
And then his auld brass will buy me a new pan.

[Anonymous No.17598082]

Bump

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17598738]

>>17593484
Eh, feels very modern to me, doesn’t really have an image or a feeling or a concept of note. Try to at least heighten the language

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17599670]

>>17596090
It’s pretty comfy, I’m a sucker for winter imagery. You read much frost?

[Anonymous No.17599872]

>>17596090
Why the FUCK did they omit the second "and miles to go before I sleep"? That's literally the best part. Like a kindly old man reminding himself that his job is not yet done. And beyond that, it just fucks up the whole rhyme scheme that they already had going on. There's a billion fucking cons to stripping out the last line, and I can't think of a SINGLE pro.

What a disgrace to the actual poem itself. Bobby Frost must be rolling in his grave.

[Anonymous No.17599888]

>>17599670
I don't read much poetry at all, but I do happen to have a little book full of Frosts poems. An English teacher in 8th grade printed out that poem and gave it to me on the last day of school. So I always remembered it

[Anonymous No.17599894]

>>17597311
For a fraction of a second, I thought you wrote this and thought to myself "holy shit, there are a lot of good poets in this poetry thread, which would be an absolute first", only to realize that it wasn't yours.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17599960]

>>17599888
ah, memories can really change the feeling of a poem. One poem I like more than it’s worth because of the context of it but also because one point me and 3 lads recited it prior to going out partying and that really made it stick with me.

>>17574818
This poem.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17599985]

>>17599894
It’s generally good to google a poem you see on Here to make sure it isn’t already published but at the same time it can be fun to put professional work under a microscope and see the flaws even in them. Fun stuff.

In any case apologies if my own poetry isn’t quite up to par, I try to grind at the skill.

[Anonymous No.17600018]

>>17599960
>>17599985
Alright, that gives.

You're not like the usual cum swallowers in here that like to post half-assed stanzas that don't rhyme for crap. Who are you, how old are you, what's your degree, and how long have you been browsing 4chan?

[Anonymous No.17600024]

>>17599894
i once posted one from the Oxford Book of English Verse, i got the response "not bad, anon, keep at it"

[Anonymous No.17600070]

>>17600024
I once said this before, and I'll say it again. Some old timey poets just straight up suck, and no amount of "hurr durr but it's a KLASSICK!" will ever convince me otherwise.

It's like oldies music. Sure, everyone remembers The Beatles, but let's be honest, most of their songs are actually pretty fucking mediocre. The same could be said for poetry. Just cause it's old, and written by some well-educated dude from the 1800's doesn't mean it's ACTUALLY good.

[Anonymous No.17600081]

>>17600070
I agree.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17600095]

>>17600018
Hope that means ya like some of the stuff I’ve posted, Kek.


>Who are you,

Frater Asemlen the local Gypsy obsessed with continental philosophy, world religion and a good deal of poetry.

>how old are you,

Eh I’ll say I’m married with kids.

>How long have you been browsing 4chan?

2005, came from newgrounds believe it or not.

>>17600024
There’s always the question of taste and differences in sensibilities Anon, a lot of people don’t really even recite the stuff they rate I think. At the same time I think it’s probably somewhat better accurate to how the average person would receive the poem if they would just say it’s alright, ignoring any prestige it has.

[Anonymous No.17600121]

I'm reading Pope's Iliad translation rn
Here's a chunk of book 2 i liked alot:

And Dorion, famed for Thamyris disgrace,
Superior once of all the tuneful race,
Till, vain of mortals' empty praise, he strove
To match the seed of cloud-compelling Jove!
Too daring bard! whose unsuccessful pride
The immortal muses in their art defied.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17600128]

>>17600070
Depends, some poets have entire bodies of work which are pure kino. But most poets are remembered for their best and the schlock is forgotten, but if you really like the flavor of a persons verse you’ll probably like those also.

I mean, I’m not really one for pop music much myself, disco or classical music or folk music of some kind is usually more my speed, in that same way I think some people will just prefer the elder aesthetic that some classic writers will have. Example I find the world of Chaucer pretty intoxicating and the language and age obviously plays into that. But a good poet knows when to fake age to fit with his theme and voice and aesthetic, like Spenser who would writer in a style more reminiscent of Chaucer but would require definitions of certain words given with his published works. All depends on the texture and the aesthetic you want, right?

[Anonymous No.17600135]

Best verse play that isn't by an Elizabethan?

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17600198]

>>17600121
That’s pretty nice, you ever read the Dryden translation of the metamorphoses? It’s pretty great.

>>17600135
Ever read any racine, Pierre Corneille or Molière?

Psyche is an interesting piece.

> Psyché is an opera (tragédie lyrique) in a prologue and five acts composed by Jean-Baptiste Lully to a libretto by Thomas Corneille[1] (adapted from Molière's original play for which Lully had composed the intermèdes).

> Psyché is a five-act tragicomédie et ballet, originally written as a prose text by Molière and versified in collaboration with Pierre Corneille and Philippe Quinault, with music composed by Jean-Baptiste Lully in 1671 and by Marc-Antoine Charpentier in 1684
> The plot is based on the story of Cupid and Psyche in The Golden Ass, written in the 2nd century by Apuleius.


Robert browning’s work is pretty kino and I know I’m a titanic shill but I love basically everything Dunsany has ever made.

[Anonymous No.17600203]

>>17596534
>>17596865
There's some beauty to minimal poetry. I even happened to save a few that a couple anons wrote one day; not because they were particularly meaningful, but because I knew they would be forgotten in time if no one was there to save them, and in a way, that made them meaningful to me.

>"I live in a world worth living for. Minute videos of human love that hold my heart until it's sore."

The time stamp I saved it with dates it at 1/12/17, written about 3 years ago. For some reason, this one didn't come with a post number, although for the rest of the ones, I had.

The next few poems seem to have come from a haiku thread

>"Halfway to 50!"
>On my 25th birthday
>I won't see 30.
Anonymous-- 02/04/17(Sat)11:25:12 No.9060804

>turtle wants freedom
>leaves house
>and gets run down
Anonymous 02/04/17(Sat)11:38:46 No.9060880

Here I've added a little note to my future self:
>"No one will remember these. These great 3 liners. These great poems. I doubt not even the people who wrote them will remember them. Gone, like tears in rain."
>There's a picture of a sad pepe attached underneath

>Poetry in day
>Is like poetry at night
>They change how you write
Anonymous 02/04/17(Sat)13:16:47 No.9061373

>Whenever I read
>My eyelids will get heavy
>Seven naps today
Anonymous 02/04/17(Sat)17:33:03 No.9062391

>cuck kike leftist shill
>get the fuck off my board retard
>pepe.jpg
Anonymous 02/04/17(Sat)11:15:13 No.9060760

Underneath this one I wrote "It's good to know that other people on this board pronounce it peh-pay-dot-jay-peg as well"

This next one doesn't have a post number, but the date on it says 6/5/2017

>Poetry for the depressed is like medicine for the damned
>We write what we feel at heart cause it's the only thing we can

The note I wrote underneath it says "Anon wrote somewhere earlier in the thread that the title of this one is 'Lonely'"

The turtle one isn't actually "good", but for some reason I've memorized it by heart. I don't know why, but I just did.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17600219]

>>17600121
From Dryden (and others) translation

The Golden Age

The golden age was first; when Man yet new,
No rule but uncorrupted reason knew:
And, with a native bent, did good pursue.
Unforc'd by punishment, un-aw'd by fear,
His words were simple, and his soul sincere;
Needless was written law, where none opprest:
The law of Man was written in his breast:
No suppliant crowds before the judge appear'd,
No court erected yet, nor cause was heard:
But all was safe, for conscience was their guard.
The mountain-trees in distant prospect please,
E're yet the pine descended to the seas:
E're sails were spread, new oceans to explore:
And happy mortals, unconcern'd for more,
Confin'd their wishes to their native shore.
No walls were yet; nor fence, nor mote, nor mound,
Nor drum was heard, nor trumpet's angry sound:
Nor swords were forg'd; but void of care and crime,
The soft creation slept away their time.
The teeming Earth, yet guiltless of the plough,
And unprovok'd, did fruitful stores allow:
Content with food, which Nature freely bred,
On wildings and on strawberries they fed;
Cornels and bramble-berries gave the rest,
And falling acorns furnish'd out a feast.
The flow'rs unsown, in fields and meadows reign'd:
And Western winds immortal spring maintain'd.
In following years, the bearded corn ensu'd
From Earth unask'd, nor was that Earth renew'd.
From veins of vallies, milk and nectar broke;
And honey sweating through the pores of oak.

The Silver Age

But when good Saturn, banish'd from above,
Was driv'n to Hell, the world was under Jove.
Succeeding times a silver age behold,
Excelling brass, but more excell'd by gold.
Then summer, autumn, winter did appear:
And spring was but a season of the year.
The sun his annual course obliquely made,
Good days contracted, and enlarg'd the bad.
Then air with sultry heats began to glow;
The wings of winds were clogg'd with ice and snow;
And shivering mortals, into houses driv'n,
Sought shelter from th' inclemency of Heav'n.
Those houses, then, were caves, or homely sheds;
With twining oziers fenc'd; and moss their beds.
Then ploughs, for seed, the fruitful furrows broke,
And oxen labour'd first beneath the yoke.

[Anonymous No.17600247]

>>17600121
I once tried to translate a poem for my mom cause she can't speak english.

The amount of work I had to do just to translate one stanza so that it kept its meaning, WHILE keeping the rhyme scheme, WHILE translating idioms was grueling.

I can't imagine having to translate the entire fucking Iliad WHILE keeping the general meaning, WHILE keeping the rhyme scheme, and WHILE translating the idioms into something understandable. That man must have been VERY proud of his work once he finished.

[Anonymous No.17600263]

>>17600095
I just entered the thread after work ended, so I'm just now beginning to go through the entire thread, and there's a lot of material to go through.

But I definitely noticed the difference in quality between your posts and everyone else's. If nothing else, that detail definitely didn't escape me.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17600311]

>>17600247
I can feel the pain a bit because I’ve been having fun translating Gypo folk songs, I think I’ll probably repost them with a more musical translation at some point.

>>17600203
Oh I understand the appeal to minimalism, I’m usually a fan of very maximalist stuff but I understand the value in stuff like epigrams or haikus, my favorite would be the short rhyme’s of Angelus Silesius. It’s just that it’s difficult to put in proper imagery or conception or feeling in a small amount. Let me show some examples from Angelus.

ALL THAT THOU WILT IS WITHIN THEE

All thou wouldst have lies now within thee, every whit
'Tis thine—so long as thou dost never strive for it.
THE PHILOSOPHERS' STONE

Travel within thyself! The Stone
Philosophers with wisest arts
Have vainly sought, cannot be found
By travelling in foreign parts.
THE THRONE OF GOD

Christian, dost thou demand to know
Where God hath set His Throne?
Even there within thyself, where He
Gives birth to thee, His Son.
GOD MUST BE BORN IN THEE

Though Jesus Christ in Bethlehem
A thousand times his Mother bore,
Is he not born again in thee
Then art thou lost for evermore.
THE EXTERNAL HELPETH THEE NOT

In vain the Cross on Golgotha
Was raised—thou hast not any part
In its deliverance unless
It be raised up within thy heart.
WHAT IS OUTWARD ADDETH NO WORTH

Nothing external to thee, Man,
Can give thee Worth or Dignity:
Fine harness maketh not the horse,
Nor clothes the man's virility.


But I understand the appeal to the poetry you posted, they capture the spirit of this place and time very well and with brevity.

[Anonymous No.17600331]

>>17588299
>>17600203

FUCK, that reminds me. About 5 years ago, I came across a poem some anon wrote about a girl who wasn't happy with her arranged marriage, and it was absolutely beautiful. I gave almost every poem in that thread nothing higher than a C+, and his (or her) poem was the only one in the entire thread that deserved an A+.

In fact, it was SO good that I literally made it a point NOT to save it; that this was the nature of 4chan-- that someone could post something so beautiful, that only a handful of people would ever see, and it would eventually all be forgotten.

In a way, I think I may have done the right thing, but at the same time, I wish I had done the wrong thing, if you know what I mean.

Anyway, I bring this up because your poem suddenly reminded me of that long-lost piece of art, and I just want you to know that. It's a compliment.

[Anonymous No.17600375]

>>17600203
>Written about 3 years ago

Silly me, I forgot it's 2021. It was actually written 4 years ago; and yet it feels like I was just there. Crazy how time flies.

[Anonymous No.17600400]

>>17600311
These were actually really good.

>Though Jesus Christ in Bethlehem
>A thousand times his Mother bore,
>Is he not born again in thee
>Then art thou lost for evermore.

>Nothing external to thee, Man,
>Can give thee Worth or Dignity:
>Fine harness maketh not the horse,
>Nor clothes the man's virility.

These are my two favorite stanzas. Not bad. Not bad at all.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17600438]

>>17600400
https://www.sacred-texts.com/chr/sil/index.htm

He’s actually incredibly educated in terms of Christian mysticism, his poetry is both aesthetically and intellectually pleasing if you do decide to go through it more. And yeah I get the appeal of the inherently transient nature of 4chan, at the same time the only reason I myself even use a name/trip is so that through the archives I can save anything I enjoy or deem of worth, know what I mean? I’ve always been a person who likes to grasp, I think that reflects even in the poetry I like (long, formulaic, etc.)

[Anonymous No.17600449]

I climbed up to a mountain top, and bellowed with lust a yell
It traveled far across the range, and through a women's sill
She heard my lusty mountain cry, and here she yodeled back
"You may have reached the mountaintop but now must hurry back!"

"Sound of Music" by Anonymous No. 17600XXX

[Anonymous No.17600495]

>>17600438
It pains me to know that when you and I are both dead, there will be a million good poems we'll have never read. Even at this very moment, there are probably MILLIONS of beautiful poems being written by some anonymous author in french, greek, mandarin, or arabic that I'll never be able to truly enjoy. Even if I were to somehow torture the poem out of these hypothetical artists, the subtleties of their language would be lost on me.

Such a shame.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17600507]

>>17600449
>I climbed up to a mountain top, and bellowed with lust a yell


I really really like the rhythm and sound of the first half but you lose it in the second half.

“I climbed up to a mountain top” has a really nice sound to it.

>It traveled far across the range, and through a women's sill

Yell-sill is actually a pretty interesting choice and the narrative progresses well, but I feel it doesn’t have the same natural rhythm.

>She heard my lusty mountain cry, and here she yodeled back

I don’t really like the repetition of lust again with lusty personally, but interesting/non-standard imagery, the “here” makes the line feel a bit cumbersome.

"You may have reached the mountaintop but now must hurry back!"

I like the repetition of back but it feels a bit arbitrary, it’s a good ending line but I feel you could have elaborated more upon the poem. Pretty fun little poem though all together.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17600550]

>>17600495
In a way I feel there is much value in reading, analyzing and reciting the syllables of a poem you do not know how to read, because only then can you truly isolate the rhythm and vocal qualities free from anything else. But again this is why I feel we ought to COOMSOOM the best of the best yeah?

But I don’t feel bad that I may miss out, I know (it is my firm belief&faith) that after I pass I shall be with Christ and the music and songs/verses there will be much better. Kek.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17600564]

Some haikus I wrote, though I do not believe them quite good and proper.

this burning fire
this hate raging in my heart
I must remain still

the high midday sun
fills my tired back with life
I will become strong

the twilight time comes
and two men fight with their swords
which of them am I?

i lay in my bed
i want to be like the stars
resting in darkness

the sun now rises
but I am already up
I will be better

in a crowd I walk
why do I feel so alone?
who could be my friend?

syllables i count
I keep stumbling over
I can’t write haiku

I saw a dead bird
and my breath’s cold fog fading
change will be my friend

though I went hunting
I do not know where I am
where is what I seek?

a old hoary tree
i sat under and then thought
what is my nature?

water on my head
shocked I remembered and wake
I know who I am

in a vast ocean
two fish circle round and round
a ball of pure gold

i now grasp the gold
I am now comfortable
I am who I am

[Anonymous No.17600571]

>>17600247
Its not the same rhyme scheme, dactyls would be even harder to do in English

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17600579]

>>17600571
You ever read Evangeline? Guy wrote the poem In dactylic hexameter. Here’s just the opening.

THIS is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,
Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight,
Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic,
Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms.
Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring ocean
Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.

This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath it
Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the huntsman?
Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian farmers,—
Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the woodlands,
Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of heaven?
Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers forever departed!
Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of October
Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o'er the ocean.
Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of Grand-Pré.

Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and is patient,
Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of woman's devotion,
List to the mournful tradition still sung by the pines of the forest;
List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the happy.

[Anonymous No.17600604]

>>17600550
>But I don’t feel bad that I may miss out, I know (it is my firm belief&faith) that after I pass I shall be with Christ and the music and songs/verses there will be much better. Kek.

That's a very good point actually. Makes me glad I happen to be a believer too. What is it that the french say? C'est la vie.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17600634]

>>17600604
Here’s a song you might appreciate, it’s a paraphrase of a bit of the Song of Solomon.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iuoNYWlYYJ8

Eh, one day I would hope I become good enough to try to pastiche Solomon and David and so forth, the Sidney psalms are one of my favorite works and I think I would one day like to compose my own verse translation of the psalms. But eh I won’t blog post at ya. Kek.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17600893]

Roses and Rue by oscar Wilde

Were it worth the pleasure,
We never could learn love's song,
We are parted too long

Could the passionate past that is fled
Call back its dead,
Could we live it all over again,
Were it worth the pain!

I remember we used to meet
By an ivied seat,
And you warbled each pretty word
With the air of a bird;

And your voice had a quaver in it,
Just like a linnet,
And shook, as the blackbird's throat
With its last big note;

And your eyes, they were green and grey
Like an April day,
But lit into amethyst
When I stooped and kissed;

And your mouth, it would never smile
For a long, long while,
Then it rippled all over with laughter
Five minutes after.

You were always afraid of a shower,
Just like a flower:
I remember you started and ran
When the rain began.

I remember I never could catch you,
For no one could match you,
You had wonderful, luminous, fleet,
Little wings to your feet.

I remember your hair - did I tie it?
For it always ran riot -
Like a tangled sunbeam of gold:
These things are old.

I remember so well the room,
And the lilac bloom
That beat at the dripping pane
In the warm June rain;

And the colour of your gown,
It was amber-brown,
And two yellow satin bows
From the shoulders rose.

And the handkerchief of French lace
Which you held to your face-
Had a small tear left a stain?
Or was it the rain?

On your hand as it waved adieu
There were veins of blue;
In your voice as it said good-bye
Was a petulant cry,

"You have only wasted your life."
(Ah, that was the knife!)
When I rushed through the garden gate
It was all too late.

Could we live it over again,
Were it worth the pain,
Could the passionate past that is fled
Call back its dead!

Well, if my heart must break,
Dear love, for your sake,
It will break in music, I know,
Poets' hearts break so.

But strange that I was not told
That the brain can hold
In a tiny ivory cell
God's heaven and hell.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17600962]

Gonna post a few choice poems from stenbock of which I enjoyed.

SONNET II
“Osculet me osculis oris sui.”
AH, kiss me with the kisses of thy mouth,
Thy love is sweeter to my heart than wine, Sweeter than sleep from some strange anodyne, Sweeter than spices, gathered in the South,
Or hidden well-water in time of drouth;
And let thine arms about mine head entwine, Mine own belovèd, seeing thou art mine,
And kiss me with the kisses of thy mouth.
Ah sweet, mine heart is ravished utterly
By thy fair body fashioned without fleck, By one long look that limmereth from thine eye,
By one long look that leaneth down thy neck. Kiss me with kisses, love, I faint, I pine,
Thy love is sweeter to mine heart than wine.

MEMORIA.

HER name is written in the snow.

In the skies above, in the seas below.

On the cold grey sand that all may know
Her name is even Memory.

She looks with introverted eyes

On the ravening sea and the riven skies,

And the voice of the shell in her hand replies
With the old-world stories of the sea.

TO MY UNKNOWN IDEAL
THESE wild effusions of a stricken soul, Life of my life, I dedicate to thee.
I think I saw thee bodily but once, Yet in my spirit ever, and sometimes Embodied in the vision of a dream:—
Strange sounds of strange and moving melody, The passion of the viol’s quivering string,
The high sublimity of organ tones,
Remind me of thee strangely.
I almost think I knew thee long ago,
When present was not present, past not past, And in a multitude of earthly forms
I sought to see thy beauty visible.
All that is beautiful upon the earth
Is but an image, though so faint, of thee.
Lo, I have sought thee—I have not found thee.

SONG VIII (COMPOSED IN A DREAM)
THERE shall be no more crying But mute eternal grief, Beyond all sound of sighing, Because beyond relief.
Thy tears are all collected
In a deep clear crystal well,
Thy passions are all planted
In meadows of asphodel.
There shall be no more crying,
No change of night and day,
No sound of sobbing or sighing,
For the old things are passed away.

SONNET VIII
SOFTLY and swiftly falling flakes of snow
Cover and kiss the fallen autumn leaves, Where the wild wind is as a voice, that grieves, Wearily, wildly, wailing words of woe.
Cover me with thy kisses like the snow,
Burying bitter memories like dead leaves, Within mine heart, where a sad voice yet
grieves
For a lost lingering love, lost long ago.
Softly and swiftly let thy kisses rain,
Completely covering me with all delight,
And as the snow-fall over hill and plain,
Clothe me with fair apparel pure and white.
Then is the old wound wholly healed again,
The barren field made beautiful and bright.
Next post I’ll post even more of his poetry, I think he’s worth the read if you haven’t read him, lads.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17600973]

>>17600962

INSOMNIA
ASERPENT is bound about her head, Her eyes are closed, but she is not dead; She is not dead, and she doth not sleep,
Too weary to wake and too worn to weep Although her agony is deep,
She hath not wherewithal to slake
The pressing pain of her eyes, that ache, Her mouth is writhen with the pain
Of one that shall not smile again.
O thou, whose life is thy delight, Whose eyes are brilliantly bright,
Who sleepest sweetly every night, With the light of youth upon thee shed As an aureole round thy glad head With benedictions garlanded;
Whose feet flash flame and whose lips drop myrrh; With thou turn from thy way to pity her?
If thou shouldst touch her tired eyes
Perchance she would soften her stifled sighs, And thine healing hand work a miracle,
And a torrent of tears from her worn eyes well, And in the glad stream her sad soul should steep, And the touch of thy lips should send her sleep.

SONNET X
THE SLEEPING WATERS
ISTOOD in a strange city in a dream,
Luridly lighted, lifeless, lorn and lone, Horror without moan or groan, frozen into
stone.
Mid this weird woe there did not flow a stream, Nor fast, nor slow, it did not flow, that stream,
Its drear dark dismal depths told forth no tone,
And in the stately streets on grey-grown stone Was writ in characters of silver gleam:
“The sleeping waters—ah, they are deadly chill,
And strangely still, and who is there that will
Wade through the waveless waters wide and deep, Which do not weep, but sleep, and sleep, and sleep?” The sleeping waters—ah! I stood upon the brink, And my soul shivering seemed to shrink and sink.

AMOR MYSTICUS I
FROM the east window of my pleasure-house, There is a forest of trees blossoming, That stir a little when a Seraph’s wing,
In passing over them, makes melody
Faint fluttering o’er vibrant viol string— But from western window steep and sheer,
The wailing waters of an infinite sea,
In refluent response of a litany, Against the casement ever splash and souse.
Even there I dreamed I dwelt with you, my dear, *I dreamed of you, but you did not dream of me.

But when I looked on those mysterious eyes, Then spirit choristers began to sing
Of wailing waters and trees blossoming— Because those eyes are like the melody
That flutters o’er a vibrant viol string,
Earth seen thro’ water, suffused with the shadow of fire, But mostly like mute moonlight on calm sea—
Oh then! I thought of my dream litany And offered up my soul in sacrifice,
That in your soul One thought I might inspire For I loved you, but you did not care for me.


Cont

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17600982]

>>17600973
And so I prayed that never any word
My love might hear of my soul’s travailing— Nathless I cannot help remembering
How very sad was that long stretch of sea,
And yet how glad were those trees blossoming, So at that hour when the day was done,
And you, too, knelt in that dim sanctuary,
I, through the wave-beats of that litany, Prayed—“Though my soul be given to the sword, Oh spare my darling, spare mine only one.”
I prayed for you, but you did not pray for me.

THE SINGING SISTERS
OH the three singing sisters, they sat and span, While the red thread through their faint fingers rightly ran.
Oh their faces were fearful, their forms were tall, Their garments fell like a funeral pall,
And they sang a song as they span their thread, And they that dwelt among the dead
Came and sat at the feet of those sisters three, And heard their soul-thrilling threnody.
Some sat and listened, some stood aloof Watching them weaving their weird woof.
And the three singing sisters sat and span,
And the red thread through their faint fingers rightly
ran.
And this was the song that those sisters sung, “Go take thy lot the wide world among,
And on thy forehead I write my curse
From thy cradle unto thine hearse;
Be miserable among happiness,
Be filled with good things in thy distress Visible for thine eyes shall be

Such shameful sights, as none may see; Such sounds thine ears shall hear,
As shall cause thy soul to quake with fear; My bitter draught thy tongue shall taste And drain the dregs to the very last,
Thy soul shall seek and thine heart shall crave Such things, as thou mayest not have;
If thou love any among men,
Then shall the living all be slain,
But the dead shall rise again,
Rise again with a purple stain
That all may know them to be such
As have felt the contagion of thy touch.”
And the three singing sisters sat and span,
And the red thread through their faint fingers rightly
ran.
And then methought in that same place,
In the depths of the darkness, a fearfuller face Laughed with a mad malignity,
And laughed and laughed eternally.
While the three singing sisters sat and span,
And the red thread through their faint fingers rightly
ran.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17601001]

>>17600982

PERHAPS
PERHAPS in the long sweet living days of spring, When the tree-blossoms fall softer than the snow,
And fields, and floods, and flowers unite to sing,
Thou wilt wander in the ways we used to go. Perhaps thou wilt sadden a little, remembering
Some word, some jest, some slight and trivial thing, Or reach of flowers, that we used to know, And thou wilt remember me who loved you so.
Perhaps thou wilt linger a little, loth to part—
In the long sweet spring-days it is often so,
That sudden tears will to the eyelids start, Thinking of things far off, and long ago—
Then I shall bless thee, seeing how sweet thou art, But a sevenfold sword shall pierce me thro’ the heart,
And there shall be no ending to my woe,
If thou remember me not who loved thee so.

Perhaps thou wilt weep a little for my sake,
Ah love! I would no sadness thou mightest know,
How could I have the cruelty to make,
Even for one moment, thy priceless tears to
flow—
Oh, my soul longeth in thy tears her thirst to slake, Nay, if thou weep not, surely my heart shall break—
I cannot bear that thou should’st forget me—no, Thou shalt remember me who loved thee so.

CHANSON SOLAIRE
SUNLIGHT, sacred light, and lovely wind of the morning,
There is no delight in the night but only
delight in thee,
Who, all the sadness of the night and terror of dread
dreams scorning,
Vesteth the mountains with gold, and
shimmereth along the sea.
Oh! when the sun has arisen—then all the Angels in glory
Say: “Glory to God in the highest and unto mankind be peace.”
And who is he that shall dare to re-tell the same old false story,
That seekers may seek in vain, and of suffering that may not cease.

Finally his translation of mignon’s Song from goethe.

DOST thou know the land where the orange blossoms bloom,
Whose fruit glows golden through the green leaves’
gloom,
Where the winds are tempered through the softer air To lovelier laurels and myrtles, flowers more fair;
Nay, say dost thou know? For there, even there,
With thee, oh my beloved, I were so fain to go.
Dost thou know the house, how stately are its halls, With marvellous marble wrought upon the walls, Where statues, strange and still, smile silently; Alas, poor child, what have they done to thee?
Nay, say does thou know? For there, even there,
With thee, oh my saviour, I were fain to go.

Dost thou know the way, the cloud-girt mountain way, Where shadowed through the mist the lost mules stray, Where dwells the dragoness and her dark brood,
And the rocks are rent with the everlasting flood,
Nay, say dost thou know? For there, even there,
With thee, oh my Father, let us arise and go.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17601122]

Thanatopsis by William Cullen Bryant.

To him who in the love of Nature holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language; for his gayer hours
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
And eloquence of beauty, and she glides
Into his darker musings, with a mild
And healing sympathy, that steals away
Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
Over thy spirit, and sad images
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart;—
Go forth, under the open sky, and list
To Nature’s teachings, while from all around
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air—
Comes a still voice—Yet a few days, and thee
The all-beholding sun shall see no more
In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,
Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist
Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again,
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go
To mix for ever with the elements,
To be a brother to the insensible rock
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.

Yet not to thine eternal resting-place
Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
With patriarchs of the infant world—with kings,
The powerful of the earth—the wise, the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills
Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun,—the vales
Stretching in pensive quietness between;
The venerable woods—rivers that move
In majesty, and the complaining brooks
That make the meadows green; and, poured round all,
Old Ocean’s gray and melancholy waste,—
Are but the solemn decorations all
Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun,
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
Are shining on the sad abodes of death,
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom.—Take the wings
Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness,
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound,
Save his own dashings—yet the dead are there:
And millions in those solitudes, since first
The flight of years began, have laid them down
In their last sleep—the dead reign there alone.

Cont

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17601130]

>>17601122
So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw
In silence from the living, and no friend
Take note of thy departure? All that breathe
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care
Plod on, and each one as before will chase
His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come
And make their bed with thee. As the long train
Of ages glide away, the sons of men,
The youth in life’s green spring, and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron and maid,
The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man—
Shall one by one be gathered to thy side,
By those, who in their turn shall follow them.
So live, that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan, which moves
To that mysterious realm, where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17601619]

Thinking of going back and continuing this poem, think it’s of any value? It’s a modification of Chaucer’s poem which is itself a modification of Dante’s poem which is itself a modification of a prayer from st Bernard of Clairvaux

Holy Virgin mother, daughter of your son
maiden and mother Mary most blessed creature
who’s Womb would Weave christ, as willed before the Sun


Through your flesh salvation yet your own nature
did rejoice at your own righteous Redeemer
full of grace who’s toddler became your teacher


It’s obviously still pretty rough and not so elegant but still.

[Anonymous No.17601622]

Sneed

[Anonymous No.17601858]

>>17583228
I had a similar idea for a poem. Have you been reading Ezra Pound’s early poems?

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17601946]

>>17601858
It’s actually the oldest/one of the oldest form of the ballad Scarborough Fair, I’ve found pound’s more traditional stuff to be pretty nice.

[Anonymous No.17602228]

>>17567044
bullshit
>>17567078
Bullshit
>>17571281
Derivative

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17602881]

The Orchid of beauty - Clark Ashton smith

Beauty, thou orchid of immortal bloom,
Sprung from the fire and dust of perished spheres,
How art thou tall in these autumnal years
With the red rain of immemorial doom,
And fragrant where the lesser suns illume,
For sustenance of Life's forgotten tears.
Ever thy splendor and thy light appears
Like dawn from out the midnight of the tomb.

Colors, and glints, and glamors unrecalled,
Richly thy petals intricate revive:
Blossom, whose roots are in eternity,
The faithful soul, the sentience darkly thralled,
In dream and wonder evermore shall strive
At Edens lost of time and memory.

[Anonymous No.17602965]

the only consistently decent thread on lit

>>17602881
I love Clark Ashton Smith, he's very underrated. I have yet to read anything of his than lil tidbits online but I love them all the same

The Black Lake - CAS

In a land where weirdness and mystery had strongly leagued themselves with eternal desolation, the lake was out-poured at an undiscoverable date of elder aeons, to fill some fathomless gulf far down amid the shadows of snowless, volcanic mountains. No eye, not even the sun's, when he stared vertically upon it for a few hours at midday, seemed able to divine its depths of sullen blackness and unrippled silence. It was for this reason that I found a so singular pleasure in frequently contemplating the strange lake. Sitting for I knew not how long on its bleak basaltic shores, where grew but a few fleshly red orchids, bent above the waters like open and thirsty mouths, I would peer with countless fantastic conjectures and shadowy imaginings, into the alluring mystery of its unknown and inexplorable gulf.

It was at an hour of morning before the sun had surmounted the rough and broken rim of the summits, when I first came, and clomb down through the shadows which filled like some subtler fluid the volcanic basin. Seen at the bottom of the stirless tincture of air and twilight, the lake seemed as dregs of darkness.

Peering for the first time, after the deep and difficult descent, into the so dull and leaden waters, I was at length aware of certain small and scattered gleams of silver, apparently far beneath the surface. And fancying them the metal in some mysterious ledge, or the glints of long-sunken treasure. I bent closer in my eagerness, and finally perceived that what I saw was but the reflection of the stars, which, tho the day was full upon the mountains and the lands without, were yet visible in the depth and darkness of that enshadowed place.

[Anonymous No.17603008]

Lines On Ale

Fill with mingled cream and amber,

I will drain that glass again.

Such hilarious visions clamber

Through the chamber of my brain —

Quaintest thoughts — queerest fancies

Come to life and fade away;

What care I how time advances?

I am drinking ale today.

- Edgar Allen Poe

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17603031]

>>17602965
>I love Clark Ashton Smith, he's very underrated. I have yet to read anything of his than lil tidbits online but I love them all the same


Oh totally, one of my friends who hates fiction and verse, I made him read a bit of smith and he became absolutely hooked. I think the only problem is he’s too nestled within the spheres of weird fiction, decadent and poetry.

My favorite work of his without a doubt is the apocalypse of evil, you ever read it? I feel like smith’s more or less the kind of poetry lovecraft wished he could written but didn’t have the capacity to do.

I think what makes him so good is he doesn’t hold back or worry, he puts his full height/force into every line, throws away subtly, and lets the strangeness and potency of the image and concept so the full work for him. Apocalypse of evil specifically feels like a vortex of blending and burning-blurring dream/nightmare and religious imagery.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17603397]

Wrote another poem, again attempting more is experimentation than actual quality.

Poem’s still unnamed.


the Ocean’s Roar
rages before my eye.
the moon on High
heaves the waves to the shore.

lightning bellows
slashing the sky open,
the clouds Broken,
the burning voice echoes.

the white waves howl
as a whip beaten beast
never released
who can do not but growl

my lips whisper
“the force of the breaker
formed by my creator
will not make me quiver”

[Anonymous No.17603529]

I wrote a poem the other day. I've never consumed nor studied poetry.
I also didn't give it a name.


a pain in my chest
grants me fear but removes it

the lungs fear for their life
and let the mind exhale
but it chokes on it's comfort
and sends the soul to fetch it back

as the Spider cast her web in the material realm
and with it caught the stars
she catches the soul in human minds
but takes life away from flies

as the Scorpion drove his thorn into the spider's back
and left the stars alone
with his pincers he tears the webs
but with his venom leaves them dead

so the past ensnares the soul
with the web of wasted days
death offers to tear the web
but must take the future's place

[Anonymous No.17603813]

I have no deal for my own soul
I could not sell or let it go
No good deal for price of I
I clutch my soul until I die

If I sold myself to thee
Wouldst I be a man to me?
No deal for you, mine soul be tried
I take my soul to after-life

In my will, herein I've wrote
"Tender pham, respect thy note
Have my shoes and take my fees
But leave my soul beside the keys

Sell my stocks and break my bonds
My list of things go on and on
But on the line within page 3
Leave my blessed soul to me

Signed and written, truly loved
I leave my assets in your trust
But with the soul I plan to keep
From up above, we will remeet."

I wrote this poem as a senior in highschool, and I sent it to the yearbook guys for them to publish. They never did publish it, but mysteriously, it somehow ended up in the school newspaper under someone else's pseudonym. I also had to change "f am" to "pham" because 4chan's word filter.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17604184]

>>17603529

I do not wish to offend ya anon, it was a high aiming first attempt but the lack of control is obvious. You need to put much more control and actually recite it. Let me show you line by line

>a pain in my chest

This line is fine, has 5 syllables, why would it have 5 syllables and not more and not less? Consider this. I don’t mean consider what 5 syllables means, nor do I mean why this a sentence have it, I’m saying what does a sentence that is that convey? Example if you put a long line thats 10 syllables long (which is more or less how much the average sentence length in real life) and follow it by a line of say, 5 syllables long, this would imply tiredness, fatigue and lack of breath (this was a common device in ancient times even.)

>grants me fear but removes it

Grants doesn’t really fit the first lines imagery, ending the line with “it” feels cumbersome and arbitrary. 7 syllables

>the lungs fear for their life
>and let the mind exhale

I understand you’re trying to flip the roles of lungs and mind, but imagine poetry is like a really small condensed short story, right? You can do stuff like this that are this small but you need usually to develop the imagery, develop the narrative. Or else it’ll come up too quickly or inauthentic.

These two lines are 6 syllables

>but it chokes on it's comfort

It’s=it is, but you surely know that, the double repetition of it comes off heavy and uncontrolled.

>and sends the soul to fetch it back

Fine but the narrative and imagery shift is too sharp.

>as the Spider cast her web in the material realm

Too much at once, implication is worth much more than saying it straight, the implied meaning is always more powerful, did you really need 14 syllables? Why not just “the starry spider” or for example “the stellar spider spins its web”

>and with it caught the stars

Didn’t need this line could reduce it, your voice also keeps shifting

>she catches the soul in human minds
>but takes life away from flies

Are you trying to rhyme minds with flies? Your allusions and simile aren’t very evocative but they have potential, you should try to take this imagery and re-write the poem with more consideration.

>as the Scorpion drove his thorn into the spider's back
>and left the stars alone

At this point your simile/allegory has gone off the rails and has overstayed its welcome as it has developed into its own little narrative within the primary narrative, and you will certainly not have enough time to develop both.

>with his pincers he tears the webs
>but with his venom leaves them dead

These two lines don’t really give us anything.

>so the past ensnares the soul
>with the web of wasted days
>death offers to tear the web

Feels like you trying to back-track to make the two parts of the story interconnect.

>but must take the future's place

Weak ending.

There’s potential in you if you train and refine your imagery and language.

[Anonymous No.17604577]

I saw in Louisiana a live-oak growing,
All alone stood it and the moss hung down from the branches,
Without any companion it grew there uttering joyous leaves of dark green,
And its look, rude, unbending, lusty, made me think of myself,
But I wonder’d how it could utter joyous leaves standing alone there without its friend near, for I knew I could not,
And I broke off a twig with a certain number of leaves upon it, and twined around it a little moss,
And brought it away, and I have placed it in sight in my room,
It is not needed to remind me as of my own dear friends,
(For I believe lately I think of little else than of them,)
Yet it remains to me a curious token, it makes me think of manly love;
For all that, and though the live-oak glistens there in Louisiana solitary in a wide flat space,
Uttering joyous leaves all its life without a friend a lover near,
I know very well I could not.

[Anonymous No.17604787]

>>17565352
Ok i will it a go, my very first attempt at poetry. Welcoming all criticism and suggestions since english isn't my first or even second language.

Spring is upon us
but I long for that summer
it's smoldering sun
burning my skin black
my hair frizzy
smothering sweats
drenching our bodies.
Leaving my ears possessed
with your sounds and shrieks
Haunting my days.
Haunting my dreams.

[Anonymous No.17604796]

>>17565352
rando question anyone know of any contemporary poets who write in latin?

[Anonymous No.17604912]

>>17565352
POOPY POOPY WARM AND LIQUID!
NICKY! POOPY! RUNS TOO WICKED!
SMELLY SHIT FROM NICKY'S POOPER!
NEEDS CLEANING - MOMMY'S LITTLE TROOPER!
RUNNING! RUNNING! NEVER STOP!
IN GYM CLASS ALL THE GIRLS THROW UP!
THE SPHINCTER DESTROYED LONG AGO!
BY CATBOY COCK AND BLACK DILDO!
NOTHING CAN SILENCE NICKY'S THIRST!
THE LEADER OF TYRONE'S COCK FIRST!

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17604932]

>>17604796
From wikipedia a list of verse and prose pieces that are modern in nature.

1924. Carminum libri quattuor by Tomás Viñas.[59]
1946. Carmina Latina by A. Pinto de Carvalho.[60]
1954. Vox Humana by Johannes Alexander Gaertner.[61]
1962. Pegasus Tolutarius by Henry C. Snurr aka C. Arrius Nurus [la].
1966. Suaviloquia by Jan Novák.
1966. Cantus Firmus by Johannes Alexander Gaertner.[61]
1972. Carmina by Traian Lăzărescu.[62]
1991. Periegesis Amatoria by Geneviève Immè [la].
1992. Harmonica vitrea by Anna Elissa Radke [la].
Prose Edit
1948. Graecarum Litterarum Historia by Antonio d'Elia.[63]
1952. Latinarum Litterarum Historia by Antonio d'Elia.[64]
1961. De sacerdotibus sacerdotiisque Alexandri Magni et Lagidarum eponymis by Jozef IJsewijn.[65]
1965. Sententiæ by Alain van Dievoet (pen name: Alaenus Divutius) [la].
1966. Mystagogus Lycius, sive de historia linguaque Lyciorum by Wolfgang Jenniges.[66]
2011. Capti: Fabula Menippeo-Hoffmanniana Americana by Stephen A. Berard (pen name: Stephanus Berard) [la].[67][68]
2019. Hebdomada Aenigmatum by Luca Desiata[69][70][71][72][73]

[Anonymous No.17604953]

>>17604932
holy shit thank you so much dude

[Anonymous No.17606481]

Bump

[Anonymous No.17606547]

My love for you would never die
I stabbed it once and stabbed it twice
I wrestled at it to the ground
It tore my chest and threw me down

My love for you would never die
I shot its back a million times
Into a grave, I dug a hole
Still it beat, not dead but slow

My love for you would never die
How I would wake to try and try
To end its stupid misery
And drown the thing within the sea

I loved so hard, and loved so deep
The ocean's chest, it could not keep
What can't be killed, I can't control
My love, it grasps my mortal soul

"Floorboards" by Anonymous No. 1760XXXX

[Anonymous No.17607269]

Who’s the hardest poet?

[Anonymous No.17607373]

>>17604184
i'd reply to some of your criticisms and try to 'justify' myself but i don't know how to do that without coming off as defensive, so i won't
i appreciate your help! i might just try writing a few more now

[Anonymous No.17607479]

>>17607269
the one (you)re jerking off

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17607528]

>>17607373
I mean no dude, if you can justify and explain yourself, no reason not to. If there’s actual reason we can discuss that and say if that stuff actually comes through to the reader. But totally give writing more poetry a chance, it’s really fun.

>>17607479
Kek

[Anonymous No.17607550]

>>17607528
This. I would love to see a discussion between a poet and critic about why certain decisions were made by the poet and how they were perceived by the writer.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17608509]

To winter, by Blake.

O Winter! bar thine adamantine doors:
The north is thine; there hast thou built thy dark
Deep-founded habitation. Shake not thy roofs
Nor bend thy pillars with thine iron car.

He hears me not, but o’er the yawning deep
Rides heavy; his storms are unchain’d, sheathed
In ribbed steel; I dare not lift mine eyes;
For he hath rear’d his scepter o’er the world.

Lo! now the direful monster, whose skin clings
To his strong bones, strides o’er the groaning rocks:
He withers all in silence, and in his hand
Unclothes the earth, and freezes up frail life.

He takes his seat upon the cliffs, the mariner
Cries in vain. Poor little wretch! that deal’st
With storms; till heaven smiles, and the monster
Is driven yelling to his caves beneath Mount Hecla.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17609490]

Bumping with an older poem.

Poem:For the one sleeping gently upon a bed of stone

I passed among silver trees
who’s fruits singed gold songs
abounding in the never old
dreams of the daily born dancing Dawn

the sky image drawn
of the softest smile
ever forgotten
and yet remembered

silent slithers the secret serpent
the Wolf Wails in the wintry wastelands
terrible talons toy with dead flesh
but All-blest sees the eye of the Heart

soft and plain is the scent
which renders the heavens Rent
beauty lays herself bare
if you look without a care

[Anonymous No.17610528]

Bump

[Anonymous No.17610590]

>>17602228
>Derivative
better than bullshit!

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17611172]

Found a site with a fellows own little private poetry and his reading of his own poetry. While It’s not the best quality, it’s fascinating, his little world.

https://gavin.kontek.net/

[Anonymous No.17611223]

>>17574975
>Desu idk what was humorous about my poem but I'll take it.
It's the contrast between Conquest/life/wonder/immortal glory/Caear and "good rest", amplified by the rhyme with conquest. I think it works great that way and you should own it.
>>17574818
>>17574908
Thanks for the poem and the crit frater.
>>17583310
Thanks it's fun to read what you've done with what I've written! May I ask how you proceed?

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17611649]

>>17604787

Eh, kinda generic honestly and there’s a definite lack of control, no regularity or form to it. Also the romantic part feels tacked on.

You should try using the pool in the OP, it’ll help you grind your skill

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17611973]

Another old Gypsy song, relatively short.

Hydeeen ah-mon-day sah ghom-al-ay pa-chiv su dey tov

Hydeeen ah-mon-day sah ghom-al-ay bodee may gai lav

Hydee pa-chiv, tumay Kai dav-as Lovay, kon aka-dan lovay, may penav-ah hydee pay mon day blay

Pen Ghomatay ondey sas-ti-mos, Pen Ghomatay ay shaw-oh-gotay ondey sas-ti-mos

Hydee pa-chiv, tumay Kai dav-as Lovay, kon aka-dan lovay, may penav-ah hydee pay mon day blay

Translation

“Come to me, all (Gypsy ) men, I am throwing a celebration

Come to me, all men, i am purchasing a daughter in law

Come, celebrate, those whom I will give money to (in purchase of the bride) to you who asked the price, I say, come to me friend.

Drink, all you men, in good health and strength,

Drink all Men and boys in good health and strength

[Anonymous No.17612378]

Against the stormy gusts of winter’s day
Upon thy side against myself I’ll fight
And in mine own love’s strength seem to decay
Yet doth it steal sweet hours from love’s delight
Toward thee I’ll run, and give him leave to go
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
Receiving naught by elements so slow
If Time have any wrinkle graven there
O’er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait
Without all ornament, itself and true
Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate
And you in Grecian tires are painted new
Her audit, though delay’d, answer’d must be
If ten of thine ten times refigur’d thee

[Anonymous No.17613068]

When I perhaps compounded am with clay
O let me, true in love, but truly write
And fortify yourself in your decay
And sweets grown common lose their dear delight
I grant I never saw a goddess go
Be not self-will’d, for thou art much too fair
That you yourself, being extant, well might show
When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear
O’er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait
Incapable of more, replete with you
Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate
Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew
Let this sad int’rim like the oceans be
Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me

[Anonymous No.17613249]

My heart is in my shoes:

I want to hold your hand
in the blood black pre dawn.
quite quiet, carry me home.

There are ghosts all around
making beautiful sounds
of how it was back then

my mind is filled with silvery fog
letters, memories,
things that
used to be

[Anonymous No.17613764]

SING, WRATH, OF THE MOST BASED PEPE POSTER AND HIS DANK MAYMAYS THAT SENT A BUNCH OF BASEDJAKS SCREAMING INTO HADES

[Anonymous No.17615224]

Bump

[Anonymous No.17616068]

Ode to the Rat
A Sonnet by Anonymous
My teary rat, you inspire me to write.
How I love the way you eat, hide and hop,
Invading my mind day and through the night,
Always dreaming about the deadly scaup.

Let me compare you to a heavy spoon?
You are more medley, aghast and friendly.
Fast sun heats the broadcast peaches of June,
And summertime has the steadfast henley.

How do I love you? Let me count the ways.
I love your ankle, thumb and eyelashes.
Thinking of your bleary thumb fills my days.
My love for you is the dreary flashes.

Now I must away with an eerie heart,
Remember my fun words whilst we're apart

[Anonymous No.17616145]

Menschenseele!
Du lebest in den Gliedern,
Die dich durch die Raumeswelt
In das Geistesmeereswesen tragen:
Übe Geist-Erinnern
In Seelentiefen,
Wo in waltendem
Weltenschöpfer-Sein
Das eigne Ich
Im Gottes-Ich
Erweset;
Und du wirst wahrhaft leben
Im Menschen-Welten-Wesen.
Denn es waltet der Vater-Geist der Höhen
In den Weltentiefen Sein-erzeugend:
Seraphim, Cherubim, Throne
Lasset aus den Höhen erklingen,
Was in den Tiefen das Echo findet;
Dieses spricht:
Ex deo nascimur.
Das hören die Elementargeister in Ost, West, Nord, Süd:
Menschen mögen es hören.

Menschenseele!
Du lebest in dem Herzens-Lungen-Schlage,
Der dich durch den Zeitenrhythmus
In's eigne Seelenwesensfühlen leitet:
Übe Geist-Besinnen
Im Seelengleichgewichte,
Wo die wogenden
Welten-Werde-Taten
Das eigne Ich
Dem Welten-Ich
Vereinen;
Und du wirst wahrhaft fühlen
Im Menschen-Seelen-Wirken.
Denn es waltet der Christus-Wille im Umkreis
In den Weltenrhythmen Seelen-begnadend;
Kyriotetes, Dynamis, Exusiai,
Lasset vom Osten befeuern,
Was durch den Westen sich formet;
Dieses spricht:
In Christus morimur.
Das hören die Elementargeister in Ost, West, Nord, Süd:
Menschen mögen es hören.

Menschenseele!
Du lebest im ruhenden Haupte,
Das dir aus Ewigkeitsgründen
Die Weltgedanken erschliesset:
Übe Geist-Erschauen
In Gedanken-Ruhe,
Wo die ew'gen Götterziele
Welten-Wesens-Licht
Dem eignen Ich
Zu freiem Wollen
Schenken;
Und du wirst wahrhaft denken
In Menschen-Geistes-Gründen.
Denn es walten des Geistes Weltgedanken
Im Weltenwesen Licht-erflehend;
Archai, Archangeloi, Angeloi,
Lasset aus den Tiefen erbitten,
Was in den Höhen erhöret wird;
Dieses spricht:
Per spiritum sanctum reviviscimus.
Das horen die Elementargeister in Ost, West, Nord, Süd:
Menschen mögen es hören.

In der Zeiten Wende
Trat das Welten-Geistes-Licht
In den irdischen Wesensstrom;
Nacht-Dunkel
Hatte ausgewaltet;
Taghelles Licht
Erstrahlte in Menschenseelen;
Licht,
Das erwärmet
Die armen Hirtenherzen;
Licht,
Das erleuchtet
Die weisen Königshäpter.
Göttliches Licht,
Christus-Sonne,
Erwärme
Unsere Herzen,
Erleuchte
Unsere Häupter,

Dass gut werde,
Was wir
Aus Herzen gründen,
Was wir
Aus Häuptern
Zielvoll führen wollen.

[Anonymous No.17617361]

The stars on horizon
Five I see them and count
They line up like a row of heads
And I fall into their depths
Of water water everywhere
Oh let me fall into you
Let me sleeplongandquiet
God watches allsparrows fall
Both for
Thanks

Thecat is dead
Thank you oh worthwhile thing to pray
Loud and often
So sweepy silent

That small bubble my dream
Burst last night
It was bloodful
So full but when it split
I was blinded
Those with feelings
Wonderous kind
Our love with kittens
Everbind

[Anonymous No.17617395]

>>17616068
A young man wrote a poem about a rat.
It was the best poem ever written about a rat.
To read it was to ask the rat to perch
on the arm of your chair until you turned the page.
So we wrote to him, but heard nothing; we called,
and called again; then finally we sailed
to the island where he kept the only shop
and rapped his door until he opened up.

We took away his poems. Our hands shook
with excitement. We read them on lightboxes,
under great lamps. They were not much good.
So then we offered what advice we could
on his tropes and turns, his metrical comportment,
on the wedding of the word to the event,
and suggested that he might read this or that.
We said Now: write us more poems like The Rat.

All we got was cheek from him. Then silence.
We gave up on him. Him with his green arrogance
and ingratitude and his one lucky strike.
But today I read The Rat again. Its reek
announced it; then I saw its pisshole stare;
line by line it strained into the air.
Then it hissed. For all the craft and clever-clever
you did not write me, fool. Nor will you ever.

[Anonymous No.17618004]

Based rat appreciators

[Anonymous No.17619117]

Bat
BY D. H. LAWRENCE
At evening, sitting on this terrace,
When the sun from the west, beyond Pisa, beyond the mountains of Carrara
Departs, and the world is taken by surprise ...

When the tired flower of Florence is in gloom beneath the glowing
Brown hills surrounding ...

When under the arches of the Ponte Vecchio
A green light enters against stream, flush from the west,
Against the current of obscure Arno ...

Look up, and you see things flying
Between the day and the night;
Swallows with spools of dark thread sewing the shadows together.

A circle swoop, and a quick parabola under the bridge arches
Where light pushes through;
A sudden turning upon itself of a thing in the air.
A dip to the water.

And you think:
"The swallows are flying so late!"

Swallows?

Dark air-life looping
Yet missing the pure loop ...
A twitch, a twitter, an elastic shudder in flight
And serrated wings against the sky,
Like a glove, a black glove thrown up at the light,
And falling back.

Never swallows!
Bats!
The swallows are gone.

At a wavering instant the swallows gave way to bats
By the Ponte Vecchio ...
Changing guard.

Bats, and an uneasy creeping in one's scalp
As the bats swoop overhead!
Flying madly.

Pipistrello!
Black piper on an infinitesimal pipe.
Little lumps that fly in air and have voices indefinite, wildly vindictive;

Wings like bits of umbrella.

Bats!

Creatures that hang themselves up like an old rag, to sleep;
And disgustingly upside down.

Hanging upside down like rows of disgusting old rags
And grinning in their sleep.
Bats!

In China the bat is symbol for happiness.

Not for me!

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17619729]

If you lads could have the skill of any poet, who would you choose?

[Anonymous No.17619731]

The Undiscovered Country

“Could we but know
The land that ends our dark, uncertain travel,
Where lie those happier hills and meadows low;
Ah! if beyond the spirit’s inmost cavil
Aught of that country could we surely know,
Who would not go?

Might we but hear
The hovering angels’ high imagined chorus,
Or catch, betimes, with wakeful eyes and clear
One radiant vista of the realm before us,—
With one rapt moment given to see and hear,
Ah, who would fear?

Were we quite sure
To find the peerless friend who left us lonely,
Or there, by some celestial stream as pure,
To gaze in eyes that here were lovelit only,—
This weary mortal coil, were we quite sure,
Who would endure?”

— Edmund Clarence Stedman

[Anonymous No.17619761]

>>17619729
Can we hybridize?

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17619770]

>>17619761
Sure, explain what parts though.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17620031]

E Tenebris by Oscar Wilde

Come down, O Christ, and help me! reach thy hand,
For I am drowning in a stormier sea
Than Simon on thy lake of Galilee:
The wine of life is spilt upon the sand,
My heart is as some famine-murdered land,
Whence all good things have perished utterly,
And well I know my soul in Hell must lie
If I this night before God’s throne should stand.
‘He sleeps perchance, or rideth to the chase,
Like Baal, when his prophets howled that name
From morn to noon on Carmel’s smitten height.’
Nay, peace, I shall behold before the night,
The feet of brass, the robe more white than flame,
The wounded hands, the weary human face.

[Anonymous No.17620060]

a haiku, not sure if good or not

Ol' shepherd guidin'
his sheep on snow'd Gobi lands;
Such a simple life!

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17620073]

>>17620060
Pretty effective anon. only problem I’d say is “snow’d” while it’s a good image, it feels, bluntly speaking, too fancy.

[Anonymous No.17620166]

Dream Land

“Where sunless rivers weep
Their waves into the deep,
She sleeps a charmed sleep:
Awake her not.
Led by a single star,
She came from very far
To seek where shadows are
Her pleasant lot.
She left the rosy morn,
She left the fields of corn,
For twilight cold and lorn
And water springs.
Through sleep, as through a veil,
She sees the sky look pale,
And hears the nightingale
That sadly sings.
Rest, rest, a perfect rest
Shed over brow and breast;
Her face is toward the west,
The purple land.
She cannot see the grain
Ripening on hill and plain;
She cannot feel the rain
Upon her hand.
Rest, rest, for evermore
Upon a mossy shore;
Rest, rest at the heart’s core
Till time shall cease:
Sleep that no pain shall wake;
Night that no morn shall break
Till joy shall overtake
Her perfect peace.”

— Christina Rosetti

[The Unreadable No.17620174]

its called roach

under the floor
roaches gamble

in the stairwell
roaches fuck

roaches are, bad luck

roaches read marx
marx ate roaches

the roaches
light cigarettes
open cans
and have their eggs
over easy
in a stolen pan

the roach plays a violin
for the dull audience
that eat bland meals
with silver painted cutlery
at a restuarant that's name
is not remembered with certainty
or seen with impression

[Anonymous No.17621085]

>>17620060
I like it.

[Anonymous No.17621354]

What makes a poem good?

[Anonymous No.17621377]

>>17620073
did you know that the past participle of snow is snown?

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17621487]

>>17621377
I honestly wouldn’t have remembered it off the fly, but I guess snown and snew and so forth are proper. I think snown might be even worse in the context of the poem though. What do you think?

[Anonymous No.17621882]

Horror in the boy-pit
Brawling boys in the pit
terror-murmur, fanatic and a jungle bird,
and the silk-scarves magic tricks round around this only bird;
under open-dome, with the light pouring in, like a Mosque, or a Tagine.

some sunken, inset, pit in the ground.

No creatures in no recess or no dust for a scrape
and no cold mill in a far land with no tree and no profit
in the world of a decade; A CHILLIAD as a PARTY TENT

ran-out, all fled, half rabbit and half dog
hybrid hunter-hunteds~men-boys, soft-blend, abstract,
with the hulking front,
shoulder-legs-as-in-pit-bull for frontlegs,
and the Paralympic piston-pivot angle FORCE of hares' hindlegs for hindlegs.
these people snowmobile, half-track,
at bodily meat-war with the front against back.

out the smoulder and wreck of the front of a pit-bull,
first hare walks on the moon

1 giant leap for rabbitry,
and a guarded toe-into-ocean for a grandmother on her holidays.

me-saws, all of it, from my table, in the window

Tie-up Suckfeet and the mean restaurant
goes in/ has FROG steaks
this it's - swamp mean
food played with on quail-coloured platelets
commotion for salt
as there's horror, in the boy-pit,
these are mongol-brigands now,
as what might: degrade and drop-off, from body of a Boy-Scout
falling from the atmosphere, from the brink of space

sat tight in my seat, and saw horror, from the boy-pit
so-saw (me-saws) scarpered/ as a hunted rabbit, or a hunting dog
do we prowl in want, or for pleasure?
are we tigers or jaguar?
Suckfeet, I'll have - my game - this night !

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17622323]

In the process of writing three inter-connected poems, I’m going to be trying an experiment to integrate more Hebrew poetics into the structure of it. Which language and cultures poetry outside of the English do you have the most interest in, anons?

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17622665]

Just completed the first poem of the three part set.

The praise of the Idolater

frankincense, Storax and balsam most precious
burn before the altar of chemosh Bel
“before ba’al burn, before him! the jealous!
bring your sons to burn! for Ba’al the jealous!” 
frankincense, Storax and burning blood I smell

before ba’al, his priests pray and cast their spell
his open burning mouth, eyes of green beryl
“bow before me” and before ba’al I fell
before burnt balsam and babes, to him I fell
“praise him, the terrible, at your own peril “

i saw them dancing there, in their apparel
his insignia, his signet and sigil 
glowed with the same glory of his green beryl
they led me away, away from the vigil
I heard them as I left “praise the green beryl
i heeded them as I left, I praised ba’al

frankincense, Storax and balsam I still smell
as I left the temple of ba’al chemosh
honored by frankincense, Storax and balsam.
with frankincense, Storax and balsam I fell

[Anonymous No.17622700]

>>17565352
>Art should be made for one’s self and All that matters is if you enjoy your own Art.
good bbecause i hate this fucking faggot fart huffing shit

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17623020]

Part 2

The Lament of the Idolater

the bitter smoke I smelled, the burning temples
pylon and pillar are burnt into piles ashed
destroyed by devils, Israel, the rebels
Israel, nation of devils and rebels
even bel, everlasting Ba’al chemosh, smashed

his crimson carbuncle teeth fallen and cracked
his priests lay pierced, pouring forth their crimson blood
even his holy place, his face was attacked
his temple, this, his holy place was attacked
his incense and his jewels lay mixed with mudd

Israel, the rebels, return in a flood
carrying away the precious water stones
the Gold articles, the gems mixed with the mud
may chemosh mangle them, may Mosh have their bones
ba’al chemosh, who’s beryl eye sits in the mud
mosh with your jaw, mosh with your maw, chew their bones

hear me, hear my cry, as I cry out with groans
mosh with moans, chemosh, many must be mangled
all their young strangled and smashed against the stones
hear my lament, Lord, bash them against the stones

[Anonymous No.17623142]

>>17622323

Chinese, or any ideogrammic language.

I came about it studying Pound's Cantos, and his "ideogrammic method" etc

for more info, read:
The ABC of Reading, by Pound
The Chinese written character as a medium for poetry, by Pound/Fenollosa

[Anonymous No.17623164]

>>17623142
In reference to your (>>17622323)

Hebrew poetics thing,
יהוה as YHWH/Yahweh, under the ideogrammic method, becomes an image of the name of God, if 'the name of God' in Hebrew *IS* The Name Of God

you might see from that the method's possible applications in English/any alphabetic language

[Anonymous No.17623247]

>>17623142
Fennelosa was full of shit tho, even a credulous dupe like Pound eventualy realized this

[Anonymous No.17623347]

>>17623247
>>17623247
I believe the modernist consensus was that he'd got it so wrong he'd come up with something too good to correct

[Anonymous No.17623364]

>>17623347
sort of like your mother

[Anonymous No.17623638]

Meadow Ode

The unpaved road grooves across the field
Carried by a bridge over a rippling river
Along the weathered pollard willows stand
and the starlings dub them home

The fog hovers over the barnyard fore dawn
Oxen and sheep slowly over the meadow stroll
Hurried not by city bells or clocks
Bath themselves merrily in the morning dew

And the farmer awakes from his slumbers
Long-lasting day of hefty labor before him
With roots in the soil he cultivates
He stands in unity with his forefathers

I spurn you not countryside meadow
Let them slander and seethe
For they will ne’er recognize
You are eternal and always will be

[Anonymous No.17623691]

>>17565352
what does /lit/ think of the prelude?

[Anonymous No.17623884]

I am a conman
You are a conman
Inside the cupboard,
Conmen.

I have secrets
You have secrets
Under the carpet,
Secrets.

I am a bastard
You are a bastard
Cum in the sink,
Bastard.

[Anonymous No.17623968]

>>17619729
Reverdy's ability to wrap his complex poems in a single very simple beautiful sentence

[Anonymous No.17624090]

Guys, is there any book that deals with English poetry -- history and development, from the very beginnings up to WW2 or such? Something comprehensive, that I could use as an introduction to it?

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17624274]

>>17623164
Yeah that’s not an unknown idea. Especially since

י
ה
ו
ה

Looks like an image of a Man, same with the greek form, IAO. You’ll actually find a lot of talismans with the Greek form making a little person.

>>17624090
That Norton edition will give you some developments through the poets themselves, I believe bloom also has a book on the matter.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17624401]

>>17623164
Example, this image is actually a hyper stylized Ἰαω

His arms and torso being the A, his head the I, his legs the Omega

[Anonymous No.17624536]

>>17565352
I'm french and I like Baudelaire. And I like even more this audio version of one of my favorite poem.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rQWdU21Okmo

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17624559]

>>17624536
While they’re in English, have you ever heard any Ruth white? Their recordings of Baudelaire’s poetry are pretty great.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b7vWLz9iGsk

[Anonymous No.17624610]

Do we think literary magazines can into Surrealism or am I going to get a knock on my door for a surrealistically violent poem I just submitted lmao
It only occurred to me afterwards

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17624715]

To the surrealist anon, as I didn’t get a chance to reply.

I think your poem wouldn’t land you in jail, Kek, but I think it being accepted/appreciated really depends on where you submitted it. The popular stuff right now only goes as far as ash berry’s stuff in terms of surrealism, I don’t know of any really decadent surrealist mags that go full maldoror, not that they don’t exist, but I just don’t know of any.

Good luck anyways, just remember who’s the kind of people who are likely to be reading the magazines you shill to.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17624727]

>>17623884
Well, more effective than the average intentionally-ugly 4chan poem. Props on that.

>>17623638
I actually really like this one, next post I’ll try to break it down to offer some critique in any case.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17625228]

>>17623638

Before anything, the good is the nice imagery and the progression of the imagery, neither going too fast nor too slow in processing it. Also high points for the amount of assonance, I’m sure if a person wasn’t paying attention they wouldn’t notice the high amount but would still hear the effects of it. Only thing I would have against it is, well. I prefer a regular rhyme pattern and syllable count, so in broad strokes it’s pretty good.


>and the starlings dub them home

Starlings dub comes off as a bit much but it’s coherent.

>Bath themselves merrily in the morning dew

This one feels incomplete, bath themselves merrily doesn’t have the same clear flow as the rest.

>And the farmer awakes from his slumbers

You could probably trim off the “and” but I get the vocal reasoning for it.

>Long-lasting day of hefty labor before him

Hefty doesn’t really add much in my opinion and is itself an ugly sounding word.

>With roots in the soil he cultivates
>He stands in unity with his forefathers

These two lines do not flow so smoothly into one another. I’d have placed a line in between them.


>For they will ne’er recognize

Careful, elision can come off really ugly.


All in all, good poem, cut above and all that.

[Anonymous No.17625250]

>>17611172
>https://gavin.kontek.net/
thanks anon, found this fun. I hope tom is good now

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17625334]

>>17620174
You a fan of jazz?

[Anonymous No.17625420]

>>17566680

Love the alliteration rhyme throughout. Very deep and relative. I imagine with the current world situation this will age well.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17625637]

Final poem of the three part set each in pastiche of Semitic techniques of poetry.

The conversion of the Idolater

the fumes of frankincense, Stacte and galbanum
flew High as I hid away, to Yah’s temple
trumpets roaring, lambs blood pouring, their custom
“shout for the shining ephod!” as was custom
a ghost was about that place, something special

“I must remember this is the false devil
the temple of Israel, foe of ba’al”
but the ghost grabbed my soul, caused me to revel
the ghost of God grasped my soul, my soul revels

I knew now we were the rebels, our temples
Baal was the devil, Praise be to elohim
El who dwells in me, who’s eyes are not pebbles
rebuke from me the idol devils, like dreams
vanish then, like dreams, destroy the stone idols
idols of stone, be broken into pebbles

the fumes of frankincense, Stacte and galbanum
live while the lies of idols, like a man’s dreams
are crushed like pebbles, like his false stone temples
his priests pierced, praise be to Yah, Yah, halluyah

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17625649]

>>17622665
The whole poem.

The praise of the Idolater

frankincense, Storax and balsam most precious
burn before the altar of chemosh Bel
“before ba’al burn, before him! the jealous!
bring your sons to burn! for Ba’al the jealous!” 
frankincense, Storax and burning blood I smell

before ba’al, his priests pray and cast their spell
his open burning mouth, eyes of green beryl
“bow before me” and before ba’al I fell
before burnt balsam and babes, to him I fell
“praise him, the terrible, at your own peril “

i saw them dancing there, in their apparel
his insignia, his signet and sigil 
glowed with the same glory of his green beryl
they led me away, away from the vigil
I heard them as I left “praise the green beryl
i heeded them as I left, I praised ba’al

frankincense, Storax and balsam I still smell
as I left the temple of ba’al chemosh
honored by frankincense, Storax and balsam.
with frankincense, Storax and balsam I fell

The Lament of the Idolater

the bitter smoke I smelled, the burning temples
pylon and pillar are burnt into piles ashed
destroyed by devils, Israel, the rebels
Israel, nation of devils and rebels
even bel, everlasting Ba’al chemosh, smashed

his crimson carbuncle teeth fallen and cracked
his priests lay pierced, pouring forth their crimson blood
even his holy place, his face was attacked
his temple, this, his holy place was attacked
his incense and his jewels lay mixed with mudd

Israel, the rebels, return in a flood
carrying away the precious water stones
the Gold articles, the gems mixed with the mud
may chemosh mangle them, may Mosh have their bones
ba’al chemosh, who’s beryl eye sits in the mud
mosh with your jaw, mosh with your maw, chew their bones

hear me, hear my cry, as I cry out with groans
mosh with moans, chemosh, many must be mangled
all their young strangled and smashed against the stones
hear my lament, Lord, bash them against the stones

The conversion of the Idolater

the fumes of frankincense, Stacte and galbanum
flew High as I hid away, to Yah’s temple
trumpets roaring, lambs blood pouring, their custom
“shout for the shining ephod!” as was custom
a ghost was about that place, something special

“I must remember this is the false devil
the temple of Israel, foe of ba’al”
but the ghost grabbed my soul, caused me to revel
the ghost of God grasped my soul, my soul revels

I knew now we were the rebels, our temples
Baal was the devil, Praise be to elohim
El who dwells in me, who’s eyes are not pebbles
rebuke from me the idol devils, like dreams
vanish then, like dreams, destroy the stone idols
idols of stone, be broken into pebbles

the fumes of frankincense, Stacte and galbanum
live while the lies of idols, like a man’s dreams
are crushed like pebbles, like his false stone temples
his priests pierced, praise be to Yah, Yah, halluyah

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17625698]

>>17625649
Note, Elohim is pronounced el-oh-heem.

[Anonymous No.17625891]

Red rover, red rover,
Bring that bitch right over

Pocket full of posies
Ashes ashes
They all FALL DOWN
FUCK
THEY ALL FALL DOWN
YUH

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17626166]

A slumber did my spirit seal by Wordsworth

A slumber did my spirit seal;
I had no human fears:
She seemed a thing that could not feel
The touch of earthly years.

No motion has she now, no force;
She neither hears nor sees;
Rolled round in earth's diurnal course,
With rocks, and stones, and trees.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17626900]

A test, the following poem is completely in English.

Trehmulus eh kowz mailuhluh-bai
mai melo dees ah mung merry golds
myrrh muring melow with but ter fleyes


twilyt tendrels ov Loonar dusk blusoms
daan’s ru suht reiments rest trang-kwil
rehsting in a krystal ein silver krysalis
sat in thuh senter ov thuh stelar gaar denz
az thuh azfodel hears the wispars ov gozah myrrh
weeved bai the Loomenus majik ov da moon

eye caress mai ol den ol leander
app roach mai Seladoor
enter, and eeven eye rest
uh paan ah bed ov aidurdawn

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.17626990]

>>17626900
Oh and the non-messed up version.

tremulous echos my lullaby
my melodies among marigolds
murmuring Mellow with the butterflies


twilit tendrils of lunar dusk blossoms
dawn’s russet raiments rest tranquil
resting in the crystalline silver chrysalis
sat in the center of the stellar gardens
as the asphodel hears the whispers of gossamer
weaved by the luminous magic of the moon

I caress my olden oleander
approach my cellar door
enter, and even I rest
upon a bed of eiderdown

[Anonymous No.17627240]

EASTERN ADIAPHORA

for i have fought the oligarchs
of every urge and care.
i've knelt before the altar's sparks
and left my passion there.

the vows and wines that i have spilled
poured forth for no god's sake.
all these holy relics fulfilled
what my own idol spake.

it has no face nor tongue save this:
demands of icy faith
that makes up hymns of hopeless bliss
and knows the world's a wraith.

and so, withdrawn, i draw the world's true face.
it is empty affairs of time and space
whose sole function is our disgrace.

[Anonymous No.17627340]

Polite Bump

[Anonymous No.17627402]

As late I rambled in the happy fields,
What time the sky-lark shakes the tremulous dew
From his lush clover covert;—when anew
Adventurous knights take up their dinted shields:
I saw the sweetest flower wild nature yields,
A fresh-blown musk-rose; 'twas the first that threw
Its sweets upon the summer: graceful it grew
As is the wand that queen Titania wields.
And, as I feasted on its fragrancy,
I thought the garden-rose it far excell'd:
But when, O Wells! thy roses came to me
My sense with their deliciousness was spell'd:
Soft voices had they, that with tender plea
Whisper'd of peace, and truth, and friendliness unquell'd.