Based Poets

[Anonymous No.20604240]

I've never read a good poem, can anyone reccomend me a place to start? A pdf of your fav poems or something?

[Anonymous No.20604287]

bump

[Anonymous No.20604389]

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/32568/hymn-to-life

[Anonymous No.20604398]

>>20604240
Check out William Blake. Easily one of the best

[Anonymous No.20604420]

>>20604398
>William Blake
Thanks! I looked him up and it seems he has some good shit!

[Anonymous No.20604432]

Too many based poets.
Here’s one that’s been on my mind:

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
And with old woes new wail my dear time’s waste;

Then can I drown an eye (unused to flow)
For precious friends hid in death’s dateless night,
And weep afresh love’s long since cancelled woe,
And moan th’expense of many a vanish’d sight.

Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o’er
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
Which I new pay as if not paid before.

But if the while I think on thee (dear friend)
All losses are restored, and sorrows end.

[Anonymous No.20604433]

>>20604432
Shakespeare sonnet 30

[Anonymous No.20604439]

>>20604432
>>20604433
God, that was awful
Thanks for wasting my time!

[Anonymous No.20604447]

>>20604439
>can anyone reccomend me a place to start? A pdf of your fav poems or something?

You are the problem anon, not poetry.

[Anonymous No.20604450]

>>20604389
Quoting some of this:

The wind rests its cheek upon the ground and feels the cool damp
And lifts its head with twigs and small dead blades of grass
Pressed into it as you might at the beach rise up and brush away
The sand. The day is cool and says, “I’m just staying overnight.”
The world is filled with music, and in between the music, silence
And varying the silence all sorts of sounds, natural and man made:
There goes a plane, some cars, geese that honk and, not here, but
Not so far away, a scream so rending that to hear it is to be
Never again the same. “Why, this is hell.” Out of the death breeding
Soil, here, rise emblems of innocence, snowdrops that struggle
Easily into life and hang their white enamel heads toward the dirt
And in the yellow grass are small wild crocuses from hills goats
Have cropped to barrenness. The corms come by mail, are planted.
Then do their thing: to live! To live! So natural and so hard
Hard as it seems it must be for green spears to pierce the all but
Frozen mold and insist that they too, like mouse-eared chickweed,
Will live. The spears lengthen, the bud appears and spreads, its
Seed capsule fattens and falls, the green turns yellowish and withers
Stretched upon the ground. In Washington, magnolias were in bud. In
Charlottesville early bulbs were up, brightening the muck. Tomorrow
Will begin another spring. No one gets many, one at a time, like a long
Awaited letter that one day comes. But it may not say what you hoped
Or distraction robs it of what it once would have meant. Spring comes
And the winter weather, here, may hold. It is arbitrary, like the plan
Of Washington, D.C. Avenues and circles in asphalt web and no
One gets younger: which is not, for the young, true, discovering new
Freedoms at twenty, a relief not to be a teen-ager anymore. One of us
Had piles, another water on the knee, a third a hernia—a strangulated
Hernia is one of life’s less pleasant bits of news—and only
One, at twenty, moved easily through all the galleries to pill
Free sleep. Oh, it’s not all that bad. The sun shines on my hand
And the myriad lines that criss-cross tell the story of nearly fifty
Years. Sorry, it’s too long to relate. Once, when I was young, I
Awoke at first light and sitting in a rocking chair watched the sun
Come up beyond the houses across the street.

[Anonymous No.20604451]

>>20604389
>>20604450
Cntd:

Another time I stood
At the cables of a liner and watched the wake turning and
Turning upon itself. Another time I woke up and in a bottle
On a chest of drawers the thoughtful doctor had left my tonsils. I
Didn’t keep them. The turning of the globe is not so real to us
As the seasons turning and the days that rise out of early gray
—The world is all cut-outs then—and slip or step steadily down
The slopes of our lives where the emotions and needs sprout. “I
Need you,” tree, that dominates this yard, thick-waisted, tall
And crook branched. Its bark scales off like that which we forget:
Pain, an introduction at a party, what precisely happened umpteen
Years or days or hours ago. And that same blue jay returns, or perhaps
It is another. All jays are one to me. But not the sun which seems at
Each rising new, as though in the night it enacted death and rebirth,
As flowers seem to. The roses this June will be different roses
Even though you cut an armful and come in saying, “Here are the roses,”
As though the same blooms had come back, white freaked with red
And heavily scented. Or a cut branch of pear blooms before its time,
“Forced.” Time brings us into bloom and we wait, busy, but wait
For the unforced flow of words and intercourse and sleep and dreams
In which the past seems to portend a future which is just more
Daily life. The cat has a ripped ear. He fights, he fights all
The tom cats all the time. There are blood gouts on a velvet seat.
Easily sponged off: but these red drops on a book of Stifter’s, will
I remember and say at some future time, “Oh, yes, that was the day
Hodge had a torn ear and bled on the card table?” Poor
Hodge, battered like an old car. Silence flows into my mind. It
Is spring. It is also still really winter. Not a day when you say,
“What a beautiful spring day.” A day like twilight or evening when
You think, “I meant to watch the sun set.” And then comes on
To rain. “You’ve got to take,” says the man at the store, “the rough
With the smooth.” A window to the south is rough with raindrops
That, caught in the screen, spell out untranslatable glyphs.

[Anonymous No.20604455]

>>20604450
>>20604451
>a strangulated Hernia is one of life’s less pleasant bits of news
I hope you get strangulated and then get a Hernia
worthless faggot

[Anonymous No.20604461]

Ulysses by James Joyce. Bit lengthy though

[Anonymous No.20604476]

>>20604455
Why would you say that? In the context the writer is an older gentleman, and he is making a point it seems, that even uncomfortable bad news, is relatively not the worst of it for folks climbing in years, you know?

[Anonymous No.20604483]

ONLY DEATH

There are cemeteries that are lonely,
graves full of bones that do not make a sound,
the heart moving through a tunnel,
in it darkness, darkness, darkness,
like a shipwreck we die going into ourselves,
as though we were drowning inside our hearts,
as though we lived falling out of the skin into the soul.

Death arrives among all that sound
like a shoe with no foot in it, like a suit with no man in it,
comes and knocks, using a ring with no stone it it, with no
finger in it,
comes and shouts with no mouth, with no tongue, with no
throat.
Nevertheless its steps can be heard
and its clothing makes a hushed sound, like a tree.

I’m not sure, I understand only a little, I can hardly see,
but it seems to me that its singing has the color of damp violets,
of violets that are at home in the earth,
because the face of death is green,
and the look death gives is green,
with the penetrating dampness of a violet leaf
and the somber color of embittered winter.

But death also goes through the world dressed as a broom,
lapping the floor, looking for dead bodies,
death is inside the broom,
the broom is the tongue of death looking for corpses,
it is the needle of death looking for thread.

Death is inside the folding cots:
it spends its life sleeping on the slow mattresses,
in the black blankets, and suddenly breathes out:
it blows out a mournful sound that swells the sheets,
and the beds go sailing toward a port
where death is waiting, dressed like an admiral.

[Anonymous No.20604488]

>>20604447
Oh man, thanks for telling me you're a faggot with AIDS I hope you get another STD and die from that combination

[Anonymous No.20604492]

>>20604476
ohhhh, now I get it!

[Anonymous No.20604593]

>>20604492
>>20604455

No lol.. I was wrong;.

A ________ is one of life's plesent bit of news
A ________ is one of life's more plesent bits of news
A_________ is one of life's less plesent bits of news.

So yeah, straightly bluntly saying it's not plesent news... Oops lol... Yeah so you were just mad that I inspired you to read that much if it and thought of something clever to say. Ok ok,

[Anonymous No.20604596]

>>20604593
Didn't ask
Don't care

[Anonymous No.20604646]

Mayakoveky

Excerpt from A Cloud in Trousers
You think I’m delirious with malaria?

This happened.
In Odessa, this happened.

“I’ll come at four,” promised Maria.

Eight…
Nine…
Ten.

Soon after,
The evening,
Frowning,
And Decemberish,
Left the windows
And vanished in dire darkness.
Behind me, I hear the neighing and laughter
Of candelabras.

You wouldn’t recognize me if you knew me prior:
A bulk of sinews
Moaning,
Fidgeting.
What can such a clod desire?
But a clod desires many things.
Because for oneself it doesn’t matter
Whether you’re cast of copper
Or whether the heart is cold metal.
At night, you want to wrap your clamor
In something feminine,
Gentle.

And thus,
Enormous,
I hunch in the frame,
And with my forehead, I melt the window glass.
Will this love be tremendous or lame?
Will it sustain or pass?
A big one wouldn’t fit a body like this:
It must be a little love, — a baby, sort of,
It shies away when the cars honk and hiss,
But adores the bells on the horse-tram.
I come face to face
With the rippling rain,
Yet once more,
And wait
Splashed by the city surf’s thundering roar.
Running amok with a knife outside,
The night caught up to him
And stabbed him,
Unseen.

The stroke of midnight
Fell like a head from a guillotine.
The silver raindrops on the windowpane
Were piling a grimace
And yelling.
It was as if the gargoyles of Notre Dame
Started yelping.

Damn you!
Haven’t you had enough yet?
Cries will soon cut my throat all around.
I heard:
Softly,
Like a patient out of his bed,
A nerve leapt
Down.
At first,
He barely moved.
Then, apprehensive
And distinct,
He started prancing.
And now, he and another two,
Darted about, step-dancing.

On the ground floor, the plaster was falling fast.

The night oozed through the room and sank.
Stuck in slime, the eye couldn’t slither out of it.
Suddenly the doors started to bang
As if the hotel’s teeth were chattering.
You entered,
Abrupt like “Take it!”,
Mauling suede gloves, you tarried,
And said:
“You know,–
I’m soon getting married.”

Get married then.
It’s all right,
I can handle it.
You see — I’m calm, of course!
Like the pulse
Of a corpse.

[Anonymous No.20604654]

>>20604646
Cntd

Again in love, I shall start gambling,
With fire illuminating the arch of my eyebrows.
And why not?
Sometimes, the homeless ramblers
Will seek to find shelter in a burnt down house!

You’re mocking me?
“You’ve fewer emeralds of madness
than a beggar kopecks, there’s no disproving this!”
But remember
Pompeii came to end thus
When somebody teased Vesuvius!

Hey!
Gentlemen!
You care for
Sacrilege,
Crime
And war.
But have you seen
The frightening terror
Of my face
When
It’s
Perfectly calm?

And I feel-
“I”
Is too small to fit me.
Someone inside me is getting smothered.

Hello!
Who’s speaking?
Mother?
Mother!
Your son has a wonderful sickness!
Mother!
His heart has been set alight!
Tell Lydia and Olga, his sisters,
That there’s simply no where to hide.
Every word,
Whether funny or crude,
That he spews from his scorching mouth,
Jumps like a naked prostitute
From a burning brothel.

People sniff–
Something’s burned down.
They call the firemen.
In glittering helmets,
They carelessly start intruding.
Hey, tell the firemen:
No boots allowed!
With a sizzling heart one has to be prudent.
I’ll do it!
I’ll pump my watery eyes into containers.
Just let me push off my ribs and I’ll start.
I’ll leap out! I’ll leap out! You can’t restrain me!
They’ve collapsed.
You can’t leap out of the heart!

From the cracks of the lips,
A cindering kiss springs,
Running away from the smoldering face.

Mother!
I can’t sing.
In the heart’s chapel, the choir was set ablaze!

The figurines of words and numbers
From the skull,
Like kids from a burning building, scurry.
Thus fear,
Reaching up to the sky, called
And raised
Lusitania’s fiery arms with worry.

A hundred-eyed blaze looked into the peace
Of apartments, where the people perspired.
With a final outcry,
Will you moan, at least,
To report to the centuries that I’m on fire?

[Anonymous No.20604661]

>>20604240
Read Rimbaud and Baudeliere, is it like seasons in hell and flowers of evil? And read Pushkin Onegin


The beat things in poetry are:
Wisdom
Wit
Musicality
Lyricality
Flow
Sensitivity to word sounds
And placing them in the write sensual melodic orders
Taste
Passion
Vision
Daring
Cunning
Breadth
Depth
Heights
Variety
Not dull or boring or hacky or stiff

[Anonymous No.20604729]

>>20604240
I read this Yugoslavian poem about walking in the night and freedom but i don't remember anything else

[Anonymous No.20604734]

Jeffers rules.

[Anonymous No.20604845]

Here’s a poem from America’s current year poet laureate

[Anonymous No.20605142]

>>20604488
Why are you like this?

[Anonymous No.20605300]

>>20604240
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43825/darkness-56d222aeeee1b
https://www.poetry.com/poem/1410/the-eve-of-revolution
The trumpets of the four winds of the world
From the ends of the earth blow battle; the night heaves,
With breasts palpitating and wings refurled,
With passion of couched limbs, as one who grieves
Sleeping, and in her sleep she sees uncurled
Dreams serpent-shapen, such as sickness weaves,
Down the wild wind of vision caught and whirled,
Dead leaves of sleep, thicker than autumn leaves,
Shadows of storm-shaped things,
Flights of dim tribes of kings,
The reaping men that reap men for their sheaves,
And, without grain to yield,
Their scythe-swept harvest-field
Thronged thick with men pursuing and fugitives,
Dead foliage of the tree of sleep,
Leaves blood-coloured and golden, blown from deep to deep.

[Anonymous No.20605496]

>>20604240
fun fact: that album cover was drawn by the environment artist for Halo

[Anonymous No.20605811]

can someone explain to me why the retards on this board are so obsessed with poems from hundreds of years ago?

my guess would be that most contemporary poetry is left-leaning and it's just a reactionary /pol/ response.

don't get me wrong. i enjoyed learning about the Romantic poets in college, but their work is boring as fuck. i can't imagine any of you dweebs actually enjoy this shit and that you only pretend to like it because it makes you feel counter-cultural and erudite.

[Anonymous No.20605814]

>>20604240
Emily Dickinson is good because she has autism

[Anonymous No.20605820]

>>20605811
um ok who is a living poet that you like? Rupi Kapur? Amanda Gorman? Atticus?

[Anonymous No.20605853]

>>20605811
I hate to side with reactionary right-wing chuds on this board but if you’re limiting yourself to the 1% of any long-lived form of art that came out in what you consider the modern era you’re only hurting yourself