Gentle and comfy Poetry Thread

[Anonymous No.21617783]

Poetry and critic thread.
Poetic prose is also welcomed.

For those who write poetry in other languages, post a translation as well as the original. If Anons can’t judge the metrical, rhythmical and rhyme-making capacity of your work at least the imagery and overall idea can be appreciated.

[Anonymous No.21617808]

Will post some old material.

Beauty and Horror

When I imagine the cosmos hatching out of emptiness
I remember the arctic owl tearing the night in silver,
I also remember that this bird, so beautiful when eating darkness,
Is horrible when it disembowels the hare amid the woods.

This is the cosmos: a molecule of glory and agony.
It is a spider's egg and a pearl; light with a black pupil;
It is a diamond with worms; a midnight-colored sun;
God who nurses and suckles, God who punishes and mutilates.

Universes, galaxies, suns, worlds, peoples, minds:
All dew drops embracing a thorn;
There is no oasis face without an abyss skull,
Heaven and hell are names for the same path.

Original:

Beleza e Horror

Quando imagino o cosmo a eclodir do vazio
Lembro a coruja do ártico rasgando a noite em prata,
Lembro também que essa ave, tão bela ao comer trevas,
É horrenda quando estripa a lebre em meio a mata.

Isso é o cosmo: molécula de glória e de agonia.
É ovo de aranha e é pérola; luz com negra pupila;
É um diamante com vermes; sol cor de meia-noite;
Deus que nina e amamenta, Deus que pune e mutila.

Universos, galáxias, sóis, mundos, povos, mentes:
Todos gotas de orvalho abraçando um espinho;
Não há rosto de oásis sem caveira de abismo,
Céu e inferno são nomes para um mesmo caminho.

[Anonymous No.21617813]

>>21617808
That from your heart may emerge a wild swan

I

The silence before torture chokes the skies
While the black inquisitor of the storm
Ties the naked heights, opens the case of darkness,
Removes his lightning, sharpens the blond horror
And, whistling low, with slow hands, begins –
And then the air squeaks and kicks, squirms and writhes in a whirlwind,
Drools and urinates downpours, screams in pain so loudly
That the eardrum of the entire earth is set on fire.

II

With fear and relief the macaw sees, from its refuge,
The skinning of the horizon and the unboning of the skies;
He knows that the anthill of the winds that devour
The atmosphere alive doesn’t have nails that can reach him.
There is protection, there is a shield in the dead gold of the cage.
Why did he fight so hard against this gift
When they, who feed him, saved him from the wilderness?
Why did he tried to bite the hand of the protection
That absolved him from this world of eternal hunger and fear?
It doesn’t matter anymore; it’s in the past. That was many years ago.
His feathers no longer scream, hungry for heights,
His wings were finally transformed into sleep.
He has long lived the privilege of ornament.
The shelved skies of the shelter comfort him now.
He already accepts to have the world served him with a dropper.
The pneumonia of pleasure has long since corroded
The boldness in his chest. Like the goo in the mouth
Of the glutton who awakens the day after the orgy
Is the bronchitis of balm: it’s a honey that muddies the mind.
Not even the wings of the soul venture beyond
The perpetual slimy deserts of his days.
Woods, plains, lakes, rivers, rocks, mountains:
Everything is velvet now. He returned to the egg.
Outside the silk of the egg there is death and its thousand faces;
The storm, that disembowels the skies with its frown,
Is just one of those thousand faces.

Cont.

[Anonymous No.21617818]

>>21617813
III

- “What is that? Is it a ghost" -
No. The macaw soon understands that it is a wild swan
In migration. The storm barred his course
– A gigantic bear, with lead-colored fur,
Foaming thunder – but the swan faces it.
He enters the kennel of the blue-gummed
Winds, he strikes the canines of the rain,
He digs, with the many thumbs of his wings,
The incorporeal Himalayas and the granite of the air.
Forward, forward, always moving forward he opens the jungle,
His strokes are machete blows that amputate
The epileptic hawthorn of the clouds discord.
Between the stabs of the gusts he swims
Like a dolphin piercing through a sea of teeth.
His tiny white spot facing the cumulus
Resembles a first lily of hope that wakes up
In the ashes of a long-depressed mind;
It seems the very spirit of peace hovering
Upon a globe that the chewing empire of hate
Has covered entirely, in the belief that, drop by drop,
His song will, one day, lull fang into smile.
The macaw has never seen such perfect beauty
Like the swan among darkness: it’s life riding death;
It's freedom, feathered with scars,
Suffering new wounds to embrace more worlds;
It's like a droplet of moonlight that dares
To step on the mire of hell and bless it.
From the basement of the earthworms to the tuft of the clouds:
This is his kingdom, and the globe is his only cage.
The macaw has never seen such perfect beauty.

Cont

[Anonymous No.21617825]

>>21617818
IV

It's night now. The monster is gone, the rain is calm.
When the torturer felt his volcanic hands
Watering in dementia, his eyes fading,
Baldness draining his electric mane,
He tried to run, limping, towards the west,
However he was chased by his prisoners
– Rainbows from the dungeons of pitch –.
At the gates of dusk the emaciated beast
Was reached at last and justice was done.
What remains now is the drizzle, the weeping after the war.
Sorrow shapes violins with rain
So that the sky may whisper his traumas upon the night.
Everything is silent, but the macaw does not sleep.
He feels his wings castrated, his soul invertebrate.
He feels that the weed and wild brushwood
Have more perfume than the bouquet where they hid him.
Something bothers him, a crumb in his mind,
A flea in the throat, a knot in the stomach,
Something that itches and struggles and churns in his chest:
It's like an embryo within the heart.
– "Yes, that's it." – It's a pearl that insists on obstructing
The throat of the spirit. – “I understand” – Between the ribs,
Between the lungs, a swan's egg now pulsates.
If only a swan woke up inside of him.
Maybe if he dreams of the old horizon,
With its prairies where auroras spring
Like grass, the horizon, this country of dew
Where the inflamed and bloody eye of the sun – gnawed
By the visions of another day contemplating
The unjust globe – sinks to heal its cornea,
Maybe this horizon-dreams will hatch the egg,
And maybe this swan that matures inside his entrails
Will one day dare to spread its wings and tear him apart,
Shattering the colorful mold of his being,
And towards the uncertain glory and blue agony
Of the untrained skies, of the leashless winds,
Take flight, losing itself forever in freedom.


This is a translation from the Portuguese original. If anyone is interested I can post the original latter.

[Anonymous No.21617838]

>>21617825

The cat

On the spine of darkness runs the cat
– He is the gymnast of pitch, the executioner of vertigo –
The streets are the orchestra he conducts
When the sun dies and the skies turn to soot.

He takes off the panties and bra of night
As if undressing the beloved girl;
His eyes eat alleys like mice,
From the rooftops his feet make roads.

Claws and teeth: this is his pack;
Only the stars serve him as a family.

O Gato

Sobre a espinha das trevas corre o gato
– É o ginasta do breu, o algoz da vertigem –
As ruas são a orquestra que ele rege
Quando o sol morre e os céus viram fuligem.

Ele tira a calcinha e o sutiã da noite
Como se desnudasse a moça amada;
Seus olhos come becos como ratos,
Dos telhados seus pés fazem estrada.

Garras e dentes: eis sua matilha;
Só as estrelas lhe servem de senpaiília.

[Anonymous No.21617859]

>>21617838

Astronomers do not eat with the mind
More than an almond from the feast of the suns;
What the human pupil palpatates is but a peep
From the opera of countless nightingales.

Their compasses - arrows with sterile sting -
Try to fork certainties in the mists of the spaces;
Their telescopes - dogs that only eat gardens for dinner -
Get lost inside the Amazon of angels and stars.

The fires of the most ferine brains
Are mites gnawing a grain of dust
In the castle of a thousand Babels of the cosmos;
From the face of Eden they see a single pore, and nothing more.

Human reasoning sharpening its keys
It's but the caged tango of a germ inside a drop of water,
A drop from an occult sea, but one that is alive:
A warm-blooded vacuum, a nothing that breathes.

Even if we possessed all galaxies
- Sea-diver that opened the abysses into nudity
And collected the confession of every single lampfish -
The surface and the heavens - the beyond - would be nothing but muteness.

Our finite knowledge – a semi-swollen mosquito -
Has sucked only a single droplet of the blood of truth,
But the Hercules of the Cosmos his extinction slap
Shall give before the sapiens reaches even his puberty.

Not to-be frightens us, shadowy is its citadel
But that is where we will embrace - that is where we will be - eternity.

[Anonymous No.21617862]

>>21617859
Astrônomos não comem com a mente
Mais que uma amêndoa do festim dos sóis;
O que a pupila humana apalpa é um pio
Da ópera de incontáveis rouxinóis.

Suas bússolas – flechas com ferrão estéril –
Tentam garfar certezas na névoa dos espaços;
Seus telescópios – cães que só jantam jardins –
Perdem-se dentro da Amazônia de anjos e astros.

Os incêndios dos mais ferinos cérebros
São ácaros roendo um grão de pó
No castelo de mil Babéis do cosmo;
Do rosto do Éden veem um poro, e é só.

O raciocínio humano a afiar chaves
É só o tango enjaulado de um germe em gota d’água,
Gota de um mar oculto, porém vivo:
Vácuo de sangue quente, um respirante nada.

Mesmo que todas as galáxias possuíssemos
- Mergulhador que abrisse abismos em nudez
E a confissão colhesse com todo peixe-lâmpada –
A superfície e os céus – o além – seriam só mudez.

Nosso saber finito – mosquito semi-inchado –
Sugou só uma gotícula do sangue da verdade,
Mas o Hércules do Cosmo seu tapa de extinção
Dará antes mesmo que o sapiens chegue à puberdade.

O não ser nos dá medo, sombria é sua cidade,
Mas é lá que abraçaremos – é lá que seremos – a eternidade.

[Anonymous No.21618069]

The rodents and pests have devoured my remains
Frail rotting skin turns to bright glowing bone
Now nothing more than fistfuls of dust alone
quiet wind disturbs the ashes, it starts to rain

[Anonymous No.21618095]

a couple limericks based on board-specific memes

/lit/
"niggers could be here" he thought
"i've not before been to this haunt"
songs by evanescence
cheap wine for his prescience
"with a car you can go where you want"

/tv/
to the farm shop, one day, he pulled up
in a nice german car, not a truck
on the sign it said 'sneed's'
and it sold feed and seed
but the former owner was named chuck

/g/
let me interject for a minute
what you refer too as just linux
is in fact gnu
since it has my code too
and i don't want my role here diminished

/his/
in the attic there lived a cute jew
Whose belly with pregnancy grew
The door was beat open
But she avoided the oven
Being saved by the grey, not the blue

[Anonymous No.21618128]

As i was digging in the ground
i found a skull with a crown
memento mori i am bound
death makes not a sound

=====================================

a flower unfolding is what you are to me
something beautiful
like the morning sea
shine bright in the darkness
surrounded by your brothers
shine bright in the sky
till the day we die

=============================

pushed out of Eden
falling through the sky
endless suffering
till the day we die

=======================

on a humid night
the moon shines its fragile light
on graves long forgotten
except to the stars above

below the surface
returned to the earth
now bones and dust
inside a casket that rusts

==========================

[Anonymous No.21618857]

>>21617783
This is from a prose speech, but I break the lines to resemble verse and see how it would look like.

We must not gamble that we are like the Phoenix.
It is better to suspect that we are only chickens,
and that when death finally plucks us
our ashes will sleep the dreamless sleep of ashes,
in this world and the next, and will not be,
like the ashes of the Phoenix, just a nap of the fire.
See in life a beloved woman that you hug, grab, squeeze, kiss, lick, use and abuse,
a woman with whom you do everything the flesh dreams of in love,
until, when death comes, the sated soul and life, which was known to be loved,
will unravel, satisfied and happy,
like a blushing, sweaty, panting and smiling couple.
If that soul is now left with the dark, it will go to sleep peacefully,
but if an eternity actually exists, then that soul of yours will make the dead in paradise,
spoiled by paradisiacal things, wake up from their anesthesia
and celebrate your arrival with tears in their eyes,
fondly remembering - some for the first time - what they themselves were
when they were mortal.
Live to receive the tears of the dead as a gift.
Make your mortal life a wild wine so delicious that the Gods,
those sommeliers of the supreme,
will uselessly rummage through their celestial cellars
in search of wines of more ecstatic experiences.
Live in such a way as to make the Gods feel
that there is a tiny taste of boredom in their ecstasies.
That's my philosophy, and she tells me she is pleased to meet you.

[Anonymous No.21618970]

>>21617783
Grandes hombres en el mundo han nacido,
el curso de la historia han alterado
y aún así, en ceniza han terminado,
sin importar lo grande que hayan sido.

Quizá en acero su cuerpo vestido,
quizá un temple en estudios reforzado
no importa lo que cuerpo y alma han portado
pues nadie puede escapar al olvido.

A todo un país puede un hombre influir,
y a través de la memoria su esencia
puede al vacío intentar eludir.

Pero al tiempo le basta la paciencia
pues desde que empezamos a existir
ya se ha decidido esta competencia.

[Anonymous No.21619015]

>>21618970

GAZETILHA
Dos Lloyd Georges da Babilónia
Não reza a história nada.
Dos Briands da Assíria ou do Egipto,
Dos Trotskys de qualquer colónia
Grega ou romana já passada,
O nome é morto, inda que escrito.
Só o parvo dum poeta, ou um louco
Que fazia filosofia,
Ou um geómetra maduro,
Sobrevive a esse tanto pouco
Que está lá para trás no escuro
E nem a história já historia.
Ó grandes homens do Momento!
Ó grandes glórias a ferver
De quem a obscuridade foge!
Aproveitem sem pensamento!
Tratem da fama e do comer,
Que amanhã é dos loucos de hoje!

[Anonymous No.21619046]

I actually have a question related to poetry--

I am taking a uni class about poetry and the poetic imagination. My professor is all about teaching us how to feel and write poetry. She doesn’t want us to analyze poems, but rather intuitively feel them. She wants us to see what we dislike or like about poets. Even if they are famous like Whitman or Dickinson.

Is this a good way to learn about poetry?

[Anonymous No.21619074]

>>21619046
>Is this a good way to learn about poetry?
Kinda? Feelings are important, metre analysis without feelings is an empty activity, poetry is an art and should be perceived as such. That being said, just feeling poetry without analyzing the metre doesn't make sense, at that point you would be better simply reading prose. Metre is used as a tool to enhance the feeling or image that the author wants you to feel. You should always see metre as a way to feel a poem in a more intense way, and not a soulless metric in the text, that's probably what your teacher is missing and is, honestly, worrying.

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.21619095]

>>21619046
Kinda, insofar as poetry like any other medium is judged by your taste, if you get into music, whether you like heavy metal or edm or what have you will be a question of taste/preference first, but after you understand what you like, which is to say, what “type” of the thing you like, you should definitely study and analyze how they do it. And I don’t think it’s right to frame this in how you “feel” about the poem, you wouldn’t use such charged emotional language on whether you liked so much other art, right?>>21619074

[Frater Asemlen !XS8vrClKs2 No.21619105]

>>21619074
as for this, while we may not like it, some people prefer the metric-less mush, if they like that kinda thing it’s up to them to find out, now we can shit on them if they have that taste but if they have that taste is an important first question when getting into this.

[Anonymous No.21619155]

>>21618970
>>21619015
This made me think in Ozymandias, curious.

[Anonymous No.21619442]

>The Girl. I rage at my own image in the glass,
>That’s so unlike myself that when you praise it
>It is as though you praised another, or even
>Mocked me with praise of my mere opposite;
>And when I wake towards morn I dread myself
>For the heart cries that what deception wins
>Cruelty must keep; therefore be warned and go
>If you have seen that image and not the woman.
>The Hero. I have raged at my own strength because you have loved it.
>The Girl. If you are no more strength than I am beauty
>I had better find a convent and turn nun;
>A nun at least has all men’s reverence
>And needs no cruelty.
>The Hero. I have heard one say
>That men have reverence for their holiness
>And not themselves.
>The Girl. Say on and say
>That only God has loved us for ourselves,
>But what care I that long for a man’s love?
>The Fool by the Roadside. When my days that have
>From cradle run to grave
>From grave to cradle run instead;
>When thoughts that a fool
>Has wound upon a spool
>Are but loose thread, are but loose thread;
>When cradle and spool are past
>And I mere shade at last
>Coagulate of stuff
>Transparent like the wind,
>I think that I may find
>A faithful love, a faithful love.