/lit/ - Literature

[Anonymous No.4912222]

Can we have a poetry thread where we rate/comment on others poetry? Nothing cruel, writers should encourage, we're all depressed enough as is.

[Anonymous No.4912224]

SUN FEAR:

I came from the kinderhook just now,
Down by the Chiques Creek and up the pike,
Past summer rows where full-grown wheat heads
bow,
Through heavy knoll woods where the coppers
strike.

And all the world was sun--upon my head,
On either hand, and under me--as I came;
But it was not until we met (You said
Something of weather, mentioning the name
Of someone who had got too much of sun
And fell down in his field.) that I returned
Unto a sense of earth-old fear that one
Might lose himself no matter what he learned.

Upon whatever devils in the heat
Enchanting me I turned my darkened shirt,
I knew I had to watch once more my feet
And think once more, and yet once more, of
hurt.

[Anonymous No.4912227]

TOMBSTONE:

All the boundaries we used to hate
have faded once too far away
Great breeze, unkempt
stirred the innermost
untamed we felt
At last, the seasons changed and I
loved you for what it
was -

who could have known beneath
those leaves something so unloved
would wait,

I sit here looking at my greyhound
thinking
as I’m forever looking, accepting
all of this will come to an end
for me,

And in the nothingness
there was.
The words that sit on stones above,
buried towards the sky
lay stiff, forever looking
onwards still.

[Anonymous No.4912231]

In some old
melodious joke we
shared, and having
thought the way more
fair, I took to you
and surly
stared, at all the
linen life would
bare.

For who are we
as not to
care, about the
world and all her
wares, as love awaits
the greatest
tear, between two
hearts of withered
wear.

[Anonymous No.4912241]

Dad tosses out all the clothing
like a garbage man on early route,
sifting through the pile kicking
all her shirts in fury towards
the muddy pavement.

It was raining though no one
noticed while he poured
the bleach upon a purple blouse.

A favorite that she wore
but no one ever really noticed.

Dad looked at me and belched to start
‘Grabbing shit and throw it out’
I gulped and stood in silence
as he told me mom’s a whore.

He slammed another pile to
the pavement,
It was raining on a Tuesday.

Mom came home to see the
angry heap beside him as he
goaded her for answers.

“Did you fuck him last night?”

Mom picks through her clothing
while fighting back the tears,
but no one ever noticed from the rain.

Dad sits down self-satisfied,
the point he got across
in mind for being
the better man and only
‘fucked six girls but married her.’

I was standing in grandma’s kitchen,
She offered me a bag of pretzels
‘Salted like the ones mom likes’
She gasped to say I shouldn’t have them
or to share with her at all,
but to pray for favor with God and man.

Mom slams the door.
The shrill sound pierces my heart
shattering like a Christmas ornament.
The pieces gather in my toes
and over time I fill from leftover shards,
wondering if no one will ever notice.

[Anonymous No.4912277]

>>4912241
>over time I fill from leftover shards,
>wondering if no one will ever notice.
wat?

[Anonymous No.4912360]

Roses are red
Violets are blue
My penis is thirteen inches long

[Anonymous No.4912385]

seriously, what was he thinking?

[Anonymous No.4912389]

I lay abed and wonder aloud,

my words swallowed by the hungry Walls,

about the fate of all the others.

The brilliant ones never known to be.

Who lay supine upon their quiet beds,

while waiting for sleep to steal their tongues.

They who wondered aloud to the Walls,

their words sparks of wonder and genius.

Lost in the Dark.

[Anonymous No.4912419]

>>4912389
I think that's great.

[Anonymous No.4912448]

>>4912419
Thank you, any suggestions?

[Anonymous No.4912471]

>>4912448
What kind of suggestions? As in poets? Hmm Walt Whitman, D.H. Lawrence, Owen Barfeild, Billy Collins, Mary Oliver, Frank O'Hara, Wallace Stevens. If you mean in terms of writing all I can say is poetry just happens to you when you write, I think of it as being similar to Socrates when he says the truth is in you and its about bringing it out. Don't think about it when your writing, and always edit till your satisfied.

[Anonymous No.4912618]

Nootropics brood
My mind a broth
My body, fire
Heating the soupy concoction.
Milky, opage; yet watery clear
My coffee energizes
My foundation

The ember -the source-
At the base of my being
What ever happened to food?

[Anonymous No.4912713]

>>4912222
lol nick drake is not good enough to be considered legitimate poetry

[Anonymous No.4913691]

>>4912222
Why so much people are choosing prose over verses in English ?

[Anonymous No.4913816]

>>4912222
First, here is the passage-by-passage crib of Fern Hill that dead folk singer ripped off:

Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs
I ran my heedless ways,
And nothing I cared, at my sky blue trades, that time allows
In all his tuneful turning so few and such morning songs
Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time would take me
Up to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand,
I should hear him fly with the high fields
And wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land.
And as I was green and carefree, famous among the barns
And once below a time I lordly had the trees and leaves
Trail with daisies and barley
Time held me green and dying
Though I sang in my chains like the sea.
time would take me
Up to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand,
As I rode to sleep the owls were bearing the farm away,
All the moon long I heard, blessed among stables, the nightjars
Flying with the ricks,
Time let me play and be
Golden
About the happy yard and singing as the farm was home,
In the sun that is young once only

[Anonymous No.4913820]

>>4913816
And here is the reason I was thinking of Fern Hill, though I often think of it for other reasons. The main poetry thread has gone off the deep end, so:


May Apple Gulch

I make a fish sandwich and I
sit, one at a fourtop, and eat it,
alone as the gravestones
where great great grandfathers,
are also never visited, closer
now than ever to their high-brow
view above, unconcerned for blue
light screens and earbuds' white
cry they have been replaced by.
Hands, pecks, bushels, drams,
the chain, the league, the talent; the
standard candles now make demands
in pixels kilometers long, angstroms thin.
Shakespeare and Chaucer might shake
hands but could not understand
each other, English having reached
its fill of war, trade and French bits.
We are all about thumbs now, see
the pretty girl about to fall in the
fountain for lack of looking? Counting
characters instead. Not an actor,
a movie star. Her erolalia
could use some work. Should
the peaches be eaten, we
know, now, the day, though
darker, is not all lost. Rather
say that, remembered wrong, today
still is better than forgotten. Will
any of us be so lucky?
Kings of apple barns singing
in their sky blue chains don't begin
to double-check their figures: Too few
memories that bother to care why we
are dying.

[Anonymous No.4913826]

My name is Tyrell,
I was raised on these streets.
None of you honkeys know any these beats
bu-pu-aht-bu-aht-bu-pu-ath-tss

[Anonymous No.4913829]

>>4913820
And finally, in the "take" column, here is the pariah that has failed to get one response in two threads:

As A Stone

The locomotive clattered through;
it sounded not like a tornado.
Nor the ocean as it crashed
and sifted like the breath
of a conch shell at all;
an even exhalation, withal.
We may be relatively doubt-free:
no one has ever heard a Banshee.
There are many types of drum
which are actually rather loose.
A profound eulogy delivered
in squeaky voice yields poor succor.
When one of these silent cars whiffs
by, I commune with the first
farmer who abhorred the first
car he saw, and mourned
his horse the loss of its primacy;
he knew futility,
and now so do I.
That the church is permitted to peal
its carillon at dawn is neither pall-
iative nor ever meant to be. The bells
were never clear. What the clock tells
to be Matins or Vespers may well
mean a daughter's train and veil,
or be the dreadful clang and call
that one of our neighbors is dead.

[Anonymous No.4913877]

>>4913820 and >>4913829 here.

>>4912224
I am encouraged.
Praise for rhyme without shame.
Dread despite broad daylight succeeds. Dread due to broad daylight, also. The enigmatic "you" hinges the verse in an interesting way, and does not reduce my intrigue by remaining enigmatic.
Regarding a close line read, I have nothing to add, since your intention appears to me to be fulfilled as-is.


Q: "coppers" are snakes, yeah? I am confident that coppers are copperhead snakes. If not, that would be important.

Q: ""I" turned my darkened shirt upon whatever devils are enchanting me in the heat"" would be the syntactically un-wound version of the first two lines of st. 3? The shirt is a shield against the whatever devils? This is how I want it, so again, if wrong, something to consider.

A good one.

>>4912227
A bit more difficult to praise this without reservation. I have the distinct impression that narrator is dead, was buried with his dog, and is looking, ethereally, up from his grave? That is a nice conceit, but the syntax of timelessness has me twisted around:

"loved you for what /it was/" strangely, not for what /you were/. The referent of "it" is "the [...] untamed"?

And again, "there was" sends me chasing back to answer "was what? -- "there was" concludes "an end for me"? Or "there was" concludes "what it was" (see above)?

The confusion about which is what and where is compounded by the apparent missing period after "felt" whose absence poses the question whether the first four lines might not also be involved in candidates for closing these ambiguities. Which is further confounded by the lack of end punctuation after "away" before "Great" whose capital implies a new sentence.

The last four lines are finished, and carry their intent without complaint.

[Anonymous No.4913925]

What a beautiful face
I have found in this place
That is circling all round the sun
What a beautiful dream
That could flash on the screen
In a blink of an eye and be gone from me
Soft and sweet
Let me hold it close and keep it here with me

And one day we will die
And our ashes will fly from the aeroplane over the sea
But for now we are young
Let us lay in the sun
And count every beautiful thing we can see
Love to be
In the arms of all I'm keeping here with me

What a curious life
We have found here tonight
There is music that sounds on the street
There are lights in the clouds
Anna's ghost all around
Hear her voice as it's rolling and ringing through me
Soft and sweet
How the notes all bend and reach above the trees

Oh how I remember you
How I would push my fingers through
Your mouth to make those muscles move
That made your voice so smooth and sweet
But now we keep where we don't know
All secrets sleep in winter clothes
The one you loved so long ago
Now he don't even know his name

What a beautiful face
I have found in this place
That is circling all round the sun
And when we meet on a cloud
I'll be laughing out loud
I'll be laughing with everyone I see
Can't believe how strange it is to be anything at all

[Anonymous No.4913938]

>>4913925
this isn't mine, i thought it was a song poetry thread
sorry

it's neutral milk hotel in the aeroplane over the sea

[Anonymous No.4913949]

I hate poetry
Especially haiku
Fuck it's ugly

[Anonymous No.4913983]

>>4913877
Hmm, I like your reading and thoughts quite a lot. You're clearly a reader and appreciator of poetry.

[Anonymous No.4913987]

>>4912231
So slight, one might over-look that two entire lives' worth of romance is encapsulated in the decay of a garment. This is well, and is executed with consistency.

I would ask: is there anything to be lost by allowing it a title?

As an after-thought, is there anything to be gained by re-iterating the "melodious" of the first stanza in a structure which is clearly intended to be "harmonious" then to emphasize "tear" and "withered" with a more ragged sound, line, and rhyme in stanza 2?

After all,
I enjoy a great line
enjambment
as much as the next guy;
but ripping it
up be-
cause it is rag-
ged and with-
ered
adds a virtuosity
the source of which
is not bravado.

[Anonymous No.4913997]

>>4913949
This is often a virtuous sentiment, when not brought about by slushpile syndrome. As in outside sales, you will find roughly one hundred turds, for each one punchbowl.

[Anonymous No.4914009]

>>4913983
Thank you, anon. If /b/ has defined the whole of 4chan in the popular mind as "random" then certainly the most unexpected member of the random set is the one who actually does what the board purports to do.

[Anonymous No.4914015]

Does poetry have to follow a specific number of lines and syllables? Or can I put effort into 20 or so short lines and call it a poem?

[Anonymous No.4914053]

>>4914015
"Nostalgia"

The professors of English have taken their gowns
to the laundry, have taken themselves to the fields.
Dreams of motion circle the Persian rug in a room
you were in.
On the beach the sadness of gramophones
deepens the ocean’s folding and falling.
It is yesterday. It is still yesterday.

-Mark Strand

Not a specific number of lines. Yet, a prosody of intention is still at work. It is not a named structure. But it is definitely a poem.

[Anonymous No.4914073]

>>4914009
I wouldn't mind discussing poetry with you more. Were/are you an English major? Or is literature more so a lifelong passion?

[Anonymous No.4914079]

>>4914053
Well over the past two days ive been doing this, its clearly the first poem ive ever tried to write because its extremely primitive
Please tell me how not to make bad poems

Reverse parasite between my legs
Fuels the mental aggression,
Turning heads, crocodile smile
You're denied suppression
Nature growing forest burning
Mellow tone in mine ears
Fire straight down your throat, stop churning
Interframe, Mindframe no shame
Death of the man in hyperbolic conspiracy
Blight wisdom epidemic, heels and hair iconic
Cry about it’s ironic
Go past its irreversible
Septic tank submersible
Everywhere is a test to me
No man has ever bested me

Ride the mind, control the force
Grab the sword, destroy the worst
Nature knows, what I’ve slain
Sets fire to thine collective brain
Forced to roam, forced the clock
Foreseen the boom of public shock
Break the rules and be denied
Get on your knees under the scythe
Be demoted, kill the cross
Don’t let it breed for it's lost
Clicks break dry out my hands to mold
Scramble the matrix, young and old
Measure rule, specific category
Plight on our society
Salvage ruins of odyssey

Channeled witches breath of mine
Forced backwards down the stairs in time
Creepin' veins between the walls
Forsaken souls, I hear the calls
They've dismissed all is this world
Truth from beyond becomes unfurled
Calm transformation of the soul
My transformation will take its toll

[Anonymous No.4914114]

>>4914073
We may say what we can. I was educated. I am beyond the age whose ten's column begins with "2." At a certain time of day, my situation permits me to indulge an easy stroll down the brick roads of >>4914053
So to speak. My gown never came back from the cleaners. It didn't fit anyway.

[Anonymous No.4914122]

>>4914114
Just say your over 20 goddamn

[Anonymous No.4914150]

Three ducks do slumber, beside this bench
Upon which I lay my head to rest
And of all the things which I detest
Not one is found in this tranquil bliss

My muscles lax, my mind adrift
I find myself lost in reality's rift
And not once do I wish for this trance to lift
But time does not wait for men who sit

[Anonymous No.4914165]

>>4914079
Well, OK, you caught me. I saw this in the other thread, and let it pass in silence, as dictated by Marianne Moore during her bit at The Dial, where her editorial rule was to find that which may be praised, and forbid the umbra of disdain from darkening Dial's pages. A rule which permitted her to find Elliot, among others.

What I can say that might operate is that there is verse which is angry, and there is verse which is "on the nose." The last being bad. Another way of saying it, is that there is more to an artistic form than that which is obvious.

Each poem has an audience. So, like choosing friends, you must choose by whom you wish to be liked.

There is a real thing called "therapy poetry" whose goal is entirely inwardly directed. Its purpose is achievement of emotional catharsis; to perform a speech act of cathexis. It succeeds when its author grows closer to self-awareness and derives by its expression improved methods of coping. Or so I've read.

There are also the meta-moderns, whose online verse was recently noted here http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/books/2014/05/if-walt-whitman-vlogged.html and whom I believe Ms. Moore would allow to pass by in silence, at the risk of missing the boat, by way of legacy.

For my small relevance, I prefer to think of a poem as a finely carved emotional curio; glass, steel, stone, precious or coarse need not matter. It is a single moment, event, scene, persona, or object, considered in a form which (whatever else may be said) is /intentional/. It has a beginning, middle, and end. During that arc, it goes somewhere, somehow, which is evident in retrospect, and is also intentional.

If you look above, you will find me maundering further on:

>>4913987
>>4913829
>>4913820
>>4913816
>>4913877

[Anonymous No.4914198]

My soul breathes out
where the skater boys ride
down the dusty grey streets
by the tattoo parlor.

Angry muscles tearing at the breeze,
or sitting solid as a storm cloud
on the horizon,
beneath the locust trees,
sweating in the afternoon shadows.
drinking apple juice form a red cup.

I am that dark shape
beside the swingsets.
hands in pockets,
watching the bottle pass,
from lip to lip,
from hand to brown hand.
I am the silent witness,
pretending to read,
brushing the hair from her eyes,
blown by the same breeze,
that dries your wide backs,
that cools your smooth faces,
that carries your scent,
soap and sunscreen,
prespiration, to where I am,
pretending to read,
watching.
saving this moment
of your lives.

[Anonymous No.4914201]

>>4914122
Gotcha. Over /29/. It's all poetry in a poetry thread.

[Anonymous No.4914217]

>>4914165
What if I want to make it obvious?
I dont wanna make stuff vague for the sake of being vague, that's contrived

[Anonymous No.4914224]

Keystroke farmers, changing passwords, guarded warehouse keepers
Made-up ages, advertisements, gender neutral angels
Drowsy nudists, desperate housemates, simulated webcams
40,000 chatty strangers, all with common names
40,000 gender neutral angels affect spontaneity

[Anonymous No.4914268]

>>4914217
Then you have chosen your friends. In confessional verse the two poles of the modern era are Robert Lowell and Sylvia Plath. There is nothing lost by taking a forensic look at how they each did what made them famous.

Skunk Hour

Nautilus Island's hermit
heiress still lives through winter in her Spartan cottage;
her sheep still graze above the sea.
Her son's a bishop. Her farmer
is first selectman in our village,
she's in her dotage.

Thirsting for
the hierarchic privacy
of Queen Victoria's century,
she buys up all
the eyesores facing her shore,
and lets them fall.

The season's ill--
we've lost our summer millionaire,
who seemed to leap from an L. L. Bean
catalogue. His nine-knot yawl
was auctioned off to lobstermen.
A red fox stain covers Blue Hill.

And now our fairy
decorator brightens his shop for fall,
his fishnet's filled with orange cork,
orange, his cobbler's bench and awl,
there is no money in his work,
he'd rather marry.

One dark night,
my Tudor Ford climbed the hill's skull,
I watched for love-cars. Lights turned down,
they lay together, hull to hull,
where the graveyard shelves on the town. . . .
My mind's not right.

A car radio bleats,
'Love, O careless Love . . . .' I hear
my ill-spirit sob in each blood cell,
as if my hand were at its throat . . . .
I myself am hell,
nobody's here--

only skunks, that search
in the moonlight for a bite to eat.
They march on their soles up Main Street:
white stripes, moonstruck eyes' red fire
under the chalk-dry and spar spire
of the Trinitarian Church.

I stand on top
of our back steps and breathe the rich air--
a mother skunk with her column of kittens swills the garbage pail
She jabs her wedge-head in a cup
of sour cream, drops her ostrich tail,
and will not scare.
-Robert Lowell

1/2

[Anonymous No.4914279]

>>4914268

Daddy

You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.

Daddy, I have had to kill you.
You died before I had time--
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,
Ghastly statue with one gray toe
Big as a Frisco seal

And a head in the freakish Atlantic
Where it pours bean green over blue
In the waters off beautiful Nauset.
I used to pray to recover you.
Ach, du.

In the German tongue, in the Polish town
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But the name of the town is common.
My Polack friend

Says there are a dozen or two.
So I never could tell where you
Put your foot, your root,
I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.

It stuck in a barb wire snare.
Ich, ich, ich, ich,
I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you.
And the language obscene

An engine, an engine
Chuffing me off like a Jew.
A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.
I began to talk like a Jew.
I think I may well be a Jew.

[Anonymous No.4914286]

>>4913691
studying poetry is hard so they skip it and just write shit anyone can write.

[Anonymous No.4914287]

>>4914279
The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna
Are not very pure or true.
With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck
And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.

I have always been scared of you,
With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.
And your neat mustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You--

Not God but a swastika
So black no sky could squeak through.
Every woman adores a Fascist,
The boot in the face, the brute
Brute heart of a brute like you.

You stand at the blackboard, daddy,
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot
But no less a devil for that, no not
Any less the black man who

Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.

But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue.
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look

And a love of the rack and the screw.
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I'm finally through.
The black telephone's off at the root,
The voices just can't worm through.

If I've killed one man, I've killed two--
The vampire who said he was you
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.

There's a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through.

Sylvia Plath

2/2

[Anonymous No.4914335]

>>4914217
>>4914268
In Skunk Hour, narrator is engaged in a process of selection, naming, sorting. The scenery is not for its own sake. The choice of what to name defines the mood: hermitage, isolation, privacy, loneliness, dissipation. Then, abandonment, senescence (love-cars he is without from), dissatisfaction, and finally despair (I am hell). This is the hour when only skunks go to church. The art is involved in making the selections, sorting them, sequencing them, for the accumulated effect. Contrived? Perhaps. But contrived with an intention and a programme which make it an anthology standard for 55 years.

[Anonymous No.4914367]

>>4914217
>>4914279

Daddy is also engaged in sorting and naming, but Plath has no less in mind than the ideational conversion of bad parenting into the next Holocaust.

Today's critics might take an issue with Godwin's Law, and deploy the phrase "precious snowflake" but then again, she had to kill herself to establish her sincerity, and too-cool-for-school trifles of thought like Godwin's Law are how we forget and forgive ourselves for each being the perfect little nazi in our own skulls.

That's about all I can say without upsetting you any further.

[Anonymous No.4914377]

>>4914367
im not even upset

[Anonymous No.4914430]

lascivious bleach blonde tartuffe
with bald polystyrene cunt
a tiny gold cross
a heart of pure distilled shit
we exchange pleasantries
i check my sclera for yellowing
i tremble and crush bugs
my kingdom for a thermometer
the tsetse had made it?
pancreatitis and likely cancer
with wernicke's encephalopathy
a 21st century very-berry beriberi
make a note to get a b vitamin
and prussic acid for the neurasthenia
check for anterograde amnesia with macbeth
what is anxiety induced hypochondria a symptom of
the closed eye phantasmagoria is too much
i wont sleep ever again
horrific imagery, shame
i rip out a rotten tooth and play with it
a perpetually dissatisfied med student
with a tiger mom and massive debt
will assist with my autopsy
i smile for the first time in 4 years

[Anonymous No.4914442]

>>4914430
It's like a poem made by Mad Libs.

You really should feel ashamed of yourself if you're older than 16.

[Anonymous No.4914477]

Envoi:

O precious maid, what need had you to pierce
Our paltry secrets, holding, as you did, the key
To that deep mystery, fair looks,
Which is the greatest secret thing of all?
Were you not doomed to disillusionment
When you stooped down toward this ugly Age
To taste its nectar, seeing that you hailed
From where the choicest nectars are distilled?

But now 'tis done and you have cast away
With pale astonishment the acrid cup;
— Not pausing for a moment to reflect
That you could claim what few dare even boast,
That when a soul's more precious than its Age
Its ancestors for company are best.
All else in such a plight must spell regret —
That bitter word which tastes of rose-leaves dead.

But they, your ancestors, O precious maid,
Were your imagination and its joys, —
What hope had you then that the nobler past
Would not eclipse this present like a sun
Uprising next an artificial flare?


The noblest worship is of ancestors.
Rare as you were, you should have been more rare,
And scorned to seek your equal in this Age.

[Anonymous No.4914489]

>>4914165
It'd be cool to share more poetry sometime since you're well read and your comments are interesting to read.

My email - [e-mail]

[Anonymous No.4914508]

>>4914198
Your narrator is the girl for whom Paul Westerberg wrote "Achin' To Be."

Which is to say, it comes across as young, though not entirely artless. "Dark shape" functions on a wider scope than you may think. There is punchiness from "red cup." The ending allows the possibility that "her" is Sandman's sister, which is OK with me. This thought is supported further by the conflation of "soul breathes out" -- a phrase not without some initial fret -- with the breeze which continues to push the poem narrator-ward. Whose soul musters such capacity but the dark feminine shape who visits all youth eventually?

And of course, it had to be apple. Juice. Whether intentional or not, it is very nearly something. If something about the Whitman-ish intimacy of the boys' details were more elegiac than laudatory, more distant or forlorn than heroic, I would feel more confident letting anyone else know that I had read it.

>/prespiration/; a detail, but still.

[Anonymous No.4914517]

>>4914442

it was written with a fever while detoxing and having seizures in a psychiatric hospital, its a reflection of my state of mind at the time and an intentional abuse of free verse

it's all tied together and related to me, i'm sorry you find it mad libsish. that is what your head is like with severe dt's

[Anonymous No.4914636]

>>4914508
In case that wasn't perfectly clear, Sandman's older sister is Death. In the episode pictured, she also deliberated over saving the life of a skater.

[Anonymous No.4914708]

Ayla

The unrest is over,
which for many and for me
was the banner of an intense spiritual life,
after we entered in the Cathedral
where we wouldn't have been,
under a canopy of nacre, watching everyone from above.
And there we were, as in a spell of random
Romantic paintings without ethos but what does it matter.
It took time and now we laugh,
I had to drive moveless through the night,
with willpower,
while maintaining completely my integrity:
you wouldn't have accepted otherwise.
And we gave up on Neil Young and his harvest
that started flooding into the car,
which then got destroyed;
that made me almost cry
even if I only remember you
as an interference.
But now we can also sit on the bed
in that room of we chose without thinking,
and getting closer as a cinema cliché
without soundtrack
and no cicadas singing outside
your projection distorts my vision
that climbs in geometric charms
and, passing over, the morning comes to let die
and brings me back here at night.

[Anonymous No.4914717]

Battles new and old
The hum of the old remains
While the cry of the new stains
The new dipped in Red
The old drowned in Gold
But when new becomes old
Our stains will hum
And our red will shine like rubies
Bright beneath the sun

[Anonymous No.4914753]

My dick, strong
My mind, weak
Oh, how I cannot attain that vagina that I seek.

"The lust! The lust! I cannot contain,"
My internal, eternal rager,
I primitive urge spills over

I take her by the throat,
I thrust my throbbing penis into her
I can sense her fleeting response, fear
To pump until she bleeds furiously,
then jostle her to and fro;
I release my inner desire, quenched for now.

[Anonymous No.4914755]

>>4914489
If it is of any value, I really am sorry.

Every day, somewhere abouts, may be found the exchange, "I'm an oldfag" "If you are still on 4chan after the age of [whatever] you must be a [pejorative]."

What these exchanges miss, at least in the case of /lit/, is that ephemeral anonymity is a much more precious commodity with each passing season. To me, it's the whole game.

I'm often around. Filtering the irrelevant is easy enough.

[Anonymous No.4914765]

>>4914753
Oh, John, you know you loathe poetry. Just put it in a novel.

[Anonymous No.4914772]

>>4914765
Put my hate into a novel?

[Anonymous No.4914834]

>>4914772
You've done it before. Don't think we didn't notice the galleys for Roger's Version had been steam cleaned.

[Anonymous No.4915084]

>>4913877

GRIEF:

Sometimes I wonder
about him and his
mother with
the cry
she gave to me
in
private
from the living
room space she
had arranged
to sooth the memory
of him in passing -
a veiling sob
we must let go
of time before the
pain forgets its
hold upon our
aching
hearts in need of
them who no longer
speak
but loudly cast
a voice in thought
whose hold will over-
shadow even the
slightest gesture
of where the
furniture
sits or stands in mind
of them whose lives
have placed
pale
caskets
on our chests
till nothing
but an
eerie silence
sifts the tear between
the living and the dead

[Anonymous No.4915150]

>>4912618
>What ever happened to food?

nice

[Anonymous No.4915170]

I don't understand the appeal of Nick Drake, it's whiny lame misanthropic wank and his music is just as boring.

Why the fuck would you listen to Nick Drake when Jeff Buckley existed?

[Anonymous No.4915296]

>>4915170
Because I like both? How are they even comparable?

[Anonymous No.4915325]

>>4915170

>Why the fuck would you listen to Nick Drake when Jeff Buckley existed?

because nick drake was a genius and your taste is so shit that you'd prefer jeff buckley before townes van zandt

[Anonymous No.4915432]

>>4915170
>>4915296
>>4915325

I am torn. Townes Van Zandt? Yes, obviously prior in all axes of judgement. Caroline the daughter of a miner -- hell is, amongst other things, a yellow beer in Spencer.

Nick Drake? See >>4913816 for dress down. A counterfeiter.

And shall we pretend that children by the million do not love Alex Chilton? Hanging down in Memphis all the while? Do you travel far without a little Big Star? Falling asleep with a Box Tops video on?

[Anonymous No.4915456]

>>4914224
Any opinions on this? it's brief

[Anonymous No.4917412]

>>4915084
Given the title, I am prepared for exactly what I get.

The subject is a balancing act between pitiable and hymnal, or say, between precious and over-wrought. Like flying a helicopter, the trick is the fine balance between cyclic and collective.

I am on-board and comfortably seated through a veiling sob. time, the master abstraction, followed by pain, the empty signifier, bump some turbulence into my otherwise developing vista. Neither does aching hearts add to new or necessary expressions of grief.

Loudly cast
a voice in thought regains a sense of control. Furnished minds is a trope of which I am fond; it is not yet over-used or generally recognized. Pale caskets on chests -- well. "Sifts the tear" is problematic for me for two reasons. The word "tear" as read is ambiguous between "rend, past tense" or "salty eye drop." As a result, I am struggling for the image of "sift" whose primary instance I think of as flour or powder being distributed in fine and even coatings over a surface or vessel.

If I assert myself over the problem, and declare it to be "divides the tear drop between the living and the dead" then it functions adequately as an image of the un-breachable being cleft.

The alternative "rends the rift" is more violent than I would prefer, though in either case, what is wanting is sufficient clarity to avoid making my own ending.

[Anonymous No.4917430]

>>4914224
It is sparse of dimension, being an attitudinalized list of technology nouns. It communicates dissatisfaction with that monumental problem - inauthenticity. I think. The only verbs, changing and affect, first line and last, suggest some kind of dissipation, though there is not what I would think of as sufficient context to draw any further conclusion.

[Anonymous No.4917550]

>>4914708
And so a modern update on the aubade, the departed lover song.

Among the many risks involved in love poetry, the primary is idiosyncracy, the tendency toward a language so personalized that the speech act committed against the reader becomes one of alienation. It is similar to the isolating effect one feels in certain churches when a parishioner begins speaking in tongues. "Welp. They aren't here any more," one must conclude.

Where it approaches that limit: "random Romantic paintings without ethos" especially "ethos" a jarring abstraction from a much more clinical frame of mind. It is ambiguous what got destroyed; either Neil Young, the harvest, or the car, or some conjunctive permutation of those. "room of we chose" may be only a typo, but if not, confounds specification. "of we chose" so that "we chose" is a sort of compound noun, like a contemporary kenning? As we approach the end, "projection" and "vision" vie for position as referents to "that climbs." Either projection climbs, or vision climbs, but it is impossible to say which. Which then splits "passing over," as well as "comes to let die" into forking paths: your projection climbs, passing over, and dies; or, my vision climbs, passing over, then dies. The first is a poem of love's memory lost, the second is a poem of love's power for self-obliteration. Two very different things, and an unsatisfying ambiguity in a tradition that prefers to specify what it means.

The sequence of cathedral, car, bedroom is natural, and passes by without obsequious sorrow. We may also be thankful for cicadas, canopy of nacre, and ending on "night."

[Anonymous No.4917641]

>>4917412
It would be as in tear/tore

I enjoy not only your experiences of reading a piece of literature, but the efforts you put in expressing just what's happening for you. A good critic is rather unappreciated.

The use of furniture when speaking "of where the
furniture sits or stands in mind of them whose lives have placed pale caskets on our chests"

was a way of addressing the mental anguish the boys mother was residing with in relation to the physical furniture she purposely arranged to remind her of her husband "with the cry she gave to me in private from the living room space she had arranged to sooth the memory of him in passing"

[Anonymous No.4917687]

>>4917641
Yes. I have read figures along the lines of, "and place it upon a shelf in the cabinet of memory," "draw the curtain across the thresholds of those rooms of grief," and "entertaining friends in the commodious rooms of dreams."

And stanzas being rooms, a natural extension to make minds into houses, which demand furniture. It evokes every instance of the closed room, the undisturbed memory, Clarice finding the murder victim's naughty pictures in the music box; the dead wife's paintings and tiny shoes aside the easel in the airy memorial in the North Carolina beach house; Ivan Ilych's death bed chamber; the Deathbed Playboy's personal effects; even the contents of Lincoln's pockets, as delivered.

Someone has probably named it, I can't think who. The insult of inanimate objects' continuance.

[Anonymous No.4917732]

I have no qualms with the faithful
that take the sting, as for
my heart, no wounds to show
the invisible curse that touch it so.
Poor Prometheus, I know your pain,
a humanity that sit in wretched vain –

I plead with you a shrugged desire
Tempest of the ancient fire,
deeply, burn my troubled skin
Oh living vessel I carry in -

Its worth to ends I do not know
though distance seen and thoughts bestow
Hope, my friends we are to cherish -
As with the heart I choose to perish.

[Anonymous No.4917800]

>>4913829
I had read this a few times over and I think its great, is it yours? Unfortunately I'm not as astute at breaking down my experience of the poem, and the poem itself, when conveying my thoughts. Although if I was speaking with you the possibility of discourse could change.

[Anonymous No.4917832]

I see fields which have been
worked, to be worked by
hands, flags draping, America
as seen by winds, green is the
great american landscape for

I live my life in
never ending crop circles,
But if I'm to live this way
let it be in love, a circular
love where two points meet
in end, to start my life forever again.

[Anonymous No.4917838]

The Ninth Life

he is careful of dogs now:
he makes shorter leaps
and he stays on the inside,
when frost starts to creep

round the borders of windows.
he still walks the ledges
but nowadays two or three steps
from the edges.


The mice whom his forays
would terrify nightly
he just looks on and nods
as they pass him,
politely

When he dreams of the kitten
of eight lives before
he shudders, and takes
a slow stroll to the door

And I rise and assist him
out into the sun
and he shuffles along
where he once used to run

And I take shorter steps
and I take smaller breaths
and I want to inquire
about his other deaths

But he'd just raise an eyebrow
and look up to heaven
and say "I wouldn't worry
till you get past seven."

[Anonymous No.4917841]

>>4917732
I get that full uneasy feeling that I am in the presence of translated English. "take the sting" sounds like an idiom that lost its wallet back at customs; curses touch, a curse touches. We may let the meta minded search the various tongues of Aeschylus for the template.

[Anonymous No.4917877]

You and two friends walk in to a bar
Smiles on your faces but your smile seems far.
The barkeep hails and asks "What will it be?"
"Poison," you say, "only poison for me."
Your friends look at you in bitter disgust,
The bonds that once bound you break to the rust.
You empty your glass, a warm smile on your face.
And whisper softly, "Just remember my good days."

[Anonymous No.4917884]

>>4917800
Thank you anyway. This one has chosen its dress but is struggling with her accessories. She wants to strike a dys-chord for those aphoristic similes which ring false, but in a more consistent way. There is too much skin showing between the relative differences of the two pair "through/tornado" versus "drum/loose." Further, she has expressed doubt, in confidence, regarding the threatening cutesy-ness of "withal," not to mention, she whispered, it clashes with her overall stylistic 'oeuvre.' I will discuss her deployment of that term privately, so as not to give offense to the other metaphorical ladies present.

Her shoes are pretty well decided, since she is pleased with her let-it-rip closing octet.

[Anonymous No.4917910]

I sing the god carcinoma
devourer of beggar and saint.
across all our tissue
the bulls he gives issue
make every is into an ain't

I sing the mighty sarcoma
Consuming the daft and the wise
In the pallid lymph courses
he marshalls his forces
Decembering all our Julys

Come give us the hymn "melanoma"
the bane of both pauper and prince
when the cool probe insults
and we wait the results,
and the specialist cannot but wince

we sacrifice things on their altars
a lobe or a limb or an eye,
that our doings without
may appease them no doubt
that this bribe might just let us get by.

But the comfort of friends is not cheering
and the struggle does not give release
and the glance of an eye
and the tremor and sigh
and the long dismal wait for decease

Oh drink you the health of Lymphoma:
requiter of dread and despair
and the step on the scale
as it tells a new tale
of a soon to be vacanted chair

But we had some good laughs with him didn't we?
and he made a good run of it though;
have another small round,
he won't wake at the sound.
take the bottle back home as you go.

[Anonymous No.4917920]

>>4917832
The moments it reaches its aspiration:
"America as seen by winds" , "life in never ending crop circles" , "to start my life forever again." Especially the first. By winds.

"great american landscape" leans toward the nationalistic, if not to delicately suggest whispering a rumor of the jingoistic, not the less so just because I happen to agree with you. If we are to praise a nation, the tradition seems to argue that we go whole hog, or all the other way secular.

In a small thing, proportionate weight to each single word. Ruminate over adjective candidates for that single lower-case american to describe the landscape and my qualms disappear.

[Anonymous No.4917928]

Originally meant to be much longer, so that the reiteration of "coffee shop" would make thematic sense, but after finishing the second stanza I didn't really see what more I could do with it.

That coffee shop,
They always made my tea too sweet,
They always spoke too much
About some inane feat,
And their eyes would judge
My eyes for their uneasiness
And my hands for their unwieldiness.

But in that coffee shop,
I liked that you found it quaint,
That your shoes would come off
By the fireplace, and we would prate
About groceries, and I would cough
When the door let in a chill.

[Anonymous No.4917931]

>>4917838
I trust this one owns up to vernacular aspirations, and if so, has achieved them. Clever without precious is not as easy as it seems.

[Anonymous No.4917958]

>>4917928
As it stands, it reads as a poem of loss, most likely of the shoeless one, presumably a loved one, or nearly so. As truncated, the "chill" develops a sinister weight, suggesting that whatever loss was suffered was unexpected. Abrupt signalling abruptness. If I make myself clear.

Lines 6 and 7 are both uneasy and unwieldy, and so may chalk up to intent. I go asearch for freight among the scant clues: tea, spoke, eyes, hands. I make no further associations, and must conclude a simple contrast is all to be found, a stanza about an anxiety of otherness, a stanza relieved by the presence of "you," now somehow gone. And a chill.

[Anonymous No.4917983]

>>4914198
>>4914508
>>4914636
And just in case she is offended by what might appear to be my 'reductive' treatment of her narrator, is there anyone here who might assist in supporting my assertion that comparing her to Sandman's sister is actually a form of praise, and not a left-handed one at that?

[Anonymous No.4918048]

A grey morning, an empty bowl
The gears turning A motion row
The fruits of no man's labor
A bird who go could go
A dove who fears flight
One man
One man who see's no light.

[Anonymous No.4918056]

>>4917958
You pretty much hit the nail on the head. Your "clues" are mostly relevant for their contrast and symbolism, I admit I put less thought than I should have in making every word equally relevant or "powerful."

Thanks for your comments.

[Anonymous No.4918078]

>>4918048
>>4918048
>>4918048
>>4918048
A bird who could not go*

[Anonymous No.4918199]

>>4917910
That is a fantastic poem friend

[Anonymous No.4918522]

>>4915432
Jesus Tecumseh Valley is a fucking masterpiece. Makes me cry when I listen to it.

[Anonymous No.4918566]

>>4917910
FUCK.

Someone give this man a medal. This had one of the most perfect flows and rythm I've ever heard. +10 poet points, you've inspired me.

[Anonymous No.4918576]

>>4917910
8/10

The only thing stopping this poem from being great was the first three stanzas were to repetitive. I get what you were going for, but they all say exactly the same thing. Other than that, love it

[Anonymous No.4918657]

wet skin
i don't know what i'm doing
inhale, static
look at the moon
for a second
take shit, think about phrases
skin tingles
mild discomfort
try to look at moon
can't
wonder about complete thoughts
can't
there is a diminishing scab on my neck i've squeezed
face now scarred with evidence
or something
'wet skin'
i think i tried

[Anonymous No.4918670]

>>4918657
change wet to moist

[Anonymous No.4918721]

I wrote this on a napkin while drunk at a Whataburger:


ODE TO
WATERBURGER


MUSHROOM FUCKING
SAUCE - DOUBLE PATTY - BACAND
CHEDDAR FUCKING CHEEEZE;
YOU MAKE ME WET.
WHEN I THINK OF YOU WATA,
I CRY FOR ALL THE TIMES LOST,
FOR IT IS THESE DAYS I HAVE.
I STARE AT YOUR CASHIER
AND FIND COMFORT IN THE
WOMBLINESS OF ROCK BOTTOM
YOUR SALTINESS EXUDES SOLIDARITY
ACQUIESCING IN WEEKDAY'S SHEETS
PUNCTUATING PRIMITIVE HOPS
ALL AN EXCHANGE
"7.82"

[Anonymous No.4918842]

>>4917910
This is copypasta from the Gomorrah man, come on.
But it's good.

[Anonymous No.4918876]

>>4918721
Breaker Morant's first massacre was at the "Waterburgh."

"WOMBLINESS" is a gorgeous neologism.

BACAND is a terrific portmanteau.

MAKE ME WET implies a female narrator. Beware: "I'm a grill."

Remember "Ode On A Grecian Urn: where the preposition is all. "On."

ODE ON WHATABURGER: the title freezes the moment in crayon forever.

[Anonymous No.4918967]

>>4918876
Thanks for giving genuine critique, I didn't really expect anyone to take this seriously.

[Anonymous No.4919173]

Ambulatory sirens slice through my ears
every second I continue to stare fixedly
at which my mind can not handle with care,
something between terror and giddiness,
a thing no dead man could resist in life,
the embodiment of sanitation and glorification
and the middle ground between.
So please, cease, decease, deny me
spare my crippled clutches the strain
and forget I ever existed.

[Anonymous No.4919207]

>>4917877

Sweet, sincere, and succinct. I enjoy it

[Anonymous No.4919400]

Craggy creek critters live in my pocket,
surviving on lint and miscellaneous puny particles.
And as of late, they've begun to grow and grow,
dividing into some creepy colony on my side,
impervious to poison or pressure,
bullets, fire, or even my washing machine,
Now I am Gaia to a population
of syndicated mongrels and minstrels
subjects and servants
anarchists and animals,
earless neighbors, I say to you:
I cannot will you away
but I can banish you to oblivion
with another pair of slacks.

[Anonymous No.4919992]

>>4919400
This reminds me of an epigram., really funny.

[Anonymous No.4920188]

>>4912222

It is a fucked up thing
How the air stings
When you're near me

And a billion suns
Rest inside my ribcage
And they burn

Like the house
In which we spent days
Endless, hazeful days

When we were stoned
And marooned
And broken
And happy

[Anonymous No.4920788]

>>4918842
Gomorrah Man?

captcha you isauce

[Anonymous No.4921130]

Some Rules for Dreaming

I cannot emphasize these words enough:
take nothing.
They are too real for earth, too dear, the dust
from off your shoes will leave bright stains
upon the simple memory of the world;
do no forget that you can fly
and never take a staircase that descends,
eat nothing: taste no wine, no kiss, no thought
Beware of passing mirrors in the dark.
exchange no words, remember to forget.
and never meet the eyes of strangers, friends
reflections, portraits, or the dead. Beware
of the familiar strange, the unremembered child
forgotten brother, unbuilt home, yourself.
trust not the dead, but seek their company.
There is a cold bright comfort in the lost.
and standing on a hill upon one foot,
lift up the other too, and hover there,
a yard above the earth, a frail balloon.
and when you leave, when bells, or words, or light
recall you from the bright and real and void
take nothing, not a sign or sound or face
I cannot empasize those words enough.

[Anonymous No.4921239]

>>4914367
Hey Mr Poetry man, I refined my poem and changed it completely
What is it like now

Something in the back of my mind;
not a tumour but perhaps?
Sepia tones flash
on the wall and the shutter clicks and clacks as I grimace
Remembering,
past memories fondly.
Something stuck on me (not gum from below the seat,
nor a tumour, but its no bother).
Yes, it is no bother, no bother for me.
Just leave it alone.

A hunger boils,
burns its way through,
until I’m left with very little.
Maybe somebody might walk in,
take pity.
I don’t need to worry.
I’m not at an age to where I’m allowed
to do such things.
“Wait until many more circles are spun;
then you are permitted to experience a true melancholy.”

In this room there is a thousand crocodiles,
smiling at me
every day.
Hell swarms burst from their infested lungs
to pick away at my remains.
Their hunger is just as
relentless as mine.
But they’ve taken enough,
and I’ve given them
all I could give.

My great hour is upon me.
it creeps, it’s a tortured beast
cheated and denied salvation,
It now gallops
‘til far beyond the break of dawn.
It’s hunger boils from deep within still,
It’s bones are broken down, it’s body splintered
I fear not this beast, I will embrace it.
O my body will embrace,
this point of no return.

[Anonymous No.4921625]

>>4921130
Summer 2013. No one made any meaningful response beyond, "nice."

It is an interesting effort to raise the stakes for what is, to many, a mundanity.

High points: do not forget that you can fly; never take a staircase that descends; beware passing mirrors in the dark; trust not the dead, but seek their company; the other foot hove thing.

Wobbles upon the tightwire: "simple memory of the world" because: simple syntactical disorientation. I am prepared, within the speech action, to smear something with the dust from my shoes, but when the moment arrives, it is not clear which world I am staining. The offending phrase names the world, but in memory, so the real world; but we are transporting to dream, so the "memory" of the world may be dream, but it is "simple" which belies the rest of the high stakes premise. I believe resolution is within reach of any one word amongst "simple" or "memory" or "world." Dealer's choice, though, encompasses infinite alternatives.

"There is cold bright comfort in the lost." There may well be, but the relative semantic isolation of /what/ "lost" may refer to leaves this line breathing a bit more helium than oxygen. I stipulate that /lost/, in general, may function to elicit all potential associations, but granting such a scope to /lost/ calls into question the finality of "cold bright comfort" then being applicable to all such cases, since I can also imagine many things lost which I would be more than happy to have back, and contrarily, many other things which I never want to see again. So, at best, a confounding of intention here.

The ending, as not entirely unexpected, maintains the cryptic mystery of why the stakes are so high, and this feature is the verse's most successful evocation.

[Anonymous No.4921727]

>>4921239
You have the court's permission to treat this witness as hostile, since I have made clear my prior knowledge of the motivating circumstances from the prior thread (regarding which I have no meaningful experience, and therefore no basis upon which to make any conclusions, nor pass any judgements).

So, a straight text read, then.

Narrator "me/I" is suffering pains of various and distressing species. This physical manifestation of corruption is accompanied by a context of exogenous frustration. Menace. Finally, transcendence via consumption.

>there /are/ a thousand crocodiles
>Its hunger
>Its bones...its body

In the boxing match between personal suffering and crafted art, I would score this round at even, a dramatic improvement over the technical knock-out the personal scored in the first bout. Here, the suffering is abstracted from its clinical specifics by placement in a series of images which are chosen. It is no longer mere therapy work.

The most interesting mode is this notion of hunger and devouring. There is something going on with that, which is involved with the emotional kernel of this piece's aspirations, but as yet, it remains at the edge of expression. Hunger having bones and body, as read, is a difficult juxtaposition. Hunger as a beast, very well. Crocodiles breathing some kind of Green Mile infestation which is also hungry: check.

I have done this myself when dizzied over an intention: write in the simplest possible 1st grade statement: what are you trying to say? For example, in >>4913829 , I had to write out: "Folk similes are stupid," in order to get as far as it has gone. Until I wrote it out, it was amorphous. After, I knew where I needed to arrive. ("Clear as a bell; "tight as a drum"; "screamed like a Banshee" = all wrong.) The poem then became an explanation of why folk similes are stupid.

You are trying to explicate a kind of bodily isolation, which involves modes of suffering characterized by the pair hunger/consume. IOf it were mine, I would drill down into and unpack as far as possible just that and see what happens next.

[Anonymous No.4921731]

>>4921625
*"hover thing"

[Anonymous No.4921783]

>>4921727
My need for a medical treatment is symbolized by that hungry beast, ive been waiting for it for ages, and every time I get the chance to be treated, an appointment is pushed back to a later date
Thats why I used the image of a weather beaten angry animal desperate to reach some sort of end goal

The uh,
yeah the crocodile shit refers to crocodile tears and the hell swarms line refers to laughter
Laughter around me really makes me go on edge, as do people who act nice to me (Are they pretending to be nice because they dont wish to be mean? Even if they dont like me?)
Swarms of flies picking away at me really just refers to long term "bullying"
This is the first poem ive really tried to do and I didnt try to make it sound interesting for the sake of it, for example the point of no return crap refers, literally to a point of no return during hormone treatment

Thank you for showing me Sylvia Plath by the way

[Anonymous No.4921844]

>>4921783
We may conclude then, in peace, with:
If Sylvia Plath;
Then Anne Sexton.

Anne survived Plath by 11 years. Previously an obscure unknown, she attended one seminar, and had work in the New Yorker mere months later. A something.

[Anonymous No.4922074]

Secret Lovers

An hour's lust gushed
against her mushed
inner purse; her face
near the curtain lace
into the cool night air
says, "I can feel it there,"
and the ribbon of my
breath with hers flies
the screen up skydark
where the moon marks
her approval - a beam
entwines our seams,
the silk vapor dissolves
and the moment resolves
into sleep, softened into
blue clouds suffused
instead with threads of you.

[Anonymous No.4922083]

I want to get into poetry.
Before I write anything I want to learn how to analyze and understand poetry.

[Anonymous No.4922105]

In that gay autumn,
when the fires fell
from the white pillars
of the elms
and the wind,
catching them to her breast
ran rampant,
dropping leafy blazes
like discredited rumors
upon the palimpsest
of the gray sidewalk.
In that time.
I traced your name
upon the stem of a gray maple
and drew a valentine
enclosing it
with mine.

[Anonymous No.4922132]

>>4922083
read poems you like, over and over, memorize them(if you want) then write.

[Anonymous No.4922175]

>>4922083
Go to the top of the thread. Read your way down. When you experience something other than [*scroll*] click the post number and type your experience in the best sentences you can muster to describe it.

Who knows? There is always a slim chance someone might say something back, and that it may not be completely useless.

[Anonymous No.4922183]

>>4922132
What I meant was how do I break down a poem to understand it.
Due to the personal nature of a poem im sure its really difficult to analyze them yourself and find out what they mean.

>>4922175
Well there was this: >>4917910
Some dude replied saying "first three stanzas were to repetitive. I get what you were going for, but they all say exactly the same thing"
The only thing I was able to get out of that poem was the image of a celebratory moot, that is it.
I want to be able to appreciate the poem like everybody else does.

[Anonymous No.4922197]

"I think you may be dead, John said
I don't believe I am said I,
I'm hale and sound
down to the ground,
and feel alright to struggle on
i don't believ thats true, said john
I see about your face john said
a certain lack of grace said john
to dire to dwell upon, said john
that hearkens of the dead, john said
and a certain cast of eye, he noted
bespeaks of one to brains devoted.
so i intend to flee, said he
and so fled as he said, you see
as from the living dead, viz.: me"

[Anonymous No.4922216]

A Junior Pool Tournament

Part I

There are days and nights,
And warm lunches and dinners,
That milk the cold dim lights,
Illuminating the green sinner:
Perched the front of a slow pub,
Serving gin garnished fist-fights.

So, with gamma and contrast,
Your cold configuration,
Will glow through the mast,
Of our platonic situation.
Set the sail!
Father said my complexion
is perfect gallows.

Through wet sheets
you're to spew bouquets
of hard hallways and modern doors.
Bookshelves and rugged faces
lining your brand new umbilical cord.

I use this grave-noun 'you'
But in fact:
Its my own bouquet that spews
fresh putrid tears, magma hot
into a dirty cauldron of fear.
And
whilst my adherence of solitude cries-
I noticed-
yours does not.

The pub in front of your house now,
I arrange my legs and eyes aside
A blind man takes a miraculous bow,
Like the shade a tree provides,
I admire him from below. Goodnight.

PART II

On the day of the tournament
The sun also rose but you did not.
When i see others wave at me from afar
It burns my limbs sparkling-red hot,
Whereas handshakes are sexless.

Awake, pull the bread sheets-
see the time- a handshake;
"Where were you this morning"
Initial perspiration begins to break:
"I overslept"- you say whilst yawning.

The pool cue leans against the cold wall-
you're on the other-
A text from your mother, and a distant wave?
Surely not from the pool cue...
Useless semen persperates from his pores,
as he scratches his rough beard: "you can break".
This idleness you adore, for, your father cuts
and pastes his eyes onto his. You're wide awake.

In the dining room a conversation ends.
A conversation, not unlike this,
that revolved around "what's next".
No underlying answer was concluded.
Stepping off the bus, a bright car floats by.
I squint my eyes and sigh.
Sickly lucid images,
deluded.

[Anonymous No.4922296]

>>4922183
>image of a celebratory moot, that is it.

You discount the possibility that may be all there is. Ascribing quality is part of the deal. The question is simple: "Is it good?" The answers are hard, because they involve so many referents.

There are two very famous poems above:
>>4914279 is one, >>4914268 the other.

Should both be appreciated equally? Or at all? Just because they are "famous?"

Part of any answer is involved in knowing why they are famous. Part in knowing who each is conversing with, as a speech act. Lowell in Skunk Hour is, in large part, speaking to Elizabeth Bishop, his neighbor (the Nautilus Island hermit). Plath addresses her father several dozen times, despite talking almost entirely to herself.

Some people hate all confessional poetry at its face, and would dismiss both, and all they entail. Fair enough for them.

Others, including me, would praise Skunk Hour, while leaving Daddy on the shelf with a shudder.

This despite me referring another anon above to Plath, with an endorsement.

At this point, Yoda is on your back, and all he can tell you about the dark grotto is: leave your weapons. You will not need them. |What is in there?| Only what you take with you.

Try another one. What about any of these?
>>4912224
>>4912241
>>4912389
>>4914053
>>4914150
>>4914198
>>4915084
>>4917838
What you ask is the topic of many months of post-secondary education.

[Anonymous No.4922331]

>>4922197
I have a nagging sense that if this were to reveal itself on page [n] of a collection of the same author, it would by then have gathered sufficient contextual support from its siblings to enable a more comparative, or informative, read.

What can be said with minimum certainty is that the selection of the name John is evocative of That John (being the non-synoptic one), and that we have here a judgement being passed. "brains devoted" deploys the body/spirit dialectic in a way which avoids, apparently with intention, the foul whiff of polemic, despite the dismissive conclusion. By traditional measures, it lacks a beginning or ending, and appears to be all middle. As such, we can say nothing authoritative of "I" and consequently, cannot take John's judgement as veracious, except on faith.

A fragment?

[Anonymous No.4922358]

>>4922296
Well you seem to pick poems apart with surgical precision, I have near nothing to say.
In order, everything I got from the first five poems, read multiple times was:

Sun Fear - Somebody getting a chance to forget about the difficulties of modern/ordinary life

Poem 2 - Being irritated with the concept of masculine dominance (I thought the term angry pile was a bad idea)

Poem 3 - People who dont put the effort in to realize their full potential and achieve greatness

Nostalgia: A depressing (to the author) 1940's advertisement for a holiday resort, im being serious

Poem 5 - The protagonist has a desire for the human race to return to nature, they believe that society might not be for them, and spends most of his/her time doing meditations, as that is the closest they can get to "returning to nature"

Thanks for listening to my posts

[Anonymous No.4922362]

>>4922331
It's a sort of half assed idea i got form the line "sweet zombie Jesus!" from an episode of futurama. i thought. that if jesus reappeared to his disciples, they'd freak out and run from him. the brains idea is an offhand reference to the return of the living dead a,d the sarx/soma/psyche/animus idea.

[twinshiggy No.4922363]

Upon receiving various
Letters from Julia
He did notice
A strange happening
Within his left jean pocket

Isn't Julia a
Gift from God?

[Anonymous No.4922379]

>>4922105
This charms, in the manner of charms, a small thing on a bracelet, worn on a delicate wrist.

All well with flames and elms (aware of the doom implied by that selection, since all elms are pre-determined to die in youth), I come to "palimpsest."

I can make that work if under the flaming discredited rumors (themselves appreciated as by their implication of involvement in a 'lost love' piece), I inflict from my own reservoir of images a set of chalk drawings on the sidewalk, so that the secondary text has a primary to cover over. The chalk not being in the text, however, makes this solution feel like cheating, so I like it less than if something of your choosing had been there instead. "sidewalk" by itself, fails, for me, to rise to the status of primary text, as given.

The ending accomplishes an evocation of an act performed in futility, and possibly with a sense of tragedy. The valentined names, representing a romance, to be burned away any moment. Possibly even an act of wilful destruction.

I believe it could stand the addition of two or three more words, or two or three more lines, if you were so inclined. Nor am I oppressed by the tyranny of titles, from which much meaningful hay may be made.

My permanent low-grade hunger for prosodic programmatic structure beyond the lexical phrase line break, a tic, has been covered at length elsewhere, so I will not dwell again, except so far as this.

In all: Like.

[Anonymous No.4922380]

Upon the streets of St. Pierre
I met a girl with purple hair.
I asked her if she'd care to blow me
she said she didn't even know me.

[Anonymous No.4922397]

>>4922358
>pick poems apart with surgical precision, I have near nothing to say.

A false presumption: You have already said a great deal, and my purpose is to do only what the thread and board purport: in this case,

"Can we have a poetry thread where we rate/comment on others poetry? Nothing cruel, writers should encourage, we're all depressed enough as is."

So, as one who can, I am attempting to say useful things that writers may (or may not) integrate into their next thing.

In some ways, what you have said already is more useful than what I have - I am a writer speaking to writers. Inside baseball. You are something much more valuable: a reader.

Your first five attempts seem to be to be spot on. As what they are. Reactions from outside the secret handshake. As it were. See if you can find one you actually like. Post about that one.

[Anonymous No.4922408]

>Song for Jeff Mangum
America reclaims her bard again
Declaiming verse from a cardigan
Singin' his pain like a howlin' dog
Playin' guitar like a sturdy hog
When Jeff Mangum's in town
You better step the fuck down

Drillin' for oil in suburban soil
And washin' his hands of his band
Jeff's the boy with a brand new toy
Mangum's the man with a plan

[Anonymous No.4922410]

>>4922380
We've all been there, anon.

[Anonymous No.4922433]

>>4922362
Do you know of "Bring Me The Sweat Of Gabriella Sabatini" ?

Low corruption of high and even holy sentiments, made earnest by audacity. Check it out:

http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=94958404#94961183

[Anonymous No.4922449]

little trouble girl with
kind eyes
your scars are beautiful
they are your poems on your skin
and i hate myself
and i cry myself to sleep
because i cant stop you from writing
little trouble girl
there are bags under your eyes
and they make you look
beautiful
and your emptiness
is beautiful
and i hate myself
and i cry and want to die
because i'm empty too
and i'll never make you feel as full
as your little blue pills do
little trouble girl
why do your eyes look so sad today?
i want to kiss you
but i cant
because
you are too near
and if i kiss you
itll leave a scar
and it will be beautiful
but im scared of scars
and im scared of beautiful things

[Anonymous No.4922457]

>>4922397
>See if you can find one you actually like. Post about that one.
I will tomorrow but im just going to collapse straight into bed instead

Also I lied when I said "Before I write anything"
I was actually "hungry crocodile smile transgender person" in a disguise the whole time

I only studied english up until GCSE, im now 18 and ive only began to realize that focusing on drawing was a horrible idea
Im good at drawing but I despise it
Ive jumped from art form to art form to try and find one that interests me, now maybe ive found it
Sadly what you are good at and what interests you is not always the same thing
If I can try to write poems that would gain the approval of anons id be satisfied enough

Very sorry for the blog post, I will end it with a beginning to a new poem to keep things related

O my darling, what is purity?
You are not my darling, you are a creature.
Impossible to please, swirling down into the artificial.
Dreams manufactured by the beast.
If a created has flaws,
what does that say about the creator?
What is beautiful? Beautiful? Certainly not you.

[Anonymous No.4922458]

>>4922408
Saw Neutral Milk Hotel live at the Roundhouse, London yesterday. I like this poem, it kinda speaks to the diversity of Jeff's fanbase.

[Anonymous No.4922461]

>>4922457
>if a created

Im an idiot.

[Anonymous No.4922462]

The birds that sing,
They sing for me
The river that flows,
It flows for me.
But this life that I live...
For whom, do I live?

[Anonymous No.4922476]

>>4922449
Instantly reminded me of a girl with psychosis I used to know in a mental hospital.
She self harmed, was incredibly suicidal and had a crooked nose presumably from jumping in front of a car.
She was incredibly loving yet troubled and is the sort of girl I can imagine people writing poems about.

[Anonymous No.4922495]

>>4922449
She is also the girl from Little Mascara.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DXBVRNcwvds

[Anonymous No.4922628]

>>4913820
>>4914477
>>4913826
>>4914717
>>4918048
>>4919173
>>4920188
>>4922074
>>4922216
>>4922363
>>4922462

I withdraw from perceptions of monopolizing the thread. The above naked posts could all use a notice.

[Anonymous No.4922911]

>>4912222
Little sips, little lifts
protrude mood from morning state.
For, without this black
it is a fact
my heart would ache.
These beans, they seem,
to hold bold the seams of my elate.
For, without this black
it is a fact
I would berate.


Mother sent me to the market
to compete a certain target
with not a penny more
than what was needed to come home with a large cow through the door
So to the market I went,
every penny surely spent,
and not a penny more.
Yet in her eyes, was great surprise, as she fainted to the floor.
Now though she looked quite pale
she gave her all to wail;
"Beans? You surely are a fool!
We could have at least had a feast if you'd come home with a mule."
So she yelled me nearly deaf
and with her final breath;
"you're twenty years old, not four"
"Mother, just you wait 'til you taste of the beans that I did score"
So she had a taste,
it cheered her face,
and her anger was no more.
She drank it so fast, that she asked, if another I could pour.
"This made my day!"
she began to say
"Yet I must send you back.
Go get a cow, I don't care how, for I don't take my coffee black."

grammar/syntax/punctuation/thoughts/etc, ty
I don't rate because, obviously I just do poetry for a bit of fun and have no real opinions/understanding of it as an art form.
ty

[Anonymous No.4923038]

I write such crap it's a surprise my prof hasn't lost all respect for me.

A smile without recompense, oh,
Laughter without any impatience, woe,
Too much to ask? Irony too ingrained?
Sincere's tears disappear, our hearts waned.

Ah! Genuine smile, warm commune,
Tight-knit Okies 'round a fire, immune,
To the disingenuous camaraderie.
Congenial smile, no flattery.

Anno Domini two-thousand four-teen,
A mouth opens, your mouth, at a latrine,
How're you? Good. How're you? Good. How am
I?
Good.

[Anonymous No.4923065]

>>4923038
not rhyming couplets/10, i'd have to read it a couple more times to have a real opinion, but it doesn't immediately strike me as terrible, even if it doesn't set me on fire either

[Anonymous No.4923073]

I think I ended the final couplet without a rhyme as a "shock" factor. Everything else rhymed, though. Thanks for thinking I don't suck.

[Anonymous No.4923080]

>>4923073
>>4923065

[Anonymous No.4923097]

>>4912389
Those feels though.

[Anonymous No.4923103]

>>4923073
i mean yeah, but it's not like really rhyming couplets, it only actually counts as rhyming couplets if it's bad

[Anonymous No.4923107]

>>4923103
I'm not sure what you're trying to say.

[Anonymous No.4923128]

>>4923107
i'm saying rhyming couplets are usually terrible, and you did alright w/ them

[Anonymous No.4923129]

>>4923128
Oh! Thank you very much. I tried very hard on those. I appreciate it.

[Shakespearean Bromance !Zerw5vaH8A No.4923170]

>>4922462
The images are very standard and boring. Why would the speaker think birds sing for him/her? If you're going for serene, it isn't. If you're making fun of this cliche, expand on it and attack it creatively.

>>4922363
I'm assuming the strange happening is an erection. The juxtaposition is glorious.

>>4922216
Your diction is wonderful. Keep it up! Keep it strange!

>>4922074
See above.
The enjambment works. I love the aesthetic.
>"I can feel it there."
feels ripped straight from experience, and has all the that beauty.

[Anonymous No.4923259]

>>4922074
>>4923170
Thank you, anon. I have only one question: Was it clear or not, that there are three people involved -- the 'my', the "her" and the "you" ??

[Shakespearean Bromance !Zerw5vaH8A No.4923438]

>>4923259
It's very subtle, but makes sense rereading it.

[Anonymous No.4923967]

Fate finding:

Was it wrong of me to
speak with him and
revel in the joy I
had and found so
meaningful for myself,
or was it nothing
though once again
embarrassed I,
and made the fool,
as to believe
in more than just
the suchness we
inherit from the birth
of mind and us?

I imagined
more and ever since
been weaving in
and out of nothing
but myself in search
of more
affections
that I wanted to
believe there was
in times of joy
we shared before
it all collapsed
into a laugh
we had that
night, retired
from a memory

Of who I was
before or since,

I made a decision
to believe you
more than just
the swallowing
time in bottles,
counted and recycled,
ever more like love
we used to bear before
the parting each
took great care
to forget or to
remember.

[Anonymous No.4923971]

He plaques my mind of
love let lost upon
a silence given, to me
in absence of his smile -
charming me of all the
times I made him laugh,

A smile carries memories
and reminds me of the love
I lost, and visions
the backdrop of
my mind, his face,
hanging as if a frame
in place, in sight -
I whitewash all the walls
once over, my mind I wish
to plaque no longer.

[Anonymous No.4923978]

I saw you from the bench of Providence Place mall
and you were wearing that purple hoodie with the
t-shirt from the clash, and I smiled as I
couldn’t tell what made me happier
from the joy within your eyes or
the charm within your smile,
and I rushed to hug you tightly
like a long awaited venture,
and I slightly lost my balance from
the trembling of my heart,
but we never really noticed
from the eagerness to hold,
the other’s chest against our own
in the middle of the mall.

[Anonymous No.4923986]

Speech Class:

The folder it
was teal,
unlike the others
in elementary
I could never
pronounce
my s’s
as in sour
or chrysanthemum –
but I got to have
a folder in blue,
teal, unlike
the others and I’d
walk in the back
of the line so
no one could see
me mouthing spells,
the spine left open
balancing on the palms -
conducting another
wizard’s symphony.
I wanted to be like
Harry Potter
or one of the others
meant for magic -
but I could never pronounce
the s’s right,
so I was left
with a folder -
unlike the others.

[Anonymous No.4923988]

Oh, How the drums of war excite me
Pounding on its slaves,
As each man takes a withered hilt
And walks a tempestuous grave

Across scorched land, a despot gloom
Severed still a sight once cross
Where living speak of death too soon
Of what amount are left in loss

- Pale the faces, sunken eyes
Spitting, barking, flesh-engrossed
What little hope is rationed wide
Amongst disfigured men to boast

‘Churn the worthy life at length
But great it is to die when young’
Frightened such in distant land
Worthy each a fathers son

I ask you friend in no great pleasure,
A thought hence so has burdened me
a fruitless seed of little measure,
Oh, Why did the drums of war excite me?

[Anonymous No.4923990]

Desire:

I am a
failure of
desire.
Though men
will
always have
their
ideals,
as are my own; a war
between
themselves
and I, the injury;
is hard to define
- hopelessness
has no
measure. But if we
all gave into
the
will
of another,
where would we
fit the final piece?
The love we had
before
our failure,
a love before
- our expectations.

[Anonymous No.4924035]

>>4912222
To every thought comes a brash decision

Bubbling inside the brainless beast I call mind

It squabbles back and forth between the gut

And possibilities

People pensively pass advice

Telling that which is in my gut

Is what I should do.

So I set forth, feverishly on this quest

Mind as sharp as a sword

My gut more deadly then a pen

Instinct my ally, Knowledge my best friend

Together the three of us venture forth

Into the fields of rather…

Brash and disconcerting colours.

My eyes hurt,

Knowledge pleads me forth

Instinct tells me to hide.

It’s stuck in these moments

Memories are remembered

The Elders have always told me

That time repeats itself

It’s linear

A modest proposal

Easily defied by the young.

It wasn’t until that moment

I realized where I stood.

Knowledge begging me forth

My mind drowning in pity

It needed knowledge

Instinct completely ignored

It became a vast, scarce and barely there

As I venture forth.

My ally runs for his life

While my Bestfriend and I

Climb further into our moment

Sweat, tears, blood, memories, feelings

All building up

Into a climax

Until we are both standing

Looking at the bright lights

Our eyes scarred

Our thoughts turned cynical.

Time is linear.

[Anonymous No.4924134]

>>4914517
not going to lie that was a garbage assortment of words i just read, sucks you went through what you did but it makes for a shitty poem

[Anonymous No.4924180]

This might be too deep for you.

I watched gay porn
one man looked like my father
he is dead
i came.

[Anonymous No.4924312]

The natives are restless tonight
India's empress ten foot tall on the median strip
Unfocused eyes on an unlovely face
Below the broad-faced and narrow wear same uniform
Tattooed faces avoid looking at brown beggars as'well as anyone
Red-dye feather-cloak cunts just been collared
The black fellers left to shiver naked cum Waikato flood and frost got synthetics now
They shamble half-drunk, hocking watches, asking bus fare
Some just psycho, thank Mother Mary (and praise be to John Calvin)
This fucking cultural renaissance, how pretty it is

[Anonymous No.4924328]

>>4923990

The way that its broken up makes it kind of annoying to read. It seems like you are overusing the line break technique for a poetry effect and because it happens after
ever
word
it
is
kind
of
hard to read and loses its effect. I liked the part about the final piece a lot, and I think if you were a little more discerning in both your word choice (lots of boring words that don't say much but just connect stuff together) and your use of line breaks, it could have some potential.

[Anonymous No.4924402]

>>4924328
It had a different form previously to being posted, unfortunately it takes the original placing of the break and discards it, this is also the case with Speech Class and Grief.

[Anonymous No.4924917]

>>4920188
this is fucking amazing man, well done.

[Anonymous No.4924927]

Paddlewheel Lawn

Tangerine rage sticks to stinging cuts,
The shoeless time stinks of sturdy books,
And I'm patiently lazy, basking in reason,
Or so I thought- accused of treason.

My arms, wise and thickly brown, are dim now,
Like tinned fruit stapled to a cardboard cow
And although my bowels are now bitter and warm
My fellow comrades don't know the glow, they scorn.
The Chinese princess promised me it, long ago.
But they thought it was a clip-art portrait of a goal.

I don't expect them to know. Although,
My eyelids are tumbling in disbelieving scorn
My shirt is warm and the truth was sworn-
Its not my truth-
But its a truth nonetheless:
Or, congregated at dawn
At paddlewheel lawn, littered with desks,
chairs and people,
A populous of pawns-
cracking open tinned fruit-
sharing their life-story in cretinous loops.

[Anonymous No.4925088]

dirty sheets

If upon this lowly bed
you plan to rest your holy head
look out my dear
for stains of past
dribbled from your holy ass

[Anonymous No.4925329]

SILOUHETTES

Waste of a youth;
mould writhes,
controls. What is the most familiar sight to you?
Of course. It’s a white block on a black slate.
Your occupation is a position.
Nobody can dare look at you anymore,
paper cut out.

[Anonymous No.4925383]

SILOUHETTES

Waste of a youth;
mould writhes,
controls. What is the most familiar sight to you?
Of course. It’s a white block on a black slate.
Your occupation is a position.
Nobody can dare look at you anymore,
paper cut out.

[Anonymous No.4925492]

Has anyone got that one called 'In the halls of Auschwitz' or something similar?

I believe it was written by someone from /lit/.

[Anonymous No.4925504]

>>4925492
Can you remember any lines from it?

[Anonymous No.4925520]

>>4925504
Each verse is a loose repetition of the one before it about how people foresee bad events and aren't in a position to stop them. Each verse is a different location and event. Things like the Kremlin / socialism, Auschwitz / gassing the jews. I can't really remember it that well.

I think the start of each verse is 'They saw it coming in the X'

It's a really good poem, I wish i'd saved it now.

[Anonymous No.4925529]

>>4925520
I reckon you're talking about the Gomorrah poem. Is it this?

A Rumour in Gomorrah

A man has told me god is good,
and stands above all men,
that he will never cast us forth,
though drenched with lust and sin,
That though we heed him little,
and pursue our own accord
he will not seek our bane nor yet,
unsheath his deadly sword
that he forgives excesses
and will not our prayers reject.

There was rumor in Gomorrah,
to that very same effect.

A friend avers that government,
has all our cares in mind.
And will not neglect the comfort of
the poor, the halt, the blind.
he maintains unreservedly,
his faith in policy.
to bring the fruits of honor to
the strong the just, the free.
he says the great in power seek
the profit of all men

It was mentioned in Treblinka,
but I did not heed it then.

Technology will save us,
i have heard a stranger say.
The wonderment of science,
skill, and tools will win the day.
Our comfort and our safety
we may leave to wise devices.
And men who build and train them up,
will coddle all our vices.
they'll see the futre clearly
and avert all waiting dooms.

I think I heard it spoken in
Titanic's smoking rooms.

The forgiveness of the strong is great,
I'm sure most meen agree.
The wisest and the best of us
will surely all be free.
the bold men, wise in letters
with their eye on public weal.
will never be cast out or forced
their knowledge to conceal.
Time alters soon the hearts of kings,
and all will be put right.

I heard it in the Gulag
almost every single night.

So go forth with the banner
of of redemption wafting high
and shout the slogan "Liberty!"
in land and sea and sky.
Of justice, peace, forgiveness, love,
proclaim the coming reign.
And cry the truth to power,
and the vanity of gain
That mercy always triumphs,
and that men will all be free.

Go tell them in Gomorrah,
but you didn't come from me.

[Anonymous No.4925536]

>>4925529
Yes! That's it, thanks!

[Anonymous No.4925537]

>>4925492
Probably thinking of "A Rumor in Gomorrah" it mentions treblinka i think. It's about the most famous poem from /lit/

[Anonymous No.4925538]

>>4925536
No problem. That guy is an amazing poet. He's posted a few unbelievably good ones on /lit/. The Carcinoma one earlier in this thread was written by him, also the one about the cat with nine lives, also the poem in the archive entitled "Travelogue". They're all brilliant. I had a PDF file a while back where I'd compiled most of the stuff that I could verify as being his..

[Anonymous No.4925561]

>>4925538
I remember the Travelogue one. Somebody should make a tribute page. He really is as good as most "real" poets out there.I wonder how many times his stuff has been submitted for credit in English classes because an internet search wouldn't find it?

[Anonymous No.4925576]

>>4925561
I spoke to him once in a thread and he gave me poetic advice a bit. He's Irish, like me. Look up "Statue on O'Connell street" and "salt perfumes the air" for a couple of poems he showed me on request. He seemed like the type who just kept his stuff to himself for the most part unfortunately, people missing out.

Actually now that I remember it, that poem that's a litany of sexual puns on authors names (search "fondled Balzac" in archive to find it) is almost certainly written by him too. He never used a trip so it's hard to know.

[Anonymous No.4925590]

>>4920788
Yes, there's an Irish guy that made several good poems for /lit/, including the carcinoma stuff, his famous "Gomorrah" posted in this very thread, also "Travelogue", etc.
Do you guys have the wonderful one with the girl in the book shop?

[Anonymous No.4925592]

Here is another famous one from the nameless Irishman:

Travelogue

"Pray What is the news from Babylon?
Does Xerxes ancient town,
Still hold inside the Lion's Pride?
where once the world bowed down?"
"There is no tale of Babylon,
that great long-storied land
The Lion's gates are broken now.
The fields are choked with sand"

"You Tread the Path from Illion
Where gods and men did greet,
Does Priams mighty forteress still,
Show all assault defeat?"
"What gods have sown, the raven reaps,
I offer you no joy
neath broken stones her treasure sleeps
I bear no news of Troy."

"Speak, pilgrim, of Jerusalem,
I know you passed that way.
The palmer's badge adorn's you yet:
does David's line hold sway?"
"Where prophets sowed the seed of love,
the weeds of hate now grow:
the peace that was Jerusalem
was broken long ago."

"well, traveller, What of Camelot?
does Arthur's blood still reign?
Do boldy go the shining knights
across the feudal plain?"
"A trusted friend's betrayal;
a bastard's vaunting greed.
The moon that watches camelot
sees stones upon a mead."


"Good host, I beg you, ask no more
you waken in my mind
the shadows of vain, fallen hopes
I fain would leave behind.
You long for comfort; this i know,
that grandeur might abide,
that strength of stone and arms and hearts
can bear the waxing tide,
And Gilgamesh the strong yet stands
upon his mighty wall.
That works endure the waning sands,
that towers might not fall.
Content yourself that legends live
where men are just or brave,
and deeds of lives may yet survive
their castles in the grave.
I will not comfort you with hopes
that Rome may live again;
don't ask me of Tenoctitlan,
I've no news from Berlin.
In sorrow i depart you now;
regretting lenten cheer.
But the road is long
towards London town,
i cannot linger here."

[Anonymous No.4925598]

>>4925576
"Salt perfumes the air" is on Warosu but the site seems to be down, can you post it here along with the other one?

[Anonymous No.4925612]

>>4925598
Sure. Also for the other fans of him here, IIRC he has some poem about walking through a wood with a girl, I can't quite remember any choice lines so I can't find it in the archive but you could know its his from his the cadence. If anyone finds it post it up, it's the only one I know is his that I don't have saved.

I must go down to the shore again
where the salt perfumes the air
I had half of a perfect august day,
and Im sure I left it there.

And the bonfire burned
and the moonlight turned
the sea to a silver plain
I must go down to the shore once more
and find that day again

I must go down to the shore again,
lest I lose those angry skies
when the gentle blue
turned a darker hue,
like the shodws in your eyes

and the sweet salt spray
and the warming day
left a savor on your skin
so I must go down to the shore once more
when the summer tides roll in

I must go down to the shore again,
i have stayed away too long
for my arms grow pale
and my thoughts grow stale
and I can't recall that song
that we sang that day by the quiet bay
on our blanket on the sand
and I miss that heat
on my cold bare feet
like the soft touch of your hand
I must go down to the shore again,
I must not forget the touch
aof the sweet warm breeze
off the southern seas
I would feel that loss too much
for my eyes have lost the fleeting shade
when the last red rays of the suns light fade
on the ocean when it sets
and I must go down to the shore again
before my heart forgets.

[Anonymous No.4925636]

[Anonymous No.4925660]

>>4925590
man, that one in the bookshop i always wanted to read at the open mic poetry night at the local book shop. I love the line: the "svelte silhouette
of a winsome Colette" or something like that. someone should definitely find that one and post it. I think it was a bit clumsy but hilarious.

[Anonymous No.4925663]

>>4925612
Thanks. Not his best, but very strong and musical as always.
I don't know the other poem you're talking about.

[Anonymous No.4925672]

>>4925660
I found it:

There's a pretty bookshop
In the mall where I stop
of an evening to bask in the glow.
of keats and Jerome,
before toddling home
i might linger an hour or so

It's a pleasantish place
and they fill up the space
in the front with a smallish cafe
and sometimes, i confess,
if the hours do not press
i might hang about most of a day

I'm not on intimate terms,
with my fellow bookworms
and wont let myself tax them unduly
still perhaps its unkind,
but when they bring to mind
certain authors, i christin them newly

On a day I won't state
I'd stopped in for a plate
of biscuits and perhaps a small chai
when the svelte sillhouette
of a winsome Collette,
with a volume of Proust caught my eye

She'd been snagged by a stripling
not unlike a young kipling
who held her attention , and arm
I began to suspect
that the virtues of Hecht
werent the ones he pursued with his charm

then I chanced to glance round,
drawn perhaps by the sound,
of a Seneca, muttering in Greek
and I beheld not a few
folk arrayed two and two,
intermixed in amongst the more meek

A saturnine Poe,
with a pert Woolf in tow,
was pretending to parse Kierkigaard,
While a stately Ayn Rand,
With Anne Rice, hand in hand
was affecting amused disregard
an assertivre Camus
had assembled a crew,
of pale Kafkas, and one hapless Twain
In a booth by the door
where he regaled the floor
with contradictions implicit in Paine

till a black-clad Millay,
did a studied sashay
through his prospect,
and made the lad stammer,
and throw up his tirade,
as though she had laid
him across the forehead with a hammer

I had seen quite enough
of this singles-night stuff,
so I made deft repair to the stacks
where the used classics rest
side by side with the best
of the second hand trade paperbacks.

By a Disneyfied "Alice"
I picked out a "Valis"
and "Melmoth Reconciled" bound in calf.
to go home and unwind
with this fortunate find
was my thought, when I heard a quiet laugh

(1/2)

[Anonymous No.4925674]

>>4925672
(2/2)

i beheld two thin chaps,
quite in each other's laps,
with expressions that brought to mind Wilde
clandestinely thumbing
a volume of cummings,
best works, with the joy of a child

I detoured through suspense
so to raise up a fence
of fiction betwixt me and them
When I got quite a shock
passing Iris Murdoch
and I felt myself out on a limb

There was Sandburg himself,
hair mussed up like an elf
out of Tolkien, chatting up Jane
Austen, she preened and laughed
while they spoke of Lovecraft,
but escape was what I wished to gain

the poetry section,
i thought, on reflection,
I'll certainly find respite there!
No! A Pince-nezzed Stout,
had his Longfellow out,
and was bending Le Guin crost a chair!
And a youthful Stendahl
had an Atwood asprawl
with her Brontes spread open before.
I spun round, so to flee,
but then what should I see,
but a shy little Oates by the door!

My tongue grew quite thick,
as she reached for my Dick,
and soon cradled my Balzac as well.
"Why such treasures your finding!
I've always thought binding
with leather was awfully swell!"

The whole thing turned out good,
when I quite understood,
and we afterwards went out a pair.
And we went to my den,
where we essayed Anais Nin
on the sofa bed next to the stair.

Now I'm straight home of nights
and I eschew the the lights
of the quiant little shop, without sigh.
for she's bought me a Nook,
and declared that a book
store's not for married men, such as I.

[Anonymous No.4925676]

>>4925592
the nameless irishman? The only poetry I ever read are random excerpts in stories, tolkien etc. is the nameless irishman someone i should know of? or did YOU write that peom? 'cause that was a pretty cool poem, I think.

[Anonymous No.4925680]

>>4925663
He told me he wrote that when he was about 16 or something like that.

[Anonymous No.4925697]

>>4925676
I am not the nameless Irishman. He is the author of "Gomorrah", "Travelogue", "I sing the god carcinoma", "There's a pretty bookshop" and "I must go down to the shore again", all posted in this thread. Also "Jesus walks in Belfast" (someone post it if you have it) and some other stuff. His poems are well-known on 4chan, because he posted those here and he may be the only superior poet in the place, but we don't know many things about him: he's Irish, he's in his 30s, and he was posting rap verses on /b/ without any success before posting on /lit/ (or on the textboard). He was anonymous so it's hard to say who he is. But some people talked to him and may know him better!

[Anonymous No.4925700]

>>4925676
Nobody knows much about him. He comes on here and posts stuff sometimes, he identifies himself sometimes and sometimes you can just tell his stuff by the style and the quality. Yeah he's really good. some of his stuff has sort of a first draft feel though, like he's writing it from a notebook or just typing it in as he goes. I always wondered if he wrote that walk in the wind poem. I think he did the Jesus in Belfast one.

[Anonymous No.4925712]

>>4925700
I remember him telling that he was just improvising these poems, typing them at a fast pace, directly on 4chan.
Of course he did Jesus walks in Belfast:

When Jesus walks in Belfast
He wears his collar up
he keeps his blessings to himself
and stoops before his cup

when Jesus comes through Belfast
he spends his wisdom dear
And when his name is spoken
he makes as not to hear

He keeps well back in company
and shuts his fuckin mouth
and when he can he does his trade
a measure further south

When Jesus walks in Belfast
He keeps his cap pulled low
his step away he quickens
and those returning slow

He'd have a merry welcome
if he should take the whim
to ask the sods he suffered for
to suffer more of him.

[Anonymous No.4925716]

>>4925700
Walk in the wind. That was the one I was talking about earlier. That was him alright. Another excellent one.

As the Irisman who spoke with him once; Jesus In Belfast is one of my actual favorite poems ever. Seriously, it speaks so well to the sectarian tensions here, unbelievably succinct and powerful way to describe the history of Ireland. If he ever published it, it would no doubt be studied in schools here. Absolutely no doubt.

[twinshiggy No.4925728]

Behind rusted bars
lying in Guandong
A woman blue
faced grabbing at
rotting Fruit in a bowl
Somewhere near Death.

A limbless man
croaks out words
under bloody slits
where eyes were.

A University professor
His shirt yellow-browned
By soldiers piss
and days-old sweat
slowly losing consciousness
Redness creeping upwards
through old eyes
He whispers "Mao..."

Outside an eagle
eating another's wing.

[Anonymous No.4925749]

>>4925592
i like this. who is nameless potatoman?????

[Anonymous No.4925756]

>>4925749

funny you should mention potatoes. i think this is his too.

The spud, the spud, the sainted spud
It does the bloody belly good
It biles aloft the blazin turf,
the pleasingest pleasant thing of earth

Spurn if you will the oaten scone
eschew the mess of kale
But if you mock the sainted spud
i'll see your lights in hell

The english and and the span-i-ard
disbursed it from it's naters.
we'll shun your talk, your ways and laws
but bless you fer the taters.

[Anonymous No.4925800]

Reaper
You have broken the horizon
the darkness impends
And out of the heavens as silence descends
flies the Black Racer,
across the blind earth
the herald of heaven
the weigher of worth

We have scaled up to the summit
all tracks now lead down
from the bright empty future
across the fast fading ground
rides the Black Racer
The forger of fate
the sealer of sadness
the hour has grown late

No more tears on your pillow
the last has been shed
from the last lost tomorrow
to the side of the dead
comes the Black Racer
the calmer of care
to break the last bonds
of desire and despair.

[Anonymous No.4925843]

>>4912222
You know
What I hate

Just some fucking cunts
Pressing enter
at
random intervals
pretending it's
poetry

thanks postmodernism
or...
something

[twinshiggy No.4925848]

Postmodern Haiku,
bitch.

[Anonymous No.4925883]

"Standards"

O my darling, what is purity?
No, you are not my darling, you are a brute.
Impossible to please, swirling down into the artificial.
Dreams manufactured by the beast.
If the created has flaws,
what does that say about the creator?
What is beautiful? Beautiful? Certainly not me.

O you brute, what is purity?
No, you are not a brute, you are a creature.
The number of coal is infinite;
only you can decide when to stop shovelling it.
Why should you care for a couple of canisters, a mask and some tubes?
They don’t even blush.
What is beautiful? Beautiful? Certainly not we.

O lost creature, what is purity?
It is what a hundred thousand slugs cry for.
Writhe for.
What is beautiful? Beautiful? Certainly not you.

[Anonymous No.4925897]

>>4925843
I did it on my shitty first poem which was >>4921239 because it was supposed to give a sense of tiredness

[Anonymous No.4925902]

I will make a website with the Nameless Irishman's poems. So far we have in this thread:

1. A Rumour in Gomorrah
2. Travelogue
3. I sing the god carcinoma
4. When Jesus walks in Belfast
5. There's a pretty bookshop
6. I must go down to the shore again

And maybe

7. The spud.

What else do you all have from him?

Also looking for:

- Walk in the wind?
- Statue on O'Connell street?
- Cat with nine lives?

[Anonymous No.4925908]

>>4925897
I'm afraid you'll have to do better than that.

[Anonymous No.4925909]

>>4925902
Oh also, there's one that ends with the line "That Lovecraft got it right!" which is by him too I think. It's not as good as the others though. I have some of the ones you're looking for and will paste them here.

[Anonymous No.4925914]

>>4925908
ok I will see if I can change it up again
make it more snazzy

[Anonymous No.4925916]

>>4925902
Here:
A Walk in the Wind

Out in the northwoods the weather freezes
and winters blast is like summer breezes
there's a bundeled up girl, that laughs and teases
and for a walk in the wind we go.

She's a tender bit, with the smallest smile
That you'd think would the coldest of hearts beguile
And it might be so, for the first bright mile
as we dance through the sighing snow

And the second mile is a merry lark
and the old pine wood isn't all that dark
and the drifting white hides the least foot mark
why should aprehensions grow?

Why we're almost there, so we'd best behave
see the big iron pot? see the axe by the cave?
why i guess it does look a bit like a grace
but its oh so much deeper, you know

She shivers then, and stares around
At the deep white snow on the trackless ground
at the pines that swallow the loudest sound
as the flames neath the kettle grow

be a brave girl now, no time for tears
see there's things far worse than your darkest fears
and I've told that tale for years and years
It would have helped you a touch to know

now she's mostly gone, though unforgotten
partly eat, and partly rotten
a fate for which we were all begotten
and a gnawed pile of bones below

so I must venture out and seek another
sister sweet or tender brother
perhaps her fearful, anxious mother
will follow me through the snow

When for a walk in the wind,
for a walk in the wind,
for a walk in the wind-i-go...

[Anonymous No.4925919]

>>4925914
Yes
no line
breaks
unless rhythmic
si?

[Anonymous No.4925920]

>>4917838
>>4925902
that's the nine life one. I'll try to find the others when i can. i know i saved them somewhere on some computer. I think this is a great idea. I bet if someone makes a page for him we might get more stuff. Post a link when you get it built.

[Anonymous No.4925927]

>>4925919
It shall be my sworn duty to fix this poem until it gets the approval of anons

>unless rhythmic
thanks

[Anonymous No.4925932]

>>4925902
The only one I have left to give you is the O'Connell Street one. Heh, he gave me that one when I told him I was Irish too. Short but very clever one. I can't get it atm, have to wait until the archive pops back up. That and the Lovecraft one.

[Anonymous No.4925947]

>>4925902
/lit/ has a poet laurette. who'd have thought. did he write "the Straggler"? I saved that one. And something about a banshee, but the pronunciation was wrong for irish types. I really don't have the taste or discrimination to spot his style though. those are just ones i liked.

[Anonymous No.4925950]

>>4925947
Post em. I can almost recite some of his stuff, I should be able to know if he wrote them. Interested to see them anyway.

[Anonymous No.4925968]

>>4925927
No
Problem
the universe has a fun
ny way of helping you
fix
thing
s

[Anonymous No.4926007]

>>4925909
Google cached. Shame on excuses. This is 4chan, guise.

Ontology

If the world were designed,
with man in mind,
it wouldn't get so warm.
gnats, mosquites biting flies
would not have leave to swarm.
the damp, the heat the billion bugs
suggests a different end.
for such a bog i think the frog
was in gods mind, my friend.

If earth were for a human home
intended, let me ask.
If oceans would envlope it
like some amorphous mask?
and fill it with such bounty
so well concealed from us?
more fit, perhaps this planet for
the squid or octopus.

The lion is a lordly beast,
and rules the desert veldt
and has about him many wives
both dexterous and svelte
He roams the plain in great disdain,
of all who'd stay his whim
I think it better to regard
this world as made for him

The bat, the master of the night,
in many billions reigns
and god's reward a smorgasbord
of insects for his pains
he fears no let, no worldly fret
perplexes his gret line
oh lordly bat, the mighty earth,
of certainty is thine!

It comes upon us now to limn
the outline of god's shape
for you can bet his silhoutte
is not some hairless ape.
The frog, the bat the octupus,
the lion is it right?
oh no, i guess must admit.
That lovecraft got it right!

[Anonymous No.4926044]

>>4925592
Good god this is amazing

[Anonymous No.4926057]

>>4925950
The Straggler


The sun is an apple.
on the gray branch of morning
And I am out walking
to school in the dawn

The streets are all empty
and tenantless swingsets
cast shadows forlornly
on unmown back lawns.

The moon is a canteloupe
sliced very thinly
as grandmother used to
when i was just five

And I walk very fast
in my lemon-checked jacket
past the homes where my friends lived
when they were alive

I walk fast by the houses
where i once met my schoolmates
and the parents blank greetings
and frail, haunted looks

I pass by the graveyard
where the smell of fresh digging
makes me think of the farmers
in our picture books

There are names on those white stones
high up near the hilltop
that I don't like to think of
in connection with tombs

There are some that last autumn
with careful side glances
were scratched into desktops
in my old home room.

So few of us come here.
we sit three seats apart now
to leave room for the ghost girls
as we bend to our tasks

and we never shake hands
and sneeze into our elbows
and we try not to cough
and the teachers wear masks

and I don't stay up late now,
I drink lots of water
i eat very healthy
and try to get rest

but late in the mornings
I hear somthing rustling
like dead leaves on dry carpet
down deep in my chest

Please try to remember
you few who will read this
not poor shrivelled dollthings
rolled up in our shrouds

That there was a time
we were all girls together
and the sun was an apple
in the leaves of the clouds


What comfort on so dire a night
when wending home with funeral light
to hear the wail of the pale banshee
"Oh lover, lost, return to me"?

Cold Iron is nailed above the door
I've said those prayers you'll say no more
still out across the fallow Lea:
"Oh lover, Lost. Return to me!"

She rides the high and chilling wind
as to the skies her cries ascend
On to the tempest-troubled sea,
"Oh lover lost, return to me!"

See from her seat the widow start
the cry she hears within her heart
speaks to a soul so late set free
""oh lover lost, return to me!"

Take up the monster's grim refrain
and rise , to follow in her train
and echo back that awful plea.
"Oh lover lost, return to me!"

that's them. the banshee one might or might not be him since you'd think an irishman would put the accent on the Ban part of banshee, though i guess poetic license might apply..

[Anonymous No.4926059]

Thanks for all the Irishman's poems. We now have 10 poems. Waiting for O'Connell street and maybe other unknown gems, and I'll create the site!

[Anonymous No.4926067]

>>4926057
So what do the /lit/ experts say about this? Authentic or not?
Looks good to me.

[Anonymous No.4926070]

>>4926057
I reckon The Straggler is one of his. Has the subtlety and intricate rhyme scheme of one of his works.

I could see the Banshee one being his too, but I'm not entirely sure on that. It reminds me of a youthful one of his if it was - like I Must Go Out To The Shore was one written in his teens, as he told me.

If I was the dude making the sight, I'd put the first one as one of his, but I wouldn't chance the second one, not certain it's his.

[Anonymous No.4926081]

Is >>4925800 also from him? I know this is copypasta, but who wrote it?

[Anonymous No.4926083]

>>4925800
>>the hour has grown late

Someone was listening to All Along the Watchtower!

I don't think this was his. Seems similar though.. fuck.

[Anonymous No.4926109]

>>4926083
>>4926081
You know, whoever does the page could have a confirmed section, and a speculated section. i'm sure he'll show up at some point and set us right. Also, what do we call him? The Irishman? The Dubliner? The Gomorrah Man? someone will have to decide when they do the page i guess.

[Anonymous No.4926123]

>>4926059
Lines Written Upon Hearing that the Bank Of Ireland Branch on O'Connell Street had been Closed by the Occupy Movement.

"There's a statue of O'Connell, looking down O'Connell street
with pigeon shit upon its brow, and horseshit at its feet.
eloquence fidelity and and courage there have reign
til another generation rise, and piss em down the drain.
They march beneath their placards that he won them right to bear,
and they damn him with their slogans, as they praise him for his care.
I wish they'd leave his burnished image, go peruse O'Connells words,
and leave shittin' on O'Connell, to the English, and the birds."


Knew I had this: I had the whole thread saved.

[Anonymous No.4926140]

>>4926123
Perfect! A great poem that one is too.

[Anonymous No.4926162]

>>4926109
He's known around here as the Gomorrah Man, but it's a quite silly name to put on a website. I like "Nameless Irishman"!
Also, I have a whole thread with poems by him, and this one was posted just after the bookshop poem... Do you think it's him or not?

Walking in the Mall on a Snowy Evening

Whose store was this, was this old Bens?
Sold flavored popcorn packed in tins?
He will not mind me resting here
to watch them put the Starbucks in

My college friends say only queers
when they could be home drinking beers
and watching football glumly trudge
past Gap and Deb and empty Sears

But my cholesterol is high
My doctor told me, "walk, or die."
And so I stalk up wheelchair ramps
in Nike trainers, suit and tie

The mall is humid, loud and bright
And "Jersey Shore" is on tonight
And now I'll probably miss the fight
I guess I'll miss the fucking fight.

[Anonymous No.4926170]

>>4926162
As I said in that thread, don't think it's him. It's a rather Americanised poem, an American type of parody, and I don't think he'd be the type to do a parody, let alone a straight redub of a Frost poem so famous as Stopping By Woods.

[Anonymous No.4926212]

>>4926170
It is worth throwing on the speculative pile though i'd say: it's good of its kind and might be him.

[Anonymous No.4926256]

>>4926170
>>4926212
As an evaluative comparison:

>>4926162
USA ennui. "My college friends"; parody as of a famous template; consumeristic allusions for their own sake; knows Jersey Shore is on; confessional mope about cholesterol; "I"-"I"-"I".

>>4925712 >>4925672 >>4925592
Magisterial, distinctly Irish, high-toned, moralistic, highly referential, balladeer-ing, "I" is a character, not a surrogate; classically educated; global and historical in scope and subject; playful never self-indulgent.

>The mall thing is almost certainly not the Irish Anon.

[Anonymous No.4926258]

>>4926256
Put it far better than I could have, and absolutely right. Fair play.

[Anonymous No.4926259]

>>4926256
I bow to your scholarship: clearly not the man.

[Anonymous No.4926293]

Had to write it elsewhere, 'cause I need italic text here and there.

Title: 'Mine'
http://www.wattpad.com/48869209-soothing-solitude-mine

[Anonymous No.4926360]

Elegy for a Dead World

Orion paused above the moon,
And pausing turned, and turning fell,
And, I upon a moonlit path paused too,
to count the vesper bell
Orion strode the twilight haze
stalwart in silence to ignore
The sleepless and unseeing gaze
of the red eye of the god of war,
I thought then of the many nights
Of freezing in some country yard
I’d borne far from the city lights
The stress of that aloof regard.
I saw again majestic realms
By soaring minds, with legends fed
The dire and ancient denizens
The souls imagination bred
To populate those shores and glens
Now slaughtered by the callous stroke
Of caliper, spectroscope and lens;
But memory within me spoke
Of blameless hypotheticals
Cyclopean or frail, and green
That left those pastures tenantless
And fled into the might-have-been
The truth of your mute testaments
Mans emissaries, wise machines
That penetrate the firmament
Indifferently limn your scenes
A desert plain that never ends
Beneath a cloud-untroubled sky
The playhouse of the dervish winds
That rise and fail and silent lie.
Your seas unwatered, rivers sere
And salt and silt choke mere and tarn
No spire, canal, or minaret
No déjà thoris, thark, or tharn
No soft astronomers search the skies
With envious unsympathetic eyes.

[Anonymous No.4926361]

>>4926360
Perhaps it is just vanity
To mourn a place that never was
Some failing of humanity
To pile hopes on the frailest cause
Neglecting, maybe worthier
Rivals apt to speculate
That nightly wander past the stars
That rise up early, and stay up late
A lesser light of night and morn
Shines on us from the hoary skull
Of infant world that died unborn
It stands before me, nearly full
And in the hour before the dawn,
Like horus’ herald from afar
Behold the pale and crescent eye
Of Lucifer, the morning star.
We hurl a metal sentience
Up from the planet of our birth
With wise and certain instruments
We shed the surly bonds of earth
Dismiss the frozen hulk of mars
To seek fresh fields and pastures new
Among the cold uncaring stars
A panoply invites our view.
Still, I confess a moments doubt.
Why, as the galaxy unfolds
The tales of billion living worlds
Of billion, billion living souls,
Strayed out like lost sheep in the wild
To cluster round their shepherd stars
The author of each dreaming child
Could not have spared a few for mars?
Orion paused above the trees,
And pausing faded, and was gone
And I chilled by some rising breeze,
Closed up my coat and walked alone.
As we alone must always walk
Until we find our grave at last
And learn the language of the dead,
And join the townsmen of the past.
And you, unhappy derelict
Once home to so much hope and dread,
Drift on beside your satellites
Silent still, and cold and dead.
But mars, though barren yet will live
As all the homes of legends must
And déjà thoris seek her throne
When I and mine are less than dust.
Tars Tarkas to his daughter croons
In shadows cast by Martian moons


this one reads a lot like the irish guy, but i think the poster was in or just out of high school. could have been reading the wrong post though.

[Anonymous No.4926366]

>>4926360
>>4926361
Ah this one was fantastic. Not the Irish anon, but the best poem on /lit/ that wasn't written by him.

[Anonymous No.4926369]

It was silent in gehenna when i drew my natal breath.
and around the throne of heaven was a quiet deep as death
Olympus halls stood empty when i took my youngest stride
and deep down in she-bulba, final echoes long had died

When i walked toward the altar there was no one there to save
and the holiest of holies was as quiet as the grave
when i held my eldest offspring, and the ones that followed soon,
The stairwells to avernus were as vacant as the moon.

Now i walk beside the tombstones, of those who went before
and I thank those awful absences for deserting this sad shore
for the sure and certain exit, when i come at last to lie
In the still and blessed silence of gehenna when i die.

this might be him. i seem to recall it in a thread with his other stuff.

[Anonymous No.4926372]

>>4926369
Really seems like it. Good find. I reckon he's a Dylan fan. Same kind of cadence, same beautiful sort of lyricism about the most ordinary of lines and images with them. Some people just have that knack.

[Anonymous No.4926384]

>>4926366
Indeed, probably not the mysterious Irishman, but superb poem nonetheless. The muse was by his side!

[Anonymous No.4926395]

>>4926369
>>4926372

It has that "tour of world history" feature (gehenna, Olympus, she-bulba, H of H, avernus), the moralistic sensibility, the character "I" ("I" only got married a couple of poems ago, in the bookstore); the structured choronology of start-go-end; the rigid rhymes.

>Very likely him. "Non-zero chance of forgery."

[Anonymous No.4926403]

>>4926395
It's odd to think an anonymous internet poster is one of my top 10 favorite poets, and fast encroaching. I wish he tried to get published. I asked him about it once but he seemed to balk at the idea.

[Anonymous No.4926413]

>>4926403
I get that, though. Here he's got more readers than Ploughshares, and the pay is just the same.

[Anonymous No.4926418]

>>4926413
Heh I suppose that's true. It's just, I've attended a lot of poetic workshops/artsy type things in Ireland, with the most average of poets being brought to read and speak, and he blows them all out of the water. By absolute miles.

I don't think there's a paper in this country that wouldn't publish his Belfast poem.

[Anonymous No.4926436]

>>4926403
I remember this discussion, did he say that he didn't see much interest for rhymed poetry out of children's books?
It was more than two years ago.

[Anonymous No.4926443]

>>4926436
Nah, I talked to him around.. ehm, I'd say it was in Spring of 2013. Maybe a little later.

Though you might be right, he may have said that.

[Anonymous No.4926470]

>>4926418
I believe you. For those of us elsewhere, though, Associated Press rumors of peace breaking out across the EmerIsle are slightly exaggerated, yeah? Is not orange still the new black in the city where Jesus walks?

He'd have to be as deep black as Banksy not to attract "troubles," I think. And even his mask won't last forever. I guess I'm not trying to convince you, but more reciting reasons of my own for appreciating our little relative island of peace right here.

[Anonymous No.4926500]

>>4926470
Things have died down since the Good Friday agreement hugely. That and the turning the PSNI (Northern Irish police service) into an egalitarian force of equal measures of protestants and catholics.

Really, the only shit that happens these days is the odd policeman gets shot by the IRA once a year or even less, and the Orange Order march and kick up a fuss on whatever day it is they march on. Any other time, people don't care any more. It's great to see.

That said, politically, the debate is as fiery as ever as to a United Ireland. We've lost the terrorists, we haven't lost the angry rhetoric of "stolen land" and "foreign invaders".

[Anonymous No.4926580]

1/2
Ulysses:

In truth, Telemachus, you left the hall
And stood (Sea mist is damp upon your hair)
Within this grove to watch me. Was I small
On the moon-pale sand? Did the harsh wind tear
Angerly at my mantle till I seemed
Somehow less bold, less proud, as if my mind
Held campfires of remembering that gleamed
Where no tents stood, no sentries were assigned?
And shall I tell your thought while you were here
And below, your father, years weary, where
The late moon spread a quaking silver dear
To his unconquered heart? Ships lying there,
Black on the path of light like birds that fold
Their worn dark wings and sleep upon the sea,
Need men to wake them in the morning gold-
So ran your thought? And then: “Why must I be
Helpless at home and futile as a wind
That in a hidden wood but tilts the thyme?
Hapless in Ithaca, a prize goat skinned
For common potions, or a ripened lime
Squeezed on a sherbet for a lord’s delight,
And waiting, waiting, as I wait tonight?”
And did you fear I’d take the road a moon
Fashions from the liquid ore, all other ways

Having turned back to this, the very dune
From which I first set sail in other days?
Now, what of you before the moon is set?
You, with youth’s early-stricken hour met,
Must watch a used man pace the pallid sand,
Must want to take him by the roughened hand,
And say, “Thy day is done, my lord. Abide.
Yield me your place, until my tale be told,
To find the Western Islands, claim their crowns,
And skim the claw of reefs to empires, old
When stones were set to found our shining
towns”….

Age marks the fatal space in any mail…

Am I, Telemachus, as late stars pale,
Lost, as they are lost, in gathering light?
I think not. While Orion, still in flight,
Merges with hinted glory in the east,
Am I as pointless echoes of the feast
Above us? No. If you will place the blame
For my moon-wondering, find wine not stale
And my friends not ready with the thrice-told
tale….
Find, too, the heart of Time, and plunge your
steel;

For, of late, my strength gives place to those lean
Legions of fancy that would have me kneel
To what no hand has touched, no eye has seen…

[Anonymous No.4926587]

>>4926580
2/2

I know that I will be as angry flame,
Come darkness, arrogant gold against black;
And I know often any noble’s name
Pales with his fall to ashes for a lack
Of further greatness won. My son, tonight
You stood apart to note me. Know that I,
In looking seaward, saw more than the bright
Fabric of the past; for, though man may try
To hold such robe to shoulder for all time,
It frays at last and slips from him. While we,
I think, watched one, you saw only the rime
And weakening. Soon will the morning sea,
Offering maiden promises to you,
Beckon my step once more….If it should be
The last summons to venturing the blue
Unknown, better for you, better for me
That I speed proudly. You must take my hail
And cleave far that our titles may not fade.
But if, my lithe Telemachus, you sail,
Heavy with weight of years and sight of wars,
Seeking, as always, back to these same shores,
Only to find the long-known does not fail

Your memory, and only to persuade
Your fleet-foot reasoning it had done well
To take you far and aid your fortunes sell
Your boy’s cloak for a warrior’s, every shade
Though hand-familiar, shall prove somehow
strange.
Mourning a fallen comrade, you shall learn
Love is more than a lust when hours turn
From winter; even this wave sound shall change
To hold the music a man’s life may own
Only with men; out here, pacing alone,
You shall be your lady’s torment, the one
Vast mystery your children have to bear;
And ever, oh, ever, on the night air
Will float visions, of what you were. My son
My eager son, I have made journeys, met
With men of swords, lain with the dark, the fair,
Have loved the open world more than my share,
And I returned, afraid my light had set,
To find strength for a final faring. We
Wanderers, we kneelers in temples bright
In the distance, know many worlds. Move free,
For our search is endless, learn most when flight
Halts at an empty reach, gain all when all
Sounds fainter than a vanished sea-bird’s call.

Morning for each of us cannot be far-
At some hooded point past the yellow end
Of that old moon and its guttering star.
Think not the dawn comes to your heart to mend
An old spear thrust of need, and not to mine.
Telemachus, we are the morning. Up.
See to our guests, The red and golden wine
Shows best within the finest graven cup.
So years as few as yours are no more fare
In any feasting than the sum which marks
My time. Life in itself is precious ware
Holding all wealth. Soon I shall match the larks
Searching the high blue wastes; take the white
crest
On a wide ocean. You shall follow fast;
And, if this voyaging may prove the last,

[Anonymous No.4926593]

No man may tell I never sailed far west.

[Anonymous No.4926597]

>>4926593
>>4926587
>>4926580
Tennyson would be proud. Is this yours?

[Anonymous No.4926602]

Enter
Receptionist
Doctor
Grief

[Anonymous No.4927041]

So when should we look for the gomorrah poet's page?

[Anonymous No.4927127]

>>4927041
Tomorrow, it's 3:35 A.M. where I live (France) and I can't do that right now.
Here is the table of contents:

Poems by the nameless Irishman:
1. A Rumour in Gomorrah
2. Travelogue
3. I sing the god carcinoma
4. Deduction (or Ontology)
5. The Ninth Life
6. When Jesus walks in Belfast
7. There's a pretty bookshop
8. A Walk in the wind
9. Statue of O'Connell
10. I must go down to the shore again

Poems attributed to the nameless Irishman:
11. The Straggler
12. It was silent in gehenna
13. The spud, the spud, the sainted spud

Poems almost certainly not from the nameless Irishman:
14. Elegy for a Dead World
15. Walking in the Mall on a Snowy Evening

[Anonymous No.4927556]

>>4924035
*Than a pen, fuck me. but what does /lit/ say

[Anonymous No.4927735]

There are whispers,
far from my ears,
that are muttered
among the herd.

Those lies they tell
hurt, however
the truth is worse,
knowing full well

that they do know,
that they do see,
perfection lost
in the mirror.

And if I could,
I'd rather be
deaf to insult,
hollow harmony.

[Anonymous No.4927747]

>>4912222
When I was younger so much younger than today
I never needed anybody's help in any way
But now these days are gone, I'm not so self assured
Now I find I've changed my mind and opened up the doors

Help me if you can, I'm feeling down
And I do appreciate you being 'round
Help me get my feet back on the ground
Won't you please, please help me

And now my life has changed in oh so many ways
My independence seems to vanish in the haze
But every now and then I feel so insecure
I know that I just need you like I've never done before

[Anonymous No.4928261]

>>4927127
Without casting the least aspersion on the rest of them, I would like to temper the adulation with one drop of imperfection.

I do not like the cancer one. Though its provenance is not in doubt, it does not requite its own morbidity with anything resembling resolve, as do the others which concern mortality. It sings a single note, and it is a monotone dirge.

The vocabulary is unusually clinical for his otherwise ethereal style, and details like bribery of death with body parts seem unlikely as derivatives. This is not a guy who would glance through Fault In Our Stars and ruminate upon a fictive cancer scenario for the hell of it.

I wonder if it was posted last, originally, or if it is a clue why he never sought publication, and has not re-appeared since.

[Anonymous No.4928371]

>>4928261
The cancer poem is my favorite, his art is culminating here.
Now that you're evoking it... Yes, the poem could talk about his own case. But he didn't look defeated or devoid of ambition, when we were talking about publishing. Hence it may be a poem about the disease of close relation.
But you don't need to go to Gomorrah to write a fine poem about it!

[Anonymous No.4928594]

>>4926293
I liked it. "Choke him before the crisis" is a bit of a weak line. Metrum is sort of off in "Balance again".

I did enjoy it a lot though.

[Anonymous No.4929248]

>>4922628

I reiterate

[Anonymous No.4929323]

Then we were very young,
and death was everywhere.
calling out of deep wells,
long forgot and bramble tangled,
like elephant traps
rattling its serpent's tail in the dry leaves
We saw it beneath us
when we rope swung from the barn rafters
felt it nudge our ankles in the bright and cool and rushing creeks.
In winter death sat outside the frosted panes,
licking its greasy paws like a bear.
Death was a playmate.

We did not know then
the death that comes to the old:
the tightness in the ribs
the ticking of the clock beside the bed
Do they remember,
as the darkenss widens
their old chum?
Remember the needles?
standing in line behind the second grade cadre,
your turn for the sharp sting of the bright steel
and the alcohol-stink of cotton.
How we dreaded that smell!
Antiseptic and alcohol
floor polish and white crackling paper!
And too bright lights
They too returned,
and with the same dread.
Did we know? did we know even then?

Come, light the fire.
the darness gathers
it's sooty skirts from beneath the oaks,
and walks close beside us
who bear the funeral light.
we have felt the candle gutter, and were sick
But thats behind us:
back there amongst the trees
where our old friend is waiting
beside this mossy granite
let us rest awhile,
that we may bear the face of the sun
a little longer.

[Anonymous No.4929367]

>>4922628
>>4913820
>>4914477
>>4913826
>>4914717
>>4918048
>>4919173
was praised: >>4920188
was also, and followed up: >>4922074
was also: >>4922216
was also: >>4922363
was addressed: >>4922462


But we also now have:
>>4927747
>>4927735
>>4926602
>>4926580 (kinda)
>>4925883
>>4925728
>>4925636
>>4925383
>>4925088
>>4924927
>>4924312
>>4924180
>>4924035

...aside from the Potatanon, whose lauds I don't mind, but I'm sure these other guys would not mind a read in the small space of the 40 or so posts remaining.

[Anonymous No.4929480]

The poems of the nameless Irishman have their own site!
http://4poet.tumblr.com/

[Anonymous No.4929545]

>>4927747
Nice try, John, but you died a long, long time ago... Your mother should know.

[Anonymous No.4929565]

>>4929480
nice. i bet this brings him out of hiding if anything will.

[Anonymous No.4929613]

>>4927747
Such original, very Beatles, wow!

>>4927735
Not bad, but not moving.

>>4926602
Kek.

>>4926580
>>4926587
>>4926593
Glorious, glorious, and sadly overlooked in this thread. Is it part of a bigger poem? Some lines like "Telemachus, we are the morning. Up." are really manly! I don't know if today's tastes approve this kind of poetry, but I was quite impressed. My humble advice: try to deliver perfect, moving, autonomous lines from time to time. Do not practice enjambment too much: you are excellent at it, but the best enjambment in the world will always look like a defect, especially when epic matters are summoned.

>>4925883
Some good lines, but sounds like "muh feels" overall.

>>4925728
Not sure if kek material or serious.

>>4925636
>did not comprehend

>>4925383
So many feels. At least it's short.

>>4925088
Keklel.

>>4924927
Somewhat awkward. "My eyelids are tumbling in disbelieving scorn" would be a great comical line, for example.

>>4924312
Not convinced by this.

>>4924180
Get out Tao.

>>4924035
Some things are good, like "Bubbling inside the brainless beast I call mind" or "Brash and disconcerting colours". Your shorter lines can be unconvincing.

[Anonymous No.4929624]

>>4929480
I must admit, I do love that we can see his works for how great they are, but he does have a right to the privacy of his works and I simply don't want us to offend him. If we are going to set a place for the poetry, we need to make it clear its in the best of intentions, and that his right to privacy is all the same.

[twinshiggy No.4929649]

>>4929480
>tumblr page
>their own site!
Please.

[St. Joan of Arc !!qQSAq9UmKww No.4929686]

I woke up in the middle of the night and a voice sang this poem in my head. I often get odd little phrases sung sweetly into my brain at night due to Piracetam consumption but this was the only case of an entire poem. So, this was not written by me. Who was it written by? I have had Satan talk to me before and I think he might have written it, I think it is a good poem:

Together but separate,
You sleep in the oven, I'll sleep on top of the stove
So we can burn for each other in different ways;
The smell of hot lovin.

They'll peel the wedding rings off for keeps,
The married roast: cannibal delicacy.
Synergy; the energy of sin,
Required to meet The Devil again.

[twinshiggy No.4929696]

>>4929686
>Synergy; the energy of sin
Super Interesting.

[Anonymous No.4929701]

>>4929686
You appear to be a nutter.

[St. Joan of Arc !!qQSAq9UmKww No.4929711]

>>4929701
That is your opinion, I keep transmissions written in documents on my computer and occasionally post them here. Nobody would suspect it I am normal otherwise.

[Anonymous No.4929717]

>>4929624
He released knowingly these poems on 4chan, it's hard to invoke "privacy" afterwards... Our intentions are clear enough anyway!

>>4929649
Sorry, I will not offend you again :(

[Anonymous No.4929729]

>>4929711
That's cool, nothing wrong with being a nutter. Just don't hurt anyone and you'll be doing better than many normal people.

[St. Joan of Arc !!qQSAq9UmKww No.4929731]

>>4929729
I am not nuts, I an Open Receiver to the Teachings. Take piracetam and seek knowledge and you will receive it. It is a chemical that will loosen your bonds with fellow humans and strengthen your bond with God. Good for creativity too, for the writers here.

[Anonymous No.4929741]

Always right around the high 200s. The last one too. Just *hop* and
r
i
g
h
t

o
f
f

t
h
e

d
e
e
p

e
n
d
.

[Anonymous No.4929744]

>>4929731
>strengthen your bond with God
Yep, you're a "nutter" alright.

[Anonymous No.4929750]

>>4929731
Piracetam doesn't have much effect on me, I much prefer aniracetam and acitocholine, but thanks for the suggestion.

[Anonymous No.4929765]

>>4923986
I didn't ask for these feels.

[St. Joan of Arc !!qQSAq9UmKww No.4929767]

>>4929744
God speaks to me, God touches me on the cheek and whispers to me in my sleep. If I told you the most powerful being you ever met was sitting right behind you, watching you type into your computer vessel, you would do him dishonor and say "No, he is not there. I do not believe in him" and he would sadly leave you behind to the glow of your computer screen because you didn't want him there. God will not do everything you want Him to do, but he will not do something against your will. He will not bother you anymore if you do not want Him to.

If you walk up to a man's door and knock on it, only to tell him that you do not believe he exists, what business would he have with you? Why would he want to be your friend?

Transmission from ST. JEDEDIAH (FRIEND OF GOD)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KNFvw4ciz4w

[Anonymous No.4929775]

>>4929767
today i was thinking about ‘getting middleaged’ and going ‘white’ as well as ‘double-chinned’ in the mirror….

to then think….RIMINGTON looked like she was enjoying life to the full…even at 70 (see her latest pics on google)….it must have been all of those ‘laughing gas moments’ during her life within ‘intelligence’…whereupon you experience the ‘overview of life’ – as well as the ‘pits of hell’ on the ground….

a ‘laughing gas cannister’ in the proverbial dashboard – generally, saved you – from the ‘worst of it’ in terms of ‘memory recall’….

OTHER NOTES:
and i was to watch ‘farrell in camera’ this morning, on YOUTUBE…not something that i had wanted to watch…but he had told me that ‘when it came up’ that i had to do so….’that tweed/woollen grey suit’ – UK doctors in the 60s/70s/80s used to wear them….

….a reference to his father….

and then colin’s ‘cringing’ and covering of his face, with his hand – at the telling every white lie (and bigger ones, regarding his past) – obviously ‘so uncomfortable’ for a catholic who believes in ‘mortal sins’….his interviewer who is an ex-MKULTRA programmer, helping him through it all…not ‘at odds’ with him – just keeping him ‘stable’ and ‘on the road’ for an audience who wants to know ‘what it is really like’ but ‘not that much’ in terms of the HOLLYWOOD STAR STABLE….

nota bene how he sips the ‘water bottle’….he sniffs it first, in the above video….because he had been ‘caught out’ on ELLEN’s show….

the glass nearest to him – on ELLEN’s show, had been filled with neat vodka….he was to reach out and gulp a sip…’not knowing’…

ELLEN and the FRUITELLA? do you ‘get it’?

she was part of the NWO drive…..and getting FARRELL back onto alcohol….whilst he was ‘extremely nervous’ and in interview….that was what she had been instructed to do….and she managed it, didn’t she? does he blame her – for what her controllers had told her to do? does she feel guilty – in relation to being party to ‘that one’?

OTHER NOTES:

…anyway, FARRELL is always ‘nervous’ in interviews, isn’t he? wouldn’t you be?

“there would, of course, be a far more evil way – mushrooms in the water” replies MCDONALD…..you mean a ‘speedy way’ of becoming like david icke, on national TV?

ellen, ellen…reminds me of sally tallant and sally morgan….PRAGUE ROTHSCHILD slaves….’drunks writing the future’….for their ‘boss’ – otherwise known as ‘vampire rick’.

[St. Joan of Arc !!qQSAq9UmKww No.4929785]

>>4929775
Foolish juxtaposition attempt

[Anonymous No.4929788]

>>4929767
Sorry, I was mistaken you're schizophrenic. You're also interacting with someone with years of drug experiences coiled up in their brain. I know what it's like to interact with what you think is "God".

Why is it that all nutters are the same?
Anyway...
>>>/x/

[St. Joan of Arc !!qQSAq9UmKww No.4929793]

>>4929788
> I know what it's like to interact with what you think is "God".

No

[Anonymous No.4929795]

>>4929788
i know what it's like to interact with what i know is god.

[Anonymous No.4929798]

>>4929785
e were ‘in that room’ where a ‘shoot’ was involved….for prince william and kate middleton doubles…..see previous notes and photos.

i was then to remember marr/webb/ross around a kitchen table….along with ‘the rest of the gang’….the three of them were arguing vociferously but not about anything that i could understand….i had no details…all i knew was that they had no ‘goal’….judging from their arguments – nobody had a ‘goal’….

and so after gill had shouted them all down….and asked for farrell to be given a chance to speak….farrell was to decline it…he was playing ‘grey man’…he deferred….gill then asked the three of them, to listen to me – he was shouting louder than them, at that point in time….i replied that all i could hear was a lot of BLUSTER between the three of them….and i had no idea what they were talking about…if we were supposed to be a ‘gang’ then we should all know the ‘goal’ and then work towards it….how could we – if we had no idea of what they were talking about?…those three….marr, webb and ross.

I was then ‘jumped’….all i can remember is as follows….

marr/webb/ross deciding to ‘cut’ themselves with a SAMURAI kitchen knife set….their ‘handlers were present at the time’ of the filming…marr/webb/ross had learnt that the royal princes ‘did that’ and so they wanted to be similar…..

they were all part of the ‘BLUE MOON/RED EGG cult’…..and so they were to think up something ‘even worse’ for myself….i was switched into a 4 year old child alter and they all took turns ‘with one of those knives’ to cut my vagina….

and you wonder why, i had no idea – why my vagina was ‘scored’ in 1993 – at that BROOK clinic in b’ham?

GILL- to his credit – he hadn’t taken part in any of it – ‘the violence which causes silence’….GILL was ‘on the floor’ as far as i can remember….with blood on his face….barely conscious (and had not taken part in ‘cutting my vagina’ – whilst i was in a 4 year old alter)….

FARRELL was ‘doing his nut’…terrrified that MARR/WEBB/ROSS would turn on him…..whilst telling them that they couldn’t do these things….to no avail.

do you see how it goes?

[St. Joan of Arc !!qQSAq9UmKww No.4929800]

>>4929798
Please stop, you are trying to put a circle block in a square-shaped hole. I do not believe in any conspiracies. Everyone is doing what has been predetermined. Nobody has control of themselves. You are all blissfully out of control.

[Anonymous No.4929801]

>>4929793
Why can't there be homicidal maniacs who go after people like you?
Your mind is diseased.

[Anonymous No.4929802]

>>4929800
You believe in a higher power that send you signals. How is that not a conspiracy?

[St. Joan of Arc !!qQSAq9UmKww No.4929813]

>>4929801
"Poor child, you see the world as such a dark place because of your sin. A dark trail of black ink of sin follows you wherever you go."

This must mean something to you, it was meant to be sent to you. It has no meaning to me. It is "sin" singular, not plural, so you must know what the message means.

>>4929802
I don't believe. I know.

[St. Joan of Arc !!qQSAq9UmKww No.4929818]

>>4929795
You are a child of light

[Anonymous No.4929830]

>>4929813
You don't know anything. No one does. All we have are estimates of probability.

[Anonymous No.4929833]

>>4929813
>>>/x/

[Anonymous No.4929836]

>>4929367
Welp. See you anons in the next one. This was really a lovely thread. Almost all the way on topic, and almost free of the crazy. 272 ain't bad.

Here's a poem:

Barbie's Ferrari

Nothing is quite alien or recognizable at this speed,
Though there is the suggestion of curve, a mutant
Curvature designed, I suppose, to soften or offset
The stiletto toes and karate arms that were too
Angular for her last car, a Corvette as knifed as Barbie
Herself, and not the bloodred of Italian Renaissance.
This is Attention. This is detail fitted to sheer
Velocity. For her knees, after all, are locked—
Once fitted into the driving pit, she can only accelerate
Into a future that becomes hauntingly like the past:
Nancy Drew in her yellow roadster, a convertible,
I always imagined, the means to an end
Almost criminal in its freedom, its motherlessness.
For Barbie, too, is innocent of parents, pressing
Her unloved breast to the masculine wheel, gunning
The turn into the hallway and out over the maiming stairs,
Every jolt slamming her uterus into uselessness, sealed,
Sealed up and preserved, everything about her becoming
Pure Abstraction and the vehicle for Desire: to be Nancy,
To be Barbie, to feel the heaven of Imagination
Breathe its ether on your cheeks, rosying in the slipstream
As the speedster/roadster/Ferrari plummets over the rail
Into the ocean of waxed hardwood below. To crash and burn
And be retrieved. To unriddle the crime. To be
Barbie with a plot! That’s the soulful beauty of it.
That’s the dreaming child.
Not the dawn of Capital, or the factories of Hong Kong
Reversing the currency in Beijing. Not the ovarian
Moon in eclipse. Just the dreaming child, the orphan,

Turning in slow motion in the air above the banister,
For whom ideas of gender and marketplace are nothings
Less than nothing. It’s the car she was born for.
It’s Barbie you mourn for.

- Lynne McMahon

[Anonymous No.4929946]

>>4914717

Seriously overlooked, this gave me feels!

[Anonymous No.4930002]

>>4929836
OP here, thank you for making it a great thread! I was happy to see everyone sharing and encouraging, and I never expected to see lit's own poet laureate to be given a proper place of appreciation. This was certainly one of the more charming and memorable moments on the internet amongst fellow poets to do exactly that, to appreciate one another in the keeping up the faith. I encourage you all to keep writing, I think this thread is evidence enough to say you'll never know just how many have been inspired by your written word, so write regardless of what the future brings. I thank each of you for inspiring me.

[Anonymous No.4930552]

>>4930002
Yes, what a positive, inspiring thread for once. I think that the tone of your original post helped greatly to build something interesting together, rather than the usual games of (self-)destruction played by /lit/izens. Also, some poems were really impressive this time...
See you on the next thread, and let's hope that our bard will come across his own page and show up again!

[Anonymous No.4931416]

>>4915170
Shit taste.

[Anonymous No.4933647]

The Ghost Moth

A few days back as the sun left the sky,
I trudged to the window letting go of a sigh.
I stared at the blackness as something caught my eye.
A Ghost Moth was struggling the glass to defy.

At that very moment I was struck by melancholy.
My shoulders felt heavy at the thought of its destiny.
Seeking the light on an escape from lethargy.
Blocked by the glass wall, blind from its own ecstasy.

As I closed the curtains it only got worse.
I felt like I was inflicted by the Ghost Moth’s curse.

[Anonymous No.4933674]

(1/2)

***thenow***
~~~~~~~~~~

oh time!
please draw
near catawba & hear
our bold crow’s
caw-caws of
hopeful truths.

bbq here + fill
us with sooth!
please soothe
our sorrows!
quill down tomorrow
your reasons
to kill & drown men
taking a leak & seeking
power in cairo.
crown us
with lessons
& less sons!
will this patriarch
to go down in
this stark town!

will these quiet
matriarchs to make
their mark & riot.
never to reach down
on these ugly
leeches any longer!
we’ll suck down
Your seamen in
our wild waters!
beseech those mean
men, who sought
to attract tactful
tarts as wives, to die
in the wars
they thoughtfully started.
as years decline hate
mongers’ lives + will
will be departed!

drivin’, we dive
into wailin’ walls!
The coward Saul
timidly prays.
“Grace!” he cries
as frigid tears
roll down tightened
tight ropes of lace
where spiders laid
down eggs.
here he begs
on two bent legs!
“all Day wants is Night
to be
the cure & hear
honey-sweetened
longingsongs. jasmine tea will be
had if she sings
jazz with me!”
he said, quite sad.

shiftily shift the timin’
+ pull in woolen stars
You made them for Us!
We were just babes
locked away. may closed
closets opt to open
up time — we plead
to finally shine!

[Anonymous No.4933685]

(2/3)

bright emblems
embalm & embeam us!
You lightened Us upwards
to tread new roads
leading towards Our
Garden of Eden.

We are pleadin’
to You, Creator.
Create Her! Mend Her
& send the end of molding
anniversaries that anoint
those goading
cold adversaries!

Want is deadened
tomes written down
in thought of tomorrow.
Need is lifelong
moans brought up
in the heat of sorrow.
saturating hidden marrow,
He lurches you
to nurture your muddied
budding flower.
He gives you flour for
the bread you bake,
that is his body & you
throw it away. He decays
in the gutter when you
stutter over His name.
THE COSMOS KNOWS
MOST
OF ALL
THAT YOU
ARE A
FUCKING COWARD.
—-

please care!
o hack
eve up with lovely
hatchets. she’s ratcheting
your soul into place.
so place her on a pedestal
she fucking deserves it!

will the lonely week
mend lovers sent in
atonement? or will
attornment reign &
our queen be slain?
treason is the reason
for Hapshepsut’s queasy gut.
in easing Tutankhamun of
hegemony, he stripped her
hedge, stomped on her
pouring pink peony.
manscaping
should be a fucking
felony.

Meta for
give cold titles of
yore. Meta for
give our vital old lore.
You set me up
on your old
teak door frame
hinges cringe & creak
sad omens.
oh man
oh
God
oh
Me! Be free!
PLEASE SEE!

[Anonymous No.4933691]

(3/3)

—

FINALLY SEASONGS
SHARE TRUTH
& WISDOM
FORMS UNDER
KNOWN
SONGS.
BE READY
& GROWN
UP
ABOUT
LIFE. I AM
TIME
IS
NOW. NEVER
HAVE I
FOR GOT!
NEVER HAVE I
NOT
BEEN
HERE
FOR
YOU
ALWAYS
IN
ALL
WAYS.
SAYS
THE CREATOR
TO THE
CREATION.

[Anonymous No.4933713]

A squeeze, a kiss, he pecks her cheek.
"Honey, I'm working late this week
, like last week and that before".
Lies. He flirts whilst holding doors.

His will, monogamy deplores.
Carpet burns from hotel floors.
Scratches from His high class whores.
She notices the smell. Dior.

Picturesque solemnity.
The doting wife, She holds her tongue.
Thoughts of His infidelity
repressed, her cries of pain, unsung.

He finds himself betwixt strange limbs.
The stinging scent of sin abhors
His heart, but primal urges win
internal dichotomic wars.

In a sleeping strangers lustful clutch
He thinks of Her, the time they spent
movies, windy walks and such.
Comfort in familiar scent.

With silent steps, His velvet key,
His guilty yet ethereal gait
returns once more to his own sheets,
returns back to His tortured mate.

Her nape He smells, and hair He touches,
remembering now the strangers clutches.
He thinks that he should end it for her sake.
As She silently weeps they lie awake.