/lit/ - Literature

[Anonymous No.9060033]

we should start talking about poetry.

[Anonymous No.9060043]

>>9060033
poetry is fucking gay my man

[Anonymous No.9060104]

ok whats ur favorite poem
i dont have one because i dont read poetry

[Anonymous No.9060121]

>>9060033
>Posting this poem someone on this site wrote for one of our zines cuz even though its not perfect I really like it

Never ask a well-meaning literary type

for any sort of situational advice--

he'll tell you write, handwrite, typewrite

"My boy, you have so much bottled up inside,

here's pen, here's paper, just uncork it in time

before it swallows you in tide, Your pride-wall gives a stoic groan

the levee spills over until one day

it pops, and the city chokes on your own

outpouring."

But I query: Maybe levees are made to groan

that your outpours might remain your own?

No wall stands erect to break--

A flowing heart does not peace make.

[Anonymous No.9060643]

T.S.Eliot began his essay on ‘In Memoriam’ with one of the least intelligent of his critical pronouncements:

>Tennyson is a great poet for reasons that are perfectly clear. He has three qualities which are seldom found together except in the greatest poets: abundance, variety, and complete competence. (Selected Essays 328)

Surely one expects from ‘the greatest poets’ something more than competence, however abundant and varied. Nor does Eliot in the rest of the essay make any attempt to demonstrate this complete competence. The only clue he gives us is the phrase ‘his unique and unerring feeling for the sounds of words’.
Tennyson was certainly capable of writing very beautiful verse, lyrics which demand to be set to music; but that is a capacity he shares with more minor than major poets. The major poet cannot allow himself to be seduced by the beautiful sounds of words for their own sake. Tennyson certainly erred when he allowed himself to turn his feeling for the sounds of words into what amounts to little more than a party trick – his ‘murmur of bees in immemorial elms’ and so on are mere showing off. At his worst his feeling for the sounds of words supplants all the other components of poetry. Content, if any, exists only that the style might have something to play upon. And what is competence in a poet if not the perfect fitting of style and content (as in Eliot’s own verse)? What use is style if it is not wholly at the service of content?

[Anonymous No.9060650]

>poetry

stay gay

[Anonymous No.9060666]

>>9060043
>>9060650
Where did this meme come from?

[Anonymous No.9060668]

>>9060033
Die Bürgschaft made me cry

[Anonymous No.9060742]

>>9060666
reality

[Anonymous No.9060778]

"This Is Just To Say" by William Carlos Williams 1883 - 1963

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

[Anonymous No.9060808]

You should all read this. A. E. Housman (1859 - 1936) is one of the best poets to teach you how to read poetry. Try reading it aloud.

"Is My Team Ploughing"

“Is my team ploughing,
That I was used to drive
And hear the harness jingle
When I was man alive?”

Ay, the horses trample,
The harness jingles now;
No change though you lie under
The land you used to plough.

“Is football playing
Along the river shore,
With lads to chase the leather,
Now I stand up no more?”

Ay the ball is flying,
The lads play heart and soul;
The goal stands up, the keeper
Stands up to keep the goal.

“Is my girl happy,
That I thought hard to leave,
And has she tired of weeping
As she lies down at eve?”

Ay, she lies down lightly,
She lies not down to weep:
Your girl is well contented.
Be still, my lad, and sleep.

“Is my friend hearty,
Now I am thin and pine,
And has he found to sleep in
A better bed than mine?”

Yes, lad, I lie easy,
I lie as lads would choose;
I cheer a dead man’s sweetheart,
Never ask me whose.

[Anonymous No.9061112]

Where to start with poetry? So far the only poems I've had any appreciation for is some Poe ones, some silly Lewis Carrol ones and Dulce et Decorum Est. Maybe I should start reading some more Poe?

I'm a massive pleb in this area so any thoughts, recommendations or insults are appreciated.

[Anonymous No.9061136]

>>9060643
>What use is style if it is not wholly at the service of content?

Would you agree that the use of 'caring of the feeling for sounds of words' is not absolutely unimportant? That rhythm, flow, to some extent depend on the 'sound' of words?

Do we think TS Elliot at all cared for the sounds of words? (do you think if so, that may have been why he praised Tennyson for such? Subconsciously or otherwise reinforcing his own inclinations, talents?)

And, to what I quoted of you; wholly, wholly? There is no value of fluff, decoration, aesthetic for their own sake: "murmur of bees in immemorial elms"

Guess we would have to see the context of that quote, to see its relation to the content, are bees and elms irrelevant? Hm, I guess Tennyson was wrong to have ever written those words, even though, well, since they only amount to 'pretty little nothings'

[Anonymous No.9061150]

I'm posting translations, so don't judge them! There are no official translation of this poet.

The Shrub

A thunder stricken shrub on a grey hill it rests,
Like a dark almighty giant. And grassy ribbon dense,
Twists around his shape. And playful mountain breeze
Sways the bright flowers and trees.

Then winter comes along, and with its frosty arm
Tears all the charms and strips the mountain bare
But many more winters with a cold wind will come
And he will still be there.


and another:
The Grey, Dreary Sky

The grey, dreary sky…Down the fences old
Shrivelled bindweed dropped its leaves dry,
While on the ground, wind-battered twigs lie;
Drab fall keeps everything in its firm hold,
Everything is desolate and lifeless and grey.

It’s as if weary nature yielded to death’s sway,
And it silently passes away.

In quiet grief stooping, along the muddy road,
Moves a funeral cortege. A lean little horse
Slowly draws the hearse, its long neck bowed-
In the bleak drizzle, the cortege passes by, so
Solemn and slow.

[Experimental No.9061342]

The sun up high is shining bright
Casting its rays across the tundra
Hidden, trapped in eternal penumbra
Anthrax seeping out without a fight

Crevices opening, the world is bleeding
Darkness, hell, pure evil in disguise
Life itself vanish in surprise
Death and decay, people start pleading

They pray to heaven, God show them mercy
Blisters, infections, they drop like flies
Belief, almighty power, what a bunch of lies.
There is no supreme, what a controversy

Fire and cinders, burn the village
Rid the diseased, fight the plague
Hurry now, no point in being vague.
Ashes and dust, must be a privilege

Freezing winds, the remains scattered
Nature, life, reduce climate gasses
Alternative methods, is what matters
The planet itself, not far from tattered.