I'm personally interested in shorter poems (< 20 lines), but anything and everything is welcome here.

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Anonymous Tue Aug 16 23:47:05 2011 No.2015992 [Reply] [Original]

I'm personally interested in shorter poems (< 20 lines), but anything and everything is welcome here.

>>	The Jewel - James Wright Anonymous Tue Aug 16 23:48:05 2011 No.2015997 There is this cave In the air behind my body That nobody is going to touch: A cloister, a silence Closing around a blossom of fire. When I stand upright in the wind, My bones turn to dark emeralds.

>>	Anonymous Tue Aug 16 23:50:05 2011 No.2016004 I do not like them in a box. I do not like them with a fox. I do not like them in a house. I do not like them with a mouse. I do not like them here or there. I do not like them anywhere. I do not like green eggs and ham. I do not like them, Sam I am.

>>	Anonymous Tue Aug 16 23:50:05 2011 No.2016008 W.B Yeats - An Irish Airman Forsees his Death

The Cabbage - Ruth Stone Anonymous Tue Aug 16 23:51:05 2011 No.2016010

You have rented an apartment.
You come to this enclosure with physical relief,
your heavy body climbing the stairs in the dark,
the hall bulb burned out, the landlord
of Greek extraction and possibly a fatalist.
In the apartment leaning against one wall,
your daughter's painting of a large frilled cabbage
against a dark sky with pinpoints of stars.
The eager vegetable, opening itself
as if to eat the air, or speak in cabbage
language of the meanings within meanings;
while the points of stars hide their massive
violence in the dark upper half of the painting.
You can live with this.

>The only reason I like it is the sentence beginning with "The eager vegetable."

>>	Anonymous Tue Aug 16 23:51:05 2011 No.2016011 >>2015992 Poetry is dead. It has been killed by inauthentic, lazy liberals who like hitting the return key too much.

>>	Anonymous Tue Aug 16 23:52:05 2011 No.2016015 >>2016011 it was killed by postmodern faggots who thought they could make it absolute shit

Anonymous Tue Aug 16 23:53:05 2011 No.2016021

>>2016008
I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight I do not hate,
Those that I guard I do not love;
My country is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan's poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.

>>	Anonymous Tue Aug 16 23:54:05 2011 No.2016024 >>2016015 >>2016011 Whatever your opinions on the matter, surely you must have a poem which you enjoy.

Anonymous Tue Aug 16 23:55:05 2011 No.2016025

THE DEATH OF GENERAL GRANT
by Walt Whitman

As one by one withdraw the lofty actors,
From that great play on history's stage eterne,
That lurid, partial act of war and peace--of old and new contending,
Fought out through wrath, fears, dark dismays, and many a long suspense;
All past--and since, in countless graves receding, mellowing,
Victor's and vanquish'd--Lincoln's and Lee's--now thou with them,
Man of the mighty days--and equal to the days!
Thou from the prairies!--tangled and many-vein'd and hard has been thy
part,
To admiration has it been enacted!

>>	Anonymous Tue Aug 16 23:56:05 2011 No.2016032 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 Tue Aug 16 23:58:05 2011 No.2016039 >>2016025 >added to list of poems to memorize

Anonymous Tue Aug 16 23:59:05 2011 No.2016041

>>2016024
fuck WCW that poem blows "hurr plums" kiss my ass

Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air,
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wonder'd:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro' the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel'd from the sabre stroke
Shatter'd and sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.

5.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the jaws of Death
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.

6.

When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honor the charge they made,
Honor the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred.

>>	Anonymous Tue Aug 16 23:59:05 2011 No.2016042 >>2016032 I did that to someone once. I found the poem after and I think it fits the action perfectly.

Anonymous Wed Aug 17 00:03:05 2011 No.2016043

fucking yeats is fucking awesome. glad someone put irish airman up in this bitch.

that said, my favorite poem of all time is probably "Ulysses" by Lord Tennyson, with some of Kamau Brathwaite's stuff coming in a close second.

excerpt from Ulysses:

"Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains: but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this grey spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought."

>>	Anonymous Wed Aug 17 00:05:05 2011 No.2016045 >>2016032 I have put some plums in your icebox so you can have plums while you eat plums for breakfast Forgive me but I heard you like plums dawg

>>	Anonymous Wed Aug 17 00:09:05 2011 No.2016051 od'et amo. quare id faciam, fortasse requiris? nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior.

1/2 Anonymous Wed Aug 17 00:11:05 2011 No.2016056

White-coiffed, white-boned, white-eyed,
This is a strange love.
I am the goatman
To your ice nymph,
You sculptress
Of petals
Of salt.
Yet I am drawn toward you
As the red thread is drawn
Through the eye of the needle.
A drop of sweat
Hangs from that needlepoint.
My sweat,
Goat sweat.
And in that droplet
You are reflected
Like a naked woman
In a distant window
All can see,
And see nothing.
What is all this stuff about “the gods”?
What are they to you,
A modern woman?
Did you escape from the Athens National Museum?
Are you a cave-cricket?
Do you have no tan-lines?
Do you eat only crushed ice?
Do you even listen
To the questions
Of men?
Are they all liars, betrayers, faithless,
Cruel to the fragile, breakers of hymens,
Piercers of beauty?
Do you really have
Their skins on your wall?
If this is possible in the mind
Could it be modern?
I dont know. I do not.
This is like french-kissing a mummy
Or building a snowman
In a blacksmith’s shop
Hopeless.

2/2 Anonymous Wed Aug 17 00:11:05 2011 No.2016058

>>2016056

I ache like testicles
After five hours of necking
When I read your stark
Poems. Each one a white
Petal veined
With purple, untouchable,
Easily bruised.
And I a proponent
Of the colloquial.
There is no Hell.
There is only separation
And selfish fear, there’s only
Difference, that delicious pull
Of the opposite
For its poisonous prey.
I eat you out.
Yes! blasphemous! I do it!
The light and ice
Of you that drip
Down my beard
Taste like rosewater
Of kulfi icecream.
You do not move a muscle.
My erection seems suddenly
Animalian and comic.
I seem an inferior being,
Fixed in time,
Prior to ideas.
Gross, violent, pitiable,
I slobber and grunt, a hog,
While you gaze at space
In pain, in the red
Claws of a thought.
Stiff as coral, runny as brie.
White-coiffed, white-boned, white-eyed,

>this is a good poem
>it was written by Anne Rice's husband

Los Justos - Jorge Luis Borges Anonymous Wed Aug 17 00:13:05 2011 No.2016060

Un hombre que cultiva su jardín, como quería Voltaire.
El que agradece que en la tierra haya música.
El que descubre con placer una etimología.
Dos empleados que en un café del Sur juegan un silencioso ajedrez.
El ceramista que premedita un color y una forma.
El tipógrafo que compone bien esta página, que tal vez no le agrada.
Una mujer y un hombre que leen los tercetos finales de cierto canto.
El que acaricia a un animal dormido.
El que justifica o quiere justificar un mal que le han hecho.
El que agradece que en la tierra haya Stevenson.
El que prefiere que los otros tengan razón.
Esas personas, que se ignoran, están salvando el mundo.

>>	Anonymous Wed Aug 17 00:26:05 2011 No.2016085 >>2016060 >>2016060 Translation por favor!

>>	Anonymous Wed Aug 17 00:27:05 2011 No.2016087 >>2016045 That's almost as good as the original.

Anonymous Wed Aug 17 00:33:05 2011 No.2016100

>>2016085
Translator is Alastair Reid.

A man who cultivates his garden, as Voltaire wished.
He who is grateful for the existence of music.
He who takes pleasure in tracing an etymology.
Two workmen playing, in a café in the South, a silent game of chess.
The potter, contemplating a color and a form.
The typographer who sets this page well, though it may not please him.
A woman and a man, who read the last tercets of a certain canto.
He who strokes a sleeping animal.
He who justifies, or wishes to, a wrong done to him.
He who is grateful for the existence of Stevenson.
He who prefers others to be right.
These people, unaware, are saving the world.

>>	Anonymous Wed Aug 17 00:36:05 2011 No.2016105 >>2016100 mucho gracias. me gusta

>>	Anonymous Wed Aug 17 00:40:05 2011 No.2016116 >>2016100 >>2016060 borgesfags confirmed for self-absorbed cunts

>>	shorter poems, you say? Sherlock Holmes Guy Wed Aug 17 00:40:05 2011 No.2016119 Artichoke by Joseph Hutchinson O heart weighed down by so many wings

not quite so short Sherlock Holmes Guy Wed Aug 17 00:44:05 2011 No.2016125

Fabrication of Ancestors
by Alan Dugan

For old Billy Dugan, shot in the ass in the Civil War, my father said.

The old wound in my ass
has opened up again, but I
am past the prodigies
of youth’s campaigns, and weep
where I used to laugh
in war’s red humors, half
in love with silly-assed pains
and half not feeling them.
I have to sit up with
an indoor unsittable itch
before I go down late
and weeping to the storm-
cellar on a dirty night
and go to bed with the worms.
So pull the dirt up over me
and make a family joke
for Old Billy Blue Balls,
the oldest private in the world
with two ass-holes and no
place more to go to for a laugh
except the last one. Say:
The North won the Civil War
without much help from me
although I wear a proof
of the war’s obscenity.

>>	E. E. Cummings Sherlock Holmes Guy Wed Aug 17 00:45:05 2011 No.2016131 Me up at does out of the floor quietly Stare a poisoned mouse still who alive is asking What have i done that You wouldn't have

Anonymous Wed Aug 17 00:47:05 2011 No.2016133

>>2015992

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

--Dylan Thomas

>>	Anonymous Wed Aug 17 01:14:05 2011 No.2016167 >>2016085 >2011 >thinking poetry can be translated

>>	Anonymous Wed Aug 17 01:16:05 2011 No.2016170 I can't believe no one has recommended him yet, but read any of Stephen Crane's poetry. His poems are short, simple, and elegant

Anonymous Wed Aug 17 01:22:05 2011 No.2016179
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[ERROR]

THAT is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees
- Those dying generations - at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.

An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.

O sages standing in God's holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.

Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.

>>	Sherlock Holmes Guy Wed Aug 17 01:29:05 2011 No.2016194 >>2016170 <3 Should the wide world roll away, Leaving black terror, Limitless night, Nor God, nor man, nor place to stand Would be to me essential, If thou and thy white arms were there, And the fall to doom a long way.

>>	Anonymous Wed Aug 17 01:46:05 2011 No.2016246 >>2016194 oh I love you :) I discovered him in college and my entire opinion of poetry was changed forever

>>	Anonymous Wed Aug 17 01:53:05 2011 No.2016270 >>2016032 so simple yet so...beautiful I tasted the plums as i read

>>	Anonymous Wed Aug 17 01:55:05 2011 No.2016276 >>2016270 you have officially made my night now if only you were a woman

Anonymous Wed Aug 17 01:59:05 2011 No.2016290

They cut it down, and where the pitch-black aisles
Of forest night had hid eternal things,
They scaled the sky with towers and marble piles
To make a city for their revellings.

White and amazing to the lands around
That wondrous wealth of domes and turrets rose;
Crystal and ivory, sublimely crowned
With pinnacles that bore unmelting snows.

And through its halls the pipe and sistrum rang,
While wine and riot brought their scarlet stains;
Never a voice of elder marvels sang,
Nor any eye called up the hills and plains.

Thus down the years, till on one purple night
A drunken minstrel in his careless verse
Spoke the vile words that should not see the light,
And stirred the shadows of an ancient curse.

Forests may fall, but not the dusk they shield;
So on the spot where that proud city stood,
The shuddering dawn no single stone revealed,
But fled the blackness of a primal wood.

tamiki hara Anonymous Wed Aug 17 02:08:05 2011 No.2016309
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[ERROR]

This is a human being?
Look how the atom bomb changed it.
Flesh swells fearfully.
All men and women take one shape.
The voice that trickles from swollen lips on the festering, charred-black
face whispers the thin words, "Please help me."
This, this is a human being.
This is the face of a human being.

>>	Anonymous Wed Aug 17 02:09:05 2011 No.2016313 >>2016309 damn...

>>	Anonymous Wed Aug 17 02:16:05 2011 No.2016329 Say what you will about 4chan, but it has a way of displaying words in such a way that they may speak for themselves

Anonymous Wed Aug 17 02:25:05 2011 No.2016353

Read this first:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Clare

Then read this, which he wrote in the asylum:

I AM, by John Clare.

I am: yet what I am none cares or knows,
My friends forsake me like a memory lost;
I am the self-consumer of my woes,
They rise and vanish in oblivious host,
Like shades in love and death's oblivion lost;
And yet I am! and live with shadows tost

Into the nothingness of scorn and noise,
Into the living sea of waking dreams,
Where there is neither sense of life nor joys,
But the vast shipwreck of my life's esteems;
And e'en the dearest--that I loved the best--
Are strange--nay, rather stranger than the rest.

I long for scenes where man has never trod;
A place where woman never smil'd or wept;
There to abide with my creator, God,
And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept:
Untroubling and untroubled where I lie;
The grass below--above the vaulted sky.

>>	Anonymous Wed Aug 17 02:32:05 2011 No.2016382 >>2016119 >>2016125 >>2016131 >>2016194 OP here. Sherlock Holmes Guy, you are the only namefag I like.

>>	Anonymous Wed Aug 17 02:37:05 2011 No.2016393 >>2016353 >god damn it

>>	Anonymous Wed Aug 17 02:44:52 2011 No.2016418 File: 30 KB, 219x234, bluenose.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] >>2016353 >mfw i read older poems aloud Shit man. Poetry was different then. I like modern poetry too, but that shit was just fucking lyrical. It's beautiful.

>>	Anonymous Wed Aug 17 02:45:05 2011 No.2016421 http://snd.sc/lFls9F

>>	Anonymous Wed Aug 17 02:45:05 2011 No.2016423 >>2016393 does the mention of god ruin things for you?

>>	Anonymous Wed Aug 17 02:46:05 2011 No.2016427 >>2016421 I was gonna bitch, but good contribution. Nice mood.

>>	Anonymous Wed Aug 17 02:48:05 2011 No.2016428 >>2016423 With words like that attached to it? Not really. The problem is that I live smack dab in the middle of the bible belt and the mention of God brings up a horrible feeling.

>>	Anonymous Wed Aug 17 02:48:05 2011 No.2016429 >>2016418 This. All the 'modern art' poets don't realize the value of what they sacrificed to achieve the gimmicky originality they treasure so.

>>	None !ZAaEofNcKI Wed Aug 17 02:55:10 2011 No.2016444 >esting tay

>>	Anonymous Wed Aug 17 03:53:05 2011 No.2016550 Bump for POEMS.

Anonymous Wed Aug 17 03:55:05 2011 No.2016555

Fine, Dumping more Yeats (just because Eliot is too long). Also, can anyone hit me with some good Blake reccs?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If I make the lashes dark
And the eyes more bright
And the lips more scarlet,
Or ask if all be right
From mirror after mirror,
No vanity's displayed:
I'm looking for the face I had
Before the world was made.

What if I look upon a man
As though on my beloved,
And my blood be cold the while
And my heart unmoved?
Why should he think me cruel
Or that he is betrayed?
I'd have him love the thing that was
Before the world was made.

>>	Anonymous Wed Aug 17 04:46:05 2011 No.2016649 you know who I like? Federico Garcia Lorca. But I'm too lazy to type out my favorite poem since I can't find it online.

>>	Anonymous Wed Aug 17 04:47:05 2011 No.2016650 >>2016649 nigga whut dat sheet be kall?

Anonymous Wed Aug 17 05:12:05 2011 No.2016677

he Last Word
Jim Simmerman

You can have the bright
Face of the full moon
If I can have the dark
One it keeps out of sight.

You can have the circles
We chased ourselves in
If I can have the empty
Tunnels inside.

You can have the past
And the future to boot
If I can have the nick
Of time in between.

You can have the warmth
From the bridges we burned
If I can have the ashes
Drifting downstream.

You can have the music
That marshaled the waltz
If I can have the echo
That dies in the rafters.

You can have the last
Word, whatever it is,
If I can have
The silence thereafter

Anonymous Wed Aug 17 05:46:52 2011 No.2016735
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[ERROR]

On the Creation of Niggers (1912)
by H.P. Lovecraft

When, long ago, the gods created Earth
In Jove's fair image Man was shaped at birth.
The beasts for lesser parts were next designed;
Yet were they too remote from humankind.
To fill the gap, and join the rest to Man,
Th'Olympian host conceiv'd a clever plan.
A beast they wrought, in semi-human figure,
Filled it with vice, and called the thing a Nigger.

Anonymous Wed Aug 17 06:35:05 2011 No.2016770

Helen, thy beauty is to me
Like those Nicean barks of yore
That gently, o'er a perfumed sea,
The weary, way-worn wanderer bore
To his own native shore.

On desperate seas long wont to roam,
Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,
Thy Naiad airs have brought me home
To the glory that was Greece,
And the grandeur that was Rome.

Lo, in yon brilliant window-niche
How statue-like I see thee stand,
The agate lamp within thy hand,
Ah! Psyche, from the regions which
Are Holy Land!

>>	Anonymous Wed Aug 17 06:44:05 2011 No.2016774 >>2016735 What the fuck? That is hilarious.

Anonymous Wed Aug 17 06:48:05 2011 No.2016776

Sic Vita

Like to the falling of a Starre;
Or as the flights of Eagles are;
Or like fresh springs of gawdy hew;
Or silver drops of morning dew;
Or like a wind that chafes a flood;
Or bubbles which on water stood;
Even such is man, whose borrow’d light
Is streight call’d in, and paid to night.

The Wind blows out; The Bubble dies;
The Spring entomb’d in Autumn lies;
The Dew dries up; the Starre is shot;
The Flight is past; and Man forgot.

Anonymous Wed Aug 17 06:50:05 2011 No.2016779

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep ... tired ... or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all"—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: "That is not what I meant at all;
That is not it, at all."

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the
floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
"That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all."

Anonymous Wed Aug 17 06:52:05 2011 No.2016783

One day I was walking, I heard a complaining
And saw an old woman the picture of gloom
She gazed at the mud on her doorstep, ‘twas raining
And this was her song as she wielded her broom

O life is a toil, and love is a trouble
Beauty will fade and riches will flee
Pleasures they dwindle and prices they double
And nothing is as I would wish it to be

There’s too much of worriment goes to a bonnet
There’s too much ironing goes to a shirt,
There’s nothing that pays for the time that you waste on it
There’s nothing that lasts but trouble and dirt

In march it is mud, it is slush in December
The mid-summer breezes are loaded with dust.
In fall the leaves litter, in muddy September
The wallpaper rots and the candlesticks rust.

It’s sweeping at six and it’s dusting at seven.
It’s victuals at eight and it’s dishes at nine.
It’s potting and panning from ten to eleven.
We’ve scarce finished breakfast, we’re ready to dine.

Last night in my dreams I was stationed forever
On a far little rock in the midst of the sea.
My one chance at life was a ceaseless endeavour
To sweep of the waves as they swept over me.

Alas! ‘Twas no dream; ahead I behold it,
I see I am helpless my fate to avert
She lay down her broom, her apron she folded,
She lay down and died, and was buried in dirt.

'all that you've learnt, you will unlearn
All that you've made, will be unmade
and when you’re done, you will be undone'

Anonymous Wed Aug 17 06:53:05 2011 No.2016784

Say not the struggle nought availeth,
The labour and the wounds are vain,
The enemy faints not, nor faileth,
As things have been, things remain.

If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars;
It may be, in yon smoke concealed,
Your comrades chase e’en now the fliers,
And, but for you, possess the field

For while the tired waves, vainly breaking,
Seem here no painful inch to gain,
Far back through creeks and inlets making
Came, silent, flooding in, the main,

And not by eastern windows only,
When daylight comes, comes in the light,
In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly,
But westward look, the land is bright.

>>	Anonymous Wed Aug 17 06:53:05 2011 No.2016785 Question not, but live and labour Til yon goal be won, Helping every feeble neighbour, Seeking help from none; Life is mostly froth and bubble, Two things stand like stone, Kindness in another’s trouble, Courage in your own.

>>	Anonymous Wed Aug 17 06:54:05 2011 No.2016787 I strove with none, for none was worth my strife: Nature I loved, and next to Nature, Art: I warm’d both hands before the fire of life; It sinks; and I am ready to depart.

Anonymous Wed Aug 17 06:55:05 2011 No.2016788

Thrice toss these oaken ashes in the air,
Thrice sit thou mute in this enchanted chair;
Then thrice-three times tie up this true love’s knot,
And murmur soft ‘she will or she will not.’

Go burn these poisonous weeds in yon blue fire,
These screech owl’s feathers and this prickling brier,
This cypress gathered at a dead man’s grave,
That all thy fears and cares an end may have

Then come, you fairies! Dance with me a round!
Melt her hard heart with your melodious sound! -
In vain are all the charms I can devise:
She hath an art to break them with her eyes.

Anonymous Wed Aug 17 06:55:05 2011 No.2016789

Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away
Lengthen night and shorten day;
Every leaf speaks bliss to me,
Fluttering from the autumn tree.

I shall smile when wreaths of snow
Blossom where the rose should grow;
I shall sing when night’s decay
Ushers in a drearier day

Anonymous Wed Aug 17 06:56:05 2011 No.2016790

Quinquereme from Nineveh from distant Ophir
Rowing home to heaven in sunny Palestine
With a cargo of ivory,
And apes, and peacocks,
Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine

Stately Spanish Galleon coming from the Isthmus
Dipping through the tropics by the palm-green shores,
With a cargo of diamonds,
Emeralds, amethysts,
Topazes, and cinnamon, and gold moidores

Dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smoke stack
Butting through the channel in the mad March days
With a cargo of Tyne coal,
Road-rail, pig-lead,
Firewood, ironware, and cheap tin trays

>>	Anonymous Wed Aug 17 06:57:05 2011 No.2016791 Hark’ee wagtail: mend your ways; Life is brief, Anacreon says, Brief it’s joys, it’s ventures toilsome; Wine befriends ‘em - water spoils ‘em Who’s for water? Wagtail, you? Give me wine! I’ll drink for two.

Anonymous Wed Aug 17 06:58:05 2011 No.2016793

Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he’s dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.

Anonymous Wed Aug 17 07:04:05 2011 No.2016799

I just read this poem of Shelley's:

The Fountains mingle with the river
And the rivers with the ocean,
The winds of heaven mix for ever
With a sweet emotion;
Nothing in the world is single,
All things by a law devine
In one another's being mingle -
Why not I with thine?

See the mountains kiss high heaven
And the waves clasp one another;
No sister-flower would be forgiven
If it disdain'd its brother:
And the sunlight clasps the earth,
And the moonbeams kiss the sea -
What are all these kissings worth,
If thou kiss not me?

Behemoth !!Twl3DmqEY/B Wed Aug 17 07:06:05 2011 No.2016800

I am a parcel of vain strivings tied
By a chance bond together,
Dangling this way and that, their links
Were made so loose and wide,
Methinks,
For milder weather.

A bunch of violets without their roots,
And sorrel intermixed,
Encircled by a wisp of straw
Once coiled about their shoots,
The law
By which I'm fixed.

A nosegay which Time clutched from out
Those fair Elysian fields,
With weeds and broken stems, in haste,
Doth make the rabble rout
That waste
The day he yields.

And here I bloom for a short hour unseen,
Drinking my juices up,
With no root in the land
To keep my branches green,
But stand
In a bare cup.

Some tender buds were left upon my stem
In mimicry of life,
But ah! the children will not know,
Till time has withered them,
The woe
With which they're rife.

But now I see I was not plucked for naught,
And after in life's vase
Of glass set while I might survive,
But by a kind hand brought
Alive
To a strange place.

That stock thus thinned will soon redeem its hours,
And by another year,
Such as God knows, with freer air,
More fruits and fairer flowers
Will bear,
While I droop here.

>>	Anonymous Wed Aug 17 07:12:05 2011 No.2016804 >>2016800 I fucking love nosegays

>>	/lit/ Anonymous Wed Aug 17 07:14:05 2011 No.2016806 William Blake, Auguries of Innocence To see a world in a grain of sand, And a heaven in a wild flower, Hold infinity in the palm of your hand, And eternity in an hour.

"Morning Song" by Sylvia Plath Franz Liszt !!ixFboNvY7Y1 Wed Aug 17 07:19:05 2011 No.2016808

Love set you going like a fat gold watch.
The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry
Took its place among the elements.

Our voices echo, magnifying your arrival. New statue.
In a drafty museum, your nakedness
Shadows our safety. We stand round blankly as walls.

I'm no more your mother
Than the cloud that distills a mirror to reflect its own slow
Effacement at the wind's hand.

All night your moth-breath
Flickers among the flat pink roses. I wake to listen:
A far sea moves in my ear.

One cry, and I stumble from bed, cow-heavy and floral
In my Victorian nightgown.
Your mouth opens clean as a cat's. The window square

Whitens and swallows its dull stars. And now you try
Your handful of notes;
The clear vowels rise like balloons.

"L'Infinito" by Giacomo Leopardi Franz Liszt !!ixFboNvY7Y1 Wed Aug 17 07:20:05 2011 No.2016809

Sempre caro mi fu quest'ermo colle
E questa siepe che da tanta parte
Dell' ultimo orrizonte il guardo esclude.
Ma sedendo e mirando interminati
Spazi di là da quella, e sovrumani
Silenzi, e profondissima quiete,
Io nel pensier mi fingo, ove per poco
Il cor non si spaura. E come il vento
Odo stormir tra queste piante, io quello
Infinito silenzio a questa voce
Vo comparando; e mi sovvien l'eterno,
E le morte stagioni, e la presente
E viva, e il suon di lei. Così tra questa
Immensità s'annega il pensier mio:
E il naufragar m'è dolce in questo mare.

>>	Anonymous Wed Aug 17 09:11:05 2011 No.2016908 >>2016774 >>2016774 Lovecraft was a tad racist to say the least.

Porphyria's Lover Anonymous Wed Aug 17 09:26:05 2011 No.2016933

The rain set early in tonight,
The sullen wind was soon awake,
It tore the elm-tops down for spite,
And did its worst to vex the lake:
I listened with heart fit to break.
When glided in Porphyria; straight
She shut the cold out and the storm,
And kneeled and made the cheerless grate
Blaze up, and all the cottage warm;
Which done, she rose, and from her form
Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,
And laid her soiled gloves by, untied
Her hat and let the damp hair fall,
And, last, she sat down by my side
And called me. When no voice replied,
She put my arm about her waist,
And made her smooth white shoulder bare,
And all her yellow hair displaced,
And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,
And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair,
Murmuring how she loved me — she
Too weak, for all her heart's endeavor,
To set its struggling passion free
From pride, and vainer ties dissever,
And give herself to me forever.
But passion sometimes would prevail,
Nor could tonight's gay feast restrain
A sudden thought of one so pale
For love of her, and all in vain:
So, she was come through wind and rain.
Be sure I looked up at her eyes
Happy and proud; at last I knew
Porphyria worshiped me: surprise
Made my heart swell, and still it grew
While I debated what to do.

Porphyria's Lover Anonymous Wed Aug 17 09:27:05 2011 No.2016934

That moment she was mine, mine, fair,
Perfectly pure and good: I found
A thing to do, and all her hair
In one long yellow string I wound
Three times her little throat around,
And strangled her. No pain felt she;
I am quite sure she felt no pain.
As a shut bud that holds a bee,
I warily oped her lids: again
Laughed the blue eyes without a stain.
And I untightened next the tress
About her neck; her cheek once more
Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss:
I propped her head up as before,
Only, this time my shoulder bore
Her head, which droops upon it still:
The smiling rosy little head,
So glad it has its utmost will,
That all it scorned at once is fled,
And I, its love, am gained instead!
Porphyria's love: she guessed not how
Her darling one wish would be heard.
And thus we sit together now,
And all night long we have not stirred,
And yet God has not said a word!

Anonymous Wed Aug 17 09:35:05 2011 No.2016947

Might need to know a bit of Canadian history to understand this one: W.L.M.K by F.R. Scott

How shall we speak of Canada,
Mackenzie King dead?
The Mother's boy in the lonely room
With his dog, his medium and his ruins?

He blunted us.

We had no shape
Because he never took sides,
And no sides
Because he never allowed them to take shape.

He skilfully avoided what was wrong
Without saying what was right,
And never let his on the one hand
Know what his on the other hand was doing.

The height of his ambition
Was to pile a Parliamentary Committee on a Royal Commission,
To have "conscription if necessary
But not necessarily conscription,"
To let Parliament decide--
Later.

Postpone, postpone, abstain.

Only one thread was certain:
After World War I
Business as usual,
After World War II
Oderly decontrol.
Always he led us back to where we were before.

He seemed to be in the centre
Because we had no centre,
No vision
To pierce the smoke-screen of his politics.

Truly he will be remembered
Wherever men honour ingenuity,
Ambiguity, inactivity, and political longevity.

Let us raise up a temple
To the cult of mediocrity,
Do nothing by halves
Which can be done by quarters.

Anonymous Wed Aug 17 10:05:05 2011 No.2016990

Fergus and the Druid, by WB Yeats

{Fergus} This whole day have I followed in the rocks,
And you have changed and flowed from shape to shape,
First as a raven on whose ancient wings
Scarcely a feather lingered, then you seemed
A weasel moving on from stone to stone,
And now at last you wear a human shape,
A thin grey man half lost in gathering night.

{Druid} What would you, king of the proud Red Branch kings?

{Fergus} This would I Say, most wise of living souls:
Young subtle Conchubar sat close by me
When I gave judgment, and his words were wise,
And what to me was burden without end,
To him seemed easy, So I laid the crown
Upon his head to cast away my sorrow.

{Druid} What would you, king of the proud Red Branch kings?

{Fergus} A king and proud! and that is my despair.
I feast amid my people on the hill,
And pace the woods, and drive my chariot-wheels
In the white border of the murmuring sea;
And still I feel the crown upon my head.

{Druid} What would you, Fergus?

{Fergus} Be no more a king
But learn the dreaming wisdom that is yours.

{Druid} Look on my thin grey hair and hollow cheeks
And on these hands that may not lift the sword,
This body trembling like a wind-blown reed.
No woman's loved me, no man sought my help.

{Fergus} A king is but a foolish labourer
Who wastes his blood to be another's dream.

{Druid} Take, if you must, this little bag of dreams;
Unloose the cord, and they will wrap you round.

{Fergus} I See my life go drifting like a river
From change to change; I have been many things --
A green drop in the surge, a gleam of light
Upon a sword, a fir-tree on a hill,
An old slave grinding at a heavy quern,
A king sitting upon a chair of gold --
And all these things were wonderful and great;
But now I have grown nothing, knowing all.
Ah! Druid, Druid, how great webs of sorrow
Lay hidden in the small slate-coloured thing!

Anonymous Wed Aug 17 10:06:05 2011 No.2016992

Ich irre umher, jung noch, mit silbernem Bogen,
locke die erblühten Kirschen aus dem Hinterhalt,
doch hinter den Bergen schon ahn’ ich die Heimat,
dort werde ich das Lachen begraben,
dort, unter den Pappeln.

Kalt ist der Frühlingsabend, auch hier,
als würde die Donau im Tal versteckt fließen.
Wo aber die Wolken dem Arno bis auf den Grund sinken,
und hart flackert das Grüne empor,
sehe ich, über den Horizont führt eine Brücke
in die schwere Finsternis der Fruška Gora.

Statt mich zu verbeugen vor dem toskanischen Mond,
der im Fluss glänzt, eine weiße Lilie,
weiß ich, dass ich in diesem Frühling schwer erkranke,
und ich sehe eine schlanke Gestalt, die sich,
treu und traurig,
mit ihrem Schatten und ihrem Schritt
ins Wasser stürzt, welches läutet,
in den klaren Himmel hinein.

Und ahnend,
dass sich die Seele bald trübt,
lebe ich verwirrt
an diesen Flüssen, den taubenhaft-grauen.

Lange führte ich mit mir
diesen krummen Schatten,
und hätte ich es gewollt, auf diesem Berg,
hätte ich kennen gelernt den Wein, die Nacht, das Gelage
und den Bach, der jetzt an unser Statt murmelt.

Und so traure ich nicht.
Krankheit hat meine Augen getrübt.
Und so, frei von Unkeuschheit,
färbt bittere Fäulnis meine Lippen rot.

Ich irre umher, jung noch, mit silbernem Bogen,
locke die erblühten Kirschen aus dem Hinterhalt,
doch hinter den Bergen schon ahn’ ich die Heimat,
dort werde ich das Lachen begraben,
dort, hinter den Pappeln.

Anonymous Wed Aug 17 10:27:05 2011 No.2017027

Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me
I’m not sleepy and there is no place I’m going to
Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me
In the jingle jangle morning I’ll come followin’ you

Though I know that evenin’s empire has returned into sand
Vanished from my hand
Left me blindly here to stand but still not sleeping
My weariness amazes me, I’m branded on my feet
I have no one to meet
And the ancient empty street’s too dead for dreaming

Take me on a trip upon your magic swirlin’ ship
My senses have been stripped, my hands can’t feel to grip
My toes too numb to step
Wait only for my boot heels to be wanderin’
I’m ready to go anywhere, I’m ready for to fade
Into my own parade, cast your dancing spell my way
I promise to go under it

Though you might hear laughin’, spinnin’, swingin’ madly across the sun
It’s not aimed at anyone, it’s just escapin’ on the run
And but for the sky there are no fences facin’
And if you hear vague traces of skippin’ reels of rhyme
To your tambourine in time, it’s just a ragged clown behind
I wouldn’t pay it any mind
It’s just a shadow you’re seein’ that he’s chasing

Then take me disappearin’ through the smoke rings of my mind
Down the foggy ruins of time, far past the frozen leaves
The haunted, frightened trees, out to the windy beach
Far from the twisted reach of crazy sorrow
Yes, to dance beneath the diamond sky with one hand waving free
Silhouetted by the sea, circled by the circus sands
With all memory and fate driven deep beneath the waves
Let me forget about today until tomorrow

Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me
I’m not sleepy and there is no place I’m going to
Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me
In the jingle jangle morning I’ll come followin’ you

Behemoth !!Twl3DmqEY/B Wed Aug 17 10:37:05 2011 No.2017044

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.

Arseny Tarkovsky Anonymous Wed Aug 17 10:40:05 2011 No.2017052

Now summer is gone.
And might never have been.
In the sunshine it’s warm.
But there has to be more.

It all came to pass,
All fell into my hands
Like a five-petalled leaf,
But there has to be more.

Nothing evil was lost,
Nothing good was in vain,
All ablaze with clear light
But there has to be more.

Life gathered me up
Safe under its wing,
My luck always held,
But there has to be more.

Not a leaf was burnt up
Not a twig ever snapped …
Clean as glass is the day,
But there has to be more.

Byzantium by Yeats Anonymous Wed Aug 17 10:42:05 2011 No.2017056

The unpurged images of day recede;
The Emperor's drunken soldiery are abed;
Night resonance recedes, night walkers' song
After great cathedral gong;
A starlit or a moonlit dome disdains
All that man is,
All mere complexities,
The fury and the mire of human veins.

Before me floats an image, man or shade,
Shade more than man, more image than a shade;
For Hades' bobbin bound in mummy-cloth
May unwind the winding path;
A mouth that has no moisture and no breath
Breathless mouths may summon;
I hail the superhuman;
I call it death-in-life and life-in-death.

Miracle, bird or golden handiwork,
More miracle than bird or handiwork,
Planted on the star-lit golden bough,
Can like the cocks of Hades crow,
Or, by the moon embittered, scorn aloud
In glory of changeless metal
Common bird or petal
And all complexities of mire or blood.

At midnight on the Emperor's pavement flit
Flames that no faggot feeds, nor steel has lit,
Nor storm disturbs, flames begotten of flame,
Where blood-begotten spirits come
And all complexities of fury leave,
Dying into a dance,
An agony of trance,
An agony of flame that cannot singe a sleeve.

Astraddle on the dolphin's mire and blood,
Spirit after Spirit! The smithies break the flood.
The golden smithies of the Emperor!
Marbles of the dancing floor
Break bitter furies of complexity,
Those images that yet
Fresh images beget,
That dolphin-torn, that gong-tormented sea.

See also: its more famous half-brother, 'Sailing to Byzantium' for another take on the same ideas

Anonymous Wed Aug 17 11:01:05 2011 No.2017092
File: 18 KB, 276x400, sassoon.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]
[ERROR]

‘Good-morning; good-morning!’ the General said
When we met him last week on our way to the line.
Now the soldiers he smiled at are most of ’em dead,
And we’re cursing his staff for incompetent swine.
‘He’s a cheery old card,’ grunted Harry to Jack
As they slogged up to Arras with rifle and pack.

But he did for them both by his plan of attack.

Augeries of Innocence - William Blake Anonymous Wed Aug 17 11:16:05 2011 No.2017118

To see a world in a grain of sand,
And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,
And eternity in an hour.

A robin redbreast in a cage
Puts all heaven in a rage.

A dove-house fill'd with doves and pigeons
Shudders hell thro' all its regions.
A dog starv'd at his master's gate
Predicts the ruin of the state.

(...)

>>	Anonymous Wed Aug 17 11:22:05 2011 No.2017131 >>2016131 I love you /lit/.

Mirror Anonymous Wed Aug 17 11:26:05 2011 No.2017147

I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
Whatever I see, I swallow immediately.
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike
I am not cruel, only truthful –
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.

Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me.
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.

Sherlock Holmes Guy Wed Aug 17 11:34:05 2011 No.2017170

>>2016382
Aw, thanks!
---

A Blockhead
by Amy Lowell

Before me lies a mass of shapeless days,
Unseparated atoms, and I must
Sort them apart and live them. Sifted dust
Covers the formless heap. Reprieves, delays,
There are none, ever. As a monk who prays
The sliding beads asunder, so I thrust
Each tasteless particle aside, and just
Begin again the task which never stays.
And I have known a glory of great suns,
When days flashed by, pulsing with joy and fire!
Drunk bubbled wine in goblets of desire,
And felt the whipped blood laughing as it runs!
Spilt is that liquor, my too hasty hand
Threw down the cup, and did not understand.

>>	Sherlock Holmes Guy Wed Aug 17 11:36:05 2011 No.2017172 File: 60 KB, 540x540, catfive.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] >>2017147 haha! i have that one written down in my notebook right next to "A Blockhead"

Anonymous Wed Aug 17 11:37:05 2011 No.2017182

>>2017044
High Windows
By Philip Larkin

When I see a couple of kids
And guess he’s fucking her and she’s
Taking pills or wearing a diaphragm,
I know this is paradise

Everyone old has dreamed of all their lives—
Bonds and gestures pushed to one side
Like an outdated combine harvester,
And everyone young going down the long slide

To happiness, endlessly. I wonder if
Anyone looked at me, forty years back,
And thought, That’ll be the life;
No God any more, or sweating in the dark

About hell and that, or having to hide
What you think of the priest. He
And his lot will all go down the long slide
Like free bloody birds. And immediately

Rather than words comes the thought of high windows:
The sun-comprehending glass,
And beyond it, the deep blue air, that shows
Nothing, and is nowhere, and is endless.

Dover Beach Anonymous Wed Aug 17 11:48:05 2011 No.2017205

The sea is calm to-night.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits;--on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanch'd land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.

Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the Aegean, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.

The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furl'd.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.

Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.

Anonymous Wed Aug 17 11:49:05 2011 No.2017208

Gyllenlakk, før du din glans har tapt,
da er jeg det hvorav alt er skapt;
ja, før du mister din krones gull,
da er jeg muld.

Idet jeg roper; med vinduet opp!
mitt siste blikk får din gyllentopp.
Min sjel deg kysser idet forbi
den flyver fri.

To ganger jeg kysser din søte munn.
Ditt er det første med rettens grunn.
Det annet give du - kjære, husk! -
min rosenbusk!

Utsprungen får jeg den ei å se;
ti bring min hilsen når det vil skje;
og si jeg ønsker at på min grav
den blomstrer av.

Ja, si jeg ønsker at på mitt bryst
den rose lå du fra meg har kyst;
og, gyllenlakk, vær i dødens hus
dens brudebluss!

>>	Anonymous Wed Aug 17 11:50:05 2011 No.2017209 >>2017172 Poemmind

Anonymous Wed Aug 17 12:54:05 2011 No.2017281

A man walked out of his house
with a bag and a walking stick
And to a distant path,
and to a distant path,
set off on foot.

He walked straight and true,
and straight and true he looked ahead,
Not sleeping, not drinking,
not drinking, not sleeping,
not sleeping, not drinking, not eating.

And then one morning at dawn
He entered a dark forest.
And since that day,
and since that day,
and since that day he's been gone.

If you hear something about him,
then at once, then at once,
come and tell us!

-Из дома вышел человек, Daniel Harms, 1937

not the best translation, it was off the top of my head, but it's still a good poem and pretty creepy when you consider it was written while Stalin was 'disappearing' people. The author himself, who only ever wrote children's poetry like this, was later taken by the Soviets and never heard from again.

>>	Anonymous Wed Aug 17 13:09:05 2011 No.2017297 >>2017208 Det er et smukt digt!

Anonymous Wed Aug 17 13:20:05 2011 No.2017311

DEATH be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then;
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.

Anonymous Wed Aug 17 14:18:05 2011 No.2017438
File: 307 KB, 802x540, 1302909469406.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]
[ERROR]

e.e. cummings

since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;
wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world

my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry
—the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids' flutter which says

we are for each other: then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life's not a paragraph

And death i think is no parenthesis

Deep&Edgy !pSkjEcB9sQ Wed Aug 17 14:40:05 2011 No.2017471

I asked if i got sick and died, would you
With my black funeral go, walking too,
If you'd stand close to hear them talk or pray
While I'm let down in that steep bank of clay.

And, No, you said, for if you saw a crew
Of living idiots pressing round that new
Oak coffin - they alive, I dead beneath
That board - you'd rave and rend them with your teeth.

Anonymous Wed Aug 17 16:11:05 2011 No.2017596

When I cannot look at your face
I look at your feet.
Your feet of arched bone,
your hard little feet.
I know that they support you,
and that your sweet weight
rises upon them.
Your waist and your breasts,
the doubled purple
of your nipples,
the sockets of your eyes
that have just flown away,
your wide fruit mouth,
your red tresses,
my little tower.
But I love your feet
only because they walked
upon the earth and upon
the wind and upon the waters,
until they found me.

>>	Anonymous Wed Aug 17 17:44:05 2011 No.2017737 >>2017297 Ett av de beste!

>>	Anonymous Wed Aug 17 17:47:05 2011 No.2017743 There was a man called Dave Who kept a dead whore in a cave He said "I admit I am a bit of a shit But think of the money I save".

Anonymous Wed Aug 17 17:52:05 2011 No.2017751

I want to sleep the sleep of the apples,
I want to get far away from the busyness of the cemeteries.
I want to sleep the sleep of that child
who longed to cut his heart open far out at sea.

I don't want them to tell me again how the corpse keeps all its blood,
how the decaying mouth goes on begging for water.
I'd rather not hear about the torture sessions the grass arranges for
nor about how the moon does all its work before dawn
with its snakelike nose.

I want to sleep for half a second,
a second, a minute, a century,
but I want everyone to know that I am still alive,
that I have a golden manger inside my lips,
that I am the little friend of the west wind,
that I am the elephantine shadow of my own tears.

When it's dawn just throw some sort of cloth over me
because I know dawn will toss fistfuls of ants at me,
and pour a little hard water over my shoes
so that the scorpion claws of the dawn will slip off.

Because I want to sleep the sleep of the apples,
and learn a mournful song that will clean all earth away from me,
because I want to live with that shadowy child
who longed to cut his heart open far out at sea.

>>	Anonymous Wed Aug 17 18:02:05 2011 No.2017765 Emily Dickinson - 561

I heard a Fly Buzz, Emily Dickenson Anonymous Wed Aug 17 18:05:05 2011 No.2017769

I heard a Fly buzz – when I died –
The Stillness in the Room
Was like the Stillness in the Air –
Between the Heaves of Storm –

The Eyes around – had wrung them dry –
And Breaths were gathering firm
For that last Onset – when the King
Be witnessed – in the Room –

I willed my Keepsakes – Signed away
What portions of me be
Assignable – and then it was
There interposed a Fly –

With Blue – uncertain stumbling Buzz –
Between the light – and me –
And then the Windows failed – and then
I could not see to see –

>>	Anonymous Wed Aug 17 18:18:05 2011 No.2017781 There was a man in Peru who dreamt he was eating his shoe

>>	Anonymous Wed Aug 17 18:21:05 2011 No.2017783 To get the last poems of Yeats, One needn't mug up on dates. All one requires Is a knowledge of gyres, And the sort of persons he hates.

>>	Anonymous Wed Aug 17 18:21:05 2011 No.2017784 As the poets have mournfully sung, Death takes the innocent young, The rolling-in-money, The screamingly-funny, And those who are very well-hung.

>>	Anonymous Wed Aug 17 20:05:05 2011 No.2017918 Some say the world will end in fire Some say in ice From what I’ve tasted of desire I hold with those who favour fire But if it had to perish twice I think I know enough of hate To say that for destruction ice Is just as great And would suffice

>>	Anonymous Wed Aug 17 21:58:05 2011 No.2018137 >>2017596 That's a beautiful way of saying honey, don't freak out, but I really should tell you, I kind of have a... thing for... for feet. >uncle dies of cancer >captcha reads 'tumor' Thanks for your sensitivity, captcha

>>	Anonymous Thu Aug 18 00:29:05 2011 No.2018410 >>2016011 Just ignore them and keep writing.

Anonymous Thu Aug 18 00:34:05 2011 No.2018418

I will put Chaos into fourteen lines
And keep him there; and let him thence escape
If he be lucky; let him twist, and ape
Flood, fire, and demon --- his adroit designs
Will strain to nothing in the strict confines
Of this sweet order, where, in pious rape,
I hold his essence and amorphous shape,
Till he with Order mingles and combines.
Past are the hours, the years of our duress,
His arrogance, our awful servitude:
I have him. He is nothing more nor less
Than something simple not yet understood;
I shall not even force him to confess;
Or answer. I will only make him good.

Edna St. Vincent Millay

Anonymous Thu Aug 18 00:40:05 2011 No.2018432

Bavarian Gentians
Not every man has gentians in his house
in soft September, at slow, sad Michaelmas.

Bavarian gentians, big and dark, only dark
darkening the daytime, torch-like, with the smoking blueness of Pluto's
gloom,
ribbed and torch-like, with their blaze of darkness spread blue
down flattening into points, flattened under the sweep of white day
torch-flower of the blue-smoking darkness, Pluto's dark-blue daze,
black lamps from the halls of Dis, burning dark blue,
giving off darkness, blue darkness, as Demeter's pale lamps give off
light,
lead me then, lead the way.

Reach me a gentian, give me a torch!
let me guide myself with the blue, forked torch of this flower
down the darker and darker stairs, where blue is darkened on blueness
even where Persephone goes, just now, from the frosted September
to the sightless realm where darkness is awake upon the dark
and Persephone herself is but a voice
or a darkness invisible enfolded in the deeper dark
of the arms Plutonic, and pierced with the passion of dense gloom,
among the splendor of torches of darkness, shedding darkness on
the lost bride and her groom.

D H Lawrence

>>	Anonymous Thu Aug 18 01:48:05 2011 No.2018572 >>2016992 >>2016992 Sauce please

>>	Anonymous Thu Aug 18 01:56:05 2011 No.2018583 In a town named Joliet A man sat upon a toliet His ass gaping wide He felt something slipping inside His heart was aflutter Blood he began to sputter He fell over dead A snake crawled out of his head

>>	Anonymous Thu Aug 18 02:26:05 2011 No.2018626 http://glenavalon.com/peopleyes.html

"Бессонница. Гомер. Тугие паруса." by Osip Mandelstam Franz Liszt !!ixFboNvY7Y1 Thu Aug 18 02:35:05 2011 No.2018634

Бессонница. Гомер. Тугие паруса.
Я список кораблей прочел до середины:
Сей длинный выводок, сей поезд журавлиный,
Что над Элладою когда-то поднялся.
Как журавлиный клин в чужие рубежи—
На головах царей божественная пена—
Куда плывете вы? Когда бы не Елена,
Что Троя вам одна, ахейские мужи?

И море, и Гомер — всё движется любовью.
Кого же слушать мне? И вот Гомер молчит,
И море черное, витийствуя, шумит
И с тяжким грохотом подходит к изголовью.

Franz Liszt !!ixFboNvY7Y1 Thu Aug 18 02:36:05 2011 No.2018635

>>2018634
translation:

Insomnia... Homer... taut sails.
To midpoint have I read the catalog of ships:
That long, that drawn-out brood, those cranes, a crane procession
That over Hellas rose how many years ago,
Cranes like a wedge of cranes aimed at an alien shore—
A godly foam spread out upon the heads of kings—
Where are you sailing to? If Helen were not there,
What would Troy be to you, mere Troy, Achaean men?

Both Homer and the sea—everything moves by love.
Who shall I listen to? Homer is silent now,
And a black sea, a noisy orator, resounds,
And with a grinding crash comes up to the bed's head.

Anonymous Thu Aug 18 04:48:05 2011 No.2018795

I am desolate in dimension
circling the sky
like a rainy bird,

wet from toe to crown
wet from bill to wing.

I feel like a drowned king
at the pomegranate circus.

I vowed last year
that I wouldn’t go again
but here I sit in my usual seat,
dripping and clapping

as the pomegranates go by
in their metallic costumes.

Anonymous Thu Aug 18 04:52:05 2011 No.2018801

Lyn Lifshin is the only female poet I have ever enjoyed. Actually, she's the only female-perspective in any sort of literature that I find palatable.

Lace grows in her eyes like
fat wedding,
she is pretty, has been baking

bisquits of linen to stuff into his mouth
all her life,

waiting for him. The hallways
under her skin are thick with dreamchildren.

Who he is hardly matters, her rooms
stay for him,

her body crying to be taken
with rings and furniture, tight behind doors

in a wave of green breath and wild rhythm,
in a bed of
lost birds and feathers,

smiling, dying

>>	Anonymous Thu Aug 18 17:21:05 2011 No.2019819 MOAR

Anonymous Thu Aug 18 17:28:05 2011 No.2019830

These three angels used to be attorneys
It is such a serious thing to me
Oh, how i search through the memories
Such an experience for me
Silence creating bold letters
Like not and better
[ Find more Lyrics on http://mp3lyrics.org/PRw8 ]
These three devils used to be apologies
These three angels used to be monuments
I tried to find that
feeling from that letter
For my consistencies
It was such a painful thing to see
When the shadows didnt bend
Like now and then
These three devils used to be apostrophes
So I destroyed a monument
So what

From a song, but it's read as a poem in the song. It's one of the few poems that I've actually enjoyed in my life, with the exception of a Robert Browning poem that is to long for this.

>>	Anonymous Thu Aug 18 17:30:05 2011 No.2019835 >>2019830 whoops, I didn't notice that ad in there, sorry about that And yes I know grim dark heart ache bull shit, but I thought it was interesting.

God, give us men! JamesBond !!JAU/DZkp95n Thu Aug 18 17:45:05 2011 No.2019860

GOD, give us men! A time like this demands
Strong minds, great hearts, true faith and ready hands;
Men whom the lust of office does not kill;
Men whom the spoils of office can not buy;
Men who possess opinions and a will;
Men who have honor; men who will not lie;
Men who can stand before a demagogue
And damn his treacherous flatteries without winking!
Tall men, sun-crowned, who live above the fog
In public duty, and in private thinking;
For while the rabble, with their thumb-worn creeds,
Their large professions and their little deeds,
Mingle in selfish strife, lo! Freedom weeps,
Wrong rules the land and waiting Justice sleeps.

--Josiah Gilbert Holland

>>	Anonymous Thu Aug 18 17:52:05 2011 No.2019871 >>2019860 "For while the rabble, with their thumb-worn creeds, Their large professions and their little deeds," What does the first line mean?

>>	JamesBond !!JAU/DZkp95n Thu Aug 18 18:02:05 2011 No.2019892 >>2019871 The two lines are connected: They mean," while the rabble with their moldy beliefs professes grandiose schemes but does little in reality".

>>	Anonymous Thu Aug 18 18:03:05 2011 No.2019901 >>2016045 this is absolute genius

Anonymous Thu Aug 18 18:13:05 2011 No.2019911

INCOMING:

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by
madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn
looking for an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly
connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,
who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat
up smoking in the supernatural darkness of
cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities
contemplating jazz,
who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and
saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated,
who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes
hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy
among the scholars of war,
who were expelled from the academies for crazy &
publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull,
who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear,
burning their money in wastebaskets and listening
to the Terror through the wall,
who got busted in their pubic beards returning through
Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York,
who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in
Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their
torsos night after night
with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares,
alcohol and cock and endless balls,
incomparable blind; streets of shuddering cloud and
lightning in the mind leaping toward poles of Canada & Paterson,
illuminating all the motionless world of Time between,

>>	Anonymous Thu Aug 18 18:14:05 2011 No.2019913 >>2019871 The actual sentence is: "while the rabble mingle, freedom weeps"

Anonymous Thu Aug 18 18:15:05 2011 No.2019917

my favorite of Anne Sexton
and it makes me RANDY as a pair of nude legs

On the southwest side of Capri
we found a little unknown grotto
where no people were and we
entered it completely
and let our bodies lose all
their loneliness.

All the fish in us
had escaped for a minute.
The real fish did not mind.
We did not disturb their personal life.
We calmly trailed over them
and under them, shedding
air bubbles, little white
balloons that drifted up
into the sun by the boat
where the Italian boatman slept
with his hat over his face.

Water so clear you could
read a book through it.
Water so buoyant you could
float on your elbow.
I lay on it as on a divan.
I lay on it just like
Matisse's Red Odalisque.
Water was my strange flower,
one must picture a woman
without a toga or a scarf
on a couch as deep as a tomb.

The walls of that grotto
were everycolor blue and
you said, "Look! Your eyes
are seacolor. Look! Your eyes
are skycolor." And my eyes
shut down as if they were
suddenly ashamed.

>>	JamesBond !!JAU/DZkp95n Thu Aug 18 18:20:05 2011 No.2019925 >>2019913 Yes. But I think he wanted the meaning of the Creeds part/

Anonymous Thu Aug 18 18:21:05 2011 No.2019928

This one excites a certain bone
Anne SEXton: Barefoot
Loving me with my shows off
means loving my long brown legs,
sweet dears, as good as spoons;
and my feet, those two children
let out to play naked. Intricate nubs,
my toes. No longer bound.
And what's more, see toenails and
all ten stages, root by root.
All spirited and wild, this little
piggy went to market and this little piggy
stayed. Long brown legs and long brown toes.
Further up, my darling, the woman
is calling her secrets, little houses,
little tongues that tell you.

There is no one else but us
in this house on the land spit.
The sea wears a bell in its navel.
And I'm your barefoot wench for a
whole week. Do you care for salami?
No. You'd rather not have a scotch?
No. You don't really drink. You do
drink me. The gulls kill fish,
crying out like three-year-olds.
The surf's a narcotic, calling out,
I am, I am, I am
all night long. Barefoot,
I drum up and down your back.
In the morning I run from door to door
of the cabin playing chase me.
Now you grab me by the ankles.
Now you work your way up the legs
and come to pierce me at my hunger mark

Only Men JamesBond !!JAU/DZkp95n Thu Aug 18 18:25:05 2011 No.2019935

What makes a nation's pillars high
And it's foundations strong?
What makes it mighty to defy
The foes that round it throng?
It is not gold. Its kingdoms grand
Go down in battle shock;
Its shafts are laid on sinking sand,
Not on abiding rock.
Is it the sword? Ask the red dust
Of empires passed away;
The blood has turned their stones to rust,
Their glory to decay.
And is it pride? Ah, that bright crown
Has seemed to nations sweet;
But God has struck its luster down
In ashes at his feet.
Not gold but only men can make
A people great and strong;
Men who for truth and honor's sake
Stand fast and suffer long.
Brave men who work while others sleep,
Who dare while others fly...
They build a nation's pillars deep
And lift them to the sky.

--Ralph Waldo Emerson

This one's a bit longer, but every word is golden.

KOALA !BEAR/B2lgo Thu Aug 18 19:05:05 2011 No.2020002

when life is quite through with
and leaves say alas,
much is to do
for the swallow,that closes
a flight in the blue;

when love's had his tears out,
perhaps shall pass
a million years
(while a bee dozes
on the poppies,the dears;

when all's fone and said,and
under the grass
lies her head
by oaks and roses
deliberated.)

Richard Cory by Edwin Arlington Robinson Behemoth !!Twl3DmqEY/B Thu Aug 18 19:11:05 2011 No.2020008

Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean-favoured and imperially slim.

And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
"Good Morning!" and he glittered when he walked.

And he was rich, yes, richer than a king,
And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine -- we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.

So on we worked and waited for the light,
And went without the meat and cursed the bread,
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet in his head.

Shine, Perishing Republic by Robinson Jeffers Behemoth !!Twl3DmqEY/B Thu Aug 18 19:13:05 2011 No.2020013

While this America settles in the mould of its vulgarity, heavily thickening
to empire
And protest, only a bubble in the molten mass, pops and sighs out, and the
mass hardens,
I sadly smiling remember that the flower fades to make fruit, the fruit rots
to make earth.
Out of the mother; and through the spring exultances, ripeness and deca-
dence; and home to the mother.

You making haste haste on decay: not blameworthy; life is good, be it stub-
bornly long or suddenly
A mortal splendor: meteors are not needed less than mountains:
shine, perishing republic.
But for my children, I would have them keep their distance from the thick-
ening center; corruption
Never has been compulsory, when the cities lie at the monster's feet there
are left the mountains.
And boys, be in nothing so moderate as in love of man, a clever servant,
insufferable master.
There is the trap that catches noblest spirits, that caught--they say--
God, when he walked on earth.

KOALA !BEAR/B2lgo Thu Aug 18 19:19:05 2011 No.2020021

"next to of course god america i
love you land of the pilgrims' and so forth oh
say can you see by the dawn's early my
country 'tis of centuries come and go
and are no more what of it we should worry
in every language even deafanddumb
thy sons acclaim your glorious name by gorry
by jingo by gee by gosh by gum
why talk of beauty what could be more beat-
iful than these heroic happy dead
who rushed like lions to the roaring slaughter
they did not stop to think they died instead
then shall the voice of liberty be mute?"

He spoke. And drank rapidly a glass of water

Anonymous Thu Aug 18 19:26:05 2011 No.2020035

Lines Written on the Eve of His Execution
Sir Walter Raleigh

Even such is Time, which takes in trust
Our youth, our joys, and all we have,
And pays us but with age and dust;
Which in the dark and silent grave,
When we have wandered all our ways,
Shuts up the story of our days!
But from this earth, this grave, this dust,
My God shall raise me up, I trust.

>Boy, I done sure sent one o' this to Robby Lee before I kicked'im in the drawers at Appomattox, hyeck hyeck hyeck.

Anonymous Thu Aug 18 20:27:05 2011 No.2020170

It's four in the morning, the end of December
I'm writing you now just to see if you're better
New York is cold, but I like where I'm living
There's music on Clinton Street all through the evening.

I hear that you're building your little house deep in the desert
You're living for nothing now, I hope you're keeping some kind of record.

Yes, and Jane came by with a lock of your hair
She said that you gave it to her
That night that you planned to go clear
Did you ever go clear?

Ah, the last time we saw you you looked so much older
Your famous blue raincoat was torn at the shoulder
You'd been to the station to meet every train
And you came home without Lili Marlene

And you treated my woman to a flake of your life
And when she came back she was nobody's wife.

Well I see you there with the rose in your teeth
One more thin gypsy thief
Well I see Jane's awake --
She sends her regards.

And what can I tell you my brother, my killer
What can I possibly say?
I guess that I miss you, I guess I forgive you
I'm glad you stood in my way.

If you ever come by here, for Jane or for me
Your enemy is sleeping, and his woman is free.

Yes, and thanks, for the trouble you took from her eyes
I thought it was there for good so I never tried.

And Jane came by with a lock of your hair
She said that you gave it to her
That night that you planned to go clear
Sincerely, L. Cohen

Anonymous Thu Aug 18 20:34:05 2011 No.2020176
File: 30 KB, 281x375, Lord_Byron.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]
[ERROR]

Titan! to whose immortal eyes
The sufferings of mortality,
Seen in their sad reality,
Were not as things that gods despise;
What was thy pity's recompense?
A silent suffering, and intense;
The rock, the vulture, and the chain,
All that the proud can feel of pain,
The agony they do not show,
The suffocating sense of woe,
Which speaks but in its loneliness,
And then is jealous lest the sky
Should have a listener, nor will sigh
Until its voice is echoless.

Anonymous Thu Aug 18 20:34:05 2011 No.2020178

>>2020176

Titan! to thee the strife was given
Between the suffering and the will,
Which torture where they cannot kill;
And the inexorable Heaven,
And the deaf tyranny of Fate,
The ruling principle of Hate,
Which for its pleasure doth create
The things it may annihilate,
Refus'd thee even the boon to die:
The wretched gift Eternity
Was thine—and thou hast borne it well.
All that the Thunderer wrung from thee
Was but the menace which flung back
On him the torments of thy rack;
The fate thou didst so well foresee,
But would not to appease him tell;
And in thy Silence was his Sentence,
And in his Soul a vain repentance,
And evil dread so ill dissembled,
That in his hand the lightnings trembled.

Anonymous Thu Aug 18 20:35:05 2011 No.2020179

>>2020178

Thy Godlike crime was to be kind,
To render with thy precepts less
The sum of human wretchedness,
And strengthen Man with his own mind;
But baffled as thou wert from high,
Still in thy patient energy,
In the endurance, and repulse
Of thine impenetrable Spirit,
Which Earth and Heaven could not convulse,
A mighty lesson we inherit:
Thou art a symbol and a sign
To Mortals of their fate and force;
Like thee, Man is in part divine,
A troubled stream from a pure source;
And Man in portions can foresee
His own funereal destiny;
His wretchedness, and his resistance,
And his sad unallied existence:
To which his Spirit may oppose
Itself—and equal to all woes,
And a firm will, and a deep sense,
Which even in torture can descry
Its own concenter'd recompense,
Triumphant where it dares defy,
And making Death a Victory.

Frederico Garcia Lorca - City that Never Sleeps Dr. Seussicide (SLAF) Thu Aug 18 20:38:05 2011 No.2020185

In the sky there is nobody asleep. Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is asleep.
The creatures of the moon sniff and prowl about their cabins.
The living iguanas will come and bite the men who do not dream,
and the man who rushes out with his spirit broken will meet on the
street corner
the unbelievable alligator quiet beneath the tender protest of the
stars.

Nobody is asleep on earth. Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is asleep.
In a graveyard far off there is a corpse
who has moaned for three years
because of a dry countryside on his knee;
and that boy they buried this morning cried so much
it was necessary to call out the dogs to keep him quiet.

Life is not a dream. Careful! Careful! Careful!
We fall down the stairs in order to eat the moist earth
or we climb to the knife edge of the snow with the voices of the dead
dahlias.
But forgetfulness does not exist, dreams do not exist;
flesh exists. Kisses tie our mouths
in a thicket of new veins,
and whoever his pain pains will feel that pain forever
and whoever is afraid of death will carry it on his shoulders.

One day
the horses will live in the saloons
and the enraged ants
will throw themselves on the yellow skies that take refuge in the
eyes of cows.

part deuce Dr. Seussicide (SLAF) Thu Aug 18 20:39:05 2011 No.2020186

>>2020185

Another day
we will watch the preserved butterflies rise from the dead
and still walking through a country of gray sponges and silent boats
we will watch our ring flash and roses spring from our tongue.
Careful! Be careful! Be careful!
The men who still have marks of the claw and the thunderstorm,
and that boy who cries because he has never heard of the invention
of the bridge,
or that dead man who possesses now only his head and a shoe,
we must carry them to the wall where the iguanas and the snakes
are waiting,
where the bear's teeth are waiting,
where the mummified hand of the boy is waiting,
and the hair of the camel stands on end with a violent blue shudder.

Nobody is sleeping in the sky. Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is sleeping.
If someone does close his eyes,
a whip, boys, a whip!
Let there be a landscape of open eyes
and bitter wounds on fire.
No one is sleeping in this world. No one, no one.
I have said it before.

No one is sleeping.
But if someone grows too much moss on his temples during the
night,
open the stage trapdoors so he can see in the moonlight
the lying goblets, and the poison, and the skull of the theaters.

Anonymous Thu Aug 18 20:39:05 2011 No.2020188

I have always wanted to fly.
And to hear the whistle in my wings as I plummet down..
I want my last breath to sting with the salt in the sea. I want it to hurt.
I want the breaking of my porous bones to ring.
And if I should cry, let the ocean swallow me up and never tell a soul.

Anonymous Thu Aug 18 20:41:05 2011 No.2020191

My footsteps falling over leaves
echo lonely through the wood;
Heard by none, but for the trees,
I would but wish my footsteps could
enjoin anothers, passion freed
to dance beneath the harvest moon --
to steal the night as deft as thieves
and with the stars in brief commune.

Anonymous Thu Aug 18 20:46:05 2011 No.2020194

Anagrammatically special poem. A personal favorite.

A golden void, overheating entry.
Hale west, it's here.
A genuine sly riot, an iron eye's guilt.
One revering, sequent hoist.
Height took toll. Her smoke rafted.
My ether arena — death owes you.
Indemnify thou, on unified myth.
Tease any touch. Face toying hours.
Her sty became fate, a cherished misted inn.

KOALA !BEAR/B2lgo Thu Aug 18 20:57:05 2011 No.2020213

I must admit it's been a while,
please remind me of the passage
in which Eve is asked gently about grief.

Full title: science in retrospect;
An after-art in reaching for/Labor of rising via
the gravity of all outbound trains.

Breathing is no metric, you've gasped testimonies of this,
it was every beautified settlement after the bang,
every implied condensation of dust,
the things you said plainly in silence.

I'm researching your heart
I have a list of every sighting, as far as Moscow,
sometimes the effigy an afterglow of endangered language,
sometimes the memory falls like old lights

In McVeigh's manifesto there is a twist:
The attraction of particles is really a mirror,
and everything is actually repulsed by everything else.

But a girl who looked like you has supposed this,
'we are the burden of optimists to prove all systems obsolete,
to observe ourselves and not worry about the accuracy
of any measurement of the space between bodies'

There is distance now, this chaos seems aboriginal,
miracles postdate extinctions and on T.V. voices coalesce
into some kind of music.

I've read that there are fires in Siberia that have not been discovered yet,
this is how your story ends.

>>	Anonymous Fri Aug 19 02:48:05 2011 No.2020975 This is a great thread BUMP

>>	Anonymous Fri Aug 19 03:13:05 2011 No.2021021 >>2020213 >>2020213 FUCK YOU WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS I CAN'T FIND IT ONLINE GOOGLE DOESN'T HAVE IT AND I MUST FUCKING KNOW NOW!

>>	Anonymous Fri Aug 19 06:56:05 2011 No.2021379 >>2021021 WHAT THE FUCK IS IT YOU TELL ME THAT /lit/ YOU TELL ME RIGHT NOW

Anonymous Fri Aug 19 07:07:05 2011 No.2021402

Factory windows are always broken.
Somebody's always throwing bricks,
Somebody's always heaving cinders,
Playing ugly Yahoo tricks.

Factory windows are always broken.
Other windows are let alone.
No one throws through the chapel-window
The bitter, snarling, derisive stone.

Factory windows are always broken.
Something or other is going wrong.
Something is rotten--I think, in Denmark.
End of factory-window song.

>>	Anonymous Fri Aug 19 07:37:05 2011 No.2021440 Lady Lazarus by Sylvia Plath http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sxft6nxU3KI

Anonymous Fri Aug 19 08:01:05 2011 No.2021458

I walked down
The cobbled laneways
And the thousand years ago
Paths in the dirt
Through old towns
On the side of a hill
And in the Spanish countryside
Between fields
Picking blackberries

The streets
With the latin murmur
From one end to the other

The moon coming out
From behind a cloud
Between the rooftops
And balconies
Of crumbling gothic buildings
Facing each other
A few metres apart
Kept alive by the yellow streetlight
On the merchants' annexes
And the climbing ivy
On the terrace walls

The bars
And galleries
Dens
Dense

With gypsies
Calling out
Tears rolling over wrinkled cheeks
Through weed smoke
And the taste of cheap whisky
In my mouth
To the Virgin Mary

And the dancers
Draped
In the shades of fire

Their silk
Pulled over their hips
To the tiled floor
Then up again

Each taking turns
Stomping
Calling
'Ole!'
'Asa!'

At a time of night
Beginning with a one

All of this
To the gentle
Spontaineous
Strumming and tapping
Of the tocaor

And the man
Howling 'Maria!'
Thumping a wooden box

Anonymous Fri Aug 19 08:02:05 2011 No.2021459

And the circus
In Valencia
An absurd parade
People and animals
All doing their dance
For the audience
Who're hysterical

Then walking through the city
White
Post-modern
Architecture
Made it feel
Energetic but passionless

Then hours
Of climbing through mountains
And hills
To Mojarca, Guadalest
Looking out across
That cliched
Mediterranean patchwork
Of fields, castles and the perfect blue sea

There was a time
Driving back
When we all
For a second or two

Saw a town
White, moorish
But golden in that
Ray of sunlight
In a valley
Near the horizon

Anonymous Fri Aug 19 08:10:30 2011 No.2021465 [DELETED]

1 The Ospreys Cry

"Fair, fair," cry the ospreys
On the island in the river.
Lovely is this noble lady,
Fit bride for our lord.

In patches grows the water mallow;
To left and right one must seek it.
Shy was this noble lady;
Day and night he sought her.

Sought her and could not get her;
Day and nigh he grieved.
Long thoughts, oh, long unhappy thoughts,
Now on his bac, now tossing on to his side.

In patches grows the water mallow;
To left and right one must gather it.
Shy is this noble lady;
With bells and drums we will gladden her.

from The Book of Songs. Arthur Waley (Translator)

Anonymous Fri Aug 19 08:16:07 2011 No.2021468 [DELETED]

1 The Ospreys Cry

"Fair, fair," cry the ospreys
On the island in the river.
Lovely is this noble lady,
Fit bride for our lord.

In patches grows the water mallow;
To left and right one must seek it.
Shy was this noble lady;
Day and night he sought her.

Sought her and could not get her;
Day and night he grieved.
Long thoughts, oh, long unhappy thoughts,
Now on his back, now tossing on to his side.

In patches grows the water mallow;
To left and right one must gather it.
Shy is this noble lady;
With with great ither and little we hearten her.

In patches grows the water mallow;
To the left and right one must choose it.
Shy is this noble lady;
With bells and drums we will gladden her.

from The Book of Songs. Arthur Waley (Translator)

Anonymous Fri Aug 19 08:27:05 2011 No.2021472

1 The Ospreys Cry

"Fair, fair," cry the ospreys
On the island in the river.
Lovely is this noble lady,
Fit bride for our lord.

In patches grows the water mallow;
To left and right one must seek it.
Shy was this noble lady;
Day and night he sought her.

Sought her and could not get her;
Day and night he grieved.
Long thoughts, oh, long unhappy thoughts,
Now on his back, now tossing on to his side.

In patches grows the water mallow;
To left and right one must gather it.
Shy is this noble lady;
With with great zither and little we hearten her.

In patches grows the water mallow;
To the left and right one must choose it.
Shy is this noble lady;
With bells and drums we will gladden her.

from The Book of Songs. Arthur Waley (Translator)

>>	Anonymous Fri Aug 19 10:11:05 2011 No.2021534 >>2018572 Here: http://sites.google.com/site/projectgoethe/Home/milos-crnjanski/strazilovo

Anonymous Fri Aug 19 11:01:05 2011 No.2021586

THIS THREAD MUST NOT DIE

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
by E. E. Cummings

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands

Anonymous Fri Aug 19 11:05:05 2011 No.2021595

In the sun he hides from you
Cause you smile and tell him lies
But the boy he always knew
That they'd choke upon his pride
As the greed eats the sand
Turns to stone all that lives
All he builds is made by hand
And the love he always gives
When they look in to his eyes
Why can't they let him be
And he knows they're not that blind
They just choose not to see
All he knows is in his heart
So he never speaks his mind
Says his prayers and tries so hard
And the lord says give it time
Oh when they look in to his eyes
Why can't they let him be
And he knows they're not that blind
They just choose not to see

>>	TwoD Fri Aug 19 11:09:05 2011 No.2021598 I've always had a huge soft spot in my heart for E.E. Cummings; my favorite of his poems has gotta be "anyone lived in a pretty how town."

Anonymous Fri Aug 19 11:09:05 2011 No.2021599

Mark Twain:

Geniuses are people who dash of weird, wild,
incomprehensible poems with astonishing facility,
and get booming drunk and sleep in the gutter.

Genius elevates its possessor to ineffable spheres
far above the vulgar world and fills his soul
with regal contempt for the gross and sordid things of earth.

It is probably on account of this
that people who have genius
do not pay their board, as a general thing.

Geniuses are very singular.

If you see a young man who has frowsy hair
and distraught look, and affects eccentricity in dress,
you may set him down for a genius.

If he sings about the degeneracy of a world
which courts vulgar opulence
and neglects brains,
he is undoubtedly a genius.

If he is too proud to accept assistance,
and spurns it with a lordly air
at the very same time
that he knows he can’t make a living to save his life,
he is most certainly a genius.

If he hangs on and sticks to poetry,
notwithstanding sawing wood comes handier to him,
he is a true genius.

If he throws away every opportunity in life
and crushes the affection and the patience of his friends
and then protests in sickly rhymes of his hard lot,
and finally persists,
in spite of the sound advice of persons who have got sense
but not any genius,
persists in going up some infamous back alley
dying in rags and dirt,
he is beyond all question a genius.

But above all things,
to deftly throw the incoherent ravings of insanity into verse
and then rush off and get booming drunk,
is the surest of all the different signs
of genius.

Anonymous Fri Aug 19 11:09:05 2011 No.2021601

A Lady Who Thinks She is Thirty
By Ogden Nash

Unwillingly Miranda wakes,
Feels the sun with terror,
One unwilling step she takes,
Shuddering to the mirror.

Miranda in Miranda's sight
Is old and gray and dirty;
Twenty-nine she was last night;
This morning she is thirty.

Shining like the morning star,
Like the twilight shining,
Haunted by a calendar,
Miranda is a-pining.

Silly girl, silver girl,
Draw the mirror toward you;
Time who makes the years to whirl
Adorned as he adored you.

Time is timelessness for you;
Calendars for the human;
What's a year, or thirty, to
Loveliness made woman?

Oh, Night will not see thirty again,
Yet soft her wing, Miranda;
Pick up your glass and tell me, then--
How old is Spring, Miranda?

>>	Anonymous Fri Aug 19 11:30:05 2011 No.2021616 File: 14 KB, 338x450, quill2.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] Boyscout. Walk out.

Anonymous Fri Aug 19 11:50:05 2011 No.2021635

Chinaski
The goldfish sing all night with guitars,
and the whores go down with the stars,
the whores go down with the stars

I'm sorry, sir, we close at 4:30,
besides yr mother's neck is dirty,
and the whores go down with the etc.,
the whrs. go dn. with the etc.

I'm sorry jack you can't come back,
I've fallen in love with another sap,
3/4 Italian and 1/2 Jap,
and the whores go
the whores go
etc.

Anonymous Fri Aug 19 12:29:05 2011 No.2021688

HAD I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

Anonymous Sat Aug 20 00:34:05 2011 No.2022809

deep in the dark my dream shines
Yes, of you, you dear always;
My cause to cry, cold but my
Story still, still my music

Mild the moon rose, moving through our
Naked nights: tonight it rains,
black umbrella’s blossom out;
Gone is my gold, my golden ball

>>	dan pagis Anonymous Sat Aug 20 00:52:05 2011 No.2022852 Written in Pencil in the Sealed Railway Car here in this carload i am eve with abel my son if you see my other son cain son of man tell him that i

>>	SillyNymphet Sat Aug 20 01:08:05 2011 No.2022875 What is innocence? Where does it go to when it's lost? Stolen? Or simply thrown away? It gathers in the clouds like rain. It falls like tears.

>>	SillyNymphet Sat Aug 20 01:10:05 2011 No.2022879 I smell flowers. Because that is what I want to smell. Not excrement or scraped out fish guts. Not piss. Sweat. Semen. Vended bodies and broken souls. I hunt by smell. And what I smell Is flowers

SillyNymphet Sat Aug 20 01:18:05 2011 No.2022896

Innocence is a place and a time.

Different for all of us but never to be forgotten.
And it's more precious the further away it gets.

The deeper we travel into this soiled and sullen world, the more of our own heart we tear up and throw into the wind.

Because we know, as surely as we know anything...

We can never go back.

rapture !!acq+3SNN9XY Sat Aug 20 01:48:05 2011 No.2022949

...
we trumpeted pale starfire across the fixed phalanx
of universes caught in the southern sky,
pointing, with hands awake in excited gestures,
to syllables that were tropical by nature:
wild dreams, steamy and untamed,
led to the tilting balance
of stairways orbed in white chrysanthemums,
prejudices followed by yellow doves
clothed in fertile photosyntheses

...
we entered quantum cafés at half-passed dawn,
having passed by slumdog dives where drunks,
with tinted windows drawn shut,
sit in the shadow of their own stooper
ordering "nihilism on the rocks"
with a slice of lime on the side;
nearby, Marxland
("a theme park for the masses")
stood in glitter and gold, neon lights
plastered above a nimbus ridgeline
baked with the bread of peasantry
in the ovens of industrialists:
I swam upon a river of my rage,
convinced that (n)eons were scattered before me
like jeweled stars lathered in the effervescence
of their own ink

...
“this world is too ironic
for my humble pallet,”
declared a lonely abraxas,
shimmering brightly
in the aftermath of utopia,
listening intently for the blundering garble
of loose dice
fumbled anxiously around the circumference
of a lifted cup,
pale faces poised to pounce
on the staged disappointment
of a failed measure of fortune
casked by an inability to disturb
the pumped fuzz popping pus
of plump peaches,
moldy and without aim

etc,

rapture !!acq+3SNN9XY Sat Aug 20 01:51:05 2011 No.2022957

toting a paper-maché cliché,
the end came at noon:
all was quotation,
dreamed by an onyx pen
spewing green venom
screaming with silent pistons;
the fifth fiddled unconvincingly
in the excessive shadow of a Spanish moon:
the Delphic sun blazed the world
into speeches of singed rock
as her voice dipped forward
in the sweat of an overwhelming dusk,
diving from a nude balcony
on carrer ample:
she whispered violently over memories
of breathless infinitude,
bursting down years of wonder
caricatured by the false Horatian oath
of a forthcoming second overture,
like a vernacular endgame revisited,
or the pleas of tortured tongues
spared by royal lisps

>>	Anonymous Sat Aug 20 03:55:05 2011 No.2023169 This is the best poetry thread I've seen on here. Bump for the love of God!

Anonymous Sat Aug 20 05:03:05 2011 No.2023250

The gallows in my garden, people say
Is new and neat and adequately tall;
I tie the noose on in a knowing way
As one that knots his necktie for a ball;
But just as all the neighbours - on the wall -
Are drawing a long breath to shout ‘Hurray!’
The strangest whim has seized me...after all
I think I will not hang myself today

Tomorrow is the time to get my pay -
My uncle’s sword is hanging on the wall -
I see a little cloud of pink and grey -
Perhaps the rectors mother will not call -
I fancy that I heard from Mr gall
That mushrooms could be cooked another way -
I never read the works of Juvenal -
I think I will not hang myself today

The world will have another washing day;
The decadents decay; the pedants pall;
And H.G. Wells has found that children play,
And Bernard Shaw discovered that they squall,
Rationalists are growing rational -
And through thick woods one finds a stream astray
So secret that the very sky seems small -
I think I will not hang myself today

Prince, I can hear the trumpet of the Germinal,
The tumbrels toiling up the terrible way;
Even today your royal head may fall,
I think I will not hang myself today
[G.K. Chesterton ‘The ballade of suicide’]

Anonymous Sat Aug 20 10:01:05 2011 No.2023478
File: 21 KB, 342x456, 1296149925765.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]
[ERROR]

“Tell me why the stars do shine, tell me why the ivy twines, tell me what makes skies so blue, and I’ll tell you why I love you.
Nuclear fusion makes stars to shine, tropisms make the ivy twine, raleigh scattering make skies so blue, testicular hormones are why I love you. “
By Isaac Asimov

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/lit/ - Literature