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Poetry Thread Activate!

 
    • Kennoth disse...
    • Usuário
    • Abr 8 2011, 18h20
    Didn't I already post here? Oh well.

    I want everything to be gone
    In violent green infernal sky
    That shall wipe clean all life
    And bring the dark, eternal night


    ~Kennoth

    • messo disse...
    • Usuário
    • Abr 9 2011, 19h39
    Pete Simonelli from Enablers


    • [Usuário excluído] disse...
    • Usuário
    • Abr 18 2011, 5h01
    'The capital of the ruins' by Samuel Beckett

    Vire will wind in other shadows
    Unborn though the bright ways
    And the old mind ghost-forsaken
    Sink into its havoc



    Plaque with the poem in Saint-Lô, France [the site of an Irish Red Cross hospital Beckett was working in]



    One among an exceptional collection Gerald Dawe's new anthology of Irish War Poetry Generally regarding Ireland's conflicting roles in WWI & WWII in the British army, Irish nationalism/nationhood and their ordinary concerns for their family and friends safety. As Yeats puts it in An Irish Airman Foresees His Death - "Those that I fight I do not hate, Those that I guard I do not love;" (http://www.thebeckoning.com/poetry/yeats/yeats.html)

    Other wars like the Spanish civil war are also included.

    Samuel Beckett's 'The Capital of the Ruins'. Surveying the wreckage of Saint-Lô, a town 'bombed out of existence in one night', Beckett has 'a vision and a sense of a time-honoured conception of humanity in ruins, and perhaps even an inkling of the terms in which our condition is to be thought again.' There, in miniature, is the ambition of his post-war writing, an ambition shaped by Beckett's experiences during the Second World War.

    http://war-poets.blogspot.com/2009/02/irish-war-poetry.html

  • If, by Rudyard Kipling

    If you can keep your head when all about you
    Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
    If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
    But make allowance for their doubting too;
    If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
    Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
    Or, being hated, don't give way to hating,
    And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

    If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
    If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
    If you can meet with triumph and disaster
    And treat those two imposters just the same;
    If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
    Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
    Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
    And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools;

    If you can make one heap of all your winnings
    And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
    And lose, and start again at your beginnings
    And never breath a word about your loss;
    If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
    To serve your turn long after they are gone,
    And so hold on when there is nothing in you
    Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on";

    If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
    Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch;
    If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
    If all men count with you, but none too much;
    If you can fill the unforgiving minute
    With sixty seconds' worth of distance run -
    Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
    And - which is more - you'll be a Man my son!

    --Rudyard Kipling

    • messo disse...
    • Usuário
    • Abr 24 2011, 21h10
    Happiness by Raymond Carver

    So early it's still almost dark out.
    I'm near the window with coffee,
    and the usual early morning stuff
    that passes for thought.

    When I see the boy and his friend
    walking up the road
    to deliver the newspaper.

    They wear caps and sweaters,
    and one boy has a bag over his shoulder.
    They are so happy
    they aren't saying anything, these boys.

    I think if they could, they would take
    each other's arm.
    It's early in the morning,
    and they are doing this thing together.

    They come on, slowly.
    The sky is taking on light,
    though the moon still hangs pale over the water.

    Such beauty that for a minute
    death and ambition, even love,
    doesn't enter into this.

    Happiness. It comes on
    unexpectedly. And goes beyond, really,
    any early morning talk about it.

  • Real Nigga Journey

    Thank you.
    Thank you.

    Please read my writing. I'm sad and alone and there is no more alcohol. Misery doesn't enjoy company. Misery enjoys fucking me in the ass.

    My poems and stories are third class. But hipsters enjoy them. Thats because it's some low-fi never to be famous shit. I guess I can relate to my writing ( about the low-fi never to be famous shit part.)

    Tao Lin is my hero. He's Asian and alone, and he's really an amazing writer. Oh and i'm pretty sure he's addicted to all sorts of shit. I actually just noticed as I write this that all of my role models are junkies. I guess thats why i'm in rehab.

    You know what? Fuck all of you. My reader's don't give a shit about me. They just think they're the shit because being depressed is hip now. And there is a fucking ton of depression in my shit. I just wanna yell "FUCK!" really loud at my Dairy Queen manager now.

    Thank you_

  • Rudyard Kipling wrote poetry? I did not know this.

    Excellent poems, but I think we should be posting our own, like Kennoth did. Not just copying and pasting famous works.

  • 'She Wears It Like A Mask'
    by Ron Carnell


    She wears it like a mask
    Each time she comes to me,
    A shroud to cloud my eyes,
    A veil I cannot see.

    But her mask is just a ruse,
    An aspect of her game.
    It hides the girl behind
    The fiction of her name.

    That name is but a symbol
    Of the role she plays for me,
    A promise unfulfilled,
    A hope of what could be.

    Removing all between us,
    Clothed only in her name,
    Her touch is my illusion
    Setting heart and loin aflame.

    A mirage within a dream,
    A ghost of fragile youth
    She is fantasy. And fire.
    And beauty born of truth.

    Her name is but a name,
    A symbol, just a mask -
    Concealing what I see,
    Revealing what I ask.

    Has our Autumn died...Help me find you again
    • Absurd93 disse...
    • Usuário
    • Jul 7 2011, 18h28
    The Pilgrim - W.B. Yeats

    I FASTED for some forty days on bread and buttermilk,
    For passing round the bottle with girls in rags or silk,
    In country shawl or Paris cloak, had put my wits astray,
    And what's the good of women, for all that they can say
    Is fol de rol de rolly O.

    Round Lough Derg's holy island I went upon the stones,
    I prayed at all the Stations upon my marrow bones,
    And there I found an old man, and though, I prayed all day
    And that old man beside me, nothing would he say
    But fol de rol de rolly O.

    All know that all the dead in the world about that place are stuck,
    And that should mother seek her son she'd have but little luck
    Because the fires of purgatory have ate their shapes away;
    I swear to God I questioned them, and all they had to say
    Was fol de rol de rolly O.

    A great black ragged bird appeared when I was in the boat;
    Some twenty feet from tip to tip had it stretched rightly out,
    With flopping and with flapping it made a great display,
    But I never stopped to question, what could the boatman say
    But fol de rol de rolly O.

    Now I am in the public-house and lean upon the wall,
    So come in rags or come in silk, in cloak or country shawl,
    And come with learned lovers or with what men you may,
    For I can put the whole lot down, and all I have to say
    Is fol de rol de rolly O.

    • [Usuário excluído] disse...
    • Usuário
    • Jul 8 2011, 3h18
    Absurd93 said:
    The Pilgrim - W.B. Yeats

    I FASTED for some forty days on bread and buttermilk,
    For passing round the bottle with girls in rags or silk,
    In country shawl or Paris cloak, had put my wits astray,
    And what's the good of women, for all that they can say
    Is fol de rol de rolly O.

    Round Lough Derg's holy island I went upon the stones,
    I prayed at all the Stations upon my marrow bones,
    And there I found an old man, and though, I prayed all day
    And that old man beside me, nothing would he say
    But fol de rol de rolly O.

    All know that all the dead in the world about that place are stuck,
    And that should mother seek her son she'd have but little luck
    Because the fires of purgatory have ate their shapes away;
    I swear to God I questioned them, and all they had to say
    Was fol de rol de rolly O.

    A great black ragged bird appeared when I was in the boat;
    Some twenty feet from tip to tip had it stretched rightly out,
    With flopping and with flapping it made a great display,
    But I never stopped to question, what could the boatman say
    But fol de rol de rolly O.

    Now I am in the public-house and lean upon the wall,
    So come in rags or come in silk, in cloak or country shawl,
    And come with learned lovers or with what men you may,
    For I can put the whole lot down, and all I have to say
    Is fol de rol de rolly O.
    Resonates well within my memory.

  • Boob Tube Toss

    Written by me.


    Why not get up, get out and kickin,
    Out in the sun and get your hearts tickin.
    What the hell's up with remote control clickin,
    Get off the couch, quit eatin that chicken!

    Get up and get out, see what is showin,
    Run up a mountain and feel the wind blowin.
    Rock out at concerts, get the crowds growin,
    Shut off that TV, 'cause your skin is glowin!

    Get out of the house, 'cause repeats are suckin,
    Grab hold of yer mates and take off truckin.
    Do anything at all, to escape what yer stuck in,
    Invent a new sport, called Boob Tube Chuckin!

  • When My Master Calls

    Written by me

    Uzer lurks in his corner of the dusty cellar. barely visible in the darkness. Worn, weakened and sleepy, yet unable to relinquish himself to rest. Only one, dim and pale eye, peers from underneath the long matted hair, of this enslaved user. That eye is peering, unblinking, ...watching for any sign of life, from across the small confines, of his underground prison.

    Suddenly, the dank silence is broken by a familiar breathing of life, as master calls and flashes one of its small green eyes, in Uzers direction.

    Uzer scuttles from his hiding place, with an almost apish canter; forever compelled to do masters bidding and plugs himself in.....Master Purrs with acceptance of this.

    Ohhhh the pain of it , thinks Uzer...and the utter joy of it too, Chimes Uzers, pathetically used brain.

  • Her Garden

    This was a eulogy for my grandmothers funeral and the flowers are a metaphor for her children and grand children.

    She grew herself a garden,
    sprinkled colorful bouquets.

    Blooming with devotion,
    She gave it love and praise.

    Although the storms blew hard,
    And her flowers stems may bend.

    She was always on her guard,
    To grow them up against the wind.

    One flower she kept nearest,
    was determined through the years.

    Not that it was dearest,
    But she had grew it with her tears.

    So when she closed the garden gate,
    one last time against the storm.

    This flower shed a tear of fate,
    And pink pillows began to form.

    The pillows grew and carried her,
    To the garden up above.

    The flower knew her path was sure,
    The tear was made from love.

    • Kennoth disse...
    • Usuário
    • Jul 13 2011, 17h30
    kissesneverdie said:
    Excellent poems, but I think we should be posting our own, like Kennoth did. Not just copying and pasting famous works.


    I thought that was the very idea of this thread anyway.

    I look in the mirror
    Don't like what I see
    Just the empty pieces of nothing

    Hideous mirror
    Give me a sign
    Tell me when will end this demise of mine

    • Kennoth disse...
    • Usuário
    • Jul 13 2011, 17h32

    Re: Her Garden

    CrybKeeper said:
    This was a eulogy for my grandmothers funeral and the flowers are a metaphor for her children and grand children.

    She grew herself a garden,
    sprinkled colorful bouquets.

    Blooming with devotion,
    She gave it love and praise.

    Although the storms blew hard,
    And her flowers stems may bend.

    She was always on her guard,
    To grow them up against the wind.

    One flower she kept nearest,
    was determined through the years.

    Not that it was dearest,
    But she had grew it with her tears.

    So when she closed the garden gate,
    one last time against the storm.

    This flower shed a tear of fate,
    And pink pillows began to form.

    The pillows grew and carried her,
    To the garden up above.

    The flower knew her path was sure,
    The tear was made from love.


    This is very lovely. Mad kudos to you if you wrote it.

  • father christmas
    disappointment

    psychiatrist
    appointment

    • Kennoth disse...
    • Usuário
    • Jul 13 2011, 17h40
    I like this one the most:

    And if I bleed, will our hearts bleed in two?
    If I scream, will my voice be in you?
    If I cry, will our two tears collide?
    Tell me you'll love me and that our love will never die.

    If I say, that I'm lost without you,
    If I say, I can't breathe without you?
    If I say, you're whole reason I am

    (still missing a final line here)

  • Feeling your presence near

    Like a tingle along my skin

    A whisper of breath on my neck

    Your heat gently swirls around me

    Lingering, haunting like a ghost

    As Illusive as eternity

    Watching from the shadows

    Your silence grows


    ~Madelines

    Has our Autumn died...Help me find you again
  • Re: Re: Her Garden

    Kennoth said:
    CrybKeeper said:
    This was a eulogy for my grandmothers funeral and the flowers are a metaphor for her children and grand children.


    This is very lovely. Mad kudos to you if you wrote it.


    Thanks Kennoth, this was a very emotional piece for me. Why sure, I wrote it. I have dozens upon dozens of poems and short stories. Maybe a few more dozen and I could put them into a book : )

    Madelines said:
    Feeling your presence near

    Like a tingle along my skin

    A whisper of breath on my neck

    Your heat gently swirls around me

    Lingering, haunting like a ghost

    As Illusive as eternity

    Watching from the shadows

    Your silence grows


    ~Madelines


    Mmmm, an eerie loveliness about this one.

  • These two are a pair with a similar message

    Wise Journey
    Written by me

    Life is not a ladder,
    Climbed to gain success.
    Not the things you gather,
    Or a hollywood address.

    Life is but a journey,
    On roads of weathered stress.

    All roads have harsh weather,
    And great scenes to view no less.
    The joy is in the getting there,
    Country lane or Toll-express.

    Mountain Top
    Written by me

    Sometimes we're on the mountain,
    enjoying the view below.
    Sometimes we're in the valley,
    longing for the mount we know.
    If we just look down, embrace the ground,
    we'll see the flowers grow.

  • CrybKeeper said:
    Mmmm, an eerie loveliness about this one.
    Merci'...yet, it's not about someone dead.

    And you know how I love your writings already, especially those above ^ ^

    Has our Autumn died...Help me find you again
  • I've written quite a bit but have slacked off the last year or so....but here's one of my favorites from my collection.

    Sonance

    Over golden bridge traveled
    souls shedding artificial sunlight
    through silent cries for mother
    traversing the sound wave ridden spectacle chaos
    Fear embraces me, loves me, as this reality crumbles around my feet
    No time to think
    while those old rusty eyes look on, I begin to fall
    The waters below rush to meet me, as the stones from on high chase me
    when water and flesh meet, reality sets back in, reminding me, filling me with something I had lost along the way
    I'm killing time now, waiting for that hand to thrust into liquid silence and save me
    Shallow breath, shivering, deliverance is but a dream, the sun begins to fade over the horizon - surrender to the cold.

    "Noise is relative to the silence preceding it. The more absolute the hush, the more shocking the thunderclap." - V
    • [Usuário excluído] disse...
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    • Jul 26 2011, 4h58
    • [Usuário excluído] disse...
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    • Set 5 2011, 23h53
    And death shall have no dominion.
    Dead mean naked they shall be one
    With the man in the wind and the west moon;
    When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
    They shall have stars at elbow and foot;
    Though they go mad they shall be sane,
    Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
    Though lovers be lost love shall not;
    And death shall have no dominion
    .

    And death shall have no dominion.
    Under the windings of the sea
    They lying long shall not die windily;
    Twisting on racks when sinews give way,
    Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break;
    Faith in their hands shall snap in two,
    And the unicorn evils run them through;
    Split all ends up they shan't crack;
    And death shall have no dominion.

    And death shall have no dominion.
    No more may gulls cry at their ears
    Or waves break loud on the seashores;
    Where blew a flower may a flower no more
    Lift its head to the blows of the rain;
    Though they be mad and dead as nails,
    Heads of the characters hammer through daisies;
    Break in the sun till the sun breaks down,
    And death shall have no dominion.


    - Dylan Thomas, And Death Shall Have No Dominion

  • My Own Circle

    More of the same...left to shoulder this burden alone, once again left to my own devices. Surrounded by thieves, beggars, and the great majority, the Liars encircle me - like buzzards to the kill. Then share the pieces with the almighty Blind.Is it true when one lies, he kills a part of the world? Who can say? Not I...for the gag muffles any words I try to force through it. The almighty Blind is quick to condemn, and slow to comprehend, while the Liars cram their sweet "truths" down his throat. Even my comrades look for the best place to turn the dagger in this back of mine. The Ship of Fools is headed for the rocks...the crew? They toil onwards, with hands over their ears and mouths. Who can reason with the Blind? Who could stand against the circle of Deception? Only Polyphemus could say. I'm going down with my ship...

    "Noise is relative to the silence preceding it. The more absolute the hush, the more shocking the thunderclap." - V
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