Poetry

This forum caters to our literary tastes.

Postby Seppuku on Sun May 18, 2008 7:53 am

Or maybe even The Poetry Thread.

Anyway, that's some inspiring stuff, Ekta...especially considering you linked to a forum called Racist Nuts afterwards.

:wink:
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Postby travis-dane on Sun May 18, 2008 7:56 am

seppukudkurosawa wrote:Or maybe even The Poetry Thread.

Anyway, that's some inspiring stuff, Ekta...especially considering you linked to a forum called Racist Nuts afterwards.

:wink:


The ZONE really has everything covered....
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Postby travis-dane on Sun May 18, 2008 7:59 am

Looks like P&P it is.....
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Postby Seppuku on Sun May 18, 2008 8:15 am

travis-dane wrote:
seppukudkurosawa wrote:Or maybe even The Poetry Thread.

Anyway, that's some inspiring stuff, Ekta...especially considering you linked to a forum called Racist Nuts afterwards.

:wink:


The ZONE really has everything covered....


What we're really missing is a "Fight Racism With Poetry" thread. Maybe even make a forum out of it?

:wink:

We are neutral and love all…even racists. Through the medium of poetry we aim to spread neutrality and love even amongst racists.


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Re: Poetry

Postby Peven on Sun Aug 10, 2008 5:49 pm

I've stumbled along the way
tripped by mistakes that I have made.
I've paid the price
for all that's due
sometimes paid twice
but I've come through
so I'll go on
writing my songs
and sometimes I'll sing blues
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Re: Poetry

Postby BuckyO'harre on Mon Jan 26, 2009 2:52 am

GONE WITH A HANDSOMER MAN- by Will Carleton

JOHN:

I'VE worked in the field all day, a-plowin' the "stony streak;"
I've scolded my team till I'm hoarse; I've tramped till my legs are weak;
I've choked a dozen swears (so's not to tell Jane fibs)
When the plow-p'int struck a stone and the handles punched my ribs.

I've put my team in the barn, and rubbed their sweaty coats;
I've fed 'em a heap of hay and half a bushel of oats;
And to see the way they eat makes me like eatin' feel,
And Jane won't say to-night that I don't make out a meal.

Well said! the door is locked! but here she's left the key,
Under the step, in a place known only to her and me;
I wonder who's dyin' or dead, that she's hustled off pell-mell:
But here on the table's a note, and probably this will tell.

Good God! my wife is gone! my wife is gone astray!
The letter it says, "Good-bye, for I'm a-going away;
I've lived with you six months, John, and so far I've been true;
But I'm going away to-day with a handsomer man than you."

A han'somer man than me! Why, that ain't much to say;
There's han'somer men than me go past here every day.
There's han'somer men than me--I ain't of the han'some kind;
But a lovin'er man than I was I guess she'll never find.

Curse her! curse her! I say, and give my curses wings!
May the words of love I've spoke be changed to scorpion stings!
Oh, she filled my heart with joy, she emptied my heart of doubt,
And now, with a scratch of a pen, she lets my heart's blood out!

Curse her! curse her! say I; she'll some time rue this day;

"CURSE HER! CURSE HER! SAY I; SHE'LL SOME TIME RUE THIS DAY!"

She'll some time learn that hate is a game that two can play;
And long before she dies she'll grieve she ever was born;
And I'll plow her grave with hate, and seed it down to scorn!

As sure as the world goes on, there'll come a time when she
Will read the devilish heart of that han'somer man than me;
And there'll be a time when he will find, as others do,
That she who is false to one can be the same with two.

And when her face grows pale, and when her eyes grow dim,
And when he is tired of her and she is tired of him,
She'll do what she ought to have done, and coolly count the cost;
And then she'll see things clear, and know what she has lost.

And thoughts that are now asleep will wake up in her mind,
And she will mourn and cry for what she has left behind;
And maybe she'll sometimes long for me--for me--but no!
I've blotted her out of my heart, and I will not have it so.

And yet in her girlish heart there was somethin' or other she had
That fastened a man to her, and wasn't entirely bad;
And she loved me a little, I think, although it didn't last;
But I mustn't think of these things--I've buried 'em in the past.

I'll take my hard words back, nor make a bad matter worse;
She'll have trouble enough; she shall not have my curse;
But I'll live a life so square--and I well know that I can--
That she always will sorry be that she went with that han'somer man.

Ah, here is her kitchen dress! it makes my poor eyes blur;
It seems, when I look at that, as if 'twas holdin' her.
And here are her week-day shoes, and there is her week-day hat,
And yonder's her weddin' gown: I wonder she didn't take that.

'Twas only this mornin' she came and called me her "dearest dear,"
And said I was makin' for her a regular paradise here;
O God! if you want a man to sense the pains of hell,
Before you pitch him in just keep him in heaven a spell!

Good-bye! I wish that death had severed us two apart.
You've lost a worshiper here--you've crushed a lovin' heart.
I'll worship no woman again; but I guess I'll learn to pray,
And kneel as you used to kneel before you run away.

And if I thought I could bring my words on heaven to bear,
And if I thought I had some little influence there,
I would pray that I might be, if it only could be so.
As happy and Dumbledore as I was a half an hour ago.


JANE:

[(entering).]

Why, John, what a litter here! you've thrown things all around!

"WHY, JOHN, WHAT A LITTER HERE! YOU'VE THROWN THINGS ALL AROUND!"

Come, what's the matter now? and what 've you lost or found?
And here's my father here, a-waiting for supper, too;
I've been a-riding with him--he's that "handsomer man than you."


Ha! ha! Pa, take a seat, while I put the kettle on,
And get things ready for tea, and kiss my dear old John.
Why, John, you look so strange! Come, what has crossed your track?
I was only a-joking, you know; I'm willing to take it back.


JOHN:

(aside)

Well, now, if this ain't a joke, with rather a bitter cream!
It seems as if I'd woke from a mighty ticklish dream;
And I think she "smells a rat," for she smiles at me so queer;
I hope she don't; good Lord! I hope that they didn't hear!

'Twas one of her practical drives--she thought I'd understand!
But I'll never break sod again till I get the lay of the land.
But one thing's settled with me--to appreciate heaven well,
'Tis good for a man to have some fifteen minutes of hell.
Thank you, Zoners, for the kindness, tolerance, and enlightenment you've shared with me. It may not have been deserved, but it was greatly appreciated nonetheless. Soupy twist.
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Re: Poetry

Postby Peven on Wed Feb 04, 2009 11:41 pm

Dawn ablaze
In the East
Cinnamon rays
The sky’s feast
A new day
A new Sun
Giving the brave
Strength unknown
Rising strong
Standing proud
Awed of beauty
Bowed by none
Heart
Soul
True
Unwavering love
Belief in a dream
In the now
Washing over
Flowing through
Like a stream
Pure energy
Striking down
Dragons
Conflagrating all threat
Caressed
By the muse
Set on fire
Then become soothed
Melodies weaving
Emotion beyond reason
Embraced
Succumbed
By the truth
By the One

by yours truly
Last edited by Peven on Thu Feb 05, 2009 7:07 am, edited 1 time in total.
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Re: Poetry

Postby The Vicar on Thu Feb 05, 2009 2:31 am

Oh Earth. Lie heavily upon her eyes.
Seal her sweet eyes, weary of watching, Earth.
Lie close around her.
Leave no room for mirth
with its harsh laughter,
nor for sound of sighs.

She hath no questions.
She hath no replies.
Hushed in and curtained
with the blessed dearth
of all that irked her from the hour of birth,
with a stillness that is almost paradise.

Darkness, more clear than noon day holdeth her.
Silence, more musical than any song.
Even her very heart has ceased to stir.
And until the day of eternity,
her rest shall not begin nor end,'but be.

And when she wakes,
she will not think it long.

- c rosetti





for katy
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Re: Poetry

Postby BuckyO'harre on Thu Feb 05, 2009 2:52 am

Not bad, Pev. Props for working conflagrating in.


My Buddy

I have a buddy,

my buddy's a toad.

He is kind of muddy,

he is dead on the road.

But he is my buddy,

my buddy to stay.

Until he's peeled up,

and blown away.

-Jon Arbuckle
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Re: Poetry

Postby Peven on Fri Jul 31, 2009 10:04 am

the sun rises
as we grow
through different sizes
stretching our legs
faces turned
to the sky
leaping so high
without thought
of coming down
never thinking
how hard
was the ground
the sun high
overhead
no shadows
no shade
no problem
as long as
we were getting
paid
living for someday
that never
comes
until the shadows
grow as the sun
passes
zenith
shadows growing
along with knowing
they will
grow ever more
which opens our
eyes to see
what we
did not see
before
hearing
every tick
of the clock
feeling
each moment
that goes by
like the turn
of a screw
no escape
from what's
to do
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Re: Poetry

Postby Ribbons on Wed Sep 09, 2009 10:55 pm

1, 2, 3, 4
Let's go rob a convenience store
5, 6, 7, 8
9, 10, 11, 12
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Re: Poetry

Postby Peven on Thu Nov 12, 2009 3:27 pm

its so cold out here
out here in space
all of us floating
drifting along
putting on our best face
hoping to see, be seen
by a sun, a star
someone to bathe us
in light and warmth
to fill our heart
share our bubble
revolving around
each other
saying I love you
without a sound
so we go on
searching the sky
shivering alone
waiting our turn
to give another try
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Re: Poetry

Postby Leckomaniac on Wed Mar 17, 2010 11:57 am

Carol Ann Duffy (British Poet Laureate) has written a poem about David Beckham.

Achilles (for David Beckham)

Myth's river- where his mother dipped him, fished him, a slippery golden boyflowed on, his name on its lips. Without him, it was prophesised,
they would not take Troy.

Women hid him, concealed him in girls' sarongs; days of sweetmeats, spices, silver songs...
but when Odysseus came,

with an athlete's build, a sword and a shield, he followed him to the battlefield, the crowd's roar,
and it was sport, not war,

his charmed foot on the ball...

but then his heel, his heel, his heel...
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Re: Poetry

Postby so sorry on Wed Mar 17, 2010 12:09 pm

Leckomaniac wrote:Carol Ann Duffy (British Poet Laureate) has written a poem about David Beckham.

Achilles (for David Beckham)

Myth's river- where his mother dipped him, fished him, a slippery golden boyflowed on, his name on its lips. Without him, it was prophesised,
they would not take Troy.

Women hid him, concealed him in girls' sarongs; days of sweetmeats, spices, silver songs...
but when Odysseus came,

with an athlete's build, a sword and a shield, he followed him to the battlefield, the crowd's roar,
and it was sport, not war,

his charmed foot on the ball...

but then his heel, his heel, his heel...



Bwhahahaha!

That's a riot.

Where is an American Poet, writing prose about Tiger Woods?
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Re: Poetry

Postby Leckomaniac on Wed Mar 17, 2010 12:11 pm

I actually really enjoy the poem. Carol Ann Duffy is quite good, (if not a bit overexposed).
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Re: Poetry

Postby The Vicar on Wed Mar 17, 2010 12:18 pm

Tiger, Tiger burning bright
humping waitresses at night
hanging out in titty bars
and crashing real expensive cars
getting wailed on by the missus
for shagging girls and purloined kisses
tabloid fodder on page one
your advertising days are done
cause when you're famous
as everyone knows
stick to playing golf
and not with hoes.....


the end
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Re: Poetry

Postby so sorry on Wed Mar 17, 2010 12:27 pm

The Vicar wrote:Tiger, Tiger burning bright
humping waitresses at night
hanging out in titty bars
and crashing real expensive cars
getting wailed on by the missus
for shagging girls and purloined kisses
tabloid fodder on page one
your advertising days are done
cause when you're famous
as everyone knows
stick to playing golf
and not with hoes.....


the end



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Re: Poetry

Postby Peven on Tue Mar 30, 2010 1:27 pm

Coming back down every dawn, pulled out of my dreams
Hitting hard ground, stumbling around through the scene
Memories and realities and hot water come pouring in
Cascading down, soothing, and punishing with consciousness
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Re: Poetry

Postby TonyWilson on Wed Jun 02, 2010 6:04 pm

Not Love Perhaps by A. S. J. Tessimond

This is not Love, perhaps,
Love that lays down its life,
that many waters cannot quench,
nor the floods drown,
But something written in lighter ink,
said in a lower tone, something, perhaps, especially our own.

A need, at times, to be together and talk,
And then the finding we can walk
More firmly through dark narrow places,
And meet more easily nightmare faces;
A need to reach out, sometimes, hand to hand,
And then find Earth less like an alien land;
A need for alliance to defeat
The whisperers at the corner of the street.

A need for inns on roads, islands in seas,
Halts for discoveries to be shared,
Maps checked, notes compared;
A need, at times, of each for each,
Direct as the need of throat and tongue for speech.
Elitism is positing that your taste is equivalent to quality, you hate "Hamlet" does it make it "bad"? If you think so, you're one elite motherfucker.
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Re: Poetry

Postby Ribbons on Wed Jun 02, 2010 6:51 pm

That's a pretty cool poem, Tony. :)
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Re: Poetry

Postby TonyWilson on Wed Jun 02, 2010 7:30 pm

Yeh one of my favourites, here's another Tessimond and another favourite of mine

Cats, no less liquid than their shadows
Offer no angles to the wind.
They slip, diminished, neat through loopholes
Less than themselves; will not be pinned

To rules or routes for journeys; counter
Attack with non-resistance; twist
Enticing through the curving fingers
And leave an angered empty fist.

They wait obsequious as darkness
Quick to retire, quick to return;
Admit no aim or ethics; flatter
With reservations; will not learn

To answer to their names; are seldom
Truly owned till shot or skinned.
Cats, no less liquid than their shadows
Offer no angles to the wind.
Elitism is positing that your taste is equivalent to quality, you hate "Hamlet" does it make it "bad"? If you think so, you're one elite motherfucker.
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Re: Poetry

Postby MacCready on Wed Jun 02, 2010 11:41 pm

This Tessimond cat has some skills. I'll be Googling his stuff shortly. Thanks for the intro, Tony.
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Re: Poetry

Postby Nachokoolaid on Thu Jun 03, 2010 10:51 pm

Probably (maybe) my favorite poem by my favorite (probably) poet.

Your Feet

by Pablo Neruda

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.
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Re: Poetry

Postby Leckomaniac on Sat Jun 05, 2010 7:44 pm

I LOVE me some Pablo Neruda. Really, the latin american poets are among some of my favorite. Just to keep the latin flavor in our mouth, I present:

You Have What I Look For

by Jaime Sabines

You have what I look for, what I long for, what I love,
you have it.
The fist of my heart is beating, calling.
I thank the stories for you,
I thank your mother and father
and death who has not seen you.
I thank the air for you.
You are elegant as wheat,
delicate as the outline of your body.
I have never loved a slender woman
but you have made my hands fall in love,
you moored my desire,
you caught my eyes like two fish.
And for this I am at your door, waiting.


It is hard to find Sabines poetry that is translated from the Spanish. It is exceedingly frustrating. The one above was translated by the incomparable W.S. Merwin. Who is W.S. Merwin, you ask? He is a very wonderful poet with a heavy eco-activist slant. He is responsible for some ludicrously excellent poetry. Among them, this chilling examination of mortality and the below rumination on a lost love:

When You Go Away

When you go away the wind clicks around to the north
The painters work all day but at sundown the paint falls
Showing the black walls
The clock goes back to striking the same hour
That has no place in the years

And at night wrapped in the bed of ashes
In one breath I wake
It is the time when the beards of the dead get their growth
I remember that I am falling
That I am the reason
And that my words are the garment of what I shall never be
Like the tucked sleeve of a one-armed boy
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Re: Poetry

Postby Ribbons on Fri Jul 04, 2014 8:33 pm

"Intake Interview" by Franz Wright

1. What is today’s date?

2. Who is the President?

3. How great a danger do you pose, on a scale of one to ten?

4. What does “people who live in glass houses” mean?

5. Every symphony is a suicide postponed, true or false?

6. Should each individual snowflake be held accountable for the avalanche?

7. Name five rivers.

8. What do you see yourself doing in ten minutes?

9. How about some lovely soft Thorazine music?

10. If you could have half an hour with your father, what would you say to him?

11. What should you do if I fall asleep?

12. Are you still following in his mastodon footsteps?

13. What is the moral of Mary Had a Little Lamb?

14. What about his Everest shadow?

15. Would you compare your education to a disease so rare no one else has ever had it, or the deliberate extermination of indigenous populations?

16. Which is more puzzling, the existence of suffering or its frequent absence?

17. Should an odd number be sacrificed to the gods of the sky, and an even to those of the underworld, or vice versa?

18. Would you visit a country where nobody talks?

19. What would you have done differently?

20. Why are you here?
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Re: Poetry

Postby Ribbons on Fri Feb 17, 2017 4:18 pm

I heard this poem while watching the BBC show The Fall on Netflix the other day. I can't decide if it's brilliant, or just complete nonsense that is accidentally creepy, but it's been stuck in my head for days.

The Man of Double Deed

There was a man of double deed

Who sowed his garden full of seed;

And when the seed began to grow,

Twas like a forest full of snow;

And when the snow began to melt,

Twas like a ship without a belt;

And when the ship began to sail,

Twas like a bird without a tail;

And when the bird began to fly,

Twas like an eagle in the sky;

And when the sky began to roar,

Twas like a lion at my door;

And when the door began to crack,

Twas like a stick across my back;

And when my back began to smart,

Twas like a pen knife in my heart;

And when my heart began to bleed,

Twas death, and death, and death indeed.


Nobody knows who wrote it. It started showing up in England and Ireland in the mid-1700s, and was first published in 1781.
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Re: Poetry

Postby Wolfpack on Fri Feb 17, 2017 6:13 pm

A dozen, a gross, and a score,
plus three times the square root of four,
divided by seven,
plus five times eleven,
is nine squared and not a bit more
"Alright Shaggy - you and Scooby head over that way. The girls and I will go this way."
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Re: Poetry

Postby TheButcher on Fri Feb 24, 2017 3:26 am

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Re: Poetry

Postby Ribbons on Thu Sep 14, 2017 12:00 am

The cheese-mites asked how the cheese got there,
And warmly debated the matter;
The Orthodox said that it came from the air,
And the Heretics said from the platter.

They argued it long and they argued it strong,
And I hear they are arguing now;
But of all the choice spirits who lived in the cheese,
Not one of them thought of a cow.
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