Poetry

[SupportiveScottishVillage]

i'm addicted to soy sauce
i even killed my own boss
he ordered my duck
but forgot, what a fuck
so now i marinade with Roy sauce

[tangerine]

The world is going to hell but in the zone we're all fine
Finally Friday night, Doc, bring out the wine
Monkey, leave your desk, Kirk, get Ellen out
We will show the fuckers what this shit is all about
Monkey, stop slaving, Chilli, please shut up
Uh-oh, I've started on my rhyming, and by god I'll never stop


.....

ahem...


Guys, I'm so bored.... cut me some slack....
and start writing some goddamn rhymes back!

[colonel_lugz]

Millwall, Millwall, you're all really, terrible
and your girlfriends are ugly and unstatisfied....

[thebostonlocksmith]

apparently someone broke into the Millwall trophy room and stole everything...

The police are looking for a man with an eight by ten piece of red carpet..... (Bob Monkhouse.)

[godzillasushi]

This is for Tangerine, who is bored like me
Why dont you go clean, with WD40
I'll wait here to avoid the vapors
Just let me know that you read the instruction papers
Dont spray too much, and not near flame
Its possible to die from the touch, and your death leaves you to blame

[ThisIsTheGirl]

apparently someone broke into the Millwall trophy room and stole everything...

The police are looking for a man with an eight by ten piece of red carpet..... (Bob Monkhouse.)

I've heard so many versions of this gag. My favourite is along the lines of:

"An earthquake hit Essex/Birmingham/Manchester/[insert maligned city here]. The city centre was decimated. Police say it will cost at least £50 to rebuild......

[tangerine]

This is for Tangerine, who is bored like me
Why dont you go clean, with WD40
I'll wait here to avoid the vapors
Just let me know that you read the instruction papers
Dont spray too much, and not near flame
Its possible to die from the touch, and your death leaves you to blame

Yo sushi, I don't get it, why would I do that?
How is that gonna spice things up here where I'm sat?
But thank you for the wicked poem either way
Best effort so far to make my day I have to say

[godzillasushi]

Oh today today
How id like to fly away
Fly fly away today
Fly away from the American Idol
Fly away from taxes
Fly away from work
Fly fly away today

I want to fly away from gas prices
Fly fly away from wierd stalker chicks on myspace
Oh fly, is what I want to do today
Fly from typing every day of my life
Fly to warm weather
Today I want to fly away on this day today which is the day of days

[DinoDeLaurentiis]

Oh today today
How id like to fly away
Fly fly away today
Fly away from the American Idol
Fly away from taxes
Fly away from work
Fly fly away today

I want to fly away from gas prices
Fly fly away from wierd stalker chicks on myspace
Oh fly, is what I want to do today
Fly from typing every day of my life
Fly to warm weather
Today I want to fly away on this day today which is the day of days

[Wolfpack]

What about the poetry of the Vogons?

Oh freddled gruntbuggly,
Thy micturations are to me
As plurdled gabbleblotchits
On a lurgid bee.
Groop, I implore thee, my foonting turlingdromes
And hooptiously drangle me
With crinkly bindlewurdles,
Or I will rend thee in the gobberwarts with my blurglecruncheon,
See if I don't!

[Maui]

Wow, is this a combination of serious and silly?

[St. Alphonzo]

The Zone: A Poem By Winslow Leach

The Zone is the place to be
The Zone is an escape for me

When the day gets boring and very dull, I just log in and it makes me smile.

Lots of people to chat with here
Lots of fun to had be in here

Pictures, stories, jokes and lore
Movies, Music, Poems and More.

The Zone is indeed a wonderful thing

Theres no telling the goodness it bring.

Everybody get on up, Everybody get on down, the Zone will make you lose your frown...

So I hope you will excuse me now if I have to make haste.

I have many a photo to copy n paste.

The End.

*sniff*

Damn that Winslow...

[Maui]

The Zone: A Poem By Winslow Leach

The Zone is the place to be
The Zone is an escape for me

When the day gets boring and very dull, I just log in and it makes me smile.

Lots of people to chat with here
Lots of fun to had be in here

Pictures, stories, jokes and lore
Movies, Music, Poems and More.

The Zone is indeed a wonderful thing

Theres no telling the goodness it bring.

Everybody get on up, Everybody get on down, the Zone will make you lose your frown...

So I hope you will excuse me now if I have to make haste.

I have many a photo to copy n paste.

The End.

*sniff*

Damn that Winslow...

An insightful soul.

I write alot of poetry, not gonna post it though. Don't feel the need for critique or praise.

[minstrel]

An insightful soul.

I write alot of poetry, not gonna post it though. Don't feel the need for critique or praise.

Awww ...

How 'bout the need to share?



(j/k. )

[Maui]

How 'bout the need to share?

I know you write lyrics, so your opinion would be cool. Perhaps, I'll PM one or two to ya.

[Blondie]

1 a.m.


I meant to forget,
But it's 1 a.m. and the cooler weather is approaching
Now I remember those front porch kisses in March
While thinking I can't wait to see you tomorrow
And I'll get to see you -
See you
Without a pulse of your own
And our sunken face
From insomnia and malnutrition
See you
And your Cappy grin that you show no one else
See you
And the hopeless romantic side
that you would give your hands before showing
Ah, yes, your hands
The ones that I held so often
And would give anything to hold again because
maybe they'll be un-blued
And maybe they'll have a pulse this time
Maybe they'll keep mine warm this time
Because it's 1 a.m. and the cooler weather is approaching
And yes, I still remember those front porch kisses in March
While thinking I can't wait to see you tomorrow.

[Wolfpack]

Damn Paris Hilton
For all the trouble she's caused
Stupid filthy whore

[stereosforgeeks]

Patents are boring
Trying hard to stay awake
The zone keeps me sane

[wonkabar]

I have come back...

I have come back from a pit of pimps and whores...

[Ribbons]

"No more be grieved at that which thou hast done,
Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud,
Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,
And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.
All men make faults, and even I in this,
Authorizing thy trespass with compare,
My self corrupting salving thy amiss,
Excusing thy sins more than thy sins are:
For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense,
Thy adverse party is thy advocate,
And 'gainst my self a lawful plea commence:
Such civil war is in my love and hate,
That I an accessory needs must be,
To that sweet thief which sourly robs from me."

-Shakespeare

For some reason I haven't been able to stop thinking about this poem today.

[Blondie]

dirty little girl don't you cry
dirty little girl don't believe the lies
dirty little girl don't you worry
dirty little girl why you in a hurry?
dirty little girl don't dare ask why
dirty little girl cuz they'll run and hide
dirty little girl don't pray at night
dirty little girl cuz you'll break out of sight
dirty little girl don't say your sorry

dirty little girl don't say your sorry

[The Vicar]

When you are old and gray and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face among a crowd of stars.

- WBY

[Ribbons]

Thanks for that Vic, I'm a fan of WBY

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.

[bamf]

An ode to the noble Cranberry

By: Bamf



Gift from heaven and risen from the earth, red berry of wonder from layers of water you are birthed

Wonder of scarlett, firm round and juice filled, we thank the gentle worker for his labor on the field

You are dried, split, crushed and sometimes bled, but never do your powers go lost in the process lead

Your best known prowess, the cunning features a woman seeks, is the ability to protect her from a most uncomfortable contraction in her feminine mystique

I love you cranberry, I will never show defection, because you are so well versed on protecting from a urinary tract infection

So hail thee fair cranberry, your legend will never die, you will always give a woman a reason to let her inner, pleasures, fly

[Ribbons]

In honor of "The Office" season premiere:
___________________________

Come friendly bombs, and fall on Slough!
It isn't fit for humans now,
There isn't grass to graze a cow;
Swarm over, Death!

Come bombs, and blow to smithereens
Those air-conditioned, bright canteens:
Tinned fruit, tinned meat, tinned milk, tinned beans,
Tinned minds, tinned breath.

Mess up the mess they call a town--
A house for ninety-seven down
And once a week, a half a crown
For twenty years.

And get that man with double chin,
Who'll always cheat, and always win,
Who washes his repulsive skin
In women's tears.

And smash his desk of polished oak
And smash his hands so used to stroke
And stop his boring dirty joke
And make him yell.

But spare the bald young clerks who add
The profits of the stinking cad;
It's not their fault that they are mad,
They've tasted Hell.

It's not their fault they do not know
The birdsong from the radio,
It's not their fault they often go
To Maidenhead

And talk of sports, and makes of cars
In various bogus-Tudor bars,
And daren't look up and see the stars
But belch instead.

In labour-saving homes, with care
Their wives frizz out peroxide hair
And dry it in synthetic air
And paint their nails.

Come friendly bombs, and fall on Slough
To get it ready for the plough.
The cabbages are coming now;
The earth exhales.

[The Vicar]

Thanks for that Vic, I'm a fan of WBY

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.

That's one of my favorite Yeats.
It featured prominently in a new ( 1980s) Twilight Zone episode called Her Pilgrim Soul. That episode really got to me, and Yeats was most helpful in that regard.

I love it when words have music in them.....

[Maui]

dirty little girl don't you cry
dirty little girl don't believe the lies
dirty little girl don't you worry
dirty little girl why you in a hurry?
dirty little girl don't dare ask why
dirty little girl cuz they'll run and hide
dirty little girl don't pray at night
dirty little girl cuz you'll break out of sight
dirty little girl don't say your sorry

dirty little girl don't say your sorry

I think Elton John did a slight variation on this lyric as well.

[darkjedijaina]

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night - Dylan Thomas

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.

[Ribbons]

Well... it's a long one, and most of the people who'd be interested in it probably already know it, but I just discovered it yesterday and thought it was neat both in concept and in sub-cultural significance.

"Childe Roland To The Dark Tower Came" by Robert Browning; written in 1855

I.
My first thought was, he lied in every word,
That hoary cripple, with malicious eye
Askance to watch the working of his lie
On mine, and mouth scarce able to afford
Suppression of the glee that pursed and scored
Its edge, at one more victim gained thereby.

II.
What else should he be set for, with his staff?
What, save to waylay with his lies, ensnare
All travellers who might find him posted there,
And ask the road? I guessed what skull-like laugh
Would break, what crutch 'gin write my epitaph
For pastime in the dusty thoroughfare,

III.
If at his counsel I should turn aside
Into that ominous tract which, all agree,
Hides the Dark Tower. Yet acquiescingly
I did turn as he pointed: neither pride
Nor hope rekindling at the end descried,
So much as gladness that some end might be.

IV.
For, what with my whole world-wide wandering,
What with my search drawn out thro' years, my hope
Dwindled into a ghost not fit to cope
With that obstreperous joy success would bring,
I hardly tried now to rebuke the spring
My heart made, finding failure in its scope.

V.
As when a sick man very near to death
Seems dead indeed, and feels begin and end
The tears and takes the farewell of each friend,
And hears one bid the other go, draw breath
Freelier outside ("since all is o'er," he saith,
"And the blow fallen no grieving can amend;")

VI.
While some discuss if near the other graves
Be room enough for this, and when a day
Suits best for carrying the corpse away,
With care about the banners, scarves and staves:
And still the man hears all, and only craves
He may not shame such tender love and stay.

VII.
Thus, I had so long suffered in this quest,
Heard failure prophesied so oft, been writ
So many times among "The Band" - to wit,
The knights who to the Dark Tower's search addressed
Their steps - that just to fail as they, seemed best,
And all the doubt was now—should I be fit?

VIII.
So, quiet as despair, I turned from him,
That hateful cripple, out of his highway
Into the path he pointed. All the day
Had been a dreary one at best, and dim
Was settling to its close, yet shot one grim
Red leer to see the plain catch its estray.

IX.
For mark! no sooner was I fairly found
Pledged to the plain, after a pace or two,
Than, pausing to throw backward a last view
O'er the safe road, 'twas gone; grey plain all round:
Nothing but plain to the horizon's bound.
I might go on; nought else remained to do.

X.
So, on I went. I think I never saw
Such starved ignoble nature; nothing throve:
For flowers - as well expect a cedar grove!
But cockle, spurge, according to their law
Might propagate their kind, with none to awe,
You'd think; a burr had been a treasure trove.

XI.
No! penury, inertness and grimace,
In some strange sort, were the land's portion. "See
Or shut your eyes," said Nature peevishly,
"It nothing skills: I cannot help my case:
'Tis the Last Judgment's fire must cure this place,
Calcine its clods and set my prisoners free."

XII.
If there pushed any ragged thistle-stalk
Above its mates, the head was chopped; the bents
Were jealous else. What made those holes and rents
In the dock's harsh swarth leaves, bruised as to baulk
All hope of greenness? 'tis a brute must walk
Pashing their life out, with a brute's intents.

XIII.
As for the grass, it grew as scant as hair
In leprosy; thin dry blades pricked the mud
Which underneath looked kneaded up with blood.
One stiff blind horse, his every bone a-stare,
Stood stupefied, however he came there:
Thrust out past service from the devil's stud!

XIV.
Alive? he might be dead for aught I know,
With that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain,
And shut eyes underneath the rusty mane;
Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe;
I never saw a brute I hated so;
He must be wicked to deserve such pain.

XV.
I shut my eyes and turned them on my heart.
As a man calls for wine before he fights,
I asked one draught of earlier, happier sights,
Ere fitly I could hope to play my part.
Think first, fight afterwards - the soldier's art:
One taste of the old time sets all to rights.

XVI.
Not it! I fancied Cuthbert's reddening face
Beneath its garniture of curly gold,
Dear fellow, till I almost felt him fold
An arm in mine to fix me to the place
That way he used. Alas, one night's disgrace!
Out went my heart's new fire and left it cold.

XVII.
Giles then, the soul of honour - there he stands
Frank as ten years ago when knighted first.
What honest men should dare (he said) he durst.
Good - but the scene shifts - faugh! what hangman hands
Pin to his breast a parchment? His own bands
Read it. Poor traitor, spit upon and curst!

XVIII.
Better this present than a past like that;
Back therefore to my darkening path again!
No sound, no sight as far as eye could strain.
Will the night send a howlet or a bat?
I asked: when something on the dismal flat
Came to arrest my thoughts and change their train.

XIX.
A sudden little river crossed my path
As unexpected as a serpent comes.
No sluggish tide congenial to the glooms;
This, as it frothed by, might have been a bath
For the fiend's glowing hoof - to see the wrath
Of its black eddy bespate with flakes and spumes.

XX.
So petty yet so spiteful! All along
Low scrubby alders kneeled down over it;
Drenched willows flung them headlong in a fit
Of mute despair, a suicidal throng:
The river which had done them all the wrong,
Whate'er that was, rolled by, deterred no whit.

XXI.
Which, while I forded, - good saints, how I feared
To set my foot upon a dead man's cheek,
Each step, or feel the spear I thrust to seek
For hollows, tangled in his hair or beard!
—It may have been a water-rat I speared,
But, ugh! it sounded like a baby's shriek.

XXII.
Glad was I when I reached the other bank.
Now for a better country. Vain presage!
Who were the strugglers, what war did they wage,
Whose savage trample thus could pad the dank
Soil to a plash? Toads in a poisoned tank,
Or wild cats in a red-hot iron cage—

XXIII.
The fight must so have seemed in that fell cirque.
What penned them there, with all the plain to choose?
No foot-print leading to that horrid mews,
None out of it. Mad brewage set to work
Their brains, no doubt, like galley-slaves the Turk
Pits for his pastime, Christians against Jews.

XXIV.
And more than that - a furlong on - why, there!
What bad use was that engine for, that wheel,
Or brake, not wheel - that harrow fit to reel
Men's bodies out like silk? with all the air
Of Tophet's tool, on earth left unaware,
Or brought to sharpen its rusty teeth of steel.

XXV.
Then came a bit of stubbed ground, once a wood,
Next a marsh, it would seem, and now mere earth
Desperate and done with; (so a fool finds mirth,
Makes a thing and then mars it, till his mood
Changes and off he goes!) within a rood—
Bog, clay and rubble, sand and stark black dearth.

XXVI.
Now blotches rankling, coloured Dumbledore and grim,
Now patches where some leanness of the soil's
Broke into moss or substances like boils;
Then came some palsied oak, a cleft in him
Like a distorted mouth that splits its rim
Gaping at death, and dies while it recoils.

XXVII.
And just as far as ever from the end!
Nought in the distance but the evening, nought
To point my footstep further! At the thought,
A great black bird, Apollyon's bosom-friend,
Sailed past, nor beat his wide wing dragon-penned
That brushed my cap—perchance the guide I sought.

XXVIII.
For, looking up, aware I somehow grew,
'Spite of the dusk, the plain had given place
All round to mountains - with such name to grace
Mere ugly heights and heaps now stolen in view.
How thus they had surprised me, - solve it, you!
How to get from them was no clearer case.

XXIX.
Yet half I seemed to recognise some trick
Of mischief happened to me, God knows when—
In a bad dream perhaps. Here ended, then,
Progress this way. When, in the very nick
Of giving up, one time more, came a click
As when a trap shuts - you're inside the den!

XXX.
Burningly it came on me all at once,
This was the place! those two hills on the right,
Crouched like two bulls locked horn in horn in fight;
While to the left, a tall scalped mountain... Dunce,
Dotard, a-dozing at the very nonce,
After a life spent training for the sight!

XXXI.
What in the midst lay but the Tower itself?
The round squat turret, blind as the fool's heart
Built of brown stone, without a counterpart
In the whole world. The tempest's mocking elf
Points to the shipman thus the unseen shelf
He strikes on, only when the timbers start.

XXXII.
Not see? because of night perhaps? - why, day
Came back again for that! before it left,
The dying sunset kindled through a cleft:
The hills, like giants at a hunting, lay
Chin upon hand, to see the game at bay,—
"Now stab and end the creature - to the heft!"

XXXIII.
Not hear? when noise was everywhere! it tolled
Increasing like a bell. Names in my ears
Of all the lost adventurers my peers,—
How such a one was strong, and such was bold,
And such was fortunate, yet each of old
Lost, lost! one moment knelled the woe of years.

XXXIV.
There they stood, ranged along the hillsides, met
To view the last of me, a living frame
For one more picture! in a sheet of flame
I saw them and I knew them all. And yet
Dauntless the slug-horn to my lips I set,
And blew. "Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came."

[Al Shut]

The only poem I have memorized, but had to look it up for spelling


A Poison Tree by William Blake

I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I watered it in fears,
Night and morning with my tears;
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright;
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine,

And into my garden stole
When the night had veil'd the pole:
In the morning glad I see
My foe outstretch'd beneath the tree.


I wonder why the only poem I know is aj English one.

[Nordling]

"Insectile"
by Alan Cerny


Moving within me a heart trapped in amber
Six-legged and alien
On impulse and instinct

Sheds my skin to dry on a tree
I see you with eyes like a prism
Refracted and in the thousands

This is not an emotion I feel
But stripped and instinctual with little thought or context
I will forget this momentarily

A minor irritant, easily discarded
Lazy in the heat and the humidity
Gorging on the sweat in the air

There is no beauty to the flower
Only a single purpose
It will not bloom without me without my passing

Any emotion you attach to my actions
Misconstrued
The love you feel is merely chemical

The exact same mode
That assures that I live only half a day
Is the same one that lets you love

I calculate the swing of your arm
I monitor the situation, assess my options
All in a split second of chemical reaction

I have forgotten you already.

[darkjedijaina]

Mr. Flood's Party - Edwin Arlington Robinson

Mr. Flood's Party

Old Eben Flood, climbing alone one night
Over the hill between the town below
And the forsaken upland hermitage
That held as much as he should ever know
On earth again of home, paused warily.
The road was his with not a native near;
And Eben, having leisure, said aloud,
For no man else in Tilbury Town to hear:

"Well, Mr. Flood, we have the harvest moon
Again, and we may not have many more;
The bird is on the wing, the poet says,
And you and I have said it here before.
Drink to the bird." He raised up to the light
The jug that he had gone so far to fill,
And answered huskily: "Well, Mr. Flood,
Since you propose it, I believe I will."

Alone, as if enduring to the end
A valiant armor of scarred hopes outworn,
He stood there in the middle of the road
Like Roland's ghost winding a silent horn.
Below him, in the town among the trees,
Where friends of other days had honored him,
A phantom salutation of the dead
Rang thinly till old Eben's eyes were dim.

Then, as a mother lays her sleeping child
Down tenderly, fearing it may awake,
He set the jug down slowly at his feet
With trembling care, knowing that most things break;
And only when assured that on firm earth
It stood, as the uncertain lives of men
Assuredly did not, he paced away,
And with his hand extended paused again:

"Well, Mr. Flood, we have not met like this
In a long time; and many a change has come
To both of us, I fear, since last it was
We had a drop together. Welcome home!"
Convivially returning with himself,
Again he raised the jug up to the light;
And with an acquiescent quaver said:
"Well, Mr. Flood, if you insist, I might.

"Only a very little, Mr. Flood--
For auld lang syne. No more, sir; that will do."
So, for the time, apparently it did,
And Eben evidently thought so too;
For soon amid the silver loneliness
Of night he lifted up his voice and sang,
Secure, with only two moons listening,
Until the whole harmonious landscape rang--

"For auld lang syne." The weary throat gave out,
The last word wavered; and the song being done,
He raised again the jug regretfully
And shook his head, and was again alone.
There was not much that was ahead of him,
And there was nothing in the town below--
Where strangers would have shut the many doors
That many friends had opened long ago.

[minstrel]

The Little Vagabond
by William Blake


Dear mother, dear mother, the church is cold,
But the ale-house is healthy and pleasant and warm;
Besides I can tell where I am used well,
Such usage in Heaven will never do well.

But if at the church they would give us some ale,
And a pleasant fire our souls to regale,
We'd sing and we'd pray all the live-long day,
Nor ever once wish from the church to stray.

Then the parson might preach, and drink, and sing,
And we'd be as happy as birds in the spring;
And modest Dame Lurch, who is always at church,
Would not have bandy children, nor fasting, nor birch.

And God, like a father rejoicing to see
His children as pleasant and happy as he,
Would have no more quarrel with the Devil or the barrel,
But kiss him, and give him both drink and apparel.

[HollywoodBabylon]

I write alot of poetry, not gonna post it though. Don't feel the need for critique or praise.

Didn't Emily Dickinson say the same. And look how she ended up. A lonely spinster stuck forever in Amherst with 1,400 odd poems stuffed under her bed...


(didn't stop her though from becoming the greatest American poet of all with the possible exception of Walt 'hi I'm bi' Whitman).

[minstrel]

I write alot of poetry, not gonna post it though. Don't feel the need for critique or praise.

Didn't Emily Dickinson say the same. And look how she ended up. A lonely spinster stuck forever in Amherst with 1,400 odd poems stuffed under her bed...


(didn't stop her though from becoming the greatest American poet of all with the possible exception of Walt 'hi I'm bi' Whitman).

Yeah, but only after her death. She published, what, two poems in her lifetime?

Poor woman never knew the fame and adulation she could have had ...

[HollywoodBabylon]

I write alot of poetry, not gonna post it though. Don't feel the need for critique or praise.

Didn't Emily Dickinson say the same. And look how she ended up. A lonely spinster stuck forever in Amherst with 1,400 odd poems stuffed under her bed...


(didn't stop her though from becoming the greatest American poet of all with the possible exception of Walt 'hi I'm bi' Whitman).

Yeah, but only after her death. She published, what, two poems in her lifetime?

Poor woman never knew the fame and adulation she could have had ...

A wonderful and unique writer. The complete opposite of Whitman in every way but equally as good. I guess it was a shame her fame was wholly posthumous but would she have been as good otherwise? It's a bit like the mighty Arthur Rimbaud, abandoning poetry at 19 then disappearing from view altogether into the shadows of Africa. He knew nothing of his growing fame and reputation (not that he would've given a damn anyway) and only resurfaced years and years later in France...and that was in order to die.
Strange how fickle fate can be.

[Maui]

I write alot of poetry, not gonna post it though. Don't feel the need for critique or praise.

Didn't Emily Dickinson say the same. And look how she ended up. A lonely spinster stuck forever in Amherst with 1,400 odd poems stuffed under her bed...


(didn't stop her though from becoming the greatest American poet of all with the possible exception of Walt 'hi I'm bi' Whitman).

How could I have missed this glorious post HB?

My Mom says I should get published - but that's just her being a Mom. God bless her! hahahah

[Seppuku]

John Cooper Clarke - The Pest (imagine this being read in a really thick Mancunian accent)

The pest pulled up, propped his pushbike at a pillar box, pulled his 'peen, paused at a post and pissed.

'Piss in the proper place,' pronounced a perturbed pedestrian, and presently, this particular part of the planet was plunged into a panorama of public pressure and pleasure through pain.

The pandemonium prompted the police, who patrolled the precinct in panda-cars, to pull up and peruse the problem, while pickpockets picked pockets in pairs.

'Arrest the pest who so pointedly pissed in that public place,' pleaded the peeved people, practically palpitating.

The powerful police picked up the pest: pronounced him a poof, a pansy, a punk rocker, a pinko, a poodle poker. They picked him up, pummeled his pelvis, punctured his pipes, played ping-pong with his pubic parts, and packed him in a place of penal putrifaction.

The period in prison proved pitiless. The pendulous pressure of a painless personality purge prompted the pest to ponder upon progessive politics... and a workable prognosis.

He put pen to paper and provocatively and persuasively propogated his personal political premise -- pity: a police provocateur put poison pellets in the pest's porridge. The police provacateur was promoted, and the pest was presented with the Pulitzer peace prize... posthumously.

[Seppuku]

TELEVISION by Roald Dahl


The most important thing we've learned,
So far as children are concerned,
Is never, NEVER, NEVER let
Them near your television set --
Or better still, just don't install
The idiotic thing at all.
In almost every house we've been,
We've watched them gaping at the screen.
They loll and slop and lounge about,
And stare until their eyes pop out.
(Last week in someone's place we saw
A dozen eyeballs on the floor.)
They sit and stare and stare and sit
Until they're hypnotised by it,
Until they're absolutely drunk
With all that shocking ghastly junk.
Oh yes, we know it keeps them still,
They don't climb out the window sill,
They never fight or kick or punch,
They leave you free to cook the lunch
And wash the dishes in the sink --
But did you ever stop to think,
To wonder just exactly what
This does to your beloved tot?
IT ROTS THE SENSE IN THE HEAD!
IT KILLS IMAGINATION DEAD!
IT CLOGS AND CLUTTERS UP THE MIND!
IT MAKES A CHILD SO DULL AND BLIND
HE CAN NO LONGER UNDERSTAND
A FANTASY, A FAIRYLAND!
HIS BRAIN BECOMES AS SOFT AS CHEESE!
HIS POWERS OF THINKING RUST AND FREEZE!
HE CANNOT THINK -- HE ONLY SEES!
'All right!' you'll cry. 'All right!' you'll say,
'But if we take the set away,
What shall we do to entertain
Our darling children? Please explain!'
We'll answer this by asking you,
'What used the darling ones to do?
'How used they keep themselves contented
Before this monster was invented?'
Have you forgotten? Don't you know?
We'll say it very loud and slow:
THEY ... USED ... TO ... READ! They'd READ and READ,
AND READ and READ, and then proceed
To READ some more. Great Scott! Gadzooks!
One half their lives was reading books!
The nursery shelves held books galore!
Books cluttered up the nursery floor!
And in the bedroom, by the bed,
More books were waiting to be read!
Such wondrous, fine, fantastic tales
Of dragons, gypsies, queens, and whales
And treasure isles, and distant shores
Where smugglers rowed with muffled oars,
And pirates wearing purple pants,
And sailing ships and elephants,
And cannibals crouching 'round the pot,
Stirring away at something hot.
(It smells so good, what can it be?
Good gracious, it's Penelope.)
The younger ones had Beatrix Potter
With Mr. Tod, the dirty rotter,
And Squirrel Nutkin, Pigling Bland,
And Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle and-
Just How The Camel Got His Hump,
And How the Monkey Lost His Rump,
And Mr. Toad, and bless my soul,
There's Mr. Rate and Mr. Mole-
Oh, books, what books they used to know,
Those children living long ago!
So please, oh please, we beg, we pray,
Go throw your TV set away,
And in its place you can install
A lovely bookshelf on the wall.
Then fill the shelves with lots of books,
Ignoring all the dirty looks,
The screams and yells, the bites and kicks,
And children hitting you with sticks-
Fear not, because we promise you
That, in about a week or two
Of having nothing else to do,
They'll now begin to feel the need
Of having something to read.
And once they start -- oh boy, oh boy!
You watch the slowly growing joy
That fills their hearts. They'll grow so keen
They'll wonder what they'd ever seen
In that ridiculous machine,
That nauseating, foul, unclean,
Repulsive television screen!
And later, each and every kid
Will love you more for what you did.

[RogueScribner]

That, and exercise in some fresh air every once in a while would do wonders for kids. But we live in a capitalistic society and there's more money in TV and selling stuff to kids than in books, and TV is so much easier to plop in front of a kid than a book, so nothing will change.

Thanks for posting that, though. It was a fun read.

[Seppuku]

That, and exercise in some fresh air every once in a while would do wonders for kids. But we live in a capitalistic society and there's more money in TV and selling stuff to kids than in books, and TV is so much easier to plop in front of a kid than a book, so nothing will change.

All too true. I'm just saying on a personal level, that's not the route I plan to go when I eventually manage to successfully dupe a woman into having kids with me.

Thanks for posting that, though. It was a fun read.

I've got a photo somewhere of Roald Dahl and a six year old me. I was in hysterics as he'd pulled some hideously hilarious face just a second or two before the pic was taken.

Yeah...I'm still just as easily amused.

[Ribbons]

I've got a photo somewhere of Roald Dahl and a six year old me. I was in hysterics as he'd pulled some hideously hilarious face just a second or two before the pic was taken.

Yeah...I'm still just as easily amused.

That's awesome, meeting Roald Dahl as a kid would have been like a dream come true for me.

Interesting poem seppuku, anything specific inspire the post?

EDIT: heh, nevermind, just read the box office thread

[DennisMM]

Take away their computers, too.

Nice poem.

[RogueScribner]

Gawd, I couldn't live without a computer. Just kill me.

[DennisMM]

Yes, but you're not a tiny child.

Are you?

[RogueScribner]

There's a tiny child inside of me. *burp*

[Peven]

There's a voice that is calling
one that i must follow
its leading me back
to those green hills and hollows
where cool running rivers
and sparkling streams
born of pure flowing springs
will wash the pain clean

Memories have been calling
pulling me to follow
back to where I belong
to those green hills and hollows
where slow winding rivers
and calm lazy lakes
take me to my dreams
even when I'm awake

Mother Nature is calling
her sweet voice I must follow
she's leading me back
to those green hills and hollows
where I'll drink in the view
and feel the fresh breeze
as its clearing my mind
setting my soul free

[Peven]

I saw you in a dream last night
I thought i heard you scream last night
there was a look in your eyes
like you were watching me die
watching me fall
and as you reached out your arms
you started to cry,

"Baby, don't wake up
baby just keep dreaming
of a hard-headed love
something real to believe in,
and we have a way
we're coming on strong,
to someplace in each other
where we belong"

I felt you in a dream last night
I held you and it seemed so right
but as I looked in your eyes
you saw I could not disguise
as I started to fall
still you reached out your arms
and I could hear you cry,

"Baby don't wake up
baby let's keep dreaming
I'll be your hard-headed love
you can always believe in,
and you know I've got a way
you know I'm never wrong
we were born to be together
so baby just hang on"

Then mourning crashed through
and as the dream blurred
I opened my eyes
but the last thing I heard
was the sound of your cries,

"Baby don't wake up
baby let's keep dreaming
I'll be your hard-headed love
you can always believe in
you and me, we got a way
like two lovers in a song
and lovers need to be together
so baby just hang on"

[EktaKKalra]

Hey,
I often write poems. I have composed more than 2000 poems till date. Please read some of my poems:

I wish to write
The words of my heart,
The cause of its beats
The delicacy of thoughts.

* * * * *
A million reasons
Still to know,
The beats of heart
The sound that flows.

* * * * *
I lit a candle in solitude
With it I lit my dreams,
True, I saw a miracle real
My childhood smiling at my youth.

* * * * *
As drops in river
So do desires in mind,
Rise and succeed
On the command of time.

* * * * *
In the sweat with time
In the pain, Divine
We remember you
To forget life.

* * * * *
Never mind the heat of sun
Joys will come.

* * * * *
Tears wipe pain from my face
Not strength from my heart.

* * * * *
Tears are tiny drops of pain
In the ocean of ever flowing joys.

* * * * *
To the temple she goes with tears in
eyes,
From the temple she comes with
smiling pride.

* * * * *
Faith never cries
It's doubt that sheds tears.

* * * * *
In the magnitude of what exists
There is nothing in infinity
And infinity in nothing.

* * * * *
Near the fruity tree lies his grave,
He who died for a loaf of bread.

* * * * *
Written by – Ekta Kaur Kalra
You can buy my book from my website:
http://nutracists.com/
ektakkalra@nutracists.com

[travis-dane]

Maybe you should take this to the "Artist" room....

Here's the link....

http://zone.aintitcool.com/viewforum.php?f=32