Poetry

[Peven]

I'm soaring high in clear blue weather
I'm by your side floating like a feather
You're here in my dreams
Shining bright in the sky
Lifting me up and together we fly
straight into the sun
as two become one
Forever

I'm soaring high no matter the weather
'cause you're by my side, I'm light as a feather
You're all that i dream
Shining bright in the sky
Love lifting us up and together we fly
straight into the sun
two burning as one
Forever

Come soaring high above dark stormy weather
Floating by my side as light as a feather
I'll be there in your dreams
Shining bright in your sky
lifting you up and together we'll fly
to the heart of the sun
our own beating as one
Forever


Peven

[Peven]

All alone again
I'm just sitting here all alone again
Trying hard to find out just who is my friend
and I'm left sitting here all alone again

I'm back again
I've been here many times
and I'm back again
'cause I can't find
a way to win
or how to choose
the best way not to lose

I got burned again
I touched her fire and I got burned again
If I could only feel now like I did back then
but I touched her fire and I got burned again

Feeling low again
I can't get up and I'm feeling low again
No one out there with a helping hand to lend
and I'll never get used to feeling low again


Peven

[Hermanator X]

The Goldfish

O'
Wet
Pet.

Spike Milligan.

(sorry only one I can remember)

[Adam Balm]

I had a dream which was not all a dream.
The bright sun was extinguished, and the stars
Did wander darkly in the eternal space
Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air

-From Darkness, by Lord Byron

[Nachokoolaid]

If you can figure this one out, you get a cookie. I read it at a poetry reading, and people were like


Sweet sweet sweet sweet sweet tea.
Susie Asado.
Sweet sweet sweet sweet sweet tea.
Susie Asado.
Susie Asado which is a told tray sure.
A lean on the shoe this means slips slips hers.
When the ancient light grey is clean it is yellow, it is a silver seller.
This is a please this is a please there are the saids to jelly. These are the wets these say the sets to leave a crown to Incy.
Incy is short for incubus.
A pot. A pot is a beginning of a rare bit of trees. Trees tremble, the old vats are in bobbles, bobbles which shade and shove and render clean, render clean must.
Drink pups.
Drink pups drink pups lease a sash hold, see it shine and a bobolink has pins. It shows a nail.
What is a nail. A nail is unison.
Sweet sweet sweet sweet sweet tea.

[wonkabar]

It was a cold October night long ago on an epoch of Darkness.
A fearful cry sounds: "Plague !"
Awe, Terror, Disease.
Demons rule in this Devil's land.
The air is cold and misty.
A putrid stench fills this foggy air.
Over the loosened paving stones I see, the shadow of a lost undertaker approaching Me.
Black Death.
A pest-spirit I am.
The jaws of Death open wide.
My cold hearth fills again, with the Blood of this doomed mortal's fright.
Black Death invades: "Pest ban !"
Lost and doomed.
A city falls.
Corpses, Skeletons, Cadavers.
A diseased stumbling mortal coughs, seven more doomed.
Black Death.
Gloom, Silence, Death.
Horror, Pestilence, Pain.
Gray faces choking.
Scared faces dying.
A robust wooden wagon piled with corpses rolls by.
Black Death.
Visions of Death.
Visions of suffering.
No doors stop Us.
No bolts stop Us.
The highest walls.
The thickest walls.
The strongest walls.
Like a flood We pass.
From house to house We ravage.
We are the Ghouls.
We are the Children of the Underworld.
Born of Earth.
Liberation unto Tiamat.
Queen of Ghouls.
Wreaker of Pain.
Poisonous smells everywhere prevail.
Our magic never fails.
Decayed roofs crush in on the forgotten remains of Prey.
Under the sand We dwell, at night we come.
Black Death.
Misery, Anger, Fear.
From cold flesh, dead eyes stare at Me.
From a cold skull I drink with tremendous ecstasy.
From foolish attempts to cure,
poisonous, infectious blood is let free.
Black Death.
Contamination, Unnatural Emaciation, Affliction.
Sick suffering living cadavers.
Tormented innocence.
No doors can hold Us back.
No bolts can stop Us.
Amid dark, narrow and filthy lanes on cold funeral winds We ride.
Black Death.
Open the Gates of Time.
Be Ye cast into a New Millennium.
We worship Thee.
King of Terror.
Dark and Fatal Force.
Black Death.

[Brocktune]

the best part is the awesome life goes on sig right at the bottom of the piece!

"liberation unto tiamat"
fucking priceless.

[Eric G]

Little birdie in the gutter,
Does not flitter,
Does not flutter.
Why doesn't this birdie fly?
'Cause it's fuckin' dead that's why.

[Adam Balm]

There's no escape.
The big Struggling Background Artists are out.
They'll fuck everything in sight.
Watch your back.

-Democracy, by Harold Pinter

[Carolian]

"the boys i mean are not refined
they go with girls who buck and bite
they do not give a fuck for luck
they hump them thirteen times a night

one hangs a hat upon her tit
one carves a cross on her behind
they do not give a shit for wit
the boys i mean are not refined

they come with girls who bite and buck
who cannot read and cannot write
who laugh like they would fall apart
and masturbate with dynamite

the boys i mean are not refined
they cannot chat of that and this
they do not give a fart for art
they kill like you would take a piss

they speak whatever's on their mind
they do whatever's in their pants
the boys i mean are not refined
they shake the mountains when they dance"

[DinoDeLaurentiis]

Here's a the little bit of a the mathematical poetry, eh? This a one, she goes out a to a the Adam Balm, the clever little putz...

((12 + 144 + 20 + (3 * 4^(1/2))) / 7) + (5 * 11) 9^2 + 0

[doglips]

John Saxon eh?

[DinoDeLaurentiis]

[Adam Balm]

The really sad thing? I didn't know that 144 is a gross. I needed Dino to tell me "Okay, there's a name for each of those numbers. Use those..."




A dozen and a gross and a score
and then three multiplied by two
divided by seven
and then five multiplied by eleven
and you get eighty one and zero...?

WTF?

[Ribbons]

Wait, is that what that said? Where's the equals sign?

[doglips]

Some maths dude, posting on a forum I do not understand, wrote:

(12+144+20+3*(4)^1/2)/7 +5*11 = 9^2 + 0

That is:

A dozen, a gross, and a score,
Plus three times the square root of four,
Divided by seven,
Plus five times eleven,
Equals nine squared and not a bit more

-John Saxon

So there you go.

[Ribbons]

Ha! Neat.

[Adam Balm]

Some maths dude, posting on a forum I do not understand, wrote:

(12+144+20+3*(4)^1/2)/7 +5*11 = 9^2 + 0

That is:

A dozen, a gross, and a score,
Plus three times the square root of four,
Divided by seven,
Plus five times eleven,
Equals nine squared and not a bit more

-John Saxon

So there you go.

Holy shit!

Okay, I feel less like a moron now. (Although I did need Dino to get me started on the first line.) At first I was reading too much into it (Okay, 11 * 5 is 55 which is the speed limit in the US. So "11* 55" means "limit"...) but then I realized 'Oh wait, this is a poem. Eleven rhymes with seven.'

[DinoDeLaurentiis]

Who would have a know that a the John Saxon was a so talented, eh? To the Dino, he's always a gonna to be a the bionic putz that a got his a robot face knocked off by a the Steve Austen, no?

[vicious_bastard]

Some maths dude

New ranking for AB?

[Flumm]

Expostulation and Reply

By William Wordsworth

"WHY, William, on that old grey stone,
Thus for the length of half a day,
Why, William, sit you thus alone,
And dream your time away?

"Where are your books?--that light bequeathed
To Beings else forlorn and blind!
Up! up! and drink the spirit breathed
From dead men to their kind.

"You look round on your Mother Earth,
As if she for no purpose bore you;
As if you were her first-born birth,
And none had lived before you!"

One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake,
When life was sweet, I knew not why,
To me my good friend Matthew spake,
And thus I made reply:

"The eye--it cannot choose but see;
We cannot bid the ear be still;
Our bodies feel, where'er they be,
Against or with our will.

"Nor less I deem that there are Powers
Which of themselves our minds impress;
That we can feed this mind of ours
In a wise passiveness.

"Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum
Of things for ever speaking,
That nothing of itself will come,
But we must still be seeking?

"--Then ask not wherefore, here, alone,
Conversing as I may,
I sit upon this old grey stone,
And dream my time away,"


1798.

[wonkabar]

AWAKE
Shake dreams from your hair
My pretty child, my sweet one.
Choose the day and choose the sign of your day
The day's divinity
First thing you see.

A vast radiant beach in a cool jeweled moon
Couples naked race down by its quiet side
And we laugh like soft, mad children
Smug in the woolly cotton brains on infancy.
The music and voices are all around us.
Choose, they croon, the Ancient Ones
The time has come again.
Choose now, they croon,
Beneath the moon
Beside an ancient lake.
Enter again the sweet forest,
Enter the hot dream,
Come with us,
Everything is broken up and dances.

[RockyDennis]

Oh pointy bird
Pointy pointy
Anoint my head
Anointy-nointy

[Cabiria]

This is Just to Say

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

[RaulMonkey]

WCW is the man.

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.

[Cabiria]

WCW is the man.

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.

Ah! I love that one. My students flipped out with this poem. They refused to believe that poetry could be so simple, and yet so elegant. They are used to sonnets and epic poems, which I adore as well, but it's nice to throw a curve ball now and then at 'em.

[RaulMonkey]

[Cabiria]

Each man
has a way to betray
the revolution
This is mine

[RaulMonkey]

Each man
has a way to betray
the revolution
This is mine

Whoa, I've never heard that one. That rules. Good comeback, Cabiria.

[RaulMonkey]

[Cabiria]

That's lovely!

[RaulMonkey]

And so sweet!

[Cabiria]

Speaking of sweet:
i carry your heart with me (i carry it in
my heart) i am never without it (anywhere
i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate (for you are my fate,my sweet) i want
no world (for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)

And when I start quoting cummings, it's time for me to go to bed!

[RaulMonkey]

Awwww.

[RaulMonkey]

E.E. Cummings was fucking insane. To whit, "!blac"


!blac
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agains
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(whi)

te sky
?t
rees whic
h fr

om droppe

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,
le
af

a:;go

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s wh
IrlI
n

.g

[RaulMonkey]

E.E. Cummings was fucking insane.

Of course I mean that in a very good way. I love that crazy bastard.

[RaulMonkey]

Another Cummings poem you don't normally see in textbooks:

"Jehovah buried,Satan dead,"


Jehovah buried,Satan dead,
do fearers worship Much and Quick;
badness not being felt as bad,
itself thinks goodness what is meek;
obey says toc,submit says tic,
Eternity's a Five Year Plan:
if Joy with Pain shall hand in hock
who dares to call himself a man?

go dreamless knaves on Shadows fed,
your Harry's Tom,your Tom is Dick;
while Gadgets murder squack and add,
the cult of Same is all the chic;
by instruments,both span and spic,
are justly measured Spic and Span:
to kiss the mike if Jew turn kike
who dares to call himself a man?

loudly for Truth have liars pled,click;
where Boobs are holy,poets mad,
illustrious punks of Progress shriek;
when Souls are outlawed,Hearts are sick,
Hearts being sick,Minds nothing can:
if Hate's a game and Love's a fuck
who dares to call himself a man?

King Christ,this world is all aleak;
and lifepreservers there are none:
and waves which only He may walk
Who dares to call Himself a man.

[RaulMonkey]

Needless to say, "Grande Rojo" is H.arry in the above. I didn't want to change it to "H.arry" because that'd be something that Cummings might've actually done and I don't want to be misrepresentin'.

[Cabiria]

E.E. Cummings was fucking insane.

Of course I mean that in a very good way. I love that crazy bastard.

That he was. One of my very favorites. Thanks for the second one- I wasn't familiar with that piece.

[Pacino86845]

Needless to say, "Grande Rojo" is H.arry in the above. I didn't want to change it to "H.arry" because that'd be something that Cummings might've actually done and I don't want to be misrepresentin'.

Look again, matey.

Wow, I totally love this thread. I'm poetry-retarded, so it's nice to see some obscure and experimental pieces here that I'd have no other way of discovering, except haphazardly. Keep it up!

[Cabiria]

Wow, I totally love this thread. I'm poetry-retarded, so it's nice to see some obscure and experimental pieces here that I'd have no other way of discovering, except haphazardly. Keep it up!

Your wish is my command. Here's one of my favorite love poems by Thomas Lux.

"I Love You Sweatheart"

A man risked his life to write the words.
A man hung upside down (an idiot friend
holding his legs?) with spray paint
to write the words on a girder fifty feet above
a highway. And his beloved,
the next morning driving to work...?
His words are not (meant to be) so unique.
Does she recognize his handwriting?
Did he hint to her at her doorstep the night before
of "something special, darling, tomorrow"?
And did he call her at work
expecting her to faint with delight
at his celebration of her, his passion, his risk?
She will know I love her now,
the world will know my love for her!
A man risked his life to write the world.
Love is like this at the bone, we hope, love
is like this, Sweatheart, all sore and dumb
and dangerous, ignited, blessed--always,
regardless, no exceptions,
always in blazing matters like these: blessed.

[Leckomaniac]

Nothing made me happier today than visiting this thread and reading E.E. Cummings my absolute favorite poet. Here is a poem by W.S. Merwin that I absolutely adore and it is short but economical.

Seperation

Your absence has gone through me
Like thread through a needle.
Everything I do is stitched with its color.

[RaulMonkey]

Needless to say, "Grande Rojo" is H.arry in the above. I didn't want to change it to "H.arry" because that'd be something that Cummings might've actually done and I don't want to be misrepresentin'.

Look again, matey.

Wow, I totally love this thread. I'm poetry-retarded, so it's nice to see some obscure and experimental pieces here that I'd have no other way of discovering, except haphazardly. Keep it up!

Cheers, Pacino!

[RaulMonkey]

E.E. Cummings was fucking insane.

Of course I mean that in a very good way. I love that crazy bastard.

That he was. One of my very favorites. Thanks for the second one- I wasn't familiar with that piece.

It bugs me that textbooks tend to show us only the safe, school-friendly side of the great poets. History ends up seeming completely sanitary and distant; and then how are we supposed to learn anything about our own time?

[Leckomaniac]

Gosh I know. I was fortunate enough to have a really amazing Professor this past year and he showed me things I couldn't even imagine. It was an amazing experience.

[RaulMonkey]

Gosh I know. I was fortunate enough to have a really amazing Professor this past year and he showed me things I couldn't even imagine. It was an amazing experience.

I had a couple of professors during University that I was just in awe of. They became complete heroes to me, complete role models. So much so that normal relationships with them became relatively impossible; you know, I'm used to my role models being artists that I get to know through books and mass media, and then all of a sudden I have some that are feet away from me. It was hard to know how to carry myself.

[RaulMonkey]

Something for CITIZEN KANE geeks...

Samuel Taylor Coleridge
"Kubla Khan"
OR, A VISION IN A DREAM.
A FRAGMENT.

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree :
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round :
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree ;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

But oh ! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover !
A savage place ! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover !
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced :
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail :
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean :
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war !


The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves ;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.

It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice !
A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw :
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight 'twould win me,

That with music loud and long,
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome ! those caves of ice !
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware ! Beware !
His flashing eyes, his floating hair !
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.

[RaulMonkey]

Now, here's the added dimension behind the scenes, which I actually did find in a poetry textbook from University.

"The following fragment is here published at the request of a poet of great and deserved celebrity [Lord Byron], and, as far as the Author's own opinions are concerned, rather as a psychological curiosity, than on the ground of any supposed poetic merits.

In the summer of the year 1797, the Author, then in ill health, had retired to a lonely farm-house between Porlock and Linton, on the Exmoor confines of Somerset and Devonshire. In consequence of a slight indisposition, an anodyne had been prescribed, from the effects of which he fell asleep in his chair at the moment that he was reading the following sentence, or words of the same substance, in Purchas's Pilgrimage: ``Here the Khan Kubla commanded a palace to be built, and a stately garden thereunto. And thus ten miles of fertile ground were inclosed with a wall.'' The Author continued for about three hours in a profound sleep, at least of the external senses, during which time he has the most vivid confidence, that he could not have composed less than from two to three hundred lines; if that indeed can be called composition in which all the images rose up before him as things, with a parallel production of the correspondent expressions, without any sensation or consciousness of effort. On awakening he appeared to himself to have a distinct recollection of the whole, and taking his pen, ink, and paper, instantly and eagerly wrote down the lines that are here preserved. At this moment he was unfortunately called out by a person on business from Porlock, and detained by him above an hour, and on his return to his room, found, to his no small surprise and mortification, that though he still retained some vague and dim recollection of the general purport of the vision, yet, with the exception of some eight or ten scattered lines and images, all the rest had passed away like the images on the surface of a stream into which a stone has been cast, but, alas! without the after restoration of the latter!

Then all the charm
Is broken--all that phantom-world so fair
Vanishes, and a thousand circlets spread,
And each mis-shape the other. Stay awile,
Poor youth! who scarcely dar'st lift up thine eyes--
The stream will soon renew its smoothness, soon
The visions will return! And lo, he stays,
And soon the fragments dim of lovely forms
Come trembling back, unite, and now once more
The pool becomes a mirror.

Yet from the still surviving recollections in his mind, the Author has frequently purposed to finish for himself what had been originally, as it were, given to him. "I'll sing you a sweeter song another day," (Theocritus, I. 145) but the to-morrow is yet to come."

[RaulMonkey]

And, Kubla Khan, STC's note on a manuscript copy

"This fragment with a good deal more, not recoverable, composed, in a sort of Reverie brought on by two grains of Opium taken to check a dysentery, at a Farm House between Porlock & Linton, a quarter of a mile from Culbone Church, in the fall of the year, 1797."

[Flumm]

E.E. Cummings was fucking insane.

Of course I mean that in a very good way. I love that crazy bastard.

That he was. One of my very favorites. Thanks for the second one- I wasn't familiar with that piece.

It bugs me that textbooks tend to show us only the safe, school-friendly side of the great poets. History ends up seeming completely sanitary and distant; and then how are we supposed to learn anything about our own time?

I appriciate the sentiment Raul, but I'm not sure it's strictly true. For instance, there's a trend with authors seeking to make a name for themselves by rooting out little known and overlooked figures from history and to make a splash with unexpected biographies of them...


And don't forget, no matter how much we feel our tastes are in the minority, we live on a planet of billions, it's going to take something fairly extradoniary for you to find something that the rest of the planet fails to appriciate... or least has a book written about it.

Libraries are full to the brim of books, with more poems written than any of us could dare to read...

Pretty much every CD ever made is recorded and filed away in huge databases, shared over the internet etc...


Although, I agree with you about mainstreem education. There's only so far that can truely go. It takes a will and curiosity on behlaf of the individual to seek out things that won't just fall into their lap, and that differentiates between the people who have history unfold around them and those who are actually learning from it...


*reads above post*

Oh dear. Apologies Raul. I'm sure I have a lot more to learn from you, than you have from me. I'm now realising it's at this time of night (if not all times) I'm liable to spout complete and utter bullshit.



Post on!