The 'Share Some Poetry' Thread
Boom The Cat
Posts: 482
There's some great work flying around these parts, no doubt about that, you are all very talented, So keep up the good work 
But I was thinking, you are all into poetry, and you must have got your inpiration from somewhere, so why not post some of your favorite poems, mabye some good poetry websites, mabye you wanna reccomend a poet.
Whatever it is, post it here and express yourself!
But I was thinking, you are all into poetry, and you must have got your inpiration from somewhere, so why not post some of your favorite poems, mabye some good poetry websites, mabye you wanna reccomend a poet.
Whatever it is, post it here and express yourself!
no matter where you go,
there you are.
- brain of c
there you are.
- brain of c
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We lived on the medieval coast
south of warrior kingdoms
during the ancient age of the winds
as they drove all things before them.
Monks from the north came
down our streams floating--that was
the year no one ate river fish.
There was no book of the forest,
no book of the sea, but these
are the places people died.
Handwriting occurred on waves,
on leaves, the scripts of smoke,
a sign on a bridge along the Mahaweli River.
A gradual acceptance of this new language.
The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
" I hate to lose something,"
then she bent her head
"even a dime, I wish I was dead.
I can't explain it. No more to be said.
Cept I hate to lose something."
"I lost a doll once and cried for a week.
She could open her eyes, and do all but speak.
I believe she was took, by some doll-snatching-
sneak
I tell you, I hate to lose something."
"A watch of mine once, got up and walked away.
It had twelve numbers on it and for the time of
day.
I'll never forget it and all I can say
Is I really hate to lose something."
"Now if I felt that way bout a watch and a toy,
What you think I feel bout my lover-boy?
I an't threatening you madam, but he is my
evening's joy.
And I mean I really hate to lose something."
The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
awesome imagery/renegade concepts
or
T.S Eliot - 'The Wasteland' - edited by Ezra Pound - best version
and Eliot's 'Lovesong of J.Alfred Prufrock' - classic...
Philip Larkin is great too - if not a little morose/morbid as well as Betjeman/Hughes - but depends on the mood...
“Where are you from?”
It was a question more difficult
then she knew, or intended.
There is nothing left there...
I've been away too long for that.
My hometown has become
a construct of the mind,
a physical place no longer.
It is all real, all still real
the people, the locales,
the events, beads on a string.
My mind has strung them
artfully arranging them:
A creative construct tied
not to geography and time
but to memory . . .
there you are.
- brain of c
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
- the great Sir Leo Harrison
The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
Yup
- the great Sir Leo Harrison
Have you compared the 1922 edition of The Waste Land, first published in The Criterion, with manuscript examples of He Do The Police In Different Voices (pre-Pound)? Pound did a consummate editorial job on The Waste Land; the extent of his creative input, as an editor determining the themes and forms of the poem, is something readers will argue about, long after we're dead.
Also, Pound cut out some potentially troublesome sections, such as:
Full fathom five your Bleistein lies
Under the flatfish and the squids.
Graves' Disease in a dead Jew's eyes!
Where the crabs have eat the lids.
Said Hamlet to Ophelia,
I'll draw a sketch of thee,
What kind of pencil shall I use?
2B or not 2B?
- the great Sir Leo Harrison
And that's the way it always is and that's the way
it always ends and the fire and the rose are one
and always the same scene and always the same
subject right from the beginning like in the Bible
or The Sun Also Rises which begins Robert Cohn
was middleweight boxing champion of his class
but later we lost our balls and there we go again
there we are again there's the same old theme
and scene again with all the citizens and all
the characters all working up to it right from
the first and it looks like all they ever think of
is doing It and it doesn't matter much with who
half the time but the other half it matters more
than anything O the sweet love fevers yes and
there's always complications like maybe she has
no eyes for him or him no eyes for her or her no
eyes for her or him no eyes for him or something
or other stands in the way like his mother or
her father or someone like that but they go right
on trying to get it all the time like in Shakespeare
or The Waste Land or Proust remembering his Things
Past or wherever And there they all are struggling
toward each other or after each other like those
marble maidens on that Grecian Urn or on any market
street or merrygoround around and around they go
all hunting love and half the hungry time not even
knowing just what is really eating them like Robin
walking in her Nightwood streets although it isn't
quite as simple as all that as if all she really
needed was a good fivecent cigar oh no and those
who have not hunted will not recognize the hunting
poise and then the hawks that hover where the
heart is hid and the hungry horses crying and
the stone angels and heaven and hell and Yerma
with her blind breasts under her dress and then
Christopher Columbus sailing off in search and
Rudolph Valentine and Juliet and Romeo and John
Barrymore and Anna Livia and Abie's Irish Rose
and so Goodnight Sweet Prince all over again
with everyone and everybody laughing and crying
along wherever night and day winter and summer
spring and tomorrow like Anna Karenina lost in
the snow and the cry of hunters in a great wood
and the soldiers coming and Freud and Ulysses
always on their hungry travels after the same
hot grail like King Arthur and his nighttime knights
and everybody wondering where and how it will all
end like in the movies or in some nightmaze novel
yes as in a nightmaze Yes I said Yes I will and he
called me his Andalusian rose and I said Yes my
heart was going like mad and that's the way Ulysses
ends as everything always ends when that hunting
cock of flesh at last cries out and has his glory
moment God and then comes tumbling down the sound
of axes in the wood and the trees falling and down
it goes the sweet cock's sword so wilting in the
fair flesh fields away alone at last and loved
and lost and found upon a riverbank along a
riverrun right where it all began and so begins again
On the Ning Nang Nong
Where the Cows go Bong!
and the monkeys all say BOO!
There's a Nong Nang Ning
Where the trees go Ping!
And the tea pots jibber jabber joo.
On the Nong Ning Nang
All the mice go Clang
And you just can't catch 'em when they do!
So its Ning Nang Nong
Cows go Bong!
Nong Nang Ning
Trees go ping
Nong Ning Nang
The mice go Clang
What a noisy place to belong
is the Ning Nang Ning Nang Nong!!
The world is a beautiful place
to be born into
if you don't mind happiness
not always being
so very much fun
if you don't mind a touch of hell
now and then
just when everything is fine
because even in heaven
they don't sing
all the time
The world is a beautiful place
to be born into
if you don't mind some people dying
all the time
or maybe only starving
some of the time
which isn't half so bad
if it isn't you
Oh the world is a beautiful place
to be born into
if you don't much mind
a few dead minds
in the higher places
or a bomb or two
now and then
in your upturned faces
or such other improprieties
as our Name Brand society
is prey to
with its men of distinction
and its men of extinction
and its priests
and other patrolmen
and its various segregations
and congressional investigations
and other constipations
that our fool flesh
is heir to
Yes the world is the best place of all
for a lot of such things as
making the fun scene
and making the love scene
and making the sad scene
and singing low songs and having inspirations
and walking around
looking at everything
and smelling flowers
and goosing statues
and even thinking
and kissing people and
making babies and wearing pants
and waving hats and
dancing
and going swimming in rivers
on picnics
in the middle of the summer
and just generally
'living it up'
Yes
but then right in the middle of it
comes the smiling
mortician
http://www.lyrikline.org/index.php?id=162&L=2&author=lf00&show=Poems&poemId=2726&cHash=b7ec700ae6
Haven't read the pre-Pound edition, but have it on good authority from many different sources that his edition is the leader in the market, so to speak - regardless of arguments over undue influence - but perhaps I shouldn't take that as a given...
But in turn it led me to true imagism/Vorticism and its makers - life in the kaleidoscope...lol.
'In A Station At The Metro'
The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.
- Ezra Pound
Did you know, the original version of the poem was thirty-one lines long? That's pruning, for ya.
While my hair was still cut straight across my forehead
I played about the front gate, pulling flowers.
You came by on bamboo stilts, playing horse,
You walked about my seat, playing with blue plums.
And we went on living in the village of Chokan:
Two small people, without dislike or suspicion.
At fourteen I married My Lord you.
I never laughed, being bashful.
Lowering my head, I looked at the wall.
Called to, a thousand times, I never looked back.
At fifteen I stopped scowling,
I desired my dust to be mingled with yours
Forever and forever and forever.
Why should I climb the lookout?
At sixteen you departed,
You went into far Ku-to-en, by the river of swirling eddies,
And you have been gone five months.
The monkeys make sorrowful noise overhead.
You dragged your feet when you went out.
By the gate now, the moss is grown, the different mosses,
Too deep to clear them away!
The leaves fall early this autumn, in wind.
The paired butterflies are already yellow with August
Over the grass in the West garden;
They hurt me. I grow older.
If you are coming down through the narrows of the river Kiang,
Please let me know beforehand,
And I will come out to meet you
As far as Cho-fo-Sa.
The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
http://www.geocities.com/~bblair/sip15_title.htm
You might enjoy this, then!
born 19.6.32 - deported 24.9.42
Undesirable you may have been, untouchable
you were not. Not forgotten
or passed over at the proper time.
As estimated, you died. Things marched,
sufficient, to that end.
Just so much Zyklon and leather, patented
terror, so many routine cries.
(I have made
an elegy for myself it
is true)
September fattens on vines. Roses
flake from the wall. The smoke
of harmless fires drifts to my eyes.
This is plenty. This is more than enough.
Cheers Fins - 'Ballad of Another Ophelia' - ol' D.H forgot all about that one...love it!
'Cuckoo Song'
Sumer is icumen in,
Lhude sing cuccu!
Groweth sed, and bloweth med,
And springth the wude nu-
Sing cuccu!
Awe bleteth after lomb,
Lhouth after calve cu;
Bulluc sterteth, bucke verteth,
Murie sing cuccu!
Cuccu, cuccu, well singes thu, cuccu:
Ne swike thu naver nu;
Sing cuccu, nu, sing cuccu,
Sing cuccu, sing cuccu, nu!
-- Anon (13th century)
The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
Denise Levertov
Some people,
no matter what you give them,
still want the moon.
The bread,
the salt,
white meat and dark,
still hungry.
The marriage bed
and the cradle,
still empty arms.
You give them land,
their own earth under their feet,
still they take to the roads.
And water: dig them the deepest well,
still it's not deep enough
to drink the moon from.
____________________________
We are the music-makers.
And we are the dreamers of dreams,
Wandering by lone sea-breakers,
And sitting by desolate streams;
World-losers and world-forsakers,
On whom the pale moon gleams;
Yet we are the movers and shakers
Of the world forever, it seems.
With wonderful deathless ditties
We build up the world's great cities,
And out of a fabulous story
We fashion an empire's glory:
One man with a dream, at pleasure,
Shall go forth and conquer a crown;
And three with a new song's measure
Can trample a kingdom down.
We in the ages lying
In the buried past of the earth,
Built Nineveh with our sighing,
And Babel itself with our mirth;
And o'erthrew them with prophesying
To the old of the new world's worth;
For each age is a dream that is dying,
Or one that is coming to birth.
A. W. E. O'Shaughnessy
You really are a heel,
You're as cuddly as a cactus, you're as charming as an eel, Mr. Grinch,
You're a bad banana with a greasy black peel!
You're a monster, Mr. Grinch,
Your heart's an empty hole,
Your brain is full of spiders, you have garlic in your soul, Mr. Grinch,
I wouldn't touch you with a thirty-nine-and-a-half foot pole!
You're a foul one, Mr. Grinch,
You have termites in your smile,
You have all the tender sweetness of a seasick crocodile, Mr. Grinch,
Given a choice between the two of you I'd take the seasick crocodile!
You're a rotter, Mr. Grinch,
You're the king of sinful sots,
You're a heart of dead tomato washed with moldy purple spots, Mr. Grinch,
You're a three decker sauerkrauten toadstool sandwich with arsenic sauce!
You nauseate me, Mr. Grinch,
With a nauseous (super not?),
You're a crooked dirty jockey and you drive a crooked horse, Mr. Grinch,
Your soul is an appalling dump heap overflowing with the most disgraceful
assortment of rubbish imaginable mangled up in tangled up knots!
You're a foul one, Mr. Grinch,
You're a nasty wasty skunk,
Your heart is full of unwashed socks, your soul is full of gunk, Mr. Grinch,
The three words that best describe you are, and I quote,
"Stink, stank, stunk
I'd say that The Boss, Bruce Springsteen, and his very loyal faithful fans have had the biggest influence and confluence on my poetry writing, especially of the love and erotic kind. I could post all of Bruce's poems (which he so geniusly turned into songs, but they're all over the net already.
Thanks Bruce! for the inspiration!
Graduate of the School for Sexual Gifted....magna cum loads
Yes! "Verteth" means "farts", though. No farts in Yeatsian romanticism:
I whispered, "I am too young,"
And then, "I am old enough;"
Wherefore I threw a penny
To find out if I might love.
"Go and love, go and love, young man,
If the lady be young and fair."
Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,
I am looped in the loops of her hair.
O love is the crooked thing,
There is nobody wise enough
To find out all that is in it,
For he would be thinking of love.
Till the stars had run away
And the shadows eaten the moon.
Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,
One cannot begin it too soon.
WB Yeats
Do not stand at my grave and forever weep.
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn’s rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and forever cry.
I am not there. I did not die.
Melinda Sue Pacho
Danse Russe
If when my wife is sleeping
and the baby and Kathleen
are sleeping
and the sun is a flame-white disc
in silken mists
above shining trees,--
if I in my north room
dance naked, grotesquely
before my mirror
waving my shirt around my head
and singing softly to myself:
"I am lonely, lonely.
I was born to be lonely,
I am best so!"
If I admire my arms, my face,
my shoulders, flanks, buttocks
against the yellow drawn shades,--
Who shall say I am not
the happy genius of my household?
- William Carlos Williams (1883-1963)
Growing wild at the gable of the house
Beyond where we dumped our refuse and old bottles:
Unverdant ever, almost beneath notice.
But, to be fair, it also spelled promise
And newness in the back yard of our life
As if something callow yet tenacious
Sauntered in green alleys and grew rife.
The snip of scissor blades, the light of Sunday
Mornings when the mint was cut and loved:
My last things will be first things slipping from me.
Yet let all things go free that have survived.
Let the smells of mint go heady and defenceless
Like inmates liberated in that yard.
Like the disregarded ones we turned against
Because we'd failed them by our disregard.
The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird