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Poetry
02-05-2012, 01:17 AM (This post was last modified: 02-05-2012 01:17 AM by Svarog.)
Post: #1
Any poetry lovers in the house? Smiling

Here's a thread for your favorite poems and poets.
Also, feel free to contribute with some of your own poetry, if you're into writing verse.

For starters, I'll post two of my favorite poems:

Love In the Asylum
(by Dylan Thomas)

A stranger has come
To share my room in the house not right in the head,
A girl mad as birds

Bolting the night of the door with her arm her plume.
Strait in the mazed bed
She deludes the heaven-proof house with entering clouds

Yet she deludes with walking the nightmarish room,
At large as the dead,
Or rides the imagined oceans of the male wards.

She has come possessed
Who admits the delusive light through the bouncing wall,
Possessed by the skies

She sleeps in the narrow trough yet she walks the dust
Yet raves at her will
On the madhouse boards worn thin by my walking tears.

And taken by light in her arms at long and dear last
I may without fail
Suffer the first vision that set fire to the stars.

THE SECOND COMING
(by W.B. Yeats)

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.

The darkness drops again but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

(Later on, I may post some of my own poems. I'll need some time, since I don't usually write in English. But perhaps I'll translate some of the poems I have and post them, or simply write some new ones in English.)

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02-05-2012, 01:32 AM (This post was last modified: 02-05-2012 01:35 AM by Piglet.)
Post: #2
I'm fonder of prose, however, a good poem can strike me from time to time. Smiling I liked John Donne during my studies, so here's a poem of his. Briefly, he lived in the 17th centiry and was a Metaphysical poet. "The Metaphysical Poets are known for their ability to startle the reader and coax new perspective through paradoxical images, subtle argument, inventive syntax, and imagery from art, philosophy, and religion using an extended metaphor known as a conceit."

Break of Day
by John Donne


Tis true, 'tis day; what though it be?
O wilt thou therefore rise from me?
Why should we rise, because 'tis light?
Did we lie down, because 'twas night?
Love, which in spite of darkness brought us hither,
Should in despite of light keep us together.

Light hath no tongue, but is all eye;
If it could speak as well as spy,
This were the worst that it could say,
That being well, I fain would stay,
And that I loved my heart and honor so,
That I would not from him, that had them, go.

Must business thee from hence remove?
O, that's the worst disease of love.
The poor, the foul, the false, love can
Admit, but not the busied man.
He which hath business, and makes love, doth do
Such wrong, as when a married man doth woo.
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02-05-2012, 02:05 AM (This post was last modified: 02-05-2012 02:17 AM by xtinguish.)
Post: #3
Great poems guys. I'm expecting Svarog to write me one. Wink
Greed.
Crossing narrow lanes of greed,
Our toss I’ll crash rugged rocks,
Our swinging arms clash,
For space to sing and swing.
Want is equal greed,
To last for lust pounce,
As we stumble and grumble,
To please the flesh, that,
Lean upon brittle wall.

Tender empathy, our souls;
And flesh is equal greed,
So like and open grave, that
Red heap of soil
For you to return,
The flesh it craves, that lust;
Infinite greed and greed
Lust endless greed
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02-05-2012, 02:12 AM
Post: #4
"I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud"
William Wordsworth.
I wandered lonely as a Cloud
That floats on high o'er Vales and Hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd
A host of dancing Daffodils;
Along the Lake, beneath the trees,
Ten thousand dancing in the breeze.

The waves beside them danced, but they
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee: --
A poet could not but be gay
In such a laughing company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude,
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the Daffodils.

BUSY IRL
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02-07-2012, 07:40 PM (This post was last modified: 02-07-2012 07:40 PM by Svarog.)
Post: #5
The Sun Wields Mercy
(a poem by Charles Bukowski)

and the sun wields mercy
but like a jet torch carried to high,
and the jets whip across its sight
and rockets leap like toads,
and the boys get out the maps
and pin-cushion the moon,
old green cheese,
no life there but too much on earth:
our unwashed India boys
crossing their legs,playing pipes,
starving with sucked in bellies,
watching the snakes volute
like beautiful women in the hungry air;
the rockets leap,
the rockets leap like hares,
clearing clump and dog
replacing out-dated bullets;
the Chinese still carve
in jade,quietly stuffing rice
into their hunger, a hunger
a thousand years old,
their muddy rivers moving with fire
and song, barges, houseboats
pushed by drifting poles
of waiting without wanting;
in Turkey they face the East
on their carpets
praying to a purple god
who smokes and laughs
and sticks fingers in their eyes
blinding them, as gods will do;
but the rockets are ready: peace is no longer,
for some reason,precious;
madness drifts like lily pads
on a pond circling senselessly;
the painters paint dipping
their reds and greens and yellows,
poets rhyme their loneliness,
musicians starve as always
and the novelists miss the mark,
but not the pelican , the gull;
pelicans dip and dive, rise,
shaking shocked half-dead
radioactive fish from their beaks;
indeed, indeed, the waters wash
the rocks with slime; and on wall st.
the market staggers like a lost drunk
looking for his key; ah,
this will be a good one,by God:
it will take us back to the
sabre-teeth, the winged monkey
scrabbling in pits over bits
of helmet, instrument and glass;
a lightning crashes across
the window and in a million rooms
lovers lie entwined and lost
and sick as peace;
the sky still breaks red and orange for the
painters-and for the lovers,
flowers open as they always have
opened but covered with thin dust
of rocket fuel and mushrooms,
poison mushrooms; it's a bad time,
a dog-sick time-curtain
act 3, standing room only,
SOLD OUT, SOLD OUT, SOLD OUT again,
by god,by somebody and something,
by rockets and generals and
leaders, by poets , doctors, comedians,
by manufacturers of soup
and biscuits, Janus-faced hucksters
of their own indexterity;
I can now see the coal-slick
contaminated fields, a snail or 2,
bile, obsidian, a fish or 3
in the shallows, an obloquy of our
source and our sight.....
has this happened before? is history
a circle that catches itself by the tail,
a dream, a nightmare,
a general's dream, a presidents dream,
a dictators dream...
can't we awaken?
or are the forces of life greater than we are?
can't we awaken? must we forever,
dear friends, die in our sleep?

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02-08-2012, 03:17 AM
Post: #6
Bloody Valentine

The blade.
It penetrates the skin.
It forms tears of blood upon my arm.
The pain.
It hurts for a second.
It stops after a while.
The blood.
It slowly runs down my arms to my finger tips.
It drips off of my hands to the paper.
A present from me to you.
A gift.
A token of my love.
This is my Bloody Valentine.
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02-08-2012, 05:14 AM
Post: #7
(02-08-2012 03:17 AM)xTiNgUiSh Wrote:  Bloody Valentine

The blade.
It penetrates the skin.
It forms tears of blood upon my arm.
The pain.
It hurts for a second.
It stops after a while.
The blood.
It slowly runs down my arms to my finger tips.
It drips off of my hands to the paper.
A present from me to you.
A gift.
A token of my love.
This is my Bloody Valentine.

It restates the negativeness of the universe. The hideous lonely emptiness of existence. Nothingness. The predicament of man forced to live in a barren, godless eternity like a tiny flame flickering in an immense void with nothing but waste, horror, and degradation, forming a useless, bleak straitjacket in a black, absurd cosmos.

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02-08-2012, 05:16 AM
Post: #8
LONG since, I lived beneath vast porticoes,
By many ocean-sunsets tinged and fired,
Where mighty pillars, in majestic rows,
Seemed like basaltic caves when day expired.

The rolling surge that mirrored all the skies
Mingled its music, turbulent and rich,
Solemn and mystic, with the colours which
The setting sun reflected in my eyes.

And there I lived amid voluptuous calms,
In splendours of blue sky and wandering wave,
Tended by many a naked, perfumed slave,

Who fanned my languid brow with waving palms.
They were my slaves--the only care they had
To know what secret grief had made me sad.
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02-08-2012, 06:12 AM (This post was last modified: 02-08-2012 06:13 AM by Crow.)
Post: #9
I love good poetry every now and then, my irl few best friends are poets Smiling. I used to write some too in my late teens.
Here's a piece I always liked:



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02-08-2012, 07:00 AM
Post: #10
(02-08-2012 06:12 AM)Crow Wrote:  I love good poetry every now and then, my irl few best friends are poets Smiling. I used to write some too in my late teens.
Here's a piece I always liked:


Wow that's so great ^^ I readed some of them.
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