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Poetry
02-29-2012, 06:24 AM
Post: #21
(02-27-2012 09:25 AM)Hуѕтєяιa X™ Wrote:  I'll post one I've written. It's obviously not good, like the ones you've posted but eh.. I'm new at it.

1000 Year War

Acceptance of darkness
The heart and soul of one man's son
The 1000 year struggle is over
The people have won

It starts again
Sacrifice of blood and tears
Eyes against nothing
Everyone's overwhelming fears

Battlefield covered in blood
Blinded by the night
Vanish forever
Into the infinite light

Eyes of the heavens watch over
Hand of the almighty sun
The old era is over
A new one has begun

--

Truly wonderful :'}
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03-01-2012, 07:55 PM (This post was last modified: 03-01-2012 07:55 PM by BlackChaos.)
Post: #22
I was about to post a new thread regarding poetry, but I'm glad I came across this one instead. Smiling
Here's a poem I wrote quite a while back. Thought it would be cool to share it here:


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03-04-2012, 04:05 PM
Post: #23
BlackChaos, that is a wonderfully sad piece. I can really feel the narrator's confusing nature. Very well done. n.n

I have brought out another piece I wrote. This one has a hidden theme, too (I have to warn, though, that it contains no real meter. It's very prose).

Extra points if you can figure out what the subject's subject is.

Stellen sich vor, dass es keinen Heaven gibt, es ist einfach wenn Sie versuchen.
Keinen Hölle unter uns, Über uns nur Himmel.
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03-05-2012, 05:09 PM
Post: #24
(03-01-2012 07:55 PM)BlackChaos Wrote:  I was about to post a new thread regarding poetry, but I'm glad I came across this one instead. Smiling
Here's a poem I wrote quite a while back. Thought it would be cool to share it here:


That was emotionally respectable. I loved it.
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03-09-2012, 04:26 AM
Post: #25
I love poetry.

Though I've never told any of my friends. lol

My brother also likes poetry, and if you saw my bro irl you'd say "HE likes poetry?"

lol :3

But yes, I read and write poetry. Not recently though. :c

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We're born alone, we live alone, we die alone
Only through our love and friendship can we create the illusion for the moment that we're not alone
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03-15-2012, 12:32 AM
Post: #26
Aftersong

O noon of life! A time to celebrate!
Oh garden of summer!
Restless happiness in standing, gazing, waiting:—
I wait for friends, ready day and night.
You friends, where are you? Come! It's time! It's time!

Was it not for you that the glacier's grayness
today decked itself with roses?
The stream is seeking you, and wind and clouds
with yearning push themselves higher into the blue today
to look for you from the furthest bird's eye view.

For you my table has been set at the highest point.
Who lives so near the stars?
Who's so near the furthest reaches of the bleak abyss?
My realm—what realm has stretched so far?
And my honey—who has tasted that? . . .

There you are, my friends!—Alas, so I'm not the man,
not the one you're looking for?
You hesitate, surprised!—Ah, your anger would be better!
Am I no more the one? A changed hand, pace, and face?
And what am I—for you friends am I not the one?

Have I become another? A stranger to myself?
Have I sprung from myself?
A wrestler who overcame himself so often?
Too often pulling against his very own power,
wounded and checked by his own victory?

I looked where the wind blows most keenly?
I learned to live
where no one lives, in deserted icy lands,
forgot men and god, curse and prayer?
Became a ghost that moves over the glaciers?

—You old friends! Look! Now your gaze is pale,
full of love and horror!
No, be off! Do not rage! You can't live here:
here between the furthest realms of ice and rock—
here one must be a hunter, like a chamois.

I've become a wicket hunter! See, how deep
my bow extends!
It was the strongest man who made such a pull—
Woe betide you! The arrow is dangerous—
like no arrow—away from here! For your own good! . . .

You're turning around?—O heart, you deceive enough,
your hopes stayed strong:
hold your door open for new friends!
Let the old ones go! Let go the memory!
Once you were young, now—you are even younger!

What bound us then, a band of one hope—
who reads the signs,
love once etched there—still pale?
I compare it to parchment which the hand
fears to touch—like that discoloured, burned.

No more friends—they are . . . But how can I name that?—
Just friendly ghosts!
That knocks for me at night on my window and my heart,
that looks at me and says, 'But we were friends?'—
—O shrivelled word, once fragrant as a rose!

O youthful longing which misunderstands itself!
Those yearned for,
whom I imagined changed to my own kin,
they have grown old, have exiled themselves.
Only the one who changes stays in touch with me.

O noon of life! A second youthful time!
O summer garden!
Restless happiness in standing, gazing, waiting!
I wait for friends, ready day and night.
You friends, where are you? Come! It's time! It's time

The song is done—the sweet cry of yearning
died in my mouth:
A magician did it, a friend at the right hour,
a noontime friend—no! Do not ask who it might be—
it was at noon when one turned into two . . . .

Now we celebrate, certain of victory, united,
the feast of feasts:
friend Zarathustra came, the guest of guests!
Now the world laughs, the horror curtain splits,
the wedding came for light and darkness . . . .

by Friedrich Nietzsche
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03-16-2012, 07:18 AM
Post: #27
The Weary Blues by Langston Hughes

Droning a drowsy syncopated tune,
Rocking back and forth to a mellow croon,
I heard a Negro play.
Down on Lenox Avenue the other night
By the pale dull pallor of an old gas light
He did a lazy sway. . . .
He did a lazy sway. . . .
To the tune o’ those Weary Blues.
With his ebony hands on each ivory key
He made that poor piano moan with melody.
O Blues!
Swaying to and fro on his rickety stool
He played that sad raggy tune like a musical fool.
Sweet Blues!
Coming from a black man’s soul.
O Blues!
In a deep song voice with a melancholy tone
I heard that Negro sing, that old piano moan—
“Ain’t got nobody in all this world,
Ain’t got nobody but ma self.
I’s gwine to quit ma frownin’
And put ma troubles on the shelf.”

Thump, thump, thump, went his foot on the floor.
He played a few chords then he sang some more—
“I got the Weary Blues
And I can’t be satisfied.
Got the Weary Blues
And can’t be satisfied—
I ain’t happy no mo’
And I wish that I had died.”
And far into the night he crooned that tune.
The stars went out and so did the moon.
The singer stopped playing and went to bed
While the Weary Blues echoed through his head.
He slept like a rock or a man that’s dead.


I used to read this poem every night a few years ago.
It's got an amazing rhythm. There was even a version of it set to music, you can find it easily on YouTube.
It's the Harlem Renaissance incarnated.

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03-16-2012, 07:20 AM
Post: #28
A Soldier
by Robert Frost
He is that fallen lance that lies as hurled, That lies unlifted now, come dew, come rust, But still lies pointed as it ploughed the dust. If we who sight along it round the world, See nothing worthy to have been its mark, It is because like men we look too near, Forgetting that as fitted to the sphere, Our missiles always make too short an arc. They fall, they rip the grass, they intersect The curve of earth, and striking, break their own; They make us cringe for metal-point on stone. But this we know, the obstacle that checked And tripped the body, shot the spirit on Further than target ever showed or shone.

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03-26-2012, 12:37 AM
Post: #29
The Jewels by Charles Baudelaire (one of many English translations)


Naked was my dark love, and, knowing my heart,
Adorned in but her most sonorous gems,
Their high pomp decked her with the conquering art
Of Moorish slave girls crowned with diadems.

Dancing for me with lively, mocking sound,
This world of stone and metal, brittle and bright,
Fills me with rapture who have always found
Excess of joy where hue and tone unite.

Naked she lay, suffered love pleasurably
To mould her, smiled on my desire as if,
Profound and gentle as the rising sea,
It rode the tide toward its appointed cliff.

A tiger, tamed, her eyes on mine, intent
On lust, she sought all strange ways to please:
Her air, half-candid, half-lascivious, lent
A new charm to her metamorphoses.

In turn, her arms and limbs, her veins, her thighs,
Polished as nard, undulant as a swan,
Passed under my serene clairvoyant eyes
As belly and breasts, grapes of my vine, moved on.

Skilled in more spells than evil angels muster
To break the solace which possessed my heart,
Smashing the crystal rock upon whose luster
My quietude sat on its own, apart,

Her waist, awrithe, her belly enormously
Out-thrust, formed strange designs unknown to us,
As if the haunches of Antiope
Flowed from a body not yet Ephebus.

Slowly the lamplight sank, resigned to die.
Firelight pierced darkness, stud on glowing stud,
Each time it heaved a sharply flaming sigh
It steeped her amber flesh in pools of blood.

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03-26-2012, 01:24 AM
Post: #30
My favorite would be Dante Alighieri :
DEATH, always cruel, Pity's foe in chief,
Mother who brought forth grief,
Merciless judgment and without appeal!
Since thou alone hast made my heart to feel
This sadness and unweal,
My tongue upbraideth thee without relief.

And now (for I must rid thy name of ruth)
Behoves me speak the truth
Touching thy cruelty and wickedness:
Not that they be not known; but ne'ertheless
I would give hate more stress
With them that feed on love in very sooth.

Out of this world thou hast driven courtesy,
And virtue, dearly prized in womanhood;
And out of youth's gay mood
The lovely lightness is quite gone through thee.

Whom now I mourn, no man shall learn from me
Save by the measure of these praises given.
Whoso deserves not Heaven
May never hope to have her company.

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