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Vorpal blade went SNICKER-SNACK

1235

Posts

  • JedocJedoc Registered User regular
    edited May 2010
    Part two of our ongoing series on Silverstein's filthy poems about the devil.
    Spoiler:

    Thank you and goodnight! Tip your waitress.

    cannon.jpg
  • NotASenatorNotASenator Registered User regular
    edited May 2010
    NotACrook wrote: »
    I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.

    Write, for instance: "The night is full of stars,
    and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance."

    The night wind whirls in the sky and sings.

    I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
    I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

    On nights like this, I held her in my arms.
    I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky.

    She loved me, sometimes I loved her.
    How could I not have loved her large, still eyes?

    I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
    To think I don't have her. To feel that I've lost her.

    To hear the immense night, more immense without her.
    And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass.

    What does it matter that my love couldn't keep her.
    The night is full of stars and she is not with me.

    That's all. Far away, someone sings. Far away.
    My soul is lost without her.

    As if to bring her near, my eyes search for her.
    My heart searches for her and she is not with me.

    The same night that whitens the same trees.
    We, we who were, we are the same no longer.

    I no longer love her, true, but how much I loved her.
    My voice searched the wind to touch her ear.

    Someone else's. She will be someone else's. As she once
    belonged to my kisses.
    Her voice, her light body. Her infinite eyes.

    I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her.
    Love is so short and oblivion so long.

    Because on nights like this I held her in my arms,
    my soul is lost without her.

    Although this may be the last pain she causes me,
    and this may be the last poem I write for her.
    NAS, I love you for this. Read the first half of this for my wife's eulogy.

    I'm not sure how this makes me feel.

  • Grey GhostGrey Ghost Okay... This looks bad.Registered User regular
    edited May 2010
    I love The Devil & Billy Markham and I was rather shocked the first time I saw who wrote it

    zw3k8eu.gif
    PSN: GrahamCR
  • NotASenatorNotASenator Registered User regular
    edited May 2010
    Pablo Neruda - Ode to Clothes
    Each morning you’re waiting
    My clothing, on a chair
    For me to fill you
    With my vanity, my love
    My hope, my body
    I hardly
    Have gotten out of sleep
    I say goodbye to the water
    I enter into your sleeves
    My legs look for
    The hollowness of your legs
    And so embraced
    By your tireless faithfulness
    I go out to walk in the grass
    I enter into poetry
    I look through windows
    At things
    Men, women,
    Deeds and struggles
    Keep forming me
    Keep coming against me
    Laboring with my hands
    Opening my eyes
    Using up my mouth
    And so,
    Clothing,
    I also keep forming you
    Poking out your elbows
    Snapping your threads
    And so your life grows
    Into the image of my life.
    In the wind
    You ripple and rustle
    As if you were my soul.
    In bad minutes
    You stick
    To my bones
    Empty, through the night
    Darkness, sleep
    Populate with their fantasies
    Your wings and mine.
    I ask
    If one day
    A bullet
    From the enemy
    Might leave a spot of my blood on you
    And then
    You would die with me
    Or maybe
    It won’t all be
    So dramatic
    But simple
    And you’ll just get feeble,
    Clothing,
    Growing old
    With me, with my body
    And together
    We will enter
    The earth.
    That’s why
    Every day
    I greet you
    With reverence and then
    You embrace me and I forget you
    Because we are just one
    And we’ll keep going on together
    Against the wind, in the night
    The streets, or the struggle
    One single body
    May be, may be, some time will be immobile.

  • NotASenatorNotASenator Registered User regular
    edited May 2010
    I was going to post my own poetry to try to pass it off as famous.

  • EdcrabEdcrab Registered User regular
    edited May 2010
    NaS is Pablo Neruda?!

    cBY55.gifbmJsl.png
  • mensch-o-maticmensch-o-matic Registered User regular
    edited May 2010
    i have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
    i do not think they will sing to me.

    <3<3<3

  • NotASenatorNotASenator Registered User regular
    edited May 2010
    It would explain why they won't let me go to Chile.

  • PedantophilePedantophile Registered User
    edited May 2010
    NotACrook wrote: »
    NotACrook wrote: »
    I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.

    Write, for instance: "The night is full of stars,
    and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance."

    The night wind whirls in the sky and sings.

    I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
    I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

    On nights like this, I held her in my arms.
    I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky.

    She loved me, sometimes I loved her.
    How could I not have loved her large, still eyes?

    I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
    To think I don't have her. To feel that I've lost her.

    To hear the immense night, more immense without her.
    And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass.

    What does it matter that my love couldn't keep her.
    The night is full of stars and she is not with me.

    That's all. Far away, someone sings. Far away.
    My soul is lost without her.

    As if to bring her near, my eyes search for her.
    My heart searches for her and she is not with me.

    The same night that whitens the same trees.
    We, we who were, we are the same no longer.

    I no longer love her, true, but how much I loved her.
    My voice searched the wind to touch her ear.

    Someone else's. She will be someone else's. As she once
    belonged to my kisses.
    Her voice, her light body. Her infinite eyes.

    I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her.
    Love is so short and oblivion so long.

    Because on nights like this I held her in my arms,
    my soul is lost without her.

    Although this may be the last pain she causes me,
    and this may be the last poem I write for her.
    NAS, I love you for this. Read the first half of this for my wife's eulogy.
    I'm not sure how this makes me feel.
    Uh not bad. At least it doesn't make me feel bad. Hell, she introduced me to folks like Neruda and Garcia Lorca. And that's pretty awesome.

    "Considering what your people did to my people during WWII I think a little kissing and breast fondling to be minor reparations, at best."
  • Grey GhostGrey Ghost Okay... This looks bad.Registered User regular
    edited May 2010
    W.H. Auden wrote:
    Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
    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 forever: 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.

    zw3k8eu.gif
    PSN: GrahamCR
  • JedocJedoc Registered User regular
    edited May 2010
    The Old Astronomer to His Pupil

    Reach me down my Tycho Brahe, I would know him when we meet,
    When I share my later science, sitting humbly at his feet;
    He may know the law of all things, yet be ignorant of how
    We are working to completion, working on from then to now.

    Pray remember that I leave you all my theory complete,
    Lacking only certain data for your adding, as is meet,
    And remember men will scorn it, 'tis original and true,
    And the obloquy of newness may fall bitterly on you.

    But, my pupil, as my pupil you have learned the worth of scorn,
    You have laughed with me at pity, we have joyed to be forlorn,
    What for us are all distractions of men's fellowship and smiles;
    What for us the Goddess Pleasure with her meretricious smiles!

    You may tell that German College that their honor comes too late,
    But they must not waste repentance on the grizzly savant's fate.
    Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light;
    I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.

    I would really like the last two lines as a quatrain on my tombstone. Also pepperoni and cheese.

    cannon.jpg
  • Mystral721Mystral721 Registered User regular
    edited May 2010
    Grey Ghost wrote: »
    W.H. Auden wrote:
    Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
    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 forever: 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.

    I can't read this without hearing it in the thick Scottish brogue of that actor in Four Weddings and a Funeral.

    "Little baby Cthulhu hopping through the forest, picking up the field mice and Sucking Out Their Souls"

    http://www.logicalcreativity.com/jon/plush/01.html
  • The GeekThe Geek Oh-Two Crew Registered User, ClubPA regular
    edited May 2010
    I never understood poetry. I just don't get it. My brain doesn't work that way.

    zappsigsm.jpg
    Amazon wish list | Please check out my wife's blog and jewelry store.
  • BelruelBelruel naw Registered User regular
    edited May 2010
    The Geek wrote: »
    I never understood poetry. I just don't get it. My brain doesn't work that way.

    man I can understand not understanding some/most poetry (like the wasteland and such) I don't agree, but I understand, understand?

    but, how can you not comprehend at least some poetry, such as the one by Dylan Thomas in the OP. That is incomprehensible!

    here it is again for easy reading
    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 that 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.

    I mean, goddamn, that's some powerful work, and pretty straightforward too.

    3DS friendcode: 2380-4618-2503
  • bowtiedsealbowtiedseal Registered User regular
    edited May 2010
    oh yes I adore pablo neruda, my title/location is a line from a short poem of his, called point
    No hay espacio más ancho que el dolor
    No hay universo como aquel que sangra

    There is no space wider than that of grief
    There is no universe like that which bleeds

    I also love walking around, spoiler'd cause it's longer. I do not like the english translation nearly as much but it's still good.
    Spoiler:

  • AMP'dAMP'd Registered User regular
    edited May 2010
    Sheri wrote: »
    No wait this one
    anyone lived in a pretty how town
    (with up so floating many bells down)
    spring summer autumn winter
    he sang his didn't he danced his did

    Women and men(both little and small)
    cared for anyone not at all
    they sowed their isn't they reaped their same
    sun moon stars rain

    children guessed(but only a few
    and down they forgot as up they grew
    autumn winter spring summer)
    that noone loved him more by more

    when by now and tree by leaf
    she laughed his joy she cried his grief
    bird by snow and stir by still
    anyone's any was all to her

    someones married their everyones
    laughed their cryings and did their dance
    (sleep wake hope and then)they
    said their nevers they slept their dream

    stars rain sun moon
    (and only the snow can begin to explain
    how children are apt to forget to remember
    with up so floating many bells down)

    one day anyone died i guess
    (and noone stooped to kiss his face)
    busy folk buried them side by side
    little by little and was by was

    all by all and deep by deep
    and more by more they dream their sleep
    noone and anyone earth by april
    wish by spirit and if by yes.

    Women and men(both dong and ding)
    summer autumn winter spring
    reaped their sowing and went their came
    sun moon stars rain

    biiig winner

    I have to read The Waste Land next week, so that should be fun

    [SIGPIC][/SIGPIC]
  • AMP'dAMP'd Registered User regular
    edited May 2010
    either anyone lived in a pretty how town or Buffalo Bill are my favorite cummings
    Buffalo Bill's
    
    defunct
    
            who used to
    
            ride a watersmooth-silver
    
                                      stallion
    
    and break onetwothreefourfive pigeonsjustlikethat
    
                                                      Jesus
    
    
    
    he was a handsome man
    
                          and what i want to know is
    
    how do you like your blueeyed boy
    
    Mister Death
    

    and then I like Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, but I bet it's been posted by now

    [SIGPIC][/SIGPIC]
  • SheriSheri Resident Fluffer My Living RoomRegistered User regular
    edited May 2010
    Honestly

    Excluding a few exceptions that I am absolutely crazy about (e.e. cummings, obviously)

    whenever I read poetry my eyes mostly just gloss over and I tune out

    Even if I don't want to, I can't seem to help it.

  • FoolproofFoolproof thats what my hearts become in that place you dare not look staring back at youRegistered User regular
    edited May 2010
    http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gifEn61dZBc&feature=related




    To The Whore Who Took My Poems

    some say we should keep personal remorse from the
    poem,
    stay abstract, and there is some reason in this,
    but jezus;
    twelve poems gone and I don't keep carbons and you have
    my
    paintings too, my best ones; its stifling:
    are you trying to crush me out like the rest of them?
    why didn't you take my money? they usually do
    from the sleeping drunken pants sick in the corner.
    next time take my left arm or a fifty
    but not my poems:
    I'm not Shakespeare
    but sometime simply
    there won't be any more, abstract or otherwise;
    there'll always be money and whores and drunkards
    down to the last bomb,
    but as God said,
    crossing his legs,
    I see where I have made plenty of poets
    but not so very much
    poetry.

    Charles Bukowski

  • AMP'dAMP'd Registered User regular
    edited May 2010
    Sow
    by Sylvia Plath

    God knows how our neighbor managed to breed
    His great sow:
    Whatever his shrewd secret, he kept it hid

    In the same way
    He kept the sow--impounded from public stare,
    Prize ribbon and pig show.

    But one dusk our questions commended us to a tour
    Through his lantern-lit
    Maze of barns to the lintel of the sunk sty door

    To gape at it:
    This was no rose-and-larkspurred china suckling
    With a penny slot

    For thrift children, nor dolt pig ripe for heckling,
    About to be
    Glorified for prime flesh and golden crackling

    In a parsley halo;
    Nor even one of the common barnyard sows,
    Mire-smirched, blowzy,

    Maunching thistle and knotweed on her snout-
    cruise--
    Bloat tun of milk
    On the move, hedged by a litter of feat-foot ninnies

    Shrilling her hulk
    To halt for a swig at the pink teats. No. This vast
    Brobdingnag bulk

    Of a sow lounged belly-bedded on that black
    compost,
    Fat-rutted eyes
    Dream-filmed. What a vision of ancient hoghood
    must

    Thus wholly engross
    The great grandam!--our marvel blazoned a knight,
    Helmed, in cuirass,

    Unhorsed and shredded in the grove of combat
    By a grisly-bristled
    Boar, fabulous enough to straddle that sow's heat.

    But our farmer whistled,
    Then, with a jocular fist thwacked the barrel nape,
    And the green-copse-castled

    Pig hove, letting legend like dried mud drop,
    Slowly, grunt
    On grunt, up in the flickering light to shape

    A monument
    Prodigious in gluttonies as that hog whose want
    Made lean Lent

    Of kitchen slops and, stomaching no constraint,
    Proceeded to swill
    The seven troughed seas and every earthquaking
    continent.

    [SIGPIC][/SIGPIC]
  • AntimatterAntimatter Registered User regular
    edited May 2010
    god, I can't find this one poem I discovered in middle school, in the school library
    it was called The Locomotive Sloth, and it began like this:
    Along train tracks with yawning jaws
    he lies, this evil lummoch
    until locomotives pulling cars
    steam straight into his stomach

  • AMP'dAMP'd Registered User regular
    edited May 2010
    The History Teacher - Billy Collins

    Trying to protect his students' innocence
    he told them the Ice Age was really just
    the Chilly Age, a period of a million years
    when everyone had to wear sweaters.

    And the Stone Age became the Gravel Age,
    named after the long driveways of the time.

    The Spanish Inquisition was nothing more
    than an outbreak of questions such as
    "How far is it from here to Madrid?"
    "What do you call the matador's hat?"

    The War of the Roses took place in a garden,
    and the Enola Gay dropped one tiny atom on Japan.

    The children would leave his classroom
    for the playground to torment the weak
    and the smart,
    mussing up their hair and breaking their glasses,

    While he gathered up his notes and walked home
    past flower beds and white picket fences,
    wondering if they would believe that soldiers
    in the Boer War told long, rambling stories
    designed to make the enemy nod off.

    [SIGPIC][/SIGPIC]
  • FandeathisFandeathis Registered User regular
    edited May 2010
    T.S. Eliot is a close second to ee cummings for me. Bukowski and Frost are overrated.

    Also Poe and Nietzsche wrote some cool stuff.

    You fuck wit' Die Antwoord, you fuck wit' da army.
  • AMP'dAMP'd Registered User regular
    edited May 2010
    Oh, you reminded me that I wanted to post this for all the Frost-haters

    The Silken Tent by Robert Frost

    She is as in a field a silken tent
    At midday when the sunny summer breeze
    Has dried the dew and all its ropes relent,
    So that in guys it gently sways at ease,
    And its supporting central cedar pole,
    That is its pinnacle to heavenward
    And signifies the sureness of the soul,
    Seems to owe naught to any single cord,
    But strictly held by none, is loosely bound
    By countless silken ties of love and thought
    To every thing on earth the compass round,
    And only by one's going slightly taut
    In the capriciousness of summer air
    Is of the slightlest bondage made aware.

    [SIGPIC][/SIGPIC]
  • thorpethorpe Registered User
    edited May 2010
    The Negro Speaks of Rivers
    by Langston Hughes

    I've known rivers:
    I've known rivers ancient as the world and older than the
    flow of human blood in human veins.

    My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

    I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young.
    I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep.
    I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it.
    I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln
    went down to New Orleans, and I've seen its muddy
    bosom turn all golden in the sunset.

    I've known rivers:
    Ancient, dusky rivers.

    My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

    --
    and
    --

    an untitled poem by Nicanor Parra

    MY CORPSE and I
    understand each other marvelously
    my corpse asks me: do you believe in God?
    and I respond with a hearty NO
    my corpse asks: do you believe in the government?
    and I respond with the hammer and sickle
    my corpse asks: do you believe in the police?
    and I respond with a punch in the face
    then he gets up out of his coffin
    and we go arm in arm to the altar

    [SIGPIC][/SIGPIC]
  • thorpethorpe Registered User
    edited May 2010
    Oh! And good ol' Yehuda Amichae

    "God Has Pity On Kindergarten Children"

    God has pity on kindergarten children.
    He has less pity on school children.
    And on grownups he has no pity at all,
    he leaves them alone,
    and sometimes they must crawl on all fours
    in the burning sand
    to reach the first-aid station
    covered with blood

    But perhaps he will watch over true lovers
    and have mercy on them and shelter them
    like a tree over the old man
    sleeping on the public bench.

    [SIGPIC][/SIGPIC]
  • ZombiemamboZombiemambo Registered User regular
    edited May 2010
    YOU may talk o' gin an' beer
    When you're quartered safe out 'ere,
    An' you're sent to penny-fights an' Aldershot it;
    But if it comes to slaughter
    You will do your work on water, 5
    An' you'll lick the bloomin' boots of 'im that's got it.
    Now in Injia's sunny clime,
    Where I used to spend my time
    A-servin' of 'Er Majesty the Queen,
    Of all them black-faced crew 10
    The finest man I knew
    Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din.

    It was "Din! Din! Din!
    You limping lump o' brick-dust, Gunga Din!
    Hi! slippy hitherao! 15
    Water, get it! Panee lao!
    You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din!"

    The uniform 'e wore
    Was nothin' much before,
    An' rather less than 'arf o' that be'ind, 20
    For a twisty piece o' rag
    An' a goatskin water-bag
    Was all the field-equipment 'e could find.
    When the sweatin' troop-train lay
    In a sidin' through the day, 25
    Where the 'eat would make your bloomin' eyebrows crawl,
    We shouted "Harry By!"
    Till our throats were bricky-dry,
    Then we wopped 'im 'cause 'e couldn't serve us all.

    It was "Din! Din! Din! 30
    You 'eathen, where the mischief 'ave you been?
    You put some juldee in it,
    Or I'll marrow you this minute,
    If you don't fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!"

    'E would dot an' carry one 35
    Till the longest day was done,
    An' 'e didn't seem to know the use o' fear.
    If we charged or broke or cut,
    You could bet your bloomin' nut,
    'E'd be waitin' fifty paces right flank rear. 40
    With 'is mussick on 'is back,
    'E would skip with our attack,
    An' watch us till the bugles made "Retire."
    An' for all 'is dirty 'ide,
    'E was white, clear white, inside 45
    When 'e went to tend the wounded under fire!

    It was "Din! Din! Din!"
    With the bullets kickin' dust-spots on the green.
    When the cartridges ran out,
    You could 'ear the front-files shout: 50
    "Hi! ammunition-mules an' Gunga Din!"

    I sha'n't forgit the night
    When I dropped be'ind the fight
    With a bullet where my belt-plate should 'a' been.
    I was chokin' mad with thirst, 55
    An' the man that spied me first
    Was our good old grinnin', gruntin' Gunga Din.

    'E lifted up my 'ead,
    An' 'e plugged me where I bled,
    An' 'e guv me 'arf-a-pint o' water—green; 60
    It was crawlin' an' it stunk,
    But of all the drinks I've drunk,
    I'm gratefullest to one from Gunga Din.

    It was "Din! Din! Din!
    'Ere's a beggar with a bullet through 'is spleen; 65
    'E's chawin' up the ground an' 'e's kickin' all around:
    For Gawd's sake, git the water, Gunga Din!"

    'E carried me away
    To where a dooli lay,
    An' a bullet come an' drilled the beggar clean. 70
    'E put me safe inside,
    An' just before 'e died:
    "I 'ope you liked your drink," sez Gunga Din.
    So I'll meet 'im later on
    In the place where 'e is gone— 75
    Where it's always double drill and no canteen;
    'E'll be squattin' on the coals
    Givin' drink to pore damned souls,
    An' I'll get a swig in Hell from Gunga Din!

    Din! Din! Din! 80
    You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din!
    Tho' I've belted you an' flayed you,
    By the livin' Gawd that made you,
    You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din!

    JKKaAGp.png
  • The GeekThe Geek Oh-Two Crew Registered User, ClubPA regular
    edited May 2010
    Sheri wrote: »
    Honestly

    Excluding a few exceptions that I am absolutely crazy about (e.e. cummings, obviously)

    whenever I read poetry my eyes mostly just gloss over and I tune out

    Even if I don't want to, I can't seem to help it.

    hee hee Sheri is crazy about cummings

    zappsigsm.jpg
    Amazon wish list | Please check out my wife's blog and jewelry store.
  • NotASenatorNotASenator Registered User regular
    edited May 2010
    oh yes I adore pablo neruda, my title/location is a line from a short poem of his, called point
    No hay espacio más ancho que el dolor
    No hay universo como aquel que sangra

    There is no space wider than that of grief
    There is no universe like that which bleeds

    I also love walking around, spoiler'd cause it's longer. I do not like the english translation nearly as much but it's still good.
    Spoiler:

    You and me and Pablo, babe.

  • FoolproofFoolproof thats what my hearts become in that place you dare not look staring back at youRegistered User regular
    edited May 2010
    Fandeathis wrote: »
    T.S. Eliot is a close second to ee cummings for me. Bukowski and Frost are overrated.

    Also Poe and Nietzsche wrote some cool stuff.

    Poe got paid by the word like Lovecraft or Dickens otherwise they might have been even greater.

    Bukowski is best read at the top of your lungs while drunk. You should try it, seriously.

  • FandeathisFandeathis Registered User regular
    edited May 2010
    Foolproof wrote: »
    Fandeathis wrote: »
    T.S. Eliot is a close second to ee cummings for me. Bukowski and Frost are overrated.

    Also Poe and Nietzsche wrote some cool stuff.

    Poe got paid by the word like Lovecraft or Dickens otherwise they might have been even greater.

    Bukowski is best read at the top of your lungs while drunk. You should try it, seriously.

    Lovecraft was pretty awesome also, and yes you make a very good point.

    I'm not especially good at reading drunk, but will have to try that sometime!

    You fuck wit' Die Antwoord, you fuck wit' da army.
  • NarbusNarbus Registered User regular
    edited May 2010
    Come now

    my child

    if we were planning

    to harm you

    would we be

    lurking here

    beside the path

    in the very darkest part

    of the forest?

  • Metzger MeisterMetzger Meister Registered User regular
    edited May 2010
    Bagpipe Music



    It's no go the merrygoround, it's no go the rickshaw,
    All we want is a limousine and a ticket for the peepshow.
    Their knickers are made of crêpe-de-chine, their shoes are made of python,
    Their halls are lined with tiger rugs and their walls with heads of bison.

    John MacDonald found a corpse, put it under the sofa,
    Waited till it came to life and hit it with a poker,
    Sold its eyes for souvenirs, sold its blood for whiskey,
    Kept its bones for dumb-bells to use when he was fifty.

    It's no go the Yogi-Man, it's no go Blavatsky,
    All we want is a bank balance and a bit of skirt in a taxi.

    Annie MacDougall went to milk, caught her foot in the heather,
    Woke to hear a dance record playing of Old Vienna.
    It's no go your maidenheads, it's no go your culture,
    All we want is a Dunlop tyre and the devil mend the puncture.

    The Laird o' Phelps spent Hogmanay declaring he was sober,
    Counted his feet to prove the fact and found he had one foot over.
    Mrs Carmichael had her fifth, looked at the job with repulsion,
    Said to the midwife 'Take it away; I'm through with overproduction'.

    It's no go the gossip column, it's no go the Ceilidh,
    All we want is a mother's help and a sugar-stick for the baby.

    Willie Murray cut his thumb, couldn't count the damage,
    Took the hide of an Ayrshire cow and used it for a bandage.
    His brother caught three hundred cran when the seas were lavish,
    Threw the bleeders back in the sea and went upon the parish.

    It's no go the Herring Board, it's no go the Bible,
    All we want is a packet of fags when our hands are idle.

    It's no go the picture palace, it's no go the stadium,
    It's no go the country cot with a pot of pink geraniums,
    It's no go the Government grants, it's no go the elections,
    Sit on your arse for fifty years and hang your hat on a pension.

    It's no go my honey love, it's no go my poppet;
    Work your hands from day to day, the winds will blow the profit.
    The glass is falling hour by hour, the glass will fall for ever,
    But if you break the bloody glass you won't hold up the weather.

    www.facebook.com/itgetsworseska
    Spoiler:
  • Centipede DamascusCentipede Damascus ha ha just kidding I'm Frog ManRegistered User regular
    edited May 2010
  • HobnailHobnail Registered User regular
    edited May 2010
    "When first under fire an' you're wishful to duck,
    Don't look nor take 'eed at the man that is struck,
    Be thankful you're livin', and trust to your luck
    And march to your front like a soldier.
    Front, front, front like a soldier

    If your officer's dead and the sergeants look white,
    Remember it's ruin to run from a fight:
    So take open order, lie down, and sit tight,
    And wait for supports like a soldier.
    Wait, wait, wait like a soldier

    When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains,
    And the women come out to cut up what remains,
    Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains
    An' go to your Gawd like a soldier."

  • Dead LegendDead Legend Registered User regular
    edited May 2010
    definitely sounds like a poem about afghanistan

    diablo III - beardsnbeer#1508 Mechwarrior Online - Rusty Bock
  • DavoidDavoid Registered User regular
    edited May 2010
    whenever this thread comes up, I always tend to post La Figlia Che Piange

    So, I'm going to try something different instead
    In the sky there is nobody asleep. Nobody, nobody.
    Nobody is asleep.
    The creatures of the moon sniff and prowl about their cabins.
    The living iguanas will come and bite the men who do not dream,
    and the man who rushes out with his spirit broken will meet on the
    street corner
    the unbelievable alligator quiet beneath the tender protest of the
    stars.

    Nobody is asleep on earth. Nobody, nobody.
    Nobody is asleep.
    In a graveyard far off there is a corpse
    who has moaned for three years
    because of a dry countryside on his knee;
    and that boy they buried this morning cried so much
    it was necessary to call out the dogs to keep him quiet.

    Life is not a dream. Careful! Careful! Careful!
    We fall down the stairs in order to eat the moist earth
    or we climb to the knife edge of the snow with the voices of the dead
    dahlias.
    But forgetfulness does not exist, dreams do not exist;
    flesh exists. Kisses tie our mouths
    in a thicket of new veins,
    and whoever his pain pains will feel that pain forever
    and whoever is afraid of death will carry it on his shoulders.

    One day
    the horses will live in the saloons
    and the enraged ants
    will throw themselves on the yellow skies that take refuge in the
    eyes of cows.

    Another day
    we will watch the preserved butterflies rise from the dead
    and still walking through a country of gray sponges and silent boats
    we will watch our ring flash and roses spring from our tongue.
    Careful! Be careful! Be careful!
    The men who still have marks of the claw and the thunderstorm,
    and that boy who cries because he has never heard of the invention
    of the bridge,
    or that dead man who possesses now only his head and a shoe,
    we must carry them to the wall where the iguanas and the snakes
    are waiting,
    where the bear's teeth are waiting,
    where the mummified hand of the boy is waiting,
    and the hair of the camel stands on end with a violent blue shudder.

    Nobody is sleeping in the sky. Nobody, nobody.
    Nobody is sleeping.
    If someone does close his eyes,
    a whip, boys, a whip!
    Let there be a landscape of open eyes
    and bitter wounds on fire.
    No one is sleeping in this world. No one, no one.
    I have said it before.

    No one is sleeping.
    But if someone grows too much moss on his temples during the
    night,
    open the stage trapdoors so he can see in the moonlight
    the lying goblets, and the poison, and the skull of the theaters.

    rqv6.png
  • ukiyo eukiyo e Registered User regular
    edited May 2010
    The dews drop slowly and dreams gather: unknown spears
    Suddenly hurtle before my dream-awakened eyes,
    And then the clash of fallen horsemen and the cries
    Of unknown perishing armies beat about my ears.
    We who still labour by the cromlech on the shore,
    The grey caim on the hill, when day sinks drowned in dew,
    Being weary of the world's empires, bow down to you.
    Master of the still stars and of the flaming door.
    -William Butler Yeats

    1EAFQ.gif
  • Dead LegendDead Legend Registered User regular
    edited May 2010
    Sunset and evening star,
      And one clear call for me!
    And may there be no moaning of the bar,
      When I put out to sea,

    But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
      Too full for sound and foam,
    When that which drew from out the boundless deep
      Turns again home.

    Twilight and evening bell,
      And after that the dark!
    And may there be no sadness of farewell,
      When I embark;

    For though from out our bourne of Time and Place
      The flood may bear me far,
    I hope to see my Pilot face to face
      When I have crossed the bar.
    Half a league, half a league,
      Half a league onward,
    All in the valley of Death
      Rode the six hundred.
    'Forward, the Light Brigade!
    Charge for the guns' he said:
    Into the valley of Death
      Rode the six hundred.

    'Forward, the Light Brigade!'
    Was there a man dismay'd?
    Not tho' the soldiers knew
      Some one had blunder'd:
    Their's not to make reply,
    Their's not to reason why,
    Their's but to do and die:
    Into the valley of Death
      Rode the six hundred.

    Cannon to right of them,
    Cannon to left of them,
    Cannon in front of them
      Volley'd and thunder'd;
    Storm'd at with shot and shell,
    Boldly they rode and well,
    Into the jaws of Death,
    Into the mouth of Hell
      Rode the six hundred.

    Flash'd all their sabres bare,
    Flash'd as they turned in air
    Sabring the gunners there,
    Charging an army while
      All the world wonder'd:
    Plunged in the battery-smoke
    Right thro' the line they broke;
    Cossack and Russian
    Reel'd from the sabre-stroke
    Shatter'd and sunder'd.
    Then they rode back, but not
    Not the six hundred.

    Cannon to right of them,
    Cannon to left of them,
    Cannon behind them
      Volley'd and thunder'd;
    Storm'd at with shot and shell,
    While horse and hero fell,
    They that had fought so well
    Came thro' the jaws of Death,
    Back from the mouth of Hell,
    All that was left of them,
      Left of six hundred.

    When can their glory fade?
    O the wild charge they made!
      All the world wonder'd.
    Honour the charge they made!
    Honour the Light Brigade,
      Noble six hundred!

    two of my favorites

    hell probably some of the only poetry that i know of

    diablo III - beardsnbeer#1508 Mechwarrior Online - Rusty Bock
  • PharezonPharezon Struggle is an illusion. Victory is in the Qun.Registered User regular
    edited May 2010
    Hobnail wrote: »
    "When first under fire an' you're wishful to duck,
    Don't look nor take 'eed at the man that is struck,
    Be thankful you're livin', and trust to your luck
    And march to your front like a soldier.
    Front, front, front like a soldier

    If your officer's dead and the sergeants look white,
    Remember it's ruin to run from a fight:
    So take open order, lie down, and sit tight,
    And wait for supports like a soldier.
    Wait, wait, wait like a soldier

    When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains,
    And the women come out to cut up what remains,
    Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains
    An' go to your Gawd like a soldier."

    I'm ashamed of you for not posting the entire thing.

    jkZziGc.png
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