Favorite poems
I swore we had a thread on this but the search thing produced no results.
If it really was a figment of my imagination, I'll start a new one. What are some of your favorite poems? What about them do you like? What are some favorite lines? *To clarify, this is not a thread about poems you yourself have written. You all suck at poetry. |
You're not crazy, I remember that one too.
And my favourite is still Strongest of the Strange by Bukowski. http://thenonist.com/index.php/weblo...f_the_strange/ I know people of the type that are described in the poem. I like this poem because it's true. |
I've mentioned this before I'm sure, but I'll say it again, it's "Rime of the Ancient Mariner" by Samuel Taylor Coleridge ( http://www.online-literature.com/coleridge/646/ ). It's a poem I can read over and over and enjoy every single time. I see the poem as being so relatable (not literally of course, not everyone kills an albatross and watches all of their friends die on a boat lost at sea), but it is relatable in the sense that everyone makes mistakes and has to live with the consequences. I think one of my favorite parts of this poem is when a sort of ghost ship passes the Mariner's ship and a woman and a "Death" (the only two people on the ghost ship) are casting dice to decide if the Mariner lives or dies:
Alas! (thought I, and my heart beat loud) How fast she nears and nears! Are those her sails that glance in the sun, Like restless gossameres? Are those her ribs through which the sun Did peer, as through a grate? And is that Woman all her crew? Is that a Death? and are there two? Is Death that Woman's mate? Her lips were red, her looks were free, Her locks were yellow as gold: Her skin was as white as leprosy, The Nightmare Life-in-Death was she, Who thicks man's blood with cold. The naked hulk alongside came, And the twain were casting dice; `The game is done! I've won! I've won!' Quoth she, and whistles thrice. *As a side note my avatar is an illustration of this part of the poem. |
One of my favorites has always been Tale of a Tub by Sylvia Plath:
The photographic chamber of the eye records bare painted walls, while an electric light lays the chromium nerves of plumbing raw; such poverty assaults the ego; caught naked in the merely actual room, the stranger in the lavatory mirror puts on a public grin, repeats our name but scrupulously reflects the usual terror. Just how guilty are we when the ceiling reveals no cracks that can be decoded? when washbowl maintains it has no more holy calling than physical ablution, and the towel dryly disclaims that fierce troll faces lurk in its explicit folds? or when the window, blind with steam, will not admit the dark which shrouds our prospects in ambiguous shadow? Twenty years ago, the familiar tub bred an ample batch of omens; but now water faucets spawn no danger; each crab and octopus -- scrabbling just beyond the view, waiting for some accidental break in ritual, to strike -- is definitely gone; the authentic sea denies them and will pluck fantastic flesh down to the honest bone. We take the plunge; under water our limbs waver, faintly green, shuddering away from the genuine color of skin; can our dreams ever blur the intransigent lines which draw the shape that shuts us in? absolute fact intrudes even when the revolted eye is closed; the tub exists behind our back; its glittering surfaces are blank and true. Yet always the ridiculous nude flanks urge the fabrication of some cloth to cover such starkness; accuracy must not stalk at large: each day demands we create our whole world over, disguising the constant horror in a coat of many-colored fictions; we mask our past in the green of Eden, pretend future's shining fruit can sprout from the navel of this present waste. In this particular tub, two knees jut up like icebergs, while minute brown hairs rise on arms and legs in a fringe of kelp; green soap navigates the tidal slosh of seas breaking on legendary beaches; in faith we shall board our imagined ship and wildly sail among sacred islands of the mad till death shatters the fabulous stars and makes us real. |
https://www.gothic.net/boards/showthread.php?t=17336
https://www.gothic.net/boards/showthread.php?t=13270 Because I can't be assed to repost. Although I'll probably think of some more for this thread later. |
Thaaaaank you. Dudes and dudettes, post in the old one.
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