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Your favourite poem?
Mine is probably Funeral Blues by W.H. Auden or Lenore/ Annabell Lee by Edgar Allan Poe. Or anything by Verlaine or Baudelaire. :)
So yeah, what's your favourite poem? |
Lets see, there once was a man in nantucket...
Really, Ode on the Death of a Favourite Cat, by Thomas Gray. It's delightful to read aloud. 'TWAS on a lofty vase's side, Where China's gayest art had dy'd The azure flowers that blow; Demurest of the tabby kind, The pensive Selima reclin'd, Gaz'd on the lake below. Her conscious tail her joy declar'd; The fair round face, the snowy beard, The velvet of her paws, Her coat, that with the tortoise vies, Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes, She saw, and purr'd applause. Still had she gaz'd; but midst the tide Two beauteous forms were seen to glide, The Genii of the stream; Their scaly armour's Tyrian hue, Through richest purple, to the view, Betray'd a golden gleam. The hapless Nymph with wonder saw: A whisker first, and then a claw, With many an ardent wish, She stretch'd, in vain, to reach the prize. What female heart can gold despise? What cat's averse to fish? Presumptuous Maid! with looks intent Again she stretch'd, again she bent, Nor knew the gulph between; (Malignant Fate sat by, and smil'd.) The slippery verge her feet beguil'd; She tumbled headlong in. Eight times emerging from the flood, She mew'd to every watery God, Some speedy aid to send. No Dolphin came, no Nereid stir'd: Nor cruel Tom, nor Susan heard. A favourite has no friend. From hence, ye beauties, undeceiv'd, Know, one false step is ne'er retriev'd, And be with caution bold. Not all that tempts your wandering eyes And heedless hearts, is lawful prize; Nor all, that glisters, gold. |
Charles Bukowski's Strongest of the strange. ( It'll probably be a differnt one in a few days. )
you wont see them often for wherever the crowds are they are not. these odd ones, not many but from them come the few good paintings the few good symphonies the few good books and other works. and from the best of the strange ones perhaps nothing. they are their own paintings their own books their own music their own work. sometimes i think i see them- say a certain old man sitting on a certain bench in a certain way or a quick face going the other way in a passing automobile or there’s a certain motion of the hands of a bag-boy or a bag- girl while packing supermarket groceries. sometimes it is even somebody you have been living with for some time- you will notice a lightning quick glance never seen from them before. sometimes you will only note their existence suddenly in vivid recall some months some years after they are gone. i remember such a one- he was about 20 years old drunk at 10 a.m. staring into a cracked new Orleans mirror face dreaming against the walls of the world where did i go? |
I have done it again.
One year in every ten I manage it---- A sort of walking miracle, my skin Bright as a Nazi lampshade, My right foot A paperweight, My face a featureless, fine Jew linen. Peel off the napkin 0 my enemy. Do I terrify?---- The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth? The sour breath Will vanish in a day. Soon, soon the flesh The grave cave ate will be At home on me And I a smiling woman. I am only thirty. And like the cat I have nine times to die. This is Number Three. What a trash To annihilate each decade. What a million filaments. The peanut-crunching crowd Shoves in to see Them unwrap me hand and foot The big strip tease. Gentlemen, ladies These are my hands My knees. I may be skin and bone, Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman. The first time it happened I was ten. It was an accident. The second time I meant To last it out and not come back at all. I rocked shut As a seashell. They had to call and call And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls. Dying Is an art, like everything else, I do it exceptionally well. I do it so it feels like hell. I do it so it feels real. I guess you could say I've a call. It's easy enough to do it in a cell. It's easy enough to do it and stay put. It's the theatrical Comeback in broad day To the same place, the same face, the same brute Amused shout: 'A miracle!' That knocks me out. There is a charge For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge For the hearing of my heart---- It really goes. And there is a charge, a very large charge For a word or a touch Or a bit of blood Or a piece of my hair or my clothes. So, so, Herr Doktor. So, Herr Enemy. I am your opus, I am your valuable, The pure gold baby That melts to a shriek. I turn and burn. Do not think I underestimate your great concern. Ash, ash --- You poke and stir. Flesh, bone, there is nothing there---- A cake of soap, A wedding ring, A gold filling. Herr God, Herr Lucifer Beware Beware. Out of the ash I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air. |
anyone lived in a pretty how town by e.e cummings
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 |
Hog Butcher for the World,
Tool maker, Stacker of Wheat, Player with Railroads and the Nation's Freight Handler; Stormy, husky, brawling, City of the Big Shoulders: They tell me you are wicked and I believe them, for I have seen your painted women under the gas lamps luring the farm boys. And they tell me you are crooked and I answer: yes, it is true I have seen the gunman kill and go free to kill again. And they tell me you are brutal and my reply is: On the faces of women and children I have seen the marks of wanton hunger. And having answered so I turn once more to those who sneer at this my city, and I give them back the sneer and say to them: Come and show me another city with lifted head singing so proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cunning. Flinging magnetic curses amid the toil of piling job on job, here is a tall bold slugger set vivid against the little soft cities; Fierce as a dog with tongue lapping for action, cunning as a savage pitted against the wilderness, Bareheaded, Shoveling, Wrecking, Planning, Building, breaking, rebuilding, Under the smoke, dust all over his mouth, laughing with white teeth, Under the terrible burden of destiny laughing as a young man laughs, Laughing even as an ignorant fighter laughs who has never lost a battle, Bragging and laughing that under his wrist is the pulse, and under his ribs the heart of the people, Laughing! Laughing the stormy, husky, brawling laughter of Youth, half-naked, sweating, proud to be Hog Butcher, Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat, Player with Railroads and Freight Handler to the Nation. |
Jabberwocky, by Lewis Carroll.
'Twas brilling, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe; All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe. 'Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that snatch! Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun The frumious Bandersnatch!' He took his vorpal sword in hand: Long time the manxome foe he sought - So rested he by the Tumtum tree, And stood awhile in thought. And as in uffish thought he stood, The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame, Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, And burbled as it came! One, two! One, two! And through and through! The vorpal blade went snicker-snack! He left it dead, and with its head He went galumphing back. 'And hast thou slain the Jabberwock? Come to my arms, my beamish boy! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!' He chortled in his joy. |
Cosmopolitan Greetings by Allen Ginsberg Stand up against governments, against God. Stay irresponsible. Say only what we know & imagine. Absolutes are Coercion. Change is absolute. Ordinary mind includes eternal perceptions. Observe what’s vivid. Notice what you notice. Catch yourself thinking. Vividness is self-selecting. If we don’t show anyone, we’re free to write anything. Remember the future. Freedom costs little in the U.S. Advise only myself. Don’t drink yourself to death. Two molecules clanking us against each other require an observer to become scientific data. The measuring instrument determines the appearance of the phenomenal world (after Einstein). The universe is subjective.. Walt Whitman celebrated Person. We are observer, measuring instrument, eye, subject, Person. Universe is Person. Inside skull is vast as outside skull. What’s in between thoughts? Mind is outer space. What do we say to ourselves in bed at night, making no sound? “First thought, best thought.” Mind is shapely, Art is shapely. Maximum information, minimum number of syllables. Syntax condensed, sound is solid. Intense fragments of spoken idiom, best. Move with rhythm, roll with vowels. Consonants around vowels make sense. Savour vowels, appreciate consonants. Subject is known by what she sees. Others can measure their vision by what we see. Candour ends paranoia. |
Mmmm.. I'm particularly partial to "Love's Secret" by William Blake, but I also like "Outwitted" by Edwin Markham...
"Love's Secret": Never seek to tell thy love, Love that never told can be; For the gentle wind doth move Silently, invisibly. I told my love, I told my love, I told her all my heart, Trembling, cold, in ghastly fears. Ah! she did depart! Soon after she was gone from me, A traveller came by, Silently, invisibly: He took her with a sigh. "Outwitted": He drew a circle that shut me out— Heretic, rebel, a thing to flout. But Love and I had the wit to win: We drew a circle that took him in! |
That poem by Lovecraft about a pale chick.
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"Nathicana".
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"The Man In The Glass" is really good-- I don't know who wrote it, but here's how it goes:
When you get what you want in your struggle for self And the world makes you king for a day, Just go to the mirror and look at yourself And see what that man has to say. For it isn’t your father or mother or wife Whose judgment upon you must pass. The fellow whose verdict counts most in your life Is the one staring back from the glass. You may be like Jack Horner and chisel a plum And think you’re a wonderful guy. But the man in the glass says you’re only a bum If you can’t look him straight in the eye. He’s the fellow to please-never mind all the rest, For he’s with you clear to the end. And you’ve passed your most dangerous, difficult test If the man in the glass is your friend. You may fool the whole world down the pathway of years And get pats on the back as you pass. But your final reward will be heartache and tears If you’ve cheated the man in the glass. |
Dream of Death by.DemonRobber
A time to die When all hope has past And all that lies ahead is misery Is there any point in continuing to fight Time always runs out eventually for the lonely Single meals heated in the microwave Single seats on planes surrounded by happy voices Only half a lifetime But its time to call and end Euthanasia wopuld be a simple solution But they make it harder for human kind No lethal injection to take away the pain Nothing to lose, nothing to gain Just drifiting through the days Waiting for something to happen But it never does, it never does, So all I do is wait in vain A dull,nagging,long endured pain The pain of lost opportunities The pain of stupid mistakes Only the foolish wait for their lives to change You have to make it happen So take the knife And end this life And come tomorrow There will be time for sorrow It is easy to die when you write it down Put the pen down and wipe away the frown Go to sleep and dream of death Go to sleep and dream of death One day your dream will last forever... Your dream will last forever....forever...forever |
"From The Journals Of The Frog Prince" by Susan Mitchell:
In March I dreamed of mud, sheets of mud over the ballroom chairs and table, rainbow slicks of mud under the throne. In April I saw mud of clouds and mud of sun. Now in May I find excuses to linger in the kitchen for wafts of silt and ale, cinnamon and river bottom, tender scallion and sour underlog. At night I cannot sleep. I am listening for the dribble of mud climbing the stairs to our bedroom as if a child in a wet bathing suit ran up them in the dark. Last night I said, "Face it, you're bored How many times can you live over with the same excitement that moment when the princess leans into the well, her face a petal falling to the surface of the water as you rise like a bubble to her lips, the golden ball bursting from your mouth?" Remember how she hurled you against the wall, your body cracking open, skin shriveling to the bone, the green pod of your heart splitting in two, and her face imprinted with every moment of your transformation? I no longer tremble. Night after night I lie beside her. "Why is your forehead so cool and damp?" she asks. Her breasts are soft and dry as flour. The hand that brushes my head is feverish. At her touch I long for wet leaves, the slap of water against rocks. "What are you thinking of?" she asks. How can I tell her I am thinking of the green skin shoved like wet pants behind the Directoire desk? Or tell her I am mortgaged to the hilt of my sword, to the leek-green tip of my soul? Someday I will drag her by her hair to the river--and what? Drown her? Show her the green flame of my self rising at her feet? But there's no more violence in her than in a fence or a gate. "What are you thinking of? she whispers. I am staring into the garden. I am watching the moon wind its trail of golden slime around the oak, over the stone basin of the fountain. How can I tell her I am thinking that transformations are not forever? |
Love In the Asylum- Dylan M. 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. |
Do not go gentle into that good night - Dylan Thomas
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 the 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. |
Can't find The Black Beast by Ted Hughes online and can't be bothered to type it out. Read it, it's awesome.
Two Scavengers in a Truck, Two Beautiful People in a Mercedes - Lawrence Ferlenghetti At the stoplight waiting for the light nine a.m. downtown San Francisco a bright yellow garbage truck with two garbagemen in red plastic blazers standing on the back stoop one on each side hanging on and looking down into an elegant open Mercedes with an elegant couple in it The man in a hip three-piece linen suit with shoulder-lenght blond hair&sunglassed The young blond woman so casually coifed with short skirt and coloured stokings on the way to his architect's office And the two scavengers up since four a.m. grungy from their route on the way home The older of the two with grey iron hair and hunched back looking down like some gargoyle Quasimodo And the younger of the two also with sunglasses&long hair about the same age as the Mercedes dirver And both scavengers gazinf down as from a great distance at the cool couple as if they were watching some odorless TV ad in which everything is always possible And the very red light for an instant holding all four close together as if anything at all were possible between them across that small gulf in the high sea of this democracy |
Danse Russe - William Carlos Williams
If I 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 round 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? |
To Tirzah - William Blake
Whate'er is Born of Mortal Birth Must be consumed with the Earth To rise from Generation free: Then what have I to do with thee? The Sexes sprung from Shame & Pride, Blow'd in the morn, in evening died; But Mercy chang'd Death into Sleep; The Sexes rose to work & weep. Thou, Mother of my Mortal part, With cruelty didst mould my Heart, And with false self-deceiving tears Didst bind my Nostrils, Eyes, & Ears: Didst close my Tongue in senseless clay, And me to Mortal Life betray. The Death of Jesus set me free: Then what have I to do with thee? |
Someone's already posted Lady Lazarus by Sylvia Plath. That's one of my top favorites, as well as the Raven by E. A. Poe and the Sleepers by W. Whitman. The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe: Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. `'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door - Only this, and nothing more.' Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore - For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore - Nameless here for evermore. And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating `'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door - Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; - This it is, and nothing more,' Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, `Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; - Darkness there, and nothing more. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!' This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!' Merely this and nothing more. Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. `Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice; Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore - Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; - 'Tis the wind and nothing more!' Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore. Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door - Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door - Perched, and sat, and nothing more. Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, `Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven. Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore - Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.' Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door - Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as `Nevermore.' But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only, That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered - Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before - On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.' Then the bird said, `Nevermore.' Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, `Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store, Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore - Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore Of "Never-nevermore."' But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door; Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore - What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking `Nevermore.' This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er, She shall press, ah, nevermore! Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. `Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore! Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.' `Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! - Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted - On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore - Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.' `Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore - Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore - Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.' `Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting - `Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.' And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted - nevermore! |
"The Lady of Shallot".
Yes, I know. ~B.L. |
Soldier, soldier ~ Rudyard Kipling
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The Hollow Men
T. S. Eliot Mistah Kurtz—he dead. A penny for the Old Guy I We are the hollow men We are the stuffed men Leaning together Headpiece filled with straw. Alas! Our dried voices, when We whisper together Are quiet and meaningless As wind in dry grass Or rats’ feet over broken glass In our dry cellar Shape without form, shade without colour, Paralysed force, gesture without motion; Those who have crossed With direct eyes, to death’s other Kingdom Remember us—if at all—not as lost Violent souls, but only As the hollow men The stuffed men. II Eyes I dare not meet in dreams In death’s dream kingdom These do not appear: There, the eyes are Sunlight on a broken column There, is a tree swinging And voices are In the wind’s singing More distant and more solemn Than a fading star. Let me be no nearer In death’s dream kingdom Let me also wear Such deliberate disguises Rat’s coat, crowskin, crossed staves In a field Behaving as the wind behaves No nearer— Not that final meeting In the twilight kingdom III This is the dead land This is cactus land Here the stone images Are raised, here they receive The supplication of a dead man’s hand Under the twinkle of a fading star. Is it like this In death’s other kingdom Waking alone At the hour when we are Trembling with tenderness Lips that would kiss Form prayers to broken stone. IV The eyes are not here There are no eyes here In this valley of dying stars In this hollow valley This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms In this last of meeting places We grope together And avoid speech Gathered on this beach of the tumid river Sightless, unless The eyes reappear As the perpetual star Multifoliate rose Of death’s twilight kingdom The hope only Of empty men. V Here we go round the prickly pear Prickly pear prickly pear Here we go round the prickly pear At five o’clock in the morning. Between the idea And the reality Between the motion And the act Falls the Shadow For Thine is the Kingdom Between the conception And the creation Between the emotion And the response Falls the Shadow Life is very long Between the desire And the spasm Between the potency And the existence Between the essence And the descent Falls the Shadow For Thine is the Kingdom For Thine is Life is For Thine is the This is the way the world ends This is the way the world ends This is the way the world ends Not with a bang but a whimper. |
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I felt a funeral, in my brain by Emily Dickinson.
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