Under two stones of water
lies the crack-fish
The thirstiest of things
seeing outside of light
with the tail that snaps in half mid bite
or does he simply swallow
however it is, it knows to swim easy
between plastic and coral

storybook as you entered the dark
forest lost to light the shadows
ribbons played in wind of dreams
time shifted into floating emerald
light the king’s flashing teeth and
mad eyes sparkled gloom up
and down with the black trees now
you knew the sadness of birds
wheeling twilight mournful cries
naked further like light never came
never dawned the mind lay down
its stilettos of night and embraced
darkness soon remains . . . ?

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What's the best collection of T.S. Eliot poems? I'm browsing online and there's a lot of editions. Ideally, one with commentary of some kind? For his prose work I'm eyeing pic related.

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>>25071161
I've got the Faber edition - I wouldn't worry about commentary. Let yourself come to your own conclusions on the poems

here's a poem I wrote for my grandma

https://egregoreandi.substack.com/p/mourning-englands-sun

dem hoes wat dey dont knows
won't hurt em
less is me dat dey dont knows
i squirt em
in dey pussies make em call me daddy
ain gibbem
no name no numba
neva find my addy
don't come lookin fo no money bitch
ain't got it
dont come lookin fo no daddy bitch
cuz im not it
don't ya pull up on my block
ima real nigga
pull up on yo social worka
if yousa gold nigga
get dat snap n dat section 8
dem checks nigga
den da hole where ima bury you
ima grave digga
yaready know I pull my 9
on a dime n pull da trigga
fo I put my cheese on da line
fo a bitch n a lil nigga

thoughts?

I wrote this one called Roman Font in Japan:

Western writing in
the land of the rising sun.
Typeface irregularity;
it bothers me none.

Letters twisted slightly,
charming in their way
make the world feel bigger
despite the modern day.

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Who are the essential english poets?

Out of curiosity, do you guys handwrite your poems or just type them out on your computer?

Favorite underrated poet?

>>25072747
There are no underrated poets.

>>25072721
Depends on the poem. Most of them I write by hand, but if it's something throwaway for 4chins then I usually just type in the box with no proof

I was supposed to go down to New York to read some of my work yesterday, but I couldn't make it. I'm kinda choked, honestly.

When most I wink, then do mine eyes best see,
For all the day they view things unrespected;
But when I sleep, in dreams they look on thee,
And darkly bright are bright in dark directed.

Then thou, whose shadow shadows doth make bright,
How would thy shadow's form form happy show
To the clear day with thy much clearer light,
When to unseeing eyes thy shade shines so!

How would, I say, mine eyes be blessed made
By looking on thee in the living day,
When in dead night thy fair imperfect shade
Through heavy sleep on sightless eyes doth stay!

All days are nights to see till I see thee,
And nights bright days when dreams do show thee me.

Winter. Time to eat fat
and watch hockey. In the pewter mornings, the cat,
a black fur sausage with yellow
Houdini eyes, jumps up on the bed and tries
to get onto my head. It’s his
way of telling whether or not I’m dead.
If I’m not, he wants to be scratched; if I am
He’ll think of something. He settles
on my chest, breathing his breath
of burped-up meat and musty sofas,
purring like a washboard. Some other tomcat,
not yet a capon, has been spraying our front door,
declaring war. It’s all about sex and territory,
which are what will finish us off
in the long run. Some cat owners around here
should snip a few testicles. If we wise
hominids were sensible, we’d do that too,
or eat our young, like sharks.
But it’s love that does us in. Over and over
again, He shoots, he scores! and famine
crouches in the bedsheets, ambushing the pulsing
eiderdown, and the windchill factor hits
thirty below, and pollution pours
out of our chimneys to keep us warm.
February, month of despair,
with a skewered heart in the centre.
I think dire thoughts, and lust for French fries
with a splash of vinegar.
Cat, enough of your greedy whining
and your small pink bumhole.
Off my face! You’re the life principle,
more or less, so get going
on a little optimism around here.
Get rid of death. Celebrate increase. Make it be spring.

Can't hide or hope for a lucky hit.
There's trouble in the wind.
Can't lie about my part in it,
it came because I sinned.

>>25073133
Garbage kys

do (you) think "us here" or "here us" is more an iamb?

Every time the same
Seething ugly tranny
I see through your game
And your artificial fanny

>>25073739
it depends on the context

Mention piety in the slightest,
Christian, Roman or Greek.
And creatures come out to protest,
to tell us virtue is hating the meek.

>>25073105
Like as the waves make towards the pebbl’d shore,
So do our minutes hasten to their end;
Each changing place with that which goes before,
In sequent toil all forwards do contend.

Nativity, once in the main of light,
Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown’d,
Crooked eclipses ‘gainst his glory fight,
and Time that gave doth now his gift confound.

Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth,
And delves the parallels in beauty’s brow,
Feeds on the rarities of nature’s truth,
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow;

And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand,
Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.

>>25073916
in a poem

>>25070924
Is the anon who posted this poem in a poetry thread a few months ago still around?

I am the space you inhabit,
the dead leaves you trample upon
while walking to your faculty.

I am that stone that nearly trips you,
that fit a decade ago, but now
is just a passing annoyance.

i am the still-looking air that
expands and contracts to your
voice, like water waves.

i am the walls of lecture halls
that absorb those sounds eternally -
though you have left for years.

you pay no mind to me,
but somehow i know,
dead leaves are not dead, but live eternally.

Yo when my plato of potato
seamin still
bark a laugh in 1917
what up europoorly
the ego and the x own, rat republics
but no, ayy sciaoo!
relegated tie now
time for cock-structuralism
in sunglas baguettes
oi who wanna phd with me
we have the balls to invent a zipper
no gulag for susy if she's cool
with this

>>25070924
Moving back to the "poetry for" is the future. The abstract space of the poem for a book of poetry, the newspaper journal ect, is a deadzone. It's an old online video game universe where discourse and thought go to die or at least ruminate. There is no purpose to write for an audience in the west except for money and prestige, and that doesn't require the type of elitism necessary to produce good poetry. To escape, the audience must be a distinct community and the poem their culture, ir it must be a poem to friend or lover. Dissemination is the final battle. If I can have no community separate from those mandates from the hegemon, I choose my friends and family to write poetry to, I choose the world to mock with ephemeral bosh. If we can not establish a community as the warrior-poets of other nations because we live subjugated isolated alienated and our devices subsumed, then I want kindness first to myself. I do not want an audience, I do not want to be read. I want to write poetry that none will know is there.

Pear by a bear eaten
A mare ravaged by a man
The woman’s cat plowed and turned
Eggplant by a vixen milk’d

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>>25075274

I wrote this poem for
the piercing eyes of seers.
In truth they're all blind and poor,
my dickless illiterate peers.

>>25073739
>us here

>>25075282
Great
>>25075430
Good

Pride for me but not for thee
Marching culture's guards
Pillaging with rabid glee
Murderous rapist retards

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>>25070924
How to know if poetry is bad or I am too dumb to understand?

>>25075681
thanks.

>>25075915
Is it poetry? Then it's bad.

All day, the world blinds me,
the stars hover like ghosts above rooftops,
and I feel the tremor of worlds unseen.

>>25072747
>Favorite underrated poet?
Underrated by whom? Not sure there are any, if you ignore the opinion of idiots. Time is a good critic, I think.

That said:

— Robert Graves
Maybe. He gets overlooked because he basically acted as though the twentieth century didn't exist. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that’s a positive advantage but it certainly doesn’t matter. The last two lines of ‘She tells her love while half-asleep’ are as good as any two last lines by anyone ever.

— Thom Gunn
Slightly surprising he has been forgotten as much as he has, given he was homosexual and became gradually more open (even militant) about it as he went on. Not a first-rank writer but did produce half a dozen decent pieces, which is half a dozen than most people manage. If you haven't met him, try
— Touch
— Considering the Snail
— Moly
— The Discovery of the Pacific

>>25076303
I think you should trim down the last one so it's more like the cutting line image of a haiku
>the tremor of worlds unseen
It over personalises the poem to have me... and I feel, and kind of redundant, because is it a tremor if it's not felt?, whereas you can universalise your feelings in a moment of interstellar pathetic fallacy which follows on from the second line if you trim it. Overall I like it
>>25075904
Better

Feel the tremor of worlds when
fatso steps this thread upon
Never reply to me again
or my wife's son

>>25076958
Worse

Well, I wish you good night, but first,
Shit in your bed and make it burst.
Sleep soundly, my love
Into your mouth your arse you'll shove

In Nebka's day the Lector-Priest
Ubaöner ycleped woulde walk
biside Celestialls and feeste
on Godly nectar wyne and drauke
Athwart Them at his tabel wide
within his dwellynge cool and clene
Hem’d in by Foldes on ev’ry side
its marbel walls of perfit shene
And Ubaöner's Wife was there
And oft did Hathor breyde her hair.

Styll did that blessed ladie spy
a handsom Merchaunt's Sonne in toune
And sought by him to satisfie
impious Lusts e’en in that Loune
From him she bought by envoys swift
a Warde-robe spunne of softest flax
And deemyng it a paultrie Gift
whereto she tooke a grey-wacke axe,
She sent a mayde so to enveygh
And summon him to her that day.

Inside the wisard’s sightly Parc
a shadie high Gazeboe stood
And in the crysp and fragraunt darke
concernyng the Credenza-wood
Appear’d the handsom Merchaunt’s Sonne
to audience the queenlye Shape
Of her whom Ubaöner won
withdrauen to her greene Escape.
A warkand fate befell the Churl
Who dabl’d with that sely Girl.

>>25073105
good

Too fat to flee
Face fated for lead
Sown sins seed tree
Bees buzz in his head

x consumption has gone up
my pay has been steady
my patience is running low
i have so many pockets now
they carry things warm for me
i fall asleep in your dream
and still rearrange spoons and stars
you best believe i will get back to it
when i'm finished dusting off
from the nap of days

Brown rags concealed the facts
Gleaming armor revealed
A line of elite cataphracts
Holy light that melts your shield

Faoiseamh a gheobhadsa
Seal beag gairid
I measc mo dhaoine
Ar oileán mara
Ag siúl cois cladaigh
Maidin is tráthnóna
Ó Luan go Satharn
Thiar ag baile

Faoiseamh a gheobhadsa
Seal beag gairid
I measc mo dhaoine
Ó chrá ó croí
Ó bhuairt aigne
Ó uaigneas duairc
Ó chaint ghontach
Thiar ag baile

A thousand sheep have marched
O misery to me
Don’t pick apart a beautiful day
A thousand men have marched
O misery I see
Don’t let your holy God get his way

Your fate is not tangled in constellation
Nor between your hands at dusk
Is but the purest of young determination
Realise what you must you must

A thousand sheep have starved
O misery is ours
Don’t humanise our Mother Nature
A thousand men have starved
O misery was far
Don’t offer your delay to the creator

Your fate is not defined by hesitation
Nor hiding in the risk that you miss
Is but the fortunate ones stark elation
That leads you towards false bliss

O misery to me
O misery I see
O misery is ours
O misery was far

the Baroness

you really are just
a nasty old cunt—

are you?
no heart

just an internal public
relations department.

wherein others a soul,
in you a shapeshifting

hole

a cist for the innocent
crawling up your walls

criminal.
it is true

you are the Baroness.

a scum-encrusted
decrepit narcissist

devouring

hole

Censure the cent
Money down goes
And capital accumulated is
Goes up labor is
The slaves aggregate
The rich dwindle
Everywhere are commodities
Wages up go, commodities with them
Everyone rich is
Everyone is poor

>>25070924
If e'er thou pored o'er falsest quotations
Hearken to scholars which hath boldly spake:
"These sagely words may bloom exhortations,
'To read the text may be for thine own sake!'
For reading dulls the sting of Ignorance
And sharpens Wit as true as Virtues' points,
To feel the touch of God's deliverance
And know the Good that light itself anoints;
It brings to fruit the buds of Pleasure's seeds
And snuffs the sparks of Wrath's own blinding fire;
Thou rent the thorns of Artificial deeds,
To poison minds with spells that Lies may sire.
The vice of every heart has stayed the hands
That turned a page that every Text demands!"

>>25070924
Though as a ghost
I shall lightly tread
the summer fields

I fall into the night.
The dark, healing night.

Where my bright face
obscures my darker mask.

Follow me...

We will dance in bliss
Far away from any other task

Because all that comes
will come and pass

Follow me..
And listen to my heart

Follow me..
So you can dance

Follow me..
And let us fall into the night
The dark, healing night

Mountain's misogyny
Sherpa mansplaining
My body fatphobicly
Freezing and failing

There is a book bound in skin-thin paper,
ink trembling with push-ups and counted abs.
Fathers teach with weight and water,
while the summit favours prepared flesh.

Predation learned to speak politely.

>>25072711
Chaucer,spenser,eliot,milton, Wordsworth,donne,
Herbert,keats,dryden,gawain poet,Byron,Tom O’Bedlam poet,yeats,Tennyson,Hopkins,Coleridge,Auden,Shelley,Marvell,blake,Robert burns,and
>Shakespeare

>>25079302
>O Direain
Nice

As a poor writer working minimum wage, when putting two square meals on the table was a luxury, I would frequently go to Sikh temples. Everyday, their community kitchen services (langar) offer free hot meals to anyone.

I also love that food at langar is so delicious and wholesome as well (restaurants often put way too much salt and oil). I highly recommend anyone struggling with food and financial security to visit your local Gurudwara; they are accepting of all races and religions.

Built by love but lost to sin
Lucifer rules this age
Beast marked them with their brown skin
Rust breaks our gilded cage

i'm letting you go so you'll come back to me,
and i'll relish in that pleasure, just as when
we lift things up in the air and let them
fall, miseries and joys repeating endlessly.
even if i must wait till stars darken
and distances fold like parchment,
or like our respective bedsheets seperately connected,
meeting through seperate paths.

Proteas, roo-paw
colour mid-February
A year in full bloom

what form of poetry would you use to send a letter to a childhood pen-pal who you lost contact with?

Hello pal, remember me?
I'm that gay retard you hate
Wondering if you want to see
My dick while I masturbate

>>25077804
Chatterton back from the grave?

the streets where empty
except the smell of rain
and the soft summer sun sinking
into the earth

like the asteroid that killed the dinosaurs

the buzzing pulse of crickets
jihadi moths entering the bright light
and the sound of car tires
on gravel roads

she was just a memory now,
a half recalled song
a string of blurs
like she never occurred

The Female of the Species by Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936)

When the Himalayan peasant meets the he-bear in his pride,
He shouts to scare the monster, who will often turn aside.
But the she-bear thus accosted rends the peasant tooth and nail.
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

When Nag the basking cobra hears the careless foot of man,
He will sometimes wriggle sideways and avoid it if he can.
But his mate makes no such motion where she camps beside the trail.
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

When the early Jesuit fathers preached to Hurons and Choctaws,
They prayed to be delivered from the vengeance of the squaws.
'Twas the women, not the warriors, turned those stark enthusiasts pale.
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

Man's timid heart is bursting with the things he must not say,
For the Woman that God gave him isn't his to give away;
But when hunter meets with husbands, each confirms the other's tale—
The female of the species is more deadly than the male.

Man, a bear in most relations—worm and savage otherwise,—
Man propounds negotiations, Man accepts the compromise.
Very rarely will he squarely push the logic of a fact
To its ultimate conclusion in unmitigated act.

Fear, or foolishness, impels him, ere he lay the wicked low,
To concede some form of trial even to his fiercest foe.
Mirth obscene diverts his anger—Doubt and Pity oft perplex
Him in dealing with an issue—to the scandal of The Sex!

But the Woman that God gave him, every fibre of her frame
Proves her launched for one sole issue, armed and engined for the same;
And to serve that single issue, lest the generations fail,
The female of the species must be deadlier than the male.

1/2

2/2

She who faces Death by torture for each life beneath her breast
May not deal in doubt or pity—must not swerve for fact or jest.
These be purely male diversions—not in these her honour dwells—
She the Other Law we live by, is that Law and nothing else.

She can bring no more to living than the powers that make her great
As the Mother of the Infant and the Mistress of the Mate.
And when Babe and Man are lacking and she strides unclaimed to claim
Her right as femme (and baron), her equipment is the same.

She is wedded to convictions—in default of grosser ties;
Her contentions are her children, Heaven help him who denies!—
He will meet no suave discussion, but the instant, white-hot, wild,
Wakened female of the species warring as for spouse and child.

Unprovoked and awful charges—even so the she-bear fights,
Speech that drips, corrodes, and poisons—even so the cobra bites,
Scientific vivisection of one nerve till it is raw
And the victim writhes in anguish—like the Jesuit with the squaw!

So it comes that Man, the coward, when he gathers to confer
With his fellow-braves in council, dare not leave a place for her
Where, at war with Life and Conscience, he uplifts his erring hands
To some God of Abstract Justice—which no woman understands.

And Man knows it! Knows, moreover, that the Woman that God gave him
Must command but may not govern—shall enthral but not enslave him.
And She knows, because She warns him, and Her instincts never fail,
That the Female of Her Species is more deadly than the Male.

Rags lie.
Wages stand still.
Time desynchronizes.

Dogs lift their muzzles,
when you fly south before the roses bloom.
I walk the shore like a suspect.

>>25084805
o penpal, o penpal, of tits large and sweet
prithee be a sweetie and choke on my meat!
i'll buy you a birkin and call you my muffin
so long as your mouth is my wiener soon stuffin.
dear penpal, my penpal, my penis doth ache
prithee consider how hot you me make
and bounce on my johnson and moan loud and clear
and make plainly sure that your neighbors can hear

>>25084847
thank you anon

I need some rec's, fellers - anyone know of any authors/poets with the prose of a madman? Fragmented, abstract, with all the juicy drippings of the hymen psyche, but still delicious to read, etc. All the rawness of canine poetry perhaps, too. I've been searching for something in that vein for a while but I trust in *your* divine opinion, anon

>>25072747
Thomas Moore. His content gets kind of sappy and he leans into clichés but he was ridiculously talented. Music and imagery seemed totally effortless for him, along with having an endless supply of emotions to express because the man wrote reams

fish without eyes feed me
water drips down walls
dim green light falls on runes
a story about salvation
in a lost language

Echoes tremble between leaf and stone,
slithering along the edges of the yard,
hovering in the hush where darkness thickens,
carrying whispers of feet,
carrying the weight of unseen hands.

Its breath brushes the edges of the world,
a chill rolling across the empty street.

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some vday poetry

Love Again
By Philip Larkin
Love again: wanking at ten past three
(Surely he’s taken her home by now?),
The bedroom hot as a bakery,
The drink gone dead, without showing how
To meet tomorrow, and afterwards,
And the usual pain, like dysentery.

Someone else feeling her breasts and cunt,
Someone else drowned in that lash-wide stare,
And me supposed to be ignorant,
Or find it funny, or not to care,
Even ... but why put it into words?
Isolate rather this element

That spreads through other lives like a tree
And sways them on in a sort of sense
And say why it never worked for me.
Something to do with violence
A long way back, and wrong rewards,
And arrogant eternity.

fug

>>25086760
Henry Miller

>“I love everything that flows,” said the great blind Milton of our times. I was thinking of him this morning when I awoke with a great bloody shout of joy: I was thinking of his rivers and trees and all that world of night which he is exploring. Yes, I said to myself, I too love everything that flows: rivers, sewers, lava, semen, blood, bile, words, sentences. I love the amniotic fluid when it spills out of the bag. I love the kidney with its painful gallstones, its gravel and what-not; I love the urine that pours out scalding and the clap that runs endlessly; I love the words of hysterics and the sentences that flow on like dysentery and mirror all the sick images of the soul; I love the great rivers like the Amazon and the Orinoco, where crazy men like Moravagine float on through dream and legend in an open boat and drown in the blind mouths of the river. I love everything that flows, even the menstrual flow that carries away the seed unfecund. I love scripts that flow, be they hieratic, esoteric, perverse, polymorph, or unilateral. I love everything that flows, everything that has time in it and becoming, that brings us back to the beginning where there is never end: the violence of the prophets, the obscenity that is ecstasy, the wisdom of the fanatic, the priest with his rubber litany, the foul words of the whore, the spittle that floats away in the gutter, the milk of the breast and the bitter honey that pours from the womb, all that is fluid, melting, dissolute and dissolvent, all the pus and dirt that in flowing is purified, that loses its sense of origin, that makes the great circuit toward death and dissolution. The great incestuous wish is to flow on, one with time, to merge the great image of the beyond with the here and now. A fatuous, suicidal wish that is constipated by words and paralyzed by thought.”
― Henry Miller, Tropic of Cancer

one of my favorite authors

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>>25087986
one of the most memorable first lines of any poem. larkin was immense in his time.

Start with the Greeks:
Hydra gives the best head
Sappho's all in pieces
People don't question horses.

So do I just sit down and read a book of poetry like I would a novel or do I take it do the lake and read one poem and dwell on it for a week or what?

>>25088716
read it, either it takes you in or it doesn’t.

>>25088716
Like a collection of short stories, I suppose. Read as many as you want in one sitting, return to any individual one as you desire.

>>25087995
Do you have any other specific favourite passages from this book?

>>25088716
Poetry is all about the feels man. The poem either clicks or it doesn't. Or part of it clicks enough so that you want to reexamine the rest of it

>>25089055
Hah, it's one of my favorite books that had a major impact on me. I could open it up and find a quotable passage on almost every other page.

>In every poem by Matisse there is the history of a particle of human flesh which refused the consummation of death. The whole run of flesh, from hair to nails, expresses the miracle of breathing, as if the inner eye, in its thirst for a greater reality, had converted the pores of the flesh into hungry seeing mouths. By whatever vision one passes there is the odor and the sound of voyage. It is impossible to gaze at even a corner of his dreams without feeling the lift of the wave and the cool of the flying spray. He stands at the helm peering with steady blue eyes into the portfolio, of time. Into what distant corners has he not thrown his long, slanting gaze? Looking down the vast promontory of his nose he has beheld everything — the Cordilleras falling away into the Pacific, the history of the diaspora done in vellum, shutters fluting the froufrou of the beach, the piano curving like a conch, corollas giving out diapasons of light, chameleons squirming under the book-press, seraglios expiring in oceans of dust, music issuing like fire from the hidden chromosphere of pain, spore and madrepore fructifying the earth, navels vomiting their bright spawn of anguish … He is a bright sage, a dancing seer who, with a sweep of the brush, removes the ugly scaffold to which the body of a man is chained by the incontrovertible facts of life. He it is, if any man to-day possesses the gift, who knows where to dissolve the human figure, who has the courage to sacrifice an harmonious line in order to detect the rhythm and murmur of the blood, who takes the light that has been refracted inside him and lets it flood the keyboard of color. Behind the minutiae, the chaos, the mockery of life, he detects the invisible pattern; he announces his discoveries in the metaphysical pigment of space. No searching for formulae, no crucifixion of ideas, no compulsion other than to create. Even as the world goes to smash there is one man who remains at the core, who becomes more solidly fixed and anchored, more centrifugal as the process of dissolution quickens.

>>25087986
Great poem

My world still ends on the coasts of Portugal:
a place I've never been.
Here's what little remains of memories —
Aunt Lucy's cassette tapes that always need
rewinding; and my mother's eye
condemning his "tomorrows".
To be chained by a chain so long
it looks like freedom, youth, stripped bare
A balloon show that cost Monday's dinner
Bread unadorned, the missing dessert.
And my sister's cherry eyes
for this or that loneliness that finds no
companion — what of visions and dreams
in such a sparse room.
I'm somewhere else now, in someone else's mending:
A footnote unsure of itself to a long lost text.
This too is life.

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>>25086760
If you've never read picrel now's the time
>>25089128
>>25087995
never read a word of miller but now you're talking me into it. is ToC the best starting place?

>>25090440
You'll be okay Paddington

>>25090467
>never read a word of miller but now you're talking me into it. is ToC the best starting place?
Yes, easily. Then I'd recommend Colossus of Marousi next, instead of the obvious Tropic of Capricorn, you can save that for after.

>>25087986
>arrogant eternity
What does this mean?

[Step in]

The unshaken eye finds no burden,
Long as he looks and seeks life’s breezes,
Steps in path high or low untrodden,
With confidence which breaks diseases

>>25072038
I like this, post more

>>25090808
He thinks he knows better than the process of life. He's a Satan resenting God's creation and a product of anti-nazi propaganda that turned into anti-life/anti-God propaganda.

>>25091221
>He thinks he knows better than the process of life.
That would make the speaker arrogant, but why “arrogant eternity” like eternity is arrogant?

In times of old one must summon and pray
To the Muses who dwell near Helikon
Which the ancient poets say was the source
Of inspiration and divine right to
Assay the condition of God and Man.
In modern time one might call the great five
And their two-syllable immortal names:
Homer, Virgil, Ovid, Shakespeare, Milton.
The triumph of El Shaddai throughout this
Fine Globe, makes Pagan wont useless to those
With access to God's font of thought sublime.
I now bring to mind songs of the chosen:
The celebratory praise of Miriam
And the victory hymn of Judge Deborah,
The words of the prophets and the Psalms of
Sundry origin, all had one true author.
The defeat of Sisera and Pharaoh
With Mount Tabor and Sea of Reeds as witness
Are in themselves worthy of epic verse.
But to choose my legacy for my tribe
I must seek themes of triumph and conquest
Through obedience. Hence to their promised land
That flows with milk and honey come the dusty
And contracted and attractive people
Who stand across the Jordan lamenting
Their beloved and departed lawgiver.
What brought them here? Was it when the Shepherd With faltering lips spoke to God
in burning bush disguised? Or did they attain this Great enterprise when covenant was made with
The Father of Nations who had a name
Changed to signal greatness?

>>25090659
Good taste. What other writers do you like?

>>25084208
what is this about?

I have no space to string together
for clever words, cannot
focus enough to create. My
technique is non-existent, there is
no art to what I am feeling.
You do not care for me. That is all.
And this—this pain—
overshadows everything else.

Two birds, one stone, a sandwich.
Don't put the stone in the sandwich.
Don't sit on the park bench
As if you were innocent
When you know they're hungry.
Fuck.

>>25092610
What are you even talking about? This makes no sense.

>>25092623

The thread is called poetry general after all.

>>25092634
Yeah, I get that what you posted is an attempt at a poem, but it does not function as a poem because it is nonsensical. What idea were you getting at?

>>25091852
God/the process is arrogant, violent, wrong and le bad.

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I'll cry, if the longing
Breaks; for when its
Swelling tides
Affect the transom
With a gushing torrent
It is that I've
Given way

You bob, like a pale
Drawing from a well
Faye: through time
A vagabond-passenger
Flutters; I'll cry if it breaks
Entombed lakes
Precious aquifer

>>25092638
Christ you're stupid. Shouldn't you be posting about feces over on /b/?

>>25092669
If your poem had some sort of actual theme or idea behind it, you should be able to explain what you were aiming at instead of getting mad and calling me names. What is your poem about?

>>25092643
Where do you get God from? He’s not mentioned in the poem

>>25092673

Not me. My poem was written between a fart and a BigMac bite. It doesn't mean anything.

>>25092658
whenever i’m reading a poem and there’s some random woman’s name in it it ruins it for me

I was surprised to learn that T.S. Eliot is not unanimously considered as a "great" poet. Have I just frequented the wrong corners of the internet?

>>25092710
Faye means fairy-like, not a name. Means she's buoyant.

Fuck off retard.

>>25092780
“fey” is the word you were looking for

>>25092819
No it isn't. Stop shitting up the thread with your braindead illiterate spam.

>>25092833
Thank you for vouching for me. I'm up against a lot of adversity; much of it deserved. But this guy is a lot.

>>25092833
yes it is. “Faye” is not in any standard dictionary. it’s a woman’s name, not an adjective. fucking retard.

>>25092911
Nigga, I can't spell, sorry. I composed that in like 3 minutes.

>>25092973
We don't say that word here. We say nigger.

>>25092911
I also should have put an apostrophe after the word 'lakes.'

>>25092911
You're completely braindead, all you do is demand others spoonfeed you the most basic shit while pretending you're not a retard. It wasn't used as an adjective. "Fey" is from feig meaning death while faye is from faie meaning fairy. The author used intuition not dictionaries, which is both more interesting and representative of reality than your braindead reddit ackshually posts.

>>25092638
Feed the fucking birds retard.

>>25092658
Interesting poem. Is it about unrequited love or something?

>>25093052
Bingo.

O, Robert Duvall
Consigliere to the family
THX
Lived to mount Plato's cave
Gus McCrae
Lover grape by grape
Apostle E.F.
Trying to get saved by Christ
Father of Karl
Nigh caught a sling-blade, but nay
A Valkyrie-Lieutenant Colonel
Charlie don't surf, but should
A Hollywood legend
95 is pretty good

I sat at Rock Bottom
On sharp beds of coral.
As schools of fish went by.
Came a curious one,
He was pygmy in size,
He came to float by my side.

(He spoke)
”This is no place for man
God has gifted you land,
And to us he has given the sea.”

Can’t you see?
I’m sat at Rock Bottom.

”You have taken my home
As Pelagian throne,
But leviathans circle around.
For a terrible snake
With its mouth all agape,
I have seen just beyond the light’s bound.”

All this terror here bores me, come take my life too.
For this watery grave I have chosen.
To sink in this bliss, all alone in abyss.
A new womb I will make of the ocean.

”And why remain? I find it most strange? There’s no wish for the surface?
In the night, if I muster the spirit, I swim up to escape my durance.
And I stare in all awe of that heavenly maw
And the hercu’lan feat of the stars in their sheaths
And my head it will crest and my gills scream for breath
till my body falls into the current.”

There is nothing up there, just all pain and despair.
I am tossed from extreme to another.
And the furies they find, and they scorn and they bind,
And old Achlys pulls deep and she covers.

(He paused)
”You are stronger than I, and here untouched by tides.
While I’m tossed by tempestuous motion.
When I’m thrown to extremes in the oceanly streams
I found freedom to drift in devotion.”

Is there a better way to distinguish the dialogue than using quotations for one member here?

>>25092658
Are you the same guy who kept posting that poem about the tree with roots that reached an underground lake? I liked that one.

Dwarfed by ducts delivering life
I sit in awe as stone crumbles
Rivers turn to dragon's blood
"New normal" Caesar mumbles
Stumbling falls off the stage

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Has anybody got a clue what the fuck any of this means.

>>25094267
It's some northerner's sentiments about the American civil war and society since, obscured from the reader and the poet by meditations on tree planting in Savannah (potentially the one in Georgia)

>>25094267
this isn't that hard anon, here's a quick gloss

"plot"wise, the speaker's walking around in Savannah GA to look at ancient trees, probably live oaks, a species of tree native to/common in the US South. as they walk around they think about degradation, history, renewal, and death

analysis wise, few different angles here
>first salvo
salvo = artillery discharge, savannah was one of the core cities of the confederacy during the US civil war. this slots in with "spring's mauve detonation" at the end, so the "first salvo" is the first coming of spring. dialectic between death/new life happening here
>mercy should not be counted on
(in?)famously the confederacy was granted mercy after the end of the civil war -- no trials, no hangings, etc. in the poem this history's palpable; the city of savannah has rebel statues, the oaks are "senatorial," the city is genteel like southern planter aristocracy
>travel south/to lands decided by your forebears
ie the US South was "decided" (ambiguous; does the speaker mean victory, do they mean conquered, do they mean claimed, do they mean discovered, etc) by the speaker's ancestors
>ancient trees [this stanza and the next]
"the past is present" etc. the poem toys with this idea, that the past and the present occur simultaneously -- the trees are living things but simultaneously are very, very old. they have "buried ties" (roots) to the land, which is "falling" (seasonal quibble) all around, like a rebel nation may "fall" to an opposing army, or like how a society can be said to "fall." the yeats reference here inclines me to think that the poem means the latter, but I think all of those are at play
>last stanza
already touched on the detonation thing, but to talk about it again, the poem's tinkering with the relationship between death, life, war, and peace here by condensing those four concepts into a seasonal image -- think of how spring is often thought of as a renewal of life after the deathly cold of winter, here spring inflicts a metaphorical artillery barrage which nevertheless brings new life. the pelican immediately after's a nice touch, pelicans are a christian symbol of self-sacrifice/charity (from the myth that a pelican would pierce its own chest w its beak to feed its young with its blood). so again we've got the death/life pairing here but in a different frame, this time in a hazily christian context. "white as a shroud" should be obvious, so should "close enough to touch" (death not distant but right in front of you etc) but specifically a pelican instead of a seagull or pigeon gives the image an interesting undertone of charity, which is a small nod to the poem's start ("mercy should not be counted on"). yet the poem ends not on mercy but on something close to it -- is the poem suggesting that mercy isn't possible but maybe something akin to it could be with death? idk.

I liked this anon. Thx for sharing. Some anon is going to get very upset because the poem doesn't rhyme. Ignore them

>>25094338

I'm not American so for me it was impenetrable. My English is really not great either, so already at "senatorial oaks" I was like what? Thanks for the effort post

>>25094400
glad I could help anon

>>25093581
No. Sounds neat though.

She says history didn't happen
Her Chinese tattoo is hecking neat
Life with her is heavier than the pen
Barbie doll bogged and beat

>>25092658
I interpreted this as being about holding back feelings you can’t express and worrying that you’ll give in.

>>25084805
There once was a small girl I missed
Cherry lips that I dreamt I had kissed
So I wrote her this letter
Which would've gone better
If I hadn't been totally pissed

The way the yogis sit
Rank with the dew of many mornings
Like foo-dogs at rocky shrines
Or cans in the subway fosse,
On the mind's keen spear point sat
And slipping never
I stare ἠτένισα as the gypsy girl
In Big George's little city biding ever
For her husband invisible impersonal
Behind an oily screen

This is the beginning of something that's an excuse to use the line "baby gronk rizzed! clavicular mogged!"

Know what all booksellers
Wish: a buyer keen
And bursting kingpin's wallet,
Barely keeping wíthout audit;
KWAB

K-words are hard and I am not good even normally, what a bad acronym to write over. Do you think it makes sense?

You all disgust me
This world is hell
Always singing and dancing
I don't feel well
I've had enough
You look like clowns
I hate your smiles
You invert my love
You kill my soul
And I smell you
And it itches
Until I sleep
And you're forgotten
Until next time
Bye for now
Bye

>>25098097
>in English

>>25098177
It's funny though I should have specified

Women in my family inherit
things that anchor themselves beyond speech.
Cup and spoon caught in invisible tempests,
and I sit with the cup whose contents glow.

>>25096686
LOVE this poem thanks for reminding me of it anon

I yearn and yearn
To bury myself deep
In your most hidden dell

I burn and burn
To kiss your alabaster feet
And worship each part well

And at your hand’s turn
Drop supplicant to my knees
And happily meet the swell

A reward I won’t spurn
Until you’re climb’s complete
And your desire dispelled

>>25099277
I also just saw that poem on Twitter

boy they think i'm writing but i'm cursing milk
is this even from a cow or what
the date says it's still good but god the colour
medium rare coffee thank you
i subscribed but i still won’t watch the anthology
i get my refund when you leave your hair there
a burnt mosquito, don't rest on a flaming stone
and several other things i don't say
i make holes in city corners but not for the rats
only for your curious finger
if you ask the price i won't sell it to you

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>>25100100
I just took a shit. Why do yo think that's worth sharing?

Crouching under the gentle arches of her flesh,
warm valleys rise like coral cliffs,
and stars drip tears of silver fire
onto the hills that pulse beneath my lips.

>>25101755
hot desu

The books whispered behind wood and dust.
The small dog at the gate remembers,
guardian of a darker catalog:
blood, scent, belonging.

i looked at the reflection and found
a bloated corpse in stead of my
image. a foolish corpse who thinks
and hopes in stead of scaring children
away from catacombs or waking
men from spiraling deep in to hope
ful nightmares and dreadful dreams.

ah a man was i, but died three years
ago, and rot away.

>>25103770
I looked at the reflection and found
A bloated corpse instead of my image.
A foolish corpse who thinks and hopes,
Instead of scaring children away from catacombs,
Or waking men from spiraling deep into
Hopeful nightmares and dreadful dreams.

Ah, a man was I, but died three years ago,
And rot away.

In my aimless wander I met a witch,
she spoke to spirits on the moon.
I scoffed and said "whatever, bitch",
but I drank her brew.

On the moon the spirits showed to me,
the ruin wrought on Earth.
The fate I chose for each man is free,
a new world from every birth.

My aimless hollow lack of fear,
led to this desert with no air.
In space I shed a frozen tear,
with no one left to care.

>>25101755
is this about lactation kink

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Raindrops are chipping at my red
Infernal flame: humbled
In the misty-mirthless day

B.J. Thomas doesn't fly
My company's not charmed
My heart is not speckled road

Solitary I, can't drop a line
The muse would meet
If it were not the street
Proud, and not looking, I
Am at my feet

You aren't towing at my wake
And by a threshold wait?
You don't exist
You, my trist?
Muse you're not to me?

So then it's said . . .
Raindrops are chipping at my red
Infernal flame: humbled
In the misty-mirthless day
The misty-mirthless day

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Please enjoy this free PDF of my poetry.
>https://archive.org/details/echolalia-review-an-anti-poetry-collection-by-jasper-ceylon-aaron-barry/page/(4)/mode/2up

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Has anyone here read pic related? I read a few online and was intrigued, but part of me wonders if they're just the best of a niche bunch.
It was recommended by someone who also recc'd Siken's Crush and Alice Notley. I generally liked Crush, though I flipped through some pages of War of the Foxes and his new one and wasn't so interested. My appreciation of Notley is maybe painted too much by my having read a lot of WC Williams and Denise Levertov recently, so I think I might have to come back to her later.

>>25104290
It's about about watching a girl get wet as you go down on her, that specific moment her pussy begins to glisten lmao

The shadows around me murmur lessons in patience,
my gaze sharpening, my shoulders straightening,
as the world leans forward, eager to listen.

A quiet fire rises from the ashes.

>>25081725
Kek

I bow before each word I summon,
Carving Gilgamesh into voices I command.

Cities weep beneath silver rain,
Yet I find solace in all that endures.

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>>25104397
I've read it. It's pretty good. Berman could actually write poetry.
>Siken's Crush
Also very good, IMO his best
>Alice Notley
RIP. Legend in the game
>WC Williams
Classic
>Levertov
When she's bad she's intolerable but when she's hitting she's on fire. You read picrel? Think you'd like it -- Levis wrote it as he was dying. Filled with shadows and haunting images. "Poem Ending With A Hotel On Fire" is one of my all-time favs.

>>25105217
I actually picked up the hardcover collection of Levis’ poems when it came out because of having read “Prayer”, “Picking Grapes in an Abandoned Vineyard”, “My Story in a Late Style of Fire”, and the two that appeared in the recent Poetry issue: “The Orchard” and “À bout de Souffle”. I’m waiting to have some quiet time to read them because the few I read were so affecting and touching that I’d hate to rush through them. I may need to pick up Notley’s Grave of Light to just dig in. You're right about Levertov, I’ll flip through her Selected or Collected books and randomly find a killer piece and then wade through some baffling stuff.
Thanks for your take on Berman.

She will like the flowers
The flowers she will..
and she.. and the flowers..
And I.. And her.. and.. and the flowers
The flowers will like her

Did you see how calm! ..how calm
Hey, did you see? .. did you? ..hey
hey.. can you give me a hug?
and see how calm..

And somehow.. somehow that you
and you somehow can.. And I and..
the flowers.. somehow calm.. and..
and i? She.. and.. and her..
and somehow the flowers

And I'm somehow totally hers
bros, it's springtime and I'm falling in love again

Any recs on Cesar Vallejo?

I don’t know how I can feel this all the way through, there is no through, there’s just you, there’s just me feeling hurt and you at a distance talking to me, telling me cryptically and socially and indirectly how you’d like to see some progress before you’d consider something, how rational, how unloveable, how you’re not close and too far from being in love with me, it sickens me, and It sickens me how I can’t get over this, you’re too good to not get over, i need you, i just need something, but you are more than something and it hurts to see me stand beside you, you couldn’t keep me around, and yet I Worry that I am delusional or obsessed, and yet, I break out into a thousand I wish you’s, a thousand I wish you woulds, I don’t know of any gods, but i got you, here, at least, talking to me, sometimes, it’s not enough, could it have ever been enough? There’s no end to this, and you are the one end, so lets keep going until i’m worn out or the sun explodes and I can’t fly so close, I just wish we could eat some more meals, together, you and I, in any weather, a thousand trips abroad, a thousand meals ashored, a billion plane rides of sitting together and reading, a dozen beaches of chasing each other and stealing, a hundred loves made on every kind of surface, a year where we tread and make this world our purpose, a billion puzzles that spell i love you, i love you, i love you, i could never hate you, in pure defeat i fall and crater, in pure pure love i obsess in pure unbroken sense in pure reflexive sense i love you, in sense and spirit I love you, in love itself i love you.

How do I write seriously without feeling like a try hard?

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Going through a hard time

>>25105480
>>25106054
can you stop spamming your bullshit here?

Any particular Byron anthology you would recommend?

>>25106472
Yeah, the one by Byron.

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>>25106427
i just wanted to post my poetry like everyone else here anon, sheesh

>>25106612
that's not poetry, it’s a wall of text

streetlight on the corner

dread tower with a lamp on top
where leaning drunk eruct some glop
and yellow in the fog betray
some fomentor bestride his sleigh
fierce whip crack, now mark the gloom
and foaming breathe the nag with spume
out of the beach-head roiling dark
into the blaze below this spark

I hate you
Because you’re white.
Your white meat
Is nightmare food.
White is the skin of evil.
You’re my Moby Dick,
White Witch,
Symbol of the rope and hanging tree,
Of the burning cross.
Loving you thus
And hating you so,
My heart is torn in two . . .

>>25106758
unironically appreciate the compliment

Gary used to wear tweed
and check his watch compulsively.
One year in Malaysia
And now he’s emptying bottles on the floor
And releasing sharks in the gallery.
Gary we’re going to need something
More functional here
*
Just before the boom Gary,
the ironed shirt Gary, the ear-to-ear Gary
The one and only
We’ve lost him somewhere
In the Atlantic
So much for a work trip
Inspecting containers for legitimate cargo Gary

Go, go, go, said the bird: human kind
Cannot bear very much reality.
Time past and time future
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.

>>25106427
pls don't be rude anon

>>25106472
the Oxford one seems solid

>>25104369
no
time vampire

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>>25106427
Posted two others in here but not that one :-)
Anyways thanks for the (You). it seemed to have triggered something in you. That's what it's about, right?

If a dog I were,
would I husband myself?
Nourish the coat,
with proteins and alike.
The responsibility to play, and exercise.
Enrichment.
So then I may wonder,
if I am not a dog, or better than such,
why don't I husband myself?

I need time to think
inverse speed law disappears
come back as yourself

>>25107639
try writing haiku without the 5-7-5 thing

but, to note, >>25107639 is a rather decent joint actually.

We sat on the stone dais above
The Templo, más allá de la iglesia
And thought we saw turtles in Texcoco
But it was only styrofoam takeout boxes.
I play the instrument; I am the instrument;
I think I see mammoths washing in Agassiz
That float between the brush and the glacier!

>>25106054
>I just wish we could eat some more meals, together, you and I, in any weather, a thousand trips abroad, a thousand meals ashored

obese mf detected

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>>25070924
O. P.
Alas! was ever such fine weather seen!
How dusty are the roads, the streets how clean!
How long, ye almanacks, will it be dry?
Empty my cart how long, and idle I?
Once other days, and diff'rent fate we knew,
That something had to carry, I to do.
Now e'en at best the times are none so good,
But 'tis hard work to scrape a livelihood.
The cattle in the stalls resign their life,
And baulk the shambles, and the bloody knife.
Th' affrighted farmer pensive sits at home,
And turnpikes threaten to compleat my doom.

WIFE.
Well! for the turnpike, that will do no hurt,
The roads, they say, are n't much the better for't.
But much I fear this murrain, where 'twill end,
For sure the cattle did our door befriend.
Oft have I prais'd them as they stalk'd along,
Their fat the butchers pleas'd, but me their dung.

O. P.
See what a little dab of dirt is here!
But yields all Warwick more, O tell me where?
Lo! where this ant-like hillock scarce is seen,
Heaps upon heaps, and loads on loads have been:
Bigger and bigger the proud dunghill grew,
'Till my diminish'd house was hid from view.

WIFE.
Ah! gaffer Pestel, what brave days were those,
When higher than our house, our muck-hill rose?
The growing mount I view'd with joyful eyes,
And mark'd what each load added to its size.
Wrapt in its fragrant steam we often sate,
And to its praises held delightful chat.
Nor did I e'er neglect my mite to pay,
To swell the goodly heap from day to day;
For this each morn I plied the stubbed-broom;
'Till I scarce hobbled o'er my furrow'd room:
For this I squat me on my hams each night,
And mingle profit sweet with sweet delight?
A cabbage once I bought, but small the cost,
Nor do I think the farthing all was lost:
Again you sold its well digested store,
To dung the garden where it grew before.

you are soft
with skin like porcelain
pink and white
warm and bright

as the rain drops upon us
as the clouds gather
as the winds howl and lightning stutters

i am nowhere near you
but long to bury my head
in the curve of your shoulder
to feel your breath leave you.

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I thought I'd return to Fairyland
A word from the queen to seek
One golden wintery evening
Down by the silvery creek
But that land is not home
To fair things alone
And a nameless thing showed me out

>>25106054
>>25108187
obviously the same person
your style is repetitive

>>25108232
im not that guy but okay

>>25108232
these two are me


>>25108187
>>25084964


i would never write in prose and i would never say out right "i love you"

There he is — reverting
to horizontal lamentations.
Hydraulic necessities left
to huff and puff
in the drawer.

Not a day yet
for flopping away
from the mattress,
the soliloquy against
morning’s tyranny
postponed.

I’m working out the kinks,
arching back and forth —
the theatrical groan.
Miracle Suze,
come help me.

Shared weariness,
mild amusement.
You’ve seen it all
without me knowing
but I always know.

We’re going to be late
for the domesticity seminar —
it doesn’t cover
the way the bird
cocks his head
in disbelief

when I do get up
before you.

The wind smells of wet earth and maize,
and I kneel among the blossoms,
while perhaps unseen eyes peer over the walls.

I stepped beyond the silver water,
Frogs hummed the gospel of the lost moon,
their song folding the night into itself.

>>25108267
baka this guy is scared of love fr

>>25110065
rule number 1 of fight club: show dont tell

My hair club is not for dykes
Burned down my own place
I dislike IKEA kikes
So I hit myself hard in the face

A silent nod to all
hydrologically deprived somethings
In the margins, the forklift incident
It still fosters speculation
and wonder, like a good love bottle.

Someone keeps checking in twice weekly
Unbothered by pre-departure theatrics.

Loitering is field work
Writing sonnet sequences on banana peels
A dare to time itself

How grand, this little bed
How small, the airport's stoic kiss
All this inevitable ying yanging
That leaves us in the centre
still

>>25110858
dislike line 2 and stanza 3, the rest I found strangely moving

>>25107802
This is really impressive

>>25107639
This is good

I never understood poetry outside of song and ancient method of storytelling. Who are some poets worth reading ?

>>25110858
>love bottle
Nope

The Queen of Fairie is a cruel lover
She lures me to lonely places
And makes of me sweet mockery
From just outside my sight
I pick out paths her feet have trod
In glamoured woodland gardens
I hear her lightsome laughter
From just beyond a bend
And still, I have never seen her
She tires of my torment
And beckons beasts invisible
To send me from her sight
The Queen of Fairie is a cruel lover
Her vengeance visits me by night
I dare not leave the lights out
Lest I meet dead things in the dark

From the trees came the ibises’ cries,
one breath passed among many throats,
low and irrevocable,
as if the sky had asked for witnesses.

>>25111364
The last line is awful, rework it until it fits the quality of the rest
>>25112221
Love it

>>25111263

was written under durex

>>25112779
I'll allow it if you can spell it in Hangul

The tree with 733 leaves, north of Fiesole
Between Giorgio’s farm and the Pozzi well.
What happened there? Well nothing
It’s where I stayed curled and naked
After a night of grappa and singing
The morning sun finding me
In the shade and cursing the poor tree.
He was just there for centuries, probably
Not to shield me – perhaps I even
Disturbed his roots with my stench
Or crushed an innocent mushroom
With my big nose.
My head was hurting and the frogs
Had drunk all the water.
And where was my wallet now,
In a foreigner’s pocket
Or at the station.
But I’m still alive now to tell you
This inconsequential story
That swapped merit for more grappa.

It was hard times all around, and that guy who was once famous for farting the national anthem to a key in tune, was now desperately farting under a pot of water to try to bring it to a boil. The days were all blending together into a warp that consumed his sanity and woke him up in a panic on most nights; but tonight would be different. Tonight would be macaroni night

Invocation To James Joyce
Written by Jorge Luis Borges

Scattered over scattered cities,
alone and many
we played at being that Adam
who gave names to all living things.
Down the long slopes of night
that border on the dawn,
we sought (I still remember) words
for the moon, for death, for the morning,
and for man's other habits.
We were imagism, cubism,
the conventicles and sects
respected now by credulous universities.
We invented the omission of punctuation
and capital letters,
stanzas in the shape of a dove
from the librarians of Alexandria.
Ashes, the labor of our hands,
and a burning fire our faith.
You, all the while,
in cities of exile,
in that exile that was
your detested and chosen instrument,
the weapon of your craft,
erected your pathless labyrinths,
infinitesimal and infinite,
wondrously paltry,
more populous than history.
We shall die without sighting
the twofold beast or the rose
that are the center of your maze,
but memory holds its talismans,
its echoes of Virgil,
and so in the streets of night
your splendid hells survive,
so many of your cadences and metaphors,
the treasures of your darkness.
What does our cowardice matter if on this earth
there is one brave man,
what does sadness matter if in time past
somebody thought himself happy,
what does my lost generation matter,
that dim mirror,
if your books justify us?
I am the others. I am all those
who have been rescued by your pains and care.
I am those unknown to you and saved by you.

>>25112863
>After a night of grappa and singing
Something about this makes me want this to read song instead of singing. It's a good story, well told. I'm pretty sure frogs don't drink water but it sounds better than the truth

Here's a poem about clearing the mind
The imagination, the hive I'll rush to chide
It's thinking a harbour of what is all unlike
A goodly shine. Delicate, innocent Christ
Dove-like each day, shrewd in being slight
A simple kind; You, determined, behold
Seek and find. Bear up better angels-quaint
Fare we better, shore us thus, thereon finer sands
These better times, these expressible loves.

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Gimme your number you fucking cunt

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Gimme it you stupid bitch

No waking lover have I
Nor waifu from a screen
A deathless vision love I
Fair Elfland's golden queen
She beckons through the window
She whispers in my dreams
To go to her through shadow
To fly from all that seems

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Give it to me

>>25113974
>>25113985
>>25114090
What the fuck does this have to do with poetry?

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I said number, you shrew

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Give it to me, you babbling monkey

Smoking from my dad's shotgun
While our rocket prepares to land
Frogs drinking the water in my luggage
Blackness surrounding us turning blue

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Shut the fuck up you dumb broad and gimme your damn number

>>25106054
why do you worry that you’re delusional?

A world tired of equality
Yet there's no other option I see
Just appeals to homo and fear
After laughter come tears

I haven't written anything
In months. (weeks?) Days
Elide, time melds all
One into the other
Like a skipped syllable
Or a forgotten verse
Though there are
Eternities in flow, or even

The frustrated moment
Can fills its void with
Expletives, words, lately
Have a tendency to
Drip
In.

Merry Margaret,
As midsummer flower,
Gentle as a falcon
Or hawk of the tower:
With solace and gladness,
Much mirth and no madness,
All good and no badness;
So joyously,
So maidenly,
So womanly
Her demeaning
In every thing,
Far, far passing
That I can indite,
Or suffice to write
Of Merry Margaret
As midsummer flower,
Gentle as falcon
Or hawk of the tower.
As patient and still
And as full of good will
As fair Isaphill,
Coriander,
Sweet pomander,
Good Cassander,
Steadfast of thought,
Well made, well wrought,
Far may be sought
Ere that ye can find
So courteous, so kind
As Merry Margaret,
This midsummer flower,
Gentle as falcon
Or hawk of the tower.

This one is called To Mistress Margaret Hussey by John Skelton. I really like it, what are some other good Skeltonic works?

Here I split and spit again
Stinking of the past
Shitting out my farts
While playing with my testicles
I grab my cock and think of women
Bitches, nuns and moms of whores
Make. Me. Ejaculate.

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>>25070924
Never posted in one of the threads or read poetry until I bought an English translation of Petrarch. I want to kill myself more than ever before. Jesus, forgive? Here be my two sad attempts:

Secrets entrusted to my care
Unwillingly, I am, beware
Filled with sickness and perverted
She justly left me deserted
Eventually Heaven sent
It is where the decayed went
I'm alone, all of them are wed
I'm waiting for my turn, I said

I feel great with the pain in my head
I sure hope you like to suffer
I can see the torture from my bed
I would stalk, drug, rape and cuff her
I did not stop until she was dead

What happened next came as a surprise
There's no reward for my enterprise
I wanted to fuck her
I expected succor
Risen from grave, after my life
Dedication, such a good wife

Hiding the best I can, filled with fear
The closet is not too discreet
Footsteps shambling closer, I can hear
Is it finally my defeat?
Now she reaches incredibly near

Doors ripped straight from their hinges off the frame
Screaming, I pleaded her former name
I met controversy
I expected mercy
Shredded, mutilated tenfold
She could only be stopped when told

Hands filled full with my entrails, I bleed
As she is called to the master
Purpose satisfied, quickly she fleed
Better behaved, mine be faster
An end to it all is what we need

I kill you.
I murder you.
I use my Walther PPK and shoot you point blank with a silver bullet.
I take your remains to a hilly area.
I set up a funeral pyre and burn your dead body until it is nothing but ash.

I walk away, smiling.

He summoned a car and vanished into shadow,
leaving the woman and the tension behind,
larger than the instant itself.
This is enough:

To carry the story without stepping back,
alive.

Nigger, nigger, faggot!

My hands are shaking and fingers unable to close
So I write a poem because I can not write prose
Insides dearly ache and are sour, so why did I drink?
What ideas went through my mind? Did I ever think?
Tramadol is not enough to assuage my disease
The only cure is alcohol. God, forgive me, please
I am free born, but I am not free willed, You should know
Perhaps, in the last of my hours, I'll watch creation
Thank you, Ohio. I love the winter chill and snow
Thoughts of love while my body suffers desecration

I look at my eyes in the mirror until I dissappear
My fever dreams of Achilles and Hector fill me with fear
Mama, I don't wanna be a soldier. Sword and shield; bullet
Nor rifle make me patriotic. Finest dreams not candy
Or sunshine. Christianity, pointless, for me is. I would
Rather be Francesco and Dagny! Until the dreaded Hank
Who is John Galt? The electric rack, it means nothing to me.
Did Pip get Estella? Or Dante, Beatrice? Too divine
For me. Sit in Hell with Homer and Plato forevermore.
Ahoy, matey! I shpy wish my vittle eye an anchor o'
White that will sink this ship! Harness lightening, Ahab, and strike!
On second thought, I see the albatross in flight, feathers white
Who is at fault? Survival of the fittest, I will suppose.

My piss is colored like amber
Fossil, a dinosaur, she/her
How do French people eat a frog?
Put legs over the head; agog
Bring back to life! Revelation
Not quite me? Insinuation?
Despite all, life, uh, finds a way
Tyrannosaurus Rex is gay!

A poem I wrote to my mate asking if he wanted to study at the university library today:
To join in scholarly rigour, rejoice! To speak in whisper and lower ones voice; in whisper'd tones to affirm and to jest, and draw out laughter from thy jovial breast. To pore over tomes of heft and of weight, to sharpen thy tongue and alter one's fate. To sit in hallowed halls of oaken solitude, to scribe at thy vellum with calligraphy crude. To join together our mighty cerebrum, and to seek out new knowledge, and to lighten our feel'n.

>>25071776
>Let yourself come to your own conclusions on the poems
The so-called “analysts” are killing thinking and encouraging the sheeple culture phenomenon. We live in the mediaeval times all over again.

Tired of office riffing I guess.
-
Where is he.
What does the unease coordinator say?
I am unable to accept your
Rejection letter at this time.
HR? Exactly, just throw bodies at it
Then we cross.
I know you were scheduled at 5
But be flexible.
Your wife can wait, it's all she does
With what you bring to the table.
Real estate pictures omit the bin
You know how it goes
I'm still putting together a dream team
We gobble up the valium and pray.

Deep dives into bars
The family heads there selling stoics
Anything female and they get in love or annoyed.

i wrote this slop for some undergrad magazine.

I feel the tremors of dispute
That echo in young ears,
And this has chained me, resolute,
To dampen ev’ry fear.

I feel the road beneath my feet;
I walk without a sole,
And it is paved so fine and neat
So easy is my role.

But there are rules to tread this path,
And cross them if you dare!
Be ready, then, for righteous wrath
If you chase wishes there.

Thus soulless is my path, alas,
A moving captive here.
But I wish not to brave the grass;
I wish to but adhere.

Why chide the patrons of the way?
What Cross they have bestowed!
I’ll pinch my tongue and bow to they,
To they who paved the road.

I’m titled coward by a crowd,
My virtue to deride.
A choir of the great unbowed
Does naught to sway my stride.

Regrets may chew and tear my mind
But I am self-assured
That I am happily confined
Within another’s word.

The road has turned to shining shards
That pierce my feet and hands
For I have shattered my regards
In loathing of my spans

I walk without a mind or aim,
I speak no tremor sound.
And now I have forgot my name.
It weighed and slowed me down.

I’ll never dine to thank this deal.
“Please! let me stand instead.”
A biting silence is my meal,
Abiding is my end.

let be be finale of seem
the only emperor's the emperor of ice cream

(anyone else like wallace stevens?)

>>25117084
Really dropped in quality after the first line.

you should kill yourself with a rock,
you should kill yourself with a sock,
you should kill yourself with a glock,
you should kill yourself choking on cock!

Among those who stay after closing,
after laughter comes salt.
The conflict leaves an office hollow;
for the war has taken one man away.

Peeling carrots is a joy.
I've truck loads:
Cindy Crawford can wait.
Love is underground
Peeking out when it's time to.
You know how tidy
The garden is
No matter how impatient
The stems are.
The sun hits marginally
Less than the truth
And it's still enough to grow.
European watering policies
I print them in their entirety
Say sorry to the tree
Pen aphrodisiac recipes on them
Go and make a mess out of the kitchen
You scream toward the fire dept.
But I know you love me.

Has anyone here read Charles Bukowski's poetry books?
In general, I don't like poems, with exceptions such as Charles Baudelaire, and of course, epic poetry.

I've already read his essays and prose books and enjoyed them, but I'm hesitant to spend money buying Love Is a Dog from Hell

>>25117417
yep he's one of my favourite poets, in general I think english poetry reached its apex with modernism

One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

These words appeared to me spontaneously in a dream:

Life is a plane through which I sail
Thorough field, thorough grove, thorough dale.