At the risk of turning this board away from philosophy (I beg your forgiveness), but in a totally continental spirit, I think it would be interesting to have a proper poetry thread. Poetry has been the most maligned of the arts in this postmodern age, yet I still find it to be perhaps the most powerful. Therefore, if so inclined, please post poems and poetry or any kind of verse that moves you, or you think especially good (or your own).
Poetry
- Thread starter speed
- Start date
Dear speed,
Thank you for the invitation. Here is a link to some of my recent poetry. Feedback is welcome, as always.
Narziss
Thank you for the invitation. Here is a link to some of my recent poetry. Feedback is welcome, as always.
Narziss
Seditious
GodSlayer
the only poetry I care for is song lyrics (e.g. my sig) or in writing itself. I prefer something poetically written than just poetry itself for its own sake.
derek
Grey Eminence
I enjoy words used beautifully in any context. Words have the capacity to move and I think that means the world. I understand that sounds like romantic drivel, but I've always felt an affinity for words, simple and elegant.
I read poetry extensively and my favourites (they have been for years and years) are: She was a Phantom of Delight by William Wordsworth; A Poison Tree by William Blake; O' Me, O' Life by Walt Whitman and The Iolaire by Ian Crichton Smith - a man I had the pleasure of knowing before his death.
"The green washed over them. I saw them when
the New Year brought them home. It was a day
that orbed the horizon with an enigma.
It seemed that there were masts. It seemed that men
buzzed in the water round them. It seemed that fire
shone in the water which was thin and white
unravelling towards the shore. It seemed that I
touched my fixed hat which seemed to float and then
the sun illuminated fish and naval caps,
names of the vanished ships. In sloppy waves,
in the fat of water, they came floating home
bruising against their island. It is true
a minor error can inflict this death
that star is not responsible. It shone
over the puffy blouse, the flapping blue
trousers, the black boots. The seagulls swam
bonded to the water. Why not man?
The lights were lit last night, the tables creaked
with hoarded food. They willed the ship to port
in the New Year which would erase the old,
its errant voices, its unpractised tones.
Have we done ill, I ask? My sober hat
floated in the water, my fixed body
a simulacrum of the transient waste,
for everything was mobile, planks that swayed,
the keeling ship exploding and the splayed
cold insect bodies. I have seen your church
solid. This is not. The water pours
into the parting timbers where ache
above the globular eyes. The slack heads turn
ringing the horizon without a sound
with mortal bells, a strange exuberant flower
unknown to our dry churchyards. I look up.
The sky begins to brighten as before,
remorseless amber, and the bruised blue grows
at the erupting edges. I have known you, God,
not as the playful one but as the black
thunderer from the hills. I kneel
and touch this dumb blonde head. My hand is scorched.
Its human quality confuses me.
I have not felt such hair so dear before
not seen such real eyes. I kneel from you.
This water soaks me. I am running with
its tart sharp joy. I am floating here
In my black uniform, I am embraced
by these green ignorant waters. I am calm"
Beautiful.
I read poetry extensively and my favourites (they have been for years and years) are: She was a Phantom of Delight by William Wordsworth; A Poison Tree by William Blake; O' Me, O' Life by Walt Whitman and The Iolaire by Ian Crichton Smith - a man I had the pleasure of knowing before his death.
"The green washed over them. I saw them when
the New Year brought them home. It was a day
that orbed the horizon with an enigma.
It seemed that there were masts. It seemed that men
buzzed in the water round them. It seemed that fire
shone in the water which was thin and white
unravelling towards the shore. It seemed that I
touched my fixed hat which seemed to float and then
the sun illuminated fish and naval caps,
names of the vanished ships. In sloppy waves,
in the fat of water, they came floating home
bruising against their island. It is true
a minor error can inflict this death
that star is not responsible. It shone
over the puffy blouse, the flapping blue
trousers, the black boots. The seagulls swam
bonded to the water. Why not man?
The lights were lit last night, the tables creaked
with hoarded food. They willed the ship to port
in the New Year which would erase the old,
its errant voices, its unpractised tones.
Have we done ill, I ask? My sober hat
floated in the water, my fixed body
a simulacrum of the transient waste,
for everything was mobile, planks that swayed,
the keeling ship exploding and the splayed
cold insect bodies. I have seen your church
solid. This is not. The water pours
into the parting timbers where ache
above the globular eyes. The slack heads turn
ringing the horizon without a sound
with mortal bells, a strange exuberant flower
unknown to our dry churchyards. I look up.
The sky begins to brighten as before,
remorseless amber, and the bruised blue grows
at the erupting edges. I have known you, God,
not as the playful one but as the black
thunderer from the hills. I kneel
and touch this dumb blonde head. My hand is scorched.
Its human quality confuses me.
I have not felt such hair so dear before
not seen such real eyes. I kneel from you.
This water soaks me. I am running with
its tart sharp joy. I am floating here
In my black uniform, I am embraced
by these green ignorant waters. I am calm"
Beautiful.
Norsemaiden
barbarian
My favourite poem is The Ryme of the Ancient Mariner" and that is not just because I am a Maiden Fan.
I Am The Redman by Duke Redbird
I am the Redman
Son of the forest, mountain and lake
What use have I of the asphalt
What use have I of the brick and concrete
What use have I of the automobile
Think you these gifts divine
That I should be humbly grateful
I am the Redman
Son of the tree, hill and stream
What use have I of china and crystal
What use have I of diamonds and gold
What I use have I of money
Think you these from heaven sent
That I should be eager to accept.
I am the Redman
Son of the earth, water and sky
What use have I of silk and velvet
What use have I of nylon and plastic
What use have I of your religion
Think you these be holy and sacred
That I should kneel in awe.
I am the Redman
I look at you White Brother
And I ask you
Save not me from sin and evil
Save yourself
Untitled poem by John Trudell
Wandering amongst the opulence
wondering what not to touch
times not knowing
times getting bit
times of temptation
times of seduction
wandering in the poverty
touched by everything
knowing the bite
no time for temptation
only time for doing
babylon in terror
world run over by machines
the economics of captured dreams
the rich are the poorer
while the poor are waiting
everyone pretending to live
calling exploitation progress
calling submission freedom
calling madness profit
calling earth a planet
plaguing her
with civilization
I am the Redman
Son of the forest, mountain and lake
What use have I of the asphalt
What use have I of the brick and concrete
What use have I of the automobile
Think you these gifts divine
That I should be humbly grateful
I am the Redman
Son of the tree, hill and stream
What use have I of china and crystal
What use have I of diamonds and gold
What I use have I of money
Think you these from heaven sent
That I should be eager to accept.
I am the Redman
Son of the earth, water and sky
What use have I of silk and velvet
What use have I of nylon and plastic
What use have I of your religion
Think you these be holy and sacred
That I should kneel in awe.
I am the Redman
I look at you White Brother
And I ask you
Save not me from sin and evil
Save yourself
Untitled poem by John Trudell
Wandering amongst the opulence
wondering what not to touch
times not knowing
times getting bit
times of temptation
times of seduction
wandering in the poverty
touched by everything
knowing the bite
no time for temptation
only time for doing
babylon in terror
world run over by machines
the economics of captured dreams
the rich are the poorer
while the poor are waiting
everyone pretending to live
calling exploitation progress
calling submission freedom
calling madness profit
calling earth a planet
plaguing her
with civilization
I am disgracefully unpolished and clueless as far as poetry is concerned...however, I read "The Ryme..." back in Junior High or so...before the the Maiden track was even out(ouch - the sting of old age
) and enjoyed it a great deal.This may go off topic but one academic noted that in the realm of the art field, poets are the most likely to be mentally ill.
Falconspirit
I Died A Little
1,000 Watts
Member
- Aug 28, 2006
- 62
- 0
- 6
I write lots of poetry to help vent..haha... I love reading other peoples poetry, as well. I like both song lyrics and free verse poetry...
Now Spring returns mild and temperate
now the wild equinoctial skies
are calmed by Zephyr’s happier breezes
The fields of Phrygia will be forsaken
Catullus, rich farms of hot Nicaea:
we’ll flee to Asia’s bright cities
Now restless minds long for travel,
now the glad feet stir with pleasure
O sweet crowd of friends farewell,
who came together from far places,
whom divergent roads must carry.
Catullus.
now the wild equinoctial skies
are calmed by Zephyr’s happier breezes
The fields of Phrygia will be forsaken
Catullus, rich farms of hot Nicaea:
we’ll flee to Asia’s bright cities
Now restless minds long for travel,
now the glad feet stir with pleasure
O sweet crowd of friends farewell,
who came together from far places,
whom divergent roads must carry.
Catullus.
JoeVice
Member
i wish that i could hear the rhythm that the artist intends. anyways, here is mine.
hide he spares owes justness
dawn is my statue's cry
you moor, ease on, no strife
in a slatch left forth
this grave payment free
jaundice whispers in factual light
hide he spares owes justness
dawn is my statue's cry
you moor, ease on, no strife
in a slatch left forth
this grave payment free
jaundice whispers in factual light
Øjeblikket
Member
Edna St. Vincent Millay,
Prayer To Persephone
Be to her, Persephone,
All the things I might not be:
Take her head upon your knee.
She that was so proud and wild,
Flippant, arrogant and free,
She that had no need of me,
Is a little lonely child
Lost in Hell,Persephone,
Take her head upon your knee:
Say to her, "My dear, my dear,
It is not so dreadful here."
Prayer To Persephone
Be to her, Persephone,
All the things I might not be:
Take her head upon your knee.
She that was so proud and wild,
Flippant, arrogant and free,
She that had no need of me,
Is a little lonely child
Lost in Hell,Persephone,
Take her head upon your knee:
Say to her, "My dear, my dear,
It is not so dreadful here."
Øjeblikket
Member
Hippopotamic Whoopee Cushion Beachings
Thor Hyerdahl and Coyote
decided it was time for
adventure on the high seas,
so they lashed 800
whoopee cushions to a
hippopotamus and retraced
the route of the Cowabonga
warriors across the Caribbean.
But on the Jamaica coast
their luck ran out when two
crazed whales trying to
beach themselves crushed
the furiously paddling
hippopotamus. Biologists
coming upon this carnage
wondered again what could be
behind these mysterious beachings.
- Greg Keeler
Thor Hyerdahl and Coyote
decided it was time for
adventure on the high seas,
so they lashed 800
whoopee cushions to a
hippopotamus and retraced
the route of the Cowabonga
warriors across the Caribbean.
But on the Jamaica coast
their luck ran out when two
crazed whales trying to
beach themselves crushed
the furiously paddling
hippopotamus. Biologists
coming upon this carnage
wondered again what could be
behind these mysterious beachings.
- Greg Keeler
Three favorites of mine, from my favorite poet, Philip Larkin. Oh, love the Edna Millay too, Ojeblikket.
This Be The Verse--Philip Larkin
They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.
But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.
Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.
Church Going--Philip Larkin
Once I am sure there's nothing going on
I step inside, letting the door thud shut.
Another church: matting, seats, and stone,
And little books; sprawlings of flowers, cut
For Sunday, brownish now; some brass and stuff
Up at the holy end; the small neat organ;
And a tense, musty, unignorable silence,
Brewed God knows how long. Hatless, I take off
My cycle-clips in awkward reverence.
Move forward, run my hand around the font.
From where I stand, the roof looks almost new -
Cleaned, or restored? Someone would know: I don't.
Mounting the lectern, I peruse a few
Hectoring large-scale verses, and pronounce
'Here endeth' much more loudly than I'd meant.
The echoes snigger briefly. Back at the door
I sign the book, donate an Irish sixpence,
Reflect the place was not worth stopping for.
Yet stop I did: in fact I often do,
And always end much at a loss like this,
Wondering what to look for; wondering, too,
When churches will fall completely out of use
What we shall turn them into, if we shall keep
A few cathedrals chronically on show,
Their parchment, plate and pyx in locked cases,
And let the rest rent-free to rain and sheep.
Shall we avoid them as unlucky places?
Or, after dark, will dubious women come
To make their children touch a particular stone;
Pick simples for a cancer; or on some
Advised night see walking a dead one?
Power of some sort will go on
In games, in riddles, seemingly at random;
But superstition, like belief, must die,
And what remains when disbelief has gone?
Grass, weedy pavement, brambles, buttress, sky,
A shape less recognisable each week,
A purpose more obscure. I wonder who
Will be the last, the very last, to seek
This place for what it was; one of the crew
That tap and jot and know what rood-lofts were?
Some ruin-bibber, randy for antique,
Or Christmas-addict, counting on a whiff
Of gown-and-bands and organ-pipes and myrrh?
Or will he be my representative,
Bored, uninformed, knowing the ghostly silt
Dispersed, yet tending to this cross of ground
Through suburb scrub because it held unspilt
So long and equably what since is found
Only in separation - marriage, and birth,
And death, and thoughts of these - for which was built
This special shell? For, though I've no idea
What this accoutred frowsty barn is worth,
It pleases me to stand in silence here;
A serious house on serious earth it is,
In whose blent air all our compulsions meet,
Are recognized, and robed as destinies.
And that much never can be obsolete,
Since someone will forever be surprising
A hunger in himself to be more serious,
And gravitating with it to this ground,
Which, he once heard, was proper to grow wise in,
If only that so many dead lie round.
Vers de Société--Philip Larkin
My wife and I have asked a crowd of craps
To come and waste their time and ours: perhaps
You'd care to join us? In a pig's arse, friend.
Day comes to an end.
The gas fire breathes, the trees are darkly swayed.
And so Dear Warlock-Williams: I'm afraid -
Funny how hard it is to be alone.
I could spend half my evenings, if I wanted,
Holding a glass of washing sherry, canted
Over to catch the drivel of some bitch
Who's read nothing but Which;
Just think of all the spare time that has flown
Straight into nothingness by being filled
With forks and faces, rather than repaid
Under a lamp, hearing the noise of wind,
And looking out to see the moon thinned
To an air-sharpened blade.
A life, and yet how sternly it's instilled
All solitude is selfish. No one now
Believes the hermit with his gown and dish
Talking to God (who's gone too); the big wish
Is to have people nice to you, which means
Doing it back somehow.
Virtue is social. Are, then, these routines
Playing at goodness, like going to church?
Something that bores us, something we don't do well
(Asking that ass about his fool research)
But try to feel, because, however crudely,
It shows us what should be?
Too subtle, that. Too decent, too. Oh hell,
Only the young can be alone freely.
The time is shorter now for company,
And sitting by a lamp more often brings
Not peace, but other things.
Beyond the light stand failure and remorse
Whispering Dear Warlock-Williams: Why, of course -
This Be The Verse--Philip Larkin
They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.
But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.
Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.
Church Going--Philip Larkin
Once I am sure there's nothing going on
I step inside, letting the door thud shut.
Another church: matting, seats, and stone,
And little books; sprawlings of flowers, cut
For Sunday, brownish now; some brass and stuff
Up at the holy end; the small neat organ;
And a tense, musty, unignorable silence,
Brewed God knows how long. Hatless, I take off
My cycle-clips in awkward reverence.
Move forward, run my hand around the font.
From where I stand, the roof looks almost new -
Cleaned, or restored? Someone would know: I don't.
Mounting the lectern, I peruse a few
Hectoring large-scale verses, and pronounce
'Here endeth' much more loudly than I'd meant.
The echoes snigger briefly. Back at the door
I sign the book, donate an Irish sixpence,
Reflect the place was not worth stopping for.
Yet stop I did: in fact I often do,
And always end much at a loss like this,
Wondering what to look for; wondering, too,
When churches will fall completely out of use
What we shall turn them into, if we shall keep
A few cathedrals chronically on show,
Their parchment, plate and pyx in locked cases,
And let the rest rent-free to rain and sheep.
Shall we avoid them as unlucky places?
Or, after dark, will dubious women come
To make their children touch a particular stone;
Pick simples for a cancer; or on some
Advised night see walking a dead one?
Power of some sort will go on
In games, in riddles, seemingly at random;
But superstition, like belief, must die,
And what remains when disbelief has gone?
Grass, weedy pavement, brambles, buttress, sky,
A shape less recognisable each week,
A purpose more obscure. I wonder who
Will be the last, the very last, to seek
This place for what it was; one of the crew
That tap and jot and know what rood-lofts were?
Some ruin-bibber, randy for antique,
Or Christmas-addict, counting on a whiff
Of gown-and-bands and organ-pipes and myrrh?
Or will he be my representative,
Bored, uninformed, knowing the ghostly silt
Dispersed, yet tending to this cross of ground
Through suburb scrub because it held unspilt
So long and equably what since is found
Only in separation - marriage, and birth,
And death, and thoughts of these - for which was built
This special shell? For, though I've no idea
What this accoutred frowsty barn is worth,
It pleases me to stand in silence here;
A serious house on serious earth it is,
In whose blent air all our compulsions meet,
Are recognized, and robed as destinies.
And that much never can be obsolete,
Since someone will forever be surprising
A hunger in himself to be more serious,
And gravitating with it to this ground,
Which, he once heard, was proper to grow wise in,
If only that so many dead lie round.
Vers de Société--Philip Larkin
My wife and I have asked a crowd of craps
To come and waste their time and ours: perhaps
You'd care to join us? In a pig's arse, friend.
Day comes to an end.
The gas fire breathes, the trees are darkly swayed.
And so Dear Warlock-Williams: I'm afraid -
Funny how hard it is to be alone.
I could spend half my evenings, if I wanted,
Holding a glass of washing sherry, canted
Over to catch the drivel of some bitch
Who's read nothing but Which;
Just think of all the spare time that has flown
Straight into nothingness by being filled
With forks and faces, rather than repaid
Under a lamp, hearing the noise of wind,
And looking out to see the moon thinned
To an air-sharpened blade.
A life, and yet how sternly it's instilled
All solitude is selfish. No one now
Believes the hermit with his gown and dish
Talking to God (who's gone too); the big wish
Is to have people nice to you, which means
Doing it back somehow.
Virtue is social. Are, then, these routines
Playing at goodness, like going to church?
Something that bores us, something we don't do well
(Asking that ass about his fool research)
But try to feel, because, however crudely,
It shows us what should be?
Too subtle, that. Too decent, too. Oh hell,
Only the young can be alone freely.
The time is shorter now for company,
And sitting by a lamp more often brings
Not peace, but other things.
Beyond the light stand failure and remorse
Whispering Dear Warlock-Williams: Why, of course -
lordcatfish
Member
I used to write poetry but I've had a writer's block for God know's how long now, it's a bit annoying.
I studied William Blake's "Song's of Innocence, Songs of Experience" for my English Literature A Level and I really enjoyed it, he wrote some great stuff. My favourites were "The Tyger", "London" and "The Ecchoing Green".
I studied William Blake's "Song's of Innocence, Songs of Experience" for my English Literature A Level and I really enjoyed it, he wrote some great stuff. My favourites were "The Tyger", "London" and "The Ecchoing Green".
Blake is wonderful. The old Swedenborgian's ideas, poetry and themes (which were revolutionary and prescient at the time) are still relevant and modern.
