Poetry
- Thread starter Dazed and Brutal
- Start date
challenge_everything
Active Member
London. What a brilliantly dark and cynical poem. Blake is my favourite after Poe. I also love many of the others mentioned: The Road Not Taken, dylan thomas etc.
challenge_everything
Active Member
Another of my faves:
Banjo Patterson 'The Geebung Polo Club'
It was somewhere up the country in a land of rock and scrub,
That they formed an institution called the Geebung Polo Club.
They were long and wiry natives of the rugged mountainside,
And the horse was never saddled that the Geebungs couldn't ride;
But their style of playing polo was irregular and rash -
They had mighty little science, but a mighty lot of dash:
And they played on mountain ponies that were muscular and strong,
Though their coats were quite unpolished, and their manes and tails were long.
And they used to train those ponies wheeling cattle in the scrub:
They were demons, were the members of the Geebung Polo Club.
It was somewhere down the country, in a city's smoke and steam,
That a polo club existed, called the Cuff and Collar Team.
As a social institution 'twas a marvellous success,
For the members were distinguished by exclusiveness and dress.
They had natty little ponies that were nice, and smooth, and sleek,
For their cultivated owners only rode 'em once a week.
So they started up the country in pursuit of sport and fame,
For they meant to show the Geebungs how they ought to play the game;
And they took their valets with them - just to give their boots a rub
Ere they started operations on the Geebung Polo Club.
Now my readers can imagine how the contest ebbed and flowed,
When the Geebung boys got going it was time to clear the road;
And the game was so terrific that ere half the time was gone
A spectator's leg was broken - just from merely looking on.
For they waddied one another till the plain was strewn with dead,
While the score was kept so even that they neither got ahead.
And the Cuff and Collar captain, when he tumbled off to die,
Was the last surviving player - so the game was called a tie.
Then the captain of the Geebungs raised him slowly from the ground,
Though his wounds were mostly mortal, yet he fiercely gazed around;
There was no one to oppose him - all the rest were in a trance,
So he scrambled on his pony for his last expiring chance,
For he meant to make an effort to get victory to his side;
So he struck at goal - and missed it - then he tumbled off and died.
By the old Campaspe River, where the breezes shake the grass,
There's a row of little gravestones that the stockmen never pass,
For they bear a crude inscription saying, "Stranger, drop a tear,
For the Cuff and Collar players and the Geebung boys lie here."
And on misty moonlit evenings, while the dingoes howl around,
You can see their shadows flitting down that phantom polo ground;
You can hear the loud collisions as the flying players meet,
And the rattle of the mallets, and the rush of ponies' feet,
Till the terrified spectator rides like blazes to the pub -
He's been haunted by the spectres of the Geebung Polo Club.
My dad used to read me this poem as a bedtime story when I was a kid. No wonder I turned out so messed up!
Banjo Patterson 'The Geebung Polo Club'
It was somewhere up the country in a land of rock and scrub,
That they formed an institution called the Geebung Polo Club.
They were long and wiry natives of the rugged mountainside,
And the horse was never saddled that the Geebungs couldn't ride;
But their style of playing polo was irregular and rash -
They had mighty little science, but a mighty lot of dash:
And they played on mountain ponies that were muscular and strong,
Though their coats were quite unpolished, and their manes and tails were long.
And they used to train those ponies wheeling cattle in the scrub:
They were demons, were the members of the Geebung Polo Club.
It was somewhere down the country, in a city's smoke and steam,
That a polo club existed, called the Cuff and Collar Team.
As a social institution 'twas a marvellous success,
For the members were distinguished by exclusiveness and dress.
They had natty little ponies that were nice, and smooth, and sleek,
For their cultivated owners only rode 'em once a week.
So they started up the country in pursuit of sport and fame,
For they meant to show the Geebungs how they ought to play the game;
And they took their valets with them - just to give their boots a rub
Ere they started operations on the Geebung Polo Club.
Now my readers can imagine how the contest ebbed and flowed,
When the Geebung boys got going it was time to clear the road;
And the game was so terrific that ere half the time was gone
A spectator's leg was broken - just from merely looking on.
For they waddied one another till the plain was strewn with dead,
While the score was kept so even that they neither got ahead.
And the Cuff and Collar captain, when he tumbled off to die,
Was the last surviving player - so the game was called a tie.
Then the captain of the Geebungs raised him slowly from the ground,
Though his wounds were mostly mortal, yet he fiercely gazed around;
There was no one to oppose him - all the rest were in a trance,
So he scrambled on his pony for his last expiring chance,
For he meant to make an effort to get victory to his side;
So he struck at goal - and missed it - then he tumbled off and died.
By the old Campaspe River, where the breezes shake the grass,
There's a row of little gravestones that the stockmen never pass,
For they bear a crude inscription saying, "Stranger, drop a tear,
For the Cuff and Collar players and the Geebung boys lie here."
And on misty moonlit evenings, while the dingoes howl around,
You can see their shadows flitting down that phantom polo ground;
You can hear the loud collisions as the flying players meet,
And the rattle of the mallets, and the rush of ponies' feet,
Till the terrified spectator rides like blazes to the pub -
He's been haunted by the spectres of the Geebung Polo Club.
My dad used to read me this poem as a bedtime story when I was a kid. No wonder I turned out so messed up!
challenge_everything
Active Member
Here's a short one of mine. It's as yet untitled, and I suck at thinking up titles so if you can think of anything, let me know!
Nature abhors contentment
Because
If we could reach true fulfilment
We would cease to strive
And we would not evolve.
For dissatisfaction is the path to improvement.
Nature abhors contentment
Because
If we could reach true fulfilment
We would cease to strive
And we would not evolve.
For dissatisfaction is the path to improvement.
Jimmy... Dead.
contemplative curmudgeon
Susperia
Member
I'm not a huge fan of poetry normally... It just seems really pretentious a lot of the time. However I wouldn't say it's all bad.
My favorite poem is by far W.B. Yeats "Leda and the Swan", it's so arrousing, in more ways than one.
A sudden blow: the great wings beating still
Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed
By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill,
He holds her helpless breast upon his breast.
How can those terrified vague fingers push
The feathered glory from her loosening thighs?
And how can body, laid in that white rush,
But feel the strange heart beating where it lies?
A shudder in the loins engenders there
The broken wall, the burning roof and tower
And Agamemnon dead.
Being so caught up,
So mastered by the brute blood of the air
Did she put on his knowledge with his power
Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?
My favorite poem is by far W.B. Yeats "Leda and the Swan", it's so arrousing, in more ways than one.
A sudden blow: the great wings beating still
Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed
By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill,
He holds her helpless breast upon his breast.
How can those terrified vague fingers push
The feathered glory from her loosening thighs?
And how can body, laid in that white rush,
But feel the strange heart beating where it lies?
A shudder in the loins engenders there
The broken wall, the burning roof and tower
And Agamemnon dead.
Being so caught up,
So mastered by the brute blood of the air
Did she put on his knowledge with his power
Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?
skeptik
Member
- Feb 7, 2003
- 24,413
- 71
- 48
Susperia
Member
ThisIsACoolName
Member
Only if said errands are in walking distance, though. We all know women can't drive. That's why Danica will never win the 500.
entanglement
Member
To start things off,
The Iolaire
by Iain Crichton Smith
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
The Iolaire
by Iain Crichton Smith
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
The Ozzman
Melted by feels
Richard Brautigan
A Study in Roads
A Study in Roads
All the possibilities of life,
all roads led here.
I was never going anyplace else,
41 years of life:
Tacoma, Washington
Great Falls, Montana
Oaxaca, Mexico
London, England
Bee Caves, Texas
Victoria, British Columbia
Key West, Florida
San Francisco, California
Boulder, Colorado
all led here:
Having a drink by myself
in a bar in Tokyo before
lunch,
wishing there was somebody to talk
to.
Tokyo
May 28, 1976
A Study in Roads
A Study in Roads
All the possibilities of life,
all roads led here.
I was never going anyplace else,
41 years of life:
Tacoma, Washington
Great Falls, Montana
Oaxaca, Mexico
London, England
Bee Caves, Texas
Victoria, British Columbia
Key West, Florida
San Francisco, California
Boulder, Colorado
all led here:
Having a drink by myself
in a bar in Tokyo before
lunch,
wishing there was somebody to talk
to.
Tokyo
May 28, 1976
The Ozzman
Melted by feels
Richard Brautigan
It's Raining in Love
IT’S RAINING IN LOVE
I don’t know what it is,
But I distrust myself
When I start to like a girl
A lot.
It makes me nervous.
I don’t say the right things
Or perhaps I start
To examine,
Evaluate,
Compute
What I am saying.
If I say, “Do you think it’s going to rain?”
and she says, “I don’t know,”
I start thinking: Does she really like me?
In other words
I get a little creepy.
A friend of mine once said,
“It’s twenty times better to be friends
with someone
than it is to be in love with them.”
I think he’s right and besides,
its raining somewhere, programming flowers
and keeping snails happy.
That’s all taken care of.
BUT
if a girl likes me a lot
and starts getting real nervous
and suddenly begins asking me funny questions
and looks sad if I give the wrong answers
and she says things like,
“Do you think it’s going to rain?”
and I say, “It beats me,”
and she says, “Oh,”
and looks a little sad
at the clear blue California sky,
I think: Thank God, it’s you, baby, this time
Instead of me.
It's Raining in Love
IT’S RAINING IN LOVE
I don’t know what it is,
But I distrust myself
When I start to like a girl
A lot.
It makes me nervous.
I don’t say the right things
Or perhaps I start
To examine,
Evaluate,
Compute
What I am saying.
If I say, “Do you think it’s going to rain?”
and she says, “I don’t know,”
I start thinking: Does she really like me?
In other words
I get a little creepy.
A friend of mine once said,
“It’s twenty times better to be friends
with someone
than it is to be in love with them.”
I think he’s right and besides,
its raining somewhere, programming flowers
and keeping snails happy.
That’s all taken care of.
BUT
if a girl likes me a lot
and starts getting real nervous
and suddenly begins asking me funny questions
and looks sad if I give the wrong answers
and she says things like,
“Do you think it’s going to rain?”
and I say, “It beats me,”
and she says, “Oh,”
and looks a little sad
at the clear blue California sky,
I think: Thank God, it’s you, baby, this time
Instead of me.
Hatebreeder
Pizzicato Heartstrings
Zephyrus
Tyrants and Slaves
Dies iræ! dies illa
Solvet sæclum in favilla
Teste David cum Sibylla!
Quantus tremor est futurus,
quando judex est venturus,
cuncta stricte discussurus!
Tuba mirum spargens sonum
per sepulchra regionum,
coget omnes ante thronum.
Mors stupebit et natura,
cum resurget creatura,
judicanti responsura.
Liber scriptus proferetur,
in quo totum continetur,
unde mundus judicetur.
Judex ergo cum sedebit,
quidquid latet apparebit:
nil inultum remanebit.
Quid sum miser tunc dicturus?
Quem patronum rogaturus,
cum vix justus sit securus?
Rex tremendæ majestatis,
qui salvandos salvas gratis,
salva me, fons pietatis.
Recordare, Jesu pie,
quod sum causa tuæ viæ:
ne me perdas illa die.
Quærens me, sedisti lassus:
redemisti Crucem passus:
tantus labor non sit cassus.
Juste judex ultionis,
donum fac remissionis
ante diem rationis.
Ingemisco, tamquam reus:
culpa rubet vultus meus:
supplicanti parce, Deus.
Qui Mariam absolvisti,
et latronem exaudisti,
mihi quoque spem dedisti.
Preces meæ non sunt dignæ:
sed tu bonus fac benigne,
ne perenni cremer igne.
Inter oves locum præsta,
et ab hædis me sequestra,
statuens in parte dextra.
Confutatis maledictis,
flammis acribus addictis:
voca me cum benedictis.
Oro supplex et acclinis,
cor contritum quasi cinis:
gere curam mei finis.
Lacrimosa dies illa,
qua resurget ex favilla
judicandus homo reus.
Huic ergo parce, Deus:
Pie Jesu Domine,
dona eis requiem. Amen.
Solvet sæclum in favilla
Teste David cum Sibylla!
Quantus tremor est futurus,
quando judex est venturus,
cuncta stricte discussurus!
Tuba mirum spargens sonum
per sepulchra regionum,
coget omnes ante thronum.
Mors stupebit et natura,
cum resurget creatura,
judicanti responsura.
Liber scriptus proferetur,
in quo totum continetur,
unde mundus judicetur.
Judex ergo cum sedebit,
quidquid latet apparebit:
nil inultum remanebit.
Quid sum miser tunc dicturus?
Quem patronum rogaturus,
cum vix justus sit securus?
Rex tremendæ majestatis,
qui salvandos salvas gratis,
salva me, fons pietatis.
Recordare, Jesu pie,
quod sum causa tuæ viæ:
ne me perdas illa die.
Quærens me, sedisti lassus:
redemisti Crucem passus:
tantus labor non sit cassus.
Juste judex ultionis,
donum fac remissionis
ante diem rationis.
Ingemisco, tamquam reus:
culpa rubet vultus meus:
supplicanti parce, Deus.
Qui Mariam absolvisti,
et latronem exaudisti,
mihi quoque spem dedisti.
Preces meæ non sunt dignæ:
sed tu bonus fac benigne,
ne perenni cremer igne.
Inter oves locum præsta,
et ab hædis me sequestra,
statuens in parte dextra.
Confutatis maledictis,
flammis acribus addictis:
voca me cum benedictis.
Oro supplex et acclinis,
cor contritum quasi cinis:
gere curam mei finis.
Lacrimosa dies illa,
qua resurget ex favilla
judicandus homo reus.
Huic ergo parce, Deus:
Pie Jesu Domine,
dona eis requiem. Amen.
zabu of nΩd
Free Insultation
- Feb 9, 2007
- 14,620
- 805
- 113
When I first saw this after the move, I thought, "How the fuck did this thread grow to four pages in less than 3 hours?"
Hatebreeder
Pizzicato Heartstrings
I wrote this while listening to Draconian. My friend and I started a doom metal band called Weeping Flesh, and this is the title song.
Weeping Flesh
Time wastes away
The cosmos progress ever forward
I writhe in my finite understanding
Trying to fathom the universe
Nothing seems worthy
Nothing seems to fill the void
Try as I may to open my soul
It cannot be filled by mere humanity
I detest this flesh, it only limits me
My soul and my mind yearn
For worlds beyond these
No more will I tolerate
The endless earthly lies
A million contrasting elements
Struggle for control of existence
I cannot consign myself to them
For they tear my instincts to shreds
As a godless beast I was born
And to the abyss I shall return a beast
Try as I may to accept thy creed
It only will stifle my growth
I despise my form, it stunts my mind
I reach out for true understanding
Of all that transcends this earth
No longer will I endure
The depths of falsehood
I do not understand
What I am told I must
For what is there to understand
About deception
My flesh weeps for sincerity
Inveracity destroyeth my soul
I shall leave this form
And knowledge I shall gain
Farewell
For I am departing
Succumb not to deceit
Or thy flesh shall also weep
Weeping Flesh
Time wastes away
The cosmos progress ever forward
I writhe in my finite understanding
Trying to fathom the universe
Nothing seems worthy
Nothing seems to fill the void
Try as I may to open my soul
It cannot be filled by mere humanity
I detest this flesh, it only limits me
My soul and my mind yearn
For worlds beyond these
No more will I tolerate
The endless earthly lies
A million contrasting elements
Struggle for control of existence
I cannot consign myself to them
For they tear my instincts to shreds
As a godless beast I was born
And to the abyss I shall return a beast
Try as I may to accept thy creed
It only will stifle my growth
I despise my form, it stunts my mind
I reach out for true understanding
Of all that transcends this earth
No longer will I endure
The depths of falsehood
I do not understand
What I am told I must
For what is there to understand
About deception
My flesh weeps for sincerity
Inveracity destroyeth my soul
I shall leave this form
And knowledge I shall gain
Farewell
For I am departing
Succumb not to deceit
Or thy flesh shall also weep
entanglement
Member
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