Time for some poetry
- Thread starter Black Core
- Start date
Help me what?
With that translation? Heh. I'm not bothered about that. It would just have been nice to have had the opportunity to learn French how French people speak it and not just learn how to say ridiculous phrases like:
Je suis dixhuit annees.
Jai un chien.
Sasseoir.
Se lever.
Bon Weekend.
With that translation? Heh. I'm not bothered about that. It would just have been nice to have had the opportunity to learn French how French people speak it and not just learn how to say ridiculous phrases like:
Je suis dixhuit annees.
Jai un chien.
Sasseoir.
Se lever.
Bon Weekend.
Fetzer
Dr. uıÊÇÊ
Fetzer
Dr. uıÊÇÊ
Yeah 
I always knew you liked poems, I beg you even write somes, don't you ?
here's a poem i rather like:
Omniscent Boulder Gods
I.
Mountains walk with God,
making footsteps in the ages
without ever taking movement.
Rocks stand tall and watch men fall
from the trivial foothills and the vital peaks.
Mountains and men live side by side
as natural elevations on the surface of the earth.
We are insignificant to the Mountain
but from its bluffs and ridges
we for a moment share the celestial majesty
the alp deity holds from its icy heights.
II.
Kings break treaties with men
and beg for them from the Red Mountains.
The wrath of god
executed through liquid flame rivers
with vehement tributaries that char and wither
all life along the land its burning cloak flows onto.
Mountains remain still
and kill by your actions
or melt the earth
and slaughter thousands for taking none.
They endure the wind,
the ice, the time
and the progress.
Man has modeled himself after the Mountains.
Forever more will man strive to become a mortal Everest
beginning from the human valley;
to stand the highest from the corporeal depths
and to walk with God in his own era;
making footsteps of his own.
I always knew you liked poems, I beg you even write somes, don't you ?
MIMA
o_-----
- Jul 30, 2006
- 7,256
- 90
- 48
- 35
one for Mima
Your eyes are like an ocean,
In which I world like to drown.
Your lips are lovely red
I would like to kiss them
Your skin is so soft
Waiting to be toucht
When Im with you
the whole world hears my heart beat
But I could never tell you this,
Because every time I see you
I aint got the breath to speak.
For me?
Nobody ever wrote a poetry for me before...
^of course it's for you, you like it?
I speak french (a bit). For once I'm glad that the lower part of Belgium speaks french
I speak french (a bit). For once I'm glad that the lower part of Belgium speaks french
Igraine
I swear!
For my lover, returning to his wife
She is all there.
She was melted carefully down for you
and cast up from your childhood,
cast up from your one hundred favorite aggies.
She has always been there, my darling.
She is, in fact, exquisite.
Fireworks in the dull middle of February
and as real as a cast-iron pot.
Lets face it. I have been momentary.
A luxury. A bright red sloop in the harbor.
My hair rising like smoke from the car window.
Littleneck clams out of season.
She is more than that. She is your have to have,
has grown you your practical your tropical growth.
This is not an experiment. She is all harmony.
She sees to oars and oarlocks for the dinghy,
has placed wild flowers at the window at breakfast,
sat by the potters wheel at midday,
set forth three children under the moon,
three cherubs drawn by Michelangelo,
done this with her legs spread out
in the terrible months in the chapel.
If you glance up, the children are there
like delicate balloons resting on the ceiling.
She also carried each one down the hall
after supper, their heads privately bent,
two legs protesting, person to person,
her face flushed with a song and their little sleep.
I give you back your heart.
I give you permission
for the fuse inside her, throbbing
angrily in the dirt, for the bitch in her
and the burying of her wound
for the burying of her small red wound alive
for the pale flickering flare under her ribs,
for the drunken sailor who waits in her left pulse,
for the mothers knee, for the stocking,
for the garter belt, for the call
the curious call
when you will burrow in arms and breasts
and tug at the orange ribbon in her hair
and answer the call, the curious call.
She is so naked and singular.
She is the sum of yourself and your dream.
Climb her like a monument, step after step.
She is solid.
As for me, I am a watercolor.
I wash off.
(Anne Sexton)
This is one of my favourite poems...
She is all there.
She was melted carefully down for you
and cast up from your childhood,
cast up from your one hundred favorite aggies.
She has always been there, my darling.
She is, in fact, exquisite.
Fireworks in the dull middle of February
and as real as a cast-iron pot.
Lets face it. I have been momentary.
A luxury. A bright red sloop in the harbor.
My hair rising like smoke from the car window.
Littleneck clams out of season.
She is more than that. She is your have to have,
has grown you your practical your tropical growth.
This is not an experiment. She is all harmony.
She sees to oars and oarlocks for the dinghy,
has placed wild flowers at the window at breakfast,
sat by the potters wheel at midday,
set forth three children under the moon,
three cherubs drawn by Michelangelo,
done this with her legs spread out
in the terrible months in the chapel.
If you glance up, the children are there
like delicate balloons resting on the ceiling.
She also carried each one down the hall
after supper, their heads privately bent,
two legs protesting, person to person,
her face flushed with a song and their little sleep.
I give you back your heart.
I give you permission
for the fuse inside her, throbbing
angrily in the dirt, for the bitch in her
and the burying of her wound
for the burying of her small red wound alive
for the pale flickering flare under her ribs,
for the drunken sailor who waits in her left pulse,
for the mothers knee, for the stocking,
for the garter belt, for the call
the curious call
when you will burrow in arms and breasts
and tug at the orange ribbon in her hair
and answer the call, the curious call.
She is so naked and singular.
She is the sum of yourself and your dream.
Climb her like a monument, step after step.
She is solid.
As for me, I am a watercolor.
I wash off.
(Anne Sexton)
This is one of my favourite poems...
Deadly
-________-
Walking through the saddest hours of the darkness
protected by the embrace of the black wings of night
Crows, crawling at my feet
Their blood enraged by the icy cold
I shiver...
not out of cold, but out of happiness
I have to write one for French too, I'll post it tomorrow or Friday
protected by the embrace of the black wings of night
Crows, crawling at my feet
Their blood enraged by the icy cold
I shiver...
not out of cold, but out of happiness
I have to write one for French too, I'll post it tomorrow or Friday 
666laiho_4evacobhc
The office is clothes.
Macharius
Thank you for noticing.
Noble Viking
Aka Herman Li
Bitchbutcher
Member
black core i dont know how to put it but your poetry sucks, you dont know how to use words... and love poems just get old.
THe_Rainmaker
New Metal Member
Nothing is wrong with his poems, they were pretty good.
Better than all the emo shit most kids write.
Let's see you do better.
Better than all the emo shit most kids write.
Let's see you do better.
Bitchbutcher
Member
THe_Rainmaker
New Metal Member
Ah I see.
I wish there was an anti-stupidity spy here as well, might dissuade you from posting altogether.
Seriously though, I was just saying don't be so critical of people.
I wish there was an anti-stupidity spy here as well, might dissuade you from posting altogether.
Seriously though, I was just saying don't be so critical of people.
Bitchbutcher
Member
THe_Rainmaker
New Metal Member
Igraine
I swear!
Hey, you can't criticize like that the efforts that someone else made... If you don't like it try at least to explain him why, so he can use your suggestions to improve...
