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The Poetry Thread

Discussion in 'General Discussion' started by Beefy Phil, Apr 9, 2010.

  1. Beefy Phil

    Beefy Phil
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    Emotionally Jaded

    Oct 19, 2009
    April is National Poetry Month, so I figured we might break away from our normal discussions on alcohol and genitals and expand our minds a bit. I don't read a lot of poetry, but I know what I like and I'm always looking for something new and interesting.

    FOCUS: Post your favorite poems and, if you feel like it, explain why they're important to you. No criticizing other people's submissions and none of your own stuff, please. I direct aspiring poets to the Thrillseekers forum. They'll read and critique your work til the cows come home.

    An appropriate beginning to the thread:

    Are You Drinking?
    Charles Bukowski

    washed-up, on shore, the old yellow notebook
    out again
    I write from the bed
    as I did last
    will see the doctor,
    "yes, doctor, weak legs, vertigo, head-
    aches and my back
    "are you drinking?" he will ask.
    "are you getting your
    exercise, your
    I think that I am just ill
    with life, the same stale yet
    even at the track
    I watch the horses run by
    and it seems
    I leave early after buying tickets on the
    remaining races.
    "taking off?" asks the motel
    "yes, it's boring,"
    I tell him.
    "If you think it's boring
    out there," he tells me, "you oughta be
    back here."
    so here I am
    propped up against my pillows
    just an old guy
    just an old writer
    with a yellow
    something is
    walking across the
    oh, it's just
    my cat
  2. Jason Mc

    Jason Mc
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    Village Idiot

    Oct 21, 2009
    Two spring to mind, they are two that I have had memorized for years and find myself reciting in my head whenever I'm alone and in a reflective mood.

    "If" - Rudyard Kipling - I first stumbled across this poem living in England, and it immediately sparked something in me. From the creator of the jungle book, and a writer of great soldiering/manhood type stories he captures a certain primal and universal chord with this poem. Both the tempo and the content make me feel like I'm hearing war drums thump over the hills and the enemy is pressing down but there's no backing down. Figuratively anyway.

    If you can keep your head when all about you
    Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
    If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
    But make allowance for their doubting too;
    If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
    Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
    Or, being hated, don't give way to hating,
    And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;
    If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
    If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
    If you can meet with triumph and disaster
    And treat those two imposters just the same;
    If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
    Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
    Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
    And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools;
    If you can make one heap of all your winnings
    And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
    And lose, and start again at your beginnings
    And never breathe a word about your loss;
    If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
    To serve your turn long after they are gone,
    And so hold on when there is nothing in you
    Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on";
    If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
    Or walk with kings—nor lose the common touch;
    If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
    If all men count with you, but none too much;
    If you can fill the unforgiving minute
    With sixty seconds' worth of distance run -
    Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
    And—which is more—you'll be a Man my son!

    Also, "Annabel Lee" by Edgar Allen Poe - again I think it's a lot the tempo as well as the words and meaning of this poem that make it so great to me. Conveyance of such strong emotion, life shattering. It's the story of this man's entire world. It also contains my favorite few lines in any poetry I've read yet - I'll share them but they are better read in context.

    And neither the angels in heaven above,
    Nor the demons down under the sea,
    Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
    Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

    It was many and many a year ago,
    In a kingdom by the sea,
    That a maiden there lived whom you may know
    By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
    And this maiden she lived with no other thought
    Than to love and be loved by me.

    I was a child and she was a child,
    In this kingdom by the sea;
    But we loved with a love that was more than love-
    I and my Annabel Lee;
    With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
    Coveted her and me.

    And this was the reason that, long ago,
    In this kingdom by the sea,
    A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
    My beautiful Annabel Lee;
    So that her highborn kinsman came
    And bore her away from me,
    To shut her up in a sepulchre
    In this kingdom by the sea.

    The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
    Went envying her and me-
    Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,
    In this kingdom by the sea)
    That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
    Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

    But our love it was stronger by far than the love
    Of those who were older than we-
    Of many far wiser than we-
    And neither the angels in heaven above,
    Nor the demons down under the sea,
    Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
    Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

    For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
    Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
    And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
    Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
    And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
    Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
    In the sepulchre there by the sea,
    In her tomb by the sounding sea.

    That's all I got.
  3. effinshenanigans

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    Emotionally Jaded

    Oct 19, 2009
    The Raven. To save space, I'll just let Chris Walken read it to you.

    Also, I really like T.S. Elliot's Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, specifically the line, "In a minute there is time for decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse."
    #3 effinshenanigans, Apr 9, 2010
    Last edited by a moderator: Mar 27, 2015
  4. bebop007

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    Emotionally Jaded

    Jan 12, 2010
    John Donne, right now, is the poet I have read most of at this point. I've grown quite fond of Holy Sonnet X, parts of which may be familiar to some:

    It follows, to me, what guys like Tennyson (Nothing will die) Shakespeare (For in that sleep of death what dreams may come) and Kipling (They will come back, come back again, As long as the red Earth rolls. He never wasted a tree or a leaf. Why should He squander souls) have said. In that, death isn't so much permanent, but merely a transition point into something else. I would not consider myself the most religious, or even much of spiritual person, but it seems a waste that we get on average 70-80 years and then that's that. That all of our accumulated knowledge, wisdom, ingenuity just ceases the moment we die. I much prefer the notion that we carry something more eternal that preserves beyond death.
  5. Pinkcup

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    Emotionally Jaded

    Oct 22, 2009
    Steel City
    Adrienne Rich has a whole bunch of awesome poems that I love love love, but 'Living In Sin' is one of my favorites.

    This just speaks volumes to me. I think most girls usually grow up with an idealized idea of what their future relationships will look like (Hello there, Prince Charming with an M.D. and oodles of family money....nice of you to save me from these scary robbers. Let's get married on horseback!) but reality always bites us hard in the ass. Anyone who has ever set up a "love nest" of sorts and expected to live in blissful cohabitation is always in for a rude awakening, and it starts somewhat like it does in this poem. You're in bed, happy, and then you roll over to his crumpled britches on the floor and this small voice inside you starts nagging. Clean it up. And he doesn't really care, because that's how he lives. And then every morning it gets worse and worse, and a little of that shiny newness that comes with the beginning of living with starts slowly being rubbed away. Small things (the milkman, his dog, THE FUCKING LEAKY FAUCET THAT DRIVES YOU APESHIT) start making this experience less...romantic...and more mundane. And sometimes you can forget for a little bit, but that feeling of letdown always comes back ("...though not so wholly as before...") to some degree.

    So yeah. I like this poem. It reminds me of how wonderful my own roommate-free apartment is.
  6. cdite

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    Oct 29, 2009
  7. Viking33

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    Oct 19, 2009
    My Sophomore year of high school I made first string offensive guard for my team ranked in the preseason top 10. Cue to an hour before our first game and I was about to throw up due to nerves. My dad had placed a lot of emphasis on how important my first varsity game was and how I'd remember it not only the rest of the season, but the rest of my life. I was fumbling through plays in my head, struggling with my iPod to find the perfect song and just get my head into the game and find any sort of focus. The other linemen were more or less the same way when my line coach walked up and called us all together. He said, "Look. I've been there, done that. I've played in the same position in high school, DI college and pro. I know how you all feel. Turn off your music, get your head cleared out and listen to this. I read this before every important game and I'll share it with you all. It's called Invictus by William Henley...

    Out of the night that covers me,
    Black as the pit from pole to pole,
    I thank whatever gods may be
    For my unconquerable soul.

    In the fell clutch of circumstance
    I have not winced nor cried aloud.
    Under the bludgeonings of chance
    My head is bloody, but unbowed.

    Beyond this place of wrath and tears
    Looms but the Horror of the shade,
    And yet the menace of the years
    Finds and shall find me unafraid.

    It matters not how strait the gate,
    How charged with punishments the scroll,
    I am the master of my fate:
    I am the captain of my soul."

    I don't know what it was about the poem, but it calmed me down and gave me some mental clarity. I read it before every game from there on and before every wrestling match and now before every rugby match.
  8. pincinelly

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    Experienced Idiot

    Oct 19, 2009
    New Zealand
    I posted this in the boys don't cry thread a while ago. I think anyone who has had a dog that has died can relate to this poem.
    #8 pincinelly, Apr 9, 2010
    Last edited by a moderator: Mar 27, 2015
  9. Gravitas

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    Emotionally Jaded

    Oct 19, 2009
    somewhere vaguely rapey
    Jet by Tony Hoagland

    Sometimes I wish I were still out
    on the back porch, drinking jet fuel
    with the boys, getting louder and louder
    as the empty cans drop out of our paws
    like booster rockets falling back to Earth

    and we soar up into the summer stars.
    Summer. The big sky river rushes overhead,
    bearing asteroids and mist, blind fish
    and old space suits with skeletons inside.
    On Earth, men celebrate their hairiness,

    and it is good, a way of letting life
    out of the box, uncapping the bottle
    to let the effervescence gush
    through the narrow, usually constricted neck.

    And now the crickets plug in their appliances
    in unison, and then the fireflies flash
    dots and dashes in the grass, like punctuation
    for the labyrinthine, untrue tales of sex
    someone is telling in the dark, though

    no one really hears. We gaze into the night
    as if remembering the bright unbroken planet
    we once came from,
    to which we will never
    be permitted to return.
    We are amazed how hurt we are.
    We would give anything for what we have.

    This poem captures what I felt, but was never able to express. After reading this poem I felt like all of my own nights on the back porch drinking jet fuel made more sense. "Reading Moby-Dick at 30,00 Feet" is also one of my favorites by Tony Hoagland.

    If anyone is looking to start reading poetry and doesn't know where to start I suggest just poking around and
  10. goodfornothing

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    Average Idiot

    Oct 19, 2009
    I have always liked Invictus by William Ernest Henley:

    OUT of the night that covers me,
    Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
    I thank whatever gods may be
    For my unconquerable soul.

    In the fell clutch of circumstance
    I have not winced nor cried aloud.
    Under the bludgeonings of chance
    My head is bloody, but unbowed.

    Beyond this place of wrath and tears
    Looms but the Horror of the shade,
    And yet the menace of the years
    Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

    It matters not how strait the gate,
    How charged with punishments the scroll,
    I am the master of my fate:
    I am the captain of my soul.
  11. Creelmania

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    Experienced Idiot

    Oct 19, 2009
    Vancouver, BC
    So you want to be a writer?
    By Charles Bukowski

    if it doesn't come bursting out of you
    in spite of everything,
    don't do it.
    unless it comes unasked out of your
    heart and your mind and your mouth
    and your gut,
    don't do it.
    if you have to sit for hours
    staring at your computer screen
    or hunched over your
    searching for words,
    don't do it.
    if you're doing it for money or
    don't do it.
    if you're doing it because you want
    women in your bed,
    don't do it.
    if you have to sit there and
    rewrite it again and again,
    don't do it.
    if it's hard work just thinking about doing it,
    don't do it.
    if you're trying to write like somebody
    forget about it.
    if you have to wait for it to roar out of
    then wait patiently.
    if it never does roar out of you,
    do something else.

    if you first have to read it to your wife
    or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
    or your parents or to anybody at all,
    you're not ready.

    don't be like so many writers,
    don't be like so many thousands of
    people who call themselves writers,
    don't be dull and boring and
    pretentious, don't be consumed with self-
    the libraries of the world have
    yawned themselves to
    over your kind.
    don't add to that.
    don't do it.
    unless it comes out of
    your soul like a rocket,
    unless being still would
    drive you to madness or
    suicide or murder,
    don't do it.
    unless the sun inside you is
    burning your gut,
    don't do it.

    when it is truly time,
    and if you have been chosen,
    it will do it by
    itself and it will keep on doing it
    until you die or it dies in you.

    there is no other way.

    and there never was.

    In my English class this week a group actually did a presentation on Bukowski and this was one of the poems they read and analyzed. It really hit me more than any of the other poems that were presented in class.

    For whatever reason, lately I've had the urge to start writing more. Not really trying to accomplish anything, but I just wanted to put pen to paper (.. or finger to keyboard) and just throw my thoughts on life out to the world. Then I heard this poem. He goes on and on about how if it's forced, or you run into writer's block, don't do it. There are so many "writers" out there already that the world doesn't need another amateur thinking the world cares what's on his mind. It is a very valid point, and maybe the world is over-saturated with blogs, but I instead took this as a challenge. Ya I sometimes stare at the computer, hunched over trying to find the right words to convey, big deal, wanna fight about it? I can still write if I want to, and if I keep working at it, I'm sure it will be damn good.

    In the past few days I've started not only thinking of things to write, but actually writing them down. For now, I'm just posting them on Facebook, but once I start writing on a consistent basis, I'm probably going to start a blog, just to kill time.
  12. Sam N

    Sam N
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    Emotionally Jaded

    Oct 19, 2009
    Oh my God, great fucking thread. I've gotten numerous reps for being a gay-o when I comment anything about poetry or the writing workshop I'm in and all that... But, I write a shit load of poetry (as well as fiction), have had two of them published in very minor literary journals, and basically love the genre. I'll keep this thread going for the rest of April.

    To start with, a couple famous ones:

    "Between Walls" by William Carlos Williams

    the back wings
    of the

    hospital where

    will grow lie

    In which shine
    the broken

    pieces of a green

    Easily my favorite T.S. Eliot poem, "The Hollow Men." :

    Mistah Kurtz -- he dead. (Reference to Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad)

    A penny for the Old Guy (Reference to Guy Fawkes)


    We are the hollow men
    We are the stuffed men
    Leaning together
    Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
    Our dried voices, when
    We whisper together
    Are quiet and meaningless
    As wind in dry grass
    Or rats' feet over broken glass
    In our dry cellar

    Shape without form, shade without colour,
    Paralysed force, gesture without motion;

    Those who have crossed
    With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
    Remember us -- if at all -- not as lost
    Violent souls, but only
    As the hollow men
    The stuffed men.


    Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
    In death's dream kingdom
    These do not appear:
    There, the eyes are
    Sunlight on a broken column
    There, is a tree swinging
    And voices are
    In the wind's singing
    More distant and more solemn
    Than a fading star.

    Let me be no nearer
    In death's dream kingdom
    Let me also wear
    Such deliberate disguises
    Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves
    In a field
    Behaving as the wind behaves
    No nearer --

    Not that final meeting
    In the twilight kingdom


    This is the dead land
    This is cactus land
    Here the stone images
    Are raised, here they receive
    The supplication of a dead man's hand
    Under the twinkle of a fading star.

    Is it like this
    In death's other kingdom
    Waking alone
    At the hour when we are
    Trembling with tenderness
    Lips that would kiss
    Form prayers to broken stone.


    The eyes are not here
    There are no eyes here
    In this valley of dying stars
    In this hollow valley
    This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms

    In this last of meeting places
    We grope together
    And avoid speech
    Gathered on this beach of the tumid river

    Sightless, unless
    The eyes reappear
    As the perpetual star
    Multifoliate rose
    Of death's twilight kingdom
    The hope only
    Of empty men.


    Here we go round the prickly pear
    Prickly pear prickly pear
    Here we go round the prickly pear
    At five o'clock in the morning.

    Between the idea
    And the reality
    Between the motion
    And the act
    Falls the Shadow

    For Thine is the Kingdom

    Between the conception
    And the creation
    Between the emotion
    And the response
    Falls the Shadow

    Life is very long

    Between the desire
    And the spasm
    Between the potency
    And the existence
    Between the essence
    And the descent
    Falls the Shadow

    For Thine is the Kingdom

    For Thine is
    Life is
    For Thine is the

    This is the way the world ends
    This is the way the world ends
    This is the way the world ends
    Not with a bang but a whimper.
  13. Sam N

    Sam N
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    Emotionally Jaded

    Oct 19, 2009
    And since we have a couple Bukowski one's on here already, I'll throw up one of my favorites (all be it pretty damn depressing)

    "Sway With Me" Charles Bukowski:

    sway with me, everything sad --
    madmen in stone houses
    without doors,
    lepers steaming love and song
    frogs trying to figure
    the sky;
    sway with me, sad things --
    fingers split on a forge
    old age like breakfast shell
    used books, used people
    used flowers, used love
    I need you
    I need you
    I need you:
    it has run away
    like a horse or a dog,
    dead or lost
    or unforgiving.
  14. Suttree

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    Village Idiot

    Dec 12, 2009
    There's been a lot of Bukowski in this thread already, as others have pointed out, but fuck it. He's my favorite poet. Hell, he's my avatar.

    there's a bluebird in my heart that
    wants to get out
    but I'm too tough for him,
    I say, stay in there, I'm not going
    to let anybody see

    there's a bluebird in my heart that
    wants to get out
    but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
    cigarette smoke
    and the whores and the bartenders
    and the grocery clerks
    never know that
    in there.

    there's a bluebird in my heart that
    wants to get out
    but I'm too tough for him,
    I say,
    stay down, do you want to mess
    me up?
    you want to screw up the
    you want to blow my book sales in

    there's a bluebird in my heart that
    wants to get out
    but I'm too clever, I only let him out
    at night sometimes
    when everybody's asleep.
    I say, I know that you're there,
    so don't be
    then I put him back,
    but he's singing a little
    in there, I haven't quite let him
    and we sleep together like
    with our
    secret pact
    and it's nice enough to
    make a man
    weep, but I don't
    weep, do

    I'll save what would undoubtedly be a long winded and probably gay sounding explanation, and just say that it resonates with me.
  15. Dcc001

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    New Bitch On Top

    Oct 19, 2009
    Sarnia, Ontario
    Some poems I have committed to memory:
    Effin mentioned Prufrock. Here is a partial quote of some of my favourite lines:
    And for you dog lovers:
  16. SaintBastard

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    Oct 21, 2009
    Dirty South
    OZYMANDIAS by Percy Shelley

    I met a traveller from an antique land
    Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
    Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
    Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
    And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command
    Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
    Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
    The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
    And on the pedestal these words appear:
    "My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
    Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
    Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
    Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
    The lone and level sands stretch far away.

    A poem mocking an arrogant king who lived hundreds of years ago? I'm down. It's one of the most eloquent put downs I've ever heard. The themes, imagery, diction, and rhyme scheme are all top notch, but at the end of the day, he's still just calling the guy a fuckstick.
  17. Temerarious

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    Village Idiot

    Oct 19, 2009
    I love slam poetry because it's entertaining, witty and fresh. It's modern. Here are three of my favorites.
    The first is about women,
    The second is about dreams,
    The third is about teachers.

    #17 Temerarious, Apr 11, 2010
    Last edited by a moderator: Mar 27, 2015
  18. Captain Apathy

    Captain Apathy
    Expand Collapse
    Average Idiot

    Nov 1, 2009
    "Xanadu" by Samuel Coleridge has always been one of my favorites. Like most great art, it was written under the influence of opium.

    In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
    A stately pleasure-dome decree:
    Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
    Through caverns measureless to man
    Down to a sunless sea.

    So twice five miles of fertile ground
    With walls and towers were girdled round:
    And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
    Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
    And here were forests ancient as the hills,
    Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

    But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
    Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
    A savage place! as holy and enchanted
    As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
    By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
    And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
    As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
    A mighty fountain momently was forced:
    Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
    Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
    Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:
    And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
    It flung up momently the sacred river.
    Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
    Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
    Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
    And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
    And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
    Ancestral voices prophesying war!

    The shadow of the dome of pleasure
    Floated midway on the waves;
    Where was heard the mingled measure
    From the fountain and the caves.
    It was a miracle of rare device,
    A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!

    A damsel with a dulcimer
    In a vision once I saw:
    It was an Abyssinian maid,
    And on her dulcimer she played,
    Singing of Mount Abora.
    Could I revive within me
    Her symphony and song,
    To such a deep delight 'twould win me
    That with music loud and long
    I would build that dome in air,
    That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
    And all who heard should see them there,
    And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
    His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
    Weave a circle round him thrice,
    And close your eyes with holy dread,
    For he on honey-dew hath fed
    And drunk the milk of Paradise.

    I haven't read much of Bukowski's poetry, but I'm a big fan of "Beasts Bounding Through Time." I really love the rhythm and pacing and the recurring line about "the impossibility of being human."

    Van Gough writing his brother for paints
    Hemingway testing his shotgun
    Celine going broke as a doctor of medicine
    the impossibility of being human
    Villon expelled from Paris for being a thief
    Faulkner drunk in the gutters of his town
    the impossibility of being human
    Burroughs killing his wife with a gun
    Mailer stabbing his
    the impossibility of being human
    Maupassant going mad in a rowboat
    Dostoyevsky lined up against a wall to be shot
    Crane off the back of a boat into the propeller
    the impossibility
    Sylvia with her head in the oven like a baked potato
    Harry Crosby leaping into that Blck Sun
    Lorca murdered in the road by Spanish troops
    the impossibility
    Artaud sitting on a madhouse bench
    Chatterton drinking rat poison
    Shakespeare a plagarist
    Beethoven with a horn stuck into his head against deafness
    the impossibility the impossibility
    Nietzsche gone totally mad
    the impossibility of being human
    all too human
    this breathing
    in and out
    out and in
    these punks
    these cowards
    these champions
    these mad dogs of glory
  19. Sam N

    Sam N
    Expand Collapse
    Emotionally Jaded

    Oct 19, 2009
    "At a Window" by the great Carl Sandburg

    Give me hunger,
    O you gods that sit and give
    The world its orders.
    Give me hunger, pain and want,
    Shut me out with shame and failure
    From your doors of gold and fame,
    Give me your shabbiest, weariest hunger!

    But leave me a little love,
    A voice to speak to me in the day end,
    A hand to touch me in the dark room
    Breaking the long loneliness.
    In the dusk of day-shapes
    Blurring the sunset,
    One little wandering, western star
    Thrust out from the changing shores of shadow.
    Let me go to the window,
    Watch there the day-shapes of dusk
    And wait and know the coming
    Of a little love.

    If you can't feel that one, you don't have a pulse.
  20. jennitalia

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    Emotionally Jaded

    Jan 5, 2010
    Stanley Kunitz pretty much nailed that ridiculous 'in like' feeling I've got going on with First Love.
    At his incipient sun
    The ice of twenty winters broke,
    Crackling, in her eyes.

    Her mirroring, still mind,
    That held the world (made double) calm,
    Went fluid, and it ran.

    There was a stir of music,
    Mixed with flowers, in her blood;
    A swift impulsive balm

    From obscure roots;
    Gold bees of clinging light
    Swarmed in her brow.

    Her throat is full of songs,
    She hums, she is sensible of wings
    Growing on her heart.

    She is a tree in spring
    Trembling with the hope of leaves,
    Of which the leaves are tongues.