Announcement

Collapse
No announcement yet.

Poetry and Poetastry

Collapse
X
 
  • Filter
  • Time
  • Show
Clear All
new posts
  • equilibrium
    Junior Member
    • Apr 2012
    • 4

    #16
    "But I, being poor, have only my dreams. I have spread my dreams under your feet. Tread softly because you tread on my dreams." - W. B. Yeats

    Comment

    • PoubelleMaBelle
      Senior Member
      • Feb 2012
      • 180

      #17
      on a Rilke kick lately...

      You Who Never Arrived

      You who never arrived
      in my arms, Beloved, who were lost
      from the start,
      I don't even know what songs
      would please you. I have given up trying
      to recognize you in the surging wave of
      the next moment. All the immense
      images in me -- the far-off, deeply-felt landscape,
      cities, towers, and bridges, and un-
      suspected turns in the path,
      and those powerful lands that were once
      pulsing with the life of the gods--
      all rise within me to mean
      you, who forever elude me.

      You, Beloved, who are all
      the gardens I have ever gazed at,
      longing. An open window
      in a country house-- , and you almost
      stepped out, pensive, to meet me. Streets that I chanced
      upon,--
      you had just walked down them and vanished.
      And sometimes, in a shop, the mirrors
      were still dizzy with your presence and, startled, gave back
      my too-sudden image. Who knows? Perhaps the same
      bird echoed through both of us
      yesterday, separate, in the evening...

      -----

      Du im Voraus
      verlorne Geliebte, Nimmergekommene,
      nicht weiß ich, welche Töne dir lieb sind.
      Nicht mehr versuch ich, dich, wenn das Kommende wogt,
      zu erkennen. Alle die großen
      Bildern in mir, im Fernen erfahrene Landschaft,
      Städte und Türme und Brücken und un-
      vermutete Wendung der Wege
      und das Gewaltige jener von Göttern
      einst durchwachsenen Länder:
      steigt zur Bedeutung in mir
      deiner, Entgehende, an.

      Ach, die Gärten bist du,
      ach, ich sah sie mit solcher
      Hoffnung. Ein offenes Fenster
      im Landhaus—, und du tratest beinahe
      mir nachdenklich heran. Gassen fand ich,—
      du warst sie gerade gegangen,
      und die spiegel manchmal der Läden der Händler
      waren noch schwindlich von dir und gaben erschrocken
      mein zu plötzliches Bild.—Wer weiß, ob derselbe
      Vogel nicht hinklang durch uns
      gestern, einzeln, im Abend?

      Comment

      • Philipppp
        Senior Member
        • Apr 2010
        • 106

        #18
        Part of Nietzsche's, From High Mountains:Epode

        "Am I another? A stranger to myself? Sprung from myself? A wrestler who subdued himself too often? Turned his own strength against himself too often, checked and wounded by his own victory?

        Did I seek where the wind bites keenest, learn to live where no one lives, in the desert where only the polar bear lives, unlearn to pray and curse, unlearn man and god, become a ghost flitting across the glaciers?"
        01222345699

        Comment

        • droogist
          Senior Member
          • Sep 2006
          • 583

          #19
          Originally posted by PoubelleMaBelle View Post
          und die spiegel manchmal der Läden der Händler
          waren noch schwindlich von dir und gaben erschrocken
          mein zu plötzliches Bild.
          Swoon...

          Comment

          • Acéphale
            Senior Member
            • Apr 2010
            • 444

            #20
            Ravaged People

            5

            Heads that have gone through something serious as death and who could not save themselves, or else not very well.

            Heads of the past, that know the night of life, the Secret, the awful Unnameable on which all being was supported.

            Struggling against blurriness, masses that try to reconstitute themselves in vain, struggling against the invading mush.

            Heads profoundly hurt, that no longer trust anything, that remember.


            One of them seriously smashed in, its eyes fixed and wide like the eyes of a fish, the oculomotor muscles seemingly stuck so that they can only stare straight ahead, facing others, facing the way one faces up to the world.

            A gigantic nose, spilling over, pushed over, crooked, twisted, from the base to the top twisted, seems almost in profile.

            Above, unchanged by the twisting, which should be painful (like the ring in a tame bull's nostrils) and even truly horrible, the impassive eyes -- a major discord, the signature of his illness -- act as if there were nothing wrong; in this impossible, highly upsetting contradiction, they continue, they hold fast.

            The inhabitant of the disordered face is not giving up.


            -- Henri Michaux
            Last edited by Acéphale; 04-14-2012, 12:01 AM.
            ἓν οἶδα ὅτι οὐδὲν οἶδα

            Comment

            • BECOMING-INTENSE
              Senior Member
              • Jan 2008
              • 1868

              #21
              My love whose hair is woodfire
              Her thoughts heat lightning
              Her hourglass waist
              An otter in the tiger's jaws my love
              Her mouth a rosette bouquet of stars of the highest
              magnitude
              The footprints of white mice on the white earth her teeth
              Her tongue rubbed amber and glass
              My love her tongue a sacred host stabbed through
              Her tongue a doll whose eyes close and open
              Her tongue an incredible stone
              A child's hand traced each eyelash
              Her eyebrows the edge of a swallow's nest
              My love her temples slates on a greenhouse roof
              And their misted panes
              My love whose shoulders are champagne
              And dolphin heads of a fountain under ice
              My love her matchthin wrists
              Whose fingers are chance and the ace of hearts
              Whose fingers are mowed hay
              My love with marten and beechnut beneath her arms
              Midsummer night
              Of privet and the nests of angel fish
              Whose arms are seafoam and river locks
              And of the mingling of wheat and mill
              Whose legs are Roman candles
              Moving like clockwork and despair
              Marrow of eldertree
              My love whose feet are initials
              Key rings and java sparrows drinking
              My love her neck pearled with barley
              My love a golden-throated town
              Rendez-vouz in the torrent's very bed
              Her breasts of night
              Her breasts molehills under the sea
              Crucibles of rubies
              Spectre of the dewsparkled rose
              Whose belly unfurls the fan of every day
              Its giant claws
              Whose back is a bird's vertical flight
              Whose back is quicksilver
              Whose back is light
              The nape of her neck is crushed stone and damp chalk
              And the fall of a glass where we just drank
              My love whose hips are skiffs on high
              Whose hips are chandeliers and arrow feathers
              And the stems of white peacock plumes
              Imperceptible in their sway
              My love whose buttocks are of sandstone
              Of swan's back and amianthus
              And of springtime
              My love whose sex is swordlily
              Is placer and platypus
              Algae and sweets of yore
              Is mirror
              Eyes full of tears
              Of violet-panoply and magnetic needle
              My love of savannah eyes
              Of eyes of water to drink in prison
              Eyes of wood always to be chopped
              Eyes of water level earth and air and fire


              - André Breton L'Union Libre(1931)
              Are you afraid of women, Doctor?
              Of course.

              www.becomingmads.com

              Comment

              • MJRH
                Senior Member
                • Nov 2006
                • 418

                #22
                A Compromise

                The men of principled simplicity
                Will have no traffic with our subtle doubt.
                The world is flat, they tell us, and they shout:
                The myth of depth is an absurdity!

                For if there were additional dimensions
                Beside the good old pair we'll always cherish,
                How could a man live safely without tensions?
                How could he live and not expect to perish?

                In order peacefully to coexist
                Let us strike one dimension off our list.

                If they are right, those men of principle,
                And life in depth is so inimical,
                The third dimension is dispensable.

                Herman Hesse
                ain't no beauty queens in this locality

                Comment

                • alex.a
                  Senior Member
                  • Aug 2008
                  • 217

                  #23
                  A very classic poem of french literature but I think its worth posting, I love Baudelaire and his way to create beauty in something horrible or disgusting, the way he represents life in something dead, I love it.

                  I hope you can read it in french, if not i've copied an english translation for you

                  Une Charogne

                  Rappelez-vous l'objet que nous vîmes, mon âme,
                  Ce beau matin d'été si doux:
                  Au détour d'un sentier une charogne infâme
                  Sur un lit semé de cailloux,
                  Les jambes en l'air, comme une femme lubrique,
                  Brûlante et suant les poisons,
                  Ouvrait d'une façon nonchalante et cynique
                  Son ventre plein d'exhalaisons.
                  Le soleil rayonnait sur cette pourriture,
                  Comme afin de la cuire à point,
                  Et de rendre au centuple à la grande Nature
                  Tout ce qu'ensemble elle avait joint;
                  Et le ciel regardait la carcasse superbe
                  Comme une fleur s'épanouir.
                  La puanteur était si forte, que sur l'herbe
                  Vous crûtes vous évanouir.
                  Les mouches bourdonnaient sur ce ventre putride,
                  D'où sortaient de noirs bataillons
                  De larves, qui coulaient comme un épais liquide
                  Le long de ces vivants haillons.
                  Tout cela descendait, montait comme une vague
                  Ou s'élançait en pétillant;
                  On eût dit que le corps, enflé d'un souffle vague,
                  Vivait en se multipliant.
                  Et ce monde rendait une étrange musique,
                  Comme l'eau courante et le vent,
                  Ou le grain qu'un vanneur d'un mouvement rythmique
                  Agite et tourne dans son van.
                  Les formes s'effaçaient et n'étaient plus qu'un rêve,
                  Une ébauche lente à venir
                  Sur la toile oubliée, et que l'artiste achève
                  Seulement par le souvenir.
                  Derrière les rochers une chienne inquiète
                  Nous regardait d'un oeil fâché,
                  Epiant le moment de reprendre au squelette
                  Le morceau qu'elle avait lâché.
                  — Et pourtant vous serez semblable à cette ordure,
                  À cette horrible infection,
                  Etoile de mes yeux, soleil de ma nature,
                  Vous, mon ange et ma passion!
                  Oui! telle vous serez, ô la reine des grâces,
                  Apres les derniers sacrements,
                  Quand vous irez, sous l'herbe et les floraisons grasses,
                  Moisir parmi les ossements.
                  Alors, ô ma beauté! dites à la vermine
                  Qui vous mangera de baisers,
                  Que j'ai gardé la forme et l'essence divine
                  De mes amours décomposés!
                  — Charles Baudelaire


                  A Carcass
                  My love, do you recall the object which we saw,
                  That fair, sweet, summer morn!
                  At a turn in the path a foul carcass
                  On a gravel strewn bed,
                  Its legs raised in the air, like a lustful woman,
                  Burning and dripping with poisons,
                  Displayed in a shameless, nonchalant way
                  Its belly, swollen with gases.
                  The sun shone down upon that putrescence,
                  As if to roast it to a turn,
                  And to give back a hundredfold to great Nature
                  The elements she had combined;
                  And the sky was watching that superb cadaver
                  Blossom like a flower.
                  So frightful was the stench that you believed
                  You'd faint away upon the grass.
                  The blow-flies were buzzing round that putrid belly,
                  From which came forth black battalions
                  Of maggots, which oozed out like a heavy liquid
                  All along those living tatters.
                  All this was descending and rising like a wave,
                  Or poured out with a crackling sound;
                  One would have said the body, swollen with a vague breath,
                  Lived by multiplication.
                  And this world gave forth singular music,
                  Like running water or the wind,
                  Or the grain that winnowers with a rhythmic motion
                  Shake in their winnowing baskets.
                  The forms disappeared and were no more than a dream,
                  A sketch that slowly falls
                  Upon the forgotten canvas, that the artist
                  Completes from memory alone.
                  Crouched behind the boulders, an anxious dog
                  Watched us with angry eye,
                  Waiting for the moment to take back from the carcass
                  The morsel he had left.
                  — And yet you will be like this corruption,
                  Like this horrible infection,
                  Star of my eyes, sunlight of my being,
                  You, my angel and my passion!
                  Yes! thus will you be, queen of the Graces,
                  After the last sacraments,
                  When you go beneath grass and luxuriant flowers,
                  To molder among the bones of the dead.
                  Then, O my beauty! say to the worms who will
                  Devour you with kisses,
                  That I have kept the form and the divine essence
                  Of my decomposed love!

                  - translation by William Aggeler

                  Comment

                  • PoubelleMaBelle
                    Senior Member
                    • Feb 2012
                    • 180

                    #24
                    on ect

                    The Hanging Man


                    By the roots of my hair some god got hold of me.
                    I sizzled in his blue volts like a desert prophet.

                    The nights snapped out of sight like a lizard's eyelid:
                    A world of bald white days in a shadeless socket.

                    A vulturous boredom pinned me in this tree.
                    If he were I, he would do what I did.

                    -Sylvia Plath


                    p.s. not bad Fade. first line aside [which i honestly think you could get rid of], it kind of reads like a corny Raymond Carver.

                    Comment

                    • Fade to Black
                      Senior Member
                      • Sep 2008
                      • 5340

                      #25
                      ha, corny raymond carver, i kinda dig it. thanks for the comments. i haven't written in so long and the more i am getting into my visual work i feel i'm losing touch with writing, which is the first medium in which i attempted to do something creative. just had to squeeze something out about once a month so i'm not completely gone yet.

                      i actually wrote a poem once inspired by Raymond Carver's "Fat", posted it in the other thread a long time ago but i'll throw it up here again for posterity -

                      Fat

                      For Raymond Carver and Marlon Brando

                      Let me tell you about those early days,
                      Kid, when up was the only way, before
                      The fridge had to be locked up and my
                      Neighbor called to tell me that I left
                      My briefs in his washing machine.
                      It all seems so silly now, imagine
                      Me in the corner of a jukebox joint,
                      Brooding over that day’s failures:
                      She kept looking at my wrists,
                      The back of my hands, finally
                      Refusing to hold it in any longer
                      And said to me, “I’m sorry,
                      But you’re too thin and lonely
                      To make it in this town!” That
                      Was when I started eating. You could
                      Find me holding court in the burger shack,
                      Over my two hamburgers, French fries,
                      A slice of apple pie a la mode, and
                      When the waitress looked at me,
                      Not without a hint of concern,
                      I smiled my vanilla smile and told her,
                      “Oh, just think, the things we’ll do
                      And the places
                      we’ll go!”
                      www.matthewhk.net

                      let me show you a few thangs

                      Comment

                      • MJRH
                        Senior Member
                        • Nov 2006
                        • 418

                        #26
                        ^that made me chuckle, thanks. which brings me back to mentioning, this thread doesn't have to be so serious...

                        ‘Tis said, woman loves not her lover
                        So much as she loves his love of her;
                        Then loves she her lover
                        For love of her lover,
                        Or love of her love of her lover?

                        source
                        ain't no beauty queens in this locality

                        Comment

                        • 333
                          Senior Member
                          • Apr 2012
                          • 101

                          #27
                          In my dark winter
                          lying ill, at last I ask
                          how fares my neighbor

                          - Basho

                          Comment

                          • interest1
                            Senior Member
                            • Nov 2008
                            • 3351

                            #28
                            .
                            I am not I

                            I am not I.

                            I am this one
                            walking beside me whom I do not see,
                            whom at times I manage to visit,
                            and whom at other times I forget;
                            the one who remains silent while I talk,
                            the one who forgives, sweet, when I hate,
                            the one who takes a walk when I am indoors,
                            the one who will remain standing when I die.

                            - Juan Ramón Jiménez
                            .
                            .
                            sain't
                            .

                            Comment

                            • trentk
                              Senior Member
                              • Oct 2010
                              • 709

                              #29
                              "Before all the wondrous shows of the widespread space around him, what living, sentient thing loves not the all-joyous light -- with its colors, its rays and undulations, its gentle omnipresence in the form of the wakening Day? The giant-world of the unresting constellations inhales it as the innermost soul of life, and floats dancing in its blue flood -- the sparkling, ever-tranquil stone, the thoughtful, imbibing plant, and the wild, burning multiform beast inhales it -- but more than all, the lordly stranger with the sense-filled eyes, the swaying walk, and the sweetly closed, melodious lips. Like a king over earthly nature, it rouses every force to countless transformations, binds and unbinds innumerable alliances, hangs its heavenly form around every earthly substance. -- Its presence alone reveals the marvelous splendor of the kingdoms of the world.

                              Aside I turn to the holy, unspeakable, mysterious Night."

                              "I need [...] flowers that have grown in fire."

                              Both by Georg Philipp Friedrich Freiherr von Hardenberg, Novalis.
                              "He described this initial impetus as like discovering that they both were looking at the same intriguing specific tropical fish, with attempts to understand it leading to a huge ferocious formalism he characterizes as a shark that leapt out of the tank."

                              Comment

                              • droussin
                                Member
                                • Oct 2011
                                • 77

                                #30
                                Hollow Men T.S Eliot

                                I

                                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.

                                II

                                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

                                III

                                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.

                                IV

                                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.

                                V

                                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.
                                what is black?
                                an absence, a presence, a mood, a mantle.
                                -Martin Margiela

                                Comment

                                Working...
                                X
                                😀
                                🥰
                                🤢
                                😎
                                😡
                                👍
                                👎