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AuthorTopic: Poetry
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I find that sometimes i love to delve into poetry ever so often, reading those of my friends and writing a few myself if anything comes to me. It`s only now that i`ve noticed how little i know of other poetry outside my little circle, and i`d like to know what poetry you might read or even write sometimes.

What are your favourites? Have you written anything? Feel free to share anyones you like..or hate. :P (or written, that would be nice.)

"This......is a TREE! What's it for?" -Exile III
Posts: 75 | Registered: Saturday, December 20 2003 08:00
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Profile Homepage #1
i make a line
i bleed on you
why why do you subject me to scattered serendipitous nightdreams
and everything comes back
to you
razors sing sweetly across my skin
and these days i dream
sadistic dreams

Seriously? I like Yeats. And this, by Clare:

I am: yet what I am none cares or knows,
My friends forsake me like a memory lost;
I am the self-consumer of my woes,
They rise and vanish in oblivious host,
Like shades in love and death's oblivion lost;
And yet I am, and live - like vapors tossed

Into the nothingness of scorn and noise,
Into the living sea of waking dreams,
Where there is neither sense of life nor joys,
But the vast shipwreck of my life's esteems;
Even the dearest, that I loved the best,
Are strange - nay, rather stranger than the rest.

I long for scenes where man has never trod;
A place where woman never smiled or wept;
There to abide with my creator, God,
And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept:
Untroubling, and untroubled where I lie,
The grass below - above the vaulted sky.

[ Sunday, July 25, 2004 09:07: Message edited by: Rosy ]

fame fame fatal fame
it can play hideous tricks on the brain
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There is a man, under my own blanket,
I have no idea who the hell he is,
but damn, he looks hot.

- TGM, 25.7, 2004, 22:00 GMT

The Great Mister

Posts: 417 | Registered: Sunday, June 27 2004 07:00
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This is a random little couplet I wrote for no particular reason and it's getting published in the next issue of Pen in Hand, the Maryland Writers' Association's newsletter! :eek:

The cats are sleeping on the couch
Amid soft dreams of curried mouse

If anyone ever asks you why you did something, say "Because I could".
Posts: 834 | Registered: Thursday, July 8 2004 07:00
Law Bringer
Member # 2984
Profile Homepage #4
My own attempts are, sadly, not available to the public eye. Make that fortunately.

I really like Robert Frost. And R.E. Howard (did I get those initials right?) writes in a strangely rolling rhythm that is absolutely fantastic.

The Road not taken (Robert Frost)

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.


The Song of the Mad Minstrel (R.E. Howard)

I am the thorn in the foot, I am the blur in the sight;
I am the worm at the root, I am the thief in the night.
I am the rat in the wall, the leper that leers at the gate;
I am the ghost in the hall, herald of horror and hate.

I am the rust on the corn, I am the smut on the wheat,
Laughing man's labor to scorn, weaving a web for his feet.
I am canker and mildew and blight, danger and death and decay;
The rot of the rain by night, the blast of the sun by day.

I warp and wither with drouth, I work in the swamp's foul yeast;
I bring the black plague from the south and the leprosy in from the east.
I rend from the hemlock boughs wine steeped in the petals of dooms;
Where the fat black serpents drowse I gather the Upas blooms.

I have plumbed the northern ice for a spell like Frozen lead;
In lost grey fields of rice, I have learned from Mongol dead.
Where a bleak black mountainstands I have looted grisly caves;
I have digged in the desert sands to plunder terrible graves.

Never the sun goes forth, never the moon glows red,
But out of the south or the north, I come with the slavering dead.
I come with hideous spells, black chants and ghastly tunes;
I have looted the hideen hells amd plundered the lost black moons.

There was never a king or priest to cheer me by word or look,
There was never a man or beast in the blood-black ways I took.
There were crimson gulfs unplumbed, there were black wings over a sea,
There were pits where mad things drummed, and foaming blasphemy.

There were vast ungodly tombs where slimy monsters dreamed;
There were clouds like blood-drenched plumes where unborn demons screamed.
There were ages dead to Time, and lands lost out of Space;
There were adders in the slime, and a dim unholy Face.

Oh, the heart in my breast turned stone, and the brain froze in my skull--
But I won through, I alone, and poured my chalice full
Of horrors and dooms and spells, black buds and bitter roots--
From the hells beneath the hells, I bring you my deathly fruits.

Oh, and there's this poem by one Artimidor Federkiel which I've helped him translate from German.

For where the Euwen proudly stand,
There I shall rest as well
Though all the years should pass like nought
Must Soul upon that dwell?

Where darkness reigns grow Euwen high
Murk withers not this tree
Likewise shall, when Death is nigh,
Embrace it fearlessly.

If Joy or Fortune, Luck or Bliss
Shall mark the Path I see,
Or Mourning, Doubt, and Loneliness
It matters not to me.

Only where the Euwen spring
At Home am I, my song I sing
Lightly saying just 'Mé nón'
In sweet and cloudsoft Darkengrove
The Ineffable Thaelon.

(The Euwen is a fictional tree that grows to a very tall size and is said to instill melancholy and inspiration in those that go through a forest of them. The Thaelon is such a forest).

Mh. Just noticed, these three are pretty widely apart in theme and style... My tastes vary. :)

[ Sunday, July 25, 2004 10:30: Message edited by: Arancaytar ]

The Encyclopaedia Ermariana <-- Now a Wiki!
"Polaris leers down from the black vault, winking hideously like an insane watching eye which strives to convey some strange message, yet recalls nothing save that it once had a message to convey." --- HP Lovecraft.
"Really, Spiderweb is just a big, steaming pool of estrogen." --- Robin
Posts: 8752 | Registered: Wednesday, May 14 2003 07:00
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Little rabbit little man
Want to try this game again?
Little pixie little girl
Sleeping silent sleeping curled

Want to wake to try again?

Little Jack and little Jill
Taking little violet pills

Tried to wake but fell again
Tried to run but fell again
Lost sight of their well again

Little monkey little girl
Little hairs where once were curls
Little sneakers with no feet
Great round eyes afraid to peek

Little whore little girl
Little fingers little world
Rattle words between your teeth
The same old words afraid to speak

Must be different can’t be new
Can’t say I’m afraid of you
Must rebel but can’t repel
Can’t bring yourself to leave this hell

Little pixie little girl
Chomping on your crunchy curls
Dreaming blue haired silver boys
Dreaming shiny hidden joys

Tried to wake but fell again
Tried to fall but stuck again

fame fame fatal fame
it can play hideous tricks on the brain
Posts: 407 | Registered: Friday, May 14 2004 07:00
Law Bringer
Member # 2984
Profile Homepage #6
Sounds strangely disturbing...

I can't find that anywhere else on the web, so I must assume you wrote that yourself?

The Encyclopaedia Ermariana <-- Now a Wiki!
"Polaris leers down from the black vault, winking hideously like an insane watching eye which strives to convey some strange message, yet recalls nothing save that it once had a message to convey." --- HP Lovecraft.
"Really, Spiderweb is just a big, steaming pool of estrogen." --- Robin
Posts: 8752 | Registered: Wednesday, May 14 2003 07:00
Member # 4389
Profile Homepage #7
Yes. O_o

It's the only thing I like from the era where I wrote poetry... most of the rest is depressing and lowercase. I posted it somewhere... can't remember the URL.

[ Sunday, July 25, 2004 12:04: Message edited by: Oh look ]

fame fame fatal fame
it can play hideous tricks on the brain
Posts: 407 | Registered: Friday, May 14 2004 07:00
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"The Wasteland" by TS Eliot
(As a forewarning, don't be ashamed if it escapes you- it's sure as hell above my level, to say the least.)

I. The Burial of the Dead

April is the cruelest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm' aus Litauen, echt deutsch. 12
And when we were children, staying at the arch-duke's,
My cousin's, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter. 18

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish?Son of man, 20
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, 23
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust. 30

Frisch weht der Wind 31
Der Heimat zu
Mein Irisch Kind
Wo weilest du?
'You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;
'They called me the hyacinth girl.'
-Yet when we came back, late, from the hyacinth garden,
Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,
Looking into the heart of light, the silence.
Oed' und leer das Meer. 42

Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,43
Had a bad cold, nevertheless
Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe,
With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she, 46
Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor,
(Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)
Here is Belladonna, The Lady of the Rocks, The lady of situations.
Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel,
And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card,
Which is blank, is something he carries on his back,
Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find
The Hanged Man. Fear death by water. 55
I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring.
Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone,
Tell her I bring the horoscope myself:
One must be so careful these days.

Unreal City, 60
Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,
A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
I had not thought death had undone so many. 63
Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled, 64
And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.
Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,
To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours
With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine. 68
There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying: 'Stetson! 69
'You who were with me in the ships at Mylae!
'That corpse you planted last year in your garden,
'Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?
'Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?
'O keep the Dog far hence, that's friend to men, 74
'Or with his nails he'll dig it up again!
'You! Hypocrite lecteur! - mon semblable, - mon frère!' 76
Title Page

II. A Game of Chess

The Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne, 77
Glowed on the marble, where the glass
Held up by standards wrought with fruited vines
From which a golden Cupidon peeped out
(Another hid his eyes behind his wing)
Doubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabra
Reflecting light upon the table as
The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it,
From satin cases poured in rich profusion.
In vials of ivory and coloured glass
Unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes,
Unguent, powdered, or liquid - troubled, confused
And drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air
That freshened from the window, these ascended
In fattening the prolonged candle-flames,
Flung their smoke into the laquearia, 92
Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling.
Huge sea-wood fed with copper
Burned green and orange, framed by the coloured stone,
In which sad light a carvèd dolphin swam.
Above the antique mantel was displayed
As though a window gave upon the sylvan scene 98
The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king 99
So rudely forced; yet there the nightingale 100
Filled all the desert with inviolable voice
And still she cried, and still the world pursues,
'Jug Jug' to dirty ears.
And other withered stumps of time
Were told upon the walls; staring forms
Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed.
Footsteps shuffled on the stair.
Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair
Spread out in fiery points
Glowed into words, then would be savagely still.

'My nerves are bad to-night. Yes, bad. Stay with me.
'Speak to me. Why do you never speak. Speak.
'What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?
'I never know what you are thinking. Think.'

I think we are in rats' alley 115
Where the dead men lost their bones.

'What it that noise?'
The wind under the door. 118
'What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?'
Nothing again nothing.
'You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember

I remember
Those are pearls that were his eyes.
'Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?' 126
O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag - 128
It's so elegant
So intelligent
'What shall I do now? What shall I do?'
'I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street
'With my hair down, so. What shall we do tomorrow?
'What shall we ever do?'
The hot water at ten.
And if it rains, a closed car at four.
And we shall play a game of chess, 138
Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.

When Lil's husband got demobbed, I said -
I didn't mince my words, I said to her myself,
Now Albert's coming back, make yourself a bit smart.
He'll want to know what you done with that money he gave you
To get herself some teeth. He did, I was there.
You have them all out, Lil, and get a nice set,
He said, I swear, I can't bear to look at you.
And no more can't I, I said, and think of poor Albert,
He's been in the army for four years, he wants a good time,
And if you don't give it him, there's others will, I said.
Oh is there, she said. Something o' that, I said.
Then I'll know who to thank, she said, and give me a straight look.
If you don't like it you can get on with it, I said.
Others can pick and choose if you can't.
But if Albert makes off, it won't be for a lack of telling.
You ought to be ashamed, I said, to look so antique.
(And her only thirty-one.)
I can't help it, she said, pulling a long face,
It's them pills I took, to bring it off, she said.
(She's had five already, and nearly died of young George.)
The chemist said it would be all right, but I've never been the same.
You are a proper fool, I said.
Well, if Albert won't leave you alone, there it is, I said,
What you get married for if you don't want children?
Well, that Sunday Albert was home, they had a hot gammon,
And they asked me in to dinner, to get the beauty of it hot -
Goonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight.
Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight.
Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night. 172
Title Page

III. The Fire Sermon

The river's tent is broken; the last fingers of leaf
Clutch and sink into the wet bank. The wind
Crosses the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed.
Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song. 176
The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers,
Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends
Or other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are departed.
And their friends, the loitering heirs of City directors;
Departed, have left no addresses.
By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept ...
Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song,
Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long.
But at my back in a cold blast I hear
The rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear.

A rat crept softly through the vegetation
Dragging its slimy belly on the bank
While I was fishing in the dull canal
On a winter evening round behind the gashouse
Musing upon the king my brother's wreck
And on the king my father's death before him. 192
White bodies naked on the low damp ground
And bones cast in a little low dry garret,
Rattled by the rat's foot only, year to year.
But at my back from time to time I hear 196
The sound of horns and motors, which shall bring 197
Sweeney to Mrs. Porter in the spring.
O the moon shone bright on Mrs. Porter 199
And on her daughter
They wash their feet in soda water
Et O ces voix d'enfants, chantant dans la coupole! 202

Twit twit twit
Jug jug jug jug jug jug

So rudely forc'd.

Unreal City
Under the brown fog of a winter noon
Mr. Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant
Unshaven, with a pocket full of currants
C.i.f. London: documents at sight, 210
Asked me in demotic French
To luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel
Followed by a weekend at the Metropole.

At the violet hour, when the eyes and back
Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits
Like a taxi throbbing waiting,
I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives, 218
Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see
At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives
Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea, 221
The typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lights
Her stove, and lays out food in tins.
Out of the window perilously spread
Her drying combinations touched by the sun's last rays,
On the divan are piled (at night her bed)
Stockings, slippers, camisoles, and stays.
I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs
Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest -
I too awaited the expected guest.
He, the young man carbuncular, arrives,
A small house agent's clerk, with one bold stare,
One of the low on whom assurance sits
As a silk hat on a Bradford millionaire.
The time is now propitious, as he guesses,
The meal is ended, she is bored and tired,
Endeavours to engage her in caresses
Which are still unreproved, if undesired.
Flushed and decided, he assaults at once;
Exploring hands encounter no defence;
His vanity requires no response,
And makes a welcome of indifference.
(And I Tiresias have foresuffered all
Enacted on this same divan or bed;
I who have sat by Thebes below the wall
And walked among the lowest of the dead.)
Bestows one final patronising kiss,
And gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit...

She turns and looks a moment in the glass,
Hardly aware of her departed lover;
Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass:
'Well now that's done: and I'm glad it's over.'
When lovely woman stoops to folly and 253
Paces about her room again, alone,
She smoothes her hair with automatic hand,
And puts a record on the gramophone.

'This music crept by me upon the waters' 257
And along the Strand, up Queen Victoria Street.
O City city, I can sometimes hear
Beside a public bar in Lower Thames Street,
The pleasant whining of a mandoline
And a clatter and a chatter from within
Where fishmen lounge at noon: where the walls
Of Magnus Martyr hold 264
Inexplicable splendour of Ionian white and gold.

The river sweats 266
Oil and tar
The barges drift
With the turning tide
Red sails
To leeward, swing on the heavy spar.
The barges wash
Drifting logs
Down Greenwich reach
Past the Isle of Dogs.
Weialala leia
Wallala leialala
Elizabeth and Leicester 279
Beating oars
The stern was formed
A gilded shell
Red and gold
The brisk swell
Rippled both shores
Southwest wind
Carried down stream
The peal of bells
White towers
Weialala leia
Wallala leialala

'Trams and dusty trees.
Highbury bore me. Richmond and Kew 293
Undid me. By Richmond I raised my knees
Supine on the floor of a narrow canoe.'

'My feet are at Moorgate and my heart
Under my feet. After the event
He wept. He promised "a new start."
I made no comment. What should I resent?'

'On Margate Sands. 301
I can connect
Nothing with nothing.
The broken fingernails of dirty hands.
My people humble people who expect
la la
To Carthage then I came 307

Burning burning burning burning 308
O Lord Thou pluckest me out 309
O Lord Thou pluckest

Title Page

IV. Death by Water

Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead,
Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep sea swell
And the profit and loss.
A current under sea
Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell
He passes the stages of his age and youth
Entering the whirlpool.
Gentile or Jew
O you who turn the wheel and look windward,
Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.
Title Page

V. What the Thunder Said

After the torchlight red on sweaty faces
After the frosty silence in the gardens
After the agony in stony places
The shouting and the crying
Prison and palace and reverberation
Of thunder of spring over distant mountains
He who was living is now dead
We who were living are now dying
With a little patience

Here is no water but only rock
Rock and no water and the sandy road
The road winding above among the mountains
Which are mountains of rock without water
If there were water we should stop and drink
Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think
Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand
If there were only water amongst the rock
Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit
Here one can neither stand not lie nor sit
There is not even silence in the mountains
But dry sterile thunder without rain
There is not even solitude in the mountains
But red sullen faces sneer and snarl
From doors of mudcracked houses
If there were water
And no rock
If there were rock
And also water
And water
A spring
A pool among the rock
If there were the sound of water only
Not the cicada
And dry grass singing
But sound of water over a rock
Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees
Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop 357
But there is no water

Who is the third who walks always beside you?
When I count, there are only you and I together 360
But when I look ahead up the white road
There is always another one walking beside you
Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded
I do not know whether a man or a woman
- But who is that on the other side of you?

What is that sound high in the air 366
Murmur of maternal lamentation
Who are those hooded hordes swarming
Over endless plains, stumbling in cracked earth
Ringed by the flat horizon only
What is the city over the mountains
Cracks and reforms and bursts in the violet air
Falling towers
Jerusalem Athens Alexandria
Vienna London

A woman drew her long black hair out tight
And fiddled whisper music on those strings
And bats with baby faces in the violet light
Whistled, and beat their wings
And crawled head downward down a blackened wall
And upside down in air were towers
Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours
And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells.

In this decayed hole among the mountains
In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing
Over the tumbled graves, about the chapel
There is the empty chapel, only the wind's home.
It has no windows, and the door swings,
Dry bones can harm no one.
Only a cock stood on the rooftree
Co co rico co co rico 392

In a flash of lightning. Then a damp gust
Bringing rain

Ganga was sunken, and the limp leaves
Waited for rain, while the black clouds
Gathered far distant, over Himavant.
The jungle crouched, humped in silence.
Then spoke the thunder
Datta: what have we given? 401
My friend, blood shaking my heart
The awful daring of a moment's surrender
Which an age of prudence can never retract
By this, and this only, we have existed
Which is not to be found in our obituaries
Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider 407
Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor
In our empty rooms
Dayadhvam: I have heard the key
Turn in the door once and turn once only 411
We think of the key, each in his prison
thinking of the key, each confirms a prison
Only at nightfall, aethereal rumours
Revive for a moment a broken Coriolanus
Damyata: The boat responded
Gaily, to the hand expert with sail and oar
The sea was calm, your heart would have responded
Gaily, when invited, beating obedient
To controlling hands

I sat upon the shore
Fishing, with the arid plain behind me 424
Shall I at least set my lands in order?
London Bridge is falling down falling down falling down
Poi s'ascose nel foco che gli affina 427
Quando fiam uti chelidon - O swallow swallow 428
Le Prince d'Aquitaine à la tour abolie 429
These fragments I have shored against my ruins
Why then Ile fit you. Hieronymo's mad againe. 431
Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata. 401
Shantih shantih shantih 433

Posts: 6936 | Registered: Tuesday, September 18 2001 07:00
Bob's Big Date
Member # 3151
Profile Homepage #9
Peace, peace, peace indeed. The only reason Eliot gets away with The Waste Land is because it was very new. Trying anything of the sort today just makes you look like a tool. Avoid foreign languages, Eastern philosophy, and assumed foreknowledge of Greek mythology. Please. The only thing more anathema is yet another 'The Revolution Will Not Be Televised' knockoff.

The biggest, the baddest, and the fattest.
Posts: 2367 | Registered: Friday, June 27 2003 07:00
Shock Trooper
Member # 3276
Profile #10
EDIT: Deleted by GIFTSare2

[ Sunday, July 25, 2004 14:35: Message edited by: GIFTSare2cudly ]
Posts: 249 | Registered: Saturday, July 26 2003 07:00
Member # 3521
Profile #11
I've written a single poem, which I've posted in several other poetry threads. I would post it again, but I don't have it on this computer.

I haven't delved deeply into poetry, as I vastly prefer prose. As such, I don't have all that many favorites. I've found Lewis Carroll's poetry to be the most memorable of all that I've read.


"Delusion arises from anger. The mind is bewildered by delusion. Reasoning is destroyed when the mind is bewildered. One falls down when reasoning is destroyed."- The Bhagavad Gita.
Posts: 1798 | Registered: Sunday, October 5 2003 07:00
Member # 4583
Profile Homepage #12
My favorite is the poem from the Halls of the Blind in Diablo.

I can see what you see not
Vision milky, then eyes rot.
When you turn they will be gone,
Whispering their hidden song.
Then you see what cannot be,
Shadows move where light should be.
Out of darkness, out of mind,
Cast down into the Halls of the Blind.

"Fall in CHAOS!!!" Dark Archon.
Posts: 74 | Registered: Saturday, June 19 2004 07:00
Shock Trooper
Member # 1723
Profile #13

'nuff said.

I hate signatures.
Posts: 277 | Registered: Tuesday, August 13 2002 07:00
Member # 3310
Profile #14
My poetry takes 40-50 damage when translated into English. Yes, I am trying to hide the fact that they suck in any language.

Rosy's poem was actually good. Very good, except for some minor cliches. How old were you when you wrote that? :eek:

[ Sunday, July 25, 2004 23:57: Message edited by: Saltweed ]

ahhahaha i rule u droool
Posts: 756 | Registered: Monday, August 4 2003 07:00
Law Bringer
Member # 2984
Profile Homepage #15
Hey, it would be incredible even were she a year older than now when she wrote it.

The poem spooks me for some reason. The repetition of the words and the sinister atmosphere form a dream-like something. A nightmare, even?

TM, I tried very hard to make sense out of that Eliot poem, but I will soon have to add it to the poems I like because I don't understand what they're about. They'll have the company of Coleridge's works like Kubla Khan and The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.

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Posts: 8752 | Registered: Wednesday, May 14 2003 07:00
Bob's Big Date
Member # 3151
Profile Homepage #16
TS Eliot's poem is about death, death on an eschatonic scale. It was written in the 1920s, so this makes perfect sense.

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Posts: 2367 | Registered: Friday, June 27 2003 07:00
Skip to My Lou
Member # 40
Profile Homepage #17
Haiku is master
Ruler of all poetry
Short and to the point

Aside from that, I enjoy Poe's poems somewhat. I like the sounds, rythm, and internal rhyme in The Raven and The Bells.

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Posts: 1629 | Registered: Wednesday, October 3 2001 07:00
Member # 3149
Profile Homepage #18
That's not a goddamned haiku. It lacks the requisite natural reference and the cutting. Just slapping some words into a 5-7-5 pattern does not a haiku make.

If you're going to do terrible things to a form of poetry, do it to the limerick. It's used to it.

Poems are like pimples. Most people have them at some point in their life, but they're full of disgusting pus.

[ Monday, July 26, 2004 06:49: Message edited by: Andrea ]

I've got a pyg in a poke.
Posts: 999 | Registered: Friday, June 27 2003 07:00
Member # 4592
Profile #19
Alec, did you see "The Revolution Will Not Be Televised"? What did you think?

About this post. I liked T.S. Eliot for about a semester way back then.
Like Auden. Yeats. Lorca. Neruda. Sor Teresa de la Cruz. And most of the rest is medieval poetry which is what I end up reading if I pick a poetry book, from whatever country. If I can understand it, great.

Oh, and here is a NOT poem:

Life is a game, dice rolling at the edge of infinity
Life is a song, Seraphim raining stoic dances.
Life is a mystery, a Rubick's cube of kaleidoscopic fancies.
Life is a jest, forgotten gods lying in rest.
Life is a novel, a love poem in-between lines of hate.
Life is a film, hope trapped in celluloid loops.
Life is a painting, surrealistic chiarouscuros imprisoned with friends.
Life is a memory, a wondrous moment unstuck in time.
Life is a dance, justice swinging with discord.
Life is a dream, a moebius strip illusions and regrets.
Life is a thought, spontaneous combustion of a muse.
Life is a smile, a mighty stream split in eddies of apathy.
Life is a tear, an ocean of despair drowned by a serendipitous snowflake.
Life is a lie, a fairy-tale princess raped by her make-believe fate.
Life is a promise, a fallen knight jousting his shattered faith.
Life is a candle, a spurious candle extinguished by foolish deeds.
Life is hide and seek between sorrow and bliss.
Life is a simple word: Life.


"I suffer from spiritual malaise," said Cugel meaningfully. "which manifest itself in outburst of vicious rage. I implore you to depart, lest, in an uncontrollable spasm, I cut you in three pieces with my sword, or worse, I invoke magic."
Random Jack Vance Quote Manual Generator Apparatus (Cugel's Saga)
Posts: 604 | Registered: Sunday, June 20 2004 07:00
Member # 3521
Profile #20
Just managed to find my old poem. My apologies in advance to those who have already seen this the three or so times I've posted it.

I have lived in the mountain for years.
Breathed its dank air
Dreamt dreams, indulged my fears
Engaged in thoughts both mundane and rare.

I have wandered its passages long.
Found secret portals and dark lairs
I have been filled with joy, have broken into song,
Have watered the hard ground with my tears.

A rough-hewn stairway exists here
Leading up into shadowy unrest
Its destination shielded from the sharp eye’s peer
Hidden in the cloak of mist.

I have thought often of making the climb.
Of trekking up the tortuous stair
And reaching the top, aching limb from limb
To find a world far more fair.

But whenever this thought occurs to me
I realize its danger, its deceptive facility
And considering everything, I always see
I’m better off in my mountain of security.


"Delusion arises from anger. The mind is bewildered by delusion. Reasoning is destroyed when the mind is bewildered. One falls down when reasoning is destroyed."- The Bhagavad Gita.
Posts: 1798 | Registered: Sunday, October 5 2003 07:00
Member # 4389
Profile Homepage #21
Thanks. I was eleven or so.


fame fame fatal fame
it can play hideous tricks on the brain
Posts: 407 | Registered: Friday, May 14 2004 07:00
Member # 1993
Profile #22
o_o wow

^ö^ I was a cannibal for twenty-five years. For the rest I have been a vegetarian. George Bernard Shaw
Posts: 1420 | Registered: Wednesday, October 2 2002 07:00
Bob's Big Date
Member # 3151
Profile Homepage #23
Originally written by Pandolfo the Pugilist of Ooze:

Alec, did you see "The Revolution Will Not Be Televised"? What did you think?

Afraid not -- I was making reference to the beat poem by a man whose name I forget. It makes a semi-valid point and was unique at the time. Unfortunately, that time was thirty years ago, and now every upper-middle-class Starbucks-swilling soi-disant poet thinks it'd be a neat idea to copy it.

Disaster, to be certain, results.

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Posts: 2367 | Registered: Friday, June 27 2003 07:00
Member # 4592
Profile #24
Alec: Do you think there's something in that Starbucks coffee? Just a coincidence that so many who gather around there have those thoughts? Probably not the coffee, I guess.

I don't know how this fashions get started. A couple of people think it's fine and a bunch of others follow like sheep.

I suppose it's unavoidable to fall into pits of blinding following, and some are fine, but others. . .

Haven't read that poem so I can't comment. But as far as Elliot. . . in my opinion he wasn't that much of a good poet to begin with. I sometimes wonder if his work just fell in with the "right" crowd. Sign of the times and all that.

Stug: I liked your poem, man.


"I suffer from spiritual malaise," said Cugel meaningfully. "which manifest itself in outburst of vicious rage. I implore you to depart, lest, in an uncontrollable spasm, I cut you in three pieces with my sword, or worse, I invoke magic."
Random Jack Vance Quote Manual Generator Apparatus (Cugel's Saga)
Posts: 604 | Registered: Sunday, June 20 2004 07:00