faux_carnation wrote: Except for Blake. |
Recommend me some poetry! • Page 2
-
-
FWB 56,369 posts
Seen 6 months ago
Registered 20 years agoI remember writing a poem about writing a poem in school. Was pretty obnoxious - tho not swearing - and dismissed all poetry as a joke. I got kicked out of the class for it. The teacher for that class was a bit sensitive. -
sargulesh 3,281 posts
Seen 12 years ago
Registered 12 years agoNot all poetry is shit. -
Gremmi wrote:
And Larkin. They're the only two I still read for pleasure.
faux_carnation wrote:
All poetry is shit
/someone had to say it
Except for Blake. -
Alastair 24,828 posts
Seen 9 hours ago
Registered 20 years agoA young nancy boy from Khartoum
Took a lesbian whore to his room
As he put out the light
He said "Let's get this right
Who does what and with which and to whom?" -
BanjoMan 13,692 posts
Seen 4 years ago
Registered 15 years agoMilton's Paradise Lost or gtfo. -
TS Elliot, Wilfred Owen, John Milton and John Donne were staple reading when I was younger and I'm surprised how much I go back to some of them later in life (TSE and Owen in particular)
Not too fussed on 'modern' poetry to be honest -
wizbob 936 posts
Seen 11 hours ago
Registered 17 years agoYou probably want something short and pithy for calligraphy. How about some Edward Gorey, Elizabeth Bishop or Emily Dickinson? -
There are four poems by Pamela Gillilan called Come Away, When You Died, Two Years, and Four Years (and they need to be read in that order) which I find really incredible. Four Years can be read at http://www.pamelagillilan.co.uk/ but without the previous three it loses a lot of its power.
And +1 for Larkin. Even though he was a tosser. Singlehandedly demonstrates why you mustn't judge art by the artist. -
mal 29,326 posts
Seen 3 years ago
Registered 20 years agoAny poetry read out by Ian McMillan is good poetry. -
Does Dr Suess count?
I doubt it, but 'The Places You'll Go' is beautiful and really surprised me when I bought and read it to my son - better yet 'Fox in Socks' - hardly poetic in terms of the artistic merit but thought I would throw it in the mix as people have varying opinions... -
Leolian'sBro wrote:
BanjoMan wrote:
Seriously?
Milton's Paradise Lost or gtfo.
I concur - its hard work at first but by Book 3 The Argument it really kicks in -
President_Weasel 12,355 posts
Seen 2 weeks ago
Registered 17 years agoThey fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.
But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.
Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself. -
StixxUK 8,755 posts
Seen 2 days ago
Registered 19 years agoI just read the title, I'm not going to read the thread, but...
GAY. -
Nice to see the research you have put into the topic has not affected your grey matter Stixx.
I feared for a minute there you might rip a hole in the space-time continum with your senstitive side and start waxing lyrical about Baudelaire and Shakespeare
However I think 100 bench-presses ought to define your macho-ness
hut hut -
Jeepers 16,616 posts
Seen 9 hours ago
Registered 16 years agoToo many years ago, I enjoyed Miroslav Holub. He worked as an immunologist, and it's clearly had a massive influence on his writing. Vanishing Lung Syndrome is my favourite collection.
Sample follows:
We aren't the Fores of New Guinea
we don't indulge in ritual cannibalism
we don't harbour the slow virus that
causes degeneration
of the brain and spinal cord with spasms, shivers,
progressive dementia and
the typical grimace
We just smile,
embarrassed, we smile,
embarrassed, we smile,
embarrassed, we smile. -
Gruff 3,940 posts
Seen 8 hours ago
Registered 18 years agoSophie Hannah's poetry is very accessible for a simple person like me .gif)
-
President_Weasel 12,355 posts
Seen 2 weeks ago
Registered 17 years agoIf your officer's dead and the sergeants look white,
Remember it's ruin to run from a fight:
So take open order, lie down, and sit tight,
And wait for supports like a soldier.
Wait, wait, wait like a soldier . . .
When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains,
And the women come out to cut up what remains,
Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains
An' go to your Gawd like a soldier. -
Metalfish 9,191 posts
Seen 1 year ago
Registered 16 years agoI'm a big fan of this one. -
BanjoMan 13,692 posts
Seen 4 years ago
Registered 15 years agoLeolian'sBro wrote:
For me, yes. I'm on a gothic literature vibe at the minute though.
BanjoMan wrote:
Seriously?
Milton's Paradise Lost or gtfo. -
caligari 17,956 posts
Seen 2 months ago
Registered 20 years agoI will remember the kisses
our lips raw with love
and how you gave me
everything you had
and how I
offered you what was left of
me,
and I will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
sleeping
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
of you
who made me laugh
again.
Charles Bukowski -
localnotail 23,079 posts
Seen 2 weeks ago
Registered 13 years agoThat's a rare peaceful piece, he's normally a lot less mellow.
The Genius Of The Crowd
there is enough treachery, hatred, violence, absurdity in the average human being to supply any given army on any given day
and the best at murder are those who preach against it
and the best at hate are those who preach love
and the best at war finally are those who preach peace
those who preach god, need god
those who preach peace do not have peace
those who preach peace do not have love
beware the preachers
beware the knowers
beware those who are always reading books
beware those who either detest poverty
or are proud of it
beware those quick to praise
for they need praise in return
beware those who are quick to censor
they are afraid of what they do not know
beware those who seek constant crowds for
they are nothing alone
beware the average man the average woman
beware their love, their love is average
seeks average
but there is genius in their hatred
there is enough genius in their hatred to kill you
to kill anybody
not wanting solitude
not understanding solitude
they will attempt to destroy anything
that differs from their own
not being able to create art
they will not understand art
they will consider their failure as creators
only as a failure of the world
not being able to love fully
they will believe your love incomplete
and then they will hate you
and their hatred will be perfect
like a shining diamond
like a knife
like a mountain
like a tiger
like hemlock
their finest art
Edited by localnotail at 14:20:19 10-01-2014 -
INSOMANiAC 4,732 posts
Seen 11 hours ago
Registered 13 years ago -
mal 29,326 posts
Seen 3 years ago
Registered 20 years ago'Everyone Hates the English' by Kit Wright
Everyone hates the English,
Including the English. They sneer
At each other for being so English,
So what are they doing here,
The English? It’s thick with the English,
All over the country. Why?
Anyone ever born English
Should shut up, or fuck off, or die.
Anyone ever born English
Should hold their extraction in scorn
And apologise all over England
For ever at all being born,
For that’s how it is, being English;
Fodder for any old scoff
That England might be a nice country
If only the English fucked off! -
“Your Dog Dies” by Raymond Carver–
It gets run over by a van.
you find it at the side of the road
and bury it.
you feel bad about it.
you feel bad personally,
but you feel bad for your daughter
because it was her pet,
and she loved it so.
she used to croon to it
and let it sleep in her bed.
you write a poem about it.
you call it a poem for your daughter,
about the dog getting run over by a van
and how you looked after it,
took it out into the woods
and buried it deep, deep,
and that poem turns out so good
you’re almost glad the little dog
was run over, or else you’d never
have written that good poem.
then you sit down to write
a poem about writing a poem
about the death of that dog,
but while you’re writing you
hear a woman scream
your name, your first name,
both syllables,
and your heart stops.
after a minute, you continue writing.
she screams again.
you wonder how long this can go on. -
mal 29,326 posts
Seen 3 years ago
Registered 20 years ago'The Back Seat of My Mother's Car' by Julia Copus:
We left before I had time
to comfort you, to tell you that we nearly touched
hands in that vacuous half-dark. I wanted
to stem the burning waters running over me like tiny
rivers down my face and legs, but at the same time I was reaching out
for the slit in the window where the sky streamed in,
cold as ether, and I could see your fat mole-fingers grasping
the dusty August air. I pressed my face to the glass;
I was calling to you – Daddy! – as we screeched away into
the distance, my own hand tingling like an amputation.
You were mouthing something I still remember, the noiseless words
piercing me like that catgut shriek that flew up, furious as a sunset
pouring itself out against the sky. The ensuing silence
was the one clear thing I could decipher –
the roar of the engine drowning your voice,
with the cool slick glass between us.
With the cool slick glass between us,
the roar of the engine drowning, your voice
was the one clear thing I could decipher –
pouring itself out against the sky, the ensuing silence
piercing me like that catgut shriek that flew up, furious as a sunset.
You were mouthing something: I still remember the noiseless words,
the distance, my own hand tingling like an amputation.
I was calling to you, Daddy, as we screeched away into
the dusty August air. I pressed my face to the glass,
cold as ether, and I could see your fat mole-fingers grasping
for the slit in the window where the sky streamed in
rivers down my face and legs, but at the same time I was reaching out
to stem the burning waters running over me like tiny
hands in that vacuous half-dark. I wanted
to comfort you, to tell you that we nearly touched.
We left before I had time. -
The Keeper of Sheep (excerpt) by Fernando Pessoa, writing as Alberto Caeiro
I never kept sheep,
But it is as I did watch over them.
My soul is like a shepherd,
Knows the wind and the sun,
And goes hand in hand with the seasons
To follow and to listen.
All the peace of Nature without people
Comes to sit by my side.
But I remain sad like a sunset
As our imagination shows it,
When a chill falls at the side of the valley
And you feel night has come in
Like a butterfly through a window.
But my sadness is calm
Because it is natural and right
And is what there should be in the soul
When it is thinking it exists
And the hands are picking flowers without noticing
which.
.gif)
Sometimes posts may contain links to online retail stores. If you click on one and make a purchase we may receive a small commission. For more information, go here.
