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The Poetry Thread!

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America

 

We act as if were so elite,

Since we can eat the finest meat,

 

And do many things that others cant,

Since where we were born was up to chance,

 

And many people have this thought,

If it can be made it should be bought,

 

If we want it we should have it,

And if someone else does then we must snag it,

 

Everything should be ours,

That's why we caused all of these wars,

 

So we can continue living,

Always taking and never giving,

 

Eventually this all will change,

For better or worse no one can say,

 

Although one thing is for certain,

When they pull back the final curtain,

 

We will either be on top,

Or our heads will be on the chopping block.

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Gordon Freeman is wierd

Almost as wierd as his beard.

He cries and screams,

and can be kind of mean,

but Barney still owes him that beer.

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There once was a buggy A.I.

Who decided her subject should die

When the plot was uncovered

The subject discovered

That sadly, the cake was a lie

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You seem to know my intentions...

You seem to hear all I mention...

You seem to think I cannot see...

All your fragile symmetry...

We laugh and talk...

And soon I stalk...

And wait for a date with death...

The seeker of your life...

 

Written by me a couple of months ago.

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Open this chest as it lies before you, awaiting revelation,

I will merely stand idle, watching you pick me apart,

You run it over with a focused eye, trying to find any cracks,

And when you do you will scream and accuse me,

Of being malicious and vile.

 

Who are you to judge my life, are you so perfect yourself?

My thoughts find you despicable, but my mouth remains closed,

For I have no voice in this world, in this life,

What meaning does it hold that I should bicker with you and make senseless anger,

Only to die and cease from memory in short time?

 

I shall remain resolute,

And I shall watch the stars pass in the night and ponder over true significance,

And gaze at the lightning and hear the thunder and wonder about true power,

And watch the ways of the primitive animals, and think of true wisdom,

And I shall rise and know my place,

Insignificant, but at the least, aware.

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I must say you people write good poems!

 

I'm a REALLY shy but I put this love poem here (one of just few poems I wrote in English)

 

My own mutness

 

Haven't written a poem for years, for about 10 years or more…

Now that you're gone

The poem came with a song from Youtube

The song that's supposed to strengthen me

As far back as I can tell, I was alone

Besides times when having a boyfriend

And my love was growing and dying with every coming together and apart

But with you

It has flourished at last!

 

Now that you're gone

Like the previous two

Besides that I still exist for you?

I exist, together with songs and in the silence of my own muteness :D

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Though I've never been a fan of using modernized terms in poetry, It's very well composed with a good rhythm.

 

Looking up at night I can easily see,

A pattern of little white dots,

They've been there as long as memory provides,

But their mystery lies not in their age,

But in the thoughts they invite to one's head,

For the man who stares, having lost everything,

They beg for him the question "Why me, why now?"

For the dreamer and believer,

They provoke his deepest thoughts and feelings,

Of worth and significance,

To gaze upon their beautious shimmer,

And dream and wonder what may be above,

Is enough to cause bane and irritation,

At a cloudy and dark night sky.

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It was midnight on the ocean;

Not a street car was in sight.

The sun was shining brightly,

And it rained all day that night.

‘Twas a summer’s night in winter

And the rain was snowing fast.

A barefoot boy with shoes on

Stood sitting on the grass.

 

The rain was pouring down,

The moon was shining bright,

And everything that you could see

Was hidden out of sight.

 

It was evening and the rising sun

Was setting in the West.

The little fishes in the trees

Were huddled in their nest.

 

While the organ peeled potatoes,

Lard was rendered by the choir.

While the sexton rang the dish rag,

Someone set the church on fire.

“Holy Smoke,” the preacher shouted,

And in the rush he lost his hair.

Now his head resembles heaven,

For there is no parting there.

 

I saw a great, big, tiny house

Ten thousand miles away.

And to my view ‘twas out of sight

Last night, the other day.

 

The walls projected inward,

The front door round the back.

Alone it stood between two more.

The walls were whitewashed black.

Most sense ever made in a poem.

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I find this poetry both disturbing and fascinating. Why do you so enjoy insensible, garbled masses of words arranged in proper grammatical order but having no coherency to thought in their meaning?

 

Confusion and vexation,

These are the sums of my existence,

At least unto this moment,

As I ponder past paths,

And those soon to come,

A feeling of misplacement,

Sweeps across my head and heart.

 

True responsibility,

That is what must be learned,

Before I am to continue,

In my life's path,

The detours of enlistment,

And training in the ways,

Of defending what is mine,

And protecting those I love,

Shall build me strong and sturdy,

But delay my greatest desire.

 

Thus are the compromises of life.

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I found it somewhat fascinating, as well... and I think it amused me a bit more than it should have. There are some coherent poems I like, but I'm so inept and careless at analyzing them that they usually fly over my head.

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I never tried writing such things, and I don't feel like I could handle it. However I enjoy reading it. I'm not a fan, but I have few favourites poems:

 

No one knows what I'm thinking

No one knows what I'm drinking

No one knows what pills I swallow

No one knows that inside I'm hollow

No one knows that I'm speaking

No one knows that my brain is leaking

No one knows,

They can't see

No one knows especially me

 

- Tim Burton

 

---

There’s an ancient, ancient garden that I see sometimes in dreams,

Where the very Maytime sunlight plays and glows with spectral gleams;

Where the gaudy-tinted blossoms seem to wither into grey,

And the crumbling walls and pillars waken thoughts of yesterday.

There are vines in nooks and crannies, and there’s moss about the pool,

And the tangled weedy thicket chokes the arbour dark and cool:

In the silent sunken pathways springs an herbage sparse and spare,

Where the musty scent of dead things dulls the fragrance of the air.

There is not a living creature in the lonely space around,

And the hedge-encompass’d quiet never echoes to a sound.

As I walk, and wait, and listen, I will often seek to find

When it was I knew that garden in an age long left behind;

I will oft conjure a vision of a day that is no more,

As I gaze upon the grey, grey scenes I feel I knew before.

Then a sadness settles o’er me, and a tremor seems to start:

For I know the flow’rs are shrivell’d hopes—the garden is my heart!

- H. P. Lovecraft

 

And alot of untranslated polish ones too.

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I recently re-watched the documentary series World At War. The penultimate episode (26. Remember) featured a poem by the war poet Keith Douglas that I found particularly moving, the unflinching visceral details of ruined machines and soldiers corpses granted a strange metaphorical and symbolist reading.

 

Vergissmeinnicht

 

Three weeks gone and the combatants gone,

returning over the nightmare ground

we found the place again, and found

the soldier sprawling in the sun.

 

The frowning barrel of his gun

overshadowing. As we came on

that day, he hit my tank with one

like the entry of a demon.

 

Look. Here in the gunpit spoil

the dishonored picture of his girl

who has put: Steffi. Vergissmeinnicht

in a copybook gothic script.

 

We see him almost with content

abased, and seeming to have paid

and mocked at by his own equipment

that's hard and good when he's decayed.

 

But she would weep to see today

how on his skin the swart flies move;

the dust upon the paper eye

and the burst stomach like a cave.

 

For here the lover and killer are mingled

who had one body and one heart.

And death who had the soldier singled

has done the lover mortal hurt.

 

~ Keith Douglas

 

That line "burst stomach like a cave" especially haunts me.

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Bring this fucker back because I had a shitty Friday and decided to outlet it. This is more of a slam.

 

I'm the intiator,

Always the one to

Ask for an invite,

I'm the buzz in your pocket,

That annoys not excites,

The irritant you tolerate,

Because ignoring me,

Just wouldn't feel right.

 

My weekends are either

Fun nights with friends

Because I caved

And asked them myself,

 

Or movie nights,

In my room alone,

With my plug for my phone,

Move from my bed,

To my desk,

So I'll see it,

If I pop into someone's head

And they think

"Hey he'd like to have a good time"

But who the fuck

Would think that.

 

I eagerly check,

Every single buzz,

Hoping and praying,

But it's usually just,

Somebody liking,

that facebook meme,

I reposted this morning,

And then the world seems,

A little bit grayer,

With every new ding,

 

Sometimes I cry,

But most times I,

Hold back tears because,

The pain is so familiar,

Like billiards,

I'm the 8 ball,

Don't even give me a thought,

Unless of course, it's your last shot,

But nobody's that lonely,

That they run out of options,

And have to turn to me.

 

I check friends' snap stories,

Maybe it's masochism,

But it feels just abysmal,

To watch all these people,

Enjoying their lives,

Without me,

Without me,

Without me,

Those two fucking words,

Put a knot in my chest,

Because they define how it feels

To a dot,

To a T,

What it's like to be me,

The initiator.

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I'd forgotten about this thread entirely! Thanks for the thread necromancy Collective Foal.

 

Django Fontina

 

I saw rain in Galilee.

I saw rain in Lauterbrunnen.

In the Black Forest

apple-sized hailstones

smashed through the windscreens

of abandoned cars.

 

In Egypt, from a hot air balloon,

I saw a funeral -

a body in a white sheet

lowered into the sand. In Hong Kong,

a man covered in bees.

In Italy, the international space station

flew by three nights in a row,

becoming unremarkable.

- Rebecca Perry, Beauty/Beauty

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Lol no prob.

 

Here's one I wrote for my first "girlfriend" over the summer.

 

The blade crept slowly,

Yearning for flesh,

Sharp and steel,

She could not feel,

As it slid into her back,

Right through her spine,

And ran a line,

A mark across her heart,

 

The pain hit sudden,

And she cried out,

While she resisted,

Her attacker insisted,

This was how it should be,

Nearly frozen,

She gathered strength,

To grab the length,

And force it from her skin.

 

In fear and pain,

Bleeding slowly,

She fled the man,

And as she ran,

Her wounds healed slightly.

Yet she was crippled,

A scar arose,

And she wore clothes,

To hide it from the world,

 

As years went by,

With constant hurt,

She found a pill,

A moment's thrill,

That shielded her from knives,

The sting grew dull,

And with time passing,

She thought she'd found,

A cure profound,

To erase the wound for good,

 

But unbeknownst,

This pill had teeth,

And with them bore,

It slowly tore,

A hole inside her chest,

As her heart wore thin,

She felt disgust,

And much distrust,

For even her own self,

_______________________

 

She one day met a man,

Of happy mind and heart untouched,

In his hand he held to her,

That pill that she craved ever so much,

She reached for it slowly with enthralled,

Cautious but with eager grasp,

Until she saw his other hand,

Something behind his back he clasped.

 

She envinsioned a blade,

Sharp and fresh and ready to pierce,

She cried out loud yet the man stayed calm,

His face knew not how to be fierce.

 

He drew his hand out to her,

Deliberately and with such grace,

As the blade rose up she quivered in fear,

Til it sat before her face,

 

The knife was strange in shape and size,

The blades were many and red

They bloomed about a central point

To make the weapon's head

 

The grip was green and slender,

And tapered toward the blades,

With spike studs on the handle,

The weapon was displayed,

 

The man then turned the object,

As though to give it up,

She touched it and was startled,

The blades were soft and fluffed,

 

She suddenly saw the weapon,

Through unscared truthful eyes,

A rose was in her grasp now,

She then let out a sigh.

 

She felt relief at first,

Then confusion and fear began,

For she saw her own blood trickle,

From the thorns upon the stem,

 

She dropped the rose in horror,

Though the pain was only slight,

The man quickly recovered,

And gave it one more try,

 

And so with time the woman,

Learned how to hold the rose,

And with his care and guidance,

Her sickness was no more composed,

 

With illness gone and life redrawn,

Her heart had mended strong

The pills replaced by roses,

The true cure she'd waited on,

 

She lived a life of happiness,

Hard times she rose above,

And never once forgot the man,

Who taught her, again, how to love.

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