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Posted: October 10th, 2014, 9:29 am
by Nuclearplanet
Poetry is Beautiful. I've Recently been getting into it. What are some you've come across and enjoyed?


Posted: October 10th, 2014, 9:30 am
by Nuclearplanet
The Lion For Real by Allen Ginsberg
"Soyez muette pour moi, Idole contemplative..."

I came home and found a lion in my living room
Rushed out on the fire escape screaming Lion! Lion!
Two stenographers pulled their brunnette hair and banged the window shut
I hurried home to Patterson and stayed two days

Called up old Reichian analyst
who'd kicked me out of therapy for smoking marijuana
'It's happened' I panted 'There's a Lion in my living room'
'I'm afraid any discussion would have no value' he hung up

I went to my old boyfriend we got drunk with his girlfriend
I kissed him and announced I had a lion with a mad gleam in my eye
We wound up fighting on the floor I bit his eyebrow he kicked me out
I ended up masturbating in his jeep parked in the street moaning 'Lion.'

Found Joey my novelist friend and roared at him 'Lion!'
He looked at me interested and read me his spontaneous ignu high poetries
I listened for lions all I heard was Elephant Tiglon Hippogriff Unicorn
But figured he really understood me when we made it in Ignaz Wisdom's

But next day he sent me a leaf from his Smoky Mountain retreat
'I love you little Bo-Bo with your delicate golden lions
But there being no Self and No Bars therefore the Zoo of your dear Father
hath no lion
You said your mother was mad don't expect me to produce the Monster for
your Bridegroom.'

Confused dazed and exalted bethought me of real lion starved in his stink
in Harlem
Opened the door the room was filled with the bomb blast of his anger
He roaring hungrily at the plaster walls but nobody could hear outside
thru the window
My eye caught the edge of the red neighbor apartment building standing in
deafening stillness
We gazed at each other his implacable yellow eye in the red halo of fur
Waxed rhuemy on my own but he stopped roaring and bared a fang
I turned my back and cooked broccoli for supper on an iron gas stove
boilt water and took a hot bath in the old tup under the sink board.

He didn't eat me, tho I regretted him starving in my presence.
Next week he wasted away a sick rug full of bones wheaten hair falling out
enraged and reddening eye as he lay aching huge hairy head on his paws
by the egg-crate bookcase filled up with thin volumes of Plato, & Buddha.

Sat by his side every night averting my eyes from his hungry motheaten
stopped eating myself he got weaker and roared at night while I had
Eaten by lion in bookstore on Cosmic Campus, a lion myself starved by
Professor Kandisky, dying in a lion's flophouse circus,
I woke up mornings the lion still added dying on the floor--'Terrible
Presence!'I cried'Eat me or die!'

It got up that afternoon--walked to the door with its paw on the south wall to
steady its trembling body
Let out a soul-rending creak from the bottomless roof of his mouth
thundering from my floor to heaven heavier than a volcano at night in
Pushed the door open and said in a gravelly voice "Not this time Baby--
but I will be back again."

Lion that eats my mind now for a decade knowing only your hunger
Not the bliss of your satisfaction O roar of the universe how am I chosen
In this life I have heard your promise I am ready to die I have served
Your starved and ancient Presence O Lord I wait in my room at your

Paris, March 1958


Posted: October 10th, 2014, 10:25 am
by monty
Der Panther

Im Jardin des Plantes, Paris

Sein Blick ist von Vorübergehen der Stäbe
so müd geworden, daß er nichts mehr hält.
Ihm ist, als ob es tausend Stäbe gäbe
und hinter tausend Stäben keine Welt.

Der weiche Gang geschmeidig starker Schritte,
der sich im allerkleinsten Kreise dreht,
ist wie ein Tanz von Kraft um eine Mitte,
in der betäubt ein großer Wille steht.

Nur manchmal schiebt der Vorhang der Pupille
sich lautlos auf—. Dann geht ein Bild hinein,
geht durch der Glieder angespannte Stille—
und hört im Herzen auf zu sein.

By Rainer Maria Rilke.

The Panther

In the Jardin des Plantes, Paris

From seeing the bars, his seeing is so exhausted
that it no longer holds anything anymore.
To him the world is bars, a hundred thousand
bars, and behind the bars, nothing.

The lithe swinging of that rhythmical easy stride
which circles down to the tiniest hub
is like a dance of energy around a point
in which a great will stands stunned and numb.

Only at times the curtains of the pupil rise
without a sound . . . then a shape enters,
slips through the tightened silence of the shoulders,
reaches the heart, and dies.

(translated by Robert Bly)


Posted: October 10th, 2014, 10:46 am
by Nuclearplanet
monty on Oct 10 2014, 04:25:17 AM wrote: Der Panther

Im Jardin des Plantes, Paris

Sein Blick ist von Vorübergehen der Stäbe
so müd geworden, daß er nichts mehr hält.
Ihm ist, als ob es tausend Stäbe gäbe
und hinter tausend Stäben keine Welt.

Der weiche Gang geschmeidig starker Schritte,
der sich im allerkleinsten Kreise dreht,
ist wie ein Tanz von Kraft um eine Mitte,
in der betäubt ein großer Wille steht.

Nur manchmal schiebt der Vorhang der Pupille
sich lautlos auf—. Dann geht ein Bild hinein,
geht durch der Glieder angespannte Stille—
und hört im Herzen auf zu sein.

By Rainer Maria Rilke.

The Panther

In the Jardin des Plantes, Paris

From seeing the bars, his seeing is so exhausted
that it no longer holds anything anymore.
To him the world is bars, a hundred thousand
bars, and behind the bars, nothing.

The lithe swinging of that rhythmical easy stride
which circles down to the tiniest hub
is like a dance of energy around a point
in which a great will stands stunned and numb.

Only at times the curtains of the pupil rise
without a sound . . . then a shape enters,
slips through the tightened silence of the shoulders,
reaches the heart, and dies.

(translated by Robert Bly)
Poems about the entrapment of self seems to be a common thread of interest amongst Checkers then :P Love it by the way


Posted: October 10th, 2014, 11:50 am
by HVM
Ich bin der Welt abhanden gekommen (I'm lost to the world) by Friedrich Rückert

Ich bin der Welt abhanden gekommen,
Mit der ich sonst viele Zeit verdorben,
Sie hat so lange nichts von mir vernommen,
Sie mag wohl glauben, ich sei gestorben!

Es ist mir auch gar nichts daran gelegen,
Ob sie mich für gestorben hält,
Ich kann auch gar nichts sagen dagegen,
Denn wirklich bin ich gestorben der Welt.

Ich bin gestorben dem Weltgetümmel,
Und ruh’ in einem stillen Gebiet!
Ich leb’ allein in meinem Himmel,
In meinem Lieben, in meinem Lied!

==== English translation by Emily Ezust ====

I am lost to the world
with which I used to waste so much time,
It has heard nothing from me for so long
that it may very well believe that I am dead!

It is of no consequence to me
Whether it thinks me dead;
I cannot deny it,
for I really am dead to the world.

I am dead to the world’s tumult,
And I rest in a quiet realm!
I live alone in my heaven,
In my love and in my song!

In song.


Posted: October 10th, 2014, 12:40 pm
by Nuclearplanet
The First Dream by Billy Collins

The Wind is ghosting around the house tonight
and as I lean against the door of sleep
I begin to think about the first person to dream,
how quiet he must have seemed the next morning

as the others stood around the fire
draped in the skins of animals
talking to each other only in vowels,
for this was long before the invention of consonants.

He might have gone off by himself to sit
on a rock and look into the mist of a lake
as he tried to tell himself what had happened,
how he had gone somewhere without going,

how he had put his arms around the neck
of a beast that the others could touch
only after they had killed it with stones,
how he felt its breath on his bare neck.

Then again, the first dream could have come
to a woman, though she would behave,
I suppose, much the same way,
moving off by herself to be alone near water,

except that the curve of her young shoulders
and the tilt of her downcast head
would make her appear to be terribly alone,
and if you were there to notice this,

you might have gone down as the first person
to ever fall in love with the sadness of another.


Posted: October 10th, 2014, 12:43 pm
by XxXApathy420XxX
Some poems by Karl Pilkington

If moths had eyes, would they be happier?
How do they know they're not dead?
Cavemen hunting for food
But not before they style the hair on their head
What would last longer in dinosaur times?
A blind man didn't stand a chance
Not with all them rocks about
I'd rather be a blind moth


I don't like jellyfish, they’re not a fish, they're just a blob.
They don’t have eyes, fins or scales like a cod.
They float about blind, stinging people in the seas,
And no one eats jellyfish with chips and mushy peas.
Get rid of 'em!


Me, a Chinese fella and an old bloke,
Who looked like Mr Burns from 'The Simpsons',
Don't know what was wrong with him,
But breaking wind was the symptoms.
No one visited him or called him.
He seemed quite lost to me.
As well as wind problems,
He had a colostomy.
When I left,
I said "see ya" to the old man.
Turned out the other fella wasn't Chinese,
He was from Japan



Posted: October 10th, 2014, 1:06 pm
by Nuclearplanet
I’ve always found this an interesting poem. Translated from Emarati Colloquial Arabic. It’s about how in the 1960s; The Trucial States (now the United Arab Emirates) introduced mandatory education for girls. However, this steamed controversy amongst some Bedouin Tribes, thinking that the influence of western school systems would eventually corrupt their daughters. Possibly one of the most hilarious poems I’ve read.

They’ve taught our girls their hips to wiggle
Rubbayya bin Yaqat

They’ve taught our girls their hips to wiggle
And pass exams in how to giggle
Trained them how to be elastic
Do Summersaults and tricks gymnastic
To play the lute and sing along
Like dried up earth, their thirst is strong
If this is “learning”, we deplore it.
God curse all those who say they’re for it!
Our boys their nails with henna varnish,
And touch it up so it won’t tarnish
They mince around, devoid of strength
With unkempt hair that’s shoulder-length
To Alcohol They’ve got addicted
They drink until their brain’s Afflicted
Asleep, the empties on their lap
It’s not just talk – I’ve witnessed that.
The blame is not on you, the people,
It’s on their guardians, weak and feeble
We feel no shame, no not a smidgen
We’ve turns our back on our religion
On pilgrimage should we depart
To be the Lord for a new start?
We are not as we were, I’ll say it:
Quranic wit! We disobey it
Do gods will, you’ll reach the garden
Please him and he’ll grant you pardon
O benefactor lord of grace
Enthroned upon your heavenly dais
From all this error great forgiver
Our shipwrecked souls, we beg, deliver!
They taught our Girls their hips to wiggle
And pass exams in how to giggle.


Posted: October 10th, 2014, 1:08 pm
by Nuclearplanet
ArthurYanthar on Oct 10 2014, 06:43:49 AM wrote:Some poems by Karl Pilkington
Ay yes, Pilkington. I'm hoping he gets appointed Poet Laureate this year.


Posted: October 10th, 2014, 3:28 pm
by 3eyes
There seem to be a number of animal poems so far, so here's another:

The Hippopotamus - T.S. Eliot

The broad-backed hippopotamus
Rests on his belly in the mud;
Although he seems so firm to us
He is merely flesh and blood.

Flesh-and-blood is weak and frail,
Susceptible to nervous shock;
While the True Church can never fail
For it is based upon a rock.

The hippo's feeble steps may err
In compassing material ends,
While the True Church need never stir
To gather in its dividends.

The 'potamus can never reach
The mango on the mango-tree;
But fruits of pomegranate and peach
Refresh the Church from over sea.

At mating time the hippo's voice
Betrays inflexions hoarse and odd,
But every week we hear rejoice
The Church, at being one with God.

The hippopotamus's day
Is passed in sleep; at night he hunts;
God works in a mysterious way-
The Church can sleep and feed at once.

I saw the 'potamus take wing
Ascending from the damp savannas,
And quiring angels round him sing
The praise of God, in loud hosannas.

Blood of the Lamb shall wash him clean
And him shall heavenly arms enfold,
Among the saints he shall be seen
Performing on a harp of gold.

He shall be washed as white as snow,
By all the martyr'd virgins kiss't,
While the True Church remains below
Wrapt in the old miasmal mist.


Posted: October 10th, 2014, 5:10 pm
by Limedebois
Funny aphorisms could be poetry:

Il est idiot de monter une côte à bicyclette quand il suffit de se retourner pour la descendre.
Rien n'est plus semblable à l'identique que ce qui est pareil à la même chose.
La mort n'est, en définitive, que le résultat d'un défaut d'éducation puisqu'elle est la conséquence d'un manque de savoir vivre.
Une mauvaise photo qui rappelle vos traits vaut mieux qu'un beau paysage qui ne vous ressemble pas.
Quand on n'a besoin que de peu de chose, un rien suffit, et quand un rien suffit on n'a pas besoin de grand-chose.
L'imbécile prétentieux est celui qui se croit plus intelligent que ceux qui sont aussi bêtes que lui.
Parler pour ne rien dire et ne rien dire pour parler sont les deux principes majeurs et rigoureux de tous ceux qui feraient mieux de la fermer avant de l'ouvrir.
Si tout ceux qui croient avoir raison n'avait pas tort, la vérité ne serait pas loin
La véritable modestie consiste toujours à ne jamais se prendre pour moins ni plus que ce qu'on estime qu'on croit qu'on vaut ni pour plus ni moins que ce qu'on évalue qu'on vaut qu'on croit.
Les pense-bêtes sont les porte-clés de la mémoire.
Rien ne peut servir à tout, mais tout peut très bien ne servir à rien.
Une belle idée qui n'aboutit pas vaut mieux qu'une mauvaise qui voit le jour.
Quand tu réfléchis, ton visage est beau comme un miroir !
La poitrine et le derrière sont les pare-chocs de l'amour !
Les leçons ne servent généralement qu'à ceux qui les donnent.
Si la natalité est en baisse, c'est la faute de nos grands-parents qui n'ont pas fait assez de parents.

Pierre Dac


Posted: October 11th, 2014, 4:17 pm
by Carmel1379


Posted: October 11th, 2014, 5:35 pm
by Nuclearplanet
nobody loses all the time
by ee cummings

i had an uncle named
Sol who was a born failure and
nearly everybody said he should have gone
into vaudeville perhaps because my Uncle Sol could
sing McCann He Was A Diver on Xmas Eve like Hell Itself which
may or may not account for the fact that my Uncle

Sol indulged in that possibly most inexcusable
of all to use a highfalootin phrase
luxuries that is or to
wit farming and be
it needlessly

my Uncle Sol’s farm
failed because the chickens
ate the vegetables so
my Uncle Sol had a
chicken farm till the
skunks ate the chickens when

my Uncle Sol
had a skunk farm but
the skunks caught cold and
died and so
my Uncle Sol imitated the
skunks in a subtle manner

or by drowning himself in the watertank
but somebody who’d given my Uncle Sol a Victor
Victrola and records while he lived presented to
him upon the auspicious occasion of his decease a
scruptious not to mention splendiferous funeral with
tall boys in black gloves and flowers and everything and
i remember we all cried like the Missouri
when my Uncle Sol’s coffin lurched because
somebody pressed a button
(and down went
my Uncle

and started a worm farm)


Posted: November 7th, 2014, 12:59 am
by PGonzalez
Charles Bukowski
The Suicide Kid

I went to the worst of bars
hoping to get
but all I could do was to
get drunk
worse, the bar patrons even
ended up
liking me.
there I was trying to get
pushed over the dark
and I ended up with
free drinks
while somewhere else
some poor
son-of-a-bitch was in a hospital
tubes sticking out all over
as he fought like hell
to live.
nobody would help me
die as
the drinks kept
as the next day
waited for me
with its steel clamps,
its stinking
its incogitant
death doesn’t always
come running
when you call
not even if you
call it
from a shining
or from an ocean liner
or from the best bar
on earth (or the
such impertinence
only makes the gods
hesitate and
ask me: I’m

If you want to look into portuguese poetry Manuel da Fonseca, Sophia de Mello Breyner Andresen, Manuel Alegre and José Régio (I think I posted one of his poems in another thread) would probably be good places to start (assuming you are already familiar with Pessoa. Otherwise, Pessoa, definetly).


Posted: November 7th, 2014, 3:13 am
by Lonewolf2003
My favorite has to be America by Ginsberg. But I'm far from a poetry expert. Also love the work of Gil Scott-Heron, but not sure if that counts.


Posted: November 7th, 2014, 3:16 am
by Knaldskalle
Lonewolf2003 on Nov 6 2014, 08:13:13 PM wrote:Also love the work of Gil Scott-Heron, but not sure if that counts.
I don't know if it counts either, but it should.

The Revolution will be Live!


Posted: July 2nd, 2016, 6:05 am
by XxXApathy420XxX
Found an... interesting poem in the dark corners of the internet. :blink:

Pick fruit from its firmly connected limb,
That you may be sure of its purity.
The fallen apple is consumed by him,
Who neglects his supper's salubrity.
Let not the grapes sit lone, but supervise,
Else they will succumb to the wild's disease.
Let them ferment under your watchful eyes,
So their wine when drunk will not harm, but please.
Rarely is a growing girl corrupted,
Ferment her soon and her virtue won't go.
But old maids have spent time incubated,
For iniquitous plagues in them to grow.
Marry girls that are not over sixteen,
Rotting women will never be clean


Posted: August 5th, 2016, 1:41 pm
by monty
Juan Gelman


se sienta a la mesa y escribe
«con este poema no tomarás el poder» dice
«con estos versos no harás la Revolución» dice
«ni con miles de versos harás la Revolución» dice

y más: esos versos no han de servirle para
que peones maestros hacheros vivan mejor
coman mejor o él mismo coma viva mejor
ni para enamorar a una le servirán

no ganará plata con ellos
no entrará al cine gratis con ellos
no le darán ropa por ellos
no conseguirá tabaco o vino por ellos

ni papagayos ni bufandas ni barcos
ni toros ni paraguas conseguirá por ellos
si por ellos fuera la lluvia lo mojará
no alcanzará perdón o gracia por ellos

«con este poema no tomarás el poder» dice
«con estos versos no harás la Revolución» dice
«ni con miles de versos harás la Revolución» dice
se sienta a la mesa y escribe


Posted: March 1st, 2017, 2:58 am
by Hunziker
There are several translation from the original greek, but this one may be my favorite:


When you set out for distant Ithaca,
fervently wish your journey may be long, —
full of adventures and with much to learn.
Of the Laestrygones and the Cyclopes,
of the angry god Poseidon, have no fear:
these you shall not encounter, if your thought
remains at all times lofty, — if select
emotion touches you in body and spirit.
Not the Laestrygones, not the Cyclopes,
nor yet the fierce Poseidon, shall you meet,
unless you carry them within your soul, —
unless your soul should raise them to confront you.

Fervently wish your journey may be long.
May they be numerous — the summer mornings
when, pleased and joyous, you will be anchoring
in harbours you have never seen before.
Stay at the populous Phoenician marts,
and make provision of good merchandise;
coral and mother of pearl; and ebony
and amber; and voluptuous perfumes
of every kind, in lavish quantity.
Sojourn in many a city of the Nile,
and from the learned learn and learn amain.

At every stage bear Ithaca in mind.
The arrival there is your appointed lot.
But hurry not the voyage in the least:
’twere better if you travelled many years
and reached your island home in your old age,
being rich in riches gathered on the way,
and not expecting more from Ithaca.

Ithaca gave you the delightful voyage:
without her you would never have set out:
and she has nothing else to give you now.

And though you should find her wanting, Ithaca
will not surprise you; for you will arrive
wise and experienced, having long since perceived
the unapparent sense in Ithacas.

Translated by John Cavafy

(Poems by C. P. Cavafy. Translated, from the Greek, by J. C. Cavafy. Ikaros, 2003)


Posted: March 14th, 2017, 12:42 am
by PGonzalez
monty, I've been meaning to read Gelman, thank you for the reminder. The one you posted reminded me of two poems with some theme tangents. The first is one of Brecht's most famous
Spoiler: click to toggleShow
To Those Born After

Truly I live in dark times!
Frank speech is naïve. A smooth forehead
Suggests insensitivity. The man who laughs
Has simply not yet heard
The terrible news.

What kind of times are these, when
To talk about trees is almost a crime
Because it implies silence about so many horrors?
When the man over there calmly crossing the street
Is already perhaps beyond the reach of his friends
Who are in need?

It’s true that I still earn my daily bread
But, believe me, that’s only an accident. Nothing
I do gives me the right to eat my fill.
By chance I've been spared. (If my luck breaks, I'm lost.)

They say to me: Eat and drink! Be glad you have it!
But how can I eat and drink if I snatch what I eat
From the starving
And my glass of water belongs to someone dying of thirst?
And yet I eat and drink.

I would also like to be wise.
In the old books it says what wisdom is:
To shun the strife of the world and to live out
Your brief time without fear
Also to get along without violence
To return good for evil
Not to fulfill your desires but to forget them
Is accounted wise.
All this I cannot do.
Truly, I live in dark times.


I came to the cities in a time of disorder
When hunger reigned.
I came among men in a time of revolt
And I rebelled with them.
So passed my time
Given me to on earth.

I ate my food between battles
I lay down to sleep among murderers
I practiced love carelessly
And I had little patience for nature’s beauty.
So passed my time
Given to me on earth.

All roads led into the mire in my time.
My tongue betrayed me to the butchers.
There was little I could do. But those is power
Sat safer without me: that was my hope.
So passed my time
Given to me on earth.

Our forces were slight. Our goal
Lay far in the distance
Clearly visible, though I myself
Was unlikely to reach it.
So passed my time
Given to me on earth.


You who will emerge from the flood
In which we have gone under
Bring to mind
When you speak of our failings
Bring to mind also the dark times
That you have escaped.

Changing countries more often than our shoes,
We went through the class wars, despairing
When there was only injustice, no outrage.

And yet we realized:
Hatred, even of meanness
Contorts the features.
Anger, even against injustice
Makes the voice hoarse. O, We who wanted to prepare the ground for friendship
Could not ourselves be friendly.

But you, when the time comes at last
When man is helper to man
Think of us
With forbearance.

and I have a great soft spot for it. The last verses packed a huge punch when I read them (I think I was about 12) and that impression lingered on to the present day. It is not a poem I appreciate for its technique (I haven't read the original, nor have I concerned myself with finding the best translations), nor for its imagery. I just find it to be incredibly beautiful in its earnestness.
It also reminds me of one of my favourite poets, Herberto Helder. I don't think any of his work is translated to English, but I'll be sure to post my best attempt at a translation of some of his works soon.

Hunziker, I had never read the poem you posted, which I also appreciated immensely. Cavafy's more "mythological", so to speak, poems are masterful (Achilles' Horses, for example, is among the most well structured poems I have ever read), but I still think my favourite is the following
Spoiler: click to toggleShow
An Old Man

At the noisy end of the café, head bent
over the table, an old man sits alone,
a newspaper in front of him.

And in the miserable banality of old age
he thinks how little he enjoyed the years
when he had strength, eloquence, and looks.

He knows he’s aged a lot: he sees it, feels it.
Yet it seems he was young just yesterday.
So brief an interval, so very brief.

And he thinks of Prudence, how it fooled him,
how he always believed—what madness—
that cheat who said: “Tomorrow. You have plenty of time.”

He remembers impulses bridled, the joy
he sacrificed. Every chance he lost
now mocks his senseless caution.

But so much thinking, so much remembering
makes the old man dizzy. He falls asleep,
his head resting on the café table.


Posted: June 21st, 2018, 9:52 pm
by Carmel1379


Posted: June 23rd, 2018, 5:52 pm
by Hippiemans
Charles Bukowski - Friendly advice to a lot of young men

Go to Tibet.
Ride a camel.
Read the Bible.
Dye your shoes blue.
Grow a Beard.
Circle the world in a paper canoe.
Subscribe to “The Saturday Evening Post.”
Chew on the left side of your mouth only.
Marry a woman with one leg and shave with a straight razor.
And carve your name in her arm.

Brush your teeth with gasoline.
Sleep all day and climb trees at night.
Be a monk and drink buckshot and beer.
Hold your head under water and play the violin.
Do a belly dance before pink candles.
Kill your dog.
Run for Mayor.
Live in a barrel.
Break your head with a hatchet.
Plant tulips in the rain.

But don’t write poetry.

Re: Poetry

Posted: March 14th, 2019, 10:28 pm
by PirateJenny
A Supermarket In California - Ginsberg

What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman,
for I walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon.
In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations!
What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands!
Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes!—and you, García Lorca, what were you doing down by the watermelons?

I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber, poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery boys.
I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel?
I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans following you, and followed in my imagination by the store detective.
We strode down the open corridors together in our solitary fancy tasting artichokes,
possessing every frozen delicacy, and never passing the cashier.

Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in a hour. Which way does your beard point tonight?
(I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the supermarket and feel absurd.)
Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The trees add shade to shade, lights out in the houses, we’ll both be lonely.
Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love past blue automobiles in driveways, home to our silent cottage?
Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher, what America did you have when Charon quit poling his ferry
and you got out on a smoking bank and stood watching the boat disappear on the black waters of Lethe?

Re: Poetry

Posted: March 16th, 2019, 12:38 pm
by PirateJenny
Birmingham Roller - Liz Berry

We spent our lives down in the blackness… those birds brought us up
to the light. – Jim Showell, Tumbling Pigeons and the Black Country

Wench, yowm the colour of ower town:
concrete, steel, oily rainbow of the cut.

Ower streets am in yer wings,
ower factory chimdeys plumes on yer chest,

yer heart’s the china ower owd girls dust
in their tranklement cabinets.

Bred to dazzlin in backyards by men
whose onds grew soft as feathers

just to touch you, cradle you from egg
through each jeth-defying tumble.

Little acrobat of the terraces,
we’m winged when we gaze at you

jimmucking the breeze, somersaulting through
the white breathed prayer of January

and rolling back up like a babby’s yo-yo
caught by the open donny of the clouds.

Re: Poetry

Posted: March 16th, 2019, 12:49 pm
by PirateJenny
Radio - Frank O'Hara

Why do you play such dreary music
on Saturday afternoon, when tired
mortally tired I long for a little
reminder of immortal energy?

All week long while I trudge fatiguingly
from desk to desk in the museum
you spill your miracles of Grieg
and Honegger on shut-ins.

Am I not shut in too, and after a week
of work don’t I deserve Prokofieff?
Well, I have my beautiful de Kooning
to aspire to. I think it has an orange
bed in it, more than the ear can hold.

Re: Poetry

Posted: March 16th, 2019, 2:02 pm
by 3eyes
pity this busy monster, manunkind,

not. Progress is a comfortable disease:
your victim (death and life safely beyond)

plays with the bigness of his littleness
--- electrons deify one razorblade
into a mountainrange; lenses extend

unwish through curving wherewhen till unwish
returns on its unself.
......................... A world of made
is not a world of born --- pity poor flesh

and trees, poor stars and stones, but never this
fine specimen of hypermagical

ultraomnipotence. We doctors know

a hopeless case if --- listen: there's a hell
of a good universe next door; let's go

-- e e cummings (Sonnet: A BA BCA DCD DE F EF)

(Homage to e e cummings)

Pity this busy monster, manunkind, not progress;
or else misanthropy is what you'll find, not progress.

All hail the approaching bankruptcy of stars and stones!
Soon every square yard of land will be mined; what progress!

Translating littleness into ultraomnipotence,
"Perfection is what we're aiming for," they chime, "not progress."

Paperwork metastasizes, tears the flesh of time,
returns on its unself — a double bind, not progress.

Swaddled in cyberspace, death and life safely beyond,
icons of virtual violence are enshrined as progress.

Medicaments ensure a comfortable disease
and that no child shall be left behind in its progress.

Meanwhile and light years ago, the universe next door
pursues its far and wee ballooning, blind to progress.

All our comings and goings through curving wherewhen
mirror Sisyphean unwish, misdefined as progress.

(ghazal by yours truly)

Re: Poetry

Posted: March 17th, 2019, 11:49 am
by PirateJenny
Great homage. I recently read Cummings The Enormous room, an autobiography of his imprisonment in France and didn't think too much about it, or always agree with his politics but he's a favourite poet.

"kitty". sixteen,5'1",white,prostitute

ducking always the touch of must and shall,
whose slippery body is Death's littlest pal,

skilled in quick softness. Unspontaneous. cute.

the signal perfume of whose unrepute
focusses in the sweet slow animal
bottomless eyes importantly banal,

Kitty. a whore. Sixteen
you corking brute
amused from time to time by clever drolls
fearsomely who do keep their sunday flower.
The babybreasted broad "kitty" twice eight

—beer nothing,the lady'll have a whiskey-sour—

whose least amazing smile is the most great
common divisor of unequal souls.

- ee cummings.

Re: Poetry

Posted: March 25th, 2019, 4:07 pm
by PirateJenny
Music when Soft Voices Die - Percy Bysshe Shelley

Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory—
Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heaped for the belovèd's bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.