Poetry thread

[Too swole to control]

Thread to drop your favorite poems in. Start off with an old one i know by heart

How To Die
- Siegfried Sassoon

Dark clouds are smouldering into red
While down the craters morning burns.
The dying soldier shifts his head
To watch the glory that returns;
He lifts his fingers toward the skies
Where holy brightness breaks in flame;
Radiance reflected in his eyes,
And on his lips a whispered name.

You’d think, to hear some people talk,
That lads go West with sobs and curses,
And sullen faces white as chalk,
Hankering for wreaths and tombs and hearses.
But they’ve been taught the way to do it
Like Christian soldiers; not with haste
And shuddering groans; but passing through it
With due regard for decent taste.

 

[HEATH VON DOOM]

Great thread, wouldnt read again

 

[Tom O'Bedlam]

Whoever Brought Me Here
"All day I think about it, then at night I say it.
Where did I come from, and what am I supposed to be doing?
I have no idea.
My soul is from elsewhere, I'm sure of that,
and I intend to end up there.

This drunkenness began in some other tavern.
When I get back around to that place,
I'll be completely sober. Meanwhile,
I'm like a bird from another continent, sitting in this aviary.
The day is coming when I fly off,
but who is it now in my ear who hears my voice?
Who says words with my mouth?

Who looks out with my eyes? What is the soul?
I cannot stop asking.
If I could taste one sip of an answer,
I could break out of this prison for drunks.
I didn't come here of my own accord, and I can't leave that way.
Whoever brought me here, will have to take me home.

This poetry. I never know what I'm going to say.
I don't plan it.
When I'm outside the saying of it,
I get very quiet and rarely speak at all." - Rumi

 

[Sex Chicken]

The Boss makes dollars,
While I make dimes,
That's why I shit,
On company time.

 

[1372]

Roses are red violets are blue.

Poems are shit so fuck you.

 

[Sex Chicken]

Thread to drop your favorite poems in. Start off with an old one i know by heart

How To Die
- Siegfried Sassoon

Dark clouds are smouldering into red
While down the craters morning burns.
The dying soldier shifts his head
To watch the glory that returns;
He lifts his fingers toward the skies
Where holy brightness breaks in flame;
Radiance reflected in his eyes,
And on his lips a whispered name.

You’d think, to hear some people talk,
That lads go West with sobs and curses,
And sullen faces white as chalk,
Hankering for wreaths and tombs and hearses.
But they’ve been taught the way to do it
Like Christian soldiers; not with haste
And shuddering groans; but passing through it
With due regard for decent taste.

Is "Siegfried Sassoon" your pen name?

 

[Yuki Nakai's Eye]

 

[Too swole to control]

Great thread, wouldnt read again

Maybe you can contribute if they start putting poems on 40 packs of natural lite or cases of twinkies ya fat dumb genital wart no offense

 

[HEATH VON DOOM]

Maybe you can contribute if they start putting poems on 40 packs of natural lite or cases of twinkies ya fat dumb genital wart no offense

I cant reply because DID NOT READ FUCKFACE

 

[Yossarian]

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

Robert Frost.

 

[tang]

Anonymous Soldier

“The American Dream died
when Paul Revere took his ride
to rattle sabers and cages.

Workers fighting to shape the world
for old money on new land,
paving my way to fight 200 years later
in sand and shit and sun.

With new guns and fresh grunts
who bear the brunt until Atlas shrugs.

The American Dream never was
and neither am I, now.

Grunts fight and die far from the public eye.
Or they make it home.
Not heroes. Survivors.

And I can't tell if it's more wise
to lie to myself or to lie awake at night.
Thinking it will get better or knowing it won't.

Grunts died before the American nightmare
while richer men than we
created a dream
that wasn't for us."

My friend wrote it. He was a Soldier from the Surge.

 

[Lord Vutulaki]

@Galt this ones for you cheese dick

The Israeli army was facing a giant
The whole philistine army on Goliath was reliant
Send one soldier to face me he was defiant
However no Israeli soldier was compliant

Then into the camp David came
He heard the giant's challenge and his fame
He saw the Israelites whimper away in shame
And the Spirit of God did David inflame

How dare this uncircumcised against God roar
David arose willing to wait no more
With a stone in a sling and his bag had four
He released the sling and let the stone soar

The stone struck the giant's forehead
Goliath fell down for he was dead
David drew the giant's sword and chopped off his head
In terror the philistines screamed and fled

The victory won because on God did David fully trust
And if God is your refuge and strength then victory is a must
All your enemy giants will crumble and fall to the dust
For God is almighty, all knowing, never leaves you and always just

 

[Disciplined Galt]

@Galt this ones for you cheese dick

The Israeli army was facing a giant
The whole philistine army on Goliath was reliant
Send one soldier to face me he was defiant
However no Israeli soldier was compliant

Then into the camp David came
He heard the giant's challenge and his fame
He saw the Israelites whimper away in shame
And the Spirit of God did David inflame

How dare this uncircumcised against God roar
David arose willing to wait no more
With a stone in a sling and his bag had four
He released the sling and let the stone soar

The stone struck the giant's forehead
Goliath fell down for he was dead
David drew the giant's sword and chopped off his head
In terror the philistines screamed and fled

The victory won because on God did David fully trust
And if God is your refuge and strength then victory is a must
All your enemy giants will crumble and fall to the dust
For God is almighty, all knowing, never leaves you and always just

Herman hesses poetry speak to my nihilistic side. Thanks for the thought bahad.

 

[Too swole to control]

 

[Too swole to control]

When I have Fears That I May Cease to Be
By John Keats

When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain,
Before high-pilèd books, in charactery,
Hold like rich garners the full ripened grain;
When I behold, upon the night’s starred face,
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
And think that I may never live to trace
Their shadows with the magic hand of chance;
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,
That I shall never look upon thee more,
Never have relish in the faery power
Of unreflecting love—then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.

 

[psychicdeath]

All true poems must include the word "Nantuckett"

 

[1372]

All true poems must include the word "Nantuckett"

So @Virgin By Choice bent over
I said hey there little soldier
He said what do you think
I said I'd fuck it in Nantuckett

 

[Too swole to control]

You Are the Penultimate Love of My Life
By Rebecca Hazelton


I want to spend a lot but not all of my years with you.
We’ll talk about kids
but make plans to travel.
I will remember your eyes
as green when they were gray.
Our dogs will be named For Now and Mostly.
Sex will be good but next door’s will sound better.

There will be small things.
I will pick up your damp towel from the bed,
and then I won’t.
I won’t be as hot as I was
when I wasn’t yours
and your hairline now so
untrustworthy.
When we pull up alongside a cattle car
and hear the frightened lows,
I will silently judge you
for not immediately renouncing meat.
You will bring me wine
and notice how much I drink.

The garden you plant and I plant
is tunneled through by voles,
the vowels
we speak aren’t vows,
but there’s something
holding me here, for now,
like your eyes, which I suppose
are brown, after all.

 

[Too swole to control]

I Find no Peace
By Sir Thomas Wyatt
1503–1542
I find no peace, and all my war is done.
I fear and hope. I burn and freeze like ice.
I fly above the wind, yet can I not arise;
And nought I have, and all the world I season.
That loseth nor locketh holdeth me in prison
And holdeth me not—yet can I scape no wise—
Nor letteth me live nor die at my device,
And yet of death it giveth me occasion.
Without eyen I see, and without tongue I plain.
I desire to perish, and yet I ask health.
I love another, and thus I hate myself.
I feed me in sorrow and laugh in all my pain;
Likewise displeaseth me both life and death,
And my delight is causer of this strife.

 

[Hauler]

My butt's numbness has now reached my feet.
I wiggle my toes but it brings no relief.
This seat is too hard;
I should have shat in the yard.
But Charmin beats using a leaf.

That's all you get at 6 AM.
But I enjoyed reading the others so I figured I'd make up my own before moving along...

 

[Too swole to control]

Money

By Philip Larkin

Quarterly, is it, money reproaches me:

‘Why do you let me lie here wastefully?

I am all you never had of goods and sex.

You could get them still by writing a few cheques.’


So I look at others, what they do with theirs:

They certainly don’t keep it upstairs.

By now they’ve a second house and car and wife:

Clearly money has something to do with life


—In fact, they’ve a lot in common, if you enquire:

You can’t put off being young until you retire,

And however you bank your screw, the money you save

Won’t in the end buy you more than a shave.


I listen to money singing. It’s like looking down

From long french windows at a provincial town,

The slums, the canal, the churches ornate and mad

In the evening sun. It is intensely sad.

 

[Robbie Hart]

Mary, Mary, quite contrary, shave........,

 

[Ted Williams' head]

Poetry is pretty gay in general. There's a real snobbiness in creating "art" that is purposely esoteric and inaccessible IMHO.

Poems should be either humorous in nature and/or kept reasonably short.

My favourite is Harlem by Langston Hughes.

What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore—
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over—
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?

 

[Too swole to control]

Poetry is pretty gay in general. There's a real snobbiness in creating "art" that is purposely esoteric and inaccessible IMHO.

Poems should be either humorous in nature and/or kept reasonably short.

My favourite is Harlem by Langston Hughes.

What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore—
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over—
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?

"Poems are gay"

(Posts poem about dreams and sugar)

 

[Report]

"Two Roads" has always
been my favorite, but this
One is also good.

(^haiku by drizzt)

Christopher walken's "poke her face"