Blue J Posted December 5, 2015 Share Posted December 5, 2015 There are some wonderful choices in here already (I've exhausted my likes but I'll be back, ha)! I'll try to post some of my favourites by poets who aren't yet represented in the thread. Message - Allen Ginsberg Since we had changed rogered spun worked wept and pissed together I wake up in the morning with a dream in my eyes but you are gone in NY remembering me Good I love you I love you & your brothers are crazy I accept their drunk casesIt's too long that I have been aloneit's too long that I've sat up in bedwithout anyone to touch on the knee, manor woman I don't care what anymore, Iwant love I was born for I want you with me nowOcean liners boiling over the AtlanticDelicate steelwork of unfinished skyscrapersBack end of the dirigible roaring over LakehurstSix women dancing together on a red stage nakedThe leaves are green on all the trees in Paris nowI will be home in two months and look you in the eyes I love Allen Ginsberg! I went to see him read twice, and I got to meet him and talk with him a bit, in 1993. 3 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
bean-tor Posted December 5, 2015 Share Posted December 5, 2015 The Cinnamon Peeler - Michael Ondaatje If I were a cinnamon peelerI would ride your bedand leave the yellow bark duston your pillow. Your breasts and shoulders would reekyou could never walk through marketswithout the profession of my fingersfloating over you. The blind wouldstumble certain of whom they approachedthough you might batheunder rain gutters, monsoon. Here on the upper thighat this smooth pastureneighbour to your hairor the creasethat cuts your back. This ankle.You will be known among strangersas the cinnamon peeler's wife. I could hardly glance at you before marriagenever touch you--your keen nosed mother, your rough brothers.I buried my handsin saffron, disguised themover smoking tar,helped the honey gatherers... When we swam onceI touched you in waterand our bodies remained free,you could hold me and be blind of smell.You climbed the bank and said this is how you touch other womenthe grass cutter's wife, the lime burner's daughter.And you searched your armsfor the missing perfume and knew what good is itto be the lime burner's daughterleft with no traceas if not spoken to in the act of loveas if wounded without the pleasure of a scar. You touched your belly to my handsin the dry air and saidI am the cinnamonpeeler's wife. Smell me. 5 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
bean-tor Posted December 5, 2015 Share Posted December 5, 2015 There are some wonderful choices in here already (I've exhausted my likes but I'll be back, ha)! I'll try to post some of my favourites by poets who aren't yet represented in the thread. Message - Allen Ginsberg Since we had changed rogered spun worked wept and pissed together I wake up in the morning with a dream in my eyes but you are gone in NY remembering me Good I love you I love you & your brothers are crazy I accept their drunk casesIt's too long that I have been aloneit's too long that I've sat up in bedwithout anyone to touch on the knee, manor woman I don't care what anymore, Iwant love I was born for I want you with me nowOcean liners boiling over the AtlanticDelicate steelwork of unfinished skyscrapersBack end of the dirigible roaring over LakehurstSix women dancing together on a red stage nakedThe leaves are green on all the trees in Paris nowI will be home in two months and look you in the eyes I love Allen Ginsberg! I went to see him read twice, and I got to meet him and talk with him a bit, in 1993. Ahh that is amazing! Ginsberg is my very favourite! I would love to hear about your experiences if you care to share :) Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
goose Posted December 5, 2015 Author Share Posted December 5, 2015 The surface of a slate-grey lake is litBy the earthed lightning of a flock of swans, What a great line! 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
bean-tor Posted December 7, 2015 Share Posted December 7, 2015 The surface of a slate-grey lake is litBy the earthed lightning of a flock of swans, What a great line! "Useless to think you'll park and capture it / More thoroughly" pretty well sums up my approach to living 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
goose Posted December 9, 2015 Author Share Posted December 9, 2015 (edited) The Hunters in the Snow - William Carlos Williams The over-all picture is wintericy mountainsin the background the returnfrom the hunt it is toward eveningfrom the leftsturdy hunters lead intheir pack the inn-signhanging from abroken hinge is a stag a crucifixbetween his antlers the coldinn yard isdeserted but for a huge bonfirethat flares wind-driven tended bywomen who clusterabout it to the right beyondthe hill is a pattern of skatersBrueghel the painterconcerned with it all has chosena winter-struck bush for hisforeground tocomplete the picture http://www.obestpaintings.com/images/Pieter%20Bruegel%20the%20Elder/The_Hunters_in_the_Snow_(Winter)_1565_3185.jpg Edited December 9, 2015 by goose 2 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
blueschica Posted December 9, 2015 Share Posted December 9, 2015 Postscript - Seamus Heaney And some time make the time to drive out westInto County Clare, along the Flaggy Shore,In September or October, when the windAnd the light are working off each otherSo that the ocean on one side is wildWith foam and glitter, and inland among stonesThe surface of a slate-grey lake is litBy the earthed lightning of a flock of swans,Their feathers roughed and ruffling, white on white,Their fully grown headstrong-looking headsTucked or cresting or busy underwater.Useless to think you'll park and capture itMore thoroughly. You are neither here nor there,A hurry through which known and strange things passAs big soft buffetings come at the car sidewaysAnd catch the heart off guard and blow it open. I love Heaney's writings! I saw him once in the public library where I used to work. Literally just saw him, like across the room. (Long story. He had an ongoing relationship with a college in our town and was visiting; he came in with another professor. Of course, patrons were stacked at the desk like 5 people deep that day and I couldn't even like wave hi or holler 'love your work' or something stupid.) It still is kind of cool to remember, though. 2 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
goose Posted December 10, 2015 Author Share Posted December 10, 2015 The Cinnamon Peeler - Michael Ondaatje If I were a cinnamon peelerI would ride your bedand leave the yellow bark duston your pillow. Your breasts and shoulders would reekyou could never walk through marketswithout the profession of my fingersfloating over you. The blind wouldstumble certain of whom they approachedthough you might batheunder rain gutters, monsoon. Here on the upper thighat this smooth pastureneighbour to your hairor the creasethat cuts your back. This ankle.You will be known among strangersas the cinnamon peeler's wife. I could hardly glance at youbefore marriagenever touch you--your keen nosed mother, your rough brothers.I buried my handsin saffron, disguised themover smoking tar,helped the honey gatherers... When we swam onceI touched you in waterand our bodies remained free,you could hold me and be blind of smell.You climbed the bank and said this is how you touch other womenthe grass cutter's wife, the lime burner's daughter.And you searched your armsfor the missing perfume and knew what good is itto be the lime burner's daughterleft with no traceas if not spoken to in the act of loveas if wounded without the pleasure of a scar. You touchedyour belly to my handsin the dry air and saidI am the cinnamonpeeler's wife. Smell me.Excuse me while a go take a cold shower. 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
bean-tor Posted December 30, 2015 Share Posted December 30, 2015 Postscript - Seamus Heaney And some time make the time to drive out westInto County Clare, along the Flaggy Shore,In September or October, when the windAnd the light are working off each otherSo that the ocean on one side is wildWith foam and glitter, and inland among stonesThe surface of a slate-grey lake is litBy the earthed lightning of a flock of swans,Their feathers roughed and ruffling, white on white,Their fully grown headstrong-looking headsTucked or cresting or busy underwater.Useless to think you'll park and capture itMore thoroughly. You are neither here nor there,A hurry through which known and strange things passAs big soft buffetings come at the car sidewaysAnd catch the heart off guard and blow it open. I love Heaney's writings! I saw him once in the public library where I used to work. Literally just saw him, like across the room. (Long story. He had an ongoing relationship with a college in our town and was visiting; he came in with another professor. Of course, patrons were stacked at the desk like 5 people deep that day and I couldn't even like wave hi or holler 'love your work' or something stupid.) It still is kind of cool to remember, though. That's a nice story, though it's too bad that you didn't have a chance to interact with him! Still, I'd be thrilled to have just seen him in the same room, so I think your experience was pretty darn cool! :) 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
bean-tor Posted December 30, 2015 Share Posted December 30, 2015 The Cinnamon Peeler - Michael Ondaatje If I were a cinnamon peelerI would ride your bedand leave the yellow bark duston your pillow. Your breasts and shoulders would reekyou could never walk through marketswithout the profession of my fingersfloating over you. The blind wouldstumble certain of whom they approachedthough you might batheunder rain gutters, monsoon. Here on the upper thighat this smooth pastureneighbour to your hairor the creasethat cuts your back. This ankle.You will be known among strangersas the cinnamon peeler's wife. I could hardly glance at youbefore marriagenever touch you--your keen nosed mother, your rough brothers.I buried my handsin saffron, disguised themover smoking tar,helped the honey gatherers... When we swam onceI touched you in waterand our bodies remained free,you could hold me and be blind of smell.You climbed the bank and said this is how you touch other womenthe grass cutter's wife, the lime burner's daughter.And you searched your armsfor the missing perfume and knew what good is itto be the lime burner's daughterleft with no traceas if not spoken to in the act of loveas if wounded without the pleasure of a scar. You touchedyour belly to my handsin the dry air and saidI am the cinnamonpeeler's wife. Smell me.Excuse me while a go take a cold shower. I know, right?! And to think this was required reading for my grade 11 English class :o Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
gypsy muse Posted December 31, 2015 Share Posted December 31, 2015 Wow, that's deep. I don't know if I like it or not. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Blue J Posted January 2, 2016 Share Posted January 2, 2016 (edited) Would this be an appropriate place to post one's own writing? Or would that be a presumptuous move? (I think it might be. But I thought I'd throw the question out there). Edited January 2, 2016 by Blue J Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
goose Posted January 3, 2016 Author Share Posted January 3, 2016 (edited) Frost At Midnight - Samuel Taylor Coleridge The Frost performs its secret ministry,Unhelped by any wind. The owlet's cryCame loud--and hark, again loud as before.The inmates of my cottage, all at rest,Have left me to that solitude, which suitsAbstruser musings : save that at my sideMy cradled infant slumbers peacefully.'Tis calm indeed so calm, that it disturbsAnd vexes meditation with its strangeAnd extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood,This populous village Sea, and hill, and wood,With all the numberless goings-on of life,Inaudible as dreams the thin blue flameLies on my low-burnt fire, and quivers not ;Only that film, which fluttered on the grate,Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing.Methinks, its motion in this hush of natureGives it dim sympathies with me who live,Making it a companionable form,Whose puny flaps and freaks the idling SpiritBy its own moods interprets, every whereEcho or mirror seeking of itself,And makes a toy of Thought. Edited January 3, 2016 by goose 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
goose Posted January 3, 2016 Author Share Posted January 3, 2016 Spellbound - Emily Jane Brontë The night is darkening round me,The wild winds coldly blow;But a tyrant spell has bound meAnd I cannot, cannot go. The giant trees are bendingTheir bare boughs weighed with snow.And the storm is fast descending,And yet I cannot go. Clouds beyond clouds above me,Wastes beyond wastes below;But nothing drear can move me;I will not, cannot go. 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
goose Posted January 3, 2016 Author Share Posted January 3, 2016 The Sky Is Low, The Clouds Are Mean - Emily Dickinson The sky is low, the clouds are mean,A travelling flake of snowAcross a barn or through a rutDebates if it will go. A narrow wind complains all dayHow some one treated him;Nature, like us, is sometimes caughtWithout her diadem. 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Tombstone Mountain Posted January 11, 2016 Share Posted January 11, 2016 (edited) 10:13 pm January 10, 2016 Poetic Turdby Tombstone Mountain http://www.ancient-origins.net/sites/default/files/styles/large/public/Cuneiform-inscription-by-Xerxes-the-Great_0.jpg?itok=H001xLa3 Take the chisel, and here's a hammer.Take my words,set them in stone.Make new cuneiform,a language all its own. Only those who think the deepest thoughts,can decipher the code.Shake my world, see my soul.It's hiding in the snow-globe of memories I've made,my own vault of gold. Peer into my mind.What do you see? A wasteland of promise? A womb filled with inert and tiny seeds? Look! It's Narcissus drinking from the stream.He's come alive from the wall of a cave.Prehistoric man's cinema,the ancient world's museum of petroglyphic dreams He can't look up for he's afraid to squanderthe image of perfection found on the surface of the water. The image is one of wonder and youth. It creates ripples of arrogance. Before they hit the muddy bank they disappear,floating over the grass and into the wind. Am I like Narcissus?Conquering the cosmos in my dreams?For in my mind it feels as such. In reality I know,those dreams don't add up to much.http://mythlovestories.com/echo04L.jpg Edited January 11, 2016 by Tombstone Mountain 5 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Blue J Posted January 11, 2016 Share Posted January 11, 2016 Thanks for posting, Tombstone. I saw the title, 'Poetic Turd', and I thought it might not be a serious piece...haha. But bravo! 2 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Fridge Posted January 11, 2016 Share Posted January 11, 2016 (edited) I'm a big fan of Charles Baudelaire........... Her Hair O fleece that down her nape rolls, plume on plume! O curls! O scent of nonchalance and ease!What ecstasy! To populate this roomWith memories it harbours in its gloom,I'd shake it like a banner on the breeze. Hot Africa and languid Asia play(An absent world, defunct, and far away)Within that scented forest, dark and dim.As other souls on waves of music swim,Mine on its perfume sails, as on the spray. I'll journey there, where man and sap-filled treeSwoon in hot light for hours. Be you my sea,Strong tresses! Be the breakers and galesThat waft me. Your black river holds, for me,A dream of masts and rowers, flames and sails. A port, resounding there, my soul deliversWith long deep draughts of perfumes, scent, and clamour,Where ships, that glide through gold and purple rivers,Fling wide their vast arms to embrace the glamourOf skies wherein the heat forever quivers. I'll plunge my head in it, half drunk with pleasure —In this black ocean that engulfs her form.My soul, caressed with wavelets there may measureInfinite rocking in embalmed leisure,Creative idleness that fears no storm! Blue tresses, like a shadow-stretching tent,You shed the blue of heavens round and far.Along its downy fringes as I wentI reeled half-drunken to confuse the scentOf oil of coconuts, with musk and tar. My hand forever in your mane so dense,Rubies and pearls and sapphires there will sow,That you to my desire be never slow —Oasis of my dreams, and gourd from whenceDeep-draughted wines of memory will flow Edited January 11, 2016 by Fridge 3 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Tombstone Mountain Posted January 11, 2016 Share Posted January 11, 2016 Thanks for posting, Tombstone. I saw the title, 'Poetic Turd', and I thought it might not be a serious piece...haha. But bravo!Thanks dude. Appreciate it. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
goose Posted January 14, 2016 Author Share Posted January 14, 2016 I'm a big fan of Charles Baudelaire........... Her Hair O fleece that down her nape rolls, plume on plume! O curls! O scent of nonchalance and ease!What ecstasy! To populate this roomWith memories it harbours in its gloom,I'd shake it like a banner on the breeze. Hot Africa and languid Asia play(An absent world, defunct, and far away)Within that scented forest, dark and dim.As other souls on waves of music swim,Mine on its perfume sails, as on the spray. I'll journey there, where man and sap-filled treeSwoon in hot light for hours. Be you my sea,Strong tresses! Be the breakers and galesThat waft me. Your black river holds, for me,A dream of masts and rowers, flames and sails. A port, resounding there, my soul deliversWith long deep draughts of perfumes, scent, and clamour,Where ships, that glide through gold and purple rivers,Fling wide their vast arms to embrace the glamourOf skies wherein the heat forever quivers. I'll plunge my head in it, half drunk with pleasure —In this black ocean that engulfs her form.My soul, caressed with wavelets there may measureInfinite rocking in embalmed leisure,Creative idleness that fears no storm! Blue tresses, like a shadow-stretching tent,You shed the blue of heavens round and far.Along its downy fringes as I wentI reeled half-drunken to confuse the scentOf oil of coconuts, with musk and tar. My hand forever in your mane so dense,Rubies and pearls and sapphires there will sow,That you to my desire be never slow —Oasis of my dreams, and gourd from whenceDeep-draughted wines of memory will flowSaucy! Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
goose Posted January 14, 2016 Author Share Posted January 14, 2016 So...last week we had to put a dog down. The thing is, we are all ok, but our other dog is a shell of his former self. The two dogs were from the same littler, and had literally never spent more than a few hours apart. He has no idea how to be alone, and nothing can console him. It made me think of this classic Auden poem... Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,Silence the pianos and with muffled drumBring out the coffin, let the mourners come. Let aeroplanes circle moaning overheadScribbling on the sky the message 'He is Dead'.Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves. He was my North, my South, my East and West,My working week and my Sunday rest,My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong. The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;For nothing now can ever come to any good. 5 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
x1yyz Posted January 14, 2016 Share Posted January 14, 2016 Someone gave me a poem today. It is a thing of incredible beauty, and I treasure it so. 3 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Tombstone Mountain Posted January 14, 2016 Share Posted January 14, 2016 So...last week we had to put a dog down. The thing is, we are all ok, but our other dog is a shell of his former self. The two dogs were from the same littler, and had literally never spent more than a few hours apart. He has no idea how to be alone, and nothing can console him. It made me think of this classic Auden poem... Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,Silence the pianos and with muffled drumBring out the coffin, let the mourners come. Let aeroplanes circle moaning overheadScribbling on the sky the message 'He is Dead'.Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves. He was my North, my South, my East and West,My working week and my Sunday rest,My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong. The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;For nothing now can ever come to any good.Rocket Sauce certified buddy. Excellent! 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
goose Posted January 15, 2016 Author Share Posted January 15, 2016 Autobiographia Literaria - Frank O'Hara When I was a childI played by myself in a corner of the schoolyardall alone. I hated dolls and Ihated games, animals werenot friendly and birds flew away. If anyone was looking for me I hid behind a tree and cried out "I aman orphan." And here I am, the center of all beauty! writing these poems!Imagine! 2 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
blueschica Posted January 15, 2016 Share Posted January 15, 2016 Autobiographia Literaria - Frank O'Hara When I was a childI played by myself in a corner of the schoolyardall alone. I hated dolls and Ihated games, animals werenot friendly and birds flew away. If anyone was looking for me I hid behind a tree and cried out "I aman orphan." And here I am, the center of all beauty! writing these poems!Imagine! I'm glad he found a happy ending for himself! 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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