NationStates Jolt Archive

So, since the last thread got closed, I figure we can try again (I'm assuming this will be kosher with the mods, but please correct me if I'm wrong)

Post your favorite poetry. Discuss it. Write some of your own. Haiku, sonnet, blank verse, epic...all free game.

Feel free to post examples of poetry from other languages, though I do ask that you please offer an English translation.


aaaaaaaaand....go.

Ohhhh, I like "The Raven" and "The Conqueror Worm" by Edgar Allen Poe, and Anything that Tom Bombadil sings by J.R.R. Tolkien.

I think Stan Rice´s poetry, may he rest in peace, was pretty decent. I´ll link you when I find the link...

from the previous thread...
Yeah, the best thing I can think about any of my teenage poems is "Well....it's pretty decent as terrible teenage poetry goes..." I don't burn it, though - I just reread it and laugh my ass off at how terribly deep and tormented I thought I was.
Tell me about it. My teen angst was...well, pathetic. While some of it was justified, I really just have to mock myself. There are one or two poems that I think are decent, but I still fear that they are far too "I'm 16 and hate my mom and dad because they don't understand me so I'll pour it onto the vapid page in overly ornate language to show how deep and complex I truly am". Or something like that.

As for Elizabeth Bishop, I've been getting back into her recently, as well as Pinsky. And this has been a personal favorite for a while now:

Buffalo River, 2002

It might have been the way you yelped
at the paddle-splash of water
on the back of your neck, snowmelt crisp,
an April afternoon just warm enough

for us to steer away from cliff shadows,
from wind-rustled pines. Or the way
you shed shoes and hat to clamber
the sandstone face of Jim's Bluff,

wet footprints diminishing, step over step,
maybe even the romantic sweep of dragonfly
skimming the river surface to light
on flotsam. But in the end I think it was

the way you bent into each stroke, pulled
river behind you, pulled us deeper into it.

I write a lot of poetry, but most of it is rather personal. So I will not be sharing it.

My last attempt to bring culture to NSG failed, so I will not try again.

My last attempt to bring culture to NSG failed, so I will not try again.

Well, you were partially to blame there Bel.

Here we go: http://www.stanrice.com/

His paintings and poetry are featured here.

I'm rather fond of John Milton. I'm reading Paradise Lost again, and I really must bow to this blind man's command of the English language, especially in a day before dictionaries.

A bit more recent, but I do like Sandy Pearlman's poems. Sadly, I have no idea how to find his original "Soft Doctrines of Immaginos", so I'll just have to make do with Blue Oyster Cult's song adaptations. :(

Robert Frost, but none of that "Road Less Traveled" nonsense.

Also John Donne.

I've never been a big fan of sonnets, but I do have to say I love when they have a bit of comedy.

Shakespeare's sonnet 130 is a good one:
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground.
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.

Robert Frost, but none of that "Road Less Traveled" nonsense.

Also John Donne.
You know, I used to hate The Road Not Taken untill I realized later just how much people tend to misinterpret it...it isn't about taking a huge risk, it's about coming to two identical paths, then, when retelling the story later, claiming the path one took was the "less traveled" one.

Frost is a twisted funny man.

You know, I used to hate The Road Not Taken untill I realized later just how much people tend to misinterpret it...it isn't about taking a huge risk, it's about coming to two identical paths, then, when retelling the story later, claiming the path one took was the "less traveled" one.

Frost is a twisted funny man.

He certainly had a gift for wit that was sadly lost on a lot of very intelligent people.

Then again, I can't really blame him. Just look at the number of mistaken interpretations of modern music, often when the lyrics are neither subtle nor cryptic.

Well, you were partially to blame there Bel.

Partially? I'd say mainly. And to stay on topic -

I don't have one type of poetry or poet who I like, but instead there are poems I like and poems I dislike.

He certainly had a gift for wit that was sadly lost on a lot of very intelligent people.

Then again, I can't really blame him. Just look at the number of mistaken interpretations of modern music, often when the lyrics are neither subtle nor cryptic.

He consistantly ranks as USAmericans favorite poet, often cited for his optimism.

Sometimes I wonder if people who say that have actually read what he wrote.

But then, the dark and twisted aspects of James and the Giant Peach, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, The Wizard of Oz, and Alice in Wonderland are almost always ignored.

Warning: This post contains teenage angst poetry.

Friends (a.k.a. whiney emo shite) by me, age 16

---

Be yourself, the films say, whatever that may entail,
When it comes to us intolerance and hate always prevail,
Mental illness, moral sickness well aren’t we depraved,
Should hide away and take our shameful secret to the grave,

Media figures of scorn, never to be taken seriously,
A cheap shot for the poorest practitioners of “comedy”,
A foolish “life choice” where you are just asking to be mocked,
Simply some paths that the righteous folks just have to block

“Friends” are just enemies that don’t truly know me yet,
When truth is told all of them will unite to reject,
Killing time living the lie to maintain their respect,
Either them or me, either way, no tears shall be wept.

---

Well, with my slightly better vocabulary and knowledge of how these things should be structured I could probably tweak that a bit now. But there's only so far you can polish a turd, so I post it in its original form. I welcome your unconstructive criticism of this utter bilge.

He consistantly ranks as USAmericans favorite poet, often cited for his optimism.

Sometimes I wonder if people who say that have actually read what he wrote.

But then, the dark and twisted aspects of James and the Giant Peach, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, The Wizard of Oz, and Alice in Wonderland are almost always ignored.

I know the feeling. For some reason, this problem is nearly universal. The very destructive passion of "Romeo and Juliet" is held up on a pedestal as an ideal love, the fascist nihilism that was thoroughly deconstructed in Fight Club is far too often idolized by fans. And who can forget the "Seig Zeon" crowd from Mobile Suit Gundam otakus?

I really have no answer for this, other than the very disturbing thought that the vast majority of people out there are barely concious zombies totally stripped of their humanity by an inhuman social arrangement.

I know the feeling. For some reason, this problem is nearly universal. The very destructive passion of "Romeo and Juliet" is held up on a pedestal as an ideal love, the fascist nihilism that was thoroughly deconstructed in Fight Club is far too often idolized by fans. And who can forget the "Seig Zeon" crowd from Mobile Suit Gundam otakus?

I really have no answer for this, other than the very disturbing thought that the vast majority of people out there are barely concious zombies totally stripped of their humanity by an inhuman social arrangement.

Ugh...when I was teaching Romeo and Juliet during my student teaching, I got in trouble for a) reminding the students that it was a 13 year old and b) suggesting that the "morning after" scene was actually very angry, bitter, and...well, angsty. "Yeah. Right. It's the nightingale. Uh huh. Sure."

Warning: This post contains teenage angst poetry.

Friends (a.k.a. whiney emo shite) by me, age 16

---

Be yourself, the films say, whatever that may entail,
When it comes to us intolerance and hate always prevail,
Mental illness, moral sickness well aren’t we depraved,
Should hide away and take our shameful secret to the grave,

Media figures of scorn, never to be taken seriously,
A cheap shot for the poorest practitioners of “comedy”,
A foolish “life choice” where you are just asking to be mocked,
Simply some paths that the righteous folks just have to block

“Friends” are just enemies that don’t truly know me yet,
When truth is told all of them will unite to reject,
Killing time living the lie to maintain their respect,
Either them or me, either way, no tears shall be wept.

---

Well, with my slightly better vocabulary and knowledge of how these things should be structured I could probably tweak that a bit now. But there's only so far you can polish a turd, so I post it in its original form. I welcome your unconstructive criticism of this utter bilge.
mmm...smell the angst.

Though, I can't say much...my friends and I had a yearly "angst-off". I won once.
Though, I do kinda like the phrase "unite to reject"

THE CINNAMON PEELER by Michael Ondaatje

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

If I were a cinnamon peeler
I would ride your bed
and leave the yellow bark dust
on your pillow.

Your breasts and shoulders would reek
you could never walk through markets
without the profession of my fingers
floating over you. The blind would
stumble certain of whom they approached
though you might bathe
under rain gutters, monsoon.

Here on the upper thigh
at this smooth pasture
neighbor to your hair
or the crease
that cuts your back. This ankle.
You will be known among strangers
as the cinnamon peeler's wife.

I could hardly glance at you
before marriage
never touch you
-- your keen nosed mother, your rough brothers.
I buried my hands
in saffron, disguised them
over smoking tar,
helped the honey gatherers...

When we swam once
I touched you in water
and 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 women
the grasscutter's wife, the lime burner's daughter.

And you searched your arms

for the missing perfume.

and knew
what good is it
to be the lime burner's daughter

left with no trace

as if not spoken to in an act of love

as if wounded without the pleasure of scar.


You touched
your belly to my hands
in the dry air and said
I am the cinnamon
peeler's wife. Smell me.


I love this poem because it's so sensual...literally. It appeals to my visceral nature, and it's incredibly erotic.

Ugh...when I was teaching Romeo and Juliet during my student teaching, I got in trouble for a) reminding the students that it was a 13 year old and b) suggesting that the "morning after" scene was actually very angry, bitter, and...well, angsty. "Yeah. Right. It's the nightingale. Uh huh. Sure."

Ouch. That's a real dumb reason for a reprimand.

Back onto the subject of poetry: how come so much modern poetry, both in musical and non-musical form, is focused on those type of "emo" angst issues. Apparently life is one long unending roller coaster ride between self-mutilation sessions and existential crises.

THE CINNAMON PEELER by Michael Ondaatje

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

If I were a cinnamon peeler
I would ride your bed
and leave the yellow bark dust
on your pillow.

Your breasts and shoulders would reek
you could never walk through markets
without the profession of my fingers
floating over you. The blind would
stumble certain of whom they approached
though you might bathe
under rain gutters, monsoon.

Here on the upper thigh
at this smooth pasture
neighbor to your hair
or the crease
that cuts your back. This ankle.
You will be known among strangers
as the cinnamon peeler's wife.

I could hardly glance at you
before marriage
never touch you
-- your keen nosed mother, your rough brothers.
I buried my hands
in saffron, disguised them
over smoking tar,
helped the honey gatherers...

When we swam once
I touched you in water
and 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 women
the grasscutter's wife, the lime burner's daughter.

And you searched your arms

for the missing perfume.

and knew
what good is it
to be the lime burner's daughter

left with no trace

as if not spoken to in an act of love

as if wounded without the pleasure of scar.


You touched
your belly to my hands
in the dry air and said
I am the cinnamon
peeler's wife. Smell me.


I love this poem because it's so sensual...literally. It appeals to my visceral nature, and it's incredibly erotic.
It reminds me of Goblin Market by Christina Rossetti
(http://www.victorianweb.org/authors/crossetti/gobmarket.html)...quite long, but very sensual. Actually, it is a very special poem, in that it has been marketed as a childrens tale, full of illustrations, and has also appeared in the pages of Playboy

Robert Frost, but none of that "Road Less Traveled" nonsense.

Also John Donne.
Frost is an amazing poet; it's a shame he's been pushed into New England kitsch. "Death of a Hired Man" is great not just as a poem, but how he manages to keep it going for five pages. Incredibly talented.

I like A.E. Housman, sort of late 19th century emo, but with a sense of humor. I don't know if this (http://www.chiark.greenend.org.uk/~martinh/poems/housman.html#ASLxix) is my all-time favorite, but it's one of them.

I just know I am going to end up regretting this.

http://www.vendor-lazarus.deviantart.com

But I might also gain some pointers and useful tips/criticism.

I know the feeling. For some reason, this problem is nearly universal. The very destructive passion of "Romeo and Juliet" is held up on a pedestal as an ideal love, the fascist nihilism that was thoroughly deconstructed in Fight Club is far too often idolized by fans. And who can forget the "Seig Zeon" crowd from Mobile Suit Gundam otakus?

Or the disturbingly high numbers of people who didn't realize that the film version of Starship Troopers is anti-fascist satire.

I really have no answer for this, other than the very disturbing thought that the vast majority of people out there are barely concious zombies totally stripped of their humanity by an inhuman social arrangement.

I think of it as the non-internet version of Poe's Law.

It reminds me of Goblin Market by Christina Rossetti
(http://www.victorianweb.org/authors/crossetti/gobmarket.html)...quite long, but very sensual. Actually, it is a very special poem, in that it has been marketed as a childrens tale, full of illustrations, and has also appeared in the pages of Playboy

I haven`t read this in YEARS...I`d completely forgotten about it! Thank you!

You know, I used to hate The Road Not Taken untill I realized later just how much people tend to misinterpret it...it isn't about taking a huge risk, it's about coming to two identical paths, then, when retelling the story later, claiming the path one took was the "less traveled" one.

Frost is a twisted funny man.

I have never heard that interpretation. That is awesome. I like that poem now. (I didn't dislike it, per se, before. I've just heard it too many times).

I just know I am going to end up regretting this.

http://www.vendor-lazarus.deviantart.com

But I might also gain some pointers and useful tips/criticism.
Emotional sounds needs a better title. I do like that one...though, on some reads I'm left wanting something...more. That isn't necessarily bad.

Wolf under moon is a bit too...expected. The lone wolf image is a fairly common one. For some reason, the third stanza is reminding me of 300. No clue why.


I'd suggest playing with enjambment...it can draw attention to lines, add stress and speed to the overall flow, and really change how the poem works

I haven`t read this in YEARS...I`d completely forgotten about it! Thank you!

Sarkhaan: fulfilling all your erotic poetry needs since...well, about 20 minutes ago.

Saying Your Names (http://community.livejournal.com/the_weekly_poet/18419.html#cutid1), by Richard Siken.

Siken is easily one of my favourite poets (Scheherazade is my other favourite of his). "Saying Your Names" makes me absolutely weep.

I've posted one of my own poems on here somewhere... I'd post another, but I don't write much in recent months, so.

I have never heard that interpretation. That is awesome. I like that poem now. (I didn't dislike it, per se, before. I've just heard it too many times).

Read through it again. My breakdown of it by stanza:

TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
This basically says "I saw two roads. Both look like fun, but I can only choose one. I look down the first as far as I can"

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
Now he looks down the other, and says that it hasn't been traveled in a while, but really, the other one is more or less just as grassy and untraveled

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
"The roads look pretty much the same, and no ones walked either. I pick the second for no real stated reason. I hope to come back and try the first one later, but this one trail may lead to another and another and another...I'll probably never come here again"

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
"One day, I'll tell this story. I came to a crossroad, and took the one 'less traveled' (even though, as he said in the first two stanzas, they really were identical)m and that has made the difference"

LO! 't is a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years.
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.

Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly;
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their condor wings
Invisible Woe.

That motley drama—oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot;
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot.

But see amid the mimic rout
A crawling shape intrude:
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes—it writhes!—with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And over each quivering form
In human gore imbued.

Out—out are the lights—out all!
And over each quivering form
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
While the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, "Man,"
And its hero, the Conqueror Worm.

That is my favorite poem by far.

Read through it again. My breakdown of it by stanza:


This basically says "I saw two roads. Both look like fun, but I can only choose one. I look down the first as far as I can"


Now he looks down the other, and says that it hasn't been traveled in a while, but really, the other one is more or less just as grassy and untraveled


"The roads look pretty much the same, and no ones walked either. I pick the second for no real stated reason. I hope to come back and try the first one later, but this one trail may lead to another and another and another...I'll probably never come here again"


"One day, I'll tell this story. I came to a crossroad, and took the one 'less traveled' (even though, as he said in the first two stanzas, they really were identical)m and that has made the difference"

You know, I should have been able to get that the first time around. I blame stupid people reading it repeatedly to me. Like the one speaker I heard who then proceeded to tell it again in ebonics, not unlike he was an AME preacher telling a sermon. I really wish I was making that up, but it actually happened.

Emotional sounds needs a better title. I do like that one...though, on some reads I'm left wanting something...more. That isn't necessarily bad.

Now that you pointed it out, I can see that the title does not properly reflect that poems meaning.
And those two first poems are "work in progress".
So you are entirely correct, they are missing something.

Wolf under moon is a bit too...expected. The lone wolf image is a fairly common one. For some reason, the third stanza is reminding me of 300. No clue why.

It is a bit used.
But you can´t learn stuff if you don´t try things out. ,)

I'd suggest playing with enjambment...it can draw attention to lines, add stress and speed to the overall flow, and really change how the poem works

I appreciate the tip, but I very much dislike enjambment.
For me, it breaks the moment/thought it had going,
and it ends up very chaotic.
I always try to make the poem flowing,
and very much read in a musical kind of way.

I am sorry if I sound a bit negative,
that is not my intention.
I really enjoyed hearing another person´s view on them,
so thank you again.

I love Greek and Roman epic poetry. And I'm reading the Mahabharata right now.

I'm partial to T. S. Elliot's "The Hollow Men" (below) and Yeats' The Second Coming

Mistah Kurtz—he dead.
A penny for the Old Guy
I
We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats’ feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar
Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;
Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death’s other Kingdom
Remember us—if at all—not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.
II
Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death’s dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind’s singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.
Let me be no nearer
In death’s dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat’s coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer—
Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom
III
This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man’s hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.
Is it like this
In death’s other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.
IV
The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms
In this last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river
Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death’s twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.
V
Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o’clock in the morning.
Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom
Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow
Life is very long
Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom
For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper

You know, I should have been able to get that the first time around. I blame stupid people reading it repeatedly to me. Like the one speaker I heard who then proceeded to tell it again in ebonics, not unlike he was an AME preacher telling a sermon. I really wish I was making that up, but it actually happened.
haha...you have to love what some people do to poetry to try to break it down. Sometimes it works. Not usually.
Now that you pointed it out, I can see that the title does not properly reflect that poems meaning.
And those two first poems are "work in progress".
So you are entirely correct, they are missing something.



It is a bit used.
But you can´t learn stuff if you don´t try things out. ,)Tru dat. I think the metaphor is just a little thin for my taste



I appreciate the tip, but I very much dislike enjambment.
For me, it breaks the moment/thought it had going,
and it ends up very chaotic.
I always try to make the poem flowing,
and very much read in a musical kind of way.

I am sorry if I sound a bit negative,
that is not my intention.
I really enjoyed hearing another person´s view on them,
so thank you again.
haha...not coming off negative at all. I love enjambment in some cases, but not others. For example, Lord Tennyson's The Lotus Eaters (http://www.bartleby.com/42/638.html) just doesn't work so well with tons of enjambment, whereas Gwendolyn Brook's We Real Cool (http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15433) relies on it.

But then, you can always play with meter, which can do more for the feel of the poem than any amount of enjambment.
I love Greek and Roman epic poetry. And I'm reading the Mahabharata right now.
any good?

I'm partial to T. S. Elliot's "The Hollow Men" (below) and Yeats' The Second Coming

Mistah Kurtz—he dead.
A penny for the Old Guy
I
We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats’ feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar
Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;
Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death’s other Kingdom
Remember us—if at all—not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.
II
Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death’s dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind’s singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.
Let me be no nearer
In death’s dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat’s coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer—
Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom
III
This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man’s hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.
Is it like this
In death’s other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.
IV
The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms
In this last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river
Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death’s twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.
V
Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o’clock in the morning.
Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom
Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow
Life is very long
Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom
For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper

^favorite poem of all time, especially the final section

In the deadening silence of the new world order

The fools and the liars gather round to compound

The mistakes made by the cheats and the fakes

As the ashes of a world pile up outside their door

They move to a higher floor, they play their games

And never suspect that the cause of all their joy

Is the ever-present pain, and so they sit there

Isolated and ostracized, and wait for the day

When they collect their pay and run into the sky

Until it finds them, and the ashes of a world

And the memories of a new world order

Are all that is left

And the fakes and the cheats and the liars and the fools

Make a pyre for all of their own rules

And all who are left run from the vengeance

of an earth gone mad,

and there is nothing left.

I didn't say goodbye. And so
You said it for me
Leaving me alone in the park
Grasping at the words that
Might make you turn around
Failing, as you drove away.

I didn't call. You said
You wanted time to think it over
But I think I knew then
What you were thinking.
I think we knew, deep down
You were looking for the best way
To say what you needed to.

I waited. And waited.
Patience not a virtue,
I couldn't break a promise
Not this time.
Not when I knew you'd settle
On an answer presented just
How you wanted it.
When you'd tell me not a
Moment sooner than when
You felt sure.

You told me.
You left me, with an ache
I think I'll heal, but not now
Or soon.
All the preparation, the
Anticipation didn't mean a damn thing
With that look in your eyes.

And yet again,
I'm alone, and
The park is colder now.



...bash away. I need to get back into doing this without...sucking so much.

Most of my very favorites are far too long to copy-paste here (The Waste Land, for example, would make for a rather longish post :tongue:), so I'll just stick in one little sonnet - possibly the most famous sonnet ever written, and deservedly so:

On His Blindness
John Milton

When I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide,
"Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?"
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies: "God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts: who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed
And post o'er land and ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and wait."

Oh, it's home again and home again, America for me!
I want a ship that's westward bound to plough the rolling sea
To the blessed land of Room Enough beyond the ocean bars,
Where the air is full of sunlight and the flag is full of stars.
~Henry Van Dyke

My personal favorites.

The Emperor of Ice-Cream by Wallace Stevens

Call the roller of big cigars,
The muscular one, and bid him whip
In kitchen cups concupiscent curds.
Let the wenches dawdle in such dress
As they are used to wear, and let the boys
Bring flowers in last month's newspapers.
Let be be finale of seem.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.

Take from the dresser of deal,
Lacking the three glass knobs, that sheet
On which she embroidered fantails once
And spread it so as to cover her face.
If her horny feet protrude, they come
To show how cold she is, and dumb.
Let the lamp affix its beam.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.

Furuike ya
kawazu tobikomu
mizu no oto
- Basho

(The old pond
A frog jumps in
The Sound of water)

And from the Bard himself:

Sonnet 116

Let me not to the marriage of true minds

Admit impediments. Love is not love

Which alters when it alteration finds,

Or bends with the remover to remove:

O no! it is an ever-fixed mark

That looks on tempests and is never shaken;

It is the star to every wandering bark,

Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.

Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

Within his bending sickle's compass come:

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

If this be error and upon me proved,

I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

Of course, my English prof told me what that REALLY means and so now I cannot help but smirk when I read it.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HWNWnm3IX2M

A long time ago there was a successful Poets thread: here (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=276038) in the archives. Too bad it had to hit the old 65 page limit.