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Thread: The Poetry Thread

  1. #1
    Hasta Siempre Madrigal's Avatar
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    The Poetry Thread

    What Spain Was Like

    Spain was a taut, dry drum-head
    Daily beating a dull thud
    Flatlands and eagle's nest
    Silence lashed by the storm.
    How much, to the point of weeping, in my soul
    I love your hard soil, your poor bread,
    Your poor people, how much in the deep place
    Of my being there is still the lost flower
    Of your wrinkled villages, motionless in time
    And your metallic meadows
    Stretched out in the moonlight through the ages,
    Now devoured by a false god.

    All your confinement, your animal isolation
    While you are still conscious
    Surrounded by the abstract stones of silence,
    Your rough wine, your smooth wine
    Your violent and dangerous vineyards.

    Solar stone, pure among the regions
    Of the world, Spain streaked
    With blood and metal, blue and victorious
    Proletarian Spain, made of petals and bullets
    Unique, alive, asleep - resounding.


    - Pablo Neruda

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    Humanity I Love You

    Humanity i love you
    because you would rather black the boots of
    success than enquire whose soul dangles from his
    watch-chain which would be embarrassing for both

    parties and because you
    unflinchingly applaud all
    songs containing the words country home and
    mother when sung at the old howard

    Humanity i love you because
    when you’re hard up you pawn your
    intelligence to buy a drink and when
    you’re flush pride keeps

    you from the pawn shop and
    because you are continually committing
    nuisances but more
    especially in your own house

    Humanity i love you because you
    are perpetually putting the secret of
    life in your pants and forgetting
    it’s there and sitting down

    on it
    and because you are
    forever making poems in the lap
    of death Humanity

    i hate you

    -e.e. cummings

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    Dulce Et Decorum Est

    Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
    Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
    Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
    And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
    Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
    But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
    Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
    Of disappointed shells that dropped behind.

    GAS! Gas! Quick, boys!-- An ecstasy of fumbling,
    Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
    But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
    And floundering like a man in fire or lime.--
    Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light
    As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

    In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
    He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

    If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
    Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
    And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
    His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
    If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
    Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
    Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
    Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
    My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
    To children ardent for some desperate glory,
    The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
    Pro patria mori.

    --Wilfred Owen

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    Edgar Allen Poe, "Annabelle Lee." Excellent.


  5. #5
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    Sharks' Teeth
    Kay Ryan

    Everything contains some
    silence. Noise gets
    its zest from the
    small shark's-tooth
    shaped fragments
    of rest angled
    in it. An hour
    of city holds maybe
    a minute of these
    remnants of a time
    when silence reigned,
    compact and dangerous
    as a shark. Sometimes
    a bit of a tail
    or fin can still
    be sensed in parks.

    Separation
    W.S. Merwin

    Your absence has gone through me
    Like thread through a needle.
    Everything I do is stitched with its color.

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    A Glimpse Behind The Make Up
    by Kelsey

    The words flow with the tears,
    that are damp like the rain.
    I must be gorgeous,
    if beauty is pain.
    Your words, they hurt;
    but not as much as mine.
    A walking travesty,
    yet you call me a dime.

    Evil and twisted,
    sick deep inside.
    So very much to say,
    but to who can I confide.
    Fight back the tears,
    they can’t see me cry.
    Emotionless I seem,
    with nowhere left to hide.

    Feeling breathless again?
    Why? There’s plenty of air.
    Please don’t put me on this pedestal,
    where none can compare.
    I am heartless, I am evil.
    I am sorry, it is true.
    All I can hope,
    is that I won’t destroy you.

    You’re fragile and dependent,
    so very easy to break.
    So listen to these words,
    and make no mistake.
    Don’t call me beautiful,
    you haven’t seen the scars:
    and don’t tell me that I’ll be okay,
    I barely got this far.

    Made with layers,
    I appear to be sane.
    But inside of my head,
    darkness calls my name.
    A simple little girl,
    let down to many times.
    My only way to speak,
    is words put into rhyme.

    Quiet as a mouse,
    yet sick as fox.
    I’ve been pushed down too many times,
    like a stack of wooden blocks.
    Got back up, now Im broken,
    ‘injured beyond repair.
    What I’ve learned is when you’re down,
    there is nobody there.

    ()
    (ps hooray that there is a poetry thread here, hooray hooray i say)

  7. #7
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    Quote Originally Posted by Makers!* View Post
    Edgar Allen Poe, "Annabelle Lee." Excellent.

    What about this?





    The poem is written about his romantic attraction to his cousin, by the way.

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    Quote Originally Posted by msg_v2 View Post
    What about this?

    It's alright. Sara Jarosz has more pep and devil in her. Plus she's being backed by some of the biggest names in bluegrass. As far as the cousin thing, yea it's weird but not as uncommon back then. Jerry Lee Lewis married his 13 year old cousin 100 years later. That turned some heads.

  9. #9
    Hasta Siempre Madrigal's Avatar
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    This got lost in my old blog.


    Formality and the cold

    Who would have thought
    That love so informal
    Would bestow itself on them so formal
    While they had lunch for the first time
    She very slowly he not so much
    Spoke with suspicious objectivity
    Of great debates in two volumes
    That smile her smile
    Was like an omen or a fable
    That gaze his gaze was taking note
    Of those eyes her eyes
    But those words his words
    Were unaware of that sweet survey
    As always or almost always
    Politics led to culture
    So they went to the theater that night
    Without touching a single fingernail or button
    Not even a buckle or a sleeve
    And since it was cold when they got out
    And she wasn't wearing socks
    Only sandals that revealed
    Very white defenseless toes
    They had to enter a bar
    And since the waiter took so long
    They opted for confidence
    Extra dry and no ice please

    When they got home her home
    The cold was on those lips his lips
    So like a fable or an omen she
    Gave him shelter instant coffee
    Just an hour of biographies and nostalgia
    And a silence came upon them
    As you know in these cases it's tough
    Not to say something pointless
    He attempted may as well sleep over
    She attempted why don't you
    He said don't insist
    She insisted why don't you
    So he stayed at first
    To gently kiss those cold feet her feet
    Then she kissed those lips his lips
    Which weren't so cold by then
    And so on and so forth
    While the great debates
    Had the sleep that they didn't.

    - Mario Benedetti ("Los Formales y el frío")
    Everything under heaven is in utter chaos; the situation is excellent. - Mao

  10. #10
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    This living hand, now warm and capable
    Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold
    And in the icy silence of the tomb,
    So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights
    That thou would wish thine own heart dry of blood
    So in my veins red life might stream again,
    And thou be conscience-calm’d–see here it is–
    I hold it towards you.

    —John Keats

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