A Poem Thread
- Thread starter Angelus
- Start date
Dragon's cookie nightmare
One night, when the Moon was setting,
an eye had just opened - a dragon awoken!
It shrieked, it moaned, it had dreamed,
that all the cookies had been eaten by thieves!
With fire and thunder the dragon took flight
and flew to the kitchen with terrible might,
but all the cookies were laying at rest
awaiting the dragon to soak them in milk.
The cookie dragon now smiling and calm,
with all the fright gone with the dawn,
opened a packet of freshly laid eggs
and poured flour and sugar over his face.
Peace is a lie, there is only passion.
Through passion, I gain strength.
Through strength, I gain power.
Through power, I gain victory.
Through victory, my chains are broken.
The Force shall set me free.
—The Sith Code
Through passion, I gain strength.
Through strength, I gain power.
Through power, I gain victory.
Through victory, my chains are broken.
The Force shall set me free.
—The Sith Code
toolzombie
Registered Member
If I had a gun I would cock it
shoot your eyes right out of their sockets
spray you with mace
and spit in your face
then cram your eyes in your pockets.
Haha, just kidding.
Well, I really did write that, but...on a more serious note:
I put my head in my hands, smelling traces of cigarettes and baby
shampoo, and wonder where it all went wrong. Why do you see nothing
when you look at me?
How did I become so transparent?
Maybe there's nothing wrong with me at all.
Perhaps it's your eyes.
Your vision has become obscured by an unknown device,
and I heard somewhere that the eyes are the gateway to the soul.
Your eyes betray what your mouth
produces, and I can no longer pretend that they can co-exist.
My smile is fixed, what vain hope is this,
that once again yours will be sincere.
Tears slip down my face like profanities
Each so seemingly delicate and fragile, but with the capability of leaving vicious scars.
Collecting in puddles along the seams of my soul, rusting my very existence.
No more bending, I only break.
As you tear this up, you tear me down.
Thinking that you'll be able to put the pieces back together when you're ready to pretend again,
only to find that the edges have frayed and they no longer fit.
I'm real, after all, and what did you expect to accomplish?
Such an easy victim I've become.
Sounds like fun, yeah?
shoot your eyes right out of their sockets
spray you with mace
and spit in your face
then cram your eyes in your pockets.
Haha, just kidding.
Well, I really did write that, but...on a more serious note:
I put my head in my hands, smelling traces of cigarettes and baby
shampoo, and wonder where it all went wrong. Why do you see nothing
when you look at me?
How did I become so transparent?
Maybe there's nothing wrong with me at all.
Perhaps it's your eyes.
Your vision has become obscured by an unknown device,
and I heard somewhere that the eyes are the gateway to the soul.
Your eyes betray what your mouth
produces, and I can no longer pretend that they can co-exist.
My smile is fixed, what vain hope is this,
that once again yours will be sincere.
Tears slip down my face like profanities
Each so seemingly delicate and fragile, but with the capability of leaving vicious scars.
Collecting in puddles along the seams of my soul, rusting my very existence.
No more bending, I only break.
As you tear this up, you tear me down.
Thinking that you'll be able to put the pieces back together when you're ready to pretend again,
only to find that the edges have frayed and they no longer fit.
I'm real, after all, and what did you expect to accomplish?
Such an easy victim I've become.
Sounds like fun, yeah?
Man you are one damaged chick....wanna get married?
toolzombie
Registered Member
Aah...a better compliment never recieved.
You sure know how to attract a lady.
How are you doing financially?
What a shame to bury this here. Deserves a thread of its own.
Aubade: written by Philip Larkin at 4am
I work all day, and get half-drunk at night.
Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.
In time the curtain-edges will grow light.
Till then I see what's really always there:
Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,
Making all thought impossible but how
And where and when I shall myself die.
Arid interrogation: yet the dread
Of dying, and being dead,
Flashes afresh to hold and horrify.
The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse
-- The good not done, the love not given, time
Torn off unused -- nor wretchedly because
An only life can take so long to climb
Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never;
But at the total emptiness for ever,
The sure extinction that we travel to
And shall be lost in always. Not to be here,
Not to be anywhere,
And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true.
This is a special way of being afraid
No trick dispels. Religion used to try,
That vast moth-eaten musical brocade
Created to pretend we never die,
And specious stuff that says No rational being
Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing
That this is what we fear -- no sight, no sound,
No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with,
Nothing to love or link with,
The anaesthetic from which none come round.
And so it stays just on the edge of vision,
A small unfocused blur, a standing chill
That slows each impulse down to indecision.
Most things may never happen: this one will,
And realisation of it rages out
In furnace-fear when we are caught without
People or drink. Courage is no good:
It means not scaring others. Being brave
Lets no one off the grave.
Death is no different whined at than withstood.
Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape.
It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know,
Have always known, know that we can't escape,
Yet can't accept. One side will have to go.
Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring
In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring
Intricate rented world begins to rouse.
The sky is white as clay, with no sun.
Work has to be done.
Postmen like doctors go from house to house.
>> More poems by Philip Larkin <<
Aubade: written by Philip Larkin at 4am
I work all day, and get half-drunk at night.
Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.
In time the curtain-edges will grow light.
Till then I see what's really always there:
Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,
Making all thought impossible but how
And where and when I shall myself die.
Arid interrogation: yet the dread
Of dying, and being dead,
Flashes afresh to hold and horrify.
The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse
-- The good not done, the love not given, time
Torn off unused -- nor wretchedly because
An only life can take so long to climb
Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never;
But at the total emptiness for ever,
The sure extinction that we travel to
And shall be lost in always. Not to be here,
Not to be anywhere,
And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true.
This is a special way of being afraid
No trick dispels. Religion used to try,
That vast moth-eaten musical brocade
Created to pretend we never die,
And specious stuff that says No rational being
Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing
That this is what we fear -- no sight, no sound,
No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with,
Nothing to love or link with,
The anaesthetic from which none come round.
And so it stays just on the edge of vision,
A small unfocused blur, a standing chill
That slows each impulse down to indecision.
Most things may never happen: this one will,
And realisation of it rages out
In furnace-fear when we are caught without
People or drink. Courage is no good:
It means not scaring others. Being brave
Lets no one off the grave.
Death is no different whined at than withstood.
Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape.
It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know,
Have always known, know that we can't escape,
Yet can't accept. One side will have to go.
Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring
In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring
Intricate rented world begins to rouse.
The sky is white as clay, with no sun.
Work has to be done.
Postmen like doctors go from house to house.
>> More poems by Philip Larkin <<
A poem entitled, You Cockknocker, I hope you die cut into a thousand pieces
That I didn't break,
That I didn't shatter.
That I didn't die
That you don't matter.
That you never won,
That I wasn't beat.
That you couldn't run,
That I made you weak.
That we both meld,
That we seemed to fit.
That you're not mine,
That I felt shit.
That once it was,
That's never more.
That you walked out
That one way door.
That broke the spell,
That little sip,
That's devil's cup,
That made me sick.
That memories fade,
That time will heal.
That fucking lie,
That death toll peel.
That I didn't break,
That I didn't shatter.
That I didn't die
That you don't matter.
That you never won,
That I wasn't beat.
That you couldn't run,
That I made you weak.
That we both meld,
That we seemed to fit.
That you're not mine,
That I felt shit.
That once it was,
That's never more.
That you walked out
That one way door.
That broke the spell,
That little sip,
That's devil's cup,
That made me sick.
That memories fade,
That time will heal.
That fucking lie,
That death toll peel.
Тальков Игорь
Я мечтаю вернуться с войны
На которой родился и рос,
На руинах нищей страны
Под дождями из слёз.
Но не предан земле тиран,
Объявивший войну стране,
И не видно конца и края этой войне.
Я пророчить не берусь,
Но точно знаю, что вернусь
Пусть даже через сто веков
В страну не дураков, а гениев.
И, поверженный в бою,
Я воскресну и спою
На первом дне рождения
Страны, вернувшейся с войны.
А когда затихают бои,
На привале, а не в строю,
Я о мире и о любви
Сочиняю и пою.
Облегчённо вздыхают враги,
А друзья говорят: "Устал"...
Ошибаются те, и другие - это привал.
Я завтра снова в бой сорвусь,
Но точно знаю, что вернусь
Пусть даже через сто веков
В страну не дураков, а гениев.
И, поверженный в бою,
Я воскресну и спою
На первом дне рождения
Страны, вернувшейся с войны.
С войны...
Я завтра снова в бой сорвусь,
Но точно знаю, что вернусь
Пусть даже через сто веков
В страну не дураков, а гениев.
И, поверженный в бою,
Я воскресну и спою
На первом дне рождения
Страны, вернувшейся с войны.
Вернусь...
С войны...
Я мечтаю вернуться с войны
На которой родился и рос,
На руинах нищей страны
Под дождями из слёз.
Но не предан земле тиран,
Объявивший войну стране,
И не видно конца и края этой войне.
Я пророчить не берусь,
Но точно знаю, что вернусь
Пусть даже через сто веков
В страну не дураков, а гениев.
И, поверженный в бою,
Я воскресну и спою
На первом дне рождения
Страны, вернувшейся с войны.
А когда затихают бои,
На привале, а не в строю,
Я о мире и о любви
Сочиняю и пою.
Облегчённо вздыхают враги,
А друзья говорят: "Устал"...
Ошибаются те, и другие - это привал.
Я завтра снова в бой сорвусь,
Но точно знаю, что вернусь
Пусть даже через сто веков
В страну не дураков, а гениев.
И, поверженный в бою,
Я воскресну и спою
На первом дне рождения
Страны, вернувшейся с войны.
С войны...
Я завтра снова в бой сорвусь,
Но точно знаю, что вернусь
Пусть даже через сто веков
В страну не дураков, а гениев.
И, поверженный в бою,
Я воскресну и спою
На первом дне рождения
Страны, вернувшейся с войны.
Вернусь...
С войны...
A soldier is dreaming of his homeland, Russia...on a battlefront at Afghanistan...well actually its a guy who sings how he never got to be in Afghanistan is now meeting a buddy who lost his arm and talks about war in Afghanistan
Le mot
qui traverse la surface ondulant
A breath that rushes in and empties out
A note sliding up and down a scale with no start or end
The same note but made new
la même cadence encore
Behind you they swell up in a chorus of remembered rhythms
They strum and shiver, slap and shake your journey
through the breaking waves
ton trajet soutenu des vagues deferlent
qui traverse la surface ondulant
A breath that rushes in and empties out
A note sliding up and down a scale with no start or end
The same note but made new
la même cadence encore
Behind you they swell up in a chorus of remembered rhythms
They strum and shiver, slap and shake your journey
through the breaking waves
ton trajet soutenu des vagues deferlent
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Go Down Moses
Registered Senior Member
Some good stuff in this thread.
Here are my 2 favorite poems by perhaps the greatest living English speaking poet.
On a Side Street
If there are small shops
With illegible signs,
Don’t come near them
Or look in their windows.
Keep to where the sky can be seen
In its cloudless twilight splendor
Above the dark buildings,
Dark even on darkest nights.
If someone’s following you,
And he limps, and he’s got a watch
He puts to his ear smiling,
Run from him and his watch.
There’s a wide, well-lit avenue
Close by. Thousands have come out
Just to see you, though
They make believe you’re invisible
As you step into the light
Out of that dark side street,
With your face so pale
It seems powdered for a carnival.
Shading Exercize
This street could use a bit of shade
And the same goes for that small boy
Playing alone in the sun,
A shadow to dart after him like a black kitten.
His parents sit in a room with shades drawn.
The stairs to the cellar
Are hardly used anymore
Except for an occasional prowler.
Like a troop of traveling actors dressed to play Hamlet,
The evening shadows come.
They spend their days hidden in the trees
Outside the old courthouse.
Now comes the hard part:
What to do with the stones in the graveyard?
The sun doesn't care for ambiguities,
But I do. I open my door and let them in.
* * *
Best living in English: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charles_Simic
Runner up: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carolyn_Forche
Best American of all time: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Frost
Best Brit of all time: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Shakespeare
Runner up: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thomas_Hardy
Best French: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arthur_Rimbaud
Best Spanish: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pablo_Neruda
On a Side Street
If there are small shops
With illegible signs,
Don’t come near them
Or look in their windows.
Keep to where the sky can be seen
In its cloudless twilight splendor
Above the dark buildings,
Dark even on darkest nights.
If someone’s following you,
And he limps, and he’s got a watch
He puts to his ear smiling,
Run from him and his watch.
There’s a wide, well-lit avenue
Close by. Thousands have come out
Just to see you, though
They make believe you’re invisible
As you step into the light
Out of that dark side street,
With your face so pale
It seems powdered for a carnival.
Shading Exercize
This street could use a bit of shade
And the same goes for that small boy
Playing alone in the sun,
A shadow to dart after him like a black kitten.
His parents sit in a room with shades drawn.
The stairs to the cellar
Are hardly used anymore
Except for an occasional prowler.
Like a troop of traveling actors dressed to play Hamlet,
The evening shadows come.
They spend their days hidden in the trees
Outside the old courthouse.
Now comes the hard part:
What to do with the stones in the graveyard?
The sun doesn't care for ambiguities,
But I do. I open my door and let them in.
* * *
Best living in English: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charles_Simic
Runner up: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carolyn_Forche
Best American of all time: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Frost
Best Brit of all time: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Shakespeare
Runner up: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thomas_Hardy
Best French: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arthur_Rimbaud
Best Spanish: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pablo_Neruda
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The Old Roman:
Have I seen thee
Thy uncertain form
Not amongst the spears and clashing
Or the cries of those
Who sought thy hurried favour
On red-streaked and stinking fields
Long you sought to turn my gaze
But well I held the shield
And pressed with strength upon the foe
Though Mars were as with our host
We stepped as one into the cleft
They screamed to you anew as their blood was offered
To buzz and be scattered; their coils strewn
To your dusty house
Thine eyes have yet
My face to behold
Are you looming as a twilight on a misting glade
Through which I will wander as
No other way opens ahead
Do I know thee, Death
I know you do not lay and wait
Or need any plan or arrangement
The distant hills are not
From whence you need to come
No
I will not see you tonight
Nor any other that is
Left to me to dream in
I will not see thy gaze, as I walk along
Alone, into your embrace
(translated by /me from a Latin poem by D. LaTrobe-Easte)
P.S. Dang it, I can't get a vague-ish link to a certain Roman general who became an Emperor, then went to live on a certain island with certain animals on it (it was even named after them), connected to: "stepping into the cleft", sort of like "climbing nimbly up the rock face", and how Mars being "as with our host" means "in the house" - whose house? The Emperor's/general's house, natch - Capricorn. There's also a vague-ish meaning of sacrificial animals (goats were sacrificed by Romans for all sorts of reasons) with the "offering" side of it. Roman legionaries, like most people of the day, believed that flies came from blood, rather than flies arriving from somewhere, because they seemed to appear "from nowhere", so they must come from spilled blood, simple really.
English don't do it so good, some of the times.
Have I seen thee
Thy uncertain form
Not amongst the spears and clashing
Or the cries of those
Who sought thy hurried favour
On red-streaked and stinking fields
Long you sought to turn my gaze
But well I held the shield
And pressed with strength upon the foe
Though Mars were as with our host
We stepped as one into the cleft
They screamed to you anew as their blood was offered
To buzz and be scattered; their coils strewn
To your dusty house
Thine eyes have yet
My face to behold
Are you looming as a twilight on a misting glade
Through which I will wander as
No other way opens ahead
Do I know thee, Death
I know you do not lay and wait
Or need any plan or arrangement
The distant hills are not
From whence you need to come
No
I will not see you tonight
Nor any other that is
Left to me to dream in
I will not see thy gaze, as I walk along
Alone, into your embrace
(translated by /me from a Latin poem by D. LaTrobe-Easte)
P.S. Dang it, I can't get a vague-ish link to a certain Roman general who became an Emperor, then went to live on a certain island with certain animals on it (it was even named after them), connected to: "stepping into the cleft", sort of like "climbing nimbly up the rock face", and how Mars being "as with our host" means "in the house" - whose house? The Emperor's/general's house, natch - Capricorn. There's also a vague-ish meaning of sacrificial animals (goats were sacrificed by Romans for all sorts of reasons) with the "offering" side of it. Roman legionaries, like most people of the day, believed that flies came from blood, rather than flies arriving from somewhere, because they seemed to appear "from nowhere", so they must come from spilled blood, simple really.
English don't do it so good, some of the times.
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Which way do rivers flow?
I ask myself sometimes...
which way do rivers flow
I wonder. if I can swim with current
Deep sadness in me brings back memories
Deep water below me is dark as my destiny
Deep sadness in me brings back memories
Deep water below me reflecting my body in it
If I could fly sometimes
for all eternity
If I could fly sometimes
the quiet wind in my arms
floats just alike the clouds
in my memories sadness brings back
in the waters below me
I ask myself sometimes...
which way do rivers flow
I wonder. if I can swim with current
Deep sadness in me brings back memories
Deep water below me is dark as my destiny
Deep sadness in me brings back memories
Deep water below me reflecting my body in it
If I could fly sometimes
for all eternity
If I could fly sometimes
the quiet wind in my arms
floats just alike the clouds
in my memories sadness brings back
in the waters below me
The Mistress
The Maiden:
Not she, a lady flaxen haired
Walking in an ivy-strewn morning hour
Nor does she strew a fresh bouquet
Upon a lazily swinging chair in any bower
Is She not fair and beauteous?
Her glowing, soft skin cares not for the faint-of-heart
If she but extends her touch
To chill, perhaps to stop a quickening pulse
How Electra's hair amazes
See, it blazes a fantastic halo, and a holograph she wears
Her hands are many-fingered
And shining diamond points her nails
The coloured coruscating swirls and trails
That tunnel from her hand and cross, but to the right
There, a digit's black tip
Jet-dark the others shimmer with peculiar waves, as they alight
The Maiden:
Not she, a lady flaxen haired
Walking in an ivy-strewn morning hour
Nor does she strew a fresh bouquet
Upon a lazily swinging chair in any bower
Is She not fair and beauteous?
Her glowing, soft skin cares not for the faint-of-heart
If she but extends her touch
To chill, perhaps to stop a quickening pulse
How Electra's hair amazes
See, it blazes a fantastic halo, and a holograph she wears
Her hands are many-fingered
And shining diamond points her nails
The coloured coruscating swirls and trails
That tunnel from her hand and cross, but to the right
There, a digit's black tip
Jet-dark the others shimmer with peculiar waves, as they alight
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A loaded gun called Despair.
Looking for a reason to stay,
Searching for life in the Cherry-apple Blossom
scattered around my feet,
and found nothing but death and decay,
repugnent stench and the rotting fruit of dreams
Reaching to the heavens, the stars I ask:
"Is there reason to stay?"
and felt no reply, felt only his care
God must be sharing this grief in his heart of mine
as I pulled the trigger of this gun called despair.
Amazed to hear an empty click,
I felt the question rise in my mind:
"Is there reason to go?"
qq 07/08/2008
Looking for a reason to stay,
Searching for life in the Cherry-apple Blossom
scattered around my feet,
and found nothing but death and decay,
repugnent stench and the rotting fruit of dreams
Reaching to the heavens, the stars I ask:
"Is there reason to stay?"
and felt no reply, felt only his care
God must be sharing this grief in his heart of mine
as I pulled the trigger of this gun called despair.
Amazed to hear an empty click,
I felt the question rise in my mind:
"Is there reason to go?"
qq 07/08/2008
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