• ”that "sjw" in the video they were making fun of is now a target of the kiwifarm sociopaths for the crime of being impassioned and fat”

Here We Post Poetry We Like

Discussion in 'Art & Literature' started by bearycool, Sep 26, 2015.

  1. October
    By Robert Frost

    O hushed October morning mild,
    Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;
    Tomorrow’s wind, if it be wild,
    Should waste them all.
    The crows above the forest call;
    Tomorrow they may form and go.
    O hushed October morning mild,
    Begin the hours of this day slow.
    Make the day seem to us less brief.
    Hearts not averse to being beguiled,
    Beguile us in the way you know.
    Release one leaf at break of day;
    At noon release another leaf;
    One from our trees, one far away.
    [exceptional individual] the sun with gentle mist;
    Enchant the land with amethyst.
    Slow, slow!
    For the grapes’ sake, if they were all,
    Whose leaves already are burnt with frost,
    Whose clustered fruit must else be lost—
    For the grapes’ sake along the wall.
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    Verified True & Honest Fan

  2. Remember when we was on ice skates,
    And I thought you were supposed to be great,
    But I kept giving you lip,
    And you kept trying to slip,
    So I could catch you.
    That was our first date,
    And after that, every day was great.
    So now I want you to know,
    That wherever you go,
    Atlantic City or in the snow,
    Don't worry about a thing,
    Cause as long as I got this ring,
    I'll always be there to catch you.

    - Rocky Balboa
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    big baby jesus

    big baby jesus Damn, I Wish I Was Barb's Lover
    True & Honest Fan

  3. Catfish Friend

    If I were to live my life
    in catfish forms
    in scaffolds of skin and whiskers
    at the bottom of a pond
    and you were to come by
    one evening
    when the moon was shining
    down into my dark home
    and stand there at the edge
    of my affection
    and think, "It's beautiful
    here by this pond.I wish
    somebody loved me,"
    I'd love you and be your catfish
    friend and drive such lonely
    thoughts from your mind
    and suddenly you would be
    at peace,
    and ask yourself, "I wonder
    if there are any catfish
    in this pond?It seems like
    a perfect place for them."

    -Richard Brautigan
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    r00 Goin' Grink

  4. Rudyard Kipling. The first two lines are somehow really speaking to me today of all days...

    If you can keep your head when all about you
    Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
    If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
    But make allowance for their doubting too;
    If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
    Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
    Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
    And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

    If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
    If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
    If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
    And treat those two impostors just the same;
    If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
    Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
    Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
    And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

    If you can make one heap of all your winnings
    And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
    And lose, and start again at your beginnings
    And never breathe a word about your loss;
    If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
    To serve your turn long after they are gone,
    And so hold on when there is nothing in you
    Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

    If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
    Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
    If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
    If all men count with you, but none too much;
    If you can fill the unforgiving minute
    With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
    Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
    And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!
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    Steamboat_Bill Going to beat the record of the Robert E. Lee

  5. ‘Out, Out—’
    The buzz saw snarled and rattled in the yard
    And made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood,
    Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it.
    And from there those that lifted eyes could count
    Five mountain ranges one behind the other
    Under the sunset far into Vermont.
    And the saw snarled and rattled, snarled and rattled,
    As it ran light, or had to bear a load.
    And nothing happened: day was all but done.
    Call it a day, I wish they might have said
    To please the boy by giving him the half hour
    That a boy counts so much when saved from work.
    His sister stood beside him in her apron
    To tell them ‘Supper.’ At the word, the saw,
    As if to prove saws knew what supper meant,
    Leaped out at the boy’s hand, or seemed to leap—
    He must have given the hand. However it was,
    Neither refused the meeting. But the hand!
    The boy’s first outcry was a rueful laugh,
    As he swung toward them holding up the hand
    Half in appeal, but half as if to keep
    The life from spilling. Then the boy saw all—
    Since he was old enough to know, big boy
    Doing a man’s work, though a child at heart—
    He saw all spoiled. ‘Don’t let him cut my hand off—
    The doctor, when he comes. Don’t let him, sister!’
    So. But the hand was gone already.
    The doctor put him in the dark of ether.
    He lay and puffed his lips out with his breath.
    And then—the watcher at his pulse took fright.
    No one believed. They listened at his heart.
    Little—less—nothing!—and that ended it.
    No more to build on there. And they, since they
    Were not the one dead, turned to their affairs.
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    Bogs tfw no rock n roll gf

  6. "After Apple-Picking"

    My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree
    Toward heaven still,
    And there's a barrel that I didn't fill
    Beside it, and there may be two or three
    Apples I didn't pick upon some bough.
    But I am done with apple-picking now.
    Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
    The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.
    I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight
    I got from looking through a pane of glass
    I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough
    And held against the world of hoary grass.
    It melted, and I let it fall and break.
    But I was well
    Upon my way to sleep before it fell,
    And I could tell
    What form my dreaming was about to take.
    Magnified apples appear and disappear,
    Stem end and blossom end,
    And every fleck of russet showing clear.
    My instep arch not only keeps the ache,
    It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.
    I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.
    And I keep hearing from the cellar bin
    The rumbling sound
    Of load on load of apples coming in.
    For I have had too much
    Of apple-picking: I am overtired
    Of the great harvest I myself desired.
    There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,
    Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.
    For all
    That struck the earth,
    No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,
    Went surely to the cider-apple heap
    As of no worth.
    One can see what will trouble
    This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.
    Were he not gone,
    The woodchuck could say whether it's like his
    Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,
    Or just some human sleep.

    Verified True & Honest Fan

  7. I'm a pioneer, I'm an explorer
    I'm a human, and I'm coming!
    I'm animated, I'm alive, my heart's big!
    It's got hot blood, going through it fast.
    I like to fight too!
    I like to eat! I like to have children!
    I'm here! I've got a life force!
    This is a human, this is what we look like!
    This is what we act like! This what everybody was like before us.
    This is what I am, I'm a throwback. I'm here!
    I've got the fire of human liberty! I'm setting fires everywhere!
    And humans are turning on everywhere!
  8. Two by Hilaire Belloc: "Tarantella" -

    Do you remember an Inn,
    Do you remember an Inn?
    And the tedding and the spreading
    Of the straw for a bedding,
    And the fleas that tease in the High Pyrenees,
    And the wine that tasted of tar?
    And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers
    (Under the vine of the dark verandah)?
    Do you remember an Inn, Miranda,
    Do you remember an Inn?
    And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteeers
    Who hadn't got a penny,
    And who weren't paying any,
    And the hammer at the doors and the Din?
    And the Hip! Hop! Hap!
    Of the clap
    Of the hands to the twirl and the swirl
    Of the girl gone chancing,
    Backing and advancing,
    Snapping of a clapper to the spin
    Out and in --
    And the Ting, Tong, Tang, of the Guitar.
    Do you remember an Inn,
    Do you remember an Inn?
    Never more;
    Never more.
    Only the high peaks hoar:
    And Aragon a torrent at the door.
    No sound
    In the walls of the Halls where falls
    The tread
    Of the feet of the dead to the ground
    No sound:
    But the boom
    Of the far Waterfall like Doom.

    and "The Microbe" -

    The Microbe is so very small
    You cannot make him out at all,
    But many sanguine people hope
    To see him through a microscope.
    His jointed tongue that lies beneath
    A hundred curious rows of teeth;
    His seven tufted tails with lots
    Of lovely pink and purple spots,
    On each of which a pattern stands,
    Composed of forty separate bands;
    His eyebrows of a tender green;
    All these have never yet been seen--
    But Scientists, who ought to know,
    Assure us that they must be so ...
    Oh! let us never, never doubt
    What nobody is sure about!

    Steamboat_Bill Going to beat the record of the Robert E. Lee

  9. Necromancy via some fantasy -

    O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
    Alone and palely loitering?
    The sedge has withered from the lake,
    And no birds sing.

    O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
    So haggard and so woe-begone?
    The squirrel’s granary is full,
    And the harvest’s done.

    I see a lily on thy brow,
    With anguish moist and fever-dew,
    And on thy cheeks a fading rose
    Fast withereth too.

    I met a lady in the meads,
    Full beautiful—a faery’s child,
    Her hair was long, her foot was light,
    And her eyes were wild.

    I made a garland for her head,
    And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
    She looked at me as she did love,
    And made sweet moan

    I set her on my pacing steed,
    And nothing else saw all day long,
    For sidelong would she bend, and sing
    A faery’s song.

    She found me roots of relish sweet,
    And honey wild, and manna-dew,
    And sure in language strange she said—
    ‘I love thee true’.

    She took me to her Elfin grot,
    And there she wept and sighed full sore,
    And there I shut her wild wild eyes
    With kisses four.

    And there she lullèd me asleep,
    And there I dreamed—Ah! woe betide!—
    The latest dream I ever dreamt
    On the cold hill side.

    I saw pale kings and princes too,
    Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
    They cried—‘La Belle Dame sans Merci
    Thee hath in thrall!’

    I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
    With horrid warning gapèd wide,
    And I awoke and found me here,
    On the cold hill’s side.

    And this is why I sojourn here,
    Alone and palely loitering,
    Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
    And no birds sing.
    Man vs persistent rat

    Man vs persistent rat A good egg is a nice person

  10. The Strawberry Roan /Curley Fletcher
    I'm a-layin' around, just spendin' muh time,
    Out of a job an' ain't holdin' a dime,
    When a feller steps up, an' sez, “I suppose
    That you're uh bronk fighter by the looks uh yure clothes.”

    “Yuh figures me right—I'm a good one, I claim,
    Do you happen tuh have any bad uns tuh tame?”
    He sez he's got one, uh bad un tuh buck,
    An' fur throwin' good riders, he's had lots uh luck.

    He sez that this pony has never been rode,
    That the boys that gets on 'im is bound tuh get throwed,
    Well, I gets all excited an' asks what he pays,
    Tuh ride that old pony uh couple uh days.

    He offers uh ten spot. Sez I, “I'm yure man,
    Cause the bronk never lived, that I couldn't fan;
    The hoss never lived, he never drew breath,
    That I couldn't ride till he starved plum tuh death.

    “I don't like tuh brag, but I got this tuh say,
    That I ain't been piled fur many uh day.”
    Sez he, “Get yure saddle, I'll give yuh uh chance.”
    So I gets in his buckboard an' drifts tuh his ranch.

    I stays until mornin', an' right after chuck,
    I steps out tuh see if that outlaw kin buck.
    Down in the hoss corral, standin' alone,
    Was this caballo, uh strawberry roan.

    His laigs is all spavined an' he's got pigeon toes,
    Little pig eyes an' uh big Roman nose,
    Little pin ears that touch at the tip
    An' uh double square iron stamped on his hip.

    Yew necked an' old, with uh long lower jaw,
    I kin see with one eye, he's uh reg'lar outlaw.
    I puts on muh spurs—I'm sure feelin' fine—
    Turns up muh hat, an' picks up muh twine.

    I throws that loop on 'im, an' well I knows then,
    That before he gets rode, I'll sure earn that ten.
    I gets muh blinds on him, an' it sure was a fight,
    Next comes muh saddle—I screws it down tight.

    An' then I piles on 'im, an' raises the blind,
    I'm right in his middle tuh see 'im unwind.
    Well, he bows his old neck, an' I guess he unwound,
    Fur he seems tuh quit livin' down on the ground.

    He goes up t'ward the East, an' comes down t'ward the West,
    Tuh stay in his middle, I'm doin' muh best,
    He sure is frog walkin', he leaves uh big sigh,
    He only lacks wings, fur tuh be on the fly.

    He turns his old belly right up toward the sun,
    He sure is uh sun-fishin' son-of-uh-gun,
    He is the worst bucker I seen on the range,
    He kin turn on uh nickle an' give yuh some change.

    While he's uh-buckin' he squeals like uh shoat,
    I tell yuh, that pony has sure got muh goat.
    I claim that, no foolin', that bronk could sure step,
    I'm still in muh saddle, uh-buildin' uh rep.

    He hits on all fours, an' suns up his side,
    I don't see how he keeps from sheddin' his hide.
    I loses much stirrups an' also muh hat,
    I'm grabbin' the leather an' blind as uh bat.

    With uh phenomenal jump, he goes up on high,
    An' I'm settin' on nothin', way up in the sky,
    An' then I turns over, I comes back tuh earth
    An' lights in tuh cussin' the day of his birth.

    Then I knows that the hosses I ain't able tuh ride
    Is some of them livin'—they haven't all died,
    But I bets all muh money they ain't no man alive,
    Kin stay with that bronk when he makes that high dive.
    The Shadow

    The Shadow Whatever happened to my Transylvania Twist?

  11. Do you happen to know the dirty version?

    Steamboat_Bill Going to beat the record of the Robert E. Lee

  12. El Dorado
    By Edgar Allan Poe

    Gaily bedight,
    A gallant knight,
    In sunshine and in shadow,
    Had journeyed long,
    Singing a song,
    In search of Eldorado.

    But he grew old—
    This knight so bold—
    And o’er his heart a shadow—
    Fell as he found
    No spot of ground
    That looked like Eldorado.

    And, as his strength
    Failed him at length,
    He met a pilgrim shadow—
    ‘Shadow,’ said he,
    ‘Where can it be—
    This land of Eldorado?’

    ‘Over the Mountains
    Of the Moon,
    Down the Valley of the Shadow,
    Ride, boldly ride,’
    The shade replied,—
    ‘If you seek for Eldorado!’

    This is my favorite poem and Poe is my favorite poet.
    Syaoran Li

    Syaoran Li Vampire Mom

  13. This Be The Verse
    They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
    They may not mean to, but they do.
    They fill you with the faults they had
    And add some extra, just for you.

    But they were fucked up in their turn
    By fools in old-style hats and coats,
    Who half the time were soppy-stern
    And half at one another’s throats.

    Man hands on misery to man.
    It deepens like a coastal shelf.
    Get out as early as you can,
    And don’t have any kids yourself.

    Not Waving but Drowning
    Nobody heard him, the dead man,
    But still he lay moaning:
    I was much further out than you thought
    And not waving but drowning.

    Poor chap, he always loved larking
    And now he’s dead
    It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
    They said.

    Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
    (Still the dead one lay moaning)
    I was much too far out all my life
    And not waving but drowning.
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    ZeeMarin ZeeMarin

  14. The times are hard: a year of famine has emptied the fields,
    My brothers live abroad- scattered west and east.
    Now fields and gardens are scarcely seen after the fighting,
    Family members wander, scattered on the road.
    Attached to shadows, like geese ten thousand li apart,
    Or roots uplifted into September's autumn air.
    We look together at the bright moon, and then the tears should fall,
    This night, our wish for home can make five places one.

    -Feelings on Watching the Moon
    By: Bai Juyi
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    ICameToplaY かくれんぼ~

  15. “How much will you pay for an extra day?”
    The clock man asked the child.
    “Not one penny,” the answer came,
    “For my days are as many as smiles.”

    “How much will you pay for an extra day?”
    He asked when the child was grown.
    “Maybe a dollar or maybe less,
    For I’ve plenty of days of my own.”

    “How much will you pay for an extra day?”
    He asked when the time came to die.
    “All of the pearls in all of the seas,
    And all of the stars in the sky.”

    - Shel Silverstein
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  16. I heard one that I liked. I guess some monks were supposed to write a meaningful poem before death, and this one monk got so fed up with people asking for his final poem he wrote "life is thus, death is thus, poem or no poem, what's the fuss?"

    Shitposting at its most artistic.

    Maiden-TieJuan Your roving Californialand reporter
    True & Honest Fan

  17. Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
    We people on the pavement looked at him:
    He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
    Clean favored, and imperially slim.

    And he was always quietly arrayed,
    And he was always human when he talked;
    But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
    "Good-morning," and he glittered when he walked.

    And he was rich – yes, richer than a king –
    And admirably schooled in every grace:
    In fine, we thought that he was everything
    To make us wish that we were in his place.

    So on we worked, and waited for the light,
    And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
    And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
    Went home and put a bullet through his head.

    - Edward Arlington Robinson
    • Like Like x 1
  18. Fiddler Jones
    from Spoon River Anthology, by Edgar Lee Masters

    The earth keeps some vibration going
    There in your heart, and that is you.
    And if the people find you can fiddle,
    Why, fiddle you must, for all your life.
    What do you see, a harvest of clover?
    Or a meadow to walk through to the river?
    The wind’s in the corn; you rub your hands
    For beeves hereafter ready for market;
    Or else you hear the rustle of skirts
    Like the girls when dancing at Little Grove.
    To Cooney Potter a pillar of dust
    Or whirling leaves meant ruinous drouth;
    They looked to me like Red-Head Sammy
    Stepping it off, to “Toor-a-Loor.”
    How could I till my forty acres
    Not to speak of getting more,
    With a medley of horns, bassoons and piccolos
    Stirred in my brain by crows and robins
    And the creak of a wind-mill—only these?
    And I never started to plow in my life
    That some one did not stop in the road
    And take me away to a dance or picnic.
    I ended up with forty acres;
    I ended up with a broken fiddle—
    And a broken laugh, and a thousand memories,
    And not a single regret
    Henry Bemis

    Henry Bemis Irony: Not even once.
    Retired Staff

  19. ἄγου δέ μ᾽, ὦ Ζεῦ, καὶ σύ γ᾽ ἡ Πεπρωμένη,
    ὅποι ποθ᾽ ὑμῖν εἰμι διατεταγμένος:
    ὡς ἕψομαί γ᾽ ἄοκνος: ἢν δέ γε μὴ θέλω,
    κακὸς γενόμενος, οὐδὲν ἧττον ἕψομαι.

    Conduct me, Jove, and thou, 0 Destiny,
    Wherever thy decrees have fixed my station.
    I follow cheerfully; and, did I not,
    Wicked and wretched, I must follow still.

    Attributed to Cleanthes, in the Manual of Epictetus. I later read it quoted by Seneca who took an extra: Fate guides the willing, and drags the unwilling.

    I find this simple fragment to be more profound than anything I saw in the Hymn to Zeus, and it has stuck with me since I first ever read it. Let it never be said that the Stoics could have no emotion or art, let it never be said that we lost no more than spilled wine with the fall of the Roman Empire and the coming of the Dark Ages.

    Gus Interlocutor

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