Original Poetry Thread

[Vordhosbn]

Poetyre

I now own glasses that will help me intercept hidden visual frequencies!

And now I can see the stuttering,
jittering, lines flying ‘round my face!

Old man Parkinson polygons.
Broken wannabe heptagrammic prisms.
Hop on the trajectory,
It’s like public transmutation!

Floating out there, somewhere in space, is a horrendously fat man.
As he drifts toward me, I hear his banal gibberish.
His sputterings are like divine droplets.
They fall logically onto an ordered grid of triangles and rhombuses.

The focus shifts to an energetic girl.
What is she doing?

She is climbing up the lattice and loving it.
I watch like the Cheshire cat, above her.
Her task is one that ends. Eventually she reaches the top, I suppose.
But for right now she is climbing.

My eyes are only looking.
My eyes are not the ones hearing the pounding rhythm
Ever changing, ever morphing cantankerous chaos,
Blowing out my mental sub woofer.

There are drums floating out there:
Poised and ready
to fling at us equations we’re not ready for…

Falling down like cubic raindrops
boxes filled with their replies.
Eyeballing it: new renditions
of old redundant designs.

It is all repugnant and beautiful.
I can’t help but tap my foot with the beat.
But at this point I’ve had enough.
So off the glasses go.

[ZX-Pilot]

certainly better sounding than tokyo dialect though, wouldn't you agree?

Yes I agree. Tokyo is happy go lucky pizza hut wanabees.

LOL! just curious, you live/been to japan before? your 日本語 is better than mine. i been here since november.

I lived in Kyoto, for many years.

nintendo ゲームのプログラミング

[turquoise70]

i swear to god.

okay, cram this down your poetry hole and choke on it:

peanuts cheez its ginger ale
pilsner and pale ale and ice cream
big ol bowl of pot

level three hundred ethics and value theory seminar
followed by furry chatrooms and porno

man my life is a shithole
but i can dig it

THE END!

I just wrote this while paying no attention to aesthetic appeal or quality control. if you enjoy it, then either poetry is useless subjective blather or i'm a poetic prodigy. if you think it's crap, then we agree. i think i win either way.

[ZX-Pilot]

i swear to god.

okay, cram this down your poetry hole and choke on it:

peanuts cheez its ginger ale
pilsner and pale ale and ice cream
big ol bowl of pot

level three hundred ethics and value theory seminar
followed by furry chatrooms and porno

man my life is a shithole
but i can dig it

THE END!

I just wrote this while paying no attention to aesthetic appeal or quality control. if you enjoy it, then either poetry is useless subjective blather or i'm a poetic prodigy. if you think it's crap, then we agree. i think i win either way.

Thank you for sharing this brilliant artistry. I liked that culminating moment "ginger ale
pilsner and pale ale" and unexpected shocker "man my life is a shithole".
Marvelous dynamics.

[Cupz]

I'll try it once more...starting a poetry thread.

Post and discuss your favourite poems and talk about poets.

one of my favourite poems is by Edgar Allen Poe

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow--
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand--
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep--while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?

Some dose-one tracks are awesomely poetic as well.

[eppers]

"mein kampf" by david lerner


all i want to do is

make poetry famous

ali i want to do is

burn my initials into the sun

all i want do do is

read poetry from the middle of a

burning building

standing in the fast lane of the

freeway

falling from the top of the

empire state building

the literary world

sucks dead dog dick

i'd rather be richard speck

than gary snyder

i'd rather ride a rocketship to hell

than a volvo to bolinas

i'd rather

sell arms to the martians

than wait sullenly for a

letter from some diseased clown with a

three-piece mind

telling me that i've won a

bullet-proof pair of rose-colored glasses

for my poem "autumn in the spring"

i want to be

hated

by everyone who teaches for a living

i want people to hear my poetry and

get headaches

i want people to hear my poetry and

vomit

i want people to hear my poetry and

weep, scream, disappear, start bleeding,

eat their television sets, beat each other to death with

swords and

go out and get riotously drunk on

someone else's money

this ain't no party

this ain't no disco

this ain't no foolin a

grab-bag of

clever wordplay and sensitive thoughts and

gracious theories about

how many ambiguities can dance on the head of a

machine gun

this ain't no

genteel evening over

cappuccino and bullshit

this ain't no life-affirming

our days have meaning

as we watch the flowers breath through our souls and

fall desperately in love

this ain't no letter-press, hand-me-down

wimpy beatnik festival of bitching about

the broken rainbow

it is a carnival of dread

it is a savage sideshow

about to move to the main arena

it is terror and wild beauty

walking hand in hand down a bombed-out road

as missiles scream, while a

sky the color of arterial blood

blinks on and off

like the lights on broadway

after the last junkie's dead of aids

i come not to bury poetry

but to blow it up

not to dandle it on my knee

like a retarded child with

beautiful eyes

but

throw it off a cliff into

icy seas and

see if the the motherfucker can swim for its life

because love is an excellent thing

surely we need it

but, my friends...

there is so much to hate These Days

that hatred is just love with a chip on its shoulder

a chip as big as the ritz

and heavier than

all the bills i'll never pay

because they're after us

they're selling radioactive charm bracelets

and breakfast cereals that

lower your IQ by 50 points per mouthful

we get politicians who think

starting world war III

would be a good career move

we got beautiful women

with eyes like wet stones

peering out at us from the pages of

glassy magazines promising that they'll
fuck us till we shoot blood

if we'll just buy one of these beautiful switchblade knives

I've got mine

[hungry_manweaselbeast]

ooh ooh, love Bukowski's poems

A Radio With Guts

it was on the 2nd floor on Coronado Street
I used to get drunk
and throw the radio through the window
while it was playing, and, of course,
it would break the glass in the window
and the radio would sit there on the roof
still playing
and I'd tell my woman,
"Ah, what a marvelous radio!"
the next morning I'd take the window
off the hinges
and carry it down the street
to the glass man
who would put in another pane.
I kept throwing that radio through the window
each time I got drunk
and it would sit there on the roof
still playing-
a magic radio
a radio with guts,
and each morning I'd take the window
back to the glass man.
I don't remember how it ended exactly
though I do remember
we finally moved out.
there was a woman downstairs who worked in
the garden in her bathing suit,
she really dug with that trowel
and she put her behind up in the air
and I used to sit in the window
and watch the sun shine all over that thing
while the music played.

Here I Am ...

drunk again at 3 a.m. at the end of my 2nd bottle
of wine, I have typed from a dozen to 15 pages of
poesy
an old man
maddened for the flesh of young girls in this
dwindling twilight
liver gone
kidneys going
pancreas pooped
top-floor blood pressure

one thirty-six a.m.

I laugh sometimes when I think about
say
Céline at a typewriter
or Dostoevsky...
or Hamsun...
ordinary men with feet, ears, eyes,
ordinary men with hair on their heads
sitting there typing words
while having difficulties with life
while being puzzled almost to madness.

Dostoevsky gets up
he leaves the machine to piss,
comes back
drinks a glass of milk and thinks about
the casino and
the roulette wheel.

Céline stops, gets up, walks to the
window, looks out, thinks, my last patient
died today, I won't have to make any more
visits there.
when I saw him last
he paid his doctor bill;
it's those who don't pay their bills,
they live on and on.
Céline walks back, sits down at the
machine
is still for a good two minutes
then begins to type.

Hamsun stands over his machine thinking,
I wonder if they are going to believe
all these things I write?
he sits down, begins to type.
he doesn't know what a writer's block
is:
he's a prolific son-of-a-bitch
damn near as magnificent as
the sun.
he types away.

and I laugh
not out loud
but all up and down these walls, these
dirty yellow and blue walls
my white cat asleep on the
table
hiding his eyes from the
light.

he's not alone tonight
and neither am
I.

[bleak.]

a favourite of mine at the moment, Dylan Thomas - Clown in the Moon.

My tears are like the quiet drift
Of petals from some magic rose;
And all my grief flows from the rift
Of unremembered skies and snows.

I think, that if I touched the earth,
It would crumble;
It is so sad and beautiful,
So tremulously like a dream

[meat like product]

Haikus are easy,

but sometimes they don't make sense.

Refrigerator.

[meat like product]

Oh and yeah I know,

Haiku is also plural.

Tom Selleck's mustache.

[eppers]

loooooooooool
nice one

[Cupz]

Haikus are easy,

but sometimes they don't make sense.

Refrigerator.

Best haiku ever!!

[turquoise70]

I wrote a few.

Peanut

Earth nugget
Butter pod
Salt-backed miniature soil fish
A peanut is a thing
that comes in twos
and inside those two
are twos
Sand bean
Wax pellet
A fetal vegetable brain
that splits down the center
and squeaks against tooth
A plant meat glob
smooth and solid and uniform
An oily marble
like wet balsa wood
that scrapes away at the touch
of a fingernail

Kerfrumbley

A dot, forgotten:
the other end of a bargain in which
its name is never mentioned.
A white spot who, in the periphery of sight,
might even be mistaken for
a gleaming punch in the fabric of the world,
a tiny round oversight, a circular aberration,
through which whatever may be found there
on the other side
peeks in naked, ruddy-cheeked dismay,
in sheepish, dumbfounded silence
as blinding whiteness filters through.
This spot, this imagined world-hole,
an echo of the hole it punched
in the sheet from which it was birthed
in fibrous, metal-tipped rebellion.

I have another one I'm fond of, but I don't have the finished copy of it with me right now.

[747Music]

Haikus are easy,

but sometimes they don't make sense.

Refrigerator.

A friend of mine has that on a T-shirt. Awesome haiku indeed.

[Mexicola]

a favourite of mine at the moment, Dylan Thomas - Clown in the Moon.

My tears are like the quiet drift
Of petals from some magic rose;
And all my grief flows from the rift
Of unremembered skies and snows.

I think, that if I touched the earth,
It would crumble;
It is so sad and beautiful,
So tremulously like a dream

Love Dylan Thomas. We visited his boathouse in Laugharne a while back. It's such a beautiful place. Can't imagine how amazing it must have been to write/work there...

[Cupz]

I just wrote some poetry, accompanied by drawings. Unfortunatly I don't have a scanner so its just the text for now.



Mr. Guitarman sat in a tree, just minding his busines, playing a note or three

suddenly he cried and wept a few tears, than played a song that was sad in the ears

The tree he sat in suddenly cried, lowering his branches towards his eyes

Mr. Guitarman fell down very fast and hit the ground with a blast

His guitar was broken and so was his heart. The spike he fell in peirced his body appart.

Inspired by Tim Burton poetry http://homepage.eircom.net/~sebulbac/burton/home.html

[Guido]

STILL FALLS THE RAIN

(poem that appeared on 'Black Sabbath' - the groups debut album)

"Still falls the rain,
the veils of darkness shroud the blackened trees,
which, contorted by some unseen violence,
shed their tired leaves, and bend their boughs
toward a gray earth of severed bird wings.

Among the grasses, poppies bleed before a gesticulating death,
and young rabbits, born dead in traps,
stand motionless, as though guarding the silence
that surrounds and threatens to engulf
all those that would listen.

Mute birds, tired of repeating yesterdays terrors,
huddle together in the recesses of dark corners,
heads turned from the dead, black swan
that floats upturned in a small pool in the hollow.

There emerges from this pool a faint, sensual mist,
that traces its way upwards to caress the feet
of the headless martyr's statue
whose only achievement was to die too soon,
and who couldn't wait to loose.

The cataract of darkness forms fully,
the long black night begins, yet still
by the lake a young girl waits.
Unseeing she believes herself unseen, she smiles faintly
at the distant tolling bell, and the still falling rain."

[Guido]

Jim Morrison - Freedom Exists

[nurthice]

I found this translation somewhere, it's not perfect (it's pretty much impossible to have the same effect as the original bulgarian version), but i find it decent.
One of my favourite poems, rightfully fucked up in english.

TWO BEAUTIFUL EYES

Two beautiful eyes. The soul of a child
In two beautiful eyes; – music – rays.
They do not want and do not promise either...
My soul is praying,
Child,
My soul is praying!
Passions and miseries
Will throw tomorrow onto them
The veil of shame and sin.
The veil of shame and sin
Will never be thrown onto them
By passions and miseries.
My soul is praying,
Child,
My soul is praying...
They do not want and do not promise either! -
Two beautiful eyes. Music, rays
In two beautiful eyes. The soul of a child.

Peyo Yavorov

[bleak.]

a favourite of mine at the moment, Dylan Thomas - Clown in the Moon.

My tears are like the quiet drift
Of petals from some magic rose;
And all my grief flows from the rift
Of unremembered skies and snows.

I think, that if I touched the earth,
It would crumble;
It is so sad and beautiful,
So tremulously like a dream

Love Dylan Thomas. We visited his boathouse in Laugharne a while back. It's such a beautiful place. Can't imagine how amazing it must have been to write/work there...

i cant believe i missed this post. thanks for the images john! his daughter aeronwy was named after the river aeron which flows through the aeron valley to aberaeron , and about which Dylan said was: 'the most precious place in the world'