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Thread: Poetry Thread

  1. #1

    Default Poetry Thread

    there is enough treachery, hatred violence absurdity in the average
    human being to supply any given army on any given day

    and the best at murder are those who preach against it
    and the best at hate are those who preach love
    and the best at war finally are those who preach peace

    those who preach god, need god
    those who preach peace do not have peace
    those who preach peace do not have love

    beware the preachers
    beware the knowers
    beware those who are always reading books
    beware those who either detest poverty
    or are proud of it
    beware those quick to praise
    for they need praise in return
    beware those who are quick to censor
    they are afraid of what they do not know
    beware those who seek constant crowds for
    they are nothing alone
    beware the average man the average woman
    beware their love, their love is average
    seeks average

    but there is genius in their hatred
    there is enough genius in their hatred to kill you
    to kill anybody
    not wanting solitude
    not understanding solitude
    they will attempt to destroy anything
    that differs from their own
    not being able to create art
    they will not understand art
    they will consider their failure as creators
    only as a failure of the world
    not being able to love fully
    they will believe your love incomplete
    and then they will hate you
    and their hatred will be perfect

    like a shining diamond
    like a knife
    like a mountain
    like a tiger
    like hemlock

    their finest art

    - Charles Bukowski
    - The Genius Of The Crowd

  2. #2

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    More than the fuchsia funnels breaking out
    of the crabapple tree, more than the neighborís
    almost obscene display of cherry limbs shoving
    their cotton candy-colored blossoms to the slate
    sky of Spring rains, itís the greening of the trees
    that really gets to me. When all the shock of white
    and taffy, the worldís baubles and trinkets, leave
    the pavement strewn with the confetti of aftermath,
    the leaves come. Patient, plodding, a green skin
    growing over whatever winter did to us, a return
    to the strange idea of continuous living despite
    the mess of us, the hurt, the empty. Fine then,
    Iíll take it, the tree seems to say, a new slick leaf
    unfurling like a fist to an open palm, Iíll take it all.

    - Ada Limon
    - Instructions on Not Giving Up

  3. #3

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    I am signaling you through the flames.

    The North Pole is not where it used to be.

    Manifest Destiny is no longer manifest.

    Civilization self-destructs.

    Nemesis is knocking at the door.

    What are poets for, in such an age?
    What is the use of poetry?

    The state of the world calls out for poetry to save it.

    If you would be a poet, create works capable of answering the
    challenge of apocalyptic times, even if this meaning sounds
    apocalyptic.

    You are Whitman, you are Poe, you are Mark Twain,
    you are Emily Dickinson and Edna St. Vincent Millay, you are Neruda
    and Mayakovsky and Pasolini, you are an American or a non-
    American, you can conquer the conquerors with words....

    - Lawrence Ferlinghetti
    - Poetry as Insurgent Art [I am signaling you through the flames]

  4. #4

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    cringe.jpg

  5. #5

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    Shart shart
    A shart is fart art

    Shart art was invented
    By a shartist named Bart

    Bart has the gift
    Of the Art of the Shart

    The Art of the Shart
    Can’t be found at Wal Mart

    Not in sports by the darts
    Or by the fat people karts

    The Art of the Shart
    Cannot be bought or taught

    It’s a gift you are born with
    Like our good shartist Bart

    Stand up tall
    In the room or the hall

    Give your bowels a heave
    And shart art on the wall

    Always remember
    If your shart has no lumps

    Then your shart was a fart
    And you’ve taken no dumps
    Last edited by Methais; 03-24-2019 at 12:36 PM.
    www.twitch.tv/3piecesofbread
    Quote Originally Posted by Back
    I am a retard. I'm disabled. I'm poor. I'm black. I'm gay. I'm transgender. I'm a woman.



    Quote Originally Posted by Androidpk View Post
    And feel free to get me banned, not going to stop my lawyer from sending Kranar a subpoena for IP information on a couple of people.

  6. #6
    Join Date
    May 2010
    Location
    With your mom
    Posts
    4,476

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    It's only when it's visible
    as water vapor aerosol,
    from hot breath indivisible,
    you even know it's there.

    When condensation takes the gas
    and liquefies its errant mass,
    to show you how much heat I have,
    it's then it's called a shart.

    -Anonymous

  7. #7

    Default

    That was the soulsí weird mine.
    Like silent silver ores they penetrated
    as veins its dark expanses. Between roots
    welled up the blood that flows on to mankind,
    and in the dark looked hard as porphyry.
    Else nothing red.

    But rock was there
    and woods that had no nature. Bridges spanned the void
    and that great gray blind pond
    suspended over its far distant depth
    as rainy skies above a landscape.
    And between meadows, soft and full of patience,
    appeared the ashen streak of the one way
    as a long pallor that has been stretched out.

    And it was on this one way that they came.

    In front, the slender man in the blue mantle
    who looked ahead in silence and impatience.
    His paces, without chewing, gulped the way
    in outsized swallows; and his hands were hanging
    heavy and sullen from the fall of folds,
    knowing no longer of the weightless lyre
    grown deep into his left as rambler roses
    into the branches of an olive tree.
    His senses were as if they had been parted:
    and while his glances, doglike, ran ahead,
    turned back, and came, and always stood again
    as waiting at the next turn of the way Ė
    his hearing stayed behind him as a smell.
    Sometimes it seemed to him as if it reached
    back to the walking of those other two
    who were to follow him this whole ascent.
    Then it was but the echo of his climbing
    and his own mantleís wind that was behind him.
    Yet he said to himself that they would come;
    said it out loud and heard it fade away.
    They would come yet, only were two
    walking most silently. And if he might
    turn only once (and if his looking back
    were not destruction of this whole endeavor
    still to be ended), he would surely see them,
    the quiet two who followed him in silence:

    the god of going and of the wide message,
    the travel hood shading his brilliant eyes,
    bearing the slender staff before his body,
    the beat of wings around his ankle bones;
    and given over to his left hand: she.

    The one so loved that from a single lyre
    wails came surpassing any wailing women;
    that out of wails a world arose in which
    all things were there again: the wood and valley
    and way and village, field and brook and beast;
    and that around this wailing-world, just as
    around the other earth, a sun revolved
    and a vast sky, containing stars and stillness,
    a wailing-sky full of disfigured stars*
    this one so loved.

    But she walked at the hand of this great god,
    her striding straightened by the graveís long wraps,
    uncertain, soft, and void of all impatience.
    She was in herself as one high in hope,
    not thinking of the man who went ahead,
    nor of the way ascending into life.
    She was in herself. And her having died
    filled her as fullness.
    And as a fruit is full of dark and sweetness,
    the greatness of her death was filling her
    and was so new, she comprehended nothing.

    She was wrapped up in a new maidenhood
    and one not touchable; her sex was closed
    as a young flower is toward evening,
    and her hands had become so unaccustomed
    to matrimony, even the light godís
    immeasurably lightly leading touch
    offended her as something intimate.

    She was not any longer this blond woman
    who in the poetís songs would sometimes echo,
    not any more the broad bedís scent and island,
    and the possession of this man no more.

    She was already loosed as flowing hair
    and long relinquished as the fallen rain
    and meted out as hundredfold provisions.

    She was become a root.

    And when with sudden force
    the god stopped her and with pain in his cry
    pronounced the words: He has turned back*
    she comprehended nothing and said softly: Who?

    But far off, dark beyond the clear egress,
    stood someone, anyone, whose countenance
    could not be recognized. He stood and saw
    how on the pale streak of a meadow path,
    with sorrow in his eyes, the god of message
    turned silently to follow back the form
    that even then returned this very way,
    her striding straitened by the graveís long wraps,
    uncertain, soft, and void of all impatience.

    - Rainer Maria Rilke
    - Orpheus. Eurydice. Hermes.

  8. #8

    Default

    Women are sweet
    And girls are honey

    But beat your meat
    And save your money
    www.twitch.tv/3piecesofbread
    Quote Originally Posted by Back
    I am a retard. I'm disabled. I'm poor. I'm black. I'm gay. I'm transgender. I'm a woman.



    Quote Originally Posted by Androidpk View Post
    And feel free to get me banned, not going to stop my lawyer from sending Kranar a subpoena for IP information on a couple of people.

  9. #9
    Join Date
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    Location
    Mars
    Posts
    28,525
    Blog Entries
    17

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    Tavern-Floor Tina, thou fen-sucking whore,
    With a mouth to be damned and a tongue to abhor.
    When your meat meets her mouth, well, it's meat-mouth galore.
    Oh, Tavern-Floor Tina, there's a worm in your core.

    She'll give you a wink and she'll drag you upstairs
    And before you can think, you'll be caught unawares
    Elbow-deep in the pink, with two thumbs up your rear.
    Oh, Tavern-Floor Tina, your sink's full of hair.

    She'll give your poor bone ev'ry pound that she's got,
    Then she'll slather your dome till your tonsils are hot.
    You'll need time all alone just to burp up the clot.
    Oh, Tavern-Floor Tina, I'd just as soon not.

    --Arthur Greenleaf Holmes
    Ceterum censeo Carthaginem esse delendam

  10. #10

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    www.twitch.tv/3piecesofbread
    Quote Originally Posted by Back
    I am a retard. I'm disabled. I'm poor. I'm black. I'm gay. I'm transgender. I'm a woman.



    Quote Originally Posted by Androidpk View Post
    And feel free to get me banned, not going to stop my lawyer from sending Kranar a subpoena for IP information on a couple of people.

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