The poetry thread
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I dunno about this one. There was a writer, now dead, Peg Bracken, who was pretty funny. She would have described this poem as being from the "Look Ma I can Write" school.
@Catseye3 said in The poetry thread:
I dunno about this one. There was a writer, now dead, Peg Bracken, who was pretty funny. She would have described this poem as being from the "Look Ma I can Write" school.
There are personal preferences regarding poetry, and there's judging work on merit. I don't like a lot of Dana Gioia's stuff, but I'm sorry, no, saying he can write would be a massive understatement.
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I'm not much of a poetry person, and I am in awe of people who can do it and understand it.
However, one of my favorites has always been this, by ee cummings:
anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn't he danced his did.Women and men(both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn't they reaped their same
sun moon stars rainchildren guessed(but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that noone loved him more by morewhen by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by snow and stir by still
anyone's any was all to hersomeones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then)they
said their nevers they slept their dreamstars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember
with up so floating many bells down)one day anyone died i guess
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk buried them side by side
little by little and was by wasall by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
wish by spirit and if by yes.Women and men(both dong and ding)
summer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain@George-K said in The poetry thread:
I'm not much of a poetry person, and I am in awe of people who can do it and understand it.
However, one of my favorites has always been this, by ee cummings:
anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn't he danced his did.Women and men(both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn't they reaped their same
sun moon stars rainchildren guessed(but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that noone loved him more by morewhen by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by snow and stir by still
anyone's any was all to hersomeones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then)they
said their nevers they slept their dreamstars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember
with up so floating many bells down)one day anyone died i guess
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk buried them side by side
little by little and was by wasall by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
wish by spirit and if by yes.Women and men(both dong and ding)
summer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars raincummings is great. If you like such stuff, Spike Milligan might be up your street.
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Trees, tall and grand,
Nature's pillars strong and grand,
With branches reaching for the sky,
A sight that makes my heart take flight.Leaves rustling in the breeze,
A symphony of green and ease,
Trunk rough and bark so deep,
A beauty that's impossible to keep.Rooted deep in Mother Earth,
A symbol of unyielding worth,
A sanctuary for creatures small,
A home for one and all.In spring they bud, in summer they thrive,
In fall they change, in winter they survive,
Trees, tall and grand,
Nature's beauty that we all understand. -
As I said, I'm not much of a poetry guy. I don't understand much of it, other than enjoying how words are put together.
Another one that I've always liked was one by Shakespeare. Sonnet 29:
When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,
Desiring this man’s art and that man’s scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
(Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven’s gate;For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings."Haply" meaning "as if by chance."
What a wonderful turn of the phrase: "Trouble deaf heaven with my bootless (useless) cries." Not only is heaven not listening, but my pleas are a bother.
I love this sonnet.
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That's excellent, Mik. I've not read that one before.
I love this one because it has two elements you almost never see in poetry: plot revelation through dialogue, and drama through stage direction.
The Fear
—Robert FrostA lantern light from deeper in the barn
Shone on a man and woman in the door
And threw their lurching shadows on a house
Near by, all dark in every glossy window.
A horse’s hoof pawed once the hollow floor,
And the back of the gig they stood beside
Moved in a little. The man grasped a wheel,
The woman spoke out sharply, “Whoa, stand still!”
“I saw it just as plain as a white plate,”
She said, “as the light on the dashboard ran
Along the bushes at the roadside—a man’s face.
You must have seen it too.”“I didn’t see it.
Are you sure——”
“Yes, I’m sure!”
“—it was a face?”
“Joel, I’ll have to look. I can’t go in,
I can’t, and leave a thing like that unsettled.
Doors locked and curtains drawn will make no difference.
I always have felt strange when we came home
To the dark house after so long an absence,
And the key rattled loudly into place
Seemed to warn someone to be getting out
At one door as we entered at another.
What if I’m right, and someone all the time—
Don’t hold my arm!”“I say it’s someone passing.”
“You speak as if this were a travelled road.
You forget where we are. What is beyond
That he’d be going to or coming from
At such an hour of night, and on foot too.
What was he standing still for in the bushes?”“It’s not so very late—it’s only dark.
There’s more in it than you’re inclined to say.
Did he look like——?”“He looked like anyone.
I’ll never rest to-night unless I know.
Give me the lantern.”“You don’t want the lantern.”
She pushed past him and got it for herself.
“You’re not to come,” she said. “This is my business.
If the time’s come to face it, I’m the one
To put it the right way. He’d never dare—
Listen! He kicked a stone. Hear that, hear that!
He’s coming towards us. Joel, go in—please.
Hark!—I don’t hear him now. But please go in.”“In the first place you can’t make me believe it’s——”
“It is—or someone else he’s sent to watch.
And now’s the time to have it out with him
While we know definitely where he is.
Let him get off and he’ll be everywhere
Around us, looking out of trees and bushes
Till I sha’n’t dare to set a foot outdoors.
And I can’t stand it. Joel, let me go!”“But it’s nonsense to think he’d care enough.”
“You mean you couldn’t understand his caring.
Oh, but you see he hadn’t had enough—
Joel, I won’t—I won’t—I promise you.
We mustn’t say hard things. You mustn’t either.”“I’ll be the one, if anybody goes!
But you give him the advantage with this light.
What couldn’t he do to us standing here!
And if to see was what he wanted, why
He has seen all there was to see and gone.”He appeared to forget to keep his hold,
But advanced with her as she crossed the grass.“What do you want?” she cried to all the dark.
She stretched up tall to overlook the light
That hung in both hands hot against her skirt.“There’s no one; so you’re wrong,” he said.
“There is.—
What do you want?” she cried, and then herself
Was startled when an answer really came.“Nothing.” It came from well along the road.
She reached a hand to Joel for support:
The smell of scorching woollen made her faint.“What are you doing round this house at night?”
“Nothing.” A pause: there seemed no more to say.
And then the voice again: “You seem afraid.
I saw by the way you whipped up the horse.
I’ll just come forward in the lantern light
And let you see.”“Yes, do.—Joel, go back!”
She stood her ground against the noisy steps
That came on, but her body rocked a little.“You see,” the voice said.
“Oh.” She looked and looked.
“You don’t see—I’ve a child here by the hand.”
“What’s a child doing at this time of night——?”
“Out walking. Every child should have the memory
Of at least one long-after-bedtime walk.
What, son?”“Then I should think you’d try to find
Somewhere to walk——”“The highway as it happens—
We’re stopping for the fortnight down at Dean’s.”“But if that’s all—Joel—you realize—
You won’t think anything. You understand?
You understand that we have to be careful.
This is a very, very lonely place.
Joel!” She spoke as if she couldn’t turn.
The swinging lantern lengthened to the ground,
It touched, it struck it, clattered and went out. -
The Tuesday Afternoon All-Staff
(for Bill Watterson)With chairs and tables ready
They shuffled through the doors:
The corporate colts, the suited dolts,
The vain attention whoresHellos polite and petty
The rabble took their seats
Remarks prepared were curtly shared
In white collated sheetsHis Powerpoint as reference
The lead began to talk
He said and smiled, "I promise I'll
Be mindful of the clock."His cohorts waved indifference
As pastries swept the room
With platters passed and sweets amassed
More coffee was consumed"In short," the speaker lectured,
And lightly twitched an eye
"Our profit's low. For us to grow,
I need you all to die.""I've made it quick," he gestured,
And held his coffee up,
"On my behalf the conference staff
Have laced the paper cups.""The food as well," he carried on,
As nervous laughter spread
But heaving loud, a VP bowed--
His face a mottled redThe speaker motioned, "When you're gone,
You aren't to be replaced.
So when you weigh staff severance pay
With staff that's been erased..."He shrugged, the room erupting now
With agonizing moans,
"The plan appears a shock to hear,
But know you're not alone:"This fiscal on, the Board has vowed:
'Cut all redundant costs.'
It's not just you--my living, too,
Would constitute a loss."The sickly few still standing up
Collapsed and hit the floor
"An hour ahead," the speaker said,
"How helpful for the Board!"Now sipping from his coffee cup,
He promptly changed the screen
"Up next is George with Corporate Purge:
What 'Diminution' Means." -
And the poets down here don't write nothing at all
They just stand back and let it all be
And in the quick of a knife, they reach for their moment
And try to make an honest stand
But they wind up wounded, not even dead
Tonight in Jungleland -
Always loved this one.
Do not go gentle into that good night
—Dylan ThomasDo not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light. -
Always loved this one.
Do not go gentle into that good night
—Dylan ThomasDo not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.@Aqua-Letifer said in The poetry thread:
Always loved this one.
Do not go gentle into that good night
—Dylan ThomasDo not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.That's a favourite of mine. I don't really get much poetry, but I love Dylan Thomas. As a kid I grew up with his recording of 'A child's Christmas in Wales', which is also brilliant, if not really poetry, although arguably everything he wrote is.
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@Aqua-Letifer said in The poetry thread:
Always loved this one.
Do not go gentle into that good night
—Dylan ThomasDo not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.That's a favourite of mine. I don't really get much poetry, but I love Dylan Thomas. As a kid I grew up with his recording of 'A child's Christmas in Wales', which is also brilliant, if not really poetry, although arguably everything he wrote is.
@Doctor-Phibes said in The poetry thread:
I don't really get much poetry,
That's not on you, that's on poetry. When most written poetry is navel-gazy shit that gets published in obscure university presses to help some wanker keep his lecturing job, that's what you have. You have people saying they don't "get" poetry.
Occasional dense and opaque stuff is fine, but the whole damn art form isn't supposed to be locked up in some word-game ivory tower.
Please love yourself.
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@Doctor-Phibes said in The poetry thread:
I don't really get much poetry,
That's not on you, that's on poetry. When most written poetry is navel-gazy shit that gets published in obscure university presses to help some wanker keep his lecturing job, that's what you have. You have people saying they don't "get" poetry.
Occasional dense and opaque stuff is fine, but the whole damn art form isn't supposed to be locked up in some word-game ivory tower.
@Aqua-Letifer said in The poetry thread:
@Doctor-Phibes said in The poetry thread:
I don't really get much poetry,
That's not on you, that's on poetry. When most written poetry is navel-gazy shit that gets published in obscure university presses to help some wanker keep his lecturing job, that's what you have. You have people saying they don't "get" poetry.
Occasional dense and opaque stuff is fine, but the whole damn art form isn't supposed to be locked up in some word-game ivory tower.
I don't quite know why I love Dylan Thomas so much. I lived in a village in South Wales for a while (the birthplace of Tom Jones, as it happens), and you could almost hear him (Thomas, that is) as you walked down the street. It was also a great place to go drinking, of course.
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@Aqua-Letifer said in The poetry thread:
@Doctor-Phibes said in The poetry thread:
I don't really get much poetry,
That's not on you, that's on poetry. When most written poetry is navel-gazy shit that gets published in obscure university presses to help some wanker keep his lecturing job, that's what you have. You have people saying they don't "get" poetry.
Occasional dense and opaque stuff is fine, but the whole damn art form isn't supposed to be locked up in some word-game ivory tower.
I don't quite know why I love Dylan Thomas so much. I lived in a village in South Wales for a while (the birthplace of Tom Jones, as it happens), and you could almost hear him (Thomas, that is) as you walked down the street. It was also a great place to go drinking, of course.
@Doctor-Phibes said in The poetry thread:
@Aqua-Letifer said in The poetry thread:
@Doctor-Phibes said in The poetry thread:
I don't really get much poetry,
That's not on you, that's on poetry. When most written poetry is navel-gazy shit that gets published in obscure university presses to help some wanker keep his lecturing job, that's what you have. You have people saying they don't "get" poetry.
Occasional dense and opaque stuff is fine, but the whole damn art form isn't supposed to be locked up in some word-game ivory tower.
I don't quite know why I love Dylan Thomas so much. I lived in a village in South Wales for a while (the birthplace of Tom Jones, as it happens), and you could almost hear him (Thomas, that is) as you walked down the street. It was also a great place to go drinking, of course.
I like him because okay, say what you want about everything else, but when it came to his writing, he really brought it. Most people don't.
In Oz, my landlady had a vinyl copy of Under Milk Wood, which was pretty fucking rad, with or without substances.
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@Doctor-Phibes said in The poetry thread:
@Aqua-Letifer said in The poetry thread:
@Doctor-Phibes said in The poetry thread:
I don't really get much poetry,
That's not on you, that's on poetry. When most written poetry is navel-gazy shit that gets published in obscure university presses to help some wanker keep his lecturing job, that's what you have. You have people saying they don't "get" poetry.
Occasional dense and opaque stuff is fine, but the whole damn art form isn't supposed to be locked up in some word-game ivory tower.
I don't quite know why I love Dylan Thomas so much. I lived in a village in South Wales for a while (the birthplace of Tom Jones, as it happens), and you could almost hear him (Thomas, that is) as you walked down the street. It was also a great place to go drinking, of course.
I like him because okay, say what you want about everything else, but when it came to his writing, he really brought it. Most people don't.
In Oz, my landlady had a vinyl copy of Under Milk Wood, which was pretty fucking rad, with or without substances.
@Aqua-Letifer said in The poetry thread:
In Oz, my landlady had a vinyl copy of Under Milk Wood
That was on the other side of the Child's Christmas in Wales I listened to as a kid.
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@Doctor-Phibes said in The poetry thread:
I don't really get much poetry,
That's not on you, that's on poetry. When most written poetry is navel-gazy shit that gets published in obscure university presses to help some wanker keep his lecturing job, that's what you have. You have people saying they don't "get" poetry.
Occasional dense and opaque stuff is fine, but the whole damn art form isn't supposed to be locked up in some word-game ivory tower.
@Aqua-Letifer said in The poetry thread:
@Doctor-Phibes said in The poetry thread:
I don't really get much poetry,
That's not on you, that's on poetry. When most written poetry is navel-gazy shit that gets published in obscure university presses to help some wanker keep his lecturing job, that's what you have. You have people saying they don't "get" poetry.
Occasional dense and opaque stuff is fine, but the whole damn art form isn't supposed to be locked up in some word-game ivory tower.
No, it certainly isn’t. Endeavoring to obscure your message is just pretension. Clarity doesn’t necessarily mean being obvious, but if you don’t get what you’re talking about across, it’s like a lot of abstract art. “What does it mean TO YOU?”
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The Old Man
In the hours between night and morning
As my family dreams deep in their bed
I’m alone in the second-floor bedroom
I’m exhausted and shaking my head.When I scoff at the notebook beside me—
Every night, it's been always the same—
There's hand that takes hold of my shoulder
From the Man with a Song for a Name.“So you're thinking of going?” he asks me
As he glances from me to the door
“I’m thinking of sleep,” I say, sneering
“I can’t deal with your shit anymore.”When he laughs, the sound ripples and thunders
“My shit?” He repeats with a smile.
“My ‘shit,’ I recall, that I dropped by the Hall
Is still there; want to lick it awhile?”“Just as well if I would, and you know it,
For the good it would do!” I exclaimed
“I spend night after night chasing nothing!
And for what? To feel lost and ashamed?“For a decade, I follow this calling
I put blood in my truth and I give
And I know that I’ll never be famous
But at least some would know that I lived“Know when ‘hope’ is a splash in the toilet?
When your ‘calling’ is worse than a lie
Have you heard about TikTok or YouTube?
Fucking poetry’s dead as your eye!“The world has moved on—words are worthless
I spill as much of myself as I can
And you know what they do when I share it?
They ignore it, you silly old man!“I don't have some glorious struggle
Or a face that commands their respect
I just live in a house with my family
And the bullshit my notebooks collect“I’m no internet-famous sensation
I’m not the next Kaur or Bly
I make marks on the world with stale water
And my writing will fade when I die.”The other just raises his eyebrows.
“I take it you’e finally through?
With that whiny white noise that your ego enjoys?
Can’t you ever express something new?“You sound like my wife when she’s angry—
Discounting your nonsense, of course.
Late at night when she knits and she bitches like this
It’s amazing you haven’t gone hoarse.“My birds used to visit, remember?
They were hoping you’d prosper and grow
But Wisdom’s offended that Memory tended
To you, but you’ve lost what you know.
So why don’t they join us awhile
To pay you what you think that I owe.”As two ravens fly in from the window
The man stops to consider his words
When his lips move, he’s still and he’s silent
But a voice whispers out from the birds:Beneath the pines
Below the leaves
Where bones are shrines
To death achieved
That’s where you’ll go
And where you’ll be
Again you know
And now you see
Your spirit shows
You’re more than dust
You’ve room to grow
You can adjust
Death comes again
As twice it must
Returning when
You’re last discussed
For throngs of men
The gap is small
They’re buried, then
They’re never called
For you, the word
Is fate forestalled
It’s heaven heard
Beyond its walls
Your soul is stirred
And shines anew
And grace returned
Will visit you
But grace will fade
Its moments few
The vows death made
Are followed through
Once all is played
You’ll join the dark
But what you’ve laid
May rouse a spark
And show the world
That you persisted
Your hope was hurled
You once existed
The future swirls
It’s never known
So share those pearls
You call your ownThe ravens fly out past the window
The man, with a wink, disappears
And when all once forgotten emerges
My heart reconciles and clearsIn the hours between night and morning
Once I’d heard the advice of a friend
I abandon my fears to tomorrow
And I pick up my notebook again -
The Old Man
In the hours between night and morning
As my family dreams deep in their bed
I’m alone in the second-floor bedroom
I’m exhausted and shaking my head.When I scoff at the notebook beside me—
Every night, it's been always the same—
There's hand that takes hold of my shoulder
From the Man with a Song for a Name.“So you're thinking of going?” he asks me
As he glances from me to the door
“I’m thinking of sleep,” I say, sneering
“I can’t deal with your shit anymore.”When he laughs, the sound ripples and thunders
“My shit?” He repeats with a smile.
“My ‘shit,’ I recall, that I dropped by the Hall
Is still there; want to lick it awhile?”“Just as well if I would, and you know it,
For the good it would do!” I exclaimed
“I spend night after night chasing nothing!
And for what? To feel lost and ashamed?“For a decade, I follow this calling
I put blood in my truth and I give
And I know that I’ll never be famous
But at least some would know that I lived“Know when ‘hope’ is a splash in the toilet?
When your ‘calling’ is worse than a lie
Have you heard about TikTok or YouTube?
Fucking poetry’s dead as your eye!“The world has moved on—words are worthless
I spill as much of myself as I can
And you know what they do when I share it?
They ignore it, you silly old man!“I don't have some glorious struggle
Or a face that commands their respect
I just live in a house with my family
And the bullshit my notebooks collect“I’m no internet-famous sensation
I’m not the next Kaur or Bly
I make marks on the world with stale water
And my writing will fade when I die.”The other just raises his eyebrows.
“I take it you’e finally through?
With that whiny white noise that your ego enjoys?
Can’t you ever express something new?“You sound like my wife when she’s angry—
Discounting your nonsense, of course.
Late at night when she knits and she bitches like this
It’s amazing you haven’t gone hoarse.“My birds used to visit, remember?
They were hoping you’d prosper and grow
But Wisdom’s offended that Memory tended
To you, but you’ve lost what you know.
So why don’t they join us awhile
To pay you what you think that I owe.”As two ravens fly in from the window
The man stops to consider his words
When his lips move, he’s still and he’s silent
But a voice whispers out from the birds:Beneath the pines
Below the leaves
Where bones are shrines
To death achieved
That’s where you’ll go
And where you’ll be
Again you know
And now you see
Your spirit shows
You’re more than dust
You’ve room to grow
You can adjust
Death comes again
As twice it must
Returning when
You’re last discussed
For throngs of men
The gap is small
They’re buried, then
They’re never called
For you, the word
Is fate forestalled
It’s heaven heard
Beyond its walls
Your soul is stirred
And shines anew
And grace returned
Will visit you
But grace will fade
Its moments few
The vows death made
Are followed through
Once all is played
You’ll join the dark
But what you’ve laid
May rouse a spark
And show the world
That you persisted
Your hope was hurled
You once existed
The future swirls
It’s never known
So share those pearls
You call your ownThe ravens fly out past the window
The man, with a wink, disappears
And when all once forgotten emerges
My heart reconciles and clearsIn the hours between night and morning
Once I’d heard the advice of a friend
I abandon my fears to tomorrow
And I pick up my notebook again@Aqua-Letifer said in The poetry thread:
The Old Man
In the hours between night and morning
As my family dreams deep in their bed
I’m alone in the second-floor bedroom
I’m exhausted and shaking my head.When I scoff at the notebook beside me—
Every night, it's been always the same—
There's hand that takes hold of my shoulder
From the Man with a Song for a Name.“So you're thinking of going?” he asks me
As he glances from me to the door
“I’m thinking of sleep,” I say, sneering
“I can’t deal with your shit anymore.”When he laughs, the sound ripples and thunders
“My shit?” He repeats with a smile.
“My ‘shit,’ I recall, that I dropped by the Hall
Is still there; want to lick it awhile?”“Just as well if I would, and you know it,
For the good it would do!” I exclaimed
“I spend night after night chasing nothing!
And for what? To feel lost and ashamed?“For a decade, I follow this calling
I put blood in my truth and I give
And I know that I’ll never be famous
But at least some would know that I lived“Know when ‘hope’ is a splash in the toilet?
When your ‘calling’ is worse than a lie
Have you heard about TikTok or YouTube?
Fucking poetry’s dead as your eye!“The world has moved on—words are worthless
I spill as much of myself as I can
And you know what they do when I share it?
They ignore it, you silly old man!“I don't have some glorious struggle
Or a face that commands their respect
I just live in a house with my family
And the bullshit my notebooks collect“I’m no internet-famous sensation
I’m not the next Kaur or Bly
I make marks on the world with stale water
And my writing will fade when I die.”The other just raises his eyebrows.
“I take it you’e finally through?
With that whiny white noise that your ego enjoys?
Can’t you ever express something new?“You sound like my wife when she’s angry—
Discounting your nonsense, of course.
Late at night when she knits and she bitches like this
It’s amazing you haven’t gone hoarse.“My birds used to visit, remember?
They were hoping you’d prosper and grow
But Wisdom’s offended that Memory tended
To you, but you’ve lost what you know.
So why don’t they join us awhile
To pay you what you think that I owe.”As two ravens fly in from the window
The man stops to consider his words
When his lips move, he’s still and he’s silent
But a voice whispers out from the birds:Beneath the pines
Below the leaves
Where bones are shrines
To death achieved
That’s where you’ll go
And where you’ll be
Again you know
And now you see
Your spirit shows
You’re more than dust
You’ve room to grow
You can adjust
Death comes again
As twice it must
Returning when
You’re last discussed
For throngs of men
The gap is small
They’re buried, then
They’re never called
For you, the word
Is fate forestalled
It’s heaven heard
Beyond its walls
Your soul is stirred
And shines anew
And grace returned
Will visit you
But grace will fade
Its moments few
The vows death made
Are followed through
Once all is played
You’ll join the dark
But what you’ve laid
May rouse a spark
And show the world
That you persisted
Your hope was hurled
You once existed
The future swirls
It’s never known
So share those pearls
You call your ownThe ravens fly out past the window
The man, with a wink, disappears
And when all once forgotten emerges
My heart reconciles and clearsIn the hours between night and morning
Once I’d heard the advice of a friend
I abandon my fears to tomorrow
And I pick up my notebook againExcellent encapsulation of why I pwn the libtards here on TNCR. Though my face does command respect.
-
@Aqua-Letifer said in The poetry thread:
The Old Man
In the hours between night and morning
As my family dreams deep in their bed
I’m alone in the second-floor bedroom
I’m exhausted and shaking my head.When I scoff at the notebook beside me—
Every night, it's been always the same—
There's hand that takes hold of my shoulder
From the Man with a Song for a Name.“So you're thinking of going?” he asks me
As he glances from me to the door
“I’m thinking of sleep,” I say, sneering
“I can’t deal with your shit anymore.”When he laughs, the sound ripples and thunders
“My shit?” He repeats with a smile.
“My ‘shit,’ I recall, that I dropped by the Hall
Is still there; want to lick it awhile?”“Just as well if I would, and you know it,
For the good it would do!” I exclaimed
“I spend night after night chasing nothing!
And for what? To feel lost and ashamed?“For a decade, I follow this calling
I put blood in my truth and I give
And I know that I’ll never be famous
But at least some would know that I lived“Know when ‘hope’ is a splash in the toilet?
When your ‘calling’ is worse than a lie
Have you heard about TikTok or YouTube?
Fucking poetry’s dead as your eye!“The world has moved on—words are worthless
I spill as much of myself as I can
And you know what they do when I share it?
They ignore it, you silly old man!“I don't have some glorious struggle
Or a face that commands their respect
I just live in a house with my family
And the bullshit my notebooks collect“I’m no internet-famous sensation
I’m not the next Kaur or Bly
I make marks on the world with stale water
And my writing will fade when I die.”The other just raises his eyebrows.
“I take it you’e finally through?
With that whiny white noise that your ego enjoys?
Can’t you ever express something new?“You sound like my wife when she’s angry—
Discounting your nonsense, of course.
Late at night when she knits and she bitches like this
It’s amazing you haven’t gone hoarse.“My birds used to visit, remember?
They were hoping you’d prosper and grow
But Wisdom’s offended that Memory tended
To you, but you’ve lost what you know.
So why don’t they join us awhile
To pay you what you think that I owe.”As two ravens fly in from the window
The man stops to consider his words
When his lips move, he’s still and he’s silent
But a voice whispers out from the birds:Beneath the pines
Below the leaves
Where bones are shrines
To death achieved
That’s where you’ll go
And where you’ll be
Again you know
And now you see
Your spirit shows
You’re more than dust
You’ve room to grow
You can adjust
Death comes again
As twice it must
Returning when
You’re last discussed
For throngs of men
The gap is small
They’re buried, then
They’re never called
For you, the word
Is fate forestalled
It’s heaven heard
Beyond its walls
Your soul is stirred
And shines anew
And grace returned
Will visit you
But grace will fade
Its moments few
The vows death made
Are followed through
Once all is played
You’ll join the dark
But what you’ve laid
May rouse a spark
And show the world
That you persisted
Your hope was hurled
You once existed
The future swirls
It’s never known
So share those pearls
You call your ownThe ravens fly out past the window
The man, with a wink, disappears
And when all once forgotten emerges
My heart reconciles and clearsIn the hours between night and morning
Once I’d heard the advice of a friend
I abandon my fears to tomorrow
And I pick up my notebook againExcellent encapsulation of why I pwn the libtards here on TNCR. Though my face does command respect.
@Horace said in The poetry thread:
@Aqua-Letifer said in The poetry thread:
The Old Man
In the hours between night and morning
As my family dreams deep in their bed
I’m alone in the second-floor bedroom
I’m exhausted and shaking my head.When I scoff at the notebook beside me—
Every night, it's been always the same—
There's hand that takes hold of my shoulder
From the Man with a Song for a Name.“So you're thinking of going?” he asks me
As he glances from me to the door
“I’m thinking of sleep,” I say, sneering
“I can’t deal with your shit anymore.”When he laughs, the sound ripples and thunders
“My shit?” He repeats with a smile.
“My ‘shit,’ I recall, that I dropped by the Hall
Is still there; want to lick it awhile?”“Just as well if I would, and you know it,
For the good it would do!” I exclaimed
“I spend night after night chasing nothing!
And for what? To feel lost and ashamed?“For a decade, I follow this calling
I put blood in my truth and I give
And I know that I’ll never be famous
But at least some would know that I lived“Know when ‘hope’ is a splash in the toilet?
When your ‘calling’ is worse than a lie
Have you heard about TikTok or YouTube?
Fucking poetry’s dead as your eye!“The world has moved on—words are worthless
I spill as much of myself as I can
And you know what they do when I share it?
They ignore it, you silly old man!“I don't have some glorious struggle
Or a face that commands their respect
I just live in a house with my family
And the bullshit my notebooks collect“I’m no internet-famous sensation
I’m not the next Kaur or Bly
I make marks on the world with stale water
And my writing will fade when I die.”The other just raises his eyebrows.
“I take it you’e finally through?
With that whiny white noise that your ego enjoys?
Can’t you ever express something new?“You sound like my wife when she’s angry—
Discounting your nonsense, of course.
Late at night when she knits and she bitches like this
It’s amazing you haven’t gone hoarse.“My birds used to visit, remember?
They were hoping you’d prosper and grow
But Wisdom’s offended that Memory tended
To you, but you’ve lost what you know.
So why don’t they join us awhile
To pay you what you think that I owe.”As two ravens fly in from the window
The man stops to consider his words
When his lips move, he’s still and he’s silent
But a voice whispers out from the birds:Beneath the pines
Below the leaves
Where bones are shrines
To death achieved
That’s where you’ll go
And where you’ll be
Again you know
And now you see
Your spirit shows
You’re more than dust
You’ve room to grow
You can adjust
Death comes again
As twice it must
Returning when
You’re last discussed
For throngs of men
The gap is small
They’re buried, then
They’re never called
For you, the word
Is fate forestalled
It’s heaven heard
Beyond its walls
Your soul is stirred
And shines anew
And grace returned
Will visit you
But grace will fade
Its moments few
The vows death made
Are followed through
Once all is played
You’ll join the dark
But what you’ve laid
May rouse a spark
And show the world
That you persisted
Your hope was hurled
You once existed
The future swirls
It’s never known
So share those pearls
You call your ownThe ravens fly out past the window
The man, with a wink, disappears
And when all once forgotten emerges
My heart reconciles and clearsIn the hours between night and morning
Once I’d heard the advice of a friend
I abandon my fears to tomorrow
And I pick up my notebook againExcellent encapsulation of why I pwn the libtards here on TNCR. Though my face does command respect.
You've a white male face, bro. Might wanna rethink that last.
