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+--- Thread: Cool poems... (/showthread.php?tid=21431)
Cool poems... - Tobias - 04-01-2004
Were did you find those, the are teh bomb...i like anything that rhymes and brings forth the dark side of my soul...*sniff* whats that smell? Did someone shit thier pants again...
Cool poems... - Kami - 04-01-2004
I like those poems. Personally I'm a fan of Shell Silverstien. (I think thats how you spell his name)
Cool poems... - Raz - 04-01-2004
The blood that trickles from thy blade is not of your own...
But the cuts of deep are shown...
Glistening within the trusts of its keeper...
Watch it slowly, like the curn of a key's turn...
what I have written in my profile for IM ^_^ my own creation *sniffs then covers his nose, scared to light a match so sprays air freshener then grins* Mmm... Pine Tree
Cool poems... - Bra - 04-01-2004
These poor, hijacked threads. For shame, Gohan. For shame....
Cool poems... - Kami - 04-01-2004
*Cracks out emo glasses*
Cool poems... - Raz - 04-02-2004
Hehe... "Hijacked"... "Emo"
Cool poems... - Vegeta - 04-22-2004
*brings a dead thread back*
Two of my favorite poems. :]
If Not, Not
They tell each other stories,
lies composed as dreams and
always in the colors of
dreams: rust, chrome yellow, coral,
chemical green. Of the dying
figures, loosely assembled, by a
riverbank. The gatehouse. A journey
by train through beautiful countryside,
indescribable countryside. I was there
cut in half, only to
survive. A young dancer, standing
at the third-floor window. Cobalt
blue, argentine, bone white. What
we called that hour in
those days. He means to
say that on that same
hill Goethe and Eckermann would
sometimes walk. "Always the old
story, always the old bed
of the sea!" He means
to say, The music of
moths, the small lamps. She
stares from the window on
the third floor, toward the
square below. He says, These
are yellow-hammers and sparrows, but
there are no larks. Come
Whitsuntide, the mockingbird and the
yellow thrush will arrive. Here
at the heart, a small
pond, stagnant in the shadow
of smoke. The late flowers.
------------
Sun
Write this. We have burned all their villages
Write this. We have burned all the villages and the people in them
Write this. We have adopted their customs and their manner of
dress
Write this. A word may be shaped like a bed, a basket of tears
or an X
In the notebook it says, It is the time of mutations, laughter at
jokes, secrets beyond the boundaries of speech
I now turn to my use of suffixes and punctuation, closing Mr.
Circle with a single stroke, tearing the canvas from its wall, joined
to her, experiencing the same thoughts at the same moment,
inscribing them on a loquat leaf
Write this. We have begun to have bodies, a now here and a now
gone, a past long ago and one still to come
Let go of me for I have died and am in a novel and was a lyric poet,
certainly, who attracted crowds to mountaintops. For a nickel I will
appear from this box. For a dollar I will have text with you and
answer three questions
First question. We entered the forest, followed its winding paths,
and emerged blind
Second question. My townhouse, of the Jugendstil, lies by
Darmstadt
Third question. He knows he will wake from this dream,
conducted in the mother-tongue
Third question. He knows his breathing organs are manipulated by
God, so that he is compelled to scream
Third question. I will converse with no one on those days of the
week which end in y
Write this. There is pleasure and pain and there are marks and
signs. A word may be shaped like a fig or a pig, an effigy or an egg
but there is only time for fasting and desire, device and
design, there is only time to swerve without limbs, organs or face
into a
scientific silence, pinhole of light
Say this. I was born on an island among the dead. I learned
language on this island but did not speak on this island. I am
writing to you from this island. I am writing to the dancers from
this island. The writers do not dance on this island
Say this. There is a sentence in my mouth, there is a chariot in my
mouth. There is a ladder. There is a lamp whose light fills empty
space and a space which swallows light
A word is beside itself. Here the poem is called What Speaking
Means to Say
though I have no memory of my name
Here the poem is called Theory of the Real, its name is Let's Call
This, and its name is called A Wooden Stick. It goes yes-yes, no-
no. It goes one and one
I have been writing a book, not in my native language, about
violins and smoke, lines and dots, free to speak and become the
things we speak, pages which sit up, look around and row
resolutely toward the setting sun
Pages torn from their spines and added to the pyre, so that they
will resemble thought
Pages which accept no ink
Pages we've never seen-first called Narrow Street, then Half a
Fragment, Plain of Jars or Plain of Reeds, taking each syllable in
her mouth, shifting position and passing it to him
Let me say this. Neak Luong is a blur. It is Tuesday in the
hardwood forest. I am a visitor here, with a notebook
The notebook lists My New Words and Flag above White. It
claims to have no inside
only characters like A-against-Herself, B,
C, L and N, Sam, Hans Magnus, T. Sphere, all speaking in the
dark with their hands
G for Gramsci or Goebbels, blue hills, cities,
cities with hills, modern and at the edge of time
F for
alphabet, Z for A, an H in an arbor, shadow, silent wreckage, W or
M among stars
What last. Lapwing. Tesseract. X perhaps for X. The villages are
known as These Letters -- humid, sunless. The writing occus on
their walls
Cool poems... - Kami - 04-22-2004
German is hard to ryhme in too(similar to Dutch I'm guessing), although there are several German poets who have somehow managed to pull it off. I don't speal it well enough to be any good at it though.
Cool poems... - Reijin - 04-22-2004
Always my favorite, by... damn, can't remember the name off my head. Usually do, oh well.
"Nothing Gold Can Stay"
Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.
Cool poems... - Tobias - 04-22-2004
I heard that somewere...
Cool poems... - Vegeta - 08-18-2004
The laws of God, the laws of man,
He may keep that will and can;
Not I: let God and man decree
Laws for themselves and not for me;
And if my ways are not as theirs
Let them mind their own affairs.
Their deeds I judge and much condemn,
Yet when did I make laws for them?
Please yourselves, say I , and they
Need only look the other way.
But no, they will not; they must still
Wrest their neighbour to their will,
And make me dance as they desire
With jail and gallows and hell-fire.
And how am I to face the odds
Of man's bedevilment and God's?
I, a stranger and afraid
In a world I never made.
They will be master, right or wrong;
Though both are foolish, both are strong.
And since, my soul, we cannot fly
To Saturn nor to Mercury,
Keep we must, if keep we can,
These foreign laws of God and man.
A.E. Housman
Tell me not here, it needs not saying,
What tune the enchantress plays
In aftermaths of soft September
Or under blanching mays,
For she and I were long acquainted
And I knew all her ways.
On russet floors, by waters idle,
The pine lets fall its cone;
The cuckoo shouts all day at nothing
In leafy dells alone;
And traveller's joy beguiles in autumn
Hearts that have lost their own.
On acres of the seeded grasses
The changing burnish heaves;
Or marshalled under moons of harvest
Stand still all night the sheaves;
Or beeches strip in storms for winter
And stain the wind with leaves.
Possess, as I possessed a season,
The countries I resign,
Where over elmy plains the highway
Would mount the hills and shine,
And full of shade the pillared forest
Would murmur and be mine.
For nature, heartless, witless nature,
Will neither care nor know
What stranger's feet may find the meadow
And trespass there and go,
Nor ask amid the dews of morning
If they are mine or no.
A.E. Housman
Cool poems... - The Not Cool Not Tapion - 08-18-2004
Quote:Originally posted by Android 16
Ya me too. I read it in 7th grade. I'm surprised I still remember
I was in seventh grade last year and we didn't read it. Some of the poems are weird to me but some I like. I just like the ones that rhyme a lot. xD Well they are easier for me to make I think. But I bet these are good...in ways.
Cool poems... - Vegeta - 08-18-2004
This thread is like six months old, but I like to reply to it from time to time.
Cool poems... - Burter - 08-18-2004
I was freaking out @_@
I thought Jeice was back