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Comfy Fleece Sweater
Apr 2, 2013

You see, but you do not observe.

because women are loving dumb lol




(someone buy me this av plz thx)

oh here come some words, now you're under my spell lady mpwahahahw

post any poems that you like or explain to me why do poets even exist in this century

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shiksa
Nov 9, 2009

i went to one of these wrestling shows and it was... honestly? frickin boring. i wanna see ricky! i want to see his gold chains and respect for the ftw lifestyle
roses are red,
i have a history of angina

Blurry Gray Thing
Jun 3, 2009
Without poets there'd be no lesbians, OP, so poets are good.

I mean there'd still be women who liked women, but we'd call them something else.

a hole-y ghost
May 10, 2010

Blurry Gray Thing posted:

Without poets there'd be no lesbians, OP, so poets are good.

I mean there'd still be women who liked women, but we'd call them something else.
its funny that we sometimes call them lesbos when a lesbian is someone from lesbos

old fat bird
Oct 27, 2007

by FactsAreUseless
they're stupid bitches for me to cume in

Secks Cauldron
Aug 26, 2006

I thought they closed that place down!

Don Tacorleone posted:


(someone buy me this av plz thx)
Looks like a turd on his chin.

COPE 27
Sep 11, 2006

Here's a good poem:

The northeast blows,
my favorite among winds,
since it promises fiery spirit
and a good voyage to mariners.
But go now, and greet
the lovely Garonne,
and the gardens of Bordeaux,
where the path runs
beside the steep bank,
and the brook runs into the deep stream,
and a noble pair of oak and silver
poplars look down from above.


I remember well
how the crowns of the elm trees
lean over the mill,
and a fig tree grows in the courtyard.
On holidays dark-skinned women
walk upon the soft earth,
and in March,
when night and day are equal:
cradling breezes waft
across the gentle pathways,
heavy with golden dreams.


But someone hand me
the fragrant cup,
full of dark light,
that I may rest.
It would be sweet
to sleep among the shadows.
It isn't good
to stay mindless
with human thoughts.
On the other hand, conversation
is also good: to speak
the thoughts of the heart,
and to hear much of days of love,
and of deeds that occur.


But where are our friends —
Bellarmin and his companion?
Many are afraid to go to the source,
since treasure is first found in the sea.
Like painters, they gather up earth's beauty,
and they don't scorn winged war,
or to live alone for years
beneath the bare mast —
where the city's festivities
don't flash through the night, or
the sound of strings and native dancing.


But now the men
have left for India...
from the windy peaks
and vine-covered hills
where the Dardogne
comes down with the great
Garonne; wide as an ocean
the river flows outward.
But the sea takes
and gives memory,
and love fixes the eye diligently,
and poets establish
that which endures.

Moridin920
Nov 15, 2007

by FactsAreUseless
Lightning flashes,
Sparks shower.
In one blink of your eyes
You have missed seeing.

the damn Ruskis are back
Jan 25, 2006

And blew, Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came!
(It starts with one)
One thing I don't know why
It doesn’t even matter how hard you try
Keep that in mind, I designed this rhyme
To explain in due time
(All I know)
Time is a valuable thing
Watch it fly by as the pendulum swings
Watch it count down to the end of the day
The clock ticks life away
(It’s so unreal)
Didn’t look out below
Watch the time go right out the window
Trying to hold on but didn’t even know
I wasted it all just to watch you go

I kept everything inside and even though I tried, it all fell apart
What it meant to be will eventually be a memory of a time when...

I tried so hard
And got so far
But in the end
It doesn't even matter
I had to fall
To lose it all
But in the end
It doesn't even matter

One thing, I don’t know why
It doesn’t even matter how hard you try
Keep that in mind, I designed this rhyme
To remind myself how
I tried so hard
In spite of the way you were mocking me
Acting like I was part of your property
Remembering all the times you fought with me
I’m surprised it got so (far)
Things aren’t the way they were before
You wouldn’t even recognize me anymore
Not that you knew me back then
But it all comes back to me
In the end

You kept everything inside and even though I tried, it all fell apart
What it meant to me will eventually be a memory of a time when...

I tried so hard
And got so far
But in the end
It doesn’t even matter
I had to fall
To lose it all
But in the end
It doesn’t even matter

I've put my trust in you
Pushed as far as I can go
For all this
There’s only one thing you should know
I've put my trust in you
Pushed as far as I can go
For all this
There’s only one thing you should know

I tried so hard
And got so far
But in the end
It doesn’t even matter
I had to fall
To lose it all
But in the end
It doesn’t even matter

COPE 27
Sep 11, 2006

A while back, if I remember right, my life was one long party where all hearts were open wide, where all wines kept flowing.

One night, I sat Beauty down on my lap.—And I found her galling.—And I roughed her up.

I armed myself against justice.

I ran away. O witches, O misery, O hatred, my treasure’s been turned over to you!

I managed to make every trace of human hope vanish from my mind. I pounced on every joy like a ferocious animal eager to strangle it.

I called for executioners so that, while dying, I could bite the butts of their rifles. I called for plagues to choke me with sand, with blood. Bad luck was my god. I stretched out in the muck. I dried myself in the air of crime. And I played tricks on insanity.

And Spring brought me the frightening laugh of the idiot.

So, just recently, when I found myself on the brink of the final squawk! it dawned on me to look again for the key to that ancient party where I might find my appetite once more.

Charity is that key.—This inspiration proves I was dreaming!

“You’ll always be a hyena etc. . . ," yells the devil, who’d crowned me with such pretty poppies. “Deserve death with all your appetites, your selfishness, and all the capital sins!”

Ah! I’ve been through too much:-But, sweet Satan, I beg of you, a less blazing eye! and while waiting for the new little cowardly gestures yet to come, since you like an absence of descriptive or didactic skills in a writer, let me rip out these few ghastly pages from my notebook of the damned.

Duke Pukem
Oct 23, 2010

Three cheers for dark beer!


Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
Aatrek touched kids,
the Mods loving knew.

COPE 27
Sep 11, 2006

I have dead ones, and I have let them go,
and was astonished to see them so peaceful,
so quickly at home in being dead, so just,
so other than their reputation. Only you, you turn
back: you brush against me, and go by, you try
to knock against something, so that it resounds
and betrays you. O don’t take from me what I
am slowly learning. I’m sure you err
when you deign to be homesick at all
for any Thing. We change them round:
they are not present, we reflect them here
out of our being, as soon as we see them.
I thought you were much further on. It disturbs me
that you especially err and return, who have
changed more than any other woman.
That we were frightened when you died, no, that
your harsh death broke in on us darkly,
tearing the until-then from the since-that:
it concerns us: that it become a unique order
is the task we must always be about.
But that even you were frightened, and now too
are in terror, where terror is no longer valid:
that you lose a little of your eternity, my friend,
and that you appear here, where nothing
yet is: that you, scattered for the first time,
scattered and split in the universe,
that you did not grasp the rise of events,
as here you grasped every Thing:
that from the cycle that has already received you
the silent gravity of some unrest
pulls you down to measured time –
this often wakes me at night like a thief breaking in.
And if only I might say that you deign to come
out of magnanimity, out of over-fullness,
because so certain, so within yourself,
that you wander about like a child, not anxious
in the face of anything one might do –
but no: you are asking. This enters so
into my bones, and cuts like a saw.
A reproach, which you might offer me, as a ghost,
impose on me, when I withdraw at night,
into my lungs, into the innards,
into the last poor chamber of my heart –
such a reproach would not be as cruel
as this asking is. What do you ask?
Say, shall I travel? Have you left some Thing
behind somewhere, that torments itself
and yearns for you? Shall I enter a land
you never saw, though it was close to you
like the other side of your senses?
I will travel its rivers: go ashore
and ask about its ancient customs:
speak to women in their doorways
and watch when they call their children.
I’ll note how they wrap the landscape
round them, going about their ancient work
in meadow and field: I’ll demand
to be led before their king, and I’ll
win their priests with bribes to place me
in front of their most powerful statues,
and leave, and close the temple gates.
Only then when I know enough, will I
simply look at creatures, so that something
of their manner will glide over my limbs:
and I will possess a limited being
in their eyes, which hold me and slowly
release me, calmly, without judgment.
I’ll let the gardeners recite many flowers
to me, so that I might bring back
in the fragments of their lovely names
a remnant of their hundred perfumes.
And I’ll buy fruits, fruits in which that land
exists once more, as far as the heavens.
That is what you understood: the ripe fruits.
You placed them in bowls there in front of you
and weighed out their heaviness with pigments.
And so you saw women as fruits too,
and saw the children likewise, driven
from inside into the forms of their being.
And you saw yourself in the end as a fruit,
removed yourself from your clothes, brought
yourself in front of the mirror, allowed yourself
within, as far as your gaze that stayed huge outside
and did not say: ‘I am that’: no, rather: ‘this is.’
So your gaze was finally free of curiosity
and so un-possessive, of such real poverty,
it no longer desired self: was sacred.
So I’ll remember you, as you placed yourself
within the mirror, deep within and far
from all. Why do you appear otherwise?
What do you countermand in yourself? Why
do you want me to believe that in the amber beads
at your throat there was still some heaviness
of that heaviness that never exists in the other-side
calm of paintings: why do you show me
an evil presentiment in your stance:
what do the contours of your body mean,
laid out like the lines on a hand,
so that I no longer see them except as fate?
Come here, to the candlelight. I’m not afraid
to look on the dead. When they come
they too have the right to hold themselves out
to our gaze, like other Things.
Come here: we’ll be still for a while.
See this rose, close by on my desk:
isn’t the light around it precisely as hesitant
as that over you: it too shouldn’t be here.
Outside in the garden, unmixed with me,
it should have remained or passed –
now it lives, so: what is my consciousness to it?
Don’t be afraid if I understand now, ah,
it climbs in me: I can do no other,
I must understand, even if I die of it.
Understand, that you are here. I understand.
Just as a blind man understands a Thing,
I feel your fate and do not know its name
Let us grieve together that someone drew you
out of your mirror. Can you still weep?
You cannot. You turned the force and pressure
of your tears into your ripe gaze,
and every juice in you besides
you added into a heavy reality,
that climbed and spun in balance blindly.
Then chance tore at you, a final chance
tore you back from your furthest advance,
back into a world where juices have will.
Not tearing you wholly: tore only a piece at first,
but when around this piece, day after day
reality grew, so that it became heavy,
you needed your whole self: you went
and broke yourself, in pieces, out of its control,
painfully, out, because you needed yourself. Then
you lifted yourself out, and dug the still green seeds
out of the night-warmed earth of your heart,
from which your death would rise: yours,
your own death for your own life.
And ate them, the kernels of your death,
like all the others, ate the kernels,
and found an aftertaste of sweetness
you did not expect, found sweetness on the lips,
you: who were already sweet within your senses.
O let us grieve. Do you know how your blood
hesitated in its unequalled gyre, and reluctantly
returned, when you called it back?
How confused it was to take up once more
the body’s narrow circulation: how full of mistrust
and amazement, entering into the placenta,
and suddenly tired by the long way back.
You drove it on: you pushed it along,
you dragged it to the fireplace, as one
drags a herd-animal to the sacrifice:
and still wished that it would be happy too.
And you finally forced it: it was happy
and ran over to you and gave itself up. You thought
because you’d grown used to other rules,
it was only for a while: but
now you were within Time, and Time is long.
And Time runs on, and Time takes away, and Time
is like a relapse in a lengthy illness.
How short your life was, if you compare it
with those hours where you sat and bent
the varied powers of your varied future
silently into the bud of the child,
that was fate once more. O painful task.
O task beyond all strength. You did it
from day to day, you dragged yourself to it,
and drew the lovely weft through the loom,
and used up all the threads in another way.
And finally you still had courage to celebrate.
When it was done, you wanted to be rewarded,
like a child when it has drunk the bittersweet
tea that might perhaps make it well.
So you rewarded yourself: you were still so far
from other people, even then: no one was able
to think through, what gift would please you.
You knew. You sat up in childbed,
and in front of you stood a mirror, that returned
the whole thing to you. This everything was you,
and wholly before, and within was only illusion,
the sweet illusion of every woman, who gladly
takes up her jewelry, and combs, and alters her hair.
So you died, as women used to die, you died,
in the old-fashioned way, in the warm house,
the death of women who have given birth, who wish
to shut themselves again and no longer can,
because that darkness, that they have borne,
returns once more, and thrusts, and enters.
Still, shouldn’t a wailing of women have been raised?
Where women would have lamented, for gold,
and one could pay for them to howl
through the night, when all becomes silent.
A custom once! We have too few customs.
They all vanish and become disowned.
So you had to come, in death, and, here with me,
retrieve the lament. Can you hear that I lament?
I wish that my voice were a cloth thrown down
over the broken fragments of your death
and pulled about until it were torn to pieces,
and all that I say would have to walk around,
ragged, in that voice, and shiver:
what remains belongs to lament. But now I lament,
not the man who pulled you back out of yourself,
(I don’t discover him: he’s like everyone)
but I lament all in him: mankind.
When, somewhere, from deep within me, a sense
of having been a child rises, which I still don’t understand,
perhaps the pure being-a-child of my childhood:
I don’t wish to understand. I wish to form
an angel from it, without addition,
and wish to hurl him into the front rank
of the screaming angels who remind God.
Because this suffering’s lasted far too long,
and no one can bear it: it’s too heavy for us,
this confused suffering of false love,
that builds on limitation, like a custom,
calls itself right and makes profit out of wrong.
Where is the man who has the right of possession?
Who can possess what cannot hold its own self,
what only from time to time catches itself happily,
and throws itself down again, as a child does a ball.
No more than the captain of the ship can grasp
the Nike jutting outwards from the prow
when the secret lightness of her divinity
lifts her suddenly into the bright ocean-wind:
no more can one of us call back the woman
who walks on, no longer seeing us,
along a small strip of her being
as if by a miracle, without disaster:
unless his desire and trade is in crime.
For this is a crime, if anything’s a crime:
not to increase the freedom of a Love
with all the freedom we can summon in ourselves.
We have, indeed, when we love, only this one thing:
to loose one another: because holding on to ourselves
comes easily to us, and does not first have to be learned.

Are you still there? Are you in some corner? –
You understood all of this so well
and used it so well, as you passed through
open to everything, like the dawn of a day.
Women do suffer: love means being alone,
and artists sometimes suspect in their work
that they must transform where they love.
You began both: both are in that
which now fame disfigures, and takes from you.
Oh you were far beyond any fame. You were
barely apparent: you’d withdrawn your beauty
as a man takes down a flag
on the grey morning of a working day,
and wished for nothing, except the long work –
which is unfinished: and yet is not finished.
If you are still here, if in this darkness
there is still a place where your sensitive spirit
resonates on the shallow waves
of a voice, isolated in the night,
vibrating in the high room’s current:
then hear me: help me. See, we can slip back so
unknowingly, out of our forward stride,
into something we didn’t intend: find
that we’re trapped there as if in dream
and we die there, without waking.
No one is far from it. Anyone who has fired
their blood through work that endures,
may find that they can no longer sustain it
and that it falls according to its weight, worthless.
For somewhere there is an ancient enmity
between life and the great work.
Help me, so that I might see it and know it.
Come no more. If you can bear it so, be
dead among the dead. The dead are occupied.
But help me like this, so you are not scattered,
as the furthest things sometimes help me: within.

the damn Ruskis are back
Jan 25, 2006

And blew, Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came!
if i just post the entire oddesesy will i get probated

coolskull
Nov 11, 2007

efnii posted:

if i just post the entire oddesesy will i get probated

i've seen the atlas shrugged speech posted a bunch, so there's some precedent.

les fleurs du mall
Jun 30, 2014

by LadyAmbien
This poo poo is bad,
as i'm sure you'll agree,
So please gas this thread
and ban the OP

Beef Turret
Jul 9, 2009

by Lowtax
Man you hear this bullshit they be talking
Every day, man
It's like these motherfuckers is just like professional liars
You know what I'm sayin
It's wild
Listen

[Hook x2: Mos Def]
Bin Laden didn't blow up the projects
It was you, nigga
Tell the truth, nigga
Bush knocked down the towers
Tell the truth, nigga
Bush knocked down the towers
Tell the truth, nigga

[Verse 1: Immortal Technique]
I pledge no allegiance
Nigga, gently caress the President's speeches
I'm baptized by America and covered in leeches
The dirty water that bleaches your soul and your facial features
Drowning you in propaganda that they spit through the speakers
And if you speak about the evil that the government does
The Patriot Act will track you to the type of your blood
They try to frame you
And say you was trying sell drugs
And throw a federal indictment on niggas to show you love
This poo poo is run by fake Christians
Fake politicians
Look at they mansions
Then look at the conditions you live in
All they talk about is terrorism on television
They tell you to listen
But they don't really tell you they mission
They funded Al-Qaeda and now they blame the Muslim religion
Even though Bin Laden was a CIA tactician
They gave him billions of dollars and they funded his purpose
Fahrenheit 9/11
That's just scratching the surface

[Hook]

[Verse 2: Immortal Technique]
They say the rebels in Iraq still fight for Saddam
But that's bullshit
I'll show you why it's totally wrong
Cuz if another country invaded the hood tonight
It'd be warfare through Harlem
And Washington Heights
I wouldn't be fighting for Bush or White America's dream
I'd be fighting for my people's survival and self-esteem
I wouldn't fight for racist churches from the South, my nigga
I'd be fighting to keep the occupation out, my nigga
You ever clock someone who talk poo poo, or look at you wrong
Imagine if they shot at you
And was raping your moms
And of course Saddam Hussein had chemical weapons
We sold him that poo poo
After Ronald Reagan's election
Mercenary contractors fighting a new era
Corporate military banking off the war on terror
They controlling the ghetto with the fear of attack
Tryna distract the fact that they engineering the crack
So I'm strapped like Lee Malvo holding a sniper rifle
These bullets will touch your kids and I don't mean like Michael
Your body be sent to the morgue
Stripped down and recycled
I fire on house niggas that support you and like you
Cuz innocent people get murdered in the struggle daily
And poor people never get poo poo and struggle daily
This ain't no alien conspiracy theory
This poo poo is real
Written on the dollar underneath the Masonic seal

[Eminem]
I don't rap for dead presidents
I'd rather see the President dead
It's never been said but I set precedents)

[Hook - Mos Def]

[Eminem]
Shady Records was eighty seconds away from the towers
Some cowards hosed with the wrong building
They meant to hit ours

the damn Ruskis are back
Jan 25, 2006

And blew, Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came!
ah here we go real poetry

Words and phrases that rhyme with gas: (318 results)

1 syllable:
rear end, bass, basse, blass, bras, brass, brasse, cas, casque, cass, casse, chass, chasse, class, crass, das, dass, fahs, fass, frass, gass, glas, glass, gras, grass, grasse, hass, jass, kass, klas, klass, kras, krass, kvass, lass, lasse, last, mass, mass., masse, nass, pass, passé, plas, plass, plasse, ras, rasse, sas, sass, sasse, slask, strass, tass, tasse, trass, vass, wrasse, yass

2 syllables:
age class, air mass, alas, alsace, amass, art class, barn grass, bay grass, bear grass, beer glass, bell glass, bent grass, black bass, broom grass, bunch grass, bur grass, cloud grass, contrasts, cord grass, couch grass, crab grass, crown glass, cut glass, deer grass, depass, dog grass, en masse, field glass, first class, flint glass, flute glass, foie gras, forecasts, form class, goat grass, goose grass, ground bass, ground glass, hair grass, hall pass, hand glass, harass, high brass, high mass, ice mass, impasse, june grass, lambastes, lead glass, life class, love grass, low brass, low mass, lyme grass, make pass, means grass, milk glass, morass, nut grass, outlasts, pier glass, pin grass, plate glass, plume grass, quack grass, quartz glass, quick grass, red brass, reed grass, repass, rest mass, rhodes grass, rice grass, rock bass, rye grass, screen pass, sea bass, shot glass, silk grass, slough grass, smartass, smut grass, soft glass, stained glass, star grass, stone bass, string bass, striped bass, surpass, sweet grass, switch grass, sword grass, tape grass, third class, umass, vanasse, watch glass, wild rear end, witch grass, wool grass, word class, yard grass

3 syllables:
alpha brass, arrow grass, barley grass, barnyard grass, bearing brass, black sea bass, boarding pass, bottle grass, brandy glass, bristle grass, broom beard grass, cabin class, carpet grass, cartridge brass, channel bass, china grass, cotton grass, curly grass, devil grass, double bass, drinking glass, english class, fescue grass, figured bass, finger grass, forward pass, fountain grass, foxtail grass, freshman class, grama grass, harding grass, jenny rear end, johnson grass, junior class, liqueur glass, looking glass, lower class, manna grass, mardi gras, meadow grass, middle class, middle-class, mountain pass, naval brass, object glass, old witch grass, opal glass, orange grass, orchard grass, pampas grass, pane of glass, panic grass, penny grass, pepper grass, physics class, piece of rear end, prairie grass, ribbon grass, rock sea bass, ruling class, safety glass, salt reed grass, sea lyme grass, second class, senior class, sheet of glass, silver grass, social class, sophomore class, sour grass, tall oat grass, thorough bass, tourist class, tumble grass, upper class, velvet grass, water glass, whitlow grass, wild oat grass, windmill grass, wire glass, wire grass, working class, yellow bass

4 syllables:
alkali grass, atomic mass, bahama grass, bahia grass, bermuda grass, buffalo grass, canary grass, center of mass, cereal grass, chemistry class, creeping soft grass, crested wheat grass, domestic rear end, egyptian grass, evergreen grass, feather reed grass, freshwater bass, giant star grass, immigrant class, inertial mass, lateral pass, levy en masse, major form class, manila grass, natural glass, optical glass, pain in the rear end, pate de foie gras, poverty grass, ravenna grass, reed meadow grass, sergeant first class, shatterproof glass, snake in the grass, soluble glass, spotted black bass, sunday school class, tall meadow grass, velvet bent grass, venetian glass, volcanic glass, water star grass, weeping love grass

5 syllables:
admiralty brass, african love grass, african wild rear end, alligator grass, australian reed grass, biology class, common cotton grass, creeping windmill grass, graduating class, hairy finger grass, hungarian grass, japanese lawn grass, kentucky black bass, korean lawn grass, laminated glass, magnifying glass, pheasant under glass, reed canary grass, yellow bristle grass

6 syllables:
american star grass, conservation of mass, european dune grass, fairway crested wheat grass, gravitational mass, japanese carpet grass, korean velvet grass, relativistic mass

7 syllables:
relative atomic mass

8 syllables:
law of conservation of mass, relative molecular mass

paranoid randroid
Mar 4, 2007
gbs poster doesnt understand basic human behavior, more as the situation develops

COPE 27
Sep 11, 2006

“Ah, William! art thou false or dead?”
Cried Leonora from her bed.
“I dreamt thou’dst ne’er return.”
William had fought in Frederick’s host
At Prague—and what his fate—if lost
Or false, she could not learn.
Hungaria’s queen and Prussia’s king,
Wearied, at length with bickering,
Resolv’d to end the strife;
And homewards, then, their separate routs
The armies took, with songs and shouts,
With cymbals, drum and fife.
As deck’d with boughs they march’d along,
From every door, the old and young
Rush’d forth the troops to greet.
“Thank God,” each child and parent cry’d,
And “welcome, welcome,” many a bride,
As friends long parted meet.
They joy’d, poor Leonora griev’d:
No kiss she gave, no kiss receiv’d;
Of William none could tell;
She rung her hands, and tore her hair;
Till left alone in deep despair,
Bereft of sense, she fell.
Swift to her aid her mother came,
“Ah! say,” cried she, “in mercy’s name,
“What means this frantic grief?”
“Mother ’tis past—all hopes are fled,
“God hath no mercy, William’s dead,
“My woe is past relief.”
“Pardon, O pardon, Lord above!
“My child, with pray’rs invoke his love,
“The Almighty never errs?”
“O, mother! mother! idle prate,
“Can he be anxious for my fate,
“Who never heard my prayers?”
“Be patient child, in God believe,
“The good he can, and will relieve,
“To trust his power endeavour.”
“O, mother! mother! all is vain,
“What trust can bring to life again?
“The past, is past for ever.”
“Who knows, but that he yet survives;
“Perchance, far off from hence he lives,
“And thinks no more of you.
“Forget, forget, the faithless youth,
“Away with grief, your sorrow soothe,
“Since William proves untrue.”
“Mother, all hope has fled my mind,
“The past, is past, our God’s unkind;
“Why did he give me breath?
“Oh that this hated loathsome light
“Would fade for ever from my sight,
“Come, death, come, welcome death!”
“Indulgent Father, spare my child,
“Her agony hath made her wild,
“She knows not what she does.
“Daughter, forget thy earthly love,
“Look up to him who reigns above,
“Where joys succeed to woes.”
“Mother what now are joys to me?
“With William, Hell a Heaven could be,
“Without him, Heaven a Hell.
“Fade, fade away, thou hated light,
“Death bear me hence to endless night,
“With love all hope farewell.”
Thus rashly, Leonora strove
To doubt the truth of heavenly love.
She wept, and beat her breast;
She pray’d for death, until the moon
With all the stars with silence shone,
And sooth’d the world to rest.
When, hark! without, what sudden sound!
She hears a trampling o’er the ground,
Some horseman must be near!
He stops, he rings, Hark! as the noise
Dies soft away, a well-known voice
Thus greets her list’ning ear.
“Wake, Leonora;—dost thou sleep,
“Or thoughtless laugh, or constant weep,
“Is William welcome home?”
“Dear William, you!—return’d, and well!
“I’ve wak’d and wept—but why, ah! tell,
“So late—at night you come?”
“At midnight only dare we roam,
“For thee from Prague, though late, I come.”
“For me!—stay here and rest;
“The wild winds whistle o’er the waste,
“Ah, dear William! why such haste?
“First warm thee in my breast.”
“Let the winds whistle o’er the waste,
“My duty bids me be in haste;
“Quick, mount upon my steed:
“Let the winds whistle far and wide,
“Ere morn, two hundred leagues we’ll ride,
“To reach our marriage bed.”
“What, William! for a bridal room,
“Travel to night so far from home?”
“Leonora, ’tis decreed.
“Look round thee, love, the moon shines clear,
“The dead ride swiftly; never fear,
“We’ll reach our marriage bed.”
“Ah, William! whither would’st thou speed,
“What! where! this distant marriage bed?”
“Leonora, no delay.
“‘Tis far from hence; still—cold—and small:
“Six planks, no more, compose it all;
“Our guests await, away!”
She lightly on the courser sprung,
And her white arms round William flung,
Like to a lily wreath.
In swiftest gallop off they go,
The stones and sparks around them throw,
And pant the way for breath.
The objects fly on every side,
The bridges thunder as they ride;
“Art thou my love afraid?
“Death swiftly rides, the moon shines clear,
“The dead doth Leonora fear?”
“Ah, no! why name the dead?”
Hark! as their rapid course they urge,
A passing bell, a solemn dirge;
Hoarse ravens join the strain.
They see a coffin on a bier,
A priest and mourners too appear,
Slow moving o’er the plain.
And sad was heard the funeral lay;
“What the Lord gives, he takes away;
“Life’s but a fleeting shade.
“A tale that’s told,—a flower that falls;
“Death, when the least expected, calls,
“And bears us to his bed.”
“Forbear;”—imperious William cry’d
“I carry home, a beauteous bride,
“Come, to our marriage feast;
“Mourners, away, we want your song;
“And as we swiftly haste along,
“Give us your blessing, priest.
“Sing on, that life is like a shade;
“A tale that’s told, or flowers which fade:
“Such strains will yield delight.
“And, when we to our chamber go,
“Bury your dead, with wail and woe;
“The service suits the night.”
While William speaks, they silent stand,
Then run obedient to command,
But, on with furious bound,
The foaming courser forward flew,
Fire and stones his heels pursue,
Like whirlwinds dash’d around.
On right and left, on left and right,
Trees, hills, and towns flew past their sight,
As on they breathless prest;
“With the bright moon, like death we speed,
“Doth Leonora fear the dead?”
“Ah! leave the dead at rest.”
Behold, where in the moon’s pale beam,
As wheels and gibbets faintly gleam,
Join’d hand in hand, a crowd
Of imps and spectres hover nigh,
Or round a wasted wretch they fly,
When William calls aloud:
“Hither, ye airy rabble, come,
“And follow till I reach my home;
“We want a marriage dance.”
As when the leaves on wither’d trees,
Are rustled by an edying breeze,
The muttering sprites advance.
But, soon with hurried steps, the crew
Rush’d prattling on, for William flew,
Clasp’d by the frighted fair:
Swifter than shafts, or than the wind,
While struck from earth fire flash’d behind,
Like lightnings through the air.
Not only flew the landscape by,
The clouds and stars appear’d to fly.
“Thus over hills and heath
“We ride like death; say, lovely maid,
“By moon-light dost thou fear the dead?”
“Ah! speak no more of death.”
“The cock hath crow’d—Away! away!
“The sand ebbs out: I scent the day.
“On! on! away from here!
“Soon must our destin’d course be run,
“The dead ride swift,—hurrah! ’tis done,
“The marriage bed is near.”
High grated iron doors, in vain
Barr’d their way.—With loosened rein
Whil’st William urg’d the steed,
He struck the bolts;—they open flew,
A churchyard drear appear’d in view;
Their path was o’er the dead.
As now, half veil’d by clouds, the moon
With feebler ray, o’er objects shone,
Where tombstones faint appear,
A grave new dug arrests the pair,
Cry’d William, and embrac’d the fair,
“Our marriage bed is here.”
Scarce had he spoke, when, dire to tell,
His flesh like touchwood from him fell,
His eyes forsook his head.
A skull, and naked bones alone,
Supply the place of William gone,
‘Twas Death that clasp’d the maid.
Wild, snorting fire, the courser rear’d,
As wrapp’d in smoke he disappear’d,
Poor Leonora fell;
The hideous spectres hover round,
Deep groans she hears from under ground,
And fiends ascend from hell.
They dance, and say, in dreadful howl,
“She asks no mercy for her soul;
“Her earthly course is done.
“When mortals, rash and impious! dare
“Contend with God, and court despair,
“We claim them as our own.”
“Yet,” thus was heard, in milder strains,
“Call on the Lord, while life remains,
“Unite your heart to his;
“When man repents and is resign’d,
“God loves to soothe his suff’ring mind,
“And grant him future bliss.”
“We claim as ours, who impious dare
“Contend with God, and court despair;”
Again the spectres cry’d.
“Fate threats in vain, when man’s resign’d,
“God loves to soothe the suff’ring mind,”
The gentler voice reply’d.
Leonora, e’er her sense was gone,
Thus faint exclaim’d,—”thy Will be done,
“Lord, let thy anger cease.”
Soft on the wind was borne the pray’r;
The spectres vanish’d into air,
And all was hush’d in peace.
Now redd’ning tints the skies adorn,
And streaks of gold, proclaim the morn;
The night is chas’d away.
The sun ascends, new warmth he gives,
New hope, new joy; all nature lives,
And hails the glorious day.
No more are dreadful fantoms near;
Love and his smiling train, appear;
They cull each sweetest flow’r,
To scatter o’er the path of youth,
To deck the bridal bed, when Truth
And Beauty own their pow’r.
Ah,—could your pow’r avert the blast
Which threatens Bliss!—could passion last!
Ye dear enchanters tell;
What purer joy could Heaven bestow,
Than when with shar’d affection’s glow
Our panting bosoms swell?
Sweet spirits wave the airy wand,
Two faithful hearts your care demand;
Lo! bounding o’er the plain,
Led by your charm, a youth returns;
With hope, his breast impatient burns;
Hope is not always vain.
“Wake, Leonora!—wake to Love!
For thee, his choicest wreath he wove;”
Death vainly aim’d his Dart.
The Past was all a dream; she woke—
He lives;—’twas William’s self who spoke,
And clasp’d her to his Heart.

the damn Ruskis are back
Jan 25, 2006

And blew, Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came!
i dont really get
any of the jokes
but thats because i
didn't read any of this poo poo
including my own
posts

Helical Nightmares
Apr 30, 2009
Ahem. And now for some classic poetry.

quote:

I will sodomize you and face-gently caress you,
Cocksucking Aurelius and bottom-man Furius,
You who think that I'm a pussy
Because of my delicate verses.
It's right for the devoted poet
To be chaste himself, but it's not
Necessary for his verses to be so.
Verses which then have taste and charm,
If they are delicate and sexy,
And when they can incite an itch,
And I don't mean for boys, but in
Those hairy old men who can't get their dicks up.
You, because you have read of my thousands of kisses,
You think I'm a pussy?
I will sodomize you and face-gently caress you.

COPE 27
Sep 11, 2006

Never until the mankind making
Bird beast and flower
Fathering and all humbling darkness
Tells with silence the last light breaking
And the still hour
Is come of the sea tumbling in harness

And I must enter again the round
Zion of the water bead
And the synagogue of the ear of corn
Shall I let pray the shadow of a sound
Or sow my salt seed
In the least valley of sackcloth to mourn

The majesty and burning of the child’s death.
I shall not murder
The mankind of her going with a grave truth
Nor blaspheme down the stations of the breath
With any further
Elegy of innocence and youth.

Deep with the first dead lies London’s daughter,
Robed in the long friends,
The grains beyond age, the dark veins of her mother,
Secret by the unmourning water
Of the riding Thames.
After the first death, there is no other.

COPE 27
Sep 11, 2006

Why do I stay silent, conceal for too long
What clearly is and has been
Practiced in war games, at the end of which we as survivors
Are at best footnotes.

It is the alleged right to first strike
That could annihilate the Iranian people--
Enslaved by a loud-mouth
And guided to organized jubilation--
Because in their territory,
It is suspected, a bomb is being built.

Yet why do I forbid myself
To name that other country
In which, for years, even if secretly,
There has been a growing nuclear potential at hand
But beyond control, because no inspection is available?

The universal concealment of these facts,
To which my silence subordinated itself,
I sense as incriminating lies
And force--the punishment is promised
As soon as it is ignored;
The verdict of "anti-Semitism" is familiar.

Now, though, because in my country
Which from time to time has sought and confronted
Its very own crime
That is without compare
In turn on a purely commercial basis, if also
With nimble lips calling it a reparation, declares
A further U-boat should be delivered to Israel,
Whose specialty consists of guiding all-destroying warheads to where the existence
Of a single atomic bomb is unproven,
But as a fear wishes to be conclusive,
I say what must be said.

Why though have I stayed silent until now?
Because I thought my origin,
Afflicted by a stain never to be expunged
Kept the state of Israel, to which I am bound

And wish to stay bound,
From accepting this fact as pronounced truth.

Why do I say only now,
Aged and with my last ink,
That the nuclear power of Israel endangers
The already fragile world peace?
Because it must be said
What even tomorrow may be too late to say;
Also because we--as Germans burdened enough--
Could be the suppliers to a crime
That is foreseeable, wherefore our complicity
Could not be redeemed through any of the usual excuses.

And granted: I am silent no longer
Because I am tired of the hypocrisy
Of the West; in addition to which it is to be hoped
That this will free many from silence,
That they may prompt the perpetrator of the recognized danger
To renounce violence and
Likewise insist
That an unhindered and permanent control
Of the Israeli nuclear potential
And the Iranian nuclear sites
Be authorized through an international agency
By the governments of both countries.

Only this way are all, the Israelis and Palestinians,
Even more, all people, that in this
Region occupied by mania
Live cheek by jowl among enemies,
And also us, to be helped.

Topographic Nap
Apr 22, 2007

who wrote these poems?

the damn Ruskis are back
Jan 25, 2006

And blew, Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came!
me

Comfy Fleece Sweater
Apr 2, 2013

You see, but you do not observe.

Quickscope420dad posted:

This poo poo is bad,
as i'm sure you'll agree,
So please gas this thread
and ban the OP

I... I feel something, I finally understand poetry !

Alan Smithee
Jan 4, 2005


A man becomes preeminent, he's expected to have enthusiasms.

Enthusiasms, enthusiasms...
like a fat kid love cake

Duke Pukem
Oct 23, 2010

Three cheers for dark beer!


Alan Smithee posted:

like a fat kid love cake

digging in with glee,
obese grunting makes
obscene revelry.

Comfy Fleece Sweater
Apr 2, 2013

You see, but you do not observe.

poetry is actually jus rap for whiteys

Alan Smithee
Jan 4, 2005


A man becomes preeminent, he's expected to have enthusiasms.

Enthusiasms, enthusiasms...

Don Tacorleone posted:

poetry is actually jus rap for whiteys

:vince:

Valk
Aug 12, 2011

PhantomBowie tapped this @$$

efnii posted:

(It starts with one)
One thing I don't know why
It doesn’t even matter how hard you try
Keep that in mind, I designed this rhyme
To explain in due time
(All I know)
Time is a valuable thing
Watch it fly by as the pendulum swings
Watch it count down to the end of the day
The clock ticks life away
(It’s so unreal)
Didn’t look out below
Watch the time go right out the window
Trying to hold on but didn’t even know
I wasted it all just to watch you go

I kept everything inside and even though I tried, it all fell apart
What it meant to be will eventually be a memory of a time when...

I tried so hard
And got so far
But in the end
It doesn't even matter
I had to fall
To lose it all
But in the end
It doesn't even matter

One thing, I don’t know why
It doesn’t even matter how hard you try
Keep that in mind, I designed this rhyme
To remind myself how
I tried so hard
In spite of the way you were mocking me
Acting like I was part of your property
Remembering all the times you fought with me
I’m surprised it got so (far)
Things aren’t the way they were before
You wouldn’t even recognize me anymore
Not that you knew me back then
But it all comes back to me
In the end

You kept everything inside and even though I tried, it all fell apart
What it meant to me will eventually be a memory of a time when...

I tried so hard
And got so far
But in the end
It doesn’t even matter
I had to fall
To lose it all
But in the end
It doesn’t even matter

I've put my trust in you
Pushed as far as I can go
For all this
There’s only one thing you should know
I've put my trust in you
Pushed as far as I can go
For all this
There’s only one thing you should know

I tried so hard
And got so far
But in the end
It doesn’t even matter
I had to fall
To lose it all
But in the end
It doesn’t even matter

Grey Skies
Oct 23, 2008

by FactsAreUseless
IT TURNS OUT I WAS A POET

AND I DIDN'T EVEN KNOW-ET











LOL

a gay lion named Tangiers
Jul 30, 2013
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 rain

children guessed(but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that noone loved him more by more

when 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 her

someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then)they
said their nevers they slept their dream

stars 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 was

all 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

:somesortofsmithemoticon:

Justin Godscock
Oct 12, 2004

Listen here, funnyman!
gas thread
ban op
fin

Comfy Fleece Sweater
Apr 2, 2013

You see, but you do not observe.

Justin Godscock posted:

gas thread
ban op
fin

Better men than you have made this same joke in this very thread

quakster
Jul 21, 2007

by FactsAreUseless
its actually because young and horny people are easily excitable, op

Moridin920
Nov 15, 2007

by FactsAreUseless
When rich speculators prosper
While farmers lose their land;
when government officials spend money
on weapons instead of cures;
when the upper class is extravagant and irresponsible
while the poor have nowhere to turn-
all this is robbery and chaos.
It is not in keeping with the Tao.

Pththya-lyi
Nov 8, 2009

THUNDERDOME LOSER 2020
John Wilmot's take on a subject important to many goons:

The Imperfect Enjoyment

Naked she lay, clasped in my longing arms,
I filled with love, and she all over charms;
Both equally inspired with eager fire,
Melting through kindness, flaming in desire.
With arms,legs,lips close clinging to embrace,
She clips me to her breast, and sucks me to her face.
Her nimble tongue, Love's lesser lightening, played
Within my mouth, and to my thoughts conveyed
Swift orders that I should prepare to throw
The all-dissolving thunderbolt below.
My fluttering soul, sprung with the painted kiss,
Hangs hovering o'er her balmy brinks of bliss.
But whilst her busy hand would guide that part
Which should convey my soul up to her heart,
In liquid raptures I dissolve all o'er,
Melt into sperm and, and spend at every pore.
A touch from any part of her had done't:
Her hand, her foot, her very look's a c***.

Smiling, she chides in a kind murmuring noise,
And from her body wipes the clammy joys,
When, with a thousand kisses wandering o'er
My panting bosom, "Is there then no more?"
She cries. "All this to love and rapture's due;
Must we not pay a debt to pleasure too?"

But I, the most forlorn, lost man alive,
To show my wished obedience vainly strive:
I sigh, alas! and kiss, but cannot swive.
Eager desires confound my first intent,
Succeeding shame does more success prevent,
And rage at last confirms me impotent.
Ev'n her fair hand, which might bid heat return
To frozen age, and make cold hermits burn,
Applied to my dead cinder, warms no more
Than fire to ashes could past flames restore.
Trembling, confused, despairing, limber, dry,
A wishing, weak, unmoving lump I lie.
This dart of love, whose piercing point, oft tried,
With virgin blood ten thousand maids have dyed;
Which nature still directed with such art
That it through every **** reached every heart -
Stiffly resolved, 'twould carelessly invade
Woman or man, nor aught its fury stayed:
Where'er it pierced, a **** it found or made -
Now languid lies in this unhappy hour,
Shrunk up and sapless like a withered flower.

Thou treacherous, base deserter of my flame,
False to my passion, fatal to my fame,
Through what mistaken magic dost thou prove
So true to lewdness, so untrue to love?
What oyster-cinder-beggar-common ****
Didst thou e'er fail in all thy life before?
When vice, disease, and scandal lead the way,
With what officious haste dost thou obey!
Like a rude, roaring hector in the streets
Who scuffles, cuffs, and justles all he meets,
But if his king or country claim his aid,
The rakehell villain shrinks and hides his head;
Ev'n so thy brutal valour is displayed,
Breaks every stew, does each small **** invade,
But when great Love the onset does command,
Base recreant to thy prince, thou dar'st not stand.
Worst part of me, and henceforth hated most,
Through all the town a common ****-post,
On whom each **** relieves her tingling ****
As hogs do rub themselves on gates and grunt,
May'st thou to ravenous chancres be a prey,
Or in consuming weepings waste away;
May strangury and stone thy days attend;
May'st thou ne'er piss, who did refuse to spend
When all my joys did on false thee depend.
And may ten thousand abler pricks agree
To do the wronged Corinna right for thee.

joxxuh
May 20, 2011
Greek poetry from 2700 years ago still exists. actually our full fledged alphabet system was probably created to overcome the limitations of the phoenician system in writing down this kind of poetry which emphasised wovel sounds and stuff like that.

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Comfy Fleece Sweater
Apr 2, 2013

You see, but you do not observe.

joxxuh posted:

Greek poetry from 2700 years ago still exists. actually our full fledged alphabet system was probably created to overcome the limitations of the phoenician system in writing down this kind of poetry which emphasised wovel sounds and stuff like that.

greeks were widely known to be boy lovers so that explains poetry existing back then

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