Poetry Corner Thread

1
So how come we don't have one of these already? I mean we're not mindless hearless conservatives, it's okay for us to share this stuff. so pull out your best poetry you've written and share. I'll start with a Poem I wrote about a five years ago called: Take heed gentle, sailor

Oh, gentle sailor with winds a’blowin
Can you see your destination?
Or even where you’re goin’?

The tides will toss,
The winds will blow,
Then the spirits shall be lost.

You cast your nets,
And take your fill.
Never with any regrets.

You sail straight through
The fog of glory,
Ignorant of what storms may brew.

Take heed gentle sailor, take heed.
Ambition is good; it’s food for the soul.
But don’t let it turn into greed.

For the wake of your boom
Will expand beyond sight,
And could possibly spell your own doom.

Oh, gentle sailor with winds a’blowin
Can you see your destination?
Or even where you’re goin’?

Beware! For beyond that great mist
Lies a wonderful world,
But only if you put down your fists.
If I hear "crony" capitalism one more time I'm going to be ill. Capitalism is capitalism, dog eats dog and one dog ends up on top, and he defends that place with all the power he's accumulated.

Re: Poetry Corner Thread

3
good one wlewisiii.

Here's one I wrote a few years ago called: The rape

STOP! Can't you hear her scream?
You fuck, your screwing up her dream.
She doesn't want this, that is why she cries,
As blood drips from her evergreen eyes.

What sort of sick perverted pleasures
Do you take in soiling all she treasures?
You grope her bosom as her skin turns gray,
And she just tries to squirm away.

OH! What a great son you are!
She's taken care of you thus far,
And yet you thrust yourself upon her like you do.
God! How can her screams not run you through?

Bloody and broken you've beat her now.
Brother all I have to say to you is: how?
She has loved us much till now,
How you taint her purity I know not how!

Your sick lust has made me ill,
With this, your shortlived thrill
You ate your fill as you let go.
The stains never fade from snow.

Your putrid breath has filled the sky,
And now she lays down to die.
You don’t even care. You don’t know her mirth.
Stop raping my mother Earth!
If I hear "crony" capitalism one more time I'm going to be ill. Capitalism is capitalism, dog eats dog and one dog ends up on top, and he defends that place with all the power he's accumulated.

Re: Poetry Corner Thread

4
Here's one I wrote to day, ideas for a title?


Abandon all hope,
All ye who enter here ,
For freedom is for sale,
And the air is choked with fear.

This land of tyrants ,
Where gold rules eternal,
And the soul has no value ,
And life is devoid of purpose .

Ghostly chains that bind you,
And in the darkness you will walk,
Undead as you may be,
And never know your lock.

Here slaves police themselves,
For lords on hallowed throne,
These dark men of soulless form,
And hearts of blackest stone.

Abandon all hope,
All ye who enter here,
Here sighted men are blind,
And easily lead by fear.
Last edited by gendoikari87 on Fri Mar 30, 2012 12:48 am, edited 4 times in total.
If I hear "crony" capitalism one more time I'm going to be ill. Capitalism is capitalism, dog eats dog and one dog ends up on top, and he defends that place with all the power he's accumulated.

Re: Poetry Corner Thread

5
Seriously people, can't we get any good poets in here....


For in our hour of darkest need
We were crushed by our own greed
Tossed about in pitchest black
Blind in folly and in whimsy
Restless in our characters lack
Our last defense it wore quite flimsy

Grasping at gold within our dream
Reality unraveled at the seam
So few did peak through this tear
Seemed as all hope T’was lost
For nary a man did care
About the last and final cost

Hearken for a hero did we
Not a single one did I see
Nay! did he not show his face?
Stood he and looked around
Then slunk back in sad disgrace
A hero had he not found
If I hear "crony" capitalism one more time I'm going to be ill. Capitalism is capitalism, dog eats dog and one dog ends up on top, and he defends that place with all the power he's accumulated.

Re: Poetry Corner Thread

6
Poetry is a hard topic to get anyone going on in America, IME. Try talking Eliot to people, much less Adrian Rich (RIP).

I love poetry. I firmly believe that a man should be able write a shakespearian sonnet to his beloved before being allowed to pick up a firearm. On this I am in an extremely tiny minority, alas... :blink:
Live like you will never die, love like you've never been hurt, dance
like no-one is watching.
Alex White

Re: Poetry Corner Thread

7
wlewisiii wrote:Poetry is a hard topic to get anyone going on in America, IME. Try talking Eliot to people, much less Adrian Rich (RIP).

I love poetry. I firmly believe that a man should be able write a shakespearian sonnet to his beloved before being allowed to pick up a firearm. On this I am in an extremely tiny minority, alas... :blink:
There's a few ballads I regret writing to someone who I realize now, was a cold and heartless bitch. But I totally agree.
If I hear "crony" capitalism one more time I'm going to be ill. Capitalism is capitalism, dog eats dog and one dog ends up on top, and he defends that place with all the power he's accumulated.

Re: Poetry Corner Thread

8
I'm not sure if this is a poem, but I wrote it on the occasion of the 1998 arrest in London of Augusto Pinochet, former dictator of Chile. It looked at the the like he would be extradited to Spain to face trail. That didn't happen, but at least he spent some days or weeks shitting himself over the possibility. Let's hope for the same, at least, for Bush and Cheney.

Postcard to Pinochet in London

History does not record the magnificent
poet's curse Neruda must have bestowed
upon you with his dying breath.

But we know that Letelier said,
"the junta always kills in September",
before you made a prophet of him.

We know that Jara sang,
"all the rains of the South will not wash your hands clean,"
before your men smashed his hands.

We know Allende broadcast,
"repression and crime will not stop history,"
on the day you murdered Chilean democracy, hope, dignity.

The tanks you sent to surround the presidential palace
were courtesy of your Uncle Sam, of course.
But the planes that bombed La Moneda
were Hawker Hunters, from Great Britain.

Fitting, then, that Britain should detain you,
should send you, perhaps, to face Baltasar Garzón.
Still more fitting if Garzón can summon
the voices of those you silenced
to denounce you, accuse you, curse you.
May he find the eloquence, the nobility, the passion
of Pablo, of Orlando, of Víctor, of Salvador,
of your victims in their thousands.

Not so brave now, mi general, feigning illness,
hiding behind Maggie Thatcher's skirts?
Where now your army of milico assassins
who never faced an armed enemy?
Where now your crisp uniform in the style of the Wehrmacht
and the chestful of medals you awarded yourself
for torture and murder above and beyond the call of duty?

Stand, canalla, and face your victims.
Hear their voices, know their fear.
Fear, alone, they will share with you,
who can never know their nobility.
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"To initiate a war of aggression...is the supreme international crime" - Nuremberg prosecutor Robert Jackson, 1946

Re: Poetry Corner Thread

9
larrymod wrote:I'm not sure if this is a poem, but I wrote it on the occasion of the 1998 arrest in London of Augusto Pinochet, former dictator of Chile. It looked at the the like he would be extradited to Spain to face trail. That didn't happen, but at least he spent some days or weeks shitting himself over the possibility. Let's hope for the same, at least, for Bush and Cheney.

Postcard to Pinochet in London
+1 :thumbup:
Live like you will never die, love like you've never been hurt, dance
like no-one is watching.
Alex White

Re: Poetry Corner Thread

10
Ode to the Breaking Dawn

Thin sliver of a silvery moon
Slowly fading into a pale blue sky

Thin sliver of a silver moon
Peaking through whispy clouds

Thin sliver of a silver moon
Above whispy clouds tinted pink
By the dawning day

Thin sliver of a silver moon
Nearly speared by a speeding jet's contrail

Thin sliver of a silver moon
Faded into a dawning day growing pink
From the rising sun.
The more you Learn the Less you Know..
USN, Ret. '63-'85
Sig P226 MK25, Browning A Bolt II .223 Remington
St. Louis, MO/Webster Groves
http://theliberalgunclubinc.memberlodge.org

Re: Poetry Corner Thread

12
Code Blue?
-----

Looking out over an ocean
Where the waves can
Never quite reach the beach

Nothing else is happening
Standing here, watching,
With only an occasional sip

Of irish coffee and memories.

Find a horseshoe crab
Washed up on the beach
Upside down, legs kicking.

Think about his strange blue heart
That drives blue blood through
Carapace protected legs

And return him to the sea.
Live like you will never die, love like you've never been hurt, dance
like no-one is watching.
Alex White

Re: Poetry Corner Thread

14
I wish I had some of my dad's poetry in digital format. One of his best was about waves slapping the side of his ship and blowing everything back up the toilet.
but one day I got high and just sort of wandered off.

"Yeah, but she's our witch, so cut her the hell down." - Malcolm Reynolds

Re: Poetry Corner Thread

15
Not by me, just my favorite poem ever:

Neither Bloody Nor Bowed

They say of me, and so they should,
It's doubtful if I come to good.
I see acquaintances and friends
Accumulating dividends,
And making enviable names
In science, art, and parlor games.
But I, despite expert advice,
Keep doing things I think are nice,
And though to good I never come-
Inseparable my nose and thumb!

Dorothy Parker

Re: Poetry Corner Thread

17
DULCE ET DECORUM EST

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.
Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime . . .
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori.

Wilfred Owen
8 October 1917 - March, 1918
Live like you will never die, love like you've never been hurt, dance
like no-one is watching.
Alex White

Re: Poetry Corner Thread

18
Tennessee

Punkinlobber

Oh Blessed Land
not of my birth
but of my youth
my family
my friends
and those graves
Those Blessed Graves

How often have I thought of you
sailing on memories
somewhere between exaltation
and lamentation
How often

Oh God how I love you

(you know I was going to die for you once
I had no hope
we were so outnumbered
outgunned
I prayed for courage
that I would face it like a man
and I did
and I lived
and was lost
and didn’t know what to do next
and I could never talk to you about it
share with you
it was beyond you
hell
it was beyond me
and so I came home
but there was a veil between us
and she was sick
Mommy was dying
my Mommy was dying and I watched her
and you know she left
she breathed out her life and she was gone
and there I stood
escaped death so I could share the dying
I went a little crazy
and I cursed God
perhaps hoping He would damn me
destroy me
so I wouldn’t have to deal
but He said “Fly”
so I fly
and it has meant the difference
but still
you had no use for me
I didn’t fit
I was outside
looking in
wanting to be of value
useful
without hope
and so
I left)

Oh God how I love you

Can you love land

How can you not love land

How can you not love how the trees cloak a hill
or valley
or the feel of a creek as it wraps around your ankle

Have you ever stepped on a snake

Can you dance

It’s not just the land
It’s barbecue
baseball
not just good times
or bad

(let me explain;
i.e.
laughter tears
loving hating
living dying babies crying
hunting fishing drinking working spending
hoping
and despairing)

(and even so much more)


Is it enough to say

I dream of you

Re: Poetry Corner Thread

19
The only poem that's ever meant anything to me, and it has meant a lot. Many atheists have a problem with this due to one line. However, it only says to be at peace with whatever you conceive god to be.

Desiderata

-- written by Max Ehrmann in the 1920s --

Go placidly amid the noise and the haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.

As far as possible, without surrender,
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even to the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons;
they are vexatious to the spirit.

If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain or bitter,
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.

Exercise caution in your business affairs,
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals,
and everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love,
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment,
it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be.
And whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life,
keep peace in your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.
but one day I got high and just sort of wandered off.

"Yeah, but she's our witch, so cut her the hell down." - Malcolm Reynolds

Re: Poetry Corner Thread

20
is this a prose poem?


I have a friend who I do not see very much. We have known each other for a very long time, but we are also newly acquainted these past few years. We are also falling out of touch. First her schedule, then mine, then the boy, then trouble, always trouble. Am I reaching out or mourning her loss? Is the very idea of writing poetry too full of the bitter taste of my mother and Emily Dickinson’s Black Cake and also of her?

Last night, no, the night before, we read her poetry aloud in bed. I thought about writing something like this.

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