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Discussion Starter · #1 ·
does anyone have any good original or quoted poems? that's a major hobby of mine, i'd like to trade ideas with other writers.
 

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I have written some poetry......but I never show it to anyone...................I love Tennyson, Browning, Morris...I'm a big fan of Victorian poetry
 

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I dont really show my stuff online either epski......Hmmm you work in hollywood right....I may have some screenplays to throw by ya
 

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Discussion Starter · #7 ·
i really like beat poerty and 60's stuff. the sad thing is its a genre that alot of people write off as nonsensical.
 

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Discussion Starter · #8 ·
oh um, has anyone read "the bluebird" by charles bukowski? the unartfuldodger show it to me a long time ago. it's one of my favorites now.
 

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My favorite poet is William Carlos Williams. Love him love him love him.

Here's my favorite:

This is Just to Say

I have eaten

the plums

that were in

the icebox

and which

you were probably

saving

for breakfast

Forgive me

they were delicious

so sweet

and so cold

I write poetry occasionally, but don't usually post it anywhere or give it to anyone unless someone begs. Then that person feels ridiculous for begging to see a not-so-good poem. LOL.
 

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Here's another by Wm Carlos Williams that I like a lot...

To a Poor Old Woman

munching a plum on

the street a paper bag

of them in her hand

They taste good to her

They taste good

to her. They taste

good to her

You can see it by

the way she gives herself

to the one half

sucked out in her hand

Comforted

a solace of ripe plums

seeming to fill the air

They taste good to her

Not all of his poetry is about plums, by the way.
 

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Discussion Starter · #11 ·
here's the one i was talking about:

the bluebird

there's a bluebird in my heart that

wants to get out

but I'm too tough for him,

I say, stay in there, I'm not going

to let anybody see

you.

there's a bluebird in my heart that

wants to get out

but I pour whiskey on him and inhale

cigarette smoke

and the whores and the bartenders

and the grocery clerks

never know that

he's

in there.

there's a bluebird in my heart that

wants to get out

but I'm too tough for him,

I say,

stay down, do you want to mess

me up?

you want to screw up the

works?

you want to blow my book sales in

Europe?

there's a bluebird in my heart that

wants to get out

but I'm too clever, I only let him out

at night sometimes

when everybody's asleep.

I say, I know that you're there,

so don't be

sad.

then I put him back,

but he's singing a little

in there, I haven't quite let him

die

and we sleep together like

that

with our

secret pact

and it's nice enough to

make a man

weep, but I don't

weep, do

you?

that is just so much like life its scary. i love that poem.
 

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Most of my favorite Tennyson poems are very long, but this is one of his shorter ones.

Tears, Idle Tears

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,

Tears from the depth of some divine despair

Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,

In looking on the happy Autumn-fields,

And thinking of the days that are no more.

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,

That brings our friends up from the underworld,

Sad as the last which reddens over one

That sinks with all we love below the verge;

So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns

The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds

To dying ears, when unto dying eyes

The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;

So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.

Dear as remembered kisses after death,

And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned

On lips that are for others; deep as love,

Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;

O Death in Life, the days that are no more.
 

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One of my favorite from Rossetti

Sudden Light

Dante Gabriel Rossetti

I have been here before,

But when or how I cannot tell:

I know the grass beyond the door,

The sweet keen smell,

The sighing sound, the lights around the shore.

You have been mine before, --

How long ago I may not know:

But just when at that swallows soar

Your neck turned so,

Some veil did fall, -- I knew it all of yore.

Has this been thus before?

And shall not thus times eddying flight

Still with our lives our loves restore

In deaths despite,

And day and night yield one delight once more?
 

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My two absolute favourite poems are these:

Ozymandias - Percy Shelley

I met a traveller from an antique land

Who said, "Two vast and trunkless

Legs of stone stand in the desert.

Near them on the sand, half sunk

A shattered visage lies, whose frown

And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read.

Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things

The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.

And on the pedistal these words appear,

'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings.

Look on my works ye mighty and despair!'

Nothing beside remains.

Round the decay of that collosal wreck,

Boundless and bare, the lone and level

Sands strech far away.

Dulce Et Decorum Est - Wildred Own

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 gas shells dropping softly behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick boys!--An ecstacy of fumbling.

Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time

But someone still was yelling out and stumbling

And floundring like a man in fire or lime.--

Dim through the misty panes of 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

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.

I'm not a poet myself, but I have a great appreciation for it. The one by Owens is particularly powerful. It was written during WWI. He was killed one week before the armistice. "Dulce et decorum est" means "It is sweet and seemly to die for one's country."
 

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i'm suprised you ahven't mentioned howl yet jen!!

here's some humorous poetry that i like:

Resume

Razors pain you;

Rivers are damp;

Acids stain you;

And drugs cause cramp.

Guns aren't lawful;

Nooses give;

Gas smells awful;

You might as well live.

-- Dorothy Parker

Sometime The Cow Kick Your Head

sometime the cow kick your head

sometime she just moo

even the cow don't know

what she going to do

until she look at you

knocked out upon the ground

and she say "woo

my leg to that to him"

--- andrew j. grossman

(i realize how udderly (couldn't resist) stupid this one is, but for some reason i crack up every time i read it)

Peace Love and Soy,

Erin
 

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here's another one i really like

the history of one tought mother f***er

\the came to the door one night wet thin beaten and

\tterrorized

\ta white cross-eyed tailless cat

\tI took him in and fed him and he stayed

\tgrew to trust me until a friend drove up the driveway

\tand ran him over

\tI took what was left to a vet who said,"not much

\tchance...give him these pills...his backbone

\tis crushed, but is was crushed before and somehow

\tmended, if he lives he'll never walk, look at

\tthese x-rays, he's been shot, look here, the pellets

\tare still there...also, he once had a tail, somebody

\tcut it off..."

\tI took the cat back, it was a hot summer, one of the

\thottest in decades, I put him on the bathroom

\tfloor, gave him water and pills, he wouldn't eat, he

\twouldn't touch the water, I dipped my finger into it

\tand wet his mouth and I talked to him, I didn't go any-

\twhere, I put in a lot of bathroom time and talked to

\thim and gently touched him and he looked back at

\tme with those pale blue crossed eyes and as the days went

\tby he made his first move

\tdragging himself forward by his front legs

\t(the rear ones wouldn't work)

\the made it to the litter box

\tcrawled over and in,

\tit was like the trumpet of possible victory

\tblowing in that bathroom and into the city, I

\trelated to that cat-I'd had it bad, not that

\tbad but bad enough

\tone morning he got up, stood up, fell back down and

\tjust looked at me.

\t"you can make it," I said to him.

\the kept trying, getting up falling down, finally

\the walked a few steps, he was like a drunk, the

\trear legs just didn't want to do it and he fell again, rested,

\tthen got up.

\tyou know the rest: now he's better than ever, cross-eyed

\talmost toothless, but the grace is back, and that look in

\this eyes never left...

\tand now sometimes I'm interviewed, they want to hear about

\tlife and literature and I get drunk and hold up my cross-eyed,

\tshot, runover de-tailed cat and I say,"look, look

\tat this!"

\tbut they don't understand, they say something like,"you

\tsay you've been influenced by Celine?"

\t"no," I hold the cat up,"by what happens, by

\tthings like this, by this, by this!"

\tI shake the cat, hold him up in

\tthe smoky and drunken light, he's relaxed he knows...

\tit's then that the interviews end

\talthough I am proud sometimes when I see the pictures

\tlater and there I am and there is the cat and we are photo-

\tgraphed together.

\the too knows it's bull**** but that somehow it all helps.

-charles bukowski
 
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