Poetry Corner

[ara87]

Re: Poetry Corner

Black-Pearl Jams (Lyrics by Eddie Vedder)

Sheets of empty canvas,
Untouched sheets of clay,
Were laid spread out before me as her body once did.

All five horizons revolved around her soul,
As the earth to the sun
Now the air I tasted and breathed has taken a turn.

And all I taught her was everything,
I know she gave me all that she wore.
And now my bitter hands chafe beneath the clouds,
Of what was everything.
The pictures have all been washed in black, tattooed everything...

I take a walk outside,
I'm surrounded by some kids at play,
I can feel their laughter, so why do I sear?

And twisted thoughts that spin round my head
I'm spinning, oh, I'm spinning
How quick the sun can drop away..

And now my bitter hands cradle broken glass
Of what was everything?
All the pictures have all been washed in black, tattooed everything...

All the love gone bad,
Turned my world to black,
Tattooed all I see,
All that I am,
All I'll be...

I know someday you'll have a beautiful life,
I know you'll be a sun,
In somebody else's sky, but why?
Why, why can't it be, can't it be mine?

[ara87]

Re: Poetry Corner

20 years- Placebo

There are twenty years to go,
and twenty ways to know,
who will wear,
who will wear the hat.

There are twenty years to go,
the best of all i hope,
enjoy the ride,
the medicine show.

Thems the breaks,
for we designer fakes,
we need to concentrate on more than meets the eye.

There are twenty years to go,
the faithful and the low,
the best of starts,
the broken heart,the stone.

There are twenty years to go,
the punch drunk and the blow,
the worst of starts,
the mercy part,the phone.

Thems the breaks,
for we designer fakes,
we need to concentrate on more than meets the eye,

Thems the breaks,
for we designer fakes,
but it`s you i take 'cause youīre the truth, not I.

There are twenty years to go,
a golden age i know,
but all will pass,
will end too fast,you know.

There are twenty years to go,
and many friends i hope,
though some may hold the rose,
some hold the rope.

Thatīs the end and thatīs the start of it,
Thatīs the whole and thatīs the part of it,
Thatīs the high and thatīs the heart of it,
Thatīs the long and thatīs the short of it,
Thatīs the best and thatīs the test in it,
Thatīs the doubt,the doubt,the trust in it,
Thatīs the sight and thatīs the sound of it,
Thatīs the gift and thatīs the trick in it,

Youīre the truth,not i.

Youīre the truth,not i.

[freakyfreaky]

Re: Poetry Corner

The Green Automobile

If I had a Green Automobile
I'd go find my old companion
in his house on the Western Ocean
Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!

I'd honk my horn at his manly gate,
inside his wife and three
children sprawl naked
on the living room floor.

He'd come running out
to my car full of heroic beer
and jump screaming at the wheel
for he is the greater driver.

We'd pigrimage to the highest mount
of our earlier Rocky Mountain visions
laughing in each others arms,
delight surpassing the highest Rockies.

and after old agony, drunk with new years,
bounding toward the snowy horizon
blasting the dashboard with original bop
hot rod on the mountain

we'd batter up the cloudy highway
where angels of anxiety
careen through the trees
and scream out of the engine.

We'd burn all night on the jackpine peak
seen from Denver in the summer dark,
forestlike unnatural radiance
illuminating the mountaintop:

childhood youthtime age & eternity
would open like sweet trees
in the nights of another spring
and dumbfound us with love,

for we can see together
the beauty of souls
hidden like diamonds
in the clock of the world,

like Chinese magicians can
confound the immortals
with our intellectuality
hidden in the mist,

in the Green Automobile
which I have invented
imagined and visioned
on the roads of the world

more real than the engine
on a track in the desert
purer than Greyhound and
swifter than physical jetplane.

Denver! Denver! we'll return
roaring across the City & County Building lawn
which catches the pure emerald flame
streaming in the wake of our auto.

This time we'll buy up the city!
I cashed a great check in my skull bank
to found a miraculous college of the body
up on the bus terminal roof.

But first we'll drive the stations of downtown,
poolhall flophouse jazzjoint jail
w-horehouse down Folsom
to the darkest alleys of Larimer

paying respects to Denver's father
lost on the railroad tracks,
stupor of wine and silence
hallowing the slum of his decades,

salute him and his saintly suitcase
of dark muscatel, drink
and smash the sweet bottles
of Diesels in allegiance.

Then we go driving drunk on boulevards
where armies march and still parade
staggering under the invisible
banner of Reality --

hurtling through the street
in the auto of our fate
we share an archangelic cigarette
and tell each others' fortunes:

fames of supernatural illumination,
bleak rainy gaps of time,
great art learned in desolation
and we beat apart after six decades ...

and on an asphalt crossroad,
deal with each other princely
gentleness once more, recalling
famous dead talkes of other cities.

The windshield's full of tears,
rain wets our naked breasts,
we kneel together in the shade
amid the traffic of night in paradise

and now renew the solitary vow
we made each other take
in Texas, once:
I can't inscribe here ...
... ...
... ...

How many Saturday nights will be
made drunken by this legend?
How will young Denver come to mourn
her forgotten sexual angel?

How many boys will strike the black piano
in imitation of the excess of a native saint?
Or girls fall wanton under his spectre in the high
schools of melancholy night?

While all the time in Eternity
in the wan light of this poem's radio
we'll sit behind forgotten shades
hearkening the lost jazz of all Saturdays.

Neal, we'll be real heroes now
in a war between our xxxxs and time:
let's be the angels of the world's desire
and take the world to be with us before
we die.

Sleeping alone, or with companion,
girl or fairy sheep or dream,
I'll fail of lacklove, you, satiety:
all men fall, our fathers fell before,

but resurrecting that lost flesh
is but a moment's work of mind:
an ageless monument of love
in the imagination:

memorial built out of our own bodies
consumed by the invisible poem --
We'll shudder in Denver and endure
though blood and wrinkles blind our eyes.

So this Green Automobile:
I give you in flight
a present, a present
from my imagination.

We will go riding
over the Rockies,
we'll go on riding
all night long until dawn,

then back to your railroad, the SP
your house and your children
and broken leg destiny
you'll ride down the plains

in the morning: and back
to my visions, my office
and eastern apartment
I'll return to New York.

NY 1953

-- Ginsberg, Allen. Reality Sandwiches, p.11

The Green Bus

What time is it in your bedroom?
the streets are becoming the red sea
flushed through the white forest
where Gauguin was last seen saying goodbye

despair in America (and Europe) oh!
we are here on 53rd and 6th watching steel
change to ivy taxi's
sexy dreams pierce your left ventricle
your left wrist is broken,

but the time!
a wristwatch quickly sliding down the facade
it is 5 a.m.
time to anticipate
we anticipate
what we anticipate is a vision:
foresight among the fathers slowly withdrawing from the legion
seeking the insoluble answer of the waves I mean the streets
do you realize "I hate you" now you sneeze

(it isn't easy talking to you
through the brick genitals you're holding,
and I tremble without boots or wings,
sitting exhausted upon the serpent's breath

a fan moves in the sky you are a very happy person
it drips the sordid blood
it stops ... the heat!
it is 5 a.m. in the Warwick Coffee Shop
it is 5:10 in N.Y.
I am in N.Y....

"no more fiesta long Houston St." she remarked
"smear the river with doves and praise
the departing feathers"
*

(I don't know from your bedroom what you're thinking,
said the "person" do you want to take in a movie,
and go home after and f-uck maybe?

you are warm today and the climate
is happy and welcomed

shall we walk, then, to the park?
near the fountain?
shall we sit in the grass?

-- Carroll, Jim. Living at the Movies.

[iFemale]

Re: Poetry Corner

My lines do not scan.
My words do not rhyme.
I've overrun the meter, dramatically,
Not for the first time.

Am I a poem?
I am, if I say I am.

[hipeter924]

Re: Poetry Corner

hipeter, are you competing with freakyfreaky?

No. I showed one of my favourite poets.

I don't have many generally into WW1 war poetry, for nature and society I prefer myself.

[freakyfreaky]

Re: Poetry Corner

Discource concerning the art of the most high God

For thee is set the bright moon in the sky by night, the world-illuminating sun
by day.

Like a chamberlain, the heavens spread for thee the carpet of the spring.

The wind and snow, the clouds and rain, the roaring thunder and the lightning
glittering as a sword - all are His agents, obedient to His word, nourishing the
seed thou hast planted in the soil.

If thou be athirst, fret not, the clouds bear water on their shoulders.

From the bee He giveth thee honey, and manna from the wind; fresh dates from
the date tree and the date tree from a seed.

For thee are the Sun and the Moon and the Pleiades; the are as lanterns upon the
roof of thy house.

He bringeth rose from a thorn and musk from a pod; gold from the mine and
green leaves from a withered stick.

With His own hands He did paint thine eye and eyebrows - one cannot leave
one's bosom friends to strangers.

Omnipotent is he, nourishing the delicate with His many bounties.

Render thanks each moment from thy heart, for gratitude is not the work of
the tongue alone.

O God, my heart is blood, mine eyes are sore when I behold thy indescribable
gifts.

-- Saadi, The Bostan.





Greensleeves

Alas, my love, you do me wrong,
To cast me off discourteously.
For I have loved you well and long,
Delighting in your company.


Chorus:
Greensleeves was all my joy
Greensleeves was my delight,
Greensleeves was my heart of gold,
And who but my lady greensleeves.


Alas, my love, that you should own
A heart of wanton vanity,
So must I meditate alone
Upon your insincerity.


(Chorus)

Your vows you've broken, like my heart,
Oh, why did you so enrapture me?
Now I remain in a world apart
But my heart remains in captivity.


(Chorus)

If you intend thus to disdain,
It does the more enrapture me,
And even so, I still remain
A lover in captivity.


(Chorus)

I have been ready at your hand,
To grant whatever you would crave,
I have both wagered life and land,
Your love and good-will for to have.

(Chorus)

Thou couldst desire no earthly thing,
But still thou hadst it readily.
Thy music still to play and sing;
And yet thou wouldst not love me.


(Chorus)

I bought thee kerchiefs for thy head,
That were wrought fine and gallantly;
I kept thee at both board and bed,
Which cost my purse well-favoredly.


(Chorus)

I bought thee petticoats of the best,
The cloth so fine as it might be;
I gave thee xxxels for thy chest,
And all this cost I spent on thee.


(Chorus)

Thy smock of silk, both fair and white,
With gold embroidered gorgeously;
Thy petticoat of sendal right,
And these I bought thee gladly.


(Chorus)

My men were clothed all in green,
And they did ever wait on thee;
All this was gallant to be seen,
And yet thou wouldst not love me.


(Chorus)

They set thee up, they took thee down,
They served thee with humility;
Thy foot might not once touch the ground,
And yet thou wouldst not love me.


(Chorus)

'Tis, I will pray to God on high,
That thou my constancy mayst see,
And that yet once before I die,
Thou wilt vouchsafe to love me.


(Chorus)

Ah, Greensleeves, now farewell, adieu,
To God I pray to prosper thee,
For I am still thy lover true,
Come once again and love me.

Greensleeves was all my joy
Greensleeves was my delight,
Greensleeves was my heart of gold,
And who but my lady greensleeves.

-- King Henry VIII






Saadi

Trees in groves,
Kine in droves,
In ocean sport the scaly herds,
Wedge-like cleave the air the birds,
To northern lakes fly wind-borne ducks,
Browse the mountain sheep in flocks,
Men consort in camp and town,
But the poet dwells alone.

God who gave to him the lyre,
Of all mortals the desire,
For all breathing men's behoof,
Straitly charged him, "Sit aloof;"
Annexed a warning, poets say,
To the bright premium,—
Ever when twain together play,
Shall the harp be dumb.
Many may come,
But one shall sing;
Two touch the string,
The harp is dumb.
Though there come a million
Wise Saadi dwells alone.

Yet Saadi loved the race of men,—
No churl immured in cave or den,—
In bower and hall
He wants them all,
Nor can dispense
With Persia for his audience;
They must give ear,
Grow red with joy, and white with fear,
Yet he has no companion,
Come ten, or come a million,
Good Saadi dwells alone.

Be thou ware where Saadi dwells.
Gladly round that golden lamp
Sylvan deities encamp,
And simple maids and noble youth
Are welcome to the man of truth.
Most welcome they who need him most,
They feed the spring which they exhaust:
For greater need
Draws better deed:
But, critic, spare thy vanity,
Nor show thy pompous parts,
To vex with odious subtlety
The cheerer of men's hearts.

Sad-eyed Fakirs swiftly say
Endless dirges to decay;
Never in the blaze of light
Lose the shudder of midnight;
And at overflowing noon,
Hear wolves barking at the moon;
In the bower of dalliance sweet
Hear the far Avenger's feet;
And shake before those awful Powers
Who in their pride forgive not ours.
Thus the sad-eyed Fakirs preach;
"Bard, when thee would Allah teach,
And lift thee to his holy mount,
He sends thee from his bitter fount,
Wormwood; saying, Go thy ways,
Drink not the Malaga of praise,
But do the deed thy fellows hate,
And compromise thy peaceful state.
Smite the white breasts which thee fed,
Stuff sharp thorns beneath the head
Of them thou shouldst have comforted.
For out of woe and out of crime
Draws the heart a lore sublime."
And yet it seemeth not to me
That the high gods love tragedy;
For Saadi sat in the sun,
And thanks was his contrition;
For haircloth and for bloody whips,
Had active hands and smiling lips;
And yet his runes he rightly read,
And to his folk his message sped.
Sunshine in his heart transferred
Lighted each transparent word;
And well could honoring Persia learn
What Saadi wished to say;
For Saadi's nightly stars did burn
Brighter than Dschami's day.

Whispered the muse in Saadi's cot;
O gentle Saadi, listen not,
Tempted by thy praise of wit,
Or by thirst and appetite
For the talents not thine own,
To sons of contradiction.
Never, sun of eastern morning,
Follow falsehood, follow scorning,
Denounce who will, who will, deny,
And pile the hills to scale the sky;
Let theist, atheist, pantheist,
Define and wrangle how they list,—
Fierce conserver, fierce destroyer,
But thou joy-giver and enjoyer,
Unknowing war, unknowing crime,
Gentle Saadi, mind thy rhyme.
Heed not what the brawlers say,
Heed thou only Saadi's lay.

Let the great world bustle on
With war and trade, with camp and town.
A thousand men shall dig and eat,
At forge and furnace thousands sweat,
And thousands sail the purple sea,
And give or take the stroke of war,
Or crowd the market and bazaar.
Oft shall war end, and peace return,
And cities rise where cities burn,
Ere one man my hill shall climb,
Who can turn the golden rhyme;
Let them manage how they may,
Heed thou only Saadi's lay.
Seek the living among the dead:
Man in man is imprisoned.
Barefooted Dervish is not poor,
If fate unlock his bosom's door.
So that what his eye hath seen
His tongue can paint, as bright, as keen,
And what his tender heart hath felt,
With equal fire thy heart shall melt.
For, whom the muses shine upon,
And touch with soft persuasion,
His words like a storm-wind can bring
Terror and beauty on their wing;
In his every syllable
Lurketh nature veritable;
And though he speak in midnight dark,
In heaven, no star; on earth, no spark;
Yet before the listener's eye
Swims the world in ecstasy,
The forest waves, the morning breaks,
The pastures sleep, ripple the lakes,
Leaves twinkle, flowers like persons be,
And life pulsates in rock or tree.
Saadi! so far thy words shall reach;
Suns rise and set in Saadi's speech.

And thus to Saadi said the muse;
Eat thou the bread which men refuse;
Flee from the goods which from thee flee;
Seek nothing; Fortune seeketh thee.
Nor mount, nor dive; all good things keep
The midway of the eternal deep;
Wish not to fill the isles with eyes
To fetch thee birds of paradise;
On thine orchard's edge belong
All the brass of plume and song;
Wise Ali's sunbright sayings pass
For proverbs in the market-place;
Through mountains bored by regal art
Toil whistles as he drives his cart.
Nor scour the seas, nor sift mankind,
A poet or a friend to find;
Behold, he watches at the door,
Behold his shadow on the floor.
Open innumerable doors,
The heaven where unveiled Allah pours
The flood of truth, the flood of good,
The seraph's and the cherub's food;
Those doors are men; the pariah kind
Admits thee to the perfect Mind.
Seek not beyond thy cottage wall
Redeemer that can yield thee all.
While thou sittest at thy door,
On the desert's yellow floor,
Listening to the gray-haired crones,
Foolish gossips, ancient drones,—
Saadi, see, they rise in stature
To the height of mighty nature,
And the secret stands revealed
Fraudulent Time in vain concealed,
That blessed gods in servile masks
Plied for thee thy household tasks

-- Ralph Waldo Emerson

[MrHyeSev]

Re: Poetry Corner

hipeter, are you competing with freakyfreaky?

[hipeter924]

Re: Poetry Corner

hipeter your poem was ok
but freakyfreaky's are the best.

There are lots of poems...depends on what sort of poem you like. I would recommend Pablo Neruda. Neruda's poems come alive and are full of emotion.

I'M EXPLAINING A FEW THINGS

You are going to ask: and where are the lilacs?
and the poppy-petalled metaphysics?
and the rain repeatedly spattering
its words and drilling them full
of apertures and birds?

I'll tell you all the news.

I lived in a suburb,
a suburb of Madrid, with bells,
and clocks, and trees.

From there you could look out
over Castille's dry face:
a leather ocean.
My house was called
the house of flowers, because in every cranny
geraniums burst: it was
a good-looking house
with it's dogs and children.
Remember, Raul?
Eh, Rafel?
Federico, do you remember
from under the ground
my balconies on which
the light of June drowned flowers in your mouth?
Brother, my brother!
Everything
loud with big voices, the salt of merchandises,
pile-ups of palpitating bread,
the stalls of my suburb of Arguelles with it's statue
like a drained inkwell in a swirl of hake:
oil flowed into spoons,
a deep baying
of feet and hands swelled in the streets,
metres, litres, the sharp
measure of life,
stacked-up fish,
the texture of roofs with a cold sun in which
the weather vane falters,
the fine, frenzied ivory of potatoes,
wave on wave of tomatoes rolling down the sea.

And one morning all that was burning,
one morning the bonfires
leapt out of the earth
devouring human beings-
and from then on fire,
gunpowder from then on,
and from then on blood.
Bandits with planes and Moors,
bandits with finger-rings and duchesses,
bandits with black frairs spattering blessings
came through the sky to kill children
and the blood of children ran through the streets
without fuss, like children's blood.

Jackals that the jackals would despise,
stones that the dry thistle would bite on and spit out,
vipers that the vipers would abominate!

Face to face with you I have seen the blood
of Spain tower like a tide
to drown you in one wave
of pride and knives!

Treacherous
generals:
see my dead house,
look at broken Spain :
from every house burning metal flows
instead of flowers,
from every socket of Spain
Spain emerges
and from every dead child a rifle with eyes,
and from every crime bullets are born
which will one day find
the bull's eye of your hearts.

And you'll ask: why doesn't his poetry
speak of dreams and leaves
and the great volcanoes of his native land?

Come and see the blood in the streets.
Come and see
The blood in the streets.
Come and see the blood
In the streets!

[freakyfreaky]

Re: Poetry Corner

If you kill
all our mothers
and sisters
and daughters
in the end
we'll have nothing
left
so the next time
you think about
hurting a woman
do us all a favor
and hurt yourself
instead.

[freakyfreaky]

Re: Poetry Corner

The Haunted Oak

Pray why are you so bare, so bare,
Oh, bough of the old oak-tree;
And why, when I go through the shade you throw,
Runs a shudder over me?

My leaves were green as the best, I trow,
And sap ran free in my veins,
But I saw in the moonlight dim and weird
A guiltless victim's pains

I bent me down to hear his sigh;
I shook with his gurgling moan,
And I trembled sore when they rode away,
And left him here alone.

They'd charged him with the old, old crime,
And set him fast in jail:
Oh, why does the dog howl all night long,
And why does the night wind wail?

He prayed his prayer and he swore his oath,
And he raised his hand to the sky;
But the beat of hoofs smote on his ear,
And the steady tread drew nigh.

Who is it rides by night, by night,
Over the moonlit road?
And what is the spur that keeps the pace,
What is the galling goad?

And now they beat at the prison door,
"Ho, keeper, do not stay!
We are friends of him whom you hold within,
And we fain would take him away."

"From those who ride fast on our heels
With mind to do him wrong
They have no care for his innocence,
And the rope they bear is long."

They have fooled the jailer with lying words,
They have fooled the man with lies;
The bolts unbar, the locks are drawn,
And the great door open flies.

Now they have taken him from the jail,
And hard and fast they ride,
And the leader laughs low down in his throat,
As they halt my trunk beside.

Oh, the judge, he wore a mask of black,
And the doctor one of white,
And the minister, with his oldest son,
Was curiously bedight

Oh, foolish man, why weep you now?
'Tis but a little space,
And the time will come when these shall dread
The mem'ry of your face.

I feel the rope against my bark,
And the weight of him in my grain,
I feel in the throe of his final woe
The touch of my own last pain.

And never more shall leaves come forth
On a bough that bears the ban;
I am burned with dread, I am dried and dead,
From the curse of a guiltless man.

And ever the judge rides by, rides by,
And goes to hunt the deer,
And ever another rides his soul
In the guise of a mortal fear.

And ever the man he rides me hard,
And never a night stays he;
For I feel his curse a haunted bough
On the trunk of a haunted tree.

-- Paul Laurence Dunbar (1872-1906)

A Man Said to the Universe

A man said to the univers:
"Sir, I exist!"
"However," replied the universe,
"The fact has not created in me
A sense of obligation."

--Stephen Crane (1871-1900)