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Great Poetry
Great Poetry
I love poetry. I'd like to hear favorite poems/poets from the people here.

I'll start with Ted Hughes (husband of Sylvia Plath), whose work I have been recently reading. His book Crow is amazing. The poems are connected to form a mythology centering around a Loki-like character- Crow- who interferes with and witnesses the imperfect creation of a violent world by a fallible god- an interesting read for theists and atheists alike.
Link to some of the poems

And here's a poem from it:

Crow's Theology

Crow realized God loved him-
Otherwise, he would have dropped dead.
So that was proved.
Crow reclined, marvelling, on his heart-beat.

And he realized that God spoke Crow-
Just existing was His revelation.

But what Loved the stones and spoke stone?
They seemed to exist too.
And what spoke that strange silence
After his clamour of caws faded?

And what loved the shot-pellets
That dribbled from those strung-up mummifying crows?
What spoke the silence of lead?

Crow realized there were two Gods-

One of them much bigger than the other
Loving his enemies
And having all the weapons.
RE: Great Poetry

Far too, not right was I to you
Nor barely did I try
Once more I ask myself - be true
No wish to see you cry

As time has come
not gone have you - from me
Nor from my care
'Tis light, not dark my side you cast
Not shadowed to compare

With light of this
And praise long due
My heart again I'll try
To giveth fully unto you
from hence, long 'til we die

RE: Great Poetry
Ah-ha! FFF is a sucker for a good love poem.

Here's one to melt your heart:

it may not always be so; and i say
that if your lips,which i have loved,should touch
another’s,and your dear strong fingers clutch
his heart,as mine in time not far away;
if on another’s face your sweet hair lay
in such silence as i know,or such
great writhing words as,uttering overmuch,
stand helplessly before the spirit at bay;

if this should be,i say if this should be—
you of my heart,send me a little word;
that i may go unto him,and take his hands,
saying,Accept all happiness from me.
Then shall i turn my face,and hear one bird
sing terribly afar in the lost lands

-ee cummings
RE: Great Poetry
Very nice Zazzy...


Yes-even after my death
you shall not escape me.
Reincarnate, I'll follow you
in the eyes of every hawk,
every falcon, vulture, eagle
that soars in whatever sky
you walk beneath,
all the earth over,

Yes-and when you die too,
and follow me into the deep
dark burning delirious blue
and become like me-
a kind of bird, a feathered thing-
why, then I'll seek you out
ten thousand feet above the sea;
and far beyond the world's rim
we'll meet and clasp and couple
close to the flaming sun
and scream the joy of our love
into the blaze of death
and burn like angels
past all suns
to the world's beginning again.

-Edward Abbey-
(1967 San Francisco)
RE: Great Poetry
Shameless plug here, click on the link below in my sig, 350 poems, some good some bad, but all me.

But as far as Plath, I love "Cut" look it up, awesome poem.

Huh, if anyone is having a problem with my signature here is the thread link.

RE: Great Poetry
Now you've gone all passionate. Ah, to get hot and bothered by beautiful words.

Love and Sleep
Algernon Charles Swinburne (1837-1909)

Lying asleep between the strokes of night
I saw my love lean over my sad bed,
Pale as the duskiest lily's leaf or head,
Smooth-skinned and dark, with bare throat made to bite,
Too wan for blushing and too warm for white,
But perfect-coloured without white or red.
And her lips opened amorously, and said--
I wist not what, saving one word--Delight.
And all her face was honey to my mouth,
And all her body pasture to mine eyes;
The long lithe arms and hotter hands than fire,
The quivering flanks, hair smelling of the south,
The bright light feet, the splendid supple thighs
And glittering eyelids of my soul's desire.
RE: Great Poetry
I'm officially salivating. I could tear into that right now!
RE: Great Poetry
Ego Divinely Inspired, By Brian37 (OF RATIONAL RESPONDERS, all rights reserved)

The Twin accordions,

Burned and crumbled like match sticks,

No longer playing the music,

Of the briefcase.

3,000 ways,

To say, "I hate you"

But on that day,

None of the quad-Kamikazes

Shouted "Bonsai"

But Allah had his say.

Yet the burning Bush,

In the Marlboro Mansion,

Prays 1600 times,

To guide the bombs,

That maim and kill,

Creating massive tombs.

Do they think,

They are back in school,

Swinging on monkey bars,

Bragging about the biceps

Of their origins?

Is this what humanity has been reduced to?

I don't remember,

Those accordions,

Ever playing monochromatic music,

Jesus, yet be,

The only Icon,

Displayed in their absence.

That day,

Is not the ulcer of Genesis,

Or the embarrassment of Mohammed,

It is the manifestation of shame,

That humanity doesn't listen,

To the music of the accordions.

One side attacks,

The other points the finger,

But no one listens to the screams,

The screams of history.


It is not your day, Christians,

It is not your Jihad, Muslims.

It is your stupidity,

In claiming the monopoly,

Of self-righteousness.

Those accordions,

Played the music of desire,

Of those of the Mosque,

Those in the pew,

The music of the Yammica,

And long earlobes too.

The forecast that day,

Called for morning snow,

Each flake a fragment,

Of invoices, and resumes,

Of proposals, and payrolls.

This was a ticker tape parade,

Where loathing sat in the convertable,

Waving his fist maniacally at the by-standers,

Daring history to repeat itself.

Screaming of divine intervention.

And the burning Bush,

Responded in kind,

And prayed to his absolute,

Screaming for divine inspiration.

The memory of the music,

The accordions used to play,

Should not be lost in selfish idealism.

Demanding only one way.

Jesus was not the only victim,

Nor Bush, nor me,

The attack on the towers,

Was an attack on humanity.

The cross is the only,

Outlined in chalk,

Crime scene investigators,

Step over the corpses,

Of Yahweh and Allah,

Visnu and Buddha too.

The white cards,

Never marked their graves,

Ever to be photographed.

Still today,

We want Moore Religion,

Massive stones marking our territory,

Like a lion pissing on a bush,

And wonder why we are attacked.

You fools,

It's not the book you read,

It is your arrogance,

In loading the 3:57

And praying for divine guidance,

For the bullets to hit their mark,

So you can maintain your selfish status qoe.

I can give you nine hundred and eleven,

Reasons in human history,

Ego divinely inspired,

Will lead to the human pyre.

Or kin of past,

Or so we claim,

Have past discretions,

We're not to blame.

My index,

Is not aimed at you,

It is of lessons not learned,

Wisdom not earned.

Socrates was in those towers,

He too was a victim,

Made to drink the hemlock,

And jump from the accordion,

Grasping at the last notes of life.

Vainly clawing at the sky,

A victim of pantheistic zealots,

Ending in a gruesome thump.

Galileo too,

Crashed into the marble walls,

Numbering in five.

Because of the ego,

Of the cross,

The world is flat,

And I'm the boss.

Yet in modern day,

The accordions play,

Morbid notes of ego's say,

It will continue to our dismay.

Yes, it will continue,

Least religious ego,

Give up it's venue.
RE: Great Poetry
Eleven, By Brian37 (aka Brian James Rational Poet on FB and @Brianrrs37 on Twitter)

No video of me

When we smashed cars

No video of those

When I witnessed shoplifting

No video of

The fights on my block

In the sports bars

Or frat house parties

No video of

My own parties

Underage drinking

And smoking pot

No video in my young 20s

In the parking lot


Busted for drinking in public

No video

When pulled over

I was a passenger in a car

Of a guy in no shape

Statin Island

To Ohio

12 year olds

Or in a Walmart

Video or not

What is wrong

There are separate rules

Within our deep denial

A disturbed man

Sitting in a chair

Waves his gun

All arround

Another rman

Shoots at a lawyer

In front of a court house

For all to see

In both cases

They stay alive

Even with a gun

While others unarmed


Indict a ham sandwich

Cosy with cops

Video or not

I can't breathe

I can't breathe

I can't breathe

I can't breathe

I can't breathe

I can't breathe

I can't breathe

I can't breathe

I can't breathe

I can't breathe

I can't breathe

Also post #517 here at this link.
RE: Great Poetry
This Be the Verse by Philip Larkin

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another’s throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don’t have any kids yourself.

As read by the poet:
I was born with a gift of laughter and a sense that the world is mad.

[Image: 161109-WlllQ6UaSpqY.png]

Trump 2017: We're all nihilists now.

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