Poems anyone?

SexyDevilGirl

SexyDevilGirl

Active Member
:x alright-I hardly ever start threads- but I'm starting one here. Post favorite poems dammit!! They can be long, short, vile, foul tempered, political, romantic, erotic, or religious. Written by someone else- or even by yourself. Limericks are welcome too. Just post 'em or I will be forced to do it all alone. :anorak:
 
Pablo Neruda

Entrance of the Rivers

Beloved of the rivers,beset
by azure water and transparent drops,
like a tree of veins your spectre
of dark goddess biting apples:
and then awakening naked
to be tattoed by the rivers,
and in the wet heights your head
filled the world with new dew.
Water rose to your waist,
You are made of wellsprings
and lakes shone on your forehead.
From your sources of density you drew
water like vital tears
and hauled the river-beds to the sand
across the planetary night,
crossing rough, dilated stone,
breaking down on the way
all the salt of geology,
cutting through forests of compact walls
dislodging the muscles of quartz.
 
"That is not dead which can eternal lie,
And with strange aeons even death may die."

H. P. Lovecraft - "The Call of Cthulhu"
 
Paris, October 1936

From all of this I am the only one who leaves.
From this bench I go away, from my pants,
from my great situation, from my actions,
from my number split side to side,
from all of this I am the only one who leaves.

From the Champs Elysées or as the strange
alley of the Moon makes a turn,
my death goes away, my cradle leaves,
and, surrounded by people, alone, cut loose,
my human resemblance turns around
and dispatches its shadows one by one.

And I move away from everything, since everything
remains to create my alibi:
my shoe, its eyelet, as well as its mud
and even the bend in the elbow
of my own buttoned shirt.

Cesar Vallejo
 
:D

I haven't read nearly enough by Neruda, but here's my favorite Neruda poem -- particularly in times like these.

Ode to the Chair

One chair, alone in the jungle.
In the vines' tight grip
a sacred tree groans.
Other vines spiral skyward,
bloodspattered creatures
howl deep within the shadows,
giant leaves drop from the green sky.
A snake shakes
the dry rattles on its tail,
a bird flashes through the foliage
like an arrow aimed at a flag
while the branches shoulder their violins.
Squatting on their flowers
insects
pray without stirring.

Our feet sink
in
the black weeds
of the jungle sea,
in clouds fallen from the forest canopy,
and all I ask
for the foreigner,
for the despairing scout,
is a seat
in the sitting tree,
a throne
of unkempt velvet,
the plush of an overstuffed chair
torn up by the snaking vines-
yes:
for the man who goes on foot,
a chair
that embraces everything,
the sound
ground and supreme
dignity
of repose!

Get behind me, thirsty tigers
and swarms of bloodsucking flies-
behind me, black morass of ghostly fronds,
greasy waters,
leaves the color of rust,
deathless snakes.
Bring me a chair
in the midst of
thunder,
a chair for me
and for everyone
not only
to relieve
an exhausted body
but
for every purpose
and for every person,
for squandered strength
and for meditation.

War is as vast as the shadowy jungle.
A single chair
is
the first sign
of
peace.
 
My favorite Vallejo poem...

The Black Messengers

There are in life such hard blows . . . I don't know!
Blows seemingly from God's wrath; as if before them
the undertow of all our sufferings
is embedded in our souls . . . I don't know!

There are few; but are . . . opening dark furrows
in the fiercest of faces and the strongest of loins,
They are perhaps the colts of barbaric Attilas
or the dark heralds Death sends us.

They are the deep falls of the Christ of the soul,
of some adorable one that Destiny Blasphemes.
Those bloody blows are the crepitation
of some bread getting burned on us by the oven's door

And the man . . . poor . . . poor!
He turns his eyes around, like
when patting calls us upon our shoulder;
he turns his crazed maddened eyes,
and all of life's experiences become stagnant, like a puddle of guilt, in a daze.

There are such hard blows in life. I don't know!
 
William Carlos Williams

Rain

As the rain falls so does your love
bathe every open
object of the world
In houses
the priceless dry rooms
of illicit love
where we live
hear the wash of the rain

There paintings
and fine
metalware
woven stuffs
all the whorishness
of our delight sees
from its window
the spring wash of your love
the falling rain--
The trees are become
beasts fresh risen
from the sea water

trickles from the crevices of
their hides
So my life is spent
to keep out love
with which she rains upon the world
of spring drips so spreads
the words
far apart to let in
her love
And running in between
the drops
the rain
is a kind physician
the rain of her thoughts over
the ocean every where
walking with
invisible swift feet over
the helpless waves

Unworldly love that has no hope
of the world
and that
cannot change the world
to its delight

the rain falls upon the earth
and grass and flowers
come perfectly
into form from its liquid
clearness
But love is unworldly
and nothing comes of it but love
following and falling endlessly
from her thoughts
 
Cyrus said:
"That is not dead which can eternal lie,
And with strange aeons even death may die."

H. P. Lovecraft - "The Call of Cthulhu"
Click to expand...


:shock: Lovecraft!!!
drool2.gif
 
Papel Mojado

Con rios
con sangre
con lluvia
o rocio
con semen
con vino
con nieve
con llanto
los poemas
suelen
ser papel mojado.

Mario Benedetti
 
Marjorie Agosin- Human Rights Activist and Chilean poet

An absence of shadows

Beyond the shadows
where the wind dwells
among strangers
in far away kingdoms
clouded in fear,
the disappeared
are among the shadows
in the intervals of dream.

It's possible to hear them among
the dead branches,
they caress and recognize each other,
having left behind the burning
lights of the forest
and the tapers of dawn and love.

Beyond
the province
there is an absence,
a presence of shadows
and histories

Don't fear them,
approach them
with gentle peacefulness,
without vehemence and senseless rage
Beyond the shadows
in the streaming gusts
of wind,
they and we dwell
in the kingdom of the absences.
 
LOS NUEVE MONSTRUOS

Desgraciadamente,
el dolor crece en el mundo a cada rato,
crece a treinta minutos por segundo, paso a paso,
y la naturaleza del dolor, es el dolor dos veces
y la condición del martirio, carnívora, voraz,
es el dolor dos veces
y la función de la yerba purísima, el dolor
dos veces
y el bien de sér, dolernos doblemente.

Jamás, hombres humanos,
hubo tanto dolor en el pecho, en la solapa, en la cartera,
en el vaso, en la carnicería, en la aritmética!
Jamás tanto cariño doloroso,
jamás tan cerca arremetió lo lejos,
jamás el fuego nunca
jugó mejor su rol de frío muerto!
Jamás, señor ministro de salud, fue la salud
más mortal
y la migraña extrajo tánta frente de la frente!
Y el mueble tuvo en su cajón, dolor,
el corazón, en su cajón, dolor,
la lagartija, en su cajón, dolor.

Crece la desdicha, hermanos hombres,
más pronto que la máquina, a diez máquinas, y crece
con la res de Rousseau, con nuestras barbas;
crece el mal por razones que ignoramos
y es una inundación con propios líquidos,
con propio barro y propia nube sólida!
Invierte el sufrimiento posiciones, da función
en que el humor acuoso es vertical
al pavimento,
el ojo es visto y esta oreja oída,
y esta oreja da nueve campanadas a la hora
del rayo, y nueve carcajadas
a la hora del trigo, y nueve sones hembras
a la hora del llanto, y nueve cánticos
a la hora del hambre y nueve truenos
y nueve látigos, menos un grito.

El dolor nos agarra, hermanos hombres,
por detrás, de perfil,
y nos aloca en los cinemas,
nos clava en los gramófonos,
nos desclava en los lechos, cae perpendicularmente
a nuestros boletos, a nuestras cartas;
y es muy grave sufrir, puede uno orar…
Pues de resultas
del dolor, hay algunos
que nacen, otros crecen, otros mueren,
y otros que nacen y no mueren, otros
que sin haber nacido, mueren, y otros
que no nacen ni mueren (son los más)

Y también de resultas
del sufrimiento, estoy triste
hasta la cabeza, y más triste hasta el tobillo,
de ver al pan, crucificado, al nabo,
ensangrentado,
llorando, a la cebolla,
al cereal, en general, harina,
a la sal, hecha polvo, al agua, huyendo,
al vino, un ecce-homo,
tan pálida a la nieve, al sol tan ardio!
¡Cómo, hermanos humanos,
no deciros que ya no puedo y
ya no puedo con tánto cajón,
tánto minuto, tánta
lagartija y tánta
inversión, tánto lejos y tánta sed de sed!
Señor Ministro de Salud: ¿qué hacer?

!Ah! desgraciadamente, hombres humanos,
hay, hermanos, muchísimo que hacer.

Cesar Vallejo
 
Federico Garcia Lorca

Sonnet of the Sweet Complaint

Never let me lose the marvel
of your statue-like eyes, or the accent
the solitary rose of your breath
places on my cheek at night.

I am afraid of being, on this shore,
a branchless trunk, and what I most regret
is having no flower, pulp, or clay
for the worm of my despair.

If you are my hidden treasure,
if you are my cross, my dampened pain,
if I am a dog, and you alone my master,

never let me lose what I have gained,
and adorn the branches of your river
with leaves of my estranged Autumn.
 
SexyDevilGirl said:
Federico Garcia Lorca

Sonnet of the Sweet Complaint

Never let me lose the marvel
of your statue-like eyes, or the accent
the solitary rose of your breath
places on my cheek at night.

I am afraid of being, on this shore,
a branchless trunk, and what I most regret
is having no flower, pulp, or clay
for the worm of my despair.

If you are my hidden treasure,
if you are my cross, my dampened pain,
if I am a dog, and you alone my master,

never let me lose what I have gained,
and adorn the branches of your river
with leaves of my estranged Autumn.
Click to expand...

I aways love the poetry of Lorca...I always have had a tremendous respect for him.

Fucking franquistas... :(
 
I wanted to give you a gift
I gave to no one before.
I give you my lonliness
it last to the end of your life.

I don´t remember who wrote this, I believe it´s by a female writer from Sweden.
 
I'm not too brilliant at writing poems because I am unimaginative...but check this one.

It's called 5,000,000

here I go...

one and two.
three four and five.
we then have six and seven,
then eight and nine.
We have reached ten,

As you can see I can't be bothered to complete it. A disasterpeice I never wrote. I find it hard to think of a already written poem though. I'll come back when I have. :)
 
Rimbaud

My Bohemia

And so off I went, fists thrust in the torn pockets
of a coat held together by no more than its name
O Muse, how I served you beneath the blue;
And oh what dreams of dazzling love I dreamed!

My only pair of pants had a huge hole.
-Like some dreaming Tom thumb, I sowed
Rhyme with each step. My inn was the Big Dipper.
-My stars rustled the sky.

Roadside on warm September nights
I listened as drops of dew fell
On my forehead like fortifying wine;

And there, surrounded by streaming shadows, I rhymed
Aloud, and as if they were lyres, plucked the laces
Of my wounded shoes, one foot beneath my heart.

This poem means so much to me, reminds me of when I was homeless, and helps me hope. :|
 
O joy without reason!
will you be true to me?

Since all that thinks forgets,
whatever is felt passes;
joy without cause or meaning,
be constant!

(Juan Ramon Jimenez)
 
SexyDevilGirl said:
Rimbaud

My Bohemia

And so off I went, fists thrust in the torn pockets
of a coat held together by no more than its name
O Muse, how I served you beneath the blue;
And oh what dreams of dazzling love I dreamed!

My only pair of pants had a huge hole.
-Like some dreaming Tom thumb, I sowed
Rhyme with each step. My inn was the Big Dipper.
-My stars rustled the sky.

Roadside on warm September nights
I listened as drops of dew fell
On my forehead like fortifying wine;

And there, surrounded by streaming shadows, I rhymed
Aloud, and as if they were lyres, plucked the laces
Of my wounded shoes, one foot beneath my heart.

This poem means so much to me, reminds me of when I was homeless, and helps me hope. :|
Click to expand...

Now you can feel safe... you have me in your life.
 
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