Here is an internet classic;
Roses are red.
Violets are blue.
In Soviet Russia,
poem writes you!
Roses are red.
Violets are blue.
In Soviet Russia,
poem writes you!
Atomic Playboy
Lifer
- Feb 6, 2007
- 16,432
- 1
- 81
The only roses are red one I remember from the internet is:
Roses are red
Violets are blue
I will fuck you with a rake
Ah, the internet. Great beacon of wisdom and insight.
- Oct 9, 1999
- 46,882
- 10,697
- 147
Which only goes to prove his second point, poetaster boy.Originally posted by: oiprocs
FYI, I wrote everything I posted. So there. :inyourface;
oiprocs
Diamond Member
- Jun 20, 2001
- 3,780
- 2
- 0
Originally posted by: Perknose
Which only goes to prove his second point, poetaster boy.Originally posted by: oiprocs
FYI, I wrote everything I posted. So there. :inyourface;
Better check the title of the thread again. It doesn't say "ATOT Good Poetry Thread".
If every post in ATOT was expected to have some level of skill, well, there would be no ATOT.
- Oct 9, 1999
- 46,882
- 10,697
- 147
Excellent point. :thumbsup:Originally posted by: oiprocs
Originally posted by: Perknose
Which only goes to prove his second point, poetaster boy.Originally posted by: oiprocs
FYI, I wrote everything I posted. So there. :inyourface;
Better check the title of the thread again. It doesn't say "ATOT Good Poetry Thread".
If every post in ATOT was expected to have some level of skill, well, there would be no ATOT.
all which isn't singing is mere talking
and all talking's talking to oneself
(whether that oneself be sought or seeking
master or disciple sheep or wolf)
gush to it as deity or devil
--toss in sobs and reasons threats and smiles
name it cruel fair or blessed evil--
it is you (né i) nobody else
drive dumb mankind dizzy with haranguing
--you are deafened every mother's son--
all is merely talk which isn't singing
and all talking's to oneself alone
but the very song of (as
mountains feel and lovers)
singing is silence
e.e. cummings, 73 poems of
and all talking's talking to oneself
(whether that oneself be sought or seeking
master or disciple sheep or wolf)
gush to it as deity or devil
--toss in sobs and reasons threats and smiles
name it cruel fair or blessed evil--
it is you (né i) nobody else
drive dumb mankind dizzy with haranguing
--you are deafened every mother's son--
all is merely talk which isn't singing
and all talking's to oneself alone
but the very song of (as
mountains feel and lovers)
singing is silence
e.e. cummings, 73 poems of
- Oct 9, 1999
- 46,882
- 10,697
- 147
I love the English language, and the music inherent within it' prose, drawn tight by poetry.
I don't want to be Sisyphus. I know what I'm doing here is more akin to casting pearls before swine.
Nevertheless, instead of a smattering of the same old suspects scattered amongst personally scribbled doggerel, let me share with you the poetic genius of a Poet Laureate of the United States of America
I don't want to be Sisyphus. I know what I'm doing here is more akin to casting pearls before swine.
Nevertheless, instead of a smattering of the same old suspects scattered amongst personally scribbled doggerel, let me share with you the poetic genius of a Poet Laureate of the United States of America
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/In_Flanders_Fields
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
? John McCrae
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
? John McCrae
A Memory of Youth, Yeats
THE MOMENTS passed as at a play,
I had the wisdom love brings forth;
I had my share of mother wit
And yet for all that I could say,
And though I had her praise for it,
A cloud blown from the cut-throat north
Suddenly hid love?s moon away.
Believing every word I said
I praised her body and her mind
Till pride had made her eyes grow bright,
And pleasure made her cheeks grow red,
And vanity her footfall light,
Yet we, for all that praise, could find
Nothing but darkness overhead.
We sat as silent as a stone,
We knew, though she?d not said a word,
That even the best of love must die,
And had been savagely undone
Were it not that love upon the cry
Of a most ridiculous little bird
Tore from the clouds his marvellous moon.
THE MOMENTS passed as at a play,
I had the wisdom love brings forth;
I had my share of mother wit
And yet for all that I could say,
And though I had her praise for it,
A cloud blown from the cut-throat north
Suddenly hid love?s moon away.
Believing every word I said
I praised her body and her mind
Till pride had made her eyes grow bright,
And pleasure made her cheeks grow red,
And vanity her footfall light,
Yet we, for all that praise, could find
Nothing but darkness overhead.
We sat as silent as a stone,
We knew, though she?d not said a word,
That even the best of love must die,
And had been savagely undone
Were it not that love upon the cry
Of a most ridiculous little bird
Tore from the clouds his marvellous moon.
- Oct 9, 1999
- 46,882
- 10,697
- 147
The Pope's Penis
It hangs deep in his robes, a delicate
clapper at the center of a bell.
It moves when he moves, a ghostly fish in a
halo of silver sweaweed, the hair
swaying in the dark and the heat -- and at night
while his eyes sleep, it stands up
in praise of God.
-- Sharon Olds
It hangs deep in his robes, a delicate
clapper at the center of a bell.
It moves when he moves, a ghostly fish in a
halo of silver sweaweed, the hair
swaying in the dark and the heat -- and at night
while his eyes sleep, it stands up
in praise of God.
-- Sharon Olds
- Oct 9, 1999
- 46,882
- 10,697
- 147
Our current poet laureate:
Paradise Motel
Millions were dead; everybody was innocent.
I stayed in my room. The President
Spoke of war as of a magic love potion.
My eyes were opened in astonishment.
In a mirror my face appeared to me
Like a twice-canceled postage stamp.
I lived well, but life was awful.
there were so many soldiers that day,
So many refugees crowding the roads.
Naturally, they all vanished
With a touch of the hand.
History licked the corners of its bloody mouth.
On the pay channel, a man and a woman
Were trading hungry kisses and tearing off
Each other's clothes while I looked on
With the sound off and the room dark
Except for the screen where the color
Had too much red in it, too much pink.
-- Charles Simic
Paradise Motel
Millions were dead; everybody was innocent.
I stayed in my room. The President
Spoke of war as of a magic love potion.
My eyes were opened in astonishment.
In a mirror my face appeared to me
Like a twice-canceled postage stamp.
I lived well, but life was awful.
there were so many soldiers that day,
So many refugees crowding the roads.
Naturally, they all vanished
With a touch of the hand.
History licked the corners of its bloody mouth.
On the pay channel, a man and a woman
Were trading hungry kisses and tearing off
Each other's clothes while I looked on
With the sound off and the room dark
Except for the screen where the color
Had too much red in it, too much pink.
-- Charles Simic
Pebble
The pebble
is a perfect creature
equal to itself
mindful of its limits
filled exactly
with a pebbly meaning
with a scent that does not remind one of anything
does not frighten anything away does not arouse desire
its ardour and coldness
are just and full of dignity
I feel a heavy remorse
when I hold it in my hand
and its noble body
is permeated by false warmth
--Pebbles cannot be tamed
to the end they will look at us
with a calm and very clear eye
The pebble
is a perfect creature
equal to itself
mindful of its limits
filled exactly
with a pebbly meaning
with a scent that does not remind one of anything
does not frighten anything away does not arouse desire
its ardour and coldness
are just and full of dignity
I feel a heavy remorse
when I hold it in my hand
and its noble body
is permeated by false warmth
--Pebbles cannot be tamed
to the end they will look at us
with a calm and very clear eye
untitled
i think about you
more than i should
if i could change the past
not sure if i would
who's to say
that your path is wrong
we sing different melodies
to the same sad song
is it really enough
just to subsist
or do we need more
to prove we exist
if i choose to throw dirt
will i lose precious ground
& risk everything
that i've previously found
chorus:
hold on tight
let it go
feed the addiction
take it slow
-- Uranium Orchid
i think about you
more than i should
if i could change the past
not sure if i would
who's to say
that your path is wrong
we sing different melodies
to the same sad song
is it really enough
just to subsist
or do we need more
to prove we exist
if i choose to throw dirt
will i lose precious ground
& risk everything
that i've previously found
chorus:
hold on tight
let it go
feed the addiction
take it slow
-- Uranium Orchid
A Man In His Life - Yehuda Amichai
A man doesn't have time in his life
to have time for everything.
He doesn't have seasons enough to have
a season for every purpose. Ecclesiastes
Was wrong about that.
A man needs to love and to hate at the same moment,
to laugh and cry with the same eyes,
with the same hands to throw stones and to gather them,
to make love in war and war in love.
And to hate and forgive and remember and forget,
to arrange and confuse, to eat and to digest
what history
takes years and years to do.
A man doesn't have time.
When he loses he seeks, when he finds
he forgets, when he forgets he loves, when he loves
he begins to forget.
And his soul is seasoned, his soul
is very professional.
Only his body remains forever
an amateur. It tries and it misses,
gets muddled, doesn't learn a thing,
drunk and blind in its pleasures
and its pains.
He will die as figs die in autumn,
Shriveled and full of himself and sweet,
the leaves growing dry on the ground,
the bare branches pointing to the place
where there's time for everything.
A man doesn't have time in his life
to have time for everything.
He doesn't have seasons enough to have
a season for every purpose. Ecclesiastes
Was wrong about that.
A man needs to love and to hate at the same moment,
to laugh and cry with the same eyes,
with the same hands to throw stones and to gather them,
to make love in war and war in love.
And to hate and forgive and remember and forget,
to arrange and confuse, to eat and to digest
what history
takes years and years to do.
A man doesn't have time.
When he loses he seeks, when he finds
he forgets, when he forgets he loves, when he loves
he begins to forget.
And his soul is seasoned, his soul
is very professional.
Only his body remains forever
an amateur. It tries and it misses,
gets muddled, doesn't learn a thing,
drunk and blind in its pleasures
and its pains.
He will die as figs die in autumn,
Shriveled and full of himself and sweet,
the leaves growing dry on the ground,
the bare branches pointing to the place
where there's time for everything.
Chunkee
Lifer
- Jul 28, 2002
- 10,391
- 1
- 81
Not really known for his poetry, I think he was probably one of the most accomplished authors spanning both fiction, journalism and poetry. He died very young. His use of imagery and personification, at least to me, were only rivaled by Steinbeck.
Here is some of his poetry.
http://www.theotherpages.org/poems/crane02.html
In the desert / is my favorite, but there are many others that are very sharp. He called them pills. Hemingway thought he was the shit also. Literary lesson over.
jC
Here is some of his poetry.
http://www.theotherpages.org/poems/crane02.html
In the desert / is my favorite, but there are many others that are very sharp. He called them pills. Hemingway thought he was the shit also. Literary lesson over.
jC
TRENDING THREADS
-
Discussion Zen 5 Speculation (EPYC Turin and Strix Point/Granite Ridge - Ryzen 9000)- Started by DisEnchantment
- Replies: 25K
-
Discussion Intel Meteor, Arrow, Lunar & Panther Lakes + WCL Discussion Threads
- Started by Tigerick
- Replies: 23K
-
Discussion Intel current and future Lakes & Rapids thread- Started by TheF34RChannel
- Replies: 23K
-
-
Facebook
Twitter