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favorite poet?

tupac ? eeewwwww. i don't think he ever learned how to speak, much less write.

christina rosseti
the bard
lord alfred tennyson
poe
emily dickinson

 
String by Spike Milligan.

String.
String is a very important thing,
Rope is thicker, but string is quicker.

 
For light verse, the inimitable Dorothy Parker.

For heavy verse, the unintelligible T.S. Eliot.

For everything in between, the uncapitalized e e cummings.
 
Eric Idle or whichever one of the Pythons wrote this...

Immanuel Kant was a real piss-ant
who was very rarely stable
Heidegger, Heidegger was a boozy beggar
who could think you under the table
David Hume could out-consume
Schopenhauer and Hegel
And Wittgenstein was a beery swine
who was just as sloshed as Schlegel

There's nothing Nietzsche couldn't teach ya
'bout the raising of the wrist
Socrates, himself, was permanently pissed

John Stuart Mill, of his own free will
after 'alf a pint of shandy was particularly ill
Plato, they say, could stick it away
'alf a crate of whiskey every day
Aristotle, Aristotle was a ah heck for the bottle
Hobbes was fond of his dram
And Rene Descartes was a drunken fart:
"I drink, therefore I am."

Yes, Socrates himself is particularly missed
A lovely little thinker, but a ah heck when he's pissed
 
I liked this one from the News Nour last week: It's about fish and rubies.


This is "Nick and the Candlestick" by Sylvia Plath.


I am a miner. The light burns blue.
Waxy stalactites
Drip and thicken, tears

The earthen womb

Exudes from its dead boredom.
Black bat airs

Wrap me, raggy shawls,
Cold homicides.
They weld to me like plums.

Old cave of calcium
Icicles, old echoer.
Even the newts are white,

Those holy Joes.
And the fish, the fish-
Christ! They are panes of ice,

A vice of knives,
A piranha
Religion, drinking

Its first communion out of my live toes.
The candle
Gulps and recovers its small altitude,

Its yellows hearten.
O love, how did you get here?
O embryo

Remembering, even in sleep,
Your crossed position.
The blood blooms clean

In you, ruby.
The pain
You wake to is not yours.

Love, love,
I have hung our cave with roses.
With soft rugs-

The last of Victoriana.
Let the stars
Plummet to their dark address,

Let the mercuric
Atoms that cripple drip
Into the terrible well,

You are the one
Solid the spaces lean on, envious.
You are the baby in the barn.


 
I liked this one from the News Nour last week: It's about fish and rubies.


This is "Nick and the Candlestick" by Sylvia Plath.


I am a miner. The light burns blue.
Waxy stalactites
Drip and thicken, tears

The earthen womb

Exudes from its dead boredom.
Black bat airs

Wrap me, raggy shawls,
Cold homicides.
They weld to me like plums.

Old cave of calcium
Icicles, old echoer.
Even the newts are white,

Those holy Joes.
And the fish, the fish-
Christ! They are panes of ice,

A vice of knives,
A piranha
Religion, drinking

Its first communion out of my live toes.
The candle
Gulps and recovers its small altitude,

Its yellows hearten.
O love, how did you get here?
O embryo

Remembering, even in sleep,
Your crossed position.
The blood blooms clean

In you, ruby.
The pain
You wake to is not yours.

Love, love,
I have hung our cave with roses.
With soft rugs-

The last of Victoriana.
Let the stars
Plummet to their dark address,

Let the mercuric
Atoms that cripple drip
Into the terrible well,

You are the one
Solid the spaces lean on, envious.
You are the baby in the barn.
 
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