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Author Topic: POETRY THREAD  (Read 562 times)

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Offline AMF

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POETRY THREAD
« on: May 27, 2019, 07:52:55 PM »
Rules for Poetry thread...anyone can post in it, but only published poetry by someone else.  One poet and one poem per day, don't hog the thread.

No run-ins or comments in this thread...use the comments thread that's provided.
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Offline AMF

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Re: POETRY THREAD
« Reply #1 on: May 27, 2019, 07:55:17 PM »
LITANY FOR DICTATORSHIPS    (Stephen Vincent Benet, ca.1935)

For all those beaten, for the broken heads,
The fosterless, the simple, the oppressed,
The ghosts in the burning city of our time…

For those taken in rapid cars to the house and beaten
By the skillful boys with the rubber fists,
-Held down and beaten, the table cutting the loins
Or kicked in the groin and left, with the muscles jerking
Like a headless hen's on the floor of the slaughter-house
While they brought the next man in with his white eyes staring.
For those who still said "Red Front" or "God save the Crown!"
And for those who were not courageous
But were beaten nevertheless.
For those who spit out the bloody stumps of their teeth
      Quietly in the hall,
Sleep well on stone or iron, watch for the time
And kill the guard in the privy before they die,
Those with the deep-socketed eyes and the lamp burning.

For those who carry the scars, who walk lame - for those
Whose nameless graves are made in the prison-yard
And the earth smoothed back before the morning and the lime scattered.

For those slain at once.
For those living through the months and years
Enduring, watching, hoping, going each day
To the work or the queue for meat or the secret club,
Living meanwhile, begetting children, smuggling guns,
And found and killed at the end like rats in a drain.

For those escaping
Incredibly into exile and wandering there.
For those who live in the small rooms of foreign cities
And who yet think of the country, the long green grass,
The childhood voices, the language, the way wind smelt then,
The shape of rooms, the coffee drunk at the table,
The talk with friends, the loved city, the waiter's face,
The gravestones, with the name, where they will not lie
Nor in any of that earth.
Their children are strangers.

For those who planned and were leaders and were beaten
And for those, humble and stupid, who had no plan
But were denounced, but were angry, but told a joke,
But could not explain, but were sent away to the camp,
But had their bodies shipped back in the sealed coffins,
"Died of pneumonia." "Died trying to escape."

For those growers of wheat who were shot by their own wheat-stacks,
For those growers of bread who were sent to the ice-locked wastes.
And their flesh remembers the fields.

For those denounced by their smug, horrible children
For a peppermint-star and the praise of the Perfect State,
For all those strangled, gelded or merely starved
To make perfect states; for the priest hanged in his cassock,
The Jew with his chest crushed in and his eyes dying,
The revolutionist lynched by the private guards
To make perfect states, in the names of the perfect states.

For those betrayed by the neigbours they shook hands with
And for the traitors, sitting in the hard chair
With the loose sweat crawling their hair and their fingers restless
As they tell the street and the house and the man's name.
And for those sitting at the table in the house
With the lamp lit and the plates and the smell of food,
Talking so quietly; when they hear the cars
And the knock at the door, and they look at each other quickly
And the woman goes to the door with a stiff face,
      Smoothing her dress.
"We are all good citizens here. We believe in the Perfect State."

And that was the last time Tony or Karl or Shorty came to the house
And the family was liquidated later.
It was the last time.
We heard the shots in the night
But nobody knew next day what the trouble was
And a man must go to his work.
So I didn't see him
For three days, then, and me near out of my mind
And all the patrols on the streets with their dirty guns
And when he came back, he looked drunk, and the blood was on him.

For the women who mourn their dead in the secret night,
For the children taught to keep quiet, the old children,
The children spat-on at school.
For the wrecked laboratory,
The gutted house, the dunged picture, the pissed-in well
The naked corpse of Knowledge flung in the square
And no man lifting a hand and no man speaking.

For the cold of the pistol-butt and the bullet's heat,
For the ropes that choke, the manacles that bind,
The huge voice, metal, that lies from a thousand tubes
And the stuttering machine-gun that answers all.

For the man crucified on the crossed machine guns
Without name, without ressurection, without stars,
His dark head heavy with death and his flesh long sour
With the smell of his many prisons - John Smith, John Doe,
John Nobody - oh, crack your mind for his name!
Faceless as water, naked as the dust,
Dishonored as the earth the gas-shells poison
And barbarous with portent.
      This is he.
This is the man they ate at the green table
Putting their gloves on ere they touched the meat.
This is the fruit of war, the fruit of peace,
The ripeness of invention, the new lamb,
The answer to the wisdom of the wise.
And still he hangs, and still he will not die
And still, on the steel city of our years
The light falls and the terrible blood streams down.

We thought we were done with these things but we were wrong.
We thought, because we had power, we had wisdom.
We thought the long train would run to the end of Time.
We thought the light would increase.
Now the long train stands derailed and the bandits loot it.
Now the boar and the asp have power in our time.
Now the night rolls back on the West and the night is solid.
Our fathers and ourselves sowed dragon's teeth.

Our children know and suffer the armed men.
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Offline Oak

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Re: POETRY THREAD
« Reply #2 on: May 27, 2019, 10:15:03 PM »


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Offline The Scoundrel

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Re: POETRY THREAD
« Reply #3 on: May 28, 2019, 05:37:10 PM »
There was an old woman who lived in a shoe.

She stuck all the windows together with glue.

The children were crying, they started to bawl

So she locked all the doors.

And set fire to them all.

SWIM

2019

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Offline H.C.Trouble

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Re: POETRY THREAD
« Reply #4 on: May 29, 2019, 06:00:27 PM »
I don't like poetry, rap or nursery rhymes ...  Bob Dylan isn't quite quirky enough  and he got a Nobel Prize and didn't show up, so it's unlikely he shows up  here ....   

For these reasons alone  I  pick some that will make you all say  WHO.

My Generation

People try to put us d-down
Just because we get around
Things they do look awful c-c-cold
I hope I die before I get old

This is my generation
This is my generation, baby

Why don't you all f-fade away
Don't try to dig what we all s-s-s-say
I'm not trying to 'cause a big s-s-sensation
I'm just talkin' 'bout my g-g-g-generation

My generation
This is my generation, baby




Thank you and suck it Robert Zimmerman. 
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Offline LotusBud

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Re: POETRY THREAD
« Reply #5 on: May 29, 2019, 06:03:48 PM »
Batter my heart, three-person'd God, for you
As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend;
That I may rise and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend
Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new.
I, like an usurp'd town to another due,
Labor to admit you, but oh, to no end;
Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,
But is captiv'd, and proves weak or untrue.
Yet dearly I love you, and would be lov'd fain,
But am betroth'd unto your enemy;
Divorce me, untie or break that knot again,
Take me to you, imprison me, for I,
Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.

John Donne
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PRESIDENT HE-MAN TRUMP


Offline H.C.Trouble

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Re: POETRY THREAD
« Reply #6 on: June 02, 2019, 03:16:43 PM »
From the movie, "The Kindergarten Teacher"  ...  about a teacher's interactions with a child prodigy who happens to be a poet.

Maggie Gyllenhaal is the teacher and Parker Sevak plays the poet. It's an interesting artsy movie with a few good poems.

"Anna is beautiful,
Beautiful enough for me.
The sun hits her yellow house,
It’s almost like a sign from God.”


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Offline H.C.Trouble

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Re: POETRY THREAD
« Reply #7 on: June 22, 2019, 05:11:39 PM »
I shot an arrow in the air
where it land I did not care
when I heard a lady grunt
thought it hit her in  the  ...  elbow.

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Offline .

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Re: POETRY THREAD
« Reply #8 on: June 22, 2019, 05:16:15 PM »
"Yesterday, upon the stair,
I met a man who wasn't there!
He wasn't there again today,
Oh how I wish he'd go away!


"Antigonish" is an 1899 poem by American educator and poet William Hughes Mearns
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Offline H.C.Trouble

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Re: POETRY THREAD
« Reply #9 on: June 22, 2019, 05:34:06 PM »
Not a poem but it hits me in the feels ...

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Offline stupidamerican6443752

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Re: POETRY THREAD
« Reply #10 on: July 10, 2019, 12:35:39 AM »
A woman from South Carolina
Placed fiddle strings 'crost her vagina
With the proper-sized cocks
What was sex became Bach's
Toccata and Fugue in d minor.

--Isaac Asimov (yes, really)
 
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Don't eat lightbulbs, kids

Moonpie

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Re: POETRY THREAD
« Reply #11 on: July 10, 2019, 01:12:59 AM »
By Maya Angelou
Still I Rise
You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may tread me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

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Offline Blurt

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Re: POETRY THREAD
« Reply #12 on: July 13, 2019, 03:29:29 AM »
I am part of the load
Not rightly balanced
I drop off in the grass,
like the old Cave-sleepers, to browse
wherever I fall.

For hundreds of thousands of years I have been dust-grains
floating and flying in the will of the air,
often forgetting ever being
in that state, but in sleep
I migrate back. I spring loose
from the four-branched, time -and-space cross,
this waiting room.

I walk into a huge pasture
I nurse the milk of millennia

Everyone does this in different ways.
Knowing that conscious decisions
and personal memory
are much too small a place to live,
every human being streams at night
into the loving nowhere, or during the day,
in some absorbing work.

--Rumi
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