Your Favorite Poems

[MCT]

Five Ways To Kill A Man - Edwin Brock

There are many cumbersome ways to kill a man:
you can make him carry a plank of wood
to the top of a hill and nail him to it. To do this
properly you require a crowd of people
wearing sandals, a cock that crows, a cloak
to dissect, a sponge, some vinegar and one
man to hammer the nails home.

Or you can take a length of steel,
shaped and chased in a traditional way,
and attempt to pierce the metal cage he wears.
But for this you need white horses,
English trees, men with bows and arrows,
at least two flags, a prince and a
castle to hold your banquet in.

Dispensing with nobility, you may, if the wind
allows, blow gas at him. But then you need
a mile of mud sliced through with ditches,
not to mention black boots, bomb craters,
more mud, a plague of rats, a dozen songs
and some round hats made of steel.

In an age of aeroplanes, you may fly
miles above your victim and dispose of him by
pressing one small switch. All you then
require is an ocean to separate you, two
systems of government, a nation's scientists,
several factories, a psychopath and
land that no one needs for several years.

There are, as I began, cumbersome ways
to kill a man. Simpler, direct, and much more neat
is to see that he is living somewhere in the middle
of the twentieth century, and leave him there.

[LeftToDecay]

The second coming,
by W. B. Yeats

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all convictions, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?



Piece De Resistance,
by Brian Warner


When the fork eats the spoon,
And the knife stabs
The face in the plate,
Dinner is over.

[journey]

"Mad Girl's Love Song"


"I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)"

- Sylvia Plath

[Drew]

Fantastic thread Journey. 


"IF I COULD TURN BACK TIME" (Author: Gallen)
 
If I could be young once again
I would have sooner met you
and all that would have remained
is the love I have for you

If I could have just shown you
how much you mean to me
then I could have died happily
with the tears of joy in me

If I could have been your knight
brave and donned in shining armour
then I would have been your prince
and not as your friend anymore

If I could have been a stranger
and not as myself to you
then I might have had the courage
to say wholeheartedly I love you

If I could have lived my life
then you could have seen me through
because all that I had ever did
was for you to love me too

If I could have just seen tomorrow
I would have jumped ahead of time
because today it might have not ended
and today you might have been mine

[journey]

"Changed"

I KNOW not why my soul is racked:
  Why I ne'er smile as was my wont:
I only know that, as a fact,
I don't.
I used to roam o'er glen and glade
  Buoyant and blithe as other folk:
And not unfrequently I made
A joke.

A minstrel's fire within me burned.
  I'd sing, as one whose heart must break,
Lay upon lay: I nearly learned
To shake.
All day I sang; of love, of fame,
  Of fights our fathers fought of yore,
Until the thing almost became
A bore.

I cannot sing the old songs now!
  It is not that I deem them low;
'Tis that I can't remember how
They go.
I could not range the hills till high
  Above me stood the summer moon:
And as to dancing, I could fly

- Charles S. Calverley

[MCT]

Lone Dog - Irene Rutherford Mcleod

I'm a lean dog, a keen dog, a wild dog, and lone;   
I'm a rough dog, a tough dog, hunting on my own;   
I'm a bad dog, a mad dog, teasing silly sheep;   
I love to sit and bay the moon, to keep fat souls from sleep.   
   
I'll never be a lap dog, licking dirty feet,         
A sleek dog, a meek dog, cringing for my meat,   
Not for me the fireside, the well-filled plate,   
But shut door, and sharp stone, and cuff and kick, and hate.   
   
Not for me the other dogs, running by my side,   
Some have run a short while, but none of them would bide. 
O mine is still the lone trail, the hard trail, the best,   
Wide wind, and wild stars, and hunger of the quest!

[Dizzie]

hey guys...i'm just happy i got to read some interesting stuff here...(neet thread )

as far as i've read...E.A. Poe (the most eloquent poem would be "the raven"..."and my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor/ shall be lifted - nevermore !"...i can't quote the entire poem, i'm too drunk to do a search in my pc)...W. Blake is also great...like any of the "songs of experience"...try Milton's "Paradise Lost" 

music-related i'd mention Jim Morrison's poems...damn admirable

i gotta read more and recover my memory to say more   

peace 

[Doc Emmett Brown]

I love Sylvia Plath, journey.  She's incredibly weird. 

"Stillness"

When the words rustle no more,
And the last work's done,
When the bolt lies deep in the door,
And Fire, our Sun,
Falls on the dark-laned meadows of the floor;

When from the clock's last time to the next chime
Silence beats his drum,
And Space with gaunt grey eyes and her brother Time
Wheeling and whispering come,
She with the mould of form and he with the loom of rhyme,

Then twittering out in the night my thought-birds flee,
I am emptied of all my dreams:
I only hear Earth turning, only see
Ether's long bankless streams,
And only know I should drown if you
Laid not your hand on me.

- James Elroy Flecker

[journey]

"Songs for the People"


Let me make the songs for the people,
? ?Songs for the old and young;
Songs to stir like a battle-cry
? ?Wherever they are sung.

Not for the clashing of sabres,
? ?For carnage nor for strife;
But songs to thrill the hearts of men
? ?With more abundant life.

Let me make the songs for the weary,
? ?Amid life's fever and fret,
Till hearts shall relax their tension,
? ?And careworn brows forget.

Let me sing for little children,
? ?Before their footsteps stray,
Sweet anthems of love and duty,
? ?To float o'er life's highway.

I would sing for the poor and aged,
? ?When shadows dim their sight;
Of the bright and restful mansions,
? ?Where there shall be no night.

Our world, so worn and weary,
? ?Needs music, pure and strong,
To hush the jangle and discords
? ?Of sorrow, pain, and wrong.

Music to soothe all its sorrow,
? ?Till war and crime shall cease;
And the hearts of men grown tender
? ?Girdle the world with peace.
 
- Frances Ellen Watkins Harper

[norway]

This is just some parts of jim morrisons poems i like

The movie will begin in five moments,
The mindless voice announced,
All those unseated will await the next show.

We filed slowly, languidly into the hall.
The auditorium was vast and silent.
As we seated and darkened, the voice continued:

The program for this evening is not new,
You've seen this entertainment through and through.
You've seen your birth, your life and death,
You might recall all of the rest.
Did you have a good world when you died?
Enough to base a movie on?

*****************************************

So you know how pale & wanton thrillful
comes death on a strange hour
unannounced, unplanned for

like a scaring over-friendly guest you've
brought to bed
No more money, no more fancy dress

This other Kingdom seems by far the best

until its other jaw reveals incest

& loose obedience to a vegetable law

I will not go

Prefer a Feast of Friends

To the Giant Family

[MCT]

"If"

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master,
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!

--Rudyard Kipling--

[Mattman]

Hey, this is a poem I learned about in English class this year and it's fucking hilarious!  It's about premature ejaculation.

The Imperfect Enjoyment

Naked she lay, clasped in my longing arms,
I filled with love, and she all over charms;
Both equally inspired with eager fire,
Melting through kindness, flaming in desire.
With arms, legs, lips close clinging to embrace,
She clips me to her breast, and sucks me to her face.
Her nimble tongue, Love's lesser lightening, played
Within my mouth, and to my thoughts conveyed
Swift orders that I should prepare to throw
The all-dissolving thunderbolt below.
My fluttering soul, sprung with the painted kiss,
Hangs hovering o'er her balmy brinks of bliss.
But whilst her busy hand would guide that part
Which should convey my soul up to her heart,
In liquid raptures I dissolve all o'er,
Melt into sperm and, and spend at every pore.
A touch from any part of her had done't:
Her hand, her foot, her very look's a cunt.

Smiling, she chides in a kind murmuring noise,
And from her body wipes the clammy joys,
When, with a thousand kisses wandering o'er
My panting bosom, "Is there then no more?"
She cries. "All this to love and rapture's due;
Must we not pay a debt to pleasure too?"

But I, the most forlorn, lost man alive,
To show my wished obedience vainly strive:
I sigh, alas! and kiss, but cannot swive.
Eager desires confound my first intent,
Succeeding shame does more success prevent,
And rage at last confirms me impotent.
Ev'n her fair hand, which might bid heat return
To frozen age, and make cold hermits burn,
Applied to my dead cinder, warms no more
Than fire to ashes could past flames restore.
Trembling, confused, despairing, limber, dry,
A wishing, weak, unmoving lump I lie.
This dart of love, whose piercing point, oft tried,
With virgin blood ten thousand maids have dyed;
Which nature still directed with such art
That it through every cunt reached every heart -
Stiffly resolved, 'twould carelessly invade
Woman or man, nor aught its fury stayed:
Where'er it pierced, a cunt it found or made -
Now languid lies in this unhappy hour,
Shrunk up and sapless like a withered flower.

Thou treacherous, base deserter of my flame,
False to my passion, fatal to my fame,
Through what mistaken magic dost thou prove
So true to lewdness, so untrue to love?
What oyster-cinder-beggar-common whore
Didst thou e'er fail in all thy life before?
When vice, disease, and scandal lead the way,
With what officious haste dost thou obey!
Like a rude, roaring hector in the streets
Who scuffles, cuffs, and justles all he meets,
But if his king or country claim his aid,
The rakehell villain shrinks and hides his head;
Ev'n so thy brutal valour is displayed,
Breaks every stew, does each small whore invade,
But when great Love the onset does command,
Base recreant to thy prince, thou dar'st not stand.
Worst part of me, and henceforth hated most,
Through all the town a common fucking-post,
On whom each whore relieves her tingling cunt
As hogs do rub themselves on gates and grunt,
May'st thou to ravenous chancres be a prey,
Or in consuming weepings waste away;
May strangury and stone thy days attend;
May'st thou ne'er piss, who did refuse to spend
When all my joys did on false thee depend.
And may ten thousand abler pricks agree
To do the wronged Corinna right for thee.

- John Wilmot, the Second Earl of Rochester

[Drew]

Love is the only bow on life's dark cloud.
It is the Morning and the Evening Star.
It shines upon the cradle of the babe,
and sheds its radiance upon the quiet tomb.
It is the mother of Art,
inspirer of poet, patriot, and philosopher.
It is the air and light of every heart, builder of every home,
kindler of every fire on every hearth.
It was the first to dream of immortality.
It fills the world with melody,
for Music is the voice of Love.
Love is the magician, the enchanter,
that changes worthless things to joy,
and makes right royal kings and queens of common clay.
It is the perfume of the wondrous flower -- the heart
and without that sacred passion, that divine swoon,
we are less than beasts;
but with it, earth is heaven
and we are gods.

- Robert G. Ingersoll

[Laura]

This is my favorite poem... its called...

Porphyria's Lover by Robert Browning


THE rain set early in to-night,   
  The sullen wind was soon awake,   
It tore the elm-tops down for spite,   
  And did its worst to vex the lake:   
  I listen'd with heart fit to break.       
When glided in Porphyria; straight   
  She shut the cold out and the storm,   
And kneel'd and made the cheerless grate   
  Blaze up, and all the cottage warm;   
  Which done, she rose, and from her form   
Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,   
  And laid her soil'd gloves by, untied   
Her hat and let the damp hair fall,   
  And, last, she sat down by my side   
  And call'd me. When no voice replied,   
She put my arm about her waist,   
  And made her smooth white shoulder bare,   
And all her yellow hair displaced,   
  And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,   
  And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair,   
Murmuring how she loved me?she   
  Too weak, for all her heart's endeavour,   
To set its struggling passion free   
  From pride, and vainer ties dissever,   
  And give herself to me for ever. 
But passion sometimes would prevail,   
  Nor could to-night's gay feast restrain   
A sudden thought of one so pale   
  For love of her, and all in vain:   
  So, she was come through wind and rain.   
Be sure I look'd up at her eyes   
  Happy and proud; at last I knew   
Porphyria worshipp'd me; surprise   
  Made my heart swell, and still it grew   
  While I debated what to do.   
That moment she was mine, mine, fair,   
  Perfectly pure and good: I found   
A thing to do, and all her hair   
  In one long yellow string I wound   
  Three times her little throat around,   
And strangled her. No pain felt she;   
  I am quite sure she felt no pain.   
As a shut bud that holds a bee,   
  I warily oped her lids: again   
  Laugh'd the blue eyes without a stain.   
And I untighten'd next the tress   
  About her neck; her cheek once more   
Blush'd bright beneath my burning kiss:   
  I propp'd her head up as before,   
  Only, this time my shoulder bore   
Her head, which droops upon it still:   
  The smiling rosy little head,   
So glad it has its utmost will,   
  That all it scorn'd at once is fled,   
  And I, its love, am gain'd instead!   
Porphyria's love: she guess'd not how   
  Her darling one wish would be heard.   
And thus we sit together now,   
  And all night long we have not stirr'd,   
  And yet God has not said a word!

[MCT]

Nice poem Laura. First time I've ever read it too; well, it's about the fourth or fifth time now, but thanks for posting it all the same.

[ClintroN]

roses are red
violets are blue
let me stab my dick into you

[MCT]

roses are red
violets are blue
that was stupid

[ClintroN]

and so are you...

[Doc Emmett Brown]

A charm invests a face
Imperfectly beheld.
The lady dare not lift her veil
For fear it be dispelled.

But peers beyond her mesh,
And wishes, and denies,
Lest interview annul a want
That image satisfies.

-- Emily Dickinson, 'A charm inverts a face'

[MCT]

and so are you...

roses are red
violets are blue
again, that was stupid
and please don't retort with, "and so are you..."