1
Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to show,
That she (dear she) might take some pleasure of my pain:
Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know,
Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace obtain,
I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe,
Studying inventions fine, her wits to entertain:
Oft turning others' leaves to see if thence would flow
Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my sun-burned brain.
But words came halting forth, wanting Invention's stay,
Invention, Nature's child, fled step-dame Study's blows,
And others' feet still seemed but strangers in my way.
Thus great with child to speak, and helpless in my throes,
Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite,
'Fool' said my Muse to me, 'look in thy heart and write.'
- from Astrophil and Stella by Sir Philip Sidney, 1591.
Poetry thread
Started by AxlsMainMan, Sep 18 2010 04:02 PM
36 replies to this topic
#1
AxlsMainMan
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Posted 18 September 2010 - 04:02 PM
- bourbubbats, Weencycunda and zRgzvvia like this
"Whereas scientists, philosophers and political theorists are saddled with these drably discursive pursuits, students of literature occupy the more prized territory of feeling and experience." - Terry Eagleton
#3
AxlsMainMan
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Posted 24 September 2010 - 03:22 PM
The Flea
Marke but this flea, and marke in this,
How little that which thou deny'st me is;
Me it suck'd first, and now sucks thee,
And in this flea our two bloods mingled bee;
Confesse it, this cannot be said
A sinne, or shame, or losse of maidenhead,
Yet this enjoyes before it wooe,
And pamper'd swells with one blood made of two,
And this, alas, is more than wee would doe.
Oh stay, three lives in one flea spare,
When we almost, nay more than maryed are.
This flea is you and I, and this
Our marriage bed, and marriage temple is;
Though parents grudge, and you, w'are met,
And cloysterd in these living walls of Jet.
Though use make thee apt to kill me,
Let not to this, selfe murder added bee,
And sacrilege, three sinnes in killing three.
Cruell and sodaine, has thou since
Purpled thy naile, in blood of innocence?
In what could this flea guilty bee,
Except in that drop which it suckt from thee?
Yet thou triumph'st, and saist that thou
Find'st not thyself, nor mee the weaker now;
'Tis true, then learne how false, feares bee;
Just so much honor, when thou yeeld'st to mee,
Will wast, as this flea's death tooke life from thee.
- John Donne [1633].
"Whereas scientists, philosophers and political theorists are saddled with these drably discursive pursuits, students of literature occupy the more prized territory of feeling and experience." - Terry Eagleton
#4
freedom78
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Posted 24 September 2010 - 04:09 PM
There once was a man from Nantucket
Whose cock was so long he could suck it
He said with a grin
Wiping sperm from his chin
If my ear was a cunt I could Fuck it!
- Unknown (probably Keats)
Sister burn the temple
And stand beneath the moon
The sound of the ocean is dead
It's just the echo of the blood in your head
#5
Macker
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Posted 24 September 2010 - 10:31 PM
Rain is raining
all around
it falls on field and tree
it falls on umbrellas here
and on the ships at sea.
So fuck off wanker..
You never ask a navy man if he'll have another drink, because it's nobody's goddamned business how much he's had already.
#6
lynn
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Posted 25 September 2010 - 08:06 PM
Well, at least I could understand the last two posted......
I'm not much for poetry, but I've always loved e. e. cummings.
in Just
by E. E. Cummings in Just-
spring when the world is mud-
luscious the little lame baloonman
whistles far and wee
and eddyandbill come
running from marbles and
piracies and it's
spring
when the world is puddle-wonderful
the queer
old baloonman whistles
far and wee
and bettyandisbel come dancing
from hop-scotch and jump-rope and
it's
spring
and
the
goat-footed
baloonMan whistles
far
and
wee
#7
Macker
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Posted 25 September 2010 - 08:26 PM
I actually plagiarized that in grade school. The teacher didn't know Robert Lewis Stevenson?
You never ask a navy man if he'll have another drink, because it's nobody's goddamned business how much he's had already.
#10
LISA
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Posted 25 September 2010 - 10:52 PM
I shed my tears; my tears, my consolation;
I am silent; my murmur is dead
My soul; sunk in depression's shade
Hides in its depths the bitter exultation.
I dont explore my passing dream of life--
Vanish in the dark; the empty apparition!
I care only for my love's infliction,
and let me die, but only die in love.
---Aleksandr Pushkin
( little note, I adore Pushkin,like no other,..but fuck Russina is fucked up )(just sayin)
#14
AxlsMainMan
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Posted 29 September 2010 - 10:14 PM
Balloons - Sylvia Plath
Since Christmas they have lived with us,
Guileless and clear,
Oval soul-animals,
Taking up half the space,
Moving and rubbing on the silk
Invisible air drifts,
Giving a shriek and pop
When attacked, then scooting to rest, barely trembling.
Yellow cathead, blue fish--------
Such queer moons we live with
Instead of dead furniture!
Straw mats, white walls
And these traveling
Globes of thin air, red, green,
Delighting
The heart like wishes or free
Peacocks blessing
Old ground with a feather
Beaten in starry metals.
Your small
Brother is making
His balloon squeak like a cat.
Seeming to see
A funny pink world he might eat on the other side of it,
He bites,
Then sits
Back, fat jug
Contemplating a world clear as water.
A red
Shred in his little fist.
"Whereas scientists, philosophers and political theorists are saddled with these drably discursive pursuits, students of literature occupy the more prized territory of feeling and experience." - Terry Eagleton
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