Name your favorite poemand why
Go
ehm ...
sweeney agonistes. because it's like t s eliot writing a coen brothers movie.
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner
>having one favorite poem
You clearly haven't read enough
When You Are Old
I like the bitter realism of the subject matter being presented in a romantic and dreamy manner.
First Song
Galway Kinnell
>>7726219
>not being able to compare poems and make an informed decision about which is better
>>>/pl/ebians
>>7726236
It's easier when you've read only 100 poems in your entire life
>>7726236
>he says, having read less than 50 poems in his entire life
lycidas bc it made me cry
Catullus' Carmina xvi, because I like Sappho's sentiment and not here style and this is basically the best defence of free speech and romanticism. Plus Piet Paaltjens, but that's obscure Dutch shit
Transtromer - Tracks
>>7726311
patrician af senpai
>>7726207
The Iliad.
No not really but that's probably the most patrician answer, right?
>>7726344
not even close you fucking pseud
Probably Bryant's Thanatopsis.
Lermontov's Demon is a close second, though.
>>7726207
Train rising out of the sea, Ashbery
Paradise fucking Lost. Fucking plebs, THAT is poetry.
>>7726450
Imagine being this guy
>>7726207
Canto XVI by Ezra Pound
I love its imagery and sounds. Here's a passage from it:
And past them, the criminal
lying in the blue lakes of acid,
The road between the two hills, upward
slowly,
The flames patterned in lacquer, crimen est actio,
The limbo of chopped ice and saw-dust,
And I bathed myself with acid to free myself
of the hell ticks,
Scales, fallen louse eggs.
Palux Laerna,
the lake of bodies, aqua morta,
of limbs fluid, and mingled, like fish heaped in a bin,
and here an arm upward, clutching a fragment of marble,
And the embryos, in flux,
new inflow, submerging,
Here an arm upward, trout, submerged by the eels;
and from the bank, the stiff herbage
the dry nobbled path, saw many known, and unknown,
for an instant;
submerging,
The face gone, generation.
>>7726207
Body of a Woman by Pablo Neruda. It is very sensual.
>>7726258
>I hope your journey on S.S. Reddit was nice
Underrated insult
>>7726455
no thanks, my suicidal tendencies are strong enough
>>7726339
Not really. He has better poems.
>>7726527
yea but appreciating transtromer is a mark of patricianess desu.
schubertiana is GOAT.
>>7726207
I don't have a poem but I would like to know what the most patrician answer would be so I can look cleverer IRL. Any suggestions?
>>7726633
The Waste Land or The Divine Comedy.
Now go read them you sack of shit.
>>7726207
Lovecraft's poem.
You know the one.
Childe Harold.
Byron bitch-slaps society so many times. He even disses what moderns would call "fake" people.
"And none did love him -- though to hall and bower
He gather'd revellers from far and near,
He knew them flatt'rers of the festal hour;
The heartless parasites of present cheer."
>>7726207
Poetry is for pseudo intellectual plebs who don't have the attention span for a novel.
>>7726207
Percy Shelley's Adonais
The lines were so poignant, it was a beautiful elegy to hail a great poet.
Rhapsody on a Windy Night by T.S. Eliot
I love the diction and mood the poem sets along with a strange type of rhythm in its words.
>>7726746
wew lad
>>7726868
I agree.
>>>/tv/66240154
wew lad even /tv/ has better taste than us
I haven't got a favorite poem because I'm not homosexual
>>7726868
it reads to me like a suicide note.
>>7726942
I've never seen it in that way.
I only saw it as Shelley lamenting over Keats death (especially since he admired him so much) though it does seem uncharacteristically melancholy of Shelley's writing.
>>7726979
But the value he places in death, how Keats must be so happy to have moved on, &c. all makes it seem praiseworthy of death over life. It reminds me of the Solon/Croesus story.
>>7727001
I reread it and I can understand your point. Shelley is very negative about life, it's an interesting interpretation that I'll probably never unread now. These lines stood out to me in particular;
He has outsoar'd the shadow of our night;
Envy and calumny and hate and pain,
And that unrest which men miscall delight,
Can touch him not and torture not again;
From the contagion of the world's slow stain
>>7727033
A part of me just wants to believe that Shelley was writing an elegy for his friend, and as he got further and further in he just realized "wow, it won't be that bad to be dead. maybe even better than it is to be alive. I just go on a boat-ride soon."
>>7726868
A year after Mary Shelley's death, a copy of this poem was found in her desk. It was wrapped around a silk pouch. Inside the silk pouch were the remains of Percy's heart, which had calcified and not burned when he was cremated, likely due to tuberculosis.
>>7726942
Yes, it definitely is.
I have a hunch that Shelley actually committed suicide by sailing into the storm that drowned him, because he was so tired of life. His late lyrics are heartbreaking.
Midst others of less note, came one frail Form,
A phantom among men; companionless
As the last cloud of an expiring storm
Whose thunder is its knell; he, as I guess,
Had gaz'd on Nature's naked loveliness,
Actaeon-like, and now he fled astray
With feeble steps o'er the world's wilderness,
And his own thoughts, along that rugged way,
Pursu'd, like raging hounds, their father and their prey.
is Shelley himself in the poem.
>>7727033
>the contagion of the world's slow stain
edgy teenager tier
>>7726746
Top pleb
A light in the moon the only light is on Sunday. What was the sensible decision. The sensible decision was that notwithstanding many declarations and more music, not even notwithstanding the choice and a torch and a collection, notwithstanding the celebrating hat and a vacation and even more noise than cutting, notwithstanding Europe and Asia and being overbearing, not even notwithstanding an elephant and a strict occasion, not even withstanding more cultivation and some seasoning, not even with drowning and with the ocean being encircling, not even with more likeness and any cloud, not even with terrific sacrifice of pedestrianism and a special resolution, not even more likely to be pleasing. The care with which the rain is wrong and the green is wrong and the white is wrong, the care with which there is a chair and plenty of breathing. The care with which there is incredible justice and likeness, all this makes a magnificent asparagus, and also a fountain.
Morrison Hostel
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nhl5OU7MahQ
Now, feed me (You)s.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zpdAMU4FFSQ
>>7726207
The White Man's Burden because it stands today as a ballsy-as-fuck defense of a totally unfashionable ideological framework.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J48XKZ18qtU
>>7728598
>totally unfashionable
No, the White Man's burden is completely fashionable. In almost every country forms of 'affirmative action' are being practiced and justified by the left who, inevitably, will look back on the practices as 'racist conservatives trying to assert their superiority' instead of the more obvious 'racist liberals instituting misguided compassion'.
>>7728607
Case in point:
"We mustn't say this word because those poor """AFRICAN AMERICANS""" can't be held responsible for their emotions. We are white, so we can handle being called Crackas, we can handle having words our culture has typically found foul, but we mustn't trigger those poor """""""""""AFRICAN AMERICANS"""""""""
>>7728607
Huh? The White Man's Burden is a defense of old-school colonialism as a positive influence on the entire world.
>>7726207
The Gashlycrumb Tinies by Edward Gorey
Do epics count? Paradife Loft.
Milton's Satan is perhaps the most interesting and multifaceted character ever written, which is doubly impressive considering Milton was a devout Christian who had every impetus to make Satan a moustache-twirling villain.
The poetry itself (specifically the Classic vocabulary Milton reverse-engineered into English) is, of course, spectacular as well.
>The mind is its own place, and in itself
>Can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven.
Is as orgiastic as it is chiastic
>>7726640
>The Waste Land
>patrician
I genuinely hope you wrote this as bait and don't actually believe this.
>having a favourite poem
>>7726207
JUST
>>7728625
>not realizing the white man's burden was irony
I, Too, Am America
Kultur spurns Ubu – thus Ubu pulls stunts. Ubu shuns
Skulptur: Uruk urns (plus busts), Zulu jugs (plus
tusks). Ubu sculpts junk für Kunst und Glück. Ubu
busks. Ubu drums drums, plus Ubu strums cruths
(such hubbub, such ruckus): thump, thump; thrum,
thrum. Ubu puns puns. Ubu blurts untruth: much
bunkum (plus bull), much humbug (plus bunk) – but
trustful schmucks trust such untruthful stuff; thus
Ubu (cult guru) must bluff dumbstruck numbskulls
(such chumps). Ubu mulcts surplus funds (trust
funds plus slush funds). Ubu usurps much usufruct.
Ubu sums up lump sums. Ubu trumps dumb luck.
>>7728310
Wasn't he aware that the Don Juan wasn't fit for riding into the sea? In that case I think it was definitely a suicide.
I find everything about the 2nd wave Romantics so tragic, I can only feel pathos.
>>7726207
“Good-morning, good-morning!” the General said
When we met him last week on our way to the line.
Now the soldiers he smiled at are most of 'em dead,
And we're cursing his staff for incompetent swine.
“He's a cheery old card,” grunted Harry to Jack
As they slogged up to Arras with rifle and pack.
But he did for them both by his plan of attack.
I really like the lyrics of Flight of the Icarus by pic related.
>>7726207
The Bad Glazier
or
The Love song of Alfred J Prufrock
The rhythm and constant shifting between irony and sympathy for the second, and the simplicity and profundity for the first.
>>7726207
The Envoy of Mr. Cogito
true patrician= doesn't give a fuck and reads whatever he/she enjoys
poser faggot=makes stupid patrician threads
Revolving door. How will I know when I make a mistake. The garbage barge at the bridge. The throb in the wrist. Earth science. Their first goal was to separate the workers from their means of production. He bears a resemblance. A drawing of a Balinese spirit with its face in its stomach. Fountains of the financial district spout soft water in a hard wind. In a far room of the apartment I can hear music and a hammer. The bear flag in the black marble plaza. Rapid transit. How the heel rises and the ankle bends to carry the body from one stair to the next. The desire for coffee. A tenor sax is a toy. Snow is remarkable to one not accustomed to it. She was a unit in a bum space, she was a damaged child, sitting in her rocker by the window. The formal beauty of a back porch. I’m unable to find just the right straw hat. He hit the bricks, took a vacation, got rolled up, popped, as they say. The fishermen’s cormorants wear rings around their necks to keep them from swallowing, to force them to surrender their catch. She had only the slightest pubic hair. We drove through fields of artichokes. Feet, do your stuff. Dark brown houseboats beached at the point of low tide—men atop their cabin roofs, idle, play a Dobro, a jaw’s harp, a 12-string guitar—only to float again when the sunset is reflected in the water of Richardson Bay. Frying yellow squash in the wok. Write this down in a green notebook. Television in the 1950s. Silverfish, potato bugs. We stopped for hot chocolate topped with whipped cream and to discuss the Sicilian Defense. A tenor sax is a weapon. The Main Library was a grey weight in a white rain. What I want is the gray-blue grain of western summer. Subtitles lower your focus. Mention sex, fruit. Drip candles kept atop old, empty bottles of wine. The young nurse in sunglasses, by a subtle redistribution of weight, shift of gravity’s center, moves in front of the black student of oriental porcelain in order to more rapidly board the bus home, before all the seats are taken. Are pears form. Awake, but still in bed, I listen to cars pass, doors, birds, children are day’s first voices. Eventually the scratches became scabs. A cardboard box of wool sweaters on top of the bookcase to indicate Home. Bedlingtons were at first meant to hunt rats in coal mines. Attention is all. He knew how to hold an adz. A day of rain in the middle of June. The gamelan is not simple. Modal rounders. A sequence of objects, silhouettes, which to him appears to be a caravan of fellaheen, a circus, dromedaries pulling wagons bearing tiger cages, fringed surreys, tamed ostriches in toy hats, begins a slow migration to the right vanishing point on the horizon line. Slag iron. The implicit power within the ability to draw a single, vertical straight line. That was when my nose began to peel. Look at that room filled with fleshy babies, incubating. A tall glass of tawny port. We ate them.
Hey, what are your opinions on The Prophet? I'm thinking about reading it.
Mine is in Spanish, but in English it would be W H Auden's In Praise of Limestone.
>>7726219
just pick one you fucking autist
>>7726234
good choice, i also really like andrew bird's rendition in song form
Cold eyelids that hide like a jewel
Hard eyes that grow soft for an hour;
The heavy white limbs, and the cruel
Red mouth like a venomous flower;
When these are gone by with their glories,
What shall rest of thee then, what remain,
O mystic and sombre Dolores,
Our Lady of Pain?
Seven sorrows the priests give their Virgin;
But thy sins, which are seventy times seven,
Seven ages would fail thee to purge in,
And then they would haunt thee in heaven:
Fierce midnights and famishing morrows,
And the loves that complete and control
All the joys of the flesh, all the sorrows
That wear out the soul.
O garment not golden but gilded,
O garden where all men may dwell,
O tower not of ivory, but builded
By hands that reach heaven from hell;
O mystical rose of the mire,
O house not of gold but of gain,
O house of unquenchable fire,
Our Lady of Pain!
O lips full of lust and of laughter,
Curled snakes that are fed from my breast,
Bite hard, lest remembrance come after
And press with new lips where you pressed.
For my heart too springs up at the pressure,
Mine eyelids too moisten and burn;
Ah, feed me and fill me with pleasure,
Ere pain come in turn.
In yesterday's reach and to-morrow's,
Out of sight though they lie of to-day,
There have been and there yet shall be sorrows
That smite not and bite not in play.
The life and the love thou despisest,
These hurt us indeed, and in vain,
O wise among women, and wisest,
Our Lady of Pain.
Who gave thee thy wisdom? what stories
That stung thee, what visions that smote?
Wert thou pure and a maiden, Dolores,
When desire took thee first by the throat?
What bud was the shell of a blossom
That all men may smell to and pluck?
What milk fed thee first at what bosom?
What sins gave thee suck?
etc etc
La Divina Commedia di Dante.
>>7732809
And why? Read it and you'll know.
>>7732474
dat planescape
![AleksandrPushkin[1].jpg](https://i.imgur.com/IhnW3MQ.jpg "AleksandrPushkin[1].jpg")
Бeзyмных лeт yгacшee вeceльe
Mнe тяжeлo, кaк cмyтнoe пoхмeльe.
Ho, кaк винo — пeчaль минyвших днeй
B мoeй дyшe чeм cтape, тeм cильнeй.
Moй пyть yныл. Cyлит мнe тpyд и гope
Гpядyщeгo вoлнyeмoe мope.
Ho нe хoчy, o дpyги, yмиpaть;
Я жить хoчy, чтoб мыcлить и cтpaдaть;
И вeдaю, мнe бyдyт нacлaждeнья
Meж гopecтeй, зaбoт и тpeвoлнeнья:
Пopoй oпять гapмoниeй yпьюcь,
Haд вымыcлoм cлeзaми oбoльюcь,
И мoжeт быть — нa мoй зaкaт пeчaльный
Блecнeт любoвь yлыбкoю пpoщaльнoй.
>>7726344
only if read in the original
>>7726573
i hate that newfags are starting to use this word unironically
>inb4 any response
>pls be directed to poe's law
>>7726640
le waste lande is high-school tier at best, in the sense that, everyone should've read it in high school, so, nigga, pls.
>E agora José
My name is José.
Voi ch'ascoltate in rime sparse il suono
Petrarca
Eyelid Lick by Pete Dunbar.
>>7726468
Holy shi
>>7733204
Quite nice, isn't it?
