Recite the best poem in the world
Or i'll eat your souls
I hate reading out loud. My thinking voice is much better than my speaking voice.
Of Mans first disobedience, and the fruit
Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste...
>>8236477
I got broads in Atlanta
Twistin' dope, lean, and the Fanta
Credit cards and the scammers
Hittin' off licks in the bando
Black X6, Phantom
White X6 looks like a panda
Goin' out like I'm Montana
Hundred killers, hundred hammers
Black X6, Phantom
White X6, panda
Pockets swole, Danny
Sellin' bar, candy
Man I'm the macho like Randy
The choppa go Oscar for Grammy
Bitch nigga pull up ya panty
Hope you killas understand me
>>8236643
Very good!
I like how the usage of words reflects the question of individuality, and how we are all just results of what we can see, be it in a book, on tv or even right in front of us
I like the simplicity
Tak wyglądał moj wielki sen maturalny
Przed oknem stały przykute łancuchem małpy
zza oknem fruwały nieba
i kapały sie morza
zdawałam z historii ludzi
jakałam sie, brnąłam
Malpa wpatrywała sie, ironicznie słuchała
druga niby to drzemała
a kiedy po pytaniu nastaje milczenie
podpowiada mi
cichym brzęczeniem łancucha
I am ashamed to admit that the only poem i can recite is Lovecraft's nigger one
Ja kaikki vetää lirpakkaa piikillä suoneen
Bensalla palamaan kaikki olohuoneet
Ja ihan sama, jos siinä kuolee
KGB tuo myrkkyä Suomeen
>>8236773
Shut up Tolkien.
>>8236477
pic related
>>8236477
Oh I am bold,
as brass posing as gold
You can shine me all you want
but I am as hard as I am cold
>no Blake
The crow wished that everything was black,
the owl, that it was white.
(considered one of the greatest and most disturbing poems written in the country)
the man either takes a walk or looks out his window and
chances upon an image that is so blatantly poetic
and this image thrusts him into the realm of
memory, and he thinks of his countless
constructed or objectified lovers. spasms are implied.
at some point there is a reference
to a mythological creature, another poem,
and god.
and of course the landscape
is mentioned and the
line cuts are inventive, sparse
and the language is just the right amount of florid
then focus returns to the man,
a phrase in Latin,
a political digression and another metaphor.
and he comes to a
startling realization that becomes a poem
and wins a number of awards
and is published and anthologized and
included in syllabi forever and ever amen.
It was not part of their blood,
It came to them very late,
With long arrears to make good,
When the Saxon began to hate.
They were not easily moved,
They were icy -- willing to wait
Till every count should be proved,
Ere the Saxon began to hate.
Their voices were even and low.
Their eyes were level and straight.
There was neither sign nor show
When the Saxon began to hate.
It was not preached to the crowd.
It was not taught by the state.
No man spoke it aloud
When the Saxon began to hate.
It was not suddently bred.
It will not swiftly abate.
Through the chilled years ahead,
When Time shall count from the date
That the Saxon began to hate.
>>8236711
Can an ironic interpretation of criticism be considered poetry? If with itself it holds both the destruction of thought and the mirror to our times, what is the more beautiful, more poetic?
>>8236477
roses are red
violets are blue
this is a gun
get in the van
ur girl giving me a striptease but i dont know NOTHING like im socrates
>>8236477
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you-inb4 Kurtz
>>8237326
God this is garbage
>>8236608
Topkek
لِخَـوْلَةَ أطْـلالٌ بِبُرْقَةِ ثَهْمَـدِ
تلُوحُ كَبَاقِي الوَشْمِ فِي ظَاهِرِ اليَدِ
وُقُـوْفاً بِهَا صَحْبِي عَليَّ مَطِيَّهُـمْ
يَقُـوْلُوْنَ لا تَهْلِكْ أسىً وتَجَلَّـدِ
كَـأنَّ حُـدُوجَ المَالِكِيَّةِ غُـدْوَةً
خَلاَيَا سَفِيْنٍ بِالنَّوَاصِـفِ مِنْ دَدِ
عَدَوْلِيَّةٌ أَوْ مِنْ سَفِيْنِ ابْنَ يَامِـنٍ
يَجُوْرُ بِهَا المَلاَّحُ طَوْراً ويَهْتَـدِي
يَشُـقُّ حَبَابَ المَاءِ حَيْزُومُهَا بِهَـا
كَمَـا قَسَمَ التُّرْبَ المُفَايِلَ بِاليَـدِ
وفِي الحَيِّ أَحْوَى يَنْفُضُ المَرْدَ شَادِنٌ
مُظَـاهِرُ سِمْطَيْ لُؤْلُؤٍ وزَبَرْجَـدِ
خَـذُولٌ تُرَاعِـي رَبْرَباً بِخَمِيْلَـةٍ
تَنَـاوَلُ أطْرَافَ البَرِيْرِ وتَرْتَـدِي
etc....
Your father made fetuses with flesh licking ladies
While you and your mother were asleep in the trailer park
Thunderous sparks from the dark of the stadiums
The music and medicine you needed for comforting
So make all your fat fleshy fingers to moving
And pluck all your silly strings, bend all your notes for me
Soft silly music is meaningful magical
The movements were beautiful, all in your ovaries
All of them milking with green fleshy flowers
While powerful pistons were sugary sweet machines
Smelling of semen all under the garden
Was all you were needing when you still believed in me
THE SECOND COMING
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 conviction, 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: a waste of desert sand;
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
Wind 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?
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
And with old woes new wail my dear time’s waste:
Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,
For precious friends hid in death’s dateless night,
And weep afresh love’s long since cancell’d woe,
And moan the expense of many a vanish’d sight:
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o’er
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
Which I new pay as if not paid before.
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
All losses are restor’d and sorrows end.
>>8236477
once God whispered to me "can yuo wether teh storm?"
and I turned teh God and said "I AM TEH STORM"
In haven't found my favorite Bukowski yet, have one
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IlAU83sZeB4&ab_channel=ChocolateJesus101
>>8237149
Beautiful, is this T.S. Eliot?
Die while you are alive,
and be absolutely dead,
Then do whatever you want:
it’s all good.
Hot Ass Poem - by Jennifer Knox
Hey check out the ass on that guy he's got a really hot ass
I'd like to see his ass naked with his hot naked ass
Hey check out her hot ass that chick's got a hot ass
she's a red hot ass chick I want to touch it
Hey check out the ass on that old man
that’s one hot old man ass
look at his ass his ass his old man ass
Hey check out that dog's ass
wow that dog's ass is hot
that dog's got a hot dog ass
I want to squeeze that dog's hot dog ass
like a ball but a hot ball a hot ass ball
Hey check out the ass on that bird
how's a bird get a hot ass like that
that's one hot ass bird ass
I want to put that bird's hot ass in my mouth
and swish it around and around and around
Hey check out the ass on that bike
damn that bike's ass it h-o-t
you ever see a bike with an ass that hot
I want to put my hot ass on that bike's hot ass and make a double hot ass bike ass
Hey check out that building
it's got a really really really hot ass
and the doorman and the ladies in the information booth and the guy in the elevator got themselves a butt load of hot ass
I want to wrap my arms around the whole hot ass building and squeeze myself right through its hot ass and out the other side
I want to get me a hot ass piece of all 86 floors of hot hot hot hot ass!
Sassafras ass gass,
Sassy gass assaults asses
ASSociation
>>8236568
Hahaha so funny, my man!
I'll take you on a 9 days journey, see if you'll like bitch.
Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy autumn-fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.
Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
That brings our friends up from the underworld,
Sad as the last which reddens over one
That sinks with all we love below the verge;
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.
Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns
The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.
Dear as remembered kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd
On lips that are for others; deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;
O Death in Life, the days that are no more!
I WAS only eight years old;
And before I grew up and knew what it meant
I had no words for it, except
That I was frightened and told my Mother;
And that my Father got a pistol
And would have killed Charlie, who was a big boy,
Fifteen years old, except for his Mother.
Nevertheless the story clung to me.
But the man who married me, a widower of thirty-five,
Was a newcomer and never heard it
Till two years after we were married.
Then he considered himself cheated,
And the village agreed that I was not really a virgin.
Well, he deserted me, and I died
The following winter.
It's Tommy this and Tommy that,
And chuck 'im out the brute!
But he's saviour of his country when the guns begin to shoot.
The guns begin to shoot my boy, the guns begin to shoot.
>>8238411
O.C
>>8240062
That was a pretty good poem anonymous friend
>>8239524
Lawn Tennyson, the rectory prude, a poet deficient in intellect... he was suburban. It is not a
wild countryside he writes about, but gardens. No, I do not care for Tennyson. Compare him with a poet like Donne, whose verse is a rich contrapuntal music which makes Tennyson seem as though he played with one stop. And Donne's love poems are more intricate, deeper than any others I know. To me he is very English, far more so than Tennyson, for the English mind, in spite of all that has been said about it, is intricate, and with Donne you enter a maze of thought and feeling. A poem of his is an adventure in which you do not know where you will end, which is what a piece of writing should be... Donne is Shakespearean in his richness, and in comparison the famous French love poets sound trivial. He was a typical mediaevalist before classicism straightened out the English genius, for Donne and Chaucer were the two splendid geniuses in love with life before the puritans put out their ice-cold hands. Classicism was all right when it was paganism, but when it came to the Renaissance it had lost its purpose, and so it has continued miserably until this day, getting weaker and weaker until it has petered out in Tennyson, and in the stultified nudes of Alma-Tadema
>>8240062
No, I think it's by Eliot.
>>8239565
That's poetry? Is it supposed to be good?
>>8240089
I can't find anything on google that would indicate it's by Eliot
>>8240089
Then post your favourite Donne poem, mr. verbose adulator.
hickory dickory dock
ur mum sucked my cock
Into my heart
an air that kills
from yon far country blows
what blue hills, what spires are those
that is the land of lost content
the happy highways where I went
and cannot come again.
>>8240548
ah fuck, not quite. Well I'm drunk
>>8240195
>mr. verbose adulator
VERSACE
VERSACE VERSACE
VERSACE VERSACE
(VERSACE)
VERSACE VERSACE
>>8240221
The best part: I was introduced to that in a 300 level writing course as an example of how to build up rhythm into a satisfying conclusion.
Peace to Thirstin Howl, A.L. and Wordsworth
My mother smoked crack, I had a premature birth
I'm just a nerd cursed, with badly disturbed nerves
Who wanna be the one to step up and get served first
Ninety-nine percent of aliens prefer Earth
So I'm here to rule the planet, starting with your turf
I hid a secret message inside of a wordsearch
With smeared letters, running together in blurred spurts
I hang with male chauvinist pigs and perverts
Who point water pistols at women and squirt shirts
Been a bad boy since diapers and Gerber's
My first words were bleep-bleep and curse-curse
Never had shit, and I still don't deserve dirt
My breath still stinks and I'm on my third Certs
Yanking out my stitches, hollering, nurse nurse
You said this shot would numb it, this shit just hurts worse
>>8241535
Kill yourself
lighght
