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.poetry.

Discussion in 'Art & Design' started by Ckit, Mar 15, 2006.

  1. Ckit

    Ckit Member

    Joined: Mar 10, 2003 Messages: 725 Likes Received: 1
    not exactly a visual art but fuck it.
    i know there are some poets on this board.

    contribute any form of poetry you might have.

    to start it off. my first spanish poem.



    .globos pt 3.


    Globos perdidos.


    Toman los cielos;
    los fantasmas de soldados plasticos.


    Alli;
    cruz y cruz y cruz

    durmiendo con castillos de arena.


    Balancin.
    Chirrando cantos torando.

    Solitario.


    Columpios:
    sin ninos.

    Oscilando a melodias
    de poesias no recordadas.

    Oxido,
    pintura quebrada,


    un columpio de llanta.

    Rotas.


    Estar



    y estar.



    Y estar.



    loosely translated to something like this.




    Abandoned Balloons.



    Take the spirit of a plastic soldier to its heavenly grave.


    vine-cloaked crosses mark the sites of sleeping sandcastles.
    the seesaws creak their crooked melodies.


    Lonely.



    Unweighted swings sway to the rhythm of poems i cant remember.

    Rust, cracked paint.
    and a tire swing:

    broken.



    they remain.


    and they remain.



    and they remain.
     
  2. sabe2005

    sabe2005 Junior Member

    Joined: Jun 11, 2005 Messages: 212 Likes Received: 0
    right on.

    Heres one:

    A nation divided, devils to confide in
    Incapacitated conductor
    Bush, what do you really stand for?
    We have strayed a long way my people
    From following an eye for an eye, to jusify
    The frustration inside
    Morph our directions, vertical mobility
    Challenge political propaganda, ie: crafty bribery
    Stand up, no cryin' shame in civilian anarchy
    To revolutionize the corruption for peacefull means
    Political upheaval, break 'em at the fucking seams
     
  3. thecarwreck

    thecarwreck Senior Member

    Joined: May 14, 2003 Messages: 1,006 Likes Received: 67
    "In A Station Of The Metro"


    The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
    Petals on a wet, black bough.


    —Ezra Pound


    Sure, the guy was an anti-semite, a fascist, and a misogynist, but damn it all; he could write.


    I've been trying to do a poem a day for the past week or so. Maybe I'll post some. More than likely I'll just be a cock and critique everything else. It's the 12oz. poetry workshop.
     
  4. conspiringone

    conspiringone New Jack

    Joined: Oct 10, 2005 Messages: 98 Likes Received: 0
  5. seeking

    seeking Dirty Dozen Crew

    Joined: May 25, 2000 Messages: 32,277 Likes Received: 234
    you're supposed to stand for smoking alot of weed? wow. parents must be proud.
    rappers are retarded and poetry is for faggots.
     
  6. conspiringone

    conspiringone New Jack

    Joined: Oct 10, 2005 Messages: 98 Likes Received: 0
    Dude it's like...a metaphor, geesh. :rolleyes2:
     
  7. Nyarlathotep

    Nyarlathotep Member

    Joined: Feb 16, 2006 Messages: 780 Likes Received: 0
    i think seeking wants to let his inner poet burst happily into the forefront, and announce its brimming joy to tell tales of woe and gayety...but he feels opressed by the jocular stigma of not only being a mans man.. he feels.......he feels that possbly the world isnt ready for such tender emissions to flow from his being as though he were a being of pure emotion. constantly masticating its energy,extricating it in the form on boundless ideal...creating landscapes of heavenly wonders..

    i know this much...self suffocation of your own poetic heart...is the same as death by russian roullete alone..

    please seeking.......let your inner poet fly free.
     
  8. Ckit

    Ckit Member

    Joined: Mar 10, 2003 Messages: 725 Likes Received: 1
    haha


    Balloons.

    A touch a freedom,
    mixed with the present reality that rubber is easy to choke on.
     
  9. Ckit

    Ckit Member

    Joined: Mar 10, 2003 Messages: 725 Likes Received: 1
    Nothing But Death - Paublo Neruda.


    There are cemeteries that are lonely,
    graves full of bones that do not make a sound,
    the heart moving through a tunnel,
    in it darkness, darkness, darkness,
    like a shipwreck we die going into ourselves,
    as though we were drowning inside our hearts,
    as though we lived falling out of the skin into the soul.

    And there are corpses,
    feet made of cold and sticky clay,
    death is inside the bones,
    like a barking where there are no dogs,
    coming out from bells somewhere, from graves somewhere,
    growing in the damp air like tears of rain.

    Sometimes I see alone
    coffins under sail,
    embarking with the pale dead, with women that have dead hair,
    with bakers who are as white as angels,
    and pensive young girls married to notary publics,
    caskets sailing up the vertical river of the dead,
    the river of dark purple,
    moving upstream with sails filled out by the sound of death,
    filled by the sound of death which is silence.

    Death arrives among all that sound
    like a shoe with no foot in it, like a suit with no man in it,
    comes and knocks, using a ring with no stone in it, with no
    finger in it,
    comes and shouts with no mouth, with no tongue, with no
    throat.
    Nevertheless its steps can be heard
    and its clothing makes a hushed sound, like a tree.

    I'm not sure, I understand only a little, I can hardly see,
    but it seems to me that its singing has the color of damp violets,
    of violets that are at home in the earth,
    because the face of death is green,
    and the look death gives is green,
    with the penetrating dampness of a violet leaf
    and the somber color of embittered winter.

    But death also goes through the world dressed as a broom,
    lapping the floor, looking for dead bodies,
    death is inside the broom,
    the broom is the tongue of death looking for corpses,
    it is the needle of death looking for thread.

    Death is inside the folding cots:
    it spends its life sleeping on the slow mattresses,
    in the black blankets, and suddenly breathes out:
    it blows out a mournful sound that swells the sheets,
    and the beds go sailing toward a port
    where death is waiting, dressed like an admiral.




    ps. neruda is the shit.
     
  10. sabe2005

    sabe2005 Junior Member

    Joined: Jun 11, 2005 Messages: 212 Likes Received: 0
    Another from today.

    This

    Is love
    The highest high
    Attainable only after you die
    Then when you reach
    Reach again,
    Your eyes and warm embrace
    Can brighten up my darkest face
    When I give up, say fuck the human race
    You come near and wisper in my ear
    Everything I need to hear, "I'm here."
    This world was made for you
    You have the responsiblity to enjoy and do
    Love and persue
    Enlighten and question
    Love these ever changing blessings
    But I have one confession
    My breath, I have problems catching
     
  11. thecarwreck

    thecarwreck Senior Member

    Joined: May 14, 2003 Messages: 1,006 Likes Received: 67
    sentimentality is the worst thing for poetry. ever.
     
  12. Ckit

    Ckit Member

    Joined: Mar 10, 2003 Messages: 725 Likes Received: 1
    did your parents never read you nursery rhymes as a kid?

    and for the record, poetry gets you ten times as many girls as graffiti.
     
  13. seeking

    seeking Dirty Dozen Crew

    Joined: May 25, 2000 Messages: 32,277 Likes Received: 234
    so alone.
    pitch black, cold...
    lights from passing cars
    CRASH
    across my window, but...
    no one stops.
    a train in the distance,
    rythmic and pounding
    reapeat
    repeat
    repeat
    it never changes
    never falters
    never notices
    it's no different than the people that surround me
    always moving, never
    slowing
    never
    stopping
    never
    ever
    realizing the
    fucking sarcasm.


    it's possible to write a good poem, it just happens about as often as i win the lottery. fuck yo couch nigga.
     
  14. _nightcrawler

    _nightcrawler Elite Member

    Joined: Aug 29, 2005 Messages: 3,772 Likes Received: 8
    He is suprisingly correct
     
  15. {holy}random+++

    {holy}random+++ New Jack

    Joined: Apr 15, 2006 Messages: 31 Likes Received: 0
    all this poetry is lovely. nice like flowers.
    my poetry is much more harsh.
     
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