Ckit Posted March 15, 2006 Share Posted March 15, 2006 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. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
sabe2005 Posted March 15, 2006 Share Posted March 15, 2006 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 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
thecarwreck Posted March 15, 2006 Share Posted March 15, 2006 "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. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
conspiringone Posted March 15, 2006 Share Posted March 15, 2006 :blush: Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
seeking Posted March 15, 2006 Share Posted March 15, 2006 you're supposed to stand for smoking alot of weed? wow. parents must be proud. rappers are retarded and poetry is for faggots. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
conspiringone Posted March 15, 2006 Share Posted March 15, 2006 Dude it's like...a metaphor, geesh. :rolleyes2: Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Nyarlathotep Posted March 15, 2006 Share Posted March 15, 2006 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. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Ckit Posted March 15, 2006 Author Share Posted March 15, 2006 haha Balloons. A touch a freedom, mixed with the present reality that rubber is easy to choke on. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Ckit Posted March 15, 2006 Author Share Posted March 15, 2006 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. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
sabe2005 Posted March 15, 2006 Share Posted March 15, 2006 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 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
thecarwreck Posted March 15, 2006 Share Posted March 15, 2006 sentimentality is the worst thing for poetry. ever. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Ckit Posted March 15, 2006 Author Share Posted March 15, 2006 Originally posted by seeking@Mar 15 2006, 02:22 PM poetry is for faggots. Quoted post 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. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
seeking Posted March 16, 2006 Share Posted March 16, 2006 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. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
_nightcrawler Posted April 13, 2006 Share Posted April 13, 2006 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. He is suprisingly correct Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
{holy}random+++ Posted April 15, 2006 Share Posted April 15, 2006 all this poetry is lovely. nice like flowers. my poetry is much more harsh. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
King Of Hell Posted April 15, 2006 Share Posted April 15, 2006 I call this one "In the key of awesome." Boomshaka-laka. I'll kick you where you caca. I've got a black marker and I'm hairy like Chewbacca. Boomshaka-laka. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Nekro Posted April 23, 2006 Share Posted April 23, 2006 Nobody should be allowed to write poetry before the age of 30. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
shitting Posted April 24, 2006 Share Posted April 24, 2006 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 dude, are you serious? Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
thecarwreck Posted April 24, 2006 Share Posted April 24, 2006 Nekro onpoint. Sabe, go read some Ted Kooser, Billy Collins, Marvin Bell, Linda Gregerson, Louise Gluck, or Robert Hass. Seriouly, bad poetry is like bad graffiti (or photography, or anything else): it's easy as all fuck to pick out and is even worse when the person putting it out there thinks it's the hottest shit going. Learn then write. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Gunm Posted April 26, 2006 Share Posted April 26, 2006 Stand on point No boots straps here Easy to walk away When your shoulder already has a crutch to lean on Where do i stand? I collapsed on the grit Sidewalk all up in my teeth You're still walking and looking back But there's another hand around your shoulder How long will you lean? How long before that hand falls away And I can be picked up again? lens being one emo mo fo' Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Issac Brock Posted May 2, 2006 Share Posted May 2, 2006 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. nah dude, just write their name, they love that shit.:cool: Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Milk Grenades Posted September 26, 2007 Share Posted September 26, 2007 Yakka Yakka the sounds so grand It's from a bird named Stan He would sing it wildly in the sun Until I shot him with my gun I'm sorry it was a mistake My gun went off when I swam in a lake I didn't want him to die but, ha ha, I ate him on a slab of rye Yakka Yakka, Yakka Yakka Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
King Of Hell Posted September 26, 2007 Share Posted September 26, 2007 Wakka wakka wakka My name is Fozzie Bear Wakka wakka wakka I have light brown hair Wakka wakka wakka Those old dudes wont shut up Wakka wakka wakka Im going to blow their balcony up. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Ckit Posted September 30, 2007 Author Share Posted September 30, 2007 chakka chakka chakka i want some chakkalate milk chakka chakka chakka pancakes, freshly made to melt ...the butter. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Milk Grenades Posted October 2, 2007 Share Posted October 2, 2007 Talka Talka me no likey high five banana dive spikey bikey Talka Talka, You taste like Chalka --Khan if your nasty 5-0 please don't blast me Got a pistol in my hips so gangsta I like peanut butter and shankas Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Theo Huxtable. Posted November 6, 2007 Share Posted November 6, 2007 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Hayabusa Posted November 6, 2007 Share Posted November 6, 2007 im not big on poetry but heres a dude i enjoy listening to http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QvYlLfjB9h8 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Theo Huxtable. Posted November 6, 2007 Share Posted November 6, 2007 i'm not big on poetry either but here's some stuff i liked http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GoiGRh_BK38 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
alkaline Posted November 7, 2007 Share Posted November 7, 2007 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
alkaline Posted November 7, 2007 Share Posted November 7, 2007 mine from the haiku thread back in ought-sixx working in the mourge my sex life was way better dead girls don't say no the most beautiful pale blue translucent skin tone dead stripper was she stab-fucking dead girls i slide it in the hole that i made with my knife mouthful of maggots from eating out her pussy have to brush my teeth bodies start to smell like semen and rotten flesh dispose of them fast Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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