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Ckit

.poetry.

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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.

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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

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"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.

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you're supposed to stand for smoking alot of weed? wow. parents must be proud.

rappers are retarded and poetry is for faggots.

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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.

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haha

 

 

Balloons.

 

A touch a freedom,

mixed with the present reality that rubber is easy to choke on.

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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.

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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

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Originally posted by seeking@Mar 15 2006, 02:22 PM

poetry is for faggots.

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.

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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.

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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

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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.

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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?

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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.

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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'

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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:

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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

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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.

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chakka chakka chakka

i want some chakkalate milk

chakka chakka chakka

pancakes, freshly made to melt

 

...the butter.

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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

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