Post poems that you like
Less time than it takes to say it, less tears than it takes to die; I've taken account of everything,
there you have it. I've made a census of the stones, they are as numerous as my fingers and some
others; I've distributed some pamphlets to the plants, but not all were willing to accept them. I've
kept company with music for a second only and now I no longer know what to think of suicide, for
if I ever want to part from myself, the exit is on this side and, I add mischievously, the entrance, the
re-entrance is on the other. You see what you still have to do. Hours, grief, I don't keep a
reasonable account of them; I'm alone, I look out of the window; there is no passerby, or rather no
one passes (underline passes). You don't know this man? It's Mr. Same. May I introduce Madam
Madam? And their children. Then I turn back on my steps, my steps turn back too, but I don't
know exactly what they turn back on. I consult a schedule; the names of the towns have been
replaced by the names of people who have been quite close to me. Shall I go to A, return to B,
change at X? Yes, of course I'll change at X. Provided I don't miss the connection with boredom!
There we are: boredom, beautiful parallels, ah! how beautiful the parallels are under God's
perpendicular.
Post poems that you like
This is a great image, OP.
As for poems I like there aren't any because poems are gay.
Read more books and poems. It's good for your brain.
Go, little book,
To him who, on a lute with horns of pearl,
Sang of the white feet of the Golden Girl:
And bid him look
Into thy pages: it may hap that he
May find that golden maidens dance through thee.
These, are not my teardrops daughter dear
but the sheen of dew, that lingers here
past other fields, where other fathers lie
who kept their daughters, better far than I
>These, are not my teardrops daughter dear
> but the sheen of dew, that lingers here
>past other fields, where other fathers lie
>who kept their daughters, better far than I
Is that Giuseppe's poem
Never knows best.
Wordsworth good too you should read.
Earth has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This City now doth like a garment wear
The beauty of the morning; silent , bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky,
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did the sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;
Ne'er saw I, never felt a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!
Bukowski
>Bukowski
He has some good critiques of bourgeois society
Sam had spirits naught could check,
And to-day, at breakfast, he
Broke his baby sister's neck,
So he shan't have jam for tea!
In the drinking-well
(Which the plumber built her)
Aunt Eliza fell,—
We must buy a filter.
Father, chancing to chastise
His indignant daughter Sue,
Said, "I hope you realize
That this hurts me more than you."
Susan straightway ceased to roar.
"If that's really true," said she,
"I can stand a good deal more;
Pray go on, and don't mind me."
Of Baby I was very fond,
She'd won her father's heart;
So, when she fell into the pond,
It gave me quite a start.
Late last night I slew my wife,
Stretched her on the parquet flooring;
I was loathe to take her life,
But I had to stop her snoring.
All those who see my children say,
"What sweet, what kind, what charming elves!"
They are so thoughtful, too, for they
Are always thinking of themselves.
It must be ages since I ceased
To wonder which I liked the least.
Such is their generosity,
That, when the roof began to fall,
They would not share the risk with me,
But said, "No, father, take it all!"
Yet I should love them more, I know,
If I did not dislike them so.
Making toast at the fireside,
Nurse fell in the grate and died;
And, what makes it ten times worse,
All the toast was burned with nurse.
Henry Graham is an excellent poet. I can't really categorize which group of poets he belongs to. I think of him in the same strain as Walt Whitman. >Late last night I slew my wife,
>Stretched her on the parquet flooring;
>I was loathe to take her life,
>But I had to stop her snoring.
I love poems where they describe everyday life in such weird terms, and also why does he want to kill that wife
Yesterday my gun exploded
When I thought it wasn't loaded;
Near my wife I pressed the trigger,
Chipped a fragment off her figure;
'Course I'm sorry, and all that,
But she shouldn't be so fat.
Billy, in one of his nice new sashes,
Fell in the fire and was burnt to ashes;
Now, although the room grows chilly,
I haven't the heart to poke poor Billy.
Father heard his Children scream,
So he threw them in the stream,
Saying, as he drowned the third,
"Children should be seen, not heard!"
Someone should seriously check if this man's wife is okay I'm concerned.
they were called "Little Willies" and were very popular from 1890-1920. The collection is called "Ruthless Rhymes for Hearless Homes" by Harry Graham
They should bring them back; I love poetry that is a little bit edgy.