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Strangeways • View topic - Other people's poems

Other people's poems

Prose, poetry, music, art, it all goes in here! Showcase your creative talents.

Postby elko » Thu Apr 27, 2006 7:34 pm

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Postby helmoz » Wed May 17, 2006 6:38 pm





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Postby chicken » Thu May 18, 2006 3:01 am

i saw Marianne Boruch read earlier this spring. she really didn't get into a good rhythm (the enthusiam of the audience took her aback a bit i think), but she still gave me goose-pimples.

here's a snippet from a very long poem called: The History of The:
...
I would draw my cat,
but she'd look back. I would
draw her but she's
way past sleep and sheds her
quiet like tickertape
down the long hallway, talking
cranky and offkey.

Of couse, it's winter. I would draw
that, but a pencil isn't
fierce enough for branches stripped
to nothing. To one leaf, which
is as good as nothing. And nothing--
that gift needs invisible ink.

I'd draw the way words feel
in the mouth after too long without
words, or the way the body rises after
hours of dream, gravity
on every bone again, that anchoring
and ache.

Or I wouldn't. Or I couldn't.
Or I'd bury the treasure
in the most obvious place...."


i have just one of her books of poety, 206 pages of it is not enough. she's quite talented.
page after page, i keep underlining, i keep smiling, and turn back 50 pages to go through it again. great stuff!!!
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Postby elko » Mon Sep 25, 2006 11:06 pm

I don't read books of poetry often but I picked one up in the library and the first poem hit me as interesting. I don't nesseccarily agree with it all, but I like the confidence of the statement. It is by Charles Bukowski.

<!--quoteo--><div class='quotetop'>QUOTE</div><div class='quotemain'><!--quotec-->
SO YOU WANT TO BE A WRITER?


if it doesn't come bursting out of you

in spite of everything,

don't do it.

unless it comes unasked out of your

heart and your mind and your mouth

and your gut,

don't do it.

if you have to sit for hours

staring at your computer screen

or hunched over your

typewriter

searching for words,

don't do it.

if you're doing it for money or

fame,

don't do it.

if you're doing it because you want

women in your bed,

don't do it.

if you have to sit there and

rewrite it again and again,

don't do it.

if it's hard work just thinking about doing it,

don't do it.

if you're trying to write like somebody

else,

forget about it.





if you have to wait for it to roar out of

you,

then wait patiently.

if it never does roar out of you,

do something else.



if you first have to read it to your wife

or your girlfriend or your boyfriend

or your parents or to anybody at all,

you're not ready.



don't be like so many writers,

don't be like so many thousands of

people who call themselves writers,

don't be dull and boring and

pretentious, don't be consumed with self-

love.

the libraries of the world have

yawned themselves to

sleep

over your kind.

don't add to that.

don't do it.

unless it comes out of

your soul like a rocket,

unless being still would

drive you to madness or

suicide or murder,

don't do it.

unless the sun inside you is

burning your gut,

don't do it.



when it is truly time,

and if you have been chosen,

it will do it by

itself and it will keep on doing it

until you die or it dies in you.



there is no other way.



and there never was.<!--QuoteEnd--></div><!--QuoteEEnd-->
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Postby chicken » Wed Sep 27, 2006 10:45 pm

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Postby elko » Wed Sep 27, 2006 11:02 pm

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Postby Bref » Fri Sep 29, 2006 2:01 pm

<!--sizeo:3--><span style="font-size:12pt;line-height:100%"><!--/sizeo--><!--fonto:Book Antiqua--><span style="font-family:Book Antiqua"><!--/fonto--><!--fonto:Arial Narrow--><span style="font-family:Arial Narrow"><!--/fonto--><!--fonto:Arial--><span style="font-family:Arial"><!--/fonto-->Half of the time we're gone but we don't know where,
we don't know where.
<!--fontc--></span><!--/fontc--><!--sizec--></span><!--/sizec--><!--fontc--></span><!--/fontc--><!--fontc--></span><!--/fontc-->
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Postby chicken » Fri Oct 06, 2006 10:47 pm

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Postby elko » Fri Oct 06, 2006 10:50 pm

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Postby helmoz » Wed Nov 29, 2006 3:23 pm

i found this on wikipedia the other day, i like it.

The Wussy Boy Manifesto

My name is Big Poppa E,
and I am a Wussy Boy.

It's taken me a long time to admit it...
I remember shouting in high school,
"No, Dad, I'm not gay!
I'm just... sensitive.
I tried to like hot rods and jet planes
and football and Budweiser poster girls,
but I never got the hang of it!
I donʼt know whatʼs wrong with me..."

Then, I saw him,
there on the silver screen,
bigger than life and unafraid
of earrings and hair dye
and rejoicing in the music
of The Cure and Morrissey
and Siouxsie and The Banshees,
talking loud and walking proud
my Wussy Boy icon:
Duckie in Pretty in Pink.

And I realized I wasn't alone.

And I looked around
and saw other Wussy Boys
living large and proud of who they were:
Ralph Macchio, Wussy Boy;
Matthew Broderick, Wussy Boy;
and lord god king
of the Wussy Boy movement,
John Cusack in Say Anything,
unafraid to prove to the world
that sensitive guys much kick ass.

Now I am no longer ashamed
of my Wussiness, hell no,
I'm empowered by it.

When I'm at a stoplight and
some testosterone redneck
methamphetamine
jock fratboy asshole dumb fuck
pulls up beside me
blasting his Trans AM's stereo
with power chord anthems to big tits
and date rape,
I no longer avoid his eyesight, hell no,
I just crank all 12 watts of my car stereo
and I rock out right into his face:
"I am human and I need to be loved
just like everybody else does!"

I am Wussy Boy, hear me roar!

Bar fight? Pshaw!
You think you can take me, huh?
Just because I like poetry
better than Sports Illustrated?
Well, allow me to caution you,
for I am not the average every day
run-of-the-mill Wussy Boy you
beat up in high school, punk,
I am Wuss Core!

Don't make me get Renaissance
on your ass because I will
write a poem about you!

A poem that tears your psyche
limb from limb,
that exposes your selfish insecurities,
that will wound you deeper
and more severely
than knives and chains and gats
and baseball bats
could ever hope to do.

You may see 65 inches of Wussy Boy
standing in front of you,
but my steel-toed soul is
ten foot tall and bullet proof!

Bring the pain, punk,
beat the shit out of me!
Show everybody in this bar
what a real man can do
to a shit-talking Wussy Boy like me,
but you'd better remember:
my bruises will fade
my cuts will heal,
my scars will shrink and disappear,
but my poem
about the pitiful, small, helpless
cock-man oppressor you really are
will last
forever.


copyright 1999, eirik ott (aka big poppa e)
Last edited by helmoz on Wed Nov 29, 2006 3:31 pm, edited 1 time in total.




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Postby chicken » Fri Dec 01, 2006 1:56 am

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Postby helmoz » Sat Dec 02, 2006 1:47 am





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Postby rubygirl » Tue Sep 04, 2007 11:20 pm

This is one poem I've quite fallen in love with recently... on how you should never be quick to judge and suppose without knowing what it is all about...



The Cookie Thief by Valerie Cox


A woman was waiting at an airport one night With several long hours before her flight. She hunted for a book in the airport shop Bought a bag of cookies and found a place to drop. She was engrossed in her book but happened to see That the man beside her as bold as could be Grabbed a cookie or two from the bag between Which she tried to ignore to avoid a scene. She munched cookies and watched the clock As this gutsy cookie thief diminished her stock.

She was getting more irritated as the minutes ticked by Thinking "If I wasn't so nice I'd blacken his eye". With each cookie she took he took one too And when only one was left she wondered what he'd do. With a smile on his face and a nervous laugh He took the last cookie and broke it in half.

He offered her half as he ate the other She snatched it from him and thought "Oh brother, this guy has some nerve and he's also rude Why he didn't even show any gratitude".

She had never known when she had been so galled and sighed with relief when her flight was called. She gathered her belongings and headed for the gate Refusing to look back at the thieving ingrate. She boarded the plane and sank in her seat Then sought her book which was almost complete. As she reached in her baggage she gasped with surprise There was her bag of cookies in front of her eyes:

"If mine are here" she moaned with despair "Then the others were his and he tried to share"

"Too late to apologize she realized with grief" That she was the rude one, the ungrateful, the thief
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Postby chicken » Sat Sep 08, 2007 12:50 am

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Postby Truman Capote » Sat Sep 08, 2007 7:19 pm

This is by Jorge Luis Borges, I insist: TRY to get his book called FICTIONS.

Two english poems

I
The useless dawn finds me in a deserted streetcorner; I have outlived the night.
Nights are proud waves; darkblue topheavy waves laden with all the hues of deep spoil, laden with things unlikely and desirable.
Nights have a habit of mysterious gifts and refusals,of things half given away, half withheld,of joys with a dark hemisphere. Nights act that way, I tell you.
The surge, that night, left me the customary shreds and odd ends: some hated friends to chat with, music for dreams, and the smoking of bitter ashes. The things my hungry heart has no use for.
The big wave brought you.
Words, any words, your laughter; and you so lazily and incessantly beautiful. We talked and you have forgotten the words.
The shattering dawn finds me in a deserted street of my city.
Your profile turned away, the sounds that go to make your name, the lilt of your laughter: these are the illustrious toys you have left me.
I turn them over in the dawn, I lose them, I find them; I tell them to the few stray dogs and to the few stray stars of the dawn.
Your dark rich life ...
I must get at you, somehow; I put away those illustrious toys you have left me, I want your hidden look, your real smile -- that lonely, mocking smile your cool mirror knows.

II
What can I hold you with?
I offer you lean streets, desperate sunsets, the moon of the jagged suburbs.
I offer you the bitterness of a man who has looked long and long at the lonely moon.
I offer you my ancestors, my dead men, the ghosts that living men have honoured in bronze: my father's father killed in the frontier of Buenos Aires, two bullets through his lungs, bearded and dead, wrapped by his soldiers in the hide of a cow; my mother's grandfather --just twentyfour-- heading a charge of three hundred men in Peru, now ghosts on vanished horses.
I offer you whatever insight my books may hold, whatever manliness or humour my life.
I offer you the loyalty of a man who has never been loyal.
I offer you that kernel of myself that I have saved, somehow --the central heart that deals not in words, traffics not with dreams, and is untouched by time, by joy, by adversities.
I offer you the memory of a yellow rose seen at sunset, years before you were born.
I offer you explanations of yourself, theories about yourself, authentic and surprising news of yourself.
I can give you my loneliness, my darkness, the hunger of my heart; I am trying to bribe you with uncertainty, with danger, with defeat.
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