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Poetry anyone?
#1
I'm obsessed with poetry. Does anyone here like poetry?

I have a lot of recommendations if anyone is looking for any. Apollinaire and Trakl are two that jumped out at me glancing at my bookshelf that I thought might fit in in a place like this. Not really sure what I'm basing that on but whatever.

Here is a translation of "Zone": You are not allowed to view links. Register or Login to view.

Here is a pdf of 20 poems by Georg Trakl:

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#2
I once had a thirst for the mysterious / occult side of classic literature which introduced me to "Paradise Lost by" John Milton. Absolutely brilliant! I recommend it to everyone.

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Enjoyed Emily Dickinson sometimes. Most of what I found were books. I would love to be introduced to anything thought provoking. If there was more "free thinkers" the world would be lovely. The writings of Aliester Crowly for example:

"Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law."

"Modern morality and manners suppress all natural instincts, keep people ignorant of the facts of nature and make them fighting drunk on bogey tales."

"Ordinary morality is only for ordinary people."
 "I’m pretty sure this is the century that decides if mankind’s future looks like in Star Trek, Wall-E or Mad Max"
[Image: giphy.gif]

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#3
Fuck it! start over.
#whorelivesmatter
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#4
(08-10-2016, 10:33 PM)DevilWearsDada Wrote: You are not allowed to view links. Register or Login to view.I once had a thirst for the mysterious / occult side of classic literature which introduced me to "Paradise Lost by" John Milton. Absolutely brilliant! I recommend it to everyone.

You are not allowed to view links. Register or Login to view.

Enjoyed Emily Dickinson sometimes. Most of what I found were books. I would love to be introduced to anything thought provoking. If there was more "free thinkers" the world would be lovely. The writings of Aliester Crowly for example:

"Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law."

"Modern morality and manners suppress all natural instincts, keep people ignorant of the facts of nature and make them fighting drunk on bogey tales."

"Ordinary morality is only for ordinary people."

Paradise Lost is actually really amazing. I thought I would hate it but it was incredible. Every once in a while I pop it open and just read ex. the invocation to book 3 
You are not allowed to view links. Register or Login to view. (ie. where the poetry starts).

People always talk about Milton being really difficult to read but I personally found him easier to read than Shakespeare even. Also his language is just so overwhelmingly cool that it makes it easier. I was also originally turned off by the Christian element in Milton but if you can look past that a bit it's really good. Plus he's hardly an "orthodox" Christian, Paradise Lost is essentially a made up story about a bunch of things that are barely even stories in the bible. Also the big question is whether Milton actually likes Satan more than God, because Satan is a way more interesting character than God in that book (at least towards the beginning). William Blake, another poet (who is also awesome), thought Milton secretly identified with Satan more than God.

Dickinson is incredible.
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#5
I write a lot of my own poetry and musings, have since I was in elementary school. Anyone else write their own?
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#6
If this isn't allowed here I'll remove it. It's not in the same level as those poems but it's always stuck with me:

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#7
Carroll & Kipling were fun. I can only inhale so much whitman at a time, but poe always great for some "shadows on the hill..."

The Walrus and The Carpenter
Lewis Carroll

(from Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There, 1872)

The sun was shining on the sea,
Shining with all his might:
He did his very best to make
The billows smooth and bright--
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of the night.

The moon was shining sulkily,
Because she thought the sun
Had got no business to be there
After the day was done--
"It's very rude of him," she said,
"To come and spoil the fun!"

The sea was wet as wet could be,
The sands were dry as dry.
You could not see a cloud, because
No cloud was in the sky:
No birds were flying overhead--
There were no birds to fly.

The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand;
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand:
"If this were only cleared away,"
They said, "it would be grand!"

"If seven maids with seven mops
Swept it for half a year.
Do you suppose," the Walrus said,
"That they could get it clear?"
"I doubt it," said the Carpenter,
And shed a bitter tear.

"O Oysters, come and walk with us!"
The Walrus did beseech.
"A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
Along the briny beach:
We cannot do with more than four,
To give a hand to each."

The eldest Oyster looked at him,
But never a word he said:
The eldest Oyster winked his eye,
And shook his heavy head--
Meaning to say he did not choose
To leave the oyster-bed.

But four young Oysters hurried up,
All eager for the treat:
Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,
Their shoes were clean and neat--
And this was odd, because, you know,
They hadn't any feet.

Four other Oysters followed them,
And yet another four;
And thick and fast they came at last,
And more, and more, and more--
All hopping through the frothy waves,
And scrambling to the shore.

The Walrus and the Carpenter
Walked on a mile or so,
And then they rested on a rock
Conveniently low:
And all the little Oysters stood
And waited in a row.

"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--
Of cabbages--and kings--
And why the sea is boiling hot--
And whether pigs have wings."

"But wait a bit," the Oysters cried,
"Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us are fat!"
"No hurry!" said the Carpenter.
They thanked him much for that.

"A loaf of bread," the Walrus said,
"Is what we chiefly need:
Pepper and vinegar besides
Are very good indeed--
Now if you're ready, Oysters dear,
We can begin to feed."

"But not on us!" the Oysters cried,
Turning a little blue.
"After such kindness, that would be
A dismal thing to do!"
"The night is fine," the Walrus said.
"Do you admire the view?

"It was so kind of you to come!
And you are very nice!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"Cut us another slice:
I wish you were not quite so deaf--
I've had to ask you twice!"

"It seems a shame," the Walrus said,
"To play them such a trick,
After we've brought them out so far,
And made them trot so quick!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"The butter's spread too thick!"

"I weep for you," the Walrus said:
"I deeply sympathize."
With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket-handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.

"O Oysters," said the Carpenter,
"You've had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?'
But answer came there none--
And this was scarcely odd, because
They'd eaten every one.

Jungle or desert, I always liked this part from Eliot's "The Hollow Men" - but I've always taken it as a piece by itself, stand alone:

"This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images are raised,
Here they receive
The supplication of a dying man's hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.

Is it like this
In death's other kingdom?
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone."
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#8
poetry has got to be perhaps my favorite genre. 
T.S. Elliott, though I know he's more in the mainstream will always hold a special place in my heart because, in AP Lit, when I really started coming into my own, my teacher was obsessed with him, which obviously resulted in my obsession.

Lately, what I've been doing is going to old bookstores and finding the wackiest looking collections I can find and analyzing them to no ends. Recently I found a really nice one (I'll share an excerpt here if you don't mind)

[from leah angstrom's 'the fire sale at the thrift store of america]
a row of tenement houses
in the urban decay

a thousand glass recyclable jars
that get incinerated instead of reused
the smoke from which
clouds supporters of the others'
judgements visions spectacles

the christmas stockings and
refillin boxes of a thousand
religious children



hope
a simple word emotion
thought vision
that could very well
change the way one views
the very urban decay
and religious views he
may  well exist among

penetrate break and restore
again the customs one
deemed vital
the ideals
he couldn't
drink away
buy with a paycheck
blow out in a pack of smoke
those one still believes
might make a comeback
no matter how acute
or obsolete


those that can't
in sorrows
or
beer
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#9
I'm a big fan of T.S Eliot, and like Dickinson but will admit I need to bring the heights of my cognitive powers to make sense of her brilliance, which I am able to do sporadically at best.

Regarding classic literature I was at the Barnes & Noble with my girlfriend over the weekend and stumbled upon Phillip Pullman's rendition of the Grimm Brothers' classic fairy tales, which I've been told are much darker then later Disney retelling and were meant as much for adults as anyone else You are not allowed to view links. Register or Login to view..

One of my favorites will always be Mary Oliver's "Wild Geese", which I first came across in the midst of a ten day silent meditation retreat in Massachusets in 2007. It hit my mind in just the right place at that time, and I still can't shake it.

Wild Geese:

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about your despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting --
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
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#10
ENVOI

My verses stand gawping a bit.
I never get used to this. They’ve lived here
long enough.
Enough. I send them out of the house, I don’t want to wait
until their toes are cold.
Unhampered by their unclear clamour
I want to hear the humming of the sun
or that of my heart, that treacherous sponge that hardens.

My verses don’t screw classically,
they babble commonly and bluster far too nobly.
In winter their lips leap.
in spring they lie flat at the first warmth,
they ruin my summer
and in autumn they smell of women.

Enough. For another twelve lines on this sheet
I’ll hold my hand over their head
and then they’ll get a boot up the arse.
Go and pester elsewhere, one-cent rhymes
tremble elsewhere before twelve readers
and a snoring reviewer.

Go now, verses, on your light feet,
you have not trodden hard on the old earth
where the graves laugh when they see their guests,
the one corpse stacked on top of the other.
Go now and stagger to her
whom I do not know.


 (translated to English)
- 1985, Hugo Claus
Are you wet yet?
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