View Full Version : Feed my soul

05-30-2006, 03:51 PM
I'm feeling a bit melencholic and slightly tipsy and need picking up. What I really need is some good poetry; the more romantic and depressing the better. Post some of your favourite poems, or if you write any I would love to hear it; or read even it would make more sense

anyway, come on...

05-30-2006, 04:40 PM
insensitive jackeens :P

No Yeats, Wilde, Poe... me sad

Sin Studly
05-30-2006, 08:28 PM
Okay, here you go. My favourite Anglo.

"Life is very sweet, brother. There's night and day, brother, both sweet things; sun, moon, and stars, brother, all sweet things; there's likewise a wind on the heath. Life is very sweet, brother; who would wish to die?

My favourite Irish is Wilde, of course ; his Ballad of Reading Gaol. I'll only post some of my favourite verses, since it's long as fuck.

"He did not wear his scarlet coat,
For blood and wine are red
And blood and wine were on his hands,
When they found him with the dead,
The poor dead woman whom he loved,
Then murdered in her bed."


"At six o'clock we cleaned our cells,
At seven all was still,
But the sough and swing of a mighty wing
The prison seemed to fill,
For the Lord of Death with icy breath
Had entered in to kill.

He did not pass in purple pomp,
Nor ride a moon-white steed.
Three yards of cord and a sliding board
Are all the gallows' need:
So with rope of shame the Herald came
To do the secret deed.

We were as men who through a fen
Of filthy darkness grope:
We did not dare to breathe a prayer,
Or give our anguish scope:
Something was dead in each of us,
And what was dead was Hope."


"And as one sees most fearful things
In the crystal of a dream,
We saw the greasy hempen rope
Hooked to the blackened beam,
And heard the prayer the hangman's snare
Strangled into a scream.

And all the woe that moved him so
That he gave that bitter cry,
And the wild regrets, and the bloody sweats,
None knew so well as I:
For he who live more lives than one
More deaths than one must die."


"But their were those amongst us all
Who walked with downcast head,
And knew that, had each go his due,
They should have died instead:
He had but killed a thing that lived
Whilst they had killed the dead.

For he who sins a second time
Wakes a dead soul to pain,
And draws it from its spotted shroud,
And makes it bleed again,
And makes it bleed great gouts of blood
And makes it bleed in vain!"


"The Warders strutted up and down,
And kept their herd of brutes,
Their uniforms were spick and span,
And they wore their Sunday suits,
But we knew the work they had been at
By the quicklime on their boots.

And all the while the burning lime
Eats flesh and bone away,
It eats the brittle bone by night,
And the soft flesh by the day,
It eats the flesh and bones by turns,
But it eats the heart alway.

For three long years they will not sow
Or root or seedling there:
For three long years the unblessed spot
Will sterile be and bare,
And look upon the wondering sky
With unreproachful stare.

They think a murderer's heart would taint
Each simple seed they sow.
It is not true! God's kindly earth
Is kindlier than men know,
And the red rose would but blow more red,
The white rose whiter blow."


"I know not whether Laws be right,
Or whether Laws be wrong;
All that we know who lie in goal
Is that the wall is strong;
And that each day is like a year,
A year whose days are long."


"But though lean Hunger and green Thirst
Like asp with adder fight,
We have little care of prison fare,
For what chills and kills outright
Is that every stone one lifts by day
Becomes one's heart by night."

Sin Studly
05-30-2006, 08:33 PM
Ugh, how could I leave out my favourite slav???

The alcoholics prayer...

"I ought to be crucified, crucified on a cross, not pitied! Crucify me, oh judge, crucify me but pity me? And then I will go of myself to be crucified, for its not merry-making I seek but tears and tribulation! Do you suppose, you that sell, that this pint of yours has been sweet to me? It was tribulation I sought at the bottom of it, tears and tribulation, and I have found it, and I have tasted it; but He will pity us Who has had pity on all men."

offspringis the best band
05-30-2006, 08:40 PM
somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

-e.e. cummings

offspringis the best band
05-30-2006, 08:43 PM
Oh, and not exactly romantic, per se, but;

The History Of One Tough Motherfucker

he came to the door one night wet thin beaten and
a white cross-eyed tailless cat
I took him in and fed him and he stayed
grew to trust me until a friend drove up the driveway
and ran him over
I took what was left to a vet who said,"not much
chance...give him these pills...his backbone
is crushed, but is was crushed before and somehow
mended, if he lives he'll never walk, look at
these x-rays, he's been shot, look here, the pellets
are still there...also, he once had a tail, somebody
cut it off..."
I took the cat back, it was a hot summer, one of the
hottest in decades, I put him on the bathroom
floor, gave him water and pills, he wouldn't eat, he
wouldn't touch the water, I dipped my finger into it
and wet his mouth and I talked to him, I didn't go any-
where, I put in a lot of bathroom time and talked to
him and gently touched him and he looked back at
me with those pale blue crossed eyes and as the days went
by he made his first move
dragging himself forward by his front legs
(the rear ones wouldn't work)
he made it to the litter box
crawled over and in,
it was like the trumpet of possible victory
blowing in that bathroom and into the city, I
related to that cat-I'd had it bad, not that
bad but bad enough
one morning he got up, stood up, fell back down and
just looked at me.
"you can make it," I said to him.
he kept trying, getting up falling down, finally
he walked a few steps, he was like a drunk, the
rear legs just didn't want to do it and he fell again, rested,
then got up.
you know the rest: now he's better than ever, cross-eyed
almost toothless, but the grace is back, and that look in
his eyes never left...
and now sometimes I'm interviewed, they want to hear about
life and literature and I get drunk and hold up my cross-eyed,
shot, runover de-tailed cat and I say,"look, look
at this!"
but they don't understand, they say something like,"you
say you've been influenced by Celine?"
"no," I hold the cat up,"by what happens, by
things like this, by this, by this!"
I shake the cat, hold him up in
the smoky and drunken light, he's relaxed he knows...
it's then that the interviews end
although I am proud sometimes when I see the pictures
later and there I am and there is the cat and we are photo-
graphed together.
he too knows it's bullshit but that somehow it all helps.

-Charles Bukowski

06-21-2006, 05:27 PM
*Le Bump*

Keep 'em coming

06-21-2006, 05:32 PM
Roses are red,
Violets are blue.
In Soviet Russia,
Poem writes you!

06-21-2006, 05:42 PM
^ That sounds exactly like something I would've written. Awesome.

There's the lesser known:

Roses are red,
violets are blue,
all my base
are belong to you!

Note: Not my creation.

06-21-2006, 05:44 PM
Roses are red,
Violets are blue.
In Soviet Russia,
Poem writes you!

<3 <3 <3 .

06-21-2006, 09:56 PM
Roses are red,
Violets are blue.
In Soviet Russia,
Poem writes you!

06-22-2006, 01:34 AM
And Jakebert wins the thread *fanfare*

06-22-2006, 01:46 AM
Such dishonour.... me le sad

The Secret Rose - WB Yeats

Far-off, most secret, and inviolate Rose,
Enfold me in my hour of hours; where those
Who sought thee in the Holy Sepulchre,
Or in the wine-vat, dwell beyond the stir
And tumult of defeated dreams; and deep
Among pale eyelids, heavy with the sleep
Men have named beauty. Thy great leaves enfold
The ancient beards, the helms of ruby and gold
Of the crowned Magi; and the king whose eyes
Saw the pierced Hands and Rood of elder rise
In Druid vapour and make the torches dim;
Till vain frenzy awoke and he died; and him
Who met Fand walking among flaming dew
By a grey shore where the wind never blew,
And lost the world and Emer for a kiss;
And him who drove the gods out of their liss,
And till a hundred morns had flowered red
Feasted, and wept the barrows of his dead;
And the proud dreaming king who flung the crown
And sorrow away, and calling bard and clown
Dwelt among wine-stained wanderers in deep woods:
And him who sold tillage, and house, and goods,
And sought through lands and islands numberless years,
Until he found, with laughter and with tears,
A woman of so shining loveliness
That men threshed corn at midnight by a tress,
A little stolen tress. I, too, await
The hour of thy great wind of love and hate.
When shall the stars be blown about the sky,
Like the sparks blown out of a smithy, and die?
Surely thine hour has come, thy great wind blows,
Far-off, most secret, and inviolate Rose?

Sin Studly
06-22-2006, 05:23 AM
Butchered for a Dutchman's Holiday - Harry 'the Breaker' Morant, written whilst awaiting execution for murder, war crimes.

In prison cell I sadly sit,
A crest-fallen chappie!
And owe to you I feel a bit-
A little bit - unhappy!

It really ain't the place nor time
To reel off rhyming diction -
But yet we'll write a final rhyme
Whilst awaiting crucifixion!

No matter what end they decide -
Quick-lime or b'iling ile, sir?
We'll do our best when crucified
To finish off in style, sir!

But we bequeath a parting tip
For sound advice of such men,
Who come across in transport ship
To polish off the Dutchmen!

If you encounter any Boers
You really must not loot 'em!
And if you wish to leave these shores,
For pity's sake, don't shoot them

And if you'd earn a D.S.O.,
Why every British sinner
Should know the proper way to go
Is 'Ask the Boer to dinner'

Let's toss a bumper down our throat, -
Before we pass to Heaven,
And toast: "The trim-set petticoat
We leave behind in Devon."

06-25-2006, 08:24 AM
Poetry? Ach, naturlisch(sp).

The Sleeper in the Valley

It is a green hollow where a stream gurgles, crazily catching silver rags of itself on the grasses; where the sun shines from the proud mountain: it is a little valley bubbling over with light. A young soldier, open-mouthed, bare-headed, with the nape of his neck bathed in cool blue cresses, sleeps; he is stretched out on the grass, under the sky, pale on his green bed where the light falls like rain. His feet in the yellow flags, he lies sleeping. Smiling as a sick child might smile, he is having a nap. Cradle him warmly, Nature; he is cold. No odour makes his nostrils quiver; he sleeps in the sun, his hand on his breast, at peace. There are two red holes in his right side.

The stars wept red

The star wept red at the heart of your ears,
The infinite rolled white from your nape to your back;
The sea beaded rose at your russet breasts,
And Man bled black at your sovereign thighs...

-Arthur Rimbaud (translated poems)