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Noodles is gay
03-19-2005, 03:29 PM
What's your favourite kind of poetry/poet and post some if it's not too long!

_ߥ_vil_
03-19-2005, 03:30 PM
I'd tell you if I had my anthology....it's a poem called Salome...I like it

HeadAroundU
03-19-2005, 03:31 PM
I like punkrock poetry :D

punkangel
03-19-2005, 03:32 PM
Roses are red...
no I'm just kidding
I don't know what the name of
the poem is, but it's a book that's
told in a series of poems and it's called
Out of the Dust or something like that

Noodles is gay
03-19-2005, 03:33 PM
i have a Greek anthology :p (i got it yesterday and am really pleased) :D

I think the war poets were really good, Wilfred Own and Siegfried Sassoon esp.

Siegfried Sassoon
Does it Matter?

Does it matter?losing your legs?...
For people will always be kind,
And you need not show that you mind
When the others come in after hunting
To gobble their muffins and eggs.

Does it matter ?losing your sight?...
There's such splendid work for the blind;
And people will always be kind,
As you sit on the terrace remembering
And turning your face to the light.

Do they matter?those dreams from the pit?...
You can drink and forget and be glad,
And people won't say that you're mad;
For they'll know you've fought for your country
And no one will worry a bit.

It's so sarcastic and damn just a good poem

Noodles is gay
03-19-2005, 03:35 PM
Wilfred Owen
Dulce Et Decorum Est

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of disappointed shells that dropped behind.

GAS! Gas! Quick, boys!-- An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And floundering like a man in fire or lime.--
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

_ߥ_vil_
03-19-2005, 03:36 PM
Ooooh...i found it....

I'd done it before
(and doubtless I'll do it again,
sooner or later)
woke up with a head on the pillow beside me - whose? -
what did it matter?
Good-looking, of course, dark hair, rather matted;
the reddish beard several shades lighter;
with very deep lines around the eyes,
from pain, I'd guess, maybe laughter;
and a beautiful crimson mouth that obviously knew
how to flatter ...
which I kissed ...
Colder than pewter
Strange. What was his name?

Simon? Andrew? John? I knew I'd feel better
for tea, dry toast, no butter,
so rang for the maid.
And, indeed, her innocent clatter
of cups and played,
her clearing of clutter,
her regional patter,
were just what needed -
hungover and wrecked as I was from a night on the batter.

Never again!
I needed to clean up my act,
get fitter,
cut out the booze and the fags and the sex.
Yes. And as for the latter,
it was time to turn out the blighter,
the beater or biter,
who'd come like a lamb to the slaughter
to Salome's bed.

In the mirror, I saw my eyes glitter.
I flung back the sticky red sheets,
and there, like I said - and ain't life a bitch -
was his head, on a platter.

Noodles is gay
03-19-2005, 03:36 PM
hehehe - who's that by?

_ߥ_vil_
03-19-2005, 03:39 PM
hehehe - who's that by?

Carol Ann Duffy.

Slim Pickens The Bomb Rider
03-19-2005, 03:41 PM
I like reading poetry, but not much of a collector or something
I like love-poetry though

Noodles is gay
03-19-2005, 03:44 PM
by Lucilius:

Cleombrotus the bruiser
retired from the ring
to an even fiercer arena -
what happens to him at home
maes the Isthmian and Nemean Games
like pillow fights.
His old Woman's in Olympic Class,
she'd hammer the daylights out of
Herakles himself.
No wonder Cleombrotus
dreads going home more than he ever
did the ring.
When he gets his wind back
and faces her again, she hits him with
every blow in the book
until he concedes the fight,
then he has to pay for losing by
screwing her good and hard,
which no sooner done
earns him a second and severer beating
for failing to
satisfy her.


Gotta love those Romans :p

Noodles is gay
03-19-2005, 03:45 PM
I like reading poetry, but not much of a collector or something
I like love-poetry though

Roman love poetry? ;)

Slim Pickens The Bomb Rider
03-19-2005, 03:46 PM
yes, that one :) ;)

Noodles is gay
03-19-2005, 03:52 PM
yes, that one :) ;)

doesn't everyone?

Strato:

Those snooty boys in all their purple drag"
We'll never get our hands on one of those!

There like ripe fig trees stuck up on a crag -
food only for vultures and high-flying crows.


also:

He's a dragon, see,
DRAG _______ ON
but other reptiles
poke into his hole.

;)

Endymion
03-19-2005, 03:52 PM
if you couldn't guess, keats.

Noodles is gay
03-19-2005, 03:54 PM
Endymion:

http://www.everypoet.com/archive/poetry/Oscar_Wilde/oscar_wilde_charmides_endymion.htm

The Talking Pie
03-19-2005, 05:35 PM
This Be The Verse - Philip Larkin

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepends like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.

Endymion
03-19-2005, 11:44 PM
keats wrote the definitive endymion and you know it.

what this about molecular kinetic theory? of what? etc, details, i probably know it. and cold.

the_GoDdEsS
03-20-2005, 12:00 AM
I generally don't read much poetry. I prefer reading the poems some of my friends write. They interest me more.
If so, I'd go for Shakespeare.

And Dave Maidment. *winks*

RXP
03-20-2005, 01:23 AM
Carol Ann Duffy.

Hahaha NEAB Antholgy for GCSE right?

ninth
03-20-2005, 01:25 AM
I'm not too into poetry, but I dig some of it, like Charles Baudelaire.

De Profundis Clamavi
by Charles Baudelaire

Have pity, You alone whom I adore
From down this black pit where my heart is sped,
A sombre universe ringed round with lead
Where fear and curses the long night explore.

Six months a cold sun hovers overhead;
The other six is night upon this land.
No beast; no stream; no wood; no leaves expand.
The desert Pole is not a waste so dead.

Now in the whole world there's no horror quite
so cold and cruel as this glacial sun,
So like old Chaos as this boundless night;

I envy the least animals that run,
Which can find respite in brute slumber drowned,
So slowly is the skein of time unwound.

Noodles is gay
03-20-2005, 02:17 AM
^ I prefered the English one...


This Be The Verse - Philip Larkin

That guy went to my school! :cool:


keats wrote the definitive endymion and you know it.

what this about molecular kinetic theory? of what? etc, details, i probably know it. and cold.

No, Oscar WIlde.


Kinetic theory of particles, something or other about ideal gasses and pressure and stuff....no i just have no idea what's going on....

Noodles is gay
03-20-2005, 02:21 AM
yeah but i did French for 3 years at school and can just about say 'my name is Jenny' in it - that's it! I have some horrible memories of French class...

ninth
03-20-2005, 02:28 AM
Surely you meant

Surely I did not, as I make no attempts to be a pseudo-intellectual hooker.

ninth
03-20-2005, 02:43 AM
Charles Baudelaire is French, you should have had the decency to quote his poem in French, the language he composed it in.
But I, on the other hand, do not read French and would not appreciate the poem if I was unable to read it, therefore I posted it in English.

You're a twerp.
And you're an unclean broad that also happens to be a hooker and completely unnecessary.

ninth
03-20-2005, 02:46 AM
That would be your defeat, you ragged wench.

arak0r
03-20-2005, 02:48 AM
roses are red, violets are blue
dusky is a frog, reading in the loo

slit_wrists
03-20-2005, 04:17 AM
I'd tell you if I had my anthology....it's a poem called Salome...I like it
i hate that fuckin anthology! u can av mine if u want! but salome and education for lesure have to be the best poems in it the rest are pretty shit.

The Talking Pie
03-20-2005, 06:42 AM
And Dave Maidment. *winks*
Who's that? Must be cool if you like him. I'll have to look up some of his stuff...

:p

And I can't believe no one's mentioned Jabberwocky. I can't be bothered to type it up though.

Endymion
03-20-2005, 08:50 AM
Kinetic theory of particles, something or other about ideal gasses and pressure and stuff....no i just have no idea what's going on....
statistical mechanics was my bag, baby. meaning, i know it and know it well.

fairy call
03-20-2005, 09:04 AM
I really like Jotie t'hooft, he was a belgian poet, so most of you wont understand what it says.


Het Zuiderkruis
Vannacht zouden we het Zuiderkruis zien
Het Zuiderkruis uit jongensboeken vol zeemansdope
en Eilanden Boven De Wind.
Het Zuiderkruis. Na al die kruisen van harde
zeelui en windstille inheemsen:
het Zuiderkruis.
Maar wat wij zagen, tussen gonzende insekten
en de duizendvoudige sterren van hasj door,
was een zwakke schittering in kartonnen heelal
als van een vulpendopje in een zwart pak in het donker
en wie weet?
Maar wij keerden ons af,
weer een ster armer.


I really like the romantic poetry and literature

fairy call
03-20-2005, 09:08 AM
oh, found a better one

HET MEISJE INGRID

Een kind werd door de ouders de oogjes uitgestoken.
Het was pas twaalf toen zijn oren begonnen te roken
en zijn gezicht, waar niets aan te zien was, blonk
zo zacht en lokkend dat menig meisjeshart erin verzonk.

Mijn geschiedenissen zijn oud en ik weet het
ik vertel ze dan ook enkel voor mezelf:
eens nam hij een schoonheid in zijn bed
in plaats van als altijd naar de hooischelf

omdat in haar borst een licht scheen
alsof ze alleen in een sprookjesbos wandelde.
Terwijl onder zijn handen haar tover verdween
dacht zij, dat hij als prins handelde.

Ik kan u niets vertellen dat buiten uw huid ligt
wij volgen allen betoverd het vreselijk licht
dat ook hem verbrandde, terwijl hij zich vergiste
in haar schat van juwelen die geen verdriet uitwiste

omdat hij in haar tere, kleine hart gesloten lag.
Hij heeft zich ronkend en rekkend aan haar vergrepen
zoals hij zich vergreep aan ieder uur van iedere dag.
Zij liet zich gewillig naar de hel slepen

zolang ze maar aan zijn borst lag.
Zijn borst is hard en koud geworden
door een nutteloze veldslag.
Hij hoorde niet hoe haar dromen verdorden

toen hij van woorden dronken op de mossen viel
en zo haar laatste tere schat plette onder zijn hiel.
Zijn uitgestoken ogen kregen haar beeld lief.
Het was te laat. De dood is een handige dief.

Noodles is gay
03-20-2005, 10:03 AM
And I can't believe no one's mentioned Jabberwocky. I can't be bothered to type it up though.


I totally forgot about that one, but it is indeed a brilliant poem.

Jabberwocky
Lewis Carroll

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought--
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One two! One two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"
He chortled in his joy.

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.