Poetry for killing time

[Honey123]

written just now...

Lately this life's been
such a drag
so tired of being your
punching bag
taking your left 'n
taking your right
so tired of being in your
line of sight

pickin' up my bruised
body n' hittin' the road
seems I'm the only one
with this load
I feel no pain, I'm numb
to the core
wonderin' what my life
is for

I'm done with the
anger n' the pain
nothing's been lost Right?
so nothin's to gain
my mind is gone
but my body's still here
I've surpassed the want
say, "fuck off" to fear

Just a person now
no longer me
and what you got, you got
s'no longer me

just a body
no soul
'least my heart is whole
I'm done, I'm out
I'm me....I'm free...

 

[HB1965]

.....

 

[HB1965]

You…

Your choices, your decisions.
Be careful. You may wake up
And regret more than you should.
Be careful
Not everyone has your best interest at heart,
Only their own.
They will take from you something that doesn’t belong to them
Keep it safe.
Keep it for your future.

 

[HB1965]

This is real

This is real...
Yet you keep it at bay...

Your fear makes me fear more
I want to know the answers
And see where the road goes
Even if it means you hurt me
Yet you hang back
Afraid of that same hurt

I wish you could believe that this is real...and true.

Only you can take away my pain
And if you let me...I can take away yours

 

[AlotLikePsyche]

On the drive home last night, I passed through Brian and Grey and Joshua and Scott. Through Roy and Jay and Gavin and Mark. Through Chris and Sean and Nick and Kelly. I re-felt moments of them in me. Talking on the phone with Scott, a poem Brian wrote, the rough of Grey on me, the way Manuel used the word broken, a postcard from Kelly, Jay sucking my nipple, Nick singing, getting high with Josh, going to church with Roy, Chris searching for my feet with his. I passed through man after man after miserable fucking man and wondered now that they're so far gone if I ever really missed any one in particular.

 

[atmas]

Five years.


I have loved to the point of madness; that which is called madness, that which to me, is the only sensible way to love
- Francoise Sagan

 

[gotsnowgotslush]

Absent
Does not prod anticipation
The muscles do not tense
Missing
Like the purring of a cat
Or the clicking of a dog's nails
Tracking
Phases of the moon
Shadows on the mountains
Diagram
Point A to Point B
The nerves do not jump to it
Absent
Left in the past
Rick's Cafe
"What watch?"
"Ten watch."
"Such Much?"
Privacy
A mechanical cuckoo
The weights behind glass
Public
Gigantic monuments
Sweeping arms
Silence
The absence of mechanical
Smoothness of electronic
Relic
Dust settles
Webs gather

 

[butters]

I didn't know there was a poetry thread here! some cool writes *nods*

here's one from Pablo Neruda:

from The Book of Questions

III.


Tell me, is the rose naked
or is that her only dress?

Why do trees conceal
the splendor of their roots?

Who hears the regrets
of the thieving automobile?

Is there anything in the world sadder
than a train standing in the rain?

 

[butters]

Absent
Does not prod anticipation
The muscles do not tense
Missing
Like the purring of a cat
Or the clicking of a dog's nails
Tracking
Phases of the moon
Shadows on the mountains
Diagram
Point A to Point B
The nerves do not jump to it
Absent
Left in the past
Rick's Cafe
"What watch?"
"Ten watch."
"Such Much?"
Privacy
A mechanical cuckoo
The weights behind glass
Public
Gigantic monuments
Sweeping arms
Silence
The absence of mechanical
Smoothness of electronic
Relic
Dust settles
Webs gather

this yours? i like it very much

 

[gotsnowgotslush]

It is akin to everything, that I write. It takes me awhile, to catch up to myself.

 

[butters]

goodness, atmas, you've sorely neglected this thread. have you more for us?

 

[y=mx+b]

*snaps fingers... takes a drink of espresso*

 

[philosophygirl]

I didn't know there was a poetry thread here! some cool writes *nods*

here's one from Pablo Neruda:

from The Book of Questions

III.


Tell me, is the rose naked
or is that her only dress?

Why do trees conceal
the splendor of their roots?

Who hears the regrets
of the thieving automobile?

Is there anything in the world sadder
than a train standing in the rain?

Ooooh I like this one! I like the last metaphor best. Good twist.

 

[butters]

by E. E. Cummings

i carry your heart with me


i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

 

[butters]

by Pablo Neruda

If You Forget Me


I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine

 

[butters]

by Thomas Hardy

not one of my all time favourite poets, preferring his ability to describe nature's glories in blinding passages of prose, this one still appeals to me for its imagery but, moreso, for the twinned presences of ship and berg - the parallels Hardy unveils, their union ... .


Lines On The Loss Of The "Titanic"


In a solitude of the sea
Deep from human vanity,
And the Pride of Life that planned her, stilly couches she.

Steel chambers, late the pyres
Of her salamandrine fires,
Cold currents thrid, and turn to rhythmic tidal lyres.

Over the mirrors meant
To glass the opulent
The sea-worm crawls -- grotesque, slimed, dumb, indifferent.

Jewels in joy designed
To ravish the sensuous mind
Lie lightless, all their sparkles bleared and black and blind.

Dim moon-eyed fishes near
Gaze at the gilded gear
And query: "What does this vaingloriousness down here?" ...

Well: while was fashioning
This creature of cleaving wing,
The Immanent Will that stirs and urges everything

Prepared a sinister mate
For her -- so gaily great --
A Shape of Ice, for the time far and dissociate.

And as the smart ship grew
In stature, grace, and hue,
In shadowy silent distance grew the Iceberg too.

Alien they seemed to be;
No mortal eye could see
The intimate welding of their later history,

Or sign that they were bent
By paths coincident
On being anon twin halves of one august event,

Till the Spinner of the Years
Said "Now!" And each one hears,
And consummation comes, and jars two hemispheres.

 

[philosophygirl]

i carry your heart with me


i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

I love this one, he has so many great poems. I can't do copy paste on my phone but my most favorite starts with:

You shall above all things...

It ends with:

I'd rather learn from one bird how to sing
than teach ten thousand stars how not to dance.

He is one of my all time favorite poets. His metaphor...word play...layered meanings are exquisite.

 

[atmas]

Touching

If I could
I would be the continuing mist.
It touches you and
stays.

It stays,
and you knew but,
now, for you,
it isn't there.

And that
is how I want to be
touched and touching
but escaping
your notice.

 

[atmas]

In Shadow

Turned around.
soften. The hard is the grit
between your teeth,
and the distance at the end of
longing.

But sense,
and knowing the light
behind the door
when tears trail off
to empty.

If I told you just
once yes should be sung,
must I hear you
to know that
the silence rejoiced?

 

[butters]

ahhhhhhhh....

worth the wait

 

[atmas]

Hate, and want

When just awaking
and I have not forgotten the meaning
of my dream,
it is then I am
the waiting tear, the leaning leaf
the mist suspended in between.

I am the aching heart and the vast relief,
the forgotten song and din of clamor.
I am the open wound and the gentle scar,
the toss of hair and the cold embrace.

I am the quickened pulse and the languished pause
the heightened sense and the muted denial.
I am the things I hate,
and I am the things I want.

And when a moment has passed and I am awake,
I was all these things.
I find I want nothing but
to sleep and long and be.

 

[SkAoUt]

At the risk of offending flat5ive



Parable of the Old Man and the Young by Wilfred Owen



So Abram rose, and clave the wood, and went,

And took the fire with him, and a knife.

And as they sojourned both of them together,

Isaac the first-born spake and said, My Father,

Behold the preparations, fire and iron,

But where the lamb for this burnt-offering?

Then Abram bound the youth with belts and straps,

and builded parapets and trenches there,

And stretchèd forth the knife to slay his son.

When lo! an angel called him out of heaven,

Saying, Lay not thy hand upon the lad,

Neither do anything to him. Behold,

A ram, caught in a thicket by its horns;

Offer the Ram of Pride instead of him.

But the old man would not so, but slew his son,

And half the seed of Europe, one by one.

 

[atmas]

Some ee cummings in the spirit of the day tomorrow:

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 color 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

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

Also in the spirit of tomorrow - kinda, sorta............


Your love song

Yesterday
.......I wrote you a love song but
............you laughed so
.................I tossed it in a dumpster.

Today
......I saw a pan-handler
............begging
..................on the corner.

He was singing your song.
.....His hat
........was full of hearts.

 

[atmas]

The Clock of the Years by William Carlos Williams

Every man
is his own clock
Tic toc
he may rise
by the sun
and go to sleep
with the stars
Tic toc
but if he
take stock
and come to knock
at fate’s door
he may find
that he himself
has sprung the lock
against himself.

Useless
to knock
now, the door
will not open—
save only
at the shock
of love,
to deliver him
from that block,
unlock,
his heart and
set it beating again:
Tic toc
Tic toc
tic toc!