Snow and Dirty Rain

[Jennifer]

Who Wouldn't? By MMD


He's the kind of guy who reads me poetry
because he doesn't know what to say
or, because he's absolutely positive
but, knows someone else said it better

the sort of guy who'd backpack to Antarctica
live in an igloo, for love
then kill himself in some darkly humorous way
just to add to the tragedy of the ending
if it didn't work

he'd go all in
on a last hand
with the odds stacked against him
while walking the plank
with a smirk that'd confirm
he'd won, either way
and got the last laugh, regardless

because, no matter how deep his philosophies get
"fuck it, let it be"
is always his bottom line
and, though I've never met a more peace loving soul
I've also never met one more willing to fight
or more capable of doing it right

and, he can dream
the kind of limitless, utterly preposterous
magic filled sort of dreams
so perfectly well, that the impossible seems
rationally plausible, even probable

he's the epitome of an extremist
with bursts of radicalism
in his lack of concern
although his every apathetic thought
is still laced with care
because, he believes in alternate endings
in the heroes being resurrected
at the last second

he's woven Rumi and Nietzsche
into his own theories
every single one, based on personal freedom
and general uprising
he'd sit for days and nights, explaining them
if I needed something more to believe in

I love him
but, looking at him
as he daydreams, and talks about
night being day in a nearby dimension
and life being death in the form of a prison
that we will surely dance our way out of
any time now...
I think, who wouldn't?

I can't even remember a time when I didn't

 

[phrodeau]

The GB page says this thread was started by Chlamydia Fortesque-Smythe.

I guess that alt didn't make the cut.

 

[Fata Morgana]

The GB page says this thread was started by Chlamydia Fortesque-Smythe.

I guess that alt didn't make the cut.

Sounds a right cunt if you ask me.

 

[Fata Morgana]

I caught a stomach-sorrow
while traipsing October’s fogs

I ate to nourish it
made a cocoon for it
laid it with slow reverence in a hollow

For fourteen nights
some cursed sleep’s been after me

while I’ve been up feeding on darkness

Don’t say a word
Don’t look in my direction

There’s something on my heart that can’t be lifted

– I give in to wintering –

You won’t see me till the buds start to blossom

Winter , Ailbhe Ní Ghearbhuigh

 

[PayDay]

~~~~~~~
I'll give you my heart to make a place
for it to happen, evidence of a love that transcends hunger.
Is that too much to expect?
~~~~~~~

....


....



...

 

[butters]

one of my favourite threads. thankyou

 

[Jennifer]

Don't encourage me, butters. I have files and files of saved poetry. I have tons of BDSM poetry if that's your bag.

 

[butters]

Don't encourage me, butters. I have files and files of saved poetry. I have tons of BDSM poetry if that's your bag.

i'm a fan of wonderful poetry. bdsm not so much, but a poem can be fab despite that element

why not visit the poetry forum here?

 

[DesEsseintes]

The Flea - John Donne​

Mark but this flea, and mark in this,
How little that which thou deniest me is;
It sucked me first, and now sucks thee,
And in this flea our two bloods mingled be;
Thou know’st that this cannot be said
A sin, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead,
Yet this enjoys before it woo,
And pampered swells with one blood made of two,
And this, alas, is more than we would do.

Oh stay, three lives in one flea spare,
Where we almost, nay more than married are.
This flea is you and I, and this
Our mariage bed, and marriage temple is;
Though parents grudge, and you, w'are met,
And cloistered in these living walls of jet.
Though use make you apt to kill me,
Let not to that, self-murder added be,
And sacrilege, three sins in killing three.

Cruel and sudden, hast thou since
Purpled thy nail, in blood of innocence?
Wherein could this flea guilty be,
Except in that drop which it sucked from thee?
Yet thou triumph’st, and say'st that thou
Find’st not thy self, nor me the weaker now;
’Tis true; then learn how false, fears be:
Just so much honor, when thou yield’st to me,
Will waste, as this flea’s death took life from thee.
​

The best 'how about it?' poem ever written. A lot of Lit personals could learn from John Donne...

 

[Saint Peter]

tl:dr

 

[Jennifer]

Since so many here love cats:

The End of the Raven (by Edgar Allen Poe's Cat)

On a night quite unenchanting, when the rain was downward slanting,
I awakened to the ranting of the man I catch mice for.
Tipsy and a bit unshaven, in a tone I found quite craven,
Poe was talking to a Raven perched above the chamber door.
"Raven's very tasty," thought I, as I tiptoed o'er the floor,
"There is nothing I like more"

Soft upon the rug I treaded, calm and careful as I headed
Towards his roost atop that dreaded bust of Pallas I deplore.
While the bard and birdie chattered, I made sure that nothing clattered,
Creaked, or snapped, or fell, or shattered, as I crossed the corridor;
For his house is crammed with trinkets, curios and weird decor -
Bric-a-brac and junk galore.

Still the Raven never fluttered, standing stock-still as he uttered,
In a voice that shrieked and sputtered, his two cents' worth -
"Nevermore."

While this dirge the birdbrain kept up, oh, so silently I crept up,
Then I crouched and quickly lept up, pouncing on the feathered bore.
Soon he was a heap of plumage, and a little blood and gore -
Only this and not much more.

"Oooo!" my pickled poet cried out, "Pussycat, it's time I dried out!
Never sat I in my hideout talking to a bird before;
How I've wallowed in self-pity, while my gallant, valiant kitty
Put and end to that damned ditty" - then I heard him start to snore.
Back atop the door I clambered, eyed that statue I abhor,
Jumped - and smashed it on the floor.

 

[butters]

fantastic is it yours?

 

[Jennifer]

I wish. A friend shared it with me but he doesn't remember the poet.

 

[DesEsseintes]

I wish. A friend shared it with me but he doesn't remember the poet.

Henry Beard, apparently. It's wonderful - thank you!

 

[DesEsseintes]

Fata, Dorianne Laux is stunning and completely new to me - thank you. A new favourite.

 

[Jennifer]

Thanks, Des for the poet. I somehow forgot about google.

Love this poet. An American treasure.

I am not a graceful person. I am not a
Sunday morning or a Friday sunset. I am a
Tuesday 2am, I am gunshots muffled by a
few city blocks, I am a broken window
during February. My bones crack on a
nightly basis. I fall from elegance with a
dull thud, and I apologize for my
awkward sadness. I sometimes believe
that I don't belong around people, that I
belong to all the leap days that didn't
happen. The way light and darkness mix
under my skin has become a storm. You
don't see the lightning, but you hear the
echoes.

Anna Peters

 

[IrezumiKiss]

Do not go gentle into that good night

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

— Dylan Thomas, 1914-1953

 

[Fata Morgana]

Somewhere a poem
is waiting for me
to write it: in the jewelry box,
coiled into an old ring
or stopping the hands
of a watch;
in the vanishing barn, risen
to the top of the pail
to be skimmed off;
or in the tree outside
engraved in green ink
on the underside of a leaf.

In my old room
the white curtains blow
like ghosts of themselves
over the sill;
under the bed misplaced words gather
to grab my helpless ankle.
It is a poem
the child I was hides
in the ear of the woman
I have become: a poem
whose lines were the lines
of my father’s face.

Linda Pastan

 

[Fata Morgana]

I am learning to abandon the world
before it can abandon me.
Already I have given up the moon
and snow, closing my shades
against the claims of white.
And the world has taken
my father, my friends.
I have given up melodic lines of hills,
moving to a flat, tuneless landscape.
And every night I give my body up
limb by limb, working upwards
across bone, towards the heart.

Linda Pastan

 

[Fata Morgana]

When the time comes,
make my grave
with clean sheets
and a comforter of flowers.
If you come to call, rest
against the stone
which will lean
like a bookend
over my head.
Make yourself
at home there.
Read to me.

Linda Pastan

 

[Fata Morgana]

you are a horse running alone
and he tries to tame you
compares you to an impossible highway
to a burning house
says you are blinding him
that he could never leave you
forget you
want anything but you
you dizzy him, you are unbearable
every woman before or after you
is doused in your name
you fill his mouth
his teeth ache with memory of taste
his body just a long shadow seeking yours
but you are always too intense
frightening in the way you want him
unashamed and sacrificial
he tells you that no man can live up to the one who
lives in your head
and you tried to change didn't you?
closed your mouth more
tried to be softer
prettier
less volatile, less awake
but even when sleeping you could feel
him travelling away from you in his dreams
so what did you want to do love
split his head open?
you can't make homes out of human beings
someone should have already told you that
and if he wants to leave
then let him leave
you are terrifying
and strange and beautiful
something not everyone knows how to love.

Warsan Shire

 

[spacekowboy]

Roses are red
Violets are blue.
Poetry is hard.
Boobs.

-obscure American author

 

[Fata Morgana]

Roses are red
Violets are blue.
Poetry is hard.
Boobs.

-obscure American author

Beautiful and moving.

 

[spacekowboy]

Beautiful and moving.

Moving boobs are the best boobs.

 

[SkAoUt]

I believe this was required reading for Canadian school children for decades. Simple yet evocative (for me at least).

David - Earl Birney

David and I that summer cut trails on the Survey,
All week in the valley for wages, in air that was steeped
In the wail of mosquitoes, but over the sunalive week-ends
We climbed, to get from the ruck of the camp, the surly
Poker, the wrangling, the snoring under the fetid
Tents, and because we had joy in our lengthening coltish
Muscles, and mountains for David were made to see over,
Stairs from the valleys and steps to the sun's retreats.
II
Our first was Mount Gleam. We hiked in the long afternoon
To a curling lake and lost the lure of the faceted
Cone in the swell of its sprawling shoulders. Past
The inlet we grilled our bacon, the strips festooned
On a poplar prong, in the hurrying slant of the sunset.
Then the two of us rolled in the blanket while round us the cold
Pines thrust at the stars. The dawn was a floating
Of mists till we reached to the slopes above timber, and won
To snow like fire in the sunlight. The peak was upthrust
Like a fist in a frozen ocean of rock that swirled
Into valleys the moon could be rolled in. Remotely unfurling
Eastward the alien prairie glittered. Down through the dusty
Skree on the west we descended, and David showed me
How to use the give of shale for giant incredible
Strides. I remember, before the larches' edge,
That I jumped a long green surf of juniper flowing
Away from the wind, and landed in gentian and saxifrage
Spilled on the moss....