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What's your favorite poem?

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#1 ciggie-stardust

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Posted 16 September 2017 - 01:28 PM

What's your favorite poem?

 

Mine is "Walking Around" by Pablo Neruda 

 

It so happens I am sick of being a man.
And it happens that I walk into tailorshops and movie houses
dried up, waterproof, like a swan made of felt
steering my way in a water of wombs and ashes.

 

The smell of barbershops makes me break into hoarse sobs.
The only thing I want is to lie still like stones or wool.
The only thing I want is to see no more stores, no gardens,
no more goods, no spectacles, no elevators.

It so happens I am sick of my feet and my nails
and my hair and my shadow.
It so happens I am sick of being a man.

 

Still it would be marvelous
to terrify a law clerk with a cut lily,
or kill a nun with a blow on the ear.
It would be great
to go through the streets with a green knife
letting out yells until I died of the cold.

 

I don’t want to go on being a root in the dark,
insecure, stretched out, shivering with sleep,
going on down, into the moist guts of the earth,
taking in and thinking, eating every day.

 

It's really long so this is just a small part of it


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#2 silentalltheseyears

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Posted 16 September 2017 - 09:55 PM

In Plaster

 

I shall never get out of this!  There are two of me now:
This new absolutely white person and the old yellow one,
And the white person is certainly the superior one.
She doesn't need food, she is one of the real saints.
At the beginning I hated her, she had no personality --
She lay in bed with me like a dead body
And I was scared, because she was shaped just the way I was

Only much whiter and unbreakable and with no complaints.
I couldn't sleep for a week, she was so cold.
I blamed her for everything, but she didn't answer.
I couldn't understand her stupid behavior!
When I hit her she held still, like a true pacifist.
Then I realized what she wanted was for me to love her:
She began to warm up, and I saw her advantages.

Without me, she wouldn't exist, so of course she was grateful.
I gave her a soul, I bloomed out of her as a rose
Blooms out of a vase of not very valuable porcelain,
And it was I who attracted everybody's attention,
Not her whiteness and beauty, as I had at first supposed.
I patronized her a little, and she lapped it up --
You could tell almost at once she had a slave mentality.

I didn't mind her waiting on me, and she adored it.
In the morning she woke me early, reflecting the sun
From her amazingly white torso, and I couldn't help but notice
Her tidiness and her calmness and her patience:
She humored my weakness like the best of nurses,
Holding my bones in place so they would mend properly.
In time our relationship grew more intense.

She stopped fitting me so closely and seemed offish.
I felt her criticizing me in spite of herself,
As if my habits offended her in some way.
She let in the drafts and became more and more absent-minded.
And my skin itched and flaked away in soft pieces
Simply because she looked after me so badly.
Then I saw what the trouble was:  she thought she was immortal.

She wanted to leave me, she thought she was superior,
And I'd been keeping her in the dark, and she was resentful --
Wasting her days waiting on a half-corpse!
And secretly she began to hope I'd die.
Then she could cover my mouth and eyes, cover me entirely,
And wear my painted face the way a mummy-case
Wears the face of a pharaoh, though it's made of mud and water.

I wasn't in any position to get rid of her.
She'd supported me for so long I was quite limp --
I had forgotten how to walk or sit,
So I was careful not to upset her in any way
Or brag ahead of time how I'd avenge myself.
Living with her was like living with my own coffin:
Yet I still depended on her, though I did it regretfully.

I used to think we might make a go of it together --
After all, it was a kind of marriage, being so close.
Now I see it must be one or the other of us.
She may be a saint, and I may be ugly and hairy,
But she'll soon find out that that doesn't matter a bit.
I'm collecting my strength; one day I shall manage without her,
And she'll perish with emptiness then, and begin to miss me.

 

Sylvia Plath.


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#3 super.panda

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Posted 17 September 2017 - 06:11 AM

I am a big sucker for everything John Donne!

His poems are great. Death be not proud is one of the best things, but my absoulut favourite is the flea

 

 

The Flea
 
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.

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#4 BatDuck

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Posted 17 September 2017 - 12:16 PM

If I Should Have A Daughter by Sarah Kay (It's not formatted in stanzas cuz it was the caption of a TedTalk so sorry if it's hard to read)

 

If I should have a daughter…“Instead of “Mom”, she’s gonna call me “Point B.” Because that way, she knows that no matter what happens, at least she can always find her way to me. And I’m going to paint the solar system on the back of her hands so that she has to learn the entire universe before she can say “Oh, I know that like the back of my hand.”

She’s gonna learn that this life will hit you, hard, in the face, wait for you to get back up so it can kick you in the stomach. But getting the wind knocked out of you is the only way to remind your lungs how much they like the taste of air. There is hurt, here, that cannot be fixed by band-aids or poetry, so the first time she realizes that Wonder-woman isn’t coming, I’ll make sure she knows she doesn’t have to wear the cape all by herself. Because no matter how wide you stretch your fingers, your hands will always be too small to catch all the pain you want to heal. Believe me, I’ve tried.

And “Baby,” I’ll tell her “don’t keep your nose up in the air like that, I know that trick, you’re just smelling for smoke so you can follow the trail back to a burning house so you can find the boy who lost everything in the fire to see if you can save him. Or else, find the boy who lit the fire in the first place to see if you can change him.”

But I know that she will anyway, so instead I’ll always keep an extra supply of chocolate and rain boats nearby, ‘cause there is no heartbreak that chocolate can’t fix. Okay, there’s a few heartbreaks chocolate can’t fix. But that’s what the rain boots are for, because rain will wash away everything if you let it.

I want her to see the world through the underside of a glass bottom boat, to look through a magnifying glass at the galaxies that exist on the pin point of a human mind. Because that’s how my mom taught me. That there’ll be days like this, “There’ll be days like this my momma said” when you open your hands to catch and wind up with only blisters and bruises. When you step out of the phone booth and try to fly and the very people you wanna save are the ones standing on your cape. When your boots will fill with rain and you’ll be up to your knees in disappointment and those are the very days you have all the more reason to say “thank you,” ‘cause there is nothing more beautiful than the way the ocean refuses to stop kissing the shoreline no matter how many times it’s sent away.

You will put the “wind” in win some lose some, you will put the “star” in starting over and over, and no matter how many land mines erupt in a minute be sure your mind lands on the beauty of this funny place called life.

And yes, on a scale from one to over-trusting I am pretty damn naive but I want her to know that this world is made out of sugar. It can crumble so easily but don’t be afraid to stick your tongue out and taste it.

“Baby,” I’ll tell her “remember your mama is a worrier but your papa is a warrior and you are the girl with small hands and big eyes who never stops asking for more.”

Remember that good things come in threes and so do bad things and always apologize when you’ve done something wrong but don’t you ever apologize for the way your eyes refuse to stop shining.

Your voice is small but don’t ever stop singing and when they finally hand you heartbreak, slip hatred and war under your doorstep and hand you hand-outs on street corners of cynicism and defeat, you tell them that they really ought to meet your mother.

 

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#5 Julius

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Posted 17 September 2017 - 12:29 PM

                                                     
                                              Annabel Lee
It was many and many a year ago, 
   In a kingdom by the sea, 
That a maiden there lived whom you may know 
   By the name of Annabel Lee; 
And this maiden she lived with no other thought 
   Than to love and be loved by me. 
 
I was a child and she was a child, 
   In this kingdom by the sea, 
But we loved with a love that was more than love— 
   I and my Annabel Lee— 
With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven 
   Coveted her and me. 
 
And this was the reason that, long ago, 
   In this kingdom by the sea, 
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling 
   My beautiful Annabel Lee; 
So that her highborn kinsmen came 
   And bore her away from me, 
To shut her up in a sepulchre 
   In this kingdom by the sea. 
 
The angels, not half so happy in Heaven, 
   Went envying her and me— 
Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know, 
   In this kingdom by the sea) 
That the wind came out of the cloud by night, 
   Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. 
 
But our love it was stronger by far than the love 
   Of those who were older than we— 
   Of many far wiser than we— 
And neither the angels in Heaven above 
   Nor the demons down under the sea 
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul 
   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; 
 
For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams 
   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; 
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes 
   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; 
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side 
   Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride, 
   In her sepulchre there by the sea— 
   In her tomb by the sounding sea.

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#6 seakissed

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Posted 02 October 2017 - 10:55 AM

I cannot bear to read anything by Neruda since I learned that he had raped a woman and openly shared the actual rape in one of his writings.

Here are the ones I love:

'Moonlight' by Sappho:

The stars around the fair moon fade
Against the night,
When gazing full she fills the glade
And spreads the seas with silvery light.

'He's equal with the Gods, that man' by Sappho

He’s equal with the Gods, that man
Who sits across from you,
Face to face, close enough, to sip
Your voice’s sweetness,
And what excites my mind,
Your laughter, glittering. So,
When I see you, for a moment,
My voice goes,
My tongue freezes. Fire,
Delicate fire, in the flesh.
Blind, stunned, the sound
Of thunder, in my ears.
Shivering with sweat, cold
Tremors over the skin,
I turn the colour of dead grass,
And I’m an inch from dying.

'Mad Girl's Love Song' by Sylvia Plath

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

'To My Sister' by Forough Farrokhzad

To My Sister
Sister, rise up after your freedom,
why are you quiet?
rise up because henceforth
you have to imbibe the blood of tyrannical men.

Seek your rights, Sister,
from those who keep you weak,
from those whose myriad tricks and schemes
keep you seated in a corner of the house.

How long will you be the object of pleasure
In the harem of men's lust?
how long will you bow your proud head at his feet
like a benighted servant?

How long for the sake of a morsel of bread,
will you keep becoming an aged haji's temporary wife,
seeing second and third rival wives.
oppression and cruelty, my sister, for how long?

This angry moan of yours
must surly become a clamorous scream.
you must tear apart this heavy bond
so that your life might be free.

Rise up and uproot the roots of oppression.
give comfort to your bleeding heart.
for the sake of your freedom, strive
to change the law, rise up.

'You Will Hear Thunder' by Anna Akhmatova

You will hear thunder and remember me,
And think: she wanted storms. The rim
Of the sky will be the colour of hard crimson,
And your heart, as it was then, will be on fire.

That day in Moscow, it will all come true,
when, for the last time, I take my leave,
And hasten to the heights that I have longed for,
Leaving my shadow still to be with you.

Etc.
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#7 violaine

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Posted 06 October 2017 - 03:34 AM

Wishbone by Richard Siken http://www.colorado..../MMM/siken.html

 

I couldn't even say why, I just really love it.


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#8 Guest_MEANDTHEDEVILS_*

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Posted 06 October 2017 - 12:05 PM

Eternal

 

 

 

 

​We etched our names in the shoreline soil

​Knowing evening waves would clear our marks

​A thousand tides can recede silhouttes in sand

A sunset of whitecaps dimming its image

​Like a solitary lantern drifing out to sea

But we weren't just carving into earth

​We were declaring a piece of time forever ours

Painting the quartz canvas remembrance

​Of the moments that will forever have taken place

​Where we existed, we connected, we created

​For our names were the song title, but not the song

 

 

​- Ben Pedary


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#9 seaeyelids

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Posted 06 October 2017 - 04:00 PM

Wishbone by Richard Siken http://www.colorado..../MMM/siken.html

 

I couldn't even say why, I just really love it.

 

I was scrolling through this thread being like, "i'm gonna totally post 'wishbone'" -- i LOVE it!

 

siken was like, the first modern poet i got into and i love him ... this is part of "snow and dirty rain" 

 

Here is the river, and here is the box, and here are
the monsters we put in the box to test our strength
against. Here is the cake, and here is the fork, and here's
the desire to put it inside us, and then the question
behind every question: What happens next?
The way you slam your body into mine reminds me
I'm alive, but monsters are always hungry, darling,
and they're only a few steps behind you, finding
the flaw, the poor weld, the place where we weren't 
stitched up quite right, the place they could almost
slip right into through if the skin wasn't trying to 
keep them out, to keep them here, on the other side
of the theater where the curtain keeps rising.
I crawled out the window and ran into the woods.
I had to make up all the words myself. The way
they taste, the wy they sound in the air. I passed
through the narrow gate, stumbled in, stumbled
around for a while, and stumbled back out. I made
this place for you. A place for to love me. 
If this isn't a kingdom then I don't know what is.
So how would you catalog it? Dawn in the fields?
Snow and dirty rain? Light brought in in buckets?
I was trying to describe the kingdom, but the letters
kept smudging as I wrote them: the hunter's heart,
the hunter's mouth, the trees and the trees and the
space between the trees, swimming in gold. The words
frozen. The creatures frozen. The plum sauce
leaking out of the bag. Explaining will get us nowhere. 
I was away, I don't know where, lying on the floor,
pretending I was dead. I wanted to hurt you
but the victory is that I could not stomach it. We have
swallowed him up, 
they said. It's beautiful. It really is.
I had a dream about you. We were in the gold room
where everyone finally gets what they want. 
You said Tell me about your books, your visions made
of flesh and light 
and I said This is the Moon. This is
the Sun. Let me name the stars for you. Let me take you
there. The splash of my tongue melting you like a sugar
cube... 
We were in the gold room where everyone 
finally gets what they want, so I said What do you
want, sweetheart? 
and you said Kiss me. Here I am
leaving you clues. I am singing now while Rome
burns. We are all just trying to be holy. My applejack,
my silent night, just mash your lips against me. 
We are all going forward. None of us are going back.


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#10 mythics

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Posted 10 October 2017 - 08:20 AM

-exhale-

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
By T. S. Eliot

S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma percioche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question ...
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair —
(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin —
(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? ...

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep ... tired ... or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet — and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it towards some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;
That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old ... I grow old ...
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
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#11 babette7

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Posted 10 October 2017 - 05:09 PM

 

I am a big sucker for everything John Donne!

His poems are great. Death be not proud is one of the best things, but my absoulut favourite is the flea

 

 

The Flea
 
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.

 

 

 

In Plaster

 

I shall never get out of this!  There are two of me now:
This new absolutely white person and the old yellow one,
And the white person is certainly the superior one.
She doesn't need food, she is one of the real saints.
At the beginning I hated her, she had no personality --
She lay in bed with me like a dead body
And I was scared, because she was shaped just the way I was

Only much whiter and unbreakable and with no complaints.
I couldn't sleep for a week, she was so cold.
I blamed her for everything, but she didn't answer.
I couldn't understand her stupid behavior!
When I hit her she held still, like a true pacifist.
Then I realized what she wanted was for me to love her:
She began to warm up, and I saw her advantages.

Without me, she wouldn't exist, so of course she was grateful.
I gave her a soul, I bloomed out of her as a rose
Blooms out of a vase of not very valuable porcelain,
And it was I who attracted everybody's attention,
Not her whiteness and beauty, as I had at first supposed.
I patronized her a little, and she lapped it up --
You could tell almost at once she had a slave mentality.

I didn't mind her waiting on me, and she adored it.
In the morning she woke me early, reflecting the sun
From her amazingly white torso, and I couldn't help but notice
Her tidiness and her calmness and her patience:
She humored my weakness like the best of nurses,
Holding my bones in place so they would mend properly.
In time our relationship grew more intense.

She stopped fitting me so closely and seemed offish.
I felt her criticizing me in spite of herself,
As if my habits offended her in some way.
She let in the drafts and became more and more absent-minded.
And my skin itched and flaked away in soft pieces
Simply because she looked after me so badly.
Then I saw what the trouble was:  she thought she was immortal.

She wanted to leave me, she thought she was superior,
And I'd been keeping her in the dark, and she was resentful --
Wasting her days waiting on a half-corpse!
And secretly she began to hope I'd die.
Then she could cover my mouth and eyes, cover me entirely,
And wear my painted face the way a mummy-case
Wears the face of a pharaoh, though it's made of mud and water.

I wasn't in any position to get rid of her.
She'd supported me for so long I was quite limp --
I had forgotten how to walk or sit,
So I was careful not to upset her in any way
Or brag ahead of time how I'd avenge myself.
Living with her was like living with my own coffin:
Yet I still depended on her, though I did it regretfully.

I used to think we might make a go of it together --
After all, it was a kind of marriage, being so close.
Now I see it must be one or the other of us.
She may be a saint, and I may be ugly and hairy,
But she'll soon find out that that doesn't matter a bit.
I'm collecting my strength; one day I shall manage without her,
And she'll perish with emptiness then, and begin to miss me.

 

Sylvia Plath.

 

Two of my favorites! 


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#12 babette7

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Posted 10 October 2017 - 05:11 PM

I have way too many favorites but this is my most recent 

 

The Indifferent
I can love both fair and brown, 
Her whom abundance melts, and her whom want betrays, 
Her who loves loneness best, and her who masks and plays, 
Her whom the country formed, and whom the town, 
Her who believes, and her who tries, 
Her who still weeps with spongy eyes, 
And her who is dry cork, and never cries; 
I can love her, and her, and you, and you, 
I can love any, so she be not true. 
 
Will no other vice content you? 
Will it not serve your turn to do as did your mothers? 
Or have you all old vices spent, and now would find out others? 
Or doth a fear that men are true torment you? 
O we are not, be not you so; 
Let me, and do you, twenty know. 
Rob me, but bind me not, and let me go. 
Must I, who came to travail thorough you, 
Grow your fixed subject, because you are true? 
 
Venus heard me sigh this song, 
And by love's sweetest part, variety, she swore, 
She heard not this till now; and that it should be so no more. 
She went, examined, and returned ere long, 
And said, Alas! some two or three 
Poor heretics in love there be, 
Which think to ’stablish dangerous constancy. 
But I have told them, Since you will be true, 
You shall be true to them who are false to you. 

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Posted 11 October 2017 - 12:08 AM

The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufock by T. S. Eliot.

 

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question ...
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.
 
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
 
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
 
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
 
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
 
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair —
(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin —
(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
 
For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
               So how should I presume?
 
And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
               And how should I presume?
 
And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
               And should I then presume?
               And how should I begin?
 
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? ...
 
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
 
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep ... tired ... or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet — and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
 
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it towards some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head
               Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;
               That is not it, at all.”
 
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
               “That is not it at all,
               That is not what I meant, at all.”
 
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.
 
I grow old ... I grow old ...
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
 
Shall I part my hair behind?   Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
 
I do not think that they will sing to me.
 
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
 

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#14 the notorious p.i.g.

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Posted 12 October 2017 - 12:58 PM

The Second Coming by William Butler Yeats
 
Turning and turning in the widening gyre   
The falcon cannot hear the falconer; 
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; 
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, 
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere   
The ceremony of innocence is drowned; 
The best lack all conviction, while the worst   
Are full of passionate intensity. 
 
Surely some revelation is at hand; 
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.   
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out   
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi 
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert   
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,   
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,   
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it   
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.   
The darkness drops again; but now I know   
That twenty centuries of stony sleep 
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,   
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,   
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born? 

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#15 lizbites

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Posted 18 October 2017 - 08:41 AM

"Coda" by Dorothy Parker


There's little in taking or giving,
There's little in water or wine;
This living, this living, this living
Was never a project of mine.
Oh, hard is the struggle, and sparse is
The gain of the one at the top,
For art is a form of catharsis,
And love is a permanent flop,
And work is the province of cattle,
And rest's for a clam in a shell,
So I'm thinking of throwing the battle-
Would you kindly direct me to hell?

"The foundation of excellence lies in self-control." - H.L. Baugher

 
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Posted 18 October 2017 - 09:17 AM

Lo Fatal by Ruben Dario

 

But it's in Spanish and I suck at translating poetry

 

 

 

 

But it's super bleak


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#17 moscato

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Posted 19 October 2017 - 05:52 AM

" THERE IS A FUNDAMENTAL REASON WHY WE LOOK AT THE SKY WITH WONDER AND LONGING—FOR THE SAME REASON THAT WE STAND, HOUR AFTER HOUR, GAZING AT THE DISTANT SWELL OF THE OPEN OCEAN. THERE IS SOMETHING LIKE AN ANCIENT WISDOM, ENCODED AND TUCKED AWAY IN OUR DNA, THAT KNOWS ITS POINT OF ORIGIN AS SURELY AS A SALMON KNOWS ITS CREEK. INTELLECTUALLY, WE MAY NOT WANT TO RETURN THERE, BUT THE GENES KNOW, AND LONG FOR THEIR ORIGINS—THEIR HOME IN THE SALTY DEPTHS. BUT IF THE SEAS ARE OUR IMMEDIATE SOURCE, THE PENULTIMATE SOURCE IS CERTAINLY THE HEAVENS… THE SPECTACULAR TRUTH IS—AND THIS IS SOMETHING THAT YOUR DNA HAS KNOWN ALL ALONG—THE VERY ATOMS OF YOUR BODY—THE IRON, CALCIUM, PHOSPHORUS, CARBON, NITROGEN, OXYGEN, AND ON AND ON—WERE INITIALLY FORGED IN LONG-DEAD STARS. THIS IS WHY, WHEN YOU STAND OUTSIDE UNDER A MOONLESS, COUNTRY SKY, YOU FEEL SOME INEFFABLE TUGGING AT YOUR INNARDS. WE ARE STAR STUFF. KEEP LOOKING UP. "

by Jerry Waxman

YOU ARE THE MOST DANGEROUS KIND OF FEMALE THE WORLD CAN EVER KNOW. YOU CARRY THE SEEDS FOR YOUR OWN DESTRUCTION AND THE DESTRUCTION OF EVERYONE WHO LOVES YOU. AND A GREAT MANY WILL LOVE YOU FOR YOUR BEAUTIFUL FACE FOR YOUR SEDUCTIVE BODY; BUT YOU WILL FAIL THEM ALL BECAUSE YOU WILL BELIEVE THEY ALL FAIL YOU FIRST. YOU ARE AN IDEALIST OF THE WORST KIND - THE ROMANTIC IDEALIST. BORN TO DESTROY AND SELF DESTRUCT. "

by V.C. Andrews, Fallen Hearts

I AM WILD.
DIRTY FEET,
I RUN BAREFOOT THROUGH WOODS AND RAINFORESTS,
OPEN FIELDS AND SECRET WATER STREAMS. ALONE WITH THE SOUND OF MY BREATHING AND THE WIND ROARING IN MY EARS.
I AM WILD.
KNOTTED HAIR,
BRUSHING GENTLY ACROSS MY FACE, IT DANCES IN THE WIND AND RAIN.
TWIGS, LEAVES AND FLOWERS HITCH RIDES ACROSS THE COUNTRY SIDE.
I AM WILD.
THE STARS CALL OUT TO ME, A PART OF ME IS OUT THERE, MY ESSENCE, MY PURPOSE, MY DIVINE CONNECTION.
AN INFINITE SKY, FOREVER CHANGING, FLOWING, BEING, STILLNESS.
SOLITUDE.
ICY HANDS AND A SMOKEY BREATH,
LET MY BONES CHARGE IN THE MORNING SUN LIGHT.
ALWAYS ALONE, BUT I WILL BE FREE ANYWAY.
I AM WILD.
 "

by Tribe of Gaia
 

SHE BRACED HER STUFFED ANIMALS AND DOLLS ATOP THE FURNITURE SO THEY COULD SEE WHAT WAS GOING ON IN HER HAPPY HOME. “SHE HAD NO CHILDHOOD AND IT SHOWED,” JIMMY SAID LATER. “YOU’D CATCH GLIMPSES OF SOMEONE WHO HAD BEEN UNLOVED FOR TOO LONG, UNWANTED TOO MANY YEARS.” "

by Jimmy Dougherty, about his ex-wife Marilyn Monroe

I TRIED TO MAKE SENSE OF MY OWN SUFFERING AND I FOUND MYSELF REDUCING MY EXPERIENCE TO METAPHOR. TO UNRAVEL SOME INTERPRETATION TO THE EVENTS. AS A SURVIVAL MECHANISM WE MOTIVATE OURSELVES TO A MEANINGFUL NARRATIVE TO MAKE SENSE OF IT. AND I THINK THAT ULTIMATELY THIS ANALYSIS PROVIDES A SENSE OF JUSTICE. THAT THERE IS HOPE, THAT THERE IS A MEASURE OF DIGNITY TO WHAT WE MAY ENCOUNTER AS CHANCE OR FATE OR MISFORTUNE. WE WANT TO MAKE SENSE OF IT AND WANT TO REDUCE IT TO A SENSE OF METAPHOR. BUT AS I’VE GOTTEN OLDER I THINK I’VE MADE AN ATTEMPT TO REDUCE METAPHORICAL CLUTTER IN MY LIFE TO SEE THINGS AS THEY REALLY ARE WITHOUT PLATITUDE. AND SOMETIMES SUFFERING IS JUST SUFFERING. IT’S JUST AN ACCIDENT OF FATE. "

by Sufjan Stevens

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#18 39dreaming

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Posted 19 October 2017 - 08:19 AM

W.B. Yeats' The Second Coming

 

 Turning and turning in the widening gyre

    The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
    Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
    Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
    The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
    The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
    The best lack all conviction, while the worst
    Are full of passionate intensity.

    Surely some revelation is at hand;
    Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
    The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
    When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
    Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
    A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
    A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
    Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
    Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.

    The darkness drops again but now I know
    That twenty centuries of stony sleep
    Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
    And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
    Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

 

(Studied it in English my final year of high school so it brings back traumatising memories - my final exam was only two days ago! - but I do quite like it)


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#19 baby scars ♡

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Posted 19 October 2017 - 07:30 PM

yessss i need this thread in my lifee

 

first is an excerpt from the Fifth Elegy of Rainer Maria Rilke's Duino Elegies:

 

Angel: if there were a place we know nothing of, and there,
on some unsayable carpet, lovers revealed
what here they could never master, their high daring
figures of heart’s flight,
their towers of desire, their ladders,
long since standing where there was no ground, leaning,
trembling, on each other – and mastered them,
in front of the circle of watchers, the countless, soundless dead:
Would these not fling their last, ever-saved,
ever-hidden, unknown to us, eternally
valid coins of happiness in front of the finally
truly smiling pair on the silent
carpet?
 
and then also The Angels by Rainer Maria Rilke:
 
They all have tired mouths
And luminous, illimitable souls;
And a longing (as if for sin)
Trembles at times through their dreams.
 
They all resemble one another.
In God's garden they are silent
Like many, many intervals
In His mighty melody.
 
But when they spread their wings
They awaken the winds
That stir as though God
With His far-reaching master hands
Turned the pages of the dark book of Beginning

 

and lastly,(s/o to la dispute for showing me this) Somewhere I Have Traveled, Gladly Beyond by E.E. Cummings:

 

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

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#20 ciggie-stardust

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Posted 23 October 2017 - 10:42 PM

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Alaide Foppa- Ella se siente 

 

English

 
She sometimes feels
as a forgotten thing
in the dark corner of the house
like fruit devoured inside
by birds of prey,
like shade without face and without weight.
Their presence is only
slight vibration
in still air.
She feels the trespassing looks
and becomes mist
between the clumsy arms
that try to go around it.
ShI would like to be 
a juicy orange
in the hand of a child
-no empty peel-
an image that shines in the mirror
-not shadow that fades-
and a clear voice
-not heavy silence-
ever heard.

Hunger hurts but starving works

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https://www.myproana...-favorite-poem/

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Spoiler

Nobody will protect you from your suffering. You can't cry it away or eat it away or starve it away or walk it away or punch it away or even therapy it away. It's just there, and you have to survive it. You have to endure it. You have to live through it and love it and move on and be better for it and run as far as you can in the direction of your best and happiest dreams across the bridge that was built by your own desire to heal.




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