• You are currently viewing our forum as a guest, which gives you limited access to view most discussions and access our other features. By joining our free community, you will have access to additional post topics, communicate privately with other members (PM), view blogs, respond to polls, upload content, and access many other special features. Registration is fast, simple and absolutely free, so please join our community today! Just click here to register. You should turn your Ad Blocker off for this site or certain features may not work properly. If you have any problems with the registration process or your account login, please contact us by clicking here.

Favourite Poems & Poems that moved you

Schrödinger's Name

Blessed With A Curse
Joined
Jul 20, 2019
Messages
1,693
tumblr_phdznr0ziu1rbxbmeo1_500.png


This reminds me why I should study/be able to write in multiple languages... It's truly amazing to be able to write poetry in/with multiple languages, the expressions, the atmosphere you're able to create with certain languages. To be able to combine them. To express things you're not able to express with only a restricted knowledge of language,... Yes yes, language is beautiful. And I am certainly in love with the German language.
 

Schrödinger's Name

Blessed With A Curse
Joined
Jul 20, 2019
Messages
1,693
i am sometimes drifting like
a lost person, with no heir
or heirloom, a fog
of longing.
until, i decided on myself.
that day, i chose me.
like an orchestra choosing
bach. i was a symphony,
my god. i was a grand symphony—
how could i have not known?

— Fariha Róisín, from “after the loss,” How to Cure a Ghost
 

Kas

Fabula rasa
Joined
Apr 22, 2015
Messages
2,554
Prologue by Yun Dong-ju

Until the day I die
I long to have no speck of shame
when I gaze up toward heaven,
so I have tormented myself,
even when the wind stirs the leaves.
With a heart that sings the stars,
I will love all dying things.
And I will walk the way
that has been given to me.

Tonight, again, the wind brushes the stars.
 

Peter Deadpan

phallus impudicus
Joined
Dec 14, 2016
Messages
8,883
The Courage of Shutting-Up
Sylvia Plath

The courage of the shut mouth, in spite of artillery!
The line pink and quiet, a worm, basking.
There are black disks behind it, the disks of outrage,
And the outrage of a sky, the lined brain of it.
The disks revolve, they ask to be heard—

Loaded, as they are, with accounts of bastardies.
Bastardies, usages, desertions and doubleness,
The needle journeying in its groove,
Silver beast between two dark canyons,
A great surgeon, now a tattooist,

Tattooing over and over the same blue grievances,
The snakes, the babies, the tits
On mermaids and two-legged dreamgirls.
The surgeon is quiet, he does not speak.
He has seen too much death, his hands are full of it.

So the disks of the brain revolve, like the muzzles of cannon.
Then there is that antique billhook, the tongue,
Indefatigable, purple. Must it be cut out?
It has nine tails, it is dangerous.
And the noise it flays from the air, once it gets going!

No, the tongue, too, has been put by,
Hung up in the library with the engravings of Rangoon
And the fox heads, the otter heads, the heads of dead rabbits.
It is a marvelous object—
The things it has pierced in its time.

But how about the eyes, the eyes, the eyes?
Mirrors can kill and talk, they are terrible rooms
In which a torture goes on one can only watch.
The face that lived in this mirror is the face of a dead man.
Do not worry about the eyes—

They may be white and shy, they are no stool pigeons,
Their death rays folded like flags
Of a country no longer heard of,
An obstinate independency
Insolvent among the mountains.
 

Peter Deadpan

phallus impudicus
Joined
Dec 14, 2016
Messages
8,883
I dunno if it's a favorite, but it's a favorite artist and favorite subject matter (without the abstract interpretations).


Mushrooms
by Sylvia Plath

Overnight, very
Whitely, discreetly,
Very quietly

Our toes, our noses
Take hold on the loam,
Acquire the air.

Nobody sees us,
Stops us, betrays us;
The small grains make room.

Soft fists insist on

Heaving the needles,
The leafy bedding,

Even the paving.
Our hammers, our rams,
Earless and eyeless,

Perfectly voiceless,
Widen the crannies,
Shoulder through holes. We

Diet on water,
On crumbs of shadow,
Bland-mannered, asking

Little or nothing.

So many of us!
So many of us!

We are shelves, we are
Tables, we are meek,
We are edible,

Nudgers and shovers

In spite of ourselves.
Our kind multiplies:

We shall by morning
Inherit the earth.
Our foot’s in the door.
 

Wunjo

Maverick thinker.
Joined
Mar 5, 2017
Messages
899
Instinctual Variant
sx/so
Mad Girl's Love Song

"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.)"

Sylvia Plath
 

Schrödinger's Name

Blessed With A Curse
Joined
Jul 20, 2019
Messages
1,693
Is it weird that I especially like this poem because I did not understand it at first? When I read it I basically rolled my eyes and thought 'what a stupid comparison'. Only to dramatically scroll back one minute later because it's actually one of the best 'descriptions' I have ever seen. (It's not the whole poem. For some reason I seem to have preference for poems that are cut short. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ )
 

The Cat

Just a Cat who hangs out at the Crossroads
Staff member
Joined
Oct 15, 2016
Messages
23,552
The Haunted Palace By Edgar Allen Poe.

In the greenest of our valleys
By good angels tenanted,
Once a fair and stately palace—
Radiant palace—reared its head.
In the monarch Thought’s dominion,
It stood there!
Never seraph spread a pinion
Over fabric half so fair!

Banners yellow, glorious, golden,
On its roof did float and flow
(This—all this—was in the olden
Time long ago)
And every gentle air that dallied,
In that sweet day,
Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,
A wingèd odor went away.

Wanderers in that happy valley,
Through two luminous windows, saw
Spirits moving musically
To a lute’s well-tunèd law,
Round about a throne where, sitting,
Porphyrogene!
In state his glory well befitting,
The ruler of the realm was seen.

And all with pearl and ruby glowing
Was the fair palace door,
Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing
And sparkling evermore,
A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty
Was but to sing,
In voices of surpassing beauty,
The wit and wisdom of their king.

But evil things, in robes of sorrow,
Assailed the monarch’s high estate;
(Ah, let us mourn!—for never morrow
Shall dawn upon him, desolate!)
And round about his home the glory
That blushed and bloomed
Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.

And travellers, now, within that valley,
Through the red-litten windows see
Vast forms that move fantastically
To a discordant melody;
While, like a ghastly rapid river,
Through the pale door
A hideous throng rush out forever,
And laugh—but smile no more.
 
Top