Poetry Thread

[Schrödinger's Name]

I hate this poem because it's just too fucking accurate. It's exactly how I go through the days, how I process things; "What was I doing a year ago? Who was I with? What did I listen to? Everything felt so different back then."... And I ironically, was in another country most of the time when I saw my ex. @_@ Within a few months it'll be a year ago since our breakup... It feels so strange, how time passes by yet I can remember those days as if it happened yesterday. Or shall I be cheesy and say; time stays, we go?

This winter was one of the hardest winters for me, because it reminded me so much of my ex. Last year I had something to come home to (even though she was in another country). A nice message, looking forward to seeing each other again,... We met in winter. Now all that was gone.

 

[Schrödinger's Name]

Quite a ride but I liked it.
A Poem by Asdrubal Quintero — The Collapsar

The end of this poem always cracks me up for some reason, and it isn't even funny. Just true.

 

[Pionart]

What?
Before my eyes? A lie?
That lies, not surprise.
That before little
After long
Has yet too far to go
Too little to hold on to
That there disperses
As some old curse
Lifted from 'yond
As night falls
Swiftly, comingly
That never speaks
Never knows
Stillness

That stillness we seek as ever more
We reach for that yond' shore
And never reach, for what we are for
Is too much, for this time
Too much, for this place,
Too much, for myself

That I know that growth
Is within reach, within us
For as we search we find within us
A spark to ignite deep within us
Me and you both

For this is what it means
This is what it comes to
A resting place, a joyful peace
As palaces erect

 

[Schrödinger's Name]

olin ivory / mary oliver / anne michaels / max porter / richard siken

I should google the full version of these poems but I am lazy- laying in an uncomfortable position in bed. Life's hard. Thanks @ the Tumblr people who create trailer poem posts.

 

[Wunjo]

A Swamp in the Hands of Time

I.

I am bound to write the black mass
Of all past poetry that has pass’d
Through these learned, loved hands of mine
To a virginal paper kissed by a thyme.
This is a renunciation, oh so much delayed
A Chinese man, to me once said:
“Love is a decision, not an emotion”
So in my own will and volution
I renounce you as I return to a self
Made of nostalgia and pure vision
Goodbye now, goodbye sweet elf!
Now, I have only me in the verse
Unless there are some perverse
Sentiments invade me as a writer,
My spirit is fill’d with eyes of beholders.

II.

Now as much as it doesn’t hurt to be watched
Only paranoids do survive.
“Sur”, “certain” in French, “vive”,
What could it possibly mean but “life”?
Away with you; away with you now,
This is the thunder and the undertow
Of a new breath howling from mountains
Filling my lungs in flamy air
Now, how can one despair?
Of leaving you behind, for good.
This is I think, pretty much understood.
Now eager with its deathly beauty
Another future waits for me in truity.
And I hold, and I hold, the chaos and the calm
Of a new world within my palm.

Perverse reader, tell me! Can one really burn
In grief that much when there is a lot to learn?

III.

This is the fight, the only fight now
The love of life sharpens our swords
Which will deliver hounding blows
Over not despair nor pity but stonish
Stagnation, against change?
A mere fetish!
Now, one looks at lost time
And realizes what kind of a clime
That he has put himself in
Is there a more terrible sin
Than one commits towards himself,
O such a gravely epitaph,
Man carves as he stagnates
He loves deeply and afterwards, he hates.

IV.

How would one make love, how?
Towards a woman that like a bow
Tenses his manhood; but not heart
Which is from this, far, far apart?
A bold question, no doubt of that
Not a philosophical, but a fatal threat.
The law of passion is all too simple;
As long as a man is single,
He will make love to any woman
He desires, be them leftful or heathen
As they are that very Eve
Ready to Adam receive.

Make love as if all are the love of your life
So shall you be free of passionless strife.

V.

The dreary autumn comes in joy
She, in the past, recall, how shy and coy
In her movements, while summer shone
Now summer herself is forlorn
In ageless melancholy, Saturn’s shade
Has touched to her naked flesh like a blade.
Autumn, come you sweet daughter
For every Summer is a disaster
To one who was birthed by the Night
Born amid chaos, violence and plight.
Could summer ever calm such a man?
He now only remembers when
He was born and fell in love
Naturally, every garden and grove
Behold a cruelty so implacable,
The Sun was never amicable
Compared to the nuptials of the Moon
I shall be embraced very soon.


VI.

Childhood, sweet childhood, how far you are
But close as the smell of the bazaar
That I used to stride in with tales of old
My childhood, now I am so very cold
To grieve thee; now grown am I, now a man
These all did come to pass, but when, when?
Time and its passing, a sight to behold
But keep your eyes quick, it will not be on hold,
It will pass like a thunderbolt through wind
You are to witness this, as you ascend,
Towards your one true will and fate,
That time and its passing can never stagnate.
But, fear not, death is only changing the mask
Or in order to drink again, emptying your flask.
Consumed by a worm who rides through Earth’s vein,
Flesh I was, flesh am I and shall be flesh again.

VII.

Black winged? They all say that you are so
But since when thou art the bringer of woe
Towards man and all of his doings
The colour of gold shines on thy wings.
Lucifer, reason, rebellion, free will,
If one knows you in truth, he can bear no ill
Towards you, your fate and your goal
Could one transform into diamond, worthless coal
Without thy alchemy and formula
Could one create discipline out of gula
If his will was not provoked by thy traps,
As thy deceiving yet noble finger taps
Towards every hunger in the soul of Man,
Such a worthless and useless Den,
Without the light of reason and choice
That you were and are the sole voice
Of their challenging presence for the shepherd,
Against that false-creator and his so call’d word.

VIII.

My father will you embrace me now?
Since every toil of past is cast below.

IX.

Like a mud, treason stained our garments
Like a brother’s blood, it defiled our gardens.
We who were betrayed and who did betray
Who delightfully became perverted and led astray
All those following the way of dead tradition
For a dream, a mirage, no, a vision
Of Libertine ideals and sperm-filled holes
Our ideologues are surely pimps and whores.
Our propagandists are whom but poets?
Whose pens will strictly guard our assets
Of glorious decadence and haughty perversion
In order to create our version
Of the Garden of Eden, within this earth
We shall stop making idols out of death.

X.

I have no philosophy-- let me be clear
All philosophy should go extinct in the air
I live by no code but changeability
I am the river that flows without shame or pity.
What is the worth of inserting my being
Towards the troubles of this earth of wrongdoing?
If such troubles do not find me by their own,
By following my path, why should I earn scorn?


XI.

One day, there was a learned fellow
Who wanted to study the secrets of Zen
And the worlds hidden above and below
His steps stopped, he glanced, and then;
He saw the temple in front of his eyes
He was as drunk on alcohol and lies.
Took a step, then another, then one more
Stopped in front of a humble door
He knocked and knocked and knocked
Until the door opened, and a face looked
At him, as asking “What do you want?”
He said, “I am a learned man of the mind
Who came from a place where the wind
Has a different name compared to one here.”
The face was unmoved, a visage severe
He saw how drunk was the learned man
In his ageless wisdom, he hatched a plan
Called his students immediately to take
The learned man in front of the lake
Peacefully still, in the Temple’s garden
His students, grabbed him, like a warden
And took the learned man to the pond
The master filled a bucket, and lo and behold!
Threw the ice cold water of the lake
On the face of the learned rake.
He filled the bucket, time and time again
And threw the water on his face, with disdain.
The rake, after a while, started to laugh
Water was dripping from his face, though
He laughed harder and harder, as the water
Slapped his face like the hand of a stern father.
Immediately he sobered up from the drink
And reached to Satori as quick as an eye’s blink.