QuoteReplyTopic: AE Poetry Club Posted: 28-Mar-2006 at 21:01
Still my favorite, I don't know if I posted it before...
Zemlja naa Sve od Broda do Mostara,
pobijena naa raja.
Pobijena il' prognana
i po svijetu razaslana.
Do juče smo skupa bili,
zlo i dobro, sve, dijelili.
A sada nas protjerae,
iz te Bosne, zemlje nae.
Our Land Everywhere from Brod to Mostar,
Our folk are vanquished,
Vanquished or exiled,
And scattered around the world.
Until yesterday, we lived together,
Sharing all, both the good and bad.
Now they banish us
From Bosnia, from our own land.
Mackenzie put a whoopie cushion
on the teacher's chair.
Makayla told the teacher
that a bug was in her hair.
Alyssa brought an apple
with a purple gummy worm
and gave it to the teacher
just to see if she would squirm.
Elijah left a piece of plastic
dog doo on the floor,
and Vincent put some plastic vomit
in the teacher's drawer.
Amanda put a goldfish
in the teacher's drinking glass.
These April Fool's Day pranks
are ones that you could use in class.
Before you go and try them, though,
there's something I should mention:
The teacher wasn't fooling
when she put us in detention.
Here is my best. I wrote that around the spring of 2001. Sorry if it carried too much feelings, but at that time, the emphasis was on that issue . I copied it back from Poetry.com (some of you know this website).
Let the Rocks Say, O'Jerusalem
Let the rocks speak and talk,Listen to them whimpering and walk, Let them tell you the story of Jerusalem's folk, And they will speak, O'Jerusalem. The appeal letters they send, The bloodshed that shall end, The injustice and malice cannot bend, And they will whisper, O'Jerusalem. See those young boys at the gates, Fighting tanks, and rocks are their mates, Death is watching, and their fates, And they will yell, O'Jerusalem. In day, lachrymose bombs are smelled, In night, gunshots are heard, Death became my friend, And they will call, O'Jerusalem. Children asking for peace,War that will not cease, All had to beg on knees, And you will still hear them, O'Jerusalem. By the sunset, I had to go,Leaving them as you know, Ask the rocks what they saw, And they will answer you, O'Jerusalem.
Here's a Poem I wrote for english class about half a year ago. My teacher asked the class to base their poem on the style of Dillon Thomas. This is a new stlye for me, so please tell me what you think.
Clonmactose: Narrative Poem
Let us go back to the beginning, where not only the beginning began On a winters morning dew, Listen, listen to the owls hooting under the woodllike sky, its sharpened voice echoes, hitting of the trees like needle on stalk. As the leaves hustle in the breeze. The night is still, with where one might hear the rare sound of an animal scurrying, as it rustles through the leaf stained floor. Be wary, a perched spectre lyes sited on its woody vine. Its prey a victim to its desire. A spotted mouse below scurries under the brush like a Fugitive on the run. Swoosh. The large wings of the owl go. The mouse has been strangled by its demons claws.
Below is a Green sea.
Up up any mountain, down the rushy glen. Parsley.sage, rosemay and thyme
Down down into that hollow hole which is Clomactose, no one ever leaves, nor no one ever acknowledged existed.
Oh not again. The presidented politician mayor of all Clonmactose slumbers sureingly enough upon his pillow, pilling dash upon dash of endless complaints, constantly continuing through his mind. In one ear out the other, they go. His currency is overrated.
Shh, one must keep quiet in Clomactose, so not to awaken those asleep. Lawyers, doctors, politicians, schoolgirls, schoolboys, teachers, hairdresser, police, woodcutters, coalminers.
Each a sleap, all awake.
Schoolboys dream of wondrous adventures where ye must fight hand on weapon with a band of companions, against the forces of evil.
Schoolgirls of adventures too, but these of horses, and how they will have to attain that wonderful prize be it golden egg or crystal cup.
But now morning is coming, and one can hear that cunning cock while it plans its crow, while crouped upon its coup.
Morning has come and the sun is peeping its head above the horizon, and slowly seeping through the forest, bark after bark.
The silence breaks as the continuing thud of the woodsmans axe, hears its way throughout the forest as it carves its way into a tree.
A statue UN built. It may be
I share creation, kings can do no more.
The silence is slowly dispersed, into that which is nothingness, as the chirping of birds can be heard, which is the recognition by all that morning has come.
The chirp of the birds start as flame but soon flame turns to fire, as noise erupts throughout the green woody like wood, as its inhabitants leave their homage.
As there is a lot to be done.
So that eternal wheel, which is Clomactose, slides down its infinite hill and the woodman cuts as in every morning.
Clang, Clang, Clang goes Clomactose.
Bits written in red not myn.
This Narrative Poem attempts to copy the style of Dillon Tomas.
Ah, just the kind of thread I was looking for. Some good stuff here.. But do we have any current members willing to post their own poems online for public scrutiny? I'm just afraid of copyright!
I also think this topic should be stickied as literary pursuits is a relatively inactive forum and this topic, I think, would attract more users who either like poetry, like reading other's poetry, or who like composing poetry and want to share it..
Here is the ancient floor, Footworn and hollowed and thin, Here was the former door Where the dead feet walked in.
She sat here in her chair, Smiling into the fire; He who played stood there, Bowing it higher and higher.
Childlike, I danced in a dream; Blessings emblazoned that day Everything glowed with a gleam; Yet we were looking away!
Nothing will Die - Alfred Lord Tennyson
When will the stream be aweary of flowing
Under my eye?
When will the wind be aweary of blowing
Over the sky?
When will the clouds be aweary of fleeting? When will the heart be aweary of beating?
And nature die?
Never, O, never, nothing will die;
The stream flows, The wind blows, The cloud fleets, The heart beats, Nothing will die.
Nothing will die; All things will change Thro eternity. Tis the worlds winter; Autumn and summer Are gone long ago; Earth is dry to the centre, But spring, a new comer, A spring rich and strange, Shall make the winds blow Round and round, Thro and thro, Here and there, Till the air And the ground Shall be filld with life anew.
The world was never made; It will change, but it will not fade. So let the wind range; For even and morn Ever will be Thro eternity. Nothing was born; Nothing will die; All things will change.
This seems like a good poetry society - far too often poetry societies dissolve into Romanticism appreciation societies run by ponytailed ponces who think they are profound because they can plagurise Byron or Shelly and quote one sentance of Nietzche. Phew - sorry, I've had bad experiences with poetry societies!
These are a couple of poems from an Albanian poet who is one of my favorites: Gjergj Milosh Nikola AKA Migjeni(the acronym he is mostly known by). His poetry is usually of the depressing type and very detached from any sort of nationalist poetry that dominated at that time. He died at the very young age of 27.
These are rough translations of his poetry.
Blasphemy
The mosques and churches float through our memories,
Prayers devoid of sense or taste echo from their walls.
Never has the heart of god been touched by them,
And yet it beats on amidst the sounds of drums and bells.
Majestic mosques and churches throughout our wretched land,
Spires and minarets towering over lowly homes,
The voice of the hodja and priest in one degenerate chant,
Oh, ideal vision, a thousand years old!
The mosques and churches float through memories of the pious,
The chiming of the bell mingles with the muezzin's call,
Sanctity shines from cowls and from the beards of hodjas.
Oh, so many fair angels at the gates of hell!
On ancient citadels perch carrion ravens,
Their dejected wings drooping - the symbols of lost hopes,
In despair do they croak of an age gone by
When the ancient citadels once gleamed with hallowed joy.
Poem of poverty
Poverty, brothers, is a mouthful that's hard to swallow,
A bite that sticks in your throat and leaves you in sorrow,
When you watch the pale faces and rheumy eyes
Observing you like ghosts and holding out thin hands;
Behind you they lie, stretched out
Their whole lives through, until the moment of death.
Above them in the air, as if in disdain,
Crosses and stony minarets pierce the sky,
Prophets and saints in many colours radiate splendour.
And poverty feels betrayed.
Poverty carries its own vile imprint,
It is hideous, repulsive, disgusting.
The brow that bears it, the eyes that express it,
The lips that try in vain to hide it
Are the offspring of ignorance, the victims of disdain,
The filthy scraps flung from the table
At which for centuries
Some pitiless, insatiable dog has fed.
Poverty has no good fortune, only rags,
The tattered banners of a hope
Shattered by broken promises.
Poverty wallows in debauchery.
In dark corners, together with dogs, rats, cats,
On mouldy, stinking, filthy mattresses,
Naked breasts exposed, sallow dirty bodies,
With feelings overwhelmed by bestial desire,
They bite, devour, suck, kiss the sullied lips,
And in unbridled lust the thirst is quenched,
The craving stilled, and self-consciousness lost.
Here is the source of the imbeciles, the servants and the beggars
Who will tomorrow be born to fill the streets.
Poverty shines in the eyes of the newborn,
Flickers like the pale flame of a candle
Under a ceiling blackened with smoke and spider webs,
Where human shadows tremble on damp stained walls,
Where the ailing infant wails like a banshee
To suck the dry breasts of its wretched mother
Who, pregnant again, curses god and the devil,
Curses the heavy burden of her unborn child.
Her baby does not laugh, it only wastes away,
Unwanted by its mother, who curses it, too.
How sorrowful is the cradle of the poor
Where a child is rocked with tears and sighs.
Poverty's child is raised in the shadows
Of great mansions, too high for imploring voices to reach
To disturb the peace and quiet of the lords
Sleeping in blissful beds beside their ladies.
Poverty matures a child before its time,
Teaches it to dodge the threatening fist,
The hand which clutches its throat in dreams,
When the delirium of starvation begins
And when death casts its shadow on childish faces,
Instead of a smile a hideous grimace.
While the fate of a fruit is to ripen and fall,
The child is interred not maturing at all.
Poverty labours and toils by day and night,
Chest and forehead drenched in sweat,
Up to the knees in mud and slime,
And still the empty guts writhe in hunger.
Starvation wages! For such a daily ordeal,
A mere three or four leks and an 'On your way.'
Poverty sometimes paints its face,
Swollen lips scarlet, hollow cheeks rouged,
And body a chattel in a filthy trade.
For service in bed for which it is paid
With a few lousy francs,
Stained sheets, stained face and stained conscience.
Poverty leaves a heritage as well,
Not cash in the bank or property you can sell,
But distorted bones and pains in the chest,
Perhaps leaves the memory of a bygone day
When the roof of the house, weakened by decay,
By age and the weather collapsed and fell,
And above all the din rose a terrible cry
Cursing and imploring, as from the depths of hell,
The voice of a man crushed by a beam.
Under the heel, says the priest, of*god irate
Ends thus the life of a dissolute ingrate.
And so the memory of such misfortunes
Fills the cup of bitterness passed to generations.
Poverty in drink seeks consolation,
In filthy taverns, with dirty, littered tables,
The thirsting soul pours glass after glass
Down the throat to forget its many worries,
The dulling glass, the glass satanic,
Caressing with a venomous bite.
And when, like grain under the scythe, the man falls
To the floor, he giggles and sobs, a tragicomic clown,
And all his sorrow in drink he drowns
When one by one, a hundred glasses downs.
Poverty sets desires ablaze like stars in the night
And turns them to ashes, like trees struck by lightning.
Poverty knows no joy, but only pain,
Pain reducing you to such despair
That you seize the rope and hang yourself,
Or become a poor victim of 'paragraphs.'
Poverty wants no pity, only justice!
Pity? Bastard daughter of cunning fathers,
Who like the Pharisees, beating the drum
Ostentatiously for their own sly ends,
Drop a penny in the beggar's hands.
Poverty is an indelible stain
On the brow of humanity through the ages.
And never can this stain be effaced
By doctrines decaying in temples.
Oh nice nice, I write poems... there is only one problem: I've written some poetry I don't understand myself ... I'll post some later, because they are on paper and I have to put them on the computer...
For too long I've been parched of thirst and unable to quench it.
If you don't like them: read some less: There will be no bore if after the first All the rest you suppress!
-Poésie, VLII
Thou
rob it from me!
Thou showed in all of thy beauty!
O fair maid, I could not resist…
It is my heart you took away,
O
white-bosomed maid,
The heart you are keeping
It’s flaring much…
Enhanced by the look of thee,
I
know this isn’t good,
May you so keep it,
I can live without it
If I know you have it…
-Poésie, LVII
I
dreamed a perfect world
Where the hen uses wings to fly
And nobody desires to know why.
They flew like a bird…
Where
all weapons melted down
To forge; and help those who really need it.
Here it’s at last, accomplished a myth:
A world that’s united under one crown.
A
world where hate is known,
But still, love holds us tight;
Where the skies are clear and bright.
A dream that won’t be renown…
-Poésie, LXVIII
How I was waved aside
Should I dare?
Tell me that old lies are alive:
And just be there.
The
more thou take,
The more I blame
For how I was fake…
But everything still feels the same.
I do take too much of a strain,
But I forgot to forget.
If I forget, what wilt I gain?
Nothing…
-Poésie, CXIII
Seldom thy quaff the
bitterness of life,
Whence there hast be no strife?
Haring in a hazard chase:
In the den, what wilt thou have to face?
Hark! In this chapter thou art
amid,
A life done’t, everyone needs to feed,
Hide, rather then living as a slave
Rather then dying as a brave…
Hare here and there
For someone should always care,
Rise high a home
Or at least, alone out, do not roam…
-Poésie, CXVII
In
this marvelous land I was born: The
sun rises from the foam of the deep, And sets, where the snow heap, All of its beauty I love, even its thorn.
During spring, there’s woods where to be, During winter, there’s snow where to play, During autumn, there are parks where to stay, During summer, there’s water where to flee.
You can always hear the whispers of the winds, The trees are above us, making shadows for
us, The woods, the fields, little river, made me
free. It’s the place where I dwell…
Poésie, CVLI
Always the same! So we march, Going here and there, take a drink Or a drunk that drunk more then his share And carry him somewhere…
Then back, and once again: All the way from the start, Come boys, drink and get drunk, And high till thou in the bottle sunk!
And thence confusion pursue me, So confusing: One disappears, hundred joins! Or am I just drunk – the plausible solution!
By Stefano Segnan
I will not post other poems, because I'm afraid someone will just copy-paste (even if those are not good, I don't care: What you read in a brief time I took several months to write).
p.s I have a problem in changing the fonts and the size of the letters - that's why it is a wee bit of all
Edited by Illirac - 24-Jul-2008 at 22:28
For too long I've been parched of thirst and unable to quench it.
My favorite poem from one of my favorite writer. I haven't read it in years, but tonight it fits almost too perfect
Samuel Beckett
Cascando
1
why not merely the despaired of occasion of wordshed
is it not better abort than be barren
the hours after you are gone are so leaden they will always start dragging too soon the grapples clawing blindly the bed of want bringing up the bones the old loves sockets filled once with eyes like yours all always is it better too soon than never the black want splashing their faces saying again nine days never floated the loved nor nine months nor nine lives
2
saying again if you do not teach me I shall not learn saying again there is a last even of last times last times of begging last times of loving of knowing not knowing pretending a last even of last times of saying if you do not love me I shall not be loved if I do not love you I shall not love
the churn of stale words in the heart again love love love thud of the old plunger pestling the unalterable whey of words
terrified again of not loving of loving and not you of being loved and not by you of knowing not knowing pretending pretending
I and all the others that will love you if they love you
3
unless they love you
(S. Beckett, 1936)
from Collected Poems in English and French, S. Beckett, Grove Press, Inc. N.Y. 1977
I'm in the mood to share tonight. It feels like a deep expiration sometimes. This is a quickie I rustled up in a squeak of thoughtful activity. It doesn't mean much, I just write it like a think it!
You cannot post new topics in this forum You cannot reply to topics in this forum You cannot delete your posts in this forum You cannot edit your posts in this forum You cannot create polls in this forum You cannot vote in polls in this forum