Poetry

[hipsterasfolk]

So is anyone a fan of poetry? I started taking a class to fulfill my English credit (over Sci-Fi) and have taken a great liking to readings.

 

Does anyone write their own? or would like to share some they like?

 

Post lyrics/writings/poems/etc

[hipsterasfolk]

Here are some excerpts from some of my material from class and outside of class. Documenting various mistakes and awesome nights throughout all the places I have been.

 

County//State 1

 

Empty bottles serve as bookends

Documenting memories black

As the carapaces that shuffle

Within the confines of parchment

 

*****

County//State 2

 

As I consume the beauty

Of a thousand anchors

My lungs are trophies

Sinking for second place

 

 

*********

 

Deprived//Flesh

 

I carry my debt

To the sands of time

Counting the burden

From the bags under my eyes

 

I cannot sleep

I do not know how to dream

 

For those who rest

Count their sheep,

As I lay

Ripping out my teeth

[hudsoncomplex]

Roses are red, violets are blue. Hipster is tall, holy fuck!

 

In all honesty, I dig the ones above, brother. Nice work

[Guest]

I like the last one best. It's fun seeing the serious side of bjorn.

I post some of my occasional angsty poems on instagram. I haven’t in a while though…

This is one of my favorite poems of all time. It became really popular on tumblr so maybe some of you have already seen it.

In the Desert

By Stephen Crane:

In the desert

I saw a creature, naked, bestial,

Who, squatting upon the ground,

Held his heart in his hands,

And ate of it.

I said, “Is it good, friend?”

“It is bitter—bitter,” he answered;

“But I like it

“Because it is bitter,

“And because it is my heart.”

[ronniegwilliams]

Yes!  I love poetry!  I have been writing poetry for a few years now, even more so now that I'm majoring in literature.  Here is one of my favorite Robert Browning poems.  

 

 

The rain set early in tonight,
The sullen wind was soon awake, 
It tore the elm-tops down for spite,
And did its worst to vex the lake: 
I listened with heart fit to break.
When glided in Porphyria; straight 
She shut the cold out and the storm,
And kneeled and made the cheerless grate 
Blaze up, and all the cottage warm; 
Which done, she rose, and from her form
Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl, 
And laid her soiled gloves by, untied
Her hat and let the damp hair fall, 
And, last, she sat down by my side 
And called me. When no voice replied,
She put my arm about her waist,
And made her smooth white shoulder bare, 
And all her yellow hair displaced,
And, stooping, made my cheek lie there, 
And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair,
Murmuring how she loved me — she 
Too weak, for all her heart's endeavor,
To set its struggling passion free 
From pride, and vainer ties dissever, 
And give herself to me forever.
But passion sometimes would prevail, 
Nor could tonight's gay feast restrain
A sudden thought of one so pale 
For love of her, and all in vain:
So, she was come through wind and rain. 
Be sure I looked up at her eyes
Happy and proud; at last l knew 
Porphyria worshiped me: surprise
Made my heart swell, and still it grew 
While l debated what to do.
That moment she was mine, mine, fair,
Perfectly pure and good: I found
A thing to do, and all her hair
In one long yellow string l wound 
Three times her little throat around,
And strangled her. No pain felt she;
l am quite sure she felt no pain. 
As a shut bud that holds a bee,
l warily oped her lids: again 
Laughed the blue eyes without a stain.
And l untightened next the tress 
About her neck; her cheek once more
Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss: 
l propped her head up as before, 
Only, this time my shoulder bore
Her head, which droops upon it still: 
The smiling rosy little head,
So glad it has its utmost will, 
That all it scorned at once is fled, 
And l, its love, am gained instead!
Porphyria's love: she guessed not how 
Her darling one wish would be heard.
And thus we sit together now, 
And all night long we have not stirred,
And yet God has not said aword!

[ronniegwilliams]

I'm a really big fan of Browning, I also really dig Jim Carroll, Yeats, Plath, Hughes, and so so so many more. 

[abovetheearth]

William Carlos Williams is one of my favs.

 

You sullen pig of a man
you force me into the mud
with your stinking ash-cart!

Brother!
--if we were rich
we'd stick our chests out
and hold our heads high!

It is dreams that have destroyed us.

There is no more pride
in horses or in rein holding.
We sit hunched together brooding
our fate.

Well--
all things turn bitter in the end
whether you choose the right or
the left way
and--
dreams are not a bad thing.

[ronniegwilliams]

William Carlos Williams is so freakin' good it kills me

[ronniegwilliams]

If anyone is interested I'll post a couple I just submitted to a couple places

[steventangent]

I'm in love with this

www.pentametron.com

[somethingvinyl]

I wrote this between being 21-23. Seems silly now. Good song lyrics maybe:

Sean O'Grady, Where Have You Gone?

I try to tell a story
With every word I write
But sometimes these phrases
Come off sully and trite

Commonsense is not so common
Even among the elite
The only ones who have something to brag about
Are the ones who know it's not worth the prize to compete

Every time I try to think
Of something new to say
The same old syllables
Come off overdone and passé

I thought I could once fall in love
But that seems to be a mystery
I thought that dream could come true
But now I know that's my misery

It's only a fabrication of the mind
It's not reality
Real is waking up
Next to someone like me

There are so many things I hate
Me for one
In spite of myself
I sit here and contemplate

For me
This is what it means
To have something
That is worth redeeming

Not highly irrelevant
As with the chances
At finding something other
Than these petty romance

[ronniegwilliams]

Here's something I wrote about a year ago

 

 

Without Valor

 

Hands held without valor

Shaking, shivering.

Merely blood and bone,

Attempting to be more than temporary.

 

And what of wings?

Architecture designed for neither man nor mistress.

Merely blood and bone.

 

But birds do fly

This I have seen.

Stories, these are not

For I have viewed their patterned wings

Against skylines and statues still.

I have heard sad songs sung within the wind

In a harmonies of one, two, three

One, two three.

Perhaps such songs are not sad

But meant to imply a song should simply be sung aloud

And carried by the wind

With its one, two, three

One, two, three.

 

Hands held without valor

Shaking, shivering.

Merely blood and bone,

 

Proclaiming to be more than decoration.

 

And pages they have turned and torn

Words painting pages

Letters grasping roots and growing tall as trees.

Limbs like veins pumping rhythmically

In a one, two, three

One, two, three.

In repetitious tongue

Sentiment is spoken

Some do fear, do falter, do fall as others blink and often spit.

Will you waver? Will you wait?

Withdrawn footsteps marching in a one, two, three

One, two, three.

[hipsterasfolk]

Wow didn't think this would fire off like this But anyways here are fully (rough) versions of the 2 excerpts earlier. As you can tell I'm not into rhyming or rhythm, i prefer my "classical jazz" approach of sporadic writing.

 

 

Empty bottles serve as bookends

Documenting memories black

As the carapaces that shuffle

Within the confines of parchment

Creating the metronome

Three layers to mask your poisons

As passion perspires

Intoxicating on contact

While the grooves of fingertips

Brush against the stubble

Playing the symphony of lust

_________________________________

 

The sun orbits the pool

Reflecting the liquid pearls

That journey 6 feet

Distressing the surface

 

As I consume the beauty

Of a thousand anchors

My lungs are trophies

Sinking for second place

 

Sporadic movements sway

Mimicking your tantrums

With eyes coated in film

Screaming our photo op

 

As I submerge in silence

Where ribs become wishbones

Cracking in the grasps of time

To the symmetry of smiles

 

As these streams of ribbons weave

Throughout the mazes of my feet

Where words are inadequate

To describe your favorite eulogy

 

I tend to write out my nightmares (that I have frequently) into poems, hoping to make sense of them lol But to my teacher they probably come across as stories of drugs/sex/suicidal thoughts/etc. If they call counseling on me, I will take it as a compliment that my poems convey that much emotion lol

[ronniegwilliams]

one more for funsies

 

 

Old Soul Records

 

When this Midwest city falls asleep;

after two, when the lights finally dim

and the hum from the streets below finally subsides;

I lie awake drinking wine, red;

pretending to understand

things that I do not understand.

 

In a poorly lit room on the second story of an apartment

so cheap, one can’t help but think

maybe my mother was right

and I should have moved closer to third street,

with it’s blocks lined with faces meant for magazines.

 

In these late hours I question what it means

when a writer speaks of love.

What it is these dead musicians had to convey

on records older than my bones.

Until it’s closer to day than night

and the alcohol no longer keeps me warm.

[hipsterasfolk]

Love this stuff bro! Looks like Hudson has some competition for best poem in the thread

[lexicondevil]

Before I got my teaching credential, I majored in Creative Writing. Love it. If you know anything about Charles Bukowski, this poem of his really reveals a lot about what he was really about. I like poems that reveal some sort of truth about the writer, the reader, or the world. There is no fancy imagery in his poems.

 

The Bluebird by Charles Bukowski

 

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
you.
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he's
in there.

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody's asleep.
I say, I know that you're there,
so don't be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep, do
you?

[lexicondevil]

Wow didn't think this would fire off like this But anyways here are fully (rough) versions of the 2 excerpts earlier. As you can tell I'm not into rhyming or rhythm, i prefer my "classical jazz" approach of sporadic writing.

 

 

Empty bottles serve as bookends

Documenting memories black

As the carapaces that shuffle

Within the confines of parchment

Creating the metronome

Three layers to mask your poisons

As passion perspires

Intoxicating on contact

While the grooves of fingertips

Brush against the stubble

Playing the symphony of lust

_________________________________

 

The sun orbits the pool

Reflecting the liquid pearls

That journey 6 feet

Distressing the surface

 

As I consume the beauty

Of a thousand anchors

My lungs are trophies

Sinking for second place

 

Sporadic movements sway

Mimicking your tantrums

With eyes coated in film

Screaming our photo op

 

As I submerge in silence

Where ribs become wishbones

Cracking in the grasps of time

To the symmetry of smiles

 

As these streams of ribbons weave

Throughout the mazes of my feet

Where words are inadequate

To describe your favorite eulogy

 

I tend to write out my nightmares (that I have frequently) into poems, hoping to make sense of them lol But to my teacher they probably come across as stories of drugs/sex/suicidal thoughts/etc. If they call counseling on me, I will take it as a compliment that my poems convey that much emotion lol

 

 

 

 

 

I dig the line, "That journey 6 feet". SImple in language, but conjures up the depth of a grave and it is a journey we are all on. I know I'm reading to much into it, but that is what I do. Now, I feel like I am back in poetry workshop. I should dig up some of my old stuff.

[hobohunter48]

Before I got my teaching credential, I majored in Creative Writing. Love it. If you know anything about Charles Bukowski, this poem of his really reveals a lot about what he was really about. I like poems that reveal some sort of truth about the writer, the reader, or the world. There is no fancy imagery in his poems.

 

The Bluebird by Charles Bukowski

 

there's a bluebird in my heart that

wants to get out

but I'm too tough for him,

I say, stay in there, I'm not going

to let anybody see

you.

there's a bluebird in my heart that

wants to get out

but I pour whiskey on him and inhale

cigarette smoke

and the whores and the bartenders

and the grocery clerks

never know that

he's

in there.

there's a bluebird in my heart that

wants to get out

but I'm too tough for him,

I say,

stay down, do you want to mess

me up?

you want to screw up the

works?

you want to blow my book sales in

Europe?

there's a bluebird in my heart that

wants to get out

but I'm too clever, I only let him out

at night sometimes

when everybody's asleep.

I say, I know that you're there,

so don't be

sad.

then I put him back,

but he's singing a little

in there, I haven't quite let him

die

and we sleep together like

that

with our

secret pact

and it's nice enough to

make a man

weep, but I don't

weep, do

you?

Love this poem, I used it in a class yesterday actually along with Citycop's version of it! Have you heard it?

[hipsterasfolk]

Yea the irony of drowning in 6 ft water is I'm 6'6" ahahaha My favorite part of writing that was the "liquid pearls", which is how I symbolized the air bubbles distressing the surface water by rippling it

 

Bukowski is awesome btw, I've been reading him a lot. Since he was the first person we discussed in class

 

PS Dig up some of your work \m/

[Guest]

 

Bukowski is awesome btw, I've been reading him a lot. Since he was the first person we discussed in class

Buk... he's what got me into poetry. I love the abrasiveness of his words and his fascination with human filth and squalor. sigh

[almightyseancore]

[casey]

Awesome thread. The OG poems are tight and Bukowski is always welcome. I also like Jim Carroll, Kenneth Rexroth, Gregory Corso, and Denis Johnson. Here's an original of mine. 
 

Glimpse at 6:03:

 

If I'm not up by 6, I don't 

get my cup of coffee.

Three minutes in and

I'm already behind.

 

With the first step of the day

she starts to analyze the next. 

With the last step, she learns

a lesson to lose sleep over. 

 

She folds the laundry with science and purpose. 
"This is a Wednesday skirt," she says

"So it's third from the top in the pile."

 

"This organization is fatal", I think.

And I would scream it. Carve it 

in every tile of the kitchen floor 

if I only had a chisel and I knew

where she kept the hammer. 

[ronniegwilliams]

Bukowski is one of my favorite writers.  I had a poetry professor a couple of semesters ago that completely loathed him though and any time I would submit pieces for workshop he would always make a comment like "smells of Bukowski" in which I would respond with "well, I was drunk off of the same bourbon when I wrote it". 

[Guest]

"but as God said,
crossing his legs,
I see where I have made plenty of poets
but not so very much
poetry."

 

Charles Bukowski

[Guest]

Bukowski is one of my favorite writers.  I had a poetry professor a couple of semesters ago that completely loathed him though and any time I would submit pieces for workshop he would always make a comment like "smells of Bukowski" in which I would respond with "well, I was drunk off of the same bourbon when I wrote it". 

I could not stand this one guy my friend used to date. He had an english degree and we’d talk poetry from time to time. After he found out I loved bukowski he’d always bring him up while we were at the bar and start fights with me about it. His main argument was that he was ‘overrated’. I remember drunkenly charging my whiskey waters on his tab just to spite him. I lent him my copy of Love is a dog from hell and that was the end of that.