lexicondevil Posted January 25, 2013 Share Posted January 25, 2013 Love this poem, I used it in a class yesterday actually along with Citycop's version of it! Have you heard it? No, I need to check it out. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
lexicondevil Posted January 25, 2013 Share Posted January 25, 2013 Another favorite of mine in Julio Cortazar. His writing is simple, yet he touches that pulse. To Be Read in the Interrogative Have you seen have you truly seen the snow the stars the felt steps of the breeze Have you touched really have you touched the plate the bread the face of that woman you love so much Have you lived like a blow to the head the flash the gasp the fall the flight Have you known known in every pore of your skin how your eyes your hands your sex your soft heart must be thrown away must be wept away must be invented all over again ~ from Save Twilight(City Lights 1997) Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Guest Posted January 25, 2013 Share Posted January 25, 2013 Marty Farty had a party And all the farts where there Then Fruity TootyLet out a beauty And all the farts Went out for air Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
ptrsev Posted January 25, 2013 Share Posted January 25, 2013 Hard to pick, but I think this may be my favorite Bukowski poem: The world's greatest loserby Charles BukowskiHe used to sell papers in front:"Get your winners! Get rich on a dime!"and about the 3rd or 4th raceyou'd see him rolling in on his rotten boardwith roller skates underneath.he'd propel himself along on his hands;he just had small stumps for legsand the rims of the skate wheels were worn off.you could see inside the wheels and they would wobblesomething awfulshooting and flashingimperialistic sparks!he moved faster than anybody, rolled cigarette dangling,you could hear him coming"god o mighty, what was that?" the new ones asked.He was the world's greatest loserbut he never gave upwheeling toward the 2 dollar window screaming:"IT'S THE 4 HORSE, YOU FOOLS! HOW THE HELL YA GONNA BEAT THE 4?"up on the board the 4 would be reading60 to one.I never heard him pick a winner.They say he slept in the bushes. I guess that's where hedied. He's not around anymore.There was the big fat blond whorewho kept thouching him for luck, andlaughing.Nobody had any luck. The whore is gonetoo.I guess nothing ever works for us. We're fools, of course --bucking the inside plus a 15 percent take,but how are you going to tell a dreamerthere's a 15 percent take on thedream? He'll just laugh and say,is that all?I miss thosesparks. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
icecream Posted January 25, 2013 Share Posted January 25, 2013 not to be an elitest here but well I love Bukowski as well I have like 23-24 books of his he's helped me through so much shit in life. anyway I give you anis mojgani http://youtu.be/GembNtyjRYw Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
lexicondevil Posted January 26, 2013 Share Posted January 26, 2013 I'm with Buk. Now I think I will have a beer. http://youtu.be/lAhrr7JNlhk http://youtu.be/lAhrr7JNlhk Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
SeeMoreGlass Posted January 26, 2013 Share Posted January 26, 2013 Love Poetry...Have some T.S Eliot records of him actually reading his own poetry...pretty cool stuff Here is a poem I wrote for a creative writing class a while ago...feel free to hate on it... A Walrus on a Cross, But its Not What You’re Thinking Empty messiahs All this world wants is empty messiahs Each man on a cross Like a walrus with no tusks Trying to eat a bowl of Fruit Loops While playing the Guitar Goo Goo G’Joob Jesus Christ in a Clown suit Shopping at the Wal-mart For some tube tops And Natty Light High heeled telephones Passing themselves off as sneakers Goo Goo G’Joob Michael Jackson Couldn’t pull himself Off of this cross If he had two Young boys with Their pants down Goo Goo G’Joob They want a Michelangelo And I’m looking for a Dali Crafted out of cellophane tigers And vinyl forests Clocks hanging from noses In deconstructed hallways Paint brains on a wall and call it art Put a walrus in a cage and call it justice Stab the king with his crown and call it rebellion Come back from the dead and become a savior Kill a genius and live forever Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
franco Posted January 26, 2013 Share Posted January 26, 2013 i just wrote a haiku for you guys stop collecting now reissues are stupid man vinyl is a gas love, franco Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
casey Posted January 26, 2013 Share Posted January 26, 2013 Just realized e.e. cummings hasn't been rep'd yet. My favorite: who knows if the moon's a balloon,coming out of a keen city in the sky--filled with pretty people? ( and if you and I should get into it, if they should take me and take you into their balloon, why then we'd go up higher with all the pretty people than houses and steeples and clouds: go sailing away and away sailing into a keen city which nobody's ever visited, where always it's Spring) and everyone's in love and flowers pick themselves Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
steventangent Posted January 26, 2013 Share Posted January 26, 2013 Lately I'm writing more prose/short stories. So...I don't have anything to contribute? Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
hipsterasfolk Posted January 26, 2013 Author Share Posted January 26, 2013 potato/pototoe! Post that stuff anyway broski daddy! Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
steventangent Posted February 2, 2013 Share Posted February 2, 2013 This isn't poetry. It's not anything. It was a status update I wrote on Facebook when I couldn't sleep.What It Takes To Survive In This BusinessEvery morning from Monday through Thursday, Kenneth Wade stops at the same coffee shop. He waits patiently behind the two or three other regulars, and he rarely changes his order.It's not just the coffee that perks him up; it's the barista, Alison Marx. She wears her brunette hair up, held in place with chopsticks. She has a tattoo of a drawing on her wrist that he doesn't realize is by Shel Silverstein. The strap of her apron touches the bare skin of her neck over the collar of her polo shirt sometimes. She has the darkest brown eyes behind her cat's-eye glasses. She smiles a perfectly slightly crooked smile. Every bit of it drives him wild.He makes small talk. Flirts casually. She compliments him on his tie. He always drops his change and an extra dollar or two in the tip jar. She thanks him and calls him "sweet." He reassures himself she isn't humoring him. He tells himself that she's charmed by his wit, grateful for his change, impressed by his Brooks Brothers suits. It all adds up to one thing; he bets she'd fuck him if she had the chance.Kenneth starts every day at his firm by putting the coffee on his desk and stopping to chat with his partners. They needle each other about their golf games, call each other faggots, joke about each other's wives being unfaithful, and sexually harass their secretaries, who take all of it in stride. Every bit of it is okay because that's just the kind of environment we have at this office. If you don't like it, quit. Pussy.Alison ends every day at her coffee shop by going into the bathroom, looking into the mirror, letting her hair down. She takes off her glasses and leans forward to wash her face. When she stands back up and looks at her reflection again, the smile is always gone. She no longer needs it after washing off the filth of the dozens of insufferable macho dickheads that she has to deal with and force herself to be friendly toward. She balls her apron up, collects her tip money, and stops to buy a treat for the autistic younger brother she's taking care of while her mother is bedridden from aggressive cancer therapy.And every night, as they lay in their respective beds, they ready themselves for another day of doing what it takes to survive in this business. edit : this is a little embarrassing, actually. but I had written a bunch of things kind of like this, sort of with a very specific audience of people I'm friends with in mind. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
steventangent Posted February 9, 2013 Share Posted February 9, 2013 I don't know where else to share this, but this was another recent facebook status update of mine :The light turned green and I slammed on the gas, swinging into the curb in front of the Rialto Theatre and coming to a stop almost as abruptly. I pushed the door of my Cadillac open and it scraped the top of the sidewalk. She darted out of the theatre doors, through the pouring rain, and dove into the bench seat, slamming the door shut behind her. She was a few feet and a few miles away, all at once.I could scarcely sort how much of her face was wet with tears, and how much from the late autumn downpour. She was still in her chorus line outfit - the delicate plumage was soaked but still stood up enough to rub the headliner of my car, staining it in orange and pink and green hues. I didn't care. She pulled out a Julep and I lit it for her. She slumped down into the seat and took a few deep drags before either of us spoke, an emaciated rainbow in the muted half-light of the fading marquee. I could hear every soft sigh over the tempestuous howl outside."What happened?" I asked.She blew smoke against her window and answered with the last of her breath. "Got fired."I could feel her dreams washing away, like so many dead leaves running down the gutters and into the storm drain. My heart ached for her."What in God's name for?""I guess there's just no place in this business for a girl that ain't got a big ol' booty..." Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
steventangent Posted February 9, 2013 Share Posted February 9, 2013 One more of my late-night facebook posts :The sea-salt air tugged at Captain Swineheart's brimstone beard. From my vantage point below deck, watching it whip in the wind against the slate-grey sky was like watching gunpowder burn. His fearsome eyes met mine momentarily. I prayed his legendary cruelty would not soon follow."Oglesby!" he bellowed. The first mate. A good man, and hardly deserving of indiscriminate punishment, or at least no more than any of the rest of us. Too bad for him, but if it meant I'd be spared the lash, then all the better for me."Oglesby!" he hollered again. His voice sounded like he had barnacles in his vocal chords. "Show yourself! Malodorous troll!""Begging your pardon for my indisposition, sir!" Oglesby stumbled toward the Captain, half in a drunken stupor, and half struggling as the ship heaved and wretched on the sea beneath his feet."Drunkard! I will not have this treachery aboard my ship! Present thyself to the bosun for keelhaul!" Swineheart barely had room to talk. Though I'd never voice it to anybody else about this ship, I couldn't decide which was the stronger case for mutiny; his cruelty, or his hypocrisy."But Captain!" he protested. "You'll need every strong deckhand to ride out this storm. I'll serve my punishment in due course.""By then you will have sobered up!" he pressed his flintlock pistol into the first mate's chest. In his inebriated state, he hardly noticed. "Wretched cur! Cursed wretch! Thou shalt not defy me in front of my own crew!" the ship lurched. It wasn't until Swineheart tumbled that I realized that he, too, was plum drunk.That slate grey sky afire now. I had never seen anything like it in all my years, though this was my first time at sea. Perhaps a Divine manifestation of the spite and hatefulness and destruction that dwell in the Good Captain's chest. Maybe, then, His Providence that we be punished for our association with such a terrible man. Dread welled within me as I watched the chaos unfold above deck, Oglesby and the bosun, the Captain and various crew being thrown about like children's playthings. Through it all, the Captain never took his eyes off his first mate - or the aim of his pistol. I prayed a silent prayer to God.We have been bad boys. We deserved to be punished. But this - this is not what we signed on for. I knew we were going to be whipped, possibly even chained up. I knew we were going to be dominated by a cruel master. But being trapped below deck as the ship capsized and drowning is not how I imagined it would end, no matter how naughty of a boy I had been.It was then that my cell phone buzzed. A text from my lover Carlos, also aboard the ship. "I don't know about you honey, but this is the last time we sign up for a gay cruise on Craigslist." Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
suchashorttime Posted February 9, 2013 Share Posted February 9, 2013 sweet topic. i spend a few semesters in undergrad with poetry classes, everything from classics to leftists and the like. it was great. since i've gotten my masters in teaching, i think i've lost a lot of that part of myself. i spend an entire semester with james wright's "the branch will not break," which is a beautiful collection of his poetry. i'll share my favorite from his collection here. i'm also a big fan of cummings, yeats, williams, and perhaps lesser a fan of bukowski, though i do love his work. perhaps i'll share some of mine, too, but it's hard to share these things. A Blessing Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota, Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass. And the eyes of those two Indian ponies Darken with kindness. They have come gladly out of the willows To welcome my friend and me. We step over the barbed wire into the pasture Where they have been grazing all day, alone. They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness That we have come. They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other. There is no loneliness like theirs. At home once more, They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness. I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms, For she has walked over to me And nuzzled my left hand. She is black and white, Her mane falls wild on her forehead, And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear That is delicate as the skin over a girl’s wrist. Suddenly I realize That if I stepped out of my body I would break Into blossom. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
suchashorttime Posted February 9, 2013 Share Posted February 9, 2013 here's one of mine. i appreciate feedback, 'specially from you lit buffs. “A One-Sided Conversation With D., 6 Years Old, As He Fumbles To Wear His Glasses" But, you see, our worlds are different. When you get big, bricks make buildings, but were never blocks to be built with. Trees spend the Winter harvesting sap, waiting for the first ripe day in Spring, to bleed all over your windshield; There is always blood to clean up. I still cry when I scrape my knee, blood or not; I’m just not as resilient. You see, the bigger you get the more things bleed and the less people are willing to kiss it and make it better. It’s not as easy to leave behind, keep running with a slowly dripping knee, no one caring to wipe the trail behind me. What I’m trying to say is I’m sorry you have to see me bleed. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
000000 Posted February 9, 2013 Share Posted February 9, 2013 I know no one else has posted lyrics, but I had to because mwY is one of the most poetic bands out there (also one of my favorites). mewithoutYou - "Messes Of Men" "I do not exist," we faithfully insistsailing in our separate ships,and in each tiny caravel -tiring of trying, there's a necessary dyinglike the horseshoe crab in its proper season sheds its shellsuch distance from our friends,like a scratch across a lens,made everything look wrong from anywhere we stoodand our paper blew away before we'd left the bayso half-blind we wrote these songs on sheets of salty woodyou caught me making eyes at the other boatmen's wivesand heard me laughing louder at the jokes told by their daughtersI'd set my course for land,but you well understandit takes a steady hand to navigate adulterous watersthe propeller's spinning blades held acquaintance with the wavesas there's mistakes I've made no rowing could outrunthe cloth low on the mast like to say Ive got no pastbut I'm nonetheless the librarian and secretary's sonwith tarnish on my brass and mildew on my glassI'd never want someone so crass as to want someone like mebut a few leagues off the shore, I bit a flashing lureand I assure you, it was not what it expected it to be!I still taste its kiss, that dull hook in my lipis a memory as useless as a rod without a reelto an anchor-ever-dropped-seasick-yet-still-docked captain spotted napping with his first mate at the wheel floating forgetfully along, with no need to be strong. we keep our confessions long and when we pray we keep it shortI drank a thimbleful of fire and I'm not ever going backOh, my God!"I do not exist," we faithfully insistwhile watching sink the heavy ship of everything we knewif ever you come near I'll hold up high a mirrorLord, I could never show you anything as beautiful as you Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Emo Revival Posted February 9, 2013 Share Posted February 9, 2013 So I'm not a poet by any stretch, but my great uncle was apparently a pretty famous one. I could only find one of his poems online http://www.generalmihailovich.com/2010/07/draza-dies-martyr-by-watson-kirkconnell.html but I have at least a dozen books that he wrote in my library. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
hipsterasfolk Posted February 11, 2013 Author Share Posted February 11, 2013 Clough St. Poetry flourishes in the corridorWhere the hallway becomes the bedroomFollowing the beer stains on the carpetLike the stones that rest in creeksFoundation cracked like smilesTeeth the same shade of the wallFurniture pieced by tapeWounds mended by bandageRemembered by one’s peripheryBy a hundred pacing objectsThat burned holes into the carpet Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
hipsterasfolk Posted February 16, 2013 Author Share Posted February 16, 2013 Working on a confessional poem for this week's class assignment. Can't tell if this makes sense, or if I should really just go to bed afterwork...rather than trying to do homework Winter Depression is too Cliché (to write about)I am confinedTo my stoic expressionMasking the phenotypesInherited by the processOf emotions I’ll never feelConstricting my bodyLike straps on the mobile cotWhere my body restsQuite too oftenThe mirror in the bathroomReflect flaw,Processed by the windowsOf my damned soulStill hemorrhaging,From making love to maltsEach and every nightUnderneath the studio apartmentsWhere the city sleepsExposing my defeated prime Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
almightyseancore Posted February 16, 2013 Share Posted February 16, 2013 why? your new favorite band some trendy hipster hip hop. it's his favorite band. you just want to impress him. you never liked this shit before you met him. maybe if i stood up straighter my neck wouldn't look so fat. or maybe that just makes it worse. i should eat less and consume more stimulants. hipsterasfolk 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
yocaseycasey Posted February 19, 2013 Share Posted February 19, 2013 I read through this entire thread this past weekend from my phone. I forgot I read it. One thing that REALLY bugs me about the combination of poetry and twenty-somethings is that the result always ends up being what I like to call "Bukowski Boners." I fell into the trap myself. Reading Bukowski for the first time is no different than when you heard "The Places You Have Come To Fear the Most" for the first time back in 7th, 8th, 9th grade (depending on whether you're 27 or 30 years old). It opens the door to something you never realized you liked, and ends up setting the tone for your taste for years to come. However, Bukowski wrote the same 10-15 poems over and over and over again. He has some great work, but he also has some bland work, and really, he was just a dirty old man that got to skate through life drinking and writing because he knew the right people. I started reading "Women" a few weeks ago while doing laundry and quit after page four, because it just clicked... I don't want to read that shit. What the world DOESN'T know is that there is an awesome poetry movement happening in the dark corners of California. Write Bloody is a group of poets that are actually pretty awesome. They do a lot of "spoken word" (they hate that term), but also sell chap-books, music CDs, and other stuff. Derrick Brown actually went on tour with Cold War Kids once. Here he is singing and performing Meatloaf and it gets me everytime: Here's one of Shira Erlichman (this poem is fucking awesome): And George Watsky is known for his rap YouTube videos, but he actually majored in poetry at Emerson: My general point here is: don't worship some dude that died and lived a miserable life (but wrote 10 poems a night about birds in his heart and running out of beer) just because all of your friends like him. What the fuck? He's the Blink 182 of poetry. The best poems are the ones by nobodies... not somebodies. And they are the ones that you'll remember. Oh, and Jon Sands rules: http://vimeo.com/19109726 chamb117 and suchashorttime 2 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
steventangent Posted February 20, 2013 Share Posted February 20, 2013 I've actually never read Bukowski. Or Palahniuk. Feel free to make fun of me. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
patthickey Posted February 20, 2013 Share Posted February 20, 2013 This kid is doing a poem a day for 2013 here And he also is a huge record collector and is pretty cool, The last time I checked he isn't a member here. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Guest Posted February 20, 2013 Share Posted February 20, 2013 I didn't want to like anything casey posted, but I did. Calico grounds is an independent publisher I enjoy. I dated a guy who had a few chapbooks from there. http://calicogrounds.bigcartel.com/ still probably going to pop bukowski boners for a long time though. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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