The MoFo Poetry Club
Post poetry you love! Post poetry you write! Talk about it!
I was inspired to make this thread after reading this poem: Dinosauria, We by Charles Bukowski born like this into this as the chalk faces smile as Mrs. Death laughs as the elevators break as political landscapes dissolve as the supermarket bag boy holds a college degree as the oily fish spit out their oily prey as the sun is masked we are born like this into this into these carefully mad wars into the sight of broken factory windows of emptiness into bars where people no longer speak to each other into fist fights that end as shootings and knifings born into this into hospitals which are so expensive that it’s cheaper to die into lawyers who charge so much it’s cheaper to plead guilty into a country where the jails are full and the madhouses closed into a place where the masses elevate fools into rich heroes born into this walking and living through this dying because of this muted because of this castrated debauched disinherited because of this fooled by this used by this pissed on by this made crazy and sick by this made violent made inhuman by this the heart is blackened the fingers reach for the throat the gun the knife the bomb the fingers reach toward an unresponsive god the fingers reach for the bottle the pill the powder we are born into this sorrowful deadliness we are born into a government 60 years in debt that soon will be unable to even pay the interest on that debt and the banks will burn money will be useless there will be open and unpunished murder in the streets it will be guns and roving mobs land will be useless food will become a diminishing return nuclear power will be taken over by the many explosions will continually shake the earth radiated robot men will stalk each other the rich and the chosen will watch from space platforms Dante’s Inferno will be made to look like a children’s playground the sun will not be seen and it will always be night trees will die all vegetation will die radiated men will eat the flesh of radiated men the sea will be poisoned the lakes and rivers will vanish rain will be the new gold the rotting bodies of men and animals will stink in the dark wind the last few survivors will be overtaken by new and hideous diseases and the space platforms will be destroyed by attrition the petering out of supplies the natural effect of decay and there will be the most beautiful silence never heard born out of that. the sun still hidden there awaiting the next chapter. |
Re: The MoFo Poetry Club
The Southern Man
A man looking dapper dressed in white A group unaware of their plight He sits at the table covered in cash Money that makes men act rash The dealer proceeded to hand out the cards The southerner glanced, others stared hard The cards were good for more than just one The gamblers thought, as he tapped his gun A man dressed in green was at the table that hand He was redheaded and an irishman "Hey boyo' whatchoo got der'" he drunkingly asked "You mean my cards or my gun?" answered the southerner back The irishman proud, of an armed man uncaring He stared at the southern man eyes unwavering "Im all in Mr Fancy" said the man dressed in green Oh the southern mans eyes gleamed "All in", and the southern man pushed his chips The others folded, sinking like ships The two men glared, a table of money at stake In between two men, only one who would take The turn hit the table followed by the river All others were shocked, the southerner shivered The two cards dropped down were Kings and the irishman quickly began to sing A bawdy old irish song he recited To the expense of a gentleman whose defeat was decided All others hushed as they knew he went to far But the southern man left, hes a gentleman after all. |
Re: The MoFo Poetry Club
Am I full of contradictions? That is correct.
Now I am a plant. Yesterday, when I was between fire and water I was a harvest. Now I am a rose and live coal, Now I am the sun and the shadow I am not a god. Am I full of contradictions? That is correct... _________________________________________ My city collapsed The wall clock remained Our neighbourhood collapsed The wall clock remained The street collapsed The wall clock remained The square collapsed The wall clock remained My home collapsed The wall clock remained The wall collapsed On went The clock _________________________________________ On the day you kill me You'll find in my pocket Travel tickets To peace, To the fields and the rain, To people's conscience. Don't waste the tickets. |
Swan, I love that Bulowski poem. I'll try to be brave and post something of mine later.
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Re: The MoFo Poetry Club
By the way, those poems aren't mine! Just some of my favourites. I thought I should make that clear. Sorry for not saying that in the original post.
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Re: The MoFo Poetry Club
I....I wrote mine
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Originally Posted by TONGO (Post 1499548)
I....I wrote mine
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Re: The MoFo Poetry Club
O were my love yon Lilac fair,
Wi' purple blossoms to the Spring, And I, a bird to shelter there, When wearied on my little wing! How I wad mourn when it was torn By Autumn wild, and Winter rude! But I was sing on wanton wing, When youthfu' May its bloom renew'd. O gin my love were yon red rose, That grows upon the castle wa'; And I myself a drap o' dew, Into her bonie breast to fa'! O there, beyond expression blest, I'd feast on beauty a' the night; Seal'd on her silk-saft faulds to rest, Till fley'd awa by Phoebus' light! O were my love yon lilac fair - Robert Burns Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow. My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year. He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound’s the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake. The woods are lovely, dark and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep. Stopping By the Woods on a Snowy Evening - Robert Frost Lo! ’t is a gala night Within the lonesome latter years! An angel throng, bewinged, bedight In veils, and drowned in tears, Sit in a theatre, to see A play of hopes and fears, While the orchestra breathes fitfully The music of the spheres. Mimes, in the form of God on high, Mutter and mumble low, And hither and thither fly— Mere puppets they, who come and go At bidding of vast formless things That shift the scenery to and fro, Flapping from out their Condor wings Invisible Wo! That motley drama—oh, be sure It shall not be forgot! With its Phantom chased for evermore By a crowd that seize it not, Through a circle that ever returneth in To the self-same spot, And much of Madness, and more of Sin, And Horror the soul of the plot. But see, amid the mimic rout, A crawling shape intrude! A blood-red thing that writhes from out The scenic solitude! It writhes!—it writhes!—with mortal pangs The mimes become its food, And seraphs sob at vermin fangs In human gore imbued. Out—out are the lights—out all! And, over each quivering form, The curtain, a funeral pall, Comes down with the rush of a storm, While the angels, all pallid and wan, Uprising, unveiling, affirm That the play is the tragedy, “Man,” And its hero, the Conqueror Worm. The Conqueror Worm - Edgar Allan Poe Through the ghoul-guarded gateways of slumber, Past the wan-mooned abysses of night, I have lived o'er my lives without number, I have sounded all things with my sight; And I struggle and shriek ere the daybreak, being driven to madness with fright. I have whirled with the earth at the dawning, When the sky was a vaporous flame; I have seen the dark universe yawning Where the black planets roll without aim, Where they roll in their horror unheeded, without knowledge or lustre or name. I had drifted o'er seas without ending, Under sinister grey-clouded skies, That the many-forked lightning is rending, That resound with hysterical cries; With the moans of invisible daemons, that out of the green waters rise. I have plunged like a deer through the arches Of the hoary primoridal grove, Where the oaks feel the presence that marches, And stalks on where no spirit dares rove, And I flee from a thing that surrounds me, and leers through dead branches above. I have stumbled by cave-ridden mountains That rise barren and bleak from the plain, I have drunk of the fog-foetid fountains That ooze down to the marsh and the main; And in hot cursed tarns I have seen things, I care not to gaze on again. I have scanned the vast ivy-clad palace, I have trod its untenanted hall, Where the moon rising up from the valleys Shows the tapestried things on the wall; Strange figures discordantly woven, that I cannot endure to recall. I have peered from the casements in wonder At the mouldering meadows around, At the many-roofed village laid under The curse of a grave-girdled ground; And from rows of white urn-carven marble, I listen intently for sound. I have haunted the tombs of the ages, I have flown on the pinions of fear, Where the smoke-belching Erebus rages; Where the jokulls loom snow-clad and drear: And in realms where the sun of the desert consumes what it never can cheer. I was old when the pharaohs first mounted The jewel-decked throne by the Nile; I was old in those epochs uncounted When I, and I only, was vile; And Man, yet untainted and happy, dwelt in bliss on the far Arctic isle. Oh, great was the sin of my spirit, And great is the reach of its doom; Not the pity of Heaven can cheer it, Nor can respite be found in the tomb: Down the infinite aeons come beating the wings of unmerciful gloom. Through the ghoul-guarded gateways of slumber, Past the wan-mooned abysses of night, I have lived o'er my lives without number, I have sounded all things with my sight; And I struggle and shriek ere the daybreak, being driven to madness with fright. Nemesis - H.P Lovecraft O'er the midnight moorlands crying, Thro' the cypress forests sighing, In the night-wind madly flying, Hellish forms with streaming hair; In the barren branches creaking, By the stagnant swamp-pools speaking, Past the shore-cliffs ever shrieking, Damn'd demons of despair. Once, I think I half remember, Ere the grey skies of November Quench'd my youth's aspiring ember, Liv'd there such a thing as bliss; Skies that now are dark were beaming, Bold and azure, splendid seeming Till I learn'd it all was dreaming — Deadly drowsiness of Dis. But the stream of Time, swift flowing, Brings the torment of half-knowing — Dimly rushing, blindly going Past the never-trodden lea; And the voyager, repining, Sees the wicked death-fires shining, Hears the wicked petrel's whining As he helpless drifts to sea. Evil wings in ether beating; Vultures at the spirit eating; Things unseen forever fleeting Black against the leering sky. Ghastly shades of bygone gladness, Clawing fiends of future sadness, Mingle in a cloud of madness Ever on the soul to lie. Thus the living, lone and sobbing, In the throes of anguish throbbing, With the loathsome Furies robbing Night and noon of peace and rest. But beyond the groans and grating Of abhorrent Life, is waiting Sweet Oblivion, culminating All the years of fruitless quest. Despair - H.P Lovecraft |
Re: The MoFo Poetry Club
You guys wanna try a 4 line chain poem?
He was a musician, a harmonic physician There were no boundaries to his vision The color purple he somewhat invented It was there but in our minds uncemented. |
Re: The MoFo Poetry Club
I've never really enjoyed poems.
I'm sure there are a few good ones out there but mostly it's sophomoric or boring. |
Re: The MoFo Poetry Club
I disagree, and am not sure why you felt the need to post in this thread.
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I'll have a go, TONGO. I'm not good at rhyming poetry but.. oh well.
Originally Posted by TONGO (Post 1499589)
He was a musician, a harmonic physician
There were no boundaries to his vision The color purple he somewhat invented It was there but in our minds uncemented. He looked like pain and trust He held time in little regard The dullest moments he'd discard |
Originally Posted by Swan (Post 1499641)
I disagree
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Originally Posted by foster (Post 1499664)
Yeah always entertaining to see those famous contemporary poets giving an SNL monologue.
He was a musician, a harmonic physician There were no boundaries to his vision The color purple he somewhat invented It was there but in our minds uncemented. An everywhere man he was He looked like pain and trust He held time in little regard The dullest moments he'd discard He was a Bard that other Bards sought He invented a show that would not be forgot He created a sound with an insightful vision As a young boy he knew it would come to fruition |
Re: The MoFo Poetry Club
Gah, I repeated "vision" again, like a hiccup in the flow. :sick:
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He was a musician, a harmonic physician
There were no boundaries to his vision The color purple he somewhat invented It was there but in our minds uncemented. An everywhere man he was He looked like pain and trust He held time in little regard The dullest moments he'd discard He was a Bard that other Bards sought He invented a show that would not be forgot He created a sound with an insightful vision As a young boy he knew it would come to fruition But he had a secret, you see, a flaw deep down The thought of it made this special man frown In a sea of talent, delights of the arts He was insecure of what lay deep in his heart |
Re: The MoFo Poetry Club
Stupid Meme
Oh stupid meme, your game is naught Your picture but an after thought Your lettering gibberish, your words a stutter To a thread youre but a clutter There are good memes you must find and apologize for your own kind Theyre slick and new yet stand times test Those memes are among the best Not a stupid meme though, oh no'siree Ive better thoughts when taking a pee Stupid memes are forever, like roaches on screen You exist so that the good ones are easier seen |
He was a musician, a harmonic physician
There were no boundaries to his vision The color purple he somewhat invented It was there but in our minds uncemented. An everywhere man he was He looked like pain and trust He held time in little regard The dullest moments he'd discard He was a Bard that other Bards sought He invented a show that would not be forgot He created a sound with an insightful vision As a young boy he knew it would come to fruition But he had a secret, you see, a flaw deep down The thought of it made this special man frown In a sea of talent, delights of the arts He was insecure of what lay deep in his heart His thoughts could be dark, his music could not For angels sound mighty, his cacophony sought On many levels did his sound travel Into our own minds, and cleared out our babble |
Re: The MoFo Poetry Club
My new stanza is pretty lame but I'm trying to propel the poem's story forward, so hopefully this'll give it a boost.
-------- He was a musician, a harmonic physician There were no boundaries to his vision The color purple he somewhat invented It was there but in our minds uncemented. An everywhere man he was He looked like pain and trust He held time in little regard The dullest moments he'd discard He was a Bard that other Bards sought He invented a show that would not be forgot He created a sound with an insightful vision As a young boy he knew it would come to fruition But he had a secret, you see, a flaw deep down The thought of it made this special man frown In a sea of talent, delights of the arts He was insecure of what lay deep in his heart His thoughts could be dark, his music could not For angels sound mighty, his cacophony sought On many levels did his sound travel Into our own minds, and cleared out our babble His art was propelled when one day He was sought for by a victim of his way This person was cheerful though, nothing gory Sit back and I'll tell you the story |
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