The MoFo Poetry Club

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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.



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.



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.



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.



I....I wrote mine
I enjoyed it. You're talented, Tongo



Wanna Date? Got Any Money?
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
__________________
Buy a bag, go home in a box.



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.



I disagree, and am not sure why you felt the need to post in this thread.



I'll have a go, TONGO. I'm not good at rhyming poetry but.. oh well.

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



Yeah always entertaining to see those famous contemporary poets giving an SNL monologue.
Thank you for sharing



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



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



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



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