Since there is a lyrics thread, I though I might make one about poetry,
but created in the general forum,
as most of my poems is far from filled with joy or happiness.
Feel free to comment and post your own poetry.
...a little poem to start the thread with ->
THE WANDERER
The tear is a lonely wanderer,
followed by brothers and sisters.
---------
Don't get me wrong, I mostly got larger poems,
but in general they all are a bit small,
compared to most poems I read.
Mind of Masters
Moderators: Shir'le E. Illios, Bhaern Quel
If you're satisfied with it, it will!
-------------
DEVILS FATE
devil fly
devil die
where you go
are where you blow
devil fly
devil die
when you blow
what happens you know
devil fly
devil die
disasters and diseases
a fire breath releases
devil fly
devil die
you are my god
drink my blood
devil fly
devil die
I sacrificed myself
now lying on a shelf
devil fly
devil die
here in hell on a fire bay
we are together every day
devil fly
devil die
I killed you with my hate
always listen to your fate
devil fly
devil die
now I rule in hell
captured in this fire shell
-------------
DEVILS FATE
devil fly
devil die
where you go
are where you blow
devil fly
devil die
when you blow
what happens you know
devil fly
devil die
disasters and diseases
a fire breath releases
devil fly
devil die
you are my god
drink my blood
devil fly
devil die
I sacrificed myself
now lying on a shelf
devil fly
devil die
here in hell on a fire bay
we are together every day
devil fly
devil die
I killed you with my hate
always listen to your fate
devil fly
devil die
now I rule in hell
captured in this fire shell
I knew a thousand feelings
As a thousand angels cried.
I hid my face,
I hid my eyes.
I never did recover
But my struggles slowly died.
A cat with ivory , quicksilver feet
Upon my soul doth sit beneath.
Dug in his claws,
And set his jaws
And then began to eat.
'Til naught was left
But an empty tomb,
That once contained my me.
Yet still this tomb
Is such a room,
That I began to see.
A rat with long and yellowed teeth,
Under my skull doth lie beneath.
To nibble at my aching brain
(The shards of anguish,
This my pain)
To bite and bite
All century long.
To fill my heart
With his eating song.
He dines still near,
He does not leave.
Yet it still ocurred to me,
I began to hear.
A thousand different beasts
Held a thousand different feasts,
'Pon the humble table of me.
Yet throughout my pain,
I was to gain.
I began to feel.
As a thousand angels cried.
I hid my face,
I hid my eyes.
I never did recover
But my struggles slowly died.
A cat with ivory , quicksilver feet
Upon my soul doth sit beneath.
Dug in his claws,
And set his jaws
And then began to eat.
'Til naught was left
But an empty tomb,
That once contained my me.
Yet still this tomb
Is such a room,
That I began to see.
A rat with long and yellowed teeth,
Under my skull doth lie beneath.
To nibble at my aching brain
(The shards of anguish,
This my pain)
To bite and bite
All century long.
To fill my heart
With his eating song.
He dines still near,
He does not leave.
Yet it still ocurred to me,
I began to hear.
A thousand different beasts
Held a thousand different feasts,
'Pon the humble table of me.
Yet throughout my pain,
I was to gain.
I began to feel.
I haven't done this in a very long time but here goes...
No glee in the eye,
Mistress of deny,
Take to your place
'Couse I hide my face
And cry.
Then did she came,
The one of stolen fame,
Wrongly accused,
She's just been abused.
She is my aim.
I wanted her to be mine
I wanted with her to dine
A had to hold
And unfold
The forgotten word of crime.
I died in her arms at night
Just after the fight
Before darkness fell
Someone used the tolling bell
And she become light...
Ok it's the first poem I've written in three years, and English is my second language so... It's not a very good poem... But somehow I like it.
No glee in the eye,
Mistress of deny,
Take to your place
'Couse I hide my face
And cry.
Then did she came,
The one of stolen fame,
Wrongly accused,
She's just been abused.
She is my aim.
I wanted her to be mine
I wanted with her to dine
A had to hold
And unfold
The forgotten word of crime.
I died in her arms at night
Just after the fight
Before darkness fell
Someone used the tolling bell
And she become light...
Ok it's the first poem I've written in three years, and English is my second language so... It's not a very good poem... But somehow I like it.
Why thank you. I think I'll just about start writting again. Thanx for the good word. Well didn't have anyone particular in mind. It's more like an idea to a real entity. This is something I had to read for my courses. I found it quite something.
Howl
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical
naked, dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an
angry fix, angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to
the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,
who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the
supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities
contemplating jazz,
who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels
staggering on tenement roofs illuminated,
who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes hallucinating Arkansas
and Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of war,
who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene odes on the
windows of the skull,
who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burning their money in wastebaskets
and listening to the Terror through the wall,
who got busted in their pubic beards returning through Laredo with a belt of
marijuana for New York,
who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in Paradise Alley, death, or
purgatoried their torsos night after night,
with dreams, and drugs, with waking nightmares, alcohol and cock and endless
balls,
incomparable blind streets of shuddering cloud and lightning in the mind leaping
toward poles of Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the motionless world of Time
in between
Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery dawns, wine drunkenness
over the rooftops, storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon blinking traffic
light, sun and moon and tree vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brooklyn,
ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind,
who chained themselves to subways for the endless ride from Battery to holy
Bronx on benzedrine until the noise of wheels and children brought them down
shuddering mouth-wracked and battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance
in the drear light of Zoo,
who sank all night in the submarine light of Bickford's, floated out and sat
through the stale beer afternooon in desolate Fugazzi's, listening to the crack
of doom on the hydrogen jukebox,
who talked continuously seventy hours from park to pad to bar to Bellevue to
museum to the Brooklyn Bridge,
a lost battalion of platonic conversationalists jumping down the stoops off fire
escapes off windowsills off Empire State out of the moon,
yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts and memories and anecdotes
and eyeball kicks and shocks of hospitals and jails and wars,
whole intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days and nights with
brilliant eyes, meat for the Synagogue cast on the pavement,
who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a trail of ambiguous picture
postcards of Atlantic City Hall,
suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grindings and migraines of China
under junk-withdrawal in Newark's bleak furnished room,
who wandered around and around at midnight in the railroad yard wondering where
to go, and went, leaving no broken hearts,
who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing through snow toward
lonesome farms in grandfather night,
who studied Plotinus Poe St. John of the Cross telepathy and bop kaballa because
the cosmos instinctively vibrated at their feet in Kansas,
who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking visionary indian angels who
were visionary indian angels,
who thought they were only mad when Baltimore gleamed in supernatural ecstasy,
who jumped in limousines with the Chinaman of Oklahoma on the impulse of winter
midnight streetlight smalltown rain,
who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston seeking jazz or sex or soup, and
followed the brilliant Spaniard to converse about America and Eternity, a
hopeless task, and so took ship to Africa,
who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving behind nothing but the
shadow of dungarees and the lava and ash of poetry scattered in fireplace
Chicago...
-- Allen Ginsberg
Howl
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical
naked, dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an
angry fix, angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to
the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,
who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the
supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities
contemplating jazz,
who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels
staggering on tenement roofs illuminated,
who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes hallucinating Arkansas
and Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of war,
who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene odes on the
windows of the skull,
who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burning their money in wastebaskets
and listening to the Terror through the wall,
who got busted in their pubic beards returning through Laredo with a belt of
marijuana for New York,
who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in Paradise Alley, death, or
purgatoried their torsos night after night,
with dreams, and drugs, with waking nightmares, alcohol and cock and endless
balls,
incomparable blind streets of shuddering cloud and lightning in the mind leaping
toward poles of Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the motionless world of Time
in between
Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery dawns, wine drunkenness
over the rooftops, storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon blinking traffic
light, sun and moon and tree vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brooklyn,
ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind,
who chained themselves to subways for the endless ride from Battery to holy
Bronx on benzedrine until the noise of wheels and children brought them down
shuddering mouth-wracked and battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance
in the drear light of Zoo,
who sank all night in the submarine light of Bickford's, floated out and sat
through the stale beer afternooon in desolate Fugazzi's, listening to the crack
of doom on the hydrogen jukebox,
who talked continuously seventy hours from park to pad to bar to Bellevue to
museum to the Brooklyn Bridge,
a lost battalion of platonic conversationalists jumping down the stoops off fire
escapes off windowsills off Empire State out of the moon,
yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts and memories and anecdotes
and eyeball kicks and shocks of hospitals and jails and wars,
whole intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days and nights with
brilliant eyes, meat for the Synagogue cast on the pavement,
who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a trail of ambiguous picture
postcards of Atlantic City Hall,
suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grindings and migraines of China
under junk-withdrawal in Newark's bleak furnished room,
who wandered around and around at midnight in the railroad yard wondering where
to go, and went, leaving no broken hearts,
who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing through snow toward
lonesome farms in grandfather night,
who studied Plotinus Poe St. John of the Cross telepathy and bop kaballa because
the cosmos instinctively vibrated at their feet in Kansas,
who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking visionary indian angels who
were visionary indian angels,
who thought they were only mad when Baltimore gleamed in supernatural ecstasy,
who jumped in limousines with the Chinaman of Oklahoma on the impulse of winter
midnight streetlight smalltown rain,
who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston seeking jazz or sex or soup, and
followed the brilliant Spaniard to converse about America and Eternity, a
hopeless task, and so took ship to Africa,
who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving behind nothing but the
shadow of dungarees and the lava and ash of poetry scattered in fireplace
Chicago...
-- Allen Ginsberg
Here's something on X'mas. It's late, and lousy, and not finished even, but I guess I couldn't do better on a bus.
From me to you
a poem written.
It's got to do
with time to be greaten.
Time is and goes
It seemes so slow;
But truly it flows;
To what? me not know.
It ends? Not at all!
Like a snake!
And again it was fall!?!
No! The winter was fake.
And in this season
When snow was expelled
though without (or with) a reason
A humble truth is held
Held or kept secret?
Ney tis not so.
It's seen like a crumbled bisquit
And it's been known of old.
Cheerful bright and bliss
A drunk would go pale
Without (and that's no miss!)
Booze and aile.
(...)
From me to you
a poem written.
It's got to do
with time to be greaten.
Time is and goes
It seemes so slow;
But truly it flows;
To what? me not know.
It ends? Not at all!
Like a snake!
And again it was fall!?!
No! The winter was fake.
And in this season
When snow was expelled
though without (or with) a reason
A humble truth is held
Held or kept secret?
Ney tis not so.
It's seen like a crumbled bisquit
And it's been known of old.
Cheerful bright and bliss
A drunk would go pale
Without (and that's no miss!)
Booze and aile.
(...)
I climbed a wall of roses
Just to crash into the thorns
Of a past I can’t remember,
Just to hurt me all the more.
So I stood up tall and proud ,
To watch the earth crush me down,
And wait for any sorrow it might bring.
I crashed through a wall of needles,
Just to be buried by the pain.
Of a life I long dismembered
Though it brought me little gain.
Still I stood, small and strong,
Though I knew I had been wronged,
And waited for any treasures it might bring.
I found a tower of glass,
Just to be shattered by my past,
Of the thoughts I refused to remember.
Yet they surface, all the more.
Still I stood, small but proud,
Though my life tried to bring me down,
And I laugh at any sorrows it might bring.
Just to crash into the thorns
Of a past I can’t remember,
Just to hurt me all the more.
So I stood up tall and proud ,
To watch the earth crush me down,
And wait for any sorrow it might bring.
I crashed through a wall of needles,
Just to be buried by the pain.
Of a life I long dismembered
Though it brought me little gain.
Still I stood, small and strong,
Though I knew I had been wronged,
And waited for any treasures it might bring.
I found a tower of glass,
Just to be shattered by my past,
Of the thoughts I refused to remember.
Yet they surface, all the more.
Still I stood, small but proud,
Though my life tried to bring me down,
And I laugh at any sorrows it might bring.