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 Post subject: Re: Poetry
PostPosted: Mon March 03, 2014 7:30 pm 
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I've been POOSSTTIiiEEnngeeaahh
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Joined: Wed January 02, 2013 6:02 am
Posts: 10283
Location: Tristes Tropiques
Best readers I saw at AWP this year (out of 32):

Danniel Schoonebeek
Carrie Lorig
James Gendron
C. Violet Eaton
Gillian Conoley

Schoonebeek and Lorig by a large margin. Schoonebeek's book just came out on YesYes and it rules.


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 Post subject: Re: Poetry
PostPosted: Sun June 25, 2017 8:01 pm 
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The Master
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Posts: 41665
Location: Buenos Aires
A Refusal to Mourn the Death, by Fire, of a Child in London
Dylan Thomas

Never until the mankind making

Bird beast and flower

Fathering and all humbling darkness

Tells with silence the last light breaking

And the still hour

Is come of the sea tumbling in harness

And I must enter again the round

Zion of the water bead

And the synagogue of the ear of corn

Shall I let pray the shadow of a sound

Or sow my salt seed

In the least valley of sackcloth to mourn

The majesty and burning of the child’s death.

I shall not murder

The mankind of her going with a grave truth

Nor blaspheme down the stations of the breath

With any further

Elegy of innocence and youth.

Deep with the first dead lies London’s daughter,

Robed in the long friends,

The grains beyond age, the dark veins of her mother,

Secret by the unmourning water

Of the riding Thames.

After the first death, there is no other.

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Human interaction is important. To love, to laugh, to feel joy, for some even friendship. These are important to life, and a vital part of RM.


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 Post subject: Re: Poetry
PostPosted: Sat October 07, 2017 5:48 pm 
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The Master
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Joined: Tue January 01, 2013 3:35 pm
Posts: 41665
Location: Buenos Aires
The strings, as if they knew
the lovers are about to meet, begin
to soar, and when he marches in the door
they soar some more—half ecstasy, half pain,
the musical equivalent of rain—
while children who have grown up with one stare
steal further looks across a crowded room,
as goners tend to do.

My father loved it too,
warned me at dinner that he’d be a wreck
long before the final trio came
(Ja, ja, she sighed, and gave him up forever);
he found his Sophie better late than never
and took the fifth about his silent tears
but like him I’m a softie, with a massive
gift for feeling blue.

I went with others, threw
bouquets and caution to the whirling wind,
believing that the rhapsody on stage
would waft its wonders up to our cheap seats;
but mirrors can be beautiful fierce cheats,
delusions of an over-smitten mind;
I relished trouser roles until I had
no petals left to strew.

Up, down the avenue
I wandered like a ghost, I wondered why
a miracle is always a mirage,
then plodded home and set back all the clocks,
spent hard-won funds installing strong new locks,
telling myself if violence like this
could never sound like violins, I would
to art, not life, be true.

And I am trying to
fathom the way I got from there to here,
the joy that snuck up when I’d sworn off joy:
we’ve made a sterling start, we’ve got a plan
to watch it on your satin couch downtown
and I’ll be there upon the stroke of eight,
bearing in my trembling ungloved hand
a silver rose for you.


rachel wetzsteon

_________________
Anders wrote:
Human interaction is important. To love, to laugh, to feel joy, for some even friendship. These are important to life, and a vital part of RM.


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 Post subject: Re: Poetry
PostPosted: Sat October 07, 2017 6:00 pm 
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Rated PG-13 for the power of theatre
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Joined: Tue January 01, 2013 5:33 pm
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Location: Anarchist Jurisdiction
I got to experience the Sylvia Plath exhibit at the National Portrait Gallery this past Monday. Reading her poetry was one of the first times that poetry has affected me beyond utter confusion and an aching surge of futility. I hate that I'm so completely stupid about poetry. Hate, hate, hate it. But Plath's stuff, much of it rough and/or unpublished, really hit me. I have her Ariel collection. Maybe I should read that.


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 Post subject: Re: Poetry
PostPosted: Sat October 07, 2017 6:07 pm 
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The Master
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Location: Different mountains than strat and bodysnatcher.
durdencommatyler wrote:
I got to experience the Sylvia Plath exhibit at the National Portrait Gallery this past Monday. Reading her poetry was one of the first times that poetry has affected me beyond utter confusion and an aching surge of futility. I hate that I'm so completely stupid about poetry. Hate, hate, hate it. But Plath's stuff, much of it rough and/or unpublished, really hit me. I have her Ariel collection. Maybe I should read that.

You should watch Paterson! I think you would love it.


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 Post subject: Re: Poetry
PostPosted: Sat October 07, 2017 6:17 pm 
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I Have A Third Nipple
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Location: Cumberland, RI
tragabigzanda wrote:
durdencommatyler wrote:
I got to experience the Sylvia Plath exhibit at the National Portrait Gallery this past Monday. Reading her poetry was one of the first times that poetry has affected me beyond utter confusion and an aching surge of futility. I hate that I'm so completely stupid about poetry. Hate, hate, hate it. But Plath's stuff, much of it rough and/or unpublished, really hit me. I have her Ariel collection. Maybe I should read that.

You should watch Paterson! I think you would love it.


The poetry in Patterson was very good. The movie was pretty good, too; I'd love to watch it again.

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 Post subject: Re: Poetry
PostPosted: Sat October 07, 2017 6:20 pm 
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Rated PG-13 for the power of theatre
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Posts: 89944
Location: Anarchist Jurisdiction
Simple Torture wrote:
tragabigzanda wrote:
durdencommatyler wrote:
I got to experience the Sylvia Plath exhibit at the National Portrait Gallery this past Monday. Reading her poetry was one of the first times that poetry has affected me beyond utter confusion and an aching surge of futility. I hate that I'm so completely stupid about poetry. Hate, hate, hate it. But Plath's stuff, much of it rough and/or unpublished, really hit me. I have her Ariel collection. Maybe I should read that.

You should watch Paterson! I think you would love it.


The poetry in Patterson was very good. The movie was pretty good, too; I'd love to watch it again.

I love Adam Driver.


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 Post subject: Re: Poetry
PostPosted: Fri October 30, 2020 5:30 am 
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for those who
are not...shall be
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Joined: Sat January 05, 2013 7:30 am
Posts: 16260
Location: here
There are cemeteries that are lonely,
graves full of bones that do not make a sound,
the heart moving through a tunnel,
in it darkness, darkness, darkness,
like a shipwreck we die going into ourselves,
as though we were drowning inside our hearts,
as though we lived falling out of the skin into the soul.

And there are corpses,
feet made of cold and sticky clay,
death is inside the bones,
like a barking where there are no dogs,
coming out from bells somewhere, from graves somewhere,
growing in the damp air like tears of rain.

Sometimes I see alone
coffins under sail,
embarking with the pale dead, with women that have dead hair,
with bakers who are as white as angels,
and pensive young girls married to notary publics,
caskets sailing up the vertical river of the dead,
the river of dark purple,
moving upstream with sails filled out by the sound of death,
filled by the sound of death which is silence.

Death arrives among all that sound
like a shoe with no foot in it, like a suit with no man in it,
comes and knocks, using a ring with no stone in it, with no
finger in it,
comes and shouts with no mouth, with no tongue, with no
throat.
Nevertheless its steps can be heard
and its clothing makes a hushed sound, like a tree.

I'm not sure, I understand only a little, I can hardly see,
but it seems to me that its singing has the color of damp violets,
of violets that are at home in the earth,
because the face of death is green,
and the look death gives is green,
with the penetrating dampness of a violet leaf
and the somber color of embittered winter.

But death also goes through the world dressed as a broom,
lapping the floor, looking for dead bodies,
death is inside the broom,
the broom is the tongue of death looking for corpses,
it is the needle of death looking for thread.

Death is inside the folding cots:
it spends its life sleeping on the slow mattresses,
in the black blankets, and suddenly breathes out:
it blows out a mournful sound that swells the sheets,
and the beds go sailing toward a port
where death is waiting, dressed like an admiral


Nothing but Death
~Pablo Neruda

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ghost arrives at its bitter end


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 Post subject: Re: Poetry
PostPosted: Fri October 30, 2020 5:53 am 
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Not as great as you think
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Joined: Thu January 24, 2013 4:32 am
Posts: 20374
Location: Surrounded by Wokes. Please send help.
Have a drink they're buying,
Bottom of, bottle of denial,
Big guy, big eye, watching me,
Have to wonder what it sees,
Progress, laced with, ramifications,
Freedom's big plunge.
Pull the innocent from a crowd,
Raise the sticks then bring 'em down ,
If they fail to obey,
If they fail to obey.
For every tool they lend us, a loss of independence.
I pledge to my grievance to the flag,
Cause you don't give blood, then take it back again,
We're deserving of much more.
Progress, taste it, invest-it-all,
Champagne breakfast for everyone.
Break the innocent when they're proud,
Raise the stakes, then bring 'em down,
If they fail to obey,
If they fail to obey.
Pledge my grievance to the flag,
Aw come on, don't give blood, then take it back again,
We're all deserving something more.
I want to breathe, part of the seen,
I want to taste, everyone I see,
I want to run, when I'm up high,
I want to run to the sea,
I only want life to be,
I just want to be,
I will feel alive as long as I am free.

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Maybe this will be the post that finally gets me banned.


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 Post subject: Re: Poetry
PostPosted: Thu July 29, 2021 5:17 am 
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for those who
are not...shall be
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Joined: Sat January 05, 2013 7:30 am
Posts: 16260
Location: here
Edge
BY SYLVIA PLATH


The woman is perfected.
Her dead

Body wears the smile of accomplishment,
The illusion of a Greek necessity

Flows in the scrolls of her toga,
Her bare

Feet seem to be saying:
We have come so far, it is over.

Each dead child coiled, a white serpent,
One at each little

Pitcher of milk, now empty.
She has folded

Them back into her body as petals
Of a rose close when the garden

Stiffens and odors bleed
From the sweet, deep throats of the night flower.

The moon has nothing to be sad about,
Staring from her hood of bone.

She is used to this sort of thing.
Her blacks crackle and drag.

_________________
ghost arrives at its bitter end


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 Post subject: Re: Poetry
PostPosted: Thu July 29, 2021 7:59 pm 
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Misplaced My Sponge
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Joined: Sun March 12, 2017 3:06 pm
Posts: 5703
I'm the shit
I'm farting


- Kodak Black

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