Quote:
Originally Posted by CaptainHowdy
Poetry is nobody’s business except the poet’s,
and everybody else can fuck off.
—Philip Larkin
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true motherfucking say
Quote:
Originally Posted by Klen
I am , i wrote several hundred poems.
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it's really cathartic, isn't it
Quote:
Originally Posted by k0nr4d
One day you will take your rightful place amongst the great poets of history
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agreed
Quote:
Originally Posted by AmeliaG
Oh wow, haven't thought of that Edwin Arlington Robinson poem in forever, but it was such a favorite when I was a kid. Such perfect rhythm, rhyme, and message.
Always thought I should like Plath, but she didn't resonate. In general, I like song lyrics but not so much lines intended to be poetry.
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I love Plath but kinda feel ya, I've read her novel
The Bell Jar way more times than
Ariel. I just love some of the lines in that poem, particularly the last couplet. was a kid when I first read it and first time I dyed my hair (red)
to me music lyrics are often poetry. P.E., Nas, Depeche Mode, Wu Tang, Protege etc etc. they just...hit me in such a good way. and it's not just the beat-it's the words too. I'll never dance to
Can't Truss It or
A Better Tomorrow but both are pure poetry
anyway, another one for you:
Eros Turannos
She fears him, and will always ask
What fated her to choose him;
She meets in his engaging mask
All reasons to refuse him;
But what she meets and what she fears
Are less than are the downward years,
Drawn slowly to the foamless weirs
Of age, were she to lose him.
Between a blurred sagacity
That once had power to sound him,
And Love, that will not let him be
The Judas that she found him,
Her pride assuages her almost,
As if it were alone the cost.—
He sees that he will not be lost,
And waits and looks around him.
A sense of ocean and old trees
Envelops and allures him;
Tradition, touching all he sees
Beguiles and reassures him;
And all her doubts of what he says
Are dimmed with what she knows of days—
Till even prejudice delays
And fades, and she secures him.
The falling leaf inaugurates
The reign of her confusion;
The pounding wave reverberates
The dirge of her illusion;
And home, where passion lived and died,
Becomes a place where she can hide,
While all the town and harbor side
Vibrate with her seclusion.
We tell you, tapping on our brows,
The story as it should be,—
As if the story of a house
Were told, or ever could be;
We’ll have no kindly veil between
Her visions and those we have seen,—
As if we guessed what hers have been,
Or what they are or would be.
Meanwhile we do no harm; for they
That with a god have striven,
Not hearing much of what we say,
Take what the god has given;
Though like waves breaking it may be,
Or like a changed familiar tree,
Or like a stairway to the sea
Where down the blind are driven
Robinson is def one of my favs
I wasn't sure anyone would even reply in this thread, very cool to come home and see this. y'all are awesome. much love