who here likes POETRY!!!!!!

[stinger12345]

I'm guessing since we're all musicians, a fair amount of us like poetry, and aren't afraid to admit it. Obviously, lyrics are a form of poetry. What are some your favorite poets/poems??? Here's one I just wrote, hopefully you don't think it's god awful

A soul that is lost too early is another soul that is never born
A child without a father, a girl without a sister
To die in vain is to fail your surroundings
We must sustain mankind, but to do so we must learn from the departed
Open the eyes in your heart and test the waters of your mind
And let judgement stay stranded on the shores of our broken past
Knowledge is equitable, but impossibly attainable
Leave an inch of your life untouched, because an inch is all you need to slip through the grasp of the invisible hand that runs the world.

[Thunderscreech]

all the poems I write suck, but poetry's pretty cool.

Your poem isn't too bad.

[MJ5150]

I had a poem published when I was in elementary school.

-Mike

[Yakob]

Favorite poets?

Oh, all the greats. Alan Ginnsberg, Shel Silverstein, Edward Lear. I right poems, though I have none on hand.

[flipper_gv]

I like poetry, I hate poets.


if you know what I mean.

[superfunk47]

While I loathe the pretense of all the supposed "poets" out there, good poetry is something I really love. Robinson is one of my favorites. As tempting as it is to share something of mine on here, I'll spare you all the pretense and just give you some Robinson instead.

When he, who is the unforgiven,
Beheld her first, he found her fair:
No promise ever dreamt in heaven
Could have lured him anywhere
That would have been away from there;
And all his wits had lightly striven,
Foiled with her voice, and eyes, and hair.

There's nothing in the saints and sages
To meet the shafts her glances had,
Or such as hers have had for ages
To blind a man till he be glad,
And humble him till he be mad.
The story would have many pages,
And would be neither good nor bad.

And, having followed, you would find him
Where properly the play begins;
But look for no red light behind him--
No fumes of many-colored sins,
Fanned high by screaming violins.
God knows what good it was to blind him
Or whether man or woman wins.

And by the same eternal token,
Who knows just how it will all end?--
This drama of hard words unspoken,
This fireside farce without a friend
Or enemy to comprehend
What augurs when two lives are broken,
And fear finds nothing left to mend.

He stares in vain for what awaits him,
And sees in Love a coin to toss;
He smiles, and her cold hush berates him
Beneath his hard half of the cross;
They wonder why it ever was;
And she, the unforgiving, hates him
More for her lack than for her loss.

He feeds with pride his indecision,
And shrinks from what will not occur,
Bequeathing with infirm derision
His ashes to the days that were,
Before she made him prisoner;
And labors to retrieve the vision
That he must once have had of her.

He waits, and there awaits an ending,
And he knows neither what nor when;
But no magicians are attending
To make him see as he saw then,
And he will never find again
The face that once had been the rending
Of all his purpose among men.

He blames her not, nor does he chide her,
And she has nothing new to say;
If he was Bluebeard he could hide her,
But that's not written in the play,
And there will be no change to-day;
Although, to the serene outsider,
There still would seem to be a way.

[champbassist]

I love poesy! Favorite poets seem to change with my mood but I like John Donne, William Blake and Yeats quite a bit. I like Bengali and Hindi poetry as well.

One of my favorite pieces of poetry is Love And Death by Yeats, which was put to music by The Waterboys:

Behold the flashing waters
A cloven dancing jet,
That from the milk-white marble
For ever foam and fret;
Far off in drowsy valleys
Where the meadow saffrons blow,
The feet of summer dabble
In their coiling calm and slow.
The banks are worn forever
By a people sadly gay:
A Titan with loud laughter,
Made them of fire clay.
Go ask the springing flowers,
And the flowing air above,
What are the twin-born waters,
And they'll answer Death and Love.

With wreaths of withered flowers
Two lonely spirits wait
With wreaths of withered flowers
'Fore paradise's gate.
They may not pass the portal
Poor earth-enkindled pair,
Though sad is many a spirit
To pass and leave them there
Still staring at their flowers,
That dull and faded are.
If one should rise beside thee,
The other is not far.
Go ask the youngest angel,
She will say with bated breath,
By the door of Mary's garden
Are the spirits Love and Death.

[jive1]

I like William Carlos Williams, and prefer to do my poetry in his style.

Here's two poems about my dogs.

"The red dog galavants in the woods with his prize.
Where's my slipper?"

"Loyalty is a black dog laying comfortably at my feet as I type, dreaming about the sandwich on my desk." (RIP Bozo)

[IconBasser]

no.

[Jim Nazium]

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Some poems rhyme
And some don't.

[sarcastro83]

Here I sit,
Broken Hearted...

[MakiSupaStar]

I'm a fan. I've had stuff published and I also have my heroes. I just don't have time to contribute to this thread right now. Bukowski.

[Smurf-o-Deth]

Ah, yes, the muse, it seems, so often strikes in the public restroom. Here's a favorite of mine:

I like bacon,
I like eggs,
I like girls
Who spread them legs.

Breathtaking.

[RWP]

Originally Posted by MakiSupaStar

.... Bukowski.

This is awesome.



with an Apple Macintosh
you can't run Radio Shack programs
in its disc drive.
nor can a Commodore 64
drive read a file
you have created on an
IBM Personal Computer.
both Kaypro and Osborne computers use
the CP/M operating system
but can't read each other's
handwriting
for they format (write
on) discs in different
ways.
the Tandy 2000 runs MS-DOS but
can't use most programs produced for
the IBM Personal Computer
unless certain
bits and bytes are
altered
but the wind still blows over
Savannah
and in the Spring
the turkey buzzard struts and
flounces before his
hens.

Charles Bukowski

[sarcastro83]

Originally Posted by Smurf-o-Deth

Ah, yes, the muse, it seems, so often strikes in the public restroom. Here's a favorite of mine:

I like bacon,
I like eggs,
I like girls
Who spread them legs.

Breathtaking.

this is going on a t-shirt.

[doctorjazz]

I'm into it a little bit. My favorite poem of all time is "Howl," and I really like Yeats as well. One of my favorite current poets is Saul Williams, I think he has a lot of great stuff to say.

Here's some Saul Williams:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jzY2-GRDiPM


And just for fun, here's a piece that I'm currently working on that uses a reading of a poem by William Blake as the source material for an electronic background track:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2R1Ei8ozSyQ

[Din Of Win]

I'm a poetry fiend. In fact, i have a scheduled visit to get an artistic rendition of one of my favorite Richard Brautigan poems as an entire chest piece tattoo; 'All Watched Over By Machines of Loving Grace'.

[Selta]

At first glance I thought this said poverty.

[ADbassman]

I got into poetry in college at the bequest of my fiction teachers. Originally I was using it as a way to improve my prose but it blossomed into something else. Currently working on getting a manuscript published.

As for poets I like; Robert Frost, Jack Gilbert, Terrance Hayes, T.S. Elliot, Ezra Pound, Charles Bukowski, Richard Doty, Walt Whitman and a few others.

[MatticusMania]

The Sickness

Inside I tremble while outside I remain perfectly calm
my nerves, they cease to shake
There is no longer a glimpse of light to turn to,
our paths remain steady on this crash course called fate
Its a fools funeral, adorned with the flowers of his choosing,
as his wishes never mattered to begin with.

Somewhere lost inside our own eternal conquest
Struggling, fighting for some sense of reason
Though, still, you cannot define your existence
You no longer care
And decide to resign yourself
To the eternal flow of this damned river

You know you’re going mad
You just choose to do nothing about it
And you sit back
Laughing
at the banality of it all