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#1 Mse

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Posted 02 September 2008 - 08:23 PM

I realised today that poetry is an artform that I really don't know jack shit about and I'd like to change that. So I was wondering if any of you could recommend me some great poets and/or poems.

#2 QUEEN

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Posted 03 September 2008 - 03:34 AM

T S Elliot The Hollow Men

My favorite poem.


The Hollow Men
T. S. Eliot
Mistah Kurtz—he dead.

A penny for the Old Guy

I

We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats’ feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar

Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;

Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death’s other Kingdom
Remember us—if at all—not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.

II

Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death’s dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind’s singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.

Let me be no nearer
In death’s dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat’s coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer—

Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom

III

This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man’s hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.

Is it like this
In death’s other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.

IV

The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms

In this last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river

Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death’s twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.

V

Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o’clock in the morning.

Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom

Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow
Life is very long

Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom

For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.



#3 trammel

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Posted 03 September 2008 - 05:46 AM

I have so many favorite poets but the first one that always comes to mind is Walt Whitman. I remember reading his "Leaves of Grass" in one summer when I was about 19 years old. It is a real ride.

He's, like, the original beat poet. I think Ginsberg even wrote a poem about having spied Walt Whitman in the grocery store pinching cantaloupes and leering at stock boys.

I have a lot of favorite poems from Whitman but the first one that comes to mind is "A Woman Waits For Me"

..and, yeah, I know it's prose and not, technically, poetry.

Fuck the New Formalists.

A Woman Waits For Me

A WOMAN waits for me--she contains all, nothing is lacking,
Yet all were lacking, if sex were lacking, or if the moisture of the
right man were lacking.

Sex contains all,
Bodies, Souls, meanings, proofs, purities, delicacies, results,
promulgations,
Songs, commands, health, pride, the maternal mystery, the seminal
milk;
All hopes, benefactions, bestowals,
All the passions, loves, beauties, delights of the earth,
All the governments, judges, gods, follow'd persons of the earth,
These are contain'd in sex, as parts of itself, and justifications of
itself.

Without shame the man I like knows and avows the deliciousness of his
sex,
Without shame the woman I like knows and avows hers.

Now I will dismiss myself from impassive women,
I will go stay with her who waits for me, and with those women that
are warm-blooded and sufficient for me;
I see that they understand me, and do not deny me;
I see that they are worthy of me--I will be the robust husband of
those women.

They are not one jot less than I am,
They are tann'd in the face by shining suns and blowing winds,
Their flesh has the old divine suppleness and strength,
They know how to swim, row, ride, wrestle, shoot, run, strike,
retreat, advance, resist, defend themselves,
They are ultimate in their own right--they are calm, clear, well-
possess'd of themselves.

I draw you close to me, you women!
I cannot let you go, I would do you good,
I am for you, and you are for me, not only for our own sake, but for
others' sakes;
Envelop'd in you sleep greater heroes and bards,
They refuse to awake at the touch of any man but me.

It is I, you women--I make my way,
I am stern, acrid, large, undissuadable--but I love you,
I do not hurt you any more than is necessary for you,
I pour the stuff to start sons and daughters fit for These States--I
press with slow rude muscle,
I brace myself effectually--I listen to no entreaties,
I dare not withdraw till I deposit what has so long accumulated
within me.

Through you I drain the pent-up rivers of myself,
In you I wrap a thousand onward years,
On you I graft the grafts of the best-beloved of me and America,
The drops I distil upon you shall grow fierce and athletic girls, new
artists, musicians, and singers,
The babes I beget upon you are to beget babes in their turn,
I shall demand perfect men and women out of my love-spendings,
I shall expect them to interpenetrate with others, as I and you
interpenetrate now,
I shall count on the fruits of the gushing showers of them, as I
count on the fruits of the gushing showers I give now,
I shall look for loving crops from the birth, life, death,
immortality, I plant so lovingly now.


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#4 Omni

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Posted 03 September 2008 - 06:06 AM

i am a fan of the romantic poets and i like to think i am one of the few remaining romantics out there

She Walks In Beauty by Lord Byron
"She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent! "

Birch Tree by ASJ Tessimond
"Birch Tree

The birch tree in winter
Leaning over the secret pool
Is Narcissus in love
With the slight white branches,
The slim trunk,
In the dark glass;
But,
Spring coming on,
Is afraid,
And scarfs the white limbs
In green."

and finally my favorite
Lionel Johnson: http://theotherpages...ms/johns01.html
he is the dude who made me love poetry

Adore the Immortal Bovine For She is our Protector
Admire the Immortal Bovine For Her Steakrifice to Mankind
Exalt the Immortal Bovine For Her Strict Guidance
Revere the Immortal Bovine For Her Undying Fence
Venerate the Immortal Bovine For Her Wholesome Milk
Honour the Immortal Bovine For Her Eternal Strength
Glorify the Immortal Bovine For Her All-seeing Vision
Praise the Immortal Bovine For Her Unending GOMAD Gainz
Hail the Immortal Bovine For She is the Lady and Mistress


#5 FreakyKid

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Posted 03 September 2008 - 07:14 AM

A couple of my favourites from Susan Musgrave from her book, Songs Of The Sea-Witch:

After The Rain

After The Rain

After the rain
the field-gates open,
the slanting sun
trims our tired wet bones;

we scream the vowels
of freedom,
the wheel tracks freshen
as hell falls through --

by the road
grandpa finds us
unreal mushrooms,
red, brown
and orange --
an unreal grandpa
who knows the calls of all the birds,

who sings and sighs
a snail of the vain and ugliest

while our lips mould the smoke of fallen starlight
and our hearts toll like clappers
in the bell of dark.


After The Battle

After The Battle

Unaware that anything was wrong
I crawled out from under you
after the battle
and stood
remote and changed
in the place beside you
that should have been your own.

Yours was the only corpse, I noticed.
Some small animal
circled cautiously behind your eyes.
Your mouth had no edges,
no place for hanging on.
It was, instead, a place for lizards.

Your body is the sanctuary
for all the wildlife
that isn't me. A remnant of your hand
encloses all.
I am some bad flower
sent deliberately to spoil your grave.
I grow best in blood.

Lying here,
you accuse me in the darkness
without even turning certain beauty to design.
You want everything to reappear
out of a past I can't explain.

I am not at fault
because you fell in a place of stone.
The blood will dry,
the stone will still be cold.
Your body will be
the singular thing
containing all.
That is -
nothing to remain,
nothing to destroy.


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-- The Pole Strangler

#6 Omni

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Posted 03 September 2008 - 11:46 PM

another one of my favorite lord byron quotes:

For the sword outwears its sheath, and the soul wears out the breast. And the heart must pause to breathe, and love itself have rest.

Adore the Immortal Bovine For She is our Protector
Admire the Immortal Bovine For Her Steakrifice to Mankind
Exalt the Immortal Bovine For Her Strict Guidance
Revere the Immortal Bovine For Her Undying Fence
Venerate the Immortal Bovine For Her Wholesome Milk
Honour the Immortal Bovine For Her Eternal Strength
Glorify the Immortal Bovine For Her All-seeing Vision
Praise the Immortal Bovine For Her Unending GOMAD Gainz
Hail the Immortal Bovine For She is the Lady and Mistress


#7 Prison System

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Posted 05 September 2008 - 12:06 AM

Here's a recommendation... something I read in front of the class when I was 7.

It settles down in a closed circle and holds a suspicious thing, with the holy spirit of Christmas, from east to west, it becomes one with the bullfinch's red chest.

Don't ask me what that poem was all about, I was just forced to read that shit.

#8 trammel

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Posted 05 September 2008 - 06:23 AM

I found a reference to this poem today and looked it up.

I like the way it builds and ends on a very hopeful, almost happy, note.

Overall the poem takes a, seemingly, negative subject, like death and treats it as something inevitable, but positive.

Thanatopsis

by William Cullen Bryant

To him who in the love of Nature holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language; for his gayer hours
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
And eloquence of beauty, and she glides
Into his darker musings, with a mild
And gentle sympathy, that steals away
Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
Over thy spirit, and sad images
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart;--
Go forth under the open sky, and list
To Nature's teachings, while from all around--
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air,--
Comes a still voice--Yet a few days, and thee
The all-beholding sun shall see no more
In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,
Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of ocean shall exist
Thy image. Earth, that hourished thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolv'd to earth again;
And, lost each human trace, surrend'ring up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go
To mix forever with the elements,
To be a brother to th' insensible rock
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.
Yet not to thy eternal resting place
Shalt thou retire alone--nor couldst thou wish
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
, With patriarchs of the infant world--with kings
The powerful of the earth--the wise, the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulchre.--The hills
Rock-ribb'd and ancient as the sun,--the vales
Stretching in pensive quietness between;
The vernal woods--rivers that move
In majesty, and the complaining brooks
That make the meadows green; and pour'd round all,
Old ocean's grey and melancholy waste,--
Are but the solemn decorations all
Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun,
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
Are shining on the sad abodes of death,
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom.--Take the wings
Of morning--and the Barcan desert pierce,
Or lost thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregan, and hears no sound,
Save his own dashings--yet--the dead are there,
And millions in those solitudes, since first
The flight of years began, have laid them down
In their last sleep--the dead reign there alone.--
So shalt thou rest--and what if thou shalt fall
Unnoticed by the living--and no friend
Take note of thy departure? All that breathe
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh,
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care
Plod on, and each one as before will chase
His favourite phantom; yet all these shall leave
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come,
And make their bed with thee. As the long train
Of ages glide away, the sons of men,
The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron, and maid,
The bow'd with age, the infant in the smiles
And beauty of its innocent age cut off,--
Shall one by one be gathered to thy side,
By those, who in their turn shall follow them.
So live, that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan, that moves
To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon, but sustain'd and sooth'd
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.
1814


He was inspired by the Graveyard Poets of England apparently.
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#9 jollyroger

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Posted 05 September 2008 - 06:27 AM

The Perfect High

There once was a boy named Gimme-Some-Roy... He was nothin' like me or you,
'cause laying back and getting high was all he cared to do.

As a kid, he sat in the cellar...sniffing airplane glue. And then he smoked banana peels, when that was the thing to do. He tried aspirin in Coca-Cola, he breathed helium on the sly, and his life became an endless search to find the perfect high.

But grass just made him wanna lay back and eat chocolate-chip pizza all night,
and the great things he wrote when he was stoned looked like shit in the morning light.
Speed made him wanna rap all day, reds laid him too far back, Cocaine-Rose was sweet to his nose, but the price nearly broke his back.

He tried PCP, he tried THC, but they never quite did the trick. Poppers nearly blew his heart, mushrooms made him sick. Acid made him see the light, but he couldn't remember it long. Hash was a little too weak, and smack was a lot too strong. Quaaludes made him stumble, booze just made him cry, Then he heard of a cat named Baba Fats who knew of the perfect high.

Now, Baba Fats was a hermit cat...lived high up in Nepal, High on a craggy mountain top, up a sheer and icy wall. "Well, hell!" says Roy, "I'm a healthy boy, and I'll crawl or climb or fly,
Till I find that guru who'll give me the clue as to what's the perfect high."

So out and off goes Gimme-Some-Roy, to the land that knows no time, Up a trail no man could conquer, to a cliff no man could climb. For fourteen years he climbed that cliff...back down again he'd slide . . .
He'd sit and cry, then climb some more, pursuing the perfect high.

Grinding his teeth, coughing blood, aching and shaking and weak, Starving and sore, bleeding and tore, he reaches the mountain peak. And his eyes blink red like a snow-blind wolf, and he snarls the snarl of a rat,
As there in repose, and wearing no clothes, sits the god-like Baba Fats.

"What's happenin', Fats?" says Roy with joy, "I've come to state my biz . . .
I hear you're hip to the perfect trip... Please tell me what it is. "For you can see," says Roy to he, "I'm about to die, So for my last ride, tell me, how can I achieve the perfect high?"

"Well, dog my cats!" says Baba Fats. "Another burned out soul, Who's lookin' for an alchemist to turn his trip to gold. It isn't in a dealer's stash, or on a druggist's shelf... Son, if you would find the perfect high, find it in yourself."

"Why, you jive mother-fucker!" says Roy, "I climbed through rain and sleet,
I froze three fingers off my hands, and four toes off my feet! I braved the lair of the polar bear, I've tasted the maggot's kiss. Now, you tell me the high is in myself? What kinda shit is this?

My ears, before they froze off," says Roy, "had heard all kindsa crap; But I didn't climb for fourteen years to hear your sophomore rap. And I didn't climb up here to hear that the high is on the natch, So you tell me where the real stuff is, or I'll kill your guru ass!"

"Okay...okay," says Baba Fats, "You're forcin' it outta me... There is a land beyond the sun that's known as Zabolee. A wretched land of stone and sand, where snakes and buzzards scream, And in this devil's garden blooms the mystic Tzutzu tree.

Now, once every ten years it blooms one flower, as white as the Key West sky,
And he who eats of the Tzutzu flower shall know the perfect high. For the rush comes on like a tidal wave...hits like the blazin' sun. And the high? It lasts forever, and the down don't never come.

But, Zabolee Land is ruled by a giant, who stands twelve cubits high, And with eyes of red in his hundred heads, he awaits the passer-by. And you must slay the red-eyed giant, and swim the river of slime, Where the mucous beasts await to feast on those who journey by. And if you slay the giant and beasts, and swim the slimy sea, There's a blood-drinking witch who sharpens her teeth as she guards the Tzutzu tree."

"Well, to hell with your witches and giants," says Roy, "To hell with the beasts of the sea--
Why, as long as the Tzutzu flower still blooms, hope still blooms for me."
And with tears of joy in his sun-blind eyes, he slips the guru a five, And crawls back down the mountainside, pursuing the perfect high.

"Well, that is that," says Baba Fats, sitting back down on his stone, Facing another thousand years of talking to God, alone. "Yes, Lord, it's always the same...old men or bright-eyed youth... It's always easier to sell 'em some shit than it is to tell them the truth."

Shel Silverstein
"The future masters of technology will have to be lighthearted and intelligent. The machine easily masters the grim and the dumb." -- Marshall McLuhan, 1969.

#10 trammel

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Posted 11 September 2008 - 08:20 AM

From "Flowers of Evil" by Charles Baudelaire

To One Who Is Too Gay

Your head, your bearing, your gestures
Are fair as a fair countryside;
Laughter plays on your face
Like a cool wind in a clear sky.

The gloomy passer-by you meet
Is dazzled by the glow of health
Which radiates resplendently
From your arms and shoulders.

The touches of sonorous color
That you scatter on your dresses
Cast into the minds of poets
The image of a flower dance.

Those crazy frocks are the emblem
Of your multi-colored nature;
Mad woman whom I'm mad about,
I hate and love you equally!

At times in a lovely garden
Where I dragged my atony,
I have felt the sun tear my breast,
As though it were in mockery;

Both the springtime and its verdure
So mortified my heart
That I punished a flower
For the insolence of Nature.

Thus I should like, some night,
When the hour for pleasure sounds,
To creep softly, like a coward,
Toward the treasures of your body,

To whip your joyous flesh
And bruise your pardoned breast,
To make in your astonished flank
A wide and gaping wound,

And, intoxicating sweetness!
Through those new lips,
More bright, more beautiful,
To infuse my venom, my sister!

William Aggeler, The Flowers of Evil (Fresno, CA: Academy Library Guild, 1954)


I can never stop thanking Delchi for introducing me to this.

The entire book can be found here for free.

http://fleursdumal.org/

It's interesting to see how formidable the problem of translation is to the appreciation of literary art written in a foreign language.
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#11 Yoder

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Posted 13 September 2008 - 02:45 AM

WC Bryant was fucking great...one of the Transcedentalist's...Emerson, Thoreau, etc.

The first poets I read were the mystics/Transcedentalist's: Bryant, Whitman, and my favorite William Blake.

A lot of "modern poets" that I read are song writers like: Van Morrison, Bob Dylan, Robert Hunter, Jim Carrol, etc. I enjoy reading the lyrics without the music. The beauty of good poetry is that the words create their own music. Read it long enough and the brain adapts the meter of the poet, and so you...well, I do anyway...go around with this little "swing" going on in your brain. It is as if I am looking at the world with a filtered lens...ah, the beauty of poetry.

A good collection of poems is a great source to start with. Find who you like and pursure it.

#12 trammel

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Posted 13 September 2008 - 05:13 AM

Ginsburg's 'Howl'

https://notes.utk.ed...93?OpenDocument
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#13 Crash the Greenhat

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Posted 13 September 2008 - 05:19 AM

I would recommend the Iliad and the Oddsey by Homer, and yes, these are Epic poems, not stories.

Two of my personal favorite poems.
Fargo Hack Space
FFRRHAP

We've all been raised on television to believe that one day we'd all be millionaires, and movie gods, and rock stars. But we won't. And we're slowly learning that fact. And we're very, very pissed off.

I aim to misbehave.

I am Brother Spikey Mace of Warm Humanitarianism.

#14 Omni

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Posted 13 September 2008 - 06:46 PM

whatever you do don't read paradise lost

Adore the Immortal Bovine For She is our Protector
Admire the Immortal Bovine For Her Steakrifice to Mankind
Exalt the Immortal Bovine For Her Strict Guidance
Revere the Immortal Bovine For Her Undying Fence
Venerate the Immortal Bovine For Her Wholesome Milk
Honour the Immortal Bovine For Her Eternal Strength
Glorify the Immortal Bovine For Her All-seeing Vision
Praise the Immortal Bovine For Her Unending GOMAD Gainz
Hail the Immortal Bovine For She is the Lady and Mistress


#15 Coyote

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Posted 16 September 2008 - 12:47 AM


Time devours all things, even itself.
All that we do, all that we are,
Brittle pages of fading poetry.


Lies, lies, lies
Can you write it in red
Your words are poison in my head...

#16 Coyote

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Posted 16 September 2008 - 12:52 AM


Life's a tragic comedy;
We all have a part to play.
When come the times to speak our minds,
We all have our lines to say;
Not rehearsed, but spoken true,
Imbued with passion's fires -
We may be actors, me and you,
But never were we liars!


Lies, lies, lies
Can you write it in red
Your words are poison in my head...

#17 Omni

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Posted 16 September 2008 - 01:35 AM


Life's a tragic comedy;
We all have a part to play.
When come the times to speak our minds,
We all have our lines to say;
Not rehearsed, but spoken true,
Imbued with passion's fires -
We may be actors, me and you,
But never were we liars!


fucking love this

Adore the Immortal Bovine For She is our Protector
Admire the Immortal Bovine For Her Steakrifice to Mankind
Exalt the Immortal Bovine For Her Strict Guidance
Revere the Immortal Bovine For Her Undying Fence
Venerate the Immortal Bovine For Her Wholesome Milk
Honour the Immortal Bovine For Her Eternal Strength
Glorify the Immortal Bovine For Her All-seeing Vision
Praise the Immortal Bovine For Her Unending GOMAD Gainz
Hail the Immortal Bovine For She is the Lady and Mistress


#18 Coyote

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Posted 16 September 2008 - 01:51 AM

Thanks. I wrote these at work today.

Lies, lies, lies
Can you write it in red
Your words are poison in my head...

#19 Yoder

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Posted 16 September 2008 - 03:21 AM

whatever you do don't read paradise lost


I got my first daughters middle name from Dante...Lucia...Goddess of the illuminating light. Pronounced with a Latin hard 'c'..."lou-chee-ah" not the anglo "lou-see-ah."

#20 Coyote

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Posted 16 September 2008 - 05:02 AM

I rewrote this one, it's better now.



Life's a game of strategy;
A killing board we're placed upon,
One a Knight, and one a Queen,
And many a witless Pawn.
It may be frightening to do,
But greatly it behooves
To consider well that hand of hell
That makes such dreadful moves.

Life's a game of strategy.
One a Queen, and one a Knight.
I know not where to seek you out,
Which side you stand on, Black or White.
I trust in Fate and move ahead.
If only 'twas Love that conquered all...
Beside you loyal I may stand.
Before you captured I may fall.


Lies, lies, lies
Can you write it in red
Your words are poison in my head...



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