In shadows cast, a serpent sleek,
With bands of black and white.
In self-encircling, fate draws near,
A moment tense, a future unclear.

Yet, ere the bite, a raptor bold,
Descends with grace, a tale unfolds.
Its talons clasp the serpent’s plight,
A dance of choices in the fading light.

Two paths converge, in present’s hold,
Humanity’s tale, a story bold.
Betwixt self-will and forces unseen,
The dance of fate, on history’s screen.

snuffed out
like meaningless leaves and ashes
one fell moment and it's all gone
only the suffering remains
and you see, you see it at that moment
all that talk about prosperity, humanity, kindness
it was all a ruse
the only truth was capital and power
the only things that mattered to them

the statesmen and the masters
they had convened together
built the looming and dark tombs of delusion
and they did not give a damn about to-be-corpses
they still do not

over fifty thousand
they were killed, butchered, murdered
they are still unmourned to this day
they are still forgotten
many of them are still lost in the rubbles
millions more made to wander
suffering at the mercy of the monster

do they not deserve avenging
shouldn't their pain be inflicted thousandfold on the usurpers
the throne makers and takers of the rich and the corrupt
their blood does not belong to them
not anymore

gods of the new world
here's a declaration
you are not infallible
but our hatred is everlasting
as long as you exist
the spectre will never vanish
even if it takes millenia
we are going to make people forget you were ever human
you shall not be any more than ancient evils of dust
your memory shall be one of a joke, a bygone idiocy
and whatever you built, it will come falling down
much harder than the tombs you raised
the blood you spilt will haunt you down to nothing
and in that moment
when the last memory of you is forgotten
when everything you created is ashes
the void shall truly embrace you
remember this promise for the rest of your life
in your most intimate, safest moments
feel this cold breath of the cosmos on your neck
it is ours, for we are the harbingers

Mythos

A tree unwatched does soundless fall

Without an eye its crash to mark

And starborn light in vain does call

While hearts incline instead to dark

So natural course unseen dictates

The wave of time as life begins

Nor, in our barques asea in fate

Ken we the source of distant winds

Now blown to gale, now to 'phoon —

We strike our sail, but none can dock

Our crafts beset do founder soon

For to the hours we're firmly nocked

In time's swift drifts all 'twined we are

Yet each must pass the stellar door

Through deep'ning age pass on afar

And thus return to astral moor

burn away the rot
burn away the festering
burn away the power
that grip your heart
burn ’em all

the gaze of your sun
shall make you invincible
they shall fear your conviction
for they are the immovable object
you become the unstoppable force
and you are one of many

you refuse the dying of the dream
and that shall become your sun

gusts of wind pick up in pace
and oaken leaves they make to shake.
chirps and flaps as birds make haste
and hooves all trample in escape.

above, the clouds, they morph and move
bearing an ocean in their womb.
forest florals stare in rue;
effulgence dims as darkness blooms.

the rumbling clouds envelope all.
a drip, a drop. and the rain falls.
and though the canopy may stall,
a dribble starts and rends the wall.

a torrent soars towards the floor.
the land, to sea, returns once more.
in time, the green but will restore.
in time, the clouds but will reform.

i wrote this at a creative writing workshop with the following three randomly generated words as the prompt: frequency, dribble, oak.

we enshrine our lords
do we not call them Lord?
the lords giveth and taketh
they are the amalgamation
the supreme product of history
that is why they are sacred
why their divinity is everlasting
or so it is thought

gods are born, gods are killed
the only truth in them is order
and to the ordinary that is divine
their dreams start and end within
the lord's domain breaths life
it dictates what is allowed to be
it cuts the branches off

young dreamer, knowing this
do you still desire The Dream-God?
is it not past time its death?
shouldn't its corpse nourish life?
and the many branches-to-be?

I've recently finished Mary Oliver's A Poetry Handbook and have begun writing my own poems (just for fun). I feel though that I may be limited by my having read little poetry. So, I'm searching for anthology recommendations to get some inspiration.

I'm not really looking for collections of "classics," just a large collection of poems generally considered to be "very good," and maybe leaning more towards contemporary (late 19th century onwards?). But I'd welcome recommendations outside of these guidelines too if anyone feels particularly strongly about some collection.

© 2014 u/ebonGavia

Love

Love's sweetly poisoned darts

Are wasted on this heart

Inerrant though they fly

My shielding gives them lie

These centuries-builded walls

The keenest edge forestall

Thus armored sit I here

At siren's call do sneer

By hours, years do toll

And cold becomes my soul

That blackguard, Love, I spurn

From treach'rous Hope I turn

At length my vigil wanes

Naught but ennui remains

With apathetic sigh

And dry, half-lidded eye

My senses, weak, are dulled

To fitful sleep are lulled

Thus primed for artifice

Undone by artlessness

A 'doring glance unlocks

My bitter heart. A shock —

A shining word, a koan —

The fatal shot is flown

Each quick'ning touch, now soft

Our scales, forgotten, doffed

Bewitched by winsome eyes

We don our honeyed ties

Yet venom's stings presage

Our bittersweet malaise

But how is it that we

Bemoan this malady?

In love — by Love, lovesick

Yet, healed, we poison pick

No Cupid bends a string

We prick ourselves, willing.

Born in the wrong family
It left me a gaping void
Stole from me my charity
Burdened me with worry

Born in the wrong district
It showed me the savagery
Darkness that lurks within men
To untrust the ones of normalcy

Born in the wrong city
Filled my soul with mundanity
The unbearable banale
Empty of all wonder and beauty

Born in the wrong culture
Learned to hide my reality
Lest I be killed or maimed
In the rein of traditionality

Born in the wrong country
Flayed from me my future
Gutted sense of commonality
It branded on me misery

Born in the wrong system
Chained me to slavery
Feeding some malevolence
Corrupted my destiny

Born in the wrong time
Hurled into moment of history
Trapped within rotting remnants
Couldn't do away with the elderly

Hereby I declare to all
I reject my humanity
For no matter the causality
But only in a handul few
I see nothing worthy

we recycle our emotions
the foundations

dread, despair, the nothing
the isolation of it all
these are all mine
and anger poured on top
disgust inbetween

told by soil to extinguish
sealed them all away
left adrift and devoid
unable to feel the whole
afraid that it would crush

despairing everything
i fed the void
it bloated and festered
putrid without a voice
it would swallow all
so i bestow it mouth

eight-pointed star
the father-mother
bear my witness
i am heartsore
and loathe the creators

we recycle our emotions
i accept it all, the

denied your own tragedy
fun and cheery
held back by ancient rites
good sport and jolly
these unspoken wounds
banter along all day
festered and putrid
dish it out and take it
marred by shallow's tyranny
here's to another round

I desire more poetry on this site. So here is more poetry!

I believe this is Cummings due to the style and some cursory internet searches but I was unable to find an authoritative source. If anyone has one I'll edit it in! The formatting is taken from a book (I discovered this in a photo online).

the great advantage of being alive
(instead of undying)is not so much
that mind no more can disprove than prove
what heart may feel and soul may touch
--the great(my darling) happens to be
that love are in we,that love are in we

and here is a secret they will never share
for whom create is less than have
or one times one than when times where--
that we are in love,that we are in love
with us they've nothing times nothing to do
(for love are in we am in i am in you)

this world(as timorous itsters all
to call their cowardice quite agree)
shall never discover our touch and feel
--for love are in we are in love are in we;
for you are and i am and we are(above
and under all possible worlds)in love

a billion brains may coax undeath
from fancied fact and spaceful time--
no heart can leap,no soul can breathe
but by the sizeless truth of a dream
whose sleep is the sky and the earth and the sea.
For love are in you am in i are in we

Hello everyone :)

I write as a hobby and have had an article in my drafts for a long, long time. In essence, I'd like to discuss the "repetitive nature of human tribulations/suffering/life", that is, the fact that regardless of superficial characteristics we all are confronted with extremely similar circumstances throughout our lives.

Whether it's 10 years into our lives or 40, there's joy, heartbreak, loss, a need to belong, some desire for freedom, a need for a purpose, lack of direction, obsession with a newly found direction, etc.

I'd love to come across poets, philosophers, psychologists, etc who have touched upon this subject: we are not defined by our circumstances, as they are, in very broad strokes, largely the same, but by how we are able to adapt and reinvent ourselves amidst those same circumstances.

Looking forward for your answers :)

Thanks!

So as an American whose love of poetry started in early childhood with A A Milne and Lewis Carroll, I have a theory that the teaching of poetry in typical schools (at least for my generation which may be 30 years out of date re what happens now) that poetry as taught is almost tailor made to destroy any interest in poetry. I like to compare it to introducing music by teaching music theory.

So, if anyone here reads poetry and is willing to talk about it, what poems would you use if you wanted to come up with a gateway drug. They should be easy to appreciate. And on the flip side, if you met someone who said they were really into poetry, are there sophisticated poems that you think are just cool and insightful and moving and impressive in some way? Please feel free to explain your choices or to talk about your experience with poetry in or outside of education.

The concept

It's a box that contains a receipt printer and an interface with several buttons. A user would press a button that reflects their emotional state (happy, sad, anxious, etc.), then the machine prints out a more-or-less appropriate poem on a receipt printer, beautifully formatted and embellished with simple artwork.

It could be occasionally repurposed for certain themes, like Pride Month to print out queer poems.

I want to place it someplace public and well-trafficked, like Dolores Park or on Castro Street.

Feedback

I like poetry. The idea of a (free) vending machine that gives me a poem to uplift my day excites me. But I wonder if this appeals to others enough to be worth fully realizing. I don't want to spend time and money building something that'll go totally unloved.

Also curious about anti-vandalism measures or ideas. I'm sure some jerk will try graffiti-ing it or peeing on it.

Lastly, anyone interested in collaborating?

T'was picking fruit down under, where
I learned the truth of underwear
Davenport made the best boxer
costed more but last forever

At first my junk was hanging loose
no more briefs snuggling like a noose
but soon I loved it hanging free
it's quicker when you have to pee

Decade later holes not in sight
Bought some more in case they might
Thought they'd be with me till the end
Thirty years they've been my friend

Now I'm down to last seven pair
Out of business they went I fear
Brought down low by cheap knock offs
Where oh where is my Undie Guru now?

I sang her name in words forgotten
Rough bellows of lost yearning
A hurt hound without path
A sorrow meaning without an end

I heard the rain, heard the ocean
Lick the sand without defect
The water, where it falls
Is always beautiful all the same

I saw, my God, that you made her
Carefully crooked, imperfect
And inside her deep mournful eyes
The tears that I could never shed

The sky is clear
except for some
soft grey clouds
beyond the hill

The early setting sun shines orange
on the woods
and the houses
that sit atop the ridge

Not a single bird crosses
the pale blue sky
though I can hear
their chorus
and a gentle wind blows
cold
on my face

I can smell the traffic
from the road behind my house
mingling with
the earthy smell of trees
from the field in front

Neither my hot black coffee
nor my dressing gown
are enough
to keep the
cold
at bay
on this
the first truly frosty day
of the year