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6 votes
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What do you think the first sentence of this poem means? | Fiddler Jones by Edgar Lee Masters
THE EARTH keeps some vibration going There in your heart, and that is you. And if the people find you can fiddle, Why, fiddle you must, for all your life. What do you see, a harvest of clover? Or...
THE EARTH keeps some vibration going
There in your heart, and that is you.
And if the people find you can fiddle,
Why, fiddle you must, for all your life.
What do you see, a harvest of clover?
Or a meadow to walk through to the river?
The wind’s in the corn; you rub your hands
For beeves hereafter ready for market;
Or else you hear the rustle of skirts
Like the girls when dancing at Little Grove.
To Cooney Potter a pillar of dust
Or whirling leaves meant ruinous drouth;
They looked to me like Red-Head Sammy
Stepping it off, to “Toor-a-Loor.”
How could I till my forty acres
Not to speak of getting more,
With a medley of horns, bassoons and piccolos
Stirred in my brain by crows and robins
And the creak of a wind-mill—only these?
And I never started to plow in my life
That some one did not stop in the road
And take me away to a dance or picnic.
I ended up with forty acres;
I ended up with a broken fiddle—
And a broken laugh, and a thousand memories,
And not a single regret.I've always loved this poem. To me, it's about a man, loved by many, that recognizes his responsibilities, but can't help but forgo them to go and have fun with friends and loved ones (in short, anyways). The first line, however, has always intrigued me, and I can never land on a meaning for it. I think it's basically saying that in your heart is your true character (your soul), and that will never change. Or maybe it's saying that everyone has that "vibration" in their heart that yearns for enjoyment. What do you think?
4 votes -
Sylvia Plath: "The Bee Meeting" with annotations
5 votes -
Eldritch Love.
Longest piece to date? Last night I saw a beast four different heads with blackened eyes. Not black in metaphor, but from the blood that dried inside. Each of seven legs was mangled and the beast...
Longest piece to date?
Last night I saw a beast
four different heads with blackened eyes.
Not black in metaphor, but from
the blood that dried inside.
Each of seven legs was mangled
and the beast was blind
but she could fly.
.
Once upon a night so dreary,
and so dreadful I
came across a weathered bar
a woman stood inside.
She sat me at a table, there was
not a soul in sight
but I felt fine.
.
Then she brought a glass of dark with
something new inside.
Leaned in close and whispered to me
"Baby, close your eyes."
I parted my lips and drank as
her hand guided mine.
My guard resigned.
.
She said "I know a place where you can
truly feel alive.
Each one of your problems fall
defenseless by your side."
And she wrapped her arms around me
I contently sighed
as she took flight.
Her wretched and misshapen legs
held me close to her chest.
She let out her warning cries
i inhaled every breath.
Her claws were creeping out I
fell upon them like a bed.
I laid to rest.
.
I fell into a home so oddly
shallow and recessed.
The walls were made of rock,
a water drop fell on my head.
There was no single light,
the ceiling lowered as she led
me to her den.
.
As I looked around the room birthed
questions in my head.
So opposite the warmth that she
had first on me impressed...
She stroked my cheek, claws on my chin
my heart fluttered, digressed.
I was possessed.
.
She laid me on the floor and stood with
five legs for each end.
One aside my head and feet
another at my hands.
Then she gently laid a blanket
down over my head,
"Shall we commence?"
I still feel it so vividly
each night I fall asleep,
the fused infatuated fear I felt
at a monster's feet,
when that heinous eldritch horror
drained my blood from me,
took me for libation, prayed a tithe
she poured me out.
Her heart could call the kettle as it,
too, went black in drought
She bore her fangs and lowered,
took my body in her mouth.
She then carried me cliffside, like a dog
she threw me down.
My corpse then fell so far, on
impact, no audible sound.
The final earthly thing I heard,
her shriek, "The Gods are proud."
Now upon each night so dreary, she
crawls out to find
a source of poor, defenseless blood
that she can sacrifice.
She'll lure them in with gentle kisses
and sapphire eyes.
We all will die.
Epilogue.
On my way to death, I was met
with a choice instead.
I could end my life or help
ensure the gods were fed.
In the heat of fear and pain I
then nodded my head.
The halls of purgatory filled with
screams and smells of death,
as my eyes dried from the inside
and I then begat
five extra legs.
6 votes -
12:08
So what’s the deal with offices, amirite? What if we gave a building full of adults enough money to get by. Oh, and also they have to drive 30-60 minutes to get here. And that time they spend on...
So what’s the deal with offices, amirite?
What if we gave a building full of adults enough money to get by. Oh, and also they have to drive 30-60 minutes to get here. And that time they spend on the way here? Yeah what if they just gave us that for free, and we made them pay for parking!
I know, I know, fantastic right? But listen, it’s not over yet. What if we also made the work pointlessly constrained to a particular 8-hour block in the day, five days a week so that they never have any personal time, even though this is all work they could get done in four hours a day and is fully capable of being completed on their own?
Fabulous!
——
So yeah, I don’t have free time. That means I’ve got a few half-ass pieces that I’ve been wanting to finish up for awhile.
Apparently bars are open today, so I’m gonna get sauced and get to it. Prepare for a small dump today. (Also I got some dummy minor news imma share in another post. Stay tuned if you want. Or don’t ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ all’s well.
Anyway here’s that piece now.
——-
I remember that time I forgot your
birthday
And that time was today
At 12:08 in the morning
And for a moment
I felt great.
.
My dear that was the first sign
That you were
Slipping on out of my mind
Today I’m sober in the morning
Feelin okay.
.
Well well-butrin what a surprise
When it done
Come on back to my mind
Now it’s 12:09 in the morning
And ain’t shit changed.
.
And in those 60 seconds
Girl I swear
I learned a lesson -
Depression is a woman
With your name.
10 votes -
fotózás
fotózás i wonder what it must be like to remember your life. i wonder what it must be like to record it with a flash. i wonder what it must be like to pass those memories down. i wonder what it...
fotózás
i wonder what it must be like
to remember your life.i wonder what it must be like
to record it with a flash.i wonder what it must be like
to pass those memories down.i wonder what it must be like
to be normal like that.6 votes -
nyáj
nyáj in the shadows of a great unrest stand hallowed halls yet undisturbed by collapse. to be untouched by revolution is a lucky fate for a place like this— so stable in lives and yet always...
nyáj
in the shadows of a great unrest
stand hallowed halls
yet undisturbed by
collapse.
to be untouched by
revolution
is a lucky fate
for a place like this—
so stable in lives
and yet
always received
with such hostility.oh, to be a church—
a great meeting hall
for those of
the faith—
is to be us,
the people of this place
who dare to
keep their fire alive.we are but a
little congregation,
coming together
once in awhile.
giving praise to
what had been;
remembering what
our time had lost.we bear upon our weary backs
a legacy
and hope one day
to restore it.but
we must rest now,
and resign to our dreams
what could be again.5 votes -
Poetry: “The Places We Are Not” by Sarah Kay
3 votes -
And I Deal With It
A free form poem. You sing the devotion song and your people drink from your font of well-meant falsehoods. They sway in the breeze, roses ripe for cutting, so you reap. And I deal with it. Brain...
A free form poem.
You sing the devotion song and
your people drink from your font
of well-meant falsehoods.
They sway in the breeze,
roses ripe for cutting,
so you reap. And I deal with it.Brain revolting, hands shaking, heart beating
Sweating, aching, freezing, creeping thoughts
that I'm not enough.
I'm a failure. I don't deserve it. What if this goes wrong?
"Sometimes it can take awhile to find the right combination of medications."
And I deal with it.The blood in the streets is cleaned, pristine,
likewise the crimes of an otherwise good man.
Heads shake and hands pray,
repeating robotic platitudes, but I do
nothing.
And I deal with it.The sun shines high and the wind blows cool.
Our future dances and plays in the light.
We watch and her skin is soft, her hair yet softer, and I hold her
against me.
This too shall pass, my gut twists in knots.
And I deal with it.Dark nights, dark thoughts
in front of a washroom mirror.
Lightning thunders, they come and go.
Drinking my hopes to keep them gone,
I tell myself, "This isn't you," but it hurts and it's true and I can't stop the dreaming of passing this down
And I deal with it.7 votes -
bűnös & fáj
i intended to actually post these like three days ago but that didn't happen because it has to be super fucking late for me to even want to post these and unfortunately they've now aged...
i intended to actually post these like three days ago but that didn't happen because it has to be super fucking late for me to even want to post these and unfortunately they've now aged sufficiently that i categorize them firmly in the "intensely mediocre" column with everything i ever do. unfortunate, tbh. anyways here's stuff:
bűnös
UP AGAINST THE WALL, MOTHERFUCKER—
or i'll shatter your bones
and crush your heart—
to dance with me is to dance
a fine line that wrenches two worlds apartfor on one side there is a hall of saints—
on the other
the brimstone of hell—
and to stay on the side of the hall of saints
is something you'd best do well.and brave souls that dare toe the line—
that cross it
are mighty thin—
and their ranks are made of anarchists
who commit most grievous sin.UP AGAINST THE WALL, MOTHERFUCKER—
state your allegiance
to the vaunted line—
or soon you too shall join the ranks
of those who deserve malign.
fáj
when i was seventeen
the panic attacks began.
the nightmares.
the violence. the violence. the violence.violence is a funny little thing—
insidious, slithering in through one grate
and out the other.
it always begins with little things,
little fantasies in one ear and out the other.
dreams here and there, manufacturing terror and hurt.
invasive thoughts, marching to an intensifying drumbeat.
one offs.it's not normal to
want to hurt so bad.
it's not normal to
want to cut yourself everywhere,
is it?
to feel those feelings,
to bear them like a cross shackled on your back?
to wish some days you could cut to the bone
even though you're afraid of blood?
to mutilate yourself until you can't feel anymore
even though you know those feelings are irrational?
to wish you could die violently, publicly
even though you're afraid of death?violence isn't a very funny little thing—
terrifying, inescapable and ever recurring
one night after the other.
it was the little things once,
the little fantasies that used to be but now
consume the dreams, the
waking thoughts, becoming a great crescendo.
every day.when i was nineteen
the panic attacks were normal.
the nightmares.
the violence.12 votes -
Burnt!
Burnt! You embraced me with your apple-pie grin as I tumbled through the door caked in sun, and the larks and the orioles who titter their King George behind us are snuffed with the slam of the...
Burnt!
You embraced me with your apple-pie grin
as I tumbled through the door caked in sun,
and the larks and the orioles who titter their King George
behind us are snuffed with the slam of the castle gate.
We are alone in the fragrant silence of our shared universe,
your heartbeat against my cheek nuzzles
like the murmur of some public radio presenter.
I float along helplessly like a kitten held by its scruff
until the slasher-scream of a Janet Leigh smoke detector,
brutally gored by the twirling swirling aerial dancers,
beckons you away to some Burning of Washington, 1814,
its desolation likewise impeded by a timely sprinkle.
In the black ash-pile is the monomania of the Cosmos,
circling like a hyena for any vulnerability
to consume everything it touches
so that we all might become dark and vacuous like it.
The cosmos and its baggage are swept away,
its might and vastness no match for a love as true as ours.This was my attempt at writing a poem in the style of Pamela Miller, a feminist and often zany poet from my native Chicago.
Please let me know what you think.
11 votes -
lunch date. (the love poem.)
Today I found a girl Who was pretty nice To me. She made me stop and talk And rest and breathe. She said your stomach growls, Your legs Are weak. How’d you like to come And sit With me? . And my...
Today I found a girl
Who was pretty nice
To me.
She made me stop and talk
And rest
and breathe.
She said your stomach growls,
Your legs
Are weak.
How’d you like to come
And sit
With me?
.
And my how time it flew
And passed
Us by.
Lunch turned into tea
Turned in-
to night.
The way her body curved
It shaped
My mind.
And then her laugh,
Her smile,
Her eyes.
.
Would you mind if I stayed
For an hour or two
Or three?
We could sit and talk
And laugh
And crawl between the sheets.
And maybe I can stay the night
Or two
Or three?
And you’ll hold onto me.
And we can spend forever
Cus talk
Is cheap.
And maybe nights will
Slowly carve a curve and crash on
Into weeks.
Maybe we’ll be cuddled
On the couch or sipping
Sex on the beach
Maybe I could stay
For life, just
You, and me.
9 votes -
Wild Turkey 101
i got fire in my blood Wild Turkey and the nicotine might just call my doctor have him put me on amphetamines driving past the memories i'm pushing on 100 speed crossing single-white lines with a...
i got fire in my blood
Wild Turkey and the nicotine
might just call my doctor
have him put me on amphetamines
driving past the memories
i'm pushing on 100 speed
crossing single-white lines
with a blade til my bones weak.
cold-brew hipster
gothboi fantasies
hard to think straight when
my thoughts are attacking me
here i let the voices out
inner demons writing rhapsodies
before i go and swing from
a noose and a dramatic tree
.
can't decide what i want between
freedom and consistency
i say i want it done
but i think i want her missing me
last week i bought a gun*
this week i went to therapy
when will i be free from all the
thermo-manic tendencies?
.
drowning in my bed
breathing wild turkey
i couldn't feel if i were dead,
but i like the way she hurts me
i've come to know the pain
it's like a second home to me
liquor novocaine
im falling from autonomy.
if mecca was a bedroom
girl you were a God to me
and laying here alone is
a wicked act of blasphemy.
never knew you were a snake
feeding hate from an apple tree
I'll chop it down, and build a tomb
so you can hold me,
as an effigy
(* didnt actually buy a gun. me no like. literally 0 plans to.)
7 votes -
the law of averages (fuck math)
short one. wrote it sober, so i couldn't (didn't?) really expand on it. either way, just bought a bottle for the first time since shit happened but i don't plan on going too crazy this time. then...
short one. wrote it sober, so i couldn't (didn't?) really expand on it.
either way, just bought a bottle for the first time since shit happened but i don't plan on going too crazy this time.
then again, do i plan half the shit i do? or am i just constantly fumbling my way up through life.
either way here's some shit about math.
enjoy.
You said I was the one
But that was only when you managed
To get some rest, and breathe, and
Keep yourself from going rabid
But must of the time you
Wore your claws out like a savage
So if we’re being honest I‘m the
.08 on average.
9 votes -
űrrepülés.
i'm bored and entirely too fucking tired to still be up, so here's a thing i wrote in a little burst like an hour ago. see also enikő, the considerably longer weird shit i wrote in a similar...
i'm bored and entirely too fucking tired to still be up, so here's a thing i wrote in a little burst like an hour ago. see also enikő, the considerably longer weird shit i wrote in a similar burst.
I. űrrepülés
having once been the dreamer of many things,
having once been an eternal creator,
having seen the birth of great star systems and galaxies
and life itself
only to be snuffed out
with ignominy
i feel compelled to explain why i too must
inevitably follow themhurt
is a funny little word. it seems so easy to come
to a common agreement on what it means and yet,
if i told you it hurt
would you really understand that?would you understand the feeling
of hopelessness,
the vast indignities of having to see
your every piece of art,
your life's work
snuffed out
like the stars?II. űrlény
you can't play god
with the people in your life,
but that never stopped me from trying,
from creating those great star systems
that people care about.
from creating life where there is none.and that never stopped me from failing,
and the stars becoming great cataclysms—
black holes destroying the life around them
without regard for its beauty.you might say it is callous
to try to move the heavens and the earth
and to die when they don't arrange the right way,
but,
i would rather die than be that hurt person again
watching the stars go out one by one.6 votes -
i woke up with a headache and found this in my notes. (the coffin song)
In the shadows Like a ghost you hide In the single most foreign Corners of my mind Therapy and pills still Can’t subside the angelic choir Of your pretty lies Promises you made, The bones I broke...
In the shadows
Like a ghost you hide
In the single most foreign
Corners of my mind
Therapy and pills still
Can’t subside the angelic choir
Of your pretty lies
Promises you made,
The bones I broke
You once took my breath
And now I choke
Jesus let me breathe
Is there hope for me?
.
Now I desire
The obscure
All that reminds
Of being yours
Your oils, poison
My waters, pure
Your love is cancer
There is no cure.
.
I watched my grandfather take his final breaths as he kissed my head and you held my hand. Not two months later you foresaw our end, and decided not to keep me, even as a friend.
And now you’re off, marriage in the plans. I pray your time falls like the sand and hits the bottom of every glass as fast as it can.
I have no home. I’m lost and cold. You promised me a home would grow. We got a dog, and had planned for more. Mouth of this world, a fish at shore you took my breath and killed me slow.
I’m suicidal, I have no hope. I’ve not a gun, don’t have a rope. The only reason I’ve not a note, I’d end it all, I’d end it all.
I just want to feel pretty.
Pretty loved and pretty free
But for now I keep to getting
Pretty drunk, it isn’t cheap
But I can afford it/‘s kinda sweet
Too bad you’re not round
To drink with me.
I’d fill the bottle
We’d watch the office
Instead I scar
Until I am solid
An ugly rock
A useless object
I’ll break my stones
And build a coffin
And die in your name
Die in your name.
11 votes -
my therapist won't return my calls (lmfao fuck me)
tw: self-harm; suicide; lost love. i hit my cigarette like an abuser hits her wife because i'm a fucking coward to afraid to take his life i've felt love before i beg it through the strife but i...
tw: self-harm; suicide; lost love.
i hit my cigarette
like an abuser hits her wife
because i'm a fucking coward
to afraid to take his life
i've felt love before
i beg it through the strife
but i only find a heart
at the wrong side of a blunt and useless knife
.
and it's only mine
at least there's proof
that i can feel
when blood protrudes.
but that's not "work appropriate"
so i get tattoos
what a shame i can't get paid to die.
12 votes -
haha this shit’s not working (a poem)
i got a job i got on meds i got a car still wanting death. still here at night alone in my bed still hear her voice ring in my head “why do you look like i abused you?” . i bought a bottle i...
i got a job
i got on meds
i got a car
still wanting death.
still here at night
alone in my bed
still hear her voice
ring in my head
“why do you look like i abused you?”
.
i bought a bottle
i bought some cards
can’t kill my thoughts
my god it’s hard
just make it stop
“i don’t think i love you anymore.”
.
anxiety’s
taken over me
every interaction
i worry
did i act weird?
what do they think?
i guarantee
they laugh at me
can’t beat it all
can’t bear it all.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
..
don’t want to live
don’t want to die
i fantasize
(that) it’ll be alright
she’ll cuddle close
and hold me night
and pet my head
and kill the fright
i can’t escape
don’t want to fight
god let me die
god let me die
8 votes -
I just want to feel pretty.
Pretty. Pretty good. Pretty cool. Pretty smart. Pretty cute. Pretty kind. Pretty eyes. Pretty warm. Pretty witty. Pretty artistic. Pretty talented. Pretty cultured. Pretty traveled. Pretty-faced....
Pretty.
Pretty good.
Pretty cool.
Pretty smart.
Pretty cute.
Pretty kind.
Pretty eyes.
Pretty warm.
Pretty witty.
Pretty artistic.
Pretty talented.
Pretty cultured.
Pretty traveled.
Pretty-faced.
Pretty loved.
But fuck me,
Life’s pretty hard.
12 votes -
Friday haiku challenge
I used to work at Amazon, and one of their internal "chatter" mailing lists had a tradition that every Friday people would write haiku, often about how their week went, or something in the news,...
I used to work at Amazon, and one of their internal "chatter" mailing lists had a tradition that every Friday people would write haiku, often about how their week went, or something in the news, or just something random. Going to try to resurrect that here.
If you want lines to color within, the "normal" requirements for a haiku are:
The essence of haiku is "cutting" (kiru). This is often represented by the juxtaposition of two images or ideas and a kireji ("cutting word") between them, a kind of verbal punctuation mark which signals the moment of separation and colours the manner in which the juxtaposed elements are related.
Traditional haiku often consist of 17 on (also known as morae though often loosely translated as "syllables"), in three phrases of 5, 7, and 5 on, respectively.
A kigo (seasonal reference), usually drawn from a saijiki, an extensive but defined list of such terms.
But of course often the 5-7-5 syllable structure is the only part used in Westernized haiku. Feel free to follow the guidelines above as narrowly or as loosely as you want.
14 votes -
Animating the Inanimate Poetry Challenge
@cadadr's 4 word poetry challenge is one of my favorite Tildes threads to read through on account of the many clever and thoughtful responses, so I figured I'd try to kick off another one. This...
@cadadr's 4 word poetry challenge is one of my favorite Tildes threads to read through on account of the many clever and thoughtful responses, so I figured I'd try to kick off another one. This one is a little more conceptually involved, but I think it still has the potential to be a good time like the last one.
Rather than going with a strict word or line count, instead I am creating a restriction based around personification:
Challenge:
Your poem must:- Be written from the point of view of an inanimate object
- Give the object personality/emotion
- NOT name the object, so that people have to infer it from what you've written
An example might be an automatic door that is bored to tears from opening and closing ad nauseum. Or maybe a watering can that is excited to tend to its garden.
In trying to come up with a model I decided to channel a resentful milk carton:
It's fine
I get it
You don't have to justify yourself
Lots of better things have come around
Since you first chose meJust know that I'm still here
If you need me
Waiting for that blissful moment
Where you light up my world
And take me in your hand
And make me feel like I'm flying
Before you lower me down
In a lover's embraceIt's fine
I get it
Until then I'll sit here
In the cold, cold dark
Trying not to go sour
Next to the slowly molding cheese
And forgotten grapesIt's far from perfect but hopefully it gives you an idea of what the assignment can look like. While I saved my "reveal" to the end, don't feel obligated to use that tactic unless you want to. You don't have to hide the identity of your object, just don't name the object outright in the poem.
Feel free to make your poem as long or short as you wish. Feel free to make it as meaningful or silly as you want. Above all else, have fun!
If you need help with ideas or just want the challenge of writing to a randomly selected specification, you can use this noun generator for objects and this adjective generator for sentiments.
9 votes -
Exile | Exil | ⴵⵘⴵ̇ⵔⴵ̇ⵙ, a poem by Hawad
6 votes -
Dream Seminar, a poem by Tomas Tranströmer, translated from the Swedish by Patty Crane
4 votes -
4 words poetry challenge
Four words, no exceptions.
26 votes -
I know nothing
I know nothing nor do I want to: a blank brain is all I want! I have nothing nor do I want to: I want to be, nothing else do I want!
5 votes -
Emily Dickinson Museum receives $22 million gift
6 votes -
Faerie Desperado
Old legends what spoke of the fae Said “cold iron must be used in the fray” Bore great axe ‘gainst brownie The first chord made it flee ‘Twas Heavy Metal what had won this day
6 votes -
[untitled]
In Feudal Japan Kaze no Tsuyoi Nioi Tea Party Ninja Assassin of Joy Bringer of His Mighty Wind Most Fetid of Stench For a Tidy Fee Kaze no Tsuyoi Nioi Would Disturb Your Foes Piercing Defenses...
In Feudal Japan
Kaze no Tsuyoi Nioi
Tea Party Ninja
Assassin of Joy
Bringer of His Mighty Wind
Most Fetid of Stench
For a Tidy Fee
Kaze no Tsuyoi Nioi
Would Disturb Your Foes
Piercing Defenses
Buddha Alone Knew His Tread
In and Out, Unseen
But Never Un-Smelt
Kaze no Tsuyoi Nioi
Bearing Bowels Most Foul7 votes -
I don’t care for haiku
“Haiku number 6, Alright, let’s get into it. Shit – I’m out of room.” edit: This is so not what I expected from the comments, and I'm very pleased with it. Have fun folks!
21 votes -
Tildistas, what is your favorite poem?
there have been quite a few discussions on poetry on here and more than a few people post it from time to time, but i don't think anybody's asked this question recently if at all on this site, so...
there have been quite a few discussions on poetry on here and more than a few people post it from time to time, but i don't think anybody's asked this question recently if at all on this site, so let me be the first to do that.
alternative/bonus question for those of you who can't pick a singular poem: who is your favorite poet in general?
(also just to be clear, non-anglophone poetry/poets are of course welcome for the answer here. don't feel limited or obligated to confine yourself just to english poetry because most of the people here are anglophones)
19 votes -
Sisyphus.
This isn’t what I want it to be. I’ve just had too many to care. Most days I don’t need any to not care. Yet I smile at them; servers and baristas. Try hard, smile, look happy. Maybe they’ll think...
This isn’t what I want it to be. I’ve just had too many to care.
Most days I don’t need any to not care.
Yet I smile at them; servers and baristas.
Try hard, smile, look happy.
Maybe they’ll think you’re cute.
You arrogant shit.
“Sisyphus!
Arrogant twat,
How shall you pay
For the sins you’ve wrought?
I’ll hang your dreams
In delicate swathe
And leave you to work
Forever for naught.
.
Sisyphus!
You “god” among men
I’ll number your days
Count them by hand
While you work, serve
Slave to my end
Your bones will strain
And bend.
.
Sisyphus!
You represent
The whole that is wrong
With the common man
I’ll make you sweat,
And I’ll make you beg
(That) one day you’ll be free
Again!”
.
Dear Sisyphus,
I know your soul.
Your struggle is mine
And we share the goal
That work, work, will come
To an end
And we’ll live again
As free men.
.
Sisyphus,
I hear your cries –
Your yelps of pain
In the dead of night
When your muscles strain
And your mind ain’t right
My brother
Your pain is mine!
.
Gods above –!
Rescue me!
.
Sisyphus!
I’m you, incarnate.
I do my work and
Sing my songs in
Hope the gods will
Hear my plea
And one day
set me free.
.
I am he!
I aloud decree,
assuming Sisyphus’
identity.
I live his plight,
beg myself free
that I’ll find a
love for me.
.
SISYPHUS.
THIS IS YOUR WROUGHT.
YOUR MERIT THE PAIN,
THIS DAY YOU’VE SOUGHT.
YOU KNOW YOUR SINS
AND NOW YOU BEG
THAT YOU MAY FRESH BEGIN
.
THE GODS WILL REMEMBER
SINS IN DECEMBER;
DRAG YOUR SOUL DOWN
DEEP TO THE EMBER.
YOU AS THE KINDLE
YOU AND YOUR KINFOLK
FOREVER LIGHT OUR WAY.
.
SISYPHUS.
“IMMACULATE.”
WHAT A SHAME YOU’LL FIND
COME END YOUR FATE
WHEN THE TRUTH REVEALS
YOUR LOVE IS FAKE.
5 votes -
Boulder.
are you so thirsty you would drink your own blood? do you feel so dirty that you bathe in wet mud? are you so alone that you make talk with yourself? are you so afraid that you, your own friends,...
are you so thirsty
you would drink your own blood?
do you feel so dirty
that you bathe in wet mud?
are you so alone
that you make talk with yourself?
are you so afraid
that you, your own friends, repel?
.
would you clean your skin with acid
just to feel pure within your casket?
would you feed on rot and mold
in attempt to feed your soul?
are you so cold, your blankets worn,
you'd set your home ablaze for warmth?
do you so fear the words you'll hear
you'll drive metal spears into your ears?
.
are you so broken
and without any help
you would crack your own skull
and find some gold to smelt
in hopes you leave your corpse
a void kintsugi shell?
if not; then why, dear brain,
do you want to burn yourself
7 votes -
Mountaintops.
Apologies for the spam. This may be the last one today; worst-case there's only one more coming. I see you, pretty home, with your couch, your floor, and kitchen. I see your sign there, hoping...
Apologies for the spam. This may be the last one today; worst-case there's only one more coming.
I see you, pretty home,
with your couch, your floor, and kitchen.
I see your sign there, hoping
that I might call and visit.
I want to tour your space
and dream of how I'd fill it.
What chair, what bed, what rug,
and if it could home a kitten.
.
I can see a career
that let's me furnish you to 9.
I faintly feel a hope
that one day you might be mine.
I teeter on a plan
that I could start, if energized
that would lead me to you
if I could try, and all went right.
.
A fireplace in cold,
you'd stay lit, always, in orange.
the warmest of colors
keeps my mind free of contortion.
Your firm, solid structure
Keeps me confident, supported.
What a beautiful dream;
I hope, one day, to afford it.
5 votes -
Pins and needles
Pins and needles in my left leg. As I minimally move they acute and grave. I sleep, I shall wake up; what will it have been: a circumflex, or an umlaut?
10 votes -
500 Rubber Band Challenge!! [Not Clickbait] [Crazy] [Graphic]
Is it self-inflating to label one's own work as graphic? (It is kinda graphic, clickbait title aside.) This doesn't even really capture the right imagery I was trying to go for. Might just have to...
Is it self-inflating to label one's own work as graphic? (It is kinda graphic, clickbait title aside.)
This doesn't even really capture the right imagery I was trying to go for.
Might just have to re-write this idea into a completely different piece, I'm not sure. (mfw literally "felt creative idk might delete later")
The "ball" was supposed to really be a watermelon, because we've all seen that YouTube video where they explode a watermelon with rubber bands, but I didn't leave myself enough space to develop that transition from ball to melon properly. (Brand new sentence?)
Why am I even posting this if I feel its unfinished?
Who knows.
Anyway let's get to the thing here it is vvvvvvvvv
slip.
twist.
smack.
10 rubber bands on a ball
all hold each other taut
the inception of a toy
that will quick be left for naught
but brings a momentary joy - its only cause.
.
work.
stoa.
sweat.
hustle on, man, that's your call
you gotta love your boss.
it's the struggle of a boy.
that you never would be caught
while feeling tears or overwhelm - lest you be mocked.
.
smack.
stretch.
strain.
100 rubber bands slap
starting slightly straining
its appearances are coy,
the ball slowly rolls to stop.
picked up and bounced against the floor - it doesn't pop.
.
work.
stare.
grind.
expectations are my all.
you dream of taking off -
escape makes you overjoyed
daily grind just puts your off.
your brain it strains against the skull - stressing nonstop.
.
pop
waste
spill
500 rubber bands smack
crushing and constraining
such a carnage to enjoy
they start rolling out the mops.
the ball explodes onto the floor - as if a prop
.
rip
slice
tear.
my fists crash into the walls.
my skin, just rip it off
rip out the bone, leave me void
naked muscle growing moss.
wrap rubber bands around my head until it pops.
6 votes -
Two kinds of freedom
8 votes -
A poetry-writing AI has just been unveiled. It’s ... pretty good.
10 votes -
What do you think of when you think of fluorescent blue?
What a beautiful night the stars are out like tiny pinprick holes in the sky illuminating our soft gray subtle shadows as we chat about life and random fluff and the moon shines through your dress...
What a beautiful night
the stars are out
like tiny pinprick holes in the sky
illuminating our soft gray subtle shadows
as we chat about life and random fluff
and the moon shines through your dress
making it
transparentBack to my car
a night full of passion.
Come the morning: I stop and reflect.
What could my life have been?
If I had missed all this,
this artifice and sin?
For you are only silicone,
your dress a splotchy sheet
The stars are a cheap plastic disco ball
I bought it from goodwill for 97¢.
My car's no more than a fluorescent-stained couch.Alas, alas for me
I must do better—yes, I will!
(I steel my resolve)
(I know what I must do)
(my heart, it pains me so!
For you have been so good to me, and thus I will repay you?)I did it, threw you in the trash;
I'll hire a human whore tomorrow8 votes -
June.
You know they’ve got poetry on Spotify? That’s some cool shit. Ended up following John Cooper Clarke into a rabbit hole of other British poets. Decided to bite and try writing a bit of poetry for...
You know they’ve got poetry on Spotify? That’s some cool shit. Ended up following John Cooper Clarke into a rabbit hole of other British poets.
Decided to bite and try writing a bit of poetry for poetry’s sake.
Anyway. ‘Ere go. “June.”
I thought your voice was music
And your beauty - work of art.
I found your jokes amusing,
Ponygirl, a golden heart.
Your company, a journey
Which I never could depart
I really felt I loved you,
Well, I did once, at the start.
.
See, music can be different
Some songs good, and others crap.
Some begin melodically,
Then get crashing in a snap.
Starting subtle violins,
Then it blares with metal scrap
They lure you malevolent
Some music is a trap.
.
Some artists Donatello,
Others Jackson Pollock.
Some art goes well with wine,
Some turns you alcoholic.
Some is deep and intricate,
Some is purely bollocks
Can’t call this a masterpiece
I’m not sure what to call it.
.
Thought your lips were pure cuisine
And your beauty - work of art.
I never thought the kitchen
Would have mold and rot at heart.
The oven sent asunder
All the counters ripped apart
You’re a diner with one dish,
And it’s a dry and sour tart.
7 votes -
"TWAT" x Dr. John Cooper Clark
4 votes -
Simon Armitage: 'Witty and profound' writer to be next Poet Laureate
8 votes -
magmatic rock, is one of the three main rock types, the others being sedimentary and metamorphic.
Light it up hit the stage hit the dance floor. Fight enough start a riot there's a chance for love to grow for the hate to transform Feeling these knots in my head am I deformed? . Feel like my...
Light it up
hit the stage
hit the dance floor.
Fight enough
start a riot
there's a chance for
love to grow
for the hate
to transform
Feeling these
knots in my head
am I deformed?
.
Feel like my
head, my heart,
a rock show.
Is this peace
or pain, I
do not know.
I can't close
my eyes and
the clock's slow
Pray I'll
kill myself
in Chicago
.
My head pounds
bass drum
memories of,
days when you
and I meshed
and we made love.
Wish that I
went and bought you
all your makeup.
Maybe some money's
all we needed
to makeup
.
Feel like my
head, my heart,
a rock show.
Is this peace
or pain, I
do not know.
I can't close
my eyes and
the clock's slow
Pray I'll
kill myself
in Chicago
.
With hate your
voice went shrill
you went cold.
Who's this girl
beside me
don't know.
Wake up in
the morning pain
or comfort?
All your screaming
I wanna go
Van Gogh
.
Feel like my
head, my heart,
a rock show.
Is this peace
or pain, I
do not know.
I can't close
my eyes and
the clock's slow
Pray I'll
kill myself
in Chicago
9 votes -
Marshall Gillson - "Tell Me Again How You Don't See Color"
10 votes -
Review: "Bedroom Music" by Steph Castor
5 votes -
Hand to God
Father God I've got a favor to ask of you. . It is said you can justify the hell I knew. . So now I raise my tired eyes to the morning blue. . God above, I've got a favor to ask of you. . If I...
Father God
I've got a favor
to ask of you.
.
It is said
you can justify
the hell I knew.
.
So now I raise
my tired eyes
to the morning blue.
.
God above,
I've got a favor
to ask of you.
.
If I don't wake up
dead in the morning
could you stand by me
if just for a moment
give pause to the pain
put a break to the moaning
while I'm stuck in this mind
and I just can't control it.
.
If you're gonna drag me out
of my bed in the morning
then I ask I wake in
a place I feel at home and
I can pour a little brown, light
a green, and get to hoping
that I'll find good work,
good love, and consoling.
.
Ya Allah
Ana mish aerif
Ana riyeh feyn.
.
My head
is clouded, dark
and the sky is grey.
.
I've found
I hate the sun,
and dance in the rain.
.
And at night,
I close my eyes,
dream of the grave.
.
If you're gonna drag me out
of my bed in the morning
then I ask I wake in
a place I feel at home and
I can pour a little brown, light
a green, and get to hoping
that I'll find good work,
good love, and consoling.
8 votes -
Australian poet Les Murray dies at 80
Death notice at ABC news: Australian poet Les Murray dies at 80 Article about Les Murray in 2002: In the Land of Les Murray
3 votes -
A Bouquet Of Poets For National Poetry Month
4 votes -
Bishop The Musician
<Insert intro explaining the lack of an intro.> raindrop on the tongue of the parched, de- flated beach ball in the hands of the young, lit cig 'tween the fingers of a nun, one sin's never gonna...
<Insert intro explaining the lack of an intro.>raindrop
on the tongue
of the parched, de-
flated beach ball
in the hands of the young, lit
cig 'tween the fingers
of a nun,
one sin's never gonna be enough
fuck the prose
words will never be enough.
the writing's on the walls
but you can't read it
you aren't here
i need a sign you
can't ignore or a call
you're bound to hear
.
the words just aren't enough
on their own
to pull my heart strings
i can't find peace
without my blood
on guitar strings.
.
the words are going cold
the poetry has not a heartbeat.
i need to take the stage
and pray to god that they can't see me.
8 votes -
Can Poetry Move Readers to Take Climate Action?
5 votes -
Lakeside Property
Not sure why I always feel the need to preface these with something. Feels weird not to. As if I'm just "Hey chump, here's a poem, read it." Y'all hear that Lil Nas X track "Old Town Road" yet?...
Not sure why I always feel the need to preface these with something.
Feels weird not to. As if I'm just "Hey chump, here's a poem, read it."
Y'all hear that Lil Nas X track "Old Town Road" yet? Never knew I needed to hear Billy Ray Cyrus on a trap beat until it happened.
If that blends your smoothie, you might also like "Like A Farmer" x Lil Tracy ft. Lil Uzi Vert
I like this whole hickhop wave coming through. Cool to see people playing around with genre-bending.
For all those "that's not real country" folk, here's some Cody Jinks and some Brown Bird (technically blues I think, fight me.)
Anyway, here's the thing. Feel free to read it. If anyone here uses one of those e-reader speech things for the vision-impaired, how does this sound? Does the reader have any rhythm to it, or does it just feed you line after line?
Alright closing out for real. Later.
I thought something strange
skeleton felt out the closet
In the house, the paint
kept peeling off the walls
and on the bed, decay
as the wood went rotten
Never could build a house,
made a life making coffins.
.
In the morn, I wake
and the skies are grey and cloudy
Turn to kiss my babe,
is it love me or get off me
and my head, it aches
the anxiety is starting
so I say fuck it all and I make me some coffee.
.
Lips on me -
desire.
Arsonist
with a lighter.
Feed my soul,
make the heart burn.
Where there's smoke
there is fire.
.
An infant strand-
ed out there in the snow
Sh'said "Babe there's a chill,
you'd better close the door."
Close your rain-
bow, there's no pot of gold.
And there's no one to sing
you any songs of your home.
.
Fill my art-
eries with bourbon old
Loverboy
til I am dead and gone
Rip off my skin
and leave my body cold
My son,
the devil
is a pretty blonde.
.
And I said
Mama
I’m tired.
My hands shake
My eyes burn.
Hair’s thin
Heart afire.
My lovely little lover was a liar.
.
Closed the door,
the hinge broke.
No chimney
house filled smoke.
Scents arose
of burnt mold.
A lake of blood and
guilt can't support a home.
9 votes