real poetry.

[stoney baloney]

some people immediately scoff at the word poetry; and often for good reason. it's been overwhelmed with flowery prose and empty meaning. for those of who love written word, though, it's tough to ignore the high quality stuff. for me, it's mostly contemporary. i'm a HUGE fan of Charles Bukowski, but he's a little depressing to start off with. this is one of my favorites from Donald Hall.... called 'Tubes'. it has a lot of meaning for me, since i'm struggling with health issues and at the same time struggling with 'goal oriented' issues as well.

 

peace.

Tubes by Donald Hall

1

"Up, down, good, bad," said

the man with the tubes

up his nose, " there's lots

of variety…

However, notions

of balance between

extremes of fortune

are stupid—or at

best unobservant."

He watched as the nurse

fed pellets into

the green nozzle that

stuck from his side. "Mm,"

said the man. " Good. Yum.

(Next time more basil…)

When a long-desired

baby is born, what

joy! More happiness

than we find in sex,

more than we take in

success, revenge, or

wealth. But should the same

infant die, would you

measure the horror

on the same rule? Grief

weighs down the seesaw;

joy cannot budge it."

 

2

"When I was nineteen,

I told a thirty-

year-old man what a

fool I had been when

I was seventeen.

'We were always,' he

said glancing down, 'a

fool two years ago.'"

 

3

The man with the tubes

up his nostrils spoke

carefully: "I don't

regret what I did,

but that I claimed I

did the opposite.

If I was faithless

or treacherous and

cowardly, I had

my reasons—but I

regret that I called

myself loyal, brave,

and honorable."

 

4

"Of all illusions,"

said the man with the

tubes up his nostrils,

IVs, catheter,

and feeding nozzle,

"the silliest one

was hardest to lose.

For years I supposed

that after climbing

exhaustedly up

with pitons and ropes,

I would arrive at

last on the plateau

of walking-level-

forever-among-

moss-with-red-blossoms.

But of course, of course:

A continual

climbing is the one

form of arrival

we ever come to—

unless we suppose

that the wished-for height

and house of desire

is tubes up the nose."

[KevinBacon]

Heavy stuff. So he was writing this in regards to his wife and her struggle?

[stoney baloney]

my impression of it is that the old man is speaking to the writer (donald hall, presumably) about his life, and how constantly aspiring for more and more success just brought him to more suffering. one of my favorite lines of all time is in this... 'we were always a fool, two years ago'

 

i'll post some bukowski on a night i'm good and trashed. he's a good drunk read.

[vke]

My personal favorite poem, by Rudyard Kipling

 

IF you can keep your head when all about you

Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

But make allowance for their doubting too;

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,

Or being hated, don't give way to hating,

And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;

If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

And treat those two impostors just the same;

If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken

Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,

And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

And never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

To serve your turn long after they are gone,

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,

' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,

if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,

If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,

Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,

And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!

 

Also part of a Brand New song, Sowing Season. I'm getting this line inked on my arm "Is it in you now, to watch the things you gave your life to broken,

And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools"

[stoney baloney]

@ Valkyrie, awesome... i dig it. it's taken a while for me to respond, but i'm probably going to post some occasional spam poetry here.... i'd hope anyone else that wants to, does.

 

here's something from one of my few heroes... Charles Bukowski.

 

 

Let It Enfold You by Charles Bukowski

either peace or happiness,

let it enfold you

 

when i was a young man

I felt these things were

dumb,unsophisticated.

I had bad blood,a twisted

mind, a pecarious

upbringing.

 

I was hard as granite,I

leered at the

sun.

I trusted no man and

especially no

woman.

 

I was living a hell in

small rooms, I broke

things, smashed things,

walked through glass,

cursed.

I challenged everything,

was continually being

evicted,jailed,in and

out of fights,in and aout

of my mind.

women were something

to screw and rail

at,i had no male

freinds,

 

I changed jobs and

cities,I hated holidays,

babies,history,

newspapers, museums,

grandmothers,

marriage, movies,

spiders, garbagemen,

english accents,spain,

france,italy,walnuts and

the color

orange.

algebra angred me,

opera sickened me,

charlie chaplin was a

fake

and flowers were for

pansies.

 

peace an happiness to me

were signs of

inferiority,

tenants of the weak

an

addled

mind.

 

but as I went on with

my alley fights,

my suicidal years,

my passage through

any number of

women-it gradually

began to occur to

me

that I wasn't diffrent

 

from the

others, I was the same,

 

they were all fulsome

with hatred,

glossed over with petty

greivances,

the men I fought in

alleys had hearts of stone.

everybody was nudging,

inching, cheating for

some insignificant

advantage,

the lie was the

weapon and the

plot was

emptey,

darkness was the

dictator.

 

cautiously, I allowed

myself to feel good

at times.

I found moments of

peace in cheap

rooms

just staring at the

knobs of some

dresser

or listening to the

rain in the

dark.

the less i needed

the better i

felt.

 

maybe the other life had worn me

down.

I no longer found

glamour

in topping somebody

in conversation.

or in mounting the

body of some poor

drunken female

whose life had

slipped away into

sorrow.

 

I could never accept

life as it was,

i could never gobble

down all its

poisons

but there were parts,

tenous magic parts

open for the

asking.

 

I re formulated

I don't know when,

date,time,all

that

but the change

occured.

something in me

relaxed, smoothed

out.

i no longer had to

prove that i was a

man,

 

I did'nt have to prove

anything.

 

I began to see things:

coffe cups lined up

behind a counter in a

cafe.

or a dog walking along

a sidewalk.

or the way the mouse

on my dresser top

stopped there

with its body,

its ears,

its nose,

it was fixed,

a bit of life

caught within itself

and its eyes looked

at me

and they were

beautiful.

then- it was

gone.

 

I began to feel good,

I began to feel good

in the worst situations

and there were plenty

of those.

like say, the boss

behind his desk,

he is going to have

to fire me.

 

I've missed too many

days.

he is dressed in a

suit, necktie, glasses,

he says, "i am going

to have to let you go"

 

"it's all right" i tell

him.

 

He must do what he

must do, he has a

wife, a house, children.

expenses, most probably

a girlfreind.

 

I am sorry for him

he is caught.

 

I walk onto the blazing

sunshine.

the whole day is

mine

temporailiy,

anyhow.

 

(the whole world is at the

throat of the world,

everybody feels angry,

short-changed, cheated,

everybody is despondent,

dissillusioned)

 

I welcomed shots of

peace, tattered shards of

happiness.

 

I embraced that stuff

like the hottest number,

like high heels,breasts,

singing,the

works.

 

(dont get me wrong,

there is such a thing as cockeyed optimism

that overlooks all

basic problems justr for

the sake of

itself-

this is a sheild and a

sickness.)

 

The knife got near my

throat again,

I almost turned on the

gas

again

but when the good

moments arrived

again

I did'nt fight them off

like an alley

adversary.

I let them take me,

i luxuriated in them,

I bade them welcome

home.

I even looked into

the mirror

once having thought

myself to be

ugly,

I now liked what

I saw,almost

handsome,yes,

a bit ripped and

ragged,

scares,lumps,

odd turns,

but all in all,

not too bad,

almost handsome,

better at least than

some of those movie

star faces

like the cheeks of

a babys

butt.

 

and finally I discovered

real feelings fo

others,

unhearleded,

like latley,

like this morning,

as I was leaving,

for the track,

i saw my wif in bed,

just the

shape of

her head there

(not forgetting

centuries of the living

and the dead and

the dying,

the pyarimids,

Mozart dead

but his music still

there in the

room, weeds growing,

the earth turning,

the toteboard waiting for

me)

I saw the shape of my

wife's head,

she so still,

i ached for her life,

just being there

under the

covers.

 

i kissed her in the,

forehead,

got down the stairway,

got outside,

got into my marvelous

car,

fixed the seatbelt,

backed out the

drive.

feeling warm to

the fingertips,

down to my

foot on the gas

pedal,

I entered the world

once

more,

drove down the

hill

past the houses

full and emptey

of

people,

i saw the mailman,

honked,

he waved

back

at me.

[stoney baloney]

The Genius Of The Crowd by Charles Bukowski

there is enough treachery, hatred violence absurdity in the average

human being to supply any given army on any given day

 

and the best at murder are those who preach against it

and the best at hate are those who preach love

and the best at war finally are those who preach peace

 

those who preach god, need god

those who preach peace do not have peace

those who preach peace do not have love

 

beware the preachers

beware the knowers

beware those who are always reading books

beware those who either detest poverty

or are proud of it

beware those quick to praise

for they need praise in return

beware those who are quick to censor

they are afraid of what they do not know

beware those who seek constant crowds for

they are nothing alone

beware the average man the average woman

beware their love, their love is average

seeks average

 

but there is genius in their hatred

there is enough genius in their hatred to kill you

to kill anybody

not wanting solitude

not understanding solitude

they will attempt to destroy anything

that differs from their own

not being able to create art

they will not understand art

they will consider their failure as creators

only as a failure of the world

not being able to love fully

they will believe your love incomplete

and then they will hate you

and their hatred will be perfect

 

like a shining diamond

like a knife

like a mountain

like a tiger

like hemlock

 

their finest art

[BoomStick]

Yeah, I've no idea why this screwed up so badly - damn formatting.

 

OK, try again - One of my favourites would have to be Oscar Wilde's Ballad of Reading Gaol, which he wrote while imprisoned for having a gay affair with the son of a prominent figure, I believe. I won't quote the whole thing as it is quite long.

 

I never saw a man who looked

With such a wistful eye

Upon that little tent of blue

Which prisoners call the sky,

And at every drifting cloud that went

With sails of silver by.

 

--

 

Yet each man kills the thing he loves

By each let this be heard,

Some do it with a bitter look,

Some with a flattering word,

The coward does it with a kiss,

The brave man with a sword!

 

Some kill their love when they are young,

And some when they are old;

Some strangle with the hands of Lust,

Some with the hands of Gold:

The kindest use a knife, because

The dead so soon grow cold.

 

Some love too little, some too long,

Some sell, and others buy;

Some do the deed with many tears,

And some without a sigh:

For each man kills the thing he loves,

Yet each man does not die.

 

--

 

In Debtors' Yard the stones are hard,

And the dripping wall is high,

So it was there he took the air

Beneath the leaden sky,

And by each side a Warder walked,

For fear the man might die.

 

Or else he sat with those who watched

His anguish night and day;

Who watched him when he rose to weep,

And when he crouched to pray;

Who watched him lest himself should rob

Their scaffold of its prey.

Edited April 8, 2012 by Panzer-WT?

[Wonderful]

http://www.wim-wenders.com/movies/movies_spec/wingsofdesire/wod-song-of-childhood.htm

 

It has the same kind of style, I feel, as "Let it Enfold You" which is a marvelous poem.

[Snou]

Wow