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Kickass Poems

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libertygrl
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#26 - Quote - Permalink
Posted 11/04/09 - 12:12 AM:

Fable of the Mermaid and the Drunks
by Pablo Neruda

All those men were there inside
when she came in totally naked.
They had been drinking: they began to spit.
Newly come from the river, she knew nothing.
She was a mermaid who had lost her way.
The insults flowed down her gleaming flesh.
Obscenities drowned her golden breasts.
Not knowing tears, she did not weep tears.
Not knowing clothes, she did not have clothes.
They blackened her with burnt corks and cigarette stubs,
and rolled around laughing on the tavern floor.
She did not speak because she had no speech.
Her eyes were the colour of distant love,
her twin arms were made of white topaz.
Her lips moved, silent, in a coral light,
and suddenly she went out by that door.
Entering the river she was cleaned,
shining like a white stone in the rain,
and without looking back she swam again
swam towards emptiness, swam towards death.
libertygrl
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#27 - Quote - Permalink
Posted 11/04/09 - 12:40 AM:

Fleas interest me so much
by Pablo Neruda

Fleas interest me so much
that I let them bite me for hours.
They are perfect, ancient, Sanskrit,
machines that admit of no appeal.
They do not bite to eat,
they bite only to jump;
they are the dancers of the celestial sphere,
delicate acrobats
in the softest and most profound circus;
let them gallop on my skin,
divulge their emotions,
amuse themselves with my blood,
but someone should introduce them to me.
I want to know them closely,
I want to know what to rely on.
hyena in petticoat
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#28 - Quote - Permalink
Posted 11/04/09 - 1:53 AM:

I stood upon a high place,
And saw, below, many devils
Running, leaping,
and carousing in sin.
One looked up, grinning,
And said, "Comrade! Brother!"

- Stephen Crane
hyena in petticoat
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#29 - Quote - Permalink
Posted 11/04/09 - 1:56 AM:

And You Love Me
By Stephen Crane


And you love me

I love you.

You are, then, cold coward.

Aye; but, beloved,
When I strive to come to you,
Man's opinions, a thousand thickets,
My interwoven existence,
My life,
Caught in the stubble of the world
Like a tender veil --
This stays me.
No strange move can I make
Without noise of tearing
I dare not.

If love loves,
There is no world
Nor word.
All is lost
Save thought of love
And place to dream.
You love me?

I love you.

You are, then, cold coward.

Aye; but, beloved --
Zum
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#30 - Quote - Permalink
Posted 11/09/09 - 12:43 AM:

Reading this, you'd think it could not possibly come together as a poem; then it does.

NIGHT

When Carole Laure stepped onto the black stage
At the Bobino, she got such a hand

That Lewis Furey, at the baby grand
Back in the shadows, had to grin. That image

Of her, singing in a single spotlight,
Hair rippling as she gave it a brief

Toss, just like in Get Out Your Handkerchiefs,
Made us feel the world would be all right.

Later, drinking Armagnac at Le Dome,
Watching the late-night Easter week parade

Down Montparnasse, I thought I saw, in a jade
& mauve raincoat, Carole Laure--walking home

With Lewis Furey, in a group of friends...
All laughing, as if the night would never end.

David St. John
Zum
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#31 - Quote - Permalink
Posted 11/09/09 - 1:14 AM:

I love this guy. I will never meet him. How do you tell them?

AN INVOCATION

{Hugh MacDiarmid (1892-1978)}


Incline to me, MacDiarmid, out of Shetland,
Stone-eyed from stone-gazing, sobered up
And thrawn. Not the old vigilante

Of the chimney corner, having us on,
Setting us off, the drinkers' drinker; no,
Incline as the sage of winds that flout the rock face,

As gull stalled in the sea breeze, gatekeeper
Of the open gates behind the brows of birds--
Not to hear me take back smart remarks

About your MacGonagallish propensities--
For I do not--but I add in middle age:
I underprized your far-out, blathering genius.


Those years in the shore-view house, especially.
More intellectual billygoat than scapegoat,
Beyond the stony limits, writing-mad.

That pride of being tested. Of solitude.
Your big pale forehead in the window glass
Like the earth's curve on the sea's curve to the north.

At your wits' end then, always on the go
To the beach and back, taking heady bearings
Between the horizon and the dictionary,

Hard-liner on the rock face of the old
Questions and answers, to which I add my own:
'Who is my neighbour? My neighbour is all mankind.'


And if you won't incline, endure
At an embraced distance. Be the wee
Contrary stormcock that you always were,

The weather-eye of a poetry like the weather,
A shifting force, a factor factored in
Whether it prevails or not, constantly

A function of its time and place
And sometimes of our own. Never, at any rate,
Beyond us, even when outlandish.

In the accent, in the idiom, in
The idea like a thistle in the wind,
A catechism worth repeating always.


Seamus Heaney
The Hanged Man
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#32 - Quote - Permalink
Posted 11/23/09 - 8:59 PM:

The Secret Sits
by Robert Frost

We dance around in a ring and suppose,
But the Secret sits in the middle and knows.
The Hanged Man
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#33 - Quote - Permalink
Posted 11/24/09 - 10:06 AM:

My People
by Dean Young

Initially, I too appeared between the legs
of a woman in considerable discomfort.
A rather grisly scene but fairly common
among my kind. Those early days, I must
admit: a bit of a blur but generally
I was provided for, wiped off
and kept away from the well.
Dressed as a shepherdess until
I could handle an ax, it was then
I saw the golden arches and tasted of
the processed cheese and left my field
forever, disastrously it must be said
although it has led me here, addressing you
in this grand and ugly hall, paid
a nominal fee and all the grapes
I can eat. Well, I'm told they're grapes.
But I leap ahead when leaping backward
as well as vibrating in place
is more what's called for,
much like the role of the tongue
in the bell. Hear that?
Reminds me of the coyotes of our youth
before we hunted them to near extinction
then expensively reintroduced because
it turned out they were the only solution
to our mouse problem, at least
on the outside, in the cribs. Inside,
it's a grackle/possum/viper problem too,
even algae in some areas. Somehow
we've managed to ruin the sky
just by going about our business,
I in my Super XL, you in your Discoverer.
A grudging, fat-cheeked tribe,
we breed without season, inadvertently
or injected with quadruplets. The gods
we played with broke, they were made of glass.
The trees our fathers planted we will not see again.
Zum
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Zum
#34 - Quote - Permalink
Posted 11/24/09 - 11:54 AM:

The Neal Young poem!clap
Zum
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Zum
#35 - Quote - Permalink
Posted 11/24/09 - 11:59 AM:

The Lake Isle

O God, O Venus, O Mercury, patron of thieves,
Give me in due time, I beseech you, a little tobacco-shop,
With the little bright boxes
piled up neatly upon the shelves
And the loose fragrant cavendish
and the shag,
And the bright Virginia
loose under the bright glass cases,
And a pair of scales not too greasy,
and the whores dropping in for a word or two in passing,
For a flip word, and to tidy their hair a bit.

O God, O Venus, O Mercury, patron of thieves,
Lend me a little tobacco-whop,
or install me in any profession
Save this damn'd profession of writing,
where one needs one's brains all the time.


Ezra Pound

Zum
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#36 - Quote - Permalink
Posted 11/29/09 - 9:02 PM:

Samuel Johnson Talking

Two things he was afraid of--madness and death...


His great body shambled, groaned and stank,
Kicked stones, climbed mountains, rolled through
London streets;
Or snorted clumsy joy between the sheets
With ageing Tetty. When he ate and drank
Sweat dewed the straining forehead. Every breath
With every year grew harder: the huge frame,
Always ungovernable, in the end became
An enemy he hated more than death.

But words he loved and mastered: when he talked
Confusion died; the world grew still to hear
His voice commanding chaos into art.
Language became the tight-rope which he walked
Above the mindless rush of guilt and fear
That thundered like Niagara in his heart.


R. F. Brissenden
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#37 - Quote - Permalink
Posted 07/21/10 - 5:53 AM:

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