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(21.71 KB 736x414 notcrying.jpg)
poetry thread Anonymous 01/15/2020 (Wed) 22:44:10 No. 5357
Loyal parents who sacrificed so much for the nation Never feared the ultimate fate. Now that the country has become red, who will be its guardian? Our mission, unfinished, may take a thousand years. The struggle tires us, and our hair is grey. You and I, old friends, can we just watch our efforts be washed away?
>>5357 Go to /hobby/ dude.
Step foward: we hear That you are a good man. You cannot be bought, but the lightning Which strikes the house, also Cannot be bought. You hold to what you said. But what did you say? You are honest, you say your opinion. Which opinion? You are brave. Against whom? You are wise. For whom? You do not consider personal advantages. Whose advantages do you consider then? You are a good friend Are you also a good friend of the good people? Hear us then: we know You are our enemy. This is why we shall Now put you in front of a wall. But in consideration of your merits and good qualities We shall put you in front of a good wall and shoot you With a good bullet from from a good gun and bury you With a good shovel in the good earth.
>>5357 Tony Harrison, A Cold Coming. "A cold coming we had of it." T. S. Eliot, Journey of the Magi I saw the charred Iraqi lean towards me from bomb-blasted screen, his windscreen wiper like a pen ready to write down thoughts for men, his windscreen wiper like a quill he's reaching for to make his will. I saw the charred Iraqi lean like someone made of Plasticine as though he'd stopped to ask the way and this is what I heard him say: 'Don't be afraid I've picked on you for this exclusive interview. Isn't it your sort of poet's task to find words for this frightening mask? If that gadget that you've got records words from such scorched vocal chords, press RECORD before some dog devours me mid-monologue.' So I held the shaking microphone closer to the crumbling bone: 'I read the news of three wise men who left their sperm in nitrogen, three foes of ours, three wise Marines with sample flasks and magazines, three wise soldiers from Seattle who banked their sperm before the battle. Did No. 1 say: God be thanked I've got my precious semen banked. And No. 2: O praise the Lord my last best shot is safely stored. And No. 3: Praise be to God I left my wife my frozen wad? So if their fate was to be gassed at least they thought their name would last, and though cold corpses in Kuwait they could by proxy procreate. Excuse a skull half roast, half bone for using such a scornful tone. It may seem out of all proportion but I wish I'd taken their precaution. They seemed the masters of their fate with wisely jarred ejaculate Was it a propaganda coup to make us think they'd cracked death too. disinformation to defeat us with no post-mortem millilitres? Symbolic billions in reserve made me, for one, lose heart and nerve. On Saddam's pay we can't afford to go and get our semen stored. Sad to say that such high tech's uncommon here. We're stuck with sex. If you can conjure up and stretch your imagination (and not retch) the image of me beside my wife closely clasped creating life... (I let the unfleshed skull unfold a story I'd been already told, and idly tried to calculate the content of ejaculate: the sperm in one ejaculation equals the whole Iraqi nation times, roughly, let's say, 12.5 though that .5's not now alive. Let's say the sperms were an amount so many times the body count, 2,500 times at least (but let's wait till the toll's released!). Whichever way Death seems outflanked by one tube of cold bloblings banked. Poor bloblings, maybe you've been blessed with, of all fates possible, the best according to Sophocles i.e. 'the best of fates is not to be' a philosophy that's maybe bleak for any but an ancient Greek but difficult these days to escape when spoken to by such a shape. When you see men brought to such states who wouldn't want that 'best of fates' or in the world of Cruise and Scud not go kryonic if he could, spared the normal human doom of having made it through the womb?) He heard my thoughts and stopped the spool: 'I never thought life futile, fool! Though all Hell began to drop I never wanted life to stop. I was filled with such a yearning to stay in life as I was burning, such a longing to be beside my wife in bed before I died, and, most, to have engendered there a child untouched by war's despair. So press RECORD! I want to reach the warring nations with my speech. Don't look away! I know it's hard to keep regarding one so charred, so disfigured by unfriendly fire and think it once burned with desire. Though fire has flayed off half my features they once were like my fellow creatures', till some screen-gazing crop-haired boy from Iowa or Illinois, equipped by ingenious technophile put paid to my paternal smile and made the face you see today an armature half-patched with clay, an icon framed, a looking glass for devotees of "kickinng ass", a mirror that returns the gaze of victors on their victory days and in the end stares out the watcher who ducks behind his headline: GOTCHA! or behind the flag-bedecked page 1 of the true to bold-type-setting SUN! I doubt victorious Greeks let Hector join their feast as spoiling spectre, and who'd want to sour the children's joy in Iowa or IIinois or ageing mothers overjoyed to find their babies weren't destroyed? But cabs beflagged with SUN front pages don't help peace in future ages. Stars and Stripes in sticky paws may sow the seeds for future wars. Each Union Jack the kids now wave may lead them later to the grave. But praise the Lord and raise the banner (excuse a skull's sarcastic manner!) Desert Rat and Desert Stormer without scars and (maybe) trauma, the semen-bankers are all back to sire their children in their sack. With seed sown straight from the sower dump second-hand spermatozoa! Lie that you saw me and I smiled to see the soldier hug his child. Lie and pretend that I excuse my bombing by B52s, pretend I pardon and forgive that they still do and I don't live, pretend they have the burnt man's blessing and then, maybe, I'm spared confessing that only fire burnt out the shame of things I'd done in Saddam's name, the deaths, the torture and the plunder the black clouds all of us are under. Say that I'm smiling and excuse the Scuds we launched against the Jews. Pretend I've got the imagination to see the world beyond one nation. That's your job, poet, to pretend I want my foe to be my friend. It's easier to find such words for this dumb mask like baked dogturds. So lie and say the charred man smiled to see the soldier hug his child. This gaping rictus once made glad a few old hearts back in Baghdad, hearts growing older by the minute as each truck comes without me in it. I've met you though, and had my say which you've got taped. Now go away.' I gazed at him and he gazed back staring right through me to Iraq. Facing the way the charred man faced I saw the frozen phial of waste, a test-tube frozen in the dark, crib and Kaaba, sacred Ark, a pilgrimage of Cross and Crescent the chilled suspension of the Present. Rainbows seven shades of black curved from Kuwait back to Iraq, and instead of gold the frozen crock's crammed with Mankind on the rocks, the congealed geni who won't thaw until the World renounces War, cold spunk meticulously jarred never to be charrer or the charred, a bottled Bethlehem of this come- curdling Cruise/Scud-cursed millenium. I went. I pressed REWIND and PLAY and I heard the charred man say:
>>5358 just posted this here cause mao zedong wrote it in a letter to zhou enlai when both were dying
Moving this thread to hobby
>>5357 Is haiku allowed?
Exile songs (Pere Quart, 1939) In a full moon night we pulled the ridge, slowly, quietly... If the moon was at its biggest our sorrow was too. My beloved accompanies me tanned skin and serious bearing like a God's Mother someone found in the mountain. So she forgives our war, that covers her in blood, and tares her apart. Before crossing the line, (border between Catalonia and France) I sit and kiss the ground and caress it with my shoulder. In Catalonia I left the day of my departure half of my life drowsing: the other half came with me not to left me lifeless. Today in France's lands and tomorrow further maybe, I won't die of nostalgia yet of nostalgia I will live. In my Vallès' land (a region of Catalonia) three hills form a mountain chain, four pines a thick forest, five acres too much land. "There's nothing like the Vallès" Let the pines hug the cove, the hermitage on top of the hill; and on the beach a small sunshade that beats like a wing. A melted hope, an infinite remorse. And such a small homeland that I dream about all together.
I don’t like it
Faces in the Street by Henry Lawson They lie, the men who tell us, for reasons for their own That want is here a stranger, and that misery's unknown; For where the nearest suburb and the city proper meet My window-sill is level with the faces in the street -- Drifting past, drifting past, To the beat of weary feet -- While I sorrow for the owners of those faces in the street. And cause I have to sorrow, in a land so young and fair, To see upon those faces stamped the marks of Want and Care; I look in vain for traces of the fresh and fair and sweet In sallow, sunken faces that are drifting through the street -- Drifting on, drifting on, To the scrape of restless feet; I can sorrow for the owners of the faces in the street. In hours before the dawning dims the starlight in the sky The wan and weary faces first begin to trickle by, Increasing as the moments hurry on with morning feet, Till like a pallid river flow the faces in the street -- Flowing in, flowing in, To the beat of hurried feet -- Ah! I sorrow for the owners of those faces in the street. The human river dwindles when 'tis past the hour of eight, Its waves go flowing faster in the fear of being late; But slowly drag the moments, whilst beneath the dust and heat The city grinds the owners of the faces in the street -- Grinding body, grinding soul, Yielding scarce enough to eat -- Oh! I sorrow for the owners of the faces in the street. And then the only faces till the sun is sinking down Are those of outside toilers and the idlers of the town, Save here and there a face that seems a stranger in the street, Tells of the city's unemployed upon his weary beat -- Drifting round, drifting round, To the tread of listless feet -- Ah! My heart aches for the owner of that sad face in the street. And when the hours on lagging feet have slowly dragged away, And sickly yellow gaslights rise to mock the going day, Then flowing past my window like a tide in its retreat, Again I see the pallid stream of faces in the street -- Ebbing out, ebbing out, To the drag of tired feet, While my heart is aching dumbly for the faces in the street. And now all blurred and smirched with vice the day's sad pages end, For while the short `large hours' toward the longer `small hours' trend, With smiles that mock the wearer, and with words that half entreat, Delilah pleads for custom at the corner of the street -- Sinking down, sinking down, Battered wreck by tempests beat -- A dreadful, thankless trade is hers, that Woman of the Street. But, ah! to dreader things than these our fair young city comes, For in its heart are growing thick the filthy dens and slums, Where human forms shall rot away in sties for swine unmeet, And ghostly faces shall be seen unfit for any street -- Rotting out, rotting out, For the lack of air and meat -- In dens of vice and horror that are hidden from the street. I wonder would the apathy of wealthy men endure Were all their windows level with the faces of the Poor? Ah! Mammon's slaves, your knees shall knock, your hearts in terror beat, When God demands a reason for the sorrows of the street, The wrong things and the bad things And the sad things that we meet In the filthy lane and alley, and the cruel, heartless street. I left the dreadful corner where the steps are never still, And sought another window overlooking gorge and hill; But when the night came dreary with the driving rain and sleet, They haunted me -- the shadows of those faces in the street, Flitting by, flitting by, Flitting by with noiseless feet, And with cheeks but little paler than the real ones in the street. Once I cried: `Oh, God Almighty! if Thy might doth still endure, Now show me in a vision for the wrongs of Earth a cure.' And, lo! with shops all shuttered I beheld a city's street, And in the warning distance heard the tramp of many feet, Coming near, coming near, To a drum's dull distant beat, And soon I saw the army that was marching down the street. Then, like a swollen river that has broken bank and wall, The human flood came pouring with the red flags over all, And kindled eyes all blazing bright with revolution's heat, And flashing swords reflecting rigid faces in the street. Pouring on, pouring on, To a drum's loud threatening beat, And the war-hymns and the cheering of the people in the street. And so it must be while the world goes rolling round its course, The warning pen shall write in vain, the warning voice grow hoarse, But not until a city feels Red Revolution's feet Shall its sad people miss awhile the terrors of the street -- The dreadful everlasting strife For scarcely clothes and meat In that pent track of living death -- the city's cruel street.
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>>5357 i already posted this on a different tread but here: PARASITE "their many kinds of parasites,creatures who go round,till they find you and suck you out you see the small pest,you dont feel your best that bloodsucker is not very nice,but the doctor might help.....for a price you feel your veins and wallet getting light,you go to your boss,giving you a raise he might he wants you to work more,you feel the parasite sucking to your core you make the company a dollar,they give you a dime,sadly your all out of time your dying as you realize this wasn't the first time you and a parasite met,the entire time.... IT WAS YOUR BOSS ABOVE YOUR HEAD" remember kids,the true monsters are not the ones that look like it,their the people spending all their wealth to look like saint while people around him die
I'm a poetryfag and "Lenin" by Langston Hughes is one of my favorites. Short and simple but it always gets me: Lenin walks around the world Frontiers cannot bar him Neither barracks nor barricades impede Nor does barbed wire scar him Lenin walks around the world Black, brown, and white receive him Language is no barrier The strangest tongues believe him Lenin walks around the world The sun sets like a scar Between the darkness and the dawn There rises a red star
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Post stuff like pic related also bump
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>>10105 Another good poem by this man Молчяние - шит от многих бед А болтовня всегда во вред Язык у Человека мал А сколько жизней он сломал
Reposting >kept getting aggressively recommended to me in ads on Facebook, so I decided to check it out …I have some poem just for you right here, buddy. ''OP waited. The light of his e-cig blinked. There were trolls lurking in the thread. He didn't see them, but had expected them, now for hours. His warnings to the mods were not listened to and now it was too late. Far too late for now, anyway. OP was an internet user aged fourteen. When he was younger he watched the threads on imageboards and he said to dad "I want to make the threads, daddy." Dad said "NO! YOU WILL BE BULLIED BY TROLLS!" There was a time when he believed him. Then as he got older he stopped. But now in his thread on Bunkerchan he knew there were lurkers. "This is Alice," some Discord chat cracker. "You must fight the reactionaries!" So OP got ready to concentrate by grabbing his "plasma rifle", if you know what I mean. "HE GONNA CALL THE JANNIES," said the trolls! "I will shitpost at him," said the nazbol lurker and fired his reactionary missile. OP plasmaed at someone posting pics, but then the wigs fell off and they were traps. "No! I must call the jannies," he shouted! The Discord said "No, OP. You are the reactionary." And then, OP was a fagot.''
I wrote a book of poetry amazon.com/dp/B08J2R4LD8
Have no real experience with English poetry (apart from trying original Shakespeare once and realizing that the translated version was way better), but I know a bit of Lithuanian poetry. I always loved the first three verses of this 19th century natlib poem that can be effortlessly made to be socialist. Tried to translate it as best as I could: You won't dam the river You won't dam the river, It would flow slowly if left on its own; You won't stop a new rising, Even if to greet it you are afraid. New ideas - not a work of a child: They throw storms and lighting when dammed! You won't the time: Fools can only hinder its works. People, the coming day At least our children will see! Let us break this ancient wall, Only a madman for it would weep! There is a lot of other good stuff I know, but I am afraid that I'd only bastardize it by translating.
The Milkman Cometh I am the Milkman. My milk is delicious. I am the Milkman. I come in peace. I am the Milkman. I come for you. I am the Milkman. My milk is healthy I am the Milkman. Accept my milk. I am the Milkman. Accept my work Come enjoy my milk, for I am the Milkman.

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