Poetry spam

[doyle]

I'm in a poetry mood today.


Discretion
by Roger McGough

Discretion is the better part of Valerie
(though all of her is nice)
lips as warm as strawberries
eyes as cold as ice
the very best of everything
only will suffice
not for her potatoes
and puddings made of rice

Not for her potatoes
and puddings made of rice
she takes carbohydrates
like God takes advice
a surfeit of ambition
is her particular vice
Valerie fondles lovers
like a mousetrap fondles mice

And though in the morning
she may whisper: "it was nice"
you can tell by her demeanour
that she keeps her love on ice
but you've lost your hard-earned heart
now you'll have to pay the price
for she'll kiss you on the memory
and vanish in a trice

Valerie is corruptible
but known to be discreet
Valerie rides a silver cloud
where once she walked the street.


If anybody wants to spam me with poetry in the comments - any poet, obscure or something that everyone knows - please do.

Comments

[knotted-rose.livejournal.com]

Eternal Longing
Late T'ang dynasty
Ch'ang hsiang-ssu

1.

A traveling merchant west of the river
Displays wealth rare in this world,
All day long he stays in the pleasure quarters
. . . dancing and singing.

Incessantly drinking until drunk like mud,
Lightheartedly exchanging the golden goblets,
Pursuing pleasure, seeking happiness, until nightfall.
This is: not to return in wealth.

2.

A sad merchant west of the river,
His loneliness he keeps to himself;
His whole face covered with dust,
Every day cheated by people.

Mornings he stands in front of the western city gate
The cold wind blowing tears from both his eyes;
He gazes toward home, many post stations away.
This is: not to return in poverty.

3.

A merchant makes his home west of the river,
Lying sick in the Temple of the Earth-god.
People look in to ask for the latest news,
And to find out if there's a chance for departing.

The villagers just drag him off to the west of the road,
His parents know nothing of his fate.
On his body he carries his identification tag.
This is: not to return in death.

[octopedingenue]

"I Shall Forget You Presently, My Dear" by Edna St. Vincent Millay


I shall forget you presently, my dear,
So make the most of this, your little day,
Your little month, your little half a year,
Ere I forget, or die, or move away,
And we are done forever; by and by
I shall forget you, as I said, but now,
If you entreat me with your loveliest lie
I will protest you with my favorite vow.
I would indeed that love were longer-lived,
And vows were not so brittle as they are,
But so it is, and nature has contrived
To struggle on without a break thus far,--
Whether or not we find what we are seeking
Is idle, biologically speaking.

[enfaith.livejournal.com]

SEEING CRIMSON
By Julie Wernau


shudder at the circus tent
ominous green trollop
it's understandable
your likeness in the mirror
screaming obscenities at your quivering body
Cracker Jacks fly through the air
as a spider tip toes across your finger tips
splatter the man like a Pollock painting
tripping through meadows
that's all it ever was
one big wet dream under the sheets
how was Santa’s lap my dear?
did you enjoy the monstrosity?
it's dark inside this little shed
sweat dripping through my mother’s tomb
black mascara scars that face
shattered nails wander through the scene
sinking, biting, crushed
to oblivion
where’s the mistletoe?
kiss the tempting cherry of passion
I’ll bite your tongue and make it bleed
you follow my disguise
do you see that doll of a face?
reach up and grab hold of the crimson lining
a sliver of hope
in a motionless world
never turning
and yet always going
and so you go little girl

[misbegotten.livejournal.com]

Blue Monday, by Diane Wakoski

You paint my body blue. On the balcony
in the soft muddy night, you paint me
with bat wings and the crystal ;
there is electricity dripping from me like cream.
The sun appeared in the shape of a man and he had
a ring made of sun around his little finger.
"It will burn up your hand," I said.
But he made motions in the air and passed by.
The moon appeared in the shape of a young negro boy,
and he had a ring made of dew around his little finger.
"You'll lose it," I said,
but he touched my face,
not losing a drop and passed away. Then I saw
Alexander Hamilton, whom I loved, and he had a ring on his little finger,
but he wouldn't touch me.
And suddenly everyone I knew appeared,
and they all had rings on their little fingers,
and I was the only one in the world left without any
rings
on any
of my fingers whatsoever.
And worst of all,
there was George Washington
walking down the senate aisles
with a ring on his little finger--managing
the world,
managing my world.
This is what I mean--you wear a ring on your
little finger
and you manage the world
and I am ringless
ringless . . .

[enfaith.livejournal.com]

i didn't think i'd find this one online already typed up but i did!

I'd Want Her Eyes to Fill with Wonder
Kenneth Patchen

I'd want her eyes to fill with wonder
I'd want her lips to open just a little
I'd want her breasts to lift at my touch

And O I'd tell her that I loved her
I'd say that the world began and ended where she was
O I'd swear that the Beautiful wept to see her naked loveliness

I'd want her thighs to put birds in my fingers
I'd want her belly to be as soft and warm as a sleeping kitten's
I'd want her sex to meet mine as flames kissing in a dream forest

And O I'd tell her that I loved her
I'd say that all the noblest things of earth and heaven
Were made more noble because she lived
And O I'd know that the prettiest angels knelt there
As she lay asleep in my arms

[regala-electra.livejournal.com]

I don't have her book otherwise I'd post my favorite poem, so:

DERIVATION, OR
THE UNEXAMINED LIFE
by Monica Youn

remorse: to be bitten
again. remonstrance:

to be displayed again;
shown again; arms

pulled back, head
following, how you

gloat, my reflection
smeared in the midnight

window: why won’t
you look at yourself?

and one more:

MUSCAE VOLITANTES
by Monica Youn


The train lights dimmed again:
dead spots along the Northeast Line.

The conductor wished aloud for
an insulated hand to smooth them.

*

a cellophane glove
a silvertone stave

*

"It's still there. It was
a planet, not a plane."

*

a muttering hive
a travertine nave

*

The single-strand
radio tower.

Three empty crystal
biscuit barrels.

*

a blustering grove
a listening cave

*

"But, oh my poor Mathilde,
mine was only paste!"

*

a bustling dove
a ritalin rave

*

The eccentric is
defined as that which

converts rotary to
rectilinear motion.

*

a porcelain sieve
an oxygen grave

*

"…to which I cannot
bring myself to aspire."

*

a clementine love
a glycerine wave

Sylvia Plath - Daddy

[mefnord.livejournal.com]

You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.

Daddy, I have had to kill you.
You died before I had time---
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,
Ghastly statue with one grey toe
Big as a Frisco seal

And a head in the freakish Atlantic
Where it pours bean green over blue
In the waters off beautiful Nauset.
I used to pray to recover you.
Ach, du.

In the German tongue, in the Polish town
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But the name of the town is common.
My Polack friend

Says there are a dozen or two.
So I never could tell where you
Put your foot, your root,
I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.

It stuck in a barb wire snare.
Ich, ich, ich, ich,
I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you.
And the language obscene

An engine, an engine
Chuffing me off like a Jew.
A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.
I began to talk like a Jew.
I think I may well be a Jew.

The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna
Are not very pure or true.
With my gypsy ancestress and my weird luck
And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.

I have always been scared of *you*,
With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.
And your neat mustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You---

Not God but a swastika
So black no sky could squeak through.
Every woman adores a Fascist,
The boot in the face, the brute
Brute heart of a brute like you.

You stand at the blackboard, daddy,
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot
But no less a devil for that, no not
Any less the black man who

Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.

But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue.
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look

And a love of the rack and the screw.
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I'm finally through.
The black telephone's off at the root,
The voices just can't worm through.

If I've killed one man, I've killed two---
The vampire who said he was you
and drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.

There's a stake in your fat, black heart
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always *knew* it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through.

[vanilla-tiger.livejournal.com]

The long love that in my thought I harbour,
And in mine heart doth keep his residence,
Into my face presseth with bold pretence,
And therein campeth displaying his banner.
She that me learneth to love and to suffer,
And wills that my trust, and lust's negligence
Be reined by reason, shame, and reverence,
With his hardiness takes displeasure.
Wherewith love to the heart's forest he fleeth,
Leaving his enterprise with pain and cry,
And there him hideth, and not appeareth.
What may I do, when my master feareth,
But in the field with him to live and die?
For good is the life, ending faithfully.

Sir Thomas Wyatt

[dodyskin.livejournal.com]

anyone lived in a pretty how town
E. E. Cummings


anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn't he danced his did

Women and men(both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn't they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain

children guessed(but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that noone loved him more by more

when by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by snow and stir by still
anyone's any was all to her

someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then)they
said their nevers they slept their dream

stars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember
with up so floating many bells down)

one day anyone died i guess
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk buried them side by side
little by little and was by was

all by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
wish by spirit and if by yes.

Women and men(both dong and ding)
summer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain

[blueswan9.livejournal.com]

Tonight I let loose the weasel of my body
across the plantation of your body,
bird eater, house eater scampering across
your pale meadows on sandpaper feet.
Tonight I let my snake lips slide over you.
Tonight my domesticated paws have removed
their gloves and as pink as baby rats
they scurry nimble-footed into your dark parts.
You heave yourself--what is this earthquake?
You cry out--in what jungle does that bird fly?
You grunt--let's make these pink things hurry.
Let's take a whip and make them trot faster.
These lips already torn and bleeding--
let's plunder them. These teeth banging together--
prison bars against prison bars. Who really
is ever set free? Belly and breasts--
my snout roots in your dirt like a pig
rooting for scraps. Arm bones, hip bones--
I'll suck their marrow, then carve a whistle.
Woman, what would you be like seen from the sky?
My little plane sputters and coughs. I scramble
onto the wing. The wind whips across the fuselage.
Who needs a parachute? Wheat fields, a river,
your pastures rush toward me to embrace me.
Roughhousing Stephen Dobyns

[moireach.livejournal.com]

"Part of Eve's Discussion" Marie Howe

It was like the moment when a bird decides not to eat from your hand,

and flies, just before it flies, the moment the rivers seem to still and

stop because a storm is coming, but there is no storm, as when a hundred

starlings lift and bank together before they wheel and drop, very much

like the moment, driving on bad ice, when it occurs to you your car

could spin, just before it slowly begins to spin, like the moment just

before you forgot what it was you were about to say, it was like that,

and after that, it was still like that, only all the time.

[mistakency.livejournal.com]

The Perch
Galway Kinnell

There is a fork in a branch
of an ancient, enormous maple,
one of a grove of such trees,
where I climb sometimes and sit and look out
over miles of valleys and low hills.
Today on skis I took a friend
to show her the trees. We set out
down the road, turned in at
the lane which a few weeks ago,
when the trees were almost empty
and the November snows had not yet come,
lay thickly covered in bright red
and yellow leaves, crossed the swamp,
passed the cellar hole holding
the remains of the 1850s farmhouse
that had slid down into it by stages
in the thirties and forties, followed
the overgrown logging road
and came to the trees. I climbed up
to the perch, and this time looked
not into the distance but at
the tree itself, its trunk
contorted by the terrible struggle
of that time when it had its hard time.
After the trauma it grows less solid.
It may be some such time now comes upon me.
It would have to do with the unaccomplished,
and with the attempted marriage
of solitude and happiness. Then a rifle
sounded, several times, quite loud,
from across the valley, percussions
of the custom of male mastery
over the earth — the most graceful,
most alert of the animals
being chosen to die. I looked
to see if my friend had heard,
but she was stepping about on her skis,
studying the trees, smiling to herself,
her lips still filled, for all
we had drained them, with hundreds
and thousands of kisses. Just then
she looked up — the way, from low
to high, the god blesses — and the blue
of her eyes shone out of the black
and white of bark and snow, as lovers
who are walking on a freezing day
touch icy cheek to icy cheek,
kiss, then shudder to discover
the heat waiting inside their mouths.

Cloudless Snowfall
Franz Wright

Great big flakes like white ashes
at nightfall descending
abruptly everywhere
and vanishing
in this hand like the host
on somebody's put-out tongue, she
turns the crucifix over
to me, still warm
from her touch two years later
and thank you,
I say all alone--
vast whisp-whisp of wingbeats
awakens me and I look up
at a minute-long string of black geese
following low past the moon the white
course of the snow-covered river and
by the way thank You for
keeping Your face hidden, I
can hardly bear the beauty of this world.

[metalphoenix.livejournal.com]

I would do the Raven but it's way too long so I leave you with some Emily Dickinson:

I'm Nobody! Who are you?
Are you—Nobody—Too?
Then there's a pair of us!
Don't tell! they'd advertise—you know!

How dreary—to be—Somebody!
How public—like a Frog—
To tell one's name—the livelong June—
To an admiring Bog!