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#1
Am I the only one who doesn't like poetry? I just find serious poetry extremely boring and dry. And I don't mean the kind that tell a sort of story, like Poe of Virgil, I mean stuff that's like:

Summer falls, softer than the rabbit's foot
Forsooth! The rabbit is free!

Basically, descriptive stuff.
#2
I

On n'est pas sérieux, quand on a dix-sept ans.
- Un beau soir, foin des bocks et de la limonade,
Des cafés tapageurs aux lustres éclatants !
- On va sous les tilleuls verts de la promenade.

Les tilleuls sentent bon dans les bons soirs de juin !
L'air est parfois si doux, qu'on ferme la paupière ;
Le vent chargé de bruits - la ville n'est pas loin -
A des parfums de vigne et des parfums de bière....

II


-Voilà qu'on aperçoit un tout petit chiffon
D'azur sombre, encadré d'une petite branche,
Piqué d'une mauvaise étoile, qui se fond
Avec de doux frissons, petite et toute blanche...

Nuit de juin ! Dix-sept ans ! - On se laisse griser.
La sève est du champagne et vous monte à la tête...
On divague ; on se sent aux lèvres un baiser
Qui palpite là, comme une petite bête....

III


Le coeur fou Robinsonne à travers les romans,
Lorsque, dans la clarté d'un pâle réverbère,
Passe une demoiselle aux petits airs charmants,
Sous l'ombre du faux col effrayant de son père...

Et, comme elle vous trouve immensément naïf,
Tout en faisant trotter ses petites bottines,
Elle se tourne, alerte et d'un mouvement vif....
- Sur vos lèvres alors meurent les cavatines...

IV


Vous êtes amoureux. Loué jusqu'au mois d'août.
Vous êtes amoureux. - Vos sonnets La font rire.
Tous vos amis s'en vont, vous êtes mauvais goût.
- Puis l'adorée, un soir, a daigné vous écrire...!

- Ce soir-là,... - vous rentrez aux cafés éclatants,
Vous demandez des bocks ou de la limonade..
- On n'est pas sérieux, quand on a dix-sept ans
Et qu'on a des tilleuls verts sur la promenade.


...anyway, I don't think we have poets anymore. or, rather, they're all lyricists now.
#3
you have to sort of get the feel of the poems and its interpretations. kind of how when someone likes a good book, others will like a good poem. if you're not into it, then its probably not for you.

also, Jim Morrison was a poet
E-married to BlessedRebel15
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Dark Black Rivers in the WinterTime
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#4
You don't get poetry. You don't get humor. You don't get laid.
What do you get?
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#7
You're just not reading the right kind of poetry. There's lots of poetry. What you said is like someone saying they don't like music because they don't like the Beatles or something.
kill all humans
#8
Quote by Jackal58
You don't get poetry. You don't get humor. You don't get laid.
What do you get?




Genghis, here is some ice, but that probably won't be enough. You should probably still see a doctor for that awful BURN.
Gunpowder: FUCKING ROCKS!!!
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Gunpowder FUCKING ROCKS!!!!!

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Gunpowder you fucking rock!!

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Now I can say, with sufficient certainly, that you, Gunpowder...

FUCK ROCKS!
#9
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
GenghisGhandi doesn't like poems,
cuz hes gay lololololol

~Brendan, unpublished
Gotta keep my eyes from the circling skies...
tounge tied and twisted just an earth bound misfit...

>CRYPTIC METAPHOR<


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not hated
#10
When the 'arf-made recruity goes out to the East
'E acts like a babe an' 'e drinks like a beast,
An' 'e wonders because 'e is frequent deceased
Ere 'e's fit for to serve as a soldier.
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
So-oldier _of_ the Queen!

Now all you recruities what's drafted to-day,
You shut up your rag-box an' 'ark to my lay,
An' I'll sing you a soldier as far as I may:
A soldier what's fit for a soldier.
Fit, fit, fit for a soldier . . .

First mind you steer clear o' the grog-sellers' huts,
For they sell you Fixed Bay'nets that rots out your guts --
Ay, drink that 'ud eat the live steel from your butts --
An' it's bad for the young British soldier.
Bad, bad, bad for the soldier . . .

When the cholera comes -- as it will past a doubt --
Keep out of the wet and don't go on the shout,
For the sickness gets in as the liquor dies out,
A' it crumples the young British soldier.
Crum-, crum-, crumples the soldier . . .

But the worst o' your foes is the sun over'ead:
You must wear your 'elmet for all that is said:
If 'e finds you uncovered 'e'll knock you down dead,
An' you'll die like a fool of a soldier.
Fool, fool, fool of a soldier . . .

If you're cast for fatigue by a sergeant unkind,
Don't grouse like a woman nor crack on nor blind;
Be handy and civil, and then you will find
That it's beer for the young British soldier.
Beer, beer, beer for the soldier . . .

Now, if you must marry, take care she is old --
A troop-sergeant's widow's the nicest I'm told,
For beauty won't help if your rations is cold,
Nor love ain't enough for a soldier.
'Nough, 'nough, 'nough for a soldier . . .

If the wife should go wrong with a comrade, be loath
To shoot when you catch 'em -- you'll swing, on my oath! --
Make 'im take 'er and keep 'er: that's Hell for them both,
An' you're shut o' the curse of a soldier.
Curse, curse, curse of a soldier . . .

When first under fire an' you're wishful to duck,
Don't look nor take 'eed at the man that is struck,
Be thankful you're livin', and trust to your luck
And march to your front like a soldier.
Front, front, front like a soldier . . .

When 'arf of your bullets fly wide in the ditch,
Don't call your Martini a cross-eyed old bitch;
She's human as you are -- you treat her as sich,
An' she'll fight for the young British soldier.
Fight, fight, fight for the soldier . . .

When shakin' their bustles like ladies so fine,
The guns o' the enemy wheel into line,
Shoot low at the limbers an' don't mind the shine,
For noise never startles the soldier.
Start-, start-, startles the soldier . . .

If your officer's dead and the sergeants look white,
Remember it's ruin to run from a fight:
So take open order, lie down, and sit tight,
And wait for supports like a soldier.
Wait, wait, wait like a soldier . . .

When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains,
And the women come out to cut up what remains,
Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains
An' go to your Gawd like a soldier.
Go, go, go like a soldier,
Go, go, go like a soldier,
Go, go, go like a soldier,
So-oldier _of_ the Queen!

-- Rudyard Kipling
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I can fap to this. Keep going.
#11
poetry is nice to write
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#13
Quote by Gunpowder


Genghis, here is some ice, but that probably won't be enough. You should probably still see a doctor for that awful BURN.

This.

Genghis, broski, you got BUUURNEEED!

Anyways I know what you mean. I can't take "poet" poets. Like that Dickinson individual and the like.

I dig song lyrics though, and I can just read those and enjoy them. There's a different feeling between those and just dry, non-lyrical poetry. It'd be interesting to figure that whole mess out.
#15
Don't I see Genghis often in S+L?

I'm more of a fan of post-modernism, get at me. It's nice that there's actually a couple really good post-modern writers on this site.
#16
You just need to find the right poetry. Personally, I'm a huge E E Cummings fan.

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
Ohai.

Actually from Canada.
#18
Poetry isn't prose, and isn't meant to be. You have to think differently when you read or write it. What poems are you referring to specifically? Have you read anything from the past hundred years or so? The past fifty? That sort of stuffy language has been dead for years. Poetic devices are still used, but the cheesy-sounding stuff is gone.
Last edited by Holy Katana at Aug 31, 2010,
#19
I like poetry. It's pretty cool.

Quote by :Vicious--
also, Jim Morrison was a poet


One of my favorite quotes from Please Kill Me:
Quote by Danny Fields
Jim Morrison was a callous asshole, an abusive, mean person...And his poetry sucked. He demeaned rock & roll as literature. Sophomoric bullshit babble. Maybe one or two good images.
Patti Smith was a poet. I think she elevated rock & roll to literature. Bob Dylan elevated it. Morrison's wasn't poetry. It was garbage disguised as teenybopper. It was good rock & roll for thirteen-year-olds. Or eleven-year-olds.
Last edited by neidnarb11890 at Aug 31, 2010,
#20
Spike Milligan is the only poet I read thoroughly, because he has a sense of humour about it. I've seen a few decent poets, but the pretentious ones are sub-human IMO.
#21
Quote by bass-man9712
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
GenghisGhandi doesn't like poems,
cuz hes gay lololololol

~Brendan, unpublished
RAGE
kill all humans
#23
Okay, Ghengis, you have angered me twice with one post.

1) I am a poet
2) Where the FUCK is your sig?
He's a freak of nature, but we love him so.

Quote by John Frusciante
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#24
Quote by genghisgandhi
No.


Really? I'm too tired...it's like half 4 and I haven't slept in almost 24 hours. Either way, I'd encourage you to head over there and look up some stuff by a user called alaskan_ninja. I rather enjoy it and it's not all heavy and endless description. More like, fun little stories told in a catchy tone with often simple, but meaningful metaphors...i'm gay for his poems

WillEdit: Just realised that alaskan_ninja has posted in here, and now have either described what he goes for in his poems completely wrong, or made myself look like a retarded fanboy
Last edited by willT08 at Aug 31, 2010,
#25
Quote by genghisgandhi
That was a pretty awful reply.


Aw, no need to get venomous and resentful, little guy.


Gunpowder: FUCKING ROCKS!!!
Quote by The Madcap
[witty set-up]
Gunpowder FUCKING ROCKS!!!!!

Quote by Kensai

Gunpowder you fucking rock!!

Quote by Dirge Humani
Now I can say, with sufficient certainly, that you, Gunpowder...

FUCK ROCKS!
#26
There are very very very few poets that I actually find bearable, and its always something that I've just stumbled upon randomly. Pretty much all popular or "classic" poetry is complete balls, and I'm an English teacher.
#27
When it comes to poetry I'm very hypocritical. I don't like reading poetry but I can't stop writing my own stuff. That probably explains why most of my stuff is complete rubbish.
So come on in
it ain't no sin
take off your skin
and dance around in your bones

#29
Quote by willT08
Really? I'm too tired...it's like half 4 and I haven't slept in almost 24 hours. Either way, I'd encourage you to head over there and look up some stuff by a user called alaskan_ninja. I rather enjoy it and it's not all heavy and endless description. More like, fun little stories told in a catchy tone with often simple, but meaningful metaphors...i'm gay for his poems

alaskan_ninja is great.

I write, although I've only just overcome a three-month spell of writer's block. I don't post my stuff in S&L because I'm a pussy.
#30
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.


O me! O life! of the questions of these recurring,
Of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities fill'd with the foolish,
Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I,
and who more faithless?)
Of eyes that vainly crave the light, of the objects mean, of the
struggle ever renew'd,
Of the poor results of all, of the plodding and sordid crowds I see
around me,
Of the empty and useless years of the rest, with the rest me intertwined,
The question, O me! so sad, recurring--What good amid these, O me, O life?

Answer.
That you are here--that life exists and identity,
That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.


http://www.heise.de/ix/raven/Literature/Lore/TheRaven.html
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#31
Quote by Gunpowder
Aw, no need to get venomous and resentful, little guy.



If by little guy, you mean that awesome drawing in the corner, I wish I were, but

Forsooth, the years tarry by
Not stopping, giving mother earth a rest
Father time a minute
Ole Genghis a chance to change his outer shell
Into the blossoming flower he knows to be.


Now thats a relatable poem.
#32
Quote by Wiegenlied
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

I don't really like Frost.
#33
Instead of reading the poetry as dry and boring, try tearing it apart. It gets interesting when you think "why did they write this? Why did they use this word?" Try and compare it to your life, see how it makes you feel. It gets to be interesting. Try writing too
Write your own lyrics or poetry? Post them HERE for a crit.
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#34
Quote by Holy Katana
Poetry isn't prose, and isn't meant to be. You have to think differently when you read or write it. What poems are you referring to specifically? Have you read anything from the past hundred years or so? The past fifty? That sort of stuffy language has been dead for years. Poetic devices are still used, but the cheesy-sounding stuff is gone.

The poem you just quoted is the quintessential jibble-jarbble I can't stand.
#35
Quote by genghisgandhi
If by little guy, you mean that awesome drawing in the corner, I wish I were, but

Forsooth, the years tarry by
Not stopping, giving mother earth a rest
Father time a minute
Ole Genghis a chance to change his outer shell
Into the blossoming flower he knows to be.


Now thats a relatable poem.


It is quite the badass picture.


OT: My favorite poem is Percy Bysshe Shelley's "Ozymandias."


I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shatter'd visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamp'd on these lifeless things,
The hand that mock'd them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains: round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.


And for a fun poem:


"Butterfly," by D.H. Lawerence

Butterfly, the wind blows sea-ward,
strong beyond the garden-wall!
Butterfly, why do you settle on my
shoe, and sip the dirt on my shoe,
Lifting your veined wings, lifting them?
big white butterfly!

Already it is October, and the wind
blows strong to the sea
from the hills where snow must have
fallen, the wind is polished with
snow.
Here in the garden, with red
geraniums, it is warm, it is warm
but the wind blows strong to sea-ward,
white butterfly, content on my shoe!

Will you go, will you go from my warm
house?
Will you climb on your big soft wings,
black-dotted,
as up an invisible rainbow, an arch
till the wind slides you sheer from the
arch-crest
and in a strange level fluttering you go
out to sea-ward, white speck!
Gunpowder: FUCKING ROCKS!!!
Quote by The Madcap
[witty set-up]
Gunpowder FUCKING ROCKS!!!!!

Quote by Kensai

Gunpowder you fucking rock!!

Quote by Dirge Humani
Now I can say, with sufficient certainly, that you, Gunpowder...

FUCK ROCKS!
Last edited by Gunpowder at Aug 31, 2010,
#37
Quote by Wiegenlied
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.


O me! O life! of the questions of these recurring,
Of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities fill'd with the foolish,
Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I,
and who more faithless?)
Of eyes that vainly crave the light, of the objects mean, of the
struggle ever renew'd,
Of the poor results of all, of the plodding and sordid crowds I see
around me,
Of the empty and useless years of the rest, with the rest me intertwined,
The question, O me! so sad, recurring--What good amid these, O me, O life?

Answer.
That you are here--that life exists and identity,
That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.


http://www.heise.de/ix/raven/Literature/Lore/TheRaven.html
That's not the best Frost.

"Out, Out--" is much better.
*-)
Quote by Bob_Sacamano
i kinda wish we all had a penis and vagina instead of buttholes

i mean no offense to buttholes and poop or anything

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#38
Quote by Holy Katana
I don't really like Frost.



I'm not a huge fan, but this was at read my cousins funeral and it seemed to describe her perfectly so it has some high sentimental value for me
Quote by Night
wtf is a selfie? is that like, touching yourself or something?
Last edited by Wiegenlied at Aug 31, 2010,
#39
Quote by willT08
Really? I'm too tired...it's like half 4 and I haven't slept in almost 24 hours. Either way, I'd encourage you to head over there and look up some stuff by a user called alaskan_ninja. I rather enjoy it and it's not all heavy and endless description. More like, fun little stories told in a catchy tone with often simple, but meaningful metaphors...i'm gay for his poems

WillEdit: Just realised that alaskan_ninja has posted in here, and now have either described what he goes for in his poems completely wrong, or made myself look like a retarded fanboy
Sir, you flatter me

Edit:
Quote by Spartan070sarge
Okay, Ghengis, you have angered me twice with one post.

1) I am a poet
2) Where the FUCK is your sig?
MOAR RAGE
kill all humans
Last edited by alaskan_ninja at Aug 31, 2010,
#40
Quote by genghisgandhi
THE MODS!?!? AND I SPECIFICALLY MENTIONED THAT POE FELLOW IN THE OP.


Ah.

Well, I entered the topic, looked for your sig first, saw that it wasn't right, got disgruntled, read something about not liking poetry and then did a rage post.

Can't spell poetry without POE!
He's a freak of nature, but we love him so.

Quote by John Frusciante
Music isn't the Olympics. It's not about showing other people what you can do with a piece of wood in your hands that has strings on, it's about making sounds that are good.
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