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Poetry Corner

a poem to the freaks - Jack Micheline​

To live as I have done is surely absurd
in cheap hotels and furnished rooms
To walk up side streets and down back alleys
talking to oneself
and screaming to the sky obscenities
That the arts is a rotten business indeed
That mediocrity and the rage of fashion rules
My poems and paintings piled on the floor
To be one with himself
A Saint
A Prince
To Persevere
Through the storms and hard-ons
Through dusk and dawns
To kick death in the ***
To be passed over like a bad penny
A midget
An Ant
A roach
A freak
A Hot Piece
An Outlaw
Raise your cup and drink my friend
Drink for those who walk alone in the night
To the crippled and the blind
To the lost and the damned
To the lone bird flying in the sky
Drink to wonder
Drink to me
Drink to ***** and dreams
Drink to madness and all the stars
I hear the birds singing

​

 
Not a fan of poetry in general, but in song absolutely. I tend to be somewhat nihilistic, and as a somewhat newly christened agnostic/atheist I tend toward the existentialist dread spectrum of lyrics.

Something like this, one of my favorite songs by one of my very favorite bands. These guys had a period of time when I think they were excellent lyricists. Sadly, like a lot of them, they got off drugs and the quality of their work fell off a cliff for a while. Lately I think they are getting better, but their early stuff is gold.

Love lies in pools of questions
Love stays away from me
Love dies and there's no question
I'm gone baby, I'm all the way gone

Call me your lousy father
Call me your demon king
Call me your new tornado
Right here baby, together we stay

I don't think I can feel any longer
I only know that the voids getting stronger
The only time that it's real is when you cry

Here's a torch to burn your cancer
Here's a hand to fill the hole
Lost souls need simple answers
It feels good to do what you're told

I don't think I can feel any longer
I only know that the voids getting stronger
The only time that it's real is when you cry

So leave the mirror and love yourself
My sweetest baby has gone to hell
I hear your heartbeat, your eye is a shrine
I drink your teardrops, now burn me alive

The sky splits open, and the ocean swells
If you're in limbo, then I'm in hell
So leave the mirror and love yourself
My sweetest baby has joined me in hell

She join me in hell

I don't think I can feel any longer
I only know that the voids getting stronger
The only time that it's real is when you cry

I don't think I can feel any longer
I only know that the voids getting stronger
The only time that it's real is when you cry

So leave the mirror and love yourself
My sweetest baby has gone to hell
I hear your heartbeat, your eye is a shrine
I drink your teardrops, now burn me alive
 

Not Fade Away - Michael Robbins​

Half of the Beatles have fallen
and half are yet to fall.
Keith Moon has set. Hank Williams
hasn’t answered yet.

Children sing for Alex Chilton.
Whitney Houston’s left the Hilton.
Hendrix, Guru, Bonham, Janis.
They have a tendency to vanish.

Bolan, Bell, and Boon by car.
How I wonder where they are.
Hell is now Jeff Hanneman’s.
Adam Yauch and three Ramones.

[This space held in reserve
for Zimmerman and Osterberg,
for Bruce and Neil and Keith,
that sere and yellow leaf.]

Johnny Cash and Waylon Jennings,
Stinson, Sterling, Otis Redding.
Johnny Thunders and Joe Strummer,
Ronnie Dio, Donna Summer.

Randy Rhoads and Kurt Cobain,
Patsy Cline and Ronnie Lane.
Poly Styrene, Teena Marie.
Timor mortis conturbat me.
 
The NBA’s Great Illusion-By TGS


The ball goes up, the crowd goes wild,
A game so pure—or just beguiled?
Superstars shine, their moves so slick,
But somehow fouls and lottery balls are oddly picked.

A phantom whistle, a late-game call,
Momentum shifts—was that a stall?
A storybook ending, a script so tight,
Did Vegas place the bets just right?

The underdog fights, his heart on display,
But ratings demand a Game 7 play.
Coincidence? Chance? Or is it contrived? The words of Donaghy come to the mind.
And oh, that push, but the whistle stayed mute,
Russell went flying, MJ took the loot.
A “greatest” moment, frozen in time,
Or just one more missed call in its prime?

So cheer for your team, but know in your soul,
The refs hold the whistle, the league holds the goal.

It’s basketball, sure, but here is the trick—Its no longer a game as the profits run thick.
 
I spent a year writing poetry in my youth. And drinking. And... Well, that's something left behind the closed curtains.

I really like all kinda stuff. From Americans, T.S. Eliot, Bukowski and Hal Sirowitz should be enough to give an impression of my likings. Worldwidely, I'd think Jaan Kaplinski, Artur Rimbaud and many old Chinese poets are my most read ones. Best Finnish poets of all time imo are Arto Melleri and Kirsi Kunnas (her poetic children's books are enriching imagination in that precious time of being a child)

***

I chose to quote Hal Sirowitz poem, bc I haven't ever laughed as much reading anything poetic than his stuff. It's direct, pretty prose like and hilarious. Read all of his stuff, It's so fun.

The Fame Game

You have this need to be famous,
my therapist said, but I think
you should get a job first. If
you look at all the famous people,
they all had jobs. George Bush
never looks like he’s doing anything,
but he was once a President. You have
to start from somewhere. Otherwise
you’ll be famous inside
your own head, but so is everyone else.
 
The Chrysanthemums in the Eastern Garden
by: Bai Juyi (772-846) translated by Arthur Waley

The days of my youth left me long ago;
And now in their turn dwindle my years of prime.
With what thoughts of sadness and loneliness
I walk again in this cold, deserted place!
In the midst of the garden long I stand alone;
The sunshine, faint; the wind and dew chill.
The autumn lettuce is tangled and turned to seed;
The fair trees are blighted and withered away.
All that is left are a few chrysanthemum-flowers
That have newly opened beneath the wattled fence.
I had brought wine and meant to fill my cup,
When the sight of these made me stay my hand.
I remember, when I was young,
How easily my mood changed from sad to gay.
If I saw wine, no matter what season,
Before I drank it, my heart was already glad.
But now that age comes,
A moment of joy is harder and harder to get.
And always I fear that when I am quite old
The strongest liquor will leave me comfortless.
Therefore I ask you, late chrysanthemum-flower
At this sad season why do you bloom alone?
Though well I know that it was not for my sake,
Taught by you, for a while I will open my face.
 
It happens all the time in heaven
Hafiz (1325–1390), translated by Daniel Ladinsky

It happens all the time in heaven,
And some day
It will begin to happen
Again on earth -

That men and women who are married,
And men and men who are Lovers,
And women and women who give each other Light,

Often get down on their knees and while
So tenderly holding their lovers hand, with
Tear-filled eyes will sincerely say, “My dear,
How can I be more loving to you; my darling,
How can I be more kind?"
 
Step-Back Lauri said:
I spent a year writing poetry in my youth. And drinking. And... Well, that's something left behind the closed curtains.

I really like all kinda stuff. From Americans, T.S. Eliot, Bukowski and Hal Sirowitz should be enough to give an impression of my likings. Worldwidely, I'd think Jaan Kaplinski, Artur Rimbaud and many old Chinese poets are my most read ones. Best Finnish poets of all time imo are Arto Melleri and Kirsi Kunnas (her poetic children's books are enriching imagination in that precious time of being a child)

***

I chose to quote Hal Sirowitz poem, bc I haven't ever laughed as much reading anything poetic than his stuff. It's direct, pretty prose like and hilarious. Read all of his stuff, It's so fun.

The Fame Game

You have this need to be famous,
my therapist said, but I think
you should get a job first. If
you look at all the famous people,
they all had jobs. George Bush
never looks like he’s doing anything,
but he was once a President. You have
to start from somewhere. Otherwise
you’ll be famous inside
your own head, but so is everyone else.
Click to expand...

I used to read TS Eliot when I was young. I went through a phase of reading Lorca too. I need to read more, more Marquez, I miss that.
 
Know It All - BY MICHAEL ROBBINS

I act like I know it all. But you,
you act like you know it all.
We can’t both be wrong. Still,
neither of us should have children.

Your head’s in a sack. In a sack
with a snake with two heads.
And my head is even older than
our initial calculations implied.

I know many names for sitting cross-legged,
none for never getting up again.
You, you speak as if you just checked,
but it’s not even up to you.

Fox pulls a rabbit out of a duck
and keeps the wound-up hounds upwind.
Hedgehog carries one trick around
like a small booth atop an elephant.

And both of us, elephant and booth,
carry from birth what can’t be cast off
by dying. How can we corrupt the young?
The young don’t even know we exist.
 
Nothing beats the simplicity for me. Carlos Williams Carlos is a go to.

This is just to say

I have eaten

the plums

that were in

the icebox

and which

you were probably

saving

for breakfast

Forgive me

they were delicious

so sweet

and so cold
 
LogGrad98 said:
View attachment 18459
Click to expand...
As you wish. This is the classic version I heard as a kid:


There once was a man from Nantucket,
Who kept all his dreams in a bucket.
But then came a dame,
He'd heard not her name,
Who smiled and said, “Sir, let’s up-chuck it.”

She danced in the night with a wink,
With moves that would make your heart sink.
Hearsky's dear mother,
Could suck like no other,
Could charm both a priest and a shrink.

They whispered her tales in the bay,
Of Jazz fanz who’d beg her to stay.
But she'd just grin wide,
With no need to hide—
She lived life her own daring way.
 
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