Poetry Thread: Post poems you like, post poems you wrote, and/or criticize others

Attached: he was touched or he touched or marianne boruch.png (560x585, 55K)

English is not my native, I translated it.

Reciprocate

I offended you verbally, but you didn’t respond,
I cursed, but again you didn’t respond
I bestowed you a slap, but you still didn’t respond
I sold you a rose, but you did’t pay it
I recognized you among a crowd of thousands
But you didn’t return my greet
I shared you a parch of my mouthful
But eventhough you were starving, you prompty rejected it, satiated
I threw a spark onto you
Which was repelled by your glass ruff
and was charred me instead
Turning my hopes into ashes
From which a wingless Phoenix arose,
A somber angel of death.
I threw onto you a gaze of disparage
But your iris of mirror deflected it towards me.
Upon my attempt to embrace you
‘ere I was able to touch you and feel you
Your torso transformed into mercury, slipping out,
Deadening each scarlet orb inside my torso
Farther and farther as it travelled
I commenced to follow you
With time passing by howbeit
My skin’s fibers,
they were gradually turning into bronze cords
Weighing me down, with no socket to end in
though they longed for connection.

Attached: long neglect has worn away emily bronte.png (499x483, 32K)

It reads as a sort of stream of consciousness to me. It's a difficult style and what sells it imo is the authors ability to use imagery in a way that the reader can both recognize and identify with. This is too cryptic to be affecting, and while it has some phrases that roll nicely off the tongue, robbed of their context they do not inspire any compelling story or vision

Feeling Fucked Up

By Etheridge Knight

Lord she’s gone done left me done packed / up and split
and I with no way to make her
come back and everywhere the world is bare
bright bone white crystal sand glistens
dope death dead dying and jiving drove
her away made her take her laughter and her smiles
and her softness and her midnight sighs—

Fuck Coltrane and music and clouds drifting in the sky
fuck the sea and trees and the sky and birds
and alligators and all the animals that roam the earth
fuck marx and mao fuck fidel and nkrumah and
democracy and communism fuck smack and pot
and red ripe tomatoes fuck joseph fuck mary fuck
god jesus and all the disciples fuck fanon nixon
and malcolm fuck the revolution fuck freedom fuck
the whole muthafucking thing
all i want now is my woman back
so my soul can sing

Attached: a dream within a dream edgar allen poe.jpg (338x435, 27K)

Filling Station

Oh, but it is dirty!
—this little filling station,
oil-soaked, oil-permeated
to a disturbing, over-all
black translucency.
Be careful with that match!

Father wears a dirty,
oil-soaked monkey suit
that cuts him under the arms,
and several quick and saucy
and greasy sons assist him
(it’s a family filling station),
all quite thoroughly dirty.

Do they live in the station?
It has a cement porch
behind the pumps, and on it
a set of crushed and grease-
impregnated wickerwork;
on the wicker sofa
a dirty dog, quite comfy.

Some comic books provide
the only note of color—
of certain color. They lie
upon a big dim doily
draping a taboret
(part of the set), beside
a big hirsute begonia.

Why the extraneous plant?
Why the taboret?
Why, oh why, the doily?
(Embroidered in daisy stitch
with marguerites, I think,
and heavy with gray crochet.)

Somebody embroidered the doily.
Somebody waters the plant,
or oils it, maybe. Somebody
arranges the rows of cans
so that they softly say:
esso—so—so—so
to high-strung automobiles.
Somebody loves us all.

Attached: a coat william butler yeats.png (299x388, 13K)

Another one. These are translated for Yea Forums exclusively

What about now, you bastion of philantropy
Now, when those turncoats
Turned your skin inside out
Scraped and whipped it,
With a billion salt granules of
Stomps, spits, ridicules and chides
As if you were the greatest degenerate
And indeed you are,
Among all this whole anti-breed
Of abomination, immorality
Those ungrateful, which crave for
Gratefulness and pity,
Are you still laughing at this tragedy?
Twere better you cried at comedy
Grotesque, downward vortex
Which readjusted all window displays
Of the beauty models
Antagonized lilium.
They fucked you over
But you further longed for a deeper fuck
As you wanted your kernel reached.

Attached: creeping_back_to_the_cross.png (1200x1920, 235K)

That one cut surprisingly deep.

I Have Arrived

We smoke spliffs till were sick-
Licked, at this point I’m real gone practically
folding in on a hundred folds,
A paper thing
Folding in on itself, and then
burning and burning
Then folding,
I depart

My boy Poe swam in depths the academic hoi polloi are still too timid to attempt

Can someone explain to me why Yeats is liked so much. I don't mean this in a provocative sense, his work just seems to lack a lot of depth for me. Maybe it's just my failure in comprehension. Sailing to Byzantium, for example, seems to be relative shallow, but maybe I'm just a brainlet. I feel like he could write of such spectacular things considering his personal spirituality, but for some reason chose not too.

——–Reading Yeats I do not think
——————————————-of Ireland
but of midsummer New York
————————————and of myself back then
—–reading that copy I found
————————————on the Thirdavenue El

———-the El
—————-with its flyhung fans
—–and its signs reading
—————————–SPITTING IS FORBIDDEN

———-the El
—————-careening thru its thirdstory world
—–with its thirdstory people
—————————-in their thirdstory doors
—looking as if they had never heard
————————————————of the ground

———-an old dame
————————watering her plant
—or a joker in a straw
——————putting a stickpin in his peppermint tie
—and looking just like he had nowhere to go
—————————————————-but coneyisland

————-or an undershirted guy
—————————————–rocking in his rocker
—watching the El pass by
——————-as if he expected it to be di fferent
———–each time

—————-Reading Yeats I do not think
————————————————–of Arcady
—and of its woods which Yeats thought dead
——————————————————I think instead
————-of all the gone faces
——————————getting o ff at midtown places
——–with their hats and their jobs
————-and of that lost book I had
—————————-with its blue cover and its white inside
—where a pencilhand had written
——————————————-HORSEMAN, PASS BY!

Attached: the trees phillip larkin.png (254x330, 13K)

>enwrought
>Take my wife-please
>undershirt
>squat
>smug as a gun
>wants to keep misunderstanding alive
>nestle one big toe into the other
aesthetic mess that doesn't even have technical merit
Not bad, but the first stanza is sort of shit in its messiness.
>I bestowed you a slap
stop
Actually really good. Simple and does what it wants to do well.
>Lord she’s gone done left me done packed / up and split
thank god this is bait
I can't find any technical mistakes in this one, or any real missteps in word choice, but it still doesn't strike a chord in me.
>oil-permeated
impressive.

Are you fucking stupid or something?

You guys think Yeats liked cute girl feat?

unger of the weather makes dew to the rain
which helps the soft and fools the vain
from crops and stalks it causes pain

Once from the old, fresh to the new
same to be said from me to you
after stars and help it's grey to blue

From what can be said to take from the head
to think of the future is to think of the dead
from the horses mouth to where it's lead

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*hunger of the weather

Baby goes to ENG 101 and comes back an elitist. Classic.

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I do not know if ever it existed -
That lost world floating dimly on Time's stream -
And yet I see it often, violet-misted,
And shimmering at the back of some vague dream.
There were strange towers and curious lapping rivers,
Labyrinths of wonder, and low vaults of light,
And bough-crossed skies of flame, like that which quivers
Wistfully just before a winter's night.

Great moors led off to sedgy shores unpeopled,
Where vast birds wheeled, while on a windswept hill
There was a village, ancient and white-steepled,
With evening chimes for which I listen still.
I do not know what land it is - or dare
Ask when or why I was, or will be, there.

I like this one, Lovecraft - mirages

Attached: catalogue of ephemera rebecca lindenberg.png (650x1284, 93K)