Post yer own poetry and we’ll discuss it

"Which Iliad Translation Should I Read?"

Of Iliad translations, there's no dearth;
This surplus, I contend, has bless'd the earth!
As accurate as Agamemnon's spear
Is Lattimore's attempt - or so I hear.
There's Fagles, if simplicity's your need,
And simpler still is Rieu's easy read,
But something greater you will choose, I hope:
The verse I emulate, the verse of Pope.

that fucking pic lmao

Pray tell me, sir, how based are you?

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With bony hands I hold my partner
On soulless feet we cross the floor
The music stops as if to answer
An empty knocking at the door
It seems his skin was sweet as mango
When last I held him to my breast
But now we dance this grim fandango
And will for years before we rest.

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An old tree, no longer growing,
All leaves are gone -
And of course, the wind is blowing -
Well, all but one.
On a high branch, not fresh nor full,
But withered, dead,
Too high for gravity to pull.
No longer fed
The sunlight, it's
Low-hanging head
Would have said
To have liked.
But it clings feebly with brittle
Skin and dry vein showing,
Too weak, too sick, too poor, little.
Ah, the wind is blowing.

best

ONCE UPON A TIME

Mothers were sitting at water springs,
dancing, singing,
gently caressing their children,
guiding them into the currents of Life....
Ocean waves gently rushed
at beaches of a peaceful world....
Men and women drank the joy of Living
from the movements of their limbs
and their melodies into the eternities.
Children’s laughter sounded
in exuberance of voices
filled with gayety and delight.
Joyful glances in young men’s eyes,
regleamed in smiling faces
of maidens gay with love
and drunk with youth
in tender bodies.
Suddenly ....... a howling....
What a jowling!
Never heard and never felt before,
uninvited, perpetrated....
It was the plague that penetrated:
Stiffened faces,
Falsehood’s grinning,
Tired arms and deadened loins,
Weeping cheeks and dulled-out gazing,
Hardened backs, polite in bowing;
Bodies bare of love,
Wanting bare of will,
Longing bare of sensing,
Fighting bare of victories,
Martyrdom of marriage torture....
Moaning, Groaning,
Children’s screaming, agonies....
Murder, misery and crooked thinking....
Cowards’ gallows and parades,
Marching, medals, rotting corpses;
What a scrambling idiocy,
hunting, tripping, nightmare fooling....
Woe to Men
a million fold....

I didn't write this but I didn't want to make a new thread for it. Its by Wilhelm Reich

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I wrote this:

In the seas sourced by severe rivers,
Waters seeded forced by Mountains,
A rickety boat’s pilot shivers,
Never to float home, nor find them.

The pole’s what matters, the flag does not,
Towers, Giants are marked by spine,
Over dead mounds the battles are fought;
Dead mounds made from giants dying.

In this mast of his no banner flies,
Even past flags soiled wonting spine,
Break the tall backs, so finding the why,
Under, over the starry sky.

Ten days or ten years, he could not tell,
In his broken vessel drifting,
Colour wakes in his eyes, in which swells
An ocean, reflects stars shifting.

Now infinite sea and sky are one,
True messages are hidden by
Knowledge; overelaboration;
In that false enlightenment die.

Lost is the one who believes it so,
Lost is the one who finds oneself,
Make the climb and you’ll certainly know,
You will find up there nought but snow.

Snow melts into many glaciers,
Every trickle to river,
Life’s soil and dirt makes it heavier,
Filled with dense silt to revive her.

I wrote this in highschool. It's about how I could never run as fast as I wanted to in track.

I'd trade my long legs
To lower some expectations
I can't tell you how many times
I've had to slow down in the backstretch
(Friend) is so fast and I can't keep up
My dreams of placing above my seed
Are torn from me
Like the bark of a birch tree
Girdling

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I can relate to this. I was almost always the slowest. Every once in a while I'd look behind me, and find I wasn't dead last. And that was the only way for me to feel better except that I knew exactly what it was like to be the guy behind my fat ass.

Made you stay by force
I know what you're thinking
It's kind of you
Time run short
And we're lost in a dream
Made me smile
when you ran away
so easy
not gonna let you leave
Now time moves slow
Been so long
Now time moves slow

That was great.

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Ontology of a Celise

Its a sweater
Scraggly and itchy
Meant to oppress against protesting flesh
Raised red by wool knits

Old saints wore them
Great travellers wore them
Ivan the Terrible was
buried in one
to die like a monk
to be a little less terrible
by being a little less comfortable

When its cold outside
And I wear my own coarse sweater
I like to pretend shortly
to be penitent and religious
A feeling that goes away,
but the itch stays,
and every scratch on my body
transmutes to some holy decree
to count my sins and say my blessings

Im not superstitious
but I do have a conscience
And now I find myself wearing that sweater
a lot more
Ive run razors across it
when the frey gets unbearable
I am a weak monk
but still my skin is irritated reliably
giving little screams that I suppress