Poetryfags

copyright 2019 I guess culture hasn't gone totally to shit

I made myself a snowball
As perfect as could be.
I thought I'd keep it as a pet
And let it sleep with me.
I made it some pajamas
And a pillow for its head.
Then last night it ran away,
But first it wet the bed.

nice lol

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Omg it is the MC Ride!

It's summer

My prime of youth is but a frost of cares,
My feast of joy is but a dish of pain,
My crop of corn is but a field of tares,
And all my good is but vain hope of gain.
The day is gone and yet I saw no sun,
And now I live, and now my life is done.

The spring is past, and yet it hath not sprung,
The fruit is dead, and yet the leaves are green,
My youth is gone, and yet I am but young,
I saw the world, and yet I was not seen,
My thread is cut, and yet it was not spun,
And now I live, and now my life is done.

I sought my death and found it in my womb,
I lookt for life and saw it was a shade,
I trode the earth and knew it was my tomb,
And now I die, and now I am but made.
The glass is full, and now the glass is run,
And now I live, and now my life is done.

makes me tear up every time

who wrote this? Very nice poem

11/10

chidiock tichborne. he wrote it on the day of his execution, at age 24

This is the reason we always lose,
>And why you have such a short fuse.
I wished to land among fields of flowers,
>But you had to land at Tilted Towers.

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Oh Jeez. I thought this was some poet being disappointed in himself as he grew older, or thinking in hypotheticals. This really is heartbreaking.

It's a bit of a long one.
poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/20166/chomei-at-toyama

Les Chats by Baudelaire

All ardent lovers and all sages prize,
— As ripening years incline upon their brows —
The mild and mighty cats — pride of the house —
That like unto them are indolent, stern and wise.
The friends of Learning and of Ecstasy,
They search for silence and the horrors of gloom;
The devil had used them for his steeds of Doom,
Could he alone have bent their pride to slavery.
When musing, they display those outlines chaste,
Of the great sphinxes — stretched o'er the sandy waste,
That seem to slumber deep in a dream without end:
From out their loins a fountainous furnace flies,
And grains of sparkling gold, as fine as sand,
Bestar the mystic pupils of their eyes.

whoever translated this did an amazing job

I've been going to poetry readings every month, but until recently it's been just because I like the people there. But the more I go, the more I want to write something. Where do I start? Don't really have much to say.

The tiger
yes
YES
he broke out of his cage

Attached: Tiger chase.webm (198x360, 1.3M)

Just be yourself bro haha

Try starting off with something short and easy, and do it in the style of James Joyce. If writing poems is fun then you'll want to do it more often, and you'll eventually get better at it.

10/10
came here to post this

To An Athelete Dying Young by A.E. Housman

The time you won your town the race
We chaired you through the market-place;
Man and boy stood cheering by,
And home we brought you shoulder-high.

Today, the road all runners come,
Shoulder-high we bring you home,
And set you at your threshold down,
Townsman of a stiller town.

Smart lad, to slip betimes away
From fields where glory does not stay,
And early though the laurel grows
It withers quicker than the rose.

Eyes the shady night has shut
Cannot see the record cut,
And silence sounds no worse than cheers
After earth has stopped the ears.

Now you will not swell the rout
Of lads that wore their honours out,
Runners whom renown outran
And the name died before the man.

So set, before its echoes fade,
The fleet foot on the sill of shade,
And hold to the low lintel up
The still-defended challenge-cup.

And round that early-laurelled head
Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead,
And find unwithered on its curls
The garland briefer than a girl’s.

I remember my Dad always hated poetry and even books/films that spent too much time on deeper themes. The only fiction he reads as far as I know are detective novels because they are the closest to some kind of mathematical puzzle. For example, the detective is just a conduit, their doesn't change or carry much importance. Also, the intricacies and motivations of the characters serve an entirely mathematical purpose, of fitting them into a series of events. Personally, I wonder how anyone could reading something like what I've posted above and not be moved.

MEIN VATER
MEIN VATER

It's german. The translations don't do it justice

Ich fürchte mich so vor der Menschen Wort.
Sie sprechen alles so deutlich aus.
Und dieses heißt Hund und jenes heißt Haus,
und hier ist der Beginn und das Ende ist dort.

Mich bangt auch ihr Sinn, ihr Spiel mit dem Spott,
sie wissen alles, was wird und war;
kein Berg ist ihnen mehr wunderbar;
ihr Garten und Gut grenzt grade an Gott.

Ich will immer warnen und wehren: Bleibt fern.
Die Dinge singen hör ich so gern.
Ihr rührt sie an: sie sind starr und stumm.
Ihr bringt mir alle die Dinge um