Drunk as a fucking skunk. Either request your favourite Romantic, Victorian...

The Early Purges by Seamus Heaney

This is a total breach of privacy. I don't understand why they would put this out there

>The Early Purges by Seamus Heaney
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I stumble over a couple of words and phrases. I apologize. The whiskey is getting to me haha.

schoolgirls in pantyhose
sitting on bus stop benches
looking tired at 13
with their raspberry lipstick.
it’s hot in the sun
and the day at school has been
dull, and going home is
dull, and
I drive by in my car
peering at their warm legs.
their eyes look
away—
they’ve been warned
about ruthless and horny old
studs; they’re just not going
to give it away like that.
and yet it’s dull
waiting out the minutes on
the bench and the years at
home, and the books they
carry are dull and the food
they eat is dull, and even
the ruthless, horny old studs
are dull.

the girls in pantyhose wait,
they await the proper time and
moment, and then they will move
and then they will conquer.

I drive around in my car
peeking up their legs
pleased that I will never be
part of their heaven and
their hell. but that scarlet
lipstick on those sad waiting
mouths! it would be nice to
kiss each of them once, fully,
then give them back.
but the bus will
get them first.

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Like Bukowski is gonna make me not read aloud against the first post that was Joyce's letters. You're gonna have to do better than that, faggot. Maybe an actual Romantic or Victorian poet? Probably not because you only know faggot ass poets like Bukowski and Kaur.

I'm sorry I had to do it for the memes. Here's a real one by Christina Rossetti.

I was a cottage maiden
Hardened by sun and air,
Contented with my cottage mates,
Not mindful I was fair.
Why did a great lord find me out,
And praise my flaxen hair?
Why did a great lord find me out
To fill my heart with care?
He lured me to his palace home—
Woe's me for joy thereof— 10
To lead a shameless shameful life,
His plaything and his love.
He wore me like a silken knot,
He changed me like a glove;
So now I moan, an unclean thing,
Who might have been a dove.
O Lady Kate, my cousin Kate,
You grew more fair than I:
He saw you at your father's gate,
Chose you, and cast me by. 20
He watched your steps along the lane,
Your work among the rye;
He lifted you from mean estate
To sit with him on high.
Because you were so good and pure
He bound you with his ring:
The neighbours call you good and pure,
Call me an outcast thing.
Even so I sit and howl in dust,
You sit in gold and sing: 30
Now which of us has tenderer heart?
You had the stronger wing.
O cousin Kate, my love was true,
Your love was writ in sand:
If he had fooled not me but you,
If you stood where I stand,
He'd not have won me with his love
Nor bought me with his land;
I would have spit into his face
And not have taken his hand. 40
Yet I've a gift you have not got,
And seem not like to get:
For all your clothes and wedding-ring
I've little doubt you fret.
My fair-haired son, my shame, my pride,
Cling closer, closer yet:
Your father would give lands for one
To wear his coronet.

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Once again I do apologize for lines being stepped over or drunkenness ruining Rossetti's beuatiful verses

Come on. No one on Yea Forums wants to hear their favourite poem recited right now?

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Here's some Lord Byron for you anons.

do your favourite Tennyson

That is extremely hard. But I will deliver.

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I am sorry for stumbling over lines or stuttering or any other mishaps in this drunken recitation of my favourite Tennyson

how is that even a poem? it's just ramblings split into short lines. now i know why the bukowskifags in school were the most retarded of the bunch

I ain't defending Bukowski fans, especially when it comes to poetry. I am just reading what anons want to hear.

As I fall asleep it pains me to see how little you anons care about poetry or actual thought upon these many writers and their theories. Goes to show any good thread goes into the archives.

Pied Beauty by Gerard Manley Hopkins, if you dare

user intervenes
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The Boston Evening Transcript by T. S. Eliot please.

Here is John Ashbery's "How Much Longer Will I Be Able to Inhabit the Divine Sepulcher...", from Th Tennis Court Oath.

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I’d love to hear Aubade by Phillip Larkin if some user is still at it.

Here is mine

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>My days among the Dead are past;
Around me I behold,
Where'er these casual eyes are cast,
The mighty minds of old;
My never-failing friends are they,
With whom I converse day by day.

>With them I take delight in weal,
And seek relief in woe;
And while I understand and feel
How much to them I owe,
My cheeks have often been bedew'd
With tears of thoughtful gratitude.

>My thoughts are with the Dead, with them
I live in long-past years,
Their virtues love, their faults condemn,
Partake their hopes and fears,
And from their lessons seek and find
Instruction with an humble mind.

>My hopes are with the Dead, user
My place with them will be,
And I with them shall travel on
Through all Futurity;
Yet leaving here a name, I trust,
That will not perish in the dust.

A wonderful poem by Robert Southey. Try it out OP

Cold live reading

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Loved it. I appreciate it, user.

Of course. I don't really read Larkin.

Busy old fool, unruly sun,
Why dost thou thus,
Through windows, and through curtains call on us?
Must to thy motions lovers' seasons run?
Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide
Late school boys and sour prentices,
Go tell court huntsmen that the king will ride,
Call country ants to harvest offices,
Love, all alike, no season knows nor clime,
Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.

Thy beams, so reverend and strong
Why shouldst thou think?
I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink,
But that I would not lose her sight so long;
If her eyes have not blinded thine,
Look, and tomorrow late, tell me,
Whether both th' Indias of spice and mine
Be where thou leftst them, or lie here with me.
Ask for those kings whom thou saw'st yesterday,
And thou shalt hear, All here in one bed lay.

She's all states, and all princes, I,
Nothing else is.
Princes do but play us; compared to this,
All honor's mimic, all wealth alchemy.
Thou, sun, art half as happy as we,
In that the world's contracted thus.
Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be
To warm the world, that's done in warming us.
Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere;
This bed thy center is, these walls, thy sphere.

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Thank you for your reading.

no

On the Creation of Niggers - H.P. Lovecraft

When, long ago, the gods created Earth
In Jove's fair image Man was shap'd at birth.
The beasts for lesser parts were next design'd;
Yet were they too remote from humankind.
To fill the gap, and join the rest to man,
Th'Olympian host conceiv'd a clever plan.
A beast they wrought, in semi-human figure,
Fill'd it with vice, and call'd the thing a NIGGER.

AND THOU ART DEAD - BYRON

And thou art dead, as young and fair
As aught of mortal birth;
And form so soft, and charms so rare,
Too soon return'd to Earth!
Though Earth receiv'd them in her bed,
And o'er the spot the crowd may tread
In carelessness or mirth,
There is an eye which could not brook
A moment on that grave to look.

I will not ask where thou liest low,
Nor gaze upon the spot;
There flowers or weeds at will may grow,
So I behold them not:
It is enough for me to prove
That what I lov'd, and long must love,
Like common earth can rot;
To me there needs no stone to tell,
'T is Nothing that I lov'd so well.

Yet did I love thee to the last
As fervently as thou,
Who didst not change through all the past,
And canst not alter now.
The love where Death has set his seal,
Nor age can chill, nor rival steal,
Nor falsehood disavow:
And, what were worse, thou canst not see
Or wrong, or change, or fault in me.

The better days of life were ours;
The worst can be but mine:
The sun that cheers, the storm that lowers,
Shall never more be thine.
The silence of that dreamless sleep
I envy now too much to weep;
Nor need I to repine
That all those charms have pass'd away,
I might have watch'd through long decay.

The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd
Must fall the earliest prey;
Though by no hand untimely snatch'd,
The leaves must drop away:
And yet it were a greater grief
To watch it withering, leaf by leaf,
Than see it pluck'd to-day;
Since earthly eye but ill can bear
To trace the change to foul from fair.

I know not if I could have borne
To see thy beauties fade;
The night that follow'd such a morn
Had worn a deeper shade:
Thy day without a cloud hath pass'd,
And thou wert lovely to the last,
Extinguish'd, not decay'd;
As stars that shoot along the sky
Shine brightest as they fall from high.

As once I wept, if I could weep,
My tears might well be shed,
To think I was not near to keep
One vigil o'er thy bed;
To gaze, how fondly! on thy face,
To fold thee in a faint embrace,
Uphold thy drooping head;
And show that love, however vain,
Nor thou nor I can feel again.

Yet how much less it were to gain,
Though thou hast left me free,
The loveliest things that still remain,
Than thus remember thee!
The all of thine that cannot die
Through dark and dread Eternity
Returns again to me,
And more thy buried love endears
Than aught except its living years.

Not OP. Anglo-Yank here. Felt like reading my favorite Hardy poem:

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challenge accepted

>The shadowy daughter of Urthona stood before red Orc. When fourteen suns had faintly journey’d o’er his dark abode; His food she brought in iron baskets, his drink in cups of iron; Crown’d with a helmet & dark hair the nameless female stood; A quiver with its burning stores, a bow like that of night, When pestilence is shot from heaven; no other arms she need: Invulnerable tho’ naked, save where clouds roll round her loins, Their awful folds in the dark air; silent she stood as night; For never from her iron tongue could

>voice or sound arise; But dumb till that dread day when Orc assay’d his fierce embrace. Dark virgin; said the hairy youth, thy father stern abhorr’d; Rivets my tenfold chains while still on high my spirit soars; Sometimes an eagle screaming in the sky, sometimes a lion, Stalking upon the mountains, & sometimes a whale I lash The raging fathomless abyss, user a serpent folding Around the pillars of Urthona, and round thy dark limbs, On the Canadian wilds I fold, feeble my spirit folds. For chaind beneath I rend these caverns; when thou bringest food I howl my joy! and my red eyes seek to behold thy face

>In vain! these clouds roll to & fro, & hide thee from my sight. Silent as despairing love, and strong as jealousy, The hairy shoulders rend the links, free are the wrists of fire; Round the terrific loins he siez’d the panting struggling womb; It joy’d: she put aside her clouds & smiled her firstborn smile; As when a black cloud shews its light’nings to the silent deep. Soon as she saw the terrible boy then burst the virgin cry. I know thee, I have found thee, & I will not let thee go; Thou art the image of God who dwells in darkness of Africa; And thou art fall’n to give me life in regions of dark death.

>On my American plains I feel the struggling afflictions Endur’d by roots that writhe their arms into the nether deep: I see a serpent in Canada, who courts me to his love; In Mexico an Eagle, and a Lion in Peru; I see a Whale in the South-sea, drinking my soul away. O what limb rending pains I feel. thy fire & my frost Mingle in howling pains, in furrows by thy lightnings rent; This is eternal death; and this the torment long foretold. The stern Bard ceas’d, asham’d of his own song; enrag’d he swung His harp aloft sounding, then dash’d its shining frame against A ruin’d pillar in glittring fragments; silent he turn’d away,

>And wander’d down the vales of Kent in sick & drear lamentings.

this is a fragment of William Blake's "America: A Prophecy.

Snippet of Whitman's "A Song of Joys"
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>Alas, shut out from Hope, in a deeper sense than we yet dream of! For, as he wanders wearisomely through this world, he has now lost all tidings of another and higher. Full of religion, or at least of religiosity, as our Friend has since exhibited himself, he hides not that, in those days, he was wholly irreligious: "Doubt had darkened into Unbelief," says he; "shade after shade goes grimly over your soul, till you have the fixed, starless, Tartarean black." To such readers as have reflected, what can be called reflecting, on man's life, and happily discovered, in contradiction to much Profit-and-Loss Philosophy, speculative and practical, that Soul is not synonymous with Stomach; who understand, therefore, in our Friend's words, "that, for man's well-being, Faith is properly the one thing needful; how, with it, Martyrs, otherwise weak, can cheerfully endure the shame and the cross; and without it, Worldlings puke up their sick existence, by suicide, in the midst of luxury:" to such it will be clear that, for a pure moral nature, the loss of his religious Belief was the loss of everything. Unhappy young man! All wounds, the crush of long-continued Destitution, the stab of false Friendship and of false Love, all wounds in thy so genial heart, would have healed again, had not its life-warmth been withdrawn. Well might he exclaim, in his wild way: "Is there no God, then; but at best an absentee God, sitting idle, ever since the first Sabbath, at the outside of his Universe, and seeing it go? Has the word Duty no meaning; is what we call Duty no divine Messenger and Guide, but a false earthly Phantasm, made up of Desire and Fear, of emanations from the Gallows and from Doctor Graham's Celestial-Bed? Happiness of an approving Conscience! Did not Paul of Tarsus, whom admiring men have since named Saint, feel that he was 'the chief of sinners;' and Nero of Rome, jocund in spirit (wohlgemuth), spend much of his time in fiddling? Foolish Wordmonger and Motive-grinder, who in thy Logic-mill hast an earthly mechanism for the Godlike itself, and wouldst fain grind me out Virtue from the husks of Pleasure,—I tell thee, Nay! To the unregenerate Prometheus Vinctus of a man, it is ever the bitterest aggravation of his wretchedness that he is conscious of Virtue, that he feels himself the victim not of suffering only, but of injustice. What then? Is the heroic inspiration we name Virtue but some Passion; some bubble of the blood, bubbling in the direction others profit by? I know not: only this I know, If what thou namest Happiness be our true aim, then are we all astray. With Stupidity and sound Digestion man may front much. But what, in these dull unimaginative days, are the terrors of Conscience to the diseases of the Liver! Not on Morality, but on Cookery, let us build our stronghold: there brandishing our frying-pan, as censer, let us offer sweet incense to the Devil, and live at ease on the fat things he has provided for his Elect!"

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BASED carlyleanon. keep fighting the good fight. don't let anyone tell you he copied everything from emerson. we know moby dick wouldn't exist w/o sartor.

>don't let anyone tell you he copied everything from emerson
That's just one guy that has a grudge against Carlyle for some reason.

I will not stop until every Melville reader becomes a Carlyle reader as well.

OP here. Totally forgot I made this thread two nights ago and I am very pleased to see that it's still going! When I'm done my shift in a few hours I'll post some more recordings

Bump

based user bringing quality ideas and sticking to them

Here it is.

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Do the soliloquy from macbeth 5.5

She should have died hereafter;
There would have been a time for such a word.
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

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I liked this, thanks. Here is Carl Phillips, "Happiness":

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Wonderful modern master, Classics scholar, keeping some of the good fight alive while fusing it with enough newness.

And "The Centaur".

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would love to listen Ahab's schizo rambling:
>Oh! thou clear spirit of clear fire, whom on these seas I as Persian once did worship, till in the sacramental act so burned by thee, that to this hour I bear the scar; I now know thee, thou clear spirit, and I now know that thy right worship is defiance. To neither love nor reverence wilt thou be kind; and e'en for hate thou canst but kill; and all are killed. No fearless fool now fronts thee. I own thy speechless, placeless power; but to the last gasp of my earthquake life will dispute its unconditional, unintegral mastery in me. In the midst of the personified impersonal, a personality stands here. Though but a point at best; whencesoe'er I came; wheresoe'er I go; yet while I earthly live, the queenly personality lives in me, and feels her royal rights. But war is pain, and hate is woe. Come in thy lowest form of love, and I will kneel and kiss thee; but at thy highest, come as mere supernal power; and though thou launchest navies of full-freighted worlds, there's that in here that still remains indifferent. Oh, thou clear spirit, of thy fire thou madest me, and like a true child of fire, I breathe it back to thee.I own thy speechless, placeless power; said I not so? Nor was it wrung from me; nor do I now drop these links. Thou canst blind; but I can then grope. Thou canst consume; but I can then be ashes. Take the homage of these poor eyes, and shutter-hands. I would not take it. The lightning flashes through my skull; mine eye-balls ache and ache; my whole beaten brain seems as beheaded, and rolling on some stunning ground. Oh, oh! Yet blindfold, yet will I talk to thee. Light though thou be, thou leapest out of darkness; but I am darkness leaping out of light, leaping out of thee! The javelins cease; open eyes; see, or not? There burn the flames! Oh, thou magnanimous! now do I glory in my genealogy. But thou art but my fiery father; my sweet mother, I know not. Oh, cruel! what hast thou done with her? There lies my puzzle; but thine is greater. Thou knowest not how came ye, hence callest thyself unbegotten; certainly knowest not thy beginning, hence callest thyself unbegun. I know that of me, which thou knowest not of thyself, oh, thou omnipotent. There is some unsuffusing thing beyond thee, thou clear spirit, to whom all thy eternity is but time, all thy creativeness mechanical. Through thee, thy flaming self, my scorched eyes do dimly see it. Oh, thou foundling fire, thou hermit immemorial, thou too hast thy incommunicable riddle, thy unparticipated grief. Here again with haughty agony, I read my sire. Leap! leap up, and lick the sky! I leap with thee; I burn with thee; would fain be welded with thee; defyingly I worship thee!

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How about Tennyson's "The Eagle"?

>He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
>Close to the sun in lonely lands,
>Ring'd with the azure world, he stands.

>The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
>He watches from his mountain walls,
>And like a thunderbolt he falls.

Dream Song 91, Berryman:

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Caw caw.

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Gertrude Stein, "A Waist".

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