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Old July 3rd, 2006, 05:06 PM   #201
weirdo
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para maiba naman

Spanish Dancer
Rainer Maria Rilke

As in one's hand a lighted match blinds you before
it comes aflame and sends out brilliant flickering
tongues to every side -- so, within the ring of the
spectators, her dance begins in hasty, heated rhythms
and spreads itself darting flames around.

And suddenly the dance is altogether flame!

With a fierce glance she sets her hair alight.
Unexpectedly she turns with daring artfulness
the swirling flounces of her dress within this
conflagaration, out of which her upheld naked arms,
clapping the castanets, appear like serpents striking.

And then, afraid her fire were diminishing,
she gathers it all up and flings it down
with an imperious haughtly gesture, and watches
as it lies there writhing on the ground, unyielding
and unwilling to concede the dance has ended.
Yet she show victory in her sweet swift smile
as she lifts up her face, while with her small firm feet
she stamps out the last of the dying embers.
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Old July 4th, 2006, 01:03 AM   #202
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^ Spanish Dancer


Spanish Dancer by John Singer Sargent
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Old July 4th, 2006, 01:34 AM   #203
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INVICTUS

OUT of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.


-William Ernest Henley. 1849–1903
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Old July 4th, 2006, 04:35 AM   #204
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does anyone have a poem for this picture?

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Old July 4th, 2006, 04:46 AM   #205
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hmm..either this..

Seashore - Rabindranath Tagore

On the seashore of endless worlds children meet.
The infinite sky is motionless overhead
and the restless water is boisterous.
On the seashore of endless worlds
the children meet with shouts and dances.

They build their houses with sand
and they play with empty shells.
With withered leaves they weave their boats
and smilingly float them on the vast deep.
Children have their play on the seashore of worlds.

They know not how to swim, they know not how to cast nets.
Pearl fishers dive for pearls, merchants sail in their ships,
while children gather pebbles and scatter them again.
They seek not for hidden treasures, they know not how to cast nets.

The sea surges up with laughter
and pale gleams the smile of the sea beach.
Death-dealing waves sing meaningless ballads to the children,
even like a mother while rocking her baby's cradle.
The sea plays with children,
and pale gleams the smile of the sea beach.

On the seashore of endless worlds children meet.
Tempest roams in the pathless sky,
ships get wrecked in the trackless water,
death is abroad and children play.
On the seashore of endless worlds is the
great meeting of children.


or this

Children - Dewey Nixon

Children love, they laugh, they care.
Children, bless them, they know how to share.
Children try hard to be what you want,
Sometimes they can't and they start
To cry, that's when a hug or a
Kiss is the tool, no not a spanking
That's not the rule.
Children do good and children do bad,
Children are happy and children are sad.
Children must walk before they
Can run, all of us wake to the
Bright morning sun.
So cherish the children these
Treasures from God, for without
Them the Earth would be nothing
But water and sod.
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Old July 4th, 2006, 04:51 AM   #206
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both are beautiful. thanks for sharing dex.
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Old July 4th, 2006, 05:59 AM   #207
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bugnaw bulan

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Old July 4th, 2006, 06:35 AM   #208
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pozo oscuro

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Old July 4th, 2006, 06:11 PM   #209
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A Supermarket in California
Allen Ginsberg

What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for I
walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a
headache self-conscious looking at the full moon.
In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went
into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations!
What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families
shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the
avocados, babies in the tomatoes! -- and you, Garcia Lorca,
what were you doing down by the watermelons?

I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber,
poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery boys.
I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork
chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel?
I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans
following you, and followed in my imagination by the store detective.
We strode down the open corridors together in our solitary
fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every frozen delicacy,
and never passing the cashier.

Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in an
hour. Which way does your beard point tonight?
(I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the
supermarket and feel absurd.)
Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The trees
add shade to shade, lights out in the houses, we'll both be
lonely.

Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love past
blue automobiles in driveways, home to our silent cottage?
Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher,
what America did you have when Charon quit poling his
ferry and you got out on a smoking bank and stood
watching the boat disappear on the black waters of Lethe?




images:
1. http://wetzel.deviantart.com
2. http://Reuno.deviantart.com
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Old July 4th, 2006, 06:58 PM   #210
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A Psalm of Life - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

What the heart of the young man said to the psalmist

TELL me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!--
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act,--act in the living present!
Heart within, and God o'erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.
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Old July 5th, 2006, 04:44 AM   #211
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Quote:
Originally Posted by weirdo
A Supermarket in California
Allen Ginsberg
What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for I
walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a
headache self-conscious looking at the full moon.
In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went
into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations!
What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families
shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the
avocados, babies in the tomatoes! -- and you, Garcia Lorca,
what were you doing down by the watermelons?
Hey, Allen Ginsberg, a Beat Generation poet! Here he is with another favorite Beat poet Gregory Corso.



The beat generation was a small and tightly connected group of young American writers who demonstrated a care-free, often reckless and unquestionably fresh approach to literature as well as a demonstrative social stance toward what was sometimes referred to as "The Establishment". The most prominent are Jack Kerouac (On the Road) (1952), Allen Ginsberg (Howl) (1956), and William S. Burrough (Naked Lunch) (1959). The members of the beat generation were new bohemian libertines, who engaged in a spontaneous, sometimes messy, creativity. The beat writers produced a body of written work controversial both for its advocacy of non-conformity and for its non-conforming style.

Echoes of the Beat Generation run throughout all the forms of alternative/counter culture that have existed since then (e.g. "hippies", "punks", etc). The Beat Generation can be seen as the first modern subculture. Both Howl and Naked Lunch became the focus of obscenity trials in the United States that helped to liberalize what could be legally published.
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Old July 5th, 2006, 04:50 AM   #212
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POLITICS

Politics is the exposition
Of the underbelly of man
So helplessly vulnerable
To the adept manipulation
Of opportunist politicians
Playing hocus pocus
On mass credulity
And shocking gullibility
Like a flock of sheep
Led to the slaughter
By a bell weather goat
Politics has no heart
It has only a brain
It is not concerned
With what is exigent
But with what is expedient
It has no conscience
For what is morally right
But only for politically right
To it there is no minority
Nor even majority
Let alone equality
There is only superiority
Of the domineering will
Of the so-called leaders
Over the governed
Politics, be it totalitarian,
Democratic, socialist,
Or whatever concoction,
Is inherently diseased,
Because of its human inception,
Motivation, and creation,
Being conceived
In Satanic deception.
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Old July 5th, 2006, 05:19 AM   #213
Lili
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Here is another poetry by a Beat poet Gregory Corso that echoes somewhat the sentiments in The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

Marriage
Gregory Corso

Should I get married? Should I be Good?
Astound the girl next door with my velvet suit and faustaus hood?
Don't take her to movies but to cemeteries
tell all about werewolf bathtubs and forked clarinets
then desire her and kiss her and all the preliminaries
and she going just so far and I understanding why
not getting angry saying You must feel! It's beautiful to feel!
Instead take her in my arms lean against an old crooked tombstone
and woo her the entire night the constellations in the sky--

When she introduces me to her parents
back straightened, hair finally combed, strangled by a tie,
should I sit knees together on their 3rd degree sofa
and not ask Where's the bathroom?
How else to feel other than I am,
often thinking Flash Gordon soap--
O how terrible it must be for a young man
seated before a family and the family thinking
We never saw him before! He wants our Mary Lou!
After tea and homemade cookies they ask What do you do for a living?
Should I tell them? Would they like me then?
Say All right get married, we're losing a daughter
but we're gaining a son--
And should I then ask Where's the bathroom?


O God, and the wedding! All her family and her friends
and only a handful of mine all scroungy and bearded
just waiting to get at the drinks and food--
And the priest! He looking at me if I masturbated
asking me Do you take this woman for your lawful wedded wife?
And I trembling what to say say Pie Glue!
I kiss the bride all those corny men slapping me on the back
She's all yours, boy! Ha-ha-ha!

And in their eyes you could see some obscene honeymoon going on--
then all that absurd rice and clanky cans and shoes
Niagara Falls! Hordes of us! Husbands! Wives! Flowers! Chocolates!
All streaming into cozy hotels
All going to do the same thing tonight
The indifferent clerk he knowing what was going to happen
The lobby zombies they knowing what
The whistling elevator man he knowing
The winking bellboy knowing
Everybody knowing! I'd be almost inclined not to do anything!
Stay up all night! Stare that hotel clerk in the eye!
Screaming: I deny honeymoon! I deny honeymoon!
running rampant into those almost climatic suites
yelling Radio belly! Cat shovel!
O I'd live in Niagara forever! in a dark cave beneath the Falls
I'd sit there the Mad Honeymooner devising ways to break marriages, a scourge of bigamy a saint of divorce--

But I should get married I should be good
How nice it'd be to come home to her
and sit by the fireplace and she in the kitchen
aproned young and lovely wanting my baby
and so happy about me she burns the roast beef
and comes crying to me and I get up from my big papa chair
saying Christmas teeth! Radiant brains! Apple deaf!
God what a husband I'd make! Yes, I should get married!
So much to do! like sneaking into Mr Jones' house late at night
and cover his golf clubs with 1920 Norwegian books
Like hanging a picture of Rimbaud on the lawnmower
like pasting Tannu Tuva postage stamps all over the picket fence
like when Mrs Kindhead comes to collect for the Community Chest
grab her and tell her There are unfavorable omens in the sky!
And when the mayor comes to get my vote tell him
When are you going to stop people killing whales!
And when the milkman comes leave him a note in the bottle
Penguin dust, bring me penguin dust, I want penguin dust--
Yet if I should get married and it's Connecticut and snow
and she gives birth to a child and I am sleepless, worn,
up for nights, head bowed against a quiet window, the past behind me,
finding myself in the most common of situations a trembling man
knowledged with responsibility not twig-smear not Roman coin soup--
O what would that be like!
Surely I'd give it for a nipple a rubber Tacitus
For a rattle bag of broken Bach records
Tack Della Francesca all over its crib
Sew the Greek alphabet on its bib
And build for its playpen a roofless Parthenon


No, I doubt I'd be that kind of father
not rural not snow no quiet window
but hot smelly New York City
seven flights up, roaches and rats in the walls
a fat Reichian wife screeching over potatoes Get a job!
And five nose running brats in love with Batman
And the neighbors all toothless and dry haired
like those hag masses of the 18th century
all wanting to come in and watch TV
The landlord wants his rent
Grocery store Blue Cross Gas & Electric Knights of Columbus
Impossible to lie back and dream Telephone snow, ghost parking--

No! I should not get married and I should never get married!

But--imagine if I were to marry a beautiful sophisticated woman
tall and pale wearing an elegant black dress and long black gloves
holding a cigarette holder in one hand and highball in the other
and we lived high up a penthouse with a huge window
from which we could see all of New York and even farther on clearer days
No I can't imagine myself married to that pleasant prison dream--

O but what about love? I forget love
not that I am incapable of love
it's just that I see love as odd as wearing shoes--
I never wanted to marry a girl who was like my mother
And Ingrid Bergman was always impossible
And there maybe a girl now but she's already married
And I don't like men and--
but there's got to be somebody!
Because what if I'm 60 years old and not married,
all alone in furnished room with pee stains on my underwear
and everybody else is married! All in the universe married but me!


Ah, yet well I know that were a woman possible as I am possible
then marriage would be possible--
Like SHE in her lonely alien gaud waiting her Egyptian lover
so I wait--bereft of 2,000 years and the bath of life.


Last edited by Lili; July 5th, 2006 at 10:50 AM.
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Old July 5th, 2006, 06:42 AM   #214
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Lemme guess. You thought about me again!
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Old July 5th, 2006, 06:55 AM   #215
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Oh... how presumptuous Chot. It's not all about you.
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Old July 5th, 2006, 07:54 AM   #216
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i thought this thread was all about poetry. may charades din pala dito si lili at si chot hola chot and lili
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Old July 5th, 2006, 06:53 PM   #217
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hehe. salamat ate lili sa infos. mahilig ka rin pala sa beat. natetempt ako i post yung howl ni ginsberg pero wag na lang kasi haba haba.
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Old July 5th, 2006, 07:27 PM   #218
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kung trip nio take nio ito http://quizilla.com/users/PlathIsDea...ter%20Poet%3F/
kaya lang onti ng choices and di seryoso. nakuha ko yung kerouac.


Way to go, your alter poet is Jack Kerouac, who is by FAR the coolest!

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Old July 5th, 2006, 08:01 PM   #219
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Yabag
Don Bustamante

Ang mga pahina ng iyong buhay ay mabubuksan
Tulad ng pagbubukas ng mga pinto ng pagsino,
Kung sino ka,
Kung ano ka,
Sa pagkakasilang mo sa mundo
At hahanapin mo ang daan ng nais mong tahakin
Kung magiging sino ka,
Kung magiging ano ka,
Sino ka nga ba? Ikaw ba ang nilalang na iniluwal sa mundong
Ito para magtampisaw sa buhay na hindi mo naman buhay?
Ano ka nga ba? Ikaw ba ang naligaw na inakay na minsang
Sumubok liparin ang mga ulap na hindi mo naman kayang
Ikampay ang mga pakpak, dahil ang katawan mo’y may
Mga bakas ng lumot na dinaig pa ang isang paglalakbay
Sa mundong hindi mo naman mundo?

Ganoon kita pinagmasdan,
Pinalago mo ang madawag na landasin na minsan pa
Mang tinahak ng mga kinilala mong nalaos na ang mga
Pawis na hindi tumulo sa bunga ng kanilang paghihirap,
Nagsalamin ka sana, at upang makita mo ang iyong sarili
Na nakaukit sa kanilang mga nakaraan.

Nawa’y maalala mong ang buhay ay hindi hinihiram
Upang sumunod sa yabag ng mga paa na hindi mo naman paa.

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Old July 5th, 2006, 08:05 PM   #220
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I also got Kerouac, who is by far the coolest.

I wouldn't want to be either Plath or Sexton. What tragic poetesses.
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