is there any good poetry

Music posts are a bannable offense.
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canon.docre
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The Charge of the Light Brigade
By Alfred, Lord Tennyson

I
Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
“Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!” he said.
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

II
“Forward, the Light Brigade!”
Was there a man dismayed?
Not though the soldier knew
Someone had blundered.
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die.
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

III
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volleyed and thundered;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of hell
Rode the six hundred.

IV
Flashed all their sabres bare,
Flashed as they turned in air
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wondered.
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right through the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reeled from the sabre stroke
Shattered and sundered.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.

V
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volleyed and thundered;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell.
They that had fought so well
Came through the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.

VI
When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honour the charge they made!
Honour the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!
[XHATEXBRIGADEX] because your a polotical faggot
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The Real MPD
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Eight Bit Alien wrote: Thu Oct 26, 2017 7:50 pm Newborn babies coming home from the war
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the awesome Assassin wrote: Fri Mar 10, 2017 12:00 pm Have you ever witnessed an overdose
My best friend died this last Saturday.
I woke up and he was sitting dead in my chair.
I knew a girl in Portland
Did you suck his cock?

Did you pilfer his wallet?
TROLL WORLD ORDER 4 LIFE

:invcross: BUNGVOX got powerbombed off the stage because he wasn't T.W.O 4 LIFE brother. :invcross:

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Chad
(ó ì_í)=óò=(ì_í ò)
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not without a traditional framework...lacking that, it's pure self worship

actual bloviating formless into the wind

(and expecting to be praised for it)

Gg allin was a poet

cxwx
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FVBTVS
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Something To Believe In by Carl Phillips

My two hunting dogs have names, but I rarely use them. As I go, they go: I lead; they follow, the blue-eyed one first, then the one whose coloring—her coat, not her eyes—I sometimes call never-again-o-never-this-way-henceforth. Hope, ambition: these are not their names, though the way they run might suggest otherwise. Like steam off night-soaked wooden fencing when the sun first hits it, they rise each morning at my command. Late in the Iliad, Priam the king of Troy predicts his own murder— correctly, except it won’t be by spear, as he imagines, but by sword thrust. He can see his corpse, sees the dogs he’s fed and trained so patiently pulling the corpse apart. After that, he says, When they’re full, they’ll lie in the doorway, they’ll lap my blood.
I say: Why shouldn’t they? Everywhere, the same people who mistake obedience for loyalty think somehow loyalty weighs more than hunger, when it doesn’t. At night, when it’s time for bed, we sleep together, the three of us: muscled animal, muscled animal, muscled animal. The dogs settle to either side of me as if each were the slightly folded wing of a beast from fable, part power, part recognition. We breathe in a loose kind of unison. Our breathing ripples the way oblivion does—routinely, across history’s face.
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White Like Jesus
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Resumé by Dorothy Parker

Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren’t lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.
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Eight Bit Alien
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there once was a twat from new jersey
Zerohero wrote: Fri Oct 16, 2020 10:59 am cleaning out old stuff in the freezer--- old slice of leftover pizza..boom eaten back to life
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Honky Kong 64
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some faves...

Percy Shelley
Rimbaud
Neruda
E.B.B. (Aurora Leigh specifically)
No Cunting Elves
featherboa
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The spheres in motion wrapped around collapsing stars
Immortal hands and eyes are framed in fearful scars
i cut my hand at work and just let it drip on my desk during a conference call -copstache
probably some punk broth - tvbfvs
dames are lousy now mah i gotta bop peckahs -eba
it's been hard to find the focus necessary with all the racket my wife & her boyfriend have been making -necro-meter
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release the spores
FVBTVS wrote: Tue Feb 06, 2018 12:04 pmfrom enslavement to obliteration is older than abbey road
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FVBTVS
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To Autumn
By John Keats


Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of spring? Ay, Where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering of the juggalos swallows twitter in the skies.
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the awesome Assassin
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FVBTVS
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THE WORM

The sun: a worm with a spring withy in its jaws.

Mouthcrease like the gash in the spider’s globe.

It burns above us; it burns a wormhole in the night.

The white, furred heads of our spiders eat spindles
with their eight arms, move sideways like stars,
like porcelain crabs across hot sands; they feast on cotton
candy bundles of gillyflowers bathed in frost, pearly
with mothwing dust—O this sight, sickening at first,
until I saw the budding worm.

Was it a lily or a withy flapping there in the ground?

(Does the worm fly or does it climb a winding stair?)

With a sprig in its jaws, it moved like a snake in the sky,
not like a crab on sand or a worm in earth.
In that copse, where the trees are soft, the forest floor
is proudflesh and the earth crowns-up.
Here the hungry worm rips at its earthly counterpart.

I’d been taught to praise the snake and fear the worm.
To revere the spider’s patience and its paralyzing bite.
But this was holy, an otherworldly thing, straining
through the earth, moving with a branch in its jaws,
up through the loams,
tunneling up through gravelly deposits and pepperdirts.

The flag is from the roots of Paradise, from one hairy tap,
fed by the aqueducts of the underworld, underground
estuaries, the opposite of piled-high hierarchical clouds,
those frosted fortresses wringing rains into funnel tubes.

Above our heads a metal-bottomed galleon ship glides
while at our feet the lowly worm turns, the sticky worm
never to be caught in a spider’s web, or eaten by the pulpous snake.
This worm carries an osier with tiny buds up from the mud,
a flag, offering true leaves for the coming thunderhead.

Regan Good
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FVBTVS
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Toilet Fleet
need...miss...want...
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Location: You can find me in the tub, bottle full of Bud.

How on earth did it happen, I used to wonder
that a whole city—arches, pillars, colonnades,
not to mention vehicles and animals—had all
one fine day gone under?

I mean, I said to myself, the world was small then.
Surely a great city must have been missed?
I miss our old city —

white pepper, white pudding, you and I meeting
under fanlights and low skies to go home in it. Maybe
what really happened is

this: the old fable-makers searched hard for a word
to convey that what is gone is gone forever and
never found it. And so, in the best traditions of

where we come from, they gave their sorrow a name
and drowned it.



Eavan Boland, Atlantis—A Lost Sonnet
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FVBTVS
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Encounter
By Czeslaw Milosz



We were riding through frozen fields in a wagon at dawn.
A red wing rose in the darkness.

And suddenly a hare ran across the road.
One of us pointed to it with his hand.

That was long ago. Today neither of them is alive,
Not the hare, nor the man who made the gesture.

O my love, where are they, where are they going
The flash of a hand, streak of movement, rustle of pebbles.
I ask not out of sorrow, but in wonder.


Wilno, 1936
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FVBTVS
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Pagan Rites/Creator Spirit Come by Paul Goodman

Creator Spirit come
by whom
I'll say what is real
and so away I'll steal.

When my only son
fell down and died on Percy mountain
I began
to practice magic like a pagan.

Around the open grave we ate
the blueberries that he brought
from the cloud, and then we
buried his bag with his body.

Upon the covered grave
I laid the hawkweed that I love
that withered fast
where the mowers passed.

I brought also a tiny yellow
flower whose name I do not know
to share my ignorance
with my autistic son. (But since
then I find in the book
it is a kind of shamrock
Oxalis corniculata,
Matty, sorrel of the lady.)

Blue-eyed grass with its gold hexagon
beautiful as the gold and blue
double in Albireo
that we used to gaze on

when Matty was alive
I laid on Matty's grave
where two robins were
hopping here and there;

and gold and bluer than that blue
or the double in Albireo
bittersweet nightshade
the deadly alkaloid
I brought for no other reason
than because it was poison.

Mostly, though, I brought some weed
beautiful but disesteemed,
plantain or milkweed,
because we die by the wayside.

(And if spring comes again
I will bring a dandelion,
because he was a common weed
and also he was splendid.)

But when I laid my own forehead
on the withering sod
to go the journey deep,
I could not fall asleep.

I cannot dream, I cannot quit
the one scene in the twilight
that is no longer new yet does
not pass into what was.

Last night the Pastoral Symphony
of Handel in the key of C
I played on our piano
out of tune shrill and slow
because shepherds were at night
in the field in the starlight
when music loud and clear
sang from nowhere.

Will magic and the weeks placate
the soul that in tumbling fright
fled on August eighth?
The first flock is flying south

and a black-eyed susan
is livid in the autumn rain
dripping without haste or strain
on the oblong larger than a man.

Creator Spirit come
by whom
I say that which is real
and softly away I steal.
The force that through the green fuse drives the flower by Dylan Thomas


The force that through the green fuse drives the flower
Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees
Is my destroyer.
And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose
My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.

The force that drives the water through the rocks
Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams
Turns mine to wax.
And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins
How at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks.

The hand that whirls the water in the pool
Stirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind
Hauls my shroud sail.
And I am dumb to tell the hanging man
How of my clay is made the hangman's lime.

The lips of time leech to the fountain head;
Love drips and gathers, but the fallen blood
Shall calm her sores.
And I am dumb to tell a weather's wind
How time has ticked a heaven round the stars.

And I am dumb to tell the lover's tomb
How at my sheet goes the same crooked worm.
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FVBTVS
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Seagate Cliff by Regan Good



Down the hard path to the swinging gate
swung open to the sea, the seagate hinged
to fling or flee where the ocean scours the rocks,
where a Scandonavian King sat suspended —
in a weather of upspray and salted-rain.
King? Are the switches still soft and nigh?
A quick fox lopes through sere and rills,
sharp-tipped quills; jackal-like jonquils
tremble in the common-brained meadow.
Though the sun comes down in solar pleats
and weird, spindly wire-rays — you are cold.
Did it settle where the white thorn blows?
To wither and wilt all generational afterones?
And the thistle found in the gannet’s throat?
King, a thistle will choke a water bird to death.
I, too, wandered the whale’s way in winter.
Rowed the swan’s road as empty and idle and vain.
The soil is thin from where we come; our sea
wind strips the grasses of their minerals
and eats the blue casings from our veins.
How many long bones underneath our feet?
I know some of them as kin. We put stones
on our Mother’s eyes and wrapped our Father
in a bag of skin. We come from a dark shelf,
bloody waters, black woods, isles, the fens.
Come kill my horses and bury them with me.
There, I will ride them in the loam and the dirt
to the home-hearth, the center-place, to a new land,
in the stranger-earth, in a black soil-sea.
Bury me in a hole, surrounded by my things.
featherboa
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FVBTVS wrote: Sat Mar 11, 2017 11:24 am Image
featherboa wrote: Sat Mar 11, 2017 10:13 am I like some. Has any of you literary folks read the changing light at sandover? I wanted to at some point but I forgot about it.
i own a copy of that but have never once looked at it :?
I finally acquired an ebook, but my brain can't deal with stuff like this anymore.
NP: a fantasy, coming-of-age audiobook.
i cut my hand at work and just let it drip on my desk during a conference call -copstache
probably some punk broth - tvbfvs
dames are lousy now mah i gotta bop peckahs -eba
it's been hard to find the focus necessary with all the racket my wife & her boyfriend have been making -necro-meter
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FVBTVS
Sweet Lord _______
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featherboa wrote: Wed Apr 07, 2021 9:07 am

my brain can't deal with stuff like this anymore.
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Zerohero
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I
Ate
A
Taco
and
Made
One
of
Them
Up
and
Down
style
Poems.
rileyo wrote:i like that she's wearing high heels &stockings to get fucked by dead pigs,that's some real forward thinking metal right there
LordDarksoul wrote:Thanks for the concern, Fucktractor.
BUNGVOX wrote:i don't want metallica to shit their pants. i want metallica to shit MY pants.
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FVBTVS
Sweet Lord _______
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Joined: Thu Feb 21, 2013 2:14 pm

My Sparrow
By Dan Chelotti
There is the torch and the only thing
That will prevent us from using it
Is whether or not we can allow
Jellyfish in the otherwise
Crystalline surf. It would be easy
To dismiss this view as beautiful and walk away
Because it is buggy and we forgot
The spray, to cancel the conversation
Because its ease is perilous with conjunctions,
To not touch because the sky would
Separate from the sky and the mothership
Would fall through with a banner
Waving in a language we wouldn’t
Understand though the meaning is
As clear as these intercontinental
Contrails hatching mackerel sky
Saying we are full we are full
Of sound and fury, we are signifying
Nothing. Damned universal law.
Damned categorical imperative
Elbowing its way between my hands
And your face. The sparrows again
Exploding against windows
As a circle of men sitting outside
The cafe while away their intentions
With invisible motor tics they can’t
Even feel unless the right empire of light
Covers every last inch of them
And brings to the surface the names — 
Those loves they chose
To stable. And there it is:
The choice — if only the metaphor
Were more complex if I could only
Adverb away my existence
And say what a remarkable Sunday
This is a perfect Sunday
And turn my breath to stone.
I’ve done it before, I spoke
The language of sweating cavern walls
And electric light. But I won’t go there again.
We are all and only our distances
And when we touch that is what we touch.
Our messy shelves. Our sullen privations
And overabundance of lemons.
Our grief, our mountains and fields
And rivers of grief. Our dismissals
And the love we ignore when we don’t run
After the sparrows because the sparrows
Will fly away. My sparrow, fly away if you have to
But know that I am coming.
I am low in the grass. I am burning
With patience. I am every song.
I know all the math in the shore
Says you shouldn’t but my distance
Is yours if you want it. And it is yours
If you don’t. Dandelions and honeysuckle
Surround me, the world’s ineluctable fire
Is looking right at me, and I am making my stand.
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