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Jul 24th, 2003 04:35 PM | ||||
kellychaos | A friend and I got drunk one night at "Shorebirds", a Waikiki-side night club in Honolulu, and decided that a fully clothed (sans shoes and socks) dip in the ocean would be a funny/cool thing to do at the time. We were not allowed back into the club by the bouncers. :alcoholinducedstupidity | |||
Jul 23rd, 2003 08:30 PM | ||||
Zhukov |
I was walking by the sea, Then it spat on me. People don't let you into houses If you have wet trousers. |
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Jul 17th, 2003 03:55 AM | ||||
sadie |
yay. i do know, proto. (and joni mitchell set it to music, as "slouching toward bethlehem.") The Second Coming -- W. B. Yeats Turning and turning in the widening gyre The falcon cannot hear the falconer; Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned; The best lack all convictions, while the worst Are full of passionate intensity. Surely some revelation is at hand; Surely the Second Coming is at hand. The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert A shape with lion body and the head of a man, A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun, Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds. The darkness drops again; but now I know That twenty centuries of stony sleep Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born? |
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Jul 16th, 2003 02:27 PM | ||||
Daphne |
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Jul 16th, 2003 12:47 PM | ||||
kellychaos |
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Jul 11th, 2003 11:13 AM | ||||
Drew Katsikas |
Nothing wrong with you, Daphne, I'm just seeing how many I-mockers like the life and adventures of Henry Chinaski. Perhaps "who else likes Bukowski", would have expressed my point more effectivley. |
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Jul 11th, 2003 10:57 AM | ||||
kellychaos |
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Are you a fan of William Carlos Williams? Although I don't recall the poet you quoted, his style is sort of reminscient of Williams' work ... not to take away from the poem you provided. It was great. And another: Quote:
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Jul 11th, 2003 09:04 AM | ||||
Daphne |
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Jul 11th, 2003 06:00 AM | ||||
crash0814 | "The Raven," natch. | |||
Jul 11th, 2003 03:02 AM | ||||
Dole |
Although I generally CANNOT FUCKING STAND poetry, I make an exception for the gloriously bleak Phillip Larkin and his 'LIFE IS BOREDOM THEN FEAR' type themes. This is his magnum opus on death, 'Aubade'. I love his description of religion as 'That vast moth-eaten musical brocade created to pretend we never die' -perfect Aubade I work all day, and get half-drunk at night Waking at four to the soundless dark, I stare. In time the curtain edges will grow light. Till then I see what's really always there Unresting death, a whole day nearer now, Making all thought impossible but how And where and when I shall myself die. Arid interrogation; yet the dread Of dying, and being dead, Flashes afresh to hold and horrify. The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse -The good not done, the love not given, time Torn off unused - nor wretchedly because An only life can take so long to climb. Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never; But at the total emptiness for ever, The sure extinction that we travel to And shall be lost in always. Not to be here Not to be anywhere And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true. This is a special way of being afraid No trick dispels. Religion used to try That vast moth-eaten musical brocade Created to pretend we never die And specious stuff that says No rational being Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing That this is what we fear -no sight, no sound No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with Nothing to love or link with, The anaesthetic from which none come round. And it stays just on the edge of vision A small unfocused blur, a standing chill That slows each impulse down to indecision Most things may never happen; this one will And realisation of it rages out In furnace-fear when we are caught without People or drink. Courage is no good; It means not scaring others. Being brave Lets no one off the grave Death is no different whined at than withstood. Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know Have always known, know that we can't escape Yet can't accept. One side will have to go Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring Intricate rented world begins to rouse The sky is white as clay, with no sun Work has to be done Postmen like doctors go from house to house. |
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Jul 10th, 2003 11:03 PM | ||||
Drew Katsikas | Any other Bukowski fans other than Daphne? | |||
Jul 10th, 2003 11:01 PM | ||||
Drew Katsikas |
Yes, Bukowski is the fucking man! Nirvana by Buk not much chance, completely cut loose from purpose, he was a young man riding a bus through North Carolina on the way to somewhere and it began to snow and the bus stopped at a little cafe in the hills and the passengers entered. he sat at the counter with the others, he ordered and the food arrived. the meal was particularly good and the coffee. the waitress was unlike the women he had known. she was unaffected, there was a natural humor which came from her. the fry cook said crazy things. the dishwasher. in back, laughed, a good clean pleasant laugh. the young man watched the snow through the windows. he wanted to stay in that cafe forever. the curious feeling swam through him that everything was beautiful there, that it would always stay beautiful there. then the bus driver told the passengers that it was time to board. the young man thought, I'll just sit here, I'll just stay here. but then he rose and followed the others into the bus. he found his seat and looked at the cafe through the bus window. then the bus moved off, down a curve, downward, out of the hills. the young man looked straight forward. he heard the other passengers speaking of other things, or they were reading or attempting to sleep. they had not noticed the magic. the young man put his head to one side, closed his eyes, pretended to sleep. there was nothing else to do- just to listen to the sound of the engine, the sound of the tires in the snow. I hadda memorize this badboy for English for a favorite poem recital. It was quite simple, I recorded my voice saying it, and looped it on my walkman one nite while I slept. Hooray for the subconcious! |
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Jun 20th, 2003 10:55 AM | ||||
Daphne |
Bukowski I met a genius: I met a genius on the train today about 6 years old, he sat beside me and as the train ran down along the coast we came to the ocean and then he looked at me and said, it's not pretty. it was the first time I'd realized that. |
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Jun 19th, 2003 05:23 PM | ||||
O71394658 |
The Hollow Men by T.S. Eliot I We are the hollow men We are the stuffed men Leaning together Headpiece filled with straw. Alas! Our dried voices, when We whisper together Are quiet and meaningless As wind in dry grass Or rats' feet over broken glass In our dry cellar Shape without form, shade without colour, Paralysed force, gesture without motion; Those who have crossed With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom Remember us -- if at all -- not as lost Violent souls, but only As the hollow men The stuffed men. II Eyes I dare not meet in dreams In death's dream kingdom These do not appear: There, the eyes are Sunlight on a broken column There, is a tree swinging And voices are In the wind's singing More distant and more solemn Than a fading star. Let me be no nearer In death's dream kingdom Let me also wear Such deliberate disguises Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves In a field Behaving as the wind behaves No nearer -- Not that final meeting In the twilight kingdom III This is the dead land This is cactus land Here the stone images Are raised, here they receive The supplication of a dead man's hand Under the twinkle of a fading star. Is it like this In death's other kingdom Waking alone At the hour when we are Trembling with tenderness Lips that would kiss Form prayers to broken stone. IV The eyes are not here There are no eyes here In this valley of dying stars In this hollow valley This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms In this last of meeting places We grope together And avoid speech Gathered on this beach of the tumid river Sightless, unless The eyes reappear As the perpetual star Multifoliate rose Of death's twilight kingdom The hope only Of empty men. V Here we go round the prickly pear Prickly pear prickly pear Here we go round the prickly pear At five o'clock in the morning. Between the idea And the reality Between the motion And the act Falls the Shadow For Thine is the Kingdom Between the conception And the creation Between the emotion And the response Falls the Shadow Life is very long Between the desire And the spasm Between the potency And the existence Between the essence And the descent Falls the Shadow For Thine is the Kingdom For Thine is Life is For Thine is the This is the way the world ends This is the way the world ends This is the way the world ends Not with a bang but a whimper. |
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Jun 12th, 2003 01:17 PM | ||||
kellychaos |
A couple moreof my favorites are by Mr. Walt Whitman: Quote:
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Jun 4th, 2003 09:27 PM | ||||
Protoclown |
Kelly, I think that might be the one, but I thought it was longer than that. And Fat Satan, now that you mention it, I am almost certain that it was indeed a poem by Yeats. |
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Jun 4th, 2003 03:42 PM | ||||
FS |
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Jun 4th, 2003 12:49 PM | ||||
kellychaos |
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In Flanders Fields by John McCrae In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below. We are the Dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved, and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders fields. Take up our quarrel with the foe: To you from failing hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields. |
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Jun 4th, 2003 12:21 PM | ||||
Carnivore | I hate picking favorites and I'm sure I'll change my mind at a later time, but I've always loved "The Road Not Taken" by Robert Frost. | |||
Jun 4th, 2003 12:17 PM | ||||
Protoclown |
I don't have any of my poetry books here at work, but off the top of my head some of my favorites that I can recall: "Because I could not stop for death he kindly stopped for me" - Emily Dickenson "Lenore" and "Anabel Lee" - Edgar Allen Poe "Father" - Sylvia Plath "O Captain My Captain" - Walt Whitman (fuck you, i like it) And there's one really long poem that has "the center cannot hold" and "things fall apart" in the middle of it somewhere and I could kick myself for not remembering what it was or who wrote it sadie would know, I'll bet There are lots of others but it's hard to remember without a book right in front of me. I have the Oxford Book of American Verse, and that thing kicks ASS. So much good stuff in there. EDIT: There was some other poem written by a World War I combatant that I really liked (about the war), but I can't remember much about it at all |
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Jun 4th, 2003 11:42 AM | ||||
The_voice_of_reason |
And Death Shall Have No Dominion Dylan Thomas And death shall have no dominion. Dead men naked they shall be one With the man in the wind and the west moon; When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone, They shall have stars at elbow and foot; Though they go mad they shall be sane, Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again; Though lovers be lost love shall not; And death shall have no dominion. And death shall have no dominion. Under the windings of the sea They lying long shall not die windily; Twisting on racks when sinews give way, Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break; Faith in their hands shall snap in two, And the unicorn evils run them through; Split all ends up they shan't crack; And death shall have no dominion. And death shall have no dominion. No more may gulls cry at their ears Or waves break loud on the seashores; Where blew a flower may a flower no more Lift its head to the blows of the rain; Though they be mad and dead as nails, Heads of the characters hammer through daisies; Break in the sun till the sun breaks down, And death shall have no dominion Say it out loud, like all Dylan Thomas poems it sounds better that way. |
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Jun 4th, 2003 03:33 AM | ||||
Les Waste |
Be Drunk by Charles Baudelaire You have to be always drunk. That's all there is to it -- it's the only way. So as not to feel the horrible burden of time that breaks your back and bends you to the earth, you have to be continually drunk. But on what? Wine, poetry or virtue, as you wish. But be drunk. And if sometimes, on the steps of a palace or the green grass of a ditch, in the mournful solitude of your room, you wake again, drunkenness already diminishing or gone, ask the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock, everything that is flying, everything that is groaning, everything that is rolling, everything that is singing, everything that is speaking. . .ask what time it is and wind, wave, star, bird, clock will answer you: "It is time to be drunk! So as not to be the martyred slaves of time, be drunk, be continually drunk! On wine, on poetry or on virtue as you wish." |
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Apr 12th, 2003 01:12 PM | ||||
kellychaos |
Favorite Poems One of mine: Ask Me William Stafford Some time when the river is ice ask me mistakes I have made. Ask me whether what I have done is my life. Others have come in their slow way into my thought, and some have tried to help or to hurt: ask me what difference their strongest love or hate has made. I will listen to what you say. You and I can turn and look at the silent river and wait. We know the current is there, hidden; and there are comings and goings from miles away that hold the stillness exactly before us. What the river says, that is what I say. |