The Poetry Hub

Discussion in 'Art Gallery' started by Brijesha, May 2, 2014.

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  1. archaicINF

    archaicINF Senior Member Senior Member

    Local Time:
    1:52 PM
    umm, yeah. no, i'm cool on the twirling. lol ice skating isnt my thing, but getting lifted off some tunes is always on the the table.

    Wu-Tang speaks to everyone, but there's also layers to the lyrics. after i looked into the NGE music from Wu-Tang, Erika Badu, and many others took on a whole new meaning. PEACE to the Gods and Earths!
    Brijesha likes this.
  2. Mattimao1239

    Mattimao1239 Chicken Chaser Senior Member

    Local Time:
    1:52 PM
    I have a lot of poetry, song and story ideas that pop in my head when I am in between sleep and awake...so if I can pull a seinfeld then I'll definitely post some stuff on here.
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  3. Collapse17

    Collapse17 Well-Known Member Senior Member

    Local Time:
    1:52 PM
    This is a bit of a dark and creepy poem by Vincent Vena Cava called "The Magicians Trick"

    The house was packed the crowd abuzz, for the magician’s biggest show

    For tonight was the trick that he had promised, was sure to make mind’s blow

    He toyed the gallery a bit, a sly look on his face

    then introduced his beautiful wife and assistant, the lovely Grace

    “Now gaze your eyes upon this box, extraordinary in no way.

    But with this trunk and my gorgeous wife, we’ll make magic here today.”

    He gestured the woman into the box, then went around the back

    And to the shock of everyone, pulled a saw out from his sack

    “For the amazing trick I prepped for you, I’ll run my saw on through

    This box my beautiful Grace is in, and cut them both in two!”

    The room was filled with gasps and groans, as he sliced and carved down the trunk

    He sawed the box till his blade reached bottom, stopping with a clunk

    The faces in the crowd went white; he had the audience amazed

    He pushed the box apart in two, the room’s tension had been raised

    “And now I will complete my trick and open up this box

    Now please be warned,” the magician said, “this will knock off your socks”

    The sly magician unhitched the latch, and opened up the door

    Then Grace’s guts and small intestines spilled out to the floor

    “There you have it”, the magician said, “An escape of tour de force

    The name of this trick if you wanted to know, I call it The Divorce”
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  4. Brijesha

    Brijesha Teller of Seasons Senior Member

    Local Time:
    2:52 AM
    Do it.

    I made a creepy little rhyme a few years ago. It needs foot stompin' and a banjo.

    "Cheese in the gravy,
    Gravy in the baby.
    Baby in the tiger- and we set the cat on fire,
    with the fire in the oven and the hunger we abstain!
    Crispy cooked cat and a mother gone insane,
    Crisped in a vat with a batter made for shame."
    Last edited: Jan 29, 2015
  5. Brijesha

    Brijesha Teller of Seasons Senior Member

    Local Time:
    2:52 AM
    "Untitled"
    slhefu.png
    Written by Brijesha
    Last edited: Feb 8, 2015
  6. Brijesha

    Brijesha Teller of Seasons Senior Member

    Local Time:
    2:52 AM
    Famous Blue Raincoat
    Written by Leonard Cohen

    It's four in the morning, the end of December
    I'm writing you now just to see if you're better
    New York is cold, but I like where I'm living
    There's music on Clinton Street all through the evening.

    I hear that you're building your little house deep in the desert
    You're living for nothing now, I hope you're keeping some kind of record.

    Yes, and Jane came by with a lock of your hair
    She said that you gave it to her
    That night that you planned to go clear
    Did you ever go clear?

    Ah, the last time we saw you you looked so much older
    Your famous blue raincoat was torn at the shoulder
    You'd been to the station to meet every train
    And you came home without Lili Marlene

    And you treated my woman to a flake of your life
    And when she came back she was nobody's wife.

    Well I see you there with the rose in your teeth
    One more thin gypsy thief
    Well I see Jane's awake --

    She sends her regards.
    And what can I tell you my brother, my killer
    What can I possibly say?
    I guess that I miss you, I guess I forgive you
    I'm glad you stood in my way.

    If you ever come by here, for Jane or for me
    Your enemy is sleeping, and his woman is free.

    Yes, and thanks, for the trouble you took from her eyes
    I thought it was there for good so I never tried.

    And Jane came by with a lock of your hair
    She said that you gave it to her
    That night that you planned to go clear

    -- Sincerely, L. Cohen

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  7. Jakster

    Jakster Well-Known Member Senior Member

    Local Time:
    12:52 PM
    "Roses are red, here's something new. Violets are violet, not freaking blue." - A Certain Person
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  8. Brijesha

    Brijesha Teller of Seasons Senior Member

    Local Time:
    2:52 AM
    Putnam County

    pc1tomwaits.png
    pc2tomwaits.png
    Written by: Tom Waits
    Published by: Fifth Floor Music Inc. (ASCAP), ©1975
    Official release: Nighthawks At The Diner, Elektra/ Asylum Records, 1975

    Innocent When You Dream
    The bats are in the belfry(2)
    The dew is on the moor
    Where are the arms that held me
    And pledged her love before
    And pledged her love before

    It's such a sad old feeling
    The hills are soft and green
    It's memories that I'm stealing(3)
    But you're innocent when you dream, when you dream
    You're innocent when you dream, when you dream
    You're innocent when you dream

    I made a golden promise
    That we would never part
    I gave my love a locket
    And then I broke her heart
    And then I broke her heart

    And it's such a sad old feeling
    The fields are soft and green
    It's memories that I'm stealing
    But you're innocent when you dream, when you dream
    You're innocent when you dream
    Innocent when you dream

    Running through the graveyard
    We laughed my friends and I
    We swore we'd be together
    Until the day we died
    Until the day we died

    And it's such a sad old feeling
    The fields are soft and green
    It's memories that I'm stealing
    But you're innocent when you dream, when you dream
    You're innocent when you dream, when you dream

    Written by: Tom Waits(1)
    Published by: Jalma Music (ASCAP), © 1986-1987-1998
    Official release: "Frank's Wild Years", Island Records Inc., 1987 &
    "Beautiful Maladies", Island Records Inc., 1998
    Arrangement and lyrics published in "Tom Waits - Beautiful Maladies" (Amsco Publications, 1997)
    Further reading: Frank's Wild Years the play

    Last edited: Feb 16, 2015
  9. Brijesha

    Brijesha Teller of Seasons Senior Member

    Local Time:
    2:52 AM
    "Untitled"

    Give me a real vacation from conciousness, not a drug cocktail that merely warps it, but something like a coma that could purge the sh*t from my warped psyche. A brief stint in blankness that could reverse some of the degradation and maturation that time causes.

    Can I have a partial redo from my beginnings of beginnings, made effective with the partial connection from last life's purest ways of being?

    Knowledge, I need your help now.

    Written by Brijesha.
    archaicINF likes this.
  10. Naruki

    Naruki Well-Known Member Senior Member Backer Parkour Adept

    Local Time:
    1:52 PM
    "Mistaken"

    I suppose I was wrong,
    I suppose you were right,
    Now I'm all alone, here at night.

    I can still hear your voice,
    I hope you hear mine,
    Sometimes I feel like i'm frozen in time.

    Mistaken, Mistaken, I must be,
    For just moments ago you were right here with me.

    Mistaken, Mistaken, I must be,
    For it was just a dream of what used to be.

    Written by Naruki.
    Brijesha likes this.
  11. calmchaos
    • Staff / Administrator

    calmchaos Administrator Staff Member Senior Member

    Local Time:
    12:52 PM
    It already had a thread. Wow.

    The Road Not Taken
    By Robert Frost

    Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
    And sorry I could not travel both
    And be one traveler, long I stood and I
    looked down one as far as I could

    To where it bent in the undergrowth;
    Sorry I could not travel both

    Then took the other, as just as fair,
    Having perhaps the better claim,
    cause it was grassy and wanted wear;
    Though as for that the passing there

    Had worn them really about the same,
    But having perhaps the better claim,

    And both that morning equally lay In leaves
    no step had trodden black.
    I kept the first for another day!
    Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

    I doubted if I should ever come back.
    In leaves no step had trodden black.

    I shall be telling this with a sigh
    Somewhere ages and ages hence:
    Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
    I took the one less traveled by,

    And that has made all the difference.​



    Here's a video where someone put it to song. The way he did it is wonderful.
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  12. Brijesha

    Brijesha Teller of Seasons Senior Member

    Local Time:
    2:52 AM
    Of course. Represent.


    "Fictionally, the original Epitaph is German. In actuality, it was written in Japanese by Kazunori Ito and part of it was poorly translated into German. The German version, in addition to containing many errors, actually omits information and names that are present in the Japanese version, such as Lios. The English version is mostly from the Japanese, but still contains omissions. The German version of the game is actually translated from the English.

    Fictionally, the Epitaph was never completed. In reality, it was originally written as a small project by Kazunori Ito and later adapted for .hack (explained in the Epitaph of New Testament). He wanted .hack to have something like the necronomicon (probably not coincidentally he wrote the original script for the American B-movie Necronomicon Part 2: The Cold... although he was unhappy with how the American writers rewrote it). How complete or similar to the one in .hack it was is unknown. You could try hitting up Kazunori Ito's Twitter and asking. There is no "full version" of the Epitaph in circulation, pretty much all information available on it is either on this Wiki page or in the Epitaph of Twilight novel series which hasn't been fully absorbed into the article yet: http://dothack.wikia.com/wiki/Epitaph_of_Twilight_(Poem)

    The outline and the novel series offer the gist of the story. Thanks to the movie we know Alba is "The World." Saya is the main character's name, a human with a shadow, the novel series pretty much tells the story."


    Re: New sites about the full Epitaph of Twilight poetry.
    • Post by Kuukai » Tue Jul 24, 2012 4:52 pm
    Last edited: Apr 8, 2015
  13. Faseth

    Faseth New Member

    Local Time:
    1:52 PM
    If You Forget Me by Pablo Neruda
    I want you to know
    one thing.

    You know how this is:
    if I look
    at the crystal moon, at the red branch
    of the slow autumn at my window,
    if I touch
    near the fire
    the impalpable ash
    or the wrinkled body of the log,
    everything carries me to you,
    as if everything that exists,
    aromas, light, metals,
    were little boats
    that sail
    toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

    Well, now,
    if little by little you stop loving me
    I shall stop loving you little by little.

    If suddenly
    you forget me
    do not look for me,
    for I shall already have forgotten you.

    If you think it long and mad,
    the wind of banners
    that passes through my life,
    and you decide
    to leave me at the shore
    of the heart where I have roots,
    remember
    that on that day,
    at that hour,
    I shall lift my arms
    and my roots will set off
    to seek another land.

    But
    if each day,
    each hour,
    you feel that you are destined for me
    with implacable sweetness,
    if each day a flower
    climbs up to your lips to seek me,
    ah my love, ah my own,
    in me all that fire is repeated,
    in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
    my love feeds on your love, beloved,
    and as long as you live it will be in your arms
    without leaving mine
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  14. Brijesha

    Brijesha Teller of Seasons Senior Member

    Local Time:
    2:52 AM
  15. Bambi

    Bambi Well-Known Member Senior Member Indiegogo Backer

    Local Time:
    1:52 PM
    America

    BY ALLEN GINSBERG

    America I’ve given you all and now I’m nothing.
    America two dollars and twentyseven cents January 17, 1956.
    I can’t stand my own mind.
    America when will we end the human war?
    Go fudge yourself with your atom bomb.
    I don’t feel good don’t bother me.
    I won’t write my poem till I’m in my right mind.
    America when will you be angelic?
    When will you take off your clothes?
    When will you look at yourself through the grave?
    When will you be worthy of your million Trotskyites?
    America why are your libraries full of tears?
    America when will you send your eggs to India?
    I’m sick of your insane demands.
    When can I go into the supermarket and buy what I need with my good looks?
    America after all it is you and I who are perfect not the next world.
    Your machinery is too much for me.
    You made me want to be a saint.
    There must be some other way to settle this argument.
    Burroughs is in Tangiers I don’t think he’ll come back it’s sinister.
    Are you being sinister or is this some form of practical joke?
    I’m trying to come to the point.
    I refuse to give up my obsession.
    America stop pushing I know what I’m doing.
    America the plum blossoms are falling.
    I haven’t read the newspapers for months, everyday somebody goes on trial for murder.
    America I feel sentimental about the Wobblies.
    America I used to be a communist when I was a kid I’m not sorry.
    I smoke marijuana every chance I get.
    I sit in my house for days on end and stare at the roses in the closet.
    When I go to Chinatown I get drunk and never get laid.
    My mind is made up there’s going to be trouble.
    You should have seen me reading Marx.
    My psychoanalyst thinks I’m perfectly right.
    I won’t say the Lord’s Prayer.
    I have mystical visions and cosmic vibrations.
    America I still haven’t told you what you did to Uncle Max after he came over from Russia.
    I’m addressing you.
    Are you going to let your emotional life be run by Time Magazine?
    I’m obsessed by Time Magazine.
    I read it every week.
    Its cover stares at me every time I slink past the corner candystore.
    I read it in the basement of the Berkeley Public Library.
    It’s always telling me about responsibility. Businessmen are serious. Movie producers are serious. Everybody’s serious but me.
    It occurs to me that I am America.
    I am talking to myself again.

    Asia is rising against me.
    I haven’t got a chinaman’s chance.
    I’d better consider my national resources.
    My national resources consist of two joints of marijuana millions of genitals an unpublishable private literature that jetplanes 1400 miles an hour and twentyfive-thousand mental institutions.
    I say nothing about my prisons nor the millions of underprivileged who live in my flowerpots under the light of five hundred suns.
    I have abolished the whorehouses of France, Tangiers is the next to go.
    My ambition is to be President despite the fact that I’m a Catholic.

    America how can I write a holy litany in your silly mood?
    I will continue like Henry Ford my strophes are as individual as his automobiles more so they’re all different sexes.
    America I will sell you strophes $2500 apiece $500 down on your old strophe
    America free Tom Mooney
    America save the Spanish Loyalists
    America Sacco & Vanzetti must not die
    America I am the Scottsboro boys.
    America when I was seven momma took me to Communist Cell meetings they sold us garbanzos a handful per ticket a ticket costs a nickel and the speeches were free everybody was angelic and sentimental about the workers it was all so sincere you have no idea what a good thing the party was in 1835 Scott Nearing was a grand old man a real mensch Mother Bloor the Silk-strikers’ Ewig-Weibliche made me cry I once saw the Yiddish orator Israel Amter plain. Everybody must have been a spy.
    America you don’t really want to go to war.
    America its them bad Russians.
    Them Russians them Russians and them Chinamen. And them Russians.
    The Russia wants to eat us alive. The Russia’s power mad. She wants to take our cars from out our garages.
    Her wants to grab Chicago. Her needs a Red Reader’s Digest. Her wants our auto plants in Siberia. Him big bureaucracy running our fillingstations.
    That no good. Ugh. Him make Indians learn read. Him need big black niggers. Hah. Her make us all work sixteen hours a day. Help.
    America this is quite serious.
    America this is the impression I get from looking in the television set.
    America is this correct?
    I’d better get right down to the job.
    It’s true I don’t want to join the Army or turn lathes in precision parts factories, I’m nearsighted and psychopathic anyway.
    America I’m putting my queer shoulder to the wheel.

    Berkeley, January 17, 1956
    Allen Ginsberg, “America” from Collected Poems, 1947-1980. Copyright © 1984 by Allen Ginsberg. Used with the permission of HarperCollins Publishers.

    Source: Selected Poems 1947-1995(2001)
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  16. Brijesha

    Brijesha Teller of Seasons Senior Member

    Local Time:
    2:52 AM
    tominoshelltitlebanner.png
    I’m always looking for ways to combine my love of poetry, translation and the macabre, so I was delighted to stumble across a sort of “creepy pasta” Internet legend about a cursed Japanese poem that causes tragedy and death should you read it aloud. I quickly looked for the piece, titled “Tomino’s Hell,” and I knew right away it needed my loving touch. The English translations were bad, nearly incomprehensible (if still eerie). A quick read-through of the Japanese convinced me that it was time for a fresh and more accurate version in English verse.

    Apparently the story of a young boy’s damnation for unnamed acts, “Tomino’s Hell” was published, I discovered, in a 1919 collection of poetry by Saijō Yaso titled Sakin or Gold Dust. The poet was a university professor and lived in France for a time, studying at the Sorbonne; his work is heavily influenced by French poets, especially symbolists like Arthur Rimbaud, Stéphane Mallarmé and Paul Valéry (with whom he became friends). Though Saijō’s later work was ostensibly for children, it was filled with strange symbols and wordplay that could be quite unsettling.

    Here’s my rendering of this very dark and disturbing poem (with footnotes on important matters). I’ve not actually read the thing aloud, so I can’t speak to whether the curse is real. I’ll leave that to your own discretion.


    Tomino’s Hell1

    Elder sister vomits blood,
    younger sister’s breathing fire
    while sweet little Tomino
    just spits up the jewels.2

    All alone does Tomino
    go falling into that hell,
    a hell of utter darkness,
    without even flowers.

    Is Tomino’s big sister
    the one who whips him?
    The purpose of the scourging
    hangs dark in his mind.3

    Lashing and thrashing him, ah!
    But never quite shattering.
    One sure path to Avici,4
    the eternal hell.

    Into that blackest of hells
    guide him now, I pray—
    to the golden sheep,
    to the nightingale.

    How much did he put
    in that leather pouch
    to prepare for his trek to
    the eternal hell?

    Spring is coming
    to the valley, to the wood,
    to the spiraling chasms
    of the blackest hell.

    The nightingale in her cage,
    the sheep aboard the wagon,
    and tears well up in the eyes
    of sweet little Tomino.5

    Sing, o nightingale,
    in the vast, misty forest—
    he screams he only misses
    his little sister.

    His wailing desperation
    echoes throughout hell—
    a fox peony
    opens its golden petals.

    Down past the seven mountains
    and seven rivers of hell—
    the solitary journey
    of sweet little Tomino.

    If in this hell they be found,
    may they then come to me, please,
    those sharp spikes of punishment
    from Needle Mountain.6

    Not just on some empty whim
    Is flesh pierced with blood-red pins:
    they serve as hellish signposts
    for sweet little Tomino.7

    —translated by David Bowles
    June 29, 2014​

  17. Brijesha

    Brijesha Teller of Seasons Senior Member

    Local Time:
    2:52 AM
    [​IMG]
    To a Mouse - A Poem by Robert Burns

    (Written by Burns after he had turned over the nest of a tiny field mouse with his plough. Burns was a farmer and farmers are generally far too busy to be concerned with the health of mice. This poem is another illustration of Robert Burn's tolerance to all creatures and his innate humanity.)
    Cerberuspaw likes this.
  18. Brijesha

    Brijesha Teller of Seasons Senior Member

    Local Time:
    2:52 AM
    'Tis true my form is something odd,
    But blaming me is blaming God;
    Could I create myself anew
    I would not fail in pleasing you.

    If I could reach from pole to pole
    Or grasp the ocean with a span,
    I would be measured by the soul;
    The mind's the standard of the man.

    —poem used by Joseph Merrick to end his letters, adapted from "False Greatness" by Isaac Watts.
  19. Mattimao1239

    Mattimao1239 Chicken Chaser Senior Member

    Local Time:
    1:52 PM
    Something I came up with back in May.

    "And there I sat, with universal perplexities on my mind, I sat; an old philosopher in a young man's body"

    Might have to expand upon that, although it could be perfect just the way it is.
    Brijesha likes this.
  20. Brijesha

    Brijesha Teller of Seasons Senior Member

    Local Time:
    2:52 AM
    Written by Tom Waits, here's a poem about the Rolling Stones' guitarist...
    [​IMG]
    Mattimao1239 likes this.

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