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Poetry

GeoGeo
edited September 2009 in Art!
I'm quite surprised that there isn't any thread about poetry, but I guess I'll be the one that will start one. If you like poetry and have a favorite poem, post it here and say why you like it. I know a lot of you know that I am wont to say that I say I'll do or will try to do many things which don't bring any visible fruit. The reason for this is that there is an excerpt of a poem that I keep dear to my heart that acts as my drive and I know it by heart. Here it is:

"I would be true, for there are those who trust me;
I would be pure, for there are those who care;
I would be strong, for there is much to suffer;
I would be brave, for there is much to dare."

Howard Arnold Walter

I never forgot that and I never will.
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Comments

  • My little brother is pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing, with a focus in poetry. He's written some pretty stellar stuff. This is one my favorites:

    Tom

    "I'm not a bum," he says

    and extends his arm for a handshake.

    Peter responds by putting his hand

    in his trenchcoat pocket.

    "I restore brownstones

    just a couple blocks down."

    He points with his thumb

    and takes off his hat.

    His hairline is receeding,

    a few thin hairs fall to his forehead

    and he pushes them back up.

    Laura rolls down her window to listen.

    "My wife just gave birth,

    I have less than an hour to catch a bus

    to see my first born child."

    One block down on Lark Street,

    the cops put up road cones

    to direct traffic away

    from a silver sedan.

    Its passenger side door is folded open;

    perpendicular to the car's body.

    The hinges are bent and broken

    and all the steel parts --

    the simple and greasy machinery of a car door --

    are exposed.

    The cops keeps their reds flashing

    and howl their sirens

    periodically.

    On the same street,

    all the bars are open.

    Albany is a college town;

    students walk in and out

    of neon doorframes,

    intoxicated with smiles

    and cheap beer.

    And it's midnight.

    People sit at their apartment windows

    and stare at the night

    and listen to the darkness

    and everything it houses.

    They hear it getting pierced

    by the buzz and dance

    of electric filaments

    and see the density

    perforated with light.

    They see

    the light cut

    by shadows;

    flat black charicatures

    of human form

    stretched beyond the height

    of any living person

    and melding perfectly

    with the unseen.
  • Anecdote of the Jar - Wallace Stevens

    I placed a jar in Tennessee,
    And round it was, upon a hill.
    It made the slovenly wilderness
    Surround that hill.

    The wilderness rose up to it,
    And sprawled around, no longer wild.
    The jar was round upon the ground
    And tall and of a port in air.

    It took dominion every where.
    The jar was gray and bare.
    It did not give of bird or bush,
    Like nothing else in Tennessee.

    The Second Coming - William Butler 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 conviction, 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 the 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?

    In Flanders Fields - John McRae

    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.


    We Real Cool - Gwendolyn Brooks

    We real cool. We
    Left school. We

    Lurk late. We
    Strike straight. We

    Sing sin. We
    Thin gin. We

    Jazz June. We
    Die soon.


    Resume - 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.
  • The only poetry I have been able to stomach comes from either Bukowski:

    Luck

    once
    we were young
    at this
    machine. . .

    or cummings:

    she being Brand

    -new;and you
    know consequently a
    little stiff i was
    careful of her and(having

    thoroughly oiled the universal
    joint tested my gas felt of
    her radiator made sure her springs were O.

    K.)i went right to it flooded-the-carburetor cranked her

    up,slipped the
    clutch(and then somehow got into reverse she
    kicked what
    the hell)next
    minute i was back in neutral tried and

    again slo-wly;bare,ly nudg. ing(my

    lev-er Right-
    oh and her gears being in
    A 1 shape passed
    from low through
    second-in-to-high like
    greasedlightning)just as we turned the corner of Divinity

    avenue i touched the accelerator and give

    her the juice,good

    (it

    was the first ride and believe i we was
    happy to see how nice she acted right up to
    the last minute coming back down by the Public
    Gardens i slammed on

    the
    internalexpanding
    &
    externalcontracting
    brakes Bothatonce and

    brought allofher tremB
    -ling
    to a:dead.

    stand-
    ;Still)
  • My candle burns at both ends;
    It will not last the night;
    But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends--
    It gives a lovely light!

    -Edna St. Vincent Millay
  • edited September 2009
    The Play - Anne Sexton

    I am the only actor.
    It is difficult for one woman
    to act out a whole play.
    The play is my life,
    my solo act.
    My running after the hands
    and never catching up.
    (The hands are out of sight -
    that is, offstage.)
    All I am doing onstage is running,
    running to keep up,
    but never making it.

    Suddenly I stop running.
    (This moves the plot along a bit.)
    I give speeches, hundreds,
    all prayers, all soliloquies.
    I say absurd things like:
    eggs must not quarrel with stones
    or, keep your broken arm inside your sleeve
    or, I am standing upright
    but my shadow is crooked.
    And such and such.
    Many boos. Many boos.
    Post edited by Kate Monster on
  • Sky's Limit - Biggie Smalls

    A nigga never been as broke as me, I like that
    When I was young I had two pair of Lees, besides that
    The pin stripes and the gray (uh-huh)
    The one I wore on Mondays and Wednesdays
    While niggas flirt, I'm sewing tigers on my shirt
    and alligators
    Ya wanna see the inside, huh, I see ya later
    Here come the drama, oh, that's that nigga wit the fake, blaow!
    Why you punch me in my face, stay in ya place
    Play ya position, here come my intuition
    Go in this nigga pocket
    Rob him while his friends watchin
    That hoes clockin, here comes respect
    His crew's your crew, or they might be next
    Look at they man eye, BIG man they never try
    So we roll wid em, stole wid em
    I mean loyalty, niggaz bought me milks at lunch
    The milks was chocolate, the cookies, buttercrunch
    In here, eyes crossed from blue and white dust
    Pass the blunt

    Sky is the limit and you know that you keep on
    Just keep on pressin on
    Sky is the limit and you know that you can have
    what you want, pressin what you want
    Sky is the limit and you know that you keep on
    Just keep on pressin on
    Sky is the limit and you know that you can have
    what you want, be what you want, have what you want, be what you want

    You can't touch that shit!
  • All of my writing professors consider lyrics and poetry to be distinctly different art forms.
  • All of my writing professors consider lyrics and poetry to be distinctly different art forms.
    So what about slam poetry? Where does that fall? How about indie hip-hop artists like Saul Williams, Sole, and so forth? Consider "Hopeless" by Sage Francis:

    I played connect the dots with your beauty marks
    And I ended up with picture perfect sheet music
    I read your musical notes with a composer's eyes
    And heard our song for the first time;
    My spine is still tingling.
    Mental images of your fine tune
    is what I've been nodding my head to lately
    Every now and then you can catch me humming
    Your nudity under my heavy breath
    I heavily suggest you resurrect
    Your ancient neglected dust collector
    If you distrust the dissonance in my seldom plucked heart strings
    Sit stripped before your full length
    Perform your reflection backwards
    Maybe then you will understand the rhythm in my movement
    Listen when the news is sent
    Extend when the rules are bent
    I'll be waiting to take your leave
    Make me a victim of your two step
    Make me an apprentice of your body parts
    Teach me to dance to your beauty marks
    I'm stepping on toes here and I don't care
    It's hopeless, it's hopeless
    It's hopelessness holding this openness to blow a kiss
    So close your lips but don't get pissed
    and throw a fist at this vocalist
    I'm not emotionless, in fact I broke my wrist
    when I wrote the list of all those I miss
    This is my poker face, Mister Feel Nothing

    It's a song, but it's also definitely a poem.
  • edited September 2009
    Slam poetry is, rather obviously, poetry (based on what I was instructed). However, lyrics, text and words that are written as part of a piece of music is a very different art form. This is not to say that lyric writing and poetry are often similar and that lyrics, when presented alone, may not appear to be poetry. However, lyrics are a portion of another art and is best appreciated, understood and analyzed within that context.
    Post edited by Kate Monster on
  • edited September 2009
    Slam poetry is, rather obviously, poetry (based on what I was instructed). However, lyrics, text and words that are written as part of a piece of music is a very different art form.
    Most modern-day slam poetry blends hip-hop performance with poetry recitation. Imagine beatboxing in the middle of a poetry recital, or even putting the poem to a beat. Where does that fall?

    EDIT: Just to clarify, in no way am I arguing that Biggie was a poet. I'm just wondering if academia at all recognizes the attempts at bridging these two different art forms.
    Post edited by TheWhaleShark on
  • @Kate: I wish you would explain your professors' prejudice against lyrical art. Some of the best poetry I've read (and I had to read a lot to get my English degree) came from Billy Corgan:

    I fear that I'm ordinary, just like everyone
    To lie here and die among the sorrows
    Adrift among the days
    For everything I ever said
    And everything I've ever done is gone and dead
    As all things must surely have to end
    And great loves will one day have to part
    I know that I am meant for this world
    My life has been extraordinary
    Blessed and cursed and won
    Time heals but I'm forever broken
    By and by the way...
    Have you ever heard the words
    I'm singing in these songs?
    It's for the girl I've loved all along
    Can a taste of love be so wrong
    As all things must surely have to end
    And great loves will one day have to part
    I know that I am meant for this world
    And in my mind as I was floating
    Far above the clouds
    Some children laughed I'd fall for certain
    For thinking that I'd last forever
    But I knew exactly where I was

    And I knew the meaning of it all
    And I knew the distance to the sun
    And I knew the echo that is love
    And I knew the secrets in your spires
    And I knew the emptiness of youth
    And I knew the solitude of heart
    And I knew the murmurs of the soul
    And the world is drawn into your hands
    And the world is etched upon your heart
    And the world so hard to understand
    Is the world you can't live without
    And I knew the silence of the world
  • edited September 2009
    I'm just wondering if academia at all recognizes the attempts at bridging these two different art forms.
    They are very similar art forms and certain styles blur the lines, obviously. However, lyrics are part of a larger form, whereas poetry is in and of itself complete.
    EDIT: They were not prejudiced against lyrics, we simply studied them as a separate art form. Personally, I think reading lyrics as poetry, while enjoyable, takes it out of the context it was originally intended. It is like reading a stage play or looking at a black and white print out of a color painting.
    Post edited by Kate Monster on
  • Here is another one of my personal favorites:

    No man is an island,
    Entire of itself.
    Each is a piece of the continent,
    A part of the main.
    If a clod be washed away by the sea,
    Europe is the less.
    As well as if a promontory were.
    As well as if a manner of thine own
    Or of thine friend's were.
    Each man's death diminishes me,
    For I am involved in mankind.
    Therefore, send not to know
    For whom the bell tolls,
    It tolls for thee.

    John Donne
  • I'm just wondering if academia at all recognizes the attempts at bridging these two different art forms.
    They are very similar art forms and certain styles blur the lines, obviously. However, lyrics are part of a larger form, whereas poetry is in and of itself complete.
    EDIT: They were not prejudiced against lyrics, we simply studied them as a separate art form. Personally, I think reading lyrics as poetry, while enjoyable, takes it out of the context it was originally intended. It is like reading a stage play or looking at a black and white print out of a color painting.
    Ah, I see, though I think there's a lot of value in taking a piece of art and attempting to enjoy it in a different context. A good example is my coworker Shelly, whose photo gallery can be found here. Take these two pictures: A and B. They're exactly identical shots, except that the first is in full color and the second is in black and white. They wind up feeling very different, and you can get a lot out of comparing the two.

    So yes, reading lyrics takes it out of the context of the song, but that can help you gain a deeper appreciation of the music, or learn to appreciate it for a single aspect. That's been my experience, anyhow.
  • "Another Reason Why I Don't Keep a Gun in the House"

    The neighbors' dog will not stop barking.
    He is barking the same high, rhythmic bark
    that he barks every time they leave the house.
    They must switch him on on their way out.

    The neighbors' dog will not stop barking.
    I close all the windows in the house
    and put on a Beethoven symphony full blast
    but I can still hear him muffled under the music,
    barking, barking, barking,

    and now I can see him sitting in the orchestra,
    his head raised confidently as if Beethoven
    had included a part for barking dog.

    When the record finally ends he is still barking,
    sitting there in the oboe section barking,
    his eyes fixed on the conductor who is
    entreating him with his baton

    while the other musicians listen in respectful
    silence to the famous barking dog solo,
    that endless coda that first established
    Beethoven as an innovative genius.

    -Billy Collins
  • edited September 2009
    Ah, I see, though I think there's a lot of value in taking a piece of art and attempting to enjoy it in a different context. A good example is my coworker Shelly, whose photo gallery can be foundhere.Take these two pictures:AandB. They're exactly identical shots, except that the first is in full color and the second is in black and white. They wind up feeling very different, and you can get a lot out of comparing the two.
    Yes, but they are both complete pieces of art as they are presented. Your comparison is more like a band having two different versions of a complete song ( i.e. an electric and acoustic versions of the same song). To examine the lyrics separate from the piece would be like listening to the only the oboe's part in a complete symphony. While there is merit in it, the oboe's portion isn't a complete piece in and of itself.
    Post edited by Kate Monster on
  • "Two Loves" by Lord Alfred Douglas

    I dreamed I stood upon a little hill,
    And at my feet there lay a ground, that seemed
    Like a waste garden, flowering at its will
    With buds and blossoms. There were pools that dreamed
    Black and unruffled; there were white lilies
    A few, and crocuses, and violets
    Purple or pale, snake-like fritillaries
    Scarce seen for the rank grass, and through green nets
    Blue eyes of shy peryenche winked in the sun.
    And there were curious flowers, before unknown,
    Flowers that were stained with moonlight, or with shades
    Of Nature's wilful moods; and here a one
    That had drunk in the transitory tone
    Of one brief moment in a sunset; blades
    Of grass that in an hundred springs had been
    Slowly but exquisitely nurtured by the stars,
    And watered with the scented dew long cupped
    In lilies, that for rays of sun had seen
    Only God's glory, for never a sunrise mars
    The luminous air of Heaven. Beyond, abrupt,
    A grey stone wall, o'ergrown with velvet moss
    Uprose; and gazing I stood long, all mazed
    To see a place so strange, so sweet, so fair.
    And as I stood and marvelled, lo! across
    The garden came a youth; one hand he raised
    To shield him from the sun, his wind-tossed hair
    Was twined with flowers, and in his hand he bore
    A purple bunch of bursting grapes, his eyes
    Were clear as crystal, naked all was he,
    White as the snow on pathless mountains frore,
    Red were his lips as red wine-spilith that dyes
    A marble floor, his brow chalcedony.
    And he came near me, with his lips uncurled
    And kind, and caught my hand and kissed my mouth,
    And gave me grapes to eat, and said, 'Sweet friend,
    Come I will show thee shadows of the world
    And images of life. See from the South
    Comes the pale pageant that hath never an end.'
    And lo! within the garden of my dream
    I saw two walking on a shining plain
    Of golden light. The one did joyous seem
    And fair and blooming, and a sweet refrain
    Came from his lips; he sang of pretty maids
    And joyous love of comely girl and boy,
    His eyes were bright, and 'mid the dancing blades
    Of golden grass his feet did trip for joy;
    And in his hand he held an ivory lute
    With strings of gold that were as maidens' hair,
    And sang with voice as tuneful as a flute,
    And round his neck three chains of roses were.
    But he that was his comrade walked aside;
    He was full sad and sweet, and his large eyes
    Were strange with wondrous brightness, staring wide
    With gazing; and he sighed with many sighs
    That moved me, and his cheeks were wan and white
    Like pallid lilies, and his lips were red
    Like poppies, and his hands he clenched tight,
    And yet again unclenched, and his head
    Was wreathed with moon-flowers pale as lips of death.
    A purple robe he wore, o'erwrought in gold
    With the device of a great snake, whose breath
    Was fiery flame: which when I did behold
    I fell a-weeping, and I cried, 'Sweet youth,
    Tell me why, sad and sighing, thou dost rove
    These pleasant realms? I pray thee speak me sooth
    What is thy name?' He said, 'My name is Love.'
    Then straight the first did turn himself to me
    And cried, 'He lieth, for his name is Shame,
    But I am Love, and I was wont to be
    Alone in this fair garden, till he came
    Unasked by night; I am true Love, I fill
    The hearts of boy and girl with mutual flame.'
    Then sighing, said the other, 'Have thy will,
    I am the Love that dare not speak its name.'
  • My favorite poetry.

    Mysterious past
    He reminds me of Wolfwood
    Who is Shepherd Book?
  • "The Panther"

    His tired gaze -from passing endless bars-
    has turned into a vacant stare which nothing holds.
    To him there seem to be a thousand bars,
    and out beyond these bars exists no world.

    His supple gait, the smoothness of strong strides
    that gently turn in ever smaller circles
    perform a dance of strength, centered deep within
    a will, stunned, but untamed, indomitable.

    But sometimes the curtains of his eyelids part,
    the pupils of his eyes dilate as images
    of past encounters enter while through his limbs
    a tension strains in silence
    only to cease to be, to die within his heart.

    - Rainer Maria Rilke
    I'd argue the German poetry is the best. ;)
  • Howl by Allen Ginsberg is the only poem I've really appreciated.
  • Howl by Allen Ginsbergis the only poem I've really appreciated.
    You might like Storm, by Tim minchin. Video below.
  • I can't stand Ginsberg, but this is just my personal taste. I certainly see the value in his work.
  • Here is a poem that I wrote for a Nightmares (Horror Fiction) Portfolio when I was a senior in High School. This is the only poem in the entire portfolio, yet it's the one I'm the most proud of.

    Wraith
    By Matthew J. Geoffino

    Skulking thru the night
    Living on filling the world with fright
    Apparitions that live to invade
    Always do they hide in the shade

    Never will you able to feel
    The horror that makes even a warrior squeal.
    Darkness and macabre is its friend
    Together they bring about the impending end

    Useless is it to take flight
    As they will always be in plain sight
    Useless is it to try to pray
    For, the Holy Father will never show you the way

    Countless hellions dance around the fear and misery that flows thru you
    They torture and ravage those who are weak, both old and new
    Give up any notion of holy light, redemption, or faith
    For no human can ever escape the tendrils of…the wraith!
  • Thread needs some Bukowski.

    Beasts Bounding Through Time

    Van Gogh writing his brother for paints
    Hemingway testing his shotgun
    Celine going broke as a doctor of medicine
    the impossibility of being human
    Villon expelled from Paris for being a thief
    Faulkner drunk in the gutters of his town
    the impossibility of being human
    Burroughs killing his wife with a gun
    Mailer stabbing his
    the impossibility of being human
    Maupassant going mad in a rowboat
    Dostoyevsky lined up against a wall to be shot
    Crane off the back of a boat into the propeller
    the impossibility
    Sylvia with her head in the oven like a baked potato
    Harry Crosby leaping into that Black Sun
    Lorca murdered in the road by Spanish troops
    the impossibility
    Artaud sitting on a madhouse bench
    Chatterton drinking rat poison
    Shakespeare a plagiarist
    Beethoven with a horn stuck into his head against deafness
    the impossibility the impossibility
    Nietzsche gone totally mad
    the impossibility of being human
    all too human
    this breathing
    in and out
    out and in
    these punks
    these cowards
    these champions
    these mad dogs of glory
    moving this little bit of light toward us
    impossibly.
  • I was holding back this one. It's very personal and it's touched me on a very deep level. However, I thought that someone else might be similarly inspired by it, so I didn't think I could be selfish about it any longer.

    I think that I shall never see
    A poem lovely as a fee;

    A fee that mounts up day by day,
    Which clients are obliged to pay;

    A fee that's bringing more distress
    Than any crime they might confess;

    A fee requiring special skills
    By being padded to the gills;

    A fee I damn well will collect
    And total twice what they expect;

    A judge can let a man go free,
    But only I collect the fee.
  • edited October 2009
    Sorry to double post, but:

    They say this drinkin' will kill me
    I don't know; Oh Lord, it might be true
    If I stop, I'd die from your leavin'
    Either way that I go it's 'cause of you

    Death can come from this broken heart
    Or it can come from this bottle
    So why prolong the Agony
    Hey Bartender -- think I'll hit the throttle

    I don't care what the Preacher might preach me
    About the evils of being drunk with wine
    I don't care what the Doctor might warn me
    Since you left it's just a matter of time.

    From John Brown's Body, Stephen Vincent Benet:

    The stone falls in the pool, the ripples spread._
    The colt in the Long Meadow kicked up his heels.
    "That was a fly," he thought, "It's early for flies."
    But being alive, in April, was too fine
    For flies or anything else to bother a colt.
    He kicked up his heels again, this time in pure joy,
    And started to run a race with the wind and his shadow.
    After the stable stuffiness, the sun.
    After the straw-littered boards, the squelch of the turf.
    His little hoofs felt lighter than dancing-shoes,
    He scared himself with a blue-jay, his heart was a leaf.
    He was pure joy in action, he was the unvexed
    Delight of all moving lightness and swift-footed pace,
    The pride of the flesh, the young Spring neighing and rearing.

    Sally Dupré called to him from the fence.
    He came like a charge in a spatter of clean-cut clods,
    Ears back, eyes wide and wild with folly and youth.
    He drew up snorting.
    She laughed and brushed at her skirt
    Where the mud had splashed it.
    "There, Star--there, silly boy!
    Why won't you ever learn sense?"
    But her eyes were hot,
    Her hands were shaking as she offered the sugar
    --Long-fingered, appleblossom-shadow hands--
    Star blew at the sugar once, then mumbled it up.
    She patted the pink nose. "There, silly Star!
    That's for Fort Sumter, Star!" How hot her eyes were!
    "Star, do you know you're a Confederate horse?
    Do you know I'm going to call you Beauregard?"

    Star whinnied, and asked for more sugar. She put her hand
    On his neck for a moment that matched the new green leaves
    And sticky buds of April.
    You would have said
    They were grace in quietness, seen so, woman and horse....

    . . .

    Wingate saw it all - but with altered eyes.
    He was not yet broken on any wheel,
    He had no wound of the flesh to heal,
    He had seen one battle, but he was still
    The corn unground by the watermill,
    He had ridden the rainy winter through
    And he and Black Whistle were good as new,
    The Black Horse Troop still carried its pride
    And rode as Yankees could not ride,
    But, when he remembered a year-old dawn,
    Something had come and something had gone,
    And even now, when he smelt the Spring.
    And his heart was hot with his homecoming,
    There was a whisper in his ear
    That said what he did not wish to hear,
    "This is the last, this is the last,
    Hurry, hurry, this is the last,
    Drink the wine before yours is spilled,
    Kiss the sweetheart before you're killed,
    She will be loving, and she will grieve,
    And wear your heart on her golden sleeve,
    And marry your friend when he gets his leave.
    It does not matter that you are still
    The corn unground by the watermill,
    The stones grind and they get their will.
    Pluck the flower that hands can pluck,
    Touch the walls of your house for luck,
    Eat the fat and drink the sweet,
    There is little savor in dead men's meat.
    It does not matter that you once knew
    Future and past and a different you.
    That went by when the wind first blew.
    There is no future, there is no past,
    There is only this hour and it goes fast,
    Hurry, hurry, this is the last,
    This is the last,
    This is the last"
    Post edited by HungryJoe on
  • edited October 2009
    Sorry to third post, but if lyrics are fair game:

    Down to My Last Cigarette

    The coffee's all gone and my eyes burn like fire
    It's way past the hour when most folks retire,
    You told me you'd call me but you haven't yet
    And I'm down to my last cigarette.

    I'm down to my last cigarette
    And I'm trying so hard to forget;
    But you're still out there somewhere with someone you've met
    And I'm down to my last cigarette.

    I can't leave this room; You might call while I'm gone
    Minutes seem like hours; Soon will be dawn
    And on top of all of my tears and regrets,
    I'm down to my last cigarette.
    Post edited by HungryJoe on
  • Stephen Crane is a nearly lost poet of the 19th century, a master of purity.
    The third poem from his collection: The Black Riders and Other Lines

    In the desert
    I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
    Who, squatting upon the ground,
    Held his heart in his hands,
    And ate of it.
    I said: "Is it good, friend?"
    "It is bitter - bitter," he answered;
    "But I like it
    Because it is bitter,
    And because it is my heart."
  • Stephen Crane is a nearly lost poet of the 19thcentury, a master of purity.
    I wouldn't call his work "nearly lost". He's much more known for his novels and short stories than he is for his poetry.
  • Stephen Crane is a nearly lost poet of the 19thcentury, a master of purity.
    I wouldn't call his work "nearly lost". He's much more known for his novels and short stories than he is for his poetry.
    Agreed. I've actually read that poem before (and had since forgotten it), but indeed, it is wonderful.
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