Your are viewing a read-only archive of the old DiS boards. Please hit the Community button above to engage with the DiS !
Write good poems (other people's, yours are not good) here!
i really like tom leonard
"Looking for truth with a pin"
"literate herring this way"
O Rose, thou art sick!
The invisible worm
That flies in the night,
In the howling storm,
Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy:
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.
Ah! sunflower, weary of time,
Who countest the steps of the sun,
Seeking after that sweet golden clime
Where the traveller’s journey is done;
Where the youth pined away with desire,
And the pale virgin shrouded in snow,
Arise from their graves and aspire;
Where my sunflower wishes to go.
here's some macdiarmid
I’ the how-dumb-deid o’ the cauld hairst nicht
The warl’ like an eemis stane
Wags i’ the lift;
An’ my eerie memories fa’
Like a yowdendrift.
Like a yowdendrift so’s I couldna read
The words cut oot i’ the stane
Had the fug o’ fame
An’ history’s hazelraw
No’ yirdit thaim.
canny whack it
she said she thinks he's as sexy as phil lynott, then she put up a picture of phil lynott followed by this paining of john donne
check William Mcilvanney though
he talked to my english class.
See how the world its veterans rewards
a youth of frolics, an old age of cards
Fair to no purpose, artful to no end
Young without lovers, old without a friend
A fop, their passion, their prize a sot
Alive ridiculous and dead, forgot
Ah! Friend! to dazzle let the vain design
to raise the thought, and touch the heart be thine
That charm shall grow, but what fatigues the ring
flaunts and goes down, an unregarded thing.
That was from memory too, you fucks.
Once again Eros looks at me meltingly from under
sultry eyelids and with his various charms
tosses me into the boundless net of Cypris.
Ah me, how I tremble at his approach—
like a prize-winning racehorse near retirement
with his swift chariot, heading to the contest all unwilling.
Thracian filly, why glance at me askance and
flee so stubbornly? Do you think I don't know a trick or two?
I tell you, I'd slip the bridle on you nicely
and, reins in hand, I'd take you round the course.
But as it is you graze the meadows, lightly skipping in your play.
You have no skillfull rider experienced in horses' ways.
Since there's no help, come, let us kiss and part,
Nay, I have done, you get no more of me,
And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart,
That thus so cleanly I myself can free.
Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows,
And when we meet at any time again
Be it not seen in either of our brows
That we one jot of former love retain.
Now at the last gasp of Love's latest breath,
When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies,
When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death,
And Innocence is closing up his eyes,
Now, if thou wouldst, when all have giv'n him over,
From death to life thou might'st him yet recover.
he well would have posted after that little heartbreak.
and shit through their letterbox
had to read one of hers for my course. didn't like it. didn't like it. it aint right man, it aint right.
There's not much more i can say than that.
but I generally don't like old poetry as the words and cadences mean nothing to me. Probably gonna get called uncultured for it.
Never been that hot for him though, really.
I just don't know enough about it to begin to appreciate it. I've been learning about early 20th century scottish poets for my course and i'm really getting into it because of the cultural significance it had and the weight behind the words is more apparent to me now. maybe Barthes would hate me or something. I dunno cos I like Barthes. pfffft. what was I saying?
I seem to have loved you in numberless forms, numberless times,
In life after life, in age after age, forever.
My spellbound heart has made and remade the necklace of songs
That you take as a gift, wear round your neck in your many forms
In life after life, in age after age, forever.
Whenever I hear old chronicles of love, it's age-old pain,
It's ancient tale of being apart or together,
As I stare on and on into the past, in the end you emerge
Clad in the light of a pole-star, piercing the darkness of time:
You become an image of what is remembered forever.
You and I have floated here on the stream that brings from the fount
At the heart of time, love of one for another.
We have played along side millions of lovers, shared in the same
Shy sweetness of meeting, the distressful tears of farewell,
Old love but in shapes that renew and renew forever.
Today it is heaped at your feat, it has found its end in you,
The love of all man's days both past and forever:
Universal joy, universal sorrow, universal life,
The memories of all loves merging with this one love of ours -
And the songs of every poet past and forever.
Everything he's ever written, be it novels, essays, poetry or theatre has been brilliant:
I may reach a point
(one reaches a point)
where all I might have to say
(where all that one has to say)
would be that life is bloody awful
(is that the human condition is intolerable)
but that I would not end it
(but one resolves to go on)
I can't decide.
But the easiest to get hold of are Christe Malry or the Unfortunates.
OR it might be worth starting with the Jonathan Coe biography even, which is amazing, and will make you so excited to read his novels. Malry's a nice easy read to get started with. It was the first I read (and that was only this year).
My Xmas present this year is a copy of his post-posthumously published novel, which usually goes for about £400, but I snapped up for about £80.
His stuff really is life changing.
something about really quiet words then loud ones
hey, why not construct your own joke using elements of this one!
NB: punchline not included
I actually wrote "post-sock" by mistake at first. "Post-sock, shoe".
seeing as YOU'RE ILL.
Just said to me "Yeah, yeah, he's really good! Read him! Read him!"
Might ask for the biography and Christie Malry... in that case, so I can read it and then jump right in.
They spire titanic bodies into heaven,
Tall saints enswathed in a tempestuous flare
Of twisting draperies that coil through air,
Of dye incredible, from rapture woven,
And heads set steeply skywards, brittle-carven
Against the coiling clouds in regions rare;
Their beauty, ice-like, shrills - and everywhere
A metal music sounds, cold spirit shriven.
So drives the acid nail of coloured pain
Into our vulnerable wood, earth-rooted,
And sends the red sap racing through the trees
Where slugged it lay, now spun with visions looted
From whining skies and cold Gethsemanes
Of hollow light, and all the wounds of Spain.
born 19.6.32 - deported 24.9.42
Undesirable you may have been, untouchable
you were not. Not forgotten
or passed over at the proper time.
As estimated, you died. Things marched,
sufficient, to that end.
Just so much Zyklon and leather, patented
terror, so many routine cries.
(I have made
an elegy for myself it
September fattens on vines. Roses
flake from the wall. The smoke
of harmless fires drifts to my eyes.
This is plenty. This is more than enough.
There once was a man from Nantucket
Whose dick was so long he could suck it
He said with a grin
Whilst wiping his chin
"If my ear were a cunt I would fuck it."
Love again: wanking at ten past three
(Surely he's taken her home by now?),
The bedroom hot as a bakery,
The drink gone dead, without showing how
To meet tomorrow, and afterwards,
And the usual pain, like dysentery.
Someone else feeling her breasts and cunt,
Someone else drowned in that lash-wide stare,
And me supposed to be ignorant,
Or find it funny, or not to care,
Even ... but why put it into words?
Isolate rather this element
That spreads through other lives like a tree
And sways them on in a sort of sense
And say why it never worked for me.
Something to do with violence
A long way back, and wrong rewards,
And arrogant eternity.