Poetry Corner

[flike]

Human Beauty, by Albert Goldbarth

If you write a poem about love …
the love is a bird,

the poem is an origami bird.
If you write a poem about death …

the death is a terrible fire,
the poem is an offering of paper cutout flames

you feed to the fire.
We can see, in these, the space between

our gestures and the power they address
—an insufficiency. And yet a kind of beauty,

a distinctly human beauty. When a winter storm
from out of nowhere hit New York one night

in 1892, the crew at a theater was caught
unloading props: a box

of paper snow for the Christmas scene got dropped
and broken open, and that flash of white

confetti was lost
inside what it was a praise of.

[Dougster]

[steev]

Doesnt anyone here actually write their own stuff?
Anyone know of any open mic events in Taiwan?

[SFOD-D]

[quote=“steev”]Doesnt anyone here actually write their own stuff?
Anyone know of any open mic events in Taiwan?[/quote]

NO, they are all too busy teaching English in Taiwan, and posting on forumosa.

[marasan]

The Peace of Wild Things

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

Wendell Berry

[marasan]

The Lake Isle of Innisfree

By William Butler Yeats

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,

And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;

Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,

And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,

Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;

There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,

And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day

I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;

While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,

I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

[ChewDawg]

The Juice Stand by Chewdawg

The juices are running down my chin
Fresher than a bar of Irish Spring
She grunts with approval as I flick her 20NT
Next time?

I want a discount.

My Dear Taco by Chewdawg

Wow! Taco… it has been a long time
I like freshly picked peaches
Where the juices run constantly down your chin.
Oh!! The gentle licking of the fuzzy navel
It brings me back to simpler times, Taco.
“I was drunk at the time!”
Do you remember, Taco?

[Nevermind]

Lunch Time by Nevermind

20 20, 2-5 42 27
1 2 1 54 69 31
1 9 30 300 2 7-11?
12 2 1, 12 2 1, 12 2 1, 12 2 1…

[ChewDawg]

Ode de Clinton Foundation by Chewdawg
They all sighed
As Hillary sat there and cried
Bill eyed a Granny
While fingering a Nanny
As Chelsea glowed with stakeholder pride.

When I was Young by Chewdawg
We could all sit around and make funny faces at each other
or drink too much and piss our pants
fuck at a glance
wild romance
move that body
dance

What about the corns?

[marasan]

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Robert Frost
1874 –1963

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,

[ChewDawg]

This poem is still one of the best creations on Forumosa!!! It combines Bertholt Brecht’s dialectical theatre, lewdness in the Mapplethorpe sense, and maple syrup! Such talent.
The great poetry showdown has a winner! - Recreation / Fun & Games - Forumosa

(little known fact: it was written by me and posted by a protege).

[marasan]

And here it is:

Ode de Adult Engrishy Classes

My blood simmers. I find myself chewing on anything that comes along.
The dirt of Taipei has infected my dreams
The sooty surfaces of the chick’s boots only make me randier with their filth.
I dream of sleek ladies barking in the night
Their chins scraping against the blackboard, as I do them from behind.
My dreams have recycled everything of the human past
Everything is awash in urine and lust, the urine a kind of propaganda
Adult demonstrations, juicy tacos, 550NT per hour, and cheap libations.
Has the Maple Syrup arrived?

[jdsmith]

@marasan

I dream of sleek ladies barking in the night

Ha.

I heard the young dolphin chirping in the yurt next door last month.

[marasan]

Did a mountain run this morning. Great therapy.

The Peace of Wild Things
by Wendell Berry

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives might be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

[marasan]

How We Learn
by Horatius Bonar

Great truths are dearly bought. The common truth,
— Such as men give and take from day to day,
Comes in the common walks of easy life,
— Blown by the careless wind across our way.

Bought in the market, at the current price,
— Bred of the smile, the jest, perchance the bowl,
It tells no tale of daring or of worth,
— Nor pierces even the surface of a soul.

Great truths are greatly won. Not found by chance,
— Nor wafted on the breath of summer dream,
But grasped in the great struggle of the soul,
— Hard buffeting with adverse wind and stream.

Not in the general mart, 'mid corn and wine,
— Not in the merchandise of gold and gems,
Not in the world’s gay halls of midnight mirth,
— Not 'mid the blaze of regal diadems,

But in the day of conflict, fear, and grief,
— When the strong hand of God, put forth in might,
Plows up the subsoil of the stagnant heart,
— And brings the imprisoned truth-seed to the light.

Wrung from the troubled spirit in hard hours
— Of weakness, solitude, perchance of pain,
Truth springs, like harvest, from the well-plowed field,
— And the soul feels it has not wept in vain.

[ChewDawg]

Lewd Marvels by ChewDawg

Jingle Bells
Batman and Cat Lady Smells
Robin laid a what?

[tango42]

The Hound of Heaven by Francis Thompson

I’m kind of analyzing… from a humanistic perspective, maybe I guess.

"I fled Him, down the nights and down the days;

I fled Him, down the arches of the years;

I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways

Of my own mind; and in the mist of tears

I hid from Him, and under running laughter."

(… and it continues…)

The Hound of Heaven by Francis Thompson 1890 - Hound of Heaven

[ChewDawg]

The Clock by Chewdawg

Hickory, Dickory Dock
I’ve got a 10 inch clock
The Clock struck two
Like a didgeridoo
What the fuck do you think about that?

[marasan]

ChatGPT, compose a poem about forum life.

In the digital realm where words take flight,
A forum comes alive, a virtual light.
Threads unravel, discussions entwine,
In the vast expanse of the online.

Avatars dance with a digital grace,
Each user finds their unique space.
Topics diverse, a mosaic of thought,
In this forum’s tapestry, ideas are sought.

Strangers connect through pixels and text,
From every corner, a global dialect.
Opinions clash, perspectives align,
In this forum world, a community’s design.

Keyboard warriors wield words as their might,
Engaging in battles, both fierce and polite.
Emoticons narrate a silent emotion,
In this cyber symphony, a digital ocean.

Admins watch over, moderators guide,
Threads unfold, in a textual tide.
From dawn to dusk, in this forum’s trance,
Conversations dance, a vibrant romance.

Threads close, but memories endure,
In the archives of thought, pure and sure.
A poem unfolds in the forum’s embrace,
A reflection of voices, diverse and base.

[marasan]

Nirvana
Charles Bukowski

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 arived.

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

foreward.

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.