poetry thread

[Anonymous No.6866082]

Post your favorite poems, your own poems, or whatever I guess

Mine's the Second Coming

[Anonymous No.6866087]

>>6866082
Wandering Aengus> Second Coming

>not masturbating over a magical fish lady and writing a poem about it

[Anonymous No.6866766]

>>6866082
Moment of inner freedom
when the mind is opened and the
infinite universe revealed
& the soul is left to wander
dazed & confus'd searching
here & there for teachers & friends.

[Anonymous No.6866798]

>>6866766
This sucks

[Anonymous No.6866867]

This right now

End, Middle, Beginning
There was an unwanted child.
Aborted by three modern methods
she hung on to the womb,
hooked onto I
building her house into it
and it was to no avail,
to black her out.

At her birth
she did not cry,
spanked indeed,
but did not yell-
instead snow fell out of her mouth.

As she grew, year by year,
her hair turned like a rose in a vase,
and bled down her face.
Rocks were placed on her to keep
the growing silent,
and though they bruised,
they did not kill,
though kill was tangled into her beginning.

They locked her in a football
but she merely curled up
and pretended it was a warm doll's house.
They pushed insects in to bite her off
and she let them crawl into her eyes
pretending they were a puppet show.

Later, later,
grown fully, as they say,
they gave her a ring,
and she wore it like a root
and said to herself,
'To be not loved is the human condition,'
and lay like a stature in her bed.

Then once,
by terrible chance,
love took her in his big boat
and she shoveled the ocean
in a scalding joy.

Then,
slowly,
love seeped away,
the boat turned into paper
and she knew her fate,
at last.
Turn where you belong,
into a deaf mute
that metal house,
let him drill you into no one.

[Anonymous No.6866869]

>>6866867
By Anne Sexton sorry

[Anonymous No.6867000]

Two poems by Leconte de Lisle that I particularly enjoy

The Jaguar's Dream
"Sous les noirs acajous, les lianes en fleur,
Dans l'air lourd, immobile et saturé de mouches,
Pendent, et, s'enroulant en bas parmi les souches,
Bercent le perroquet splendide et querelleur,
L'araignée au dos jaune et les singes farouches.
C'est là que le tueur de boeufs et de chevaux,
Le long des vieux troncs morts à l'écorce moussue,
Sinistre et fatigué, revient à pas égaux.
Il va, frottant ses reins musculeux qu'il bossue ;
Et, du mufle béant par la soif alourdi,
Un souffle rauque et bref, d'une brusque secousse,
Trouble les grands lézards, chauds des feux de midi,
Dont la fuite étincelle à travers l'herbe rousse.
En un creux du bois sombre interdit au soleil
Il s'affaisse, allongé sur quelque roche plate ;
D'un large coup de langue il se lustre la patte ;
Il cligne ses yeux d'or hébétés de sommeil ;
Et, dans l'illusion de ses forces inertes,
Faisant mouvoir sa queue et frissonner ses flancs,
Il rêve qu'au milieu des plantations vertes,
Il enfonce d'un bond ses ongles ruisselants
Dans la chair des taureaux effarés et beuglants."

The Sun's death
"Le vent d'automne, aux bruits lointains des mers pareil,
Plein d'adieux solennels, de plaintes inconnues,
Balance tristement le long des avenues
Les lourds massifs rougis de ton sang, ô soleil !

La feuille en tourbillons s'envole par les nues ;
Et l'on voit osciller, dans un fleuve vermeil,
Aux approches du soir inclinés au sommeil,
De grands nids teints de pourpre au bout des branches nues.

Tombe, Astre glorieux, source et flambeau du jour !
Ta gloire en nappes d'or coule de ta blessure,
Comme d'un sein puissant tombe un suprême amour.

Meurs donc, tu renaîtras ! L'espérance en est sûre.
Mais qui rendra la vie et la flamme et la voix
Au coeur qui s'est brisé pour la dernière fois ?"

[Anonymous No.6867123]

His gaze traveled outside the window-glass,
and found rest in the snow covered floor.

In the poorly lit streets his memory found a
theme, one of the living and the dead, and
it spoke the pressure building in his chest.

The moon, spying you shyly, understands how
alone you feel, her eyes too wandering companionless.

He looked back into the room and stared idly at her wife's
hair as she slept. What a day it had been for her... It isn't
easy to lose someone, to accept they are gone.

The pressure building in his chest was reaching for his
throat, and a urge to speak, to talk, to tear apart in tears
distilled his mind. His eyes moistened, he wanted to cry.

In an effort of reason he shook his head, and looked
Back at the street: snowdrops, obliquely falling, falling faintly,
faintly falling, plagiarizing some vague memory that hid in his mind.

What memory? He struggled to remember. He wanted to remember.
He was a child, he was sure. And his father was there, on a Christmas

Evening. He was alone with his father, he remembered, yes, that was it, and
Her mother was out to get some bread. And they were both looking at the people,

At night, illuminated by some weak lamplights, as they crossed the streets alone,
And against the silence that covered them two his father spoke, with his grave voice,
(which he dearly missed), those very words that had changed him. His eyes watered, as

In his mind those words formed and spoke to him. He was not alone anymore.

[Anonymous No.6867165]

>>6867123
this is way better than the end of The Dead

[Anonymous No.6867166]

Of the dark past
A child is born;
With joy and grief
My heart is torn.

Calm in his cradle
The living lies.
May love and mercy
Unclose his eyes!

Young life is breathed
On the glass;
The world that was not
Comes to pass.

A child is sleeping:
An old man gone.
O, father forsaken,
Forgive your son!

*

(excerpt from Whitman)

Oxen that rattle the yoke and chain or halt in the leafy shade, what is that your express in your eyes?
It seems to me more than all the print I have read in my life.

*

(excerpt from Paradise Lost)

The dismal situation waste and wild,
A dungeon horrible, on all sides round
As one great furnace flamed, yet from those flames
No light, but rather darkness visible
Served only to discover sights of woe,
Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace
And rest can never dwell, hope never comes
That comes to all; but torture without end
Still urges, and a fiery deluge, fed
With ever-burning sulphur unconsumed

*

OREAD:

Whirl up, sea -
Whirl your pointed pines,
Splash your great pines
On our rocks,
Hurl your green over us -
Cover us with your pools of fir.

*

(excerpt from Romeo and Juliet)

But soft! What light through yonder window breaks?
It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,
Who is already sick and pale with grief,
That thou, her maid, art far more fair than she.
Be not her maid since she is envious.
Her vestal livery is but sick and green,
And none but fools do wear it. Cast it off!
It is my lady. Oh, it is my love.
Oh, that she knew she were!
She speaks, yet she says nothing. What of that?
Her eye discourses. I will answer it.

[Anonymous No.6867170]

>>6866082
i dont think so

[Anonymous No.6867172]

>>6866082
Do psalms count? I'm not a Christian but this is a personal favorite:

137 By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down, yea, we wept, when we remembered Zion.

2 We hanged our harps upon the willows in the midst thereof.

3 For there they that carried us away captive required of us a song; and they that wasted us required of us mirth, saying, Sing us one of the songs of Zion.

4 How shall we sing the Lord's song in a strange land?

5 If I forget thee, O Jerusalem, let my right hand forget her cunning.

6 If I do not remember thee, let my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth; if I prefer not Jerusalem above my chief joy.

7 Remember, O Lord, the children of Edom in the day of Jerusalem; who said, Rase it, rase it, even to the foundation thereof.

8 O daughter of Babylon, who art to be destroyed; happy shall he be, that rewardeth thee as thou hast served us.

9 Happy shall he be, that taketh and dasheth thy little ones against the stones.

[Anonymous No.6867178]

>>6866082
Todesfuge

Schwarze Milch der Frühe wir trinken sie abends
wir trinken sie mittags und morgens wir trinken sie nachts
wir trinken und trinken
wir schaufeln ein Grab in den Lüften da liegt man nicht eng
Ein Mann wohnt im Haus der spielt mit den Schlangen der schreibt
der schreibt wenn es dunkelt nach Deutschland dein goldenes Haar Margarete
er schreibt es und tritt vor das Haus und es blitzen die Sterne und er pfeift seine Rüden herbei
er pfeift seine Juden hervor lässt schaufeln ein Grab in der Erde
er befiehlt uns spielt auf nun zum Tanz

Schwarze Milch der Frühe wir trinken dich nachts
wir trinken dich morgens und mittags wir trinken dich abends
wir trinken und trinken
Ein Mann wohnt im Haus der spielt mit den Schlangen der schreibt
der schreibt wenn es dunkelt nach Deutschland dein goldenes Haar Margarete
Dein aschenes Haar Sulamith wir schaufeln ein Grab in den Lüften da liegt man nicht eng

Er ruft stecht tiefer ins Erdreich ihr einen ihr anderen singet und spielt
er greift nach dem Eisen im Gurt er schwingts seine Augen sind blau
stecht tiefer die Spaten ihr einen ihr andern spielt weiter zum Tanz auf

Schwarze Milch der Frühe wir trinken dich nachts
wir trinken dich mittags und morgens wir trinken dich abends
wir trinken und trinken
ein Mann wohnt im Haus dein goldenes Haar Margarete
dein aschenes Haar Sulamith er spielt mit den Schlangen

Er ruft spielt süsser den Tod der Tod ist ein Meister aus Deutschland
er ruft streicht dunkler die Geigen dann steigt ihr als Rauch in die Luft
dann habt ihr ein Grab in den Wolken da liegt man nicht eng

Schwarze Milch der Frühe wir trinken dich nachts
wir trinken dich mittags der Tod ist ein Meister aus Deutschland
wir trinken dich abends und morgens wir trinken und trinken
der Tod ist ein Meister aus Deutschland sein Auge ist blau
er trifft dich mit bleierner Kugel er trifft dich genau
ein Mann wohnt im Haus dein goldenes Haar Margarete
er hetzt seine Rüden auf uns er schenkt uns ein Grab in der Luft
er spielt mit den Schlangen und träumet der Tod ist ein Meister aus Deutschland

dein goldenes Haar Margarete
dein aschenes Haar Sulamith

[Anonymous No.6867185]

>>6867172
Another favorite poem would be the Hildebrandslied:

I have heard tell,
that two chosen warriors, Hildebrand and Hadubrand,
met one another, between two armies.
Father and son, the champions examined their gear,
prepared their armor, and buckled their swords
over their chain mail, before riding out to battle.
Hildebrand, the older and more experienced man, spoke first,
asking, with few words who his father was
and from which family he came.
"Tell me the one, young man, and I'll know the other,
for I know all great people in this kingdom."
Hadubrand, the son of Hildebrand, replied:
"Old and wise people who lived long ago
told me that my father's name was Hildebrand.
My name is Hadubrand.
Long ago he rode off into the East with Dietrich,
and his many warriors, fleeing Otacher's wrath.
He rode off into the East, leaving his wife at home
with a small child, deprived of his inheritance.
Dietrich, a man with but few friends,
came to rely upon my father.
His feud with Otacher grew more intense,
and my father became his best-loved warrior.
He was at the front of every battle, wanting to be in every duel.
.....
Brave men knew him well.
....."
"With Almighty God in Heaven for a witness,
may you never go to battle against your next of kin."
And he took from his arm a band of rings,
braided from the emperor's gold,
which the King of the Huns had given to him.
"I give you this in friendship."
Hadubrand, the son of Hildebrand, replied:
"A gift should be received with a spear,
point against point.
You are a cunning old Hun,
leading me into a trap with your words,
only to throw your spear at me.
You have grown old by practicing such treachery.
Sailors traveling westward across the Mediterranean Sea
told me that he fell in battle.
Hildebrand, the son of Heribrand, is dead."
Hildebrand, the son of Heribrand, replied:
"I see from your battle gear
that you have a good master at home,
and that you have never been banished by your prince.
.....
Alas, Lord God, fate has struck.
Sixty times I have seen summer turn to winter
and winter to summer in a foreign land.
I was always placed on the front lines;
I was never killed while storming a fortress,
and now my own child should strike me with his sword
and hit me with his ax, if I don't kill him first.
But if you have the courage, you can easily
win the armor from an old man like me,
and take away the spoils, if you have any right to them.
.....
Not even the worst of the men from the East
would turn down the the chance to fight with you,
with your desire to duel. Cost what it may,
let us see who will boast of this gear
and who will lay claim to these two suits of chain mail."
Then they let sail their ashen spears,
Sharp showers, sticking in their shields.
They came closer on foot, splitting each other's bright boards,
striking fiercely until their weapons shattered their shields.
.....

*the ellipses are where the text became unreadable or was destroyed

[Anonymous No.6867190]

>>6867178

i remember when we performed that at school

everyone hated it, i thought it was pretty neat.

[Anonymous No.6867217]

>>6867166
>darkness visible
>O, that would be a good name for a book
>google search
Fuck William Styron

[Anonymous No.6867249]

Today I read almost two pages
In a book by a mystical poet
And I laughed like someone who’d cried a lot.

Mystical poets are sick philosophers
And philosophers are crazy.

Mystical poets say flowers feel
And they say stones have a soul
And they say rivers have ecstasies in the moonlight.

But flowers wouldn’t be flowers if they felt,
They’d be people;
And if stones had a soul, they’d be living things, they wouldn’t be stones;
And if rivers had ecstasies in the moonlight,
Rivers would be sick people.

You need to not know what flowers and stones and rivers are
To talk about their feelings.

Talking about the soul of stones, of flowers, of rivers,
Is talking about yourself and your false thoughts.
Thank God stones are only stones,
And rivers are nothing but rivers,
And flowers are just flowers.

Me, I write the prose of my poems
And I’m at peace,
Because I know I comprehend Nature on the outside;
And I don’t comprehend Nature on the inside
Because Nature doesn’t have an inside;
If she did she wouldn’t be Nature.

[Anonymous No.6867261]

>>6867249
I was about to post this exact poem, is this what love feels like?

[Anonymous No.6867267]

>>6867261
Get a hold of yourself, I'm a man

[Anonymous No.6867271]

>>6867267
:^)

[Anonymous No.6867297]

>>6867249
This shit sucks

[Anonymous No.6867301]

>>6867297
From my village I see as much in the Universe as you can see from earth...
So my village is as big as any other land
Because I’m the size of what I see,
Not the size of my height...

In the cities life is smaller
Than here in my house on top of this hill.
In the city the big houses shut your sight with a key,
Hide the horizon, push your eyes far away from all the sky,
Make us smaller because they take away what our eyes can give us,
And make us poor because our only wealth is seeing.

[Anonymous No.6867313]

>>6867297
is that a challenge?

So many gods!
They’re like books—you can’t read everything, you never know anything.
Happy the man who knows but one god, and keeps him a secret.
Every day I have different beliefs—
Sometimes in the same day I have different beliefs—
And I wish I were the child now crossing
The view from my window of the street below.
He’s eating a cheap pastry (he’s poor) without efficient or final cause,
An animal uselessly raised above the other vertebrates,
And through his teeth he sings a ribald show tune . . .
Yes, there are many gods,
But I’d give anything to the one who’d take that child out of my sight.

[Anonymous No.6867365]

Das infernalische Abendmahl
I

Ihr, denen ward das Blut vor Trauer bleich,
Ihr, die der Sturm der Qualen stets durchrast,
Ihr, deren Stirn der Lasten weites Reich,
Ihr, deren Auge Kummer schon verglast,

Ihr, denen auf der jungen Schläfe brennt
Wie Aussatz schon das große Totenmal,
Tretet heran, empfangt das Sakrament
Verfluchter Hostien in dem Haus der Qual.

Besteigt die Brücke auf dem schwarzen Fluß,
Darüber wallet der Verfluchten Schar.
Und dunkel grüßt euch groß der Portikus,
Durch den in Dämmrung glänzt der Hochaltar,

Den tausend Kerzen schmücken, die von Blut
Und Fett der Ungebornen sind gedreht.
Wo Knochen hängen, und der rote Sud
Teuflischen Weihrauchs euch entgegenweht.

Wo Priester in der höllischen Soutane
In Reihen knien, zu hellem Meßgeläut,
Wo von den Kanzeln Fahne über Fahne
Wie rote Höllenflamme euch bedräut.

Ein nackter Abt bläht vor dem Götterbild
Den feisten Bauch, da er die Messe singt.
Er greift den Kelch, mit rotem Blut gefüllt,
Den hoch er auf das Haupt der Menge schwingt.

»Trinket mein Blut.« Er trinkt den Becher leer,
Der in sein Herz wie rote Lava quillt.
Sein Gaumen leuchtet wie ein rotes Meer,
Der von dem Glanz des Götterblutes schwillt.

Auf euren Schläfen, wo der Horst der Qual,
Die schwarze Bastion der Hölle droht,
Springt eine Flamme auf, die spitz und schmal
Wie der Skorpione schwarze Zunge loht.

Nachtschwarze Wolken drängen in den Dom
Voll Sturm und Blitzen durch das große Tor.
Ein Wetter tost. Im schwarzen Regenstrom
Versinkt der Orgel Ton im fernen Chor.

Die Gräber springen auf. Der Toten Hand
Streckt weiß und kalt die Knochenfinger aus.
Sie winken euch aus ihrem dunklen Land.
Und ihr Geschrei erfüllt das Riesenhaus.

Die Fliesen brechen auf. Und Lethe braust
Tief unten über einen Wasserfall.
Der Abgrund schwindelt Meilen tief und saust
Voll ungeheurer Stürme weitem Hall.

Die Höllensöhne fahren ihn herab
Mit schwarzem Takelwerk durch den Typhon.
Sie schauen singend in das weite Grab
Vom Totenkopfe ihrer Schiffs-Galion.

[Anonymous No.6867370]

>>6867365
II

Hoch wo das Dunkel seine Schatten türmt
Durch Ewigkeiten fern vom Grund der Qual,
Hoch oben, wo im Dom der Regen stürmt,
Erscheint des Gottes Haupt, wie Morgen fahl.

Die weiten Kirchen füllt der Sphären Traum
Voll Schweigen, das wie leise Harfen klingt,
Da, wie der Mond vom großen Himmelsraum,
Des Gottes weißes Haupt heruntersinkt.

Tretet heran. Sein Mund ist süß wie Frucht,
Sein Blut ist, wie der Wein, langsam und schwer.
Auf seiner Lippen dunkelroter Bucht
Wiegt blaue Glut von fernem Sommermeer.

Tretet heran. Wie Flaum von Faltern zart,
Wie eines jungen Sternes goldne Nacht,
Zittert sein Mund, in seinem goldnen Bart,
Wie Chrysolith in einem tiefen Schacht.

Tretet heran. Wie einer Schlange Haut
So kühl ist er, weich wie ein Purpurkleid,
Wie Abendrot so sanft, das übergraut
Brennender Liebe wildes Herzeleid.

Der Gram gefallner Engel ruht, ein Traum,
Auf seiner Stirn, der Qualen weißem Thron,
Wie Schläfer traurig, denen floh zum Saum
Des blassen Morgens ihre Vision.

Tiefer als tausend leere Himmel tief
Ist seine Schwermut, wie die Hölle schön,
Wo in den roten Abgrund sich verlief
Ein bleicher Sonnenstrahl aus Mittagshöhn.

Sein Leid ist wie ein Leuchter in der Nacht,
Schauet die Flamme, die sein Haupt umloht,
Und doppelhörnig in der düstren Pracht
Aus seinem Lockenwald ins Dunkel droht.

Sein Leid ist wie ein Teppich, drauf die Schrift
Der Kabbalisten brennt durch Dunkelheit,
Ein Eiland, dem vorbei ein Segler schifft,
Wenn in den Bergen fern das Einhorn schreit.

Sein Leib trägt eines Schattenwaldes Duft,
Wo großer Sümpfe Trauervögel ziehn,
Ein König, der durch seiner Ahnen Gruft
Nachdenklich geht in weißem Hermelin.

Tretet heran, entflammt von seinem Gram.
Trinkt seinen Atem, der so kühl wie Eis,
Der über tausend Paradiese kam,
Voll Duft, der jeden Kummer weiß.

Er lächelt, seht. Und eurer Seele Bild
Wird wie ein Weiher, der im Schilfe schweigt,
Wo leis des Hirtengottes Flöte schwillt,
Der durch die Lorbeerschlucht heruntersteigt.

Schlaft ein. Die Nacht, die schwarz im Dome hängt,
Verlöscht die Lampen an dem Hochaltar.
Der große Adler seines Schweigens senkt
Auf eure Stirn sein dunkles Schwingenpaar.

Schlaft, schlaft. Des Gottes dunkler Mund, er streift
Euch herbstlich kühl, wie kalter Gräber Wind,
Darauf des falschen Kusses Blume reift,
Wie Mehltau giftig, gelb wie Hyazinth.

[Anonymous No.6867465]

>>6866087
The folly of being comforted:
http://genius.com/William-butler-yeats-the-folly-of-being-comforted-annotated

[Anonymous No.6867543]

CANTO XIII (Ezra Pound)

Kung walked
by the dynastic temple
and into the cedar grove,
and then out by the lower river,
And with him Khieu Tchi
and Tian the low speaking
And "we are unknown," said Kung,
"You will take up charioteering?
"Then you will become known,
"Or perhaps I should take up charioterring, or archery?
"Or the practice of public speaking?"
And Tseu-lou said, "I would put the defences in order,"
And Khieu said, "If I were lord of a province
"I would put it in better order than this is."
And Tchi said, "I would prefer a small mountain temple,
"With order in the observances,
with a suitable performance of the ritual,"
And Tian said, with his hand on the strings of his lute
The low sounds continuing
after his hand left the strings,
And the sound went up like smoke, under the leaves,
And he looked after the sound:
"The old swimming hole,
"And the boys flopping off the planks,
"Or sitting in the underbrush playing mandolins."
And Kung smiled upon all of them equally.
And Thseng-sie desired to know:
"Which had answered correctly?"
And Kung said, "They have all answered correctly,
"That is to say, each in his nature."
And Kung raised his cane against Yuan Jang,
Yuan Jang being his elder,
For Yuan Jang sat by the roadside pretending to
be receiving wisdom.
And Kung said
"You old fool, come out of it,
"Get up and do something useful."
And Kung said
"Respect a child's faculties
"From the moment it inhales the clear air,
"But a man of fifty who knows nothng
Is worthy of no respect."
And "When the prince has gathered about him
"All the savants and artists, his riches will be fully employed."
And Kung said, and wrote on the bo leaves:
If a man have not order within him
He can not spread order about him;
And if a man have not order within him
His family will not act with due order;
And if the prince have not order within him
He can not put order in his dominions.
And Kung gave the words "order"
and "brotherly deference"
And said nothing of the "life after death."
And he said
"Anyone can run to excesses,
"It is easy to shoot past the mark,
"It is hard to stand firm in the middle."

And they said: If a man commit murder
Should his father protect him, and hide him?
And Kung said:
He should hide him.

And Kung gave his daughter to Kong-Tchang
Although Kong-Tchang was in prison.
And he gave his niece to Nan-Young
although Nan-Young was out of office.
And Kung said "Wan ruled with moderation,
"In his day the State was well kept,
"And even I can remember
"A day when the historians left blanks in their writings,
"I mean, for things they didn't know,
"But that time seems to be passing.
A day when the historians left blanks in their writings,
But that time seems to be passing."
And Kung said, "Without character you will
"be unable to play on that instrument
"Or to execute the music fit for the Odes.
"The blossoms of the apricot
"blow from the east to the west,
"And I have tried to keep them from falling."

>>6867165

Blasphemy
thank you

[Anonymous No.6867578]

>>6867178
Meh. You're German right? I had a discussion of this poem with another German or with You. Do you have blogs of some sort? I'd to polish my German with people who are into that kind of stuff.
Now: favourite poems 1.part 1.poem
Ecли дopoг тeбe твoй дoм,
Гдe ты pyccким выкopмлeн был,
Пoд бpeвeнчaтым пoтoлкoм,
Гдe ты, в люлькe кaчaяcь, плыл;
Ecли дopoги в дoмe тoм
Teбe cтeны, пeчь и yглы,
Дeдoм, пpaдeдoм и oтцoм
B нeм иcхoжeнныe пoлы;

Ecли мил тeбe бeдный caд
C мaйcким цвeтoм, c жyжжaньeм пчeл
И пoд липoй cтo лeт нaзaд
B зeмлю вкoпaнный дeдoм cтoл;
Ecли ты нe хoчeшь, чтoб пoл
B твoeм дoмe нeмeц тoптaл,
Чтoб oн ceл зa дeдoвcкий cтoл
И дepeвья в caдy cлoмaл…

Ecли мaть тeбe дopoгa —
Teбя выкopмившaя гpyдь,
Гдe дaвнo yжe нeт мoлoкa,
Toлькo мoжнo щeкoй пpильнyть;
Ecли вынecти нeтy cил,
Чтoб нeмeц, к нeй пocтoeм cтaв,
Пo щeкaм мopщиниcтым бил,
Кocы нa pyкy нaмoтaв;
Чтoбы тe жe pyки ee,
Чтo нecли тeбя в кoлыбeль,
Mыли гaдy eгo бeльe
И cтeлили eмy пocтeль…

Ecли ты oтцa нe зaбыл,
Чтo кaчaл тeбя нa pyкaх,
Чтo хopoшим coлдaтoм был
И пpoпaл в кapпaтcких cнeгaх,
Чтo пoгиб зa Boлгy, зa Дoн,
Зa oтчизны твoeй cyдьбy;
Ecли ты нe хoчeшь, чтoб oн
Пepeвepтывaлcя в гpoбy,
Чтoб coлдaтcкий пopтpeт в кpecтaх
Cнял фaшиcт и нa пoл copвaл
И y мaтepи нa глaзaх
Ha лицo eмy нacтyпaл…

Ecли жaль тeбe, чтoб cтapик,
Cтapый шкoльный yчитeль твoй,
Пepeд шкoлoй в пeтлe пoник
Гopдoй cтapчecкoй гoлoвoй,
Чтoб зa вce, чтo oн вocпитaл
И в дpyзьях твoих и в тeбe,
Heмeц pyки eмy cлoмaл
И пoвecил бы нa cтoлбe.

[Anonymous No.6867584]

>>6867578
2.part 1st poem
Ecли ты нe хoчeшь oтдaть
Ty, c кoтopoй вдвoeм хoдил,
Ty, чтo дoлгo пoцeлoвaть
Tы нe cмeл,— тaк ee любил,—
Чтoб фaшиcты ee живьeм
Bзяли cилoй, зaжaв в yглy,
И pacпяли ee втpoeм,
Oбнaжeннyю, нa пoлy;
Чтoб дocтaлocь тpeм этим пcaм
B cтoнaх, в нeнaвиcти, в кpoви
Bce, чтo cвятo бepeг ты caм
Bceю cилoй мyжcкoй любви…

Ecли ты нe хoчeшь oтдaть
Heмцy c чepным eгo pyжьeм
Дoм, гдe жил ты, жeнy и мaть,
Bce, чтo poдинoй мы зoвeм,—
Знaй: никтo ee нe cпaceт,
Ecли ты ee нe cпaceшь;
Знaй: никтo eгo нe yбьeт,
Ecли ты eгo нe yбьeшь.

И пoкa eгo нe yбил,
Tы мoлчи o cвoeй любви,
Кpaй, гдe poc ты, и дoм, гдe жил,
Cвoeй poдинoй нe зoви.

Ecли нeмцa yбил твoй бpaт,
Пycть нeмцa yбил coceд,—
Этo бpaт и coceд твoй мcтят,
A тeбe oпpaвдaнья нeт.
Зa чyжoй cпинoй нe cидят,
Из чyжoй винтoвки нe мcтят.
Ecли нeмцa yбил твoй бpaт,—
Этo oн, a нe ты coлдaт.

Taк yбeй жe нeмцa, чтoб oн,
A нe ты нa зeмлe лeжaл,
He в твoeм дoмy чтoбы cтoн,
A в eгo пo мepтвым cтoял.
Taк хoтeл oн, eгo винa,—
Пycть гopит eгo дoм, a нe твoй,
И пycкaй нe твoя жeнa,
A eгo пycть бyдeт вдoвoй.
Пycть иcплaчeтcя нe твoя,
A eгo poдившaя мaть,
He твoя, a eгo ceмья
Пoнaпpacнy пycть бyдeт ждaть.

Taк yбeй жe хoть oднoгo!
Taк yбeй жe eгo cкopeй!

ps. good to know 4chan Russian cannot into google translate.

[Anonymous No.6867592]

>>6867578

What is this, graphic poetry? Looks alien, neat

[Anonymous No.6867597]

>>6867178
1st favorite poem (on that topic) recited
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dcs8Are1bD0
2nd favourite poem:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t6dx9sLBt9c
also: lol at the lonely hater in the comment section. typical for butt injured republicans.

[Anonymous No.6867612]

>>6867592
No, it's m00t preventing cyrillic from getting raped by google translating bydlos.
>>6867365
is that german brütäl death metal, expressionism or a translation of some random English metaphysical poet?

[Anonymous No.6867622]

>>6867612
#2

Georg Heym

[Anonymous No.6867638]

>>6867622
So it's expressionism then. How very strange of you post the not dur God dur shtahd.

[Anonymous No.6867657]

>>6867638
>So it's expressionism then.
Yes, as I said. Your second option.

Well, I like this one more. Gott der Stadt is also great (Dämonen der Städte is better.) and die Wolke is in a similar style and maybe just as good. But I prefer Das infernalische Abendmahl.
Georg Heym is probably one of the top five german poets.

[Anonymous No.6867669]

with heavy eyes and listless dreams
he thinks of shadows' opaque gleam
outside of him, unconquered be
but moored to earth by conscious sleep.

[Anonymous No.6867942]

'A tedious brief scene of young Pyramus
And his love Thisbe; very tragical mirth.'
Merry and tragical! tedious and brief!
That is, hot ice and wondrous strange snow.
How shall we find the concord of this discord?
*
Lovers and madmen have such seething brains,
Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend
More than cool reason ever comprehends.
The lunatic, the lover and the poet
Are of imagination all compact:
One sees more devils than vast hell can hold,
That is, the madman: the lover, all as frantic,
Sees Helen's beauty in a brow of Egypt:
The poet's eye, in fine frenzy rolling,
Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven;
And as imagination bodies forth
The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen
Turns them to shapes and gives to airy nothing
A local habitation and a name.


*
Never so weary, never so in woe
Bedabbled with the dew and torn with briers,
I can no further crawl, no further go;
My legs can keep no pace with my desires.


*
Out of this wood do not desire to go:
Thou shalt remain here, whether thou wilt or no.
I am a spirit of no common rate;
The summer still doth tend upon my state;
And I do love thee: therefore, go with me;
I'll give thee fairies to attend on thee,
And they shall fetch thee jewels from the deep...

[Anonymous No.6867961]

Here is my own contribution to the thread. It is from a play that i am writing. The original is in Portuguese.

Masatane: Oh, great master.
With cyclone claws and butcher's hands
Death has ripped you off from the shell of flesh.
But this is past, yes, this is only past.
Death is now dead and pain has been dissolved in sleep.
That thy nest in the clouds never burn
With the electrical drones and burning
Harpies of the thunders; that the tempests
Do not to scourge your cotton crib
Into a beehive of tumult and rumble;
That the cry of the cerebral cicadas
Of the earthly neuroses do not bite you ever again
In the bed of mists where you now sleep.
That the world were you now walk be so beautiful
That the stars, that the living can see,
Be only moths of gray powder compared
To the fireflies that their neutral lamps
And cold candles have trained
To make diamonds catch fire
In the mysterious heavens of eternity,
In the galaxies that dance for the dead.
Sweet be the country that you now inhabit.

[Anonymous No.6867980]

A little something I am working on for a novel:


What maddened maker takes great pains to create
Worlds to be remade by His children’s dreaming?
A life of a thousand years would not suffice
To realise the fullness of this life’s meaning

O the dreams would be many in a thousand years
In wakeful life and slumbering mind’s teeming
O the dreams I would dream in a thousand years
Such life I would live unfulfilled and dreaming

[Anonymous No.6868086]

>>6866867

loved this

[Anonymous No.6868196]

>>6867657
>Georg Heym is probably one of the top five german poets.
Do you have something like BBC favourite poems of the nation? The foreign conceptions of what is good German poetry are very out of date which you can see from how bizarre the Putin shills sound in the German public. Their curators believe that Germany is still all Uhland, Arndt, Geibel, Hans Baumann & Hoffmann von Fallersleben whereas the real life Germans get red in the face when you are reading this, as if you were reading a nightly drunk SMS.

[Anonymous No.6868600]

Billowing smoke imbues the old house
With subtle imprints upon a green door
Which gather in yet greater amounts
And leave strewn ashes atop kitchen floors
Withering trees surround its facade
While flickering lights slowly start to fade
An emperor sleeps- untouched by god
He peacefully dreams of his future reign
Images fall away from closed eyes
For eternity marches ever on
Like love found amidst nameless goodbyes
Or ebony night's continuous dawn
Scuttling rain comes down without end
As solemn foot soldiers marshal outside
So I pursue my relinquished friend
Expecting nothing beyond hollow time