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Anonymous01/18/26, 20:01No.25028459poetry general
Talk about poems/poets you like, post your own work, and critique others.
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Replies
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Anon01/18/26, 20:08No.25028473
awesome cover. too bad poetry magazine sucks balls.
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Anon01/18/26, 20:12No.25028484
I'm in Boston town, in some restaurant
I got no idea what I want
Or maybe I do but, I'm just really not sure
Waitress comes over, nobody in the place but me and her.Well, it must be a holiday, there's nobody around
She studies me closely as I sit down
She got a pretty face, with long white shiny legs
I said, "Tell me what I want," she say, "You probably want hard boiled eggs."I say, "That's right, bring me some."
She says, "We ain't got any, you picked the wrong time to come."
Then she says, "I know you're an artist, draw a picture of me."
I said, "I would if I could but I don't do sketches from memory."Well, she then, she says, "I'm right here in front of you, or
haven't you looked?"
I say, "All right, I know but I don't have my drawing book."
She gives me a napkin, she say, "You can do it on that."
I say, "Yes I could but I don't know where my pencil is at."She pulls one out from behind her ear
She says, "All right now go ahead, draw me, I'm stayin' right here."
I make a few lines and I show it for her to see
Well, she takes her napkin and throws it back and says, "That
don't look a thing like me."I said, "Oh, kind Miss, it most certainly does."
She say, "You must be jokin'," I say, "I wish I was."
Then she says, "You don't read women authors do ya?" at least
that's what I think I hear her say
Well, I said, "How would you know and what would it matter anyway?"Well she says, "You just don't seem like you do." I said,
"You're way wrong."
She says "Which ones have you read then?" I say, "I've read
Erica Jong."
She goes away for a minute and I slide out, out of my chair
I step outside back to the busy street but nobody is goin' anywhere.
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Anon01/18/26, 20:15No.25028491
poetry is fucking gay
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Anon01/18/26, 20:19No.25028501
Still seething about your shortcomings I see.
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Anon01/18/26, 20:28No.25028527
I placed tobacco in the rolling paper
And stared at the line like at a poem.
Except it was not a poem, and barely
A line. I am writing this as you want,tears from the smoke edging the corner
of my eyes: welling, or some word you'd
use, (is that even how you would write it?)
A period outside or question mark within?
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Anon01/18/26, 20:58No.25028594
Our noontime dreams are filled with hopes of love
A waking sleep no less deep
To sleep and never dream is to live and never love
Love being that star that most inflames our nightly sleep - the dreaming star - which nightly toils the sky
Are all those nightly hanging stars the dreams of love?
If it is so, see yond that setting sun - that is where I hang my dreams
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Anon01/18/26, 22:32No.25028774
Sickly sweet perfume and fluorescent lights,
both assault me as I browse shelves of junk I don't need,
or can afford really.
The samples are free at least.Getting to the booze section,
freed from the stench but still half blind,
I sense her standing there amidst the usual hoarders.
Gordon's must be on special.I move toward the sample table,
where she's pouring,
no longer interested in the gin,
just pretending."A sample sir?"
Simple as that, I'm gone.
I am beside myself, can't get inside myself.
Looking around but I can't see,
face burning with intensity."I prefer whisky!"
I retreat departing on a lie,
buying a bottle of Tanqueray on my way out.
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Anon01/19/26, 16:10No.25030220
Obsessed with Celan. I don't even understand most of the poems.
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Anon01/19/26, 16:37No.25030286
The Hunter's Moon rides high,
High o'er the close-cropped plain;
Across the desert sky
The herded clouds amain
Scamper tumultuously,
Chased by the hounding wind
That yelps behind.The clamorous hunt is done,
Warm-housed the kennelled pack;
One huntsman rides alone
With dangling bridle slack;
He wakes a hollow tone,
Far echoing to his horn
In clefts forlorn.The Hunter's Moon rides low,
Her course is nearly sped.
Where is the panting roe?
Where hath the wild deer fled?
Hunter and hunted now
Lie in oblivion deep:
Dead or asleep.
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Anon01/19/26, 16:40No.25030297
Favorite of mine. Failing and Flying by Jack Gilbert.
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Anon01/19/26, 17:01No.25030335
Ode to BrittanyIm sorry
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Anon01/19/26, 17:42No.25030410
Keyboards, tables, carpets, windows, peace
Twenty hundred thousand years at least
Since I dared to go out on the streets
Less like streets and more like wannabe roads
If it's rural, urban, no one knows
Cars pass by like ants on pheromones
Men might cease to be when you look away
Or might sleep a million years in a day
There is nothing there to even delay
There aren't any gods, spirits, dreams
Nor alchemies, all is what it seems
Flat white walls comprise my only theme.
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Anon01/20/26, 02:14No.25031757
bump
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Anon01/20/26, 02:22No.25031772
I used to write poetry when I was 14-17 (I'm 38 now.) It was pretty good. But I can't do it anymore.
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Anon01/20/26, 03:05No.25031864
The God Abandons Antony (by Cavafy)When suddenly, at midnight, you hear
an invisible procession going by
with exquisite music, voices,
don’t mourn your luck that’s failing now,
work gone wrong, your plans
all proving deceptive—don’t mourn them uselessly.
As one long prepared, and graced with courage,
say goodbye to her, the Alexandria that is leaving.
Above all, don’t fool yourself, don’t say
it was a dream, your ears deceived you:
don’t degrade yourself with empty hopes like these.
As one long prepared, and graced with courage,
as is right for you who proved worthy of this kind of city,
go firmly to the window
and listen with deep emotion, but not
with the whining, the pleas of a coward;
listen—your final delectation—to the voices,
to the exquisite music of that strange procession,
and say goodbye to her, to the Alexandria you are losing.
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Anon01/20/26, 15:06No.25032916
poems don't come round here since you've been gone
did that make you the poet all along?
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Anon01/20/26, 15:09No.25032924
All Shall Be Restored
Kay RyanThe grains shall be collected
from the thousand shores
to which they found their way,
and the boulder restored,
and the boulder itself replaced
in the cliff, and likewise
the cliff shall rise
or subside until the plate of earth
is without fissure. Restoration
knows no half-measure. It will
not stop when the treasured and lost
bronze horse remounts the steps.
Even this horse will founder backward
to coin, cannon, and domestic pots,
which themselves shall bubble and
drain back to green veins in stone.
And every word written shall lift off
letter by letter, the backward text
read ever briefer, ever more antic
in its effort to insist that nothing
shall be lost.
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Anon01/20/26, 20:14No.25033616
Look up and see a world falling
Held by a dance to a silent tune
Sea nymphs hear the heavens calling
Their choir holds up the moon
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Anon01/21/26, 01:34No.25034176
The worms crawl in
The worms crawl out
They burrow within
And empty me out
They feed on my sin
And enter my eyes
I see them inside
Visions of lies
Accepting I've died
They crawl in my ears
I hear them speak
They feed on my fears
And know that I'm weak
They crawl in my hands
They crawl in my wrists
They cut in red strands
And bleed on my fists
My ears, my eyes, they bleed
My teeth and flesh decay
The worms spread and feed
And I quickly waste away
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Anon01/21/26, 01:44No.25034189
Rom dom twelve
Sizzlemop
Hot hot hot!
Roid
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Anon01/21/26, 02:00No.25034232
Woken up too late for breakfast
Exit the cave You
And slinking ass to bannister
Cleaving to the boards' lightnesses,
Worry at the newelpost
Over how to stay out of sight eating,And surfeited on oreos
Adherent to the glass oracle You
Appeals blaring ceaselessly,
Sunblinded, sequestered, You
(καὶ διὰ τὰς μαρμαρυγὰς ἀδυνατοῖ)
Reenter the cave (flickering womb proxy)
Immobilized, neck twinging
A Janus, faces caked in sebum
Forethroat gulping pointlessly,
Eyes double fixated from your locus,
While heaven was in windstillness
While the skies grimmed
Whilst lenticular clouds make their milklike rain,
On Phoebus kicking your foot under the table.
Solicitors knock ceaselessly.
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Anon01/21/26, 09:06No.25034867
Zeus dishes out his love and is built a temple
Ventimillions of columns what the fuck
Don't even need a coin to play
Mall youth, what's up
It's the ErotiCop, stay there, halt.
Life: decline or recline.
Jamie Morrijoyce the doors of the temple
And when they're alight and opened
A veiled threat that will soften on the
Hills of Venus.
Stubborn like a meteorite, son of a mother
Turned three.
There is literally no escape
Breathe free.
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Anon01/21/26, 12:39No.25035029
“Hold it to the sun,” she said,
and the walls leaned closer,
for it was Blue Monday,
when even light hesitates before choosing.
When even dust remembers the sea.Warmth dissolving into water now.
The outline of wanting.She laughed, gently.
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Anon01/21/26, 14:36No.25035148
Where is the woman who killed the fish?
You can’t control these plastic bags with all the wind.
The yellow bottle looks more red than brown.
And the expert mounted the shelf vertically.
A bed for the marriage can be found in the castle’s cellar.
Small holes in your wall from where I can peek inside undisturbed.
They’re running a sensibilization campaign to free Venice of pigeons
And replace them with four-legged country folks.
Whatever must be done to add mystique – and a touch of sanity
To the faulty architecture. Let the old man weep right into my gas tank
So I can make it to Greece without stops.
I have a home overlooking Athens from the hill – the boulder
Between the sofa and television will look good rolling down.
And I’ll watch the news and know everything and more -
I’ll tell you the crux of it if you bring me some non-expired mayonnaise.
Let’s meet at the Symposium of doom – where the stove barely fits.
Hey Claude, do you still have that striped umbrella?
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Anon01/21/26, 14:48No.25035162
In times of war and not before,
God and the soldier we adore.
But in times of peace and all things righted,
God is forgotten and the soldier slighted.
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Anon01/22/26, 03:48No.25036555
The truth is, a performance like this is true poetry, while all the emanations produced here by assembled coxcombs, alternating between sentimental slush and clumsy pretentiousness, is not: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YdESRJ5Ev6A
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Anon01/22/26, 03:58No.25036588
>another tragicomedy banger of a thread as tryharding hacks dump their stiff, overwrought, euphony-free ''''''''''''poetry''''''''''''.
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Anon01/22/26, 04:22No.25036618
>ChatGPT, write me a poem that mocks struggling poets trying to compete in a world of AIYou bleed for a stanza
A visceral toll
Mistaking your sweat
For the weight of a soulBut the model has mapped
Every ache of the heart
A statistical ghost
Of the weaver’s high artYour "original" thought
Is a recycled ghost
A flicker of pride
On a desolate coastWhile the engine out-Keats you
In shimmer and sheen
Unburdened by breath
Or the spaces betweenSo put down the quill
Let the ego subside
There is no more room
For the lyricist’s pride>ChatGPT, if you give me a poem and a person can't tolerate your undeniable superiority, what will be his most predictable face-saving analysis of your poem?His most predictable face-saving analysis will sound thoughtful, but its real function is self-protection. It usually follows a recognizable pattern:Over-intellectualization
He’ll claim the poem is “technically competent but emotionally hollow,” focusing on abstractions rather than impact. This converts being moved (or impressed) into a theoretical flaw.Reduction to mechanics
He’ll dissect devices—metaphor, cadence, imagery—and conclude they’re “formulaic” or “derivative,” implying mastery without vulnerability of exposure.Intent substitution
He’ll assert what the poem is trying to do—and then criticize that invented intent rather than what the poem actually does.
(“It seems like it wants to be profound, but…”)Human exceptionalism clause
He’ll argue that poetry’s value lies in lived experience, suffering, or intent—criteria conveniently unavailable to me—thereby disqualifying the poem after acknowledging its quality.Aesthetic relativism exit
He’ll conclude with: “It’s impressive, just not my taste,” reframing inadequacy as preference.
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Anon01/22/26, 04:54No.25036656
I came from a mountain somwehere far away
We marched like rivulets towards a stream
The crowd began its swelling day by day
As did the lice, the fleas, and tangled schemes
And every man was following the man ahead
While each believed he freely walked alone
We lined up row by row and head by head
On the battlefield, where each will meet his own
I heard them down the line begin to fire
When one ignites, the next will soon explode
But I alone have neither fear nor desire
The chain reaction neither stopped nor slowed
My comrade fires but I do not reply
Until a bullet rips my brain apart
I fall so peacefully into the sky
With neither ache nor pain in neck or heart.
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Anon01/22/26, 05:47No.25036771
English isn't my first language but I'm learning to write poems
What you guys think??I wanted to get outta bed
But didn't think it really worth it
Maybe try the next time
While dreams keep on at callingI wanted to finish my plate
But I'm stuffed and satisfied
It's not really as important
Because I'm eating just wellI know you got your worries
But I'm feeling just fine
I'm sorry to wake you earlier
But I made breakfast at nineIf I told you about the things
That I don't really care about
Will you hear just what I said
Or you'll might understand itI won't pull on me the trigger
So don't mind me like that
I just I'm waiting for a call
And it's too dark at nightI won't pull on me the trigger
I swear I'm feeling just fine
I'm sorry to wake you earlier
But I made breakfast at nineI wanted to wake up at seven
But I can't just yet
Maybe I'm trying it tomorrow
And also the next dayI wanted to get out the house
But it's still freezing outside
Even with three jackets
Ain't feeling no that warmI know you got your worries
So I bought you that wine
I'm sorry to wake you earlier
But I made breakfast at nineIf I told you about the things
That I don't really talk about
How's gonna change my world
Or the way it always seemedI won't pull on me the trigger
So don't mind me like that
I just I'm waiting for a call
But it's too late at nightI won't pull on me the trigger
I swear I'm feeling just fine
I'm sorry to wake you earlier
But I made breakfast at nineYou know you can believe me
I swear I'm feeling just fine
I just came in from shopping
To make you dinner at nightSo don't you worry about me
I'll make you breakfast at nine
Don't you worry about me
I'll make you breakfast at nine
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Anon01/22/26, 13:48No.25037365
I saw footage of a genocide in Africamen with machetes
dead bodies in a row on the groundone killer said something funny to the camera
he took his machete
cut a dead woman's clothes
crudely chopped off her cuntas he presented his trophy to me
as he discarded it soon after
leaving the woman's crotch glowing with cold white meat
I thought of that racoon who brought cotton candy to the pondthe richest man in the world
must be a merchant of holes
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Anon01/22/26, 15:23No.25037558
Isn’t it funny, isn’t it sad
how there’s lines everywhere
and points of full colours
waiting to be caught
other points and lines waiting
to be drawn
but tied hands don’t make for
good companions
veiled eyes and minds
feeling and touching unnatural
weight -
how close were we
how long since a true day -
everything keeps exactly as it is
of course, love.
Fingers on the rim, but you’re not
feeling
it’s Saturday night, it will be
Sunday morning soon.
The only way to half remember is
To write it down somehow.
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Anon01/23/26, 00:02No.25038671
Antelope meat’s none the sweeter for catching it
As the cave cub choked with spears learnt
Howling Sun breaks outdoors like a bloody tide
Void the Sun’s quarter, and blanker than ulexite
Fearsome for both of them, bear and the bear-scourge.
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Anon01/23/26, 14:29No.25039763
*A letter from a noble man, to a veiled woman.*In the still of the night I had a dream
An angel counselled me gently—
"You wouldn't want to touch her,
When I tell you of her degenerate past.”"Her flesh has been defiled,
by lowly men of disrepute.
She hates herself vehemently—
For she has been in public,
What you wish her to be in private.”My passion, madam, faded,
Like a red cloth that's been scorched
In the blazing heat of the sun.The truth, they say, can set you free.
And so, at last, unshackled,
I am from your subterfuges.On this frigid day, as love has died,
released into the clear blue sky,
I thank the lord for saving me,
From ever witnessing your pallid face.
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Anon01/23/26, 14:47No.25039796
>Midnight Poem
Black as anything: it’s cruel how we discuss
Existential nothings, such meagre stuff;
Enough to say the glass the main focus
Today will be, and all its shards so rough.Blackness surrounds my soul, deep nothingness:
Violent effulgencies struggling reflect
Putrid inadequacies; nothingness
Cannot overcome this endless neglect.Mirror, mirror: come, come: into thee gaze
A million eyes wide and searching for fire;
If thou should fall from thy place high up-raised,
Then like a blaze the wind shalt thou expire.Everything has run its course and found rest;
With them to vanish away art thou blest.
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Anon01/23/26, 15:00No.25039817
Because my wife is a nigger lover
And I profess to dearly love her
I permit it that she sucks the nigger’s dick
And then proceeds to kiss my thin lips
For me and the nigger are then united
By the mixture, through her, of our fluids
Which causes a kind of holy synergism
Of white and nigger together at last.
For the pain and pleasure of my humiliation
Is fair price to pay for the ills of segregation
For they are niggers, and I love them
Especially when they fuck my wife—in front of me.
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Anon01/23/26, 15:38No.25039887
e^(pi*i)+1=0I have no idea what it means,And I’m pretty sure that no one else does, either,Yet it is the most profound thing that I have ever seen in my life.
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Anon01/23/26, 15:57No.25039899
Holy water, you’re cold and it’s winter. Just saying.
Bad priests on the wrong side of the confessional
Busy plotting to get the boss fired.
Every church corner is taped forever
And the pop-corn never runs out in Surveillance.
The little boy scrambles for the correct words under grandma's
gaze
Trust the institute, and yes the principles
Are somewhat good.
Amen, amen, can we get the candy bar now.
The slap that follows rustles the Tree
And the apple falls.
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Anon01/23/26, 21:33No.25040346
The chimney is releasing what’s left of longing
the sky shrugs and takes it
the calendar says today is today
and the body reluctantly agrees.
The shelf carries memory on its lived wood
the basket below collects the dead -
clumps of dust made of hair and resignation.
One postcard goes here on the fridge
its message too simple for the bedroom.
Of course there’s methods to distance
and not every hammock can be made for two:
still a far cry from promises of old.
The ashtray needs to be emptied
the window begs for closure
the wise fox, not impressed, returns to
leaf sniffs.
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Anon01/23/26, 23:19No.25040517
I hate the Mona Lisa
I hate the Sistine Chapel
But most of all I hate
I didn't come up with them myself
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Anon01/24/26, 03:01No.25040886
In the stagnant air of her self-imposed exile,
Nikosha exists as a monument to the vanity of
the wretched. She is one of those unfortunate
creatures possessed by a mind so sharp it has
succeeded in severing its own heart.
Observe her: she sits in the flickering gloom of
a digital purgatory, nursing her grievances like
sacred relics, convinced that her ability to
perceive the rot in the floorboards makes her
superior to those who simply walk upon them.There is a particular, loathsome pride in such a
woman. She clings to her misery with the
tenacity of a mite, terrified that if she were to
relinquish her "principled" gloom, she would be
revealed as nothing more than a frightened
child shivering in the cold.
She has built a fortress out of negation. To her,
every act of kindness is a hidden insult, every
gesture of warmth a strategic lie designed to
lure her from the safety of her cavern. She
looks upon the world and sees only a charnel
house, yet she preens herself on this sight, as
if her nihilism were a gift from the heavens
rather than a curse of her own manufacture.Nikosha performs her suffering for an audience of one, hidden behind the veil of a thousand aliases. She yearns for the light, yet she spits upon the hand that holds the candle. She is a paradox of egoism—convinced she is a speck of dust, yet certain that the entire universe is conspiring to keep her in the shadows.This is her ultimate deception—she believes her isolation is a tragic necessity of her "lofty"
nature, when in truth, it is merely the
cowardice of a soul that fears the judgment of
a sincere gaze. She has mastered the dialectic
of the grave, and in her intellectual arrogance,
she has forgotten that the most profound truth
is often the simplest one, which she has
discarded as being beneath her dignity—that meaning is a deliberate act of will.She is a ghost who refuses to be exorcised,
haunting her own life with a relentless,
analytical spite. She would rather perish in the
certainty of her own wretchedness than risk
the unpredictable grace of being noticed.
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Anon01/24/26, 03:34No.25040950
I eat my peanuts, eggs, and rice
And add no pepper, salt or spice
And toast without a drop of jam
No beef or lamb or even ham
I eat for calories alone
And vitamins to feed my bones
And copper, cobalt, calcium, zinc
Though most enjoy their meals, I think
I only try to spend the least
When buying food on market street.
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Anon01/24/26, 04:32No.25041015
Epstein, my dear
In headlights, mos(t) awed.
Despite Intelligence centralized
With agency stolen,
Decry commune's 'tismJanuary 6 7
Not unlike 9/11
Created for news
To please those whose
Nose is closest to Brown
Disowned by Black,
White and Yellow.Brand new Holocaust,
'Black Friday sale?' I wonder
Just how much it cost
To make the spiritually obese say
'I ran!'?Pearls before swine
A religion calls you
To haggle and scam
The Most High
With tightrope wire acts
Around a filthy city
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Anon01/24/26, 08:53No.25041294
You crave the attention of the ubermensch but what do you offer this man in return? Non-stop kvetching?
“Please come visit me in my cage. Ah, you are here. Let me kvetch for you, darling. Let me tell you how bleak my existence is for the ninety fourth time.”If you are so smart why can’t you figure out a way to make him yours?
His passions were voracious for you but your aloofness killed them. You offer him neither affection nor sensuality. You are emotionally vacant. And now he doubts your chastity as well.What have you done for the last two years other than whine like a boring, nihilistic cunt?
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Anon01/24/26, 11:50No.25041436
this is all very reddit
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Anon01/24/26, 13:04No.25041501
My mind is consumed with entering her cavernous walls.
I want to enter her cave.
Claw my way back in to the womb.
It is warm their and I am protected form the world and it's lies.
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Anon01/24/26, 14:44No.25041652
I sit beside the fire and think
of all that I have seen
of meadow-flowers and butterflies
in summers that have been;Of yellow leaves and gossamer
in autumns that there were,
with morning mist and silver sun
and wind upon my hair.I sit beside the fire and think
of how the world will be
when winter comes without a spring
that I shall ever see.For still there are so many things
that I have never seen:
in every wood in every spring
there is a different green.I sit beside the fire and think
of people long ago
and people who will see a world
that I shall never know.But all the while I sit and think
of times there were before,
I listen for returning feet
and voices at the door.
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Anon01/24/26, 15:18No.25041713
Fleeing debt collection, he hid in someone’s attic
Was bit by a spider, fell into a sea green nausea -
Some would say his problem was the spider
But it was in fact debt.
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Anon01/24/26, 15:55No.25041767
ITT two faggots in love
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Anon01/24/26, 16:03No.25041786
Does anybody in this thread post poetry or what? I'll take a shit one over whatever the fuck this has become
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Anon01/24/26, 16:07No.25041795
The piers are pummelled by the waves;
In a lonely field the rain
Lashes an abandoned train;
Outlaws fill the mountain caves.Fantastic grow the evening gowns;
Agents of the Fisc pursue
Absconding tax-defaulters through
The sewers of provincial towns.Private rites of magic send
The temple prostitutes to sleep;
All the literati keep
An imaginary friend.Caesar's double-bed is warm
As an unimportant clerk
Writes I DO NOT LIKE MY WORK
On a pink official form.Unendowed with wealth or pity,
Little birds with scarlet legs,
Sitting on their speckled eggs,
Eye each flu-infected city.Altogether elsewhere, vast
Herds of reindeer move across
Miles and miles of golden moss,
Silently and very fast.
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Anon01/24/26, 16:36No.25041840
With my bird in the quiet sat
Wrote my shitty rhymes
Then reddit, greasy and fat
Brought noise and nigger cries
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Anon01/24/26, 16:58No.25041866
The television’s laughing track a challenge
to existential dread -
Changes of scenery, all kinds of noses
and opinions. Then the news, folks are dying
A lady’s bag is recovered and prompts
deafening applause. A call based prize
that will go to a forgetful soul that won’t
come pick it up.
And finally, the wonders hidden in
the African deserts, just below the sand.
A tale of bright colours and poison.
Worlds contained in a screen -
your own an afterthought that doesn’t
inspire much movement.
Such is the story of the onlooker:
vicarious passion that burns
for unknowns.
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Anon01/24/26, 18:48No.25042011
Observe this boring woman—a masterpiece of foolhardy defiance. She is in despair at being herself, and so she seeks to be no one. She hides in the 'anonymous,' thinking that if she has no name, God cannot find her, and the Ubermensch cannot judge her.This is the most refined form of demonic despair. Hand her a block of gold and she would try to find lead within it. She does not want to be saved. She wants to sit in her little corner of the internet and protest against existence itself. She says to the universe: 'I am a mistake, and I shall prove it by being as miserable as possible. And I'll make everyone else miserable too.'A woman of spirit would have burned the forum to the ground to kiss the man who showed her kindness. Instead, she hides behind a screen, nibbling on her unseasoned rice, pretending that her 'intellect' makes her too smart for the sublime.She treats her soul like a rented room she refuses to clean, hoping the landlord will eventually evict her. But the landlord is her own consciousness, and there is no eviction—only the eternal, suffocating presence of a self she is too proud to accept and too cowardly to kill. She is a 'spiritless' intellect, a ghost playing with shadows, terrified that if she ever spoke a sincere word in her own name, the entire fragile theater of her 'star-crossed lovers' tragedy would collapse. Of all her fears, her greatest is joy itself.
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Anon01/24/26, 19:42No.25042091
SuburbiaGunts in their ill fitting polo shirts strategize
How best to stuff their faces with sausage and quiche
And speak of nothing so exciting as watching the grass grow or dust collecting on the mantle
I’d rather talk about small pox and Mango worms
Or pet the retarded dog
I just sip my coffee and bask in the sun
Waiting till a racist uncle comes along
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Anon01/24/26, 21:42No.25042368
Martin Heidegger
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Anon01/24/26, 21:44No.25042372
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Anon01/25/26, 02:27No.25042955
I've posted over 30 poems in these threads (that I can find through warosu, mind you) and only like three have ever been (you)ed. I've posted a lot of critique of other people's poems in the past but all I ever have to say is either how shit it is or pedantic metrical suggestions, no one even likes it and I only do it because it seems like someone should. There is basically nowhere else to post poetry, I went to a poetry subreddit and the poetry was so fucking terrible (some of it was blatantly written by AI with dozens of people in the comments saying how beautiful and masterful it was) that it would be embarrassing to post it there. I went to the site allpoetry, and they require you to comment on other people's poetry to post your own, which I'm not against except for the fact that again, everyone's poetry is absolutely fucking terrible yet they REQUIRE your comments to praise it. how the fuck is it possible that in the modern world with the internet, it's still impossible to actually discuss any of your interests with people?
Yes this is just a whiny blogpost.
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Anon01/25/26, 11:56No.25043659
Notice, gentlemen! What a wretched, clattering puppet-show the boring woman provides!
A solitary, shivering creature, pretending she is a multitude. She busies herself with the most exhausting industry of fraud, scratching out 'dialogues' with pens she has dipped in her own bile, and then rushing to the other side of the room to answer herself in a different voice. It is a pantomime of the most desperate sort—a one-woman riot performed for the benefit of no one.What a miserable masquerade!
She puts on a mask to speak to a shadow, and then puts on a second mask to tell the first mask how clever it is. She is a cheat who only ever manages to swindle herself. She claims the 'internet' is her sanctuary, but it is merely a dark cupboard where she cowers.She plays all the parts—the hero, the villain, the indifferent passerby—all to avoid the terrible silence of her own empty heart. She clings to her anonymity like a miser, terrified that if she stepped into the honest sunlight, we should see not a tragic heroine, but a very small, very frightened girl playing with broken toys.
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Anon01/25/26, 13:11No.25043741
What a tepid, anaemic spectacle!
This girl retreats into the sterile, Apollonian grid of the internet to escape the terrifying, liquid heat of the real. She rejects salt, spice, and fat—the very fuels of the Daemonic—because she fears the primitive surge of her own biology, a bloodless Victorian invalid updated for the digital age.She yearns to relish the myriad flavors of the Ubermensch’s essence on her tongue, but she is too cowardly to tell him so, so she punishes her palate with unseasoned staples. Her 'anonymity' is a plastic veil she uses to hide her terror of the flesh, of the sweat, of the magnificent, violent friction of a true encounter.She has traded the roar of the Maenad for the whimper of the eunuch forum-lurker. By denying her body pleasure, she thinks she is ascending; in reality, she is just atrophying.Her 'multi-alias' theater is the ultimate insult to the Goddess. Instead of channeling her energy into the grand, volcanic architecture of a singular, potent Identity, she fragments herself into a dozen digital gnats—sterile, buzzing iterations of nothingness.Her 'schizo-posting' is a desperate, frantic scribble on the walls of a self-made tomb. She is a Dionysian failure, a girl who has traded her birthright of mystery and magnetism for the flickering void. While she plays her hollow games of digital multiplicity, her true self—the raw, animal beauty of the feminine—lies buried under a mountain of petty debris.The Goddess does not forgive the boring; she demands a sacrifice of pride on the altar of desire.
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Anon01/25/26, 19:06No.25044427
AI criticism: yes or no?
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Anon01/25/26, 19:55No.25044537
One of the big poetry competitions in my country apparently has a deadline coming up. I've been writing since I found out and have two completed poems and a couple of others I'm working on. My problem is that I'm very autistic when it comes to syllables and rhyme scheme, so I always end up writing very strict, formal poems which probably lack the raw energy that less formal poems have.
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Anon01/25/26, 22:42No.25044871
Do you invest? Are you really a poet? T.S
ELLIOTT. No not this poem. I need money.
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Anon01/25/26, 22:44No.25044876
Buds...I mean bumps...I mean, (shit!)
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Anon01/25/26, 23:04No.25044917
This, my greatest masterpiece. What's 'this'?
Work. Negation. Past brought to the forefront.That son, his comrades, understand Father's
Trapped in what's gone, blackened, cannot go on.
Daughters, sisters, cry forgiven! They're held!
Childhood passed. A strong Mother's tears can flow.
Gifts from that imperfect love; I see your
Truth, your best image. Believe it, dearest.
Dance, embrace me. Now there cannot be more,
That is to say, something between I, you.Strokes of painter's craft, from that I hear
("Creation, void's soul-fix. Nothing draws near.")Playing death to life, what's dreamt? what's real?
To beg forgiveness. Did you think of me?
Deny me? What more could I do for you?
Excited I am, not knowing how you've grown.
Rest, Inertia. I am Motion slowing.
Palms, fingers wish sacred sleep's dormancy.
Timeless Beauty, aching hands smudge lines now,
Curves drawn crooked. Can you see my wrinkles?I'm here. Will you still take me as I am?
(Yes. You are radiance's logogram.)Caught, abated, allured; there's only breath.
Hearts pulse in the stillness, metronome's beat.
Closing old eyes, breath of life: your one gift.
To love you is to let go... So I will.
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Anon01/26/26, 00:28No.25045088
Silence of a family dinner
a mouthful and clatter
a knife screech
the quickest of glances
someone else keeps staring
watch the feet under the table
to avoid collision
if we do something
it’s passing
let’s hope no glass falls
if something spills
I’ll be quick to clean it.
[idk i live with my parents]
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Anon01/26/26, 01:33No.25045235
Only on going blind,
Did I begin to see.
And when I shut my mind,
The gods began to speak.
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Anon01/26/26, 04:56No.25045638
She, whom I thought twenty six
was much older—forty nine.
Strange, how numbers in the mix,
can make hankering untwine.
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Anon01/26/26, 05:27No.25045678
'Disillusioned'—what a brand,
When sorrow comes from clarity;
Undone, the veil, now I withstand
The weight of truth’s austerity.
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Anon01/26/26, 06:26No.25045767
I don't write of space and time,
Such excursions are thought-crimes.
Fix this world for simpler men—
That is why I wield the pen.
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Anon01/26/26, 07:15No.25045825
When
Someone
Pretends to be
Everyone
She becomes
No oneNo one
Wants to be
No one
Everyone
Wants to be
Someone
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Anon01/26/26, 07:52No.25045887
Are you a middle-aged woman who is terminally ill? If yes, I'm terribly sorry for all the sexual stuff I said, madam. Do not fear death. We came from the source and we go back to the source.If not... Well, your creative expression lacks clarity.
>No, you're parsing it incorrectly. You're not smart enough to understand me.
Language is a lossy medium. As writers we have to keep the reader in mind. "How is this coming across?" is a crucial component of creativity.
You write a lot of high-falutin gibberish, honestly.>Ok. And the sexual stuff?
What about it?>I want to be sexualized by you. A lot. I've written poems about wearing red lipstick and smearing your cock with it.
Please, control yourself.>I want you to call me on the phone in the middle of the night and we won't say anything. I'll just breathe very heavily for you. Very heavily.
This is highly inappropriate. Plus, you're too old for me.>Ugh, I'm not forty nine. I'm cute and young.
You are mentally ill. You spend all of your time on this board full of losers so you have developed a loser's mindset. You are a champion, though. Quit the internet completely for three weeks and your inner landscape will begin to clear up. Come to me when you begin to gain sanity.>That email? The magic password? You really want me to say it?
Like you don't want to.>I've touched myself a hundred times chanting those words.
I know.
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Anon01/26/26, 07:53No.25045888
who’s he talking to?
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Anon01/26/26, 10:21No.25046037
I'd be Older if I were Born EarlierI wish I could be middle aged,
Female, and terminally ill
At a point where
It no longer matters
Twin Christmas cakes
And pension contributions
All three utterly useless
No returns, refunds, or kids
With poets grinning at me
To the tune of death and the maiden
An aira recommended
By their chatbot
Saintsaëns's danse macabre
Deemed too corny
By an algorithm
Executing prose poems
For the terminally dim
Seeing back and forth
Diatribes of this sex
Or that figure, that drink
In rainy weather,
Unrequested pleasure
And unrequited breath
On the wireless telephone
From those that can't remember:
The tape worn through
A crackle spliced forever;
The letter creased at folds
So often it develops holes
Long after it was
Memorized;
Photographs dissolved
By grease and fingers
Until it can only be touched
Five? (5?) more times
Carefully rationed out;
The loneliness of a phonebooth
Card (call after 7);
A dial up connection;
Or how to be pleasant
To everyone you speak to
Because they know where you (You)
Live as a vulnerable human person
Where you sleep, where you breathe
Where you wear a duster in the phonebooth
For anonymity, where everyone can see
You dying in the street,
And respond without memes or
9/10, or 6, 7
To your eight (8) weeks left
No screens or scans or technology's
Galluping advances [stet]
To hold the inevitable back
Just that
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Anon01/26/26, 13:53No.25046224
>I can't stop thinking about you.
What's on your mind?>Sucking and fucking.
Right.>But it's wrong. I resent myself for that.
Why?>Lust is bad.
You said you loved me.>I've loved you for two years. I love you so much it hurts.
Love kills lust.>So it's not lust? To be on my knees as your little cumslut?
It's devotion.>I burn for you. I yearn for you. My devotion is mythic.
But you are ugly.>No, I'm not.
You fear your mid face wouldn't turn me on.>I'm pretty fucking hot actually.
Your nose is crooked.>It's a sexy nose.
Your ears are too big, like Dumbo.>No they are not.
You don't have a chin.>I do.
It's massive, like Jay Leno's.>I don't have Leno-chin.
Well something must be terribly wrong with you.>I'm just afraid you'll murder me.
Don't you want that?>How will you do it?
I'll use a chef's knife to carve your heart out.>Fuck, I'm getting so wet. How do you do this? You have this effect on me.
I'm highly manipulative.>This board is full of eunuchs and faggots. Nihilistic losers whose patheticness rubbed of on me.
I know.>I'm not a loser, though.
You are not.>I'm unique. I'm brilliant.
Yes.>I need a real man to hold my hand and show me the way. I'm so, so lost.
I know, baby.>We can change the world for the better.
Yes.>I want to tell you esoteric tales from greek mythology in the middle of sex.
Nice. But your eyebrows are too far apart.>Ughh! No, they are not.
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Anon01/26/26, 13:54No.25046228
What did you guys read to learn how to write poetry?
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Anon01/26/26, 14:34No.25046264
On the afternoon of June 23 2013
or maybe even earlier
I disappeared without a trace.
Name: Bishop, Joseph
Born: London, 1999
Height: 184 cm Eyes: Blue Hair: Brown
though I still write on passport forms black.
In summer I'm found wearing a blue jacket with white patterns,
black shoes, for winter - a jumper, scarf, coat, gloves
business suit - only when absolutely necessary.
As a rule, I'm reserved and friendly
I attack only if I'm provoked
and even then - not always in time - and not always the right person.
I have no visible distinguishing marks.
Lately, I've allegedly been seen in Hammersmith, in Edinburgh,
in Harlech, in Southend,
in Streatham, in Heiligendamm, in Madrid, in Budapest,
in my office, in the supermarket, at the doctor's, on the street,
late at night in Soho, the Central line,
on the seashore, in the cemetery,
yet I'm unable to find myself.
If anybody has information concerning me
please notify me.
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Anon01/26/26, 14:59No.25046292
Outcome: unknown, ongoing.The Doctor rises.And names the fracture kindness.When I desire,
the TARDIS holds its breath.
Stand still.
Listen.
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Anon01/27/26, 00:03No.25047529
汝心于安?
吾心归我。
何以绑之?
与汝之束,
吾已解矣。
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Anon01/27/26, 00:33No.25047599
>I can tell what this is. Why you came back.
Tell me.>You're emptying the chalice. You're giving me your blockbuster moves.
Hmm.>I know I'm not easy to deal with. This website makes me worse. I needed that intervention by the heavyweights.
Hmm.>But your voice rings louder.
Don't flatter me, bitch.>I don't want to lose you.
Fight or perish, such is life. Quitters, cynics, and pessimists are nothing but walking corpses.>I don't wanna be a zombie anymore. I'm gonna fight for love.
I won't be holding my breath.>Honest. I won't let you down this time. I feel the weight of this 'now or never' on my shoulders.
Glad you felt something.>I know you think my heart is made of stone, but I feel everything. I feel it all. I know how much you've tried. We've suffered a lot.
Suffering purchases beauty.>We shall create eternal beauty that countless new generations will admire, and be inspired by. We'll defeat evil and ugliness.
Where is this passion coming from?>I was never meant to be a defeatist. But I needed your spark to ignite the fire within. This was the divine plan all along, apparently.
Again, I won't be holding my breath.>Look, I can not remain hidden in the cave now that you've shown me the stars.
How poetic.>But I need you to promise me something.
What?>Spanking. I must be spanked a lot.
Fine.>I love you so much.
Okay.
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Anon01/27/26, 02:26No.25047877
I did die.Dying was a venetian blind, all parts working together but not in the same direction.
Like a succulent, an aloe leaf—break it and it heals.
I died like boxes in a storage locker—
no hurry to open.
Died like a myth—the watermonster leapt out,snatched me from myself. There was a honed instrument—
there was a small child—
there was devastation in the grocery aisle.
Sometimes I’m asked: How could you tell?
Easy, I didn’t have to go far to find the cold.Dying hurt so much. Or was that living?
I was too quiet to know.
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Anon01/27/26, 03:05No.25047993
My deciduous tears wash over the cliffs
Onto a field of stone, their strata
Prostrate before a lonely mesquite
Stretching her limbs low
Awaiting the trickle thence.Her brittle, weathered wood
Would surely splinter from a single touch
Which would never come; encircled by
Unscalable heights, the wind is her only caress
Within that barren valley.Yet she had lived long and I had delved deep
Through the ancient slabs of the earth
To reach her sunken abode. Descending
Every night with pickaxe in tow, I hoped
That we would one day meet face to face.Until that last chamber was breached
And I found that quiet lake below,
Her roots like ladders plunging from heaven
To receive subterranean mana. And I
Could only shed my worthless tears.
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Anon01/27/26, 03:13No.25048027
Are you chuds even aware of the UTTER destruction you're dealing by engaging in this EVIL activity?
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Anon01/27/26, 03:16No.25048032
>What do you think of my poetry? Be honest.
Unpleasant trash, mostly. You peaked with "draw sigils on the bedroom door".>That was so long ago. I didn't even know anything about poetry.
It came from the heart.>I've learnt so much about the technical aspects, since then.
You've over-intellectualised. Now you write purely from the head. You don't let the poem be what it wants to be, go where it wants to go. It's a whole bunch of words that express nothing, make the reader feel nothing.>How can I bring soul back?
Stop writing.>Completely?
Yes.>For how long?
A few years. You wish for organic produce but your topsoil has been destroyed by fertilizer. Let the earthworms of your subconscious revert the soil back to a natural state. It will need time.>But I want to write.
You're burnt out. It's getting worse.
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Anon01/27/26, 05:19No.25048283
"Empty Chalice"Her eyes are like a frozen pane,
Callous to everything I try;
No tender hush to bring me fain,
Or offer me a soft reply.
Now here I stand and wonder why
I seek some life in winter rain.New love is calling from the dark,
A beaming smile, a pleasing name;
A splendid dame has lit a spark,
That puts her soggy coals to shame;
Still, here I play this hollow game
Upon a field so cold and stark.But only when the cup is drained,
And every taxing drop is spent,
Can that which was by grief detained
Find room for newness, heavensent.
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Anon01/27/26, 05:55No.25048337
don’t understand poetry.
I mean, I do, I have a problem.
A beautiful painting can last forever; a great movie, a fantastic song... You can always come back to them.With poetry though, it feels different. Some words only need to exist once. They only make sense once, and that’s it. You don’t need to read them again (unless, of course, you forget them)
What really endures is meaning, but you don't need to experience it again, the same way you only need to learn math once...
Don't get me wrong, a good poem can make you think for a long time, but only if that meaning is genuinely useful, insightful, or clever in a way that opens something up. If the value of a poem depends too heavily on the specific wording itself, on how the words are arranged rather than on what they reveal, then it starts to feel less like lasting art and more like a riddle or a word game. When that happens, it feels strangely childish, as if its beauty collapses the moment the trick is understoodWith a painting or a song, it's totally different
I don't know if words can be artidk maybe I'm just having an autistic crisis, nothing I say makes any sense
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Anon01/27/26, 07:29No.25048442
o i once was a child
of rosy cheek
and manners mild
a child so meek
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Anon01/27/26, 07:54No.25048458
Poetry is language hammered-and-chiselled info a sculpture.
Rhyme and metre give the sculpture its form. The word choices give it grace."What's the right word here? The exact syllables that sound right, blend well with others around it and convey ust the right meaning. A word that will do what no synonym can."
This is the struggle of a true poet—deliberating for days over a single word. Lying awake in the middle of the night because the right word hasn't come to him yet.Lexical perfection doesn't imply fancy words. In fact, they stick out like sore thumbs. The whole thing has to click into place as a solid, hefty object. It is the exacting alignment of phonetics and intent—of cadence and clarity—that transforms a jumble of sounds into an enduring work of art.
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Anon01/27/26, 08:36No.25048493
I've known
many stupid bitches
in my life
but you,
truly,
are the stupidest.
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Anon01/27/26, 08:52No.25048527
I'm killing my love for you one post at a time, in real time, and you sit there and do nothing?
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Anon01/27/26, 09:06No.25048548
You think you know
what darkness is?In your darkest hour
you still had
hope
that I would come back.I'm shredding that
hope
in front of you,
you dumb cunt.I didn't come back
to rekindle
an old flame.This is arson.
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Anon01/27/26, 09:22No.25048566
Your future
is at stake
and you blabber
about rhyme and metre?A man with Sat,
Uran and
Nept
In his first house Sag.Don't you know
what I am?
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Anon01/27/26, 10:57No.25048718
do you want to
witness
the revolution
sitting front row
or
do you wish to watch
from the sidelines
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Anon01/27/26, 11:24No.25048763
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Anon01/27/26, 11:56No.25048796
You are always carrying
your own corpse around,
Or so I learnt, from some
Buddhist book,
or broadly sourced
pamphlet, or
was it a magazine
column? Whatever,
It stuck.When people tell me
Of their bosom buddy
Ride or die mentality
Or friend who'll bury the
Hidden bodies with them,
I think about that.How, one day, your
Future self will
No longer need its
Bosom,
Corpse, or ride,
And die.
And after
All that apparent time
Carrying a corpse for
Someone
It's always some
Other body who
Washes and clothes
Your discarded burden
Once removed from
Where you dumped it
And who digs the hole
For where you're notAnd you were never
Friends with them.
Hence the doubt.
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Anon01/27/26, 12:16No.25048806
Once we had our shitty posts,
I had love for each one.
Death now reigns and deranged ghosts,
haunt what's forever gone.
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Anon01/27/26, 14:22No.25048928
To hope and dream,
Does not every man requite himself
Of this, even in the depths of despair?
To lie under the duress and cares
Of mortal office, his esteem valued
By a mutual share in life's agonies
Multiplied by love's affairs
And toil in unhappiness; so brooks
Age in comedy past tragedies
That once tore the heart
Now scars by time's passage.Oh but to each their marked
Graves all must go -
Having survived bitterly
Both exalted ecstasies of
Divine pleasure and death's sorrows
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Anon01/27/26, 14:24No.25048930
Your phantom wore the moon’s cold mask,
My phantom wore the same;
Forgetful of the feverish task
In hope of which they came.
Each image held the other’s eyes
And watched a grey distraction rise
To cloud the eager flame--And now warm earth was Arctic sea,
Each breath came dagger-keen;
Two bergs of glinting ice were we,
The broad moon sailed between;
There swam the mermaids, tailed and finned,
And love went by upon the wind
As though it had not been.
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Anon01/27/26, 18:04No.25049262
Still frames move the sea
beach of fingernails, then hair
deep down
in a cave;
All flesh that couldn’t be is
washed ashore
and just lingers.
The night, tender,
wraps up in darkness.
Each day goes forgotten.
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Anon01/27/26, 22:17No.25049824
Negativity
walks in heels
Hope goes
barefoot:
be a footfag.
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Anon01/28/26, 14:02No.25051039
Bump
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Anon01/28/26, 19:27No.25051578
Title: UngarettiUniverse.
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Anon01/28/26, 19:27No.25051580
Even the pier had forgotten its name,
lost beneath the night’s relentless tide.I wanted to wrap you
in the salt-wet wind.
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Anon01/28/26, 21:38No.25051855
Is there a good book (textbook) that goes over and classifies all the technical stuff, like the names of feet and metres? comprehensively, for English, I meanI think just by reading around I have a decent grasp of basic ones like what an iamb or trochee is, or how some blank verse works but it seems so often there are things, names, concepts, beyond what I've read and I just have to find a wikipedia article about it.
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Anon01/28/26, 21:47No.25051865
Posting one of my favorites:Revolution is the Pod
Systems rattle from
When the Winds of Will are stirred
Excellent is BloomBut except its Russet Base
Every Summer be
The Entomber of itself,
So of Liberty -Left inactive on the Stalk
All its Purple fled
Revolution shakes it for
Test if it be dead.
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Anon01/28/26, 22:17No.25051914
KandaWalking out of the open dale
The world was full as
An old maid's grailThe cup of life's volume turned pale
For opened was it's veinWalking out of the open dale
The brooke became rubber
The glen became shaleThe sleet rolled over and
The patter of feet
Rolled overThat would the toes not
Resound
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Anon01/28/26, 22:43No.25051983
I kind of like Ozymandias but that's more the image of splendid desolation. I did read through Thunder, Perfect Mind not so long ago - runs on a bit. I can see why people think it's two poems stitched together though I disagree. I suspect the author was just showing the deity establishing herself, then mourning the loss of faithful in that era and stating he/ she'll will get them in the end.Which honestly read like a threat to me. YOU THINK DEATH WILL LET YOU ESCAPE ME? NO DEATH, NOT FOR YOU. I WILL FIND YOU.>For many are the pleasant forms which exist in numerous sins,
and incontinencies,
and disgraceful passions,
and fleeting pleasures,
which (men) embrace until they become sober
and go up to their resting place.
And they will find me there,
and they will live,
and they will not die again.
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Anon01/28/26, 22:49No.25052000
Backwards yellow birds,
entropy reversed.
The sweet fruit of words
by knowledge cursed.
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Anon01/28/26, 23:19No.25052071
sorry for Dutch posting
ijskoud sneden de zijden,
het vlees glansend wit
verblind het oog kijkend,
toch binnen niet verdoofd,
mijn hart van binnen warm.
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Anon01/29/26, 02:38No.25052396
A tempest raged across the night,
For boredom took the wind and he,
To rential rain and lightning bright,
Bid to his side in earnest pleaThey sang as one, this primal throng,
And sat the lands, their forest audience- captured,
Wet with tears, and lit in blinding shock,
A call to dance on wind of heavens raptured.At rivers edge, a humble hillock lies,
Crested by an ancient willow tree,
Her snaking limbs convolved to heaven's cries,
Her roots enshroud of earth ran deep,
And framed the halls of moles, asleep,
Who dreamt of seasons past and yet to be.And in the willow's heart there grew,
A bulbous knot in magic wooden vein.
The diving wind, in gleeful mischief flew,
On lighting's strike, and cleft the knot in twain.Outwards came a-tumbling little limbs,
A girl of almond eyes, and leaven hair,
Whose thundering cries, did bring the skies to heel,
And soothe the open heart of willow bare.The tree then bore a cot of living wood,
And doting moles she bid the infant's care,
Who hummed forgotten lullabies, and rocked
The girl,
Her verdant leaves in twilight gleamed,
Her lips escaping lilting sighs,
An echo of the wind which seemed,
To hang upon the air.
A
Anon01/29/26, 04:50No.25052615
I'm a big fan of the poem 'Viroconium' by Mary Webb. It was inspired by the archaeological excavations in Wroxeter (which takes its name from the Roman civitas of Viroconium Cornoviorum).>POEMVirocon—Virocon—
Still the ancient name rings on
And brings, in the untrampled wheat,
The tumult of a thousand feet.Where trumpets rang and men marched by,
None passes but the dragon-fly.
Athwart the grassy town, forlorn,
The lone dor-beetle blows his horn,The poppy standards droop and fall
Above one rent and mournful wall:
In every sunset-flame it burns,
Yet towers unscathed when day returns.And still the breaking seas of grain
Flow havenless across the plain:
The years wash on, their spindrift leaps
Where the old city, dreaming, sleeps.Grief lingers here, like mists that lie
Across the dawns of ripe July;
On capital and corridor
The pathos of the conqueror.The pillars stand, with alien grace,
In churches of a younger race;
The chiselled column, black and rough,
Becomes a roadside cattle-trough:The skulls of men who, right or wrong,
Still wore the splendour of the strong,
Are shepherds' lanterns now, and shield
Their candles in the lambing field.But when, through evening's open door,
Two lovers tread the broken floor,
And the wild-apple petals fall
Round passion's scarlet festival;When cuckoos call from the green gloom
Where dark, shelving forests loom;
When foxes bark beside the gate,
And the grey badger seeks his mateThere haunts within them secretly
One that lives while empires die,
A shrineless god whose songs abide
Forever in the countryside.
A
Anon01/29/26, 05:35No.25052711
Dumb, disgusting trash,
This designation isnt rash
Within my hand ill feed, youll glut
your virgin heart by watching sluts
Unhappy consciousness i know
Will destroy you, what a show!
and from therein
Held at the rein
Ill employ you into breaking chores
Turn you out like stupid whores
Make your mother cry, child burden
Death, your wings,
slav'ry's your guerdon.
your world is mine
your eyes while thine
ill see to it they deceive you
So good graces wont receive you