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    Thread: Poem Findings

    1. #1
      Xox
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      Poem Findings

      Poems you like (not ones you wrote, ones by other people). I'll start off with something I discovered through stumbleupon yesterday..



      I Met A Genius
      Charles Bukowski

      I met a genius on the train
      today
      about 6 years old,
      he sat beside me
      and as the train
      ran down along the coast
      we came to the ocean
      and then he looked at me
      and said,
      it’s not pretty.

      it was the first time I’d
      realized
      that.

    2. #2
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      Dreams
      Langston Hughes

      Hold fast to dreams
      For if dreams die
      Life is a broken-winged bird
      That cannot fly.
      Hold fast to dreams
      For when dreams go
      Life is a barren field
      Frozen with snow.

    3. #3
      Il Buoиo Siиdяed's Avatar
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      Some general suggestions of favoured poets and works of particular note:

      T.S. Eliot (The Waste Land, The Hollow Men)
      Modernist awesomeness. Referential to the point of self-depricating, almost an attack on critique and interpretation. Crafts words like a fucking pro.
      Philip Larkin
      Misanthrope, death-fearing, womanizer. With irony everywhere.
      Robert Browning
      Sinister epics. Plus Dark Tower. I mean. Dark damn Tower.
      Allen Ginsberg (Anything from the Howl collection)
      That he's Beat generation is all you need to know. Goddamn the 50s were fine.
      W.H. Auden
      Dylan Thomas
      Stevie Smith (Waving Not Drowning)
      John Betjeman (Slough, Narcissus)
      Slough is just like. Real as fuck. Captures and critiques mundanity.
      W.B. Yeats

      If I had to pick some?

      The Second Coming, W.B. Yeats

      Turning and turning in the widening gyre
      The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
      Things fall apart; the center cannot hold;
      Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
      The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
      The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
      The best lack all conviction, while the worst
      Are full of passionate intensity.

      Surely some revelation is at hand;
      Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
      The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
      When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
      Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
      A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
      A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
      Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
      Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
      The darkness drops again; but now I know
      That twenty centuries of stony sleep
      Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
      And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
      Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

      Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night, Dylan Thomas

      Do not go gentle into that good night,
      Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
      Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

      Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
      Because their words had forked no lightning they
      Do not go gentle into that good night.

      Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
      Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
      Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

      Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
      And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
      Do not go gentle into that good night.

      Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
      Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
      Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

      And you, my father, there on the sad height,
      Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
      Do not go gentle into that good night.
      Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
      Last edited by Siиdяed; 02-11-2010 at 08:55 PM.
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    4. #4
      Xox
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      When I have Fears that I may Cease to Be
      John Keats

      When I have fears that I may cease to be
      Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,
      Before high piled books, in charact'ry,
      Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain;
      When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,
      Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
      And think that I may never live to trace
      Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;
      And when I feel, fair creature of an hour!
      That I shall never look upon thee more,
      Never have relish in the faery power
      Of unreflecting love;—then on the shore
      Of the wide world I stand alone, and think,
      Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink.

    5. #5
      Il Buoиo Siиdяed's Avatar
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      Poem I ought to be discussing in a medieval lit seminar in an hour or so. But my eye is leaking and my nose is running and my head hurts and I feel like dying (or just sleeping through it and watching Ponyo at the cinema afterwards).

      The Wanderer

      Worth checking the different translations. As a poem it has some very decent moments (you may recognise the 'Where is the horse now?' section, as Tolkien plays on it), though after several Anglo-Saxon works the general message of EARTHISSHITTHESEDAYSCAN'TWAITFORHEAVEN does get a little overdone.

      And something outside the course:

      The Annihilation of Nothing, Thom Gunn

      Nothing remained: Nothing, the wanton name
      That nightly I rehearsed till led away
      To a dark sleep, or sleep that held one dream.

      In this a huge contagious absence lay,
      More space than space, over the cloud and slime,
      Defined but by the encroachments of its sway.

      Stripped to indifference at the turns of time,
      Whose end I knew, I woke without desire,
      And welcomed zero as a paradigm.

      But now it breaks - images burst with fire
      Into the quiet sphere where I have bided,
      Showing the landscape holding yet entire:

      The power that I envisaged, that presided
      Ultimate in its abstract devastations,
      Is merely change, the atoms it divided

      Complete, in ignorance, new combinations.
      Only an infinite finitude I see
      In those peculiar lovely variations.

      It is despair that nothing cannot be
      Flares in the mind and leaves a smoky mark
      Of dread.
      Look upward. Neither firm nor free,

      Purposeless matter hovers in the dark.
      Last edited by Siиdяed; 02-12-2010 at 02:48 PM.

    6. #6
      XeL
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      I was looking through my mom's huuuuuge collection of poetry books when i came across this Vietnamese folk poem:

      A tiny bird


      A tiny bird with red feathers,
      a tiny bird with black beak
      drinks up the lotus pond day by day.
      Perhaps I must leave you.

      It's translated by John Balaban. Too bad I couldn't read the original text in vietnamese.
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      ~Adopted by Cygnus~

    7. #7
      Xox
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      Stanzas
      Emily (debatable, some say Charlotte) Brontë

      Often rebuked, yet always back returning
      To those first feelings that were born with me,
      And leaving busy chase of wealth and learning
      For idle dreams of things which cannot be:

      To-day, I will seek not the shadowy region;
      Its unsustaining vastness waxes drear;
      And visions rising, legion after legion,
      Bring the unreal world too strangely near.

      I'll walk, but not in old heroic traces,
      And not in paths of high morality,
      And not among the half-distinguished faces,
      The clouded forms of long-past history.

      I'll walk where my own nature would be leading:
      It vexes me to choose another guide:
      Where the grey flocks in ferny glens are feeding;
      Where the wild wind blows on the mountain side.

      What have those lonely mountains worth revealing?
      More glory and more grief than I can tell:
      The earth that wakes one human heart to feeling
      Can centre both the worlds of Heaven and Hell.

    8. #8
      Pistol Pete CanceledCzech's Avatar
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      my old man, by charles bukowski

      16 years old
      during the depression
      I’d come home drunk
      and all my clothing–
      shorts, shirts, stockings–
      suitcase, and pages of
      short stories
      would be thrown out on the
      front lawn and about the
      street.

      my mother would be
      waiting behind a tree:
      “Henry, Henry, don’t
      go in . . .he’ll
      kill you, he’s read
      your stories . . .”

      “I can whip his
      ass . . .”

      “Henry, please take
      this . . .and
      find yourself a room.”

      but it worried him
      that I might not
      finish high school
      so I’d be back
      again.

      one evening he walked in
      with the pages of
      one of my short stories
      (which I had never submitted
      to him)
      and he said, “this is
      a great short story.”
      I said, “o.k.,”
      and he handed it to me
      and I read it.
      it was a story about
      a rich man
      who had a fight with
      his wife and had
      gone out into the night
      for a cup of coffee
      and had observed
      the waitress and the spoons
      and forks and the
      salt and pepper shakers
      and the neon sign
      in the window
      and then had gone back
      to his stable
      to see and touch his
      favorite horse
      who then
      kicked him in the head
      and killed him.

      somehow
      the story held
      meaning for him
      though
      when I had written it
      I had no idea
      of what I was
      writing about.

      so I told him,
      “o.k., old man, you can
      have it.”

      and he took it
      and walked out
      and closed the door.
      I guess that’s
      as close
      as we ever got.


      (Bukowski is a master)
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      I shall do my best not to go overboard here. Restraint.


      Spoiler for XX. by Isel Rivero:


      Spoiler for Love Is A Parallax by Sylvia Plath:


      Spoiler for La Condition Humaine by Robert Lowell:


      Spoiler for You, You Only, Exist by Rainer Maria Rilke:
      Last edited by acatalephobic; 02-16-2010 at 12:04 PM.
      http://i421.photobucket.com/albums/pp299/soaringbongos/hippieheaven.jpg

      "you will not transform this house of prayer into a house of thieves"

    10. #10
      Il Buoиo Siиdяed's Avatar
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      Ozymandias, or, On A Stupendous Leg of Granite, Discovered Standing by Itself in the Deserts of Egypt, with the Inscription Inserted Below, Horace Smith

      In Egypt's sandy silence, all alone,
      Stands a gigantic Leg, which far off throws
      The only shadow that the Desert knows:
      "I am great OZYMANDIAS," saith the stone,
      "The King of Kings; this mighty City shows
      "The wonders of my hand." The City's gone,
      Nought but the Leg remaining to disclose
      The site of this forgotten Babylon.
      We wonder, and some Hunter may express
      Wonder like ours, when thro' the wilderness
      Where London stood, holding the Wolf in chace,
      He meets some fragments huge, and stops to guess
      What powerful but unrecorded race
      Once dwelt in that annihilated place.
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    11. #11
      Pistol Pete CanceledCzech's Avatar
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      Epitaph by Don Blanding
      Do not carve on stone or wood,
      "He was honest" or "He was good."
      Write in smoke on a passing breeze
      Seven words… and the words are these,
      Telling all that a volume could,
      "He lived, he laughed and… he understood."

      Spoiler for XeL's Viet poem...:
      Last edited by CanceledCzech; 02-17-2010 at 07:52 PM.
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    12. #12
      Il Buoиo Siиdяed's Avatar
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      The Cats, H. P. Lovecraft

      Babels of blocks to the high heavens towering
      Flames of futility swirling below;
      Poisonous fungi in brick and stone flowering,
      Lanterns that shudder and death-lights that glow.

      Black monstrous bridges across oily rivers,
      Cobwebs of cable to nameless things spun;
      Catacomb deeps whose dank chaos delivers
      Streams of live foetor that rots in the sun.

      Colour and splendour, disease and decaying,
      Shrieking and ringing and crawling insane,
      Rabbles exotic to stranger-gods praying,
      Jumbles of odour that stifle the brain.

      Legions of cats from the alleys nocturnal.
      Howling and lean in the glare of the moon,
      Screaming the future with mouthings infernal,
      Yelling the Garden of Pluto's red rune.

      Tall towers and pyramids ivy'd and crumbling,
      Bats that swoop low in the weed-cumber'd streets;
      Bleak Arkham bridges o'er rivers whose rumbling
      Joins with no voice as the thick horde retreats.

      Belfries that buckle against the moon totter,
      Caverns whose mouths are by mosses effac'd,
      And living to answer the wind and the water,
      Only the lean cats that howl in the wastes.

    13. #13
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      So much of that poem is reading it aloud.
      http://i421.photobucket.com/albums/pp299/soaringbongos/hippieheaven.jpg

      "you will not transform this house of prayer into a house of thieves"

    14. #14
      Pistol Pete CanceledCzech's Avatar
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      Fucking amazing. Sinny has just shown me my new favorite poem.

      __̴ı̴̴̡̡̡ ̡͌l̡̡̡ ̡͌l̡*̡̡ ̴̡ı̴̴̡ ̡̡͡|̲̲̲͡͡͡ ̲▫̲͡ ̲̲̲͡͡π̲̲͡͡ ̲̲͡▫̲̲͡͡ ̲|̡̡̡ ̡ ̴̡ı̴̡̡ ̡͌l̡̡̡̡.__

    15. #15
      The Spenner Spenner's Avatar
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      anyone lived in a pretty how town by E. E. Cummings

      anyone lived in a pretty how town
      (with up so floating many bells down)
      spring summer autumn winter
      he sang his didn't he danced his did

      Women and men(both little and small)
      cared for anyone not at all
      they sowed their isn't they reaped their same
      sun moon stars rain

      children guessed(but only a few
      and down they forgot as up they grew
      autumn winter spring summer)
      that noone loved him more by more

      when by now and tree by leaf
      she laughed his joy she cried his grief
      bird by snow and stir by still
      anyone's any was all to her

      someones married their everyones
      laughed their cryings and did their dance
      (sleep wake hope and then)they
      said their nevers they slept their dream

      stars rain sun moon
      (and only the snow can begin to explain
      how children are apt to forget to remember
      with up so floating many bells down)

      one day anyone died i guess
      (and noone stooped to kiss his face)
      busy folk buried them side by side
      little by little and was by was

      all by all and deep by deep
      and more by more they dream their sleep
      noone and anyone earth by april
      wish by spirit and if by yes.

      Women and men(both dong and ding)
      summer autumn winter spring
      reaped their sowing and went their came
      sun moon stars rain


      So surreal, almost hilariously so. I love e.e. cummings' poetry.
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    16. #16
      strange trains of thought Achievements:
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      When the last living thing
      Has died on account of us,
      How poetical it would be
      If Earth could say,
      In a voice floating up
      Perhaps
      From the floor
      Of the Grand Canyon,
      "It is done.
      People did not like it here."
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      http://i421.photobucket.com/albums/pp299/soaringbongos/hippieheaven.jpg

      "you will not transform this house of prayer into a house of thieves"

    17. #17
      Il Buoиo Siиdяed's Avatar
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      This is. Easily a favourite. And nice to see e.e. about, Spenner.

      High Windows, Philip Larkin

      When I see a couple of kids
      And guess he's fucking her and she's
      Taking pills or wearing a diaphragm,
      I know this is paradise

      Everyone old has dreamed of all their lives--
      Bonds and gestures pushed to one side
      Like an outdated combine harvester,
      And everyone young going down the long slide

      To happiness, endlessly. I wonder if
      Anyone looked at me, forty years back,
      And thought, That'll be the life;
      No God any more, or sweating in the dark

      About hell and that, or having to hide
      What you think of the priest. He
      And his lot will all go down the long slide
      Like free bloody birds.
      And immediately

      Rather than words comes the thought of high windows:
      The sun-comprehending glass,
      And beyond it, the deep blue air, that shows
      Nothing, and is nowhere, and is endless.


      Hell, I'm in the mood for more. Here:

      In a Station of the Metro, Ezra Pound

      IN A STATION OF THE METRO

      The apparition of these faces in the crowd ;
      Petals on a wet, black bough.

      On Poet-Ape, Ben Jonson

      Poor Poet-Ape, that would be thought our chief,
      Whose works are e'en the frippery of wit,
      From brokage is become so bold a thief,
      As we, the robbed, leave rage, and pity it.
      At first he made low shifts, would pick and glean,
      Buy the reversion of old plays; now grown
      To a little wealth, and credit in the scene,
      He takes up all, makes each man's wit his own.
      And, told of this, he slights it. Tut, such crimes
      The sluggish gaping auditor devours;
      He marks not whose 'twas first, and after-times
      May judge it to be his, as well as ours.
      Fool, as if half eyes will not know a fleece
      From locks of wool, or shreds from the whole piece.
      Last edited by Siиdяed; 02-23-2010 at 12:23 AM.
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    18. #18
      The Spenner Spenner's Avatar
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      I love the one by Ezra Pound especially-- last year I used it for a poetry analysis in English, and was surprised on how much one can elaborate on such a delicately compacted piece.

      A Dream Within A Dream by Edgar Allan Poe

      Take this kiss upon the brow!
      And, in parting from you now,
      Thus much let me avow-
      You are not wrong, who deem
      That my days have been a dream;
      Yet if hope has flown away
      In a night, or in a day,
      In a vision, or in none,
      Is it therefore the less gone?
      All that we see or seem
      Is but a dream within a dream.

      I stand amid the roar
      Of a surf-tormented shore,
      And I hold within my hand
      Grains of the golden sand-
      How few! yet how they creep
      Through my fingers to the deep,
      While I weep- while I weep!
      O God! can I not grasp
      Them with a tighter clasp?
      O God! can I not save
      One from the pitiless wave?
      Is all that we see or seem
      But a dream within a dream?

      the sky was by e.e. cummings

      Code:
      the sky was
      
      the
            sky
                  was
      can    dy    lu
      minous
                edible
      spry
              pinks shy
      lemons
      greens    coo    l choc
      olate
      s.
      
        un    der,
        a    lo
      co
      mo
            tive      s      pout
                                      ing
                                            vi
                                            o
                                            lets
      Last edited by Spenner; 02-23-2010 at 02:40 AM.

    19. #19
      Xox
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      The Portrait

      Robert Graves

      She speaks always in her own voice
      Even to strangers; but those other women
      Exercise their borrowed, or false, voices
      Even on sons and daughters.

      She can walk invisibly at noon
      Along the high road; but those other women
      Gleam phosphorescent -- broad hips and gross fingers --
      Down every lampless alley.

      She is wild and innocent, pledged to love
      Through all disaster; but those other women
      Decry her for a witch or a common drab
      And glare back when she greets them.

      Here is her portrait, gazing sidelong at me,
      The hair in disarray, the young eyes pleading:
      "And you, love? As unlike those other men
      As I those other women?"


      -

      Spenner: That's one of my favourite poems of all time. The Dream.
      Last edited by Xox; 02-27-2010 at 04:36 AM.
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    20. #20
      Xox
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      We Wear the Mask

      Paul Laurence Dunbar

      WE wear the mask that grins and lies,
      It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,—
      This debt we pay to human guile;
      With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,
      And mouth with myriad subtleties.

      Why should the world be over-wise,
      In counting all our tears and sighs?
      Nay, let them only see us, while
      We wear the mask.

      We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries
      To thee from tortured souls arise.
      We sing, but oh the clay is vile
      Beneath our feet, and long the mile;
      But let the world dream otherwise,
      We wear the mask!

    21. #21
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      I don't know if anyone else would consider this to be poetry; I do.

      Spoiler for The Most Beautiful Woman In Town:
      FallenAwake likes this.

      __̴ı̴̴̡̡̡ ̡͌l̡̡̡ ̡͌l̡*̡̡ ̴̡ı̴̴̡ ̡̡͡|̲̲̲͡͡͡ ̲▫̲͡ ̲̲̲͡͡π̲̲͡͡ ̲̲͡▫̲̲͡͡ ̲|̡̡̡ ̡ ̴̡ı̴̡̡ ̡͌l̡̡̡̡.__

    22. #22
      The Spenner Spenner's Avatar
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      here's to opening and upward - e.e. cummings

      here's to opening and upward, to leaf and to sap
      and to your(in my arms flowering so new)
      self whose eyes smell of the sound of rain

      and here's to silent certainly mountains;and to
      a disappearing poet of always,snow
      and to morning;and to morning's beautiful friend
      twilight(and a first dream called ocean)and

      let must or if be damned with whomever's afraid
      down with ought with because with every brain
      which thinks it thinks,nor dares to feel(but up
      with joy;and up with laughing and drunkenness)

      here's to one undiscoverable guess
      of whose mad skill each world of blood is made
      (whose fatal songs are moving in the moon

      a pretty a day by e.e. cummings

      a pretty a day
      (and every fades)
      is here and away
      (but born are maids
      to flower an hour
      in all,all)

      o yes to flower
      until so blithe
      a doer a wooer
      some limber and lithe
      some very fine mower
      a tall;tall

      some jerry so very
      (and nellie and fan)
      some handsomest harry
      (and sally and nan
      they tremble and cower
      so pale:pale)

      for betty was born
      to never say nay
      but lucy could learn
      and lily could pray
      and fewer were shyer
      than doll. doll

      He is by far my most favourable poet. Such a pleasure to let my eyes soak in when I'm relaxed and meditative.

    23. #23
      Il Buoиo Siиdяed's Avatar
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      I hadn't realise Joyce wrote poetry as well. Initial impressions are a bit bland. Might try and give them a closer look later.

      This is the best I found so far.

      Ecce Puer, James Joyce

      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!

    24. #24
      Il Buoиo Siиdяed's Avatar
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      Not a poem. But a good find and worth reading.

      Belief and Technique for Modern Prose, Jack Kerouac

      A list of thirty "essentials" for writing.

      1. Scribbled secret notebooks, and wild typewritten pages, for your own joy
      2. Submissive to everything, open, listening
      3. Try never get drunk outside your own house
      4. Be in love with your life
      5. Something that you feel will find its own form
      6. Be crazy dumbsaint of the mind
      7. Blow as deep as you want to blow
      8. Write what you want bottomless from bottom of the mind
      9. The unspeakable visions of the individual
      10. No time for poetry but exactly what is
      11. Visionary tics shivering in the chest
      12. In tranced fixation dreaming upon object before you
      13. Remove literary, grammatical and syntactical inhibition
      14. Like Proust be an old teahead of time
      15. Telling the true story of the world in interior monolog
      16. The jewel center of interest is the eye within the eye
      17. Write in recollection and amazement for yourself
      18. Work from pithy middle eye out, swimming in language sea
      19. Accept loss forever
      20. Believe in the holy contour of life
      21. Struggle to sketch the flow that already exists intact in mind
      22. Don't think of words when you stop but to see picture better
      23. Keep track of every day the date emblazoned in yr morning
      24. No fear or shame in the dignity of yr experience, language & knowledge
      25. Write for the world to read and see yr exact pictures of it
      26. Bookmovie is the movie in words, the visual American form
      27. In praise of Character in the Bleak inhuman Loneliness
      28. Composing wild, undisciplined, pure, coming in from under, crazier the better
      29. You're a Genius all the time
      30. Writer-Director of Earthly movies Sponsored & Angeled in Heaven

      On a side note, I'd ignore 3. I know Kerouac didn't live by this rule, and given that he died young thanks to a life of excessive drinking, I wouldn't trust his advice on alcohol.
      Last edited by Siиdяed; 03-07-2010 at 11:41 PM.
      FallenAwake likes this.

    25. #25
      Pistol Pete CanceledCzech's Avatar
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      A few minutes ago, I wrote a poem of my own. First time I actually wrote something with the intent of working on it in a long time. I stumbled upon this a few minutes later, makes my poem look like the trite pissing of a child (which it is).

      Absolutely Preposterous
      -QuietMan

      So, I walked into my bedroom and got
      punched in the stomach when I realized
      that you weren’t really there, on the bed
      conspicuously eyeballing me and taking up
      as much space as you possibly could; it was a
      feline ability at which you eclipsed all others
      and after fifteen years by my side, it’ll take
      more than a couple weeks to get used
      to the idea of never seeing you again;
      except in the plastic- wrapped, plain
      cardboard box with the yellow sticker
      so starkly dominating in its finality and
      reminding me how ridiculous it is
      that you, of everyone, have been reduced to
      the same residue that the rest of us
      mere mortals will someday be reduced to.

      From: http://www.redbubble.com/people/quie...y-preposterous
      Xox, Siиdяed and ooflendoodle like this.

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