National Kid
Within my Understanding there does not Seem to be a Poetry Thread. This is Quite Unfortunate because I do enjoy Poetry. Although I am a Dilettante in relation to poetry and thus can not talk Extensively on the Subject I still wanted to make this Thread in the Hopes that my Knowledge may be Enriched by your Erudite posts.

Right now I am Memorizing Poetry by Percy Shelley. I like Reciting the Poems from memory with Bravado and Panache. I cannot Properly enjoy these works Unless I Iterate them myself, is this True for everybody or are some of you Satisfied by merely reading the words on the page?

Quote:I met a traveller from an antique land,
Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal, these words appear:
My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.”
I wish I could write well-loved poetry,
from which great praise could briskly flow to me,
but alas orcs shout: they call me "whitey",
their tongue much like the screams of sad banshee.
So then with disgust I turn heel and flee,
In the air my last words: "poo poo, pee pee."
Quote:The blue sky darkens as dawn is enfolded by fog,
The red sun retires as darkness sheathes rosy vapors.
Forming on leaves, making profuse the color of clouds,
Congealing into jade, all over the snowflakes fall.
Gleaming on towers: lustrous white, just like powder,
Half-hiding the screen, accumulating as if sand.
Like drifting willow floss the flying blossoms float,
Or like ‘plum makeup’ the flower petals flutter.
The shining jade disc is a full moon above the terrace,
Whirling pearls are piercing dew through drapes.
The jasper is immaculate, on the short and long steps,
And the jade clustered, from the tops to bottoms of trees.
It shines on the trees, whose ‘batons’ are heaped with white,
And swirls around the peaks, like lotuses wrapped in purity.
Starting and stopping, the weather about to grow heavy,
As if hesitating or lingering, the year nears its end.
Embracing treasure: I am ashamed by hidden virtue,
Manifesting fortune: I expect a year of abundance.
From among the flowers, it flies to the Imperial Gardens,
From the cranes’ roost, it dances towards Yichuan.
If I were to chant the Hidden Thoroughwort song,
Together we would enjoy the Yellow Bamboo piece.
Quote:Exhaustively investigating the cruelty of winter,
Loving its snowy wind and enduring its cold.
Trailing a bamboo staff as we drink wine from every house, climbing every mountain in a palanquin.
Adding to the eldest, turning to the silly and mischievous,
Thanking those who taught me to be idle when old.
The Taoist believer returns the debt of a happily married couple, intoxicated by the paper veiled plum blossoms as if within a dream.
Quote:Wine cup in hand, at the Overlooking Wave Pavilion I say,
Seeing far and deeply, distinguished and accomplished,
Like Crouching Dragon Zhuge.
From where does the magpie fly?
Treading on tips of the pine branches, it scatters the snow,
Which falls on my worn cap and adds to my hair white.
The remnant hills and rivers have no bearing,
Only sparse plum blossoms blow in the breeze and shiver in the moonlight.
Two or three wild geese look sad and dreary.
Of parting and not meeting we made light,
Regretting that the clear river could not be crossed in winter,
For water deeply frozen cannot flow.
No wheels can go forward on the broken roads,
All travelers are frozen to the bone.
Who do I ask, why have you come with such worries?
Was I wrong to yearn today?
If I knew originally, I would have used all my courage.
Now hearing the flute at night, don’t blow us apart.
Quote:When will the quiet swallow on the maple exhaust itself?
The colors of the flowers are diluted and washed away by the gentle appearance of the constellations.
Within the courtyard, the birds flutter their wings with cold,
from the stove of the small banquet spews columns of warm air.
For the second time, the jade-like zither sounds,
from four sides, songs stir the fog and restore the clear skies.
To claim to be rich and yet desolate,
throwing dice across the vast skies.’
Quote:The half snow-covered fields shine in the night,
A warm lake covered by a cloud of jade.
Delighted when seeing this beautiful scenery,
Not envying utopia or immortals
Quote:Gazing upon the distant cold mountain concealing the full moon,
The absolute and limitless snow are like lotuses.
Reminiscing about the distant, shining, waning moon,
Bamboo spirits, sighing in the dark, jut up into the blue sky.
The fragrant cold does not require the multitude’s appreciation,
Upon the flowers on red silk itself are attached touching emotions.
A good turn causes the beautiful jade statutes to dance,
An empty hand gently brushes away the water on the instruments.”
Quote:Rain drips and dribbles outside these curtains, spring withers away.
The thin silk quilts could not stand the frigid dawn.
What once I dreamt of being a minor guest, I clutch at to those pleasures in vain.
I must not lean alone by the railings, I do not mourn these lands.
A land I left so lightly yet so hard to return again.
As blossoms shatter on the rippling waters, spring is spent; heaven on earth remains.

A race cast in the abyss of decadence can not know itself. The Chinese through a rampant series of miscegenation have lost any refined character which they might have at one time possess. They ask “why can we not make the poetry like out ancestors?” Well because they are only one of the many who make up your aggregate racial bloodline. Look at the Chinese and know this is a race without any hope of salvation.
Going to post some poems every once in a while here to revive the thread.

Quote:William Butler Yeats - To my Heart, bidding it have no Fear (1899):
Be you still, be you still, trembling heart;
Remember the wisdom out of the old days:
Him who trembles before the flame and the flood,
And the winds that blow through the starry ways,
Let the starry winds and the flame and the flood
Cover over and hide, for he has no part
With the proud, majestical multitude.
A personal favorite of mine:

Quote:Ezra Pound - Sestina, Altaforte:
LOQUITUR: En Bertrans de Born. Dante Alighieri put this man in hell for that he was a stirrer up of strife. Eccovi! Judge ye! Have I dug him up again? The scene is at his castle, Altaforte. "Papiols" is his jongleur. "The Leopard", the device of Richard Coeur de Lion.

Damn it all! all this our South stinks peace.
You whoreson dog, Papiols, come! Let's to music!
I have no life save when the swords clash.
But ah! when I see the standards gold, vair, purple, opposing
And the broad fields beneath them turn crimson
Then howl I my heart nigh mad with rejoicing.

In hot summer have I great rejoicing
When the tempests kill the earth's foul peace,
And the lightnings from black heav'n flash crimson,
And the fierce thunders roar me their music
And the winds shriek through the clouds mad, opposing,
And through all the riven skies God's swords clash.

Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash!
And the shrill neighs of destriers in battle rejoicing,
Spiked breast to spiked breast opposing!
Better one hour's stour than a year's peace
With fat boards, bawds, wine and frail music!
Bah! there's no wine like the blood's crimson!

And I love to see the sun rise blood-crimson.
And I watch his spears through the dark clash
And it fills all my heart with rejoicing
And pries wide my mouth with fast musich
When I see him so scorn and defy peace,
His lone might 'gainst all darkness opposing.

The man who fears war and squats opposing
My words for stour, hath no blood of crimson
But is fit only to rot in womanish peace
Far from where worth's won and the swords clash
For the death of such sluts I go rejoicing;
Yes, I fill all the air with my music.

Papiols, Papiols, to the musiic!
There's no sound like to swords swords opposing,
No cry like the battle's rejoicing
When our elbows and swords drip the crimson
And our charges 'gainst "The Leopard's" rush clash.
May God damn for ever all who cry "Peace"!

And let the music of the swords make them crimson.
Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash!
Hell blot black for alway the thought "Peace!"
Mason Hall-McCullough
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This is my favorite poem. Kipling seemed like a respectable man and not a fag as many other poets were.

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I think this is a good incel poem even though it was written by a massive faggot.
Mason Hall-McCullough
(06-17-2023, 10:49 AM)JohnTrent Wrote: Going to post some poems every once in a while here to revive the thread.

Quote:William Butler Yeats - To my Heart, bidding it have no Fear (1899):
Be you still, be you still, trembling heart;
Remember the wisdom out of the old days:
Him who trembles before the flame and the flood,
And the winds that blow through the starry ways,
Let the starry winds and the flame and the flood
Cover over and hide, for he has no part
With the proud, majestical multitude.

I love this one. I think most people will have already seen this other poem of his but I'll post it anyway:

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A Poem I Orate every morning to greet the day. It was translated from Latin but the author is an English man. 

John Milton Wrote:Arise, up, arise. Now that it is time, shake off slumbers;
Light is appearing; leave the props of your languid bed.
Now sings the sentinel cock, the harbinger bird
Of the sun, and, watchful, calls everyone to his one affairs.
The flaming titan thrusts his head from the Eastern waves
And scatters his glittering splendor through the joyful fields.
The Daulian modulates her melodious song from the oak
And the gentle lark pours forth her perfect notes.
Now the wild rose breathes forth its fragrant purfumes;
Now the violets diffuse their scent and the grain grows rapidly.
Behold, the fruitful consort of Zephyr clothes the fields with new growth,
And the soil becomes moist with glassy dew.
Lazy one, you are not likely to find such things in your soft bed,
When tranquil sleep weights down your wearied eyes.
There dreams interrupt dull slumbers
And many griefs disturb your mind.
There the seeds of a wasted malady are generated.
What strength can a listless man be capable of?
Arise, up, Arise. Now that it is time, shake off slumbers;
Light is appearing; leave the props of your languid bed.
I don't like much poetry but I love Poe. I know this one by heart.

Quote: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?
(06-18-2023, 11:35 AM)JohnTrent Wrote: Ezra Pound - Sestina, Altaforte...
After posting this poem, I will make reference to Bertrans de Born, who was (obviously) the focus of Ezra Pound in this. I will post some passages from his, from "A Perigord Pres Del Muralh". The reason why I include this and nothing else is because Pound's Sestina, Altaforte is based off his work, which can be seen in his translation of "A War Song". Beyond the similarity of phrases used in "A War Song", Pound's Sestina is a more modern revamping. The spirit of the original is carried into the intensity of the present. The text of "A Perigord..." is borrowed from Pound's Confucius to Cummings: An Anthology of Poetry.
Quote:Bertrans de Born
[c. 1140-1214]

At Perigord near to the wall,
Aye, within a mace throw of it,
I will come armed upon Baiart, and if I find there
that fat bellied Poitevin,
He shall see how my steel cuts.

For upon the field I will make a bran-mash of his brains, mixed
with the maille of his armor.

** Earlier in the same sirvente Bertrans says:

   Every day I am resoling and sewing up the barons and remelting
them and warming them over, for I thought to get them started (loosen
them up), but I am indeed a fool to bother with the business, for they are
of worse workmanship than the iron (statue of) St. Lunart, wherefore a
man's an ass who troubles about them.
   Every day I contend and contest and skirmish, and defend and carry
backward and forward the battle; and they destroy and burn my land,
and make wreck of my trees, and scatter the corn through the straw, and
I have no enemy, bold or coward, who does not attack me.
Sonnet by John Keats.

Quote:Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art—
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors
No—yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever—or else swoon to death.
By H. P. Lovecraft

Thro’ the ghoul-guarded gateways of slumber,
          Past the wan-moon’d abysses of night,
    I have liv’d o’er my lives without number,
          I have sounded all things with my sight;
And I struggle and shriek ere the daybreak, being driven to madness with fright.

    I have whirl’d with the earth at the dawning,
          When the sky was a vaporous flame;
    I have seen the dark universe yawning,
          Where the black planets roll without aim;
Where they roll in their horror unheeded, without knowledge or lustre or name.

    I had drifted o’er seas without ending,
          Under sinister grey-clouded skies
    That the many-fork’d lightning is rending,
          That resound with hysterical cries;
With the moans of invisible daemons that out of the green waters rise.

    I have plung’d like a deer thro’ the arches
          Of the hoary primordial grove,
    Where the oaks feel the presence that marches
          And stalks on where no spirit dares rove;
And I flee from a thing that surrounds me, and leers thro’ dead branches above.

    I have stumbled by cave-ridden mountains
          That rise barren and bleak from the plain,
    I have drunk of the fog-foetid fountains
          That ooze down to the marsh and the main;
And in hot cursed tarns I have seen things I care not to gaze on again.

    I have scann’d the vast ivy-clad palace,
          I have trod its untenanted hall,
    Where the moon writhing up from the valleys
          Shews the tapestried things on the wall;
Strange figures discordantly woven, which I cannot endure to recall.

    I have peer’d from the casement in wonder
          At the mouldering meadows around,
    At the many-roof’d village laid under
          The curse of a grave-girdled ground;
And from rows of white urn-carven marble I listen intently for sound.

    I have haunted the tombs of the ages,
          I have flown on the pinions of fear
    Where the smoke-belching Erebus rages,
          Where the jokulls loom snow-clad and drear:
And in realms where the sun of the desert consumes what it never can cheer.

    I was old when the Pharaohs first mounted
          The jewel-deck’d throne by the Nile;
    I was old in those epochs uncounted
          When I, and I only, was vile;
And Man, yet untainted and happy, dwelt in bliss on the far Arctic isle.

    Oh, great was the sin of my spirit,
          And great is the reach of its doom;
    Not the pity of Heaven can cheer it,
          Nor can respite be found in the tomb:
Down the infinite aeons come beating the wings of unmerciful gloom.

    Thro’ the ghoul-guarded gateways of slumber,
          Past the wan-moon’d abysses of night,
    I have liv’d o’er my lives without number,
          I have sounded all things with my sight;
And I struggle and shriek ere the daybreak, being driven to madness with fright.
I heard this poem in a british schizo edit and have never forgotten it since.

The Tyger by William Blake

Quote:Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies.
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat.
What dread hand? & what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain,
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp.
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears
And water'd heaven with their tears:
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger Tyger burning bright,
In the forests of the night:
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
T.S. Elliot 

The dove descending breaks the air
With flame of incandescent terror
Of which the tongues declare
The one discharge from sin and error.
The only hope, or else despair
Lies in the choice of pyre or pyre-
To be redeemed from fire by fire.

Who then devised the torment? Love.
Love is the unfamiliar Name
Behind the hands that wove
The intolerable shirt of flame
Which human power cannot remove.
We only live, only suspire
Consumed by either fire or fire.
Sonnet by William Shakespeare.

Quote:To me, fair friend, you never can be old,
For as you were when first your eye I eyed,
Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold
Have from the forests shook three summers’s pride,
Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turned
In process of the seasons have I seen,
Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burned,
Since first I saw you fresh which yet are green.
Ah yet doth beauty, like a dial hand,
Steal from his figure, and no pace perceived;
So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,
Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived;
For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred:
Ere you were born was beauty’s summer dead.
Before I got banned from the X, I was trying to hit on E-Girls with my amateur works. I got suspended for threatening to rip somebodies jaw off in some violent torture ritual for Donald Trump, so I lost most of them. I might as well provide this one to all of you since it is the one I managed to recover. Laugh if you wish:

Quote:The band of thirteen insects
Clad with such diverse colors
Patterned with their zebra wings
Seeking refuge from dark recess
Demanding the ritual flames
To purge its murky growths each day

I pray that those rainbow legions
Never see the termination
To their sacred little band
Which will go and stand amidst
All those small but violent stars
And the cadaverous sea
Charge of the Light Brigade 
by Alfred Lord Tennyson

Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!" he said.
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

Forward, the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismay'd?
Not tho' the soldier knew
Some one had blunder'd.
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die.
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of hell
Rode the six hundred.

Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wonder'd.
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro' the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel'd from the sabre-stroke
Shatter'd and sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not,
Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wonder'd.
Honor the charge they made!
Honor the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!
The first canto of Gildas.

A Romance fiction poem concerning Christian missionaries and heathens.
Reverend Moon Immortal
This is from the introduction to John Keat’s Endymion. I was rapt after reading the first line. May I now too share this joy which has forever internalized its import within my heart.
Book One: Endymion Wrote:A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
'Gainst the hot season; the mid forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
All lovely tales that we have heard or read:
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.

      Nor do we merely feel these essences
For one short hour; no, even as the trees
That whisper round a temple become soon
Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon,
The passion poesy, glories infinite,
Haunt us till they become a cheering light
Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast,
That, whether there be shine, or gloom o'ercast;
They always must be with us, or we die.
White snow blankets the land as I travel alone through heaven and earth. Alone without any attachments, my solitary shadow travels freely.
A youth in apparel that glittered
by Stephen Crane

Quote:A youth in apparel that glittered
Went to walk in a grim forest.
There he met an assassin
Attired all in garb of old days;
He, scowling through the thickets,
And dagger poised quivering,
Rushed upon the youth.
“Sir,” said this latter,
“I am enchanted, believe me,
To die, thus,
In this medieval fashion,
According to the best legends;
Ah, what joy!”
Then took he the wound, smiling,
And died, content.

When I first read Crane's poetry, I was younger and unimpressed with his simple verbiage. However, his poetry has stuck with me much longer than that of many of the "flowery" poets I was impressed with then. He is now one of my favorites. Another of his:

There was set before me a mighty hill
by Stephen Crane

Quote:There was set before me a mighty hill,
And long days I climbed
Through regions of snow.
When I had before me the summit-view,
It seemed that my labour
Had been to see gardens
Lying at impossible distances.

Acquainted with the Night
by Robert Frost

Quote:I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain—and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,

But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still at an unearthly height,
One luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right. 
I have been one acquainted with the night.

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