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.

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