Poetry

[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?

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.”

[Verl]

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."

[Guest]

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.

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.

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.

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.’

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

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.”

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.

[JohnTrent]

Going to post some poems every once in a while here to revive the thread.

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.

[JohnTrent]

A personal favorite of mine:

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.

I.
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.

II.
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.

III.
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!

IV.
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.

V.
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.

VI.
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"!

VII.
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]

Show Content

Spoiler

As I pass through my incarnations in every age and race,
I make my proper prostrations to the Gods of the Market-Place.
Peering through reverent fingers I watch them flourish and fall,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings, I notice, outlast them all.

We were living in trees when they met us. They showed us each in turn
That Water would certainly wet us, as Fire would certainly burn:
But we found them lacking in Uplift, Vision and Breadth of Mind,
So we left them to teach the Gorillas while we followed the March of Mankind.

We moved as the Spirit listed. They never altered their pace,
Being neither cloud nor wind-borne like the Gods of the Market Place,
But they always caught up with our progress, and presently word would come
That a tribe had been wiped off its icefield, or the lights had gone out in Rome.

With the Hopes that our World is built on they were utterly out of touch.
They denied that the Moon was Stilton; they denied she was even Dutch.
They denied that Wishes were Horses; they denied that a Pig had Wings.
So we worshipped the Gods of the Market Who promised these beautiful things.

When the Cambrian measures were forming, They promised perpetual peace.
They swore, if we gave them our weapons, that the wars of the tribes would cease.
But when we disarmed They sold us and delivered us bound to our foe,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "Stick to the Devil you know."

On the first Feminian Sandstones we were promised the Fuller Life
(Which started by loving our neighbour and ended by loving his wife)
Till our women had no more children and the men lost reason and faith,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "The Wages of Sin is Death."

In the Carboniferous Epoch we were promised abundance for all,
By robbing selected Peter to pay for collective Paul;
But, though we had plenty of money, there was nothing our money could buy,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "If you don't work you die."

Then the Gods of the Market tumbled, and their smooth-tongued wizards withdrew,
And the hearts of the meanest were humbled and began to believe it was true
That All is not Gold that Glitters, and Two and Two make Four—
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings limped up to explain it once more.

As it will be in the future, it was at the birth of Man—
There are only four things certain since Social Progress began:—
That the Dog returns to his Vomit and the Sow returns to her Mire,
And the burnt Fool's bandaged finger goes wabbling back to the Fire;

And that after this is accomplished, and the brave new world begins
When all men are paid for existing and no man must pay for his sins,
As surely as Water will wet us, as surely as Fire will burn,
The Gods of the Copybook Headings with terror and slaughter return!

This is my favorite poem. Kipling seemed like a respectable man and not a fag as many other poets were.

Show Content

Spoiler

A ring of gold and milk-white dove
    Are goodly gifts for thee,
And a hempen rope for your own love
    To hang upon a tree.

For you a House of Ivory
    (Roses are white in the rose-bower)!
A narrow bed for me to lie
    (White, O white, is the hemlock flower)!

Myrtle and jessamine for you
    (O the red rose is fair to see)!
For me the cypress and the rue
    (Fairest of all is rose-mary)!

For you three lovers of your hand
    (Green grass where a man lies dead)!
For me three paces on the sand
    (Plant lilies at my head)!

I think this is a good incel poem even though it was written by a massive faggot.

[Mason Hall-McCullough]

Going to post some poems every once in a while here to revive the thread.

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:

Show Content

Spoiler

Turning and turning in the widening gyre 
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre 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?

[Guest]

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

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.

[Gorgias]

I don't like much poetry but I love Poe. I know this one by heart.

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?

[JohnTrent]

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.

Bertrans de Born
[c. 1140-1214]
"A PERIGORD PRES DEL MURALH"

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.