Poets Who Should Be Read

Discussion in 'Writer's Block' started by JonathanRex, Sep 6, 2006.

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  1. JonathanRex

    JonathanRex New Member

    May 16, 2006
    Here is some poetry by poets who should be read. If you do read their work and struggle to understand it, read it over and over until you do. If you can't appreciate these poets then you have no business writing poetry.

    Walt Whitman:

    [Book By The Roadside]
    "Only themselves understand themselves and the like of themselves,
    As souls only understand souls." - Perfections

    [Autumn Rivulets]
    "Out from behind this bending rough-cut mask,
    These lights and shades, this drama of the whole,
    This common curtain of the face contain'd in me for me, in you for you, in each for each,
    (Tragedies, sorrows, laughter, tears -- O heaven!
    The passionate teeming plays this curtain hid!)
    This glaze of God's serenest purest sky,
    This film of Satan's seething pit,
    This heart's geography's map, this limitless small continent, this soundless sea;
    Out from the convolutions of this globe,
    This subtler astronomic orb than sun or moon, than Jupiter, Venus, Mars,
    This condensation of the universe, (nay here the only universe,
    Here the idea, all in this mystic handful wrapt;)
    These burin'd eyes, flashing to you to pass to future time,
    To launch and spin through space revolving sideling, from these to emanate,
    To you whoe'er you are -- a look." - Out From Behind This Mask

    [The Sleepers]

    [To Think Of Time]

    [Song Of Myself]

    William Shakespeare:

    "To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow
    Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
    To the last syllable of recorded time;
    And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
    The way to dusty death. Our, out, brief candle!
    Life's but a walking shadow; a poor player
    That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
    And then is heard no more: it is a tale
    Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
    Signifying nothing." - Macbeth

    "I am bound
    Upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears
    Do scald like molten lead . . ." - King Lear

    "Our revels are now ended, these our actors,
    As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
    Are melted into air, into thin air;
    And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
    The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces,
    The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
    Yea, all which it inherits, shall dissolve,
    And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
    Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
    As dreams are made on; and our little life
    Is rounded with a sleep." - Prospero

    "But thought's the slave of life, and life time's fool;
    And time, that takes survey of all the world,
    Must have a stop." - Hotspur

    Lord Byron:

    Alfred Tennyson:

    "Oh me! Oh life! of the questions of these recurring.... Answer: That you are here -- that life exists and identity, That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse."
  2. Bhitiah

    Bhitiah Powerful Scriptures

    May 3, 2004
    lmao, you are such a moron...
  3. JonathanRex

    JonathanRex New Member

    May 16, 2006
    Feel free to add links to other poets. Of course I didn't list them all. I have to get to class.
    I'll add more later, either this evening or tomorrow.
  4. JonathanRex

    JonathanRex New Member

    May 16, 2006
    You're going on ignore, Bhitiah, for being absolutely incapable of maturity.
  5. Bhitiah

    Bhitiah Powerful Scriptures

    May 3, 2004
    I dont care if you put me on ignore, and I'm not incapable of maturity that would be you who is throwing a gigantic fit because nobody likes your poetry, and you've been exposed as someone who posts other peoples poetry without giving them the credit they deserve for their poetry because you, write like shit and want to be among the "great" poets and are drowning in the fact that, you cant write for yourself.
  6. Mind~$oul

    Mind~$oul I'm Pretty

    Apr 10, 2001
    If you're going to post stuff like this, please post it in the Intercourse.
  7. JonathanRex

    JonathanRex New Member

    May 16, 2006

    Sure thing
    Sorry about that
  8. JonathanRex

    JonathanRex New Member

    May 16, 2006
    "This message is hidden because Bhitiah is on your ignore list."
  9. Bhitiah

    Bhitiah Powerful Scriptures

    May 3, 2004
    You are so overly immature. LOL...If you think pointing out in every thread that i'm supposidly on ignore hurts my feelings or frustrates me or whatever your intending to do, your doing it for no reason. Considering, I rather enjoy that you are pretending you cant see what I say.
  10. JonathanRex

    JonathanRex New Member

    May 16, 2006
    "This message is hidden because Bhitiah is on your ignore list."
  11. Mind~$oul

    Mind~$oul I'm Pretty

    Apr 10, 2001
    He's not consider one of those "classical" poets or anything like that. But I believe he should be thrown up there with the other poets who should be read and appreciated as well.

    Somebody Blew Up America
    By Amiri Baraka

    continue on the next page.
  12. Mind~$oul

    Mind~$oul I'm Pretty

    Apr 10, 2001
    One of my favorite poems. I'll be back to post more later
  13. JonathanRex

    JonathanRex New Member

    May 16, 2006
    I like that poem, Soul

    Especially the lines:
    "Who you know
    ever seen God?
    But everybody seen
    the Devil."
  14. lpoet

    lpoet POET

    Oct 20, 2002
    got damn..the poem that mind posted is crazy...ima have to read more of dude
  15. absolute zero

    absolute zero Among the living

    Oct 28, 2004

    That's pretty funny though. I mean, just when I thought poetry was about unique-ness and all I needed was a strong imagination, emotion, or just something to say, thank God for JonathanRex: who clearly told me that I had to understand poems from centuries ago; some written in a dead language in order to write.

    Shit, I guess I retire then.

    P.S - Tennyson is dope.
  16. Bhitiah

    Bhitiah Powerful Scriptures

    May 3, 2004
    Life - Mike Searles

    Is nothing more
    Than these moments in time
    That we remember
    And hold
    Like a hungry child
    Waiting for more
    While most of it passes us by
    Weeding out
    Or choosing to ignore
    What truly defines what we are
    Then by choice
    Or age
    We lose our memories
    And like sand falling through
    Clutching fingers
    We struggle to hold onto what we have lost
    Only to find we lose ourselves
    In a slow process of

    Forgetting Is a Circle - Mike Searles

    Forgetting is a circle
    Leading on a slow existence
    Fighting off shadows of a past
    Painful to a soul
    Who breeds only apathy
    In an effort to co•••• itself
    Into a shelter
    Where it can be alone
    Safely tucked away from the world
    Set to change by it’s own will
    To forget that one moment
    And once that memory lost
    It will emerge
    Find another past
    Destined to be forgotten
  17. Bhitiah

    Bhitiah Powerful Scriptures

    May 3, 2004
    The Prophet - Abraham Cowley

    Teach me to Love? go teach thy self more wit;
    I am chief Professor of it.
    Teach craft to Scots, and thrift to Jews,
    Teach boldness to the Stews;
    In tyrants courts teach supple flattery,
    Teach Jesuits, that have traveled far, to Lye.
    Teach fire to burn and Winds to blow.
    Teach restless Fountains how to flow,
    Teach the dull earth, fix, to abide,
    Teach Woman-kind inconstancy and Pride.
    See if your diligence here will useful prove;
    But, pr'ithee, teach not me to love.

    The God of Love, if such a thing there be,
    May learn to love from me,
    He who does boast that he has bin,
    In every Heart since Adams sin,
    I'll lay my Life, nay Mistress on't, that's more;
    I'll teach him things he never knew before;
    I'll teach him a receipt to make
    Words that weep, and Tears that speak,
    I'll teach him Sighs, like those in death,
    At which the Souls go out too with the breath;
    Still the Soul stays, yet still does from me run;
    As Light and Heat does with the Sun.

    'Tis I who Love's Columbus am; 'tis I, Who must new Worlds in it descry;
    Rich Worlds, that yield of Treasure more,
    than that has been known before,
    And yet like his (I fear) my fate must be,
    To find them out for others; not for Me.
    Me Times to come, I know it, shall
    Loves last and greatest prophet call.
    But, ah, what's that, if she refuse,
    To hear the whole doctrines of my Muse?
    If to my share the Prophets fate must come;
    Hereafter fame, here Martyrdom.

    Vertigo - Matt Ammerman

    Call it momentary everything.
    It is when I know all.
    When I touched, tasted, smelled, saw, and heard infinity.

    I have dodged in and out of crowded city streets,
    Around countless high strung busy-bodies,
    Under the big monster clock (avoiding the arching grasp of its hands),
    Over iron gates of unknown homes and unknown people.

    I have swept past endless rolling plains
    Of nothingness and everything
    On the same scalding stretch of pavement.

    I have felt the flutter of a million love-wings in my chest
    And felt the terrible sadness of losing but one.

    I warmed myself in your arms, and froze from it.
    I enjoyed youth, and grew old from it.
    I called anywhere you were home, and never felt so lost.
    I soared high, and lay broken on the ground.
    I have flown to Heaven, and fallen to Hell.
    You are my Vertigo.

    'I Do Not Love You' - Pablo Neruda

    I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
    or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
    I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
    in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

    I love you as the plant that never blooms
    but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
    thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
    risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

    I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
    I love you straight forwardly, without complexities or pride;
    so I love you because I know no other way

    than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
    so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
    so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

    Love - Pablo Neruda

    Because of you,
    in gardens of blossoming flowers I ache from the perfumes of spring.
    I have forgotten your face, I no longer remember your hands;
    how did your lips feel on mine?
    Because of you, I love the white statues drowsing in the parks,
    the white statues that have neither voice nor sight.

    I have forgotten your voice, your happy voice;
    I have forgotten your eyes.
    Like a flower to its perfume, I am bound to my vague memory of you.
    I live with pain that is like a wound;
    if you touch me, you will do me irreparable harm.
    Your caresses enfold me, like climbing vines on melancholy walls.

    I have forgotten your love,
    yet I seem to glimpse you in every window.
    Because of you, the heady perfumes of summer pain me;
    because of you, I again seek out the signs that precipitate desires:
    shooting stars, falling objects.

    Blaming Poverty On The Poor

    Give us your deprived, your malleable muddled masses
    hoping for a gentler taskmaster
    Welcome to the multi-trillion dollar industry, Poverty
    A.K.A, cheapest labor force

    Poverty works, never ever unemployed
    A much needed commodity to justify
    White-collar crime classes
    Teaching dastardly deeds—to procure monetary needs-
    fostering avarice greed

    Give us your deprived, your malleable muddled masses
    hoping for a gentler taskmaster
    Welcome to the multi-trillion dollar industry, Poverty
    A.K.A., cheapest labor force

    Poverty creates jobs for those financing the societal
    Institution of ya godda pay more taxes
    Blaming Poverty on the poor
    Look! what Enron did to those less fortunate
    Blaming Poverty on the poor

    Did not corporations want a billion dollar welfare check
    Blaming Poverty on the poor
    Blaming Poverty on the poor

    Give us your deprived, your malleable muddled masses
    hoping for a gentler taskmaster
    Welcome to the multi-trillion dollar industry, Poverty
    A.K.A., cheapest labor force

    No penance just punishment augmenting the pillar of economic pillaging
    Poor people put in the pillory from the political pulpit

    Poverty is prime property
    Poverty pimps portrayed as political preachers purely punitive but polite
    The pluralization of Poverty provides prestige of the patricians

    Poverty, the promissory note from the bureaucratic infidel
    The Truth will tell—the truth will tell
    Poverty the patriotic prisoner on trial for treason

    Copyright 2001

    Josephine DixonBanks
  18. Bhitiah

    Bhitiah Powerful Scriptures

    May 3, 2004

    America I've given you all and now I'm nothing.
    America two dollars and twentyseven cents January
    17, 1956.
    I can't stand my own mind.
    America when will we end the human war?
    Go fuck yourself with your atom bomb.
    I don't feel good don't bother me.
    I won't write my poem till I'm in my right mind.
    America when will you be angelic?
    When will you take off your clothes?
    When will you look at yourself through the grave?
    When will you be worthy of your million Trotskyites?
    America why are your libraries full of tears?
    America when will you send your eggs to India?
    I'm sick of your insane demands.
    When can I go into the supermarket and buy what I
    need with my good looks?
    America after all it is you and I who are perfect not
    the next world.
    Your machinery is too much for me.
    You made me want to be a saint.
    There must be some other way to settle this argument.
    Burroughs is in Tangiers I don't think he'll come back
    it's sinister.
    Are you being sinister or is this some form of practical
    I'm trying to come to the point.
    I refuse to give up my obsession.
    America stop pushing I know what I'm doing.
    America the plum blossoms are falling.
    I haven't read the newspapers for months, everyday
    somebody goes on trial for murder.
    America I feel sentimental about the Wobblies.
    America I used to be a communist when I was a kid
    I'm not sorry.
    I smoke marijuana every chance I get.
    I sit in my house for days on end and stare at the roses
    in the closet.
    When I go to Chinatown I get drunk and never get laid.
    My mind is made up there's going to be trouble.
    You should have seen me reading Marx.
    My psychoanalyst thinks I'm perfectly right.
    I won't say the Lord's Prayer.
    I have mystical visions and cosmic vibrations.
    America I still haven't told you what you did to Uncle
    Max after he came over from Russia.

    I'm addressing you.
    Are you going to let your emotional life be run by
    Time Magazine?
    I'm obsessed by Time Magazine.
    I read it every week.
    Its cover stares at me every time I slink past the corner
    I read it in the basement of the Berkeley Public Library.
    It's always telling me about responsibility. Business-
    men are serious. Movie producers are serious.
    Everybody's serious but me.
    It occurs to me that I am America.
    I am talking to myself again.

    Asia is rising against me.
    I haven't got a chinaman's chance.
    I'd better consider my national resources.
    My national resources consist of two joints of
    marijuana millions of genitals an unpublishable
    private literature that goes 1400 miles an hour
    and twenty-five-thousand mental institutions.
    I say nothing about my prisons nor the millions of
    underprivileged who live in my flowerpots
    under the light of five hundred suns.
    I have abolished the whorehouses of France, Tangiers
    is the next to go.
    My ambition is to be President despite the fact that
    I'm a Catholic.
    America how can I write a holy litany in your silly
    I will continue like Henry Ford my strophes are as
    individual as his automobiles more so they're
    all different sexes.
    America I will sell you strophes $2500 apiece $500
    down on your old strophe
    America free Tom Mooney
    America save the Spanish Loyalists
    America Sacco & Vanzetti must not die
    America I am the Scottsboro boys.
    America when I was seven momma took me to Com-
    munist Cell meetings they sold us garbanzos a
    handful per ticket a ticket costs a nickel and the
    speeches were free everybody was angelic and
    sentimental about the workers it was all so sin-
    cere you have no idea what a good thing the
    party was in 1835 Scott Nearing was a grand
    old man a real mensch Mother Bloor made me
    cry I once saw Israel Amter plain. Everybody
    must have been a spy.
    America you don't really want to go to war.
    America it's them bad Russians.
    Them Russians them Russians and them Chinamen.
    And them Russians.
    The Russia wants to eat us alive. The Russia's power
    mad. She wants to take our cars from out our
    Her wants to grab Chicago. Her needs a Red Readers'
    Digest. Her wants our auto plants in Siberia.
    Him big bureaucracy running our fillingsta-
    That no good. Ugh. Him make Indians learn read.
    Him need big black •••••••. Hah. Her make us
    all work sixteen hours a day. Help.
    America this is quite serious.
    America this is the impression I get from looking in
    the television set.
    America is this correct?
    I'd better get right down to the job.
    It's true I don't want to join the Army or turn lathes
    in precision parts factories, I'm nearsighted and
    psychopathic anyway.
    America I'm putting my queer shoulder to the wheel.

    Allen Ginsberg
  19. Bhitiah

    Bhitiah Powerful Scriptures

    May 3, 2004
    Crying Poem
    By Jimmy Santiago Baca

    For the longest time,
    I haven't been able to cry.
    Tears start to come while I'm watching a movie tears
    starts to come,
    swelling my whole body a tulip starting to open under moon,
    then the petals of my eyelids
    and something in me braces
    and I don't cry.
    When we crashed into a telephone pole
    my dad yelled me not to cry,
    I was terrified, almost killed –
    but don't cry,
    he said.
    I couldn't cry because men don't cry.
    When the dog bit me on the leg I couldn't cry,
    when Joey died I couldn't cry –
    how cool it would feel
    to have a tear slide down the corner of my eye
    on my cheek,
    to the curve of my lip,
    where I could taste it –
    but I don't cry.
    Something blocks the paths, channels
    under my skin.
    Tear ducts are red cracked clay,
    for thirty years,
    drought famine'd,
    since I was eight when I got a beating for crying.
    My heart an open furnace oven door,
    rage seething for tears to cool it down,
    but coal hoveling men keep feeding it
    don't cry don't cry don't cry.
    I want to untie my hands like a tired boxer's gloves
    and lay them down on the table, gripped in their tight
    clench of defense,
    and I want to grow new hands
    open flowers,
    moistened by my tears.
    I love the color blue
    color brown.
    I'd love
    to touch my chapped cheeks
    and whisper in tears
    my compassion.
    But I've always had to stop it up in me, hold my breath back,
    keep my mouth shut tight
    so as not to cry.
    Man, I cry,
    and it's a lie I don't.
    I embrace my brother and pray shoulder to shoulder.
    I kneel and kiss earth,
    and I cry -- if only I could cry.
    Don't translate my tears into thought,
    I want to sob autumn tears on my window,
    streaking the pane blurring the world.
    I want to fill every hole in my heart with glimmering tear pools,
    fill my kitchen sink with tears,
    just thinking of me not crying all these years,
    makes me want to cry,
    but I been taught not to cry –
    big people don't cry, people say,
    ain't those alligator tears boy,
    can't fool me with those tears –
    Fooling no one but myself not crying
    step aside –
    I'm going to cry,
    until my shirt is drenched,
    and my hands shimmery wet
    with tears,
    running down my face on my arms,
    my legs and breast,
    and you have to look at me,
    because I'm drowning your manly ways in my tears,
    to get back my tears.
    I'm crying until there isn't a single tear left
    for what we been through not crying,
    how we fooled ourselves thinking men don't cry.
    I'm crying on the bus, in bed, at the dinner table, on the couch,
    enough to float Noah's boat,
    let out the robin of my heart,
    bringing me back my own single shoot of greening
    life again –
    and you go fuck yourself
    dry eyed days,
    here I come,
    giving you a Chicano monsoon season,
    here comes this Chicano cry baby,
    flooding prison walls,
    my childrens' bedrooms,
    splashing and tear slinging
    tears up to my ankles,
    planting rice and corn and beans
    in fields glimmering with my tears,
    and all you dry skinned nut-cracking ball whackers,
    don't want to get your killer bone-breaking boots wet,
    step aside,
    because I'm bringing you rain.

    Goodbyes were crying events –
    Goodbye to grandma, to my brother,
    friends, my neighborhood,
    teachers and other boys,
    and I never shed a tear,
    though I felt them coming up in me.
    I bit my teeth down hard to hold the tears back,
    lowered my face and thought about something else.
    I kept hearing voices in me,
    telling me not to cry, don't cry, don't cry!
    Boys don't cry,
    leave yourself open,
    become liable to get an ax in your heart by some non-crying fool,
    be a sissy,
    puto, you be hurting
    yourself if you cry.
    I hurt when I didn't cry,
    all those times when I didn't cry ashamed
    to in front of people,
    fearful others would think I'm not a man,
    fearful I'd be made fun of,
    whole groups of us heard tragic news
    and no one cries,
    because it ain't right –
    we need to weep –
    get up in the middle of the night,
    and cry, like a endurance's hips and stomach convulse during
    child birth, we need to give birth
    to that terrible convulsion of tears,
    weep for those we never wept for,
    let the legs shake and your arms embrace you
    in a junkie habit for tears,
    weep for the poor in prison
    taken from their families,
    the fieldworker's daughter
    eaten by cancer from pesticides,
    and weep,
    for all those homeless
    who couldn't meet mortgage payments,
    those sleeping under bridges,
    and the hopeless,
    cry our differences into a lake,
    where we can all cleanse our goodbyes and apathy,
    papas cry for their children,
    let children cry in my arms,
    men cry in my arms,
    endurance cry in my arms,
    let us all cry,
    after lovemaking and fighting,
    make cry a prayer,
    a language made of whimpers and sniffles and sobs,
    cry out loud, louder, cry baby, cry! Cry! Cry!
  20. Anaphora

    Anaphora was here

    Jan 17, 2004
    Timothy Liu
    The Devil's Trill
    Pastoral abuse​
    Reportedly on
    the rise as fiddlers​
    ..........play on--horsehair whip​
    but part of the bow's​
    passionate swing
    with no caesura​
    ..........in sight in the growing​
    agitation over​
    another lost teen--
    so many faces​
    ..........plastered all over​
    town it's hard to find​
    which telephone poles
    are not yet armored​
    ..........with scabs of rusted​
    staples where fliers​
    for all the missing
    children had been--​
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