your favorite poets?

  On 9/19/2010 at 3:49 PM, sup said:

  On 9/19/2010 at 10:18 AM, chenGOD said:

T.S. Eliot and ee cummings and some Korean poets.

how can korean poetry work they dont have letters??

 

*debates with self on whether or not self is being trolled*

1) Letters are not a pre-requisite for poetry.

2) Modern Korean is written with an alphabet.

Christian Hyun

 

 

But for real, I don't know if it shows on those songs as much as others, but he's the most incredible lyricist I've ever heard in my life. The new album will be up soon as well.

 

Also Blacklicious, MF Doom, and Aesop Rock.

Edited September 20, 2010 by wahrk

My mother, my uncle, who made me?

Am I just a piece of rotten fruit from my family tree?

What will the future hold? Who knows?

All I know is that my family tree grows.

 

Stan Brule

Tom Waits, one of my favourites being:

 

(Tom Waits/Kathleen Brennan)

 

Reeperbahn

 

Around the curve of The Parrot Bar

A broken-down old movie star

Hustling and Easterner

Bringing out the beast in her

A high dive on a swimming pool

Filled with needles and with fools

The memories are short but the tales are long

When you're in the Reeperbahn

 

Oh, they called her Rosie when she was a girl

For her bright red cheeks and her strawberry curls

When she would laugh the river would run

She said she'd be a comedian

Oh what a pity, oh what a shame

When she said, ‘come calling’, nobody came

Now her bright red cheeks are painted on

And she's laughing her head off in the Reeperbahn

 

Now little Hans was always strange

Wearing womens underthings

His father beat him but he wouldn't change

He ran off with a man one day

Now his lingerie is all the rage

In the black on every page

His father proudly calls his name

Down there in the Reeperbahn

 

Now if you've lost your inheritance

And all you've left is common sense

And you're not too picky about the crowd you keep

Or the mattress where you sleep

Behind every window, behind every door

The apple has gone but there's always the core

And the seeds will sprout up right through the floor

Down there in the Reeperbahn

 

Down there in the Reeperbahn

 

Down there in the Reeperbahn

 

 

also a nice little one by William Blake

 

 

TO THE EVENING STAR

 

by: William Blake (1757-1827)

 

HOU fair-hair'd angel of the evening,

Now, whilst the sun rests on the mountains, light

Thy bright torch of love; thy radiant crown

Put on, and smile upon our evening bed!

Smile on our loves, and while thou drawest the

Blue curtains of the sky, scatter thy silver dew

On every flower that shuts its sweet eyes

In timely sleep. Let thy west wind sleep on

The lake; speak silence with thy glimmering eyes,

And wash the dusk with silver. Soon, full soon,

Dost thou withdraw; then the wolf rages wide,

And then the lion glares through the dun forest:

The fleeces of our flocks are cover'd with

Thy sacred dew: protect them with thine influence!

william blake

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Aztulcg9ipM

 

  On 9/18/2010 at 3:56 AM, kaini said:

TS ELIOT above anyone and everyone else

dylan thomas, especially when he is reading it himself

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PyWiE1vNSxU

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qUi3Q6k6c0Y

emily dickinson

gerard manley hopkins

ee cummings

 

This, plus Wallace Stevens.

  On 9/20/2010 at 12:03 AM, Atop said:

Poet extraordinaire!

 

Seriously. I love Eliot, but Stevens is my favorite modernist.

 

Wallace Stevens

Sunday Morning

1

 

Complacencies of the peignoir, and late

Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair,

And the green freedom of a cockatoo

Upon a rug mingle to dissipate

The holy hush of ancient sacrifice.

She dreams a little, and she feels the dark

Encroachment of that old catastrophe,

As a calm darkens among water-lights.

The pungent oranges and bright, green wings

Seem things in some procession of the dead,

Winding across wide water, without sound.

The day is like wide water, without sound,

Stilled for the passing of her dreaming feet

Over the seas, to silent Palestine,

Dominion of the blood and sepulchre.

 

2

 

Why should she give her bounty to the dead?

What is divinity if it can come

Only in silent shadows and in dreams?

Shall she not find in comforts of the sun,

In pungent fruit and bright green wings, or else

In any balm or beauty of the earth,

Things to be cherished like the thought of heaven?

Divinity must live within herself:

Passions of rain, or moods in falling snow;

Grievings in loneliness, or unsubdued

Elations when the forest blooms; gusty

Emotions on wet roads on autumn nights;

All pleasures and all pains, remembering

The bough of summer and the winter branch.

These are the measure destined for her soul.

 

3

 

Jove in the clouds had his inhuman birth.

No mother suckled him, no sweet land gave

Large-mannered motions to his mythy mind.

He moved among us, as a muttering king,

Magnificent, would move among his hinds,

Until our blood, commingling, virginal,

With heaven, brought such requital to desire

The very hinds discerned it, in a star.

Shall our blood fail? Or shall it come to be

The blood of paradise? And shall the earth

Seem all of paradise that we shall know?

The sky will be much friendlier then than now,

A part of labor and a part of pain,

And next in glory to enduring love,

Not this dividing and indifferent blue.

 

4

 

She says, 'I am content when wakened birds,

Before they fly, test the reality

Of misty fields, by their sweet questionings;

But when the birds are gone, and their warm fields

Return no more, where, then, is paradise?'

There is not any haunt of prophecy,

Nor any old chimera of the grave,

Neither the golden underground, nor isle

Melodious, where spirits gat them home,

Nor visionary south, nor cloudy palm

Remote on heaven's hill, that has endured

As April's green endures; or will endure

Like her remembrance of awakened birds,

Or her desire for June and evening, tipped

By the consummation of the swallow's wings.

 

5

 

She says, 'But in contentment I still feel

The need of some imperishable bliss.'

Death is the mother of beauty; hence from her,

Alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams

And our desires. Although she strews the leaves

Of sure obliteration on our paths,

The path sick sorrow took, the many paths

Where triumph rang its brassy phrase, or love

Whispered a little out of tenderness,

She makes the willow shiver in the sun

For maidens who were wont to sit and gaze

Upon the grass, relinquished to their feet.

She causes boys to pile new plums and pears

On disregarded plate. The maidens taste

And stray impassioned in the littering leaves.

 

6

 

Is there no change of death in paradise?

Does ripe fruit never fall? Or do the boughs

Hang always heavy in that perfect sky,

Unchanging, yet so like our perishing earth,

With rivers like our own that seek for seas

They never find, the same receding shores

That never touch with inarticulate pang?

Why set pear upon those river-banks

Or spice the shores with odors of the plum?

Alas, that they should wear our colors there,

The silken weavings of our afternoons,

And pick the strings of our insipid lutes!

Death is the mother of beauty, mystical,

Within whose burning bosom we devise

Our earthly mothers waiting, sleeplessly.

 

7

 

Supple and turbulent, a ring of men

Shall chant in orgy on a summer morn

Their boisterous devotion to the sun,

Not as a god, but as a god might be,

Naked among them, like a savage source.

Their chant shall be a chant of paradise,

Out of their blood, returning to the sky;

And in their chant shall enter, voice by voice,

The windy lake wherein their lord delights,

The trees, like serafin, and echoing hills,

That choir among themselves long afterward.

They shall know well the heavenly fellowship

Of men that perish and of summer morn.

And whence they came and whither they shall go

The dew upon their feel shall manifest.

 

8

 

She hears, upon that water without sound,

A voice that cries, 'The tomb in Palestine

Is not the porch of spirits lingering.

It is the grave of Jesus, where he lay.'

We live in an old chaos of the sun,

Or old dependency of day and night,

Or island solitude, unsponsored, free,

Of that wide water, inescapable.

Deer walk upon our mountains, and the quail

Whistle about us their spontaneous cries;

Sweet berries ripen in the wilderness;

And, in the isolation of the sky,

At evening, casual flocks of pigeons make

Ambiguous undulations as they sink,

Downward to darkness, on extended wings.

Edited September 20, 2010 by baph

Hovis Presley:

 

"I once spent an evening with Lola or Layla

She said make me breathless I hid her inhaler"

 

"As good things go,

She went"

 

 

John Cooper-Clarke:

 

"Outside the take-away, Saturday night

A bald adolescent, asks me out for a fight

He was no bigger than a two-penny fart

He was a deft exponent of the martial art

He gave me three warnings:

Trod on me toes, stuck his fingers in my eyes

And kicked me in the nose

A rabbit punch made me eyes explode

My head went dead, I fell in the road

 

I pleaded for mercy

I wriggled on the ground

He kicked me in the balls

And said something profound

Gave my face the millimetre tread

Stole me chop suey and left me for dead

 

Through rivers of blood and splintered bones

I crawled half a mile to the public telephone

Pulled the corpse out the call box, held back the bile

And with a broken index finger, I proceeded to dial

 

I couldn’t get an ambulance

The phone was screwed

The receiver fell in half

It had been kung fu’d

 

A black belt karate cop opened up the door

Demanding information about the stiff on the floor

He looked like an extra from Yang Shang Po

He said “What’s all this then

Ah so, ah so, ah so.”

He wore a bamboo mask

He was gen’ned on zen

He finished his devotions and he beat me up again

 

Thanks to that embryonic Bruce Lee

I’m a shadow of the person that I used to be

I can’t go back to Salford

The cops have got me marked

Enter the Dragon

Exit Johnny Clarke"

William Blake. Yes.

william blake is like ....well..religion to me

 

ee cummings

 

allen ginsberg

 

,kerouac,

 

and whoever said borges....!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6hHjctqSBwM

I've finally put my hands on "De pur désatres" by F. Salvaing. Awesome. True syntax bender. Great story ending sense.

Seamus Heaney

 

Such an incredibly articulate bastard, I have a collection of his Oxford Lectures and the whole thing reads more like an extended prose rather than a collection of his interpretation/ critical analyses of some of the greatest poets who ever lived.

 

Anyone interested in or studying poetry should read his oxford lectures, ignore the word "lecture" altogether its and allegorical thesis of a Poet who has spent his life emulating and challenging his heroes of literature. Its never dull, enlightening and you would have to have a heart of stone not to feel shivers reading some of the passages.

 

Tenure at Oxfords gotta be worth something?

 

also Dylan Thomas, Christopher Marlowe and Leonard Cohen.

Edited December 6, 2010 by Beefuncle

Enter STAGE RIGHT: IAIN C

for me, poetry begins and ends with wallace stevens.

the wifeys dad is a poet, probably my fave one too

 

i also like:

 

keats

billy childish

shakepear

vernon scannell

bbyron

leslie norris

blake

coleridge

william cowper

ivor cutler

larkin

wordsworth

Edited December 6, 2010 by funkaholic

  On 9/18/2010 at 3:43 AM, beatfanatic said:

poetry is for fags

 

Don't forget lesbians.....

 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fl6Mf4yTm7A

  On 9/20/2010 at 6:21 PM, Zykial said:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Aztulcg9ipM

 

 

 

great stuff, recently there was a excellent exhibition of childish's work in london, had a massive collection of vinyls releases of his various bands, painting, books and various other things, also shortly before this show there was another good one about concrete poetry.

Tough to know where to start... First and foremost over the last year or so, Geoffrey Hill. I heard him read from Speech! Speech! at the Serpentine Gallery poetry marathon in october 2009 and it blew my mind. Reading Hill is almost a full-time concern, his work demands serious effort and it's worth every ounce of it. Incidentally I think his new collection Oraclau is actually one of the most lyrical and accessible things he's produced and I thoroughly recommend it to anybody who gives a damn about poetry.

 

Other than that, here's a big ugly list: Paul Celan, Dylan Thomas, Robert Lowell, Emily Dickinson, Ted Hughes, Seamus Heaney, Eliot, John Donne, Walt Whitman, Gerard Manley Hopkins, John Ashberry, Jeffery Wainwright, bla bla bla bla bla.

  On 12/6/2010 at 5:15 PM, Beefuncle said:

Seamus Heaney

 

Human Chain is off the chart I'm with you, probably the second-best new book I've read this year after Hill.

Oh god and how could I forget HART CRANE.

Pretentious poetry asshole!

Fuck you man.

 

My Grandmother’s Love Letters

 

by Hart Crane

 

There are no stars tonight

But those of memory.

Yet how much room for memory there is

In the loose girdle of soft rain.

 

There is even room enough

For the letters of my mother’s mother,

Elizabeth,

That have been pressed so long

Into a corner of the roof

That they are brown and soft,

And liable to melt as snow.

 

Over the greatness of such space

Steps must be gentle.

It is all hung by an invisible white hair.

It trembles as birch limbs webbing the air.

 

And I ask myself:

 

“Are your fingers long enough to play

Old keys that are but echoes:

Is the silence strong enough

To carry back the music to its source

And back to you again

As though to her?”

 

Yet I would lead my grandmother by the hand

Through much of what she would not understand;

And so I stumble. And the rain continues on the roof

With such a sound of gently pitying laughter.