#71
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Re: Favourite lines of poetry/verse?
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix |
#72
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Re: Favourite lines of poetry/verse?
and eddyandbill come
running from marbles and piracies and it's spring when the world is puddle-wonderful edit: actually, any line(s) from this poem make my top ten. |
#73
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Re: Favourite lines of poetry/verse?
Written in an outhouse:
Here I sit, broken hearted, Paid a nickel and only farted. Next time, take a chance. Save the nickel and crap your pants. |
#74
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Re: Favourite lines of poetry/verse?
Rilke is awesome.
Be patient towards all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves like locked rooms and like books that are written in a very foreign tongue. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given to you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will find them gradually, without noticing it, and live along some distant day into the answer. And another one that I couldn't find an author for. When God comes to me I will be shaking. Gun loaded on my knee, my fingers waiting. Gonna tell him I was born, mistaken, then I´m gonna let my fingers slip. God help my shaking hand, I can see your light, they´re lining up the dead. Gonna take another sip of your soul, my favorite sinner. |
#75
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Re: Favourite lines of poetry/verse?
This is amazing. A post in OOT about poetry that has gone about 80 replies with little-to-no haters.
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#76
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Re: Favourite lines of poetry/verse?
OOT can move you sometimes.
Or your bowels, at least. |
#77
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Re: Favourite lines of poetry/verse?
More favorites
Because I could not stop for Death He kindly stopped for me The Carriage held but just Ourselves And Immortality. Emily Dickinson And I find it kind of funny I find it kind of sad The dreams in which I'm dying Are the best I've ever had. Gary Jules I drink to our ruined house, to the dolor of my life, to our loneliness together; and to you I raise my glass, to lying lips that have betrayed us, to dead-cold pitiless eyes, and to the hard realities; that the world is brutal and coarse, that God, in fact, has not saved us. Dreams are the eraser dust I blow off my page. They fade into the emptiness, another dark gray day. Dreams are only memories of the plans I had back then. Dreams are eraser dust and now I use a pen |
#78
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Re: Favourite lines of poetry/verse?
THEMES ON LOVE
Grading themes on love at M.I.T., one-man Symposium at 3 a.m., across the court I saw a light; another office-holder working late. While Plato on a silver pillow rode above the waves of pre-sophistic prose, I jotted teacher's notions that were not as brave as our two lamps against the glut of dawn. But when I clicked mine off his too at once was gone, had been my echo in a distant sheen of glass; had been my own, and I was lonely then, and wrote these English words. |
#79
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Re: Favourite lines of poetry/verse?
Lot of great poems in this thread... This one combines my two favorite things:
Ooh My Soul —Little Richard By Charles Harper Webb By night, ghosts roam Aunt Ermyn’s elm-shrouded, hundred-year-old home. By day, my cousin Pete, just out of high school, combs his ducktail and keeps time to records with his creaky rocking chair. I’m in the hall, creating all-star teams of baseball cards when, blaring through Pete’s open door, I hear . . . war drums? Or is it a runaway train? Keepa knockin’ but you cain’t come in, then squeals like tires around a curve. Those chugging drums, smoking piano, squawking duck-call saxophones make me feel like an oil rig ready to blow. I see wells pumping, teeter-totters bumping, giant turtle-heads working out and in as bronco riders wave tall hats in the air. I see girls twirling, dresses swirling high over their underwear, guys doing splits, or inch-worming across the floor. It makes me want to slam my head back and forth like a paddle ball—to jump, shout, bang my hands on walls, and flap them in the air—to fall onto the ground and writhe, flail, roar like Johnny Cerna in his famous Kiddieland tantrum. Keepa knockin’ but you cain’t come in, the preacher howls. But I am in. I’m in the living room, Bandstand on tv, Dad ranting, “. . . goddamn Congo beat!” I’m in the back seat of his Ford a decade later, learning what that beat could be. I’m in my first band, hoarse from screaming “Long Tall Sally.” I’m in my college dorm, trying to jam that wild abandon into poems. I’m in my car, heading for work, when “Good Golly, Miss Molly!” catapults out of my Blaupunkt stereo. I’m walking into Pete’s bedroom, where I’ve never dared to go. Oh, womp bompalumomp, a lomp bam boom! I’m not thinking in words, but I know I’ve spent my seven years rehearsing how to feel this way. It’s more exciting than a touchdown any day, or a home run, a gunfight, hurricane waves at Galveston, a five-pound bass on a cane pole. “What is that?” I ask Pete. He says, “Rock-and-roll.” |
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