Favourite Poems

My favorite poem:

She's never left alone
she likes to suck the bone
Love the smell of her cunt hair
She's always on her knees
she always aims to please
Her lips are round and her face is fair
I want some, she's on the run
She loves the taste of cum
She really gets me in heat
Oh, yes she does

She gives blowjobs, she gives blowjobs
She gets me up, she never lets me down
She gives blowjobs, blowjobs
She'll go down on every guy in town

She likes the taste of cum
She's always on the run
She gets me in heat
And now she's on every guy's list
'Cause she loves the taste of meat
She's never left alone
She likes to suck the bone
Love the smell of her cunt hair
She's always on her knees
She always aims to please
Her lips are round and her face is fair

She gives blowjobs, blowjobs
She gets me up, she never lets me down
She gives blowjobs, blowjobs
She'll go down on every guy in town
She'll go down on you

She gives blowjobs, she gives blowjobs
She gets me up, she never lets me down
She gives me blowjobs, she gives me blowjobs
She'll go down on every guy in town!!

Ewwwwww. It seems that some writers' idea of poetry is putting to paper something that rhymes.

Of course, this is the day of the runny nose being considered performance art.

lol


Standards have definitly lowered, thats not really a poem, its actually a song written by GG Allin

;P

I write a lot of poetry though, check out my signature!

somewhere i have never traveled, gladly beyond

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are the things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look will easily unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
your open always petal by petal myself as spring opens
(touching skillfully, mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be close to me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as wehen the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility; whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

-e.e. cummings

A personal favourite:

'Is there anybody there?' said the Traveller,
Knocking on the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence champed the grasses
Of the forest's ferny floor:
And a bird flew up out of the turret,
Above the Traveller's head
And he smote upon the door again a second time;
'Is there anybody there?' he said.
But no one descended to the Traveller;
No head from the leaf-fringed sill
Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,
Where he stood perplexed and still.
But only a host of phantom listeners
That dwelt in the lone house then
Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight
To that voice from the world of men:
Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,
That goes down to the empty hall,
Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken
By the lonely Traveller's call.
And he felt in his heart their strangeness,
Their stillness answering his cry,
While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,
'Neath the starred and leafy sky;
For he suddenly smote on the door, even
Louder, and lifted his head:-
'Tell them I came, and no one answered,
That I kept my word,' he said.
Never the least stir made the listeners,
Though every word he spake
Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house
From the one man left awake:
Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,
And the sound of iron on stone,
And how the silence surged softly backward,
When the plunging hoofs were gone.

The Listeners, Walter De La Mare.

Best enjoyed with the lights out and in excitable company, I will say no more.

ULYSSES

Alfred, Lord Tennyson

It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Matched with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.
I cannot rest from travel; I will drink
life to the lees. All times I have enjoyed
Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those
that loved me, and alone; on shore, and when
Through scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vexed the dim sea. I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known---cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honored of them all---
And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.

I am part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough
Gleams that untraveled world whose margin fades
Forever and forever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end.
To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!
As though to breathe were life! Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains; but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this gray spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

This is my son, my own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the scepter and the isle---
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfill
This labor, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and through soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centered in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.
There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail;
There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toiled, and wrought, and thought with me---
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads---you and I are old;
Old age hath yet his honor and his toil.
Death closes all; but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with gods.

The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks;
The long day wanes; the slow moon climbs; the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends.
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
the sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down;
It may be that we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Though much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are---
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

1842

It's Nash day:

Samson Agonistes
by Ogden Nash

I test my bath before I sit,
And I'm always moved to wonderment
That what chills the finger not a bit
Is so frigid upon the fundament.

The Dark Night
1. One dark night,
fired with love's urgent longings
- ah, the sheer grace! -
I went out unseen,
my house being now all stilled.
2. In darkness, and secure,
by the secret ladder, disguised,
- ah, the sheer grace! -
in darkness and concealment,
my house being now all stilled.

3. On that glad night,
in secret, for no one saw me,
nor did I look at anything,
with no other light or guide
than the one that burned in my heart.

4. This guided me
more surely than the light of noon
to where he was awaiting me
- him I knew so well -
there in a place where no one appeared.

5. O guiding night!
O night more lovely than the dawn!
O night that has united
the Lover with his beloved,
transforming the beloved in her Lover.

6. Upon my flowering breast
which I kept wholly for him alone,
there he lay sleeping,
and I caressing him
there in a breeze from the fanning cedars.

7. When the breeze blew from the turret,
as I parted his hair,
it wounded my neck
with its gentle hand,
suspending all my senses.

8. I abandoned and forgot myself,
laying my face on my Beloved;
all things ceased; I went out from myself,
leaving my cares
forgotten among the lilies.

St. John of the Cross

One of my favourite poems:
(English translation below)

Correspondances


La Nature est un temple où de vivants piliers
Laissent parfois sortir de confuses paroles;
L'homme y passe à travers des forêts de symboles
Qui l'observent avec des regards familiers.

Comme de longs échos qui de loin se confondent
Dans une ténébreuse et profonde unité,
Vaste comme la nuit et comme la clarté,
Les parfums, les couleurs et les sons se répondent.

II est des parfums frais comme des chairs d'enfants,
Doux comme les hautbois, verts comme les prairies,
— Et d'autres, corrompus, riches et triomphants,
Ayant l'expansion des choses infinies,
Comme l'ambre, le musc, le benjoin et l'encens,
Qui chantent les transports de l'esprit et des sens.


— Charles Baudelaire



Correspondences

Nature is a temple in which living pillars
Sometimes give voice to confused words;
Man passes there through forests of symbols
Which look at him with understanding eyes.

Like prolonged echoes mingling in the distance
In a deep and tenebrous unity,
Vast as the dark of night and as the light of day,
Perfumes, sounds, and colors correspond.

There are perfumes as cool as the flesh of children,
Sweet as oboes, green as meadows
— And others are corrupt, and rich, triumphant,

With power to expand into infinity,
Like amber and incense, musk, benzoin,
That sing the ecstasy of the soul and senses.


— William Aggeler, The Flowers of Evil (Fresno, CA: Academy Library Guild, 1954)

There was a young man named Chase
Who got himself banned from this place
The slaps on the wrist
Got him really pissed
And now miss his sexy face.

I love this thread..thanks Lord!

Ok....My all time favourite poem is taken from 'Christabel' by Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

'Alas, they had been friends in youth,
But whispering tongues can poison truth..
And constancy lives in realms above,
And life is thorny, and youth is vain,
And to be wroth with one you love
Doth work like madness in the brain.

But never either found another,
To free the hollow heart from paining,
They stood aloof, the scars remaining....
Like cliffs that had been rent asunder,
A dreary sea now flows between.
But neither heat, not frost, nor thunder,
Shall wholly do away I we'en,
The marks of that which once hath been.'
(End)

I thought I'd proffer a couple of my own.....I wrote this one for my Irish Granny in Connemara when my Grandad died when I was 18...it's called 'The Golden Key'

'There is a place not far away,
Where trouble pass me by each day,
And there is no time for past regrets,
For love and joy reap benefits.

Sadness is but a distant song,
For which my soul will never long,
Where envy, hate and remorse once lay,
Now numbed by love in every way.

Oh how I long for memories,
For which I'll never find the keys,
For to unlock the door to Golden days,
Is but a dream that never pays.

But Golden days will come anew,
Happy days, however few,
And love will shine eventually,
And give to you, the Golden key.'
(End)

This one I wrote when I was 21. I'd just split up from my first lover Mark...he was of Jamaican descent, and spoke (speaks) quite a hard London Carib Patois....hence the language in the poem...he was a bit of a 'yaahdie' boy. It's called 'Doin' the Lambeth Walk'...because he lived on the Lambeth Walk in London, and it's also an old famous Cockney song! (we are still good friends to this day despite the poem!)

'Go,
Hide yourself in material ways...
G'waan,
Wear your disguise everydays...

When you're doin' the Lambeth Walk
(Um na naay)
That's doin', doin' the Lambeth Walk...

You'd better believe, I ain't laffin'...
For when I climb the trees,
And shout the Sun,

I'm doing as I please..
(Um na naay)
Doing, doing as I please...

That's feeling the Earth,
And the tickle of the breeze...

And that's when I think of you,
Your locks, your keys...

Shutting out.

The choked street,
The bill on beat,
The urban moan,
The City's groan

Forever sucking on money's teat....

Is that all you want?
(Um na ney)
Is that all you really want?

That's why...

I ain't laffin'
No
I ain't laffin'.'
(End)


(Apologies for the amateurish content but I was quite young....)


And I've saved the best to last.....written by the Contessa De Vilerancour...

'The Duchess when pouring the tea,
Asked "Do you fart when you pee?"
I replied with some wit,
"Do you belch when you shit?"
And I think that was one up to me.'

I corrected my earlier typo.

Some thought chase was hawt
I thought Chase was smawt

but kinda skinny tho'
and not my kinda ho'

at least as best as I could tell...