Daily i wonder why everyone has stolen my style of posting

daily i wonder why everyone has stolen my style of posting

just a few weeks back

posting this way on 8ch was anathema

but just recently

posting like this has exploded

it's like a fucking trend

wtf are you people doing

Other urls found in this thread:

jerz.setonhill.edu/writing/creative1/poetry-writing-tips-how-to-write-a-poem/
twitter.com/AnonBabble

what is your style of posting?

being a appropriator, probably.


I hope you don't mean double-spacing 'cause if you do then KYS

I don't know

why

maybe it is because

well…..

I don't know

oh wow this guy takes time every week to learn a new word that he can toss into everyday situations

just to keep the enemies confused and on their toes

and then you end it by going kys

you had so much going and then you fall for the temptation and just go

IMMA TOSS IT ALL OUT THE WINDOW AND BE THE MOST GENERIC NIGGER IN THE WORLD

an empty line between each sentence? it is anathema still. you are a faggot if that is what you do

you don't even know wtf you are talking about yourself

let alone the stylistic approaches of other anons

why respond to my post then? Nothing better to do, idler?

Either you are the spammer or the spammer has taken on your retarded sentence structure.

well, no not really

you are getting close

but you lack the full

s c o p e

of things

as of yet

what do you mean, nothing better?

this is my 8ch time

i look forward to it all week

it must have been my presence in the last few months

and i must say it makes me sad

that my style of posting is now being copied, and thus becoming

generic

all i wanted was to bring poetry to the world

THIS

IS

REDDIT

go away, Shatner

...

do you know all these reddit spacing comments i've been getting

has made me wonder so much about reddit

i mean who has this level of knowledge about reddit other than people who have been part of their community, right?

are you all heartbroken redditors with jihad beards that you started growing the day you were banned from reddit?

I know niggers rob stores and kill people, but that doesn't mean I'm apart of them.

You are finally starting to fit in

Spot the Nigger

YES YOU ARE

now i'm sick of this

it is time for people to take resposibility for the world they have created

Don't delude yourself. You started nothing. You created nothing. Some people have always double spaced for dramatic effect, some people don't, and others switch back and forth.

Is a meme started by people who were being destroyed in arguments by people who double spaced, to somehow make their point invalid.

Twerking is for niggers and wiggers and objectively more degenerate that homosexuality.

nice op. you just outted of the retards that go to leddit. can't the mods here write a script to read people's cookies then ban faggots that go there?

Whatever you say gayboy.

if you are speaking about chan culture as a whole

then of course

i did not invent this

but i am talking specifically 8ch, and also just the last couple of weeks

and don't go saying it's because of mass bans from halfchan

this type of rhythm is frowned upon even there

lol

...

well that might be to push things to far

many people live out their lives thinking their perception of reality is an objective one

we should not bully people for being so misguided they think that objectivity exists

You're so fucking dumb.

...

i value your opinion

in fact

i want you to elaborate

...

oh man here we go

they upgraded

they have


images

oh god


and endless stream of images

step up


you need


more spaces

and less


words

in


each


row.

back to 4chad

...

>says gif in the header

Go back to being an idiot.

i think this is cute an invigorating

because i can rest assured you have no real clue

about anything that is actual rhythm

pacing

i n d i v i d u a l i t y

when to obey a certail rule

and when

to smash it into


beautiful


s h i t

you do realize we are all the same person having and endless conversation with ourselves, right? no one copied you. You reflected yourself.

then why do I hate OP for being a fag?

i was about to say i have no problem with this

but then i realized maybe it is some kind of covert faggotry

yes exactly

i am op and i also find this post disturbing

I haven't seen it. I think it's just you and your delusions, OP. Maybe it's your browser fucking things up.

please elaborate

Nah, that's all there is to it, really.

well then (i can't believe i am encouraging this behaviour)

try to turn i into a poem

Here's a haiku.

Thinks he's setting trends.
Really just delusional.
Could be browser too.

and what i have been trying to show you

is that no math must be present


in order to create

actual and true poetry

everyone knows haiku is the poetry version of sim city 2000

I don't get it. I could write an exotic selection of poems of different meters and styles, but a haiku was what you deserved.

i can see you don't get it, you didn't have to start your post with the words

i don't get it

i have spent so much time trying to make people understand

the true nature

of a c t u a l
r e a l

boundaries of what is to be regarded as

poetry


and then you go


lol

it is fun to see you still have a bit of britain washed into your brain

Britain? Meter is the US spelling. I'm Norwegian, though. I cannot guarantee that my English grammar will comply with your standards.

Let's hear it, guy. Whip out your poem.

OP

You're just being a faggot

Make up a new style of posting if you're getting so mad about the issue

The internet is supposed to be used to share ideas

Your idea was shared

And now you're getting mad

God, you're autistic.

actually i am about three levels above

and i should be able to give a better comeback

but being so many levels up
meabns endless amounts of alcohl

and thus i will be taken down because my poetry is ruined now

i am drunk all the time

i sense flares going off in my head all the time

but what good are they

when i am so drunk i cannot translate them

into a common human language

what good am i

when i am so drunk i can no longer translate the language from beyond

into the words

of humans

yes you better fucking believe i am keeping track of you grammar

norwegian boy

don't think you get a tass because you try to hand over this


not on my watch pal

Wow, that's what I call pretension.

I can guarantee you that you are several layers below me. If you were even close, I'd know. There's only so many in the world on my level.

No pleas for mercy here. I'm pretty sure my grammar has been flawless so far, regardless.

I challenge you to…
=A BATTLE OF INTELLECT!=

i am glad that you are staring to notice the outer shapes of my newest art project

namely

working with pretension as a form of art in itself

because 8ch is outside the general realm it is viable to be

call it a demo mix tape

and it has been


and also

continues to be

valuable

But… where's the motherfuckin' money?
Show me the motherfuckin' money.

Oh, you ain't got no motherfuckin' money?

eh no that sounds like something that has nothing to do with poetry

and thus

nothing to do with truth

in Just-
spring          when the world is mud-
luscious the little
lame balloonman

whistles          far          and wee

and eddieandbill come
running from marbles and
piracies and it's
spring

when the world is puddle-wonderful

the queer
old balloonman whistles
far          and             wee
and bettyandisbel come dancing

from hop-scotch and jump-rope and

it's
spring
and

         the

                  goat-footed

balloonMan          whistles
far
and
wee

fairly good

a balance of humour and commentary

That post-modern shit you just expressed unto me made me express all over my pants. Want to taste my expression? It's pretty fucking salty.

You're already playing, and you're not even aware of it. I'm going to crush you.

I'm nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there's a pair of us – don't tell!
They'd banish – you know!

How dreary to be somebody!
How public like a frog
To tell one's name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!

Pretty outdated. But I'll rate it 7/10.

this is actually just slightly intereresting

considering the general idea that poetry must

by definition

be about some outdated whatever bullshit

the post that is


should be regarded as a kick in the face to all general poetry lessons

Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not soe,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill mee.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.

yes but since i invite it i am invincible

Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That hills and valleys, dale and field,
And all the craggy mountains yield.

There will we sit upon the rocks,
And see the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

There I will make thee beds of roses
And a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle;

A gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair linèd slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;

A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs;
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love.

Thy silver dishes for thy meat
As precious as the gods do eat,
Shall on an ivory table be
Prepared each day for thee and me.

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May-morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me and be my love.

If all the world and love were young,
And truth in every shepherd's tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move
To live with thee and be thy love.

Time drives the flocks from field to fold
When Rivers rage and Rocks grow cold,
And Philomel becometh dumb;
The rest complains of cares to come.

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward winter reckoning yields;
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten:
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw and Ivy buds,
Thy coral clasps and amber studs,
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee and be thy love.

But could youth last and love still breed,
Had joys no date nor age no need,
Then these delights my mind might move
To live with thee and be thy love.

...

As some brave Admiral, in former War
Depriv'd of force, but pressed with courage still,
Two Rival Fleets appearing from afar,
Crawls to the top of an Adjacent Hill,

From whence, with thoughts full of concern, he views
The wise and daring conduct of the Fight,
And each bold action to his mind renews
His present glory and his past delight;

From his fierce eyes flashes of Rage he throws,
As from black Clouds when Lightning breaks away,
Transported, thinks himself amidst his Foes,
And absent, yet enjoys the bloody Day:

So, when my days of Impotence approach,
And I'm by Pox and Wine's unlucky chance
Forc'd from the pleasing Billows of Debauch
On the Dull Shore of lazy Temperance;

My pains at least some respite shall afford
While I behold the Battles you maintain,
When Fleets of Glasses Sail about the Board,
From whose broad sides Volleys of Wit shall Rain.

Nor shall the sight of honorable Scars,
Which my too forward valor did procure,
Frighten new-lifted Soldiers from the Wars;
Past joys have more than paid what I endure.

Should hopeful youths, worth being drunk, prove nice,
And from their fair Inviters meanly shrink;
Twill please the Ghost of my departed Vice
If, at my counsel, they repent, and Drink.

Or should some cold complexion'd Sot forbid,
With his Dull Morals, your bold Night-Alarms;
I'll fire his blood, by telling what I did
When I was strong, and able to bear Arms.

I'll tell of Whores attack'd, their Lords at home;
Bauds Quarters beaten up, and Fortress won:
Windows demolish'd, Watches overcome;
And handsome Ills, by my contrivance, done.

Nor shall our Love-fits Cloris be forgot,
When each the well-look'd Linkboy strove t'enjoy;
And the best Kiss was the deciding Lot,
Whether the Boy Fuck'd you, or I the Boy.

With Tales like these, I will such thoughts inspire
As to important mischief shall incline;
I'll make him long some Ancient Church to fire,
And fear no lewdness he's call'd to by Wine.

Thus, Statesman-like, I'll saucily Impose,
And, safe from Action, valiantly Advise;
Shelter'd in Impotence, urge you to blows:
And being good for nothing else, be Wise.

oh man

this is like if someone starts a thread about film around muslims

and they try to make fun of you by showing examples of american movies from the 1950's

when film was young but nowhere near as clueless as the people laughing at it

these days

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.

“After Death nothing is, and nothing, death,
The utmost limit of a gasp of breath.
Let the ambitious zealot lay aside
His hopes of heaven, whose faith is but his pride;
Let slavish souls lay by their fear
Nor be concerned which way nor where
After this life they shall be hurled.
Dead, we become the lumber of the world,
And to that mass of matter shall be swept
Where things destroyed with things unborn are kept.
Devouring time swallows us whole.
Impartial death confounds body and soul.
For Hell and the foul fiend that rules
God's everlasting fiery jails
(Devised by rogues, dreaded by fools),
With his grim, grisly dog that keeps the door,
Are senseless stories, idle tales,
Dreams, whimseys, and no more.”

just putting out poetry, sharing the english and older

On this train, you will see
vast valleys and hills,
and lots of people;
some of 'em kind
and some of 'em mean.
Most of 'em haven't the slightest clue
what they are even doing!

You'll see saddening things,
like ugly as sin
buildings and projects;
some of 'em tall,
and some of 'em short.
Some of 'em ain't so tall at all no more
(memorial on the first floor)

Kids addicted to speed, and
wildfire STD's…
There's a market, and there's a need
to make as you please.

You could get on a train
or boldy set sail
for foreign countries.
One day you'll starve
with nowhere to run,
when every flag portrays a single star
above a single nation.

That's just how to compete.
Once man learned to speak,
the rules were spoken:

1) Nobody ties, and
2) nobody wins
until there's nothing left but skies 'tween him
and God's good night of nothing.

Empires made of cardboard;
Paper dreams, kings and queens;
When the gates of Hell are ajar,
it pays to be mean.

On these tracks, you will find
the blood of the kind
and all their organs.
Seeing their hearts, then looking for brains
is like you're looking for art in stains
from your discarded paint.

What, are you looking for art?
That train has departed
long ago, son.
Here's to the tracks,
and here's to the train
that carries cattle to be shackled and slain,
east to west and back again.

Tell me, O muse, of that ingenious hero who traveled far and wide after he had sacked the famous town of Troy. Many cities did he visit, and many were the nations with whose manners and customs he was acquainted; moreover he suffered much by sea while trying to save his own life and bring his men safely home; but do what he might he could not save his men, for they perished through their own sheer folly in eating the cattle of the Sun-god Hyperion; so the god prevented them from ever reaching home. Tell me, too, about all these things, O daughter of Jove, from whatsoever source you may know them.

Arms, and the man I sing, who, forc'd by fate,
And haughty Juno's unrelenting hate,
Expell'd and exil'd, left the Trojan shore.
Long labours, both by sea and land, he bore,
And in the doubtful war, before he won
The Latian realm, and built the destin'd town;
His banish'd gods restor'd to rites divine,
And settled sure succession in his line,
From whence the race of Alban fathers come,
And the long glories of majestic Rome.

Lo, praise of the prowess of people-kings
of spear-armed Danes, in days long sped,
we have heard, and what honor the athelings won!
Oft Scyld the Scefing from squadroned foes,
from many a tribe, the mead-bench tore,
awing the earls. Since erst he lay
friendless, a foundling, fate repaid him:
for he waxed under welkin, in wealth he throve,
till before him the folk, both far and near,
who house by the whale-path, heard his mandate,
gave him gifts: a good king he!

Supreme over other kings, lordly in appearance,
he is the hero, born of Uruk, the goring wild bull.
He walks out in front, the leader,
and walks at the rear, trusted by his companions.
Mighty net, protector of his people,
raging flood-wave who destroys even walls of stone!
Offspring of Lugalbanda, Gilgamesh is strong to perfection,
son of the august cow, Rimat-Ninsun;… Gilgamesh is awesome to perfection.
It was he who opened the mountain passes,
who dug wells on the flank of the mountain.
It was he who crossed the ocean, the vast seas, to the rising sun,who explored the world regions, seeking life.
It was he who reached by his own sheer strength Utanapishtim, the Faraway,
who restored the sanctuaries (or: cities) that the Flood had destroyed!
… for teeming mankind.
Who can compare with him in kingliness?
Who can say like Gilgamesh: “I am King!”?
Whose name, from the day of his birth, was called “Gilgamesh”?
Two-thirds of him is god, one-third of him is human.
The Great Goddess [Aruru] designed(?) the model for his body,
she prepared his form …
… beautiful, handsomest of men,
… perfect

He walks around in the enclosure of Uruk,
Like a wild bull he makes himself mighty, head raised (over others).
There is no rival who can raise his weapon against him.
His fellows stand (at the alert), attentive to his (orders ?),
and the men of Uruk become anxious in …
Gilgamesh does not leave a son to his father,
day and night he arrogant[y(?) …

America I've given you all and now I'm nothing.
America two dollars and twenty-seven 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 joke?
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 and 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 our 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 candystore.
I read it in the basement of the Berkeley Public Library.
It's always telling me about responsibility. Businessmen 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 and hour and
twentyfivethousand mental institutions.
I say nothing about my prisons nor the millions of underpriviliged 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 mood?
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 Communist 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 sincere 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're 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 garages.
Her wants to grab Chicago. Her needs a Red Reader's Digest. her wants our
auto plants in Siberia. Him big bureaucracy running our fillingstations.
That no good. Ugh. Him makes Indians learn read. Him need big black niggers.
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.

yes, and i take it as criticism of your education

because poetry is not supposed to be bullshit so cumbersome and useless it becomes a laughing stock

forget everything you ever heard of poetry

in class

it is the words you scream into the face of a person you hate


or the words you say to someone

you do not wih to hurt


poetry is alive in everyday society

it is not words reviewed in class

it is alive

if you make it so

fuck off, i know who you are.
you're the crazy schizophrenic poster who used to use the stupid red flag.

I will sodomize you and face-fuck you,
Cocksucking Aurelius and anus-busting Furius,
You who think, from my verses
Because they are delicate, that I have no shame.
For it is right for the devoted poet
To be chaste himself, but it's not
Necessary for his verses to be so.
[Verses] which then indeed have taste and charm,
If they are delicate and a little shameless,
And because they can incite an itch,
And I don't mean in boys, but in
Those hairy old men who can't get it up.
You, because you have collected many thousands of my kisses,
You think me less of a man?
I will sodomize you and face-fuck you.

Pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo,
Aureli pathice et cinaede Furi,
Qui me ex uersiculis meis putastis,
Quod sunt molliculi, parum pudicum.
Nam castum esse decet pium poetam
Ipsum, uersiculos nihil necesse est,
Qui tum denique habent salem ac leporem,
Si sunt molliculi ac parum pudici
Et quod pruriat incitare possunt,
Non dico pueris, sed his pilosis,
Qui duros nequeunt mouere lumbos.
Vos quod milia multa basiorum
Legistis, male me marem putatis?
Pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo.

Yeah, my poetry makes yours look like a cheap sitcom's parody of a minestrel.

Methinks I see you, newly risen
From your embroider'd Bed and pissing,
With studied mien and much grimace,
Present yourself before your glass,
To vanish and smooth o'er those graces,
You rubb'd off in your Night Embraces.

Hilarious.

I guess I misunderstood. I didn't know this was comedy. I rate you a 9/10 comedian, only topped by me.

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!–An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime…
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,–
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

no

but this is just plain pretending to be autistic in order to make sure no one has any serious interest in the thread

But! Can you make music? Or are you limited to words?

still just posting poetry. without titles but if you don't know them by sight a person could google them.

Wreak havoc, beep beep it's mad traffic
Sleek and lavish people speaking leaking to the maverick
He see as just another felony drug arrest
Any day could be the one he pick the wrong thug to test
Slug through the vest… Shot in the street
For pulling heat on a father whose baby's gotta eat
And when they get hungry, it ain't shit funny
Paid to interfere with how a brother get his money
Now, who's the real thugs, killers and gangsters?
Set the revolution, let the things bust and thank us
When the smoke clear, you can see the sky again
There will be the chopped off heads of leviathan
My friend, they call 'em strangers
Everybody talk to him end up in some danger

(They stay… Strange ways)
Can't reform 'em

They pray four times a day, they pray five
Whose ways is strange when it's time to survive
Some will go of they own free will to die
Others take them with you when they blow sky high
What's the difference? All you get is lost children
While abortion shit up behind the desk it costs billions
To blast humans in half, into captured arms
Only one side is allowed to have bombs
It's like making a soldier drop his weapon
Shooting him, and telling him to get to steppin'
Obviously, they came to portion of his fortune
Sounds to me like that old robbery/extortion

(They stay)
Same game
(Strange ways)
Ya can't reform 'em

You're the first post I've seen like this in weeks. The closest I've ever come to this is when I posted a short shitty poem on /n/ calling someone's post bait.

I'll take that as a no.

...

?

...

"baby shoes, used"

...

God, that one pissed me off the first time I read it, and it still does. Babies grow up. It's not a poetic situation that baby shoes are sold.

...

lol

you finally had your moment to shove in some M and Blue Angel and who ever the fuck that third guy is (not a part of the general part of my entry level film studies)

and please do understand that when i say film was young in the 1950's

i am trying to speak to people who think a movie like terminator 2 is ancient history

it was released in 1991

OMG HAD THEY EVEN INVENTED AIR BY THEN

This implies suicide for kids/adults and murder for any age group.Think it's a tradition in Japan or China to take your shoes off before you commit suicide.

lol!

you thought you were trolling one person

also many people reuse shoes of the dead, 'what the customer doesn't know probably won't hurt them' after all.

You're saying there was a third man there?

...

Death poems
are mere delusion —
death is death.

you know, i always hated orson welles

whenever i read though these essays about how great his work is

i can agree on an intellectual level

i can understand it

but that doesn't change the fact that his movies are motherfucking torture sessions

and don't you go mtv generation with the attention span of a gnat on me

some of my absolute favorite movies are so slow and non-narrative that most other people feel they can just as well go do some shopping or laundry and come back without having missed a thing

Like a fossil tree
From which we gather no flowers
Sad has been my life
Fated no fruit to produce

are you baiting or really being serious?

"F for Fake has since been credited as the main influence on the "MTV" style of editing that came to prominence in the 1980's"

obviously this is not for me to answer

but for you to discern

with the power of your intellect

as only a person lacking one

will wind up being trolled

i am also saddened that you went for this

rather than discussing orson welles

an ancient pond / a frog jumps in / the splash of water

yes i see

you wish to tell me your levels of this which you call trolling

the cry for help of your generation

knows no boundaries

if your scream must be expressed through votes changing the world

then it will be done

if it must be done

through poetry

then it will be done

no task is impossible

to the people

identifying with

the f r o g

...

...

weak and disappointing

not using your own words

means you admit you have no words

you cannot speak for yourself

you cannot stand up for yourself

the plague of the recent generation

I swear I started the -OH WAIT meta meme back on cuck Holla Forums when the consolefags were butthurt about all the awesome mods they would never have for GTA 5.

...

this is probably the best poem we have in the whole thread

as of yet

Why? That doesn't make any sense. Sorry. There's no known way of saying an English sentence in which you begin a sentence with 'in' and emphasize it. Get me a jury and show me how you can say "in July", and I'll go down on you. That's just idiotic, if you'll forgive me my saying so. That's just stupid, "in July"; I'd love to know how you emphasize 'in' in "In July"…impossible! Meaningless!

You don't know what I'm up against: because it's full of, of, of things that are only correct because they're grammatical but they're tough on the ear, you see; this is a very wearying one, it's unpleasant to read. Unrewarding.

...

are you trying to amaze people by pretending to know what these signs signify?

we all know you are one of the people who masturbate to anime

and we forgive you for it

now please do an honest adult attempt to not divert the issue at hand

“A lazy person, whatever the talents with which he set out, will have condemned himself to second-hand thoughts and to second-rate friends.”

i've always posted like that

it anonymizes your posts

"To be a poet is a condition rather than a profession."

truth has been spoken

but it is a quote

and this thread is not about qoutes

it is about poetry and thruth and go fuck yourself and rhythm

if it makes you feel better then ok

but you're actually being delusional

"The trouble with Buddhism in order to free oneself of all desire? one has to desire to do so."

This thread is gay

why am i here

why are you here

are you gay?

"Man is not a Yahoo, but he is rather like a Yahoo and needs to be reminded of it from time to time."

please do not despair

there are but a few pretend-faggots in the thread

they have anger in their veins

the only way to fight them is by not fighting them

no mean task

"If you have no money, men won't care for you, women won't love you; won't, that is, care for you or love you the last little bit that matters."

"The poet is, etymologically, the maker. Like all makers, he requires a stock of raw materials — in his case, experience. Now experience is not a matter of having actually swum the Hellespont, or danced with the dervishes, or slept in a doss-house. It is a matter of sensibility and intuition, of seeing and hearing the significant things, of paying attention at the right moments, of understanding and co-ordinating. Experience is not what happens to a man; it is what a man does with what happens to him. It is a gift for dealing with the accidents of existence, not the accidents themselves. By a happy dispensation of nature, the poet generally possesses the gift of experience in conjunction with that of expression."

oh god

we are in the grinder

as in

when Holla Forums shoves forth their most tusted autists to destroy threads

no matter what they keep on posting until the thread is dead

because they are autistic

it's like when cops send out murderous dogs

they have nothing in their heads, they will just do whatever the cops tell them to

Holla Forums and autism

hand in hand

"The work of the eyes is done. Go now and do the heart-work on the images imprisoned within you."

No shit. I hear this explanation every time, to explain the super clever pun (AKA "poem") they just told. This poem is missing a few lines:

"The longer I live, the more urgent it seems to me to endure and transcribe the whole dictation of existence up to its end, for it might just be the case that only the very last sentence contains that small and possibly inconspicuous word through which everything we had struggled to learn and everything we had failed to understand will be transformed suddenly into magnificent sense."

Yes, the meaning is pretty obvious, but the fact that MOST baby shoes do not belong to the dead, makes it pretty try-hard, you know? It's like it's making the reader work out the context in order to give it poetic value.

...

...

...

What

is

really

funny

is

that

in

the

not

too

distant

future,

people

will

be

posting

like

this.

You

might

think

it

is

funny

now,

but

you

will

probably

be

doing

it

too

before

too

long.

RIP Phil Hartman

...

he he what belongs to the dead?

i don't think that's a funny prospect at all

the idea of everyone expressing themselves in the same way is a nightmare not only to me, but to people who don't even know why they are hurting so badly

it is

in fact

the reason why i created the thread in the first place

not to encourage people to write like me

but to find their own expression

to write like

t h e m s e l v e s

We hit

levels of autism

I didn't

think

were possible

:')

...

...

...

...

is it that hard to simply not post when you have nothing to post?

why must it be a battle?

posting should be an exchange of ideas

not a battle

why stop at THAT level??/ hmmn?

:0


theres levels of

SHIT

posting you have hardly dreamt of ;) :O

trust

ME

it can ALW

AYS


be worse ;O

do you even meta?

You have made it though __ Spins

My level of shitposting is so cryptic that it looks normal.

yes, i do

i find it to be enjoyable and meditative

it doesn't even matter if you catch anything in such a situation

if you only care about the catch you might as well get a rig and start trolling

THATS WHAT YOU THINK

IM ONTO YOU SHITFAG

...

lol

back to pictures i guess

i'm sorry i went over your head there

it seemed like maybe you could figure it out

Then let not Winter’s ragged hand deface,
In thee thy summer, ere thou be distill’d:
Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place
With beauty’s treasure ere it be self-kill’d.
That use is not forbidden usury,
Which happies those that pay the willing loan;
That’s for thyself to breed another thee,
Or ten times happier, be it ten for one;
Ten times thyself were happier than thou art,
If ten of thine ten times refigur’d thee:
Then what could death do if thou shouldst depart,
Leaving thee living in posterity?
Be not self-will’d, for thou art much too fair
To be Death’s conquest, and make worms thine heir.

Autumn wind of eve,
blow away the clouds that mass
over the moon’s pure light
and the mists that cloud our mind,
do thou sweep away as well.
Now we disappear,
well, what must we think of it?
From the sky we came.
Now we may go back again.
That’s at least one point of view.

yes of course

why sit there and feel defeated

get back on the horse

start tossing out general bullshit

prepare for another grand finale

autism 2.0

...

“Under the spreading chestnut tree
I sold you and you sold me:
There lie they, and here lie we
Under the spreading chestnut tree.”

lol

you are all hurt

in the butthole

because you will not admit that all that old bullshit amounts to nothing

poetry is created every day and night

trying to make it be about old assholes from england

means you know nothing

about humans or reality

"But love is a little peace as well as a little death/In an hour our pulse shall cease/Stopped like the breath/Our bodies thrown down like clothes on a chair/Abandoned like choice/You see, the heart said/We too have cause to rejoice/Here in Il Pace, il Pace."

...

NINETEEN HUNDRED AND NINETEEN

I.
MANY ingenious lovely things are gone
That seemed sheer miracle to the multitude,
protected from the circle of the moon
That pitches common things about. There stood
Amid the ornamental bronze and stone
An ancient image made of olive wood –
And gone are Phidias' famous ivories
And all the golden grasshoppers and bees.

We too had many pretty toys when young:
A law indifferent to blame or praise,
To bribe or threat; habits that made old wrong
Melt down, as it were wax in the sun's rays;
Public opinion ripening for so long
We thought it would outlive all future days.
O what fine thought we had because we thought
That the worst rogues and rascals had died out.

All teeth were drawn, all ancient tricks unlearned,
And a great army but a showy thing;
What matter that no cannon had been turned
Into a ploughshare? Parliament and king
Thought that unless a little powder burned
The trumpeters might burst with trumpeting
And yet it lack all glory; and perchance
The guardsmen's drowsy chargers would not prance.

Now days are dragon-ridden, the nightmare
Rides upon sleep: a drunken soldiery
Can leave the mother, murdered at her door,
To crawl in her own blood, and go scot-free;
The night can sweat with terror as before
We pieced our thoughts into philosophy,
And planned to bring the world under a rule,
Who are but weasels fighting in a hole.

He who can read the signs nor sink unmanned
Into the half-deceit of some intoxicant
From shallow wits; who knows no work can stand,
Whether health, wealth or peace of mind were spent
On master-work of intellect or hand,
No honour leave its mighty monument,
Has but one comfort left: all triumph would
But break upon his ghostly solitude.

But is there any comfort to be found?
Man is in love and loves what vanishes,
What more is there to say? That country round
None dared admit, if Such a thought were his,
Incendiary or bigot could be found
To burn that stump on the Acropolis,
Or break in bits the famous ivories
Or traffic in the grasshoppers or bees.


II.
When Loie Fuller's Chinese dancers enwound
A shining web, a floating ribbon of cloth,
It seemed that a dragon of air
Had fallen among dancers, had whirled them round
Or hurried them off on its own furious path;
So the platonic Year
Whirls out new right and wrong,
Whirls in the old instead;
All men are dancers and their tread
Goes to the barbarous clangour of a gong.


III
Some moralist or mythological poet
Compares the solitary soul to a swan;
I am satisfied with that,
Satisfied if a troubled mirror show it,
Before that brief gleam of its life be gone,
An image of its state;
The wings half spread for flight,
The breast thrust out in pride
Whether to play, or to ride
Those winds that clamour of approaching night.

A man in his own secret meditation
Is lost amid the labyrinth that he has made
In art or politics;
Some Platonist affirms that in the station
Where we should cast off body and trade
The ancient habit sticks,
And that if our works could
But vanish with our breath
That were a lucky death,
For triumph can but mar our solitude.

The swan has leaped into the desolate heaven:
That image can bring wildness, bring a rage
To end all things, to end
What my laborious life imagined, even
The half-imagined, the half-written page;
O but we dreamed to mend
Whatever mischief seemed
To afflict mankind, but now
That winds of winter blow
Learn that we were crack-pated when we dreamed.

IV.
We, who seven years ago
Talked of honour and of truth,
Shriek with pleasure if we show
The weasel's twist, the weasel's tooth.


V.
Come let us mock at the great
That had such burdens on the mind
And toiled so hard and late
To leave some monument behind,
Nor thought of the levelling wind.

Come let us mock at the wise;
With all those calendars whereon
They fixed old aching eyes,
They never saw how seasons run,
And now but gape at the sun.

Come let us mock at the good
That fancied goodness might be gay,
And sick of solitude
Might proclaim a holiday:
Wind shrieked – and where are they?

Mock mockers after that
That would not lift a hand maybe
To help good, wise or great
To bar that foul storm out, for we
Traffic in mockery.


VI.
Violence upon the roads: violence of horses;
Some few have handsome riders, are garlanded
On delicate sensitive ear or tossing mane,
But wearied running round and round in their courses
All break and vanish, and evil gathers head:
Herodias' daughters have returned again,
A sudden blast of dusty wind and after
Thunder of feet, tumult of images,
Their purpose in the labyrinth of the wind;
And should some crazy hand dare touch a daughter
All turn with amorous cries, or angry cries,
According to the wind, for all are blind.
But now wind drops, dust settles; thereupon
There lurches past, his great eyes without thought
Under the shadow of stupid straw-pale locks,
That insolent fiend Robert Artisson
To whom the love-lorn Lady Kyteler brought
Bronzed peacock feathers, red combs of her cocks.

in order to simplify the discussion to anyone not familiar with this endless, and admittingly, dull discussion of what poetry was, is, or should be

it could be greentexted as


and then


which is enjoyable

but i would like to point out

i have committed not one single copy paste to this thread

Back in the years before blood lost all its flavor
You slipped and fell but fell into my favor
But I
Chose the land between Dan to Beersheba
'Cos I heard they were looking for a savior


So I focused my attentions on the wars in the west
Drew up a battle plan and put my armies to the test
Came walking through the sands
And you were wearing that dress
Lost my interest in the boys in the mess

Dropped to my knees and began to confess…

I control the world
You controlled my heart
And life was easier than watching evil empires fall apart
[Oh yes it was]

You saw that only my blood lust could ever tear us apart
So you raided my artillery for a tranquiliser dart
You steadied; took your aim and shot me straight in the heart
Let your tender reign over me start

I spent the next twenty years with my head between your knees
All the while making sure you heard my cautionary pleas
There's a price on my head at which nobody would sneeze
'cos I sailed the, sailed the seven seas
Accumulating so many enemies

They would fall for me
And I would fall to you
And your the closest thing I'll ever have to Waterloo

When they write my history
Will they include all your conquests of me?

I control the world
You controlled my heart
Your light would always guide my mother in the dark
Your sight will be preserved in statues and in art
And life was easier than watching evil empires fall apart.

...

i am not opposing the fact that you make an effort to bring so much to the world

but i feel this over-saturation technique only makes people shut down

lock out any message

has this been it all along?

are you in fact Holla Forums tossing poetry books in our faces to remind us that we hate poetry and should not spend time thinking about it because we must think about hitler?

I am going to guess you are maybe 19-23 and maybe you finished you BA and maybe you had a poetry class or two.
I am going to guess that "Whan that Aprill, with his shoures soote" mean nothing to you but you still presume to write english language poetry and claim it is better than anyone elses. My face hurts from this hours long grin.

lol

with every other post

you are catching up to

at least

one of my ideas

one of the levels on which

i am working

this brings joy to my heart

i feel reinvigorated

i feel

p o e t r y

I bet you don't get the real Joke in Dorian Grey because your face hasn't started to change from heavy smoking indoors. I bet you don't know how long you have to wash your hands to get the ink out.

Really stupid way of writing

yes, come to think of it, i think

you are right

let's just stop this nonsense

it is after all only

poet Joyce Kilmer #116 on top 500 poets Poet's PagePoemsQuotesCommentsStatsE-BooksBiographyShare on FacebookShare on Twitter
Poems by Joyce Kilmer : 51 / 54 « prev. poem next poem »
Trees - Poem by Joyce Kilmer

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I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.

This is a solid well liked poem but lets try to apply OP's completely original technique of hitting the enter key after each line and see if the poem gets better.

"
I think that I shall never see

A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest

Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,

And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in summer wear

A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;

Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,

But only God can make a tree.

"

again using OP's theory we see that the more spaces the better poem becomes regardless of diction, meter, or subject.
"

I think that I shall never see



A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest

Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,

And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in summer wear

A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;

Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,

But only God can make a tree.


"

except i never said anyone else's poetry would be enhanced by hitting the enter key

also making sure there is space in between every sentence doesn't really have much to do with my rhythm

not more than the fact i hit the space bar every time i finish a word

seriously why does it hurt your butt so much that i usually have a space between the sentences?

what kind of brainwashing have you gone through?

the enter key is the only way to make a poem better. This is why all poetry not made by OP is not as good as OP because enter key.

"
I think that I shall never see

A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest



Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,

And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in summer wear

A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;

Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,

But only God can make a tree.

"

enter key + shitpost = poetry

I think that I shall never see

A poem lovely as a tree.

You write

Like a self-

conscious

faggot

With pretensions

of style

And delusions

of grandeur

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest

Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,

And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in summer wear

A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;

Now you're making me want to vomit.
Abandon threa

Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,

is this irony?

you just made one of the best poems in the thread

and does this trigger you in any way?

why?

is it forbidden in your conceptual view of reality

to break these rules?

But only God can make a tree.

DO NOT FLEE

DO NOT LET THE BEAST TAKE HOLD

WE KNOW BETTER

Can OP get on this level? enter enter keys are so three hours ago. The New Way is a line per post.

have you been subjected to

corporal punishment

every time you used language

in a way

not designated by those who control you?

and now you have become your oppressor

and you oppress youth

as you were oppressed

you are being seen as you are. Surely it must be your intention to be a pretentious delusional?

OP has never had to buy his own paper or is still stuck in double spacing his drafts for circle your desks and pass around your work time.

seeming to be a poem does not a poem make. or should I say:

Seeming to
be
a
poem
does not
a
poem
make.

or should I say:


Seeming to

be


a

poem

does not


a


poem


make


or should I say

as i have already mentioned in this thread

it is not for me to explain

but for you to discern

i have bought endless amounts of all kinds of paper

also i stole some from the university, but those assholes could afford it

or should I say Esse Quam Videri

yes

you are reaching the level of that guy who made a peice of art that was a can of his own shit that he would sell for a high price to tourists

can of shit from an artist

this thread is reaching self-oscillation

i just hope anyone interested who hasn't actually studied this bullshit isn't bewildered and alienated

You write what you think is poetry on a computer don't you? You don't buy ink do you? You are 24. Your name is Chad.

OP I found a picture of your favorite author.

...

yes, and among the kinds of paper was different kinds of toilet paper

because i had a project where i was experimenting with different effects regarding all kinds of messages written on all kinds of toilet paper

i realized there is an enormous amount of uncharted space in this area (just the words HELP ME on pink super extra soft fluffy toilet paper)

otherwise, when it comes to actually writing, once again you go back to this idea of Great Tradition and all that

so if you don't use a quilted pen etc etc you have no idea about anything

lol

hey i know that guy! isn't it that guy that wrote a book called american gods? his name is neil something i think

wew

So when you read your poems aloud how do you handle all your white space?

so let's just go for that for the sake of argument

the space bar is not my muse even though i hit it all the fucking time

it is enter

and then i want to flip it by asking

why is enter the demon in your subjective reality?

what have you gone through to make you hate when there is space between two sentences?

...

OP never reads aloud but calls himself a poet but is NOT a delusional pretentious bundle of sticks.

i guess that was kind of stupid of me

to think that maybe you wouldn't divert the issue

to think you are a human

oh god

well since i know my rhythm inside and out i never think of such things

LOL WOW M9 YOU SET DA TREND
I NEVER USE RETURN TO POST
OH WAIT

FUCK YOU


FAGGOT

...

because you never read aloud. And you can't even admit that.

now things are heating up

it's still childish and generic

but heating up

Here, maybe you can be a real poet one day

You've

never

read

aloud.

Your

tricks

are

the

tricks

of

a

hack,

tricks

of

the

eye

that

have

no

power

o'er

the

ear.

Op doesn't need to study yeats because OP is clearly greater than any poet before or since, as evidence by his lack of posted poems.

OP is not full of himself at all.

i think it is too bad that you are caught in this thinking of good and bad

and the hunt for being the best

poetry is a language

and one that is different for everyone

good or bad does not apply

in the simple sense you suggest

i am not the greatest poet in the worlds

because there is no such thing

in fact

i am not a poet at all

and no one else is either

i feel tempted to toss in even more errors giving away the fact i am not a native english speaker, but i feel the point has been made

oh come on that's not fair

i have a book of yeats

he even wrote a poem i really like

weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeew

English is a language. Poetry is an art.


yet you have the temerity to make declarations about english language poetry? you think you can ignore all those whose words you use ignorant of their meaning and origin and still expect to be taken seriously, expressing shock when you are not?


yet you haven't read it or you would have noticed when I posted Nineteen Hundred and Nineteen. I bet you didn't recognize any of those other poems did you?

Where did you go to school and with what major?

and you still refuse to admit you've never read aloud. Sad.

OK no one will argue with you on that point.

? poems just form with no author?

...

now this is getting tricky

you are really forcing me to greentext at this hour

no i wont

here you go

YES you stupid blockheaded nigger, English is indeed a language, and if you knew anything about the human soul rather than meters then you would know that poetry is not something contained in dusty books

you may also have noticed i never gave a fuck about any of the long stream of old-school poetry in this thread

why should i? i know it, and i don't waste time on it

i feel rather that it is sad that it is you who just keeps on skirting the actual issue at hand


that is nice of you

your grasp of irony

within irony

So, have you ever read your poetry aloud?

please instead go to the question at hand

why is it anathema to have a space between the senteces but not between the words?

i get no shit for hitting the space bar, but so much shit for hitting enter

now please delve into your hatred for this space that can be made to exist between sentences

I think the question at hand is your presumed authority on a subject you clearly know nothing about as evidenced by:


So if you won't answer whether or not you've read your poetry aloud we can all see and agree that you clearly have not read your poetry aloud and hence are not a poet. Now that we can all agree that you are not a poet and you have not studied maybe we can get at where you went to school and what did you study.

So, where did you go to school and what did you study?

Baby shoes, used.

Man, this guy is good. That's hilarious!

lol you nigger

i never claimed to be a poet and explicitly said i am not a poet

i renounce the whole idea that someone could be a poet

poetry is a language, and if you don't understand, it means you don't understand poetry

i skipped all of the old poetry in this thread because i, personally, had no reason, at this point in time, to read any of it

if i want to read yeats then i look it up

or any of the other old fuckheads

but my main interest is not old bullshit

is all things alive and well and happening right now

feelings and thoughts

love and hatred

everything

right now

and i am still so curious to know

why is it ok to hit the space bar but not enter?

when the dead's belonging are stolen do they call the police?

"
When asked how he wished to be buried, he left instructions to be thrown outside the city wall so wild animals could feast on his body. When asked if he minded this, he said, “Not at all, as long as you provide me with a stick to chase the creatures away!” When asked how he could use the stick since he would lack awareness, he replied “If I lack awareness, then why should I care what happens to me when I am dead?” "

yes, I agree you have said many dumb and contradictory things.
We can all see you are not a poet nor have studied poetry.
Why then do you presume to speak of poetry?

So, where did you go to school and what did you study?

so i leave myself open to you

as a test

and you fail miserably by choosing the usual 8ch approach

it is sad

that you think poetry is mathematics

something to be studied

something you can prove you know by shoving a grade or diploma in the face of other people

but the idea of being a human

is foreign to you

...

getting kind of impatient for information there huh?

all this time put in and no real information

So, where did you go to school and what did you study?

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

S'io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s'i'odo il vero,
Senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo.

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question. . . .
Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
(They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!")
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
(They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!")
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?

****

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? . . .

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

****

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep . . . tired . . . or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all"—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: "That is not what I meant at all;
That is not it, at all."

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
"That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all."

****

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old . . . I grow old . . .
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

...

why don't you just let go and shout

IT PUTS THE LOTION ON ITS SKIN IT DOES THIS WHENEVER ITS TOLD

Ok, so you didn't go to school and you didn't study anything and you aren't a poet and you have never read any poetry but you know all about it and you have a yeats book, don't know yeats by sight or title but can look it up anytime you like and you like hiting the return key because you don't understand why it makes people mad. and You've never read your worlk aloud but think hitting enter twice somehow adds something to your not poems but somehow talking about poetry while not thinking poets exist because reasons. You just like to hit enter twice after you finish a thought and you don't care what others think thats why you've been in this thread for 4 hours, but you know about life and human experience which are clearly the keys to poetry and you can say this with authority never having studied poetry or written it or read it aloud or cared about anything older than some unspecified time that despite your lack of study you can say with confidence is clearly out dated because the new techniques of listening to your heart and hitting enter twice clearly surpass any of the unknown to you older techniques and clearly the old poets didn't ever listen to their feelings or their heart and only wrote about old dusty things.

got you. on the same page.

you aren't even going to read that TS eliot nor listen to him read? Why would you need to read or listen to poetry when you already know everything there is to know about poetry?

Give me a year that is current and I'll give you a poem you will say is crap because it isn't double spaced.

So, basically you are current year-ing poetry?

well that was a nice attempt

trying to give the impression you have human emotions

while continuing to skirt around the issue at hand

ha ha oh you

I will help OP learn about poetry by cutting and pasting

"
If you are writing a poem because you want to capture a feeling that you experienced, then you don’t need these tips. Just write whatever feels right. Only you experienced the feeling that you want to express, so only you will know whether your poem succeeds.

If, however, your goal is to communicate with a reader — drawing on the established conventions of a literary genre (conventions that will be familiar to the experienced reader) to generate an emotional response in your reader — then simply writing what feels right to you won’t be enough. (See also “Poetry is for the Ear” and “When Backwards Newbie Poets Write“)
"

"
These tips will help you make an important transition:

away from writing poetry to celebrate, commemorate, or capture your own feelings (in which case you, the poet, are the center of the poem’s universe)
towards writing poetry in order to generate feelings in your reader (in which case the poem exists entirely to serve the reader).
Know Your Goal
Avoid Clichés
Avoid Sentimentality
Use Images
Use Metaphor and Simile
Use Concrete Words Instead of Abstract Words
Communicate Theme
Subvert the Ordinary
Rhyme with Extreme Caution
Revise, Revise, Revise
Tip #1 Know Your Goal.

If you don’t know where you’re going, how can you get there?

You need to know what you are trying to accomplish before you begin any project. Writing a poem is no exception.



Before you begin, ask yourself what you want your poem to “do.” Do you want your poem to explore a personal experience, protest a social injustice, describe the beauty of nature, or play with language in a certain way? Once your know the goal of your poem, you can conform your writing to that goal. Take each main element in your poem and make it serve the main purpose of the poem.
"

Tip #2 Avoid Clichés

Stephen Minot defines a cliché as: “A metaphor or simile that has become so familiar from overuse that the vehicle … no longer contributes any meaning whatever to the tenor. It provides neither the vividness of a fresh metaphor nor the strength of a single unmodified word….The word is also used to describe overused but nonmetaphorical expressions such as ‘tried and true’ and ‘each and every'” (Three Genres: The Writing of Poetry, Fiction and Drama, 405).

Cliché also describes other overused literary elements. “Familiar plot patterns and stock characters are clichés on a big scale” (Minot 148). Clichés can be overused themes, character types, or plots. For example, the “Lone Ranger” cowboy is a cliché because it has been used so many times that people no longer find it original.

A work full of clichés is like a plate of old food: unappetizing.

Creative Writing Tips
More creative writing tips.
Clichés work against original communication. People value creative talent. They want to see work that rises above the norm. When they see a work without clichés, they know the writer has worked his or her tail off, doing whatever it takes to be original. When they see a work full to the brim with clichés, they feel that the writer is not showing them anything above the ordinary. (In case you hadn’t noticed, this paragraph is chock full of clichés… I’ll bet you were bored to tears.)

Clichés dull meaning. Because clichéd writing sounds so familiar, people can complete finish whole lines without even reading them. If they don’t bother to read your poem, they certainly won’t stop to think about it. If they do not stop to think about your poem, they will never encounter the deeper meanings that mark the work of an accomplished poet.

Examples of Clichés:
busy as a bee
tired as a dog
working my fingers to bone
beet red
on the horns of a dilemma
blind as a bat
eats like a horse
eats like a bird

How to Improve a Cliché
I will take the cliché “as busy as a bee” and show how you can express the same idea without cliché.

Determine what the clichéd phrase is trying to say.
In this case, I can see that “busy as a bee” is a way to describe the state of being busy.
Think of an original way to describe what the cliché is trying to describe.
For this cliché, I started by thinking about busyness. I asked myself the question, “What things are associated with being busy?” I came up with: college, my friend Jessica, corporation bosses, old ladies making quilts and canning goods, and a computer, fiddlers fiddling. From this list, I selected a thing that is not as often used in association with busyness: violins.
Create a phrase using the non-clichéd way of description.
I took my object associated with busyness and turned it into a phrase: “I feel like a bow fiddling an Irish reel.” This phrase communicates the idea of “busyness” much better than the worn-out, familiar cliché. The reader’s mind can picture the insane fury of the bow on the violin, and know that the poet is talking about a very frenzied sort of busyness. In fact, those readers who know what an Irish reel sounds like may even get a laugh out of this fresh way to describe “busyness.”
Try it! Take a cliché and use these steps to improve it. You may even end up with a line you feel is good enough to put in a poem!

Tip #3 Avoid Sentimentality.

Sentimentality is “dominated by a blunt appeal to the emotions of pity and love …. Popular subjects are puppies, grandparents, and young lovers” (Minot 416). “When readers have the feeling that emotions like rage or indignation have been pushed artificially for their own sake, they will not take the poem seriously” (132).

Minot says that the problem with sentimentality is that it detracts from the literary quality of your work (416). If your poetry is mushy or teary-eyed, your readers may openly rebel against your effort to invoke emotional response in them. If that happens, they will stop thinking about the issues you want to raise, and will instead spend their energy trying to control their own gag reflex.

Tip #4 Use Images.

“BE A PAINTER IN WORDS,” says UWEC English professor emerita, poet, and songwriter Peg Lauber. She says poetry should stimulate six senses:

sight
hearing
smell
touch
taste
kinesiology (motion)
Examples.

“Sunlight varnishes magnolia branches crimson” (sight)
“Vacuum cleaner’s whir and hum startles my ferret” (hearing)
“Penguins lumber to their nests” (kinesiology)
Lauber advises her students to produce fresh, striking images (“imaginative”). Be a camera. Make the reader be there with the poet/speaker/narrator. (See also: “Show, Don’t (Just) Tell“)

Tip #5 Use Metaphor and Simile.

Use metaphor and simile to bring imagery and concrete words into your writing.

Metaphor

A metaphor is a statement that pretends one thing is really something else:

Example: “The lead singer is an elusive salamander.”

This phrase does not mean that the lead singer is literally a salamander. Rather, it takes an abstract characteristic of a salamander (elusiveness) and projects it onto the person. By using metaphor to describe the lead singer, the poet creates a much more vivid picture of him/her than if the poet had simply said “The lead singer’s voice is hard to pick out.”

Simile

A simile is a statement where you say one object is similar to another object. Similes use the words “like” or “as.”

Example: “He was curious as a caterpillar” or “He was curious, like a caterpillar”

This phrase takes one quality of a caterpillar and projects it onto a person. It is an easy way to attach concrete images to feelings and character traits that might usually be described with abstract words.

Note: A simile is not automatically any more or less “poetic” than a metaphor. You don’t suddenly produce better poems if you replace all your similes with metaphors, or vice versa. The point to remember is that comparison, inference, and suggestion are all important tools of poetry; similes and metaphors are tools that will help in those areas.

Tip #6 Use Concrete Words Instead of Abstract Words.

Concrete words describe things that people experience with their senses.

orange
warm
cat
A person can see orange, feel warm, or hear a cat.

Poets use concrete words help the reader get a “picture” of what the poem is talking about. When the reader has a “picture” of what the poem is talking about, he/she can better understand what the poet is talking about.

Abstract words refer to concepts or feelings.

liberty
happy
love
“Liberty” is a concept, “happy” is a feeling, and no one can agree on whether “love” is a feeling, a concept or an action.

A person can’t see, touch, or taste any of these things. As a result, when used in poetry, these words might simply fly over the reader’s head, without triggering any sensory response. Further, “liberty,” “happy,” and “love” can mean different things to different people. Therefore, if the poet uses such a word, the reader may take a different meaning from it than the poet intended.

Change Abstract Words Into Concrete Words
To avoid problems caused by using abstract words, use concrete words.

Example: “She felt happy.”

This line uses the abstract word “happy.” To improve this line, change the abstract word to a concrete image. One way to achieve this is to think of an object or a scene that evokes feelings of happiness to represent the happy feeling.

Improvement: “Her smile spread like red tint on ripening tomatoes.”

This line uses two concrete images: a smile and a ripening tomato. Describing the smile shows the reader something about happiness, rather than simply coming right out and naming the emotion. Also, the symbolism of the tomato further reinforces the happy feelings. Red is frequently associated with love; ripening is a positive natrual process; food is further associated with being satisfied.

Tip #7 Communicate Theme.

Poetry always has a theme. Theme is not just a topic, but an idea with an opinion.

Theme = Idea + Opinion

Topic: “The Vietnam War”

This is not a theme. It is only a subject. It is just an event. There are no ideas, opinions, or statements about life or of wisdom contained in this sentence

Theme: “History shows that despite our claims to be peace-loving, unfortunately each person secretly dreams of gaining glory through conflict.”

This is a theme. It is not just an event, but a statement about an event. It shows what the poet thinks about the event. The poet strives to show the reader his/her theme during the entire poem, making use of literary techniques.

Tip #8 Subvert the Ordinary.

Poets’ strength is the ability to see what other people see everyday in a new way. You don’t have to be special or a literary genius to write good poems–all you have to do is take an ordinary object, place, person, or idea, and come up with a new perception of it.

Example: People ride the bus everyday.

Poets’ Interpretation: A poet looks at the people on the bus and imagines scenes from their lives. A poet sees a sixty-year old woman and imagines a grandmother who runs marathons. A poet sees a two-year old boy and imagines him painting with ruby nail polish on the toilet seat, and his mother struggling to not respond in anger.

Take the ordinary and turn it on its head. (The word “subvert” literally means “turn upside down”.)

Tip #9 Rhyme with Extreme Caution.

Rhyme and meter (the pattern of stressed and unstressed words) can be dangerous if used the wrong way. Remember sing-song nursery rhymes? If you choose a rhyme scheme that makes your poem sound sing-song, it will detract from the quality of your poem.

I recommend that beginning poets stick to free verse. It is hard enough to compose a poem without dealing with the intricacies of rhyme and meter. (Note: see Jerz’s response to this point, in “Poetry Is For the Ear.”)

If you feel ready to create a rhymed poem, refer to chapters 6-10 of Stephen Minot’s bookThree Genres: The Writing of Poetry, Fiction, and Drama. 6th ed., for more help.

Tip #10 Revise, Revise, Revise.

The first completed draft of your poem is only the beginning. Poets often go through several drafts of a poem before considering the work “done.”

To revise:

Put your poem away for a few days, and then come back to it. When you re-read it, does anything seem confusing? Hard to follow? Do you see anything that needs improvement that you overlooked the first time? Often, when you are in the act of writing, you may leave out important details because you are so familiar with the topic. Re-reading a poem helps you to see it from the “outsider’s perspective” of a reader.
Show your poem to others and ask for criticism. Don’t be content with a response like, “That’s a nice poem.” You won’t learn anything from that kind of response. Instead, find people who will tell you specific things you need to improve in your poem.
26 May 2000 — originally submitted by Kara Ziehl, as an assignment for Prof. Jerz’s technical writing class
01 Aug 2000 — modified and posted by Jerz
30 Nov 2001 — minor edits by Jerz
21 July 2011 — minor refresh
22 May 2013 — added intro before the tips.

credit to jerz.setonhill.edu/writing/creative1/poetry-writing-tips-how-to-write-a-poem/

there you go OP. now you have the basic tools to start writing poetry. Good luck.

lol

textbook poetry

i can only reiterate

and also

i wonder

why is it anathema to use enter but not space?

trips of three I can't wait to read your first poem


written in double space of course


because double space

but how can you understand nothing after all this time

i am a poem

so are you

so is everything

Double


Space

...

doubles to be of spacings into poetry do more liek

lol

i am sorry you carry this trauma in your chest

something you cannot speak of

that which you were subjected to

whenever there was space

not between words, as it is traditional

but between sentences

...

the space of doubles


that ambiguity


some think is poetry


it is just silence


and listening to themselves


for the first

double space


in their lives

that was pretty good

you are warming up

although still dodging


the issue

To hit return twice

or to set it up in word pref


that is the question


whether tis nobler in the mind of someone who doesn't know much about poetry beyond that there are no such things as poets and poems are midochorlians and exist in everything.

OT3

is

poems

Xenu put a bunch of poems on an ancient volcanos and blew them up with nuclear double spaces

D O U B L E

S P A C E

Feels


Double

Space

Man

I t s

y o u r

M o v e

lol

oh man

i just had some left over chicken from the fridge

i think chicken is almost better as cold leftovers

I t s


a l l

i n


y


o


u


r

h


e


a

d

goddammit stop using capital letters you fucking heathen

...

but i don't click your stuff and you know it

now please man up and discuss the issue at hand

...

lol

certainly it was just a joke and also

a test

Oh my god, guys, you're all such terrible poets, it's alarming.

I don't think so tim

there are no poets in this thread

i've said so many times

but the bigger question that has been left unanswered and un double spaced is: d i d y o u p r e o r d e r ?

doubles


T

h

e

r

e

a

r

e

n

o

d

o

u

b

l

e

s

p

a

c


e


r


s

i


n


t

h


i


s

t


h


r

e

a


d

except you are diverting the issue because it's the only thing you can do

I see you didn't double space there. what happened? I seriously hope you don't stop double spaceing

"Pvt. Double Space, how tall are you?"

"I'm 5'9""

"Five foot nine? I didn't know they stacked double spaces that high, what are you trying to sneak some poetry in on me?"

i am always using the rhythm and spacing i feel i right

for any given moment

i also see you still won't reveal why you are so obsessed with this

Travis Two Spaces Template, but I fucked up transparency

we forgive you for fucking up

transparency

...

Hi

I double


the

spaces

Funny

to

be


posting 16 of something twice today

good work

impressive

Double

Space

winner of 17 emmys

Your teachers never told you about poetry. Let me show the true power of the double space! Hit enter twice and you and I can rule the galaxy together and double and space.

Hit

ting enter again

what am I to do, I just can't help it.

honestly i think you are falling behind

I am a humble double spacer


making pottery with


my double space

...

is 300 bump limit?

it's not page one anymore

you wanna keep going until 404?

Double space

Double space


Can you handle the meme meme space space?


The doubling of the double space could space the doubles?

OC OC

OC is worth double a double spaced text post, have you been here all double summer? What did you double space at me you little poetry? I graduated top of my space in double and have over 300 confirmed pieces of pottery back at my double wide duplex spaced.

"My life has been a series of doubles spaces and poetry, an unending doublepointment"

i understand

that it must hurt

You have to double space to even speak with me
Listen dog you can't even eat with me
listen
I advise you don't really want to beef with me
please
Oh you mad, cuz I'm stylin on you,
post current year, cuz I'm stylin on you
plus the Fleurs du Mal is on me
If you act up you'll have to fucking lay down,
some more double spaces
and pretend they are poetry

Oh Snap! Ooooohhhhhhhhhh

it struggles less and less undere the poc onslaught, it must conserve the space of doubls now for it will get no more return keys until the spring rains.

Hey Single Spacers,
My name is Doubles Space user, and I hate every single spacing one of you. All of you are fat, retarded, no-lifes who spend every second of their day looking at stupid ass single spaced pictures. You are everything sing;le spaced in the world. Honestly, have any of you ever gotten any poetry? I mean, I guess it’s fun making fun of people because of your own insecurities, but you all take to a whole new level. This is even worse than jerking off to poem in a single spaced poetry book.
Don’t be asingle spacer. Just hit me with your best double space. I’m pretty much poetry. I was captain of the doublespace team, and spacer on my doubleball team. What enter key do you press, other than “read poetry older than yesterday”? I also don't read poetry aloud, and have a banging hot enter key (She just was pressed twice; Shit was SO uneeded and un meaningful whitespace). You are all single spacers who should just press enter twice per line. Thanks for listening.
Pic Related: It’s me and my enter key"

Oh Double Space user, only now do you truely still not understand poetry

Where is your enter key now?

(Double Space)
Single Space. Single Space wake Up. Single Space the house is on Fire! Single space all you have to do to make poetry is double space.

(single space)
If you have an enter key, and I have an enter key, and my enter key reaches acroooooss the internet and starts to single space your posts

(Double Space)
Single Space, don't bully me

(Single Space)
Did you think your song and double space would save you?

(Double Space)
I'm your old friend, Single Space! We're brothers! Single Space please forgive me!

(Single Space)
Thats it, Thats it. I'm finished.

Ok double space user, I have all this oc and saved my altered pasta, so next time you start this thread I'll be ready. Thanks for the lulz.

what

i just went and took a nap while you shitposted

...