Right wing poetry?

just an image i saved over a year ago, chill out sperg

gtfo off our chan and back to tumblr or plebbit you fucking nigger lover

This image has made the rounds here hundreds of times. Lurk moar.

Curly hair isn't necessarily nigger hair, looks like Roman genes tbqh

After ww2 the intellectual class through out the west/Russia was purged because everyone remotely right wing was at least sympathetic to facism if not outright a members of some organization. That is why the pickings are so slim they were all rounded up and killed.

it gets shit on every single time because it's a hipster nigger lover virtue signalling.

Heed your own advice, newfag.

Those are fucking dreadlocks you nigger loving white knight.

NORMIES REEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

These

He is being a loud newfag, but I think he was referring to her dreadlocks, which are basically the hippie version of rainbow hair. She is definitely a druggie.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge

He returned home to Rapallo, where on 3 May 1945, four days after Mussolini was shot, armed partisans arrived at the house to find Pound alone. He stuffed a copy of Confucius and a Chinese dictionary in his pocket before he was taken to their headquarters in Chiavari. He was released shortly afterwards; then with Olga gave himself up to an American military post in the nearby town of Lavagna.[106]

Pound was transferred to U.S. Counter Intelligence Corps headquarters in Genoa, where he was interrogated by Frank L. Amprin, an FBI agent assigned by J. Edgar Hoover. Pound asked to send a cable to President Truman to offer to help negotiate peace with Japan. He also asked to be allowed a final broadcast, a script called "Ashes of Europe Calling", in which he recommended peace with Japan, American management of Italy, the establishment of a Jewish state in Palestine, and leniency toward Germany. His requests were denied and the script was forwarded to Hoover.[106]

On 8 May, the day Germany surrendered, Pound told an American reporter, Ed Johnston, that Hitler was "a Jeanne d'Arc, a saint", and that Mussolini was an "imperfect character who lost his head".[107] On 24 May he was transferred to the United States Army Disciplinary Training Center north of Pisa, where he was placed in one of the camp's "death cells", a series of six-by-six-foot outdoor steel cages lit up at night by floodlights; engineers reinforced his cage with heavier steel for fear the fascists would try to break him out.[108] He spent three weeks in isolation in the heat, sleeping on the concrete, denied exercise and communication, except for conversations with the chaplain. After two and a half weeks he began to break down under the strain. Richard Sieburth wrote that Pound recorded it in Canto LXXX, where Odysseus is saved from drowning by Leucothea: "hast'ou swum in a sea of air strip / through an aeon of nothingness, / when the raft broke and the waters went over me." Medical staff moved him out of the cage the following week. On 14 and 15 June he was examined by psychiatrists, one of whom found symptoms of a mental breakdown, after which he was transferred to his own tent and allowed reading material. He began to write, drafting what became known as The Pisan Cantos.[106] The existence of a few sheets of toilet paper showing the beginning of Canto LXXXIV suggests he started it while in the cage.[

...

Those definitely don't look like dreadlocks. The only problem I see is that she has gauges really.

These fought, in any case,
and some believing, pro domo, in any case …

Some quick to arm,
some for adventure,
some from fear of weakness,
some from fear of censure,
some for love of slaughter, in imagination,
learning later …

some in fear, learning love of slaughter;
Died some pro patria, non dulce non et decor” …

walked eye-deep in hell
believing in old men’s lies, then unbelieving
came home, home to a lie,
home to many deceits,
home to old lies and new infamy;

usury age-old and age-thick
and liars in public places.

Daring as never before, wastage as never before.
Young blood and high blood,
Fair cheeks, and fine bodies;

fortitude as never before

frankness as never before,
disillusions as never told in the old days,
hysterias, trench confessions,
laughter out of dead bellies.

V
There died a myriad,
And of the best, among them,
For an old bitch gone in the teeth,
For a botched civilization.

those are definitely dreadlocks i can smell the nigger stink through the interwebs.

I've actually been discussing making 'un-safe space' poetry and delivering at the local vegan co-op/organic fair trade coffee/juice bar open mic poetry slam nights.

Pretty much anyone before the 1900s. Very few are unpozzed this past century. A few like Robert Frost aren't political at all and are just kinda nice, but most this past century are degenerate, particularly after WW2.

The Stranger - Poem by Rudyard Kipling
Autoplay next video

The Stranger within my gate,
He may be true or kind,
But he does not talk my talk–
I cannot feel his mind.
I see the face and the eyes and the mouth,
But not the soul behind.

The men of my own stock,
They may do ill or well,
But they tell the lies I am wanted to,
They are used to the lies I tell;
And we do not need interpreters
When we go to buy or sell.

The Stranger within my gates,
He may be evil or good,
But I cannot tell what powers control–
What reasons sway his mood;
Nor when the Gods of his far-off land
Shall repossess his blood.

The men of my own stock,
Bitter bad they may be,
But, at least, they hear the things I hear,
And see the things I see;
And whatever I think of them and their likes
They think of the likes of me.

This was my father's belief
And this is also mine:
Let the corn be all one sheaf–
And the grapes be all one vine,
Ere our children's teeth are set on edge
By bitter bread and wine.

Possibly, to me it looks more like corn rows. I've known men and women with dreadlocks and it looks a little different. The picture isn't that detailed though. You can wash hair, the ears are the real problem.

“Habent sua fata libelli et balli [Books and bullets have their own destinies]”
― Ernst Jünger, Storm of Steel

OP just reminded me of some "slam poetry" I was forced to listen to in high school. 10 minutes of niggers literally screaming and crying about police and the white man, like some proto-BLM shit. It physically pained me to listen to it. I'm still mad at myself for not walking out of the classroom right then and there and dropping the class.

cancer is spreading
degens wherever i look
i cry in my bed

Also:

1.

Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!
"Charge for the guns!" he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

2.

"Forward, the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismay'd?
Not tho' the soldier knew
Someone had blunder'd:
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

3.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.

4.

Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air,
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wonder'd:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro' the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel'd from the sabre stroke
Shatter'd and sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.

5.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the jaws of Death
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.

6.

When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honor the charge they made,
Honor the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred.

Copied from Poems of Alfred Tennyson,
J. E. Tilton and Company, Boston, 1870

You're a fucking degenerate and i'm glad the thread is now anchored, but here's your reply:

This nigger lover cunt literally has a dreadlock pony-tail. You're either a nigger lover too, or a fucking white knight for a coalburner. Pick one and gtfo.

the gods of the copy book heading are jews

AS I PASS through my incarnations in every age and race,
I make my proper prostrations to the Gods of the Market Place.
Peering through reverent fingers I watch them flourish and fall,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings, I notice, outlast them all.

We were living in trees when they met us. They showed us each in turn
That Water would certainly wet us, as Fire would certainly burn:
But we found them lacking in Uplift, Vision and Breadth of Mind,
So we left them to teach the Gorillas while we followed the March of Mankind.

We moved as the Spirit listed. They never altered their pace,
Being neither cloud nor wind-borne like the Gods of the Market Place,
But they always caught up with our progress, and presently word would come
That a tribe had been wiped off its icefield, or the lights had gone out in Rome.

With the Hopes that our World is built on they were utterly out of touch,
They denied that the Moon was Stilton; they denied she was even Dutch;
They denied that Wishes were Horses; they denied that a Pig had Wings;
So we worshipped the Gods of the Market Who promised these beautiful things.

When the Cambrian measures were forming, They promised perpetual peace.
They swore, if we gave them our weapons, that the wars of the tribes would cease.
But when we disarmed They sold us and delivered us bound to our foe,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "Stick to the Devil you know."

On the first Feminian Sandstones we were promised the Fuller Life
(Which started by loving our neighbour and ended by loving his wife)
Till our women had no more children and the men lost reason and faith,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "The Wages of Sin is Death."

In the Carboniferous Epoch we were promised abundance for all,
By robbing selected Peter to pay for collective Paul;
But, though we had plenty of money, there was nothing our money could buy,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "If you don't work you die."

Then the Gods of the Market tumbled, and their smooth-tongued wizards withdrew
And the hearts of the meanest were humbled and began to believe it was true
That All is not Gold that Glitters, and Two and Two make Four
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings limped up to explain it once more.

As it will be in the future, it was at the birth of Man
There are only four things certain since Social Progress began.
That the Dog returns to his Vomit and the Sow returns to her Mire,
And the burnt Fool's bandaged finger goes wabbling back to the Fire;

And that after this is accomplished, and the brave new world begins
When all men are paid for existing and no man must pay for his sins,
As surely as Water will wet us, as surely as Fire will burn,
The Gods of the Copybook Headings with terror and slaughter return!

UUUU

jej, you alright? You seem upset about someone disagreeing with you about hairdos. It's okay if you're a homo, user.

So instead of discussing culture and possibly generating some right wing poetry, you fucks bitched about OP's picture and got this shit anchored?

Certainly earned your pay today.

"A scene in one of the German trenches in front of Guillemont, showing the havoc wrought by the British Bombardment." See larger image.

I heard the subsequent fate of my company from friends in the other battlions who were wounded after I was. It was put back into the line on the day after I got my wound, and suffered severe losses marching up and also during ten hours' drum-fire. It was then attacked from all sides owing to the large gaps in the line. Little Schmidt, Fähnrich, Wohlgemut, Lieutenants Vogel Sievers–in fact, nearly the whole company–had died fighting to the last. A few survivors only, Lieutenant Wetje among them, were taken prisoners. Not one man got back to Combles to tell the tale of this heroic fight that was fought to the finish with such bitterness. Even the English army command made honorable mention of the handful of men who held out to the last near Guillemont.

I was no doubt glad of the chance shot that withdrew me as if by a miracle from certain death on the very eve of the engagement. At the same time, strange as it may sound, I would willingly have shared the fate of my comrades and stood with them shoulder to shoulder while the iron dice of war rolled over us. Instead of this, I kept the unquenchable fame of these men as my reminder, in the worst moments of the sanguinary conflicts that were yet in store, that I must show myself always worthy to have been their comrade . . .

I think most modern poets are wrapped up in Leftist ideologies because they have recently been most welcoming to them. Liberal arts classes in college tend to be dominated by those who can 'fake' their way through most of it (like creative writing, philosophy, etc). Whereas the Right sort of discards it in favor of what they deem practical pursuits.

In general, obviously. I think more education into the classics and real poetics might revive right-wing poetry, since the classical view of beauty has objective measures it honors that the unskilled (i.e. most modern Leftist poets) cannot replicate.

The sunken road and the ground behind was full of German dead; the gound in front of English. Arms, legs, and heads stuck out stark above the lips of the craters. In front of our miserable defenses there were torn-off limbs and corpses over many of which cloaks and ground-sheets had been thrown to hide the fixed stare of their distored features. In spite of the heat no one thought for a moment of covering them with soil.

The village of Guillemont was distinguished from the landscape around it only because the shell-holes there were of a whiter color by reason of the houses which had been ground to powder. Guillemont railway station lay in front of us. It was smashed to bits like a child's plaything. Delville Wood, reduced to matchwood, was farther behind.

Day had scarcely dawned when an English flying-man descended on us in a steep spin and circled round incessantly like a bird of prey, while we made for our holes and cowered there. Nevertheless, the observer's sharp eyes must have spied us out, for a siren sounded its deep, long-drawn notes above us at short intervals. After a little while it appeared that a battery had recieved the signal. One heavy shell after another came at us on a flat tragectory with incredible fury. We crouched in our refuges and could do nothing. Now and then we lit a cigar and threw it away again. Every moment we expected a rush of earth to bury us. The sleeve of Schmidt's coat was torn by a big splinter.

At the third shot the occupant of the next hole to mine was buried by a terrific explosion. We dug him out instantly, but the weight of earth had killed him. His face had fallen in and looked like a death's-head. It was the volunteer Simon. Tribulation had made him wise. Whenever in the course of the day, when airmen were about, any one stirred from his cover, Simon was heard scolding and his warning fist appeared from behind the ground-sheet that curtained his earth.

At three in the afternoon the men came in from the left flank and said they could stick it no longer as their shelters were shot to bits. It cost me all my callousness to get them back to their posts.

why is this anchored mods you anti intellectual cunts

...

Nevertheless, a week after Hitler's death, Hamsun wrote a eulogy for him, saying “He was a warrior, a warrior for mankind, and a prophet of the gospel of justice for all nations.”[22] Following the end of the war, angry crowds burned his books in public in major Norwegian cities and Hamsun was confined for several months in a psychiatric hospital.

Hamsun was forced to undergo a psychiatric examination, which concluded that he had "permanently impaired mental faculties," and on that basis the charges of treason were dropped. Instead, a civil liability case was raised against him, and in 1948 he had to pay a ruinous sum to the Norwegian government of 325,000 kroner ($65,000 or £16,250 at that time) for his alleged membership in Nasjonal Samling and for the moral support he gave to the Germans, but was cleared of any direct Nazi affiliation. Whether he was a member of Nasjonal Samling or not and whether his mental abilities were impaired is a much debated issue even today. Hamsun stated he was never a member of any political party.[citation needed] He wrote his last book Paa giengrodde Stier (On Overgrown Paths) in 1949, a book many take as evidence of his functioning mental capabilities.[citation needed] In it, he harshly criticizes the psychiatrists and the judges and, in his own words, proves that he is not mentally ill.

See what I mean? Not much appreciation for poetry right about now on this political side.

Leftists will let any retard dance around on stage and piss in a cup if they call it art though.

Maybe it is the lesser of two evils…

Has anyone here ever actually enjoyed poetry? I get the status signalling part, but I've honestly never felt anything. Shakespeare put me to sleep. The smattering of dogshit in school put me to sleep. Words in music just ruin the music. Not that the music is any good anyway. Am I just autistic?

I get a huge reaction to Chopin. Some paintings are ok. I may have enjoyed a movie once. But this, I've just smiled and nodded like everyone else to get a grade.

Try reading a good translation of The Illiad. Maybe some ancient poetry will entertain you.

If you want ancient poetry, you could always try the Bible

the right use to be the great artistic class and until we claw the arts away from the leftist loons this civilization will continue to stagnate

I genuinely enjoy poetry but its not for everyone

And now spring comes to the starved and blackened land
where the tailless abominable angel has spent his passion;
dead roots are twined through the bones of a broken hand;
now death, not Schiaparelli, sets the fashion.

In the twentieth century of the Christian era
the news-hawk camera man, no Botticelli,
walks on this stricken earth with Primavera,
and Europe cries from the heart of her hungry belly.

Ten flattened centuries are heaped with rubble,
ten thousand vultures wheel above the plain;
honour is lost and hope is like a bubble;
life is defeated, thought itself is pain.

But the bones of Charlemagne will rise and dance,
and the spark unquenched will kindle into flame.
And the voices heard by the small maid of France
will speak yet again, and give this void a Name.

Patriot's Oath:

It was whispered on the breeze as I took my first breath,
Mixed in the milk of my mother's own breast,
Buried in its stones upon which I cut my first tooth,
In the laughter of friends in the flower of youth,
On streets it rose like summer heat from the cracks,
In the eyes of my elders and in the bow of their backs,

Though I've seen it not, the feeling is still there,
The lingering warmth of a body
The fading echo of a voice
The embers burn low and leave but one choice,

America! America! Where have you gone?
Whose shadow I've seen,
Whose name heard in song?
They have driven their daggers deep in your breast,
And stolen your life and then kept you from rest!

Know this then, hear well this oath,
For if you live slain, a colossus thrown down,
A war-cry to heaven from our hearts shall then sound!
Your children thus robbed of a mother's sweet touch,
Shall savage and rage against their civilized crutch!
And no place to hide shall thy murderers know,
But the graves where we lay them,

Six feet below.

Any attributions?

first one is
A.R.D. Fairburn's poem Europe 1945

second im not sure where it comes from but I got it from

Let's start a Holla Forums poetry corner.

They are all shills, that we all know
So get ready for death squads, we'll bring on the shoah!
Evil and many are the jews and the Saracen.
But we have the guns. Thank you, Ben Garrison!

*snaps*

My thread got slid by a projecting cuckchanner. Still appreciate all else that's posted here.

That'd be kickass, you'd have to upload it. You know, sam hyde does standups and records them on YT. Not exactly poetry, but like he does, if you have material to present that idea with, you'll def get a more positive reaction.

Really liked these ones mates, keep em comin.

Exactly what I was thinking of when I made this thread. A combination of their tone and words devoid of meaning gives me the urge to take my ears off.

Mods are fags for anchoring.

Most 'heavy metal' is actually 'ring wing', even though a lot of the bands are self-proclaimed lefties. They regularly sing of the glory of the ancients, of tradition, of battle, of fighting against all odds, of overcoming struggles alone (not with the aid of the government and their welfare!!). The themes are very much about the 'heroic individual' fighting against the masses or overwhelming odds.