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10-12-2017, 12:03 PM | #1 |
dumb
Location: $8.6 million embezzled funds
Posts: 11,368
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ITT post beautiful poetry
The Soldier
Rupert Brooke, 1887 - 1915 If I should die, think only this of me: That there’s some corner of a foreign field That is for ever England. There shall be In that rich earth a richer dust concealed; A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware, Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam, A body of England’s, breathing English air, Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home. And think, this heart, all evil shed away, A pulse in the eternal mind, no less Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given; Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day; And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness, In hearts at peace, under an English heaven. |
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10-12-2017, 12:26 PM | #2 |
Just Hook it to My Veins!
Location: Donald Trump of Netphoria
Posts: 37,218
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Only in silence the word,
Only in dark the light, Only in dying life: Bright the hawk's flight On the empty sky. —The Creation of Éa Ursula K. Le Guin |
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10-12-2017, 03:24 PM | #3 |
Just Hook it to My Veins!
Location: N3t4Euh Haus
Posts: 32,754
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my favorite poem by the legend himself, W.B. Yeats
"An Irish Airman Foresees His Death" I know that I shall meet my fate Somewhere among the clouds above; Those that I fight I do not hate Those that I guard I do not love; My country is Kiltartan Cross, My countrymen Kiltartan’s poor, No likely end could bring them loss Or leave them happier than before. Nor law, nor duty bade me fight, Nor public man, nor cheering crowds, A lonely impulse of delight Drove to this tumult in the clouds; I balanced all, brought all to mind, The years to come seemed waste of breath, A waste of breath the years behind In balance with this life, this death. |
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10-12-2017, 03:56 PM | #4 |
Just Hook it to My Veins!
Location: Donald Trump of Netphoria
Posts: 37,218
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Holy shit those last four lines.
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10-12-2017, 05:38 PM | #5 |
full of longing
Posts: 11,538
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love is a sentimental heart
life is a sentimental way |
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10-12-2017, 07:59 PM | #6 |
Just Hook it to My Veins!
Location: N3t4Euh Haus
Posts: 32,754
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yeah bro I ALWAYS get chills when I read that even though I've read it hundreds of times. Obviously about WWI, just like the poem Ram posted up there.
Actually IIRC that dude Rupert Brooke is known for his idealized war poems.... he died of an infected mosquito bite while serving with the British navy in WWI and is buried in Greece |
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10-12-2017, 08:44 PM | #7 |
Immortal
Posts: 25,684
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The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner
Randall Jarrell 1945 From my mother's sleep I fell into the State, And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze. Six miles from earth, loosed from its dream of life, I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters. When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose. |
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10-12-2017, 08:45 PM | #8 |
Immortal
Posts: 25,684
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Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
By Robert Frost Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow. My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year. He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound’s the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake. The woods are lovely, dark and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep. |
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10-12-2017, 08:54 PM | #9 |
Just Hook it to My Veins!
Location: Donald Trump of Netphoria
Posts: 37,218
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Soak Corker wins?
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10-12-2017, 09:01 PM | #10 |
Just Hook it to My Veins!
Location: N3t4Euh Haus
Posts: 32,754
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I've always been afraid to die but I think I'm more afraid to live
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10-13-2017, 02:19 AM | #11 |
Socialphobic
Location: we are champions, bathed in the heat of a thousand flame wars in the grim future of the internet there is only netphoria
Posts: 12,467
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Five Bells - Kenneth Slessor
Time that is moved by little fidget wheels Is not my time, the flood that does not flow. Between the double and the single bell Of a ship's hour, between a round of bells From the dark warship riding there below, I have lived many lives, and this one life Of Joe, long dead, who lives between five bells. Deep and dissolving verticals of light Ferry the falls of moonshine down. Five bells Coldly rung out in a machine's voice. Night and water Pour to one rip of darkness, the Harbour floats In the air, the Cross hangs upside-down in water. Why do I think of you, dead man, why thieve These profitless lodgings from the flukes of thought Anchored in Time? You have gone from earth, Gone even from the meaning of a name; Yet something's there, yet something forms its lips And hits and cries against the ports of space, Beating their sides to make its fury heard. Are you shouting at me, dead man, squeezing your face In agonies of speech on speechless panes? Cry louder, beat the windows, bawl your name! But I hear nothing, nothing...only bells, Five bells, the bumpkin calculus of Time. Your echoes die, your voice is dowsed by Life, There's not a mouth can fly the pygmy strait - Nothing except the memory of some bones Long shoved away, and sucked away, in mud; And unimportant things you might have done, Or once I thought you did; but you forgot, And all have now forgotten - looks and words And slops of beer; your coat with buttons off, Your gaunt chin and pricked eye, and raging tales Of Irish kings and English perfidy, And dirtier perfidy of publicans Groaning to God from Darlinghurst. Five bells. Then I saw the road, I heard the thunder Tumble, and felt the talons of the rain The night we came to Moorebank in slab-dark, So dark you bore no body, had no face, But a sheer voice that rattled out of air (As now you'd cry if I could break the glass), A voice that spoke beside me in the bush, Loud for a breath or bitten off by wind, Of Milton, melons, and the Rights of Man, And blowing flutes, and how Tahitian girls Are brown and angry-tongued, and Sydney girls Are white and angry-tongued, or so you'd found. But all I heard was words that didn't join So Milton became melons, melons girls, And fifty mouths, it seemed, were out that night, And in each tree an Ear was bending down, Or something that had just run, gone behind the grass, When blank and bone-white, like a maniac's thought, The naphtha-flash of lightning slit the sky, Knifing the dark with deathly photographs. There's not so many with so poor a purse Or fierce a need, must fare by night like that, Five miles in darkness on a country track, But when you do, that's what you think. Five bells. In Melbourne, your appetite had gone, Your angers too; they had been leeched away By the soft archery of summer rains And the sponge-paws of wetness, the slow damp That stuck the leaves of living, snailed the mind, And showed your bones, that had been sharp with rage, The sodden ectasies of rectitude. I thought of what you'd written in faint ink, Your journal with the sawn-off lock, that stayed behind With other things you left, all without use, All without meaning now, except a sign That someone had been living who now was dead: "At Labassa. Room 6 x 8 On top of the tower; because of this, very dark And cold in winter. Everything has been stowed Into this room - 500 books all shapes And colours, dealt across the floor And over sills and on the laps of chairs; Guns, photoes of many differant things And differant curioes that I obtained..." In Sydney, by the spent aquarium-flare Of penny gaslight on pink wallpaper, We argued about blowing up the world, But you were living backward, so each night You crept a moment closer to the breast, And they were living, all of them, those frames And shapes of flesh that had perplexed your youth, And most your father, the old man gone blind, With fingers always round a fiddle's neck, That graveyard mason whose fair monuments And tablets cut with dreams of piety Rest on the bosoms of a thousand men Staked bone by bone, in quiet astonishment At cargoes they had never thought to bear, These funeral-cakes of sweet and sculptured stone. Where have you gone? The tide is over you, The turn of midnight water's over you, As Time is over you, and mystery, And memory, the flood that does not flow. You have no suburb, like those easier dead In private berths of dissolution laid - The tide goes over, the waves ride over you And let their shadows down like shining hair, But they are Water; and the sea-pinks bend Like lilies in your teeth, but they are Weed; And you are only part of an Idea. I felt the wet push its black thumb-balls in, The night you died, I felt your eardrums crack, And the short agony, the longer dream, The Nothing that was neither long nor short; But I was bound, and could not go that way, But I was blind, and could not feel your hand. If I could find an answer, could only find Your meaning, or could say why you were here Who now are gone, what purpose gave you breath Or seized it back, might I not hear your voice? I looked out my window in the dark At waves with diamond quills and combs of light That arched their mackerel-backs and smacked the sand In the moon's drench, that straight enormous glaze, And ships far off asleep, and Harbour-buoys Tossing their fireballs wearily each to each, And tried to hear your voice, but all I heard Was a boat's whistle, and the scraping squeal Of seabirds' voices far away, and bells, Five bells. Five bells coldly ringing out. Five bells. |
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10-13-2017, 07:11 AM | #12 |
Braindead
Posts: 18,608
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The German Guns
Private S. Baldrick, 1917 Boom, boom, boom, boom Boom, boom, boom Boom, boom, boom, boom Boom, boom, boom |
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10-13-2017, 08:18 AM | #13 |
Just Hook it to My Veins!
Location: Donald Trump of Netphoria
Posts: 37,218
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Racist.
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10-13-2017, 12:49 PM | #14 |
full of longing
Posts: 11,538
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speaking of sentiment, i enjoy this one quite a lot. sweet, simple, sad.
Hoses I love the hoses of summer hanging in their green coils from the sides of houses, or slithering through lawns on their way to the cool meditations of sprinklers. I think of my father, scotch in one hand, the dripping hose in the other, probing the dusk with water, the world around him falling apart, marriage crumbling, booze running the show. Still, he liked to walk out after dinner and water the lawn, fiddling with the nozzle, misting this, showering that. Sometimes, in the hot twilight, my sisters and I would run in our swimsuits through the yard while he followed us with a cold beam of water. And once, when my mother came out to watch, he turned the hose on her, the two of them laughing in a way we'd never heard, a laughter that must have brought them back to the beginning. -George Bilgere |
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10-13-2017, 03:00 PM | #15 | |
Minion of Satan
Location: the institute
Posts: 6,421
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Quote:
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10-13-2017, 03:16 PM | #16 |
Immortal
Posts: 25,684
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10-13-2017, 03:24 PM | #17 |
Just Hook it to My Veins!
Location: Donald Trump of Netphoria
Posts: 37,218
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Memento Mori – Billy Collins
There is no need for me to keep a skull on my desk, to stand with one foot up on the ruins of Rome, or wear a locket with the sliver of a saint’s bone. It is enough to realize that every common object in this sunny little room will outlive me -the carpet, radio, bookstand and rocker. Not one of these things will attend my burial, not even this dented goosenecked lamp with its steady benediction of light, though I could put worse things in my mind than the image of it waddling across the cemetery like an old servant, dragging the tail of its cord , the small circle of mourners parting to make room. |
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10-13-2017, 03:46 PM | #18 |
Apocalyptic Poster
Posts: 1,131
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Before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things, feel the future dissolve in a moment like salt in a weakened broth. What you held in your hand, what you counted and carefully saved, all this must go so you know how desolate the landscape can be between the regions of kindness. How you ride and ride thinking the bus will never stop, the passengers eating maize and chicken will stare out the window forever. Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness, you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho lies dead by the side of the road. You must see how this could be you, how he too was someone who journeyed through the night with plans and the simple breath that kept him alive. Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside, you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing. You must wake up with sorrow. You must speak to it till your voice catches the thread of all sorrows and you see the size of the cloth. Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore, only kindness that ties your shoes and sends you out into the day to mail letters and purchase bread, only kindness that raises its head from the crowd of the world to say it is I you have been looking for, and then goes with you every where like a shadow or a friend. -Naomi Shihab Nye |
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10-13-2017, 03:48 PM | #19 |
Apocalyptic Poster
Posts: 1,131
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My lovely friends
How could I change towards you who are so beautiful? - Sappho |
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10-13-2017, 03:49 PM | #20 |
Apocalyptic Poster
Posts: 1,131
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The mower stalled, twice; kneeling, I found
A hedgehog jammed up against the blades, Killed. It had been in the long grass. I had seen it before, and even fed it, once. Now I had mauled its unobtrusive world Unmendably. Burial was no help: Next morning I got up and it did not. The first day after a death, the new absence Is always the same; we should be careful Of each other, we should be kind While there is still time. - Philip Larkin |
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10-13-2017, 03:54 PM | #21 |
Apocalyptic Poster
Posts: 1,131
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it may not always be so; and i say
that if your lips, which i have loved, should touch another's, and your dear strong fingers clutch his heart, as mine in time not far away; if on another's face your sweet hair lay in such a silence as i know, or such great writhing words as, uttering overmuch, stand helplessly before the spirit at bay; if this should be, i say if this should be- you of my heart, send me a little word; that i may go unto him, and take his hands, saying, Accept all happiness from me. Then shall i turn my face,and hear one bird sing terribly afar in the lost lands. - e e cummings |
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11-11-2017, 03:16 PM | #22 |
Just Hook it to My Veins!
Location: Donald Trump of Netphoria
Posts: 37,218
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And Iluvatar spoke to Ulmo, and said, "Seest thou not how here in this little realm in the Deeps of Time Melkor hath made war upon thy province? He hath bethought him of bitter cold immoderate, and yet hath not destroyed the beauty of thy fountains, nor of thy clear pools. Behold the snow, and the cunning work of frost! Melkor hath devised heats and fire without restraint, and hath not dried up thy desire nor utterly quelled the music of the sea. Behold rather the height and glory of the clouds, and the ever changing mists; and listen to the fall of rain upon the Earth! And in these clouds thou art drawn nearer to Manwe, thy friend, whom thou lovest."
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11-11-2017, 03:21 PM | #23 |
Just Hook it to My Veins!
Location: Donald Trump of Netphoria
Posts: 37,218
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Then Ulmo answered, "Truly, Water is become now fairer than my heart imagined, neither had my secret thought concieved the snowflake, nor in all my music was contained the falling of the rain. I will seek Manwe, that he and I may make melodies forever to thy delight!" And Manwe and Ulmo have from the beginning been allied, and in all things have served most faithfully the purpose of Iluvatar.
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11-11-2017, 03:22 PM | #24 |
Just Hook it to My Veins!
Location: Donald Trump of Netphoria
Posts: 37,218
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-Ainulindale
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11-11-2017, 03:24 PM | #25 |
Braindead
Location: Ignore List
Posts: 17,229
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Nature loves courage. You make the commitment and nature will respond to that commitment by removing impossible obstacles. Dream the impossible dream and the world will not grind you under, it will lift you up. This is the trick. This is what all these teachers and philosophers who really counted, who really touched the alchemical gold, this is what they understood. This is the shamanic dance in the waterfall. This is how magic is done. By hurling yourself into the abyss and discovering it's a feather bed.
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11-11-2017, 05:19 PM | #26 |
Just Hook it to My Veins!
Location: all over the Internet
Posts: 44,548
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11-11-2017, 05:45 PM | #27 |
BOTTLEG ILLEGAL
Location: I'm faced with so many changes that I just might change my face
Posts: 32,800
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https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Z...tedpuppies.jpg
my name is dog i am new mom i luv my pups so pls stay calm don't be surprised wen i tell u my pups don't bark they all say moo |
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11-11-2017, 05:47 PM | #28 |
BOTTLEG ILLEGAL
Location: I'm faced with so many changes that I just might change my face
Posts: 32,800
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follow up:
they look at me with furrowed brow they say a dog can't have a cow but i ignore as we curl up i kiss each face i lik the pup |
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11-12-2017, 12:52 AM | #29 |
Braindead
Location: PROWLING THE BADLANDS
Posts: 17,399
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blue m&m
red m&m they all wind up the same colour in the end |
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11-12-2017, 01:14 AM | #30 |
Just Hook it to My Veins!
Location: Donald Trump of Netphoria
Posts: 37,218
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I am eating peanut butter nutella sandwiches with milk.
Better than drugs. Better than sex. Better than God. |
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