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  • Talk about poems from others or write some yourself. I’ll start with one of my favorites.

    What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
    Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
    You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
    A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
    And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
    And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
    There is shadow under this red rock,
    (Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
    And I will show you something different from either
    Your shadow at morning striding behind you
    Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
    I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

  • I'm literally a poet, i'll post here not the ones i wrote, but some other authors creations.

    I like to explore foreign countries poetry, to start, i'lll recommend the poems of Erik Axel Karlfeldt, his style is kinda similar to WBYeats

    https://allpoetry.com/Erik-Axel-Karlfeldt

  • AN NYC HAIKU

    AYO, MA!
    I SAID AYO, MA!
    ...FUCK YOU THEN!

  • Damn wish dashes didn’t turn into f***ing bullet points wtf

    • proper
  • Yeezus is Jesus in Spanish
    Yezeus Christo se ☧

  • Anyone have any tips for getting out you how you feel into your work? I feel like I completely lost touch with that and my mind is always trying to run from my emotions

  • I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul. - Pablo Neruda

  • Jean

    Anyone have any tips for getting out you how you feel into your work? I feel like I completely lost touch with that and my mind is always trying to run from my emotions

    Just keep revising

  • Jean

    Anyone have any tips for getting out you how you feel into your work? I feel like I completely lost touch with that and my mind is always trying to run from my emotions

    Try to capitalize on emotions as they happen.

    You always have your phone (notepad) with you anyways.

  • They deliver the edicts of God

    without delay

    And are exempt from apprehension

    from detention

    And with their God-given

    Petasus, Caduceus, and Talaria

    ferry like bolts of lightning

    unhindered between the tribunals

    of Space & Time

    The Messenger-Spirit

    in human flesh

    is assigned a dependable,

    self-reliant, versatile,

    thoroughly poet existence

    upon its sojourn in life

    It does not knock

    or ring the bell

    or telephone

    When the Messenger-Spirit

    comes to your door

    though locked

    It'll enter like an electric midwife

    and deliver the message

    There is no tell

    throughout the ages

    that a Messenger-Spirit

    ever stumbled into darkness

    • Gregory corso
  • When The Eclipse Went Out

    two white toes and a black hole
    furry
    a sharp tongue for cleaning his
    friend
    travel to the end together, it
    hurts
    they say it's okay, this shot
    calms them down
    i kneel beside my ever-loving
    shadow
    and say my goodbyes —
    hes screaming, shrieking, so
    am i
    HELP ME IT HURTS
    we say
    they end it
    it doesn't stop hurting
    it never stops hurting


    i recently got a promotion at work but for some reason got hit with a wave of depression last week
    speaking with my therapist we realized it coincided with me not feeling like I had a creative outlet
    so i've began writing poetry again
    I made a short list of some of the most memorable events in my life and this was #5. its about putting down my first cat. his name was Partial Eclipse because he was all black except for two white toes.
    i cried when i finished it yesterday.
    it feels good to write again.

  • Terrance Hayes is my favorite poet & this is probably my favorite poem, not just by him, but in general

    https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/57566/how-to-draw-a-perfect-circle

    Him and Kaveh Akbar inspire my poetry-voice a f*** ton

    Here’s a poem by Akbar:

    https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/90975/despite-my-efforts-even-my-prayers-have-turned-into-threats

  • Einfinet

    Terrance Hayes is my favorite poet & this is probably my favorite poem, not just by him, but in general

    https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/57566/how-to-draw-a-perfect-circle

    Him and Kaveh Akbar inspire my poetry-voice a f*** ton

    Here’s a poem by Akbar:

    https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/90975/despite-my-efforts-even-my-prayers-have-turned-into-threats

    And then a poet I love who doesn’t necessarily inspire me creatively, I just love her passion, is Patricia Smith

    https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/147055/when-black-men-drown-their-daughters

    Those three are my favorite contemporary writers along w Claudia Rankine

  • Your curves cannot distract me from your eyes, cause I know where the truth resides.
    I dont wanna see naked before I strip you to your soul and know that I can trust you.

  • "as I sit here, broken hearted

    I came to s*** but only farted"

    On the real though my favorite poems probably ice and fire. It is so simple but I find myself thinking about it quite a lot.

    "Some say the world will end in fire,
    Some say in ice.
    From what I’ve tasted of desire
    I hold with those who favor fire.
    But if it had to perish twice,
    I think I know enough of hate
    To say that for destruction ice
    Is also great
    And would suffice."

  • This is one of my favorite poems of all time about fighting in WWI. It's so incredibly powerful I get shivers every time I read it. And it's a big reason I am so staunchly anti-war.

    Dulce et Decorum Est

    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 gas-shells dropping softly 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.

  • Pointes

    This is one of my favorite poems of all time about fighting in WWI. It's so incredibly powerful I get shivers every time I read it. And it's a big reason I am so staunchly anti-war.

    Dulce et Decorum Est

    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 gas-shells dropping softly 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.

    I studied it and other first world war poems for my A levels, it's an incredible poem. Wilfred Owen had such ability and its tragic that he died when he did, literally one week before the war ended

  • old pond,
    frog leaps in,
    water's sound

  • i didn't want to spend the time re-formatting this poem i wrote a couple years ago in the ktt text box so im just pasting a screenshot

    it's written from a human and alien perspective and my inspiration was from a collection of short stories by Italo Calvino called Cosmicomics which I highly recommend

  • Pointes

    i didn't want to spend the time re-formatting this poem i wrote a couple years ago in the ktt text box so im just pasting a screenshot

    it's written from a human and alien perspective and my inspiration was from a collection of short stories by Italo Calvino called Cosmicomics which I highly recommend

    I like this alot. Italo is obe of my favorite authors. Great work man

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