My favorite poem

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djrick

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Aug 17, 2011
Posts
4,066
Bukowski............................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................



Charles Bukowski Raw with Love.jpg
 

Mrs Parker

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May 9, 2012
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4,129
Bukowski............................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................



View attachment 31125

I just recently re-read Women and Notes Of A Dirty Old Man by Buk. What an amazing writer!
Thank you for posting this poem, djrick! :)
 

blowingrock

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Apr 19, 2011
Posts
9,042
Since this is for poems and he was a poet, you might want to know this.....
(objections just say the word and I will delete, as usual.)


http://www.rodmckuen.com/poetry.htm


US poet, singer Rod McKuen dies at 81

http://news.yahoo.com/us-poet-rod-mckuen-dies-81-071222235.html;_ylt=AwrBJR6Ru8tUXUIAgO7QtDMD

Washington (AFP) - US poet, songwriter and singer Rod McKuen, a multiple Academy Award nominee, has died at the age of 81, US media reported.

McKuen died on Thursday in Los Angeles of respiratory arrest after suffering from pneumonia, friend and producer Jim Pierson said, according to the Los Angeles Times.

His work included the Academy Award-nominated song "Jean" for the 1969 film "The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie" and he was nominated for an Oscar again in 1971 for his work on the animated film "A Boy Named Charlie Brown."

McKuen was a prolific composer, working with artists such as Johnny Cash, Barbra Streisand and Frank Sinatra.

The Hollywood show business publication Variety said he published 30 books of poetry, including "Listen to the Warm," which sold millions of copies, and that McKuen won a spoken word Grammy for "Lonesome Cities."

The St. James Encyclopedia of Popular Culture said that at the peak of his career McKuen was "the unofficial poet laureate of America," the New York Times said.

His work has also included English-language adaptation of songs by Jacques Brel, including his adaptation of Brel's song "Le Moribond" for the English-language version of "Seasons in the Sun."
 
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djrick

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Raw With Love

Hey ~ @clc caroline ~

Long time no see - Yes, you and I both admire Bukowski - I thought of you when I posted this, he is a delicious writer, what a mind <3

Real, no BS.

Hope life is good for you IRL, dear. Miss us ladies chatting over on Girl Talk - @snowy we s/b posting more on your thread!
 

Mrs Parker

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Hey ~ @clc caroline ~

Long time no see - Yes, you and I both admire Bukowski - I thought of you when I posted this, he is a delicious writer, what a mind <3

Real, no BS.

Hope life is good for you IRL, dear. Miss us ladies chatting over on Girl Talk - @snowy we s/b posting more on your thread!

It's so good to see you too, djrick! I agree- I miss spending time in Girl Talk so much! RL stuff sucks up such huge swaths of time (fancy that.. ::wink and grin:: )
and I find myself just popping into threads quickly, reading as much as fast as I can, and then popping back out. You are so right- we s/b hanging out with @snowy
in GT more often! :)
 

lucyloo

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Dec 15, 2011
Posts
830
Spring and Fall: to a Young Child, by Gerard Manley Hopkins

Margaret, are you grieving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leaves, like the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Ah! as the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you will weep and know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sorrow's springs are the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What héart héard of, ghóst guéssed:
It is the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.
 

subrosa

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599
@lucyloo , is this a British poet? I had to reread twice, before the use of "Fall" struck me. Sneaky on the author's part. Alphonse de Lamartine's, L'automne is my response to your's. Comes across smoother in French.

My contribution.

Sans titre - Anais Nin

Et puis vint le jour,
lorsque le risque
rester tendue
dans un bourgeon
était plus douloureux
que le risque
ça a pris
blossom.
 

HarryIrene

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Oct 11, 2011
Posts
5,538
One of many......By many

star.jpg

I know of a Brown Star
That only certain people have found
For years they been lookin’ around
A lot of people lookin’ up
But very few of them looking down
Well they searched high and low for that little glow
That’ll make them happy
Some searched fast and they went on past
Some went slow but couldn’t let it go
I know of a Brown Star
That only very certain people have found
You can ask a dog why he’s so happy
Just waggin’ his tail around
Or a frog that makes him jump around
Follow a sailin’ cloud until it dumps
The rain right down
But ask a man and woman if they’ve seen
A Brown Star around
Some will say yes and some will say no
Some will just laugh and some will just glow
Some will say why do you ask
Some will say well don’t you know
Then there’ll be the one that says
It’s already been found
But you ask a child and they’ll just jump up and down
Sayin’ we found a Brown Star
Right on the ground.
 

Miles Dyson

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Oct 15, 2014
Posts
4
I to my perils
Of cheat and charmer
Came clad in armour
By stars benign;
Hope lies to mortals
And most believe her
But man's deceiver
Was never mine.

The thoughts of others
Were light and fleeting,
Of lovers' meeting
Of luck or fame;

Mine were of trouble
And mine were steady,
So I was ready
When trouble came.

-- A.E. Housman
 

HarryIrene

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Posts
5,538
Odd Jods- Don Van Vliet

The rug ripped up in cloth popcorn balls
the walls an old candy striped sack
in the corner wrinkled black and white
a table held up by legs
the peeled back red enamelled mouth of linoleum screamed
at the pasteboard door
a knob rolled off in some corner sticky
a curtain blew into a sink
dead flies and newspapers
charred fire brown wings and toast
Hobo ain’t been around for some time
the gate danced without its paint on
Odd jobs is written on
spiders were the window’s eyes
the sun made them look silver
the little girl from in back of the clothesline
cast a shadow like a crow
it’s beak spoke open
why doesn’t old Odd Jobs come around anymore
he used to ride his form-a-heap bike
and his basket was a whole candy store
he used t’make Xs from door to door
all the women and the young girls around here
ask why old Jobs don’t come on home
and the gate without its paint on danced
and creaked and moaned
here he comes peddlin’ up on his form-a-heap bike
a bag of skin and bones
spokes were scraping two rust fenders
 

Gibson

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Mar 14, 2015
Posts
1,461
A Farewell

My fairest child,i have no song to give you
No lark could pipe in skies so dull and gray
Yet, if you will,one quiet hint i'll leave you,
For every day

I'll tell you how to sing a clearer carol
Than lark who hails the dawn or breezy down
To earn yourself a purer poet's laurel
Than shakespeare's crown.

Be good,sweet maid and let who can be clever
Do lovely thing's,not dream them,all day long
And so make life,and death,and that for ever
one grand sweet song.

Charles Kingsley.
 

Alma

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Jun 15, 2015
Posts
22
Sunflower Sutra by Allen Ginsberg

I walked on the banks of the tincan banana dock and sat down under the huge shade of a Southern Pacific locomotive to look at the sunset over the box house hills and cry.
Jack Kerouac sat beside me on a busted rusty iron pole, companion, we thought the same thoughts of the soul, bleak and blue and sad-eyed, surrounded by the gnarled steel roots of trees of machinery.
The oily water on the river mirrored the red sky, sun sank on top of final Frisco peaks, no fish in that stream, no hermit in those mounts, just ourselves rheumy-eyed and hung-over like old bums on the riverbank, tired and wily.
Look at the Sunflower, he said, there was a dead gray shadow against the sky, big as a man, sitting dry on top of a pile of ancient sawdust—
—I rushed up enchanted—it was my first sunflower, memories of Blake—my visions—Harlem
and Hells of the Eastern rivers, bridges clanking Joes Greasy Sandwiches, dead baby carriages, black treadless tires forgotten and unretreaded, the poem of the riverbank, condoms & pots, steel knives, nothing stainless, only the dank muck and the razor-sharp artifacts passing into the past—
and the gray Sunflower poised against the sunset, crackly bleak and dusty with the smut and smog and smoke of olden locomotives in its eye—
corolla of bleary spikes pushed down and broken like a battered crown, seeds fallen out of its face, soon-to-be-toothless mouth of sunny air, sunrays obliterated on its hairy head like a dried wire spiderweb,
leaves stuck out like arms out of the stem, gestures from the sawdust root, broke pieces of plaster fallen out of the black twigs, a dead fly in its ear,
Unholy battered old thing you were, my sunflower O my soul, I loved you then!
The grime was no man’s grime but death and human locomotives,
all that dress of dust, that veil of darkened railroad skin, that smog of cheek, that eyelid of black mis’ry, that sooty hand or phallus or protuberance of artificial worse-than-dirt—industrial—modern—all that civilization spotting your crazy golden crown—
and those blear thoughts of death and dusty loveless eyes and ends and withered roots below, in the home-pile of sand and sawdust, rubber dollar bills, skin of machinery, the guts and innards of the weeping coughing car, the empty lonely tincans with their rusty tongues alack, what more could I name, the smoked ashes of some cock cigar, the ****s of wheelbarrows and the milky breasts of cars, wornout asses out of chairs & sphincters of dynamos—all these
entangled in your mummied roots—and you there standing before me in the sunset, all your glory in your form!
A perfect beauty of a sunflower! a perfect excellent lovely sunflower existence! a sweet natural eye to the new hip moon, woke up alive and excited grasping in the sunset shadow sunrise golden monthly breeze!
How many flies buzzed round you innocent of your grime, while you cursed the heavens of the railroad and your flower soul?
Poor dead flower? when did you forget you were a flower? when did you look at your skin and decide you were an impotent dirty old locomotive? the ghost of a locomotive? the specter and shade of a once powerful mad American locomotive?
You were never no locomotive, Sunflower, you were a sunflower!
And you Locomotive, you are a locomotive, forget me not!
So I grabbed up the skeleton thick sunflower and stuck it at my side like a scepter,
and deliver my sermon to my soul, and Jack’s soul too, and anyone who’ll listen,
—We’re not our skin of grime, we’re not dread bleak dusty imageless locomotives, we’re golden sunflowers inside, blessed by our own seed & hairy naked accomplishment-bodies growing into mad black formal sunflowers in the sunset, spied on by our own eyes under the shadow of the mad locomotive riverbank sunset Frisco hilly tincan evening sitdown vision.

Berkeley, 1955
Allen Ginsberg, “Sunflower Sutra” from Collected Poems, 1947-1980. Copyright © 1984 by Allen Ginsberg. Used with the permission of HarperCollins Publishers.
 
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