Post your favourite poem of the day!

[alice_in_a_maze]

BETTER

better than darkness
is fake darkness
which swindles you
into necking with
someone's antique
cousin

better than banks
are false banks
where you change
all your rough money
into legal tender

better than coffee
is blue coffee
which you drink
in your last bath
or sometimes waiting
for your shoes
to be dismantled

better than poetry
is my poetry
which refers
to everything
that is beautiful and
dignified, but is
neither of these itself

better than wild
is secretly wild
as when I am in
the darkness of
a parking space
with a new snake

better than art
is repulsive art
which demonstrates
better than scripture
the tiny measure
of your improvement

better than darkness
is darkless
which is inkier, vaster
more profound
and eerily refrigerated
filled with caves
and blinding tunnels
in which appear
beckoning dead relatives
and other religious
paraphernalia

better than love
is wuve
which is more refined
superbly erotic
tiny serene people
with huge genitalia
but lighter than thought
comfortably installed
on an eyelash of mist
and living grimly
ever after
cooking, gardening
and raising kids

better than my mother
is your mother
who is still alive
while mine
is not alive
but what am I saying!
forgive me mother

better than me
are you
kinder than me
are you
sweeter smarter faster
you you you
prettier than me
stronger than me
lonelier than me

i want to get
to know you
better and better

by Leonard Cohen
from 'book of longing'

[bikuki]

Rediscovered this the other day and I remember how much I loved it.

Warning

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat that doesn't go and doesn't suit me,
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick the flowers in other people's gardens
And learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickle for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practise a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

[wee scary burd]

Inspired by Shannow, written by William Blake.


Tyger! Tyger! burning bright,
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire in thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, and what art?
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand, and what dread feet?

What the hammer? What the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? What dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb, make thee?

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright,
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

[Kenny Everett]

I thought I saw Jesus on a tram

I said "are you Jesus?"

he said "yes, I am"



-Spike Milligan

[XMachina]

Mines is in my sig.

[alice_in_a_maze]

DOUBLE BED

She goes upstairs early,
lies wretched in the double bed,
letting its cool space ease her.
The curtains strain a think daylight.
People move faintly beneath.

Tired out, she enters soon
those inner vastnesses
where wishes are almost naked,
pursuing new shapes
of desire, new solitudes.

She wakes fractiously
as the bed rearranges its sinews
for a heavier transport.
He brings her cold flesh
and delicate flattery:

she's not all innocence.
It's just that, by daylight,
they inhabit different angles,
no longer wave and smile
from each other's mirrors.

So, not unkindly,
he turns his back
(he can never sleep facing her)
and she will lie staring
at the dark for hours,

motionless, disarrayed
in the space he has left her.
It is too narrow to sleep in,
but impossible to leave,
she thinks, without robbing him.

Carol Rumens (1944)

[wee scary burd]

Funeral Blues by W. H. Auden


Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

[alice_in_a_maze]

TO COLINDRA

Love without Hope is like Breath without Air,
An impossible Joy, a ridiculous Care;
Yet Cupid, like Alchimy runs us a-ground,
In quest of Projection which never was found:
And tho' numberless Ruins around you may view,
Yet so pleasing 's the Madness, their Steps you pursue.

Elizabeth Thomas (1675-1731)

[LesMTS]

Little dog
Crossing street
Motor car
Sausage meat.

[alice_in_a_maze]

In Case of Fire

In case of FIRE bread glass
In case of GLASS fill with water
In case of WATER wear heavy boots
In case of HEAVY BOOTS assume foetal position
In case of FOETAL POSITION loosen clothing
In case of CLOTHING avoid nudest beach
In case of NUDEST BEACH keep sand out of eyes
In case of EYES close curtains
In case of CURTAINS switch on light
In case of LIGHT embrace truth
In case of TRUTH spread word
In case of WORD keep mum
In case of MUM open arms
In case of ARMS lay down gun
In case of GUN, fire
In case of FIRE break glass

Roger McGough

[¡Punk!]

[This hasty and not very decorous effusion, was originally entitled "The Poet's Welcome; or, Rab the Rhymer's Address to his Bastard Child." A copy, with the more softened, but less expressive title, was published by Stewart, in 1801, and is alluded to by Burns himself, in his biographical letter to Moore. "Bonnie Betty," the mother of the "sonsie-smirking, dear-bought Bess," of the Inventory, lived in Largieside: to support this daughter the poet made over the copyright of his works when he proposed to go to the West Indies. She lived to be a woman, and to marry one John Bishop, overseer at Polkemmet, where she died in 1817. It is said she resembled Burns quite as much as any of the rest of his children.]


Thou's welcome, wean, mischanter fa' me,
If ought of thee, or of thy mammy,
Shall ever daunton me, or awe me,

My sweet wee lady,

Or if I blush when thou shalt ca' me

Tit-ta or daddy.

Wee image of my bonny Betty,
I, fatherly, will kiss and daut thee,
As dear and near my heart I set thee

Wi' as gude will

As a' the priests had seen me get thee

That's out o' hell.

What tho' they ca' me fornicator,
An' tease my name in kintry clatter:
The mair they talk I'm kent the better,

E'en let them clash;

An auld wife's tongue's a feckless matter

To gie ane fash.

Sweet fruit o' mony a merry dint,
My funny toil is now a' tint,
Sin' thou came to the warl asklent,

Which fools may scoff at;

In my last plack thy part's be in't

The better ha'f o't.

An' if thou be what I wad hae thee,
An' tak the counsel I sall gie thee,
A lovin' father I'll be to thee,

If thou be spar'd;

Thro' a' thy childish years I'll e'e thee,

An' think't weel war'd.

Gude grant that thou may ay inherit
Thy mither's person, grace, an' merit,
An' thy poor worthless daddy's spirit,

Without his failins;

'Twill please me mair to hear an' see it

Than stocket mailens.

Almost brings a tear to my eye that one. Reminds me of my mammy.

[alice_in_a_maze]

A History of Invisible Love

Love is a wound
that is always open
to pouring…

like spilt milk love
accidentally
dribbles down
our chin

love is a sentimental cliché
true and private and real.
felt for the moment…

love means so much privately
sometimes it is enough simply to
lie back and think of the people
in our lives.

Love means so much
sometimes it doesn't
mean enough, leaves wanting,
digs a hole,
But it does at the best of times…
it is enough, at the worst.

Love is the private moment
of contemplation when you
consider and feel for someone.

When you feel some people
are definitely something special,
love is this silence never quelled.

the history of love
is filled with the soldiers
and the widows of a love unspoken.

Private invisible love.
All love is invisible,
That’s why so many cannot see it.

Love is best
when it says nothing.

Love touches the skin,
lingers brushes past.

In the mind love can
dissolve of sorrow
our smallest of heart.

love is sincere
is insincere
is confused
is full-of-bullshit
is here right now
is nowhere
Is contradicting itself
hates to admit itself…
cannot answer itself...
love lies to everyone
love is never grasped
love is a constant reaching out
Love always goes missing

love
dies
dies
dies…

real or imagined: love is our dream!
And the dream laughs and cries
In our private mind

Hahahahahahah!

'Love, I cannot
grasp you entirely'


-Colin McGuire

[alice_in_a_maze]

SYMPATHY

His pains so racked my heart
That soon I had forgot
Whether in him or me they had their start.
And though I had no lot
In griefs that him abused
I thought one day, confused,
If I should cease to feel, O God what gain!
An end to all his pain.


Viola Meynell (1888-1956)

[AMillionScreams]

Tomorrow's Monday
But don't be blue
Coz here's a post
From me to you!

AMillionScreams (1981-TBC)

[Rhythm Junkie]

I know it's 'favourite poem of the day' but this is my favourite poem ever


She Walks In Beauty - Byron

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that 's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair'd the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!