Post your favorite poet.

BEARS.

BEARS.

Active member
i need a poem for english class and i have no idea where to start looking. hopefully some names will give me some inspiration. if you want post a poem by them too.
 
Rome wasnt built in a day neither was the world trade, but destruction is a coming of age. -Jerm 9

Give a man a fish he’ll eat it and fall asleep. Teach a man to fish, he’ll endanger entire species. - Jerm 9

The bad seed branches off the family tree and leaves, No longer feeds on the scraps the tree leaves beneath- Jerm 9

Cash Ruins Everything Around Me - jerm 9

Another 9/11 has come and gone and still lady america gun is drawn- jerm9

you need to visit his flikr page to begin to understand what its all about
 
T.S. Elliot. - The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock.

Thats my favorite poem ever. Its quite long but it really is an amazing poem.
 
i dono the name, but theres this poem on the intro of an album thats sooooooo good. ill write it.

The children of children, by the time theyre half grown

have habits like rabbits and young of their own

the children of children from their mamas laps

hop down to the ground to be taken in traps

the children of children of are trapped by dark skins

to stay in and play in a game no one wins

the children of children while still young and sweet

are all damned and programmed for future defeat

the children of children are all trapped by adults

who failed them and jailed them to hide the results

the children of children unable to cope

with systems that twist them and rob them of hope

the children of children of sin and of shame

keep pairing and baring and who do you blame?

the children of children cry out everyday

they beg you for rescue and what do you say?
 
t.s. elliot, charles bukowski, yusef komunyakaa, walt whitman, marita o'neil, duff plunkett, sylvia plath(if your a housewife).
 
Not sure of the name of the poet...

Biggie Smalls is the wickedest

Niggaz say I'm pussy? I dare you to stick your dick in this

If I was pussy I'd be filled with syphillis

Herpes, gonorrhea, chlamydia, gettin rid of ya

Got it locked like the penitentiary

Niggaz mention me for M.C. execution, who you choosin?

The wack MC? Or the black fat MC?

Jack Dempsey would start shakin

All it's takin, is some marijuana and I'm makin

MC's break fast like flapjacks and bacon

Backspins to windmill, who's still the gin drinker

Ill thinker - explodin when the paper hits the ink, uhh

Take your gangsta chronicles, turn to page 666

Holocaust, Big the merciless

Niggaz press they luck-and they get a buttfuck-in

Straight up the ass, raw dog with the rash

and I don't fuck wit the condoms

The condoms is a problem from the AIDS gettin sprayed

Diseases, Big pleases, MC's across the seas

is just the way I clutch my prey, hey

I'm crazy and deranged

Blowin niggaz out the frame, simple and plain

But gettin back, to the black, rhinocerous of rap

Big took a loss, how preposterous is that nigga?

Its good shit though.
 
I believe we have the same poet, can't find his name

Biggie smalls; the millionaire, the mansion, the yacht

The two weed spots, the two hot glocks

That's how I got the weed spot

I shot dread in the head, took the bread and the lamb spread

Little gotti got the shotty to your body

So don't resist, or you might miss christmas

I tote guns, I make number runs

I give mc's the runs drippin

When I throw my clip in the ak, I slay from far away

Everybody hit the d-e-c-k

My slow flow's remarkable, peace to matteo

Now we smoke weed like Tony montana sniffed the llello

That's crazy blunts, mad l's

My voice excels from the avenue to jail cells

Oh my god, I'm droppin shit like a pigeon

I hope you're listenin, smackin babies at they christening

 
Let us go then, you and I,

When the evening is spread out against the sky

Like a patient etherized upon a table;

Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,

The muttering retreats

Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels

And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:

Streets that follow like a tedious argument

Of insidious intent

To lead you to an overwhelming question. . .

Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"

Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go

Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes

The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes

Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening

Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,

Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,

Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,

And seeing that it was a soft October night

Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time

For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,

Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;

There will be time, there will be time

To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;

There will be time to murder and create,

And time for all the works and days of hands

That lift and drop a question on your plate;

Time for you and time for me,

And time yet for a hundred indecisions

And for a hundred visions and revisions

Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go

Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time

To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"

Time to turn back and descend the stair,

With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—

[They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!"]

My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,

My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—

[They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!"]

Do I dare

Disturb the universe?

In a minute there is time

For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all;

Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,

I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;

I know the voices dying with a dying fall

Beneath the music from a farther room.

So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—

The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,

And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,

When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,

Then how should I begin

To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?

And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—

Arms that are braceleted and white and bare

[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]

Is it perfume from a dress

That makes me so digress?

Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.

And should I then presume?

And how should I begin?

. . . . .

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets

And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes

Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? . . .

I should have been a pair of ragged claws

Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

. . . . .

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!

Smoothed by long fingers,

Asleep . . . tired . . . or it malingers,

Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.

Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,

Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?

But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,

Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,

I am no prophet–and here's no great matter;

I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,

And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,

And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,

After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,

Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,

Would it have been worth while,

To have bitten off the matter with a smile,

To have squeezed the universe into a ball

To roll it toward some overwhelming question,

To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead,

Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all"

If one, settling a pillow by her head,

Should say, "That is not what I meant at all.

That is not it, at all."

And would it have been worth it, after all,

Would it have been worth while,

After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,

After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—

And this, and so much more?—

It is impossible to say just what I mean!

But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:

Would it have been worth while

If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,

And turning toward the window, should say:

"That is not it at all,

That is not what I meant, at all."

. . . . .

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;

Am an attendant lord, one that will do

To swell a progress, start a scene or two

Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,

Deferential, glad to be of use,

Politic, cautious, and meticulous;

Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;

At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—

Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old . . . I grow old . . .

I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?

I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.

I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves

Combing the white hair of the waves blown back

When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea

By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown

Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
 
They thought it was cool to burn crosses in your front lawn as they hung you from trees in

Your backyard.

They thought it was cool to leave you thirsty and strand Katrina.

He thought it was cool to carry a gun in his classroom and open fire, Virginia tech columbine,

Stop the violence.

They thought it was cool to tare down the projects and put up million dollar condos,

Gentrification.

They think its cool to stand on the block hiding products in their socks making quick dime bag

Dollars.

They think its cool to to ride down on you in blue and white unmarked cars, bustin you upside

Yo head.

Freeze....cause the problem is we think its cool too.

Check your ingredients, before you overdose, on the cool.

 
SHEL SILVERSTEIN IS A HE!!! how could you be so ignorant!!?!?! he even has an awsome manly beard

shel-silverstein.jpg


 
you would like ee cummings.....

anyway, i love roman poets. vergil, catullus, etc etc. best of all is marshall
 
I found this poem a little bit ago. I like the rhythm. It might be too used though.

THE POOL PLAYERS.

SEVEN AT THE GOLDEN SHOVEL.

We real cool. We

Left school. We

Lurk late. We

Strike straight. We

Sing sin. We

Thin gin. We

Jazz June. We

Die soon.

by Gwendolyn Brooks

 
in my class entitled 'literature of trauma and recovery' we've been looking at poems and proses written by soldiers in iraq. its been a real eye-opener.

this is by Brian Turner, a soldier who served in Iraq:

Here, Bullet

If a body is what you want,

then here is bone and gristle and flesh.

Here is the clavicle-snapped wish,

the aorta's opened valves, the leap

thought makes at the synaptic gap.

Here is the adrenaline rush you crave,

that inexorable flight, that insane puncture

into heat and blood. And I dare you to finish

what you've started. Because here, Bullet,

here is where I complete the word you bring

hissing through the air, here is where I moan

the barrel's cold esophagus, triggering

my tongue's explosives for the rifling I have

inside of me, each twist of the round

spun deeper, because here, Bullet,

here is where the world ends, every time.
 
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