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Thread: Poetry, any takers?

  1. #1

    Default Poetry, any takers?

    We had a few threads awhile ago on the old forum dedicated to different poems and like. Here's the idea I had for this thread, you can post anything you want as long as it's a string of text that means something to you. Whether it be an actual poem, an anecdote, lyrics of some kind, please post in here. The catch though, is that you have to write something about the text you hopefully decide to contribute with, an explanation would be nice, your own thoughts about it, etc..

    I'll start with the same one I started back on the old board with, a poem by Nicole Blackman. It's about a bleak philosophy on how to best raise a child to fit in with the society we have created in these modern times. (Okay, honestly I don't know what her intentions were. That's just what I think, make of it as you please. )

    By Nicole Blackman

    One day I'll give birth to a tiny baby girl
    and when she's born she'll scream and I'll make sure
    she never stops.

    I will kiss her before I lay her down
    and will tell her a story so she knows
    how it is and how it must be for her to survive.

    I'll tell her about the power of water
    the seduction of paper
    the promise of gasoline
    and the hope of blood.

    I'll teach her to shave her eyebrows and
    mark her skin.
    I'll teach her that her body is
    her greatest work of art.

    I'll tell her to light things on fire
    and keep them burning.
    I'll teach her that the fire will not consume her,
    that she must take it and use it.

    I'll tell her to be tri-sexual, to try anything,
    to sleep with, fight with, pray with anyone,
    just as long as she feels something.

    I'll help her do her best work when it rains.
    I'll tell her to reinvent herself every 28 days.

    I'll teach her to develop all of her selves,
    the courageous ones,
    the smart ones,
    the dreaming ones,
    the fast ones.
    I'll teach her that she has an army inside her
    that can save her life.

    I'll tell her to say **** like the other people say
    and when people are shocked
    to ask them why they so fear a small quartet
    of letters.

    I'll make sure she always carries a pen
    so she can take down the evidence.
    If she has no paper, I'll teach her to
    write everything on her tongue,
    write it on her thighs.

    I'll help her to see that she will not find God
    or salvation in a dark brick building
    built by dead men.

    I'll explain to her that it's better to regret the things
    she has done than the things she hasn't.

    I'll teach her to write her manifestos
    on cocktail napkins.

    I'll say she should make men lick her enterprise.
    I'll teach her to talk hard.
    I'll tell her that her skin is the
    most beautiful dress she will ever wear.

    I'll tell her that people must earn the right
    to use her nickname,
    that forced intimacy is an ugly thing.

    I'll make her understand that she is worth more
    with her clothes on.

    I'll tell her that when the words finally flow too fast
    and she has no use for a pen
    that she must quit her job
    run out of the house in her bathrobe,
    leaving the door open.
    I'll teach her to follow the words.

    I'll tell her to stand up
    and head for the door
    after she makes love.
    When he asks her to
    stay she'll say
    she's got to

    I'll tell her that when she first bleeds
    when she is a woman,
    to go up to the roof at midnight,
    reach her hands up to the sky and scream.

    I'll teach her to be whole,
    to be holy
    to be so much that she doesn't even need me anymore.

    I'll tell her to go quickly and never come back.
    I will make her stronger than me.

    I'll say to her never forget what they did to you
    and never let them know you remember.

    Never forget what they did to you
    and never let them know you remember.

    Never forget what they did to you
    and never let them know you remember.

  2. #2


    My favorite three poems are all short haikus :


    A virtous man,
    is never alone,
    he has like-minded friends.


    I neither bully the weak,
    nor fear the powerful.


    The hardest roads,
    lie not over mountains and rivers,
    but within the hearts of men.

    I'm also tempted to consider :

    Quote Originally Posted by Yoda
    or do not.
    There is no try.
    - but I don't count that one, as it wasn't meant as a poem.

  3. #3

  4. #4


    Roses are red
    Violets are not
    Compared to Hillary Clinton
    You're f***ing hot.

  5. #5



    Although I'm not a fan of poetry (which is odd, given my area of study), that poem that you posted is absolutely outstanding. Sometimes, I believe that a lot of poetry suffers from pointless conjecture, wanting to say so much but having little to say at all. That was a wonderful example of a good poem with a damned good point.

    I've been a fan of ballad poems -- ones that tell stories, ones that seek to speak to me like a story, only written in verse (think The Odyssey). One of my favorite poets is Robert Service, and what follows is one of his most famous poems:

    The Cremation of Sam McGee
    written by Robert Service

    There are strange things done in the midnight sun
    By the men who moil for gold;
    The Arctic trails have their secret tales
    That would make your blood run cold;
    The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
    But the queerest they ever did see
    Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
    I cremated Sam McGee.

    Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
    Why he left his home in the South to roam ‘round the Pole, God only knows.
    He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
    Though he’d often say in his homely way that “he’d sooner live in hell.”

    On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
    Talk of your cold! through the parka’s fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
    If our eyes we’d close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn’t see;
    It wasn’t much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.

    And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
    And the dogs were fed, and the stars o’erhead were dancing heel and toe,
    He turned to me, and “Cap,” says he, “I’ll cash in this trip, I guess;
    And if I do, I’m asking that you won’t refuse my last request.”

    Well, he seemed so low that I couldn’t say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
    “It’s the cursed cold, and it’s got right hold till I’m chilled clean through to the bone.
    Yet ‘taint being dead—it’s my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
    So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you’ll cremate my last remains.”

    A pal’s last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
    And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
    He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
    And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.

    There wasn’t a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
    With a corpse half hid that I couldn’t get rid, because of a promise given;
    It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: “You may tax your brawn and brains,
    But you promised true, and it’s up to you to cremate those last remains.”

    Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
    In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
    In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
    Howled out their woes to the homeless snows—O God! how I loathed the thing.

    And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
    And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
    The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
    And I’d often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.

    Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
    It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the “Alice May.”
    And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
    Then “Here,” said I, with a sudden cry, “is my cre-ma-tor-eum.”

    Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
    Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
    The flames just soared and the furnace roared—such a blaze you seldom see;
    Then I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

    Then I made a hike, for I didn’t like to hear him sizzle so;
    And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
    It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don’t know why;
    And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.

    I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
    But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
    I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: “I’ll just take a peep inside.
    I guess he’s cooked, and it’s time I looked;” . . . then the door I opened wide.

    And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
    And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: “Please close that door.
    It’s fine in here, but I greatly fear you’ll let in the cold and storm—
    Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it’s the first time I’ve been warm.”

    There are strange things done in the midnight sun
    By the men who moil for gold;
    The Arctic trails have their secret tales
    That would make your blood run cold;
    The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
    But the queerest they ever did see
    Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
    I cremated Sam McGee.

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