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What are your favorite uplifting, powerful...
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You are currently reading a thread in /lit/ - Literature

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What are your favorite uplifting, powerful or even violent poems? What poems fill you with awe?
How many poetry threads do we need?
I am truly very sorry my kind sir, excusez-moi, I shall no longer blatantly waste space that rightly belongs to your literary confessions threads.
My favorite poem is the love song of j. alftred prufrock by T.S. Elliot. I don't really know why. It just is
it's a good poem mang
Elliot is shite
Read Swimburne, Emerson, Housman, and Keats, peasant
I'm not too big on poetry to be honest. I've only really read like poetry compilations, but that poem really stood out. I know it's not really an origional answer but fuck it
Don't you ever fucking post on this board again until you've read them and are ready to contribute.
Fuck off. I'll read whatever the fuck I want
Borges' "Milonga de Manuel Flores" comes to mind. A version of it was featured in Invasion: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pu6ITHLbu2o

The film version (which I prefer) is different from the version printed in Para las seis cuerdas. The English translation of this version takes some liberties for the sake of meter and rhyme, and is published as follows:

Manuel Flores is doomed to die.
That's as sure as your money.
Dying is a custom
well-known to many.

But even so, it pains me
to say goodbye to living,
that state so well-known now,
so sweet, so solid-seeming.

I look at my hand in the dawning.
I look at the veins contained there.
I look at them in amazement
as I would look at a stranger.

Tomorrow comes the bullet,
oblivion descending.
Merlin the magus said it:
being born has an ending.*

So much these eyes have seen,
such things, such places!
Who knows what they will see
when I've been judged by Jesus.

Manuel Flores is doomed to die.
That's as sure as your money.
Dying is a custom
well-known to many.

*I prefer this translation:
Merlin the magus said it:
to be born is to die.
No, you won't. This is /lit/ and you'll read whatever the fuck we tell you to read. You plebs are so deluded that you actually think that you enjoy the works you're reading on a bimonthly basis. Until you start with the greeks (and yes this means learning ancient greek you lazy fucking pleb) and work your way up to Emerson or Swinburne, you aren't even qualified to use the word "enjoyment" in reference to an artistic work of poetry. You don't know what the fuck it means, your lexicography of the rabble has diminished that adjective into something that can be used both to describe a towering monument to western culture and a coca cola.

Get the fuck out and don't come back until you know at least eight languages, one of which is latin and three of which are completely dead. Then, maybe we'll conndescend to reply to you.
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Hatred and Vengeance, My Eternal Portion

Hatred and vengeance, my eternal portion,
Scarce can endure delay of execution,
Wait, with impatient readiness, to seize my
Soul in a moment.

Damned below Judas: more abhorred than he was,
Who for a few pence sold his holy master.
Twice betrayed, Jesus me, the last delinquent,
Deems the profanest.

Man disavows, and Delty disowns me:
Hell might afford my miseries a shelter;
Therefore hell keeps her ever-hungry mouths all
Bolted against me.
Hard lot! encompassed with a thousand dangers;

Weary, faint, trembling with a thousand terrors,
I’m called, if vanquished, to receive a sentence
Worse than Abiram’s.

Him the vindictive rod of angry justice
Sent quick and howling to the centre headlong;
I, fed with judgment, in a fleshly tomb, am
Buried above ground.
>Elliot is shite
Learn to spell his name, pleb, before you question his genius
Lol I'm pretty sure I'll read whatever the fuck I want. Matter of fact I'm going to stop reading Anna Karenina and start reading Harry Potter and John Green just so I can make threads to discuss the literary genius of these timeless works of art
A soldier of the legion lay dying in Algiers,

There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears;

But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebbed away,

And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might say.

The dying soldier faltered, as he took that comrade's hand,

And he said, "I never more shall see my own, my native land:

Take a message and a token to some distant friends of mine;

For I was born at Bingen, --- at Bingen on the Rhine.

"Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet and crowd around,

To hear my mournful story, in the pleasant vineyard ground

That we fought the battle bravely, and when the day was done,

Full many a corse lay ghastly pale beneath the setting sun:

And 'mid the dead and dying were some grown old in wars, ---

The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the last of many scars;

And some were young, and suddenly beheld life's morn decline, ---

And one had come from Bingen, --- fair Bingen on the Rhine.

"Tell my mother that her other son shall comfort her old age;

For I was still a truant bird, that thought his home a cage.

For my father was a soldier, and even as a child

My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild;

And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard,

I let them take whate'er they would, --- but kept my father's sword;

And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to shine,

On the cottage wall at Bingen, --- calm Bingen on the Rhine.
"Tel my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head,

When the troops come marching home again, with glad and gallant tread,

But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye,

For her brother was a soldier, too, and not afraid to die;

And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name,

To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame,

And to hang the old sword in its place ( my father's sword and mine ),

For the honor of old Bingen, --- dear Bingen on the Rhine.

"There's another -- not a sister; in the happy days gone by,

You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye;

Too innocent for coquetry, --- too fond for idle scorning, ---

O, friend ! I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourning !

Tell her the last night of my life ( for ere the moon be risen,

My body will be out of pain, my soul be out of prison ), ---

I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight shine

On the vine-clad hills of Bingen, --- sweet Bingen on the Rhine.

"I saw the blue Rhine sweep along, --- I heard, or seemed to hear,

The German songs we used to sing in chorus sweet and clear;

And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill,

The echoing chorus sounded through the evening calm and still;

And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed with friendly talk,

Down many a path beloved of yore, and well-remembered walk !

And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine, ---

But we meet no more at Bingen, --- loved Bingen on the Rhine."

His trembling voice grew faint and hoarse, --- his grasp was childish weak, ---

His eyes put on a dying look, --- and he sighed and ceased to speak;

His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fled, --

The soldier of the Legion in a foreign land is dead !

And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down

On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corses strewn;

Yes, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seemed to shine,

As it shown on distant Bingen, --- fair Bingen on the Rhine.
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