Poems - Your favs or your own

[Ringtone]

the screw-game
one of the terrible things is
really
being in bed
night after night
with a woman you no longer
want to screwgame

they get old, they don't look very good
anymore — they even tend to
snore, lose
spirit.

so, in bed, you turn sometimes,
your foot touches hers — god, awful! —
and the night is out there
beyond the curtains
sealing you together
in the
tomb.

and in the morning you go to the
bathroom, pass in the hall, talk,
say odd things; eggs fry, motors
start.

but sitting across
you have 2 strangers
jamming toast into mouths
burning the sullen head and gut with
coffee.

in 10 million places in America
it is the same —
stale lives propped against each
other
and no place to
go.

you get in the car
and you drive to work
and there are more strangers there, most of them
wives and husbands of somebody
else, and besides the guillotine of work, they
flirt and joke and pinch, sometimes tend to
work off a quick screw somewhere—
they can't do it at home—
and then
the drive back home
waiting for Christmas or Labor Day or
Sunday or
something.

See: The Incontrovertible Science and Mathematics of God's Existence

 

[Shawnee_b]

XLVI [Many red devils ran from my heart]
Stephen Crane - 1871-1900



Many red devils ran from my heart
And out upon the page,
They were so tiny
The pen could mash them.
And many struggled in the ink.
It was strange
To write in this red muck
Of things from my heart.

 

[Ringtone]

The Tyger
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 of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & 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 water'd 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?

 

[watchingfromafar]

-

 

[miketx]

Tim and I a camping went and spied three ladies in a tent. Though we were two and they were three, I bucked one and Timbuktu.

 

[mosser]

I really like Li Young Lee's "The City in Which I Love You." It's a really long poem, but utterly beautiful. I don't really like the poemhunter site, but here is the link to the poem as featured on the site if anyone's interested.