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So I came across this poem.Anyone else know of other urban exploring/urban decay related poetry?
"First rule of space travel, kids, is always answer distress beacons. 9 out of 10 times it's a ship full of dead bodies and free shit." | |
I write poetry for fun and wrote this one. Not my best work but touches on urban exploration, though from a different point of view than we usually go about exploring. Closer Look See the house In the country Among the silent hills And flower fields Where green grass waves Under blue sky Long abandoned Or is it Take a closer look And see The new occupants A fox slips out the back door See her den in the kitchen A field mouse now calls The bedroom home Bats sleep in the attic An assortment of insects Await those who seek Though abandoned And forgotten by man This house is now cherished By the wild
"Why not?" is a slogan for an interesting life. -Mason Cooley http://unchartedsights.blogspot.com/ http://www.flickr....tos/danielmcadams/ | |
Wrote this years ago. Hurt I wear this crown for the ones I love the most Who leave unwritten notes to meet at crossroads This pile of dust leaves a lump in my throat My empire of dirt, its my last hope. I can tell it shows, if I call you close You seem to be the ones that I hurt the most I lost the search for you, its gods little joke I hurt myself today the dust turns to smoke. I tripped and broke my crown, i'm sick of falling down My empire of dirt is a lonely ditch now I truly need a friend somebody save me from the end Theres no more time to see what time could have mend. I tried to move on, but cant recover from your loss Send my hated up to God for the life that he robbed The only things that real is this pain that I feel Its need to see you again, time to meet this steel.
Because you're not ordinary. You're way out there on the fringe somewhere. by Ghostfive, on Flickr
What makes photography a strange invention is that its primary raw materials are light and time. John Berger | |
Thank you both for sharing. I very much enjoyed reading those. Hurt reminded me of the nine inch nails song of the same name .
"First rule of space travel, kids, is always answer distress beacons. 9 out of 10 times it's a ship full of dead bodies and free shit." | |
Another nice thread idea, Granuaile. Also, love your signature ;) Good ones, everybody! Here is one I wrote a while back when I was thinking about where all I had been over the course of the previous year.
in the South what do race car drivers and wards have in common? they haunt the places where we now visit. making a spectacle of themselves going in circles, in cycles. what do inmates and mill workers have in common? they live days out where life does summon. filled with dread, lungs full of poison. what do rural school kids and apartment dwellers have in common? an eviction notice come the start of the summer. reduced lunch ends, poverty & hunger.
And a type of poetry, song lyrics, often remind me of urban exploring. Especially from the band Banner Pilot, which happens to be great music for getting pumped in the car beforehand or while doing research! Here's some links to a couple songs and lyrics. Enjoy http://www.youtube...atch?v=mAYLZI22x5o http://www.plyrics...pilot/isolani.html http://www.youtube...atch?v=SI7H4gfrzPo http://www.plyrics...theobituaries.html
www.flickr.com/photos/pressingleap | |
Posted by Granuaile 1.
So I came across this poem.Anyone else know of other urban exploring/urban decay related poetry?
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Just being a critic: I liked this until the orgasm part. Thought it was cheap. Good poem over all. If you are interested in the topic read The Aesthetics of Decay by Dylan Trigg. It's most rooted in Romanticism and the period's love affair w/the ruin. http://www.amazon....lgia/dp/0820486469 I believe that Tintern Abbey by William Wordsworth is about an abandoned abbey building, and if I recall Trigg writes extensively about it. FIVE years have past; five summers, with the length Of five long winters! and again I hear These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs With a soft inland murmur.--Once again Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, That on a wild secluded scene impress Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect The landscape with the quiet of the sky. The day is come when I again repose Here, under this dark sycamore, and view 10 These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts, Which at this season, with their unripe fruits, Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves 'Mid groves and copses. Once again I see These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines Of sportive wood run wild: these pastoral farms, Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke Sent up, in silence, from among the trees! With some uncertain notice, as might seem Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, 20 Or of some Hermit's cave, where by his fire The Hermit sits alone. These beauteous forms, Through a long absence, have not been to me As is a landscape to a blind man's eye: But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din Of towns and cities, I have owed to them In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart; And passing even into my purer mind, With tranquil restoration:--feelings too 30 Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps, As have no slight or trivial influence On that best portion of a good man's life, His little, nameless, unremembered, acts Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust, To them I may have owed another gift, Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood, In which the burthen of the mystery, In which the heavy and the weary weight Of all this unintelligible world, 40 Is lightened:--that serene and blessed mood, In which the affections gently lead us on,-- Until, the breath of this corporeal frame And even the motion of our human blood Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul: While with an eye made quiet by the power Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, We see into the life of things. If this Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft-- 50 In darkness and amid the many shapes Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world, Have hung upon the beatings of my heart-- How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee, O sylvan Wye! thou wanderer thro' the woods, How often has my spirit turned to thee! And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought, With many recognitions dim and faint, And somewhat of a sad perplexity, 60 The picture of the mind revives again: While here I stand, not only with the sense Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts That in this moment there is life and food For future years. And so I dare to hope, Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first I came among these hills; when like a roe I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, Wherever nature led: more like a man 70 Flying from something that he dreads, than one Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then (The coarser pleasures of my boyish days, And their glad animal movements all gone by) To me was all in all.--I cannot paint What then I was. The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, Their colours and their forms, were then to me An appetite; a feeling and a love, 80 That had no need of a remoter charm, By thought supplied, nor any interest Unborrowed from the eye.--That time is past, And all its aching joys are now no more, And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur, other gifts Have followed; for such loss, I would believe, Abundant recompence. For I have learned To look on nature, not as in the hour Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes 90 The still, sad music of humanity, Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power To chasten and subdue. And I have felt A presence that disturbs me with the joy Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime Of something far more deeply interfused, Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, And the round ocean and the living air, And the blue sky, and in the mind of man; A motion and a spirit, that impels 100 All thinking things, all objects of all thought, And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still A lover of the meadows and the woods, And mountains; and of all that we behold From this green earth; of all the mighty world Of eye, and ear,--both what they half create, And what perceive; well pleased to recognise In nature and the language of the sense, The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul 110 Of all my moral being. Nor perchance, If I were not thus taught, should I the more Suffer my genial spirits to decay: For thou art with me here upon the banks Of this fair river; thou my dearest Friend, My dear, dear Friend; and in thy voice I catch The language of my former heart, and read My former pleasures in the shooting lights Of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while May I behold in thee what I was once, 120 My dear, dear Sister! and this prayer I make, Knowing that Nature never did betray The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege, Through all the years of this our life, to lead From joy to joy: for she can so inform The mind that is within us, so impress With quietness and beauty, and so feed With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all 130 The dreary intercourse of daily life, Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon Shine on thee in thy solitary walk; And let the misty mountain-winds be free To blow against thee: and, in after years, When these wild ecstasies shall be matured Into a sober pleasure; when thy mind Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, 140 Thy memory be as a dwelling-place For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! then, If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief, Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts Of tender joy wilt thou remember me, And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance-- If I should be where I no more can hear Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams Of past existence--wilt thou then forget That on the banks of this delightful stream 150 We stood together; and that I, so long A worshipper of Nature, hither came Unwearied in that service: rather say With warmer love--oh! with far deeper zeal Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget, That after many wanderings, many years Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs, And this green pastoral landscape, were to me More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake! 1798.
[last edit 5/10/2014 2:51 PM by G to the Race - edited 1 times]
You betcha | |
PressingLeap - Thanks. I take it you have seen Waking Life? =) Excellent movie. Thanks for sharing your poetry and the music.Not my kind of music but i did like the lyrics ;). G to the Race - thank you for that interesting link and wonderful poem. I do agree with you on the last part of the poem i posted.To be fair,the poem came from a book of poems called “B Is for Bad Poetry” by Pamela August Russell. Found it on Tumblr.I have a mild Tumblr addiction.
"First rule of space travel, kids, is always answer distress beacons. 9 out of 10 times it's a ship full of dead bodies and free shit." | |
Posted by Granuaile PressingLeap - Thanks. I take it you have seen Waking Life? =) Excellent movie. Thanks for sharing your poetry and the music.Not my kind of music but i did like the lyrics ;). G to the Race - thank you for that interesting link and wonderful poem. I do agree with you on the last part of the poem i posted.To be fair,the poem came from a book of poems called “B Is for Bad Poetry” by Pamela August Russell. Found it on Tumblr.I have a mild Tumblr addiction.
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Apparently Alan Ginsberg also has a Tintern Abbey poem, composed while tripping on acid. How interesting it is that this spot inspired Wordsworth, Tennyson, and Ginsberg. I wonder if there is a place in America that holds this kind of power? If so, I want to go there. The poem's not bad either:
Wales Visitation White fog lifting & falling on mountain-brow Trees moving in rivers of wind The clouds arise as on a wave, gigantic eddy lifting mist above teeming ferns exquisitely swayed along a green crag glimpsed thru mullioned glass in valley raine—
Bardic, O Self, Visitacione, tell naught but what seen by one man in a vale in Albion, of the folk, whose physical sciences end in Ecology, the wisdom of earthly relations, of mouths & eyes interknit ten centuries visible orchards of mind language manifest human, of the satanic thistle that raises its horned symmetry flowering above sister grass-daisies’ pink tiny bloomlets angelic as lightbulbs—
Remember 160 miles from London’s symmetrical thorned tower & network of TV pictures flashing bearded your Self the lambs on the tree-nooked hillside this day bleating heard in Blake’s old ear, & the silent thought of Wordsworth in eld Stillness clouds passing through skeleton arches of Tintern Abbey— Bard Nameless as the Vast, babble to Vastness!
All the Valley quivered, one extended motion, wind undulating on mossy hills a giant wash that sank white fog delicately down red runnels on the mountainside whose leaf-branch tendrils moved asway in granitic undertow down— and lifted the floating Nebulous upward, and lifted the arms of the trees and lifted the grasses an instant in balance and lifted the lambs to hold still and lifted the green of the hill, in one solemn wave
A solid mass of Heaven, mist-infused, ebbs thru the vale, a wavelet of Immensity, lapping gigantic through Llanthony Valley, the length of all England, valley upon valley under Heaven’s ocean tonned with cloud-hang, —Heaven balanced on a grassblade. Roar of the mountain wind slow, sigh of the body, One Being on the mountainside stirring gently Exquisite scales trembling everywhere in balance, one motion thru the cloudy sky-floor shifting on the million feet of daisies, one Majesty the motion that stirred wet grass quivering to the farthest tendril of white fog poured down through shivering flowers on the mountain’s head—
No imperfection in the budded mountain, Valleys breathe, heaven and earth move together, daisies push inches of yellow air, vegetables tremble, grass shimmers green sheep speckle the mountainside, revolving their jaws with empty eyes, horses dance in the warm rain, tree-lined canals network live farmland, blueberries fringe stone walls on hawthorn’d hills, pheasants croak on meadows haired with fern—
Out, out on the hillside, into the ocean sound, into delicate gusts of wet air, Fall on the ground, O great Wetness, O Mother, No harm on your body! Stare close, no imperfection in the grass, each flower Buddha-eye, repeating the story, myriad-formed— Kneel before the foxglove raising green buds, mauve bells dropped doubled down the stem trembling antennae, & look in the eyes of the branded lambs that stare breathing stockstill under dripping hawthorn— I lay down mixing my beard with the wet hair of the mountainside, smelling the brown vagina-moist ground, harmless, tasting the violet thistle-hair, sweetness— One being so balanced, so vast, that its softest breath moves every floweret in the stillness on the valley floor, trembles lamb-hair hung gossamer rain-beaded in the grass, lifts trees on their roots, birds in the great draught hiding their strength in the rain, bearing same weight,
Groan thru breast and neck, a great Oh! to earth heart Calling our Presence together The great secret is no secret Senses fit the winds, Visible is visible, rain-mist curtains wave through the bearded vale, gray atoms wet the wind’s kabbala Crosslegged on a rock in dusk rain, rubber booted in soft grass, mind moveless, breath trembles in white daisies by the roadside, Heaven breath and my own symmetric Airs wavering thru antlered green fern drawn in my navel, same breath as breathes thru Capel-Y-Ffn, Sounds of Aleph and Aum through forests of gristle, my skull and Lord Hereford’s Knob equal, All Albion one.
What did I notice? Particulars! The vision of the great One is myriad— smoke curls upward from ashtray, house fire burned low, The night, still wet & moody black heaven starless upward in motion with wet wind. Allen Ginsberg
We often think that the UE community has a kind of monopoly on the appreciation of the ruin but I was surprised how many upper-middle class kids I know that have said they dig the decay scene as well.
You betcha | |
Once I did some urbexing When I was feeling bitter So I drank lots of alcohol And shit in a derelict shitter.
Oh good, my slow clap processor made it into this thing. | |
Beauty In Decay Gauging the past with liquid puddles of rust. Above lies the present with unawareness and lust. A capsule in time, preserved and lay rotten, A cornerstone of history now long forgotten. Cold iron lies through the fragile fabrics of time. The march of mother nature leaves nothing behind. A monolithic labyrinth, an era of old skill. For when I entered within, time stood still. Once mellifluous tones of their oratorical master, Now mountains of metal weeping with plaster. Through danger and darkness at every endeavor. We always seem to find, the lights are out forever. But when a buildings skin is stripped away. When timeless ghosts have had their way. I see no more beauty in the living, Only beauty in decay.
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Posted by G to the Race
Apparently Alan Ginsberg also has a Tintern Abbey poem, composed while tripping on acid. How interesting it is that this spot inspired Wordsworth, Tennyson, and Ginsberg. I wonder if there is a place in America that holds this kind of power? If so, I want to go there. The poem's not bad either:
Wales Visitation White fog lifting & falling on mountain-brow Trees moving in rivers of wind The clouds arise as on a wave, gigantic eddy lifting mist above teeming ferns exquisitely swayed along a green crag glimpsed thru mullioned glass in valley raine—
Bardic, O Self, Visitacione, tell naught but what seen by one man in a vale in Albion, of the folk, whose physical sciences end in Ecology, the wisdom of earthly relations, of mouths & eyes interknit ten centuries visible orchards of mind language manifest human, of the satanic thistle that raises its horned symmetry flowering above sister grass-daisies’ pink tiny bloomlets angelic as lightbulbs—
Remember 160 miles from London’s symmetrical thorned tower & network of TV pictures flashing bearded your Self the lambs on the tree-nooked hillside this day bleating heard in Blake’s old ear, & the silent thought of Wordsworth in eld Stillness clouds passing through skeleton arches of Tintern Abbey— Bard Nameless as the Vast, babble to Vastness!
All the Valley quivered, one extended motion, wind undulating on mossy hills a giant wash that sank white fog delicately down red runnels on the mountainside whose leaf-branch tendrils moved asway in granitic undertow down— and lifted the floating Nebulous upward, and lifted the arms of the trees and lifted the grasses an instant in balance and lifted the lambs to hold still and lifted the green of the hill, in one solemn wave
A solid mass of Heaven, mist-infused, ebbs thru the vale, a wavelet of Immensity, lapping gigantic through Llanthony Valley, the length of all England, valley upon valley under Heaven’s ocean tonned with cloud-hang, —Heaven balanced on a grassblade. Roar of the mountain wind slow, sigh of the body, One Being on the mountainside stirring gently Exquisite scales trembling everywhere in balance, one motion thru the cloudy sky-floor shifting on the million feet of daisies, one Majesty the motion that stirred wet grass quivering to the farthest tendril of white fog poured down through shivering flowers on the mountain’s head—
No imperfection in the budded mountain, Valleys breathe, heaven and earth move together, daisies push inches of yellow air, vegetables tremble, grass shimmers green sheep speckle the mountainside, revolving their jaws with empty eyes, horses dance in the warm rain, tree-lined canals network live farmland, blueberries fringe stone walls on hawthorn’d hills, pheasants croak on meadows haired with fern—
Out, out on the hillside, into the ocean sound, into delicate gusts of wet air, Fall on the ground, O great Wetness, O Mother, No harm on your body! Stare close, no imperfection in the grass, each flower Buddha-eye, repeating the story, myriad-formed— Kneel before the foxglove raising green buds, mauve bells dropped doubled down the stem trembling antennae, & look in the eyes of the branded lambs that stare breathing stockstill under dripping hawthorn— I lay down mixing my beard with the wet hair of the mountainside, smelling the brown vagina-moist ground, harmless, tasting the violet thistle-hair, sweetness— One being so balanced, so vast, that its softest breath moves every floweret in the stillness on the valley floor, trembles lamb-hair hung gossamer rain-beaded in the grass, lifts trees on their roots, birds in the great draught hiding their strength in the rain, bearing same weight,
Groan thru breast and neck, a great Oh! to earth heart Calling our Presence together The great secret is no secret Senses fit the winds, Visible is visible, rain-mist curtains wave through the bearded vale, gray atoms wet the wind’s kabbala Crosslegged on a rock in dusk rain, rubber booted in soft grass, mind moveless, breath trembles in white daisies by the roadside, Heaven breath and my own symmetric Airs wavering thru antlered green fern drawn in my navel, same breath as breathes thru Capel-Y-Ffn, Sounds of Aleph and Aum through forests of gristle, my skull and Lord Hereford’s Knob equal, All Albion one.
What did I notice? Particulars! The vision of the great One is myriad— smoke curls upward from ashtray, house fire burned low, The night, still wet & moody black heaven starless upward in motion with wet wind. Allen Ginsberg
We often think that the UE community has a kind of monopoly on the appreciation of the ruin but I was surprised how many upper-middle class kids I know that have said they dig the decay scene as well.
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If you find that place in America let me know.Some places are just magical with or without drugs.I'm a bit of a Ginsberg fan so thanks for that poem.Abandoned places have a beauty that appeals to any class of people I imagine. I have not met many other people who are into this but I think most people have an urge to explore their surroundings.
I always liked this one by Coleridge In Xanadu did Kubla Khan A stately pleasure-dome decree: Where Alph, the sacred river, ran Through caverns measureless to man Down to a sunless sea. So twice five miles of fertile ground With walls and towers were girdled round: And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills, Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree; And here were forests ancient as the hills, Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover! A savage place! as holy and enchanted As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted By woman wailing for her demon-lover! And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, A mighty fountain momently was forced: Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail: And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever It flung up momently the sacred river. Five miles meandering with a mazy motion Through wood and dale the sacred river ran, Then reached the caverns measureless to man, And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean: And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far Ancestral voices prophesying war! The shadow of the dome of pleasure Floated midway on the waves; Where was heard the mingled measure From the fountain and the caves. It was a miracle of rare device, A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice! A damsel with a dulcimer In a vision once I saw: It was an Abyssinian maid, And on her dulcimer she played, Singing of Mount Abora. Could I revive within me Her symphony and song, To such a deep delight 'twould win me That with music loud and long I would build that dome in air, That sunny dome! those caves of ice! And all who heard should see them there, And all should cry, Beware! Beware! His flashing eyes, his floating hair! Weave a circle round him thrice, And close your eyes with holy dread, For he on honey-dew hath fed And drunk the milk of Paradise.
"First rule of space travel, kids, is always answer distress beacons. 9 out of 10 times it's a ship full of dead bodies and free shit." | |
Posted by Granuaile Thank you both for sharing. I very much enjoyed reading those. Hurt reminded me of the nine inch nails song of the same name .
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Long story short my friend made a beat of the Johnny Cash version of Hurt. So its a cover of a cover so to speak i guess haha. Good job identifying it. Thank You.
What makes photography a strange invention is that its primary raw materials are light and time. John Berger | |
Posted by Granuaile
If you find that place in America let me know.Some places are just magical with or without drugs.I'm a bit of a Ginsberg fan so thanks for that poem.Abandoned places have a beauty that appeals to any class of people I imagine. I have not met many other people who are into this but I think most people have an urge to explore their surroundings.
I always liked this one by Coleridge In Xanadu did Kubla Khan A stately pleasure-dome decree: Where Alph, the sacred river, ran Through caverns measureless to man Down to a sunless sea. So twice five miles of fertile ground With walls and towers were girdled round: And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills, Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree; And here were forests ancient as the hills, Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover! A savage place! as holy and enchanted As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted By woman wailing for her demon-lover! And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, A mighty fountain momently was forced: Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail: And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever It flung up momently the sacred river. Five miles meandering with a mazy motion Through wood and dale the sacred river ran, Then reached the caverns measureless to man, And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean: And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far Ancestral voices prophesying war! The shadow of the dome of pleasure Floated midway on the waves; Where was heard the mingled measure From the fountain and the caves. It was a miracle of rare device, A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice! A damsel with a dulcimer In a vision once I saw: It was an Abyssinian maid, And on her dulcimer she played, Singing of Mount Abora. Could I revive within me Her symphony and song, To such a deep delight 'twould win me That with music loud and long I would build that dome in air, That sunny dome! those caves of ice! And all who heard should see them there, And all should cry, Beware! Beware! His flashing eyes, his floating hair! Weave a circle round him thrice, And close your eyes with holy dread, For he on honey-dew hath fed And drunk the milk of Paradise.
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That's awesome! I don't know Coleridge aside from the Ancient Mariner, I suppose I should but when I was introduced to that poem I felt it was enough. I didn't mean to sound snotty about the upper-middle class kids, I was just surprised that when I brought a particular place up in class the students were like "We had this place!" or "Our town has this one building we went in!" Seems more universal than exclusive to me. I think any place that can take us away from the hubbub of the everyday can be magical or even places saturated in the everyday if we just allow ourselves to be free. Sorry for the hippie talk. BTW, here's Tintern Abbey:
[last edit 5/12/2014 12:34 PM by G to the Race - edited 1 times]
You betcha | |
Posted by G to the Race
That's awesome! I don't know Coleridge aside from the Ancient Mariner, I suppose I should but when I was introduced to that poem I felt it was enough. I didn't mean to sound snotty about the upper-middle class kids, I was just surprised that when I brought a particular place up in class the students were like "We had this place!" or "Our town has this one building we went in!" Seems more universal than exclusive to me. I think any place that can take us away from the hubbub of the everyday can be magical or even places saturated in the everyday if we just allow ourselves to be free. Sorry for the hippie talk. BTW, here's Tintern Abbey: http://www.livingt...TinternAbbey11.jpg
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Wow...I can see why that place inspires people. No worries on sounding snotty, I understand what you meant. I'm all about freedom and hippie talk. ;).
"First rule of space travel, kids, is always answer distress beacons. 9 out of 10 times it's a ship full of dead bodies and free shit." | |
These are beautiful, I don't have one of my own but I'll leave you with one from Bukowski.
a poem is a city a poem is a city filled with streets and sewers filled with saints, heroes, beggars, madmen, filled with banality and booze, filled with rain and thunder and periods of drought, a poem is a city at war, a poem is a city asking a clock why, a poem is a city burning, a poem is a city under guns its barbershops filled with cynical drunks, a poem is a city where God rides naked through the streets like Lady Godiva, where dogs bark at night, and chase away the flag; a poem is a city of poets, most of them quite similar and envious and bitter… a poem is this city now, 50 miles from nowhere, 9:09 in the morning, the taste of liquor and cigarettes, no police, no lovers, walking the streets, this poem, this city, closing its doors, barricaded, almost empty, mournful without tears, aging without pity, the hardrock mountains, the ocean like a lavender flame, a moon destitute of greatness, a small music from broken windows… a poem is a city, a poem is a nation, a poem is the world… and now I stick this under glass for the mad editor’s scrutiny, and night is elsewhere and faint gray ladies stand in line, dog follows dog to estuary, the trumpets bring on the gallows as small men rant at things they cannot do.
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Bukowski is always welcomed! =)Thanks .
"First rule of space travel, kids, is always answer distress beacons. 9 out of 10 times it's a ship full of dead bodies and free shit." | |
Here are the 2 poems I wrote. The first poem is a Shakespearean sonnet I wrote for an assignment in Grade 10 about an abandoned house that was taken over by wild cats. The second poem is about an abandoned movie theater from the 70's that I wrote a month ago. Poem 1: The old, decrepit house on the corner Creaks eerily as I open the door Cats signal to each other there's danger As they run into a hole in the floor. Mould covers the roof in a black blanket While the house weeps for those no longer here. Chunks of broken wall cover the carpet And crunch as I break the house's still year. The building has been ransacked by looters Hoping to find treasures inside Leaving very little for explorers That come after looking goggle-eyed. But because there is no more people there The house slowly falls into disrepair.
Poem 2:
I carefully crept inside As the theatre's newest guest. The floor quietly sighed While my heart pounded in my chest. When I stepped over the pit, I could see the rows of seats That had become covered in grit And pieces of broken concrete. In my mind the movie played And I seen the people from over all the years As they laughed, screamed and cried And would erupt into cheers As the movie ended. Then they would all begin to stand Satisfied with the film they'd attended And would begin to disband. Never to return again. Because though it had been so cared for After that it slowly began to fall into disrepair Until it could never have the glory it did before.
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Here are the 2 poems I wrote. The first poem is a Shakespearean sonnet I wrote for an assignment in Grade 10 about an abandoned house that was taken over by wild cats. The second poem is about an abandoned movie theater from the 70's that I wrote a month ago. Poem 1: The old, decrepit house on the corner Creaks eerily as I open the door Cats signal to each other there's danger As they run into a hole in the floor. Mould covers the roof in a black blanket While the house weeps for those no longer here. Chunks of broken wall cover the carpet And crunch as I break the house's still year. The building has been ransacked by looters Hoping to find treasures inside Leaving very little for explorers That come after looking goggle-eyed. But because there is no more people there The house slowly falls into disrepair.
Poem 2:
I carefully crept inside As the theatre's newest guest. The floor quietly sighed While my heart pounded in my chest. When I stepped over the pit, I could see the rows of seats That had become covered in grit And pieces of broken concrete. In my mind the movie played And I seen the people from over all the years As they laughed, screamed and cried And would erupt into cheers As the movie ended. Then they would all begin to stand Satisfied with the film they'd attended And would begin to disband. Never to return again. Because though it had been so cared for After that it slowly began to fall into disrepair Until it could never have the glory it did before.
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I'll try the haiku angle Lonely factory I will go inside of it So I can go poop
hi i like cars |
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