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Any poets out there?
Would love to read some poetry from you guys

 3:52 pm on Feb 18, 2003 (gmt 0)

I'll start the ball rolling if you lot continue.

I just think some non computational literature, loosens up the mind and is quite refreshing.

No Title

stumbiling towards completion
not swaying in consideration
perpetually falling forward
forgetting to remeber

why are you trying
to succeed?

competeing to convince
show evidence of your conviction
sentenced to question
though you can buy a clue

Who are you?

In running, only faster
faster to the conclusion
you left behind the answer
to intrude upon the reason




 4:05 pm on Feb 18, 2003 (gmt 0)

Do you know any philosophers that aren't poets? ;)

Autumn's Tears

While I slept the artist mixed
Autumn hues to touch the earth
Simple beauty, held, transfixed
Fall's colors bright rebirth.

A single stroke, a scarlet blaze
gold, copper, crimson leaves
Heaping piles mark the days
canvas born of painted trees.

Autumn's glory soon shall fade
passing with the falling leaf
weeping leaves will fill the glade
like painter's tears, Autumn's grief.


 5:00 pm on Feb 18, 2003 (gmt 0)

> Do you know any philosophers that aren't poets?



 5:05 pm on Feb 18, 2003 (gmt 0)


Which reminds me of another quote,

<paraphrased>Kant spoke as if God, thundering through the clouds, but without the illumination of lightning. </paraphrased>

You can be a poet and never write a poem of course, but with Kant, well, you're quite right, he wasn't a poet. :)


 5:43 pm on Feb 18, 2003 (gmt 0)

Inky Pinky Ponkey
Father had a donkey
Donkey died, Father cried
Inky Pinky Ponkey

Twinkle Twinkle little star
How I wonder what you are
Up above the sky so high
Like a diamond in the sky

clap clap clap clap...
Thank you.. Thank you for the applause.. ;)


 5:45 pm on Feb 18, 2003 (gmt 0)

Mary had a little lamb
It had a sooty foot
and everywhere that Mary went
its sooty foot it put



 5:47 pm on Feb 18, 2003 (gmt 0)

What a wonderful bird the frog are

When he stand he sit almost;

When he hop he fly almost.

He ain't got no sense hardly;

He ain't got no tail hardly either.

When he sit, he sit on what he ain't got almost.


*hides face in shame*

sorry, this thread started out so literary.
It all was vibgyor79's fault.


 10:11 pm on Feb 18, 2003 (gmt 0)

We grew together, village children,
Loved together, in the long run,
I thought I understood.
Little meanings, charted courses,
Simple seeming, hold your horses,
Just do as you should.
Follow someone, let the wind blow,
Ride the tide, let your mind go,
We’re all in the game,
Smiling, crying, hollow laughter,
Easy choice for ever after,
We’re just not all the same.

You bask in dreams of ease and leisure.
You know which way you’ll go, and it’s your aim,
To follow in your father’s footsteps,
Until you reach your goal, and be the same.

In the evening, TV supper,
Eat your greens, pass the butter,
Boredom’s on the run.
Brookside closes, read the paper,
Go to bed when it gets later,
And the housework’s done.
The ghosts, the shadows of other choices,
Lost in the loud insistent voices,
You never saw the shame,
Hit the job road, choose the right road,
Take the low road, miss the high road,
We’re not all the same.

You bask in dreams of ease and leisure,
You know which way you’ll go, and it’s your aim,
To follow in your father’s footsteps,
Until you reach your goal, and be the same.

Follow Ny Leader...which was written during my second year Maths for Physicists exam at Imperial...and which earned a mark of 4%...most of my best old stuff was written primarily as song lyrics, and you probably aren't seeing the newer stuff until I know it will never be published :)


 11:49 pm on Feb 18, 2003 (gmt 0)

Currently showing on a TV advert over in England for The Prudential (pru.co.uk/poems/)

Our kids, who've grown and flown the nest,
Now only phone us to request
More cash on loan, their tone depressed.

We're shown their debts. We've known. We've guessed.
They own mere pence. They've blown the rest.
"We're stony-broke!" they drone, distressed.

They moan. We grown, but re-invest
In those who've grown and flown the nest
Our blood-and-bone, our own, our best.

(Nick Toczek 2002)

...and something for the kids....

A peanut sat
On a railroad track,
His heart was all a-flutter,
Round the bend
Came number ten.
Toot! Toot! Peanut butter!


 8:27 am on Feb 19, 2003 (gmt 0)

There will come a moment…a moment when the rules of life don’t apply…when the only thing that matters is what you feel. That moment can last a second, a day….a lifetime. Those moments are what legends are made of.

:)not really a poem but i tried....



 9:16 am on Feb 19, 2003 (gmt 0)

Darkness encloses.
Taunting memories visit me again, sinking their talons into the cherry-oak as they perch at the edge of my bedpost.
My jaw stretches out in a maniac’s grin; I taste the anguish on my tongue.
Their wings spread out, covered in the residue of misery.
They watch the human lying below.
Compared to my fleeting thoughts, their mind is an infinite well.
Their petrified eyes have captured more than I could dream.

The mist of the night teases my ears with words from the lady serpent scurrying beneath me.
Lurking in the shadow of my past, my lady serpent’s tongue twitches, slicing through the silence of the night.
Her lips apart, the poison drips from her fangs.
She curls herself into the darkness, waiting for a moment to strike; the concept of lethal bite flirts with her fangs.
Her fangs would pierce deep into my flesh.
A shot of her poison will hinder me numb.
She, then, will drag my limp body into the shadow where she’s the queen.
So I hide.
I hide from the eyes of the taunting memories.
I hide from the fangs of my lady serpent.
Chuckles of the gargoyles of misery fill the air.
Taunting laugh of my lady serpent echoes through the darkness.
No mercy shines upon my enfeebled mind and belittled soul.

Coward..coward..coward..the word repeats itself over and over in the air.
Imbacile..imbacile..imbacile..the word echoes through the darkness.
They let me hide.
She lets me hide.
So I live through one more night, waiting for the recurring nightmare.


 9:39 am on Feb 19, 2003 (gmt 0)

"Do you know any philosophers that aren't poets?"

Never did undergraduate Logic, eh?


 10:53 am on Feb 19, 2003 (gmt 0)

"No Title"

Do you even have any idea how much that will hurt your Google ranking? :D

I like poetry, but I can't really interpret this poems the way it should be, because my English isn't that good.


 3:44 pm on Feb 19, 2003 (gmt 0)

Blinded by my eyes

I thought blurring would change the view
It did, I couldn't see the fool I was.

Hoping lead me to this oasis
a place that I could rest

chase the thought's daily ego will repress,
one must confont in order to progress.

All I got was a different view,
no answers just not another way to confuse,

I realise I place far too much importance,
on what my eyes clearly disguise.

The view was magnificently orchestrated,
by every colour I could in-vision,

blending, fusing, amusing my mind,
every eye salvation, greatly satisfied.

The playground though amazing,
reminded my only to quickly,

I conducted this painting,
from Images my memory contained,

all that lay before me,
origninated from inside, hallucinogenic, not divine.

Denying the illsuion my eyes so beautifully described,
I tried to imagine what lay before them, solely in my mind,

to taste the air between the hairs on my skin,
hear the echo that matter sounds to be found.

I found a periscope that bled reality's rythym,
deep within the confinds of my body,

safe from the confusion, eye's please to remain our guide,
a knowing is all I can describe, when losing sight I find,

a window that's un-glazed, un-tainted, non concluding,
it doesn't require a linguistic counterpart to be defined.

I was found by the truth of what is,
and never more, the voice of conscience,
humanity can deny, but never call a lie,
it's there before you, doesn't hide,
lose sight for just a moment,
or remain forever third eye blind.


 7:10 pm on Feb 19, 2003 (gmt 0)

Long time ago, in a Maths-Physics lecture on Tachyons and stuff (I eventually passed) I wrote this:

Timothy John, Who Loved To Speed
(A Cautionary Tale for Young Physicists)*

A tachyon, Timothy John,
On a lap round a known hexagon
Was astonished to find,
When he checked on his time,
That he'd finished before he'd begun.

Now such an occurrence is rare
So Tim went for a whizz round the square.
But guess his concern
When on his return
He found he was already there.

If this story, you think, can't be true
Then this warning, My Child, is for you:
Almost NEVER run fast
(Always strive to come last)
Or you'll end up a tachyon too.

* With abject apologies to Hilaire Belloc

BTW This is not to say I haven't attempted more meaningful stuff from time to time, but I thought there might be some Physicists about here.


 4:47 am on Feb 20, 2003 (gmt 0)

Don't forget the limericks from this thread [webmasterworld.com]


 6:22 am on Feb 20, 2003 (gmt 0)

Mary had a little lamb
Its face was black as ink.
It chewed the paper off the walls
And spit it in the sink.


 8:06 am on Feb 20, 2003 (gmt 0)



 11:51 am on Feb 21, 2003 (gmt 0)

no escape from the box

Inside out
in my own skin
no way to stop
and start to begin

the key to grace
in a state of sin -
know the last one standing
is the one who wins


 12:54 pm on Feb 22, 2003 (gmt 0)

the boy stood on the burning deck
his leg was all a quiver
and when sneezed
his leg fell off
and floated down the river

(one my dad used to tell me as a boy. for some reason I thought it was hilarious:) )

troels nybo nielsen

 9:01 pm on Feb 24, 2003 (gmt 0)

"Write a poem for me."
"I can't write poetry."
"Write a poem for me."

She got her poem. Several poems, actually. (I seldom am able to deny people who value my abilities higher than I do myself.) I don't know if they still exist. Perhaps she has saved them for my son to see when he is old enough to understand them.

You wouldn't be able to understand them. Or does digitalghost read Danish? I seem to vaguely remember something like that.

I haven't written any poetry in more than ten years, though someone recently described my writing as "poetic" and one of the genres that I write in is closely related to poetry.

I can't show you any of my own poems, but here is one of my favourite poems in English:

If thou must love me [mith2.umd.edu]

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