Your Favorite Poems

adorable · 02-04-2012, 05:00 AM

THE SUICIDE’S ROOM
By Wisława Szymborska

I'll bet you think the room was empty.
Wrong. There were three chairs with sturdy backs.
A lamp, good for fighting the dark.
A desk, and on the desk a wallet, some newspapers.
A carefree Buddha and a worried Christ.
Seven lucky elephants, a notebook in a drawer.
You think our addresses weren't in it?

No books, no pictures, no records, you guess?
Wrong. A comforting trumpet poised in black hands.
Saskia and her cordial little flower.
Joy the spark of gods.
Odysseus stretched on the shelf in life-giving sleep
after the labors of Book Five.
The moralists
with the golden syllables of their names
inscribed on finely tanned spines.
Next to them, the politicians braced their backs.

No way out? But what about the door?
No prospects? The window had other views.
His glasses
lay on the windowsill.
And one fly buzzed---that is, was still alive.

You think at least the note tell us something.
But what if I say there was no note---
and he had so many friends, but all of us fit neatly
inside the empty envelope propped up against a cup.

Truly Scrumptious · 02-04-2012, 10:03 AM

poem supposed to be about
one minute and the lives of three women in it
writing it and up
the block a woman killed
by her husband

poem now about one minute
and the lives of four women
in it

haitian mother
she walks through
town carrying her son's
head—banging it against
her thigh calling out
creole come see, see what
they've done to my flesh
holds on to him grip tight
through hair wool
his head all that's
left of her

in tunisia
she folds pay up into stocking
washes his european semen
off her head
hands her heart to god
and this month's rent to mother
sings berber the gold
haired one favored me, rode
and ripped my flesh, i now
have food to eat

brooklyn lover
stumbles—streets ragged under sneakers
she carries her heart
banged up against
thighs crying ghetto
look, look what's been done with
my flesh, my trust, humanity,
somebody tell me
something good

~ Suheir Hammad

SoNotHer · 02-04-2012, 11:27 PM

Some Like Poetry
by Wislawa Szymborska (1923 - 2012)

Some -
thus not all. Not even the majority of all but the minority.
Not counting schools, where one has to,
and the poets themselves,
there might be two people per thousand.

Like -
but one also likes chicken soup with noodles,
one likes compliments and the color blue,
one likes an old scarf,
one likes having the upper hand,
one likes stroking a dog.

Poetry -
but what is poetry.
Many shaky answers
have been given to this question.
But I don't know and don't know and hold on to it
like to a sustaining railing.

02-04-2012, 05:00 AM	#1
adorable Member How Do You Identify?: Sarcastically Preferred Pronoun?: She Relationship Status: Unavailable Join Date: Feb 2010 Location: Home of the Yankee's Posts: 752 My Photo Gallery Thanks: 1,708 Thanked 2,644 Times in 590 Posts Rep Power: 12725119	As always provoking thought and conversation... THE SUICIDE’S ROOM By Wisława Szymborska I'll bet you think the room was empty. Wrong. There were three chairs with sturdy backs. A lamp, good for fighting the dark. A desk, and on the desk a wallet, some newspapers. A carefree Buddha and a worried Christ. Seven lucky elephants, a notebook in a drawer. You think our addresses weren't in it? No books, no pictures, no records, you guess? Wrong. A comforting trumpet poised in black hands. Saskia and her cordial little flower. Joy the spark of gods. Odysseus stretched on the shelf in life-giving sleep after the labors of Book Five. The moralists with the golden syllables of their names inscribed on finely tanned spines. Next to them, the politicians braced their backs. No way out? But what about the door? No prospects? The window had other views. His glasses lay on the windowsill. And one fly buzzed---that is, was still alive. You think at least the note tell us something. But what if I say there was no note--- and he had so many friends, but all of us fit neatly inside the empty envelope propped up against a cup.

02-04-2012, 10:03 AM	#2
Truly Scrumptious Member How Do You Identify?: Femme Relationship Status: She's my mirror twin, my next of kin Join Date: Sep 2011 Location: Entre Lajeunesse et la sagesse Posts: 667 My Photo Gallery Thanks: 2,047 Thanked 1,757 Times in 548 Posts Rep Power: 21474851	4:02 p.m. poem supposed to be about one minute and the lives of three women in it writing it and up the block a woman killed by her husband poem now about one minute and the lives of four women in it haitian mother she walks through town carrying her son's head—banging it against her thigh calling out creole come see, see what they've done to my flesh holds on to him grip tight through hair wool his head all that's left of her in tunisia she folds pay up into stocking washes his european semen off her head hands her heart to god and this month's rent to mother sings berber the gold haired one favored me, rode and ripped my flesh, i now have food to eat brooklyn lover stumbles—streets ragged under sneakers she carries her heart banged up against thighs crying ghetto look, look what's been done with my flesh, my trust, humanity, somebody tell me something good ~ Suheir Hammad

02-04-2012, 11:27 PM	#3
SoNotHer Senior Member How Do You Identify?: Professional Sandbagger and Jenga Zumba Instructor Join Date: Sep 2011 Location: In the master control room of my world domination dreams Posts: 2,811 My Photo Gallery Thanks: 6,587 Thanked 4,734 Times in 1,409 Posts Rep Power: 21474852	Some Like Poetry by Wislawa Szymborska (1923 - 2012) Some - thus not all. Not even the majority of all but the minority. Not counting schools, where one has to, and the poets themselves, there might be two people per thousand. Like - but one also likes chicken soup with noodles, one likes compliments and the color blue, one likes an old scarf, one likes having the upper hand, one likes stroking a dog. Poetry - but what is poetry. Many shaky answers have been given to this question. But I don't know and don't know and hold on to it like to a sustaining railing.