Korean Job Discussion Forums

[mrgiles]

arse clown is a wonderful phrase!!! but i prefer it written as a compound noun: arseclown!

[Pyongshin Sangja]

I usually do write it as a compound noun, but split it for the rhyme pattern of the poem... I guess it could work either way...

[mrgiles]

while we're on the subject, does anybody know where i can go to poetry readings in seoul? i mean ones with an open mike section. as i usually write in english, i guess i'd prefer if they were english-friendly...

[Qinella]

[jgca]

The first four stanzas there are good loose anapestic, written by a poet. The fifth is almost passable, but the sixth doesn't scan at all, causing the thing to crash horrendously. In other words, nice plagiaristic conceit, but you don't know metrical verse for shiit.

[seoulunitarian]

Lady Lazarus
by Sylvia Plath


I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it--

A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright as a Nazi lampshade,
My right foot

A paperweight,
My face a featureless, fine
Jew linen.

Peel off the napkin
O my enemy.
Do I terrify?--

The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.

Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me

And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.

This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.

What a million filaments.
The peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see

Them unwrap me hand and foot--
The big strip tease.
Gentlemen, ladies

These are my hands
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,

Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.

The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut

As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

Dying
Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.

I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I've a call.

It's easy enough to do it in a cell.
It's easy enough to do it and stay put.
It's the theatrical

Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
Amused shout:

'A miracle!'
That knocks me out.
There is a charge

For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart--
It really goes.

And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood

Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.

I am your opus,
I am your valuable,
The pure gold baby

That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

Ash, ash--
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there--

A cake of soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.

Herr God, Herr Lucifer
Beware
Beware.

Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.

[faster]

[faster]

There once was a man from Namnameter
whose *beep* was ten inches diameter
but it wasn't the size
that lit up the girls' eyes--
'twas the rythm, iambic pentameter.

[IncognitoHFX]

[faster]

[joelove]

My friends, this is a poem, read and enjoy.



As I Walked Out One Evening


As I walked out one evening,
Walking down Bristol Street,
The crowds upon the pavement
Were fields of harvest wheat.

And down by the brimming river
I heard a lover sing
Under an arch of the railway:
'Love has no ending.

'I'll love you, dear, I'll love you
Till China and Africa meet,
And the river jumps over the mountain
And the salmon sing in the street,

'I'll love you till the ocean
Is folded and hung up to dry
And the seven stars go squawking
Like geese about the sky.

'The years shall run like rabbits,
For in my arms I hold
The Flower of the Ages,
And the first love of the world.'

But all the clocks in the city
Began to whirr and chime:
'O let not Time deceive you,
You cannot conquer Time.

'In the burrows of the Nightmare
Where Justice naked is,
Time watches from the shadow
And coughs when you would kiss.

'In headaches and in worry
Vaguely life leaks away,
And Time will have his fancy
To-morrow or to-day.

'Into many a green valley
Drifts the appalling snow;
Time breaks the threaded dances
And the diver's brilliant bow.

'O plunge your hands in water,
Plunge them in up to the wrist;
Stare, stare in the basin
And wonder what you've missed.

'The glacier knocks in the cupboard,
The desert sighs in the bed,
And the crack in the tea-cup opens
A lane to the land of the dead.

'Where the beggars raffle the banknotes
And the Giant is enchanting to Jack,
And the Lily-white Boy is a Roarer,
And Jill goes down on her back.

'O look, look in the mirror?
O look in your distress:
Life remains a blessing
Although you cannot bless.

'O stand, stand at the window
As the tears scald and start;
You shall love your crooked neighbour
With your crooked heart.'

It was late, late in the evening,
The lovers they were gone;
The clocks had ceased their chiming,
And the deep river ran on.

WH Auden

[MollyBloom]

[quote="otis"]It changed all of 20th century literature.

T.S. Elliot's The Wasteland:

T.S. Eliot (1888�1965). The Waste Land. 1922.

I agree.

[MollyBloom]

[quote="MollyBloom"]

[kimiki]

Don't forget this two-line stunner from a master of bizarre, minimalist dark wit:


Evening Chess

The black queen raised high
In my father's angry hand.


--Charles Simic

[mukukja]

�Sir, I admit your
general rule,
That every poet is a fool;
But you yourself may serve to show it,
That every fool is not a poet.�
― Alexander Pope

For when people start hatin' on the bold wings of poesy.