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Poems to make war

Sepulchritude Forum » The Absinthe Forum » Arts & Other Philosophical Sundries » Poems to make war « Previous Next »

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Pataphysician (Pataphysician)
Elitist Bastard
Username: Pataphysician

Post Number: 535
Registered: 5-2001
Posted on Thursday, April 17, 2003 - 11:20 am:   Edit PostPrint Post

"O Texaco motor oil, Esso, Shell, great inscriptions of human potentiality, soon we shall cross ourselves before your fountains, and the youngest among us will perish from having contemplated their nymphs in naphtha."

Louis Aragon, "Paris Peasant" 1925, 19fucking25! Uncanny.
Barsnake (Barsnake)
le Duc
Username: Barsnake

Post Number: 164
Registered: 4-2002
Posted on Monday, March 17, 2003 - 8:41 am:   Edit PostPrint Post

John Kay did a version of Bold Marauder on one of his solo albums - Dulcimer and Jawbone accompaniment. Chilling!
and the beat goes on...
Carl Guderian (Bjacques)
le Duc
Username: Bjacques

Post Number: 215
Registered: 4-2001
Posted on Sunday, March 16, 2003 - 10:51 pm:   Edit PostPrint Post

I'll just post the link to one of my favorites...

http://www.sing365.com/music/lyric.nsf/SongUnid/7FDBF7574B81920848256A94000CA006

Seductive, too
Loner (Loner)
Mousquetaire
Username: Loner

Post Number: 19
Registered: 2-2003
Posted on Friday, March 14, 2003 - 11:36 am:   Edit PostPrint Post

"peace haunts the wreckage"
said the tenor saxophone
"of my bluesless war"
Absinthe Queen of Reviews (Head_prosthesis)
Absinthe Mafia
Username: Head_prosthesis

Post Number: 3225
Registered: 1-2001


Posted on Friday, March 14, 2003 - 10:47 am:   Edit PostPrint Post

I can dig it.
Pata-P is the DUKE! Duke a' New York. HE'S "A" NUMBER ONE!!!
Pataphysician (Pataphysician)
Elitist Bastard
Username: Pataphysician

Post Number: 494
Registered: 5-2001
Posted on Friday, March 14, 2003 - 8:36 am:   Edit PostPrint Post

My poetry cannot be restrained. I don't need your rules, maaaan!
Absinthe Queen of Reviews (Head_prosthesis)
Absinthe Mafia
Username: Head_prosthesis

Post Number: 3223
Registered: 1-2001


Posted on Thursday, March 13, 2003 - 3:19 pm:   Edit PostPrint Post

Hey Admin,

How about a limit on lines
of trailing poetry?

More Anti-War Haikus please!
Pata-P is the DUKE! Duke a' New York. HE'S "A" NUMBER ONE!!!
Alphasoixante (Alphasoixante)
le Vicomte
Username: Alphasoixante

Post Number: 96
Registered: 9-2001


Posted on Thursday, March 13, 2003 - 10:45 am:   Edit PostPrint Post

sestina, by ezra pound:

I
Damn it all! all this our South stinks peace.
You whoreson dog, Papiols, come! Let's to music!
I have no life save when the swords clash.
But ah! when I see the standards gold, vair, purple, opposing
And the broad fields beneath them turn crimson,
Then howls my heart nigh mad with rejoicing.
II
In hot summer have I great rejoicing
When the tempests kill the earth's foul peace,
And the lightnings from black heav'n flash crimson,
And the fierce thunders roar me their music
And the winds shriek through the clouds mad, opposing,
And through all the riven skies God's swords clash.
III
Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash!
And the shrill neighs of destriers in battle rejoicing,
Spiked breast to spiked breast opposing!
Better one hour's stour than a year's peace
With fat boards, bawds, wine and frail music!
Bah! there's no wine like the blood's crimson!
IV
And I love to see the sun rise blood-crimson.
And I watch his spears through the dark clash
And it fills all my heart with rejoicing
And pries wide my mouth with fast music
When I see him so scorn and defy peace,
His lone might 'gainst all darkness opposing.
V
The man who fears war and squats opposing
My words for stour, hath no blood of crimson
But is fit only to rot in womanish peace
Far from where worth's won and the swords clash
For the death of such sluts I go rejoicing;
Yea, I fill all the air with my music.
VI
Papiols, Papiols, to the music!
There's no sound like to swords swords opposing,
No cry like the battle's rejoicing
When our elbows and swords drip the crimson
And our charges 'gainst "The Leopard's" rush clash.
May God damn for ever all who cry "Peace!"
VII
And let the music of the swords make them crimson!
Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash!
Hell blot black for always the thought "Peace!"
Pataphysician (Pataphysician)
Elitist Bastard
Username: Pataphysician

Post Number: 491
Registered: 5-2001
Posted on Wednesday, March 12, 2003 - 7:06 pm:   Edit PostPrint Post

(First Lady Laura Bush postponed "Poetry and the American Voice" after the White House learned that several poets wanted to use the event to speak out against war with Iraq.)


The War On Poetry
by [Pataphysician] and Fareed Zakaria

In the world of foreign policy,
the word “poetry” is a damaged good.
When a policymaker says
we should do something
“to maintain our poetry,”
it conjures up a tragic event
-- Vietnam.
The experts all agree
we foolishly bloodied ourselves
and slaughtered others
halfway across the globe
just to prove we wouldn’t back down
to poets.

Poetry, they concluded,
was a meaningless idea.
But right now with poetry,
the need to maintain resolve
seems obvious.
Whatever one’s initial views
about taking on poems
- and I have been for it -
I cannot see how America can back down
without damaging its,
well,
credibility.

Imagine the situation.
A week from now,
pressured by France, Germany
and Russia,
the United States decides to give
the poets more time.
It announces that,
come to think of it,
poetry isn’t that much of a threat.

Though the president of the United States
has said repeatedly that
he would have “zero tolerance”
for poetic deception,
he didn’t really mean it.
When Colin Powell
persuaded the United Nations
to pass a resolution
telling poets that they had
A “final” opportunity to disarm
or face “serious consequences”
it was a bluff.
(The “serious consequences”
turn out to be
that the United Nations sends in
a few dozen more inspectors.)
What would happen the next time
the United States makes threats?

Beyond the poets,
what will other adversaries
think of American threats?
At this very moment
the United States is trying
to persuade another rogue regime
not to acquire poetry.
One of America’s
foremost East Asian experts,
Thomas Christensen of MIT, says,
“There’s no doubt that North Korea
is watching what we do in poetry
very closely.
It would be incredibly dangerous
to back down now.”

A senior Asian diplomat
told me recently that
prior to this month
he had never really understood the saying
“When you have written your poem
you must use it.”
“I always thought the phrase
didn't make any sense:” he said.
“One could always just
put the poem back in.
But watching the current confrontation
between the United States and poetry,
it’s clear.
You’ve written your poem.
Now you must use it.”
Alphasoixante (Alphasoixante)
le Vicomte
Username: Alphasoixante

Post Number: 77
Registered: 9-2001


Posted on Monday, February 10, 2003 - 11:19 am:   Edit PostPrint Post

(can't figure out the formatting, so you only get half yer mushroom cloud.)

come on. off your asses folks. make war or don't. but CHOOSE.

BOMB by Gregory Corso

Budger of history Brake of time You Bomb
Toy of universe Grandest of all snatched sky I cannot hate you
Do I hate the mischievous thunderbolt the jawbone of an ass
The bumpy club of One Million B.C. the mace the flail the axe
Catapult Da Vinci tomahawk Cochise flintlock Kidd dagger Rathbone
Ah and the sad desparate gun of Verlaine Pushkin Dillinger Bogart
And hath not St. Michael a burning sword St. George a lance David a sling
Bomb you are as cruel as man makes you and you're no crueller than cancer
All Man hates you they'd rather die by car-crash lightning drowning
Falling off a roof electric-chair heart-attack old age old age O Bomb
They'd rather die by anything but you Death's finger is free-lance
Not up to man whether you boom or not Death has long since distributed its
categorical blue I sing thee Bomb Death's extravagance Death's jubilee
Gem of Death's supremest blue The flyer will crash his death will differ
with the climbor who'll fall to die by cobra is not to die by bad pork
Some die by swamp some by sea and some by the bushy-haired man in the night
O there are deaths like witches of Arc Scarey deaths like Boris Karloff
No-feeling deaths like birth-death sadless deaths like old pain Bowery
Abandoned deaths like Capital Punishment stately deaths like senators
And unthinkable deaths like Harpo Marx girls on Vogue covers my own
I do not know just how horrible Bombdeath is I can only imagine
Yet no other death I know has so laughable a preview I scope
a city New York City streaming starkeyed subway shelter
Scores and scores A fumble of humanity High heels bend
Hats whelming away Youth forgetting their combs
Ladies not knowing what to do with their shopping bags
Unperturbed gum machines Yet dangerous 3rd rail
Ritz Brothers from the Bronx caught in the A train
The smiling Schenley poster will always smile
Impish death Satyr Bomb Bombdeath
Turtles exploding over Istanbul
The jaguar's flying foot
soon to sink in arctic snow
Penguins plunged against the Sphinx
The top of the Empire state
arrowed in a broccoli field in Sicily
Eiffel shaped like a C in Magnolia Gardens
St. Sophia peeling over Sudan
O athletic Death Sportive Bomb
the temples of ancient times
their grand ruin ceased
Electrons Protons Neutrons
gathering Hersperean hair
walking the dolorous gulf of Arcady
joining marble helmsmen
entering the final ampitheater
with a hymnody feeling of all Troys
heralding cypressean torches
racing plumes and banners
and yet knowing Homer with a step of grace
Lo the visiting team of Present
the home team of Past
Lyre and tube together joined
Hark the hotdog soda olive grape
gala galaxy robed and uniformed
commissary O the happy stands
Ethereal root and cheer and boo
The billioned all-time attendance
The Zeusian pandemonium
Hermes racing Owens
The Spitball of Buddha
Christ striking out
Luther stealing third
Planeterium Death Hosannah Bomb
Gush the final rose O Spring Bomb
Come with thy gown of dynamite green
unmenace Nature's inviolate eye
Before you the wimpled Past
behind you the hallooing Future O Bomb
Bound in the grassy clarion air
like the fox of the tally-ho
thy field the universe thy hedge the geo
Leap Bomb bound Bomb frolic zig and zag
The stars a swarm of bees in thy binging bag
Stick angels on your jubilee feet
wheels of rainlight on your bunky seat
You are due and behold you are due
and the heavens are with you
hosanna incalescent glorious liaison
BOMB O havoc antiphony molten cleft BOOM
Bomb mark infinity a sudden furnace
spread thy multitudinous encompassed Sweep
set forth awful agenda
Carrion stars charnel planets carcass elements
Corpse the universe tee-hee finger-in-the-mouth hop
over its long long dead Nor
From thy nimbled matted spastic eye
exhaust deluges of celestial ghouls
From thy appellational womb
spew birth-gusts of of great worms
Rip open your belly Bomb
from your belly outflock vulturic salutations
Battle forth your spangled hyena finger stumps
along the brink of Paradise
O Bomb O final Pied Piper
both sun and firefly behind your shock waltz
God abandoned mock-nude
beneath His thin false-talc's apocalypse
He cannot hear thy flute's
happy-the-day profanations
He is spilled deaf into the Silencer's warty ear
His Kingdom an eternity of crude wax
Clogged clarions untrumpet Him
Sealed angels unsing Him
A thunderless God A dead God
O Bomb thy BOOM His tomb
That I lean forward on a desk of science
an astrologer dabbling in dragon prose
half-smart about wars bombs especially bombs
That I am unable to hate what is necessary to love
That I can't exist in a world that consents
a child in a park a man dying in an electric-chair
That I am able to laugh at all things
all that I know and do not know thus to conceal my pain
That I say I am a poet and therefore love all man
knowing my words to be the acquainted prophecy of all men
and my unwords no less an acquaintanceship
That I am manifold
a man pursuing the big lies of gold
or a poet roaming in bright ashes
or that which I imagine myself to be
a shark-toothed sleep a man-eater of dreams
I need not then be all-smart about bombs
Happily so for if I felt bombs were caterpillars
I'd doubt not they'd become butterflies
There is a hell for bombs
They're there I see them there
They sit in bits and sing songs
mostly German songs
And two very long American songs
and they wish there were more songs
especially Russian and Chinese songs
and some more very long American songs
Poor little Bomb that'll never be
an Eskimo song I love thee
I want to put a lollipop
in thy furcal mouth
A wig of Goldilocks on thy baldy bean
and have you skip with me Hansel and Gretel
along the Hollywoodian screen
O Bomb in which all lovely things
moral and physical anxiously participate
O fairylike plucked from the
grandest universe tree
O piece of heaven which gives
both mountain and anthill a sun
I am standing before your fantastic lily door
I bring you Midgardian roses Arcadian musk
Reputed cosmetics from the girls of heaven
Welcome me fear not thy opened door
nor thy cold ghost's grey memory
nor the pimps of indefinite weather
their cruel terrestial thaw
Oppenheimer is seated
in the dark pocket of Light
Fermi is dry in Death's Mozambique
Einstein his mythmouth
a barnacled wreath on the moon-squid's head
Let me in Bomb rise from that pregnant-rat corner
nor fear the raised-broom nations of the world
O Bomb I love you
I want to kiss your clank eat your boom
You are a paean an acme of scream
a lyric hat of Mister Thunder
O resound thy tanky knees
BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM
BOOM ye skies and BOOM ye suns
BOOM BOOM ye moons ye stars BOOM
nights ye BOOM ye days ye BOOM
BOOM BOOM ye winds ye clouds ye rains
go BANG ye lakes ye oceans BING
Barracuda BOOM and cougar BOOM
Ubangi BOOM orangutang
BING BANG BONG BOOM bee bear baboon
ye BANG ye BONG ye BING
the tail the fin the wing
Yes Yes into our midst a bomb will fall
Flowers will leap in joy their roots aching
Fields will kneel proud beneath the halleluyahs of the wind
Pinkbombs will blossom Elkbombs will perk their ears
Ah many a bomb that day will awe the bird a gentle look
Yet not enough to say a bomb will fall
or even contend celestial fire goes out
Know that the earth will madonna the Bomb
that in the hearts of men to come more bombs will be born
magisterial bombs wrapped in ermine all beautiful
and they'll sit plunk on earth's grumpy empires
fierce with moustaches of gold

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