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lainchan archive - /lit/ - 8

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A round for the lost and the fallen,
A round for these friends of mine,
That we may remember we knew them,
And when we fall be remembered in kind.


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A guy called barnet planned to make a second edition for >>110

Are you still there ?


know nothing but know much
fallen in a infinite regress
where will this lead us?
to yet another wall
going meta, until even mereology gets abstract
what is that micro?
what is that macro?
cartesian dualism or physicalism?
ideal or real?
direct or indirect?
tumbling down into the void...
wait, are you a reductionist now?
all those postmodernist soykaf, where are you going?
so the world is not boolean now, it's "intuitionistic"
you're just throwing as many references as you can
can't even write the right way
.a'o xamgu nicte


Doesn't necessarily reflect but my beliefs but I still wrote it.

Awakened within darkness
Clutching sheets
Sweating as his
Heart beats, hurtling into
The abyss
Give him pennies
For we all must cross

Bird of Heliopolis
Wisdom lost, but never is
Layed to rest forevermore
Birthed again in hidden lore
What happens when the sun doesn't rise
What happens when the sun doesn't rise

There was a Prince of Egypt
Occupied with sighs
His father, King of Egypt
Put Holy Land to his eyes
"Prince, take domain and keep it
I am to meet my demise."
The Prince made court help lead it
But they only told him lies.

my haiku for a university contest (had to be library themed) :

Of erudition living
in that precious time


Often I remember my nocturne dear
A haunting voice dwelt within my abode
A heavenly partner to fill my ear
The fire of my heart within the dark cold

Ever loyal to that most precious air
Without want of knowing body or form
I had grown to adore the voice so fair
That sacred aria rolling through the dorm

At nightfall, eleven o'clock she rang
When the moon is traveling shaded skies
I was giddy, elated when she sang
My manner then always so keen to sighs

Tenderest, mournful songs she only sings,
of love precious, then tragedy in tow
So best to tug at my wanting heartstrings,
beckoning in most beautous contralto

After many a sweet month of sighing
Dwelling within distanced admiration
My desire I could not keep denying
To meet my seraph of adoration

Down east hall I wagered its source I'd find
I had reasoned her voice to a science
So ingrained was it now within my mind
I was a scholar to its appliance

My heart in my throat, I strode through the dark
Knowing at the end of my train to find
My lone Venus, struck by her voice's dart
The sole brightness occupying my mind

At the end of the hall I reached her cell
Rapping to portal with an anxious hand
Imagine my shock when I couldn't tell
That the source of my sighs was a man!


In Dillman's Grove my love did die,
and now in ground shall ever lie.
None could ever replace her visage,
until your face brought thoughts of kissage.




Still here Bob. Last attempt sort of 404'ed without being noticed too much (although admittedly I could've done more to promote it). I'd be willing to give it another go, if there's interest?


A solitary autumnal leaf
begins it's decent
towards every living beings
end destination.

Separated, from it's
mother, siblings, and home, it
twists in the wind.

It dances beautifully;
for the moment it becomes a
part of a larger ballet,
joining dozens of others
painting the treeline several shades
of reds yellows and oranges,

And then it dies,

Silently contributing to the
muddied brown that
covers the forrest floor,
and in time the
wet, earthy smell
characterizing forrest life.


The ballet...
I particularly enjoyed this one. Thanks

This is an extract from a song called "people gloves"

Say the bonds fit like a glove
But love doesnt fit flies like a dove
We fit into dozens throughout our lives
Get a new pair every winter and cherish when cold hits hard
Hard like ice
But when the trees turn back to green
Scarves fall to the floor like leaves
We forget about sweaters
The gloves disappear

We can never find one or the other again
It doesnt bother us
We buy a new pair
Miss the warmth of the previous one
Miss the familiarity of a pair that fits for a while

Let the gloves convey your soul
You will never find a place to let it grow than your hands
Pure, ever in sight
Hard to cover
But harder to hide

I just want to use my hands
I just want to use my hands
Love doesnt fit
Love torns
Of it i am not worth


O pointy birds, o pointy pointy,
Anoint my head, anointy-nointy.


Really liked it. Although I would remove the last line:
>Of it i am not worth
It initially fits from idealism/romanticism to on the end go to conformism/realism, but then, on the last line, it shifts to auto-depreciation (or others would say that it can be read as a extreme idealism). Didn't liked that end.


For time a glowing ember shines,
Bright hot against the tranquil sea,
And so its pretty lies remind,
Glimpses seen of holy unity.

Righteous might and Honos's fire,
Will sing of glory that awaits,
Of enemies who earned their ire,
And the justice of their fates.

Head held high and sword in hand,
With white hot coals behind our eyes,
On right's side we go and stand,
Oh how we yearn to hear their cries.

But, in time, the glow will fade,
And ash and bile will take its stead,
And so the truth set on parade,
Will come and show its cruel head.

And looking back we only see,
The bold folly of our way,
And so in silence we will be,
Until we burn another day.


> 212

thats a nice one :)


File: 1492748236520.png (927.96 KB, 200x142, antoine-collignon-1.jpg)

Her Subtle image follows me wherever I may go-

I glimpse it ev'ry now and then -today or tomorrow-

Her image now -it haunts me still- forever in my soul

I lover her more than anything but never will she know

{Pic unrelated}


’Twas in the middle of the night,
To sleep young William tried,
When Mary’s ghost came stealing in,
And stood at his bedside.

O William dear! O William dear!
My rest eternal ceases;
Alas! my everlasting peace
Is broken into pieces.

I thought the last of all my cares
Would end with my last minute;
But though I went to my long home,
I didn’t stay long in it.

The body-snatchers they have come,
And made a snatch at me;
It’s very hard them kind of men
Won’t let a body be!

You thought that I was buried deep,
Quite decent-like and chary,
But from her grave in Mary-bone,
They’ve come and boned your Mary.

The arm that used to take your arm
Is took to Dr. Vyse;
And both my legs are gone to walk
The hospital at Guy’s.

I vowed that you should have my hand,
But fate gives us denial;
You’ll find it there, at Dr. Bell’s,
In spirits and a phial.

As for my feet, the little feet
You used to call so pretty,
There’s one, I know, in Bedford Row,
The t’other’s in the City.

I can’t tell where my head is gone,
But Doctor Carpue can;
As for my trunk, it’s all packed up
To go by Pickford’s van.

I wish you’d go to Mr. P.
And save me such a ride;
I don’t half like the outside place,
They’ve took for my inside.

The cock it crows — I must be gone!
My William, we must part!
But I’ll be yours in death, altho’
Sir Astley has my heart.

Don’t go to weep upon my grave,
And think that there I be;
They haven’t left an atom there
Of my anatomie.


My first ever attempt at poetry:

It’s really quite simple
isn't it.
We feed ourselves to feed ourselves
Cook so we can cook
breathe so we can die.
But what do we do
when our interests grow?
what happens
when we stop and think
Does it show?
will this exploitive machine ever go?
I don’t think so.


Im interested i would like to submit a poem reppin my home city

hopefully therees more interest


++ for interest. I haven't written poetry in a few years, and would submit song lyrics here if they weren't attached to my real identity. But if this got together I'd happily work at writing some again, as well as supporting the project as much as possible.


Five hours, (and who can do it less in?)
By haughty Celia spent in dressing;
The goddess from her chamber issues,
Arrayed in lace, brocades and tissues.

Strephon, who found the room was void,
And Betty otherwise employed,
Stole in, and took a strict survey,
Of all the litter as it lay;
Whereof, to make the matter clear,
An inventory follows here.

And first a dirty smock appeared,
Beneath the armpits well besmeared.
Strephon, the rogue, displayed it wide,
And turned it round on every side.
On such a point few words are best,
And Strephon bids us guess the rest,
But swears how damnably the men lie,
In calling Celia sweet and cleanly.
Now listen while he next produces
The various combs for various uses,
Filled up with dirt so closely fixt,
No brush could force a way betwixt.
A paste of composition rare,
Sweat, dandruff, powder, lead and hair;
A forehead cloth with oil upon’t
To smooth the wrinkles on her front;
Here alum flower to stop the steams,
Exhaled from sour unsavory streams,
There night-gloves made of Tripsy’s hide,
Bequeathed by Tripsy when she died,
With puppy water, beauty’s help
Distilled from Tripsy’s darling whelp;
Here gallypots and vials placed,
Some filled with washes, some with paste,
Some with pomatum, paints and slops,
And ointments good for scabby chops.
Hard by a filthy basin stands,
Fouled with the scouring of her hands;
The basin takes whatever comes
The scrapings of her teeth and gums,
A nasty compound of all hues,
For here she spits, and here she spews.
But oh! it turned poor Strephon’s bowels,
When he beheld and smelled the towels,
Begummed, bemattered, and beslimed
With dirt, and sweat, and earwax grimed.
No object Strephon’s eye escapes,
Here petticoats in frowzy heaps;
Nor be the handkerchiefs forgot
All varnished o’er with snuff and snot.
The stockings why should I expose,
Stained with the marks of stinking toes;
Or greasy coifs and pinners reeking,
Which Celia slept at least a week in?
A pair of tweezers next he found
To pluck her brows in arches round,
Or hairs that sink the forehead low,
Or on her chin like bristles grow.



The virtues we must not let pass,
Of Celia’s magnifying glass.
When frightened Strephon cast his eye on’t
It showed visage of a giant.
A glass that can to sight disclose,
The smallest worm in Celia’s nose,
And faithfully direct her nail
To squeeze it out from head to tail;
For catch it nicely by the head,
It must come out alive or dead.

Why Strephon will you tell the rest?
And must you needs describe the chest?
That careless wench! no creature warn her
To move it out from yonder corner;
But leave it standing full in sight
For you to exercise your spite.
In vain the workman showed his wit
With rings and hinges counterfeit
To make it seem in this disguise
A cabinet to vulgar eyes;
For Strephon ventured to look in,
Resolved to go through thick and thin;
He lifts the lid, there needs no more,
He smelled it all the time before.
As from within Pandora’s box,
When Epimetheus op’d the locks,
A sudden universal crew
Of human evils upwards flew;
He still was comforted to find
That Hope at last remained behind;
So Strephon lifting up the lid,
To view what in the chest was hid.
The vapors flew from out the vent,
But Strephon cautious never meant
The bottom of the pan to grope,
And foul his hands in search of Hope.
O never may such vile machine
Be once in Celia’s chamber seen!
O may she better learn to keep
Those “secrets of the hoary deep!”

As mutton cutlets, prime of meat,
Which though with art you salt and beat
As laws of cookery require,
And toast them at the clearest fire;
If from adown the hopeful chops
The fat upon a cinder drops,
To stinking smoke it turns the flame
Pois’ning the flesh from whence it came,
And up exhales a greasy stench,
For which you curse the careless wench;
So things, which must not be expressed,
When plumped into the reeking chest,
Send up an excremental smell
To taint the parts from whence they fell.
The petticoats and gown perfume,
Which waft a stink round every room.
Thus finishing his grand survey,
Disgusted Strephon stole away
Repeating in his amorous fits,
Oh! Celia, Celia, Celia soykafs!

But Vengeance, goddess never sleeping
Soon punished Strephon for his peeping;
His foul imagination links
Each Dame he sees with all her stinks:
And, if unsavory odors fly,
Conceives a lady standing by:
All women his description fits,
And both ideas jump like wits:
But vicious fancy coupled fast,
And still appearing in contrast.
I pity wretched Strephon blind
To all the charms of female kind;
Should I the queen of love refuse,
Because she rose from stinking ooze?
To him that looks behind the scene,
Satira’s but some pocky queen.
When Celia in her glory shows,
If Strephon would but stop his nose
(Who now so impiously blasphemes
Her ointments, daubs, and paints and creams,
Her washes, slops, and every clout,
With which he makes so foul a rout)
He soon would learn to think like me,
And bless his ravished sight to see
Such order from confusion sprung,
Such gaudy tulips raised from dung.