/pol/ - Poetry and Lyrics

Poetry and lyrics sharing and discussion

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Saadi Anonymous 06/24/2020 (Wed) 16:45:54 No.70 [Reply]
I want to share a few stories and poems from Saadi's Gulistan. Every moment a breath of life is spent, If I consider, not much of it remains. O thou, whose fifty years have elapsed in sleep, Wilt thou perhaps overtake them in these five days? Shame on him who has gone and done no work. The drum of departure was beaten but he has not made his load. Sweet sleep on the morning of departure Retains the pedestrian from the road. Whoever had come had built a new edifice. He departed and left the place to another And that other one concocted the same futile schemes And this edifice was not completed by anyone. Cherish not an inconstant friend. Such a traitor is not fit for amity. As all the good and bad must surely die,

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Edited last time by Butterberg on 06/24/2020 (Wed) 23:03:25.
Story 6 It is narrated that one of the kings of Persia had stretched forth his tyrannical hand to the possessions of his subjects and had begun to oppress them so violently that in consequence of his fraudulent extortions they dispersed in the world and chose exile on ccount of the affliction entailed by his violence. When the population had diminished, the prosperity of the ountry suffered, the treasury remained empty and on every side enemies committed violence. Who desires succour in the day of calamity, Say to him: ‘Be generous in times of prosperity.’ The slave with a ring in his ear, if not cherished will depart. Be kind because then a stranger will become thy slave. One day the Shahnamah was read in his assembly, the subject being the ruin of the dominion of Zohak and the reign of Feridun. The vezier asked he king how it came to pass that Feridun, who possessed neither treasure nor land nor a retinue, established himself upon the throne. He replied: ‘As thou hast heard, the population enthusiastically gathered around him and supported him so that he attained royalty.’ The vezier said: ‘As the gathering around of the population is the cause of royalty, then why dispersest thou the population? Perhaps thou hast no desire for royalty?’ It is best to cherish the army as thy life Because a sultan reigns by means of his troops. The king asked: ‘What is the reason for the gathering around of the troops and the population?’ He replied: ‘A padshah must practise justice that they may gather around him and clemency that they may dwell in safety under the shadow of his government; but thou possessest neither of these qualities.’ A tyrannic man cannot be a sultan As a wolf cannot be a shepherd.

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Story 20 I heard that an oppressor ruined the habitations of the subjects to fill the treasury of the sultan, unmindful of the maxim of philosophers, who have said: ‘Who offends God the most high to gain the heart of a created being, God will use that very being to bring on his destruction in the world.’ Fire burning with wild rue will not Cause a smoke like that of afflicted hearts. The prince of all animals is the lion and the meanest of beasts the ass. Nevertheless sages agree that an ass who carries loads is better than a lion who destroys men. The poor donkey though void of discernment Is nevertheless esteemed when he carries a burden. Oxen and asses who carry loads Are superior to men oppressing mankind. When the king had obtained information of some of the oppressor’s misdeeds and bad conduct, he had him put on the rack and slain by various tortures. Thou wilt not obtain the approbation of the sultan Unless thou seekest the goodwill of his subjects.

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Story 25 One of the Arab kings ordered his officials to double the allowance of a certain attendant because he was always at the palace expecting orders while the other servants were engaged in amusements and sports, neglecting their duties. A pious man who heard this remarked that high degrees at the court of heaven are similarly bestowed upon servants: If a man comes two mornings to serve the shah He will on the third certainly look benevolently on him. Sincere worshippers entertain the hope That they will not be disappointed at the threshold of God. Superiority consists in attending to commands. The neglect of commands leads to exclusion. Who possesses the criterion of righteousness Places the head upon the threshold.
Listen to this story how in Baghdad A flag and a curtain fell into dispute. Travel stained, dusty and fatigued, the flag Said to the curtain by way of reproach: ‘I and thou, we are both fellow servants, Slaves of the sultan’s palace. Not a moment had I rest from service In season and out of season I travelled about. Thou hast suffered neither toil nor siege, Not from the desert, wind, nor dust and dirt. My step in the march is more advancing. Then why is thy honour exceeding mine? Thou art upon moon-faced servants Or jessamine scented slave girls. I have fallen into prentice hands. I travel with foot in fetters and head fluttering.’ The curtain said: ‘My head is on the threshold

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A pious man saw an acrobat in great dudgeon, full of wrath and foaming at the mouth. He asked: ‘What is the matter with this fellow?’ A bystander said: ‘Someone has insulted him.’ He remarked: ‘This base wretch is able to lift a thousand mann of stones and has not the power to bear one word.’ Abandon thy claim to strength and manliness. Thou art weak-minded and base, whether thou be a man or woman. If thou art able, make a sweet mouth. It is not manliness to strike the fist on a mouth. Although able to tear up an elephant’s front He is not a man who possessed no humanity. A man’s nature is of earth. If he is not humble he is not a man.

On the Creation of Niggers (1912)  by H. P. Lovecraft Anonymous 10/12/2019 (Sat) 07:29:34 No.19 [Reply]
When, long ago, the gods created Earth In Jove's fair image Man was shaped at birth. The beasts for lesser parts were next designed; Yet were they too remote from humankind. To fill the gap, and join the rest to Man, Th'Olympian host conceiv'd a clever plan. A beast they wrought, in semi-human figure, Filled it with vice, and called the thing a Nigger.
Edited last time by Butterberg on 05/02/2020 (Sat) 11:01:05.
The Lynxchan update seems to have broken line breaks.

Some reposts and new drafts [Little Lady Ladlee to start] Anonymous 01/23/2020 (Thu) 02:03:54 No.34 [Reply]
Little| lady| Ladlee,
a spoon you take-
to pass the shears beside the lake-
and lap a ladle full of water-
to help your weary resting father-
for when he sees, and gives a smile,
you'll be happy for a while.
3 posts omitted.
"Aha!" Said the anon, rubbing his hands;
"I'll call OP gay, I'll ruin his plans!"
With sage in all fields, calling others non-white,
He covered the thread with his shite.
The OP, reclusive, observing the culture,
hovered above his thread like a vulture.
He knew he should lurk, but that wasn't fun;
"I'll tell them I'm baiting, then I'll call this thread done."
The lurker then frowned, for nothing was clear;
"How many layers of irony here?"
He knew this for certain; that this thread was dead,
so he read through an archive instead
>>38
>He covered the thread with his shite.
Is this the right syllable count? Feels off, but maybe that’s because I dont recognise this style.
>>38
Here’s how I’d reorganise it. Apologies if I’ve fucked up your poem.
>"Aha!" said Anon, rubbing his hands;
"I'll call OP gay, I'll ruin his plans!"
With sage in all fields, calling others non-white,
He covered the whole of the thread with his shite.
The OP, reclusive, observing the culture,
hovered above his new thread like a vulture.
He knew he should lurk, but that wasn't fun;
"I'll tell them I'm baiting, then call this thread done."
The lurker, he frowned, for nothing was clear;
"How many layers of irony here?"
He knew this for certain: That this thread was dead,
so he closed out the tab
and read an archive instead.
>>36
Not bad. The thousand repeated on the last lines is a little awkward to my eyes.

>>37
I like this. It’s cute. It rolls along. It doesn’t overstay its welcome and ends well.
>>42
I don't know anything about style, but my intent was to end the verse abruptly, to be sort like a punch-line . I think there was three separate stanzas at one point, but the document I pasted into didn't include them. Maybe my intent wasn't very clear to begin with.

>>43
Flows better in some places, more plain overall though. It's fine the way you did it.

>>44
Thank you. I personally like the thousand repeated as emphasis.


I shouldn't expect people to read my poems the way I think them, it seems.

Anonymous 10/21/2019 (Mon) 07:38:31 No.20 [Reply]
i only trust my wife
when she fucks me each night
she's ditched me before
that slutty bitch whore
4 posts omitted.
>>25
irregular poems are gay
>>26
You are gay, you infernal nigger;
your poetry taste shit and my dick is bigger
>>27
only few anons each day
recognize the evil you say
but never they dare to speak out
for fear of losing the jew's handout
>>28
Are you still posting, you obsessive fag?
You ought to be dead; your mother's a hag!
Why continue this affair on a half-dead board,
when your reasoning weak and your arguments flawed?
By savage main through ax-din cloven
Woden's handmaid's death-shroud woven
Now cast the pall about the howe
And whet the lance and span the bow

Anonymous 12/30/2019 (Mon) 07:51:33 No.30 [Reply]
So can I say nigger here or what?
As long as it's p o e t i c

Rumi Anonymous 10/02/2019 (Wed) 20:16:19 No.3 [Reply]
This thread is dedicated to the life and works of Jalal ad-Din Rumi.
Rumi, also named Mawlana (Our Master), was a Sufi mystic, poet, philosopher and theologian from 13th century Persia. He is considered one of the Islamic world's greatest and most impactful poets.
Rumi was born in the year 1207 A.D. in the easternmost regions of the Persian Empire.
During his lifetime, he met Shams-e Tabriz, to whom he became a close friend and follower. Shams-e Tabriz was another prolific poet who is credited with inspiring Rumi's devotion to poetry. Rumi spent as much time as he could learning from Shams, before he vanished without explanation.
Rumi's works are all dated after Shams' disappearance and show a great reverence for him, as well as mourning his disappearance.
Rumi's legacy is still widely present today, especially in Iranian/Middle Eastern cultures and in the Sufi traditions of Islam. There are landmarks and monuments dedicated to him, his image has been featured on currency, and his works have been translated into many of the world's languages.
I will post some of his poems, and their English translations, from dar-al-masnavi.org.

>az jumâdî mord-am-o nâmê shod-am
>w-az namâ mord-am ba-Haywân bar zad-am
>mord-am az Hawânî-wo âdam shod-am
>pas che tars-am, kay ze mordan kam shod-am?
>Hamla-yé degar be-mîr-am az bashar
>tâ bar âr-am az malâ'ik parr-o sar
>w-az malak ham bâyâd-am jastan ze jû
>kullu shay-in hâlik illâ wajha-hu
>bâr-é dêgar az malak qurbân shaw-am
>ânche andar wahm n-ây-ad ân shaw-am
>pas `adam gard-am `adam chûn arghanûn
>gôy-ad-am ke innâ ilay-hi râji`ûn.

I died as a mineral and became a plant,
I died as plant and rose to animal,
I died as animal and I was Man.
Why should I fear? When was I less by dying?
Yet once more I shall die as Man, to soar
With angels blest; but even from angelhood
I must pass on: all except God doth perish.
When I have sacrificed my angel-soul,
I shall become what no mind e'er conceived.
Oh, let me not exist! for Non-existence
Proclaims in organ tones, To Him we shall return.
>mar `âshiq-ân-râ pand-é kas hargez na-bâsh-ad sûd-mand
>nay ân-chon-ân sayl-ast în ke-sh kas tawân-ad kard band
>Zawq-é sar-é sar-mast-râ hargez na-dân-ad `âqilê
>Hâl-é del-é bê-hôsh-râ hargez na-dân-ad hôsh-mand
>bêzâr gard-and az shahî shâh-ân-râ agar bôyê bor-and
>z-ân bâd-hâ ke `âshiq-ân dar majlis-é del mê-khwor-and
>khosraw Wadâ`-é mulk-é khwad az bahr-é shîrîn mê-kon-ad
>farhâd ham az bahr-é ô bar kôh mê-kôb-ad kaland
>majnûn ze-Halqa-yé `âqil-ân az `ishq-é laylà mê-ram-ad
>bar sablat-é har sar-kashê kard-ast wâmiq rêsh-khand
>afsorda ân `umrê! ke ân be-g'Zasht bê-ân jân-é khwash
>ay ganda ân maghzê! ke ân ghâfil bow-ad z-în lôr-é kand
>în âsmân gar nîst-y sar-gashta-wo `âshiq-é chô mâ
>z-în gardesh ô sêr âmad-y goft-y: bas-ast-am chand chand
>`âlam chô sornâyê-wo ô dar har shekâf-ash mê-deh-ad
>har nâla-yê dâr-ad yaqîn z-ân dô lab-é chûn qand, qand
>mê-bîn ke-chûn dar mê-dam-ad dar har gelê, dar har delê
>Hâjat deh-ad `ishqê deh-ad k-afghân bar âr-ad az gozand
>del-râ ze-Haq gar bar kan-î bar key neh-î âkhir be-gô
>bê-jân kasê! ke del az-ô yak laHZa bar tânest kand
>man bas kon-am, tô chost shaw, shab bar sar-é în bâm raw
>khwash gholgholê dar shahr zan ay jân ba-âwâz-é boland

Advice doesn't help lovers!
They're not the kind of mountain stream
you can build a dam across.

An intellectual doesn't know
what the drunk is feeling!

Don't try to figure
what those lost inside love
will do next!

Someone in charge would give up all his power,
if he caught one whiff of the wine-musk
from the room where the lovers
are doing who-knows-what!

One of them tries to dig a hole through a mountain.
One flees from academic honors.
One laughs at famous mustaches!

Life freezes if it doesn't get a taste
of this almond cake.
The stars come up spinning
every night, bewildered in love.
They'd grow tired
with that revolving, if they weren't.
They'd say,
"How long do we have to do this!"

God picks up the reed-flute world and blows.
Each note is a need coming through one of us,
a passion, a longing-pain.
Remember the lips
where the wind-breath originated,
and let your note be clear.
Don't try to end it.
Be your note.
I'll show you how it's enough.

Go up on the roof at night
in this city of the soul.
Let everyone climb on their roofs
and sing their notes!
Sing loud!
>Life freezes if it doesn't get a taste
>of this almond cake.
Beaut.
Are Kahlil Gibran's Poems allowed, friends?
I find The Earth Gods quite an exquisite work myself.
It is about the Old Gods passing the baton to their newer counterparts, reluctantly, hopefully, with trepidation and with sorrow. Enjoy!

http://gutenberg.net.au/ebooks05/0500561h.html
>>17
Of course, you can make a new thread for it.

Robert Burns Anonymous 10/03/2019 (Thu) 00:04:48 No.6 [Reply]
This thread is dedicated to the life and works of Robert Burns, an 18th century lyricist who is considered to be the national poet of Scotland.
He lived from 1759 to 1796 and died at only 37 years old.
In his youth, Burns lived in poverty and spent most of his time working hard on his father's farm. Burns didn't regularly go to school; most of his education came from his father, William Burnes, who died in 1784.
The family spent years moving from farm to farm. Seeing his father, a highly able man, always beaten down and never managing to improve the family's circumstances, turned Burns rebellious against the existing social order of his time. His bitterness and opposition against the status quo also included his negative attitude to Calvinism, the dominant branch of the Christian church in Scotland at the time, which he viewed as hypocritical and bigoted.
Burns had always spent most of his free time writing songs and poems, and his first major volume, Poems, Chiefly in the Scottish Dialect, was published in 1786. His work was a success among all classes of Scottish society.
He became a member of the Freemasons in 1781, and had many illicit relationships with women in his lifetime, producing several illegitimate children.
The latter part of his life was marked by the worsening of his health. From his time doing farm work, Burns suffered from heart problems and a rheumatic condition that led to his early death in July of 1796.
Burns was a man of intellect, whose legacy lies in becoming a central figure and an idol of Scottish culture.
The sun he is sunk in the west,
All creatures retired to rest,
While here I sit, all sore beset,
With sorrow, grief, and woe:
And it's O, fickle Fortune, O!

The prosperous man is asleep,
Nor hears how the whirlwinds sweep;
But Misery and I must watch
The surly tempest blow:
And it's O, fickle Fortune, O!

There lies the dear partner of my breast;
Her cares for a moment at rest:
Must I see thee, my youthful pride,
Thus brought so very low!
And it's O, fickle Fortune, O!

There lie my sweet babies in her arms;
No anxious fear their little hearts alarms;
But for their sake my heart does ache,
With many a bitter throe:
And it's O, fickle Fortune, O!

I once was by Fortune carest:
I once could relieve the distrest:
Now life's poor support, hardly earn'd
My fate will scarce bestow:
And it's O, fickle Fortune, O!

No comfort, no comfort I have!
How welcome to me were the grave!
But then my wife and children dear--
O, wither would they go!
And it's O, fickle Fortune, O!

O whither, O whither shall I turn!
All friendless, forsaken, forlorn!
For, in this world, Rest or Peace
I never more shall know!
And it's O, fickle Fortune, O!

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