/pol/ is a board for all kinds of discussions about poetry and other kinds of written works. You can talk about works from any background and epoch, share your own OC, discuss techniques and stylistic elements, and more. Rules: >1. Follow the Global Rule. >2. No spamming, no off-topic posts. Try to put effort and thought behind your contributions. >3. While poetry from all languages is allowed, discussions should be in English. >4. Please use correct spelling and grammar. >5. This board is SFW. Posting NSFW content is not permitted.

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The Mother "When your mother has grown older, When her dear, faithful eyes no longer see life as they once did, When her feet, grown tired, No longer want to carry her as she walks - Then lend her your arm in support, Escort her with happy pleasure. The hour will come when, weeping, you Must accompany her on her final walk. And if she asks you something, Then give her an answer. And if she asks again, then speak! And if she asks yet again, respond to her, Not impatiently, but with gentle calm. And if she cannot understand you properly Explain all to her happily. The hour will come, the bitter hour, When her mouth asks for nothing more." Adolf Hitler, 1923.

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POST ‘EM IF YOU GOT ‘EM

I’ll throw one of mine in to get the ball rollin’

Love, By Anon

They all dedicate lines to you
Thin lines, easy seen through.
Of course they do to be like others, who
all feel something I wont pretend to feel just for you
because Ive never ever wanted anything from you.
Ive watched them marry up
their wives and lives with ties and lies,
Ive seen them fuck infatuation
And call it you so they feel safer
I hope you'll stay with them forever
Let them sit back and never dream thoughts like mine
Scared hearts running from you
Take longer to prove
They can sit back and laugh while others do
But still they hold you in awe
Am I the first to ever question you exist?
Why do I throw up when she says she gives me herself only for you
Or her belief in you is only for me
Sometimes I almost envy the need, but don't see the prize

there is enough treachery, hatred violence absurdity in the average human being to supply any given army on any given day and the best at murder are those who preach against it and the best at hate are those who preach love and the best at war finally are those who preach peace those who preach god, need god those who preach peace do not have peace those who preach peace do not have love beware the preachers beware the knowers beware those who are always reading books beware those who either detest poverty or are proud of it beware those quick to praise for they need praise in return beware those who are quick to censor they are afraid of what they do not know beware those who seek constant crowds for they are nothing alone beware the average man the average woman beware their love, their love is average seeks average but there is genius in their hatred there is enough genius in their hatred to kill you to kill anybody not wanting solitude not understanding solitude they will attempt to destroy anything that differs from their own not being able to create art they will not understand art they will consider their failure as creators only as a failure of the world not being able to love fully they will believe your love incomplete and then they will hate you and their hatred will be perfect like a shining diamond like a knife like a mountain like a tiger like hemlock their finest art

New writer this is my 1st book its 3 $ thanks for your time ^_^ amazon.com/dp/B08J2R4LD8

Here we post about how we wrote today. Daily updates. What you read what you wrote, maybe that you posted in /crit/ (or started a new /crit/ thread.

Jennifer wrestled her friend playfully to the ground in front of the snow cone stand and began licking at the girls eyeballs, as if they were sugar cubes. Their bodies convulsed and flailed with an almost seizure like intensity. At times their pale limbs seeming to shift back and forth from one torso to the other. A crowd gathered almost immediately to watch these two girls tie and untie their bodies like a pair of pit-vipers. They were confused, or concerned, or shocked, or aroused, or all of the above. But no-one dared interfere with the performance. Jennifer's long ashen hair hung down concealing the girls face like a curtain around a hospital bed. No one had any idea that the girls eyes were revolving under her ruby tongue. "This is disgusting, it's pornography" exclaimed a pasty slug-like woman in a fur coat, vanilla ice-cream smeared across her double chin like a money shot. Countered a balding professor type in his mid-forties, his left hand stuffed crassly down the front of his pants "No, no, no. This is beautiful, this is art." Pig Destroyer - Jennifer

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, He is happy who carries off the ball of virtue. Send provision for thy journey to thy tomb. Nobody will bring it after thee; send it before. Life is snow, the sun is melting hot. Little remains, but the gentleman is slothful still. O thou who hast gone empty handed to the bazar, I fear thou wilt not bring a towel filled. Who eats the corn he has sown while it is yet green, Must at harvest time glean the ears of it. Listen with all thy heart to the advice of Saadi. Such is the way; be a man and travel on. The capital of man’s life is his abdomen. If it be gradually emptied there is no fear But if it be so closed as not to open The heart may well despair of life; And if it be open so that it cannot be closed, Go and wash thy hands of this world’s life. Four contending rebellious dispositions Harmonize but five days with each other. If one of these four becomes prevalent, Sweet life must abandon the body Wherefore an intelligent and perfect man Sets not his heart upon this world’s life.

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.

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.

i only trust my wife
when she fucks me each night
she's ditched me before
that slutty bitch whore

So can I say nigger here or what?

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.

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.