I hate English class so much.

[fuzzybabybunny]

I'm taking freshman Eng112 as a junior in college because I'm a transfer student to this college and my previous ENG credits from my old college didn't transfer because they were... weird.

Well, today the topic was on metaphors in poetry. Oh great. Here was one of the poems:

Erections

Erin Belieu

When first described imperfectly
by my shy mother, I tried to leap

from the moving
car. A response,

I suspect, of not
just terror (although

a kind of terror continues to play
its part), but also a mimetic gesture,

the expression equal
to a body's system of absurd

jokes and dirty stories.
With cockeyed breasts

peculiar as distant cousins,
and already the butt of the body's

frat-boy humor,
I'd begun to pack

a bag, would set off
soon for my separate

country. Now, sometimes,
I admire the surprised engineering:

how a man's body can rise,
squaring off with the weight

of gravity, single-minded,
exposed as the blind

in traffic. It's the body leaping
that I praise, vulnerable

in empty space.
It's mapping the empty

space; a man's life driving
down a foreign road.

Holy Cow. What kind of drivel is this? What the heck kind of poetry formatting is this? It's like the "poet" wrote this poo in paragraph format, then just spaced out the paragraph so there's an average of four words per line.

Hey! Armed with this knowledge, I suppose I can make anything into a poem! Just type a paragraph, and then resize it in a web browser! Voila! Poem!

OMG

Oh oh oh, and with some strategic spacing:

When I first drank
1,3,7-trimethylpurine-

2,6-dione, my brain did a
tumble in my head. A

reaction, I assume, of my
inexperience with the drug.

My mother used to say, ?get
your sleep or you will never

grow tall,? and I can only
precariously predict the

postulate that I have grieved
her, for I am only five inches

tall from my tippity-tip-toes
to my tippity-tip-ears. With

paws as active as
overcharged jackhammers,

I bounce, quite rapidly,
among the viewers of

ATOT (AnandTech Off
Topic), for which this

vichyssoise of verbose
verbiage is aimed, a

response, I contend, to the
actions of the sweet drug on

my synapses. It?s like an
electric shock, uncontrolled

in the air, wrapping its
voltaic fingers energetically

through my wiring. It?s
sweet bitter chocolate;

shaken, not stirred.

I'm now a pwnage poet. Everyone give me money and analyze my stuff for all the deep meanings and discussion questions! OMFG.

:roll:

 

[uhohs]

lol

 

[txrandom]

Welcome to the world of "art".

 

[waggy]

hahahah

 

[BillGates]

I blame hippies.

 

[SVT Cobra]

Originally posted by: BillGates
I blame hippies.

I blame Bill Gates.





(And people who hate AC/DC the best rock band ever).

 

[Chaotic42]

In your face, Robert Frost!

 

[txrandom]

Originally posted by: BillGates
I blame hippies.

I blame Texas haters.

 

[thecrecarc]

I like cute rabbits.
Bunnies are awesome and

they rule. Thier big
and furry ears are

so soft and cute.
I wish i had

a bunny. They friggin
rule. Bunnies are so

furry and cuddly that
my brain asplodes.

 

[txrandom]

This reminds of something I saw long ago: They lets all these little kids screw around with paint and paint some paintings. They then showed them to art critics and the art critics babbled on about random crap that made the picture. Their reaction was hilarious when the host said that the paintings were done by 4 year olds. Of course, the critics tried to support their earlier decisions, which made it even more hilarious.

I'm sure some of these poems are written by someone's 7 year old kid. That someone then sells it as poetry and makes millions.

 

[SSSnail]

a

le
_af

fa
_ll
s

lo
ne
_li
_ne
ss

cummings.

 

[MagnusTheBrewer]

I feel your pain fuzzybabybunny. I got lucky with freshman English and just had to write and rewrite essays. My prof was also bribeable with coffee. Give it a try.

 

[AustinMatherne]

 

[pennylane]

Wow, fuzzybabybunny. That was beautiful. That poem struck a chord in me. I didn't think I could ever feel that way. You should seriously consider being a poet.

 

[BatmanNate]

the way to hump a cow is not
to get yourself a stool
but draw a line around the spot
and call it beautifool

to multiply because and why
dividing thens by nows
and adding and(i understand)
is hows to hump a cows

the way to hump a cow is not
to elevate your tool
but drop a penny in the slot
and bellow like a bool

to lay a wreath from ancient greath
on insulated brows
(while tossing boms at uncle toms
is hows to hump a cows

the way to hump a cow is not
to push and then to pull
but practicing the art of swot
to preach the golden rull

to vote for me(all decent mem
and wonens will allows
which if they don't to hell with them)
is hows to hump a cows

 

[So]

I took creative writing for one of my ENG requirements. Everyone had to write a 10ish page short story, which got read and critiqued in class. 2/3 of the kids in that class wrote stories about a gay kid coming out to his family and how traumatic it was. Now, I have *NO* problem with gays, but hearing the SAME DAMN STORY for the fifteenth time, and everyone in the class acting like it was groundbreaking started to piss me off.

Fortunately, when I transferred, I got to keep my English credits.

 

[Matt2]

English sucks. Poetry sucks even more. Just pretend to pay attention.

I'm really glad I am a Business major and dont have to take another English class in my life (I hope!).

 

[OneOfTheseDays]

The reason why kids today aren't excited about reading is because we have them reading goddamn poetry from the 17th century. If you have to spend half the time deciphering meaning and figuring out what the hell the author is even trying to say then your not going to get many kids even interested in reading.

I think teachers need to rethink how to teach English. There are so many amazing books out there that have a great deal of relevance to young kids these days that just don't get read or used. It's a shame.

 

[Jeff7]

I am so glad I'm done with that stuff. I find that many poems could be summed up in one or two sentences, assuming I'm even able to understand what the writer is trying to say.

I don't have a clue what the first one is talking about. Something about jumping out of a moving car, and.....who knows.

I've still got to take Technical Writing and Effective Speech. Joy.

 

[Flyback]

The best is when people interpret it the way that the dead author might never have intended while authoring it :laugh:

(ie when people read far too into a piece of poetry or literature for symbolism.. its hilarious. "I definitely sense some latent homosexuality, what with the careful juxtaposition of the socks on the floor and the cold tea. He must have had an abusive upbringing, I sense it in his selection of tea flavour." hahahaha).


Oh and for the record, I like reading fiction, plays and autobiographies. I hate poetry and the constant over-analysis of work, though.

 

[idiotekniQues]

obviously the world would be better off without artists/writers/poets etc.

 

[Siddhartha]

Poetry makes my head hurt. I have managed to avoid the risk of cranial implosion by not trying to make sense out of it.

You have my sympathies.

 

[pontifex]

Originally posted by: BatmanNate
the way to hump a cow is not
to get yourself a stool
but draw a line around the spot
and call it beautifool

to multiply because and why
dividing thens by nows
and adding and(i understand)
is hows to hump a cows

the way to hump a cow is not
to elevate your tool
but drop a penny in the slot
and bellow like a bool

to lay a wreath from ancient greath
on insulated brows
(while tossing boms at uncle toms
is hows to hump a cows

the way to hump a cow is not
to push and then to pull
but practicing the art of swot
to preach the golden rull

to vote for me(all decent mem
and wonens will allows
which if they don't to hell with them)
is hows to hump a cows

that kind of reminds of this:

You can ah heck the bear, if you do it with care,
In the winter, when he is asleep in his lair,
Though I would not advise it in spring or in fall--
But the hedgehog can never be buggered at all.

If you're feeling quite coarse, you can ah heck the horse,
Or the palfrey, the jennet, the stallion (with force),
You can ah heck the donkey, the mare, or the mule,
Though to ah heck the pony is needlessly cruel.

You can ah heck the ox (if you stand on a box)
And vulpologists say you can ah heck the fox,
You can ah heck the shrew, though it's awfully small--
But the hedgehog cvan never be buggered at all.

Herptologists gasp you can ah heck the asp,
Entymologists claim you can ah heck the wasp.
If an insects your thing, man, then just have a ball--
But the hedgehog can never be buggered at all.

And the elephant too, that you meet in the zoo,
Can be buggered if you are sure just what to do,
You will need a large mattress upon which to fall--
But the hedgehog cvan never be buggered at all.

You can ah heck the bees if your down on your knees,
You can ah heck the termites with terminal ease
You can ah heck the beetle, the ladybug (bird!) too,
There's no end to the buggering that you can do.

You can ah heck the cat if it isn't too fat
You can ah heck the rabbit you draw from your hat
You can ah heck the shark that you've chased in your yawl--
But the hedgehog can never be buggered at all.

You can ah heck the ermine, and all other vermine,
Like rats, mice, and roaches, if you're not discernin'.
You can ah heck the dog, it will come when you call--
But the hedgehog can never be buggered at all.

Although Mr. Tiggy is not very big, he
Avoids with great ease those who fancy his arse.
He just curls in a ball, shows his prickles and all--
And the would-be seducer leaves him in the grass

If you're that kind of fool, and you have a long tool,
Do it with a giraffe, if you stand on a stool,
Catch a yeti, who lives in the snows of Nepal--
But the hedgehog can never be buggered at all.

For the hedgehog escapes the posterior rapes
Performed upon others of different shapes
Those who run, swim, or slither, they get it withal--
But the hedgehog can never be buggered at all.

It is said, if you try, you can ah heck the fly,
Or the swallow as it skims so skillfully by,
Use a noose or a net, or lime (if you've the gall)--
But the hedgehog can never be buggered at all

You can ah heck the cow (I will not tell you how),
Or the boar, or the piglet, the shoat or the sow,
You can ah heck the ass as it stands in the stall--
But the hedgehog can never be buggered at all.

You can order or shoo 'im, or run a knife through 'im
The one thing you cannot do is stick it to 'im.
If you try to seduce 'im, you'll end in a fix,
His prickles defend him against rampant pricks.

You can ah heck the ram, you can ah heck the lamb,
You can ah heck the ewe, though the wether's a sham,
You can ah heck the tiger (it may caterwaul)
But the hedgehog can never be buggered at all.

You can ah heck the seal, you can ah heck the eel,
You can ah heck the crab, though they say it can't feel,
You can ah heck the bat as the night casts its pall,
But the hedgehog can never be buggered at all.

You can ah heck the snake (hold it down with a rake),
Though to ah heck the quetzal may be a mistake.
You can ah heck the billy, the nanny, the kid,
But to ah heck the hedeghog just cannot be did.

You can ah heck the slug, though it messes the rug,
You can ah heck the different species of bug,
Or do it with a snail, if you slow to a crawl,
But the hedgehog can never be buggered at all.

At the end of the day, when you've had your rough way
With all of those creatures, you'll just have to say
"That damned Erinaceous has been my downfall--"
For the hedgehog can never be buggered at all!

 

[idiotekniQues]

good poetry is great, bad poetry isnt. and there is lots in between.

but good poetry makes you think, makes you feel and can truly express the beauty of language.

"linguist?s prisons

i sat in a tree of rustic brown.
or was that more like a tobacco beige?
leaves so brilliantly staccato green,
hammered to antelope branches,
which, i should have you know,
antelope is a shade of brown.
staccato green, i just made that up.
plucked it with my pen from cup.

what to do,
what to do,
if one leaf there is more civette,
and his neighbour has went with cress,
(all shades of green; no more, no less)

i dare say this tree has some panache,
to think i will not reach and catch
her devious drops of palette?s verve,
from horse?s blinders i will not swerve.

hushed amber wings squeal, whip, distract,
a Cockatoo? or Cockatiel was that?
frustrated hairs shake on my head,
i dream of noam chomsky?s bed.
i mean truly, what was really said?
when past my ears those feathers spread,
unnoticed by my eyes, possessed,
with categorizing how they were dressed.

a voice cries out, so faint so pure,
in offerings of a poet?s cure,
my malady held still, a dare,
to not pick beauty apart and bare.
for what if those leaves i did digress
left me in end with just a mess.
just shreds of chlorophyll and less,
a stem if lucky, participle of twig,
a adverb of bark, a dangling sprig.

cerebrally reduced forests to splinter,
formerly of spring?s grin and glimmer,
gone to persephone?s industrial winter,
but at least my words are t(h)in and trimmer."



"in between moments (a set of four)

caloric thought

somewhere between the intake,
of calorie eight hundred and forty seven,
and nine hundred twenty two,
i had this un-categorized, salty thought.

but by the time i found a low carb pen,
i digested it.




smoky pauses

in the midst of drags,
of well placed death,
and stained brown thought,
lie the tales of merry organs.

and with a warning i cough,
stories lost in smoky air.




ignition

winter gives me time to think,
with periods of waiting
for my auto to heat,
before i can be assimilated
on rounded rubber feet.




last call


in between shots
of caramel friends,
stumble jokes that rip
through monotony and
captive audiences.
it was during this time ,
a slurred slip
cost me her affections."





"She Walks With Liquid Crystal Frames:
(Ode to a Digital Photographer)


a polarized grasp of motion?s senses,
armed with an intuition of the now and here,
she interprets imagination without her fear,
safe in the notion of composition.
with shield held steady to personal lenses,
fingers gamble upon the shutter,
mind, held tight, so not to clutter,
the moment that is briefly
a definition of self ?

s n a p

with cathartic precision
she snatches vivid life
that wanders too close to lens.
mirror and glass traps pixilated thoughts
and then,
draws souls with digital pen.
all this,
is the stealing of bits -
piecing together life?s in-betweens,
a patchwork of winks
and careful glances of inks,
sewn tight with photo machines.
she stands still,
s h o o t i n g
time with splinters of seconds,
and slivers of light.
luminosity struggles,
mesmerizing in flight.

light has been caught, bent and tamed,
now resting inside liquid crystal frames.

c o n n e c t

she moves on to trusty silicon steed,
post-processing those stolen deeds.
transporting emotionless ones and zeroes
from flickering fractions
of filtered factions,
from faceless integers and scientific fidelity to....

c o m p o s e d

and transposed
moments of artistic integrity,
of life in all its essential throes
and grasping the pathos of mundane heroes.

imposed

thus, flights of fancy emerge from pathways of pixels ?
resting on their haunches for a moment on glass,
glowing upon her pupils;
where digital monsters prance for her in jestful poses,
sharing stories of brazen prose ?

all this electrical mayhem held tight,
held still -
by the unrelenting calculating power
of servers with dual cored souls,
and redundant connections
to a world that?s been consumed by madness,
bought and paid for on credit.
(it thinks it has bought all the answers,
or perhaps that is all it has,
just not the questions posed)

but she has found the questions,
in between the chaos of chaos,
lying between those ones and zeroes,
dancing within neurotic electronic
carbon-less dictions.

and so if you steal a glance briefly enough,
you may find the fragments of sanity that
are divisible to a perfect sum,
by the first breath of air
you ever truly grasped."

 

[pontifex]

Originally posted by: Matt2
English sucks. Poetry sucks even more. Just pretend to pay attention.

I'm really glad I am a Business major and dont have to take another English class in my life (I hope!).

Poetry doesn't suck, you're just not reading the right kind.

Recompense by Robert E. Howard

I have not heard lutes beckon me, nor the brazen bugles call,
But once in the dim of a haunted lea I heard the silence fall.
I have not heard the regal drum, nor seen the flags unfurled,
But I have watched the dragons come, fire-eyed, across the world.

I have not seen the horsemen fall before the hurtling host,
But I have paced a silent hall where each step waked a ghost.
I have not kissed the tiger-feet of a strange-eyed golden god,
But I have walked a city's street where no man else had trod.

I have not raised the canopies that shelter revelling kings,
But I have fled from crimson eyes and black unearthly wings.
I have not knelt outside the door to kiss a pallid queen,
But I have seen a ghostly shore that no man else has seen.

I have not seen the standards sweep from keep and castle wall,
But I have seen a woman leap from a dragon's crimson stall,
And I have heard strange surges boom that no man heard before,
And seen a strange black city loom on a mystic night-black shore.

And I have felt the sudden blow of a nameless wind's cold breath,
And watched the grisly pilgrims go that walk the roads of Death,
And I have seen black valleys gape, abysses in the gloom,
And I have fought the deathless Ape that guards the Doors of Doom.

I have not seen the face of Pan, nor mocked the Dryad's haste,
But I have trailed a dark-eyed Man across a windy waste.
I have not died as men may die, nor sin as men have sinned,
But I have reached a misty sky upon a granite wind.

Forbidden Magic by Robert E. Howard

There came to me a Man one summer night,
When all the world lay silent in the stars,
And moonlight crossed my room with ghostly bars.
He whispered hints of weird, unhallowed sight;
I followed ? then in waves of spectral light
Mounted the shimmery ladders of my soul
Where moon-pale spiders, huge as dragons, stole ?
Great forms like moths, with wings of wispy white.

Around the world the sighing of the loon
Shook misty lakes beneath the false-dawn?s gleams;
Rose tinted shone the sky-line?s minaret;
I rose in fear, and then with blood and sweat
Beat out the iron fabrics of my dreams,
And shaped of them a web to snare the moon.


The Weakling by Robert E. Howard

I died in sin and forthwith went to Hell;
I made myself at home upon the coals
Where seas of flame break on the cinder shoals.
Till Satan came and said with angry yell,
"You there ? divulge what route by which you fell."
"I spent my youth among the flowing bowls,
"Wasted my life with women of dark souls,
"Died brothel-fighting ? drunk on muscatel."

Said he, "My friend, you?ve been directed wrong:
"You?ve naught to recommend you for our feasts ?
"Like factory owners, brokers, elders, priests;
"The air for you! This place is for the strong!"
Then as I pondered, minded to rebel,
He laughed and forthwith kicked me out of Hell.


The Cats by H. P. Lovecraft

Babels of blocks to the high heavens towering
Flames of futility swirling below;
Poisonous fungi in brick and stone flowering,
Lanterns that shudder and death-lights that glow.

Black monstrous bridges across oily rivers,
Cobwebs of cable to nameless things spun;
Catacomb deeps whose dank chaos delivers
Streams of live foetor that rots in the sun.

Colour and splendour, disease and decaying,
Shrieking and ringing and crawling insane,
Rabbles exotic to stranger-gods praying,
Jumbles of odour that stifle the brain.

Legions of cats from the alleys nocturnal.
Howling and lean in the glare of the moon,
Screaming the future with mouthings infernal,
Yelling the Garden of Pluto's red rune.

Tall towers and pyramids ivy'd and crumbling,
Bats that swoop low in the weed-cumber'd streets;
Bleak Arkham bridges o'er rivers whose rumbling
Joins with no voice as the thick horde retreats.

Belfries that buckle against the moon totter,
Caverns whose mouths are by mosses effac'd,
And living to answer the wind and the water,
Only the lean cats that howl in the wastes.

Yule Horror by H. P. Lovecraft

There is snow on the ground,
And the valleys are cold,
And a midnight profound
Blackly squats o'er the wold;
But a light on the hilltops half-seen hints of feastings un- hallowed and old.

There is death in the clouds,
There is fear in the night,
For the dead in their shrouds
Hail the sin's turning flight.
And chant wild in the woods as they dance round a Yule- altar fungous and white.

To no gale of Earth's kind
Sways the forest of oak,
Where the sick boughs entwined
By mad mistletoes choke,
For these pow'rs are the pow'rs of the dark, from the graves of the lost Druid-folk.