/lit/ - Literature

Find anything good to read?


New Reply[×]
Name
Sage
Subject
Message
Files Max 5 files47.7MB total
Tegaki
Password
[New Reply]


WDhyasM.jpg
[Hide] (466.2KB, 2500x1945) Reverse
The Wandering Jew
by Edward Arlington Robinson

I saw by looking in his eyes  
That they remembered everything;  
And this was how I came to know  
That he was here, still wandering.  
For though the figure and the scene
Were never to be reconciled,  
I knew the man as I had known  
His image when I was a child.  
 
With evidence at every turn,  
I should have held it safe to guess
That all the newness of New York  
Had nothing new in loneliness;  
Yet here was one who might be Noah,  
Or Nathan, or Abimelech,  
Or Lamech, out of ages lost,—
Or, more than all, Melchizedek.  
 
Assured that he was none of these,  
I gave them back their names again,  
To scan once more those endless eyes  
Where all my questions ended then.
I found in them what they revealed  
That I shall not live to forget,  
And wondered if they found in mine  
Compassion that I might regret.  
 
Pity, I learned, was not the least
Of time’s offending benefits  
That had now for so long impugned  
The conservation of his wits:  
Rather it was that I should yield,  
Alone, the fealty that presents
The tribute of a tempered ear  
To an untempered eloquence.  
 
Before I pondered long enough  
On whence he came and who he was,  
I trembled at his ringing wealth
Of manifold anathemas;  
I wondered, while he seared the world,  
What new defection ailed the race,  
And if it mattered how remote  
Our fathers were from such a place.
 
Before there was an hour for me  
To contemplate with less concern  
The crumbling realm awaiting us  
Than his that was beyond return,  
A dawning on the dust of years
Had shaped with an elusive light  
Mirages of remembered scenes  
That were no longer for the sight.  
 
For now the gloom that hid the man  
Became a daylight on his wrath,
And one wherein my fancy viewed  
New lions ramping in his path.  
The old were dead and had no fangs,  
Wherefore he loved them—seeing not  
They were the same that in their time
Had eaten everything they caught.  
 
The world around him was a gift  
Of anguish to his eyes and ears,  
And one that he had long reviled  
As fit for devils, not for seers.
Where, then, was there a place for him  
That on this other side of death  
Saw nothing good, as he had seen  
No good come out of Nazareth?  
 
Yet here there was a reticence,
And I believe his only one,  
That hushed him as if he beheld  
A Presence that would not be gone.  
In such a silence he confessed  
How much there was to be denied;
And he would look at me and live,  
As others might have looked and died.  
 
As if at last he knew again  
That he had always known, his eyes  
Were like to those of one who gazed
On those of One who never dies.  
For such a moment he revealed  
What life has in it to be lost;  
And I could ask if what I saw,  
Before me there, was man or ghost.
 
He may have died so many times  
That all there was of him to see  
Was pride, that kept itself alive  
As too rebellious to be free;  
He may have told, when more than once
Humility seemed imminent,  
How many a lonely time in vain  
The Second Coming came and went.  
 
Whether he still defies or not  
The failure of an angry task
That relegates him out of time  
To chaos, I can only ask.  
But as I knew him, so he was;  
And somewhere among men to-day  
Those old, unyielding eyes may flash,
And flinch—and look the other way.
Replies: >>81 >>87
OIG4_(7).jpeg
[Hide] (90.6KB, 1024x1024) Reverse
>>80 (OP) 
I need some ivermectin, it's time to hit the feed and seed...
I can't breathe, Derek chauvin's got his knee on my free speech.
Pentameter of this rhyme is iambic, if you just listen.
Or read the spam that comes out from my posts.
I think it's time for jews to find another host.
>>80 (OP) 
The Song of the Wheels
by Gilbert Keith Chesterton

King Dives he was walking in his garden all alone,
Where his flowers are made of iron and his trees are made of
stone,
And his hives are full of thunder and the lightning leaps
and kills,
For the mills of God grind slowly; and he works with other
mills.
Dives found a mighty silence; and he missed the throb and
leap,
The noise of all the sleepless creatures singing him to sleep.
And he said: 'A screw has fallen--or a bolt has slipped aside--
Some little thing has shifted': and the little things replied:

'Call upon the wheels, master, call upon the wheels;
We are taking rest, master, finding how it feels,
Strict the law of thine and mine: theft we ever shun--
All the wheels are thine, master--tell the wheels to run!
Yea, the Wheels are mighty gods--set them going then!
We are only men, master, have you heard of men?

'O, they live on earth like fishes, and a gasp is all their
breath.
God for empty honours only gave them death and scorn of
death,
And you walk the worms for carpet and you tread a stone
that squeals
Only, God that made them worms did not make them wheels.
Man shall shut his heart against you and you shall not find
the spring.
Man who wills the thing he wants not, the intolerable thing--
Once he likes his empty belly better than your empty head
Earth and heaven are dumb before him: he is stronger than
the dead.

'Call upon the wheels, master, call upon the wheels,
Steel is beneath your hand, stone beneath your heels,
Steel will never laugh aloud, hearing what we heard,
Stone will never break its heart, mad with hope deferred--
Men of tact that arbitrate, slow reform that heals--
Save the stinking grease, master, save it for the wheels.

'King Dives in the garden, we have naught to give or hold--
(Even while the baby came alive the rotten sticks were sold.)
The savage knows a cavern and the peasants keep a plot,
Of all the things that men have had--lo! we have them
not.
Not a scrap of earth where ants could lay their eggs--
Only this poor lump of earth that walks about on legs--
Only this poor wandering mansion, only these two walking
trees,
Only hands and hearts and stomachs--what have you to do
with these?
You have engines big and burnished, tall beyond our fathers'
ken,
Why should you make peace and traffic with such feeble folk
as men?

'Call upon the wheels, master, call upon the wheels,
They are deaf to demagogues, deaf to crude appeals;
Are our hands our own, master?--how the doctors doubt!
Are our legs our own, master? wheels can run without--
Prove the points are delicate--they will understand.
All the wheels are loyal; see how still they stand!'

King Dives he was walking in his garden in the sun,
He shook his hand at heaven, and he called the wheels to
run,
And the eyes of him were hateful eyes, the lips of him were
curled,
And he called upon his father that is lord below the world,
Sitting in the Gate of Treason, in the gate of broken seals,
'Bend and bind them, bend and bind them, bend and bind
them into wheels,
Then once more in all my garden there may swing and sound
and sweep--
The noise of all the sleepless things that sing the soul to
sleep.'

Call upon the wheels, master, call upon the wheels,
Weary grow the holidays when you miss the meals,
Through the Gate of Treason, through the gate within,
Cometh fear and greed of fame, cometh deadly sin;
If a man grow faint, master, take him ere he kneels,
Take him, break him, rend him, end him, roll him, crush him
with the wheels.
For the 88th post. With some minor edits:

THE WRATH OF WHITE MEN
by Rudyard Kipling, edited by Anon


It was not part of their blood,
It came to them almost too late,
With long arrears to make good,
When the White Men began to hate.

They were not easily moved,
They were steady -- willing to wait
Till every count was proved,
Ere the White Men began to hate.

Their voices were even and low.
Their eyes were level and straight.
There was neither sign nor show
When the White Men began to hate.

It was not preached to the crowd.
It was not taught by the state.
Few man spoke it aloud
When the White Men began to hate.

It was not suddenly bred.
It will not swiftly abate.
Through the blessed years ahead,
When Time shall count from the date...
When we began to hate.
A poem I found about the jannie on 4 troons.  So beautiful it brings a tear to my eye. 

Jannie jannie discord tranny
A big black dildo in his fanny
Removing fun threads day and night
Yet leaving blacked spam plain in sight
He eats hot pockets for every meal
Two toes amputated the rest he can't feel
His job he takes very seriously
But he has no power curiously
The man has no worth the anons all agree
Which is why he will always do it for free
Replies: >>91
>>89
ever grateful for the lack of racebait in this place
To His Coy Mistress
By Andrew Marvell

Had we but world enough and time,
This coyness, lady, were no crime.
We would sit down, and think which way
To walk, and pass our long love’s day.
Thou by the Indian Ganges’ side
Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the flood,
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires and more slow;
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.

       But at my back I always hear
Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found;
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song; then worms shall try
That long-preserved virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust;
The grave’s a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.

       Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may,
And now, like amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour
Than languish in his slow-chapped power.
Let us roll all our strength and all
Our sweetness up into one ball,
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Through the iron gates of life:
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.
Bumb
The carnal desires of the Camel
Are stranger than anyone thinks
At the height of the mating season
He tries to bugger the Sphinx
But the Sphinx, by the wisdom of Allah,
Plugs her arse with the sands of the Nile
Which accounts for the hump on the Camel
And the Sphinx's inscrutable smile.

In the process of Syphilisation
From Anthropoid Ape down to Man
It's commonly held that the Navy
Has buggered whatever it can
But recent extensive researches
By Darwin and Huxley and Hall
Conclusively prove that the Hedgehog
Can never be buggered at all

We therefore believe our conclusion,
Is incontrovertibly shewn,
That comparative safety in Keble,
Is enjoyed by the Hedgehog alone,
Why haven't they done it at Oxford,
As they've done it at Harvard and Yale,
And also at Princeton and Cambridge,
By shaving the spines off the tail?
The Dictator's Handbook: Why Bad Behavior is Almost Always Good Politics
[New Reply]
9 replies | 2 files | 8 UIDs
Connecting...
Show Post Actions

Actions:

Captcha:

- news - rules - faq - contact -
- telegram - simplex - irc -
jschan 1.7.3