The Best Written Words For The Worst Shitty Days: “Foursquare Poem”

Foursquare Poem by Fernando Pessoa

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I’ve never known anybody who’s had the crap beaten out of them.

All my aquaintances have been champions in everything.

I, so often shabby, so often swinish, so often vile,

I, so often, unforgivably, a parasite.

Inexcusably filthy I,

Who so often haven’t had the patience to shower,

I, who so often have been ridiculous, absurd,

Who have publicly wiped my feet on etiquette’s tapestry,

Who have been grotesque, paltry, servile, and arrogant,

Who have silently suffered besmirching

And when I haven’t been silent, have been even more ridiculous;

I, who have been a clown for chambermaids,

I, who have felt the winks of stevedores,

I, who have been fiscally embarassed, who have borrowed and forfeited,

I, who when the time for blows arises,

Have recoiled in advance of the possibility of blows;

I who have suffered the anguish of ridiculous little things,

I declare that in all the world I am without par.

Every one I know who speaks to me

Never did a ridiculous thing, never suffered besmirching,

Was never anything but a prince — all of them princes — in life…

If only I could hear another human voice

Confess not sin, but disgrace;

Confess not violence, but cowardice!

No, they’re all The Ideal, to hear them tell it.

Who in this great world will confess to me that even once they were vile?

O princes, my brothers,

God damn it, I’m fed up with semi-gods!

Where are there people in the world?

Am I the only vile and errant one on earth?

Women may not have loved them,

They may have been betrayed — but ridiculous, never!

And I, who have been ridiculous without being betrayed,

How can I speak to my superiors without reeling?

I who have been vile, literally vile,

Vile in the most paltry and infamous meaning of the word.

Hey, look man, some people don’t have a choice, they don’t even have a voice they can talk with to just call their own, so the first thing they see that allows them the right to be, they go ahead and follow it. What else do you want? You know what that’s called? Bad luck.

Lou Reed

Street Hassle

The Best Written Words For The Worst Shitty Days: Poem “Cause And Effect”

Cause And Effect by Charles Bukowski

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the best often die by their own hand

just to get away,

and those left behind

can never quite understand

why anybody

would ever want to

get away

from

them

And you say you feel out of place, huh?

And you say you feel out of place, huh?

The arts are not a way to make a living. They are a very human way of making life more bearable. Practicing an art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow, for heaven’s sake. Sing in the shower. Dance to the radio. Tell stories. Write a poem to a friend, even a lousy poem. Do it as well as you possibly can. You will get an enormous reward. You will have created something.

Kurt Vonnegut

The Best Written Words For The Worst Shitty Days: Poem “This Be The Verse”

This Be The Verse by Philip Larkin

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They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
  They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
  And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
  By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
  And half at one another’s throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
  It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
  And don’t have any kids yourself.

                              ***

*It is important to note that these verses were composed in iambic tetrameter!

AL 

From the book “High Windows” published by Farrar, Straus & Giroux (c) 1983.

All rights reserved

This song is the stuff of music legend - with lyrics that are pure poetry:

“I saw two shooting stars last night
I wished on them but they were only satellites
Is it wrong to wish on space hardware?
I wish, I wish, I wish you’d care.”

Uncle Bill is bloody brill!

The Best Written Words For The Worst Shitty Days: Poem “Walking Around”

Poem Walking Around by Pablo Neruda

It so happens I am sick of being a man.

And it happens that I walk into tailorshops and movie

houses

dried up, waterproof, like a swan made of felt

steering my way in a water of wombs and ashes.

The smell of barbershops makes me break into hoarse

sobs.

The only thing I want is to lie still like stones or wool.

The only thing I want is to see no more stores, no gardens,

no more goods, no spectacles, no elevators.

It so happens that I am sick of my feet and my nails

and my hair and my shadow.

It so happens I am sick of being a man.

Still it would be marvelous

to terrify a law clerk with a cut lily,

or kill a nun with a blow on the ear.

It would be great

to go through the streets with a green knife

letting out yells until I died of the cold.

I don’t want to go on being a root in the dark,

insecure, stretched out, shivering with sleep,

going on down, into the moist guts of the earth,

taking in and thinking, eating every day.

I don’t want so much misery.

I don’t want to go on as a root and a tomb,

alone under the ground, a warehouse with corpses,

half frozen, dying of grief.

That’s why Monday, when it sees me coming

with my convict face, blazes up like gasoline,

and it howls on its way like a wounded wheel,

and leaves tracks full of warm blood leading toward the

night.

And it pushes me into certain corners, into some moist

houses,

into hospitals where the bones fly out the window,

into shoeshops that smell like vinegar,

and certain streets hideous as cracks in the skin.

There are sulphur-colored birds, and hideous intestines

hanging over the doors of houses that I hate,

and there are false teeth forgotten in a coffeepot,

there are mirrors

that ought to have wept from shame and terror,

there are umbrellas everywhere, and venoms, and umbilical

cords.

I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes,

my rage, forgetting everything,

I walk by, going through office buildings and orthopedic

shops,

and courtyards with washing hanging from the line:

underwear, towels and shirts from which slow

dirty tears are falling.

The Best Written Words For The Worst Shitty Days: Poem “21”

Poem 21 by Bob Dylan

death silenced her pool

the day she died

hovered over

her little toy dogs

but left no trace

of itself

at her

funeral

                                               ***

The above text is reproduced from the original article published on The New Yorker Magazine in their September 22, 2008 issue. Credit where its due.

All rights reserved

God is in the house - Pop Music Heroes: Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds

Hear This!⇔ Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds, “As I Sat Sadly By Her Side

I knew Nick Cave was a music genius on the first time I heard his band many moons ago; I was so struck by the juxtaposition of beauty and darkness in his songs and the poignancy of his lyrics. To me, he masters the most difficult job of transposing the crucial elements inherent in traditional poetry fittingly fusing it with a post-modern pop aestheticism. I could choose a number of songs to exemplify his talent, but I am convinced that “As I Sat Sadly By Her Side” is the perfect case in point for my argument.

all write is a blog by alex ferreira. it is in fact a continuation of his why write? blog.