Poetry thread

[Dr Mordrid]

Starting off with one of my favorites -

Invictus

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

-William Ernest Henley (England, 1849-1903)

[TransformX]

Oh freddled gruntbuggly,
Thy micturations are to me
As plurdled gabbleblotchits
On a lurgid bee
That mordiously hath bitled out
Its earted jurtles
Into a rancid festering [drowned out by moaning and screaming]
Now the jurpling slayjid agrocrustles
Are slurping hagrilly up the axlegrurts
And living glupules frart and slipulate
Like jowling meated liverslime
Groop, I implore thee, my foonting turlingdromes
And hooptiously drangle me
With crinkly bindlewurdles,
Or else I shall rend thee in the gobberwarts with my blurglecruncheon
See if I don't.

[Fat Tone]

Mary had a little Lamb
It was full of fun and frollicks
It tried to jump a 10 foot wall...
...and landed on its head.

[klc314]

MY DREAM

This is my dream,
It is my own dream,
I dreamt it.
I dreamt that my hair was kempt.
Then I dremt that my true love unkempt it

Ogden Nash

[UtwigMU]

В. Маяковский

А все-таки

улица провалилась, как нос сифилитика.
река - сладострастье, растекшееся в слюни.
отбросив белье до последнего листика,
сады похабно развалились в июне.

я вышел на площадь,
выжженный квартал
надел на голову, как рыжий парик.
людям страшно - у меня изо рта
шевелит ногами непрожеванный крик.

но меня не осудят, но меня не облают,
как пророку, цветами устелят мне след.
все эти, провалившиеся носами, знают:
я - ваш поэт.

как трактир, мне страшен ваш страшный суд!
меня одного сквозь горящие здания
проститутки, как святыню, на руках понесут
и покажут богу в свое оправдание.

и бог заплачет над моею книжкой!
не слова - судороги, слипшиеся комом;
и побежит по небу с моими стихами под мышкой
и будет, задыхаясь, читать их своим знакомым.

I couldn't find translation so I translated it (excuse the crudeness of the translation since neither Russian or English are my first languages):
V. Mayakovskiy

All like that (everyone the same)

The street colapsed like nose of a sifilist.
River - passion, flows through saliva.
Throwing away linen till last leaf,
orchards indecently bloomed in June.

I went on the square,
quarter scorched
Put on my head, like a crimson wig.
People terified - behind my lips
stirrs legs my unconsumed cry.

I won't be judged i won't be barked at,
they won't cover my path with flowers like that of a prophet.
All those with colapsing noses know:
I'm your poet.

Like a cheap tavern, I despise your terrible judgment!
Me alone through burning buildings
prostitutes like a sacred thing will carry on arms
and show to God in their excuse.

And God shall cry on my book!
not words - spasms, glued in cods;
and run across sky with my verses under his arm
and shall, catching his bread, read them to his friends.

[cjolley]

Not only can I not translate poetry from one non first language to another, I'm pretty much tone deaf to it.

[Jammrock]

Jabberwocky

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!”

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought—
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! and through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”
He chortled in his joy.

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.