Red Pill Poetry

TRP-Talk · 2015-02-12T21:14:17+00:00

I doubt you're likely to inspire a grand celebration of the reading and writing of poetry with a post such as this, but rest assured that the value of poetry has not been entirely forgotten by TRP men as a whole. Even the most insensible bro is likely to have some words in his head whose sound and meaning are precious to him, whether it be "Nature, red in tooth and claw" or "Bitches ain't shit but hoes and tricks", it doesn't really matter. The fact remains that humans use language to communicate, and poetry is a concentrated and purified kind of communication that is supremely aesthetically pleasing when done well. This is to say nothing of the fact that the word poetry, in it's original sense, means "a making", and what activity is more suitable to the spirit of a man than making things? Ever heard of a beautiful car being described as "poetry in motion"? A man built that car.

One of the main reasons why poetry is often thought of with a kind of disdain is that it is taught exceedingly poorly, often by ~~people~~ women who think of making things not as a man builds a car, but as a woman does arts and crafts with children at a pre-school. A man building a car has to judge his creation strictly, and create it in accord with the natural laws that govern bodies in motion, whereas a woman running a poetry workshop fosters acceptance, inclusivity, and appreciation for the fact that you even tried, and there is a disdain for any judgements or restrictions that are essential to creating something refined. A less sophisticated sense of what I mean here is that guys often don't enjoy activities that are roughly equivalent of sitting around and talking about your feelings, and that's what much of poetry has become today.

That said, poetry is still very much a man's game. Perhaps you fall for the line that women throughout history have been so oppressed that they never wound up producing any poetry of lasting greatness, but it remains to be seen whether or not any woman will ever produce something equivalent to Milton's Paradise Lost. Oh, what's that, Dante wrote his Divine Comedy and founded the modern Italian language? I'm still waiting for a woman's poem to do more than complain about the patriarchy at the local poetry slam.

FatStig · 2015-02-12T21:15:51+00:00

The Female of the Species

WHEN the Himalayan peasant meets the he-bear in his pride,

He shouts to scare the monster, who will often turn aside.

But the she-bear thus accosted rends the peasant tooth and nail.

For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

When Nag the basking cobra hears the careless foot of man,

He will sometimes wriggle sideways and avoid it if he can.

But his mate makes no such motion where she camps beside the trail.

For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

When the early Jesuit fathers preached to Hurons and Choctaws,

They prayed to be delivered from the vengeance of the squaws.

'Twas the women, not the warriors, turned those stark enthusiasts pale.

For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

Man's timid heart is bursting with the things he must not say,

For the Woman that God gave him isn't his to give away;

But when hunter meets with husbands, each confirms the other's tale—

The female of the species is more deadly than the male.

Man, a bear in most relations—worm and savage otherwise,—

Man propounds negotiations, Man accepts the compromise.

Very rarely will he squarely push the logic of a fact

To its ultimate conclusion in unmitigated act.

Fear, or foolishness, impels him, ere he lay the wicked low,

To concede some form of trial even to his fiercest foe.

Mirth obscene diverts his anger—Doubt and Pity oft perplex

Him in dealing with an issue—to the scandal of The Sex!

But the Woman that God gave him, every fibre of her frame

Proves her launched for one sole issue, armed and engined for the same;

And to serve that single issue, lest the generations fail,

The female of the species must be deadlier than the male.

She who faces Death by torture for each life beneath her breast

May not deal in doubt or pity—must not swerve for fact or jest.

These be purely male diversions—not in these her honour dwells—

She the Other Law we live by, is that Law and nothing else.

She can bring no more to living than the powers that make her great

As the Mother of the Infant and the Mistress of the Mate.

And when Babe and Man are lacking and she strides unclaimed to claim

Her right as femme (and baron), her equipment is the same.

She is wedded to convictions—in default of grosser ties;

Her contentions are her children, Heaven help him who denies!—

He will meet no suave discussion, but the instant, white-hot, wild,

Wakened female of the species warring as for spouse and child.

Unprovoked and awful charges—even so the she-bear fights,

Speech that drips, corrodes, and poisons—even so the cobra bites,

Scientific vivisection of one nerve till it is raw

And the victim writhes in anguish—like the Jesuit with the squaw!

So it comes that Man, the coward, when he gathers to confer

With his fellow-braves in council, dare not leave a place for her

Where, at war with Life and Conscience, he uplifts his erring hands

To some God of Abstract Justice—which no woman understands.

And Man knows it! Knows, moreover, that the Woman that God gave him

Must command but may not govern—shall enthral but not enslave him.

And She knows, because She warns him, and Her instincts never fail,

That the Female of Her Species is more deadly than the Male.

--Rudyard Kipling

FatStig · 2015-02-12T21:14:13+00:00

Self-Pity

I never saw a wild thing sorry for itself.

A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough without ever having felt sorry for itself.

-- D.H. Lawrence

billthane · 2015-02-12T22:20:27+00:00

Sylvia Plath is hailed as a feminist poet, but she never said she was a feminist and if you read her work there are some very interesting ideas expressed.

For instance, Two Sisters of Persephone examines two paths that a woman can take. Following a career, versus becoming a dedicated mother. The mother is spoken of in glowing terms, gives birth to a king, and overall seems to have a great, fulfilling life. The worker becomes frail and bitter, spending her days performing menial computations before dying worm-husbanded.

Many of her poems play to the themes of honouring motherhood, reverence of powerful and controlling men, and the provider status of men (and what happens when men are scarce).

donswami · 2015-02-12T21:10:11+00:00

Strictly not a poem, but very famous:

"The base Injustice thou hast done my Love: Yes, thou shalt know, spite of thy past Distress, And all those Ills which thou so long hast mourn'd; Heav'n has no Rage, like Love to Hatred turn'd, Nor Hell a Fury, like a Woman scorn'd."

throwaway1643 · 2015-02-13T00:07:00+00:00

[permanently deleted]

Bocaj6487 · 2015-02-13T01:48:26+00:00

What's the poem that ends with "and what more, you'll be a man"?

nikolathevisionary · 2015-02-12T22:46:03+00:00

Any recommendations for good sources of poetry?

Histograms · 2015-02-12T23:01:23+00:00

I've been writing poetry for three years but I've been on a hiatus for the past half year. Fast and frantic borderline rap stuff, influenced by John Cooper Clarke : this version is good http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ejKIgsR5W6k . Never liked anything too flowery though.

needless_pickup_line · 2015-02-12T23:29:54+00:00

Talk to me tenderly, tell me lies;

I am a woman and time flies

TRP_Wingfoot · 2015-02-13T00:23:08+00:00

Not necessarily about women, but about being a man. (Not written by me, but extremely motivational)

Roll the Dice

I have to listen to it once in a while to remind me to stay the course.

moodymela · 2015-02-13T02:10:36+00:00

I'm glad a lot of you are responding positively and are reaffirming just how masculine and invigorating poetry can be. I'll leave you guys with some of the good stuff. Some Charles Bukowski, a man of tremendous passions and talent.

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

NickCiufi · 2015-02-13T06:03:09+00:00

If You Forget Me

I want you to know one thing.

You know how this is: if I look at the crystal moon, at the red branch of the slow autumn at my window, if I touch near the fire the impalpable ash or the wrinkled body of the log, everything carries me to you, as if everything that exists, aromas, light, metals, were little boats that sail toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now, if little by little you stop loving me I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly you forget me do not look for me, for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad, the wind of banners that passes through my life, and you decide to leave me at the shore of the heart where I have roots, remember that on that day, at that hour, I shall lift my arms and my roots will set off to seek another land.

But if each day, each hour, you feel that you are destined for me with implacable sweetness, if each day a flower climbs up to your lips to seek me, ah my love, ah my own, in me all that fire is repeated, in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten, my love feeds on your love, beloved, and as long as you live it will be in your arms without leaving mine. Pablo Neruda

Title	Red Pill Poetry
Author	[deleted]
Upvotes	17
Comments	16
Date	February 12, 2015 7:27 PM UTC (11 years ago)
Subreddit	Posted in /r/TheRedPill
Original Link	https://old.reddit.com/r/TheRedPill/comments/2vokde/red_pill_poetry/
Archive Link	https://theredarchive.com/r/TheRedPill/red-pill-poetry.29069 https://theredarchive.com/post/29069

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