What is the greatest poem of all time?

Catullus 16, a poem so filthy that it wasn't until the late 20th century that it was even translated.

It quite literally is a Latin poet making a diss track responding to criticisms that his prose was too soft. It is fucking hilarious.

ORIGINAL LATIN:
Pēdīcābō ego vōs et irrumābō,
Aurēlī pathice et cinaede Fūrī,
quī mē ex versiculīs meīs putāstis,
quod sunt molliculī, parum pudīcum.
Nam castum esse decet pium poētam
ipsum, versiculōs nihil necesse est;
quī tum dēnique habent salem ac lepōrem,
sī sint molliculī ac parum pudīcī
et quod prūriat incitāre possunt,
nōn dīcō puerīs, sed hīs pilōsīs
quī dūrōs nequeunt movēre lumbōs.
Vōs, quod mīlia multa bāsiōrum
lēgistis male mē marem putātis?
Pēdīcābō ego vōs et irrumābō.



TRANSLATED TO ENGLISH:
I will sodomize you and face-fuck you,
bottom Aurelius and catamite Furius,
you who think, because my poems
are sensitive, that I have no shame.
For it's proper for a devoted poet to be moral
himself, [but] in no way is it necessary for his poems.
In point of fact, these have wit and charm,
if they are sensitive and a little shameless,
and can arouse an itch,
and I don't mean in boys, but in those hairy old men
who can't get it up.
Because you've read my countless kisses,
you think less of me as a man?
I will sodomize you and face-fuck you.
Any poem that starts with sodomy and face-fucking in Latin is one of the most beautiful of all time. Let's not forget Baudelaire, though, who has a delectable verse about stabbing a woman and fucking the wound.

Ta tête, ton geste, ton air
Sont beaux comm' un beau paysage ;
Le rire joue en ton visage
Comme un vent frais dans le ciel clair.
Le passant chagrin que tu frôles
Est ébloui par la santé
Qui jaillit comme une clarté
de tes bras et de tes épaules.
Les retentissantes couleurs
Dont tu parsèmes tes toilettes
Jettent dans l'esprit des poètes
L'image d'un ballet de fleurs.
Ces robes folles sont l'emblème
De ton esprit bariolé ;
Folle dont je suis affolé,
Je te hais autant que je t'aime !
Quelquefois dans un beau jardin
Où je traînais mon atonie
J'ai senti, comme une ironie,
Le soleil déchirer mon sein ;
Et le printemps et la verdure
Ont tant humilié mon coeur,
Que j'ai puni sur une fleur
L'insolence de la Nature.
Ainsi, je voudrais, une nuit,
Quand l'heure des voluptés sonne,
Vers les trésors de ta personne,
Comme un lâche, ramper sans bruit,
Pour châtier ta chair joyeuse,
Pour meurtrir ton sein pardonné,
Et faire à ton flanc étonné
Une blessure large et creuse,
Et vertigineuse douceur !
A travers ces lèvres nouvelles,
Plus éclatantes et plus belles,
T'infuser mon venin, ma soeur !

My favorite translation of the last lines is George Dillon's, the lover of Edna St. Vincent Millay, who co-translated together possibly the best single English version of Flowers of Evil.

And waken you by violent storm,
And beat you coldly till you swooned,
And carve upon your perfect form,
With care, a deep seductive wound —

And (joy delirious and complete!)
Through those bright novel lips, through this
Gaudy and virgin orifice,
Infuse you with my venom, sweet.

Such lovely language to describe such ugliness.
 
That fucking thing just scared me off of poetry itself.
Poem's like these are great to learn to pronounce english better for ESL, because context tells you which should rhyme and which should sound different.
 
I can't think of anything so subjective as the quality of poetry. But my favorite is The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.
 
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The Mayonnaise Chapter by Richard Brautigan


(Expressing a human need, I always wanted to write a book that ended with the word Mayonnaise)

THE MAYONNAISE CHAPTER

Feb 3-1952​
Dearest Florence and Harv.

I just heard from Edith about
the passing of Mr Good. Our heart
goes out to you in deepest sympathy
Gods will be done. He has lived a
good long life and he has gone to
a better place. You were expecting
it and it was nice you could see
him yesterday even if he did not
know you. You have our prayers
and love and we will see you soon.
God bless you both.

Love Mother and Nancy.

P.S.
Sorry I forgot to give you the mayonnaise.
 
Greatest poem of all time?
Shelley's 'Ozymandias'.
Babington Macaulay's 'Horatius at the bridge'.
The entirety of Martial's 'Epigrams', but only the American translations. The British ones are prudish and not bawdy at all.

'She's half and half inclined
to sleep with me. No? Yes?
What's in that tiny little mind?
Impossible to guess.'

Martial also owned slaves, not all of whom lived long lives.
This was a poem he inscribed on the headstone of one of his slaves:

'Here, six years old, by destiny's crime,
Made a ghost before her time, Erotion lies.
Whomever you be, next lord of my small property,
See that the dues of death are paid annually,
to her slender shade;
and may your hearth burn bright and strong,
Your household thrive, and yourself live long,
and this small stone throughout your years
remain your only cause for tears.'

And another:

'To you, my parents, I send on
this little girl Erotion,
this slave I loved, that by your side,
her spirit is not terrified
of the darkness underground,
nor the jaws of Hades' hound.
This last year she would have completed
her sixth year had she not been cheated
by six mere days;
Lisping my name, may she continue our sweet game,
of childhood happily down there.
Lie light upon her, earth and dew;
She put so little weight on you.'

But he was also keen on scathing critique:
'Lesbia claims she's never laid
without good money being paid
It's very true- when she's on fire
She's lots of cash for the hose's hire'

'You're an informer and a tool of slander
A well-known swindler and a pander,
a gay cocksucker, a thug, a whore;
Vacerra, I don't get how you're poor'

There's more, many more. Martial, the original troll, pissed off so many people in power that he eventually was rusticated, ie expelled from Rome for life.
 
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Now I'm getting old and feeble an' I cannot work no more
My big booty goth twink hoe I laid to rest
Ol' Kaa-chan and ol' Daddy are sleeping side by side
Their spirits are now roaming with the Blessed

Things have changed about the place, in darkness they have gone
To another year and slinging lots of caine
But the only friend that's left here is my goth bf of mine
In the little old log cabin in the lane

The chimney's tumbling down and the roof's all caved in
The creaks let in the sunshine and the rain
But there's angels watching over me when I lay down to sleep
In my little old log cabin in the lane

Now this footpath is grown over that led us round the hill
The fences have gone to decay
The pond is all dried up where we walked to the old mill
Things got turned in course another way

Well, I ain't got long to stay here with little time I got
I'll try and rest contented while I remain
Until death will call this goth and me to find a better home
Than our little old log cabin in the lane

Nothing personnel kid!
 
HP Lovecraft's Poem On the Creation of the Nigger. Pretty based and Red pilled if i say so myself

When, long ago, the gods created Earth
In Jove's fair image Man was shaped at birth.
The beasts for lesser parts were next designed;
Yet were they too remote from humankind.
To fill the gap, and join the rest to Man,
Th'Olympian host conceiv'd a clever plan.
A beast they wrought, in semi-human figure,
Filled it with vice, and called the thing a Nigger.
 
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Invictus - William Ernest Henley

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.
 
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Divine Comedy? It is a narrative poem.
Kinda lame but I like Blake's "And did those feet in ancient times" (aka- Jerusalem).
 
Our boy HP Lovecraft and some of his OG shitposting poems

When, long ago, the gods created Earth
In Jove's fair image Man was shaped at birth.
The beasts for lesser parts were next designed;
Yet were they too remote from humankind.
To fill the gap, and join the rest to Man,
Th'Olympian host conceiv'd a clever plan.
A beast they wrought, in semi-human figure,
Filled it with vice, and called the thing a Nigger
 
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