1. Uh, I just googled it. Yes, I think it is very creepy. Edgar Allen Poe does a very good job of creeping me out.
This is a question for people who write a lot of poetry…
I’m doing an audition (maybe) and I need to choose about ten of my poems to send in before hand. How do you make the desition? What should I look for in each of my poems?
I never allowed myself to wish
for fanciful notions
joy, adventure, romance–
I forced myself instead to think of successes
(now seeming so material)
Good grades. Time to work. Memory for facts.
so silly to seem
so now, I sit, and wonder
since so much time spent on such aims
paid off, in the end,
(or perhaps it was diligence after all)
4- Creative writing. Basicaly first I send in about ten of my poems about two weeks in advance. Then I get there and I get interveiwed and have to write a poem in the aloted time. Poem/short story that is.
5- Poe did write Tell-tale heart. The monkey’s paw was creepy too.
6- Jadestone, that was beautiful. Did you write that? *applaudes*
.6 “Memory for facts” is a lovely phrase. It’s easy to identify with this, and I love the last line. I think it’s a great fear of many students (and others) that your dedication and hard work is all for naught. Successful but not fulfilled, I think.
I hope I can keep up with this thread!
Is there ever a particular phrase you can’t keep out of your head? The other day I was immensely bored and looked up my first name on Wiki (much time is wasted there…sigh) and found that it is an alternate translation or something for Cassandra, as found in Greek mythology. If you are unfamiliar with it: Apollo desired Cassandra of Troy, and thusly granted her the power of prophecy. When she refused him he cursed her such that no one would ever believe her when she spoke of what she saw, which generally fell under the category of horror and destruction such as the fall of Troy etc etc
As with many other Greek myths, it has been an influence or inspiration on contemporary storytellers, filmmakers…Woody Allen made a movie called “Cassandra’s Dream” and I can’t get that phrase out of my head.
A rather long explanation for something rather trifling but there it is. So again, do you guys ever have a certain phrase stuck in your head? This is how the “creative process” starts for me, this or something just pops into my head and you know the rest.
7–Huh, I’ve never heard of anything like that. Well, I would just say that you should send in poems 1) that you think represent your overall “style” the best and 2) (more importantly) that you like. These will be your best poems, usually, and the ones that other people will like as well.
8–yep. Most of my poems start with a phrase or a feeling that’s popped into my head.
SFTDP, I just found this amongst my tossed files on my computer.
Like a shadow, he darts
Through the sleeping countryside
Peers in warm buttered windows
And, seeing children sleeping,
Fills their heads with strange and wonderful dreams.
The night rests upon his brow,
The stars dust his shoulders like snow
He does not remember the ghosts of the past,
Nor does he imagine the spirits of the future.
He is the Dreammaker, walker of time.
I’ve been reading a lot of Gaiman’s Sandman, if you couldn’t tell.
7- Yes, I did write it, thank you. Please post the ten poems you decide on (when you do), I’d love to read them (even if you’ve posted them before and I already have ;))
8- Oh, all the time. Like during hockey games. That can be inconvenient. Sometimes it’s a line from a song, usually just two or three words stuck together, a lot of the times with alliteration.
11- Morpheus ♥ There is no such thing as too much Gaiman.
Actually…it would be kind of awesome to have a horrible poetry contest. We should come up with the absolute worst poems we can think of…like “Ode to the Fungus Between My Toes” or something like that…what do you guys think?
Once again, SFTDP, I just saw Kiki’s comment (“Death is my homegirl”) on the recent comments bar, and thought about how odd that would look to someone who just randomly saw it. I think it rates up there with “Death is sexy”.
9- Ahh. sorry.
10- thank you Nathanda. I was leaning towered that anywho.
19- or “Ode to the Green Grass Vomit on my shoe” *gag*
This is my favorite poem ever. I didn’t write it but…
What are heavy? Sea-sand and sorrow.
What are breif? Today and tomorrow.
What are frail? Spring blossems and youth.
What are deep? The ocean and truth.
I don’t know why but every time I read that poem I go into meditive state. The only other things that do that are: hiking, ice skaiting, and singing.
8- once i had the phrase “the baying of the ferrets/lemurs” stuck in my head. it was aufly weird.
i like writing limmeiks.
there once was a blog named muse,
colored in purples and blues,
but communication
and not the location
is an addiction hard to refuse.
i’m good at writing poetry quickly. for science last year i wrote a series of poems about mitosis. not a very poetic subject. heres the first (and best) one
there once was a cell named clyde
he thought it was time to divide.
he went through mitosis
instead of osmosis
and now there’s 2 cells half his size.
i want to learn how to wite sonnets. anyone know how?
8- last night I randomly got a picture of a girl in my head. she wouldn’t go away untill I wrote who she was. I literaly knew EVERYTHING about her. Her likes. dislikes, her parents, how she felt aobut her teachers, her pets, her crush, her grandmother, and her best friend. It scared me.
3. YodaShmoda
You should pick poems that show your particular voice, have specific and concrete nouns and lots of good imagery.
I’m s glad this thread is here! I was hoping one would pop up.
I don’t have time to read it right now, but I will as soon as possible.
6. Jadestone
Your voice is distinct and clear and it cuts straight through to the truth.
This is what I do when I sit and think about words:
I twist my hair around the tip of finger and tug
hard, until it hurts.
I chew my right fingernail until it bleeds
and bite the inside of my cheek.
Thinking is a painful process;
the most unlikely pair of words is
‘easy decision’
and poetry isn’t popular
for a simple reason
A word is not
vibrations of vocal chords
not sound waves on a sunny beach
not black strokes on a white page,
small and sweet and neat,
not an entry in a dictionary,
page four hundred and two third from the top.
A word is not x,
negative b squared
plus or minus the square root of b squared
over two a,
a word is not a force equal to its mass times its acceleration.
A word is what happened when some one
a long time ago
mistook a tree for a man
and the sunset for the sea.
11. Nthanda the Laughe
That’s beautiful. I love “warm buttered windows”
25(Skipper Nancy)- Thanks. That was a pretty cool poem. Actualy it was amazing! I loved it so much!
26(Tesserect)- Maria Jane Asning went away unfourtantly. It’s like she just wanted to be written down. It’s too bad, I think she would have been a really cool character. Wow… I sound crazy…. too bad. Anywho Maria was really nice from what I could tell. She did have her flaws but she was umm…. real?… so she couldn’t be Mary Sue even if she tried. *sigh* Is it possibe that I need to lie down?
.27 – Nice, nice. WCW is pretty great. He does simplicity really well. I especially like the one where he talks about how he ate the plums he was saving.
29 – Oh, the plum poem! I went to Duke Young Writers’ Camp last summer, and we wrote poems based off of that. Not in the style, but on the same theme: apologizing for something you’re not actually sorry for.
I’ve been working on revising mine.
On Losing a Younger Sister to a Bear Attack
The sign said to
beware of bears
and you were fearful
and told us again
and you fretted nervously
aloud, as if we had
some doubt about your fear
at last enough was enough
so there was no
bear, but I rolled my
eyes and said there was
right behind you
I apologize for lying
and laughing while
you screamed senselessly
your eyes horrified
at the bear
that really wasn’t
there, but maybe
should have been
24-I love when I get like that. I like to feel like there’s a real person around that only I know.
25-Wow. I love the math references. :]
Wung buttons! I can’t find the write up of the poem I wrote recently. It was inspired by the RIse Against song “Swing Life Away”. The first line of my poem was taken from the song but the rest was different. If I find it I’ll post.
Ok I feel like writing a random thing off the top of my head…
In a city far below the sea
Where there grow no flowers nor a tree
All the buildings made of glass
And seashells, sand, and there is he
Who would travel shall not pass
No crossing of the boundary
For in the ocean far and deep
The secrets that the merfolk keep
Are never for a mortal man to see
Hmm…This is a lot different from my normal style of couplets or quatrains. Constructive criticism is welcome!
In my poem I’m changing “Who would travel” to “Who would venture”. The title is now “Gates of Atlantis”
I thought of another one!
Skies of the Arctic
In the heavens high above the world
A banner of the light had been unfurled
All blue and violet, red and green
A wonder if I’ve ever seen
The atmosphere above me was all curled
Into a flow, aquamarine
An Arctic chill was in the air
Above the trees, a sight so rare
As brilliant as it had ever been
22–That’s awesome–“I am the captain of my soul”. V. cool.
24–Oh goodness, most of my characters are alive in my head to the point where they could be me, I know them so well. Maybe you’re psychic.
25–Very nice. I’ve often tried to explain that exact concept to people, but not so nicely as you.
30(tesserect)- As much as I’d love to readyour poem I try and avid bears. My number has been up wth them since before I was born.
It seems people here like to ryme. Sorry I can’t comply. This is my poem still needing editing but one of the few I’m not considering for my audition:
If life were a story,
I would be in heaven.
There is always a happy ending ensured,
Just if you can brave it through.
At the end of the series,
Or in our minds eye.
And even when the happy ending is scarce,
The adventure leading up to the end
was nice.
And werthwhile.
The heroes are led by something greater
The greater good
True love
A prophecy.
Even the helpless princesses have a role to play,
being the prize at the end
or stopping to save the prince.
And the good-fer-naught pheasants too, are needed
with their pitchforks and scythes they can stop an army.
If life were a story,
I would be in heaven.
But life has never been a story.
And I’ve never been in heaven for long.
So I’ve been putting this poem everywhere. So I kind of love it a lot. I hope it’s not too long for the comment box.
Spaces
Arkaye Kierulf
1.
In this room I was born. And I knew I was in the wrong place: the world. I knew pain was to come. I knew it by the persistence of the blade that cut me out. I knew it as every baby born to the world knows it: I came here to die.
2.
Somewhere a beautiful woman in a story I do not understand is crying. If I strain hard enough I will hear a song in the background. She is holding a letter. She is in love with Peter. I am in love with her.
3.
Stand on the floor where it’s marked X. I am standing by your side where it’s marked Y. We are a shoulder’s length apart. I’m so close you can almost smell the perfume. If I step ten paces away from you, there could be a garden between us, or a table and some chairs. If I step another 20 paces there could be a house between us. If I continue to walk away from you in this way, tramping through walls and hovering above water, in 80,150,320 steps I will bump into you. I can never get away from you, and will you remember me? Distance brings us closer. There is no distance.
4.
In 1961 I was in Berlin. It was a dusty Sunday in August. In the radio news was out that Ulbricht had convinced Khrushchev to build a wall around West Berlin. I remember it precisely: By midnight East German troops had sealed off the zonal boundary with barbed wire. The streets along which the barrier ran had been torn up. I lived in that street. It was the day after my birthday. I remember the dust covering the sky. I remember being scared. Father had not returned from the other side. The Kampfgruppen der Arbeiterklasse had orders to shoot anyone who would attempt to defect. Father had not returned.
5.
Happiness is simple.
Sadness forks into many roads.
6.
Before the time of Christ, Aristotle believed that the earth was the center of the universe because he needed a stationary reference point against which to measure all other motions: a rock falling, a star reeling through the sky, his heart beating against his chest like a club. He needed to believe in certainty, in absolute space. Without it, the world would not be known absolutely. Without it, the world cannot be known.
Twenty centuries later Hendrik Lorentz needed to believe that every single molecule in the universe must move through a stationary material called the aether, as every human being in his various turnings must move through God. Scientists looked everywhere for proof of this aether. And everywhere they found nothing.
7.
I have sometimes been accused of being a bore. I beg to differ: people laugh at my jokes, and I’m handsome. I would like now to talk more about myself: I don’t like going to airports and hospitals. They make me uneasy. In both cases, somebody is always going to leave. I was born in 1983, and have never been to Berlin. But I have a memory of being in Berlin in 1961. I have a memory of something that never happened.
I would like to elaborate on myself, but you will understand if I talk instead about the sky in Berlin in 1961: it was covered with dust. There were no birds. There was no sky.
8.
Memory is brutal because precise.
9.
She said: give me more space. I said: don’t you love me anymore? She said: give me more space. I said: why? Did I do something wrong? Is there something wrong? Is there someone else? When did you stop loving me? In what precise moment? In what room? What city?
I held her tight as one who’s about to lose his own life holds on. Then she said: give me more space. I said: no.
10.
I have only one purpose: to live intensely.
11.
I wish I never met you
and I wish you never left.
You taste like a river in June.
12.
I’m going to say something important. Look at my face. Ignore my eyes. Just listen to me. But listen only to the timbre of my voice, not to what I am saying. They are different. They are two different rooms. The first is an exhibition of despair, the second only an explanation.
The first is all you have to listen to. So listen carefully because I cannot repeat myself:
“Everything/ one suspects to be true/ is true.â€
13.
In 1879 a boy is born in Germany. At age five he’d throw a chair at his violin teacher and chase him out. In time he would develop the capacity to withdraw instantaneously from a crowd into loneliness. At twenty-six he would publish his theory of relativity in Annalen der Physik. He looks crazy, but he is certain: there is no aether, no absolute space.
14.
Sometimes they thought it was the words.
What they wanted to say could not be said.
They fixed the TV, vacuumed the rug,
dusted the furniture, looked out the window.
Sometimes she would purposefully lose hold of
a plate and it would smash to the floor.
Then they would have something to say,
only to begin to say it then stop.
15.
Look at this box. It is empty except for a diary, a book, and this picture in my hand. Now look at this picture. It weighs nothing and occupies almost zero space. I can slip it in anywhere and it will fit: inside the diary, under the box, through a crack on the wall. If I tear it several times, it will occupy a different volume, many and various. It mutates, you see. If I burn it, it will smoke into the air. It will take up a whole expanse.
16.
How many more times
are you going to let the world
hurt you?
17.
My father is an incorrigible storyteller. He would tell the same stories in different ways. I wouldn’t know which ones to believe. So I believed all of them. “There is no story that is not true,†said Uchendu.
Father would point at the TV. He would repeat lines, rehearse the beginnings and ends, explicate with his hands the elaborate twists and turns of every road.
He said: “I am dying.â€
I said: “But aren’t all of us dying.â€
18.
And I thought the world
was about this leaving,
not about anybody’s leaving
but about this leaving.
The next day it was the same.
19.
A beautiful woman walks into a room. The room is dark. There are no windows. There is one light bulb but any time now it will go off. I pretend not to notice and look away, my heart beating against my chest like a club. If I strain hard enough I will hear a song in the background. What other forms of happiness are there than this?
20.
In 1989 the Berlin wall falls down.
21.
I believe in love only when it rains.
22.
To appreciate the value of land, one need only look into a painting: so much beauty. Buying land means buying the layers of beauty directly above it. It means buying the sky above it. And the birds above it, the clouds, the gods.
In truth you are buying a corner of the universe. You are saying: this is my room. You are saying: I live here. Here I exist.
23.
Your sadness is immaterial. You did
not come into the world to be happy.
~
You came to suffer/survive.
24.
How many words have you spoken in your life?
How many did you mean?
How many did you understand?
25.
Somebody picks up a phone. He dials a number. His voice travels a thousand miles into another country. On the other end somebody picks up and hears the voice. Who is this?– This is me. The phone is hung up. The voice travels back a thousand miles.
Elsewhere somebody picks up a phone and before he could dial forgets the number.
26.
Sometimes wars are waged because there are too many people in too few rooms.
27.
Memory is incomplete–lost.
The world is incomplete–vanishing.
Nothing more happens. You open your eyes and it’s over.
Memory is brutal.
Memory is precise.
28.
In the next room people I do not know are talking with hushed voices. Their secret slips out the window like a cat. It is raining, and I press my ear to the wall. I imagine that one of them is smoking a cigarette. I imagine that one of them is covering his mouth in surprise.
29.
When my aunt died the doctors said the fat clogged her arteries. Every week she visited the hospital, and every week the vein on her wrist had to be ripped out so a catheter could be stuck into her body to suck out her blood. You could see the plasma pass through a filter and then back to the body. If you put your ear to her wrist you would hear her heart.
Before my uncle died the heart attacks were so excruciating he said he’d prefer to just die. They transported him to the hospital, and on the way to the emergency room his heart gave. Mother said my uncle ate too much pork and drank too much beer. She wonders if he’s going to be happy in heaven.
30.
In some house in some province in some country in some novel there is a story of a man a father a child a lover who dies because of too much sadness.
orz sorry for stretching the page. But it’s a good poem!
6 (Jade)- so very senior year. Although in my case it might be more “what if I hadn’t dreamed so much?” It’s all about the balance, (un)fortunately.
8 (Axa)- Frequently. Most of my writing starts out as a kernel of idea or phrase I want to use, expanded to EPIC PROPORTIONS or something of the sort. Then again, sometimes I start with EPIC PROPORTIONS and end up having to narrow things down (cf. “I want to write a long short story about communism in order to pretend I have a cultural identity!” “…you may want to work on that a bit.”)
22 (Kai)- Ooh, I think I’ve heard that one before. I like it! S’the sort of thing I would read during a rainstorm at night. Preferably in fall, so everything smells like wet leaves and I can go outside without being slain by the weather.
25 (SN)- I love the images in this one, especially at the end. Words about words have always fascinated me, since for writers they are so important and so personal.
I should stop writing poems about Greek mythology and go play outside.
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`’Tis some visitor,’ I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door –
Only this, and nothing more.’
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; – vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow – sorrow for the lost Lenore –
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore –
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me – filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
`’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door –
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; –
This it is, and nothing more,’
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
`Sir,’ said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you’ – here I opened wide the door; –
Darkness there, and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!’
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!’
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
`Surely,’ said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore –
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; –
‘Tis the wind and nothing more!’
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door –
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door –
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,’ I said, `art sure no craven.
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore –
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!’
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.’
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning – little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door –
Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as `Nevermore.’
But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered – not a feather then he fluttered –
Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before –
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.’
Then the bird said, `Nevermore.’
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
`Doubtless,’ said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore –
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of “Never-nevermore.”‘
But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore –
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking `Nevermore.’
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
`Wretch,’ I cried, `thy God hath lent thee – by these angels he has sent thee
Respite – respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!’
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.’
`Prophet!’ said I, `thing of evil! – prophet still, if bird or devil! –
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted –
On this home by horror haunted – tell me truly, I implore –
Is there – is there balm in Gilead? – tell me – tell me, I implore!’
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.’
`Prophet!’ said I, `thing of evil! – prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us – by that God we both adore –
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore –
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?’
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.’
`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!’ I shrieked upstarting –
`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! – quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!’
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.’
And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted – nevermore!
In a city far below the sea
A guardian of Atlantis holds the key
All the buildings made of glass
And seashells, sand, and there is he
Who would venture shall not pass
No crossing of the boundary
For in the ocean far and deep
The secrets that the merfolk keep
Are never for a mortal man to see
25- I love the last lines best, it is a good ending.
***
a trip to the doctor.
I paste little reminders to myself
on the mirror, the headbord
to make sure I know who to be
don’t mention the taste of music in darkness,
how you sometimes think in pictures,
how colors have personalities too,
how sadness is a seperate person in the room,
(sitting stiff and stuffed-animal bodied,
grey-blye skin
watching
with dark eyes
as you stare into nothingness)
don’t mention the little voices in your mind
whispering things you’d never dream
(or maybe you have
and that really is the problem)
smile, speak clearly
be careful not to misspell your own name
or perhaps they will suspect
that I am an alien being, an island uncharted
a desperate dream, feelings false-started
mechanical veins or chemical waves
twisting and turning
spinning and whirling
gears inside my body, or perhaps green blood, or fossilized amber-coated butterflies of long ago days
what if they find something wrong
what if it’s cancer
what if I am different
what if it’s superpowers
from anyone or any body or any thing that they have ever seen before, and they tell me so
with wide-eyed wonder
(or is it fear)
what if they tell me
what if they
what if
(what if I’m not?)
****
This sort of poem I have ben meaning to write for a while. It wasn’t so long in my head at first, just a paragraph of lines, but it’s grown, as you can see. Very rough. No time now though, uhg
36- interesting. there is a running thread there…prose poetry often degrades into very private indecipherable thoughts but that was well done. I liked “in 80,150,320 steps I will bump into you. I can never get away from you, and will you remember me? Distance brings us closer. There is no distance.”
As others said I sometimes get images as well…if I’m really in a state I can let them follow each other, though usually they’re unrelated.
41- I like it! It’s aesthetically appealing first of all, with the lines being of similar length, consistent capitalization and so on. The only line that sounds a little off is “And seashells, sand, and there is he” — the and sound is a bit too present in my opinion. But the visual is wonderful, and you really turn the phrases spectacularly. “Who would venture shall not pass” — I love it!
I think my main flaw in writing is that I too often take the easy way out and do stream of conscious. That’s all well and good, but it’s not much to read. Concentration…
oh I forgot to comment on jadestone’s…alright here it is then
42- I love it already..it gives me a very quiet feeling, like shadowy shapes/silhouettes sinking deeper into a dark ocean. Some kind of unnatural settling? well, I’m blathering…
the voice of is very consistent, I can really feel it…I’m excited to see the finished version, if this is only a rough copy!
all the MB poets and writers ought to be like the Bloomsbury Group, except without all the scandals and uh, the like.
34–That’s fantastic. I really connect with it, for some reason…maybe because I’d like my life to be like the myths and stories…
42–Incredible, as usual. I love the images.
a trip to the doctor.
I paste little reminders to myself
on the mirror, the headbord,
my mind,
to make sure I know who to be
don’t mention the taste of music in darkness,
how you sometimes think in pictures,
how colors have personalities too,
how sadness is a seperate person in the room,
(sitting stiff and stuffed-animal bodied,
grey-blue skin and dark shining eyes
watching
as you stare into nothingness)
how the stars sometimes sing you lullabies
(and drift you, softly,
to some sifting version of sand-filled sleep)
don’t mention the little voices in your mind
the soft ones the scuttling ones the horrid ones
whispering things you’d never dream
(or maybe you have
and that really is the problem)
smile, speak clearly
sit patiently in that chemical room
be careful not to misspell your own name
or perhaps they will suspect–
that I am an alien being, an island uncharted
a desperate dream, feelings false-started
mechanical veins or chemical waves
twisting and turning
spinning and whirling
gears inside my body, or flowing green blood,
or fossilized amber-coated butterflies from some prehistoric year
just waiting to be freed
what if they find something wrong
what if it’s cancer
what if it’s superpowers
(what if they tell me)
what if I am different
from anyone or anything or any body that they have ever seen before, and they tell me so
with wide-eyed wonder
(or is it fear)
46-very good. I like the description of sadness, there is some very nice alliteration in “some sifting version of sand-filled sleep,” and the final line is a fine contrast to the rest of the poem imho. 39-were you insulting geometry???? 8-yes, but the phrases have always been rather pointless and often idiotic.
Sort of a tribute to Space Academy and Huntsville:.
VIBRATIONS
Years ago, the town remembers.
(Full of pride, they like to note.)
Years ago, the land shook.
Here was the place, chosen from all others-
Here was where they dreamed in thunder, and fire, and bold steel.
Here was where they built and tested the moon rockets,
The mighty Saturns, designed to set men free from this world
And carry them to another.
They remember when they first tested the engines,
The F-1s, twice the hight of a person.
The fire lit up the air, chased away the night
An artificial dawn.
But most of all, the land shook.
Millions of pounds of force hit the red clay.
Windows all across the town broke.
It shattered their china, but they cheered.
They danced in the streets when their work
Put us in lunar orbit that cold December.
And the crew saw the Earth rising in the inky sky.
“That picture, are we so fragile, truly so alone?
And yet, the things we do to it, on it!”
It was not just glass that was broken, but preconceptions.
The F-1 had set them free.
And now, there is thunder once again.
The vibrations wake them in the middle of the night
And they know- we will return!
They build the wings now, as they built them before.
The cobwebs are cleaned off those old dancing shoes.
Vibrations anew, from the new engines, J2-X.
Carry me to other worlds!
Shake the ground, shake the people!
Shatter my china, shatter my preconceptions!
J2-X, set me free!
Woooo!!! I found my poem! It’s untitled as of now. The first line is from the song “Swing Life Away”.
We live on front porches and swing life away
We watch the sunrise to greet the new day
We walk on the beaches and sleep by the bay
We have to leave but we wish we could stay
We stroll along the boardwalk hand in hand
We fall in love with the ocean and sand
We swim out to sea until we can’t see land
We live right here on this shore where we stand
We wish it was summer ’cause winter’s too long
We write about sunrise and sing a sad song
We wonder if what we once thought was wrong
We run for our lives and bring our friends along
We spend our winter just watching the clock
We stare at the snow as it falls on the dock
We shut the door and the fasten the lock
We want to say something but we can’t talk
We wander out of our home to the street
We can still feel the hot sand on our feet
We all go down to the pier to meet
We remember the long days in summer’s heat
Daddy- can you hear me?
I never knew your face
Do you remember mine?
I never heard your voice
but can you hear my sound?
I’ve changed since you last saw me.
Since you last held my hand.
If you knew who I was now
would you have left me then?
Wake me up, I’m only dreaming
god these nightmares chase me
Hold my hand and keep the dark away
wake me up when you’re here to stay
I think I had this on the last thread, but I feel like reposting it.
You know,
Not so very long ago, when I was young
And restless
I lived across the street from a hotel.
At least, to me.
That’s what I saw it to be.
Anyway, even though it was there, it was
dark
deserted
dead
The whole thing was a giant
nest for
gloom and despair
It was an abandoned memory, a
useless facade of decay and loss.
But, when you looked through the window,
there was a light.
A single
shining
light
a beacon of golden glow
in the night
Seemed to me that this
light
was a sign that
there was no use
giving up
It seemed to say,
‘Life gonna come back to me
someday’.
To be alone
is not as sad as to be
forgotten.
Don’t have a single soul to abide
by you and
nobody wants you there
but you still got hope
The demons of this world, by name:
Money
Drugs
Hate
Death…
They can’t touch you
You have a weapon
You
have
hope when
Stock market crash
Gas prices boom
Everyone you love fades
into that peeling wallpaper
of your hotel
in your mind
your soul
your own forgotten strength
But you don’t give up, don’t never
stop believing
you got
your
hope
you got
your
faith
You got
your
light!
Those people that
oppress and hate you
hurt you
they don’t have what you have
they don’t know what you know
they don’t love like you
they don’t breathe like you
they don’t feel
like
you.
They are your demons, and with
your light
you shed them off!
You
are
Free!
That hotel is still there
still exists
it is still with me
But my light has never gone away.
No pain dilutes my flame
No price can claim my conviction
There is no juresdiction
No man can
interrupt me in my song
A solitary voice, echoed by many
many who live
in the dark
and who still
seek out
that
light
————————————————————————-
It’s interesting
That it should take one loss
To make a person
see
Hearts are broken
Eyes wide open
The wipers are gone
But you still see clearly
It’s queer
That it should take one life
To help us find our
own
Holding hands
Making plans
You’ve grown so fast
But are small inside
It’s charming
That it should take one person
To help us realize our
beauty
Tender kiss
Peaceful bliss
We live so short
But love so long
Because everything you love gets broken,
And everyone you know wants to die
When things left unsaid hurt more than what’s spoken,
Then all that’s left to do is cry.
There’s a song by the Decemberists called Bagman’s Gambit.
It creeps me out at the end. I just get chills when I imagine the scene in the last line.
Actually, almost all of The Decemberists songs give me chills. They’re amazing!
Bagman’s Gambit, from what I gather, is a song about someone whose friend is arrested for shooting a Soviet officer. The friend goes to prison and dissappears. The person singing the song tries to go on working for the government and living a normal life.
The last line that gives me chills is “It was 10 years on, when you resurfaced in a motorcar. And with a wave of an arm you were there and gone.”
I can just imagine the singer walking down the street and seeing their long lost friend wave from the back of a passing car, then never seeing them again.
Oooo… I sang another, different, solo today. It was AMAZING! I loved it the mostest becuase I didn’t go up to the Mic instead I just had the sing on top of the people around me still in the croud. So to the audiance the solo was coming from the group. It was so pretty too.
PENTY you had better come back here, because every time I read 36 I love it more but it’s the only poem by that person I can find online and I need more!! Or at least know where you got it.
But I’d like to try something in that style. It’d be a good way for me to get all the little fragments in my head out… we shall see.
So continuing in the depressing/bone-chilling poetry vein…
Couldn’t remember if I’ve posted this, or if I just intended to and never got around to it. Apologies if it’s a repeat.
Formal Application
by Donald W. Baker
“The poets apparently want to rejoin the human race.†Time
I shall begin by learning to throw
the knife, first at trees, until it sticks
in the trunk and quivers every time;
next from a chair, using only wrist
and fingers, at a thing on the ground,
a fresh ant hill or a fallen leaf;
then at a moving object, perhaps
a pieplate swinging on twine, until
I pot it at least twice in three tries.
Meanwhile, I shall be teaching the birds
that the skinny fellow in sneakers
is a source of suet and breadcrumbs,
first putting them on a shingle nailed
to a pine tree, next scattering them
on the needles, closer and closer
to my seat, until the proper bird,
a towhee, I think, in black and rust
and gray, takes tossed crumbs six feet away.
Finally, I shall coordinate
conditioned reflex and functional
form and qualify as Modern Man.
You see the splash of blood and feathers
and the blade pinning it to the tree?
It’s called an “Audubon Crucifix.â€
The phrase has pleasing (even pious)
connotations, like Arbeit Macht Frei,
“Molotov Cocktail,†and Enola Gay.
Someone search upwords poetry. There is this writer, her name is Elizabeth Thomas and she’s really good. She came to our school about a month ago and did a poetry workshop with a bunch of kids, it was fun! I mean no one thinks that being quarentined in a standard sized classroom with fourty kids for five hours would be fun, but it was. And I learned a lot about poetry too.
I came here on the wind
I flew it
With a knowledgeable sense
I knew it
My eyes a window to the mist
I view it
The river, I will recompense
I rue it
I toss the rock into the gloom
I threw it
But am left only with
a sense of
doom
I blew it
79- That’s pretty cool.
I was talking to one of my friends today and looked into her agenda for no good reason. The enrie of two pages is filled with really great poems. She just “scribbled a bit” I’m most amazed becuase they are really powerful and when she talked about them she TALKED she hardly ever talks. But with her poems it was all jabber. It think it shows a lot about what peoms do. It was really sweet because they were love peoms to the boy she’s not allowed to date becuase of her religon. She likes him, he likes her, but she can’t do anything about it. And the poems conveyed that, it was amazing.
Why are all my best poems nature thingies?? Can’t I write a really excellent poem about something else, just once??
There is a place inside the wood
Amidst the grass, by a tall tree,
Where flowers bloom, and there’s no room
For chainsaw men like you and me.
There squirrels hop amongst the branches,
Robins chirp and blue jays scream,
And leaves can swish, and make a wish!
For granting follows, like a dream.
There, though the forest’s leaves may fall,
Though chainsaw roar may cut all down,
There is a place, a quiet space
Where leaves are green, where wood is brown.
Where wind can rustle with a sigh,
Where there is silence, there is good.
Where none of chainsaw’s men may go-
The holy space, inside the wood.
If only I could take you there.
If my feet remembered the way,
We’d hide from chainsaw men inside
And laugh in silence, every day.
But I know quiet words no more.
This chainsaw mine has turned my breath
From living tree, from nature’s key,
To fire’s roar, to forest death.
Someday I’ll lay my chainsaw down
And swear off seeing tall trees rotting.
When I am old, I’ll walk off bold,
My chainsaw on the grass, forgotton.
But ’til that unremembered hour,
I watch tall trees, with bark so brown,
With leaves so green, in our hearts seen,
With branches long, come crashing down.
There is a place inside the wood
Amidst the grass, by a tall tree,
Where flowers bloom, and there’s no room
For chainsaw men like you and me.
A poem I wrote for English class a while back.
Whoosh, whoosh
Swish, clack
The wind is blowing
It whistles and moans
Outside of my room that is
Warm and secure
The cold wind
Rustles the leaves on the trees
Makes them shudder and sway
And makes me feel
Like the trees will fall
But they don’t
They stand, steadfast and strong
The leaves are always falling
As the wind howls around our house
It sounds like it’s lonely
But what can I do?
Shut inside on a cold fall night
With the wind always blowing.
I’ve begun a new project which I will most likely never finished. You know how some people want to write a novel before they die? It’s kinda like that, but I don’t want to write a novel. Instead, I’m writing an epic poem, inspired mainly by Peer Gynt. Only a stanza and a half so far, though, so I’ve got a ways to go.
I huddle by myself
In the rain
and cold.
Clouds covering
the sun.
Shivering
Crying
Not caring
Rain mixing with tears,
the salty mixture drips down my cheeks
Now
a flash of light and life
the clouds part
for an instant
and a sunbeam
falls straight
into my eyes
The clouds come together again
as I stand up
and shout
two words-
‘The Soup Song’ sounded a little short.
So I expanded on it with my own lyrics.
To the tune of ‘Have a Pie’ OR ‘Let it be’
Enjoy!
When I find myself all cold and cranky,
Mimi shows up on my stoop,
Speaking words of solace: “Have some soup!â€
And when the hailstones pound the window
And my spirits start to droop,
I know what she’ll tell me: “Have some soup!â€
CHORUS:
Have some soup, have some soup, have some soup, have some soup!
I know what she’ll tell me: Have some soup!
When I shiver
To my liver
She comes by with wonderous goop.
Voicing reassurance
“Have some soup!â€
And when the kitchen’s
Cold and sterile
She knows how to feed our group
Sings the sweet promotion
Have some soup!
CHORUS
Sweet aromas
Velvet vapors
Perpotrate out to the stoop
Courtesy of Mimi
“Have some Soup!â€
And when we taste this potent potion
Our life forces
Do regroup
Tastes like young vine maple,
Musey soup!
CHORUS
I think this is my favorite poem… if you can find the version where the poet (Seamus Heaney) is reading it out loud, well… it’s amazing.
St. Kevin and the Blackbird
And then there was St. Kevin and the blackbird.
The saint is kneeling, arms stretched out, inside
His cell, but the cell is narrow, so
One turned-up palm is out the window, stiff
As a crossbeam, when a blackbird lands
And lays in it and settles down to nest.
Kevin feels the warm eggs, the small breast, the tucked
Neat head and claws and, finding himself linked
Into the network of eternal life,
Is moved to pity: Now he must hold his hand
Like a branch out in the sun and rain for weeks
Until the young are hatched and fledged and flown.
*
And since the whole thing’s imagined anyhow,
Imagine being Kevin. Which is he?
self-forgetful or in agony all the time
From the neck on out down through his hurting forearms?
Are his fingers sleeping? Does he still feel his knees?
Or has the shut-eyed blank of underearth
Crept up through him? Is there distance in his head?
Alone and mirrored clear in love’s deep river,
‘To labour and not to seek reward,’ he prays,
A prayer his body makes entirely
For he has forgotten self, forgotten bird,
And on the riverbank forgotten the river’s name.
My favorite poem ever: “The Faery Reel”, by Neil Gaiman. I guess he does poetry too…
If I were young as I once was,
And dreams and death more distant then,
I wouldn’t split my soul in too
And keep half in the world of men
So half of me would stay at home
And strive for Faerie in vain,
While all the while my soul would stroll
Up narrow path, down crooked lane,
And there would meet a faery lass,
And smile and bow, with kisses three.
She’d pluck wild eagles from the air
And nail me to a lightning tree
And if my heart would run from her,
Or flee from her, be gone from her,
She’d wrap it in a nest of stars
And then she’d take it on with her,
Until she’d grow all tired of it,
All bored with it and done with it.
She’d leave it by a burning brook
And off brown boys would run with it.
They’d take it and have fun with it
And stretch it long and cruel and thin.
They’d slice it into four, and then
They’d string with it a violin.
And every day and every night
They’d play upon my heart a song
So plaintive and wild and strange
That all who heard it danced along
And sang and skipped and hopped and hoped
And danced and pranced and reeled and rolled
Until, with eyes as bright as coals,
They’d crumble into wheels of gold…
But I am young no longer now.
For sixty years my heart’s been gone
To play its dreadful music there,
Beyond the valley of the sun.
I watch with envious eyes and mind
The single-souled, who dare not feel
The wind that blows beyond the moon,
Who do not hear the Faery Reel.
If you don’t hear the Faery Reel,
They will not pause to steal your breath.
When I was young I was a fool,
So wrap me up in dreams and death.
So here we can make our own poetry, too, right? I think I have an idea. *ahem*
I dash-a sound
I look around
a shrouded figure
standing on the cold ground
I ready my weapon
and then I take aim
but alas, an ambush
now over is this game
snake? snake? snaaake!
~~~
…rhythm isn’t too good.
Lyrics for one of my band’s songs, not in song structure, but you get the idea.
Can’t see the stars in the sky, you know I
Keep trying to find your disguise and then I
Can’t find the truth in your eyes, and yet I
Don’t see any truth in your lies
It ain’t easy for me to forgive but just
Find a place, you can stay there and live, although you
Won’t see everything I can see, I guess you’ll
Be free like you wanted to be
Just tell me something I don’t know
And don’t you hide from the dark
Maybe we’ll meet again one day
Maybe your soul will find a heart
I don’t want you to think I’m distraught
Can’t stop those tears ‘cause they’re thoughts
That day, the saucers landed. Hundreds of them, golden,
Silent, coming down from the sky like great snowflakes,
And the people of Earth stood and stared as they descended,
Waiting, dry-mouthed to find what waited inside for us
And none of us knowing if we would be here tomorrow
But you didn’t notice it because
That day, the day the saucers came, by some coincidence,
Was the day that the graves gave up their dead
And the zombies pushed up through soft earth
or erupted, shambling and dull-eyed, unstoppable,
Came towards us, the living, and we screamed and ran,
But you did not notice this because
On the saucer day, which was the zombie day, it was
Ragnarok also, and the television screens showed us
A ship built of dead-man’s nails, a serpent, a wolf,
All bigger than the mind could hold, and the cameraman could
Not get far enough away, and then the Gods came out
But you did not see them coming because
On the saucer-zombie-battling gods day the floodgates broke
And each of us was engulfed by genies and sprites
Offering us wishes and wonders and eternities
And charm and cleverness and true brave hearts and pots of gold
While giants feefofummed across the land, and killer bees,
But you had no idea of any of this because
That day, the saucer day the zombie day
The Ragnarok and fairies day, the day the great winds came
And snows, and the cities turned to crystal, the day
All plants died, plastics dissolved, the day the
Computers turned, the screens telling us we would obey, the day
Angels, drunk and muddled, stumbled from the bars,
And all the bells of London were sounded, the day
Animals spoke to us in Assyrian, the Yeti day,
The fluttering capes and arrival of the Time Machine day,
You didn’t notice any of this because
you were sitting in your room, not doing anything
not even reading, not really, just
looking at your telephone,
wondering if I was going to call.
Palindrome poems are creepy. Creepy as in: “How the heck did they figure that out? They MUST be alians!” heres an example:
Love
Mimics hate:
Passionate always, forging forward.
Unquiet rage screams
Poetry.
Tangled mercilessly;
Emotion
—mirrors—
Emotion,
Mercilessly tangled.
Poetry
Screams rage, unquiet.
Forward forging, always passionate:
Hate mimics
Love.
Or you could just google it for more.
91) I dunno. I compose my best poetry in the comment box. No idea why. And I write sad poetry.
You’ve gone
Left me
here
instead of with you
all alone.
Why’d you do it?
I was your friend.
Why’d you die?
Why’d did you bring death
upon yourself?
I found you
in the girls’ bathroom
at school.
You had excused yourself
and wasn’t back yet.
The teacher was getting annoyed
so I went
to get you.
I wandered in the bathroom
saying your name.
“Robin? Rob? The teacher says
to come back!”
You didn’t respond.
I saw your familiar green jeans
in the second stall
I raped the door lightly
and said,
“Rob?”
“Robin? I’m coming in!”
I opened the door easily
because it was unlocked.
I stared
when I saw your freckled
bright face in
a deathly pallor
with a crumpled piece of paper
slightly falling out of your hand
“No, Robin, no!” I choked out as I
clutched your shoulders
shaking you
looking for a sign of life
I didn’t see the blood in your hair.
“Live!”
I looked in the hand
that wasn’t clutching the paper.
My heart stopped cold.
A long knife dripping liquid ruby
was falling out of your hand.
“Robin! Why?”
I now saw the blood crusted hair on your head.
I now saw the slit in your throat.
“Robin! What will everyone say?”
“Robin! What about the talent show?”
“Robin! What about MuseBlog?”
“Robin! Why?”
And so
Now I am floating around
no body
your ghost
“haunting” the school.
I saw your friends’ faces.
Their grief
Their sadness
One of them got depressed
MuseBlog:
Your sister told the others
what had happened
They were sad too.
They wondered why
And didn’t know how you could have done it.
To everyone
you appeared as a bright, quirky,
loveable person.
But inside
grief built up
chaos and turmoil raged when you were alone.
I tried to stop you
you didn’t listen
I watched in anguish as you got the knife
Slipped it into your bag
And went off to school.
You excused yourself in 4th period-
Math class-
And then you did it.
A page.
White.
Clean.
Possibilities.
And yet.
Ink to paper.
Stains.
Scribbles.
Destroying that
pure
wonderful
empty
full
space.
And yet
words
emotions
thoughts.
Imprinted forever
Into the
clean
white
page.
104–Hang in there, if that’s what you need to hear.
Various pledges, modeled on the American pledge of allegiance:
I pledge allegiance
to what is right
to no more suffering
to no more night.
I swear myself
to what I pray:
one world
under God
made right by justice,
with liberty, love, and equality
for
All.
And a not-so-serious one:
I pledge allegiance
to Big Macs
and their heart attack-inducing calories.
And to the country
for which it stands:
one nation
overweight
spoiled rotten
with extra fries and supersizes for all.
104- That was really…amazing. Keep writing, it would stink if you left museblog for some bigger better blog.
112- I really liked that. It was…truthful.
I went to a Shadowing at the school I’m trying to get into. It looked like the sun was shining down on me becuase my best friend that was a year older than me and that i’d never talked to in a year was there and she was my Shadowteer! And then the school was awsome, the people were awsome, and my mom knows the Piano teacher.
I pledge allegiance
To the enviroment;
I will let the trees grow strong
I will let god sink into my heart.
I will let life be enough, the most wonderfull thing of all.
To education;
I will use my mind
like the supercomputer it was made to be.
I will make every factoid
A spell to weave into the sky
To friendship;
Do I put this hatbox down here, or there…
Or in a parallel universe?
I don’t know how to hold
something as infinite as love.
You love your smile tree.
You love your friends.
You love mashed potatoes
But does that make it art?
To art;
I will take the fabric scraps from this pledge
and mold them into something specacular.
I will hear the click-clacketing of skateboards
(and all the birdsong)
Think about how I hate that glaring streetlight.
I will not stop dreaming
I pledge allegiance.
Reworking some old poems together for history as I am bone-dry on inspiration right now x_x It is supposed to be cynical but I just am not feeling cynical right now, for once. Man.
___
This is the world.
telling us not be afraid
to be different,
unique, unashamed
This is the world
that sells us fashion magazines
(snowflakes all melt into identical water droplets)
signals whispering
conform, conform, conform.
This is the world
telling us to dream,
to live while we can,
to believe in yourself
to reach for the stars
that then tells us
which dreams we should have
what lives we should live
which stars are off-limits
or just too far away.
So we sit, and comply
following the etched-in patterns
(there are no roads left less travelled
only worn through, or underbrush)
dully, unthinkingly,
—
God I am SO STUCK and being forced to get off the computer
disajkbgiraow’njkndejkn
At the middle school
in the middle of town
in front
a 8th grader
a big, hulky mass of blue sweatshirt and backpack
Waits for a group of 8th grade girls
a tightly packed ball of makeup, gossip, and stylish clothes
to pass underneath
Shake
Pitterpatter
Shake
Pitterpatter
They pass underneath
unaware while that are sharing secrets
of what–
PATTER!
The 8th grader shakes the tree’s drops onto the girls
They scream
And the 8th grader slinks away
to the sports field
to play dodgeball
with his friends.
118- So true. I like it. I like it very much.
________________________________________________
Scanning
the hallways.
Searching
for a familiar face.
Surrounded by people
and so alone.
They drift by in groups.
Friends.
Laughing
At inside jokes.
You know one of them.
From a past school,
or last year,
in that health class.
Look at us!
they silently scream.
“You want to be us
You want to be just like us.
Because we are better than you.”
“Look
how many friends I have!
We share secrets
and laugh
at things you wouldn’t understand.”
But then,
One of them,
one of the group,
turns to look at you.
And you see
what was once yourself,
echoed:
‘What if I say the wrong thing?’
‘What if everyone laughs?’
‘What if
I don’t
belong anymore?’
You smile a bit,
because you know
that popularity
isn’t so perfect.
And they smile back.
‘You will be there,
if that happens,
won’t you?’
‘You know what it is like.’
Reassured,
they turn away,
and join their group again.
Laughing along with the jokes,
You see some friends in the crowd.
Smile and wave,
walk over
to join your own group.
So Jade is thinking about entering this poetry contest she found online. I need to pick two poems to submit… and this is where I am stuck. Heh. I really don’t know what to choose. Usually I like the poem’s I’ve written most recently because they are closest to my current emotions/state/whatever, so I’m not a very good judge of my own work.
Anyone want to help me out?
I am thinking about:
46 on this thread
140 on the last thread (really like that one currently)
one of the ones from 57 on the last thread
85 on the last thread, or 89
And now I have to get off. There’s three or four others I am considering. Post them later.
121–I don’t know…all of yours are so good. I think I like 46 from this thread, and then the 1st and 2nd poems from 57 on the last thread, the best.
I have just discovered sestinas. Mwa ha ha.
Sestina by Elizabeth Bishop
September rain falls on the house.
In the failing light, the old grandmother
sits in the kitchen with the child
beside the Little Marvel Stove,
reading the jokes from the almanac,
laughing and talking to hide her tears.
She thinks that her equinoctial tears
and the rain that beats on the roof of the house
were both foretold by the almanac,
but only known to a grandmother.
The iron kettle sings on the stove.
She cuts some bread and says to the child,
It’s time for tea now; but the child
is watching the teakettle’s small hard tears
dance like mad on the hot black stove,
the way the rain must dance on the house.
Tidying up, the old grandmother
hangs up the clever almanac
on its string. Birdlike, the almanac
hovers half open above the child,
hovers above the old grandmother
and her teacup full of dark brown tears.
She shivers and says she thinks the house
feels chilly, and puts more wood in the stove.
It was to be, says the Marvel Stove.
I know what I know, says the almanac.
With crayons the child draws a rigid house
and a winding pathway. Then the child
puts in a man with buttons like tears
and shows it proudly to the grandmother.
But secretly, while the grandmother
busies herself about the stove,
the little moons fall down like tears
from between the pages of the almanac
into the flower bed the child
has carefully placed in the front of the house.
Time to plant tears, says the almanac.
The grandmother sings to the marvelous stove
and the child draws another inscrutable house.
And another one, that I think is AWESOME (and sad), by the amazing Neil Gaiman:
Vampire Sestina
I wait here at the boundaries of dream,
all shadow-wrapped. The dark air tastes of night,
so cold and crisp, and I wait for my love.
The moon has bleached the color from her stone.
She’ll come, and then we’ll stalk this pretty world
alive to darkness and the tang of blood.
It is a lonely game, the quest for blood,
but still, a body’s got the right to dream
and I’d not give it up for all the world.
The moon has leeched the darkness from the night.
I stand in shadows, staring at her stone:
Undead, my lover . . . O, undead my love?
I dreamt you while I slept today and love
meant more to me than life — meant more than blood.
The sunlight sought me, deep beneath my stone,
more dead than any corpse but still a-dream
until I woke as vapor into night
and sunset forced me out into the world.
For many centuries I’ve walked the world
dispensing something that resembled love —
a stolen kiss, then back into the night
contented by the life and by the blood.
And come the morning I was just a dream,
cold body chilling underneath a stone.
I said I would not hurt you. Am I stone
to leave you prey to time and to the world?
I offered you a truth beyond your dreams
while all you had to offer was your love.
I told you not to worry and that blood
tastes sweeter on the wing and late at night.
Sometimes my lovers rise to walk the night . . .
Sometimes they lie, cold corpse beneath a stone,
and never know the joys of bed and blood,
of walking through the shadows of the world;
instead they rot to maggots. O my love
they whispered you had risen, in my dream.
I’ve waited by your stone for half the night
but you won’t leave your dream to hunt for blood.
Good night, my love. I offered you the world.
Sunrise-
A tear drops from the crescent eye
The moon is waning, eternal, swift
The darkness wraps around her shoulders
Ever darker, ever darker
Cries the sky
An arm stretches from silent sleep
The sun of orange, ablaze, alight
The refulgent glint her airy coat
Ever brighter, ever brighter
Sings the morn
121 — I vote for 89, and I also like 140 quite a bit. Good luck! I agree about liking the most recent piece the best, I don’t know how often I read back on things and shudder…
122– lovely! I had to look up what a sestina was..so it doesn’t matter the order of the six words except that the last and first of the next stanza are the same?
That’s interesting, maybe I’ll try that out. My poetry is lacking direction right now, and not in the good way.
Hmm I haven’t posted anything in over a year. I suppose I’m paranoid about stuff like this. oh well.
125–yeah, sestinas are cool but v. difficult. Is there something about #s of syllables per line? I dunno, I tried (and failed) to write a good one.
Since V-day’s coming up…
My love is not a quick or flashy thing;
it does not flare then die, or rise then fall,
or sigh or faint or swoon.
It is not the love of the romantic, dear heart,
this longing of mine.
Instead my love is a slow and wondrous thing,
a deepening passion,
a slow-burning fire.
It does not fail or falter, love,
it does not lessen or grow weary;
it longs when we part, longs when we meet,
burns for you, yearns for you,
never wavers, only grows.
Dear my heart,
let it be known:
through strife, through danger,
in death, beyond hope
my most dear
this love of mine–
will
eternally
endure.
I am using the word of the day on Dictionary.com to write a poem for today, so here it goes:
Word: Virtuoso
I take refuge in the morning
when the world is asleep
and some of it is
just
waking up
and I nod to the wind
when she stretches her
airy limbs;
I conduct the sway of
tree branches
muttering in her breeze;
I dance on the
patio of
fallen
dead
ground/
(leaves and snow);
a virtuoso of my
own art,
and that is
morning.
128–Oooh, I really like that one! Your phrasing is really good, I like the part that says “just/waking up”–it’s like someone is stretching during those words. Nice job.
129- Thank you!
130- I commented!
I can see that
the poem is a haiku
what a good ploy!
Word of the Day: Unwitting
The darkness
that shrouds the corners of my
unwitting
simple
mind
so empty, so vaguely shimmering
with a desire to
fill its destitute skirts
with
proficiency, cognition
ability
intelligence
a taste for the
light
the scintillation of knowledge
to come when I
first reopen
the doors
130-130: Nice!
Love is spring, when the air is thawing and the sidewalk is sharp.
woa shi Rose, yes I am Tessa, (magick name I long to speak, )Robinhood and silvercreek.
‘tash’ wa Rose (or maybe not)
with goatish spirit long forgot
and all the birdsong that I speak.
I am Rose (Ran out of toungues
thwich I can speak convincingly)
I talk to trees, they talk to me.
the girl gaze into the glass, angry
hair tousled, face
dirty, scrubbed with dust and distaste
The person who stares back at me
glassy eyes, that
hair sheathing them in dirty blankets
is not who I thought her to be
a pallid line, so
wan and stretched and warped
and lonely
she is the erstwhile companion
of days spent unfulfilled
minutes fiddled away
in silence, of
seconds staring into the mirror ahead
wasting her days and her moments
seconds,
minutes,
hours,
days,
weeks,
years,
on wishing and wanting
for someone, for
a constant love to keep
her frayed boundaries of time
tied together in a single
unbending
knot
deceitful only to herself.
The glass shatters.
I’ll follow both of your personages leads and flip to a random word in the dictionary and use that.
Extraneous: not vital or essential.
Standing off to the side
Watching the other kids play ball.
Like my mother asks me every day–
“Will you try to get involved with other children today, dear?”
I had quietly shuffled over
to the group
in front of the captains.
“Sally!”
“Bobby!”
The others’ names are called quickly
Finally
it is me
and the kid failing PE
“Jake!”
As Jake
runs over
I walk off to the tallest tree
To hide.
I do like the idea, but I am not a poet. Maybe I shall use word-of-the-day as a sort of writing prompt, but, like Nthanda, not necessarily mention it in my writing. You never know, something could come of it.
Sometimes I wonder
if life is worth
the price.
The pain-
the constant companion.
The loneliness,
that follows
late at night.
The hope
lost.
Dreams that we forsake
for ration.
And conformity
that is imposed on us.
So we judge
to let the pain flow
and as we try to ease
the burden from our back
by tossing it
onto others,
ours increases.
And regret
welcomes us
into its realm.
_____________________________________
I feel depressed right now.
The tall girls file their fingernails, watching
Blonde hair dyed and swept back
Mouths each a plumped line, exorbidant
students of the picture-perfect prima donna.
They preyed by day on those with least allure
The homely, wandering ones
Pencils behind their ears,
eyes full of wonder behind mirrors of hate that
gaze at them night and day
The individuals
The inscrutable
The abhorred
The tall ones wear their masks in the morning
And in the night
rip them away with claws of
distrust, and dismay
The fear of what they have become consumes them.
The lamentation comes soon after
One mournful cry from the denigrated
Alone in a corner of her own consciousness
The other from the face of beauty
Mourning loss of soul, of heart
Crying out for a way back in
The heart, the mind are lost.
Colorsswirling
swirlcolorswirlaway.
Looking for a rictus to find an opening
swirlwhirlcolors
The last I remember
Before the swirling, whirling, colors
Is a dark world
Pain
Suffering
A normal part of life.
Swirlwhirlrictusfindarictus
I
after losing my family
Was walking along a grubby street
swirlrictusrictusfindwhirl
Something
heavy and large
fell upon me
lookfortherictuscolorswhirlingswirling
White figures sweeping toward me
Colors.
Whirling, swirling colors.
Holes appear in the glass of thin colors.
Small holes.
Swirlwhirlcolorsrictuscomefind
I know that
If I go back to that world
The dark one
I have to give up my search.
Rictusswirlfindwhirlswirlcolors
If I can get through a hole
I continue on
To a different place.
Whirlswirlcolorsswirlingwhirls
I look next to me.
A girl
A shadow twin
A darker me.
Looks back.
I am strong
I am weak
I am smart
I am dumb
I am tall
I am short
I am white
I am black
I am happy
I am sad
I am laughing
I am crying
I am hot
I am cold
I am close
I am far
Who am I?
So confused
I can’t chose
What I should be.
Hot and cold
Yes and no
Stop and go.
Up and down
Inside out.
Who am I?
__________________________________________________
I feel insecure today. Is it normal for a 12 year old to feel like that?
140- Thanks! *munches choklit*
143- I wouldn’t know, but I’m sure it’s normal. I feel like that oftentimes too.
_____________________________________________________
tick
tick
tick
tick
Our seconds are passing by.
tick
There is a limit
to the time we have to spend.
tick
If you stop to think,
it might just past you by.
tick
Ponder,
‘what is this thing called life?’
tick
Do you really want to know?
If you found out,
What would happen?
Mayhaps
the universe
would vanish
in a puff of logic.
143- I love the poem. I’m really into few syllable lines now, ones with sharp turns and quick endings, so I really liked it. It’s perfectly normal. Just get on with life, and try and ignore the nagging feeling that you aren’t who you are today. A good place to do that is on the couch with popcorn and a movie or outside.
Fire stretches his fingers to the light
And they combine with a feverish
intensity
Opposing strangers quiver beneath
his luminescent limbs
so full of hatred and incandescence
in one combined actuality
Water trembles beneath his gaze
His highhanded ways cause a dither
A tear on the surface of her luscious waves
She hears the conflagration sear
Evaporating her body where he treads
Her azure ripples eradicated, she
descends
returns to her lake of solitude
not to challenge her better again
Triumphant is the one
who carries the scepter of flame.
Kinesics:
a systematic study of the relationship between nonlinguistic body motions (as blushes, shrugs, or eye movement) and communication
Is this it, then?
The time when our masks, our pretences—
well, I will not speak of it.
It is not to be uttered aloud, this feeling.
Isn’t that what got us here in the first place—
words?
The wrong words, or
the right words at the wrong time–
too late, or too soon.
So let’s not speak.
Let’s let our masks slip off our faces
like paint dripping down a canvas
like raindrops chasing down a window
like cool water down a parched throat.
Don’t shatter this moment
into a thousand irreparable pieces.
Instead, tell me of your love through kisses.
And let me tell you of my steadfastness through
silent eyes, brimming with joy.
We do not need those things called words,
those strips of dry paper,
those shards of razors.
Speak to me only with thine eyes;
give me love only with thy heartbeat.
……..
I seem to be in a love poem rut, perhaps because of V-day. Ah well, I’ve always been a sucker for the romantic.
145-yes i guess i should. popcorn and books usually do make me feel better. no idea why but i shall now write a poem about books.
books are doors to different places
you can see many new faces.
knights, dragons, and ,
things you can’t imagine,
books can take away your worries
they can do it in a hurry.
all you have to do is look,
then jump into a book.
yes i know, it is kinda lame and it doesn’t really rhyme. oh well. what the heck.
———————-
my interest flies away
like a bird out of a nest.
what is it to feel
happiness?
joy?
maybe i will never know
but alas
i feel pain all too well
like a bullet ripping through my heart
like a knife slashing through my skin
is life worth the pain
is it worth the joy
questions that should be answered
now hang in the balance
maybe someday it will come back
the feeling that i should be here.
that little bird will come to the nest
now grown but still familiar
—————————
no idea where that came from. i suppose i have repressed emotions or something. i feel kinda emo.
Not anything right now but I am writing a poem for part of my book report so I need to keep track of this before I lose it from my head–
ever changing,
rearranging,
as you gently close your eyes
transmitting and exchanging,
yet we always recognize
//
a longing,
a filling
and a falling
searching for what we’ve been calling
as he’s wandered all along
as we’ve wondered for so long
a sweetness
we’ve been dreaming
with the lyrics to a song
—
Slightly related to The Botany of Desire, if anyone’s wondering. Beauty(tulip)/Sweetness(apple). More words and Intoxication/
to come later.
SOme scraps that have piled up. I really really want to try writing like the style in post 36, and I don’t have anything finished but it all is on different pieces of paper –_– Going to type it up so I don’t inadvertently lose more than I already have (an entire pages worth, oh, alas *mourns*).
…so I type that, and post it, without the poem-scraps. *headdesk*
1.
I would not call it love.
Love is beautiful, floating, fleeting, love is what brings us together and tears us apart.
This is so much heavier. Darker.
This is a deep kind of pain.
2.
I cannot voice my thoughts
when I see your face
your eyes
your skin breath mind
your hands
It is like trying to flee an unescapable magnet, this feeling. It is like tearing apart your being.
But I cannot find my voice
I do not want to
3.
I am afraid.
4.
There is a place. It was once a stream. Now the small trail of water has been surrounded by cement and layered with tar, now it drains under the skin of the earth before emerging into what might once have been a pond before the developers came with their measurements and papers and words. Now it is a much smaller area of swampy grass beneath a trickle and a torrent spit forth from a hallow cement mouth.
A frog leaps, as though startled, and splashes into the pond. He croaks once.
He is saying: I exist.
5.
To hold myself away is more than a test of willpower
It is more than fear
It is more than a twisted sense of hope.
It is a kind of drug.
It is a kind of death.
6.
I do not talk about my feelings. I am not speaking of you. I do not talk.
Sometimes I wish I could let whatever is inside me out, to the people around me, the ones who care.
Sometimes I wish keeping it in would kill me on its own.
Sometimes I wish.
7.
Everyone thinks I am brave.
8.
Few people remember the stream was real.
Many do not realize they know the drain and marsh are real.
No one knows about the frog.
He is still real.
9.
Once, in passing conversation, a friend mentioned a name
The name
His name
Casually, and continued on.
The world did not shatter
It was all I could do to respond. It was all I could do to continue on, pretending.
No one noticed.
10.
Once, I was afraid of being alone forever. Nw I am afraid of letting go.
Once, asleep, I dreamed I was in love, and waking up was both to kill and to die.
Once, I dreamed.
11.
The funny thing about magnets. Once it was whole, complete, repelling and attracting. Now it is broken, a clean snap, right down the middle. Now it repels itself most of all. It cannot be put back together. Two once perfect halves that will never meet.
Only turning the pieces makes it fall together again.
This magnet is not me.
12.
Long ago, everyone thought that the heavens were fixed, unchanging. he only things that did move about and flux were the ones in our own atmosphere.
You could not change the sky
You could not change the stars.
13.
Love is sublinear.
14.
I never thought of the seasons as equal, in length or intensity. Winter and summer were Lord and Lady, Spring and Autumn merely the trade-over of power, passing the scepter, dancing in with flowers and frost and surrendering just as quickly. The seasons seemed not so much a wheel as a top-heavy court.
But I always preferred the fleeting days of dark dreams and desire.
15.
A star was born, and the world whirled in disbelief.
Is love a cloud?
(Strange, unnatural)
Sensations of
enlightenment surging
rushing
shouting
(laughing?)
this awareness
is something more than
consciousness
it is something
more
because it is real
(artificial sunlight)
Or maybe it’s a drink
liquid, flowing
sliding down the windowpanes
into the gardens
in my eyes
(spirits or serenity)
an osteopath
pumping through my limbs
he is a contortionist of the heart
a medicine to the mind
a glow to the soul
(beats inside me)
they call it
benevolence, gusto,
inclination, deprivation,
concern,
temperament,
i call it alluring,
resplendent, sublime,
admiration, imagination,
pulchritude,
divine,
i call it love.
sooo…once again I have forgotten whether I’ve posted this before or not. I’m thinking not, I didn’t like it for a long time, but apologies if I have.
early morning sun
fresh from the cosmos factory
peeks over the hill to see
am I awake yet?
the morning quiet
seeps into my bones and settles
cool morning air breathes in
fills my soul
(let it be purified)
and suddenly everything is new
not only the sunlight day air, but
my
life hopes dreams
catapulted into my heart
suddenly achievable reachable real
i am soaring into the infinite pale early sky
i am filled to the brim
i am joyous
i am alive
(each morning is new)
(every sunrise is an epiphany)
A poem to express myself. Again, I’m bored.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Today
today, I am
Annie
the clean slate, the new beginning
I am a blank sheet
waiting for it to come
waiting for the word
written
spoken
sung
the sung word, the sing word
Annie sings, they tell me, for the morning
the new sunrise, the new dawn
the new sheet of paper
waiting to be full again
I am the daughter
the sister, the niece
friend, teacher, creator, creation
I am the girl who walks
around school with a pencil in her ear
and a book in her hand
the one who works to wake
who wakes to work
who works to feed
who feeds to live
What do I live for?
Annie lives for the dawn, they say, she
wakes for the froward ‘ante meridiem’
an aurora of light in a sea of darkness
they tell me, that she is
the escapee
who once was trapped, but now is free
Yesterday, I was
‘her’
That one, the girl there
the small one, the meek one, the one
who has nothing
left to live for
In the dark, the pit, the depression
of malice, anger, hatred, anger
the fish was trapped on all four sides
glass, walls, windows shut
there was no way out, there
was no way in
no above, no below
up down, side to side, I lay
alone, forgotten, drowned
left to die upon the sand
who thrashed alone,
upon the land
‘them, those, these, they’
‘her, she, it’
‘this, that’
‘nothing’
And today, I am
Annie, I am
the free fish, in the water
my pond, stream,
river, lake
ocean, sea
Annie the brave, Annie the strong
Annie the willing, Annie the kind
Gentle, humble,
sister, daughter,
animal, vegetable, mineral,
I got rhythm, I got music, I got soul
I’m a new woman, a new person, a new being here
Among others, I stand out
Because I am here
Home of the free, home of the brave,
home of the many, we the people
We sing together, in order to form
this perfect union, this sacred mystery
this new beginning and a new dawn
i am a new dawn
i am a new figure
i am me
Annie
And if I am all these things today,
just imagine what I could be
tomorrow
(that’s odd, the blog dies with some error like function.require when I try to post this.)
155- It’s a good poem. Expressive of a mood. Ends well. But we share the same first name, and when I read it I can only think of how it is very much not me.
I wrote my own poem to express myself.
~~~
Today, I am Annie. That girl-
you know the one-
you’ve seen her carrying the trombone everywhere-
or the epee-
or the notebook-
haven’t you?
If not, she’ll correct you.
Today, I am Annie. That girl
who goes around
trying to be perfect
save the world, separate herself
secretly just trying to belong.
She’ll deny it-
emphatically-
but it’s true.
Today, I am not Annie, that girl
dressed strangely, from another land
doesn’t have friends like we do
(don’t want you here go away point and laugh)
not normal. ostracized.
You remember her. Then.
I don’t want to.
Today, I am Anonymous.
A shape with too many points
some of them sharper than others
edges that cut like razor wire on a bad day
forty-two endings that stab like that epee, and begin again
dark shadows that wreathe around
twisting your words into their darkness
which is secretly unrelenting desire-
and whirlwind confusion-
and excuses-
and love-
and-
(you don’t really want to know, do you?)
Today, I am tetracontakaidigon.
~~~
I feel like writing more free verse here.
As it turns out, this poem seems to have been heavily inspired by She’s An Angel- They Might Be Giants. Among other songs and ideas and experiences.
~~~
Valentine
I’m not going to write you a love poem.
I said I wouldn’t. but what if I did?
how would you react? would you?
(these things happen to other people how can this be?)
I swore to myself that I wouldn’t.
These things don’t happen at all, and yet
I copy the poem. This poem. Your poem.
(how can this be? I swore I wouldn’t. we couldn’t, could we?)
I paste it into the chat room and I hit enter and I stop breathing
my heart races and I panic and the lack of response
although you realize, I didn’t actually write a poem about
how I think I might have to throw myself off a building
since you are an angel, after all
although I swore to myself that I wouldn’t do so many things
(like thinking about you or telling you that I do
or writing poems about love that are really about sex
unlike this one which is just about how I miss you)
French class,
nightmare,
I think I hate you,
but I can´t say it,
you will grade me
Lilly is flunking,
like many others,
I voluteer sometimes,
draw away your wrath,
sometimes pay the price,
but no-one thanks me
Today I’m silent,
the others stumble,
I don’t care,
serves you right,
you ignore me,
I´ll ignore you
Why are you like this,
why are you teaching,
how can you ignore we hate you,
do you hate us,
because,
it seems so
Lilly is crying,
you made her cry,
you won´t let her leave,
I never liked her,
but never hated her either,
I know I hate you,
Bell,
Homework,
don’t you know it’s weekend ?
those who ignore you pay,
I’m mad at you,
for being cruel,
at the class,
for ignoring me,
don’t you notice me,
don’t you care ?
I go downstairs,
I pace the hall,
I can´t sit still,
I try to tell you,
you hate her to,
you don’t understand,
sometimes I hate you
PE,
dodgeball,
no-one cares about me,
I don’t care about anyone,
I’m bad at dodgeball,
either the ball hurts me,
or you yell at me,
“Pass to someone who can throw !”,
which means I can’t,
And you wont let me try
But you still hit me,
hard,
Like when you broke my glasses,
or when I fell over,
but I didn’t have a concussion,
so it didn’t matter,
so sorry,
sit over there, back to the game
Today I don’t care,
we’re playing with softballs,
and I’ve stopped caring,
I’m ignoring you,
I run to the line,
grab the ball,
throw hard,
close range,
you think it’s unfair,
To bad,
you never cared
I get back somehow,
dodge and throw,
I don’t care if my aim is bad,
I don’t care,
so what if the balls are easy,
for the other team to catch,
I’ve never felt like one of you,
so what if your team loses,
I’m not part of it
Ann got to close to the line,
people throw balls at her,
I do too,
She ducks,
but mine hits her,
hard
She’s surprised,
I can see it from here,
But she can’t shoot ?,
But I did,
hard,
so what if it hurt
You never cared,
you kicked me out,
I spent a semester,
trying to hang with the cool crowd,
bought you chocolate,
did your latin homework,
then kicked me out,
I hate you
This is for all of that,
payback,
I’m not weak,
I’m biding my time,
I´ll be back,
someday you’ll regret it,
you didn’t give me a second chance,
I won’t give you one,
I’ll rise up,
leaving you in the dust,
you´ll see,
this is just the beginning
Kids from the back are handing me balls,
like they do for the good players,
today I’m the queen of dodgeball,
fear me,
serves you right,
Someone hits me,
a barely feel the ball,
go to the sidelines,
watch,
no-one talks to me,
I calm down,
to song in my head ebbs away,
But kids still give me a wide berth,
Later you ask me,
if I’m okay,
I can hear your thought,
“Does she have some sickness,
is she sane,
should I dump her,
thank god it’s the weekend”,
I’m fine,
don’t look at me like that,
it’s over,
but now you know,
I won’t let you walk all over me,
someday you’ll pay,
Ann did,
serves her right,
I’m just sad,
for the kid I used to be,
the innocent 5th grader,
a minnow in this sea of sharks,
had to be strong,
it took a lot of tears,
you were so mean.
My first attempt- it turned out weird, but I like it. It’s true, except that my glasses were broken earlier, in 3rd grade.
Daisy-Chain is in on it too, but she writes GREAT poems.
I guess our small club is going to be split up……
But thanks. That was an idea I had for awhile, but I shouldn’t have wrote it on the spot….
P.S. I CAN’T BELIEVE I (A neophyte) GOT A RESPONSE FROM A GAPA.
Possibly the HPBs brainwashed me…..
I wrote this poem a while ago, and I’ve been saving it up for Valentine’s Day for forever… Gah! I spend way too much time with thesauri! Valentine
Love.
Feel affection for.
Adore.
Worship.
Be in love with.
Be devoted to.
Care for.
Find irresistible.
Be keen on.
Esteem.
Respect.
Admire.
Be mad about.
Be passionate about.
Be stuck on.
Adoration.
Reverence.
Respect.
Devotion.
Adulation.
Veneration.
Be fond of.
Have a high opinion of.
Like.
Be partial to.
Have a weakness for.
Go for.
Fancy.
Have a thing about.
Be attracted to.
Fall for.
Fall in love with.
Be smitten by.
Be infatuated with.
Have a crush on.
Me. Please?
163–I like it. It’s cute, but sad at the same time. I’ve definitely been there.
155, 157–I like these…
(For those who might be guessing my name on the W&N thread, no cheating)
Today I am
Sarah.
It means princess
(doesn’t have to).
Maybe today Sarah means
rebel-wearing-red
or
actress-wearing-a-mask.
Maybe queen-of-the-nile-in-midnight-blue
Or grecian-muse-with-long-sleeves.
Or…maybe it means
dances-to-no-music
or laughs-for-nothing-but-the-pure-joy-of-it
Maybe “feels blessed”
or “loves life”
Who I am changes often,
but don’t blame me for being mercurial.
If Sarah means princess
there’s nothing I can do
but keep being
me.
If the only word that comes to mind is pity
then the span of confidence
goes only as far as
a broken
promise
When you think of me, it should be
Amity, not sad or weak
that comes to mind
and when I of you,
only confidence
only
love
You do not look at me as if I am a possesion
Only care over custody, each moment
when I look at the stars from
behind my barred windows
will I think of it
a tryst
emotion
will I think of
you?
161- I’m flattered! And I like your poem in 159.
_______________________________________________________
You think
you’re so cool.
Sitting
on your little
throne.
Do you remember
all the people
you stepped on
to get there?
Guess what
We’ve decided
that you’re coming down
off your high horse
the hard way.
Would you like to see
how
it feels
to be on the other end
of the
inside jokes
teasing
fake compliments
pointing
snickering
sideways glances
name-calling
cruel notes
And all the other things you do?
If that is what it takes to be popular,
Thanks, but no thanks.
I.
a ripened fruit
with bitter seed
a passenger
a traveler
slowly creeping and invading
slowly changing
to fit the taste
crusading for a people
of a pioneering race
a comfort and an aid
a taste that lingers and remains
a longing,
a filling,
and a falling
searching for what we’ve been calling
a desire we’re recalling
as he’s wandered all along
as we’ve wondered for so long
a sweetness
we’ve been dreaming
with the lyrics to a song—
a fruit of bitter seed
and a seeded mystery
yet somehow still so sweet
that the desire
turned to need.
II.
Petals gently unfurling
yet concealing what’s inside
a discreetness once so appealing
yet now so underprized
like the frost upon a pane
a glimpse of evanescence
so fleeting, causing pain
like a brilliant stroke of lightning
as it shatters darkened skies
only a glimpse, yet so delighting
as it scars into your eyes
so unlike the fragile flower
gently curving, gently shaping
ever changing,
rearranging,
as you gently close your eyes
transmitting and exchanging,
yet we always recognize
a form of beauty
once so deranging
no longer highly prized
a form of beauty
near forgotten
yet still so undefined.
III.
Breathing deep
the mind starts whirling
ever twisting ever turning
the simplest forms burning
burning across your mind
etching through the surface
like the breaths of butterflies
Everything becomes a wonder
and everything is good
an intensity desired
but still not understood
Every thought sharp and fleeting
like ink spilled across a page
forming some hidden meaning
of a long-forgotten age
music searing and pure
taste divine
and thoughts so sure
Yet fading
slowly sinking
as we awake from the inside
losing everything
until it’s no longer realized.
IV.
As we look into the wilderness
we grasp tighter our chains
longing for a freedom
yet not wanting to change
The desire for control
and absolute submission
a need for something to gaze upon
while we continue on the mission
For the perfect, the sublime
the perfect fit
and perfect rhyme
Always gaining bit by bit
as we reach into the sky
ignoring the fact
that if we simply close our eyes
it’s closer than anyone realized
Longing for control of the outside
to master what’s within
dreaming of ideals
we’ve no hope of fitting in.
___
Written last night around midnight, it steadily disintegrated. It’s for my book report (The Botany of Desire) and is supposed to represent sweetness/the apple, be cannabis auty/the tulip, intoxication/(coughtpotcough), and control/the potato (yeah… the whole “potato” part didn’t really make it in, I was practically sleeping on the keyboard at that point XD)
My second try:.
I see you-
standing there,
next to a pile of leaves
You would like to kick them up,
watch them fly,
dance in the wind,
But you pull in your head,
hunch your shoulders,
walk on,
You don’t want to anger anyone,
blend in,
one in a crowd,
You would like to chase them,
laugh, run,
be a kid,
But you have somewhere you should be,
don’t be late,
be normal,
If you were to kick up the leaves,
people would notice you,
you´d stand out,
You could be different,
but crowds are safer,
people don’t like strangers,
Once, long ago,
you would have kicked up the leaves,
but you’re older now,
You won’t kick up the leaves-
I run over,
I’ll help you
They’re beautiful on the wind,
you turn to watch,
and smile,
The park gardener comes over,
Rebellion is forbidden,
Kids these days…
You turn,
walk away,
fickle,
It reminds me of “Spirit”,
if the indian hadn’t showed up,
what would have happened to him ?
People won’t answer that question,
it´s a movie for little kids !
Not everything has a moral,
I disagree,
Morals are nice,
but the truth is better,
Does that mean we’re telling kids to wait,
for someone,
who won´t come ?
Liberty, freedom,
brother and sisterhood-
just make sure you fit into a good stereotype
And when the kids get older,
they get real,
and fit in somewhere
Or they rebel,
and get hammered,
like me,
i just wanted to see the leaves float,
on the chilly air,
splotches of color, of hope
But few people can see the leaves,
I can,
Can you ?
And even less people would kick them up,
and take the punishment,
You wouldn’t
I did,
but,
I can´t do it forever,
if no-one helps me,
I can’t keep going alone,
I´ll forget the leaves,
but,
If you see leaves,
kick them up,
remember me,
I won’t forget you
Not seasonal, but I´m thinking of fall lately. I can’t write poems that rhyme- mine all look like this. Did anyone read 158 ? I don’t show my poems to anyone I know outside the net so I get no feedback… They’re fun to write, but I’m not sure about the quality.
169- 158 was… amazing. I absolutely empathize. I’m still reeling.
___________________________________________________________
The Shadow on the Wall
Unspoken words are my domain
Hidden thoughts, forgotten hopes and dreams
The wallflower in the background
Not a word out of place, not an action unfitting
Perfect grades, unremarkable personality
Eternally hovering in the background,
Others barely aware I am there.
I am
the shadow on the wall
I am
the echo of your footsteps
I am
an extra reflection
in the mirror
I am
the box under your bed
the shirt you decided you didn’t like
the shoes you never wear
Unregarded
Overlooked
Forgotten
Outgrown
Unnoticed
Ignored
Unseen
Disregarded
Dismissed,
as a figment of your imagination
This is a little parody of both my cat and the poem that begins “The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold.” You know which one I mean, right?
The Kitty comes down like a Wolf on the fold,
And her short fur is gleaming in Black, it is told,
And the sheen of her claws is like stars on the sea
As she chases down Something (I hope it’s not me.)
Like forest’s leaves when summer’s head turns them yellow,
Her eyes with pupils wide focus (they aren’t mellow):
Like forest’s trees when Winter heaps them with Snow,
Her claws on the quick Hunt away now do go.
For the Angel of Cats spreads his wings on the blast,
And breathes on her black, shining Paws as they pass;
And the eyes on her face (where, would else would they be?)
Are a most fearsome sight for her doomed Prey to see.
And there lies the Mouse with his nostril all wide,
But through it there rolls not the breath of his pride,
As she brings in her Prize (“Oh, Minerva, ugh!
NO! Don’t you dare put that thing on the rug!â€)
And there lies the Mouse all distorted and pale,
With the Blood on his brow, and the Blood on his tail,
She drops him on the doorstep, on the welcome mat.
(Well, visitors sure will be pleased to see that.)
And the poor Mousie’s widow is loud in her wail,
And to escape from Cat she shall soon too fail.
Well, even though it costs much more than a dollar,
Cat really needs to get a Bell on her collar.
As some may have noticed, I’ve taken a leave of absence for the thread. This because of the assignment I got from my English teacher: to write four vignettes (story poems) about my life. Since nobody ever visits the short stories thread, and these are more poems than stories, I figure I should post them here. Comments?
1. Red Van
The first car I rode in was our family van. Family car, big and bright, parked there in our driveway under the sun and under the midnight sky decorated with stars. Red and bright, the color of a shiny new apple, big wheels like black licorice snaps. It was a new car, to go with our new house, new children, new life.
Come on, says Dad, we’re taking a trip. Mom puts her cool hand in mine, swinging me up into a seat that smelled like plastic. I leaned back, closing my eyes, taking in the good smell and car seats, sweet sunshine. Brother sits next to me, doing the same. Bobby and I, Mom and Dad, enjoying our car ride. We went to the park, the grocery, the ice cream shop, and then just away. Away from the town to the open road.
Driving to me seemed like flying, soaring along the road without wings. All this time, I think, I have been attached to this ground, the floor of the earth, and look at me now. Now, I am high in the sky. The seats are gone, the red doors vanish, and I am gliding across the blue heavens, evaporating into the calm sheets of cloud. I am somewhere completely different, detached from my body, alone in a world above my own. I had discovered freedom in a car ride.
The red van is gone now, sold away, to another little girl who is flying somewhere above. But I can still feel the carpet seats against my cheek, warmed by the sun. I see the glint of light against paint. I feel the soaring sensation in the pit of my stomach, in the tips of my fingers and all around me. I remember it all.
That red van, taking me everywhere,
Everywhere and nowhere.
2. Bizu’s Roses
Miss Laura lives across the street in a red brick house with a white picket fence all around. I can reach her house fast: hop, skip jump. Always, she is in the garden, trowel in her hand, hand in her gloves, her little pug at her side whose name is Bizu. They will be by the roses.
“Come inside,†she gestures, opening the gate. “Come into my garden and see what beauty has been spun this morning.†And they are everywhere, flowers, bushes, trees, everywhere I turned. Woven, crocheted, stitched along the brick walls and the white pickets by the careful hands of morning. But my eyes are only for the roses.
Roses are red, as the saying goes, red of love and promise. The roses lived under the sweet summer sun, with petals that blossomed outward like a dancer’s skirts at the touch of a bead of water. They reminded me of blushing brides, lifting their veils when the sun rose, settling them back when the sky grew black. For every moment of love they received, they gave it back. “A fortunate reward,†she tells me, and Bizu barks.
They are his roses, after all, Bizu’s roses, blooming in the sun all afternoon. He stuffs his black button nose into the flower, and breathes as deep as he can, filling his little lungs with the sweet scent. Laura plucks one from the fence, shears thorns from the thick stem, she places it in my palm. I lay in the grass, parallel to the earth and breathe in and out the sweet scent of love and promise.
3. Oscoda
Can you see it? Over there, beyond reeds that wave in the cool evening breeze, across the stretch of sand? There it is, glistening as blue as the heart of a sapphire, the water lapping along the shore of the seafront, shimmering in the late afternoon sun. That is where Oscoda begins.
You can see it from the balcony, a littoral paradise of coast and white sands. You can glimpse it from the parking lot when you first walk in, from the windows when you drop your suitcases and run back out the door, along the rows of condos. Then, you round a corner, and it is there! In full view, there is Lake Huron, calling you from down the footpath, beyond the reeds and into the evening sunshine. The ground kicks up behind you in the mad dash to reach the seaside before the sunset. People at the campfires lighting their driftwood with a match stare at you, watching you disappear into the horizon. Everything is a blur except the breakers, growing closer and closer, and your feet are damp beneath the cloth of your shoes. Suddenly, the crashing meets your ears and you are there, falling through the blue with euphoria, embracing the waves.
After you have soaked your new clothes to the bone and lain like a fish upon the wet sand, your feet return you to the upper beach, leading you away from the shore. At the campfire, the family welcomes you, bringing you into their arms with blankets and marshmallows, talking of tomorrow. Tomorrow, you know, belongs to the water. The stars glisten as they hang up along the azure sky, crowding around the moon, lighting the beach down the path, reflected on the black waves like a mirror.
Every day you spend at the beach, building castles, swimming out to the furthest sand bar, or simply lying there on a towel, holding the sands to you as the sun warms you back and front. You scope every inch of the coast, finding hidden treasure in a crayfish claw, a shell the size of your palm and another one the width of your pinkie finger, and traveling up the small rivers alongside schools of fish. It is so enjoyable that you can hardly bring yourself back to the condo every night, and every day seems to last only a minute.
You reach the last day of your journey with trepidation, trying to make the seconds last a lifetime. When the sun is falling behind the horizon, you gather up your things and begin to walk. People like pinpricks far away call to you, waving you back. You stare at the beach. The water calls your name with every rise and fall, beckoning you, not wanting you to leave. Everything you know tells you not to go back, but you turn around one last time to face the waves. “Until we meet again,†you whisper, and then you walk away. Before you leave, you gather a handful of sand into a glass vial, so that you might always carry a piece of Oscoda with you.
Can you see it? Over there, beyond reeds that wave in the cool evening breeze, across the stretch of sand? That is Oscoda, the land of wonder and new surprises. It is your haven. It is calling you back.
4. Lone Duck
In my grandmother’s yard sat a statue of a duck among the tall grass. The duck was pure white, with a bright orange beak, beautiful to look at, but with no mate. Every season that changed meant a new outfit for the statue; one day it was a pirate, the next it had donned a yellow raincoat. I thought the duck was alive, petting it, riding it like a horse, talking to it and holding tea parties with it when the posies and lilacs were in bloom. Even when the sky grew cold and snow blanketed the earth, it would remain sentinel outside the winter, coated and freezing to death among the dead grasses. He never moved, no matter what the circumstances.
Imagine what it would be like, to stay in one place for your whole life long. Imagine how frustrating, to never move away from one place, nothing to do, nowhere to go, nobody to see or speak to or to call your constant companion. What if the only safeguard you had was your mind? Duck seldom replied to these questions, just sat and let me change his overalls. Somehow, though, when I looked into his painted eyes, I saw the longing for the freedom that should have been.
When Grammy died, everything was divided. The possessions and objects left with family and close friends. We moved to the house. It was then that I noticed an empty patch near the grass under the window. In the place that Duck had sat his whole life long was a space of upturned dirt.
“Mommy,†I asked, “where’s the ducky?â€
“He’s gone away, honey.â€
But I smiled to myself, for I knew the truth. As all birds must do, my dormant friend had finally flown away.
THE BALLAD OF THE LADY LEANNE. (Not meant to be offensive!)
Oh, the Lady Leanne woke up one summer day
And she cried to her maid-girl, “Come dress me!
If I do not look good, then I fear I shall die!
And if I did, no one would miss me!â€
Well the maidservant girl wouldn’t miss her either,
But she sighed and she bit her sweet tongue.
She walked up to her mistress. “What dress would you like?â€
And the lady did burst into song:
“Something bright! Something drab! Something green! Something red!
I don’t care, so long as it looks good!
Just make sure it’s big enough I can fit inside!
I am… plump! It’s ‘cause of motherhood!â€
Well, the lady was fat, but she had had no kids-
It’s the donuts that had done her in.
If she’d eaten less cakes, pies, chocolate, and sweets,
She might have been a bit more thin.
When the Lady was dressed, she went to the dining hall,
But she got stuck in the widest door.
When she fought her way free, she sat at the table,
But her poor chair couldn’t take any more.
It collapsed under her, so she sat on a bench,
And she cried, “People, where is my food?
I don’t care if it’s healthy-it could even be poisonous!
Just make sure that the frosting tastes good!â€
And she ate and she ate and she ate and she ate,
And they feared, for bare was the pantry shelf.
So when the food ran out, ‘twas but one thing to do:
The lady started eating herself.
She nibbled her fingers, then munched on her feet,
First her heels, then her arches and toes,
Then her legs, then her chest, then her hands and her arms.
She finished with a dessert of nose.
Of course, in the end, she died. No one was sad.
They pulled her off the bench with a plunger.
Did she die of gluttony, of huge overeating?
Nah. The Lady Leanne died of hunger.
17- Gaiman wrote a Death? I thought that was Pratchett’s thing…
The following is something I sent to my best friend who moved to Illinois a few years ago on her birthday.
Fate is a thing of certain curiosity,
It helps us when we need that help.
But also, suddenly, at an extreme velocity,
It changes lives in ways that make us yelp.
My life has changed because I knew you.
This wicked phrase is very wise indeed.
For it is my fate that has led me to you,
And it is my fate you will slowly bead.
Each bead, it represents a moment,
A moment small and unimportant in my life.
But if the bigger beads are pretty I shall have a life of honor,
And otherwise, a life of toil and strife.
Do not thread all the string with big ones,
I don’t need all that much, you know.
Just make sure only one bad bead is on there,
And all the rest can make up my life’s show.
And when you sense the string is slowly ending,
Stop putting beads there for one day.
Come morning you will see the string has doubled,
The old half now made out of hay.
Do not be frightened, I have not gone crazy,
In thinking strings of beads are truly there.
I think about them when I think of you,
Just wishing that you still lived here.
Also, I wrote that about two years ago, so please don’t be too harsh on it.
1. If I were to look down on the world from afar,
what would I see?
At first I look only into the blue
Swirling, dashing around me
I reach the green, trees and fauna, beautiful
Then, I reach humanity
I see only the color
red.
2. Some say that to be alone is to be lonely.
I think of it only as a blessed silence.
3. The real horror of life
is only that people find ways to destroy it.
Once it was, “Why do we have to die?”
Soon it will be,
“Why is there nothing left to kill?”
4. I do not need to wonder what it feels like to be an ant, because I already know.
5. Today, I saw an old bridge fall in upon itself.
The wood simply collapsed at the center,
leaving nothing to me but torn sides,
while the rest flowed away down the river.
When society has betrayed itself
a simple pleasure that
becomes a torrid routine,
will it fold?
When I give in to age,
will the waves take me,
too?
6. if the world could talk back, it would.
7. Amazed at how much time I spend
contemplating trivial problems,
I stayed out at night to see the stars
and figured out that
they hold the answers to all questions.
Then, I thought,
What if I couldn’t see them?
8. Too much we take for granted,
food and clothes, yes, but also
other faces to look at
ground to walk on,
words,
a chair,
shoulders and time to cry.
9. As we look on, every day, we watch people around us pass by, and in one pass may change the course of our entire lives. Every person that passes me makes a change somewhere, if not in my life, in that of someone else. People I know, people I don’t care to know, people that I want to speak to, but am too afraid…
Is fear the reason why? Is the world passing unnoticed before our eyes, because we are afraid to look?
10. At one time, people thought that love could cure all things. Now, we believe in hate.
11. I was created here on this earth, and here I will expire. It has always been this way, and we all know it. My grandfather always told me that the last thing he hoped to see was a green meadow under the sunset, and he did. This alone was interesting, that there was beauty at the end.
On my last day, I hope only that that the ground will still be green.
12. Comic relief comes only once in a while,
and when it does,
I take the opportunity to laugh.
13. If I were to look down on the world from afar,
what would I see?
I find one face from many, grieving, another smiling, a song upon the air like a distant cloud, spreading the air of change like the wildfire of dawn. I see your face.
Will you see me?
I did this one for school, about some thoughts I actually had:.
SPINNING
I stood at the edge of my lawn.
Near the evergreens, by the fence.
A few clouds floated on the horizon.
The gibbous moon hung
In the darkening sky.
Soon, the sun would disappear.
Because the Earth was turning.
Spinning to the east.
Spinning into the night.
As Australia spun into the day.
The Earth is ever-spinning on its axis.
(Like a top)
And the Moon is spinning ’round the Earth.
And the Earth is spinning ’round the Sun.
And the Sun is slowly spinning ’round the Galactic Core.
(Where the black hole lurks)
And our Galaxy itself is slowly spinning towards Andromeda.
And so, I took off running across the lawn.
For if I’m always spinning-
Why stand still?
184– I LOVED the ending of your poem!!!!! I end a lot of my poems in questions.
I REMEMBER A DAY
I remember a day
where no one cared
although I can’t
remember
for I wasn’t there.
MEMORY
The memory
slips from my unyielding
grasp
and disappears
into thin air
It is gone
Wisps of it still
remain
Like the faint image
on a half-shaken Etch-a-Sketch
I sit on my bed
It is gone, bye bye
The memory is fading
like the last droplets of light
as the sun sets.
Last November
I finally showed my initiative
Brought the old Muse to the computer
Typed in the web address
And took in the picture
And the strange title
As they blinked onto the screen.
I saw the little names
so I clicked on one that looked nice.
Incredible Morphing Chameleon Thread.
Sounded good.
Scrolled down
Looking at the comments absentmindedly
Came to a comment box.
Name
Email
Comment
Three blocks of white
For me to type in.
I glanced around wildly for a name
My mind was a blank slate.
I randomly typed in Go Bananas
Added exclamation points for good measure.
Typed in my email
Looked at the comment above mine.
What type of kung fu are we talking about?
Typed in, i dunno. What ARE we talking about?
With perfect grammar and spelling.
Clicked “submit.”
Then,
Posted haphazardly and randomly
On a few threads
Went to bed.
Kept coming on
Ever so often
Acting terribly immature.
My visits grew.
Found I could go on school computers.
So I used that.
Then,
When we did our element projects,
I found myself wishing terribly
To get zinc, my name.
I didn’t.
Then,
Over the summer,
Had lots of free time.
Went on more.
Became addicted.
Became more mature.
Those were MuseBlog’s glory days
In my opinion.
No annoying neophytes.
The ‘phytes that were there
Quickly adjusted to the blogisphere
And became old friends.
Then,
Had to go away for days on end.
Found myself staying up late
RPGing to myself.
Went on any way I could.
Talked about it constantly
To confused friends and relatives.
Summer started dying away.
Some MuseBloggers
Went to school.
Then,
I went to middle school.
Like a tornado,
Flipped me over
Danced me through the air
Discombobulated me
Slapped me repeatedly.
Was still addicted.
Tried to.
The tornado left
Fell quickly into the rhythm
Lost friends
Made friends
Slipped away
From my former addiction.
Still believed
Tried to get on.
Couldn’t.
Wept.
Was I losing myself?
Then
Self-doubt came.
I’m no more than average.
I’m not special.
I’m not that smart.
Didn’t go on
For days at a time.
Did other things
Became more normal.
A thought desparately ran around in my head. Once a muser, always a muser.
Once a muser, always a muser.
But what if that wasn’t true?
What would I be then?
So now I sit at this computer
Typing myself out.
Have a headache.
Indesicion
Should I really post this?
Would it offend my friends?
I type in my name
My email
Think of more then a year ago
When I first did this.
I cried out in my sleep last night.
A name I didn’t know.
I shouldn’t worry.
I dreamt of you last night.
A face lost to flames,
A life lost to love,
I shouldn’t worry.
It won’t happen.
Not to you.
I went walking.
Heard a sound,
A call.
The police.
Your daughter.
I worry
It could happen
To you.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A slivery frost
Began to set in
Slipping the skaters
On silver white ice.
The yellow rain pours
A meteor shower
Dusting the ground
In metallic gold snow.
The diamonds they fell
Like stars from above
Which fall only once
In the blink of an eye.
186– I was so smitten by your poem that I printed it out and shared it with my class because we are working on a poetry unit right now. (I hope you don’t mind!) My class was, to put it lightly, awe-struck by it.
192– Thank you.
SKIPPING STONE
I cast a
skipping stone
across the pond
and felt it leave
my grip as it flew
into the water.
I stared after it,
waiting, watching,
for it had flown so effortlessly
(and I was only five),
that I expected it
to
float.
I like you nails. Long and pretty, like my mother’s.
Is that real hair?
Yes.
Can I braid it for you?
Sure.
Ouch! She’s gone through two cornrows. Two.
Where do you live again?
Detroit.
Which suburb?
I don’t. Just Detroit.
Kensington?
No.
Reichstown?
No, I live in the city. Detroit. Right in the middle.
But, you’re white.
So? Yes, I’m white, and I live there. What is your point?
Nothing, never mind.
You don’t have a television? No T.V.? How do you live?
I just do, I guess.
No cell phone?
No, I don’t, now stop asking me.
Silent.
Really?
Yes! I do. If you want, I will show you. I’ll take you with me someday. I’ll introduce you to Bobby and Jamie and Caroline and Susan and Christen. I’ll show you my house, where my mother sits among the grass and posies and waits for me to get off the bus that shakes down the corners. You can stay, and write with me, talk and laugh and live for a day with me. Sit and eat cantaloupe and listen to the Tigers hit their runs into the parking lot. Someday I’ll show you. If you’ll come with me. I will.
I promise.
193- Of course I don’t mind! I’m very flattered… *huggles* You’ve made my day!
I like ‘Skipping Stones’… very ponderous and it makes me feel all bubbly inside.
I won’t post all of my poems, since I’m paranoid of theft, but I can post the chorus to what I think is my best.
And someday
All will be the same
Do not despair
Over what you cannot change.
Basically, the whole song is a “Don’t give up hope, everything will be fine” thing. It actually is a song, my sister wrote a tune for it.
Other poems:
Word-a-Day poem:
Word of the day: subintelligitur: Something that is not stated but understood.
My father sits, holding a letter.
He looks up at me and says
“Your grandfather…” He can say no more.
That is all right. I understand.
Never again shall I see Grampa.
Subintelligitur.
I was going to write more verses, but I couldn’t think of them.
197- Thank you for reminding me, I need to write my word of the day poems again.
Word of the Day, Dictionary.com: ululate
My eyes are open
yet all I see in front of me is tinted glass
My life passes before me at a sprint
(although it goes away from sight)
the memory runs like film
dissolving, fading, splinters in the light
(life is a journey, come to pass)
I take what comes to me, in turn
I give it back
when the label reads overdue
and I am left alone
with nothing, the though of which
I weep and rue
(sighing, crying, dying)
in my house
that I built of these lies and wishes
hopes and dreams
fade like mist upon the lake
(dialate, ululate, pixelate)
all my time is spent
for give and take
at last, the only thing
left to return
is conscious thought
(and pass it does)
My heat is a kite that soars in the breeze
Flying and flipping wherever it please
Then you came along, and tugged on the string
And that has changed the motion of everything.
Holding out? Not for anyone, and sure ain’t you.
I’m tired of being so misinformed, trying to conform to the norm of your dying days
These ways of sin and moral despute, prostitute this earth already so destitute. Esculate your production trying to manipulate this fate filled with innate hate I’m not irate trying to incenerate your estate, you trying to procreate your rage.
Rage? You have never seen so much rage turning bones black with soot from all your twisted figures.
So don’t try to make me yearn
for your dirty cigerette burn.
I should read this thread more often.
A few weeks ago I was quite moody and I was actually driven to the extremes of writing something with a meter, how amazing is that? And it rhymed, that’s unusual for me. In any case, it was something to do to prevent myself form going loony from depression, but I think it’ll stay in the notes folder of my phone, it’s not even comparable to what you all can write. *sigh*
I was really bored one day and Cinderella was on the brain… this is what turned out:
Poor Cinders-Ella was feeling quite down
For she’d heard that a bright royal ball was in town,
And whispers abounded, in earth and in air,
That handsome Prince Charming would also be there.
But Cindy’s dark stepmother (stepsisters too)
Had said, “No way, Cinders! We say that you
Must scrub pots, and wash pans, and do all our hair,
And fix all our makeup, and take special care
To sew all our dresses.” That’s what they said,
Though poor Cinders-Ella would rather be dead.
On the night of the great ball, they left her alone,
And Cinders curled up on a blank gray stone,
And with full abandon, she began to cry-
But! Down from the heavens and down from the sky
Her fair fairy godmother gracefully flew,
And said, “Oh dear! Cindy! Why are you blue?
No matter what happens, come one and come all,
I’m a fairy-and you will go to the ball!
A coach of a pumpkin, some coachmen of rats,
A dress, some fine jewellry, and pretty hats,
I will make from magic! You see, Cinders dear,
There’s no cause to fret, and there’s no cause to fear.
But at the stroke of twelve, away you must be,
For all your fine things will come straight back to me.”
She gave what she promised, gave one and gave all,
And so Cinders-Ella did go to the ball.
She danced with the prince ’bout nine times (maybe ten),
‘Twas so divine she thought she was in heaven.
While nine! ten! eleven! the big clock ticked on,
And poor Cindy’s dance time was almost all gone.
When the first strokes began, she gave a scream of fright,
For time had ticked away, and it was midnight!
She had to get back home before her stepsisters,
Though her dainty feet would be covered with blisters.
One glass slipper she left, twinkling in the light,
As she fled away from the ball, to the night.
The prince began his frantic search the next day
To find the pretty lady who’d run away.
And at last he came to Cinder-Ella’s house,
But tripped and fell on a scurrying coach-mouse.
Cinders came to his side, he looked up and kissed her,
And ever since he’s been Cinderella, Mr.
will you wonder?
will you stop to taste
my lips pursed tight,
you try to soften.
you- confused
me- determined
the wholesome feeling of your soul in my hand
I antagonize you
Why?
you wonder at the light from my eyes
Far from home
A lost soul wanders
Afraid
Scared of what lies ahead
Hoping
Dreaming
That one day
He might return home
To find what he knows and loves
Until then he wanders
Ever searching
Ever hoping
Ever dreaming
213- THAT WAS AMAZING!! You’re a great poet, Crazy Titan Nerd!!
River
Twists, turns
Gracefully winds
Through the valley of forests
Trees sway with the breeze
Their fruit excellent
Yet, something is wrong
There is no-one there
Not a single living thing, other than the trees.
No-one to enjoy this Eden, or share it with another
But hark!
Here comes the traveler
The nomad returns
To whence from he came
He returns, joyous
To live peacefully
Evermore
(In case you are wondering, this could be the same guy as in the other poem, or someone different. You decide for yourself.)
Honey if you say you love me
Here’s what you must do:
Go and find the evil forest
By the river blue
Spare the monster, light the fire,
Never go away
Find the palace of the night and
Palace of the day
Wait until the clock strikes midnight
Leave the shoe behind
Chase the girl who ran off limping
See what you can find
Go and see the witch’s castle
It’s not ten leagues hence
Walk right past the row of skulls that
Line her gruesome fence
Do not eat the food that’s lying
On the witch’s table
Sing if you have voice enough
Dance if you are able
Then when evil stepmothers
Cast their wicked spells
Sing about your own true love
Ignore their magic bells
Honey if you say you love me
You must never fail
Leave the princess in the tower-
Write the fairy tale.
217 – I love that! You did really interesting things with fairy tales. I try to have different takes on poems I write, but I can’t write in rhyme very well.
Persephone
Thank you, mother, for these
chains of innocence,
these flowers and immortality
that tie me to your earth.
What use are daisies in my
footsteps? In my uncle’s world,
I am heiress to a throne I’ll never claim.
So when the ground splits along my
petaled path,
I’ll scream and lurch and slip
three
ruby
seeds
into my pocket.
This girl needs a place
where she can grow.
I think this is one of my better poems. I wrote it back in December, and I’ve edited it to the point where I just can’t think about it anymore, or evaluate how much I like it as a poem. What do you all think of it?
(217) It reminds me of W. H. Auden’s poem “Lady Weeping at the Crossroads.” Do you know it? It begins like this: “Lady, weeping at the crossroads,/ Would you meet your love/ In twilight with his greyhounds,/ And the hawk upon his glove?”
214- *is flattered* Thanks… I like yours too.
217- Ooh, I like it. It is wonderful!
218- I like it! Persephone was always one of my favorite goddesses.
.
How is it that you can see
Exactly what is inside me
But every time you look at him
It’s like you don’t even see them
And I so hate being invisible
What I am is not able
To conform to your
Ideals of the perfect friend
So away with you
And your perfect boy
I can see he
Is is more valuable than me
But a long time from now
When you are all alone
You will regret choosing him
Flash back to a little girl
Looking out the kitchen window
At a car driving slowly away
“Mommy, where did Daddy go?”
You will come back after
He has broken you heart
Begging to be taken back
And guess what I will say
——————————————
ok the beginning was rhyming but then it stopped kinda. oops
Silence is Golden
Or so they say
But She is not in any way
Golden shines in warmth as bright as day
Gleaming beams and golden rays
But Silence is death and in Her way
Mysterious, clouded, dark and gray
Silence is Golden
Many assume
But Golden owns a sunny room
With bright lively flowers burst in bloom
But Silence, she is an eerie gloom
Her realm dark and full of doom
Lonely as a haunted tomb
Silence is Golden
It is a lie
Golden owns the sunny skies
Yet Silence is when all sound dies
Departing in silent goodbyes
Dry your tears, wipe your eyes
In Silence there is not a cry
Silence is Golden
Or so it seems
But Golden gleams
And glows and beams
Golden Silence is but an empty dream
Fading away with muted screams
ok i wrote this. it’s not that good.
______________________________
THE DAY
beeping alarm
blinking eyes
bright light
groan
roll over
stomp downstairs
chew
rummage
pack lunch
crap, track today
forget coat
run inside
y = m x + b
dodecahedrons?
African wars
geography
motion???
waves
walk
glorious outdoors
german
viel gluck?
lunch
chew again
dodgeball
OW! to the head
bag of ice
pronoun
aardvark
bell
gym locker
running
pole vault
shower
call Mom
see ya coach
home
dinner
chew, chew
homework
x = ?
bibliophile?
soft quilt
good book
drifting off
sleep
repeat
_______________________
i wrote this for my adopted sister.
i have a family now
one that understands
how comforting they are
the old one just got thrown away
a pair of worn out shoes
tossed into the back of a closet
when ever someone brings
up the old one
it’s like a stab in the back
it sounds like nails on a chalk board
feels like i’m falling
into a bigger pit of dispair
then i look at my new dad
and see his love for me
in his eyes and on his face
how could i ever fall again
into my old life
if he is there to catch me
I thought that I could count on you
I thought we had something more.
I hated to make you choose
Choose you did, and I
Shall live by it,
Though yet hope dwells in me-
Perhaps you’ll change your mind.
I won’t burden you with my hurt.
I never told you how I felt
I thought I’d made it clear.
Through subtle hints
And smiling looks
I thought you’d understand.
I hope you will be happy
You two are a good match.
Yet still I can’t help wishing
You’d picked a different path.
Perhaps we’d be content, or
Mayhaps you’d not be satisfied
Maybe I’m not good enough
This can’t be worth the angst.
But angst I do, and angst I will
Until you make your choice.
225) I love that poem. Everyone here writes so good poetry. I just try and do my best… Yes, I’m very depressive today. French homework will do that to you.
Operator
I want to go home.
That home no longer exists.
I want to talk to my friend.
She lives far away and doesn’t write. She’s probably already forgotten about you.
I want to talk to somebody.
Nobody wants to talk to you.
I want to scream.
No-one will hear you.
I want to go running.
Just remember that after you´re done, you have to come back and do your homework.
I want to run away.
You have no-where to go. You can run, but you can’t hide.
I want to give up.
You can’t. And remember, you’re smart and have a perfect life. The only problem is you.
“Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
did gyre and gimble in the wabe
All mimsy were the borogroves
and the momeraths outgrabe
Beware the jabberwok, my son…”
– The Jabberwokee , Lewis Carrol
It’s too bad I can’t remember the rest of that poem. It’s a real good one.
(227) That is a long-time MuseBlog favorite, first posted back in 2006. Note the correct spelling is “Jabberwocky” and those are “borogoves” — no “r” after the “g.”
It’s a GAPA favorite, too. We can still recite it by heart.
There’s a lovely science-fiction story called “Mimsy Were the Borogoves,” which “Lewis Padgett” (a pseudonym for Henry Kuttner and his wife C. L. Moore) published in 1943. It’s not online but is widely anthologized and worth finding. A few years ago it was loosely adapted into a vastly inferior movie called “The Last Mimzy.”
Alice, did you catch the many Lewis Carroll references in Little, Big?
I publicly performed the first song written my band [snip] It was recorded, and there’s a video of it on you tube with some stuff with the band members afterward. [snip]
(You can let the name of the band go, right GAPAs?)
[Sorry, Bluefire27, but that’s just too much identifying/potential contact information. Sounds exciting, though! Congratulations! –Rebecca]
233- My sister watched The Last Mimzy about a thousand times. I got so sick of that movie.
I caught a few Lewis Carroll references. Not many. But then, a great deal of the book went over my head anyways. I’m going to reread it many times in the future, I’m sure, and I’ll probably make more and more connections as time goes on. When I read it I spent a lot of the time struggling to understand what was going on, so a lot of the details skimmed right past me, thus making it more difficult to understand, since sometimes these details were important, so I had to go back and reread huge chunks.
That was an amazing book, though.
235- I agree. It got too annoying after two watches.
I have just discovered the most amazing videos on youtube. If you have a short and hyperactive attention span, and/or are a Pirates of the Caribbean or LOTR fan (which I know pretty much everyone is), search these three videos:
Why is the Rum Gone? – Remix
I’ve Got A Jar of Dirt Remix Video
Taking the hobbits to Isengard
These are some of the most hilarious mashups that I’ve ever seen in my life. I laughed the entire time. The middle of each is really the best part. “Why Is The Rum Gone?” is probably my favorite. W
When you cry, you smile.
When you smile, you laugh.
When you laugh, you love.
When you love, you cry.
~
Heartbreak
isn’t the easiest thing.
To achieve it,
you must find someone who makes you laugh
And love them
with all your heart
Then
You must lose that light
and spiral down
down
down.
You may not
laugh
see light in anything
or get over it.
It’s always there
in the back of you mind
Until you find someone else.
.239- 240- Ooh, I like the songs! I’ll love to hear them.
———————————————————————-
THE END
In a world fastened to the ground
People only care to look around
So there was a thing they forgot how to do
And of that only one old man knew
“We forgot.” He whispered with tearful eyes
A boy thought then gasped in surprise
“The sky, we forgot the sky!”
The boy uttered a startled cry
And with the old man’s quiet sighs
To the heavens he raised his eyes
But when he had fully tilted his head
What he saw filled him with dread
And he sadly had to accept his fate
For when he saw it was too late
Something that can kill with its blast:
An asteroid coming, dangerously fast
“Why didn’t you say!” the man he screamed upon
But when he looked down he saw that he was gone…
————————————————————————-
QUESTIONS
Why is the Earth no more?
Torn apart by the anguish of war
Why are the trees all gone?
Disappearing like the fading dawn
Why is life so cruel and dark?
Shimmer of tears the only spark
What have we done to our home?
When Earth fade then where should we roam?
Oh, just why did we force Earth to die?
Fading without the slightest goodbye
So now I collaspe on the floor to cry
Why? Our Earth, oh why?
One of my favorite poems, by John Magee. It’s semi-famous, so I don’t know if it’s been posted here before, but here goes nothing:
High Flight
Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds – and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of – wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov’ring there
I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air.
Up, up the long delirious, burning blue,
I’ve topped the windswept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or even eagle flew –
And, while with silent lifting mind I’ve trod
The high untresspassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand and touched the face of God.
241- *Awe* You are amazing, CTN. Your poem inspired this:
It once was beautiful, this place
But now you’ll see few a living face.
The trees are charred,
The land is scarred;
That’s all that’s left of the human race.
We were too proud, and would not see
Our madness in its entirety.
We built and burnt,
But never learnt;
Now all that’s left is you and me.
Now all that’s left is you and me.
But do not weep for the waning moon
For what is lost may yet return.
‘Cause Mother Nature has her ways
Of making sure that what is wanted – stays;
Our world, mayhaps, will come back soon.
242: Wow! That sounds a lot like Shel Silverstein in the rhythm and style.
I had a flash of something a second ago… ooh!
If you`d be my honey sweet,
Find nectar divine I`ll eat.
If you`d be apple of my eye,
Pluck silver starlight from the sky,
The scent from flowers, green from leaf,
Dancers hoofed from purple heath.
From bedrooms steal children`s sweet dreams.
From heavens snatch silver moonbeams.
Steal the shudder of a gong.
Steal the music from a song.
The joy of doe that`s wild and free,
When your love throws out your children with scorn
Won’t you feel pain in your heart?
Won’t you feel life being torn apart?
The ‘rip’ of a sad motherly heart being torn
Silently grieving over godly children newborn
If your husband hated your children because they look poor
Won’t your your tears trickle?
Won’t you give your child a sickle?
And tell him to pounce on his father with a fierce roar
And free his brothers locked behind the darkest doors
Gaea, Mother Earth, was forced to choose
Either her children or her husband she’ll lose
Oh Gaea, Mother Earth, dear goddess so poor
Must you face the universes’ worldly horrors?
————————————————————————–
Whee! That’s the first poem I’ve made without making a draft!
I’m writing your dreams on the walls
(paper is overrated)
You’ll never get them back
(they’re mine now)
Spiteful
(I’ll laugh in your face)
Bitter
(I can’t forgive you)
My tears have run dry
(tears are for the weak)
So I’ll laugh
(the laugh of a madman)
I’ve got nothing
(nothing to lose.)
Connections
If you hold someone’s hand
You are connected
If you play with a
puzzle
Until the image is blurry
You are connected
If you sing with your
best friend
And no one else is
there to hear you
You are connected
And the little children
who hold hands
and play with puzzles
and sing with their
best friend
Don’t know it yet
But they are
connected
––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––
Playing with the concept of a love poem. It’s possible to have an anti-love poem, I suppose?
If all the world were dead, and all men gone
But one, solitary, standing there alone,
And all the women taken to the grave
But me, without a single frind to have–
If I should find him, and he find me too,
I’d pray to God that man would not be you.
If death came swiftly on a horse of bone,
And in my bed I lay, without a home,
And but one thing could save me, but one drink
From springs immortal, then one thing I’d think:
If but one hero how to go there knew,
I’d pray to God that man would not be you.
That’s all I’ve got at the moment, but it’s a lot of fun to write. I’ll probably continue.
There is something in a difference
That I can’t grasp
Clasped between right and wrong
A taste, a sight
A smell, a song
If keys had the same texture as locks
Cotton as feathers, and linen and flax
Then stone and steel would be as water
Flowing, racing
Timing, pacing
Seeping in between their cracks
If pictures really were a thousand
Softly spoken phrases
Words, and sayings
Only doves could hear
Then edges slowly fading once
We draw away from conversation
Pulling, pushing
Loving, looking,
Disappearing as the end of time draws near
For you and me, my dear
For you and I,
The lies of difference
Can mean no more thank ink and memory.
205 (because nobody’s going to see it if I reply up there, that’s why) – Very nice. I like it a lot. We should have a rhyme-off sometime soon – I’m pretty good at that, if I do say so myself, but you’d give me a run for my money.
Also, whenever I rhyme, Grandmaster Flash comes to mind, and the first line of that just made the effect even stronger. *rolls eyes* Thanks.
/gradster(1)/ – Secretary of Bureaucracy of the ASAP
My Languages Arts class started our poetry unit today!
Our final project at the end of all of this will be creating a poetry anthology, based around a theme, with at least 10 poems, with 2-4 poems from the 19th century, with at least 5 from female authors, with at least several from minority authors, and at least a few by ourselves.
Of course, what I’ll probably end up doing is finding 10 poems that I like and then try to cram them all into one theme.
Anyways, while I was looking for poems today (just trying to find ones I liked) I came across this one:
A Blade of Grass
By Brian Patten
You ask for a poem.
I offer you a blade of grass.
You say it is not good enough.
You ask for a poem.
I say this blade of grass will do.
It has dressed itself in frost,
It is more immediate
Than any image of my making.
You say it is not a poem,
It is a blade of grass and grass
Is not quite good enough.
I offer you a blade of grass.
You are indignant.
You say it is too easy to offer grass.
It is absurd.
Anyone can offer a blade of grass.
You ask for a poem.
And so I write you a tragedy about
How a blade of grass
Becomes more and more difficult to offer,
And about how as you grow older
A blade of grass
Becomes more difficult to accept.
—
Maybe I should just hand in 10 blades of grass for my anthology project.
Somewhere,
you whisper in my ear,
we are flying
through the air on paper-and-glue wings
Somewhere,
stars fall from the sky
and land in the wet grass covered in moondew
lying, burning with cold
from their flashing fall
Cool and silver-blue and
glittering, glinting, glistening
gems you pluck and trail in your hair
Somewhere
You whisper to me to close my eyes
to breathe in the night air
hear the soft and rapid
beatbeatbeat
of faire wings
and hearts
and sighs
breathe and drink the nectar of the night
Somewhere
I will take you by the hand
and fly with you among the raindrops
laughing songs of long ago
and finding all the old treasures
we had lost so long ago
we had forgotten they ever were
Someday
Your fingers will curl around mine
intertwining ourselves
and dancing among the stars
with all the lonely souls out there
who are lost
or free
or both
Somewhere,
you whisper in my ear,
we are flying through the air
on paper-and-glue wings
held together by a thread a wish a hope
a dream
Somewhere,
stars fall from the sky
and land in the soft moondew-sparkled grass
lying, burning with cold
from their flashing fall
Cool and silver-blue and
glittering, glinting, glistening
gems you pluck
and trail like laughter and tears in your hair
Somewhere
You murmur to me to close my eyes
to breathe in the night air
hear the soft and rapid
beatbeatbeat
of faerie wings
and hearts
and sighs
breathe and drink the sweet dark nectar of the night
Somewhere
I will take you by the hand
and fly with you among the raindrops
laughing songs of eon-dead ages
and finding all the old treasures
we lost so long ago
that we had forgotten they ever were
Someday
Your fingers will curl around mine
intertwining ourselves
and dancing among the stars
with all the lonely souls
who are lost
or forgotten
or free
or both
Someday
we will meet in that meadow
finding ourselves in eachother
Somewhere
you will whisper softly in my ear
Somehow
I will find you through this grey-and-rain mist
I
lay on a bed of grass
watching the clouds
tumble and mingle
in their shape-shifting dance.
I am alone
in my universe
no one beside me to
speak
and shatter the warm blanket of silence.
But suddenly
I am no longer alone
He lies down beside
me
Hands behind his head
Knees bent
Just like me
I close my eyes
against the setting sun
and his silent profile
But I find
myself
opening them and blinking
He isn’t speaking
Just staring
at the pinkening sky
with one purple streak
dragged across it
To anyone who saw us
lying on the soft quilt
of grass and dandelions
We would have appeared silent
But we are breaking down barriers
And something passes between us
Something unspoken
Something unheard
Neither one of us move
The dandelions grin up at us
Let them do the talking–
They’re loud enough for both of us.
––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––
I can’t think of a title for this one.
((A little short I made just for fun. We’re learning this stuff in world history right now. ))
—————————————————————————
Grav-i-ty:
The forced by which natural bodies
tend to fall towards
the center
of the earth
Heaviness
in every finger
of every branch
of every tree
of every forest
that ever drew itself
closer to the ground
and the smell of the empty field
grazed by a brimming moon
Gravity
This, the reason why
the golden slants of sun
always find their way into
a capturing bead of dew
The reason why tears
are attracted to eyelashes
Why palms
are attracted to pencils
Why lips
are attracted to words
the words that help us
to understand
the language of universal attraction
this force that draws us together
that draws us alike
that drew us apart.
There are many different ways
To love someone.
The whispered word
Into her ear
Silently grasping his hand
On a walk
The quick kiss on his cheek
Before you dash inside
The simple note to her that says
I ♥ you
The silent ways
The strong ways
The oh so very sweet ways
Of love.
Her husband was icy cold
So her hand the weapon hold
her husband was unkind
Such explains what she hide behind
Her hands tremble in fear
but she does it for her children dear
For she is their mother
And will be no other
So quietly she weep
Her woe and sadness deep
Yet it is too late to forget
This she just cannot regret
While calling for her dears
Her cheeks are wet with tears
Her voice was a whispered sigh
Evaporating into the sky
Her request was brief
Yet it filled her heart with grief
Starting as a tiny seed
Growing when one child agreed
And a single trickle
Blurred the shining sickle.
Sometimes, if you
lie flat on your back
and pretend that you are alone in the world
everything
seems
small
Search for hidden pictures in the clouds
in the depths of your face
I can make out nothing
but the desire
for a moment
of
solitude
The spyglass is broken
no more can we gaze
into the stars at night
and delude ourselves that
there is
something
more
When the engine of the body sputters
and the wheels rust and split
the paint peels like a withered leaf
you look forward only
to the smell of the grass in a meadow
the taste of the rain
the morning when you
no longer have to worry
about
life
and
lies.
Perhaps you’re crying in your dreams
Because nothing is how it seems
Perhaps only now your eyes are clear
And nothing of which you held dear
Is real. Maybe your eyes do lie
But still you lay on your bed to cry
Because you know that it is true
Nothing is real. Nothing but you
Perhaps you want to go to sleep
But even then your heart does weep
Perhaps your dream was but a myth?
Yet it’s true. You sob on with
Salty tears streaking your cheek
Your heart fragile and very weak
“It’s untrue.” You want your mouth to speak
But your voice comes out a feeble squeak
When you try to tell yourself it’s untrue
The only one you’re lying to is you
Why can you not accept what’s real?
And empty your heart of all you feel?
Your tears are clouding your silent eyes
It’s time for you to accept the lies
There are even worse lies hard to accept
Truths from everyone that’s carefully kept
As soon as you know your heart will break
A lonely ripple on a lonely lake
I like writing poems, but I think they’re all pretty lame. I’ll put up my “best”one, I guess, if you want, but they’re lame. Especially compared to everyone else’s terrific writing! I wish I could be as good………….
You think they’re lame. They’re probably really good. Put it up, and I assure you that no one would say anything bad about it! It’s probably wonderful!
I thought mine were pretty lame, too.
What, you ask, is the meaning of Life?
What to us does Life give?
Against us what is its strife?
Why have Life? Why should we live?
You’re nearing now the realm of Death
So inhale, exhale, you final breath
But before you go, you had to ask:
Why is there Life? What is its task?
Death begins just when Life ends,
So what of the time that Life spends?
Such great time does Life waste,
it knows we want to proceed in haste
To Death. Where there is no fear
Naught we see. Naught we hear.
How great it must be not to have thoughts!
Yet thinking is what to us Life taught
“Life and Death are antonyms.”
When this is said it may feel grim
For though that saying is not a bit new
It is however not a bit true
To be dead simply is not being alive
Death opposing Life is just a jive
If it was true, answer and say,
“What, then, are ghosts? Somewhere halfway?”
Death, in fact, is so much better
A liver can never compete with a deader
So why live life? Why live on?
Why can’t life just be gone?
Life’s at end. Death draws near.
There is nothing left to fear.
We all lived once, and this is why:
We live only so we can die.
Yet suicide is not the same:
You only lose – you do not gain.
I say, live life while yet you have it
Because, once gone, you can’t retry it.
Live hard and fast so when Death comes
Weary, you’ll greet it with open arms.
With no regrets, you’ll pass away,
Into oblivion – where you’ll stay
In peace and quiet you will lie,
Six feet under; when you die.
((Gee, that turned morbid quickly.
I liked your poem, CTN, as always. I was trying to make a reply to it with more poetry, but I lost my train of thought… ))
Thank you. I like the reply. It’s just too bad you lost your train of thoughts… it would have been wonderful.
DEATH
As the end of your story draws near
Don’t be afraid. Have no fear
Have peace. There will be no pain
Only your carefree soul remains
So now drift off to eternal sleep
No need to cry. No need to weep
Wipe your eyes, dry your tears
Be silent as Death draws near
On a horse of dark midnight
You see two flickering blue lights
Skull of Death with fiery eyes
Riding without any cries
We all lived once. We all will die
So peace, my friend, and wave goodbye
I enjoy this chain of poems, but sadly I’m not in the mood for foreboding poetry (although you two write it quite well!). In fact, ym writing bug has not yet bitten.
Ah well. Maybe tomorrow.
Thank you, Aggie! my writing bug bites a lot. My finger hurts now…
most poems i write, I write it just because I came up with one line of poetry I liked. The rest of the poem is just blah.
——————————————————————————————–
TIME
What controls our life and what we do?
What makes things happen without a clue?
What does history penetrate through?
It is Time
What never began and will never end?
What doesn’t curve , twist, or bend?
What is advised that you wisely spend?
It is Time
It’s always ticking off but never there,
It’s everywhere but no one knows just where
It is. It goes fast and it goes slow
Everything that will happen it does know
It is Time
It’s there. On and on it goes
It seems to stop but it forever flows
We know its there but it we’ll never find
For towards Time we all are blind
What taught us things that we never knew?
What exists but is unreal and still is true?
And what is the thing that showed me you?
It is Time
I can’t count how many words I’ve spoken in my life
Apologies,
Forgivenesses,
Comforting sayings,
Insults,
Compliments,
Questions,
Answers,
Lies,
Truths,
And I can’t tell you how many I’ve meant, either,
Because I didn’t mean many,
I know that.
What I wouldn’t give
to slip back into the cool mask of lies
that fit me so well
for I had worn it so often
And so shamelessly, too.
I couldn’t care less
what you thought of me
Until one day
When the sun was obstructed by clouds
I finally
Could see
That you were one person
And I was two
One was me
The other was a stranger
That I barely even knew.
I realised
That deep down inside
That those who wear
A mask
Day in and
Day out
Don’t even know themselves
Just like I didn’t know me
I’m not a liar
Though some prefer to call me that
I wore a mask
Day in and day out
But now
I’m finally seeing
That I am me
And I shouldn’t hide
Because in the course of a lifetime,
What does it matter?
I cycle through all the colors,
one by one.
Bringing forth memories-
Legos, cherry red (too few for the pyramid).
My first science project [mine!], green meaning life.
Purple (mountains majesty) for my sister.
The yellow (that I never saw in the real sun) from all the storybooks.
Orange, mixed in tupperware (the perfect name for such an odd shade).
Blues, two; my very first school folder, and later, her favorite.
… I never really came into contact with black or grey until I met the goths.
But that’s just it – I’m cycling –
Why?
The colors won’t stop coming now
Whirling by, faster than I can track
(but I’m not spinning (yet))
Nothing makes sense anymore
(someone spiked the punch of life)
Everything retires, fading from view
(at least it stopped spinning)
But now I’m swimming in a sea of myopia
My lifeboats – gravity, clarity, motor skills, even reality –
All betray me for another.
I drown.
My mind’s palette finally fails
to paint your face.
This is the poem that got me published for the first time ever. For context, the inspiration was my slowly becoming more and more myopic (further nearsighted), and how helpless it makes me feel.
I ask again; are any of you slammers? I’ve got a slam poem I could share, though to tell you the truth it sounds much better being read.
/gradster(1)/ – Secretary of Bureaucracy of the ASAP
((Sorry gradster, as for me, I’m not a slammer, but post your slam poem anyway!))
The voice of reason haunts these halls,
Murmuring truths to one and all.
But these days, few will lend an ear;
She starts to wonder, “Can they hear?”
For that, there’s Logic by her side,
Assuring that she’s in everyone’s mind.
He says, “Some people simply choose denial
So that they don’t have to take life’s trials.”
“They plug their ears so as not to face
The duties of the human race.”
Final skies of death and glory
May result in ending worlds
Into darkness into, into death
Finality need not be so
Life is good, let us gp
Let us praise the lost one’s health
The lives have unfurled.
To the end of our story
Which may come soon
Or we shall leave to the end
The beginning of tall
The beginning of life
The end of strife
The end of small
As our life goes ’round the bend
We travel past the moon.
Really, this doesn’t mean anything. It just sounds meaningful,
After buying and reading my school’s literary magazine this year, I was inspired (also by A, to any of you on the R&R thread). My poem’s a bit long, and still under construction, but I’ll post all 131 line of it (three wung points to whoever first tells why I chose 131 for the number of lines (hint: it’s a poem I like (not that any of you know what poems I like))).
You
by Anonymous (so it shall be in next year’s Lit Mag)
But with you, I’ve felt things
I’ve never felt before. I’m sure
That I’ve barely dipped into this ocean,
But it is constantly morphing,
Growing.
Each day it becomes more complex
And wonderful,
Growing stronger
And stronger.
I can’t imagine a more powerful
Or magical force.
But with you, I can’t bring myself to express
This feeling
To you.
What is holding me back?
The very thing that has drawn us together
Is dear to me, and I can’t lose it
And you.
But with you, it’s… how can I say this?
You are the sky.
Crystal clear, piercing but liquid blue,
Filled with wads of ethereal cloud, drifting across time,
Filled with the majesty of pouring rain
And roaring thunder.
You are filled with stars, you are eternity incarnate,
Filled with the aurora, always shifting,
Colorful,
Out of reach.
But with you, each intricacy is better than the last.
Each day you are different, each day
You are the same,
The same as has been spoken of from time immemorial.
Each day you amaze, astonish, are.
The same as I have known since I first met you,
But each day is a new and beautiful experience.
I am not a poet.
You are.
I am not an artist.
You are.
I am not.
You are.
But with you, I know myself, I know you.
My friends whom I will never see know you.
The people I will never meet know you.
The nights we will never spend together know you.
Every moment of time knows you.
Each man that has existed knows you.
And I wish I could tell you.
But with you, each moment together is my shangri-la,
Perfect,
But impossible.
But with you, I know things I have never known
And things I will never know,
Except how to tell you.
But with you, this is how I tell you that
I love you.
Damn it, I love you.
Always have, always will.
I’ve wanted to tell you since the day I met you
But I couldn’t.
So I joined you.
I was
Your friend
Your confidante
Your adviser
Your helper
Your mule
Your bitch.
And I love you.
But with you, I was rejected,
Not directly, not on purpose.
You loved a football star,
A stranger,
An actor,
A screen.
But with you, I’ve waited.
Planned, hoped,
Told the world I can never see about
You.
For months I’ve waited.
A groundhog, he knows you.
A hawk, he knows you.
If only you knew you.
But with you, everything else is more important.
Yes, you love me.
But you don’t love me
And you don’t love me.
Please understand I will do anything for you,
Be anyone,
Go anywhere,
Say anything.
But with you, I can’t wait forever.
Damn it, I’ve always loved you and always will.
But true love is a lie
If only one person sees it.
Yes, you love me.
But you don’t love me
And you don’t love me.
Reject me.
Despise me.
Throw me away.
Lie to me.
Abandon me.
But know this: I don’t give
A s███.
Love is unconditional
Even when it is hopeless,
Futile,
Worthless.
But with you, I still hope,
Still dream, still stare.
But with you, my name cannot be known
Just as yours changes from moment to moment.
You are not my first
Love.
You are not the
Omega.
We will die, but you
Are reborn.
Many suitors will surround you
But they will be pigs.
You cannot have them, so have me,
Take me,
Love me,
Just don’t make me remove
This mask.
But with you, I will always love you.
But with you, everything means nothing.
But with you, I cannot live.
But with you, I will live, die, scream.
But with you, I will always love you, for you are the sky.
The days float by like spaceships
drifting and revolving
an opened doorway
and we’re falling
through the spaces through the stars
through all those half-way places
and we light with graceful footsteps
Upon the shadow of a dream
a land we’ve never walked
yet somehow still remember
where a whisper is a scream
and a heart is inclined to stop
for fleeting moments,
breathless seconds
a silence
filled by the ticking of an ageless clock–
Your eyes they shine like oceans
underneath the darkest skies
slowly moving rolling weeping strolling
reflecting where the monsters lie
the deep the dark the cold the clear
the few small words we long to hear
enticing and intoxicating
a clear breath a revelation
coming closer coming nearer
and yet standing ever stiller
The spaceships they are spinning
in the cold and wispy skies
circling around us all
and never trying to hide
yet they remain somehow unseen
so rarely barely glimpsed
wishing as they orbit
wondering why they don’t fit in
the wait for us to move
to dance
to make a stand or take a chance
So they can come wisk us away
to places of light and night and ways
breathing quick and breathing sharp
grasping for a soul to cling to
holding to me ever tighter
as we fly into the night
searching for the empty lands
we dreamed we walked
the shifting sands
of time and life and sea and night
The remembered empty places where everything’s amiss
a dream a lie a love a life
a single, shattered kiss.
—
Not what I intended to write. I may write one with similar words but a much different rhyme and feel later.
But what do I mean by “shuttle chic”?
It’s just a word, to describe a style, an era, a feeling.
To describe the plain little houses
And the blocky old libraries (With the section names written upon black plaques in tarnished white)
To understand, you must go inside.
When the sunlight slides through the thin windows
And crosses the floor to the dusty shelves
Far from where everyone else is.
Not many people come to these shelves at all.
But you pull the books out, and look at the covers.
The sun has faded the covers
It’s all pale, even the void of space looks more kindly grayish.
The font, white-on-black
And the images inside. Oh, the images.
There are moonwalks and moonsuits.
The buggies and the mountains of late-Apollo.
The station, the funny little cylinder station
Skylab-with-the-windmill-solar-array
The guys inside, having a ball.
The shower, the bike, the spiders.
On the horizon, a craft, a geometric bird.
Enterprise gliding in over the California desert.
Only a test, but there will be REAL space shuttles soon, you are assured.
You stare at those 35 faces of the new class. They will fly it.
You know their fates as they could not.
The poor early-CGI
And the green lasers across the cube
Of still more faded black
It seems so homey.
And now, she flies, Hail Columbia!
The white tank looks so odd now, almost sickly pale.
First, Crippen and Young in the brown suits.
Then, the others.
The others fly now, they spacewalk, they use the arm.
Men with mustaches and women with dark, curly hair, so puffy.
All in those flightsuits, colored like the sky
And the white altitude helmets in their hands.
They take up an IMAX,
They fly in a chair
They photograph the Earth.
They drop off satellites.
But they are alone.
They don’t fly to a station.
(They will build one soon, though, you are told.)
(Freedom in the sky by ’90.)
A little song lyric I made up (The tune is somewhere between ‘when we grow up’ and ‘walking my gargoyle’)
Summer will come
Heaven will go
Paradise lost in a mountain of snow
Vine mapel green
Cold as can be
Lilacs are sproulting for you and for me
Alarm clock
Snooze button
Repeat
Repeat Emi, must I drag you out of bed?!
No.
Floor
Carpet
Stairs
Hi, Sophie!
Cat food
Cereal We’re going to be late!
I’m aware of that.
Backpack
Very heavy
Running
Garage door
Car
School
Phew. Not late.
Locker
Slam
Binder
Hi, Jon.
Hi, Katie.
Oops. That was due today?!
Andy Warhol
Campbell’s Tomato Soup!
Photographs
Over already?
Snack
Not hungry
The area of a triangle? Ni hao!
Oops. Sorry. I’m going to call your mom over the weekend, Emi.
Whatever.
Computers
Blah blah blah
Stupid ClipArt!
I hate rectangular prisms!
Crying
Kelly!
Hugging
Lily?
Ouch.
Laughter
Back to class
Yay, lunch
Hi, Soph.
Bleh.
Thanks, Kelly!
Hi, Edward!
Hugging
What the heck?
Bell
Quiet reading
Apology letter
Delivery!
Culture projects
Reading
Bell
Walking
Girl Scouts Nutrition…
Whatever.
Bye, everyone!
I sat in the perfect moment between
the twilight and the darkness,
with sky the color that only skies are
with half a star just peeping.
I sat in the silent moment between
the evening and the midnight,
with owls stirring in soft sleepy holes
and children closing eyelids.
I sat in the silent moment between
the moonbeams and the starlight,
with the world that was turning towards midnight at last
with a universe turning towards morning.
i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart
Child-like
Innocence
Dancing towards the shore
Poking baby toes into foam
Shrieking in joy
Sand-piper feet
Flitting to and fro
On wings of baby’s salty breath
of mellow scent
Waves hurry in
for a cool embrace
Engulfing
laughing child
Child of innocence
Child of joy
Not afraid
of baby waves
holding tight
to little body
Eyes open wide
to different world
of salt and sunlight
and no air to breathe
At peace
at ease
in different world
Waves forcing little girl to air
Blinking in the golden
sunlight
Breathing in
Salty peace
Drifting to shore
Covered in sand
Grinning
in the bright light
Child-like
Innocence.
each day passes by like the sharp ticking of a clock
cold seconds counting down
each one clear, loud, echoless
each one defined
3.
when the rooms are quite and no one is around
she counts the seconds
4. 5. 6.
again and again and again
hery eyes follow the steady progress
of the ink-dark hands on the pale surfaces
7.
she is afraid of time slowly seeping into her
of creases and shadows
losing the young body
she hadn’t even really begun to enjoy
of age and withering and death
of losing her memory
her mind
herself
8.
she worries worries worries
as the days grow longer and shorter
as the seconds tick by
9.
as the clock starts again
1.
—
281- Yes, e. e. cummings was just what this place needed.
Imagine what it’s
like to be in the spin cycle
Whirling spinning- clean.
Enlarging that haiku into a longer poem:
I can imagine what it’s like
to be in the spin cycle.
Trust me.
I’ve been there.
It’s pretty chaotic.
You’re always spinning, twirling
Whirling, hurling
Into the freshly washed laundry.
And then when-
I REFUSE TO WRITE THAT!
I AM A POET, NOT A HORROR WRITER!
I am writing something ELSE.
1.
The old man sits in the armchair
by the roaring fire, his feet resting
on the tassled ottoman
a blanket laid
carefully
upon his lap.
2.
Next to him on a small table
is a green glass lamp
and a white ceramic mug.
With shaking fingers
the old man reaches for the mug
and pulls it towards him.
3.
This is his cup of life.
He sees his reflection in it
swirling and dancing.
In it, the old man becomes young again.
4.
He lifts the mug to his thinning lips
and sips his life
from it.
He drains the cup
savouring every last drop
of his life.
He runs his finger
around the rim of the
white
ceramic mug,
catching whatever droplets
of life,
had he missed them.
5.
The old man
sets his mug on the table
And smiles
a miniscule smile
to himself
leans back
and closes his eyes.
(Wikipedia can say this better than I can- “[At the 2002 Olympics] Along with the flag that flew at the World Trade Center site, the Challenger flag was also carried into the stadium.”)
In the Salt Lake City Arena
They showed us two flags.
The one from the shuttle, the one from the towers.
Seven lost to human error, in pursuit of science, 1986.
1000+ lost to human malice, in an act of hatred, 2001.
All of these fallen, I honor.
All of them, I respect, I remember.
But if I had to choose between the spirits
That each event reflects-
Which would I relate to the future?
“We attacked each other because we were different.”
“We explored space for the benefit of all.”
Which spirit to live by?
Which spirit for our future?
This Valentine’s Day,
I’ll do something different.
No more shyness.
No more subtlety.
I go right up to him
Handing a white-wrapped package over.
Quizzically he looks at me,
Opening it,
hesitantly.
“What is this?”
He asks.
As if he didn’t know.
“Happy Valentines Day.
I’m giving you my heart.”
I say proudly.
A look of horror crosses his face
The box falls to the ground.
I feel no pain
as my heart is battered and bruised.
He walks away
without a backward glance,
muttering, “Freak.”
I slump down,
Sitting beside the crushed box.
Heartbroken.
My heart is shattered.
The tears flow unrestrained.
I feel your tap upon my shoulder.
Turning around, I see what you hold in your hands.
“You can have my heart, since yours is broken…”
((Er, I know it’s not even February, but… yeah. It’s inspired by a person’s DeviantArt picture. ))
((*reads over* Wow, it’s even creepier than I thought it would be. ))
‘Twas the night before Christmas, on the ISS
Not a creature was stirring, the crew was at rest
The experiments all had been closed up with care
In hopes that good results soon would be there
The spiders were nestled all snug in their beds
While visions of one-g danced in their heads
And the crew in their bags, putting on their nightcaps
Had just settled down for an Earth-approved nap
When up from the Zvezda, there came such a clatter
They unzipped and hurried to see what was the matter
Away to the window, they floated in a flash
Barely avoiding a zero-g crash
Reflected Earthlight from the planet below
Gave the lustre of day to each steel truss and row
When, what should they find as the cause of this shock
But a bright red rocket, attempting to dock!
Now trying for stealth, not one dared talk
As they floated quietly to the air lock
Each of them unsure of what they would see
No visit was due, so what could it be?
Through Destiny, Unity, Harmony, Pirs
They crept slowly forwards, in spite of their fears
They’d sneak just a peek from behind a wall
And if it was danger, they’d dash away all.
And then in the Soyuz they’d homeward fly
As they had trained for mishaps in the sky
But this exactly was unknown to the crew
This anomaly was so totally new
And then, in a twinkling, they heard just a snatch
Of the opening of a spacecraft’s crew hatch
As they turned to see the source of the sound
Through the air lock St. Nicholas came with a bound
He was dressed all in red, that was quite plain to see
And he moved as if used to their zero-g
A bundle of gifts he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler, just opening his pack.
His eyes-how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was smiling, yet mute
And the beard of his chin, white as a space suit.
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And they laughed when they saw him, in spite of themselves!
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave them to know there was nothing to dread.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And gave them all gifts, then turned with a jerk.
And with a salute, to these three so brave
And back to his rocket, he went with a wave!
He undocked so smooth, they heard nary a whistle
Then his craft flew away, like the down of a thistle
But the transmission came, ‘ere he drove out of sight,
“Cosmic Christmas to all, to the world a good-night!”
Little snail, clinging to the window
Car rushing, flying, through wind-whipped blocks of cars
You tried to hold on, clutching your whirling lifeline in the world too fast to notice you
We couldn’t stop – traffic must keep moving, at any cost
You let go
tumbling
tumbling
clear
blue
sky
We sped on
Maybe the cars stopped
The world stopped
To let a little snail across the road
Maybe you crossed the sun-scorched black desert, your silver trail glistening in the heat, and
Found a lush patch of grass where a soft slow mollusk
Could glide, and eat, and live
And live
And live
I capture you
in black and white
Make you mine
with graphite and erasures
And while you drift away in real life,
you leave a little of yourself behind
on this sheet of bleached wood.
And if I can’t catch you with words and looks
at least I can capture you with this fleeting lead magic.
What happens if I erase?
* * * * * * *
Apologies, can’t remember if I’ve posted this one before:
When every inch of this good green earth
Is filled to brimming with glowing life,
And every day, good or bad,
Is full of glory, or full of strife,
When we are granted warmth from the sun by day,
And are guided at night by the moon,
How could my thanks ever be enough?
How could my praises come too soon?
For in the flight of each small sparrow,
And in the call of every dove,
In the smallest sprout beneath my feet,
And in the highest tree above,
In the ripples of the summer creek
And the go and sway of the sea,
There is exultant, laughing, loving life,
Glorious and free.
And so—when I see this triumphant life
Wherever my eyes are raised,
How can I not be filled with joy?
How can I not be amazed?
Though these actions you may deplore,
I am, my friend, an omnivore.
built to eat both plant and meat
not merely the grass beneath my feet.
I may slaughter the bovine masses,
but I, dear sir, don’t eat their grasses.
Killing them quickly is better, by far,
than taking their food and letting them starve.
And you, dear reader, I’m telling you now,
eat a vegan, save a cow.
Hemlock is poisonous, and so are those berries,
poison ivy and oak, and – hey, those aren’t cherries!
There are all sorts of plants which no one can eat,
not so when we devour our various meats.
meats have more nutrients, taste, and, of course,
they fill you up better than a mouthful of gorse.
They may not like it, but please be kind now.
Save a vegan, feed them a cow.
The sky is dripping on my nose.
I just hope it never snows.
For snow is colder, and on my head,
I’d like a snout that isn’t red.
So I sit here, getting wet,
‘Cause Mommy hasn’t called me yet.
The rain comes down, that’s how it goes,
The sky is dripping on my nose.
“Eat a vegan, save a cow.” Interesting… But isn’t that kind of insulting to vegetarians/vegans? I do like your poems though.
Do you think that can only be
between a man and a woman
a boy and a girl?
I suppose it doesn’t matter much
Narrow-mindedness has never been my problem,
You know.
But I do think that love is love
And love being love will remain.
If a rose is a rose is a rose is a rose
Isn’t love…love?
298- I was kind of making fun of vegetarians/vegans, but not in a spiteful way. It’s satire! And I do love satire. Plus, you gotta admit it works.
And no, love is not always love. I love satire, but that has nothing to do with marriage. I also love my brothers.
Three squid in a bathtub,
the yarn is too small,
the army is melting with soup.
The clock isn’t clean,
my shampoo is bright green.
This is what the doctor prescribed for my head.
My slippers are croaking,
the rock, it grows fur.
The sheep has a pillow for a head.
The book purrs too loud,
my towel’s a cow,
This is what I get for eating pizza before bed.
SFTDP
What I meant to say is that I meant to say is exactly what you said. Love isn’t always between two people of different genders…It can be between anything.
Just stop it –
Quit acting like you’re
All that
So much better than
the rest of us
I’m so sick of all the lies
You’ve been hiding beneath a mask
All this time
I’m not sure
If there’s anything beneath it
Anymore
Who are you,
Stranger?
You used to be my friend.
((Er… I don’t know. I just wanted to write something…))
Here’s a really long one I wrote for english called “The World, My Heart”:
Beyond the horizon my heart rather swiftly rises,
Among the trees my heart quite quickly grows,
Aboard ship my heart sails courageously,
Inside my head my heart meaningfully just knows.
In spite of war and pain,
Besides the unfair,
Past the distain,
Of the world I faithfully care.
Under the sea my soul stealthily swims,
Across the continents my soul defiantly thrives,
Above the earth my soul hastily soars,
Into knowledge my soul so fondly dives.
Alongside fearfully and its horrors,
Despite rudeness,
Down evil’s corridors,
For the world I don’t care less.
Through deserts my heart almost reluctantly thirsts,
On mountains off my heart somewhat frantically veers,
Over raging rivers my heart too deliberately struggles,
Beneath solid rock my heart awkwardly clears.
Until this planet’s horrible end,
From my heart, my love will patiently not bend.
The theme was a love poem where each line started with a preposition. Oh, we needed adjectives, too.
I can see them, they are standing
Outside the window.
The leviathans of old, resurrected
By some upside-down,
Black as pitch
Messiah, whose name
Is Legion,
The bringer of light,
The prince of the world.
They walk in shadows,
As shadow, their arms flashing signs
Of torture, of destruction.
The Time
Is now upon us,
But the people are too wrapped up
In their parlors, blinded
By their “families”.
The people call them Trees,
But I call them,
Apocalypse.
The Four are sitting on the patio,
Drinking tea filled with the blood
Of countless virgins
Raped by the world,
Seeded by hate,
Discarded by their families,
But these people are not alone.
Their “families” took them in,
And fed them
With a stew from Plataea, Issus, Salsu, and Nagasaki.
And I can see Death
Standing outside my window
Like some universal Gothic,
Watching me drain my blood
Into the very fibers of the earth.
I shout at him and claw for an exit,
But the parlor has no door.
The “family” grabs my legs, my neck, my eyes
But I can only see farther,
Breathe harder,
Run farther.
I scream at the people on the street,
Begging them to save themselves
Before God takes back His earth,
But they turn up their shells
And replace their blood
With the blood of those virgins.
The river is too swift
For me to cross, so I stand,
Stand in the street,
Silently crying
For the world which once may have become great.
The stars fall, the oceans boil
And I stand and cry.
The Four, having finished their tea
Assume their places to serve
Both masters. But soon
One master will overthrow the other
Along with the his virgins,
His leviathans,
His shadows.
But the people just turn up their shells
And sink into their parlors,
Knowing full well of the battle
Raging on,
But preferring to sit
Motionless
In the dark
As all around them the world is lit by lightning.
They have blown their candles out
And chosen the other over the first.
And so I stand in the street
And cry,
Cry for them,
Cry for the virgins raped by their “families”
And left to die next to me
In the street.
I cry until the first master
Ends the world and takes me
To another, shining one.
Er, sorry if that was long. I didn’t plan it out or anything, so it’s probably bad. I came up with the idea for it last night when I think I went partially insane. Sorry.
Poetry has usually been sort of a one-off for me, something I do every now and then when I’m not writing fiction, but I’ve produced a lot since discovering this thread.
Lead me softly
to the place beyond the sky
whisper that all will be well
and softly dry my eyes
lead me softly
to a place far far away
breaths, petals, silky rain
just carry me away…
—
Just a snippit I wrote yesterday for a description of a picture on DeviantArt. I was bored.
Enh, I’m bored and it’s a snippet (and I’m not a crazy lovesick fool).
Since things
Have brightened
With you
The sun
Shines noticeably
The clouds
Are transparant
I never really realized
The world could be warm
And bright
Not cold
And dark
Not slowly creeping over me
Like inky
Black vines
That’s
You.
Not
The weather
The cat
The summer
Only you.
It’s quite strange
What you’ve done
I never wanted
To crawl
Out of my shell
But you pulled
Me out
Into the sunshine
And the world
Please don’t go
I need you
I can’t rebuild
My shell.
I can’t reclaim
The darkness.
I can’t forget
Your bright
Happy eyes
As you saw
Me smile
For months
Your bright
Happy smile
Imploring me
To laugh
To smile
To live
Don’t go
I depend
Upon you
My love
My life
Stay with me
Until I’m strong again
Then
You may stay
Or you may leave
Just don’t leave
Too soon
Just take me with you
If you have to go right now
Leaning against
a tree of red wood
The leaves scraping the sky
and sending down pieces of blue
She smiles, lifts a dandelion
to her pale face
and runs away
a swirl of scattered sky
and dandelion seeds
in her wake.
On she goes
Her feet cushioned by
pine
needles and hope
and not having a destination
The wind stirs itself
and something within her
With one last leap
she floats toward the sky
with nothing between her and Earth
except for
dreams
hope
and
a few
pieces
of sky.
I stand and stare into the abyss
flowers crumble from between my fingers
and dust clouds swirl behind my eyes
there is no such thing as time
when it’s so dark you cannot even see your thoughts
swirling like multifaceted fish inside your irises
I hear whispers calling to me from some faraway place
but whether they are real or imagined even I no longer know
and the voice of that cold chasm sings louder than they
I cannot make out the words
somewhere inside me longs to one two three step
into the darkness and waft down
like the fleeting dandelion’s seeds
into the deep dark cool and chaos
like the bottom of a still murky lake
behind me lie the patters no one else can see
crystals are you all
so rigid frigid shattering
so sharp
and cut into my sin like glass
one two three four deaths ago
I lay inside the closed coffin that was my body and
the flowers clutched in my hand looked something like
the words you painted before me:
not the meanings
but the sounds
the taste
but now I know better than to accept gifts from stranger
even the ones that blossom on the tongue like rain
and it is far far better to not share
the wondrous discoveries
(like the birds whose songs are coded messages
and the sweet screams of flowers as they are plucked
to rest in a maiden’s hair)
or they will take them away
(like the pictures in the fog and rain
begging you to listen to their stories)
with the round and white and small
so clever you think you are
building towers of glass
and cages of steel
and laugh to see my leaf and grass houses torn apart by the winds
and walk away as I laugh with you
so silly you are to think I did not know
I stand before you now: A choice is made
and the abyss smiles
and calmly softly slowly sings its lullaby
as I give you one last chance
and you’re lookin’
and you’re waitin’
but do you even know what for
oh what for yeah
(electric guitar/bass for a bit)
[chorus]love, love, love is enough
and you’re waiting and wailing
for something good
oh love, love, love is tough and
you’d better start before you fall…
(suddenly changes bck to original soft background notes)
still searchin’
in an empty room
cause life
is but a dream
you know, it’s true
lookin’
out the windows
as the rain falls down and
falls and falls and falls
and
[chorus]love, love, love is enough
and you’re waiting and wailing
for someone to trust
oh love, love, love is tough and
catch me now before I fall oh
catch me now before I fall oh
cat me now
catch me now, oooh ohhh…
and the rain still falls
—
A song in my head. I can hear the music and the voice of the singer (female, sort of husky, low and very… deep-sounding), words are still not quite there, needs a few more versus. But i had to get it down fast.
(get out)
trying to escape
to break out of this battered chrysalis
in which we find ourselves
paper-thing wings pressing against our body
humming with energy
and sharp as razors digging in
beneath our skin as we fall
fall
fall
from the earth
(escape)
words wrap like chains
to bind us–
promises, pretensions,
those trying to protect
us from ourselves
and what we must become
we long to fly;
to break out of our skin
and leave it behind, an empty shell,
a marker
emotions surge, restart,
are repressed
by logic and limits
rules and regulations
“for our own good
for our safety
for our benefit”
for our salvation
we struggle
trying to break open our husks of bodies
to float free as moths
into the night
(free)
To leave behind the tattered shreds of myself:
it is not a death
unless you never make it out of the chrysalis.
PLEASE tell me this is a first post.
Now then, anybody else read/heard “The Raven”? It’s creepy.
1-I have, and quite liked it.
1. Uh, I just googled it. Yes, I think it is very creepy. Edgar Allen Poe does a very good job of creeping me out.
This is a question for people who write a lot of poetry…
I’m doing an audition (maybe) and I need to choose about ten of my poems to send in before hand. How do you make the desition? What should I look for in each of my poems?
3–Well…what sort of audition, first of all? Musical? Acting? Modelling?
3- “The telltale heart” creeped me out more and though its not by poe, The monkeys paw creeped me out too.
I never allowed myself to wish
for fanciful notions
joy, adventure, romance–
I forced myself instead to think of successes
(now seeming so material)
Good grades. Time to work. Memory for facts.
so silly to seem
so now, I sit, and wonder
since so much time spent on such aims
paid off, in the end,
(or perhaps it was diligence after all)
what if I had allowed myself to dream?
4- Creative writing. Basicaly first I send in about ten of my poems about two weeks in advance. Then I get there and I get interveiwed and have to write a poem in the aloted time. Poem/short story that is.
5- Poe did write Tell-tale heart. The monkey’s paw was creepy too.
6- Jadestone, that was beautiful. Did you write that? *applaudes*
.6 “Memory for facts” is a lovely phrase. It’s easy to identify with this, and I love the last line. I think it’s a great fear of many students (and others) that your dedication and hard work is all for naught. Successful but not fulfilled, I think.
I hope I can keep up with this thread!
Is there ever a particular phrase you can’t keep out of your head? The other day I was immensely bored and looked up my first name on Wiki (much time is wasted there…sigh) and found that it is an alternate translation or something for Cassandra, as found in Greek mythology. If you are unfamiliar with it: Apollo desired Cassandra of Troy, and thusly granted her the power of prophecy. When she refused him he cursed her such that no one would ever believe her when she spoke of what she saw, which generally fell under the category of horror and destruction such as the fall of Troy etc etc
As with many other Greek myths, it has been an influence or inspiration on contemporary storytellers, filmmakers…Woody Allen made a movie called “Cassandra’s Dream” and I can’t get that phrase out of my head.
A rather long explanation for something rather trifling but there it is. So again, do you guys ever have a certain phrase stuck in your head? This is how the “creative process” starts for me, this or something just pops into my head and you know the rest.
7- yes i was saying that poe didn’t write the monkey’s paw.
7–Huh, I’ve never heard of anything like that. Well, I would just say that you should send in poems 1) that you think represent your overall “style” the best and 2) (more importantly) that you like. These will be your best poems, usually, and the ones that other people will like as well.
8–yep. Most of my poems start with a phrase or a feeling that’s popped into my head.
SFTDP, I just found this amongst my tossed files on my computer.
Like a shadow, he darts
Through the sleeping countryside
Peers in warm buttered windows
And, seeing children sleeping,
Fills their heads with strange and wonderful dreams.
The night rests upon his brow,
The stars dust his shoulders like snow
He does not remember the ghosts of the past,
Nor does he imagine the spirits of the future.
He is the Dreammaker, walker of time.
I’ve been reading a lot of Gaiman’s Sandman, if you couldn’t tell.
11- luv that series! death is my homegirl.
8- yeah, i was taking a shower yesterday and i got “i awoke in the Shower” stuck in my head so i started writing a story beginning with that phrase.
all my poems suck.
All your poems suck? You’re in good company. For some reason, I want to have a battle to see whose poems are the worst. Whatever.
7- Yes, I did write it, thank you. Please post the ten poems you decide on (when you do), I’d love to read them (even if you’ve posted them before and I already have ;))
8- Oh, all the time. Like during hockey games. That can be inconvenient. Sometimes it’s a line from a song, usually just two or three words stuck together, a lot of the times with alliteration.
11- Morpheus ♥ There is no such thing as too much Gaiman.
Actually…it would be kind of awesome to have a horrible poetry contest. We should come up with the absolute worst poems we can think of…like “Ode to the Fungus Between My Toes” or something like that…what do you guys think?
Once again, SFTDP, I just saw Kiki’s comment (“Death is my homegirl”) on the recent comments bar, and thought about how odd that would look to someone who just randomly saw it. I think it rates up there with “Death is sexy”.
15- You mean “Ode to the Lump of Green Putty I found Between My Toes”
Or soemthing like that. I need to reread H2G2…
16- But Death *is* sexy
I do believe Penguini (she hasn’t been by the blog for some time…) was Gaiman’s Death for Halloween this year.
17–Ah, I knew I pulled that from somewhere.
15- How about, “Ode to the Small Lump of Dried Yogurt I Discovered on my Bicuspid This Morning”? It’s not a HG2G reference, but you get the idea.
The only poems I know all involve a certain legume and its near-certain side effects on the cardiovascular and gastrointestinal systems.
9- Ahh. sorry.
10- thank you Nathanda. I was leaning towered that anywho.
19- or “Ode to the Green Grass Vomit on my shoe” *gag*
This is my favorite poem ever. I didn’t write it but…
What are heavy? Sea-sand and sorrow.
What are breif? Today and tomorrow.
What are frail? Spring blossems and youth.
What are deep? The ocean and truth.
I don’t know why but every time I read that poem I go into meditive state. The only other things that do that are: hiking, ice skaiting, and singing.
I like William Ernest Henry’s Invictus. It’s a bit spooky, but reading it makes me feel “Unconquerable”, too:
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.
8- once i had the phrase “the baying of the ferrets/lemurs” stuck in my head. it was aufly weird.
i like writing limmeiks.
there once was a blog named muse,
colored in purples and blues,
but communication
and not the location
is an addiction hard to refuse.
i’m good at writing poetry quickly. for science last year i wrote a series of poems about mitosis. not a very poetic subject. heres the first (and best) one
there once was a cell named clyde
he thought it was time to divide.
he went through mitosis
instead of osmosis
and now there’s 2 cells half his size.
i want to learn how to wite sonnets. anyone know how?
8- last night I randomly got a picture of a girl in my head. she wouldn’t go away untill I wrote who she was. I literaly knew EVERYTHING about her. Her likes. dislikes, her parents, how she felt aobut her teachers, her pets, her crush, her grandmother, and her best friend. It scared me.
3. YodaShmoda
You should pick poems that show your particular voice, have specific and concrete nouns and lots of good imagery.
I’m s glad this thread is here! I was hoping one would pop up.
I don’t have time to read it right now, but I will as soon as possible.
6. Jadestone
Your voice is distinct and clear and it cuts straight through to the truth.
This is what I do when I sit and think about words:
I twist my hair around the tip of finger and tug
hard, until it hurts.
I chew my right fingernail until it bleeds
and bite the inside of my cheek.
Thinking is a painful process;
the most unlikely pair of words is
‘easy decision’
and poetry isn’t popular
for a simple reason
A word is not
vibrations of vocal chords
not sound waves on a sunny beach
not black strokes on a white page,
small and sweet and neat,
not an entry in a dictionary,
page four hundred and two third from the top.
A word is not x,
negative b squared
plus or minus the square root of b squared
over two a,
a word is not a force equal to its mass times its acceleration.
A word is what happened when some one
a long time ago
mistook a tree for a man
and the sunset for the sea.
11. Nthanda the Laughe
That’s beautiful. I love “warm buttered windows”
24 – That’s actually really cool. I have friends whose characters talk to them.
My friend and I have declared today ‘William Carlos Williams Parody Day’ (unofficially) so here’s mine:
The Blue Police Box
so much depends
upon
a blue police
box
traveling through the
universe
with the lonely
god
25(Skipper Nancy)- Thanks. That was a pretty cool poem. Actualy it was amazing! I loved it so much!
26(Tesserect)- Maria Jane Asning went away unfourtantly. It’s like she just wanted to be written down. It’s too bad, I think she would have been a really cool character. Wow… I sound crazy…. too bad. Anywho Maria was really nice from what I could tell. She did have her flaws but she was umm…. real?… so she couldn’t be Mary Sue even if she tried. *sigh* Is it possibe that I need to lie down?
.27 – Nice, nice. WCW is pretty great. He does simplicity really well. I especially like the one where he talks about how he ate the plums he was saving.
29 – Oh, the plum poem! I went to Duke Young Writers’ Camp last summer, and we wrote poems based off of that. Not in the style, but on the same theme: apologizing for something you’re not actually sorry for.
I’ve been working on revising mine.
On Losing a Younger Sister to a Bear Attack
The sign said to
beware of bears
and you were fearful
and told us again
and you fretted nervously
aloud, as if we had
some doubt about your fear
at last enough was enough
so there was no
bear, but I rolled my
eyes and said there was
right behind you
I apologize for lying
and laughing while
you screamed senselessly
your eyes horrified
at the bear
that really wasn’t
there, but maybe
should have been
21- That poem is great.
24-I love when I get like that. I like to feel like there’s a real person around that only I know.
25-Wow. I love the math references. :]
Wung buttons! I can’t find the write up of the poem I wrote recently. It was inspired by the RIse Against song “Swing Life Away”. The first line of my poem was taken from the song but the rest was different. If I find it I’ll post.
Ok I feel like writing a random thing off the top of my head…
In a city far below the sea
Where there grow no flowers nor a tree
All the buildings made of glass
And seashells, sand, and there is he
Who would travel shall not pass
No crossing of the boundary
For in the ocean far and deep
The secrets that the merfolk keep
Are never for a mortal man to see
Hmm…This is a lot different from my normal style of couplets or quatrains. Constructive criticism is welcome!
*sorry for the double post!*
In my poem I’m changing “Who would travel” to “Who would venture”. The title is now “Gates of Atlantis”
I thought of another one!
Skies of the Arctic
In the heavens high above the world
A banner of the light had been unfurled
All blue and violet, red and green
A wonder if I’ve ever seen
The atmosphere above me was all curled
Into a flow, aquamarine
An Arctic chill was in the air
Above the trees, a sight so rare
As brilliant as it had ever been
22–That’s awesome–“I am the captain of my soul”. V. cool.
24–Oh goodness, most of my characters are alive in my head to the point where they could be me, I know them so well. Maybe you’re psychic.
25–Very nice. I’ve often tried to explain that exact concept to people, but not so nicely as you.
30(tesserect)- As much as I’d love to readyour poem I try and avid bears. My number has been up wth them since before I was born.
It seems people here like to ryme. Sorry I can’t comply. This is my poem still needing editing but one of the few I’m not considering for my audition:
If life were a story,
I would be in heaven.
There is always a happy ending ensured,
Just if you can brave it through.
At the end of the series,
Or in our minds eye.
And even when the happy ending is scarce,
The adventure leading up to the end
was nice.
And werthwhile.
The heroes are led by something greater
The greater good
True love
A prophecy.
Even the helpless princesses have a role to play,
being the prize at the end
or stopping to save the prince.
And the good-fer-naught pheasants too, are needed
with their pitchforks and scythes they can stop an army.
If life were a story,
I would be in heaven.
But life has never been a story.
And I’ve never been in heaven for long.
32- I love both your poems!
So I’ve been putting this poem everywhere. So I kind of love it a lot. I hope it’s not too long for the comment box.
Spaces
Arkaye Kierulf
1.
In this room I was born. And I knew I was in the wrong place: the world. I knew pain was to come. I knew it by the persistence of the blade that cut me out. I knew it as every baby born to the world knows it: I came here to die.
2.
Somewhere a beautiful woman in a story I do not understand is crying. If I strain hard enough I will hear a song in the background. She is holding a letter. She is in love with Peter. I am in love with her.
3.
Stand on the floor where it’s marked X. I am standing by your side where it’s marked Y. We are a shoulder’s length apart. I’m so close you can almost smell the perfume. If I step ten paces away from you, there could be a garden between us, or a table and some chairs. If I step another 20 paces there could be a house between us. If I continue to walk away from you in this way, tramping through walls and hovering above water, in 80,150,320 steps I will bump into you. I can never get away from you, and will you remember me? Distance brings us closer. There is no distance.
4.
In 1961 I was in Berlin. It was a dusty Sunday in August. In the radio news was out that Ulbricht had convinced Khrushchev to build a wall around West Berlin. I remember it precisely: By midnight East German troops had sealed off the zonal boundary with barbed wire. The streets along which the barrier ran had been torn up. I lived in that street. It was the day after my birthday. I remember the dust covering the sky. I remember being scared. Father had not returned from the other side. The Kampfgruppen der Arbeiterklasse had orders to shoot anyone who would attempt to defect. Father had not returned.
5.
Happiness is simple.
Sadness forks into many roads.
6.
Before the time of Christ, Aristotle believed that the earth was the center of the universe because he needed a stationary reference point against which to measure all other motions: a rock falling, a star reeling through the sky, his heart beating against his chest like a club. He needed to believe in certainty, in absolute space. Without it, the world would not be known absolutely. Without it, the world cannot be known.
Twenty centuries later Hendrik Lorentz needed to believe that every single molecule in the universe must move through a stationary material called the aether, as every human being in his various turnings must move through God. Scientists looked everywhere for proof of this aether. And everywhere they found nothing.
7.
I have sometimes been accused of being a bore. I beg to differ: people laugh at my jokes, and I’m handsome. I would like now to talk more about myself: I don’t like going to airports and hospitals. They make me uneasy. In both cases, somebody is always going to leave. I was born in 1983, and have never been to Berlin. But I have a memory of being in Berlin in 1961. I have a memory of something that never happened.
I would like to elaborate on myself, but you will understand if I talk instead about the sky in Berlin in 1961: it was covered with dust. There were no birds. There was no sky.
8.
Memory is brutal because precise.
9.
She said: give me more space. I said: don’t you love me anymore? She said: give me more space. I said: why? Did I do something wrong? Is there something wrong? Is there someone else? When did you stop loving me? In what precise moment? In what room? What city?
I held her tight as one who’s about to lose his own life holds on. Then she said: give me more space. I said: no.
10.
I have only one purpose: to live intensely.
11.
I wish I never met you
and I wish you never left.
You taste like a river in June.
12.
I’m going to say something important. Look at my face. Ignore my eyes. Just listen to me. But listen only to the timbre of my voice, not to what I am saying. They are different. They are two different rooms. The first is an exhibition of despair, the second only an explanation.
The first is all you have to listen to. So listen carefully because I cannot repeat myself:
“Everything/ one suspects to be true/ is true.â€
13.
In 1879 a boy is born in Germany. At age five he’d throw a chair at his violin teacher and chase him out. In time he would develop the capacity to withdraw instantaneously from a crowd into loneliness. At twenty-six he would publish his theory of relativity in Annalen der Physik. He looks crazy, but he is certain: there is no aether, no absolute space.
14.
Sometimes they thought it was the words.
What they wanted to say could not be said.
They fixed the TV, vacuumed the rug,
dusted the furniture, looked out the window.
Sometimes she would purposefully lose hold of
a plate and it would smash to the floor.
Then they would have something to say,
only to begin to say it then stop.
15.
Look at this box. It is empty except for a diary, a book, and this picture in my hand. Now look at this picture. It weighs nothing and occupies almost zero space. I can slip it in anywhere and it will fit: inside the diary, under the box, through a crack on the wall. If I tear it several times, it will occupy a different volume, many and various. It mutates, you see. If I burn it, it will smoke into the air. It will take up a whole expanse.
16.
How many more times
are you going to let the world
hurt you?
17.
My father is an incorrigible storyteller. He would tell the same stories in different ways. I wouldn’t know which ones to believe. So I believed all of them. “There is no story that is not true,†said Uchendu.
Father would point at the TV. He would repeat lines, rehearse the beginnings and ends, explicate with his hands the elaborate twists and turns of every road.
He said: “I am dying.â€
I said: “But aren’t all of us dying.â€
18.
And I thought the world
was about this leaving,
not about anybody’s leaving
but about this leaving.
The next day it was the same.
19.
A beautiful woman walks into a room. The room is dark. There are no windows. There is one light bulb but any time now it will go off. I pretend not to notice and look away, my heart beating against my chest like a club. If I strain hard enough I will hear a song in the background. What other forms of happiness are there than this?
20.
In 1989 the Berlin wall falls down.
21.
I believe in love only when it rains.
22.
To appreciate the value of land, one need only look into a painting: so much beauty. Buying land means buying the layers of beauty directly above it. It means buying the sky above it. And the birds above it, the clouds, the gods.
In truth you are buying a corner of the universe. You are saying: this is my room. You are saying: I live here. Here I exist.
23.
Your sadness is immaterial. You did
not come into the world to be happy.
~
You came to suffer/survive.
24.
How many words have you spoken in your life?
How many did you mean?
How many did you understand?
25.
Somebody picks up a phone. He dials a number. His voice travels a thousand miles into another country. On the other end somebody picks up and hears the voice. Who is this?– This is me. The phone is hung up. The voice travels back a thousand miles.
Elsewhere somebody picks up a phone and before he could dial forgets the number.
26.
Sometimes wars are waged because there are too many people in too few rooms.
27.
Memory is incomplete–lost.
The world is incomplete–vanishing.
Nothing more happens. You open your eyes and it’s over.
Memory is brutal.
Memory is precise.
28.
In the next room people I do not know are talking with hushed voices. Their secret slips out the window like a cat. It is raining, and I press my ear to the wall. I imagine that one of them is smoking a cigarette. I imagine that one of them is covering his mouth in surprise.
29.
When my aunt died the doctors said the fat clogged her arteries. Every week she visited the hospital, and every week the vein on her wrist had to be ripped out so a catheter could be stuck into her body to suck out her blood. You could see the plasma pass through a filter and then back to the body. If you put your ear to her wrist you would hear her heart.
Before my uncle died the heart attacks were so excruciating he said he’d prefer to just die. They transported him to the hospital, and on the way to the emergency room his heart gave. Mother said my uncle ate too much pork and drank too much beer. She wonders if he’s going to be happy in heaven.
30.
In some house in some province in some country in some novel there is a story of a man a father a child a lover who dies because of too much sadness.
31.
Nobody thought that what was wrong was the love.
32.
She said: give me more space.
orz sorry for stretching the page. But it’s a good poem!
6 (Jade)- so very senior year. Although in my case it might be more “what if I hadn’t dreamed so much?” It’s all about the balance, (un)fortunately.
8 (Axa)- Frequently. Most of my writing starts out as a kernel of idea or phrase I want to use, expanded to EPIC PROPORTIONS or something of the sort. Then again, sometimes I start with EPIC PROPORTIONS and end up having to narrow things down (cf. “I want to write a long short story about communism in order to pretend I have a cultural identity!” “…you may want to work on that a bit.”)
22 (Kai)- Ooh, I think I’ve heard that one before. I like it! S’the sort of thing I would read during a rainstorm at night. Preferably in fall, so everything smells like wet leaves and I can go outside without being slain by the weather.
25 (SN)- I love the images in this one, especially at the end. Words about words have always fascinated me, since for writers they are so important and so personal.
I should stop writing poems about Greek mythology and go play outside.
The Raven, Edgar Allan Poe.
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`’Tis some visitor,’ I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door –
Only this, and nothing more.’
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; – vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow – sorrow for the lost Lenore –
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore –
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me – filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
`’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door –
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; –
This it is, and nothing more,’
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
`Sir,’ said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you’ – here I opened wide the door; –
Darkness there, and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!’
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!’
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
`Surely,’ said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore –
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; –
‘Tis the wind and nothing more!’
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door –
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door –
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,’ I said, `art sure no craven.
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore –
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!’
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.’
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning – little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door –
Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as `Nevermore.’
But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered – not a feather then he fluttered –
Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before –
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.’
Then the bird said, `Nevermore.’
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
`Doubtless,’ said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore –
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of “Never-nevermore.”‘
But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore –
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking `Nevermore.’
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
`Wretch,’ I cried, `thy God hath lent thee – by these angels he has sent thee
Respite – respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!’
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.’
`Prophet!’ said I, `thing of evil! – prophet still, if bird or devil! –
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted –
On this home by horror haunted – tell me truly, I implore –
Is there – is there balm in Gilead? – tell me – tell me, I implore!’
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.’
`Prophet!’ said I, `thing of evil! – prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us – by that God we both adore –
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore –
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?’
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.’
`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!’ I shrieked upstarting –
`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! – quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!’
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.’
And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted – nevermore!
Jeez… lots of ‘nevermores’ here huh?
Love isn’t a star, a circle, a square,
but like in geometry,
you can’t prove it’s there!
I tend to be bored in math…
38-Creepy, isn’t it?
For any people who weren’t creeped out by that, try “The Pit and the Pendulum”.
Edited:
Gates of Atlantis.
In a city far below the sea
A guardian of Atlantis holds the key
All the buildings made of glass
And seashells, sand, and there is he
Who would venture shall not pass
No crossing of the boundary
For in the ocean far and deep
The secrets that the merfolk keep
Are never for a mortal man to see
36- *love*
25- I love the last lines best, it is a good ending.
***
a trip to the doctor.
I paste little reminders to myself
on the mirror, the headbord
to make sure I know who to be
don’t mention the taste of music in darkness,
how you sometimes think in pictures,
how colors have personalities too,
how sadness is a seperate person in the room,
(sitting stiff and stuffed-animal bodied,
grey-blye skin
watching
with dark eyes
as you stare into nothingness)
don’t mention the little voices in your mind
whispering things you’d never dream
(or maybe you have
and that really is the problem)
smile, speak clearly
be careful not to misspell your own name
or perhaps they will suspect
that I am an alien being, an island uncharted
a desperate dream, feelings false-started
mechanical veins or chemical waves
twisting and turning
spinning and whirling
gears inside my body, or perhaps green blood, or fossilized amber-coated butterflies of long ago days
what if they find something wrong
what if it’s cancer
what if I am different
what if it’s superpowers
from anyone or any body or any thing that they have ever seen before, and they tell me so
with wide-eyed wonder
(or is it fear)
what if they tell me
what if they
what if
(what if I’m not?)
****
This sort of poem I have ben meaning to write for a while. It wasn’t so long in my head at first, just a paragraph of lines, but it’s grown, as you can see. Very rough. No time now though, uhg
36- interesting. there is a running thread there…prose poetry often degrades into very private indecipherable thoughts but that was well done. I liked “in 80,150,320 steps I will bump into you. I can never get away from you, and will you remember me? Distance brings us closer. There is no distance.”
As others said I sometimes get images as well…if I’m really in a state I can let them follow each other, though usually they’re unrelated.
41- I like it! It’s aesthetically appealing first of all, with the lines being of similar length, consistent capitalization and so on. The only line that sounds a little off is “And seashells, sand, and there is he” — the and sound is a bit too present in my opinion. But the visual is wonderful, and you really turn the phrases spectacularly. “Who would venture shall not pass” — I love it!
I think my main flaw in writing is that I too often take the easy way out and do stream of conscious. That’s all well and good, but it’s not much to read. Concentration…
oh I forgot to comment on jadestone’s…alright here it is then
42- I love it already..it gives me a very quiet feeling, like shadowy shapes/silhouettes sinking deeper into a dark ocean. Some kind of unnatural settling? well, I’m blathering…
the voice of is very consistent, I can really feel it…I’m excited to see the finished version, if this is only a rough copy!
all the MB poets and writers ought to be like the Bloomsbury Group, except without all the scandals and uh, the like.
34–That’s fantastic. I really connect with it, for some reason…maybe because I’d like my life to be like the myths and stories…
42–Incredible, as usual. I love the images.
Re-worked
***
a trip to the doctor.
I paste little reminders to myself
on the mirror, the headbord,
my mind,
to make sure I know who to be
don’t mention the taste of music in darkness,
how you sometimes think in pictures,
how colors have personalities too,
how sadness is a seperate person in the room,
(sitting stiff and stuffed-animal bodied,
grey-blue skin and dark shining eyes
watching
as you stare into nothingness)
how the stars sometimes sing you lullabies
(and drift you, softly,
to some sifting version of sand-filled sleep)
don’t mention the little voices in your mind
the soft ones the scuttling ones the horrid ones
whispering things you’d never dream
(or maybe you have
and that really is the problem)
smile, speak clearly
sit patiently in that chemical room
be careful not to misspell your own name
or perhaps they will suspect–
that I am an alien being, an island uncharted
a desperate dream, feelings false-started
mechanical veins or chemical waves
twisting and turning
spinning and whirling
gears inside my body, or flowing green blood,
or fossilized amber-coated butterflies from some prehistoric year
just waiting to be freed
what if they find something wrong
what if it’s cancer
what if it’s superpowers
(what if they tell me)
what if I am different
from anyone or anything or any body that they have ever seen before, and they tell me so
with wide-eyed wonder
(or is it fear)
what if they tell me
what if they
what if
(what if I’m not?)
46-very good. I like the description of sadness, there is some very nice alliteration in “some sifting version of sand-filled sleep,” and the final line is a fine contrast to the rest of the poem imho. 39-were you insulting geometry???? 8-yes, but the phrases have always been rather pointless and often idiotic.
Sort of a tribute to Space Academy and Huntsville:.
VIBRATIONS
Years ago, the town remembers.
(Full of pride, they like to note.)
Years ago, the land shook.
Here was the place, chosen from all others-
Here was where they dreamed in thunder, and fire, and bold steel.
Here was where they built and tested the moon rockets,
The mighty Saturns, designed to set men free from this world
And carry them to another.
They remember when they first tested the engines,
The F-1s, twice the hight of a person.
The fire lit up the air, chased away the night
An artificial dawn.
But most of all, the land shook.
Millions of pounds of force hit the red clay.
Windows all across the town broke.
It shattered their china, but they cheered.
They danced in the streets when their work
Put us in lunar orbit that cold December.
And the crew saw the Earth rising in the inky sky.
“That picture, are we so fragile, truly so alone?
And yet, the things we do to it, on it!”
It was not just glass that was broken, but preconceptions.
The F-1 had set them free.
And now, there is thunder once again.
The vibrations wake them in the middle of the night
And they know- we will return!
They build the wings now, as they built them before.
The cobwebs are cleaned off those old dancing shoes.
Vibrations anew, from the new engines, J2-X.
Carry me to other worlds!
Shake the ground, shake the people!
Shatter my china, shatter my preconceptions!
J2-X, set me free!
Have you ever
looked out the window and thought
that maybe
the sun was just
a little too
bright?
(I have. In fact, that was when I looked directly at it and blinded myself. BLAH.)
Woooo!!! I found my poem! It’s untitled as of now. The first line is from the song “Swing Life Away”.
We live on front porches and swing life away
We watch the sunrise to greet the new day
We walk on the beaches and sleep by the bay
We have to leave but we wish we could stay
We stroll along the boardwalk hand in hand
We fall in love with the ocean and sand
We swim out to sea until we can’t see land
We live right here on this shore where we stand
We wish it was summer ’cause winter’s too long
We write about sunrise and sing a sad song
We wonder if what we once thought was wrong
We run for our lives and bring our friends along
We spend our winter just watching the clock
We stare at the snow as it falls on the dock
We shut the door and the fasten the lock
We want to say something but we can’t talk
We wander out of our home to the street
We can still feel the hot sand on our feet
We all go down to the pier to meet
We remember the long days in summer’s heat
Oooh! Sorry for double posting but it should be “shut the door THEN fasten the lock”
Not “the”.
As always, editing advice is appreciated.
48–Wow, that’s really good. I love the exclamations at the end–it’s so joyful, an exultation of noise.
Really nice work.
i am so
dis
jointed
mixed up
like a glass of water
whirling
did the earth stand still?
Did my heart
*
skip a beat?
felt like it
when you walked by
and
looked me in the eye
and
oh
smiled
Wheee! Free verse
52) Me likes! It’s fun to read.
21- I love to sing. I write songs and do musical theater.
52- Thanks.
52-I like it. The rhythm really adds to the message. I like where you put the asterik.
Anyone have anything to say about number 50?
Daddy- can you hear me?
I never knew your face
Do you remember mine?
I never heard your voice
but can you hear my sound?
I’ve changed since you last saw me.
Since you last held my hand.
If you knew who I was now
would you have left me then?
Wake me up, I’m only dreaming
god these nightmares chase me
Hold my hand and keep the dark away
wake me up when you’re here to stay
I now propose a toast to us all,
to the stock market’s rise and fall,
To tears of anger, greif and strife,
to the endless circle of love and of life.
Yeah i wrote this when i was high on lifesavers and friendship.
58- I like it.
50- I really like it. I think it puts a almost desperate-for-a-smile look on life around us.
59- Thanks
I think I had this on the last thread, but I feel like reposting it.
You know,
Not so very long ago, when I was young
And restless
I lived across the street from a hotel.
At least, to me.
That’s what I saw it to be.
Anyway, even though it was there, it was
dark
deserted
dead
The whole thing was a giant
nest for
gloom and despair
It was an abandoned memory, a
useless facade of decay and loss.
But, when you looked through the window,
there was a light.
A single
shining
light
a beacon of golden glow
in the night
Seemed to me that this
light
was a sign that
there was no use
giving up
It seemed to say,
‘Life gonna come back to me
someday’.
To be alone
is not as sad as to be
forgotten.
Don’t have a single soul to abide
by you and
nobody wants you there
but you still got hope
The demons of this world, by name:
Money
Drugs
Hate
Death…
They can’t touch you
You have a weapon
You
have
hope when
Stock market crash
Gas prices boom
Everyone you love fades
into that peeling wallpaper
of your hotel
in your mind
your soul
your own forgotten strength
But you don’t give up, don’t never
stop believing
you got
your
hope
you got
your
faith
You got
your
light!
Those people that
oppress and hate you
hurt you
they don’t have what you have
they don’t know what you know
they don’t love like you
they don’t breathe like you
they don’t feel
like
you.
They are your demons, and with
your light
you shed them off!
You
are
Free!
That hotel is still there
still exists
it is still with me
But my light has never gone away.
No pain dilutes my flame
No price can claim my conviction
There is no juresdiction
No man can
interrupt me in my song
A solitary voice, echoed by many
many who live
in the dark
and who still
seek out
that
light
————————————————————————-
It’s interesting
That it should take one loss
To make a person
see
Hearts are broken
Eyes wide open
The wipers are gone
But you still see clearly
It’s queer
That it should take one life
To help us find our
own
Holding hands
Making plans
You’ve grown so fast
But are small inside
It’s charming
That it should take one person
To help us realize our
beauty
Tender kiss
Peaceful bliss
We live so short
But love so long
Because everything you love gets broken,
And everyone you know wants to die
When things left unsaid hurt more than what’s spoken,
Then all that’s left to do is cry.
This is darkness.
This is a blackness
a hate.
Feel it down to your soul.
Look through the windows,
the sun has set.
Try to find the moon
it isn’t there.
Search my eyes
find the fire there.
Well we’re a happy thread, aren’t we? XD
A haiku-thing I wrote back in elementary school.
If I could stand on
Half the moon and half the sun
I could move worlds, me.
54) I love to sing too.
65) heh heh. Depressing things are…… well……. sad. I could never write something like that because I’m not…… erm…… sad.
This lameo poem makes me smile
because it has a kind of charm
for someone who
has entirely no idea
of what to say.
Finally! A happy poem! (not that i have anything against the other poems-they were quite good, but depressing.)
Herm…I didn’t mean to be depressing… *shifts uncomfortably*
There’s a song by the Decemberists called Bagman’s Gambit.
It creeps me out at the end. I just get chills when I imagine the scene in the last line.
Actually, almost all of The Decemberists songs give me chills. They’re amazing!
Bagman’s Gambit, from what I gather, is a song about someone whose friend is arrested for shooting a Soviet officer. The friend goes to prison and dissappears. The person singing the song tries to go on working for the government and living a normal life.
The last line that gives me chills is “It was 10 years on, when you resurfaced in a motorcar. And with a wave of an arm you were there and gone.”
I can just imagine the singer walking down the street and seeing their long lost friend wave from the back of a passing car, then never seeing them again.
Oooo… I sang another, different, solo today. It was AMAZING! I loved it the mostest becuase I didn’t go up to the Mic instead I just had the sing on top of the people around me still in the croud. So to the audiance the solo was coming from the group. It was so pretty too.
SFTDP
I posted on my alter ego. for now I am a nobody untill I’m guessed.
68-It was quite good poetry, and depression can be rather interesting in a lesser state.
46 – I like that.
Actually, I like all of these, but that was the one I specifically noticed.
74- Thank you.
PENTY you had better come back here, because every time I read 36 I love it more but it’s the only poem by that person I can find online and I need more!! Or at least know where you got it.
But I’d like to try something in that style. It’d be a good way for me to get all the little fragments in my head out… we shall see.
66–I like that one. Simple, but says so much.
So continuing in the depressing/bone-chilling poetry vein…
Couldn’t remember if I’ve posted this, or if I just intended to and never got around to it. Apologies if it’s a repeat.
Formal Application
by Donald W. Baker
“The poets apparently want to rejoin the human race.†Time
I shall begin by learning to throw
the knife, first at trees, until it sticks
in the trunk and quivers every time;
next from a chair, using only wrist
and fingers, at a thing on the ground,
a fresh ant hill or a fallen leaf;
then at a moving object, perhaps
a pieplate swinging on twine, until
I pot it at least twice in three tries.
Meanwhile, I shall be teaching the birds
that the skinny fellow in sneakers
is a source of suet and breadcrumbs,
first putting them on a shingle nailed
to a pine tree, next scattering them
on the needles, closer and closer
to my seat, until the proper bird,
a towhee, I think, in black and rust
and gray, takes tossed crumbs six feet away.
Finally, I shall coordinate
conditioned reflex and functional
form and qualify as Modern Man.
You see the splash of blood and feathers
and the blade pinning it to the tree?
It’s called an “Audubon Crucifix.â€
The phrase has pleasing (even pious)
connotations, like Arbeit Macht Frei,
“Molotov Cocktail,†and Enola Gay.
*Shiver*
Someone search upwords poetry. There is this writer, her name is Elizabeth Thomas and she’s really good. She came to our school about a month ago and did a poetry workshop with a bunch of kids, it was fun! I mean no one thinks that being quarentined in a standard sized classroom with fourty kids for five hours would be fun, but it was. And I learned a lot about poetry too.
76-Woww. Creepy.
I’m bored. It rhymes.
I came here on the wind
I flew it
With a knowledgeable sense
I knew it
My eyes a window to the mist
I view it
The river, I will recompense
I rue it
I toss the rock into the gloom
I threw it
But am left only with
a sense of
doom
I blew it
79–Huh. I actually kind of like it. On the one hand it’s funny, just because of the rhymes, but on the other hand, it’s kind of sad. Interesting.
79) I like it to! I loved the last line, “I blew it” :lol:That’s such a funny phrase!
79- That’s pretty cool.
I was talking to one of my friends today and looked into her agenda for no good reason. The enrie of two pages is filled with really great poems. She just “scribbled a bit” I’m most amazed becuase they are really powerful and when she talked about them she TALKED she hardly ever talks. But with her poems it was all jabber. It think it shows a lot about what peoms do. It was really sweet because they were love peoms to the boy she’s not allowed to date becuase of her religon. She likes him, he likes her, but she can’t do anything about it. And the poems conveyed that, it was amazing.
Oh, and I forgot to say this, but for maximum effect, the last sentence of the poem from post 48 should be shouted.
82- Aw, forbidden love. It makes for the best kind of writing, no?
Again-
It’s interesting
That it should take one loss
To make a person
see
Hearts are broken
Eyes wide open
The wipers are gone
But you still see clearly
It’s queer
That it should take one life
To help us find our
own
Holding hands
Making plans
You’ve grown so fast
But are small inside
It’s charming
That it should take one person
To help us realize our
beauty
Tender kiss
Peaceful bliss
We live so short
But love so long
79-I like it. It sounds sort of cynical because of the serious topic and style of writing mixing like that.
Why are all my best poems nature thingies?? Can’t I write a really excellent poem about something else, just once??
There is a place inside the wood
Amidst the grass, by a tall tree,
Where flowers bloom, and there’s no room
For chainsaw men like you and me.
There squirrels hop amongst the branches,
Robins chirp and blue jays scream,
And leaves can swish, and make a wish!
For granting follows, like a dream.
There, though the forest’s leaves may fall,
Though chainsaw roar may cut all down,
There is a place, a quiet space
Where leaves are green, where wood is brown.
Where wind can rustle with a sigh,
Where there is silence, there is good.
Where none of chainsaw’s men may go-
The holy space, inside the wood.
If only I could take you there.
If my feet remembered the way,
We’d hide from chainsaw men inside
And laugh in silence, every day.
But I know quiet words no more.
This chainsaw mine has turned my breath
From living tree, from nature’s key,
To fire’s roar, to forest death.
Someday I’ll lay my chainsaw down
And swear off seeing tall trees rotting.
When I am old, I’ll walk off bold,
My chainsaw on the grass, forgotton.
But ’til that unremembered hour,
I watch tall trees, with bark so brown,
With leaves so green, in our hearts seen,
With branches long, come crashing down.
There is a place inside the wood
Amidst the grass, by a tall tree,
Where flowers bloom, and there’s no room
For chainsaw men like you and me.
The magician is dark and bejeweled,
entrancing
flutering cape and hands and eyes
staring,
at you,
and his eyes are like space.
and then he holds up the card,
and it is the right card
and, suddenly, you are in love.
Teach me, you long to beg for the unthinkable
whisper your yearning
but do not say aloud
But he looks into your eyes
(stars somehwere high above us
are crashing, imploding, dying
spinning out of control
in this endlessly spinning place)
looks into your eyes and knows
(dying and burning,
twisting and turning)
and “No,” he says,
“No.”
____
Bah it didn’t come out right. Needs work. The feeling it sends out didn’t work they way I need it too…
86- I like it. I wasn’t to sure with where you were going with it when I started, but at the end I was pleasntly surprised with how it turned out.
A poem I wrote for English class a while back.
Whoosh, whoosh
Swish, clack
The wind is blowing
It whistles and moans
Outside of my room that is
Warm and secure
The cold wind
Rustles the leaves on the trees
Makes them shudder and sway
And makes me feel
Like the trees will fall
But they don’t
They stand, steadfast and strong
The leaves are always falling
As the wind howls around our house
It sounds like it’s lonely
But what can I do?
Shut inside on a cold fall night
With the wind always blowing.
I don’t like it very much. Comments?
I’ve begun a new project which I will most likely never finished. You know how some people want to write a novel before they die? It’s kinda like that, but I don’t want to write a novel. Instead, I’m writing an epic poem, inspired mainly by Peer Gynt. Only a stanza and a half so far, though, so I’ve got a ways to go.
I huddle by myself
In the rain
and cold.
Clouds covering
the sun.
Shivering
Crying
Not caring
Rain mixing with tears,
the salty mixture drips down my cheeks
Now
a flash of light and life
the clouds part
for an instant
and a sunbeam
falls straight
into my eyes
The clouds come together again
as I stand up
and shout
two words-
“Thank you!”
90) Interesting. It’s like sad and then kind of happy. Yay.
C hildren singing sweetly
How their hearts soar to sing as
One. To be part of a
Rhythmic team with the soul purpose to
Understand and create a
Song.
‘The Soup Song’ sounded a little short.
So I expanded on it with my own lyrics.
To the tune of ‘Have a Pie’ OR ‘Let it be’
Enjoy!
When I find myself all cold and cranky,
Mimi shows up on my stoop,
Speaking words of solace: “Have some soup!â€
And when the hailstones pound the window
And my spirits start to droop,
I know what she’ll tell me: “Have some soup!â€
CHORUS:
Have some soup, have some soup, have some soup, have some soup!
I know what she’ll tell me: Have some soup!
When I shiver
To my liver
She comes by with wonderous goop.
Voicing reassurance
“Have some soup!â€
And when the kitchen’s
Cold and sterile
She knows how to feed our group
Sings the sweet promotion
Have some soup!
CHORUS
Sweet aromas
Velvet vapors
Perpotrate out to the stoop
Courtesy of Mimi
“Have some Soup!â€
And when we taste this potent potion
Our life forces
Do regroup
Tastes like young vine maple,
Musey soup!
CHORUS
SFDP
88: I like it. I feel that way sometimes.
86: That poem evokes a kind of loneliness. I guess I look for that place a lot.
Concrete that’s cold
Cold like the sea
Follows the curves
Of buildings to be.
92)
Awesome! I love soup! Especially my Dad’s homemade ones….
93) I really like that poem. It’s got a ring to it.
I think this is my favorite poem… if you can find the version where the poet (Seamus Heaney) is reading it out loud, well… it’s amazing.
St. Kevin and the Blackbird
And then there was St. Kevin and the blackbird.
The saint is kneeling, arms stretched out, inside
His cell, but the cell is narrow, so
One turned-up palm is out the window, stiff
As a crossbeam, when a blackbird lands
And lays in it and settles down to nest.
Kevin feels the warm eggs, the small breast, the tucked
Neat head and claws and, finding himself linked
Into the network of eternal life,
Is moved to pity: Now he must hold his hand
Like a branch out in the sun and rain for weeks
Until the young are hatched and fledged and flown.
*
And since the whole thing’s imagined anyhow,
Imagine being Kevin. Which is he?
self-forgetful or in agony all the time
From the neck on out down through his hurting forearms?
Are his fingers sleeping? Does he still feel his knees?
Or has the shut-eyed blank of underearth
Crept up through him? Is there distance in his head?
Alone and mirrored clear in love’s deep river,
‘To labour and not to seek reward,’ he prays,
A prayer his body makes entirely
For he has forgotten self, forgotten bird,
And on the riverbank forgotten the river’s name.
My favorite poem ever: “The Faery Reel”, by Neil Gaiman. I guess he does poetry too…
If I were young as I once was,
And dreams and death more distant then,
I wouldn’t split my soul in too
And keep half in the world of men
So half of me would stay at home
And strive for Faerie in vain,
While all the while my soul would stroll
Up narrow path, down crooked lane,
And there would meet a faery lass,
And smile and bow, with kisses three.
She’d pluck wild eagles from the air
And nail me to a lightning tree
And if my heart would run from her,
Or flee from her, be gone from her,
She’d wrap it in a nest of stars
And then she’d take it on with her,
Until she’d grow all tired of it,
All bored with it and done with it.
She’d leave it by a burning brook
And off brown boys would run with it.
They’d take it and have fun with it
And stretch it long and cruel and thin.
They’d slice it into four, and then
They’d string with it a violin.
And every day and every night
They’d play upon my heart a song
So plaintive and wild and strange
That all who heard it danced along
And sang and skipped and hopped and hoped
And danced and pranced and reeled and rolled
Until, with eyes as bright as coals,
They’d crumble into wheels of gold…
But I am young no longer now.
For sixty years my heart’s been gone
To play its dreadful music there,
Beyond the valley of the sun.
I watch with envious eyes and mind
The single-souled, who dare not feel
The wind that blows beyond the moon,
Who do not hear the Faery Reel.
If you don’t hear the Faery Reel,
They will not pause to steal your breath.
When I was young I was a fool,
So wrap me up in dreams and death.
So here we can make our own poetry, too, right? I think I have an idea. *ahem*
I dash-a sound
I look around
a shrouded figure
standing on the cold ground
I ready my weapon
and then I take aim
but alas, an ambush
now over is this game
snake? snake? snaaake!
~~~
…rhythm isn’t too good.
Lyrics for one of my band’s songs, not in song structure, but you get the idea.
Can’t see the stars in the sky, you know I
Keep trying to find your disguise and then I
Can’t find the truth in your eyes, and yet I
Don’t see any truth in your lies
It ain’t easy for me to forgive but just
Find a place, you can stay there and live, although you
Won’t see everything I can see, I guess you’ll
Be free like you wanted to be
Just tell me something I don’t know
And don’t you hide from the dark
Maybe we’ll meet again one day
Maybe your soul will find a heart
I don’t want you to think I’m distraught
Can’t stop those tears ‘cause they’re thoughts
96- Another Gaiman poem I like:
The Day the Saucers Came
That day, the saucers landed. Hundreds of them, golden,
Silent, coming down from the sky like great snowflakes,
And the people of Earth stood and stared as they descended,
Waiting, dry-mouthed to find what waited inside for us
And none of us knowing if we would be here tomorrow
But you didn’t notice it because
That day, the day the saucers came, by some coincidence,
Was the day that the graves gave up their dead
And the zombies pushed up through soft earth
or erupted, shambling and dull-eyed, unstoppable,
Came towards us, the living, and we screamed and ran,
But you did not notice this because
On the saucer day, which was the zombie day, it was
Ragnarok also, and the television screens showed us
A ship built of dead-man’s nails, a serpent, a wolf,
All bigger than the mind could hold, and the cameraman could
Not get far enough away, and then the Gods came out
But you did not see them coming because
On the saucer-zombie-battling gods day the floodgates broke
And each of us was engulfed by genies and sprites
Offering us wishes and wonders and eternities
And charm and cleverness and true brave hearts and pots of gold
While giants feefofummed across the land, and killer bees,
But you had no idea of any of this because
That day, the saucer day the zombie day
The Ragnarok and fairies day, the day the great winds came
And snows, and the cities turned to crystal, the day
All plants died, plastics dissolved, the day the
Computers turned, the screens telling us we would obey, the day
Angels, drunk and muddled, stumbled from the bars,
And all the bells of London were sounded, the day
Animals spoke to us in Assyrian, the Yeti day,
The fluttering capes and arrival of the Time Machine day,
You didn’t notice any of this because
you were sitting in your room, not doing anything
not even reading, not really, just
looking at your telephone,
wondering if I was going to call.
99- I can’t tell if that’s really funny, really messed up, or both.
99-Brilliant!
100- Perhaps a bit of all three, and more. To me it is also melancholy, and other feelings.
101- Yes, I like it a lot as well.
Palindrome poems are creepy. Creepy as in: “How the heck did they figure that out? They MUST be alians!” heres an example:
Love
Mimics hate:
Passionate always, forging forward.
Unquiet rage screams
Poetry.
Tangled mercilessly;
Emotion
—mirrors—
Emotion,
Mercilessly tangled.
Poetry
Screams rage, unquiet.
Forward forging, always passionate:
Hate mimics
Love.
Or you could just google it for more.
91) I dunno. I compose my best poetry in the comment box. No idea why. And I write sad poetry.
You’ve gone
Left me
here
instead of with you
all alone.
Why’d you do it?
I was your friend.
Why’d you die?
Why’d did you bring death
upon yourself?
I found you
in the girls’ bathroom
at school.
You had excused yourself
and wasn’t back yet.
The teacher was getting annoyed
so I went
to get you.
I wandered in the bathroom
saying your name.
“Robin? Rob? The teacher says
to come back!”
You didn’t respond.
I saw your familiar green jeans
in the second stall
I raped the door lightly
and said,
“Rob?”
“Robin? I’m coming in!”
I opened the door easily
because it was unlocked.
I stared
when I saw your freckled
bright face in
a deathly pallor
with a crumpled piece of paper
slightly falling out of your hand
“No, Robin, no!” I choked out as I
clutched your shoulders
shaking you
looking for a sign of life
I didn’t see the blood in your hair.
“Live!”
I looked in the hand
that wasn’t clutching the paper.
My heart stopped cold.
A long knife dripping liquid ruby
was falling out of your hand.
“Robin! Why?”
I now saw the blood crusted hair on your head.
I now saw the slit in your throat.
“Robin! What will everyone say?”
“Robin! What about the talent show?”
“Robin! What about MuseBlog?”
“Robin! Why?”
And so
Now I am floating around
no body
your ghost
“haunting” the school.
I saw your friends’ faces.
Their grief
Their sadness
One of them got depressed
MuseBlog:
Your sister told the others
what had happened
They were sad too.
They wondered why
And didn’t know how you could have done it.
To everyone
you appeared as a bright, quirky,
loveable person.
But inside
grief built up
chaos and turmoil raged when you were alone.
I tried to stop you
you didn’t listen
I watched in anguish as you got the knife
Slipped it into your bag
And went off to school.
You excused yourself in 4th period-
Math class-
And then you did it.
Why?
Why’d you do it, Robin?
Why?
That isn’t THAT sad. It’s just…..
A page.
White.
Clean.
Possibilities.
And yet.
Ink to paper.
Stains.
Scribbles.
Destroying that
pure
wonderful
empty
full
space.
And yet
words
emotions
thoughts.
Imprinted forever
Into the
clean
white
page.
_____________________________________________________
104- I’m sorry.
104 – Isn’t your name Robin? Are you okay? (The poem is really good, though.)
104- Are you all right?
104 – Such a sad poem … is something wrong?
104–Hang in there, if that’s what you need to hear.
Various pledges, modeled on the American pledge of allegiance:
I pledge allegiance
to what is right
to no more suffering
to no more night.
I swear myself
to what I pray:
one world
under God
made right by justice,
with liberty, love, and equality
for
All.
And a not-so-serious one:
I pledge allegiance
to Big Macs
and their heart attack-inducing calories.
And to the country
for which it stands:
one nation
overweight
spoiled rotten
with extra fries and supersizes for all.
I pledge allegiance to the Blue Marble.
With all my heart and all my soul.
That I may love all its peoples.
And the planet as a whole.
Its amazing how
we take small things
for granted
In the middle of the
barren desert,
a flowering stream
glinting in the late afternoon
sunshine
A lily pokes
her delicate head
up from the soil through
a smattering of black
woodchips
and greets the light
A small twitch
of a smile in
the hallway
catches your weary
forsaken
breath
Somewhere far
away from me
a bluebird sings
underneath
overshadowing
snow
and I can hardly
wait for
tomorrow
104- That was really…amazing. Keep writing, it would stink if you left museblog for some bigger better blog.
112- I really liked that. It was…truthful.
I went to a Shadowing at the school I’m trying to get into. It looked like the sun was shining down on me becuase my best friend that was a year older than me and that i’d never talked to in a year was there and she was my Shadowteer! And then the school was awsome, the people were awsome, and my mom knows the Piano teacher.
(107, 104) Zinc’s name is indeed Robin. Zinc, you are all right, aren’t you? That poem was awfully intense.
104- Oh my. I do hope that wasn’t based on some real experience…
I pledge allegiance
To the enviroment;
I will let the trees grow strong
I will let god sink into my heart.
I will let life be enough, the most wonderfull thing of all.
To education;
I will use my mind
like the supercomputer it was made to be.
I will make every factoid
A spell to weave into the sky
To friendship;
Do I put this hatbox down here, or there…
Or in a parallel universe?
I don’t know how to hold
something as infinite as love.
You love your smile tree.
You love your friends.
You love mashed potatoes
But does that make it art?
To art;
I will take the fabric scraps from this pledge
and mold them into something specacular.
I will hear the click-clacketing of skateboards
(and all the birdsong)
Think about how I hate that glaring streetlight.
I will not stop dreaming
I pledge allegiance.
112–Really good–I like how its simplicity becomes something profound.
116–Nice! It really flows. I also like how you extended a normal pledge and made it more meaningful.
This isn’t one of mine, my English teacher had us listen to it on NPR. I liked it so much I looked it up.
Snow Man, by Wallace Stevens
One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;
And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter
Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,
Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place
For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.
Reworking some old poems together for history as I am bone-dry on inspiration right now x_x It is supposed to be cynical but I just am not feeling cynical right now, for once. Man.
___
This is the world.
telling us not be afraid
to be different,
unique, unashamed
This is the world
that sells us fashion magazines
(snowflakes all melt into identical water droplets)
signals whispering
conform, conform, conform.
This is the world
telling us to dream,
to live while we can,
to believe in yourself
to reach for the stars
that then tells us
which dreams we should have
what lives we should live
which stars are off-limits
or just too far away.
So we sit, and comply
following the etched-in patterns
(there are no roads left less travelled
only worn through, or underbrush)
dully, unthinkingly,
—
God I am SO STUCK and being forced to get off the computer
disajkbgiraow’njkndejkn
I am fine. I am seriously fine. I just think about death a lot. Yes, it’s hard to believe, but half the time I’m completely morbid. Whoop dee doo.
113: Thank you! Fortunately, I’d be a complete reject on the other blog. But on the bright side,
Rain’s Symphony
Drip
Splick
Drip
Splick
Drip
Splick
It rained
last night
in our town.
Drip
Splick
Drip
Splick
The rainpipe
the one attached to our house
still leaks water
from the shower.
Drip
Splick
Drip
Splick
Stomp
Splash
Stomp
Splash
Stomp
Splash
A small child
on her way to school
her bookbag
full of papers and candy wrappers
slung over her shoulders
Stomp
Splash
Stomp
Splash
At every puddle she comes to
on the sidewalk
she jumps in to it
and when the water leaps out
of the puddle
she shrieks with delight.
Stomp
Splash
Stomp
Splash
Shake
Pitterpatter
Shake
Pitterpatter
Shake
Pitterpatter
At the middle school
in the middle of town
in front
a 8th grader
a big, hulky mass of blue sweatshirt and backpack
Waits for a group of 8th grade girls
a tightly packed ball of makeup, gossip, and stylish clothes
to pass underneath
Shake
Pitterpatter
Shake
Pitterpatter
They pass underneath
unaware while that are sharing secrets
of what–
PATTER!
The 8th grader shakes the tree’s drops onto the girls
They scream
And the 8th grader slinks away
to the sports field
to play dodgeball
with his friends.
Drip
Stomp
Shake
Splick
Splash
Pitterpatter
The rain’s symphony
commences once again.
118- So true. I like it. I like it very much.
________________________________________________
Scanning
the hallways.
Searching
for a familiar face.
Surrounded by people
and so alone.
They drift by in groups.
Friends.
Laughing
At inside jokes.
You know one of them.
From a past school,
or last year,
in that health class.
Look at us!
they silently scream.
“You want to be us
You want to be just like us.
Because we are better than you.”
“Look
how many friends I have!
We share secrets
and laugh
at things you wouldn’t understand.”
But then,
One of them,
one of the group,
turns to look at you.
And you see
what was once yourself,
echoed:
‘What if I say the wrong thing?’
‘What if everyone laughs?’
‘What if
I don’t
belong anymore?’
You smile a bit,
because you know
that popularity
isn’t so perfect.
And they smile back.
‘You will be there,
if that happens,
won’t you?’
‘You know what it is like.’
Reassured,
they turn away,
and join their group again.
Laughing along with the jokes,
You see some friends in the crowd.
Smile and wave,
walk over
to join your own group.
So Jade is thinking about entering this poetry contest she found online. I need to pick two poems to submit… and this is where I am stuck. Heh. I really don’t know what to choose. Usually I like the poem’s I’ve written most recently because they are closest to my current emotions/state/whatever, so I’m not a very good judge of my own work.
Anyone want to help me out?
I am thinking about:
46 on this thread
140 on the last thread (really like that one currently)
one of the ones from 57 on the last thread
85 on the last thread, or 89
And now I have to get off. There’s three or four others I am considering. Post them later.
121–I don’t know…all of yours are so good. I think I like 46 from this thread, and then the 1st and 2nd poems from 57 on the last thread, the best.
I have just discovered sestinas. Mwa ha ha.
Sestina by Elizabeth Bishop
September rain falls on the house.
In the failing light, the old grandmother
sits in the kitchen with the child
beside the Little Marvel Stove,
reading the jokes from the almanac,
laughing and talking to hide her tears.
She thinks that her equinoctial tears
and the rain that beats on the roof of the house
were both foretold by the almanac,
but only known to a grandmother.
The iron kettle sings on the stove.
She cuts some bread and says to the child,
It’s time for tea now; but the child
is watching the teakettle’s small hard tears
dance like mad on the hot black stove,
the way the rain must dance on the house.
Tidying up, the old grandmother
hangs up the clever almanac
on its string. Birdlike, the almanac
hovers half open above the child,
hovers above the old grandmother
and her teacup full of dark brown tears.
She shivers and says she thinks the house
feels chilly, and puts more wood in the stove.
It was to be, says the Marvel Stove.
I know what I know, says the almanac.
With crayons the child draws a rigid house
and a winding pathway. Then the child
puts in a man with buttons like tears
and shows it proudly to the grandmother.
But secretly, while the grandmother
busies herself about the stove,
the little moons fall down like tears
from between the pages of the almanac
into the flower bed the child
has carefully placed in the front of the house.
Time to plant tears, says the almanac.
The grandmother sings to the marvelous stove
and the child draws another inscrutable house.
And another one, that I think is AWESOME (and sad), by the amazing Neil Gaiman:
Vampire Sestina
I wait here at the boundaries of dream,
all shadow-wrapped. The dark air tastes of night,
so cold and crisp, and I wait for my love.
The moon has bleached the color from her stone.
She’ll come, and then we’ll stalk this pretty world
alive to darkness and the tang of blood.
It is a lonely game, the quest for blood,
but still, a body’s got the right to dream
and I’d not give it up for all the world.
The moon has leeched the darkness from the night.
I stand in shadows, staring at her stone:
Undead, my lover . . . O, undead my love?
I dreamt you while I slept today and love
meant more to me than life — meant more than blood.
The sunlight sought me, deep beneath my stone,
more dead than any corpse but still a-dream
until I woke as vapor into night
and sunset forced me out into the world.
For many centuries I’ve walked the world
dispensing something that resembled love —
a stolen kiss, then back into the night
contented by the life and by the blood.
And come the morning I was just a dream,
cold body chilling underneath a stone.
I said I would not hurt you. Am I stone
to leave you prey to time and to the world?
I offered you a truth beyond your dreams
while all you had to offer was your love.
I told you not to worry and that blood
tastes sweeter on the wing and late at night.
Sometimes my lovers rise to walk the night . . .
Sometimes they lie, cold corpse beneath a stone,
and never know the joys of bed and blood,
of walking through the shadows of the world;
instead they rot to maggots. O my love
they whispered you had risen, in my dream.
I’ve waited by your stone for half the night
but you won’t leave your dream to hunt for blood.
Good night, my love. I offered you the world.
122- Yeah, 46 I am really considering, but I wrote it not long ago and a I said I always like the ones I’ve done recently…
196 on thread before last
116 on that thread I also like but it is realy more of a song, and not so good without music
94 that thread
Bah. I am bad at decisions. Need to pick/edit by Feb 13 though >.<
123- I think that 46 is a definite yes.
Sunrise-
A tear drops from the crescent eye
The moon is waning, eternal, swift
The darkness wraps around her shoulders
Ever darker, ever darker
Cries the sky
An arm stretches from silent sleep
The sun of orange, ablaze, alight
The refulgent glint her airy coat
Ever brighter, ever brighter
Sings the morn
121 — I vote for 89, and I also like 140 quite a bit. Good luck! I agree about liking the most recent piece the best, I don’t know how often I read back on things and shudder…
122– lovely! I had to look up what a sestina was..so it doesn’t matter the order of the six words except that the last and first of the next stanza are the same?
That’s interesting, maybe I’ll try that out. My poetry is lacking direction right now, and not in the good way.
Hmm I haven’t posted anything in over a year. I suppose I’m paranoid about stuff like this. oh well.
I vote 46, with 140 a close second.
125–yeah, sestinas are cool but v. difficult. Is there something about #s of syllables per line? I dunno, I tried (and failed) to write a good one.
Since V-day’s coming up…
My love is not a quick or flashy thing;
it does not flare then die, or rise then fall,
or sigh or faint or swoon.
It is not the love of the romantic, dear heart,
this longing of mine.
Instead my love is a slow and wondrous thing,
a deepening passion,
a slow-burning fire.
It does not fail or falter, love,
it does not lessen or grow weary;
it longs when we part, longs when we meet,
burns for you, yearns for you,
never wavers, only grows.
Dear my heart,
let it be known:
through strife, through danger,
in death, beyond hope
my most dear
this love of mine–
will
eternally
endure.
Sigh…I ♥ love poetry. ^_^
I am using the word of the day on Dictionary.com to write a poem for today, so here it goes:
Word: Virtuoso
I take refuge in the morning
when the world is asleep
and some of it is
just
waking up
and I nod to the wind
when she stretches her
airy limbs;
I conduct the sway of
tree branches
muttering in her breeze;
I dance on the
patio of
fallen
dead
ground/
(leaves and snow);
a virtuoso of my
own art,
and that is
morning.
128–Oooh, I really like that one! Your phrasing is really good, I like the part that says “just/waking up”–it’s like someone is stretching during those words. Nice job.
This is a haiku
You can tell can’t you? Good job.
Comment on this poem.
129- Thank you!
130- I commented!
I can see that
the poem is a haiku
what a good ploy!
Word of the Day: Unwitting
The darkness
that shrouds the corners of my
unwitting
simple
mind
so empty, so vaguely shimmering
with a desire to
fill its destitute skirts
with
proficiency, cognition
ability
intelligence
a taste for the
light
the scintillation of knowledge
to come when I
first reopen
the doors
130-130: Nice!
Love is spring, when the air is thawing and the sidewalk is sharp.
woa shi Rose, yes I am Tessa, (magick name I long to speak, )Robinhood and silvercreek.
‘tash’ wa Rose (or maybe not)
with goatish spirit long forgot
and all the birdsong that I speak.
I am Rose (Ran out of toungues
thwich I can speak convincingly)
I talk to trees, they talk to me.
Word of the Day: erstwhile
the girl gaze into the glass, angry
hair tousled, face
dirty, scrubbed with dust and distaste
The person who stares back at me
glassy eyes, that
hair sheathing them in dirty blankets
is not who I thought her to be
a pallid line, so
wan and stretched and warped
and lonely
she is the erstwhile companion
of days spent unfulfilled
minutes fiddled away
in silence, of
seconds staring into the mirror ahead
wasting her days and her moments
seconds,
minutes,
hours,
days,
weeks,
years,
on wishing and wanting
for someone, for
a constant love to keep
her frayed boundaries of time
tied together in a single
unbending
knot
deceitful only to herself.
The glass shatters.
133–I like your idea, so I went to Merriam-Webster and looked at their word of the day.
Clepe: to name or to call
I name you glory
I name you bright
I name you darkness
I name you night
I call you Angel
I call you Death
I send you love
On my last breath
You are my lover,
My all in all.
In you I rise
In you I fall
And if you contradict,
Both rise and fall,
I’d rather you be everything,
Than nothing at all.
Meh. Boring poem. But I think I’m going to take a leaf from your book, Aggie, and start writing based on words of the day.
134- Well, I like it. It flows nicely.
I’ll follow both of your personages leads and flip to a random word in the dictionary and use that.
Extraneous: not vital or essential.
Standing off to the side
Watching the other kids play ball.
Like my mother asks me every day–
“Will you try to get involved with other children today, dear?”
I had quietly shuffled over
to the group
in front of the captains.
“Sally!”
“Bobby!”
The others’ names are called quickly
Finally
it is me
and the kid failing PE
“Jake!”
As Jake
runs over
I walk off to the tallest tree
To hide.
Quinn, the extraneous.
Quinn, all alone.
134, 136- Very good! I’ve started a trend, I see.
I usually use Dictionary.com, but I guess anything works!
I do like the idea, but I am not a poet. Maybe I shall use word-of-the-day as a sort of writing prompt, but, like Nthanda, not necessarily mention it in my writing. You never know, something could come of it.
Sometimes I wonder
if life is worth
the price.
The pain-
the constant companion.
The loneliness,
that follows
late at night.
The hope
lost.
Dreams that we forsake
for ration.
And conformity
that is imposed on us.
So we judge
to let the pain flow
and as we try to ease
the burden from our back
by tossing it
onto others,
ours increases.
And regret
welcomes us
into its realm.
_____________________________________
I feel depressed right now.
139- Feel better soon! *hugs and choklit*
Word of the Day: denigrate
The tall girls file their fingernails, watching
Blonde hair dyed and swept back
Mouths each a plumped line, exorbidant
students of the picture-perfect prima donna.
They preyed by day on those with least allure
The homely, wandering ones
Pencils behind their ears,
eyes full of wonder behind mirrors of hate that
gaze at them night and day
The individuals
The inscrutable
The abhorred
The tall ones wear their masks in the morning
And in the night
rip them away with claws of
distrust, and dismay
The fear of what they have become consumes them.
The lamentation comes soon after
One mournful cry from the denigrated
Alone in a corner of her own consciousness
The other from the face of beauty
Mourning loss of soul, of heart
Crying out for a way back in
The heart, the mind are lost.
Lost to the night.
Word of the day: Rictus.
Colorsswirling
swirlcolorswirlaway.
Looking for a rictus to find an opening
swirlwhirlcolors
The last I remember
Before the swirling, whirling, colors
Is a dark world
Pain
Suffering
A normal part of life.
Swirlwhirlrictusfindarictus
I
after losing my family
Was walking along a grubby street
swirlrictusrictusfindwhirl
Something
heavy and large
fell upon me
lookfortherictuscolorswhirlingswirling
White figures sweeping toward me
Colors.
Whirling, swirling colors.
Holes appear in the glass of thin colors.
Small holes.
Swirlwhirlcolorsrictuscomefind
I know that
If I go back to that world
The dark one
I have to give up my search.
Rictusswirlfindwhirlswirlcolors
If I can get through a hole
I continue on
To a different place.
Whirlswirlcolorsswirlingwhirls
I look next to me.
A girl
A shadow twin
A darker me.
Looks back.
Swirlwhirlcolorswhirlingswirlingrictus
We know what will happen.
Rictus
She turns away
And walks back.
There
I close my eyes
And float forward.
Swirlingcolorsintherictusrictusrictus.
I’ve found a rictus.
cool
I am strong
I am weak
I am smart
I am dumb
I am tall
I am short
I am white
I am black
I am happy
I am sad
I am laughing
I am crying
I am hot
I am cold
I am close
I am far
Who am I?
So confused
I can’t chose
What I should be.
Hot and cold
Yes and no
Stop and go.
Up and down
Inside out.
Who am I?
__________________________________________________
I feel insecure today. Is it normal for a 12 year old to feel like that?
140- Thanks! *munches choklit*
143- I wouldn’t know, but I’m sure it’s normal. I feel like that oftentimes too.
_____________________________________________________
tick
tick
tick
tick
Our seconds are passing by.
tick
There is a limit
to the time we have to spend.
tick
If you stop to think,
it might just past you by.
tick
Ponder,
‘what is this thing called life?’
tick
Do you really want to know?
If you found out,
What would happen?
Mayhaps
the universe
would vanish
in a puff of logic.
tick.
143- I love the poem. I’m really into few syllable lines now, ones with sharp turns and quick endings, so I really liked it. It’s perfectly normal. Just get on with life, and try and ignore the nagging feeling that you aren’t who you are today. A good place to do that is on the couch with popcorn and a movie or outside.
Word of the Day: highhanded
Fire stretches his fingers to the light
And they combine with a feverish
intensity
Opposing strangers quiver beneath
his luminescent limbs
so full of hatred and incandescence
in one combined actuality
Water trembles beneath his gaze
His highhanded ways cause a dither
A tear on the surface of her luscious waves
She hears the conflagration sear
Evaporating her body where he treads
Her azure ripples eradicated, she
descends
returns to her lake of solitude
not to challenge her better again
Triumphant is the one
who carries the scepter of flame.
Kinesics:
a systematic study of the relationship between nonlinguistic body motions (as blushes, shrugs, or eye movement) and communication
Is this it, then?
The time when our masks, our pretences—
well, I will not speak of it.
It is not to be uttered aloud, this feeling.
Isn’t that what got us here in the first place—
words?
The wrong words, or
the right words at the wrong time–
too late, or too soon.
So let’s not speak.
Let’s let our masks slip off our faces
like paint dripping down a canvas
like raindrops chasing down a window
like cool water down a parched throat.
Don’t shatter this moment
into a thousand irreparable pieces.
Instead, tell me of your love through kisses.
And let me tell you of my steadfastness through
silent eyes, brimming with joy.
We do not need those things called words,
those strips of dry paper,
those shards of razors.
Speak to me only with thine eyes;
give me love only with thy heartbeat.
……..
I seem to be in a love poem rut, perhaps because of V-day. Ah well, I’ve always been a sucker for the romantic.
145-yes i guess i should. popcorn and books usually do make me feel better. no idea why but i shall now write a poem about books.
books are doors to different places
you can see many new faces.
knights, dragons, and ,
things you can’t imagine,
books can take away your worries
they can do it in a hurry.
all you have to do is look,
then jump into a book.
yes i know, it is kinda lame and it doesn’t really rhyme. oh well. what the heck.
———————-
my interest flies away
like a bird out of a nest.
what is it to feel
happiness?
joy?
maybe i will never know
but alas
i feel pain all too well
like a bullet ripping through my heart
like a knife slashing through my skin
is life worth the pain
is it worth the joy
questions that should be answered
now hang in the balance
maybe someday it will come back
the feeling that i should be here.
that little bird will come to the nest
now grown but still familiar
—————————
no idea where that came from. i suppose i have repressed emotions or something. i feel kinda emo.
Not anything right now but I am writing a poem for part of my book report so I need to keep track of this before I lose it from my head–
ever changing,
rearranging,
as you gently close your eyes
transmitting and exchanging,
yet we always recognize
//
a longing,
a filling
and a falling
searching for what we’ve been calling
as he’s wandered all along
as we’ve wondered for so long
a sweetness
we’ve been dreaming
with the lyrics to a song
—
Slightly related to The Botany of Desire, if anyone’s wondering. Beauty(tulip)/Sweetness(apple). More words and Intoxication/
to come later.
SOme scraps that have piled up. I really really want to try writing like the style in post 36, and I don’t have anything finished but it all is on different pieces of paper –_– Going to type it up so I don’t inadvertently lose more than I already have (an entire pages worth, oh, alas *mourns*).
…so I type that, and post it, without the poem-scraps. *headdesk*
1.
I would not call it love.
Love is beautiful, floating, fleeting, love is what brings us together and tears us apart.
This is so much heavier. Darker.
This is a deep kind of pain.
2.
I cannot voice my thoughts
when I see your face
your eyes
your skin breath mind
your hands
It is like trying to flee an unescapable magnet, this feeling. It is like tearing apart your being.
But I cannot find my voice
I do not want to
3.
I am afraid.
4.
There is a place. It was once a stream. Now the small trail of water has been surrounded by cement and layered with tar, now it drains under the skin of the earth before emerging into what might once have been a pond before the developers came with their measurements and papers and words. Now it is a much smaller area of swampy grass beneath a trickle and a torrent spit forth from a hallow cement mouth.
A frog leaps, as though startled, and splashes into the pond. He croaks once.
He is saying: I exist.
5.
To hold myself away is more than a test of willpower
It is more than fear
It is more than a twisted sense of hope.
It is a kind of drug.
It is a kind of death.
6.
I do not talk about my feelings. I am not speaking of you. I do not talk.
Sometimes I wish I could let whatever is inside me out, to the people around me, the ones who care.
Sometimes I wish keeping it in would kill me on its own.
Sometimes I wish.
7.
Everyone thinks I am brave.
8.
Few people remember the stream was real.
Many do not realize they know the drain and marsh are real.
No one knows about the frog.
He is still real.
9.
Once, in passing conversation, a friend mentioned a name
The name
His name
Casually, and continued on.
The world did not shatter
It was all I could do to respond. It was all I could do to continue on, pretending.
No one noticed.
10.
Once, I was afraid of being alone forever. Nw I am afraid of letting go.
Once, asleep, I dreamed I was in love, and waking up was both to kill and to die.
Once, I dreamed.
11.
The funny thing about magnets. Once it was whole, complete, repelling and attracting. Now it is broken, a clean snap, right down the middle. Now it repels itself most of all. It cannot be put back together. Two once perfect halves that will never meet.
Only turning the pieces makes it fall together again.
This magnet is not me.
12.
Long ago, everyone thought that the heavens were fixed, unchanging. he only things that did move about and flux were the ones in our own atmosphere.
You could not change the sky
You could not change the stars.
13.
Love is sublinear.
14.
I never thought of the seasons as equal, in length or intensity. Winter and summer were Lord and Lady, Spring and Autumn merely the trade-over of power, passing the scepter, dancing in with flowers and frost and surrendering just as quickly. The seasons seemed not so much a wheel as a top-heavy court.
But I always preferred the fleeting days of dark dreams and desire.
15.
A star was born, and the world whirled in disbelief.
16.
I am afraid.
Word of the Day: osteopath
In the Honor of Valentine’s Day
Is love a cloud?
(Strange, unnatural)
Sensations of
enlightenment surging
rushing
shouting
(laughing?)
this awareness
is something more than
consciousness
it is something
more
because it is real
(artificial sunlight)
Or maybe it’s a drink
liquid, flowing
sliding down the windowpanes
into the gardens
in my eyes
(spirits or serenity)
an osteopath
pumping through my limbs
he is a contortionist of the heart
a medicine to the mind
a glow to the soul
(beats inside me)
they call it
benevolence, gusto,
inclination, deprivation,
concern,
temperament,
i call it alluring,
resplendent, sublime,
admiration, imagination,
pulchritude,
divine,
i call it love.
Is love a cloud?
Any opinions on the giaour? I just finished reading it.
sooo…once again I have forgotten whether I’ve posted this before or not. I’m thinking not, I didn’t like it for a long time, but apologies if I have.
early morning sun
fresh from the cosmos factory
peeks over the hill to see
am I awake yet?
the morning quiet
seeps into my bones and settles
cool morning air breathes in
fills my soul
(let it be purified)
and suddenly everything is new
not only the sunlight day air, but
my
life hopes dreams
catapulted into my heart
suddenly achievable reachable real
i am soaring into the infinite pale early sky
i am filled to the brim
i am joyous
i am alive
(each morning is new)
(every sunrise is an epiphany)
A poem to express myself. Again, I’m bored.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Today
today, I am
Annie
the clean slate, the new beginning
I am a blank sheet
waiting for it to come
waiting for the word
written
spoken
sung
the sung word, the sing word
Annie sings, they tell me, for the morning
the new sunrise, the new dawn
the new sheet of paper
waiting to be full again
I am the daughter
the sister, the niece
friend, teacher, creator, creation
I am the girl who walks
around school with a pencil in her ear
and a book in her hand
the one who works to wake
who wakes to work
who works to feed
who feeds to live
What do I live for?
Annie lives for the dawn, they say, she
wakes for the froward ‘ante meridiem’
an aurora of light in a sea of darkness
they tell me, that she is
the escapee
who once was trapped, but now is free
Yesterday, I was
‘her’
That one, the girl there
the small one, the meek one, the one
who has nothing
left to live for
In the dark, the pit, the depression
of malice, anger, hatred, anger
the fish was trapped on all four sides
glass, walls, windows shut
there was no way out, there
was no way in
no above, no below
up down, side to side, I lay
alone, forgotten, drowned
left to die upon the sand
who thrashed alone,
upon the land
‘them, those, these, they’
‘her, she, it’
‘this, that’
‘nothing’
And today, I am
Annie, I am
the free fish, in the water
my pond, stream,
river, lake
ocean, sea
Annie the brave, Annie the strong
Annie the willing, Annie the kind
Gentle, humble,
sister, daughter,
animal, vegetable, mineral,
I got rhythm, I got music, I got soul
I’m a new woman, a new person, a new being here
Among others, I stand out
Because I am here
Home of the free, home of the brave,
home of the many, we the people
We sing together, in order to form
this perfect union, this sacred mystery
this new beginning and a new dawn
i am a new dawn
i am a new figure
i am me
Annie
And if I am all these things today,
just imagine what I could be
tomorrow
Okay. I’m going to go with 46 from this thread and 140 from the last. Eek.
(that’s odd, the blog dies with some error like function.require when I try to post this.)
155- It’s a good poem. Expressive of a mood. Ends well. But we share the same first name, and when I read it I can only think of how it is very much not me.
I wrote my own poem to express myself.
~~~
Today, I am Annie. That girl-
you know the one-
you’ve seen her carrying the trombone everywhere-
or the epee-
or the notebook-
haven’t you?
If not, she’ll correct you.
Today, I am Annie. That girl
who goes around
trying to be perfect
save the world, separate herself
secretly just trying to belong.
She’ll deny it-
emphatically-
but it’s true.
Today, I am not Annie, that girl
dressed strangely, from another land
doesn’t have friends like we do
(don’t want you here go away point and laugh)
not normal. ostracized.
You remember her. Then.
I don’t want to.
Today, I am Anonymous.
A shape with too many points
some of them sharper than others
edges that cut like razor wire on a bad day
forty-two endings that stab like that epee, and begin again
dark shadows that wreathe around
twisting your words into their darkness
which is secretly unrelenting desire-
and whirlwind confusion-
and excuses-
and love-
and-
(you don’t really want to know, do you?)
Today, I am tetracontakaidigon.
~~~
I feel like writing more free verse here.
As it turns out, this poem seems to have been heavily inspired by She’s An Angel- They Might Be Giants. Among other songs and ideas and experiences.
~~~
Valentine
I’m not going to write you a love poem.
I said I wouldn’t. but what if I did?
how would you react? would you?
(these things happen to other people how can this be?)
I swore to myself that I wouldn’t.
These things don’t happen at all, and yet
I copy the poem. This poem. Your poem.
(how can this be? I swore I wouldn’t. we couldn’t, could we?)
I paste it into the chat room and I hit enter and I stop breathing
my heart races and I panic and the lack of response
although you realize, I didn’t actually write a poem about
how I think I might have to throw myself off a building
since you are an angel, after all
although I swore to myself that I wouldn’t do so many things
(like thinking about you or telling you that I do
or writing poems about love that are really about sex
unlike this one which is just about how I miss you)
.
French class,
nightmare,
I think I hate you,
but I can´t say it,
you will grade me
Lilly is flunking,
like many others,
I voluteer sometimes,
draw away your wrath,
sometimes pay the price,
but no-one thanks me
Today I’m silent,
the others stumble,
I don’t care,
serves you right,
you ignore me,
I´ll ignore you
Why are you like this,
why are you teaching,
how can you ignore we hate you,
do you hate us,
because,
it seems so
Lilly is crying,
you made her cry,
you won´t let her leave,
I never liked her,
but never hated her either,
I know I hate you,
Bell,
Homework,
don’t you know it’s weekend ?
those who ignore you pay,
I’m mad at you,
for being cruel,
at the class,
for ignoring me,
don’t you notice me,
don’t you care ?
I go downstairs,
I pace the hall,
I can´t sit still,
I try to tell you,
you hate her to,
you don’t understand,
sometimes I hate you
PE,
dodgeball,
no-one cares about me,
I don’t care about anyone,
I’m bad at dodgeball,
either the ball hurts me,
or you yell at me,
“Pass to someone who can throw !”,
which means I can’t,
And you wont let me try
But you still hit me,
hard,
Like when you broke my glasses,
or when I fell over,
but I didn’t have a concussion,
so it didn’t matter,
so sorry,
sit over there, back to the game
Today I don’t care,
we’re playing with softballs,
and I’ve stopped caring,
I’m ignoring you,
I run to the line,
grab the ball,
throw hard,
close range,
you think it’s unfair,
To bad,
you never cared
I get back somehow,
dodge and throw,
I don’t care if my aim is bad,
I don’t care,
so what if the balls are easy,
for the other team to catch,
I’ve never felt like one of you,
so what if your team loses,
I’m not part of it
Ann got to close to the line,
people throw balls at her,
I do too,
She ducks,
but mine hits her,
hard
She’s surprised,
I can see it from here,
But she can’t shoot ?,
But I did,
hard,
so what if it hurt
You never cared,
you kicked me out,
I spent a semester,
trying to hang with the cool crowd,
bought you chocolate,
did your latin homework,
then kicked me out,
I hate you
This is for all of that,
payback,
I’m not weak,
I’m biding my time,
I´ll be back,
someday you’ll regret it,
you didn’t give me a second chance,
I won’t give you one,
I’ll rise up,
leaving you in the dust,
you´ll see,
this is just the beginning
Kids from the back are handing me balls,
like they do for the good players,
today I’m the queen of dodgeball,
fear me,
serves you right,
Someone hits me,
a barely feel the ball,
go to the sidelines,
watch,
no-one talks to me,
I calm down,
to song in my head ebbs away,
But kids still give me a wide berth,
Later you ask me,
if I’m okay,
I can hear your thought,
“Does she have some sickness,
is she sane,
should I dump her,
thank god it’s the weekend”,
I’m fine,
don’t look at me like that,
it’s over,
but now you know,
I won’t let you walk all over me,
someday you’ll pay,
Ann did,
serves her right,
I’m just sad,
for the kid I used to be,
the innocent 5th grader,
a minnow in this sea of sharks,
had to be strong,
it took a lot of tears,
you were so mean.
My first attempt- it turned out weird, but I like it. It’s true, except that my glasses were broken earlier, in 3rd grade.
*sneaks onto thread*
Ugh.
Someone walked
into
me.
They don’t even
knock.
But how can
I
Blame them?
They have no idea,
I’m a room.
They think that their
secrets are safe,
but,
I know it all.
WHISPERS,
WHISPERS,
I here them all.
They
think
that
they
are
safe.
But,
I hear them all.
Lovers, haters
traders, gamblers,
pets, players,
Love
Romance
Why can’t
a
nice room
enjoy this
all.
Why must
a
nice room
be
tortured,
by these wonderful
lives.
WHISPERS,
WHISPERS,
I hear them all.
I think this poem is horrible…….But I’m part of a bad poem club at school, and now whenever I write a poem it sounds really bad…….
I don’t think that’s a bad poem. You might have to resign from the club.
Daisy-Chain is in on it too, but she writes GREAT poems.
I guess our small club is going to be split up……
But thanks. That was an idea I had for awhile, but I shouldn’t have wrote it on the spot….
P.S. I CAN’T BELIEVE I (A neophyte) GOT A RESPONSE FROM A GAPA.
Possibly the HPBs brainwashed me…..
159- I really liked it actualy. Rooms have feelings too.
I wrote this poem a while ago, and I’ve been saving it up for Valentine’s Day for forever… Gah! I spend way too much time with thesauri!
Valentine
Love.
Feel affection for.
Adore.
Worship.
Be in love with.
Be devoted to.
Care for.
Find irresistible.
Be keen on.
Esteem.
Respect.
Admire.
Be mad about.
Be passionate about.
Be stuck on.
Adoration.
Reverence.
Respect.
Devotion.
Adulation.
Veneration.
Be fond of.
Have a high opinion of.
Like.
Be partial to.
Have a weakness for.
Go for.
Fancy.
Have a thing about.
Be attracted to.
Fall for.
Fall in love with.
Be smitten by.
Be infatuated with.
Have a crush on.
Me. Please?
163–I like it. It’s cute, but sad at the same time. I’ve definitely been there.
155, 157–I like these…
(For those who might be guessing my name on the W&N thread, no cheating)
Today I am
Sarah.
It means princess
(doesn’t have to).
Maybe today Sarah means
rebel-wearing-red
or
actress-wearing-a-mask.
Maybe queen-of-the-nile-in-midnight-blue
Or grecian-muse-with-long-sleeves.
Or…maybe it means
dances-to-no-music
or laughs-for-nothing-but-the-pure-joy-of-it
Maybe “feels blessed”
or “loves life”
Who I am changes often,
but don’t blame me for being mercurial.
If Sarah means princess
there’s nothing I can do
but keep being
me.
Who is Sarah today?
You
guess.
If the only word that comes to mind is pity
then the span of confidence
goes only as far as
a broken
promise
When you think of me, it should be
Amity, not sad or weak
that comes to mind
and when I of you,
only confidence
only
love
You do not look at me as if I am a possesion
Only care over custody, each moment
when I look at the stars from
behind my barred windows
will I think of it
a tryst
emotion
will I think of
you?
161- I’m flattered! And I like your poem in 159.
_______________________________________________________
You think
you’re so cool.
Sitting
on your little
throne.
Do you remember
all the people
you stepped on
to get there?
Guess what
We’ve decided
that you’re coming down
off your high horse
the hard way.
Would you like to see
how
it feels
to be on the other end
of the
inside jokes
teasing
fake compliments
pointing
snickering
sideways glances
name-calling
cruel notes
And all the other things you do?
If that is what it takes to be popular,
Thanks, but no thanks.
163- I didn’t really like the poem until the last line. Then I understood and absolutely loved it.
I.
a ripened fruit
with bitter seed
a passenger
a traveler
slowly creeping and invading
slowly changing
to fit the taste
crusading for a people
of a pioneering race
a comfort and an aid
a taste that lingers and remains
a longing,
a filling,
and a falling
searching for what we’ve been calling
a desire we’re recalling
as he’s wandered all along
as we’ve wondered for so long
a sweetness
we’ve been dreaming
with the lyrics to a song—
a fruit of bitter seed
and a seeded mystery
yet somehow still so sweet
that the desire
turned to need.
II.
Petals gently unfurling
yet concealing what’s inside
a discreetness once so appealing
yet now so underprized
like the frost upon a pane
a glimpse of evanescence
so fleeting, causing pain
like a brilliant stroke of lightning
as it shatters darkened skies
only a glimpse, yet so delighting
as it scars into your eyes
so unlike the fragile flower
gently curving, gently shaping
ever changing,
rearranging,
as you gently close your eyes
transmitting and exchanging,
yet we always recognize
a form of beauty
once so deranging
no longer highly prized
a form of beauty
near forgotten
yet still so undefined.
III.
Breathing deep
the mind starts whirling
ever twisting ever turning
the simplest forms burning
burning across your mind
etching through the surface
like the breaths of butterflies
Everything becomes a wonder
and everything is good
an intensity desired
but still not understood
Every thought sharp and fleeting
like ink spilled across a page
forming some hidden meaning
of a long-forgotten age
music searing and pure
taste divine
and thoughts so sure
Yet fading
slowly sinking
as we awake from the inside
losing everything
until it’s no longer realized.
IV.
As we look into the wilderness
we grasp tighter our chains
longing for a freedom
yet not wanting to change
The desire for control
and absolute submission
a need for something to gaze upon
while we continue on the mission
For the perfect, the sublime
the perfect fit
and perfect rhyme
Always gaining bit by bit
as we reach into the sky
ignoring the fact
that if we simply close our eyes
it’s closer than anyone realized
Longing for control of the outside
to master what’s within
dreaming of ideals
we’ve no hope of fitting in.
___
Written last night around midnight, it steadily disintegrated. It’s for my book report (The Botany of Desire) and is supposed to represent sweetness/the apple, be cannabis auty/the tulip, intoxication/(coughtpotcough), and control/the potato (yeah… the whole “potato” part didn’t really make it in, I was practically sleeping on the keyboard at that point XD)
So just a quick poem, for fun/extra credit.
My second try:.
I see you-
standing there,
next to a pile of leaves
You would like to kick them up,
watch them fly,
dance in the wind,
But you pull in your head,
hunch your shoulders,
walk on,
You don’t want to anger anyone,
blend in,
one in a crowd,
You would like to chase them,
laugh, run,
be a kid,
But you have somewhere you should be,
don’t be late,
be normal,
If you were to kick up the leaves,
people would notice you,
you´d stand out,
You could be different,
but crowds are safer,
people don’t like strangers,
Once, long ago,
you would have kicked up the leaves,
but you’re older now,
You won’t kick up the leaves-
I run over,
I’ll help you
They’re beautiful on the wind,
you turn to watch,
and smile,
The park gardener comes over,
Rebellion is forbidden,
Kids these days…
You turn,
walk away,
fickle,
It reminds me of “Spirit”,
if the indian hadn’t showed up,
what would have happened to him ?
People won’t answer that question,
it´s a movie for little kids !
Not everything has a moral,
I disagree,
Morals are nice,
but the truth is better,
Does that mean we’re telling kids to wait,
for someone,
who won´t come ?
Liberty, freedom,
brother and sisterhood-
just make sure you fit into a good stereotype
And when the kids get older,
they get real,
and fit in somewhere
Or they rebel,
and get hammered,
like me,
i just wanted to see the leaves float,
on the chilly air,
splotches of color, of hope
But few people can see the leaves,
I can,
Can you ?
And even less people would kick them up,
and take the punishment,
You wouldn’t
I did,
but,
I can´t do it forever,
if no-one helps me,
I can’t keep going alone,
I´ll forget the leaves,
but,
If you see leaves,
kick them up,
remember me,
I won’t forget you
Not seasonal, but I´m thinking of fall lately. I can’t write poems that rhyme- mine all look like this. Did anyone read 158 ? I don’t show my poems to anyone I know outside the net so I get no feedback… They’re fun to write, but I’m not sure about the quality.
HTML gnomes, could you change really to real in verse 19 ?
[This job calls for a Typo Gnome, who has already taken care of the problem. –Admin.]
169- 158 was… amazing. I absolutely empathize. I’m still reeling.
___________________________________________________________
The Shadow on the Wall
Unspoken words are my domain
Hidden thoughts, forgotten hopes and dreams
The wallflower in the background
Not a word out of place, not an action unfitting
Perfect grades, unremarkable personality
Eternally hovering in the background,
Others barely aware I am there.
I am
the shadow on the wall
I am
the echo of your footsteps
I am
an extra reflection
in the mirror
I am
the box under your bed
the shirt you decided you didn’t like
the shoes you never wear
Unregarded
Overlooked
Forgotten
Outgrown
Unnoticed
Ignored
Unseen
Disregarded
Dismissed,
as a figment of your imagination
I am
the shadow on the wall.
This is a little parody of both my cat and the poem that begins “The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold.” You know which one I mean, right?
The Kitty comes down like a Wolf on the fold,
And her short fur is gleaming in Black, it is told,
And the sheen of her claws is like stars on the sea
As she chases down Something (I hope it’s not me.)
Like forest’s leaves when summer’s head turns them yellow,
Her eyes with pupils wide focus (they aren’t mellow):
Like forest’s trees when Winter heaps them with Snow,
Her claws on the quick Hunt away now do go.
For the Angel of Cats spreads his wings on the blast,
And breathes on her black, shining Paws as they pass;
And the eyes on her face (where, would else would they be?)
Are a most fearsome sight for her doomed Prey to see.
And there lies the Mouse with his nostril all wide,
But through it there rolls not the breath of his pride,
As she brings in her Prize (“Oh, Minerva, ugh!
NO! Don’t you dare put that thing on the rug!â€)
And there lies the Mouse all distorted and pale,
With the Blood on his brow, and the Blood on his tail,
She drops him on the doorstep, on the welcome mat.
(Well, visitors sure will be pleased to see that.)
And the poor Mousie’s widow is loud in her wail,
And to escape from Cat she shall soon too fail.
Well, even though it costs much more than a dollar,
Cat really needs to get a Bell on her collar.
172- Typical cat.
172- That made me laugh.
As some may have noticed, I’ve taken a leave of absence for the thread. This because of the assignment I got from my English teacher: to write four vignettes (story poems) about my life. Since nobody ever visits the short stories thread, and these are more poems than stories, I figure I should post them here. Comments?
1. Red Van
The first car I rode in was our family van. Family car, big and bright, parked there in our driveway under the sun and under the midnight sky decorated with stars. Red and bright, the color of a shiny new apple, big wheels like black licorice snaps. It was a new car, to go with our new house, new children, new life.
Come on, says Dad, we’re taking a trip. Mom puts her cool hand in mine, swinging me up into a seat that smelled like plastic. I leaned back, closing my eyes, taking in the good smell and car seats, sweet sunshine. Brother sits next to me, doing the same. Bobby and I, Mom and Dad, enjoying our car ride. We went to the park, the grocery, the ice cream shop, and then just away. Away from the town to the open road.
Driving to me seemed like flying, soaring along the road without wings. All this time, I think, I have been attached to this ground, the floor of the earth, and look at me now. Now, I am high in the sky. The seats are gone, the red doors vanish, and I am gliding across the blue heavens, evaporating into the calm sheets of cloud. I am somewhere completely different, detached from my body, alone in a world above my own. I had discovered freedom in a car ride.
The red van is gone now, sold away, to another little girl who is flying somewhere above. But I can still feel the carpet seats against my cheek, warmed by the sun. I see the glint of light against paint. I feel the soaring sensation in the pit of my stomach, in the tips of my fingers and all around me. I remember it all.
That red van, taking me everywhere,
Everywhere and nowhere.
2. Bizu’s Roses
Miss Laura lives across the street in a red brick house with a white picket fence all around. I can reach her house fast: hop, skip jump. Always, she is in the garden, trowel in her hand, hand in her gloves, her little pug at her side whose name is Bizu. They will be by the roses.
“Come inside,†she gestures, opening the gate. “Come into my garden and see what beauty has been spun this morning.†And they are everywhere, flowers, bushes, trees, everywhere I turned. Woven, crocheted, stitched along the brick walls and the white pickets by the careful hands of morning. But my eyes are only for the roses.
Roses are red, as the saying goes, red of love and promise. The roses lived under the sweet summer sun, with petals that blossomed outward like a dancer’s skirts at the touch of a bead of water. They reminded me of blushing brides, lifting their veils when the sun rose, settling them back when the sky grew black. For every moment of love they received, they gave it back. “A fortunate reward,†she tells me, and Bizu barks.
They are his roses, after all, Bizu’s roses, blooming in the sun all afternoon. He stuffs his black button nose into the flower, and breathes as deep as he can, filling his little lungs with the sweet scent. Laura plucks one from the fence, shears thorns from the thick stem, she places it in my palm. I lay in the grass, parallel to the earth and breathe in and out the sweet scent of love and promise.
3. Oscoda
Can you see it? Over there, beyond reeds that wave in the cool evening breeze, across the stretch of sand? There it is, glistening as blue as the heart of a sapphire, the water lapping along the shore of the seafront, shimmering in the late afternoon sun. That is where Oscoda begins.
You can see it from the balcony, a littoral paradise of coast and white sands. You can glimpse it from the parking lot when you first walk in, from the windows when you drop your suitcases and run back out the door, along the rows of condos. Then, you round a corner, and it is there! In full view, there is Lake Huron, calling you from down the footpath, beyond the reeds and into the evening sunshine. The ground kicks up behind you in the mad dash to reach the seaside before the sunset. People at the campfires lighting their driftwood with a match stare at you, watching you disappear into the horizon. Everything is a blur except the breakers, growing closer and closer, and your feet are damp beneath the cloth of your shoes. Suddenly, the crashing meets your ears and you are there, falling through the blue with euphoria, embracing the waves.
After you have soaked your new clothes to the bone and lain like a fish upon the wet sand, your feet return you to the upper beach, leading you away from the shore. At the campfire, the family welcomes you, bringing you into their arms with blankets and marshmallows, talking of tomorrow. Tomorrow, you know, belongs to the water. The stars glisten as they hang up along the azure sky, crowding around the moon, lighting the beach down the path, reflected on the black waves like a mirror.
Every day you spend at the beach, building castles, swimming out to the furthest sand bar, or simply lying there on a towel, holding the sands to you as the sun warms you back and front. You scope every inch of the coast, finding hidden treasure in a crayfish claw, a shell the size of your palm and another one the width of your pinkie finger, and traveling up the small rivers alongside schools of fish. It is so enjoyable that you can hardly bring yourself back to the condo every night, and every day seems to last only a minute.
You reach the last day of your journey with trepidation, trying to make the seconds last a lifetime. When the sun is falling behind the horizon, you gather up your things and begin to walk. People like pinpricks far away call to you, waving you back. You stare at the beach. The water calls your name with every rise and fall, beckoning you, not wanting you to leave. Everything you know tells you not to go back, but you turn around one last time to face the waves. “Until we meet again,†you whisper, and then you walk away. Before you leave, you gather a handful of sand into a glass vial, so that you might always carry a piece of Oscoda with you.
Can you see it? Over there, beyond reeds that wave in the cool evening breeze, across the stretch of sand? That is Oscoda, the land of wonder and new surprises. It is your haven. It is calling you back.
4. Lone Duck
In my grandmother’s yard sat a statue of a duck among the tall grass. The duck was pure white, with a bright orange beak, beautiful to look at, but with no mate. Every season that changed meant a new outfit for the statue; one day it was a pirate, the next it had donned a yellow raincoat. I thought the duck was alive, petting it, riding it like a horse, talking to it and holding tea parties with it when the posies and lilacs were in bloom. Even when the sky grew cold and snow blanketed the earth, it would remain sentinel outside the winter, coated and freezing to death among the dead grasses. He never moved, no matter what the circumstances.
Imagine what it would be like, to stay in one place for your whole life long. Imagine how frustrating, to never move away from one place, nothing to do, nowhere to go, nobody to see or speak to or to call your constant companion. What if the only safeguard you had was your mind? Duck seldom replied to these questions, just sat and let me change his overalls. Somehow, though, when I looked into his painted eyes, I saw the longing for the freedom that should have been.
When Grammy died, everything was divided. The possessions and objects left with family and close friends. We moved to the house. It was then that I noticed an empty patch near the grass under the window. In the place that Duck had sat his whole life long was a space of upturned dirt.
“Mommy,†I asked, “where’s the ducky?â€
“He’s gone away, honey.â€
But I smiled to myself, for I knew the truth. As all birds must do, my dormant friend had finally flown away.
THE BALLAD OF THE LADY LEANNE. (Not meant to be offensive!)
Oh, the Lady Leanne woke up one summer day
And she cried to her maid-girl, “Come dress me!
If I do not look good, then I fear I shall die!
And if I did, no one would miss me!â€
Well the maidservant girl wouldn’t miss her either,
But she sighed and she bit her sweet tongue.
She walked up to her mistress. “What dress would you like?â€
And the lady did burst into song:
“Something bright! Something drab! Something green! Something red!
I don’t care, so long as it looks good!
Just make sure it’s big enough I can fit inside!
I am… plump! It’s ‘cause of motherhood!â€
Well, the lady was fat, but she had had no kids-
It’s the donuts that had done her in.
If she’d eaten less cakes, pies, chocolate, and sweets,
She might have been a bit more thin.
When the Lady was dressed, she went to the dining hall,
But she got stuck in the widest door.
When she fought her way free, she sat at the table,
But her poor chair couldn’t take any more.
It collapsed under her, so she sat on a bench,
And she cried, “People, where is my food?
I don’t care if it’s healthy-it could even be poisonous!
Just make sure that the frosting tastes good!â€
And she ate and she ate and she ate and she ate,
And they feared, for bare was the pantry shelf.
So when the food ran out, ‘twas but one thing to do:
The lady started eating herself.
She nibbled her fingers, then munched on her feet,
First her heels, then her arches and toes,
Then her legs, then her chest, then her hands and her arms.
She finished with a dessert of nose.
Of course, in the end, she died. No one was sad.
They pulled her off the bench with a plunger.
Did she die of gluttony, of huge overeating?
Nah. The Lady Leanne died of hunger.
175-
._______________________________________________________________________________________________.
A yearning,
longing
for a dream
just out of reach
of memory.
The rose petals curve
gracefully
falling into and
out of
each other.
Red.
Lost.
An empty street
My footsteps echo
off the buildings, windows, doors.
A marble rolls across the parquet
It glints in the sunlight
blue and
translucent.
Sunlight.
A cat murmurs in its sleep.
Ginger fur
ruffles in the
ventilation.
The snowflakes
spiral down
grey against
the white sky.
Obscured by clouds
yet clear as crystal.
Melancholy and joyful
ringing
full
and hollow.
Beauty.
The stars twinkle through the window
in the midnight sky.
A wisp of a cloud floats
over the round moon
I can see the morning
it is round
it has a vaguely peach flavor
it calls my name
with a voice like a feather, wrapped around a finger.
________________________________________________________________________________________________
Comments?
17- Gaiman wrote a Death? I thought that was Pratchett’s thing…
The following is something I sent to my best friend who moved to Illinois a few years ago on her birthday.
Fate is a thing of certain curiosity,
It helps us when we need that help.
But also, suddenly, at an extreme velocity,
It changes lives in ways that make us yelp.
My life has changed because I knew you.
This wicked phrase is very wise indeed.
For it is my fate that has led me to you,
And it is my fate you will slowly bead.
Each bead, it represents a moment,
A moment small and unimportant in my life.
But if the bigger beads are pretty I shall have a life of honor,
And otherwise, a life of toil and strife.
Do not thread all the string with big ones,
I don’t need all that much, you know.
Just make sure only one bad bead is on there,
And all the rest can make up my life’s show.
And when you sense the string is slowly ending,
Stop putting beads there for one day.
Come morning you will see the string has doubled,
The old half now made out of hay.
Do not be frightened, I have not gone crazy,
In thinking strings of beads are truly there.
I think about them when I think of you,
Just wishing that you still lived here.
Also, I wrote that about two years ago, so please don’t be too harsh on it.
1. If I were to look down on the world from afar,
what would I see?
At first I look only into the blue
Swirling, dashing around me
I reach the green, trees and fauna, beautiful
Then, I reach humanity
I see only the color
red.
2. Some say that to be alone is to be lonely.
I think of it only as a blessed silence.
3. The real horror of life
is only that people find ways to destroy it.
Once it was, “Why do we have to die?”
Soon it will be,
“Why is there nothing left to kill?”
4. I do not need to wonder what it feels like to be an ant, because I already know.
5. Today, I saw an old bridge fall in upon itself.
The wood simply collapsed at the center,
leaving nothing to me but torn sides,
while the rest flowed away down the river.
When society has betrayed itself
a simple pleasure that
becomes a torrid routine,
will it fold?
When I give in to age,
will the waves take me,
too?
6. if the world could talk back, it would.
7. Amazed at how much time I spend
contemplating trivial problems,
I stayed out at night to see the stars
and figured out that
they hold the answers to all questions.
Then, I thought,
What if I couldn’t see them?
8. Too much we take for granted,
food and clothes, yes, but also
other faces to look at
ground to walk on,
words,
a chair,
shoulders and time to cry.
9. As we look on, every day, we watch people around us pass by, and in one pass may change the course of our entire lives. Every person that passes me makes a change somewhere, if not in my life, in that of someone else. People I know, people I don’t care to know, people that I want to speak to, but am too afraid…
Is fear the reason why? Is the world passing unnoticed before our eyes, because we are afraid to look?
10. At one time, people thought that love could cure all things. Now, we believe in hate.
11. I was created here on this earth, and here I will expire. It has always been this way, and we all know it. My grandfather always told me that the last thing he hoped to see was a green meadow under the sunset, and he did. This alone was interesting, that there was beauty at the end.
On my last day, I hope only that that the ground will still be green.
12. Comic relief comes only once in a while,
and when it does,
I take the opportunity to laugh.
13. If I were to look down on the world from afar,
what would I see?
I find one face from many, grieving, another smiling, a song upon the air like a distant cloud, spreading the air of change like the wildfire of dawn. I see your face.
Will you see me?
I just submitted a poem and it disappeared. AUGH! that was one of my better poems, too!
177) It’s beautiful and sort of…serene. I like it a lot.
177- Beautiful, wonderous. I wish I could write that good.
Two years ago? You are quite a poet.
And to think
Upon entering this distant, foreign place
We thought we would be loved.
l have this poem called “The Asphalt March.” I’ll post it as soon as I have breakfast.
I did this one for school, about some thoughts I actually had:.
SPINNING
I stood at the edge of my lawn.
Near the evergreens, by the fence.
A few clouds floated on the horizon.
The gibbous moon hung
In the darkening sky.
Soon, the sun would disappear.
Because the Earth was turning.
Spinning to the east.
Spinning into the night.
As Australia spun into the day.
The Earth is ever-spinning on its axis.
(Like a top)
And the Moon is spinning ’round the Earth.
And the Earth is spinning ’round the Sun.
And the Sun is slowly spinning ’round the Galactic Core.
(Where the black hole lurks)
And our Galaxy itself is slowly spinning towards Andromeda.
And so, I took off running across the lawn.
For if I’m always spinning-
Why stand still?
184– I LOVED the ending of your poem!!!!! I end a lot of my poems in questions.
I REMEMBER A DAY
I remember a day
where no one cared
although I can’t
remember
for I wasn’t there.
MEMORY
The memory
slips from my unyielding
grasp
and disappears
into thin air
It is gone
Wisps of it still
remain
Like the faint image
on a half-shaken Etch-a-Sketch
I sit on my bed
It is gone, bye bye
The memory is fading
like the last droplets of light
as the sun sets.
185- ♥ .
Today I saw a distortion of reality;
the world altered,
just a bit
and I began to see
Imagine
all your life
you’d thought that you were blind
And then one day
somebody lifted the hat
out of your eyes.
I’m trying to see,
deep
through the murky waters
down to the bottom of the matter.
Somewhere I know there is a treasure
whether it is big or small,
I will find it
and then
I’ll leave it there
for the next person.
Can you change the world a bit?
Can you tell me why?
Can you show me that
impossible is just a word,
Can you teach me to fly?
186–Oh. my. gosh. That is one of the most amzing things I’ve ever read.
187- Thank you.
That would be my first good one!
Ode to MuseBlog
Last November
I finally showed my initiative
Brought the old Muse to the computer
Typed in the web address
And took in the picture
And the strange title
As they blinked onto the screen.
I saw the little names
so I clicked on one that looked nice.
Incredible Morphing Chameleon Thread.
Sounded good.
Scrolled down
Looking at the comments absentmindedly
Came to a comment box.
Name
Email
Comment
Three blocks of white
For me to type in.
I glanced around wildly for a name
My mind was a blank slate.
I randomly typed in Go Bananas
Added exclamation points for good measure.
Typed in my email
Looked at the comment above mine.
What type of kung fu are we talking about?
Typed in, i dunno. What ARE we talking about?
With perfect grammar and spelling.
Clicked “submit.”
Then,
Posted haphazardly and randomly
On a few threads
Went to bed.
Kept coming on
Ever so often
Acting terribly immature.
My visits grew.
Found I could go on school computers.
So I used that.
Then,
When we did our element projects,
I found myself wishing terribly
To get zinc, my name.
I didn’t.
Then,
Over the summer,
Had lots of free time.
Went on more.
Became addicted.
Became more mature.
Those were MuseBlog’s glory days
In my opinion.
No annoying neophytes.
The ‘phytes that were there
Quickly adjusted to the blogisphere
And became old friends.
Then,
Had to go away for days on end.
Found myself staying up late
RPGing to myself.
Went on any way I could.
Talked about it constantly
To confused friends and relatives.
Summer started dying away.
Some MuseBloggers
Went to school.
Then,
I went to middle school.
Like a tornado,
Flipped me over
Danced me through the air
Discombobulated me
Slapped me repeatedly.
Was still addicted.
Tried to.
The tornado left
Fell quickly into the rhythm
Lost friends
Made friends
Slipped away
From my former addiction.
Still believed
Tried to get on.
Couldn’t.
Wept.
Was I losing myself?
Then
Self-doubt came.
I’m no more than average.
I’m not special.
I’m not that smart.
Didn’t go on
For days at a time.
Did other things
Became more normal.
A thought desparately ran around in my head.
Once a muser, always a muser.
Once a muser, always a muser.
But what if that wasn’t true?
What would I be then?
So now I sit at this computer
Typing myself out.
Have a headache.
Indesicion
Should I really post this?
Would it offend my friends?
I type in my name
My email
Think of more then a year ago
When I first did this.
This has to be done.
I click submit.
Somewhere
beaded droplets beat down on glass panes
colliding, gathering, tumbling downward
(your eyes are closed,
and I can still hear your breathing
over my heartbeat)
Night never completely leaves us,
daylight is fleeting
(stillness is so much easier to accept
when you are not alone
darkness is just as cool and calm
but nowhere near as empty)
Skies are etched with lightning
and birdsong
and laughter;
Daylight circles endlessly
(you can’t see in the dark
even with your eyes open–)
Somewhere it is always dusk
Somewhere it is raining.
(–but perhaps you can when they are closed)
I cried out in my sleep last night.
A name I didn’t know.
I shouldn’t worry.
I dreamt of you last night.
A face lost to flames,
A life lost to love,
I shouldn’t worry.
It won’t happen.
Not to you.
I went walking.
Heard a sound,
A call.
The police.
Your daughter.
I worry
It could happen
To you.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A slivery frost
Began to set in
Slipping the skaters
On silver white ice.
The yellow rain pours
A meteor shower
Dusting the ground
In metallic gold snow.
The diamonds they fell
Like stars from above
Which fall only once
In the blink of an eye.
186, 185- Awesome work!
186– I was so smitten by your poem that I printed it out and shared it with my class because we are working on a poetry unit right now. (I hope you don’t mind!) My class was, to put it lightly, awe-struck by it.
192– Thank you.
SKIPPING STONE
I cast a
skipping stone
across the pond
and felt it leave
my grip as it flew
into the water.
I stared after it,
waiting, watching,
for it had flown so effortlessly
(and I was only five),
that I expected it
to
float.
Hello, my name is White. What’s your name?
I like you nails. Long and pretty, like my mother’s.
Is that real hair?
Yes.
Can I braid it for you?
Sure.
Ouch! She’s gone through two cornrows. Two.
Where do you live again?
Detroit.
Which suburb?
I don’t. Just Detroit.
Kensington?
No.
Reichstown?
No, I live in the city. Detroit. Right in the middle.
But, you’re white.
So? Yes, I’m white, and I live there. What is your point?
Nothing, never mind.
You don’t have a television? No T.V.? How do you live?
I just do, I guess.
No cell phone?
No, I don’t, now stop asking me.
Silent.
Really?
Yes! I do. If you want, I will show you. I’ll take you with me someday. I’ll introduce you to Bobby and Jamie and Caroline and Susan and Christen. I’ll show you my house, where my mother sits among the grass and posies and waits for me to get off the bus that shakes down the corners. You can stay, and write with me, talk and laugh and live for a day with me. Sit and eat cantaloupe and listen to the Tigers hit their runs into the parking lot. Someday I’ll show you. If you’ll come with me. I will.
I promise.
My class is going to do a poetry unit at the end of this year. Yay!
I really like all of the poems that people are posting here. So, I guess I’ll post one of my own? It rhymes, but it’s not bad anyways.
Snowflakes drifting past my window
Collecting gray upon the sill
Chaos settles to a halt
And all the world lays still
Come inside, the fire’s warm
We’ll laugh and share until-
We’re nestled deep in snow-clad calm
And all the world lays still
193- Of course I don’t mind! I’m very flattered… *huggles* You’ve made my day!
I like ‘Skipping Stones’… very ponderous and it makes me feel all bubbly inside.
195- Oh, I love it… so peaceful…
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
THE RUN
When you’re running out of breath
Reaching your breaking point,
Something kicks into high gear
and you begin to
soar.
Over the fatigue
Leave your cares behind
As your feet pound the dirt
Leave the dust to settle
Come fly with us
Come feel the
heady feeling
as the wind rushes by
Our heartbeats will quicken
beat time
to the pounding of our feet
Settle in the natural rhythm
of the beating feet
of the pounding heart
the swinging arms
The run.
We run.
I won’t post all of my poems, since I’m paranoid of theft, but I can post the chorus to what I think is my best.
And someday
All will be the same
Do not despair
Over what you cannot change.
Basically, the whole song is a “Don’t give up hope, everything will be fine” thing. It actually is a song, my sister wrote a tune for it.
Other poems:
Word-a-Day poem:
Word of the day: subintelligitur: Something that is not stated but understood.
My father sits, holding a letter.
He looks up at me and says
“Your grandfather…” He can say no more.
That is all right. I understand.
Never again shall I see Grampa.
Subintelligitur.
I was going to write more verses, but I couldn’t think of them.
197- Thank you for reminding me, I need to write my word of the day poems again.
Word of the Day, Dictionary.com: ululate
My eyes are open
yet all I see in front of me is tinted glass
My life passes before me at a sprint
(although it goes away from sight)
the memory runs like film
dissolving, fading, splinters in the light
(life is a journey, come to pass)
I take what comes to me, in turn
I give it back
when the label reads overdue
and I am left alone
with nothing, the though of which
I weep and rue
(sighing, crying, dying)
in my house
that I built of these lies and wishes
hopes and dreams
fade like mist upon the lake
(dialate, ululate, pixelate)
all my time is spent
for give and take
at last, the only thing
left to return
is conscious thought
(and pass it does)
196 – Ohh. I totally get that poem. Something about it just connects really well. I especially like the part that starts with “Come fly with us.”
199- I’m glad you like it! *joyness*
Poems make me happy.
I’m bored. Comments?
My heat is a kite that soars in the breeze
Flying and flipping wherever it please
Then you came along, and tugged on the string
And that has changed the motion of everything.
201- I like it…
________________________________________________________________________________
I miss you when we’re apart
You play havoc with my heart
Hot and cold
Fool’s gold
Say you’ll never leave me
Listen to my plea.
I absolutely cannot write rhyming poems.
202- I wouldn’t say that you can’t write rhyming poetry. It is very difficult and takes more patience than I am capable of.
Does anyone know
What we really feel below
When we take
When we lie
When we fake
When we cheat
Why
Do we do these things
Create more than one
Of you
Of us
Am I one
Person
Or many more?
In front of others
I’m bubbly
In front of my Bible
I’m distraught
Is what I’m feeling
Normal
Or am I a freak
Of nature
Is everyone
The same,
Trying to be someone
They aren’t
Or is everyone hurting,
Stretching themselves,
To breaking point.
Break
Fall
Cry
The sounds of falling apart
The sounds of me
The sounds…
Of everyone
I write really depressing poetry
because I really only write poetry when I’m sad.
yet another thing about oracles
we don’t know everything.
nor would we want to.
we see patterns you don’t notice
holes in lace
dappled light shifting
reflecting shadows
we cannot answer your question
not immediately
the veil moves quickly, unpredictably
offering occasional glimpses
otherwise flickering patters
drawn in light and shadows
I cannot tell you what you don’t already know.
Don’t push me try to make me more like you
Holding out? Not for anyone, and sure ain’t you.
I’m tired of being so misinformed, trying to conform to the norm of your dying days
These ways of sin and moral despute, prostitute this earth already so destitute. Esculate your production trying to manipulate this fate filled with innate hate I’m not irate trying to incenerate your estate, you trying to procreate your rage.
Rage? You have never seen so much rage turning bones black with soot from all your twisted figures.
So don’t try to make me yearn
for your dirty cigerette burn.
205- That’s just… wow.
YAY, THE THREAD IS ALIVE!!
Word Of The Day: propinquity
The unsettling close relationship
between the heart and head
Instead, I think of love as something
That insists
On swooning as the feelings dip
At as unfortunate as any time
That love may be in season
Reason does not come to show us why
Though in fact
It in itself resonates as rhyme
That two may become one
In almost moments, seconds
Beckoning as destiny commands
And true
That when it calls,
its’ will is to be done
The tight-knit propinquity
Of body, mind and spirit
Hear it, whether we wish or dream
Although it is
Entwined with certain moral ambiguity
Whether lasting as the life command
As feeling grows and wings expand,
Or fleeting as the passing star,
Love
Is what makes us who we are
204- It’s been too long since I’ve seen any of your poetry. <3, </3. It reminds me of subconsciousness.
Something has died.
Take up the black lace cloth and dry your face, my dear
let the last of them fall onto
the dark bouquet
Listen to me, and do as I say.
(the blind have no choice but to Trust)
Wrap the flowers in the cloth
ignore the slaty dew clinging to their petals
Not to tightly, now, but firm:
Do not let them fall.
Now, you must climb
—
Lost it. Can’t write it at the moment. Perhaps later. Probably not.
The moment is gone.
I should read this thread more often.
A few weeks ago I was quite moody and I was actually driven to the extremes of writing something with a meter, how amazing is that? And it rhymed, that’s unusual for me. In any case, it was something to do to prevent myself form going loony from depression, but I think it’ll stay in the notes folder of my phone, it’s not even comparable to what you all can write. *sigh*
I was really bored one day and Cinderella was on the brain… this is what turned out:
Poor Cinders-Ella was feeling quite down
For she’d heard that a bright royal ball was in town,
And whispers abounded, in earth and in air,
That handsome Prince Charming would also be there.
But Cindy’s dark stepmother (stepsisters too)
Had said, “No way, Cinders! We say that you
Must scrub pots, and wash pans, and do all our hair,
And fix all our makeup, and take special care
To sew all our dresses.” That’s what they said,
Though poor Cinders-Ella would rather be dead.
On the night of the great ball, they left her alone,
And Cinders curled up on a blank gray stone,
And with full abandon, she began to cry-
But! Down from the heavens and down from the sky
Her fair fairy godmother gracefully flew,
And said, “Oh dear! Cindy! Why are you blue?
No matter what happens, come one and come all,
I’m a fairy-and you will go to the ball!
A coach of a pumpkin, some coachmen of rats,
A dress, some fine jewellry, and pretty hats,
I will make from magic! You see, Cinders dear,
There’s no cause to fret, and there’s no cause to fear.
But at the stroke of twelve, away you must be,
For all your fine things will come straight back to me.”
She gave what she promised, gave one and gave all,
And so Cinders-Ella did go to the ball.
She danced with the prince ’bout nine times (maybe ten),
‘Twas so divine she thought she was in heaven.
While nine! ten! eleven! the big clock ticked on,
And poor Cindy’s dance time was almost all gone.
When the first strokes began, she gave a scream of fright,
For time had ticked away, and it was midnight!
She had to get back home before her stepsisters,
Though her dainty feet would be covered with blisters.
One glass slipper she left, twinkling in the light,
As she fled away from the ball, to the night.
The prince began his frantic search the next day
To find the pretty lady who’d run away.
And at last he came to Cinder-Ella’s house,
But tripped and fell on a scurrying coach-mouse.
Cinders came to his side, he looked up and kissed her,
And ever since he’s been Cinderella, Mr.
will you wonder?
will you stop to taste
my lips pursed tight,
you try to soften.
you- confused
me- determined
the wholesome feeling of your soul in my hand
I antagonize you
Why?
you wonder at the light from my eyes
Far from home
A lost soul wanders
Afraid
Scared of what lies ahead
Hoping
Dreaming
That one day
He might return home
To find what he knows and loves
Until then he wanders
Ever searching
Ever hoping
Ever dreaming
210- Whee! That is amusing.
211- It gives me some strange twinkling feeling. I like it.
212- I like it. It makes me feel quiet and relaxed.
I, for one, cannot write nice poetry.
LIFE
Life is pointless in a way
Presenting new problems every day
No promises does it display
Yet life is what we all obey
Life is blind but it can see
To everything it is the key
It keeps us slave, don’t set us free
Yet with life we always do agree
Life is a mystery without a clue
Questions many but answers few
Promises end in empty I.O.U.s
Yet to life we always remain true
Life is what we know naught about
But it is what we can’t live without
Blindly we walk along its route
Yet life is what we do not doubt
Life doesn’t make any sense
It’s full of surprise and suspense
Dangerous at times, always intense
Yet no one needs any evidence
((I know a lot of people won’t agree, but that’s one of the best poems I’ve ever written. I don’t think I can do much better. ))
213- THAT WAS AMAZING!! You’re a great poet, Crazy Titan Nerd!!
River
Twists, turns
Gracefully winds
Through the valley of forests
Trees sway with the breeze
Their fruit excellent
Yet, something is wrong
There is no-one there
Not a single living thing, other than the trees.
No-one to enjoy this Eden, or share it with another
But hark!
Here comes the traveler
The nomad returns
To whence from he came
He returns, joyous
To live peacefully
Evermore
(In case you are wondering, this could be the same guy as in the other poem, or someone different. You decide for yourself.)
I’ve begun writing song lyrics with guitar chords. I’ll c/p it from my laptop later. (I’m too lazy to do it now).
208- What you have is great! Try to get the spark back? Almost hopeless, but not quite.
Honey if you say you love me
Here’s what you must do:
Go and find the evil forest
By the river blue
Spare the monster, light the fire,
Never go away
Find the palace of the night and
Palace of the day
Wait until the clock strikes midnight
Leave the shoe behind
Chase the girl who ran off limping
See what you can find
Go and see the witch’s castle
It’s not ten leagues hence
Walk right past the row of skulls that
Line her gruesome fence
Do not eat the food that’s lying
On the witch’s table
Sing if you have voice enough
Dance if you are able
Then when evil stepmothers
Cast their wicked spells
Sing about your own true love
Ignore their magic bells
Honey if you say you love me
You must never fail
Leave the princess in the tower-
Write the fairy tale.
217 – I love that! You did really interesting things with fairy tales. I try to have different takes on poems I write, but I can’t write in rhyme very well.
Persephone
Thank you, mother, for these
chains of innocence,
these flowers and immortality
that tie me to your earth.
What use are daisies in my
footsteps? In my uncle’s world,
I am heiress to a throne I’ll never claim.
So when the ground splits along my
petaled path,
I’ll scream and lurch and slip
three
ruby
seeds
into my pocket.
This girl needs a place
where she can grow.
I think this is one of my better poems. I wrote it back in December, and I’ve edited it to the point where I just can’t think about it anymore, or evaluate how much I like it as a poem. What do you all think of it?
(217) It reminds me of W. H. Auden’s poem “Lady Weeping at the Crossroads.” Do you know it? It begins like this: “Lady, weeping at the crossroads,/ Would you meet your love/ In twilight with his greyhounds,/ And the hawk upon his glove?”
219- Ooh, pretty.
218- It’s nice, but I feel like it’s lacking something. I don’t know what.
217- I like it. It’s got all that mystery and stuff in it, but it’s got such a casual feel to it that it’s almost funny.
214- *is flattered* Thanks… I like yours too.
217- Ooh, I like it. It is wonderful!
218- I like it! Persephone was always one of my favorite goddesses.
.
How is it that you can see
Exactly what is inside me
But every time you look at him
It’s like you don’t even see them
And I so hate being invisible
What I am is not able
To conform to your
Ideals of the perfect friend
So away with you
And your perfect boy
I can see he
Is is more valuable than me
But a long time from now
When you are all alone
You will regret choosing him
Flash back to a little girl
Looking out the kitchen window
At a car driving slowly away
“Mommy, where did Daddy go?”
You will come back after
He has broken you heart
Begging to be taken back
And guess what I will say
——————————————
ok the beginning was rhyming but then it stopped kinda. oops
SILENCE IS GOLDEN
Silence is Golden
Or so they say
But She is not in any way
Golden shines in warmth as bright as day
Gleaming beams and golden rays
But Silence is death and in Her way
Mysterious, clouded, dark and gray
Silence is Golden
Many assume
But Golden owns a sunny room
With bright lively flowers burst in bloom
But Silence, she is an eerie gloom
Her realm dark and full of doom
Lonely as a haunted tomb
Silence is Golden
It is a lie
Golden owns the sunny skies
Yet Silence is when all sound dies
Departing in silent goodbyes
Dry your tears, wipe your eyes
In Silence there is not a cry
Silence is Golden
Or so it seems
But Golden gleams
And glows and beams
Golden Silence is but an empty dream
Fading away with muted screams
223 – wow cool. i like it.
ok i wrote this. it’s not that good.
______________________________
THE DAY
beeping alarm
blinking eyes
bright light
groan
roll over
stomp downstairs
chew
rummage
pack lunch
crap, track today
forget coat
run inside
y = m x + b
dodecahedrons?
African wars
geography
motion???
waves
walk
glorious outdoors
german
viel gluck?
lunch
chew again
dodgeball
OW! to the head
bag of ice
pronoun
aardvark
bell
gym locker
running
pole vault
shower
call Mom
see ya coach
home
dinner
chew, chew
homework
x = ?
bibliophile?
soft quilt
good book
drifting off
sleep
repeat
_______________________
i wrote this for my adopted sister.
i have a family now
one that understands
how comforting they are
the old one just got thrown away
a pair of worn out shoes
tossed into the back of a closet
when ever someone brings
up the old one
it’s like a stab in the back
it sounds like nails on a chalk board
feels like i’m falling
into a bigger pit of dispair
then i look at my new dad
and see his love for me
in his eyes and on his face
how could i ever fall again
into my old life
if he is there to catch me
223- Wow. That is beautiful, amazing, wonderous…
Insecure
I thought that I could count on you
I thought we had something more.
I hated to make you choose
Choose you did, and I
Shall live by it,
Though yet hope dwells in me-
Perhaps you’ll change your mind.
I won’t burden you with my hurt.
I never told you how I felt
I thought I’d made it clear.
Through subtle hints
And smiling looks
I thought you’d understand.
I hope you will be happy
You two are a good match.
Yet still I can’t help wishing
You’d picked a different path.
Perhaps we’d be content, or
Mayhaps you’d not be satisfied
Maybe I’m not good enough
This can’t be worth the angst.
But angst I do, and angst I will
Until you make your choice.
225) I love that poem. Everyone here writes so good poetry. I just try and do my best… Yes, I’m very depressive today. French homework will do that to you.
Operator
I want to go home.
That home no longer exists.
I want to talk to my friend.
She lives far away and doesn’t write. She’s probably already forgotten about you.
I want to talk to somebody.
Nobody wants to talk to you.
I want to scream.
No-one will hear you.
I want to go running.
Just remember that after you´re done, you have to come back and do your homework.
I want to run away.
You have no-where to go. You can run, but you can’t hide.
I want to give up.
You can’t. And remember, you’re smart and have a perfect life. The only problem is you.
“Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
did gyre and gimble in the wabe
All mimsy were the borogroves
and the momeraths outgrabe
Beware the jabberwok, my son…”
– The Jabberwokee , Lewis Carrol
It’s too bad I can’t remember the rest of that poem. It’s a real good one.
(227) That is a long-time MuseBlog favorite, first posted back in 2006. Note the correct spelling is “Jabberwocky” and those are “borogoves” — no “r” after the “g.”
It’s a GAPA favorite, too. We can still recite it by heart.
.227-
‘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 snatch!
Beware the Jub-Jub 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 a while in thought.
And as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame!
Came whiffling through the tulgy 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 gallumphing back.
“And hast though slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
Callooh, callay! Oh frabjous day!”
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.
228- So it is borogoves. I’m never sure.
Yes, and “mome raths” is two words.
(230, 231) I took the liberty of making the corrections.
As you see, Bluefire27, we take our Jabberwocky seriously around here. Also, that’s “Lewis Carroll” with two “l’s.”
There’s a lovely science-fiction story called “Mimsy Were the Borogoves,” which “Lewis Padgett” (a pseudonym for Henry Kuttner and his wife C. L. Moore) published in 1943. It’s not online but is widely anthologized and worth finding. A few years ago it was loosely adapted into a vastly inferior movie called “The Last Mimzy.”
Alice, did you catch the many Lewis Carroll references in Little, Big?
I publicly performed the first song written my band [snip] It was recorded, and there’s a video of it on you tube with some stuff with the band members afterward. [snip]
(You can let the name of the band go, right GAPAs?)
[Sorry, Bluefire27, but that’s just too much identifying/potential contact information. Sounds exciting, though! Congratulations! –Rebecca]
233- My sister watched The Last Mimzy about a thousand times. I got so sick of that movie.
I caught a few Lewis Carroll references. Not many. But then, a great deal of the book went over my head anyways. I’m going to reread it many times in the future, I’m sure, and I’ll probably make more and more connections as time goes on. When I read it I spent a lot of the time struggling to understand what was going on, so a lot of the details skimmed right past me, thus making it more difficult to understand, since sometimes these details were important, so I had to go back and reread huge chunks.
That was an amazing book, though.
235- I agree. It got too annoying after two watches.
I have just discovered the most amazing videos on youtube. If you have a short and hyperactive attention span, and/or are a Pirates of the Caribbean or LOTR fan (which I know pretty much everyone is), search these three videos:
Why is the Rum Gone? – Remix
I’ve Got A Jar of Dirt Remix Video
Taking the hobbits to Isengard
These are some of the most hilarious mashups that I’ve ever seen in my life. I laughed the entire time. The middle of each is really the best part. “Why Is The Rum Gone?” is probably my favorite. W
SFTDP
And yes, they are songs.
217- I really really liked that.
Robert I must look up the poem you mentioned as soon as I am not being yelled at to get off, which I pretty much always am so we’ll see…
223- I like that as well
I have to save comments on the others for when I can get back on x_X
When you cry, you smile.
When you smile, you laugh.
When you laugh, you love.
When you love, you cry.
~
Heartbreak
isn’t the easiest thing.
To achieve it,
you must find someone who makes you laugh
And love them
with all your heart
Then
You must lose that light
and spiral down
down
down.
You may not
laugh
see light in anything
or get over it.
It’s always there
in the back of you mind
Until you find someone else.
It’s that easy.
Or is it that hard?
~
NO, I HAVEN’T EXPERIENCED HEARTBREAK RECENTLY.
239- I like both of those.
sometimes
things look
a bit darker
than they truly are
and then we
open our
eyes
sometimes
a single
word can shatter
our eternal silence within
and then, the
people can
sing
sometimes
jealousy, the
green monster within
can become so tame
and then shatters
all our
hatred
sometimes
a man
can fly away
with wings of air
and then, mystery
all falls
away
sometimes
and then we wake up
.239- 240- Ooh, I like the songs!
I’ll love to hear them.
———————————————————————-
THE END
In a world fastened to the ground
People only care to look around
So there was a thing they forgot how to do
And of that only one old man knew
“We forgot.” He whispered with tearful eyes
A boy thought then gasped in surprise
“The sky, we forgot the sky!”
The boy uttered a startled cry
And with the old man’s quiet sighs
To the heavens he raised his eyes
But when he had fully tilted his head
What he saw filled him with dread
And he sadly had to accept his fate
For when he saw it was too late
Something that can kill with its blast:
An asteroid coming, dangerously fast
“Why didn’t you say!” the man he screamed upon
But when he looked down he saw that he was gone…
————————————————————————-
QUESTIONS
Why is the Earth no more?
Torn apart by the anguish of war
Why are the trees all gone?
Disappearing like the fading dawn
Why is life so cruel and dark?
Shimmer of tears the only spark
What have we done to our home?
When Earth fade then where should we roam?
Oh, just why did we force Earth to die?
Fading without the slightest goodbye
So now I collaspe on the floor to cry
Why? Our Earth, oh why?
239- Ooh, I like them both.
240- Very ponderous… *loves*
Climb on up to the wind-chime tree,
the wind-chime tree, wind-chime tree
Tell all your troubles to the wind-chime tree
‘Twill be a secret between you and me
The wind-chime tree, wind-chime tree.
You’ll feel better, you’ll soon see
Leave your troubles to the wind-chime tree.
Ain’t an axe that’ll work on me
You can’t cut down the wind-chime tree
Climb on up and talk with me
Forget your troubles in the wind-chime tree.
The wind-chime tree
Wind-chime tree.
One of my favorite poems, by John Magee. It’s semi-famous, so I don’t know if it’s been posted here before, but here goes nothing:
High Flight
Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds – and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of – wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov’ring there
I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air.
Up, up the long delirious, burning blue,
I’ve topped the windswept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or even eagle flew –
And, while with silent lifting mind I’ve trod
The high untresspassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand and touched the face of God.
243- *squee!* That’s one of my favorites, too! Sweet!
241- *Awe* You are amazing, CTN. Your poem inspired this:
It once was beautiful, this place
But now you’ll see few a living face.
The trees are charred,
The land is scarred;
That’s all that’s left of the human race.
We were too proud, and would not see
Our madness in its entirety.
We built and burnt,
But never learnt;
Now all that’s left is you and me.
Now all that’s left is you and me.
But do not weep for the waning moon
For what is lost may yet return.
‘Cause Mother Nature has her ways
Of making sure that what is wanted – stays;
Our world, mayhaps, will come back soon.
Our world, mayhaps, will come back soon.
242: Wow! That sounds a lot like Shel Silverstein in the rhythm and style.
I had a flash of something a second ago… ooh!
If you`d be my honey sweet,
Find nectar divine I`ll eat.
If you`d be apple of my eye,
Pluck silver starlight from the sky,
The scent from flowers, green from leaf,
Dancers hoofed from purple heath.
From bedrooms steal children`s sweet dreams.
From heavens snatch silver moonbeams.
Steal the shudder of a gong.
Steal the music from a song.
The joy of doe that`s wild and free,
Dang. I lost it.
246- I like that, keep going!
The poetry bug hasn’t bitten me yet. I’ll get back to you all later. =]
245- Oh, that is just WONDERFUL!!! *amazement*
GAEA
When your love throws out your children with scorn
Won’t you feel pain in your heart?
Won’t you feel life being torn apart?
The ‘rip’ of a sad motherly heart being torn
Silently grieving over godly children newborn
If your husband hated your children because they look poor
Won’t your your tears trickle?
Won’t you give your child a sickle?
And tell him to pounce on his father with a fierce roar
And free his brothers locked behind the darkest doors
Gaea, Mother Earth, was forced to choose
Either her children or her husband she’ll lose
Oh Gaea, Mother Earth, dear goddess so poor
Must you face the universes’ worldly horrors?
————————————————————————–
Whee! That’s the first poem I’ve made without making a draft!
I’m writing your dreams on the walls
(paper is overrated)
You’ll never get them back
(they’re mine now)
Spiteful
(I’ll laugh in your face)
Bitter
(I can’t forgive you)
My tears have run dry
(tears are for the weak)
So I’ll laugh
(the laugh of a madman)
I’ve got nothing
(nothing to lose.)
CONNECTED
Connections
If you hold someone’s hand
You are connected
If you play with a
puzzle
Until the image is blurry
You are connected
If you sing with your
best friend
And no one else is
there to hear you
You are connected
And the little children
who hold hands
and play with puzzles
and sing with their
best friend
Don’t know it yet
But they are
connected
––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––
Playing with the concept of a love poem. It’s possible to have an anti-love poem, I suppose?
If all the world were dead, and all men gone
But one, solitary, standing there alone,
And all the women taken to the grave
But me, without a single frind to have–
If I should find him, and he find me too,
I’d pray to God that man would not be you.
If death came swiftly on a horse of bone,
And in my bed I lay, without a home,
And but one thing could save me, but one drink
From springs immortal, then one thing I’d think:
If but one hero how to go there knew,
I’d pray to God that man would not be you.
That’s all I’ve got at the moment, but it’s a lot of fun to write. I’ll probably continue.
If Cinderella gets her prince
And Sleeping Beauty wakes up
Without a bedhead, I might add
Then why can’t I get a one up
On you.
If Snow White can spit out an apple
And Belle can get a man
Then why can’t I not get a beast an’
Get a man
Unlike you.
If fairy tales are always right,
Where’s mine?
You’re not my Prince Charming
You’re my wicked stepfather
Why am I stuck with you
And not another.
Something I was typing. I can’t rhyme.
There is something in a difference
That I can’t grasp
Clasped between right and wrong
A taste, a sight
A smell, a song
If keys had the same texture as locks
Cotton as feathers, and linen and flax
Then stone and steel would be as water
Flowing, racing
Timing, pacing
Seeping in between their cracks
If pictures really were a thousand
Softly spoken phrases
Words, and sayings
Only doves could hear
Then edges slowly fading once
We draw away from conversation
Pulling, pushing
Loving, looking,
Disappearing as the end of time draws near
For you and me, my dear
For you and I,
The lies of difference
Can mean no more thank ink and memory.
Where can we post prose? And wouldn’t it be more efficient [intelligent?] to have a writing page, period? Also, does the writing have to be our own?
And does anyone know if at a poetry slam it’s bad etiquette to slam someone else’s poem?
Also, are any of you slammers?
/gradster(1)/ – Secretary of Bureaucracy of the ASAP
205 (because nobody’s going to see it if I reply up there, that’s why) – Very nice. I like it a lot. We should have a rhyme-off sometime soon – I’m pretty good at that, if I do say so myself, but you’d give me a run for my money.
Also, whenever I rhyme, Grandmaster Flash comes to mind, and the first line of that just made the effect even stronger. *rolls eyes* Thanks.
/gradster(1)/ – Secretary of Bureaucracy of the ASAP
My Languages Arts class started our poetry unit today!
Our final project at the end of all of this will be creating a poetry anthology, based around a theme, with at least 10 poems, with 2-4 poems from the 19th century, with at least 5 from female authors, with at least several from minority authors, and at least a few by ourselves.
Of course, what I’ll probably end up doing is finding 10 poems that I like and then try to cram them all into one theme.
Anyways, while I was looking for poems today (just trying to find ones I liked) I came across this one:
A Blade of Grass
By Brian Patten
You ask for a poem.
I offer you a blade of grass.
You say it is not good enough.
You ask for a poem.
I say this blade of grass will do.
It has dressed itself in frost,
It is more immediate
Than any image of my making.
You say it is not a poem,
It is a blade of grass and grass
Is not quite good enough.
I offer you a blade of grass.
You are indignant.
You say it is too easy to offer grass.
It is absurd.
Anyone can offer a blade of grass.
You ask for a poem.
And so I write you a tragedy about
How a blade of grass
Becomes more and more difficult to offer,
And about how as you grow older
A blade of grass
Becomes more difficult to accept.
—
Maybe I should just hand in 10 blades of grass for my anthology project.
Somewhere,
you whisper in my ear,
we are flying
through the air on paper-and-glue wings
Somewhere,
stars fall from the sky
and land in the wet grass covered in moondew
lying, burning with cold
from their flashing fall
Cool and silver-blue and
glittering, glinting, glistening
gems you pluck and trail in your hair
Somewhere
You whisper to me to close my eyes
to breathe in the night air
hear the soft and rapid
beatbeatbeat
of faire wings
and hearts
and sighs
breathe and drink the nectar of the night
Somewhere
I will take you by the hand
and fly with you among the raindrops
laughing songs of long ago
and finding all the old treasures
we had lost so long ago
we had forgotten they ever were
Someday
Your fingers will curl around mine
intertwining ourselves
and dancing among the stars
with all the lonely souls out there
who are lost
or free
or both
Someday
we will meet in that meadow
Somewhere
you will whisper in my ear
Somehow
I will find you through this mist
Someday.
Wow. I’m…speechless. Beautiful. Gorgeous.
Thank you. It’s still really rough, I didnt have time to edit it directly after I wrote. I’ll work out the kinks and repost it as a reply when I do…
Pretty
–re-worded a bit–
Somewhere,
you whisper in my ear,
we are flying through the air
on paper-and-glue wings
held together by a thread a wish a hope
a dream
Somewhere,
stars fall from the sky
and land in the soft moondew-sparkled grass
lying, burning with cold
from their flashing fall
Cool and silver-blue and
glittering, glinting, glistening
gems you pluck
and trail like laughter and tears in your hair
Somewhere
You murmur to me to close my eyes
to breathe in the night air
hear the soft and rapid
beatbeatbeat
of faerie wings
and hearts
and sighs
breathe and drink the sweet dark nectar of the night
Somewhere
I will take you by the hand
and fly with you among the raindrops
laughing songs of eon-dead ages
and finding all the old treasures
we lost so long ago
that we had forgotten they ever were
Someday
Your fingers will curl around mine
intertwining ourselves
and dancing among the stars
with all the lonely souls
who are lost
or forgotten
or free
or both
Someday
we will meet in that meadow
finding ourselves in eachother
Somewhere
you will whisper softly in my ear
Somehow
I will find you through this grey-and-rain mist
Someday.
I
lay on a bed of grass
watching the clouds
tumble and mingle
in their shape-shifting dance.
I am alone
in my universe
no one beside me to
speak
and shatter the warm blanket of silence.
But suddenly
I am no longer alone
He lies down beside
me
Hands behind his head
Knees bent
Just like me
I close my eyes
against the setting sun
and his silent profile
But I find
myself
opening them and blinking
He isn’t speaking
Just staring
at the pinkening sky
with one purple streak
dragged across it
To anyone who saw us
lying on the soft quilt
of grass and dandelions
We would have appeared silent
But we are breaking down barriers
And something passes between us
Something unspoken
Something unheard
Neither one of us move
The dandelions grin up at us
Let them do the talking–
They’re loud enough for both of us.
––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––
I can’t think of a title for this one.
I like this one, especially the last three lines. Very good.
Thank you!
((A little short I made just for fun. We’re learning this stuff in world history right now. ))
—————————————————————————
Grav-i-ty:
The forced by which natural bodies
tend to fall towards
the center
of the earth
Heaviness
in every finger
of every branch
of every tree
of every forest
that ever drew itself
closer to the ground
and the smell of the empty field
grazed by a brimming moon
Gravity
This, the reason why
the golden slants of sun
always find their way into
a capturing bead of dew
The reason why tears
are attracted to eyelashes
Why palms
are attracted to pencils
Why lips
are attracted to words
the words that help us
to understand
the language of universal attraction
this force that draws us together
that draws us alike
that drew us apart.
I like it. The last 3 lines especially.
But do you mean a science class, not world history?
Well technically we’re learning about when Newton recorded the laws of gravity, but yes, I did learn about it last year in biology.
There are many different ways
To love someone.
The whispered word
Into her ear
Silently grasping his hand
On a walk
The quick kiss on his cheek
Before you dash inside
The simple note to her that says
I ♥ you
The silent ways
The strong ways
The oh so very sweet ways
Of love.
Her husband was icy cold
So her hand the weapon hold
her husband was unkind
Such explains what she hide behind
Her hands tremble in fear
but she does it for her children dear
For she is their mother
And will be no other
So quietly she weep
Her woe and sadness deep
Yet it is too late to forget
This she just cannot regret
While calling for her dears
Her cheeks are wet with tears
Her voice was a whispered sigh
Evaporating into the sky
Her request was brief
Yet it filled her heart with grief
Starting as a tiny seed
Growing when one child agreed
And a single trickle
Blurred the shining sickle.
That’s a very good poem! It really makes you think…
Thank you.
I really like your poem about gravity. it is lovely, and I love the last three lines.
Sometimes, if you
lie flat on your back
and pretend that you are alone in the world
everything
seems
small
Search for hidden pictures in the clouds
in the depths of your face
I can make out nothing
but the desire
for a moment
of
solitude
The spyglass is broken
no more can we gaze
into the stars at night
and delude ourselves that
there is
something
more
When the engine of the body sputters
and the wheels rust and split
the paint peels like a withered leaf
you look forward only
to the smell of the grass in a meadow
the taste of the rain
the morning when you
no longer have to worry
about
life
and
lies.
LIES
Perhaps you’re crying in your dreams
Because nothing is how it seems
Perhaps only now your eyes are clear
And nothing of which you held dear
Is real. Maybe your eyes do lie
But still you lay on your bed to cry
Because you know that it is true
Nothing is real. Nothing but you
Perhaps you want to go to sleep
But even then your heart does weep
Perhaps your dream was but a myth?
Yet it’s true. You sob on with
Salty tears streaking your cheek
Your heart fragile and very weak
“It’s untrue.” You want your mouth to speak
But your voice comes out a feeble squeak
When you try to tell yourself it’s untrue
The only one you’re lying to is you
Why can you not accept what’s real?
And empty your heart of all you feel?
Your tears are clouding your silent eyes
It’s time for you to accept the lies
There are even worse lies hard to accept
Truths from everyone that’s carefully kept
As soon as you know your heart will break
A lonely ripple on a lonely lake
I like writing poems, but I think they’re all pretty lame. I’ll put up my “best”one, I guess, if you want, but they’re lame. Especially compared to everyone else’s terrific writing! I wish I could be as good………….
You think they’re lame. They’re probably really good. Put it up, and I assure you that no one would say anything bad about it! It’s probably wonderful!
I thought mine were pretty lame, too.
LIFE
What, you ask, is the meaning of Life?
What to us does Life give?
Against us what is its strife?
Why have Life? Why should we live?
You’re nearing now the realm of Death
So inhale, exhale, you final breath
But before you go, you had to ask:
Why is there Life? What is its task?
Death begins just when Life ends,
So what of the time that Life spends?
Such great time does Life waste,
it knows we want to proceed in haste
To Death. Where there is no fear
Naught we see. Naught we hear.
How great it must be not to have thoughts!
Yet thinking is what to us Life taught
“Life and Death are antonyms.”
When this is said it may feel grim
For though that saying is not a bit new
It is however not a bit true
To be dead simply is not being alive
Death opposing Life is just a jive
If it was true, answer and say,
“What, then, are ghosts? Somewhere halfway?”
Death, in fact, is so much better
A liver can never compete with a deader
So why live life? Why live on?
Why can’t life just be gone?
Life’s at end. Death draws near.
There is nothing left to fear.
We all lived once, and this is why:
We live only so we can die.
Yet suicide is not the same:
You only lose – you do not gain.
I say, live life while yet you have it
Because, once gone, you can’t retry it.
Live hard and fast so when Death comes
Weary, you’ll greet it with open arms.
With no regrets, you’ll pass away,
Into oblivion – where you’ll stay
In peace and quiet you will lie,
Six feet under; when you die.
((Gee, that turned morbid quickly.
I liked your poem, CTN, as always. I was trying to make a reply to it with more poetry, but I lost my train of thought… ))
Thank you. I like the reply. It’s just too bad you lost your train of thoughts… it would have been wonderful.
DEATH
As the end of your story draws near
Don’t be afraid. Have no fear
Have peace. There will be no pain
Only your carefree soul remains
So now drift off to eternal sleep
No need to cry. No need to weep
Wipe your eyes, dry your tears
Be silent as Death draws near
On a horse of dark midnight
You see two flickering blue lights
Skull of Death with fiery eyes
Riding without any cries
We all lived once. We all will die
So peace, my friend, and wave goodbye
I enjoy this chain of poems, but sadly I’m not in the mood for foreboding poetry (although you two write it quite well!). In fact, ym writing bug has not yet bitten.
Ah well. Maybe tomorrow.
265.1– I keep repeating the first two lines of your poem. Truly amazing…
And, CTN, your poems on Life and Death are stunning! It amazes me that people can write such gorgeous poetry and rhyme at the same time.
(I can’t rhyme, by the way.)
Thank you, Aggie! my writing bug bites a lot. My finger hurts now…
most poems i write, I write it just because I came up with one line of poetry I liked. The rest of the poem is just blah.
——————————————————————————————–
TIME
What controls our life and what we do?
What makes things happen without a clue?
What does history penetrate through?
It is Time
What never began and will never end?
What doesn’t curve , twist, or bend?
What is advised that you wisely spend?
It is Time
It’s always ticking off but never there,
It’s everywhere but no one knows just where
It is. It goes fast and it goes slow
Everything that will happen it does know
It is Time
It’s there. On and on it goes
It seems to stop but it forever flows
We know its there but it we’ll never find
For towards Time we all are blind
What taught us things that we never knew?
What exists but is unreal and still is true?
And what is the thing that showed me you?
It is Time
The day the rain came down
we were hiding in our houses,
too afraid to come out
for fear of a storm, but
The day the rain came down
we ran away from thunder
and we ran away from lightning
and we ran away from wet grass because
The day the rain came down
was the day there was no sunshine,
no gold sunlight through the window,
and it made us so afraid, and so
The day the rain came down
we were hiding in our houses,
and nobody thought to open the door
and run out and dance.
LIARS
I can’t count how many words I’ve spoken in my life
Apologies,
Forgivenesses,
Comforting sayings,
Insults,
Compliments,
Questions,
Answers,
Lies,
Truths,
And I can’t tell you how many I’ve meant, either,
Because I didn’t mean many,
I know that.
What I wouldn’t give
to slip back into the cool mask of lies
that fit me so well
for I had worn it so often
And so shamelessly, too.
I couldn’t care less
what you thought of me
Until one day
When the sun was obstructed by clouds
I finally
Could see
That you were one person
And I was two
One was me
The other was a stranger
That I barely even knew.
I realised
That deep down inside
That those who wear
A mask
Day in and
Day out
Don’t even know themselves
Just like I didn’t know me
I’m not a liar
Though some prefer to call me that
I wore a mask
Day in and day out
But now
I’m finally seeing
That I am me
And I shouldn’t hide
Because in the course of a lifetime,
What does it matter?
Myopia
This is the poem that got me published for the first time ever. For context, the inspiration was my slowly becoming more and more myopic (further nearsighted), and how helpless it makes me feel.
I ask again; are any of you slammers? I’ve got a slam poem I could share, though to tell you the truth it sounds much better being read.
/gradster(1)/ – Secretary of Bureaucracy of the ASAP
((Sorry gradster, as for me, I’m not a slammer, but post your slam poem anyway!))
The voice of reason haunts these halls,
Murmuring truths to one and all.
But these days, few will lend an ear;
She starts to wonder, “Can they hear?”
For that, there’s Logic by her side,
Assuring that she’s in everyone’s mind.
He says, “Some people simply choose denial
So that they don’t have to take life’s trials.”
“They plug their ears so as not to face
The duties of the human race.”
Lost in Times of Darkness
by fireandhemlock1996
Lost in time from far away
Curs’d to wander on and on.
Ne’er to see the light of day
Fated to see not light of day.
Lost in lands of darkness
In a far off time
Ne’er to see a glimpse-
Of hope nor lantern shine.
Lost in time from far away
Always wandering-
Cursed by darkness
To wander through eternity-
Yet hope is still within.
It’s lame, I know. But it’s my best.
I like it. It gives me that faraway feeling.
271- Don’t say that, it’s very good!
A Visit to Alpha*
One night, I soared in silence, above our Earth
On glowing wings of phoenix-fire
Reflecting on our future, and of an era’s birth.
As morning swept across the world
A strange sight I did espy
In the sunlight, now there gleamed
A silver island in the sky.
Curious, I then approached
This marvel floating in the light.
A city of metal cylinders
And orange sun-cells shining bright.
I found the hatch at last
Surrounded by the smooth, metallic crags
As I entered, on the clean, white walls
I saw a multitude of flags
Equipment was strapped everywhere
That the eye could see
Everything neatly arranged
By the woman who greeted me.
Her suit was blue, her smile kind
Her hair black as the sky outside
She greeted me and then she said
“My name is Alpha, on this station, I abide.â€
I could not place her accent
Though she spoke English well
Russian? Japanese? Brazilian?
German? I could not tell.
I asked her where she hailed from
(To end those useless tries)
“I am of Earth, like you, but most of all
My home is in the skies.â€
“I am like a little child
Of all nations and each one
Establishing this foothold
For our voyage just begun.â€
Alpha told me of her mission
Planned by many learned minds
Science that would benefit
Her race, all humankind.
On that sky island we floated
Looking down to see our lovely Earth
Speaking there with Alpha
Reflecting on our future, and of an era’s birth
And as I turned to leave,
To return, I was imploring
She said to seek her elsewhere
With the others, worlds exploring.
*Alpha is the radio call sign of the International Space Station.
Final skies of death and glory
May result in ending worlds
Into darkness into, into death
Finality need not be so
Life is good, let us gp
Let us praise the lost one’s health
The lives have unfurled.
To the end of our story
Which may come soon
Or we shall leave to the end
The beginning of tall
The beginning of life
The end of strife
The end of small
As our life goes ’round the bend
We travel past the moon.
Really, this doesn’t mean anything. It just sounds meaningful,
That sounds rather like-Ode to Joy?-I can’t quite remember the title.
After buying and reading my school’s literary magazine this year, I was inspired (also by A, to any of you on the R&R thread). My poem’s a bit long, and still under construction, but I’ll post all 131 line of it (three wung points to whoever first tells why I chose 131 for the number of lines (hint: it’s a poem I like (not that any of you know what poems I like))).
You
by Anonymous (so it shall be in next year’s Lit Mag)
But with you, I’ve felt things
I’ve never felt before. I’m sure
That I’ve barely dipped into this ocean,
But it is constantly morphing,
Growing.
Each day it becomes more complex
And wonderful,
Growing stronger
And stronger.
I can’t imagine a more powerful
Or magical force.
But with you, I can’t bring myself to express
This feeling
To you.
What is holding me back?
The very thing that has drawn us together
Is dear to me, and I can’t lose it
And you.
But with you, it’s… how can I say this?
You are the sky.
Crystal clear, piercing but liquid blue,
Filled with wads of ethereal cloud, drifting across time,
Filled with the majesty of pouring rain
And roaring thunder.
You are filled with stars, you are eternity incarnate,
Filled with the aurora, always shifting,
Colorful,
Out of reach.
But with you, each intricacy is better than the last.
Each day you are different, each day
You are the same,
The same as has been spoken of from time immemorial.
Each day you amaze, astonish, are.
The same as I have known since I first met you,
But each day is a new and beautiful experience.
I am not a poet.
You are.
I am not an artist.
You are.
I am not.
You are.
But with you, I know myself, I know you.
My friends whom I will never see know you.
The people I will never meet know you.
The nights we will never spend together know you.
Every moment of time knows you.
Each man that has existed knows you.
And I wish I could tell you.
But with you, each moment together is my shangri-la,
Perfect,
But impossible.
But with you, I know things I have never known
And things I will never know,
Except how to tell you.
But with you, this is how I tell you that
I love you.
Damn it, I love you.
Always have, always will.
I’ve wanted to tell you since the day I met you
But I couldn’t.
So I joined you.
I was
Your friend
Your confidante
Your adviser
Your helper
Your mule
Your bitch.
And I love you.
But with you, I was rejected,
Not directly, not on purpose.
You loved a football star,
A stranger,
An actor,
A screen.
But with you, I’ve waited.
Planned, hoped,
Told the world I can never see about
You.
For months I’ve waited.
A groundhog, he knows you.
A hawk, he knows you.
If only you knew you.
But with you, everything else is more important.
Yes, you love me.
But you don’t love me
And you don’t love me.
Please understand I will do anything for you,
Be anyone,
Go anywhere,
Say anything.
But with you, I can’t wait forever.
Damn it, I’ve always loved you and always will.
But true love is a lie
If only one person sees it.
Yes, you love me.
But you don’t love me
And you don’t love me.
Reject me.
Despise me.
Throw me away.
Lie to me.
Abandon me.
But know this: I don’t give
A s███.
Love is unconditional
Even when it is hopeless,
Futile,
Worthless.
But with you, I still hope,
Still dream, still stare.
But with you, my name cannot be known
Just as yours changes from moment to moment.
You are not my first
Love.
You are not the
Omega.
We will die, but you
Are reborn.
Many suitors will surround you
But they will be pigs.
You cannot have them, so have me,
Take me,
Love me,
Just don’t make me remove
This mask.
But with you, I will always love you.
But with you, everything means nothing.
But with you, I cannot live.
But with you, I will live, die, scream.
But with you, I will always love you, for you are the sky.
The days float by like spaceships
drifting and revolving
an opened doorway
and we’re falling
through the spaces through the stars
through all those half-way places
and we light with graceful footsteps
Upon the shadow of a dream
a land we’ve never walked
yet somehow still remember
where a whisper is a scream
and a heart is inclined to stop
for fleeting moments,
breathless seconds
a silence
filled by the ticking of an ageless clock–
Your eyes they shine like oceans
underneath the darkest skies
slowly moving rolling weeping strolling
reflecting where the monsters lie
the deep the dark the cold the clear
the few small words we long to hear
enticing and intoxicating
a clear breath a revelation
coming closer coming nearer
and yet standing ever stiller
The spaceships they are spinning
in the cold and wispy skies
circling around us all
and never trying to hide
yet they remain somehow unseen
so rarely barely glimpsed
wishing as they orbit
wondering why they don’t fit in
the wait for us to move
to dance
to make a stand or take a chance
So they can come wisk us away
to places of light and night and ways
breathing quick and breathing sharp
grasping for a soul to cling to
holding to me ever tighter
as we fly into the night
searching for the empty lands
we dreamed we walked
the shifting sands
of time and life and sea and night
The remembered empty places where everything’s amiss
a dream a lie a love a life
a single, shattered kiss.
—
Not what I intended to write. I may write one with similar words but a much different rhyme and feel later.
But what do I mean by “shuttle chic”?
It’s just a word, to describe a style, an era, a feeling.
To describe the plain little houses
And the blocky old libraries (With the section names written upon black plaques in tarnished white)
To understand, you must go inside.
When the sunlight slides through the thin windows
And crosses the floor to the dusty shelves
Far from where everyone else is.
Not many people come to these shelves at all.
But you pull the books out, and look at the covers.
The sun has faded the covers
It’s all pale, even the void of space looks more kindly grayish.
The font, white-on-black
And the images inside. Oh, the images.
There are moonwalks and moonsuits.
The buggies and the mountains of late-Apollo.
The station, the funny little cylinder station
Skylab-with-the-windmill-solar-array
The guys inside, having a ball.
The shower, the bike, the spiders.
On the horizon, a craft, a geometric bird.
Enterprise gliding in over the California desert.
Only a test, but there will be REAL space shuttles soon, you are assured.
You stare at those 35 faces of the new class. They will fly it.
You know their fates as they could not.
The poor early-CGI
And the green lasers across the cube
Of still more faded black
It seems so homey.
And now, she flies, Hail Columbia!
The white tank looks so odd now, almost sickly pale.
First, Crippen and Young in the brown suits.
Then, the others.
The others fly now, they spacewalk, they use the arm.
Men with mustaches and women with dark, curly hair, so puffy.
All in those flightsuits, colored like the sky
And the white altitude helmets in their hands.
They take up an IMAX,
They fly in a chair
They photograph the Earth.
They drop off satellites.
But they are alone.
They don’t fly to a station.
(They will build one soon, though, you are told.)
(Freedom in the sky by ’90.)
And the world loves them.
This is shuttle chic.
Wow. I love it. *stunned speechless*
You do? I was worried nobody would get it.
A little song lyric I made up (The tune is somewhere between ‘when we grow up’ and ‘walking my gargoyle’)
Summer will come
Heaven will go
Paradise lost in a mountain of snow
Vine mapel green
Cold as can be
Lilacs are sproulting for you and for me
FRIDAY
Alarm clock
Snooze button
Repeat
Repeat
Emi, must I drag you out of bed?!
No.
Floor
Carpet
Stairs
Hi, Sophie!
Cat food
Cereal
We’re going to be late!
I’m aware of that.
Backpack
Very heavy
Running
Garage door
Car
School
Phew. Not late.
Locker
Slam
Binder
Hi, Jon.
Hi, Katie.
Oops. That was due today?!
Andy Warhol
Campbell’s Tomato Soup!
Photographs
Over already?
Snack
Not hungry
The area of a triangle?
Ni hao!
Oops. Sorry.
I’m going to call your mom over the weekend, Emi.
Whatever.
Computers
Blah blah blah
Stupid ClipArt!
I hate rectangular prisms!
Crying
Kelly!
Hugging
Lily?
Ouch.
Laughter
Back to class
Yay, lunch
Hi, Soph.
Bleh.
Thanks, Kelly!
Hi, Edward!
Hugging
What the heck?
Bell
Quiet reading
Apology letter
Delivery!
Culture projects
Reading
Bell
Walking
Girl Scouts
Nutrition…
Whatever.
Bye, everyone!
Home…
tumbling
tumbling
clear blue sky
—————————————————————————————
I thought of that one day. I want to use it in a poem, but I can’t make up a good one.
I sat in the perfect moment between
the twilight and the darkness,
with sky the color that only skies are
with half a star just peeping.
I sat in the silent moment between
the evening and the midnight,
with owls stirring in soft sleepy holes
and children closing eyelids.
I sat in the silent moment between
the moonbeams and the starlight,
with the world that was turning towards midnight at last
with a universe turning towards morning.
This thread requires more ee cummings
i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)
Umbrellas swirling
Whirling in the breeze spinning
What a storm this is
Random haiku. Eh.
((300th post if you count the replies!!!))
CHILD-LIKE INNOCENCE
Child-like
Innocence
Dancing towards the shore
Poking baby toes into foam
Shrieking in joy
Sand-piper feet
Flitting to and fro
On wings of baby’s salty breath
of mellow scent
Waves hurry in
for a cool embrace
Engulfing
laughing child
Child of innocence
Child of joy
Not afraid
of baby waves
holding tight
to little body
Eyes open wide
to different world
of salt and sunlight
and no air to breathe
At peace
at ease
in different world
Waves forcing little girl to air
Blinking in the golden
sunlight
Breathing in
Salty peace
Drifting to shore
Covered in sand
Grinning
in the bright light
Child-like
Innocence.
1.
She was afraid of growing old.
2.
each day passes by like the sharp ticking of a clock
cold seconds counting down
each one clear, loud, echoless
each one defined
3.
when the rooms are quite and no one is around
she counts the seconds
4. 5. 6.
again and again and again
hery eyes follow the steady progress
of the ink-dark hands on the pale surfaces
7.
she is afraid of time slowly seeping into her
of creases and shadows
losing the young body
she hadn’t even really begun to enjoy
of age and withering and death
of losing her memory
her mind
herself
8.
she worries worries worries
as the days grow longer and shorter
as the seconds tick by
9.
as the clock starts again
1.
—
281- Yes, e. e. cummings was just what this place needed.
Another random haiku.
Imagine what it’s
like to be in the spin cycle
Whirling spinning- clean.
Enlarging that haiku into a longer poem:
I can imagine what it’s like
to be in the spin cycle.
Trust me.
I’ve been there.
It’s pretty chaotic.
You’re always spinning, twirling
Whirling, hurling
Into the freshly washed laundry.
And then when-
I REFUSE TO WRITE THAT!
I AM A POET, NOT A HORROR WRITER!
I am writing something ELSE.
1.
The old man sits in the armchair
by the roaring fire, his feet resting
on the tassled ottoman
a blanket laid
carefully
upon his lap.
2.
Next to him on a small table
is a green glass lamp
and a white ceramic mug.
With shaking fingers
the old man reaches for the mug
and pulls it towards him.
3.
This is his cup of life.
He sees his reflection in it
swirling and dancing.
In it, the old man becomes young again.
4.
He lifts the mug to his thinning lips
and sips his life
from it.
He drains the cup
savouring every last drop
of his life.
He runs his finger
around the rim of the
white
ceramic mug,
catching whatever droplets
of life,
had he missed them.
5.
The old man
sets his mug on the table
And smiles
a miniscule smile
to himself
leans back
and closes his eyes.
WAKE UP!!!!!!!!
(Wikipedia can say this better than I can- “[At the 2002 Olympics] Along with the flag that flew at the World Trade Center site, the Challenger flag was also carried into the stadium.”)
In the Salt Lake City Arena
They showed us two flags.
The one from the shuttle, the one from the towers.
Seven lost to human error, in pursuit of science, 1986.
1000+ lost to human malice, in an act of hatred, 2001.
All of these fallen, I honor.
All of them, I respect, I remember.
But if I had to choose between the spirits
That each event reflects-
Which would I relate to the future?
“We attacked each other because we were different.”
“We explored space for the benefit of all.”
Which spirit to live by?
Which spirit for our future?
I carried the one from the shuttle.
Scrap of poem.
I used to believe
That I could use wings
Made from
Love
Ectasy
Hope
To fly.
But now
I don’t know
This Valentine’s Day,
I’ll do something different.
No more shyness.
No more subtlety.
I go right up to him
Handing a white-wrapped package over.
Quizzically he looks at me,
Opening it,
hesitantly.
“What is this?”
He asks.
As if he didn’t know.
“Happy Valentines Day.
I’m giving you my heart.”
I say proudly.
A look of horror crosses his face
The box falls to the ground.
I feel no pain
as my heart is battered and bruised.
He walks away
without a backward glance,
muttering, “Freak.”
I slump down,
Sitting beside the crushed box.
Heartbroken.
My heart is shattered.
The tears flow unrestrained.
I feel your tap upon my shoulder.
Turning around, I see what you hold in your hands.
“You can have my heart, since yours is broken…”
((Er, I know it’s not even February, but… yeah. It’s inspired by a person’s DeviantArt picture. ))
((*reads over* Wow, it’s even creepier than I thought it would be.
))
I approach you without friends
If they heard, my life would end
I think that I’ll go ’round the bend
If you do not love me.
You look at me without a sneer
I trust you now, I come near
Your face is what I would fear
If you do not love me.
They’ll throw me in the Wacky Shack
And, no, I would never look back
I’ll lay across a railroad track
If you do not love me.
I open my mouth wide
To pour forth the love I have inside
I’ll never ever come outside
If you do not love me.
I tell you with zest and zeal
The mushy way you make me feel
I’ll shock myself with an electric eel
If you do not love me.
You look at me like I’m insane.
I feel as if I am in pain
My life itself would be in vain
If you do not love me.
You shake your head, like, “Who are you?!”
I drop to the ground to “tie my shoe.”
Now I know what I will do
Since you do not love me.
I turn around without a word
And flit away just like a bird
Now I think that I’m absurd
For thinking that you’d love me.
Two years later, look at me
Fully healed, can’t you see?
There will be an answer, let it be
I don’t care that you don’t love me.
Child, look up at the sky
Tell me what you see
Do you see a world apart
from them and you and me?
Child, rest your feet upon this soil
Feel the mud between your toes
Take a look around this world
See the things it has to show
Child, dear, look at the world
And dance along the shore
And as the waves surge in and out
You’ll know what life is for.
WAKE UP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
A parody I wrote back in December (obviously):
‘Twas the night before Christmas, on the ISS
Not a creature was stirring, the crew was at rest
The experiments all had been closed up with care
In hopes that good results soon would be there
The spiders were nestled all snug in their beds
While visions of one-g danced in their heads
And the crew in their bags, putting on their nightcaps
Had just settled down for an Earth-approved nap
When up from the Zvezda, there came such a clatter
They unzipped and hurried to see what was the matter
Away to the window, they floated in a flash
Barely avoiding a zero-g crash
Reflected Earthlight from the planet below
Gave the lustre of day to each steel truss and row
When, what should they find as the cause of this shock
But a bright red rocket, attempting to dock!
Now trying for stealth, not one dared talk
As they floated quietly to the air lock
Each of them unsure of what they would see
No visit was due, so what could it be?
Through Destiny, Unity, Harmony, Pirs
They crept slowly forwards, in spite of their fears
They’d sneak just a peek from behind a wall
And if it was danger, they’d dash away all.
And then in the Soyuz they’d homeward fly
As they had trained for mishaps in the sky
But this exactly was unknown to the crew
This anomaly was so totally new
And then, in a twinkling, they heard just a snatch
Of the opening of a spacecraft’s crew hatch
As they turned to see the source of the sound
Through the air lock St. Nicholas came with a bound
He was dressed all in red, that was quite plain to see
And he moved as if used to their zero-g
A bundle of gifts he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler, just opening his pack.
His eyes-how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was smiling, yet mute
And the beard of his chin, white as a space suit.
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And they laughed when they saw him, in spite of themselves!
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave them to know there was nothing to dread.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And gave them all gifts, then turned with a jerk.
And with a salute, to these three so brave
And back to his rocket, he went with a wave!
He undocked so smooth, they heard nary a whistle
Then his craft flew away, like the down of a thistle
But the transmission came, ‘ere he drove out of sight,
“Cosmic Christmas to all, to the world a good-night!”
A saddish poem about a snail.
Little snail, clinging to the window
Car rushing, flying, through wind-whipped blocks of cars
You tried to hold on, clutching your whirling lifeline in the world too fast to notice you
We couldn’t stop – traffic must keep moving, at any cost
You let go
tumbling
tumbling
clear
blue
sky
We sped on
Maybe the cars stopped
The world stopped
To let a little snail across the road
Maybe you crossed the sun-scorched black desert, your silver trail glistening in the heat, and
Found a lush patch of grass where a soft slow mollusk
Could glide, and eat, and live
And live
And live
Maybe.
I capture you
in black and white
Make you mine
with graphite and erasures
And while you drift away in real life,
you leave a little of yourself behind
on this sheet of bleached wood.
And if I can’t catch you with words and looks
at least I can capture you with this fleeting lead magic.
What happens if I erase?
* * * * * * *
Apologies, can’t remember if I’ve posted this one before:
When every inch of this good green earth
Is filled to brimming with glowing life,
And every day, good or bad,
Is full of glory, or full of strife,
When we are granted warmth from the sun by day,
And are guided at night by the moon,
How could my thanks ever be enough?
How could my praises come too soon?
For in the flight of each small sparrow,
And in the call of every dove,
In the smallest sprout beneath my feet,
And in the highest tree above,
In the ripples of the summer creek
And the go and sway of the sea,
There is exultant, laughing, loving life,
Glorious and free.
And so—when I see this triumphant life
Wherever my eyes are raised,
How can I not be filled with joy?
How can I not be amazed?
Though these actions you may deplore,
I am, my friend, an omnivore.
built to eat both plant and meat
not merely the grass beneath my feet.
I may slaughter the bovine masses,
but I, dear sir, don’t eat their grasses.
Killing them quickly is better, by far,
than taking their food and letting them starve.
And you, dear reader, I’m telling you now,
eat a vegan, save a cow.
Hemlock is poisonous, and so are those berries,
poison ivy and oak, and – hey, those aren’t cherries!
There are all sorts of plants which no one can eat,
not so when we devour our various meats.
meats have more nutrients, taste, and, of course,
they fill you up better than a mouthful of gorse.
They may not like it, but please be kind now.
Save a vegan, feed them a cow.
The sky is dripping on my nose.
I just hope it never snows.
For snow is colder, and on my head,
I’d like a snout that isn’t red.
So I sit here, getting wet,
‘Cause Mommy hasn’t called me yet.
The rain comes down, that’s how it goes,
The sky is dripping on my nose.
All by me.
“Eat a vegan, save a cow.” Interesting… But isn’t that kind of insulting to vegetarians/vegans? I do like your poems though.
Do you think that can only be
between a man and a woman
a boy and a girl?
I suppose it doesn’t matter much
Narrow-mindedness has never been my problem,
You know.
But I do think that love is love
And love being love will remain.
If a rose is a rose is a rose is a rose
Isn’t love…love?
Let us say farewell to Willy
For we will see him no more
What he thought was H2O
Was H2SO4
I used that rhyme to remember the chemical formula for sulfuric acid on a chemistry test… yay!
298- I was kind of making fun of vegetarians/vegans, but not in a spiteful way. It’s satire! And I do love satire. Plus, you gotta admit it works.
And no, love is not always love. I love satire, but that has nothing to do with marriage. I also love my brothers.
Three squid in a bathtub,
the yarn is too small,
the army is melting with soup.
The clock isn’t clean,
my shampoo is bright green.
This is what the doctor prescribed for my head.
My slippers are croaking,
the rock, it grows fur.
The sheep has a pillow for a head.
The book purrs too loud,
my towel’s a cow,
This is what I get for eating pizza before bed.
But that really wasn’t what I was talking about…
SFTDP
What I meant to say is that I meant to say is exactly what you said. Love isn’t always between two people of different genders…It can be between anything.
Squid in a bathtub. *Shivers*
Just stop it –
Quit acting like you’re
All that
So much better than
the rest of us
I’m so sick of all the lies
You’ve been hiding beneath a mask
All this time
I’m not sure
If there’s anything beneath it
Anymore
Who are you,
Stranger?
You used to be my friend.
((Er… I don’t know. I just wanted to write something…))
Here’s a really long one I wrote for english called “The World, My Heart”:
Beyond the horizon my heart rather swiftly rises,
Among the trees my heart quite quickly grows,
Aboard ship my heart sails courageously,
Inside my head my heart meaningfully just knows.
In spite of war and pain,
Besides the unfair,
Past the distain,
Of the world I faithfully care.
Under the sea my soul stealthily swims,
Across the continents my soul defiantly thrives,
Above the earth my soul hastily soars,
Into knowledge my soul so fondly dives.
Alongside fearfully and its horrors,
Despite rudeness,
Down evil’s corridors,
For the world I don’t care less.
Through deserts my heart almost reluctantly thirsts,
On mountains off my heart somewhat frantically veers,
Over raging rivers my heart too deliberately struggles,
Beneath solid rock my heart awkwardly clears.
Until this planet’s horrible end,
From my heart, my love will patiently not bend.
The theme was a love poem where each line started with a preposition. Oh, we needed adjectives, too.
I can see them, they are standing
Outside the window.
The leviathans of old, resurrected
By some upside-down,
Black as pitch
Messiah, whose name
Is Legion,
The bringer of light,
The prince of the world.
They walk in shadows,
As shadow, their arms flashing signs
Of torture, of destruction.
The Time
Is now upon us,
But the people are too wrapped up
In their parlors, blinded
By their “families”.
The people call them Trees,
But I call them,
Apocalypse.
The Four are sitting on the patio,
Drinking tea filled with the blood
Of countless virgins
Raped by the world,
Seeded by hate,
Discarded by their families,
But these people are not alone.
Their “families” took them in,
And fed them
With a stew from Plataea, Issus, Salsu, and Nagasaki.
And I can see Death
Standing outside my window
Like some universal Gothic,
Watching me drain my blood
Into the very fibers of the earth.
I shout at him and claw for an exit,
But the parlor has no door.
The “family” grabs my legs, my neck, my eyes
But I can only see farther,
Breathe harder,
Run farther.
I scream at the people on the street,
Begging them to save themselves
Before God takes back His earth,
But they turn up their shells
And replace their blood
With the blood of those virgins.
The river is too swift
For me to cross, so I stand,
Stand in the street,
Silently crying
For the world which once may have become great.
The stars fall, the oceans boil
And I stand and cry.
The Four, having finished their tea
Assume their places to serve
Both masters. But soon
One master will overthrow the other
Along with the his virgins,
His leviathans,
His shadows.
But the people just turn up their shells
And sink into their parlors,
Knowing full well of the battle
Raging on,
But preferring to sit
Motionless
In the dark
As all around them the world is lit by lightning.
They have blown their candles out
And chosen the other over the first.
And so I stand in the street
And cry,
Cry for them,
Cry for the virgins raped by their “families”
And left to die next to me
In the street.
I cry until the first master
Ends the world and takes me
To another, shining one.
Er, sorry if that was long. I didn’t plan it out or anything, so it’s probably bad. I came up with the idea for it last night when I think I went partially insane. Sorry.
Poetry has usually been sort of a one-off for me, something I do every now and then when I’m not writing fiction, but I’ve produced a lot since discovering this thread.
And I can’t
seem to
feel. my. pulse.
Anymore.
Seems my heart
has stopped beating;
Is this death?
No,
it is silence –
Golden ice.
((Um… this has no explanation. It’s just something quick I wanted to jot down before it flew from my mind…))
Here’s a song:
You and Me
Verse1
To be the girl
That rocks your world
Means everything to me
But how could it
Ever be
If you won’t even see
Your arms
Around me tight
Is meant to make me feel good
But not
Everything
Is the way it should
Chorus
I’m knocking on your door
Wondering why
You ignore
Me
I’m standing in the rain
Feeling
So much pain –
See
Why can’t it be
Just
You and me
La, la, la la la la la-a (x2)
(x1 second to last)
Verse 2
You notice me
Suddenly
My whole world spins
I look back
It’s another girl
No one ever wins
I see your face
Do you see mine
Will things ever transform
I love you
You don’t know me
I feel so forlorn
Chorus
You don’t care – I
Can’t even bear – no
You don’t know what I’m
Going through
You don’t know who I am – but
I need you – please
How can I love somebody
Like you
La, la, la la la la la-a
Chorus (this is the la x1)
I need you like air but
You just
Evilly glare –
Why
You’re my everything
The earth, the sky
In-between –
All
Why can’t it be
Just –
Chorus
La’s fading out
Lead me softly
to the place beyond the sky
whisper that all will be well
and softly dry my eyes
lead me softly
to a place far far away
breaths, petals, silky rain
just carry me away…
—
Just a snippit I wrote yesterday for a description of a picture on DeviantArt. I was bored.
Enh, I’m bored and it’s a snippet (and I’m not a crazy lovesick fool).
Since things
Have brightened
With you
The sun
Shines noticeably
The clouds
Are transparant
I never really realized
The world could be warm
And bright
Not cold
And dark
Not slowly creeping over me
Like inky
Black vines
That’s
You.
Not
The weather
The cat
The summer
Only you.
It’s quite strange
What you’ve done
I never wanted
To crawl
Out of my shell
But you pulled
Me out
Into the sunshine
And the world
Please don’t go
I need you
I can’t rebuild
My shell.
I can’t reclaim
The darkness.
I can’t forget
Your bright
Happy eyes
As you saw
Me smile
For months
Your bright
Happy smile
Imploring me
To laugh
To smile
To live
Don’t go
I depend
Upon you
My love
My life
Stay with me
Until I’m strong again
Then
You may stay
Or you may leave
Just don’t leave
Too soon
Just take me with you
If you have to go right now
The sun shines brighter
As you smile
PIECES OF SKY
Leaning against
a tree of red wood
The leaves scraping the sky
and sending down pieces of blue
She smiles, lifts a dandelion
to her pale face
and runs away
a swirl of scattered sky
and dandelion seeds
in her wake.
On she goes
Her feet cushioned by
pine
needles and hope
and not having a destination
The wind stirs itself
and something within her
With one last leap
she floats toward the sky
with nothing between her and Earth
except for
dreams
hope
and
a few
pieces
of sky.
SFTDP- 92- HA HA HA HA HA HA HA! I cannot stop laughing! Ha! HA!
Along came a candle
a single shining light
a flickering flame to illuminate
to give a little light
Along came a candle
and was promptly locked away
to weep into the silence
and never see the day
Now locks might once be broken
and caged birds someday fly free
but binds of oaths and blood
Break only in sincerity
Along came a candle
a shining muse of light
to forever burn in darkness
to live inside the night
—
can’t finish cause dad is a eapirhgnfo4309tuhgreudofn idiot and uuhhhhhg I hate my family
I stand and stare into the abyss
flowers crumble from between my fingers
and dust clouds swirl behind my eyes
there is no such thing as time
when it’s so dark you cannot even see your thoughts
swirling like multifaceted fish inside your irises
I hear whispers calling to me from some faraway place
but whether they are real or imagined even I no longer know
and the voice of that cold chasm sings louder than they
I cannot make out the words
somewhere inside me longs to one two three step
into the darkness and waft down
like the fleeting dandelion’s seeds
into the deep dark cool and chaos
like the bottom of a still murky lake
behind me lie the patters no one else can see
crystals are you all
so rigid frigid shattering
so sharp
and cut into my sin like glass
one two three four deaths ago
I lay inside the closed coffin that was my body and
the flowers clutched in my hand looked something like
the words you painted before me:
not the meanings
but the sounds
the taste
but now I know better than to accept gifts from stranger
even the ones that blossom on the tongue like rain
and it is far far better to not share
the wondrous discoveries
(like the birds whose songs are coded messages
and the sweet screams of flowers as they are plucked
to rest in a maiden’s hair)
or they will take them away
(like the pictures in the fog and rain
begging you to listen to their stories)
with the round and white and small
so clever you think you are
building towers of glass
and cages of steel
and laugh to see my leaf and grass houses torn apart by the winds
and walk away as I laugh with you
so silly you are to think I did not know
I stand before you now: A choice is made
and the abyss smiles
and calmly softly slowly sings its lullaby
as I give you one last chance
to let me go.
(soft, fast guitar, in background)
Something’s
going on, in your heart
cause nothing
is as it seems
before you start
(electric guitar grows heavier)
and you’re lookin’
and you’re waitin’
but do you even know what for
oh what for yeah
(electric guitar/bass for a bit)
[chorus]love, love, love is enough
and you’re waiting and wailing
for something good
oh love, love, love is tough and
you’d better start before you fall…
(suddenly changes bck to original soft background notes)
still searchin’
in an empty room
cause life
is but a dream
you know, it’s true
lookin’
out the windows
as the rain falls down and
falls and falls and falls
and
[chorus]love, love, love is enough
and you’re waiting and wailing
for someone to trust
oh love, love, love is tough and
catch me now before I fall oh
catch me now before I fall oh
cat me now
catch me now, oooh ohhh…
and the rain still falls
—
A song in my head. I can hear the music and the voice of the singer (female, sort of husky, low and very… deep-sounding), words are still not quite there, needs a few more versus. But i had to get it down fast.
Could we have a new thread?
(get out)
trying to escape
to break out of this battered chrysalis
in which we find ourselves
paper-thing wings pressing against our body
humming with energy
and sharp as razors digging in
beneath our skin as we fall
fall
fall
from the earth
(escape)
words wrap like chains
to bind us–
promises, pretensions,
those trying to protect
us from ourselves
and what we must become
we long to fly;
to break out of our skin
and leave it behind, an empty shell,
a marker
emotions surge, restart,
are repressed
by logic and limits
rules and regulations
“for our own good
for our safety
for our benefit”
for our salvation
we struggle
trying to break open our husks of bodies
to float free as moths
into the night
(free)
To leave behind the tattered shreds of myself:
it is not a death
unless you never make it out of the chrysalis.
Sorry if I’m being repetitive, but, can we have a new thread darling GAPA(s)?
I think we can manage that. Sorry about the delay — busy week, on and off the blog.