Anyway, here’s a poem I wrote. It’s about a certain happening in a certain :cough: manga, but I think it’s nice even without the backround information.
Akatsuki
The starless eyes
Begin to set
A twist of fate
Was cruelly met
Winter Night
Snow blankets the Northern Nights
of the windy rime of winter.
Come autumn or spring,
none match in splendor.
Like the queen of seasons,
she dances in her pride.
Yet, stopping to swallow it never,
into the frozen wilderness hath receeded.
Her eyes darting from her bare trees,
to her wilting flowers,
to her starving men,
she smilies any way.
Though the moon pales,
and the harvest is retired,
she hacks off her wheat,
without delay in her shivering might.
Oh, wretched winter,
like the witch that followed warmth,
down the warpath to death,
through the millions of needles of cold.
The Pines shiver even in their evergreen coat,
our birch freeze and topple down like the apples
on our blessed apple tree.
Winter, winter, recede to your lair, and make way for spring.
Spring
Spring, the sprig of hope
that bloomed after the dark winter,
when she sprang from the ground,
all the world bowed and vowed
to defend her to the day her sun set.
The flowers bloomed,
the trees resumed
a pleasant tilt in the cool breeze.
She smiled, healing the frozen,
making a abundance of seeds
on her beloved plants.
The farmers lover her, the woman adored her,
oh blessed spring, she must end though.
To make way to the summer.
Summer
Hey, ho,
the spring doth go
to make way for me?
Look at the fruit on every tree.
I make the heat that tilts the grass,
I make the heat that’ll make you bow at last.
With a whip here, and a whip there,
everything will be in shape.
Yes, summer does what she wants,
she doesn’t wait for you.
Taking all and mourning none,
gourging all and taking few.
Last the twilight of her days,
we will all adore,
Last the twilight of her days,
in joy we all shall roar.
Ah, summer, summer,
kind, unworthy summer.
Bring thy wrath and do it quick,
she is clever and she is sly,
leaving heat to wilt and die.
But Alas, comes autumn
Autumn
Hail all, autumn his here,
she comes with red, gold
and brown,
to wear upon her pumpkin crown.
The harvest went well,
and alas your hear,
to tend to us,
oh autumn dear.
Hear our pleads and hear our voices,
make the best of all your choices,
the crop is well, the rain has come,
but don’t drown all, just leave some.
Oh autumn, autumn
so gentle but silent
autumn
Replenising before winter’s cape,
who leaves devastation in her wake.
Oh autumn, autumn,
colorful and sweet,
autumn
the honey of the year has come,
the moon is plump and fed.
But alas, comes winter.
(Beginning) Okay, it’s not that good. I tried, though.
roses are red
violets are blue
kricket’s not alone
i’m bad at poetry too!
lol!
axa and kitkat’s rock. and kricket’s aren’t the worst i’ve heard. (i’ve heard some pretty bad ones lol! jk kricket don’t hurt me!!!)
that’s cool kitkat it like goes around in circles! (wow! what an amazing observation! all hail captain obvious! anyway…) except you made winter like all depressing (“But alas, comes winter”) what’s wrong w/winter? winter rocks!
Winter is the time of snow (duh)
Some people might be feeling low
But winter can be sunny and bright
And for me, it’s the greatest season. erm…it’s alright???
No, no! that was great! I really like it, but, some people like winter…
my turn!
the stones are cloaked with the dust of ages
and the ghosts of people
older than I
wiser than I
drifting around them
heavy with memories
things long ago past
vanished deep within the dust of ages.
the ghosts drift , but not all with memories
but predictions–suspicions!
things yet to come.
mourn over ones lost
but some, content
peaceful in being.
“strive for perfection,” they whisper,
“but better never to reach it.”
words buried deep in the dust of ages.
I’m supposed to read book one of Paradise Lost by John Milton before Monday. It’s only about 20 pages, but it was all written during that time period where they thought that just coming right out and saying what you meant was bad, so it all has to be decoded. Milton wrote 12 books of Paradise Lost, but they’re all short. I really should get on that….
Well I don’t like winter. I like summer. But people tend to hate summer so I wrote about summer being bad, but, but, but….Aagh!
Sunset
A crimson twilight,
blooming in the sky,
splashing maroon,
unto the dark mellow dim.
Like a voice singing out
when all seemed quiet,
the eerie lullaby
of a life long passed.
Repeating itself day after day,
but never failing to please,
the eyes that so warily follow it,
to it’s end in the morning.
Sunrise buries her head again,
waiting to be called forth,
when the first cock crows,
she knows she’ll be gone,
but not forever.
Her brother sunset arrives,
darkr red blankets the sky,
then turns light,
then rich violet,
and dies to a dark black
which engulfs the sky
except the twinkling stars,
that wait for their mother,
sunset.
I don’t actually read much poetry, but I like it sort of when I do read it. I have to read book one of Paradise Lost tonight. It’s only 20 pages, but it will probably take me forever anyway. I should get on it, but I want to procrastinate some more,
Courage! Book One mentions Muse in the fifth line. How bad can it be?
Are you going to read the rest of Paradise Lost, too? Book One is just scene setting. Translated into concise modern prose, all it really says is, “This poem is about Adam and Eve and angels rebelling against God ‘way back when. As it opens, Satan and his minions have just been kicked out of Heaven and have hit rock bottom in Hell, where they are nursing their wounds and blaming one another for their bad luck. They include:” *names minions*.
oy! that’s all that’s in the whole first book? how long is this book anyway? 5 pages?
*coughRAMBLERcough*
sounds…erm…interesting!
speaking of poem/books i started reading cantebury tales. it takes 5 minutes a page! and these are the mini pages too! i mean, what is it somebody got up one morning and said, “let’s switch around all the words in the english language today. just to have some fun. ” nothing means what i think it means!!! arrrgh! it has a glossary though. hooray.
That’s really all it says. The rest is poetry–impressive in its elaborate way. Dartmouth University has a good online annotated version with useful footnotes.
I read Lycidas for this class, too, and I noticed the references to Muse in there. Milton couldn’t have been all bad if he read Muse, even if he did put a lot of completely useless poems out there that no one will ever read, outside of school. I think we’re going to read the rest of Paradise Lost, eventually. We kind of have to ease into it, because we’re high-school students after all, and we kind of have to have every word explained to us.
I read some of the Canterbury Tals, and they are hard. Did you know that that is actually not Old English, it’s Middle English? Beowulf is Old English, and I’ve heard some of the lines from it, and it’s really a totally different language. I only heard them read out loud, but I could tell you would have to have it translted to get even the general thrust of his gist (I stole that from Dave Barry, in case you were wondering.)!! With Canterbury Tales I could understand it some without the glossary, but Beowulf is literally impossible!!!
ouch yah beowulf. i was feeling bored one day, took it off the shelf, opened it up, looked inside, put it back, ran away back to the nice, understandable hornblower. which my dad is reading now btw. finally
montgomerygurl, which ones did u read? i only read the prologue and the first half of the knight so far…
poems are great
poems are fun
poems make people
dust off their guns
when ebeth writes poems
people are sure to run
unless they shoot her
then she says, “excuse me sir”
“I happened to be having fun!”
“yes” says the man
“but we were not!
the author of this poem
deserves to be shot!”
then ebeth was sad
and went far far away
then somebody suddenly had an idea”hey!
we’ve got nothing to do
let’s bring her back
maybe by this time
she’s got the knack!”
so ebeth came back
and said random stuff
but the people were so bored
they weren’t too rough
then ebeth said “wait!
why don’t i do something else?
like doing my history
homework! and finding something to rhyme with else!”
and the people said “woah!
you’ve got homework to do?”
and ebeth said “yes
and i’m procrastinating too!”
so here’s this long poem
that really does nothing
except explain why
ebeth is huffing
to finish her history
which she sadly neglected
now she must hustle
to get it perfected.
so away she goes!
she’ll procrastinate no more!
and so she is going
to make up some lore
for the country of BUCKEYE!
and then you hear a sigh
she’s still procrastinating
she now says “goodbye!”
Oh, doth not speak its name! Last year we read a terrible translation of Beowulf. I dislike reading books in school because we beat them until its not fun to read. :tsk tsk:
I happen to love all the seasons. I do like the season of autumn a lot, but only the season. My school is full of illiterate fiends who don’t know rthe meaning of “novel” (or tact for the matter :cough: )
If any of you do read the Canterbury Tales, never take Chaucer at face value. Watch out in particular for the description of the knight in the prologue. Most teachers and academics swallow it unquestioningly as a glowing description of the ideal knight. But it’s actually a totally brilliant piece of irony. A comprehensive and very funny (if rather cruel) character assassination, played absolutely deadpan. The only real clue that Chaucer’s being devastatingly sarcastic is the word “worthy”, which is used rather too often. Read between the lines, and you get a beutifully drawn picture of a virtually penniless, pompous, boasting idiot, riding a worn-out nag, who has achieved none of the things he claims, and whose one servant is better dressed than he is. Once you get to grips with the middle English, it’s totally hysterical. It’s no good reading in modern translation, of course, because most translators take it seriously too.
Oh, and you’re not allowed to read the Miller’s Tale. It’s very rude.
It’s seriously that funny? I heard somewhere that he was satire, but I only read a little bit of one, and then my mom told me to unload the dishes, and a great movie came on T.V., and then I picked it up and was like “what’s the point?” and then it was due back at the library. I should probably go check him back out of he’s that funny. I enjoy that type of humor, like Dickens is hilarous, and Don Quixote was a scream, so I’ll go get it next time I can. I won’t read The Miller’s tale, I promise.
Paul Baker may be biased. He remembers Geoffrey Chaucer, don’t forget.
If you feel like doing a little outside reading, see whether your library has John Gardner’s books on Chaucer. They really helped me appreciate him. And at the risk of unleashing a torrent of Middle English on the blog, this Web site at the University of California at Santa Barbara has some excellent recordings, vocabulary lists, and pronunciation guides.
Wow, thanks!!! I would be speaking Middle English, exsept that I didn’t ahve time to read it all. I’m off to Milton class, where I will hopefully get book one explained to me in further detail. I think I got the significance of about two lines.
hmm. last year we read The Tempest in L.A., but even though I like the play and Shakespere in general I hated it, because they left out all the parts they didn’t think we could deal with, in other words, the major plotline. Some of the dumber kids didn’t even figure out why Caliban hated Miranda, and one just TOTALY did not get it, so the teacher had to blurt it out VERY BLUNTLY. Uhg.
Many blessings on ye Robert!! Thy bountee is woundrous. I nolde kan write this withouten your help. Methinks artow alderbest Muse administrator person for the gift thou yaf. Pardee!!! I wene I have aroused lite pleasure in fair Rosanne!!! I pray here anger shall not lead here to quite what I quot. Alas!!! I did quot such horrid things against fair Rosanne, forthy I can plead no sely!!!! Al, fair Rosanne has been absent this long time, and methinks she be daungerous. Pardee!! I shall flea swythe from here!!!!
Thanks, Robert. Good site. He’s a bit sparse with his elisions, and a bit too insistent on pronouncing EVERY “e” ending, but it’s a useful source.
Nice one, MongomeryGurl! I don’t speak Chaucer myself, because it messes up the Elizbaethan, but I may start now.
Yes, he’s definitely worth digging up and perusing (not lterally). He’s a bit vicious to the knight, but he’s really gentle with the nun. She comes out as really sweet, despite the mockery.
I suppose, since it’s a historical document, you could glance quickly at the Miller’s Tale. But you’re not allowed to laugh.
yah where is rosanne anyway? GAPA #2? Ms. Spector? R.S? That one person? Rosanne? Spector? SpecterWoman? Lil Ghostie? ok now i’m making up random names. I’M BORED PEOPLE!!! DEAL W/IT!!! wait g2g study hall’s over
Okay, I just got back from my class, and now the whole thing makes a ton more sense. I was pretty tired last night, and I didn’t know who was talking, so it didn’t have much meaning. Now that I know it’s Satan talking in some of those passages it’s better. It’s really funny in some parts, now that I’ve ahd it explained to me. Like all those places where Satan tries to blame the whole thing on God, because he didn’t TELL them how strong he was, and when Satan wonders aloud why on earth God is in charge. That’s all significant now that our teacher explained what was going on. I have to read book two this week, and I think that will be easier now that I understand his characters are talking in some passages.
Ich wisly moot write mo, al it mowe confound sely Musers. Muche mowe argue they are a figment of my woodnesse, Ich han wist lite of them, als wostow. Outrely nyce it is, seistow, nathelees Ich routhe you woot not of woodnesse in thy own goost. Pardee, Ich ywis moot deye with noght wood people in the world, as ye moot suspect. This hath taken to long, syn Ich sikerly moot translate mo, therefore Ich write namo.
uh oh. what would happen if all the musers divided up? like into old english, middle english, elizabethan, you know just all started talking differently? kinda confoosing but that would be pretty cool…
so pb&j would be like the head of the Elizabethan Order, and MontgomeryGurl would be like the head of the Middle English Order, and somebody else would be the head of the Whatever Else Order and people could make up random Orders with random ways of talking and….erm….i dunno it would just be fun. and educational *gasp* maybe i’ll suggest that to my teacher…like a class activity. it’d be more fun than anything else we do…
has anybody else read that weird poem/book set in like oklahoma or something during the dust storm time thing? w/ the piano player and all? i forgot what it was called, but that was like my first poem/book. it wasn’t that bad i suppose. but it was cool cuz it wasn’t like weird kinds of writing, it was normal english, so it sorta helps u understand like the whole poem thing before u try to figure out all the language issues and stuff. anyhoo.
Maybe we should have holidays. Like a Middle English day, where that’s what u have to talk like for the whole day. You go into mcdonalds and order a cheeseburger in middle english, or elizabethan, or old english, or whatever day it is. I would love that that would be soooo funny! And then they’d just stare at you like, “what did you just say?” heehee! evil instincts coming out now…i love confusing people.
wow this is a looong post and there’s not a single poem in it! hmm…time to fix that.
my post is too long
so here is my poem
i’m typing this now
as i sit here at home
just as an excuse
so i don’t feel guilty
so now i will go
and…erm…sew a quilty?
Mae govannen, Rosanne! You can stop cackling. According to the short Chaucer glossary, in Middle English “daungerous” meant “distant, haughty.” (Of course, that’s equally laughable, in its own way.)
I haven’t had much time for Museblogging the past few days because my niece and nephew and their parents are visiting. I hardly ever see them because they live on the East Coast and I’m on the West. So I’ve been spending all my free time with them — walking the hills of San Francisco, discussing anime, eating ice cream and strawberries, watching the clouds roll in over the Golden Gate Bridge, biding our time while their mother shops for antique teapots. FUN! Really! She got a crazy cool one that’s cream colored with big gold polkadots.
roses are red,
violets are blue,
I like muse,
and you should too,
If you do not like this,
which I bet you do,
you should hit me with a big hunk of shoe.
thank you! thank you! now bow down to Igotatissue or you shall be thrown in a dungoen.
Ich am going to ease into speaking fluent Middle English, like maybe Ich will learn one word a post, or something like that, so Ich eventually won’t have to go back to my glossary, and then it will be a lot easier for me to use. Ich han to go now!!!
Well, ich guess nobody else wants to speak Middle English with me!!! *sniff* But that’s okay, because ich like to go agayn the flow, al it may agast Musers, but only the one’s who are agast of Ebeth. Ich admit it!!!! Ich am just trying to fit all the new Middle English words ich know into this post so ich can learn them and not have to constantly look adoun to my glossary to see what ich should say.
MIDDLE ENGLISH WORDS FOR THIS POST
(in order of appearance)
ich=I
agayn=against, toward
al= although
agast=afraid, frighten
adoun=down
As long as my wish is your command, how about a thread for old languages, like Middle English and Elizabethan, that way those of us that wanted to speak it could, without bothering the rest of the Musers. Or would that be exclusive and incredibly boring? Ich just thought it might be nice to be able to discuss old funky languages, al ich guess Paul Baker and ich are the only ones using them. Let me know if you’re going to command my wish!!!
Or it could be a thread for any kind of language, dialect or accent people wanted to use. We could talk about them, and stuff, or am ich the only one who gives a rip about different languages?
languages are cool. now i’m gonna go figure out exactly what you were saying about me…was it that people were scared of me? hang on…you going against the flow scares the people that i scare? or something….
yeah, yeah. I suck at poetry too. Hey! Lets start a club in which our fellow musers get together and it shall be called: We Stinck at Poetry!!!. ( you can only join if you stinck at poetry. you can lead with me, kricket.)
roses are red
violets are blue
i suck at poetry
kricket does too
zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzoom!!!
i love to rule the galexie!!
so long, fellow musers!!!
KitKat really likes ebeth’s poem on post #21,
she thought it was creative, and really fun
Ebeth has talent, it surely shines through,
I think so, and I know you probably do too!
If someone disagrees, I shall report you to Crraw,
I’m entitled to him, as some of you saw.
So do not flatter me with poems of lyric and rhyme,
Even though I may do that quite a lot with mine!
I flabbergast poetry teachers all around the globe,
they think my writing should be sent in space on a probe.
They’re probably right, I know it is true,
but still it makes be want to go “boo hoo!”
So, tell me if what I make deserves to be ripped,
torn up, shred up, burnt up, and in tar be dipped.
I am a shame to a muse-blog, when poetry’s concerned,
but how to make good bad poetry, you surely have learned!
-KitKat the 2nd hand muse of Horrible Poetry.
I like poetry. I can be better with it sometimes. Maybe I’ll show you later.
NOOOOOOO!!! NOT THE VOGON POETRY!!! ANYTHING BUT THE VOGON POETRY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! *sobs hysterically* THROW ME OFF!! THROW ME OFF THE SHIP!!! KILL ME FIRST!!! DON’T MAKE ME LIIIISTEEEENNNNN!!!!!!!!!!!!! NOO!!! NOT THE VOGON POETRY!!!!!!
hehe… had the Guide on the computer desk in front of me… ahem.
Oh freddled gruntbuggly thy micturations are to me
As plurdled gableblochits on a lurgid bee.
Groop I implore thee my foonting turlingdromes
And hooptiously drangleme with crinkly bindlewurdles
Or I will rend thee in gobberwarts with my blurglecruncheon, see if I don’t!”
another Haiku i nkow thats spelled right about something that i wont tell you ahahahahahahaha now i have power over you all you can beg and beg and beg for all i care but ill keep the secret locked up
giving yet taking
streaches up to the sky
thick roots growing
yes now you may waste away begging me to tell you what it is about.
i made a poem up for a story i wrote it goes like this
bourne of shadow and metal
helped by spirits cryin’ “hark”
the savior of the cursed
the lord of our dead
turn all light into darkness
spill blood that is red
nice poems! but why’s ur name rabid pansey now instead of rabid pansy?
you should totally put up the first one on the riddles thread. then we can drive you crazy by overanalyzing it (yeah! high five mg! (yes i’m too lazy to type montgomerygurl (wait i just did! arrrgh…)))
we totally won
the homecoming game
i hope that next year
it will be the same
the band rocked the field
and played awesome songs
it was really cool
even though we didn’t have gongs (??? be kind it’s 10:48)
yes i’m rambling on
about the game
but it was cool
you have my skool to blame
so if you get tired
of me rambling on
you’ll probably happy
that i’m leaving soon-on (i said be kind!)
0
0
randomrohanfreak 'n' Jusenkyo 'n' CrazyOobleckMeh, Muses of randomness, rambling, Rohan, LOTR, and/or manga says:
SELKIE
She walks.
She walks.
The rhythm of her feet beats the sidewalk like an irregular kind of drum, voices around her making song.
She does not speak.
She does not speak.
Swirling humanity moves arund her slowly moving body like water.
She does not see them.
She does not see them.
They call her strange but they don’t know how.
She steps in the sea.
She steps in the sea.
The rushing tide carries her away in the skin that doesn’t fit right.
She lets herself be taken.
She lets herself be taken.
People thought she was crazy and shunned her but now they’re looking for her body like treasure.
She is gone.
She is gone.
All they find is an old seal with human eyes.
Her eyes.
Her eyes.
well i took your suggestion and changed my name ( i dont know why) but i just found the book i was writing and this is really how it goes
bourne of shadow and metal
comes forth from the dark
summoned by sprits cryin’ “hark”
the savior of the cursed
the king of our dead
turn all light into darkness
spill blood that is red
i know it only has a few corrections but i will try to always have good things for you guys.
roses are red
violets are purple
they aren’t blue
what rymes with urple?
e shll hav a cretiv slpellin grop to! yaehhhhhhh!!!!!!! i lve cretiv slplellin!! it’s so fnu!!!!! yae!!!!!!! urpl is ym fvorte clor!! so is blu, gren, and lellow! yea for cretiv slplelin!! can e hav a cretiv slpllein thred? plese!
I shall have a creative spelling group too! Yayyyyyyy! I love creative spelling!! It’s so fun! Yay! Purple is my favorite colour!! So are blue, green, and yellow! Yay for creative spelling! Can we have a creative spelling thread? Please?!
Am I right?
My favorite lines from my favorite poem:
half a league, half a league, half a league onward,
into the valley of Death rode the six hundred…
…canon to the right of them, canon to the left of them, canon before them
volly’d and thunder’d…
…there’s not to know that
someone had blundered
there’s not to reason why
there’s but to do or die…
out of the jaws of death
out of the mouth of Hell…
heere eye ame en stoody hal
veery board ande riting pomes
maybie out of mie chare i shuld fal
juste soe sumthing hapens in heere
on thee othere hande thet mite hurte
soe board ande tierd heere i muste stay…
wate a minut! tierd ded yoo saye?
howe too fixe thet…ther es a waye
ande soe eye lae mee downe too sleepe
i praye eye wille wak up too keepe
tha horride systm ofe tha bel
thate cals us too a clas withowt showe-ande-tel
at laste tha ende of tha daye is heere
wee rune oute tha doore ofe tha skool deer
anothr borring daye ise don
nowe wee sleepe to gete reddy for anothr won
daye aftr daye, wee worke soe harde
ate perfecteng the hi-skool sleepeng arte
thes shal bee caled Skool ande bee kepte heere tu educat thos peeple hoo seme tu thinke thet skool es fore studeeing end lerning. Whate ann ideea!!!!
NIGHT
A million pairs of eyes
Watch
As the moon rises silver-white in the black night speckled with stars.
Stars
Little pinpoints of light in an endless dark
Holes in the fabric of night.
And the million pairs of eyes stare into the stars
And they wonder if these tiny holes are really
Burning balls of gas millions of miles away
Or just
Tiny places where someone forgot to darn his socks.
But the silver-dollar moon hangs there
Solid
Not a hole
After all, whose foot is that colour
Or even his sock drawer?
Yes
The moon is rock
Shining in the sky
To remind a million people
That
Scientists aren’t always wrong.
listen a while, the moon is a lovely woman, a lonely woman
lost in a silver dress, in a circus rider’s silver dress.
listen a while, the lake by night is a lonely woman
a lovely woman, lost in a silver dress, in a circus rider’s silver dress.
the moon and the lake by night have woven thier roots around my heart just as a lovly woman, a lonely woman
ina silver dress, in a circus rider’s silver dress.
The tree stood alone at the
crest of the hill. The bark was
white like newfallen snow on the
scrubby brown grass around it.
Its branches reached in every
direction, a jagged scar across the
dark grey sky. It seemed to glow
against the heavens, the firey tips
of a few twigs burning their colors
into the back of my eyes.
Gold, yellow flames surrounded it,
crackling and crunching as I approached
the pale white trunk. Here and there
black splashes shown out,
contrasting sharply with the starkness
of the bark. I ran my finger down
the paper-bag bark, and memories came back.
Memories of shopping with my mother,
and carrying the bags almost overflowing
with a tide of groceries.
I slid my hand off the trunk
and stood for a moment, a black shadow
against the white tree surrounded by a sea of
reds and oranges and yellows.
From my pocket I withdrew an apple,
my breath misting as I breathed over the fruit.
I wiped it on my shirt in four quick jerks
before biting into it. The juicy crunch
was loud in the silent air, ringing in my ears
as the cold, slightly sour juices ran over my tongue.
These I savored, chewing slowly the white meat
of the apple. I swallowed it in three parts,
my tongue tingling and mouth wet.
I turned, then, facing away from the tree,
towards the path that I’d followed.
I couldn’t see the town anymore,
the silhouette of the buildings
masked behind layers of fire.
I sat slowly, the leaves crunching and
snapping suddenly. It was loud and startling,
and it caused me to pause for a moment.
Then I continued to lower myself until the leaves
were up to my ribs. I drew my knees up to my chest
and withdrew the bitten apple from my coat.
The liquid on the edges of the ragged hole where
I bit glint slightly in the weak light. The apple was
green, with small dots of brown and black.
It reminded me of the summer just a few months ago.
I closed my eyes and could almost feel the warm sun
against my face and the hot, muggy air in my mouth.
A cold breeze blew against me,
and my memory of summer faded away.
I pulled my coat tighter around me,
and a few leaves stuck to it.
I took a deep breath,
smelling the crisp fall air.
This is my favorite time
of year.
What are the seasons,
What are summer, winter, fall, and spring?
What is summer
It is false hope for warmth
It is a fleeting glimpse of sweet melocholy humor,
A quick kiss of life
That inhales one day and is blown away
What is winter
It is the deystroyer of light
The destroyer of warmth
It blows away summer
It sends shivers down the spine
An icy grip that is thawed by sweet summer
Fall adn spring are
Heralds, messengers seen in the cold, harsh sky
They bring tidings of summer and winter
Opposites, yet good friends
They bring a sylvan attitude
And lay it like a blanket over earth
Cows are cool.
Moo!!
Bo isn’t a tool.
Moo!!
Bo’s a cow.
Moo!!
And there once was a small corporation,
Moo!!
That did a creative spellin test experiimentation
Moo!!
The results: thou can read with letters switched in the mid,
Moo!!
And stayin the same the in the ends; and amid
Moo!!
The grumbly professors
Moo!!
The grouchy meany ole teachers,
Moo!!
Cerative Sepllnig is patalable wth teh barin!!!!!
MOOOOO!!!!!!!!:lol:
Here’s a poem you fantasists might like. It’s by Tennyson, from his long story-poem The Princess, and reminds me of a perfect litttle dessert:
The splendour falls on castle walls
And snowy summits old in story:
The long light shakes across the lakes,
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going!
O sweet and far from cliff and scar
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
O love, they die in yon rich sky,
They faint on hill or field or river:
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
And grow for ever and for ever.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.
Then maybe you’ll also like these two by William Butler Yeats, both based on Irish myths and written in 1899. (“Sidhe” is pronounced “she,” and “Niamh” is pronounced “Neev.” I’m not sure about Caoilte–either KEEL-cha, KOOL-cha, or KWEEL-ta, depending on whom you ask. Maybe Paul Baker knows.)
(1) The Hosting of the Sidhe
The host is riding from Knocknarea
And over the grave of Clooth-na-bare;
Caoilte tossing his burning hair
And Niamh calling Away, come away:
Empty your heart of its mortal dream.
The winds awaken, the leaves whirl round,
Our cheeks are pale, our hair is unbound,
Our breasts are heaving, our eyes are a-gleam,
Our arms are waving, our lips are apart;
And if any gaze on our rushing band,
We come between him and the deed of his hand,
We come between him and the hope of his heart.
The host is rushing ‘twixt night and day,
And where is there hope or deed as fair?
Caoilte tossing his burning hair,
And Niamh calling Away, come away.
(2) The Song of Wandering Aengus
I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.
When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire aflame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And some one called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.
Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.
Oh, I love Yeats! here is one of my favorite poems of all time, the Highwayman, which I *ahem* memorized. I can’t put it all her ’cause it’s four pages long, but oh well.
the wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees
the moon was a ghostly galleon, tossed apon cludy seas
the road was a ribbon of moonlight, over the purple moor
when the highway man came riding
riding…
riding…
the highwayman came riding, up to the old inn door…
I love that poem. Here are two others of my favorites, shorter ones.
what is Africa to me?
crimson sun and scarlet sea
jungle star and jungle track
strong bronzed men and regal black
women from whose loins I sprang
when the birds of Eden sang
one three centuries removed
from the scenes his father loved
spicy grove, cinnamon tree
what is Africa to me.
and, of couse:
The emrald is as green as grass
the ruby red as blood
the sapphire shines as blue as heaven
but the flint lies in the mud.
The diamond is the crystal stone
to catch the world’s desire
the opal holds the rainbow light
but the flint holds fire.
back he spurred like a madman
shrieking a curse to the sky
with the white road smoking behind him
and his rapier brandished high
blood red were his spurrs in the golden noon
wine red was his velvet coat
when they shot him down on the highway
down like a dog on the highway
and he lay in his blood on the highway
with a bunch of lace at his throat.
‘Tis strange on this very day,
Maragoth has passed away,
and the tis so odd the story did come,
to my awaiting, pondering tongue.
His mighty deeds of power and grace,
a man that tested the Human Race,
strong and cold and mightily set,
for the bravest and longest adventure yet.
So listen keenly, don’t let me down,
and I shall tell you about the Evil Crown,
the crown that settled on Maragoth’s Head,
summoning the skeletal, the horrible dead.
In a small town, the Great One was born,
he was raised by hand, by wit, not scorn,
he learned to ease the sword in hand,
saving small victories across the land.
Alas one day the Great One was told,
of a king of power, a king of the bold,
and of the greatest crown he wore,
and to take the crown, he solemnly swore.
Alas, decieved the Great One took off,
and even the meekest he dared to scoff,
the greatest of hate buzzed ’round his mention,
though he seemed to have a innocent intention.
And yet, like a pilgrim on his path,
taking his time to prevent God’s wrath,
he praid so gently to he heavens so high,
he knew, there his victory did lie.
So maragoth plunged up cliffs, and valleys down,
seeking, feverishly seeking, his beloved crown,
and as he walked through paths of spit,
he cooled his anger and gathered his wit.
The foke of the kingdom hated him so,
they knew, quite well, he was no unknowing doe,
he had a bad goal to set them astray,
so they planned and devised to get him away.
They sent peasants to try to stop his trail,
but these attacks lead to no avail,
he made his way through the darkening reign,
to set his eyes on the Crown of the Vain.
Alas, he found the castle standing so tall,
it seemed there was no residents at all,
a hollow whistle shrilled throughout its walls,
“Horrible Maragoth, turn back,” it calls.
But no, he resumed his journey, it’s victory nigh,
he took a last bow and sweep at the sky,
but the burn on his back stinged in His rage,
“In your story,” he boomed “there will be no more a page.”
“Ha, ha” my king, he smirked in reply,
“I am not mild, timid or shy,”
Show you best, duel me at the ground,
but after this there wasn’t a sound.
He entered the castle, his fears washed away,
but his throat raspy, with nothing to say,
no whoops of laughter no slow, somber talk,
and in fear and anger Maragoth began to stalk.
He looked ’round the castle for the tiniest prey,
a man, or a servant, a mouse lead astray.
But no, there wasn’t a sign of life here,
not summoned by his cold, greedy leer.
but then, alas, a small quiet crack,
in relief, Maragoth straigtened his back,
“Come out, good soul,” he called gently,
but out came a skeleton, wasn’t that plenty?
It’s eyes so hollow, eeirly glowed,
the great Crown it’s empty hands showed.
It’s cold, boney palm placed it on his head,
and no tears of happiness could the skeleton shed.
Then miillions emerged, great numbers, by droves,
there eyes oh so hating, gleeming like the blood-red rose.
“Your are I king,” they chanted together,
“You are ours, and that…forever.”
Angered humiliated, grown out of the word,
he grabbed his royal goblet, a motion absurd,
but only he knew about the lethal content,
so he sprayed them, and back to their graves they were sent.
But chocked by despair, the shock of his deeds,
Our Maragoth so nobly pleads,
“Dear one, save me!” His voice becomes shrill,
“No!” booms that voice, “for no one shall kill.”
Of Maragoth’s story, you have well heard,
so be careful, always do that, take my word.
I’m a terrible poet. You guys are awesome. I haven’t written much, just a few poems, and no epics like you, at least not yet. Here is a sad excuse for a dark poem, but everyone has to start from somewhere, right?
Lost At Sea
All alone on a deserted island
Lost at sea.
Why is no one ever
There for me?
By myself, all alone, no one
Reaching out.
Thought someone’d help but now
I’ve fallen into doubt.
Drowning in a river
Of my tears.
There’s no getting away
From my fears.
When will this torture
Finally be done?
When will this war
Finally be won?
It can’t go on like this
Can’t end this way.
But I don’t have the strength
To live another day.
I can’t take it, can’t
Do it anymore.
There has to be another way out
Some other door.
No one to hear me
When I call.
No one to help me
When I fall.
No one else here
It’s just me.
On a deserted island
Lost at sea.
It seems like there are a lot of poems about New Year’s Eve (actually, I don’t really know this — I’m just assuming…), but not enough about New Year’s Eve EVE. (Okay, another assumption. Perhaps there are whole heaps of such.) Anyway, just in case there aren’t. Here’s a possibility.
December 30th [needs new title?]
December 30th
when the library’s still open
when the mail still comes
when it’s not really a holiday
but feels like one.
December 30th
when there’s still no school
when you have a few free days left
when the creeping crush of undone work
swells up slow but surely.
How about “Penultimatum,” from “penultimate,” a useful word meaning “next to last”? (There’s also “antepenultimate,” a slightly less useful word meaning “third from the end.”)
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Queen Julietaini the Flamablamablous of Kiador (Queenie J) says:
Roses are red.
Violets are blue.
Some poems rhyme
This one doesn’t.
Þe point of a New Year’s Eve poem is New Year’s Eve resolutions. Since these always fail so embarrassingly early in the New Year, there’s no point in making them. I plan, however, to buy some Buzzcocks albums and some more UB40.
I’m perfectly terrible at writing poetry. Mine always flops around like a fish for a while, then ends, and it just doesn’t go well. I’m not too bad in iambic pentameter. Let me go work up the courage, will you? Rim hennaid.
Silent.
The icy wind is blowing.
The leaves ripple with the wind
The misty blue fog hangs low.
A jay calls.
One voice in the sea of voices.
The voice spreads
The mist clears
The wind turns to a warm breeze.
The leaves rustle and sing.
The creek bubbles softly like a choir.
The forest is alive.
The golden sun rises through the branches.
Everything is peaceful.
I wanted to share a poem a made up in my head this morning while I was walking the dogs. There are two of them, chocolate and yellow labs named Iris and Lili.
The poem is about that most lovely of primates, the bonobo.
It’s mildly mature, but not too bad.
THE UPSIDE OF BONOBOS
A poem by Cedar
Whereas chimpanzees are nasty
and not too well behaved
bonobos are quite freindly
at most hours of the night and day.
Whereas chimpanzees and humans
are centered around the male
bonobo girls form bonds through sex
and all the boys turn tail.
Whereas chimpanzees and humans
spend time on blood and gore
bonobos focus on the positive
making love instead of war.
Whereas chimpanzees are brutal
when they’re fighting over food
bonobos you will find
are not nearly quite as rude.
So to hell with all these patriarchals
To hell with chimps and men
All hail the great bonobos
and their sister guided freinds.
You can delete verse three if neccessary GAPAs. It’s not crucial to the flow of the poem.
Hope you like it.
FACT ABOUT ME: I occasionaly think up songs in my head, and all of them so far, have been love songs.
I don’t think of them very often, but when I do there usually pretty good.
As the drops of salt pour from my eyes,
I recall the passage of time.
More than one died here today.
It is those that I remember.
Once a pump of life, the one is bleeding
scarlet love, which seeps into the icy
depths of lost. This pump will work no more.
I have tried, but not a chance, this time.
The other, never saw the light of day,
yet knows it could have been.
And still it may, but only that
Keeper of Our Fates will tell, though not
today…this much I know.
Together, these lie faceless, lifeless, dead.
Gone for now, if not for all Eternity.
And all that’s left is my shell,
an empty, frozen corpse of what still watches,
but does not see; what listens,
but does not hear; what inhales,
but does not breathe; what knows,
but does not feel.
I am this way by choice…
for I do not want to see, to hear, to breathe…
to feel.
WOAH. When did this thread get here?????? How could I have missed it??
Oh, wait… it was started in October 2005… there’s a more recent thread Shadowkat, that more people go to I think. Poems and SOngs version 2007. something.
Fire burns the trees tonight,
fueled by the golden ball of the West.
The flames lick the branches
like children do candy,
eager to find the sweetest spot.
Like arms, they embrace,
reaching higher and higher,
as if to join their brothers in the sky,
changing in hue as they ascend.
Then, piece by piece,
the crinkled ashes drift to the ground,
once they have spent the juices
of the tree.
And what is left is barren,
but still graceful.
A twining, twisting work of ages,
left to rest from growth
until the Spring.
let your dreams take ink form
pen them
at the crossroads of imagination and despair
as you write, you are ascending
past the nightmare groves
where darkness is dancing
this is a poem i did in an exercise in class with my friend.
celebrate the butterfly because the wings like white stars brightly flying through my little world.
my voice was ice quickly eating away my love
bitter rose as terrible as living devour’d
the land is beautiful,
her country wonderful of tree and lake,
fish and leaf,
lovely like her.
to create language is possible
the ingrediant:
the good,
less selfish
let our favour take over.
as a note: this was done by taking magnets with words on them and writing random words on pieces of paper and oraginzing them into something that half makes sense.
I am horrible at poetry. As an example, here is something I made up for my friend’s pet rabbit….
A little yellow, white and brown,
These are not colors to make me frown,
these are the colors of Minxie’s coat,
For this I think I’ll give him an oat.
Hopping, running, playing too,
Minxie, Minxie, we love you!
My friend was delighted (this was when she was about 8 or 9), though the rabbit himself was rather nonplussed.
And so, I will read this thread and admire the talents of you all whilst pining away at the thought of my lack of it.
I wrote this for school:
I come from suburban sidewalks
From sun and rain and ice and snow
From children laughing and babies crying
And Mozart symphonies from long ago
I come from winter chills and snowy thrills
From freezing temperatures and snow days, not one
From spring flowers and autumn leaves
And basking in the summer sun
I come from spelling bee studying
From flamablamablous friends and supportive family
From reading Muse and doing math problems
And adventures waiting just for me
I come from fantasy novels
From Broadway musicals and captivating plays
From home-cooked dinners and walking in the forest
And doing things in a thousand ways
Sometimes I’m an anachronism
Sometimes I’m just odd they say
But where I’ve been and what I’ve seen
Has shaped who I am today
Yay! Oh, thank you GAPAS! This place has been indeed so lonely.
—————————————————————————–
I need to think, a place to go
Where I can be alone
This world has no safest corners dark
The tremors shake and legs do quake
In fear of tomorrow, the unkown
I dash, in haste, to fields mild
With rising snows and little tinder
The lack of space, of simple ground
My workings thses things hinder
My mind is reeling through a roll
Of disaster and dismay
I don’t beleive in waiting long
I want my calm today
But god forbid I find no rest
From critiscism’s lonely rant
I will stay vigilant, ever strong
And doubtful thoughts I shan’t
Less cross apon the lonely grange
Of brain stems ever worn
I tire, the earth is fading dark
My memory forlorn.
The gazelle grazes slowly-
The sun has begun to set-
The jaguar quivers-
The pen quivers above the paper-
The stars begin to shine-
The last rays of the sun disapear-
The jaguar pounces-
The gazelle-
The story-
Is caught-
And the Moon rises.
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Vixen in the Eyes of the Moon (of the 2 spdzk) says:
The lit candle flutters,
yet there is no wind,
the flame leaps and dances,
yet their is no tune,
you swipe your finger through the flame,
a warm drop of water heats your hand,
but your hand is never wet,
a caress from the candle,
you place your finger against the your tongue,
and wonder briefly,
if a star has kissed your hand.
Silence
Is the whisper of a silver snake winding through leaves of moonlit grass…
Is an autumn leaf caught by a night wind and sent soaring to the stars…
Is the stillness of my heart as I lie awake at night, maybe dreaming…
Is not absence of sound, but an abundance of thought.
Shhh…
I am not that good a poetry but we’ll give this one a try (mind you, I just got on this thread)
Roses are red
Violets are blue
I don’t feel like writing poetry
you might not either too
{To avoid further confusion, this thread is now closed. It’s place has been superseded by the Poem and Songs threads, the most recent of which can be found, as of this writing, at https://musefanpage.com/blog/?p=1254 — Admin.]
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Comments are closed.
Patience, Please
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wow.
hem hem…
Roses are red.
Violets are blue.
I suck at poetry.
I hope you do too.
jk
Roses are red.
Violets are blue.
I’m sick of this poem.
I know you are too.
ACK!!!!! THANK YOU SO MUCH!!!
Anyway, here’s a poem I wrote. It’s about a certain happening in a certain :cough: manga, but I think it’s nice even without the backround information.
Akatsuki
The starless eyes
Begin to set
A twist of fate
Was cruelly met
Falling faster
Swifter, turning
Hollow lyric
Ever churning
Ash and stone
Turned to bone
Bloodied gaze
Run far away
Not your tool
Not your tool
Whispered death
And shallow breath
A question why
His answer
Falling faster
Swifter, turning
Hollow lyric
Ever churning
Revelation
Dawn’s corporation
This truth
That he now sees
Not your tool
Not your tool
wow that was way better than MY poem!!!!!!!!
hem hem
Roses are red.
Violets are blue.
Axa’s poem is better.
I hope you think so too.
*applaude
*
Winter Night
Snow blankets the Northern Nights
of the windy rime of winter.
Come autumn or spring,
none match in splendor.
Like the queen of seasons,
she dances in her pride.
Yet, stopping to swallow it never,
into the frozen wilderness hath receeded.
Her eyes darting from her bare trees,
to her wilting flowers,
to her starving men,
she smilies any way.
Though the moon pales,
and the harvest is retired,
she hacks off her wheat,
without delay in her shivering might.
Oh, wretched winter,
like the witch that followed warmth,
down the warpath to death,
through the millions of needles of cold.
The Pines shiver even in their evergreen coat,
our birch freeze and topple down like the apples
on our blessed apple tree.
Winter, winter, recede to your lair, and make way for spring.
Spring
Spring, the sprig of hope
that bloomed after the dark winter,
when she sprang from the ground,
all the world bowed and vowed
to defend her to the day her sun set.
The flowers bloomed,
the trees resumed
a pleasant tilt in the cool breeze.
She smiled, healing the frozen,
making a abundance of seeds
on her beloved plants.
The farmers lover her, the woman adored her,
oh blessed spring, she must end though.
To make way to the summer.
Summer
Hey, ho,
the spring doth go
to make way for me?
Look at the fruit on every tree.
I make the heat that tilts the grass,
I make the heat that’ll make you bow at last.
With a whip here, and a whip there,
everything will be in shape.
Yes, summer does what she wants,
she doesn’t wait for you.
Taking all and mourning none,
gourging all and taking few.
Last the twilight of her days,
we will all adore,
Last the twilight of her days,
in joy we all shall roar.
Ah, summer, summer,
kind, unworthy summer.
Bring thy wrath and do it quick,
she is clever and she is sly,
leaving heat to wilt and die.
But Alas, comes autumn
Autumn
Hail all, autumn his here,
she comes with red, gold
and brown,
to wear upon her pumpkin crown.
The harvest went well,
and alas your hear,
to tend to us,
oh autumn dear.
Hear our pleads and hear our voices,
make the best of all your choices,
the crop is well, the rain has come,
but don’t drown all, just leave some.
Oh autumn, autumn
so gentle but silent
autumn
Replenising before winter’s cape,
who leaves devastation in her wake.
Oh autumn, autumn,
colorful and sweet,
autumn
the honey of the year has come,
the moon is plump and fed.
But alas, comes winter.
(Beginning)
Okay, it’s not that good. I tried, though.
roses are red
violets are blue
kricket’s not alone
i’m bad at poetry too!
lol!
axa and kitkat’s rock. and kricket’s aren’t the worst i’ve heard. (i’ve heard some pretty bad ones lol! jk kricket don’t hurt me!!!)
that’s cool kitkat it like goes around in circles! (wow! what an amazing observation! all hail captain obvious! anyway…) except you made winter like all depressing (“But alas, comes winter”) what’s wrong w/winter? winter rocks!
Winter is the time of snow (duh)
Some people might be feeling low
But winter can be sunny and bright
And for me, it’s the greatest season. erm…it’s alright???
ok yes i suck at poetry. oh vell.
No, no! that was great! I really like it, but, some people like winter…
my turn!
the stones are cloaked with the dust of ages
and the ghosts of people
older than I
wiser than I
drifting around them
heavy with memories
things long ago past
vanished deep within the dust of ages.
the ghosts drift , but not all with memories
but predictions–suspicions!
things yet to come.
mourn over ones lost
but some, content
peaceful in being.
“strive for perfection,” they whisper,
“but better never to reach it.”
words buried deep in the dust of ages.
I’m supposed to read book one of Paradise Lost by John Milton before Monday. It’s only about 20 pages, but it was all written during that time period where they thought that just coming right out and saying what you meant was bad, so it all has to be decoded. Milton wrote 12 books of Paradise Lost, but they’re all short. I really should get on that….
Roses are red.
Violets are blue.
I hate this poem.
I know you are too.
Roses are red.
Violets are blue.
I hate this poem.
I know you do too.
Ebeth! I’m shocked!! 8)
Ebeth! I’m shocked!! no I said shocked not cool!!!!!!! arrrgh…
I’m not very good at poetry, although I once wrote a nice violent one about ice… It was evil, to say the least. Yay.
AAAH!!! srys! time to…erm…run away fast now!!!
Well I don’t like winter. I like summer. But people tend to hate summer so I wrote about summer being bad, but, but, but….Aagh!
Sunset
A crimson twilight,
blooming in the sky,
splashing maroon,
unto the dark mellow dim.
Like a voice singing out
when all seemed quiet,
the eerie lullaby
of a life long passed.
Repeating itself day after day,
but never failing to please,
the eyes that so warily follow it,
to it’s end in the morning.
Sunrise buries her head again,
waiting to be called forth,
when the first cock crows,
she knows she’ll be gone,
but not forever.
Her brother sunset arrives,
darkr red blankets the sky,
then turns light,
then rich violet,
and dies to a dark black
which engulfs the sky
except the twinkling stars,
that wait for their mother,
sunset.
I meant sunrise not sunset.
I don’t actually read much poetry, but I like it sort of when I do read it. I have to read book one of Paradise Lost tonight. It’s only 20 pages, but it will probably take me forever anyway. I should get on it, but I want to procrastinate some more,
Courage! Book One mentions Muse in the fifth line. How bad can it be?
Are you going to read the rest of Paradise Lost, too? Book One is just scene setting. Translated into concise modern prose, all it really says is, “This poem is about Adam and Eve and angels rebelling against God ‘way back when. As it opens, Satan and his minions have just been kicked out of Heaven and have hit rock bottom in Hell, where they are nursing their wounds and blaming one another for their bad luck. They include:” *names minions*.
There. That’s not so hard to understand, is it?
oy! that’s all that’s in the whole first book? how long is this book anyway? 5 pages?
*coughRAMBLERcough*
sounds…erm…interesting!
speaking of poem/books i started reading cantebury tales. it takes 5 minutes a page! and these are the mini pages too! i mean, what is it somebody got up one morning and said, “let’s switch around all the words in the english language today. just to have some fun. ” nothing means what i think it means!!! arrrgh! it has a glossary though. hooray.
That’s really all it says. The rest is poetry–impressive in its elaborate way. Dartmouth University has a good online annotated version with useful footnotes.
I read Lycidas for this class, too, and I noticed the references to Muse in there. Milton couldn’t have been all bad if he read Muse, even if he did put a lot of completely useless poems out there that no one will ever read, outside of school. I think we’re going to read the rest of Paradise Lost, eventually. We kind of have to ease into it, because we’re high-school students after all, and we kind of have to have every word explained to us.
I read some of the Canterbury Tals, and they are hard. Did you know that that is actually not Old English, it’s Middle English? Beowulf is Old English, and I’ve heard some of the lines from it, and it’s really a totally different language. I only heard them read out loud, but I could tell you would have to have it translted to get even the general thrust of his gist (I stole that from Dave Barry, in case you were wondering.)!! With Canterbury Tales I could understand it some without the glossary, but Beowulf is literally impossible!!!
ouch yah beowulf. i was feeling bored one day, took it off the shelf, opened it up, looked inside, put it back, ran away back to the nice, understandable hornblower. which my dad is reading now btw. finally
montgomerygurl, which ones did u read? i only read the prologue and the first half of the knight so far…
poems are great
poems are fun
poems make people
dust off their guns
when ebeth writes poems
people are sure to run
unless they shoot her
then she says, “excuse me sir”
“I happened to be having fun!”
“yes” says the man
“but we were not!
the author of this poem
deserves to be shot!”
then ebeth was sad
and went far far away
then somebody suddenly had an idea”hey!
we’ve got nothing to do
let’s bring her back
maybe by this time
she’s got the knack!”
so ebeth came back
and said random stuff
but the people were so bored
they weren’t too rough
then ebeth said “wait!
why don’t i do something else?
like doing my history
homework! and finding something to rhyme with else!”
and the people said “woah!
you’ve got homework to do?”
and ebeth said “yes
and i’m procrastinating too!”
so here’s this long poem
that really does nothing
except explain why
ebeth is huffing
to finish her history
which she sadly neglected
now she must hustle
to get it perfected.
so away she goes!
she’ll procrastinate no more!
and so she is going
to make up some lore
for the country of BUCKEYE!
and then you hear a sigh
she’s still procrastinating
she now says “goodbye!”
Oh, doth not speak its name! Last year we read a terrible translation of Beowulf. I dislike reading books in school because we beat them until its not fun to read. :tsk tsk:
I happen to love all the seasons. I do like the season of autumn a lot, but only the season. My school is full of illiterate fiends who don’t know rthe meaning of “novel” (or tact for the matter :cough: )
If any of you do read the Canterbury Tales, never take Chaucer at face value. Watch out in particular for the description of the knight in the prologue. Most teachers and academics swallow it unquestioningly as a glowing description of the ideal knight. But it’s actually a totally brilliant piece of irony. A comprehensive and very funny (if rather cruel) character assassination, played absolutely deadpan. The only real clue that Chaucer’s being devastatingly sarcastic is the word “worthy”, which is used rather too often. Read between the lines, and you get a beutifully drawn picture of a virtually penniless, pompous, boasting idiot, riding a worn-out nag, who has achieved none of the things he claims, and whose one servant is better dressed than he is. Once you get to grips with the middle English, it’s totally hysterical. It’s no good reading in modern translation, of course, because most translators take it seriously too.
Oh, and you’re not allowed to read the Miller’s Tale. It’s very rude.
It’s seriously that funny? I heard somewhere that he was satire, but I only read a little bit of one, and then my mom told me to unload the dishes, and a great movie came on T.V., and then I picked it up and was like “what’s the point?” and then it was due back at the library. I should probably go check him back out of he’s that funny. I enjoy that type of humor, like Dickens is hilarous, and Don Quixote was a scream, so I’ll go get it next time I can. I won’t read The Miller’s tale, I promise.
MG,
Paul Baker may be biased. He remembers Geoffrey Chaucer, don’t forget.
If you feel like doing a little outside reading, see whether your library has John Gardner’s books on Chaucer. They really helped me appreciate him. And at the risk of unleashing a torrent of Middle English on the blog, this Web site at the University of California at Santa Barbara has some excellent recordings, vocabulary lists, and pronunciation guides.
–Robert
Wow, thanks!!! I would be speaking Middle English, exsept that I didn’t ahve time to read it all. I’m off to Milton class, where I will hopefully get book one explained to me in further detail. I think I got the significance of about two lines.
hmm. last year we read The Tempest in L.A., but even though I like the play and Shakespere in general I hated it, because they left out all the parts they didn’t think we could deal with, in other words, the major plotline. Some of the dumber kids didn’t even figure out why Caliban hated Miranda, and one just TOTALY did not get it, so the teacher had to blurt it out VERY BLUNTLY. Uhg.
Many blessings on ye Robert!! Thy bountee is woundrous. I nolde kan write this withouten your help. Methinks artow alderbest Muse administrator person for the gift thou yaf. Pardee!!! I wene I have aroused lite pleasure in fair Rosanne!!! I pray here anger shall not lead here to quite what I quot. Alas!!! I did quot such horrid things against fair Rosanne, forthy I can plead no sely!!!! Al, fair Rosanne has been absent this long time, and methinks she be daungerous. Pardee!! I shall flea swythe from here!!!!
Thanks, Robert. Good site. He’s a bit sparse with his elisions, and a bit too insistent on pronouncing EVERY “e” ending, but it’s a useful source.
Nice one, MongomeryGurl! I don’t speak Chaucer myself, because it messes up the Elizbaethan, but I may start now.
Yes, he’s definitely worth digging up and perusing (not lterally). He’s a bit vicious to the knight, but he’s really gentle with the nun. She comes out as really sweet, despite the mockery.
I suppose, since it’s a historical document, you could glance quickly at the Miller’s Tale. But you’re not allowed to laugh.
yah where is rosanne anyway? GAPA #2? Ms. Spector? R.S? That one person? Rosanne? Spector? SpecterWoman? Lil Ghostie? ok now i’m making up random names. I’M BORED PEOPLE!!! DEAL W/IT!!! wait g2g study hall’s over
Okay, I just got back from my class, and now the whole thing makes a ton more sense. I was pretty tired last night, and I didn’t know who was talking, so it didn’t have much meaning. Now that I know it’s Satan talking in some of those passages it’s better. It’s really funny in some parts, now that I’ve ahd it explained to me. Like all those places where Satan tries to blame the whole thing on God, because he didn’t TELL them how strong he was, and when Satan wonders aloud why on earth God is in charge. That’s all significant now that our teacher explained what was going on. I have to read book two this week, and I think that will be easier now that I understand his characters are talking in some passages.
Rossanne is on the west coast.
Ich wisly moot write mo, al it mowe confound sely Musers. Muche mowe argue they are a figment of my woodnesse, Ich han wist lite of them, als wostow. Outrely nyce it is, seistow, nathelees Ich routhe you woot not of woodnesse in thy own goost. Pardee, Ich ywis moot deye with noght wood people in the world, as ye moot suspect. This hath taken to long, syn Ich sikerly moot translate mo, therefore Ich write namo.
In case you’re wondering, that took me forever to write.
About 600 years, I’d say!
uh oh. what would happen if all the musers divided up? like into old english, middle english, elizabethan, you know just all started talking differently? kinda confoosing but that would be pretty cool…
so pb&j would be like the head of the Elizabethan Order, and MontgomeryGurl would be like the head of the Middle English Order, and somebody else would be the head of the Whatever Else Order and people could make up random Orders with random ways of talking and….erm….i dunno it would just be fun. and educational *gasp* maybe i’ll suggest that to my teacher…like a class activity. it’d be more fun than anything else we do…
has anybody else read that weird poem/book set in like oklahoma or something during the dust storm time thing? w/ the piano player and all? i forgot what it was called, but that was like my first poem/book. it wasn’t that bad i suppose. but it was cool cuz it wasn’t like weird kinds of writing, it was normal english, so it sorta helps u understand like the whole poem thing before u try to figure out all the language issues and stuff. anyhoo.
Maybe we should have holidays. Like a Middle English day, where that’s what u have to talk like for the whole day. You go into mcdonalds and order a cheeseburger in middle english, or elizabethan, or old english, or whatever day it is.
I would love that that would be soooo funny! And then they’d just stare at you like, “what did you just say?” heehee! evil instincts coming out now…i love confusing people. 
wow this is a looong post and there’s not a single poem in it! hmm…time to fix that.
my post is too long
so here is my poem
i’m typing this now
as i sit here at home
just as an excuse
so i don’t feel guilty
so now i will go
and…erm…sew a quilty?
oh never mind. i’m so strange.
now now, we are all Musers here, we don’t want any cults, do we?
Me dangerous?
Ha ha ha ha ha NYA ha ha HA!
Mae govannen, Rosanne! You can stop cackling. According to the short Chaucer glossary, in Middle English “daungerous” meant “distant, haughty.” (Of course, that’s equally laughable, in its own way.)
I haven’t had much time for Museblogging the past few days because my niece and nephew and their parents are visiting. I hardly ever see them because they live on the East Coast and I’m on the West. So I’ve been spending all my free time with them — walking the hills of San Francisco, discussing anime, eating ice cream and strawberries, watching the clouds roll in over the Golden Gate Bridge, biding our time while their mother shops for antique teapots. FUN! Really! She got a crazy cool one that’s cream colored with big gold polkadots.
Apologies to fair Rosane!!! Ich nolde would han say it nere Ich trying to use al the Middle English Ich dorste.
Ahem! hack! cough! weeze!
roses are red,
violets are blue,
I like muse,
and you should too,
If you do not like this,
which I bet you do,
you should hit me with a big hunk of shoe.
thank you! thank you! now bow down to Igotatissue or you shall be thrown in a dungoen.
Ich am going to ease into speaking fluent Middle English, like maybe Ich will learn one word a post, or something like that, so Ich eventually won’t have to go back to my glossary, and then it will be a lot easier for me to use. Ich han to go now!!!
Well, ich guess nobody else wants to speak Middle English with me!!! *sniff* But that’s okay, because ich like to go agayn the flow, al it may agast Musers, but only the one’s who are agast of Ebeth. Ich admit it!!!! Ich am just trying to fit all the new Middle English words ich know into this post so ich can learn them and not have to constantly look adoun to my glossary to see what ich should say.
MIDDLE ENGLISH WORDS FOR THIS POST
(in order of appearance)
ich=I
agayn=against, toward
al= although
agast=afraid, frighten
adoun=down
As long as my wish is your command, how about a thread for old languages, like Middle English and Elizabethan, that way those of us that wanted to speak it could, without bothering the rest of the Musers. Or would that be exclusive and incredibly boring? Ich just thought it might be nice to be able to discuss old funky languages, al ich guess Paul Baker and ich are the only ones using them. Let me know if you’re going to command my wish!!!
Or it could be a thread for any kind of language, dialect or accent people wanted to use. We could talk about them, and stuff, or am ich the only one who gives a rip about different languages?
languages are cool. now i’m gonna go figure out exactly what you were saying about me…was it that people were scared of me? hang on…you going against the flow scares the people that i scare? or something….
i needs to learn more of this stuff…
yeah, yeah. I suck at poetry too. Hey! Lets start a club in which our fellow musers get together and it shall be called: We Stinck at Poetry!!!. ( you can only join if you stinck at poetry. you can lead with me, kricket.)
roses are red
violets are blue
i suck at poetry
kricket does too
zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzoom!!!
i love to rule the galexie!!
so long, fellow musers!!!
zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzoom!!!
roses are red
violets are blue
i love ruling the galexie
i know kricket does too
is there a reason it’s spleling is stinck instead of stink?
is spleling part of poetry? hm… (AAH!! jk! lol don’t kill me!)
you creative spleler you.
roses are red
violets are blue
i have too much homework
boo boo BOO!!!
yah so it’s extra credit. but whatever
KitKat really likes ebeth’s poem on post #21,
she thought it was creative, and really fun
Ebeth has talent, it surely shines through,
I think so, and I know you probably do too!
If someone disagrees, I shall report you to Crraw,
I’m entitled to him, as some of you saw.
So do not flatter me with poems of lyric and rhyme,
Even though I may do that quite a lot with mine!
I flabbergast poetry teachers all around the globe,
they think my writing should be sent in space on a probe.
They’re probably right, I know it is true,
but still it makes be want to go “boo hoo!”
So, tell me if what I make deserves to be ripped,
torn up, shred up, burnt up, and in tar be dipped.
I am a shame to a muse-blog, when poetry’s concerned,
but how to make good bad poetry, you surely have learned!
-KitKat the 2nd hand muse of Horrible Poetry.
I like poetry. I can be better with it sometimes. Maybe I’ll show you later.
wow i have talent? when did that happen?
lol! thanx anyway!
crraw lovers unite! rock on kitkat!
tis i the rabid, a Haiku (i dont know if thats spelled right) about a blind cave fish
lives in the dark
has no eyes yet he sees
forages for food
thank you thank you uncontrollable applause erupts from crowd. neighbors call police but the police cant restrain such applause.
*rabid applause*
hmm it appears somebody likes blind cave fish….
wait is a haiku 5-7-5 or am i forgetting all my long torturous first grade lessons?
or is it 5-6-5?
or is it 5-8-5?
arrgh…now i gots to go look this up people this is bugging me. later then! cheers for the rabid pansy!
5-7-5.
I’m glad RP likes the blind cave fish. I edited that story!
Huzzah, I just finished this.
Rise
It’s so conflicted now
Confused
You needed this
Fate
Don’t try to make sense of it
Oh no
Just a blur in the rain
Feel the footsteps heralding you doom
Burn
And you can’t escape this thing inside of you
Fall
The red of his eyes should have been enough
Rise
Rise
Don’t think, just scream
Wind
Blurring out of focus
Be
Moment’s frozen
And you’ll clash
Unraveled, undone
Fade to sun and moon
Just rise
Just rise
_____
ooo! Vogon Poetry!
NOOOOOOO!!! NOT THE VOGON POETRY!!! ANYTHING BUT THE VOGON POETRY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! *sobs hysterically* THROW ME OFF!! THROW ME OFF THE SHIP!!! KILL ME FIRST!!! DON’T MAKE ME LIIIISTEEEENNNNN!!!!!!!!!!!!! NOO!!! NOT THE VOGON POETRY!!!!!!
hehe… had the Guide on the computer desk in front of me… ahem.
Oh freddled gruntbuggly thy micturations are to me
As plurdled gableblochits on a lurgid bee.
Groop I implore thee my foonting turlingdromes
And hooptiously drangleme with crinkly bindlewurdles
Or I will rend thee in gobberwarts with my blurglecruncheon, see if I don’t!”
Confronted
Man in black,
strange but true,
Shall he come to you?
“Are you her? Are you him?”
Questions boil over the rim.
“Come here now, little child,”
he hates the meek and mild.
Man in black,
strange but real,
doesn’t change a deal.
“Refuge in, Refuge out…”
He’s flat and he’s stout,
“Find a bed, in my house?”
But he’s not as quiet as a mouse.
It’s my own kind of strange poetry.
Night falls
and the earth tilts
to the side
for her little children.
“Sleep, sleep”
Murmer her willows.
And I slept.
Same here.
Cold and wintery.
let this moonless day shine through,
Blank, yet comforting.
Haiku.
another Haiku i nkow thats spelled right about something that i wont tell you ahahahahahahaha now i have power over you all you can beg and beg and beg for all i care but ill keep the secret locked up
giving yet taking
streaches up to the sky
thick roots growing
yes now you may waste away begging me to tell you what it is about.
i made a poem up for a story i wrote it goes like this
bourne of shadow and metal
helped by spirits cryin’ “hark”
the savior of the cursed
the lord of our dead
turn all light into darkness
spill blood that is red
nice poems! but why’s ur name rabid pansey now instead of rabid pansy?
you should totally put up the first one on the riddles thread. then we can drive you crazy by overanalyzing it (yeah! high five mg! (yes i’m too lazy to type montgomerygurl (wait i just did! arrrgh…)))
we totally won
the homecoming game
i hope that next year
it will be the same
the band rocked the field
and played awesome songs
it was really cool
even though we didn’t have gongs (??? be kind it’s 10:48)
yes i’m rambling on
about the game
but it was cool
you have my skool to blame
so if you get tired
of me rambling on
you’ll probably happy
that i’m leaving soon-on (i said be kind!)
Okay, so it’s prose. Who’s gonna keep me off?
SELKIE
She walks.
She walks.
The rhythm of her feet beats the sidewalk like an irregular kind of drum, voices around her making song.
She does not speak.
She does not speak.
Swirling humanity moves arund her slowly moving body like water.
She does not see them.
She does not see them.
They call her strange but they don’t know how.
She steps in the sea.
She steps in the sea.
The rushing tide carries her away in the skin that doesn’t fit right.
She lets herself be taken.
She lets herself be taken.
People thought she was crazy and shunned her but now they’re looking for her body like treasure.
She is gone.
She is gone.
All they find is an old seal with human eyes.
Her eyes.
Her eyes.
well i took your suggestion and changed my name ( i dont know why) but i just found the book i was writing and this is really how it goes
bourne of shadow and metal
comes forth from the dark
summoned by sprits cryin’ “hark”
the savior of the cursed
the king of our dead
turn all light into darkness
spill blood that is red
i know it only has a few corrections but i will try to always have good things for you guys.
hem hem…
roses are red
violets are purple
they aren’t blue
what rymes with urple?
e shll hav a cretiv slpellin grop to! yaehhhhhhh!!!!!!! i lve cretiv slplellin!! it’s so fnu!!!!! yae!!!!!!! urpl is ym fvorte clor!! so is blu, gren, and lellow! yea for cretiv slplelin!! can e hav a cretiv slpllein thred? plese!
guess what I said in #66!!!!!!!
I shall have a creative spelling group too! Yayyyyyyy! I love creative spelling!! It’s so fun! Yay! Purple is my favorite colour!! So are blue, green, and yellow! Yay for creative spelling! Can we have a creative spelling thread? Please?!
Am I right?
I think the description of the Coy Woodnesse section includes creative spelling.
yes you are right, #68!!!!!! (I’d say your name but it’s too long!) lol! Here’s a virtual 100 dollars!!!! yay for cretiv slpllein!!!!!!!!! yipe!
COME ON ALL YOU CRETIV SLPLLERS!!!!!! YOU NO U WAT TOO!!!
Hairy Herbo
He was bright and charming
in his youth.
He got a degree
and at first was a slueth
Than all went wrong when he was at the lab
spilled the ‘cal allover the lair.
Master got angry
made him sprout hair.
That’s the story. But it’ll be betttttttttterrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr soon!
My favorite lines from my favorite poem:
half a league, half a league, half a league onward,
into the valley of Death rode the six hundred…
…canon to the right of them, canon to the left of them, canon before them
volly’d and thunder’d…
…there’s not to know that
someone had blundered
there’s not to reason why
there’s but to do or die…
out of the jaws of death
out of the mouth of Hell…
ACK!!! WHERE ARE THE CRETIV SLPLLERZ??!!
heere eye ame criket!!! withe a lovlee pome tu.
heere eye ame en stoody hal
veery board ande riting pomes
maybie out of mie chare i shuld fal
juste soe sumthing hapens in heere
on thee othere hande thet mite hurte
soe board ande tierd heere i muste stay…
wate a minut! tierd ded yoo saye?
howe too fixe thet…ther es a waye
ande soe eye lae mee downe too sleepe
i praye eye wille wak up too keepe
tha horride systm ofe tha bel
thate cals us too a clas withowt showe-ande-tel
at laste tha ende of tha daye is heere
wee rune oute tha doore ofe tha skool deer
anothr borring daye ise don
nowe wee sleepe to gete reddy for anothr won
daye aftr daye, wee worke soe harde
ate perfecteng the hi-skool sleepeng arte
thes shal bee caled Skool ande bee kepte heere tu educat thos peeple hoo seme tu thinke thet skool es fore studeeing end lerning. Whate ann ideea!!!!
NIGHT
A million pairs of eyes
Watch
As the moon rises silver-white in the black night speckled with stars.
Stars
Little pinpoints of light in an endless dark
Holes in the fabric of night.
And the million pairs of eyes stare into the stars
And they wonder if these tiny holes are really
Burning balls of gas millions of miles away
Or just
Tiny places where someone forgot to darn his socks.
But the silver-dollar moon hangs there
Solid
Not a hole
After all, whose foot is that colour
Or even his sock drawer?
Yes
The moon is rock
Shining in the sky
To remind a million people
That
Scientists aren’t always wrong.
A bit rambly and pointless, I know.
ine th’ seasone of sumerre when softe wase th’ sunne
I kylled a yungue birdye ande ayte it on a bunne—Dave Barry’s interpretation of Canterbury Tales
bootiful, Rohan! here’s one of my favorites:
listen a while, the moon is a lovely woman, a lonely woman
lost in a silver dress, in a circus rider’s silver dress.
listen a while, the lake by night is a lonely woman
a lovely woman, lost in a silver dress, in a circus rider’s silver dress.
the moon and the lake by night have woven thier roots around my heart just as a lovly woman, a lonely woman
ina silver dress, in a circus rider’s silver dress.
Warning: Long Poem Ahead
The Tree
The tree stood alone at the
crest of the hill. The bark was
white like newfallen snow on the
scrubby brown grass around it.
Its branches reached in every
direction, a jagged scar across the
dark grey sky. It seemed to glow
against the heavens, the firey tips
of a few twigs burning their colors
into the back of my eyes.
Gold, yellow flames surrounded it,
crackling and crunching as I approached
the pale white trunk. Here and there
black splashes shown out,
contrasting sharply with the starkness
of the bark. I ran my finger down
the paper-bag bark, and memories came back.
Memories of shopping with my mother,
and carrying the bags almost overflowing
with a tide of groceries.
I slid my hand off the trunk
and stood for a moment, a black shadow
against the white tree surrounded by a sea of
reds and oranges and yellows.
From my pocket I withdrew an apple,
my breath misting as I breathed over the fruit.
I wiped it on my shirt in four quick jerks
before biting into it. The juicy crunch
was loud in the silent air, ringing in my ears
as the cold, slightly sour juices ran over my tongue.
These I savored, chewing slowly the white meat
of the apple. I swallowed it in three parts,
my tongue tingling and mouth wet.
I turned, then, facing away from the tree,
towards the path that I’d followed.
I couldn’t see the town anymore,
the silhouette of the buildings
masked behind layers of fire.
I sat slowly, the leaves crunching and
snapping suddenly. It was loud and startling,
and it caused me to pause for a moment.
Then I continued to lower myself until the leaves
were up to my ribs. I drew my knees up to my chest
and withdrew the bitten apple from my coat.
The liquid on the edges of the ragged hole where
I bit glint slightly in the weak light. The apple was
green, with small dots of brown and black.
It reminded me of the summer just a few months ago.
I closed my eyes and could almost feel the warm sun
against my face and the hot, muggy air in my mouth.
A cold breeze blew against me,
and my memory of summer faded away.
I pulled my coat tighter around me,
and a few leaves stuck to it.
I took a deep breath,
smelling the crisp fall air.
This is my favorite time
of year.
OK, I am not to good at poetry, but here goes:
What are the seasons,
What are summer, winter, fall, and spring?
What is summer
It is false hope for warmth
It is a fleeting glimpse of sweet melocholy humor,
A quick kiss of life
That inhales one day and is blown away
What is winter
It is the deystroyer of light
The destroyer of warmth
It blows away summer
It sends shivers down the spine
An icy grip that is thawed by sweet summer
Fall adn spring are
Heralds, messengers seen in the cold, harsh sky
They bring tidings of summer and winter
Opposites, yet good friends
They bring a sylvan attitude
And lay it like a blanket over earth
This poem is dedicated to Kokopelli:
Pies
Pop, Splat!
Smack, Splatter!
Grrr, Growl
Kokopelli
Cows are cool.
Moo!!
Bo isn’t a tool.
Moo!!
Bo’s a cow.
Moo!!
And there once was a small corporation,
Moo!!
That did a creative spellin test experiimentation
Moo!!
The results: thou can read with letters switched in the mid,
Moo!!
And stayin the same the in the ends; and amid
Moo!!
The grumbly professors
Moo!!
The grouchy meany ole teachers,
Moo!!
Cerative Sepllnig is patalable wth teh barin!!!!!
MOOOOO!!!!!!!!:lol:
That is true, by the way. There really was a study. So now you’ve got Cerativ Splleng Techors defense!!!
Here’s a poem you fantasists might like. It’s by Tennyson, from his long story-poem The Princess, and reminds me of a perfect litttle dessert:
The splendour falls on castle walls
And snowy summits old in story:
The long light shakes across the lakes,
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going!
O sweet and far from cliff and scar
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
O love, they die in yon rich sky,
They faint on hill or field or river:
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
And grow for ever and for ever.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.
:loves it: Was that froma n epic poem like story? Must find out more…
Here is one from one of the Calivin and Hobbes treasury collections:
A Nauseous Nocturne
By Bill Waterson
Another night deprived of slumber
Hours passing with out number
My eyes trace ’round the room. I lay
Dripping sweat and now quite certain
That tonight the final curtain
Drops upon my short lifes precious play.
From the darkness, by the closet
Comes a noise, much like a faucet
Makes: a madd’ning drip-drip-dripping sound
It seems some ill-proportioned beast ,
Anticipating me deceased,
Is drooling poison puddles on the ground.
A can of Mace, a fourty-five,
Is all I’d need to stay alive,
But no weapon lies within my sight.
Oh my gosh! A shadow’s creeping,
Ominous and black, it’s seeping
Slowly ‘cross a moonlit square of light!
Suddenly a floorboard creak
Announces the bloodsucking freak
Is here to steal my future years away!
A sulf’rous smell now fills the room,
Heralding my imm’nent doom!
A fang gleams in the dark and murky gray!
Oh, blood-red eyes and tentacles!
Throbbing, pulsing ventricles!
Mucus-oozing pores and frightful claws!
Worse, in terms of outright scariness,
Are the suckers multifarious
That grab you and force you in it’s mighty jaws!
This disgusting aberration
Of nature needs no motivation
To devour helpless children in their beds.
Relishing despairing moans,
It chews up kids and sucks their bones,
And disolves inside its mouth their li’l heads!
I know this ’cause I read it not
Two hours ago, and then I got
The heebie-jeebies and these awful shakes.
My parents swore upon theur honor
That I was safe, and not a goner.
I guess tomorrow they’ll see their sadd mistakes.
In the morning, they’ll come in
And say, “What was that awful din
We heard last night? You kept us both from sleep!”
Only then will they surmise
The gruesomeness of my demise
And see that my remains are in a heap.
Dad will look at Mom and say,
“To bad he had to go that way.”
And Mom will look at dad, and nod assent.
Mom will add, “Still, it’s fitting,
That as he was this world quitting,
He had to leave another mess before he went.”
They may not mind at first, I know,
They will miss me later, though.
And perhaps admit that they were wrong.
As memories of me grow dim,
They’ll say, “We were to strict with him.
We should have listened to him all along.”
As speedily my end approches,
I bid a final “buenos noches”
To my best friend here in all the world.
Gently snoring, whiskers seeming
To sniff at smells (he must be dreaming)
He lies snuggled in the blankets, curled.
HEY! WAKE UP YOU STUPID CRETIN!
YOU GONNA SLEEP WHILE I GET EATEN?!
Suddenly the monster knows I’m not alone!
There’s an animal in the bed with me!
The awful beast he did not see!
The monster never would’ve come if he had known!
The monster, in conseternation,
Demonstrates defenstration,
And runs and runs and runs an runs away.
Rid of the pest,
I now can rest,
Thanks to my best friend, who saved the day.
That was a bit long.
Hope you liked it.
Isn’t Bill Waterson great?
creatv spelrs r baak.
thay wer niver gon. juste temperarilee misplased!
o helpe mee i’me diing. yese bil wattersen roks bute mie brothere hase memerised thet ande drivs mee crazee withe ite. hee resites et constintlee!!! i’v alreddy gote mie owne lilbro too doo thet. sry lilbro777. whoze lilbro r u anywey?
Oh! Adon Moreh! I LOOVE that poem!
Then maybe you’ll also like these two by William Butler Yeats, both based on Irish myths and written in 1899. (“Sidhe” is pronounced “she,” and “Niamh” is pronounced “Neev.” I’m not sure about Caoilte–either KEEL-cha, KOOL-cha, or KWEEL-ta, depending on whom you ask. Maybe Paul Baker knows.)
(1)
The Hosting of the Sidhe
The host is riding from Knocknarea
And over the grave of Clooth-na-bare;
Caoilte tossing his burning hair
And Niamh calling Away, come away:
Empty your heart of its mortal dream.
The winds awaken, the leaves whirl round,
Our cheeks are pale, our hair is unbound,
Our breasts are heaving, our eyes are a-gleam,
Our arms are waving, our lips are apart;
And if any gaze on our rushing band,
We come between him and the deed of his hand,
We come between him and the hope of his heart.
The host is rushing ‘twixt night and day,
And where is there hope or deed as fair?
Caoilte tossing his burning hair,
And Niamh calling Away, come away.
(2)
The Song of Wandering Aengus
I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.
When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire aflame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And some one called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.
Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.
A poem page, huh? Oh yes, lovely, lovely. I am a poet myself. here is a piece of work I wrote when I was bored:
Behold: The Cow
It sits and eats
And eats and sits
Chewing on its
Alfalfa
Oh, I love Yeats! here is one of my favorite poems of all time, the Highwayman, which I *ahem* memorized. I can’t put it all her ’cause it’s four pages long, but oh well.
the wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees
the moon was a ghostly galleon, tossed apon cludy seas
the road was a ribbon of moonlight, over the purple moor
when the highway man came riding
riding…
riding…
the highwayman came riding, up to the old inn door…
I love that poem. Here are two others of my favorites, shorter ones.
what is Africa to me?
crimson sun and scarlet sea
jungle star and jungle track
strong bronzed men and regal black
women from whose loins I sprang
when the birds of Eden sang
one three centuries removed
from the scenes his father loved
spicy grove, cinnamon tree
what is Africa to me.
and, of couse:
The emrald is as green as grass
the ruby red as blood
the sapphire shines as blue as heaven
but the flint lies in the mud.
The diamond is the crystal stone
to catch the world’s desire
the opal holds the rainbow light
but the flint holds fire.
Noyes, Cullen, Rossetti. Good choices! “Back he spurred like a madman, / Shrieking a curse to the sky…”
And welcome, AHHH! I liked your poem very much. I can’t promise to remember how many Hs are in your name, though.
–R. C.
Yeah, I love the end.
back he spurred like a madman
shrieking a curse to the sky
with the white road smoking behind him
and his rapier brandished high
blood red were his spurrs in the golden noon
wine red was his velvet coat
when they shot him down on the highway
down like a dog on the highway
and he lay in his blood on the highway
with a bunch of lace at his throat.
Maybe you should have posted a spoiler warning there.
I didn’t do the last verse, though. That’s the suprise twist ending.
the Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold
his cohorts were plated in purple and gold…
what was the whole poem ever posted?
where? where?
plz tell me. the ending’s great. i’d like to know what it’s about though…
Behold, a link to “The Highwayman.”
Phoenix: Sennacherib’s cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold. Hm, I suppose you Musers will want to read that one, too.
ack! a link!!! run away!!!!!!!
The Story of Maragoth
‘Tis strange on this very day,
Maragoth has passed away,
and the tis so odd the story did come,
to my awaiting, pondering tongue.
His mighty deeds of power and grace,
a man that tested the Human Race,
strong and cold and mightily set,
for the bravest and longest adventure yet.
So listen keenly, don’t let me down,
and I shall tell you about the Evil Crown,
the crown that settled on Maragoth’s Head,
summoning the skeletal, the horrible dead.
In a small town, the Great One was born,
he was raised by hand, by wit, not scorn,
he learned to ease the sword in hand,
saving small victories across the land.
Alas one day the Great One was told,
of a king of power, a king of the bold,
and of the greatest crown he wore,
and to take the crown, he solemnly swore.
Alas, decieved the Great One took off,
and even the meekest he dared to scoff,
the greatest of hate buzzed ’round his mention,
though he seemed to have a innocent intention.
And yet, like a pilgrim on his path,
taking his time to prevent God’s wrath,
he praid so gently to he heavens so high,
he knew, there his victory did lie.
So maragoth plunged up cliffs, and valleys down,
seeking, feverishly seeking, his beloved crown,
and as he walked through paths of spit,
he cooled his anger and gathered his wit.
The foke of the kingdom hated him so,
they knew, quite well, he was no unknowing doe,
he had a bad goal to set them astray,
so they planned and devised to get him away.
They sent peasants to try to stop his trail,
but these attacks lead to no avail,
he made his way through the darkening reign,
to set his eyes on the Crown of the Vain.
Alas, he found the castle standing so tall,
it seemed there was no residents at all,
a hollow whistle shrilled throughout its walls,
“Horrible Maragoth, turn back,” it calls.
But no, he resumed his journey, it’s victory nigh,
he took a last bow and sweep at the sky,
but the burn on his back stinged in His rage,
“In your story,” he boomed “there will be no more a page.”
“Ha, ha” my king, he smirked in reply,
“I am not mild, timid or shy,”
Show you best, duel me at the ground,
but after this there wasn’t a sound.
He entered the castle, his fears washed away,
but his throat raspy, with nothing to say,
no whoops of laughter no slow, somber talk,
and in fear and anger Maragoth began to stalk.
He looked ’round the castle for the tiniest prey,
a man, or a servant, a mouse lead astray.
But no, there wasn’t a sign of life here,
not summoned by his cold, greedy leer.
but then, alas, a small quiet crack,
in relief, Maragoth straigtened his back,
“Come out, good soul,” he called gently,
but out came a skeleton, wasn’t that plenty?
It’s eyes so hollow, eeirly glowed,
the great Crown it’s empty hands showed.
It’s cold, boney palm placed it on his head,
and no tears of happiness could the skeleton shed.
Then miillions emerged, great numbers, by droves,
there eyes oh so hating, gleeming like the blood-red rose.
“Your are I king,” they chanted together,
“You are ours, and that…forever.”
Angered humiliated, grown out of the word,
he grabbed his royal goblet, a motion absurd,
but only he knew about the lethal content,
so he sprayed them, and back to their graves they were sent.
But chocked by despair, the shock of his deeds,
Our Maragoth so nobly pleads,
“Dear one, save me!” His voice becomes shrill,
“No!” booms that voice, “for no one shall kill.”
Of Maragoth’s story, you have well heard,
so be careful, always do that, take my word.
I made it up myself, do you like it? remember Maragoth, though.
I’m a terrible poet. You guys are awesome. I haven’t written much, just a few poems, and no epics like you, at least not yet. Here is a sad excuse for a dark poem, but everyone has to start from somewhere, right?
Lost At Sea
All alone on a deserted island
Lost at sea.
Why is no one ever
There for me?
By myself, all alone, no one
Reaching out.
Thought someone’d help but now
I’ve fallen into doubt.
Drowning in a river
Of my tears.
There’s no getting away
From my fears.
When will this torture
Finally be done?
When will this war
Finally be won?
It can’t go on like this
Can’t end this way.
But I don’t have the strength
To live another day.
I can’t take it, can’t
Do it anymore.
There has to be another way out
Some other door.
No one to hear me
When I call.
No one to help me
When I fall.
No one else here
It’s just me.
On a deserted island
Lost at sea.
Beautiful. It brings a tear to my eye!
It seems like there are a lot of poems about New Year’s Eve (actually, I don’t really know this — I’m just assuming…), but not enough about New Year’s Eve EVE. (Okay, another assumption. Perhaps there are whole heaps of such.) Anyway, just in case there aren’t. Here’s a possibility.
December 30th [needs new title?]
December 30th
when the library’s still open
when the mail still comes
when it’s not really a holiday
but feels like one.
December 30th
when there’s still no school
when you have a few free days left
when the creeping crush of undone work
swells up slow but surely.
How about “Penultimatum,” from “penultimate,” a useful word meaning “next to last”? (There’s also “antepenultimate,” a slightly less useful word meaning “third from the end.”)
Roses are red.
Violets are blue.
Some poems rhyme
This one doesn’t.
Þe point of a New Year’s Eve poem is New Year’s Eve resolutions. Since these always fail so embarrassingly early in the New Year, there’s no point in making them. I plan, however, to buy some Buzzcocks albums and some more UB40.
I’m perfectly terrible at writing poetry. Mine always flops around like a fish for a while, then ends, and it just doesn’t go well. I’m not too bad in iambic pentameter. Let me go work up the courage, will you? Rim hennaid.
my favourite poem is “In Flanders Fields” by Lt colonel John McCrae.
this is mine:
Silent.
The icy wind is blowing.
The leaves ripple with the wind
The misty blue fog hangs low.
A jay calls.
One voice in the sea of voices.
The voice spreads
The mist clears
The wind turns to a warm breeze.
The leaves rustle and sing.
The creek bubbles softly like a choir.
The forest is alive.
The golden sun rises through the branches.
Everything is peaceful.
*bows* thank you, thank you!
I wanted to share a poem a made up in my head this morning while I was walking the dogs. There are two of them, chocolate and yellow labs named Iris and Lili.
The poem is about that most lovely of primates, the bonobo.
It’s mildly mature, but not too bad.
THE UPSIDE OF BONOBOS
A poem by Cedar
Whereas chimpanzees are nasty
and not too well behaved
bonobos are quite freindly
at most hours of the night and day.
Whereas chimpanzees and humans
are centered around the male
bonobo girls form bonds through sex
and all the boys turn tail.
Whereas chimpanzees and humans
spend time on blood and gore
bonobos focus on the positive
making love instead of war.
Whereas chimpanzees are brutal
when they’re fighting over food
bonobos you will find
are not nearly quite as rude.
So to hell with all these patriarchals
To hell with chimps and men
All hail the great bonobos
and their sister guided freinds.
You can delete verse three if neccessary GAPAs. It’s not crucial to the flow of the poem.
Hope you like it.
FACT ABOUT ME: I occasionaly think up songs in my head, and all of them so far, have been love songs.
I don’t think of them very often, but when I do there usually pretty good.
NIcenes, Cedar! There’s a newer poetry thread though…
https://musefanpage.com/blog/?p=330
Thanks Skipper.
I’ll rewrite it there.
i had a bad nightmare last night…
WAIT!!!YAYYAYYAY! INSPIRATION 4 POETRY!
DARE TO NIGHTMARE
Close your eyes
You’re falling through
A different world
Both old and new.
The dark corners
Of imagination
Popping out
Some imitation
Of your latest
Follies and Fears
That made you scared
And turn to tears
Shadows creep
And rise to meet you
Zombies, horrors
Out to eat you
This is the world
Of my nightmare.
it was bad, wasn’t it?
Not sure how this’ll turn out…
One Last Time
One last time.
As the drops of salt pour from my eyes,
I recall the passage of time.
More than one died here today.
It is those that I remember.
Once a pump of life, the one is bleeding
scarlet love, which seeps into the icy
depths of lost. This pump will work no more.
I have tried, but not a chance, this time.
The other, never saw the light of day,
yet knows it could have been.
And still it may, but only that
Keeper of Our Fates will tell, though not
today…this much I know.
Together, these lie faceless, lifeless, dead.
Gone for now, if not for all Eternity.
And all that’s left is my shell,
an empty, frozen corpse of what still watches,
but does not see; what listens,
but does not hear; what inhales,
but does not breathe; what knows,
but does not feel.
I am this way by choice…
for I do not want to see, to hear, to breathe…
to feel.
Alone, uncaring, and unhuman,
I remember.
One last time.
Yesss!!!!!!!
WOAH. When did this thread get here?????? How could I have missed it??
Oh, wait… it was started in October 2005… there’s a more recent thread Shadowkat, that more people go to I think. Poems and SOngs version 2007. something.
I don’t mind going to this one, actually. Because it’s strictly poetry. Come to think of it, I haven’t written a poem in ages.
117-Oh, ok…thanks, but as long as we’re posting here, we might as well! I’ll be posting another shortly…(it’s hw).
Here’s the hw I was talking about:
Red and Gold
Fire burns the trees tonight,
fueled by the golden ball of the West.
The flames lick the branches
like children do candy,
eager to find the sweetest spot.
Like arms, they embrace,
reaching higher and higher,
as if to join their brothers in the sky,
changing in hue as they ascend.
Then, piece by piece,
the crinkled ashes drift to the ground,
once they have spent the juices
of the tree.
And what is left is barren,
but still graceful.
A twining, twisting work of ages,
left to rest from growth
until the Spring.
Oy…you people are boring!!!
Actually, that face should’ve been…
‘Cause, really, it suits my sentiments better, I think.
I like it! Especially the part about the flames licking branches and children licking candy–that’s really clever.
I like them. Especially the second one.
*realizes that this is the oldest thread that is still open*
let your dreams take ink form
pen them
at the crossroads of imagination and despair
as you write, you are ascending
past the nightmare groves
where darkness is dancing
126- Luverly!
126- Oh. That’s lovely.
this is a poem i did in an exercise in class with my friend.
celebrate the butterfly because the wings like white stars brightly flying through my little world.
my voice was ice quickly eating away my love
bitter rose as terrible as living devour’d
the land is beautiful,
her country wonderful of tree and lake,
fish and leaf,
lovely like her.
to create language is possible
the ingrediant:
the good,
less selfish
let our favour take over.
as a note: this was done by taking magnets with words on them and writing random words on pieces of paper and oraginzing them into something that half makes sense.
i wrote a haiku
it may not be as good as
haiku from japan
I am horrible at poetry. As an example, here is something I made up for my friend’s pet rabbit….
A little yellow, white and brown,
These are not colors to make me frown,
these are the colors of Minxie’s coat,
For this I think I’ll give him an oat.
Hopping, running, playing too,
Minxie, Minxie, we love you!
My friend was delighted (this was when she was about 8 or 9), though the rabbit himself was rather nonplussed.
And so, I will read this thread and admire the talents of you all whilst pining away at the thought of my lack of it.
I wrote this for school:
I come from suburban sidewalks
From sun and rain and ice and snow
From children laughing and babies crying
And Mozart symphonies from long ago
I come from winter chills and snowy thrills
From freezing temperatures and snow days, not one
From spring flowers and autumn leaves
And basking in the summer sun
I come from spelling bee studying
From flamablamablous friends and supportive family
From reading Muse and doing math problems
And adventures waiting just for me
I come from fantasy novels
From Broadway musicals and captivating plays
From home-cooked dinners and walking in the forest
And doing things in a thousand ways
Sometimes I’m an anachronism
Sometimes I’m just odd they say
But where I’ve been and what I’ve seen
Has shaped who I am today
What do you think of it?
132-I like it. Especially the Muse stuff. We should all do this to spread the Kokonspiracy!
Yay! Oh, thank you GAPAS! This place has been indeed so lonely.
—————————————————————————–
I need to think, a place to go
Where I can be alone
This world has no safest corners dark
The tremors shake and legs do quake
In fear of tomorrow, the unkown
I dash, in haste, to fields mild
With rising snows and little tinder
The lack of space, of simple ground
My workings thses things hinder
My mind is reeling through a roll
Of disaster and dismay
I don’t beleive in waiting long
I want my calm today
But god forbid I find no rest
From critiscism’s lonely rant
I will stay vigilant, ever strong
And doubtful thoughts I shan’t
Less cross apon the lonely grange
Of brain stems ever worn
I tire, the earth is fading dark
My memory forlorn.
The gazelle grazes slowly-
The sun has begun to set-
The jaguar quivers-
The pen quivers above the paper-
The stars begin to shine-
The last rays of the sun disapear-
The jaguar pounces-
The gazelle-
The story-
Is caught-
And the Moon rises.
Could someone leave a commentary on 135?
Fingers and candles.
The lit candle flutters,
yet there is no wind,
the flame leaps and dances,
yet their is no tune,
you swipe your finger through the flame,
a warm drop of water heats your hand,
but your hand is never wet,
a caress from the candle,
you place your finger against the your tongue,
and wonder briefly,
if a star has kissed your hand.
135 – I like the metaphor!
138- It was orrigionally a paragraph, which I think that I’llpost whe I get home. Tommorrow or the day after that.
Yaaaaaay poems!
My friend had this haiku on his shirt. I may have posted it before (a long long time ago) but it’s worth reposting:
Haikus are easy
But sometimes they don’t make sense
Refrigerator
135–Luv the dashes at the ends of the lines, it promotes the tension in the poem. Nice work.
Wheeeee! Double post!
Silence
Is the whisper of a silver snake winding through leaves of moonlit grass…
Is an autumn leaf caught by a night wind and sent soaring to the stars…
Is the stillness of my heart as I lie awake at night, maybe dreaming…
Is not absence of sound, but an abundance of thought.
Shhh…
I am not that good a poetry but we’ll give this one a try (mind you, I just got on this thread)
Roses are red
Violets are blue
I don’t feel like writing poetry
you might not either too
{To avoid further confusion, this thread is now closed. It’s place has been superseded by the Poem and Songs threads, the most recent of which can be found, as of this writing, at https://musefanpage.com/blog/?p=1254 — Admin.]