posted
I've been doing the whole 'lurker' bit for a while now, but this thread draws me out of hiding. As a matter of fact, I'm liable to post my own poetry here soon... Stay tuned, all.
Great job to the previous posters. You guys are great.
Posts: 280 | Registered: Feb 2002
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Everything is quiet here No breeze stirs the sluggish air No sound greets my waiting ear Unlife meets my unreal stare. I close my eyes and cease to care.
Untitled
Unmourned lies he here not one bothered life of lack meant lack of life bothered one not.
I have seen him walking on the wrong side of the corridor. I think he may have a tendency toward the abnormal.
Posts: 2443 | Registered: Apr 2002
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I haven't posted a poem since my very first post on Hatrack. I guess I'm due for another one.
Lazy
Limp heat hangs over a road. Orange cones mark the construction zone where men lean on their shovels. A young girl reclines in the grass, looking at clouds.
Posts: 537 | Registered: Jul 2001
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A man stood on the rocky soil, Tired from a days hard toil, He raised his eyes up to the stars, And thought, I’ll never get that far.
He sat upon a cold gray stone, Weary, pained and so alone, He has worked almost from day of birth, To till and sow the harsh black earth.
The moon and stars glowed like jewels, Unlike the earth so hard and cruel, Oh to reach up and to hold, One; he then decided to be bold.
As he cast off his heavy yolk, Deep within no conscience spoke, His life was naught, there was naught here, He felt no shame, he had no fear.
He went up on a mountain top, He climbed and climbed and did not stop, His self had undergone renewing, He did not think what he was doing.
He went to a land where evil dwells, Where devils reign in empty shells. In bodies which gave over souls To a life of luxuries and gold.
Some are there for not believing, Killing, slaughtering, and not bereaving, The loss of life they caused another— They tricked and robbed, misled their brothers.
They have sickly red eyes, cruel yet with sorrow, That because of teir yesterdays they have no tomorrows, They have skinny, gaunt bodies that sway with the wind, They hold in one hand an account of their sins.
In their other hands, they carried their hearts, Broken and bloody and torn apart. They cry out in the pain of the fire that burns them, Pleading in vain with the devil who spurns them.
Their hair and beards are knotted and wild, They wail and cry like a tormented child. No time anymore to regret or repent, To straighten the lives they have twisted and bent.
To this barren land did the ambitious man go, To find the demon who would know. How he could fly into the beyond, His greed for the moon kept him moving on.
He tried not to look at the ghostly creatures, The killers and rapists, the hard money lechers They haunted him, lured him to the fiery graves, From which no soul has e’er been saved.
He came to a pond surrounded by flames, Reflecting a prize pumpkin like a picture frame. As he watched and stared, at the image blurred, And throughout this hell a great howling was heard.
Everyone was deathly still; no one made a sound, Flames and smoke shot up from the ground. And up from the steamy pond came a demon Who ruled the Devil’s domain in the heavens.
His wings were jackal bones and shrouds He was clothed in mire and stormy clouds. His hands were nailed from tip to wrist His eyes so red, they numbered six.
His teeth were fanged and long and pointed He was the Devil's first annointed. The murderer's den trembled in fear Under the terrible, powerful stare.
Five giants surrounded him, a devil's fleet Grinning in delight at the hell-holes heat Their eyes spewed fire, they carried axes Woe to the one who breathes or relaxes.
The man could not move, he could not run He had not reached the moon, but the fiery sun. Then he drew from his courage and stood his ground For he dared not flee or turn around.
The demon, in a voice mighty and sneering Proclaimed he was ready for the hearing The man's voice came out trembling and weak He dared not be still, yet he dared not speak.
He sank to his knees in a fervent plea And begged to leave, to go back free So the demon showed him the silver moon And the diamond stars of the skies in June.
And the man could not feel the heat anymore He saw not the filth, the fire and gore He needed only to reach those skies He listened and believed the demon's lies.
And so he flew on wings of death And reached the moon in but a breath And oh, imagine the great cruel shock, The moon, it too, was made of rock.
The stars didn't sparkle once he reached them He lifted his hands to the heavens and cried, "Lord, oh God, what a fool am I."
And there he stayed on the barren stars In the company of Moon and Mars It was for this, to be alone, He left the earth, that earth of stone.
He climbed a mountain and fell into a hole He bought his death and sold his soul And there he died on his silver dream Which simply wasn't as it had seemed.
If you watch the stars at night in June And hear the cries of some lonely loon It may be the soul of the man so sad Who could not be content with what he had.
The End.
Comments of any kind appreciated.
Posts: 80 | Registered: May 2003
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posted
I got inspiration for this poem when I visited my great grandmother in her old-age home and saw the dining room at dinner time. Very depressing. Some of it may not make sense because you just had to be there.
This poem does not follow any specific style or syllable count, but I feel that it flows very nicely over all, even though it is not 100% grammatically sound.
The woman sits in rocking chair, Facing window, she stares and stares. There is naught left than she can do, They tell her so, at least; it is not true.
Once that frame, though frail, held confidence, esteem Now it is just a sad reminder of what has been. She has been robbed of all self worth, They stole it so smoothly she did not realize how much it hurt.
They spoon feed her her meals each day, They do not even let her wipe the drool away. So at meal time she does the same as now, Sits and stares and wonders, "How".
How have I become this thing?, This waste of life, this waterless spring. Once so free with spirit and soul, Now thrust into this rotting hell-hole.
Devoid of any meaningful life, There is neither happiness nor strife. This place devoid of human feeling, The soul long gone, the skin just peeling.
Convinced in subtle forms and ways, That we are near the last, enjoy these days. But I know so well the lie in this, We are cast here only for our so called uselessness.
By the outside world no longer caring, For our feeble bodies; in their minds ours have no baring. They do not give a second thought, For what we go through, the torture we are wrought.
By nurses with their painted faces, Their painted smiles still leave traces, Of what is truly going on inside, Their minds hate us, the burden unto them that we bind.
I long to dig my nails in, To those glass eyes and pull out what is within. To rip the smile off her face, See what is behind the lace.
See and show to all who care, What is the truth about right here. Murdered, we are murdered every day, From inside out 'til we are flayed.
Flayed from happiness and life, By words, though, not with a knife. Words so subtly depreciating, That most do not feel the ever present hating.
But everyday they are there, the words The lies begging me to give The last of what is me and mine, What make it worth it to live. ****I know, the style changed in this verse, I am working on it****
So each day I hatch and plot, What will work and what will not, In my quest to overthrow, These hideous witches; make them low.
Make them feel what I have fealt, Deal them the card that they have dealt, Hurt them deep, where it counts, Destroy their souls leave not an ounce.
Alas though, this day will never come, Their iron grip is too hard wrung, Others must see as I have seen, What is and stop what soon will have been.
Then the day will come victorious, We'll expose the world to it's deemed "not-so-glorious", And the young will cower, the young will fall, The old will rise, the old stand tall.
posted
I hear ya. More in the second then the first one, no? I still like to make my poetry rhyme, quite simply because I'm not that great of a poet and whenever I veer off the rhyming path I find my verse structurce and syllabilic (sp?) structure to be consistently inconsistent. I start out in one style and then veer completely off, resulting in a conglomeration of poetry ranging from Shakespearean style to Ogden Nash, if ya git my drift.
Posts: 80 | Registered: May 2003
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Inclement skies blurred eyes shaking sighs then swallows flies.
Why do it say and spit just quit stay home and sit.
But miss a run feel fear stun recall square one run from that, run.
So mile tree calls to me mile two grafitti black dog three.
Then I change my pace the ground retreats put a smile on my face feel my heart beats without even touching. And I love myself because I ran today.
Tell me what you think. Sometimes I fell like expressing myself in poem, and I'd like to get better at it.
Posts: 554 | Registered: Nov 2000
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posted
People would be much better off if they just stopped rhyming entirely until they're absolutely sure they know how, and that the specific poem demands it. Read the sections on rhyming here.
Excellent re-wording of your post! After your initial post I was going to respond with some disagreement, but when I came back this afternoon you had edited it to include pretty much what I would have said. Well put.
Posts: 1068 | Registered: Aug 2000
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posted
Hrm.. here's one. I wrote this a long time ago.
The Smell of It
I never knew before that the senses worked this way, it seems almost incomprehensible. I never remembered this smell before, as if something just beyond the nose.
What is this thing? This cloying fragrance. I don’t remember. What was it? Life, I think. What was it? The smell.
I think it is stronger now, coming closer, creeping into the senses into my mind. It is something I can’t recall from….. What was it? Life?
What was life?The smell, pungent. What was it again? Acrid like sulfur. What was it? Smelling like……
It is closer now, almost on top of me, almost smothering me in itself. I don’t recall what is was I was. I was.. Someone is coming for me, I was told so.
Who was it? Someone wicked. What was it again? Wicked life. Mine? I feel something. Heat?
It is here now, burgeoning with something something I know too well, knew too well before. It was all before when I said things, did things, things that hurt …others. Things that smelled of…
What was it? Just beyond the nose? Something has come for me. Him? Yes! The smell has come. There!
I remember now. I remember life and the smell, the smell that came to me. It was him. I remember. I remember he came and followed and the smell, it followed as I did things…..repugnant….vile.
Why? Why did I? I knew the smell. I denied it. IT was everywhere. Why? Because he was… Who? He was why.
I know where I am now. The gates await me, they gape wide to swallow me and he is here. Laughing, I should have known, beckoning, I should have known the smell…
. What was it?The smell of… The smell of IT. The smell of the something, THE something…..the smell of EVIL.
Posts: 103 | Registered: May 2003
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posted
LoL.. you know.. I wouldn't doubt he's influenced me. I used to get "wow, that poem is like a Led Zepplin song!" from many of my poems too. I was raised on a mix of ..eww... country and AC/DC, Iron Maiden, Led Zepplin, Yes, Rush etc.
But the real question is.. do you like Skynyrd?
Here's another one. Just of note.. in RPGs I tend to gravitate toward evil characters. They're just plain out fun.
The Vamp
She slides in on silken waves of blood and bone and horrors' screams Licks her lips and smiles
Another victim sits and waits for pale and glistening beauty fair to steal away his pulse
The moon above is wan and full and cold and shining still above upon her cursed child
Scraps of rags adorn her thin and sinuous deadly form stained and thin
Her eyes blaze cold and dead as she enslaves and feeds her embrace like steel
His ecstasy lost in her arms slipping over her hungry lips feeding her undead heart.
posted
Comments: Tom-Obliette was humorous! Poetry personified, what a concept...lol. Like Flying was fun to read. I liked 'sparks dancing between our outstretched palms.'
Apathy-really interesting imagery. Keeps you busy while reading the poem.
Not quite sure what it means, but *bumps*.
Posts: 701 | Registered: Jul 1999
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The wind will blow Through my wings Again. Fate will not be as cruel As to forbid it. My darkened feathers Will glisten, Will be ruffled by the cool breeze. I shall set sail on warm gusts far above the black ocean, rising towards the night sky. I will be my own- Captive of no one. I feel these things within my deep Memory. They shall happen again, Someday. Or I shall perish Causing them.
Posts: 701 | Registered: Jul 1999
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posted
Oh the insanity of nothing The incomprehendable end The life without you, my friend. I still wait by the phone Though I am alone Hoping; waiting. Maybe it's just a dream.
Posts: 9754 | Registered: Jul 2002
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posted
Belladonna Orchid: I liked it. Is the title meant to mean "On Recovering the Memory"? Because it's more like "On Re-covering (as in covering again, which is recouvrir) the Memory" A better word than that would be retrouver, if that was what you meant to mean. I like the idea, and the imagery you use. Also, the wording of the last two lines seems a bit stilted to me.
T_Smith: That was a really sad poem. I think that though the rhyme scheme might not fit another poem, it works well with this one. I liked it, it almost made me cry.
Posts: 4816 | Registered: Apr 2003
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posted
I have no remake of my Jogging poem. I couldn't work up any ambition to change it, and I decided that the fast forced pace and heavy thrum were somewhat appropriate for the subject.
I can't do like you suggest- I can't stop rhyming entirely. I don't have a soul of a poet, and only derive pleasure from the challenge of trying to say something clearly while rhyming. But after reading the site, I did want to try some of the suggestions regarding internal rhymes and off rhymes, and etc. So I wrote another one, but I think it sounds weird as well. Ie, I don't know if you will like my rhyming better than last time. But I had fun making it, and I felt like I really expressed myself to myself in a way that was curiously satisfying.
First an explanaiton- while reading the poetry site, they show poems whose rhymes they felt were heavy handed; and then they showed remakes with softer rhymes, which possibly flowed better. However, they also added that "HUH? element" which I feel resentful of because I never get it. It reminded me of english classes where we read poems with the huh element and the teacher expounded, and I resented. That's where this poem comes from.
Untitiled
I'm trying to bear my english class staring, I hear wondrous things this wordman, saying what some poem means and we've run throught the looking glass.
Hey Alice, who's gone mad? author of this, or perhaps it's you No, you're both insane, so your world seems true. I'll stand in the rain, you party in your mushroom pad.
I'm frustrated bad, I feel lonely here my convictions sag, I live the tale is the emperor naked, does he have something to wear? If you know this is faked, please tell me-lessen my fear.
Either way, I keep hoping the day when I can see meanings clear.
Posts: 554 | Registered: Nov 2000
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posted
It's a pretty good use of rhyme, even if a few bits -- like "meanings clear" -- sound a little forced. It's a remarkable and dramatic improvement, though.
Posts: 37449 | Registered: May 1999
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posted
I am not so sure about this, but if you guys can be brave then so can I.
First, I love the haikus Apathy. Simple and elegant.
Sachant... love the story that shows through the images of The Vamp. Deadly kisses. You have a way of painting words. Very lyrical.
Steerpike... Greed reminds me of Dante. It's a spiral into corruption spurred on by misplaced dreams.
Ok... so here are my own contribution. (All rhyming is unintentional.)
*I edited the poem. The edit probably makes it less readable... hahahaha.... but what the hey. It's all about taking steps right. So one more big step.*
Quiet Time
Deepness converges in blue on black. A sea with endless sparkling lights Unfolds in cloudless windows of milk and white While shades of pink-pulled cotton dress the nightsky.
Tiny hints of nothingness drift and scatter, Echoing existance in their brief arrangement with creation. Bridging distances in their split-pea fashion And holding court about broken laws.
Explosions abound among this velvet scene. And no sooner has the light show begun, Then the noise is shattered with silence As the great maw of aching space begins the job Of vacuuming the dredged-up Universe.
Quiet time returns. Building into an infinite deafness Until once again a giant roars And begins to beat with a heart so pure. With waking dreams and scattered light That binds the life pulse of that which never ends.
posted
Larisse- liked your poem. Way to be brave I think the 2nd stanza is definately the strongest - the velvet scene and the great maw of aching space are fabulous images. Your first stanza has too much going on with the color. I find it best to describe color in a poem not by using the word, but by using an image that conveys that color. You know, red becomes pomegranate wine, green becomes unripe tomatoes, pink becomes umbilical cord. Whatever. Just adds another layer of depth. And depth can be surprisingly simple. When tackling something as undefinably huge as the universe as you do, it's sometimes more effective to contrast by zeroing in on really small details as your descriptions. Personally, I just think that the less vague a poem is, the more effective it is.
Great work! Your poem makes me want to go paint...
Posts: 8504 | Registered: Aug 1999
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posted
There is a tropic island in my mind That I tend to visit frequently. The sun is always setting down And I bathe in rays of warmth. A brief breeze blows the leaves And birds fly over, Singing their songs I don't want To wake Up.
Posts: 9754 | Registered: Jul 2002
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posted
Ryuko- A Recouvrer la Memoire=To recover the memory. At least so far as Cassells French-English Dictionary and what I learned in my college class is concerned. The character in the poem is actually recovering, not searching for something. I may change 'the' to 'from the' though to avoid confusion. Thanks for the suggestion though. Do you think if I placed a comma in the third to last line, it would make it seem less stilted? I've pondered that, but wasn't sure.
Posts: 701 | Registered: Jul 1999
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Thank you for the comments. The main reason for the color in the first stanza is the wonderous images of galaxies and nebulae taken by the Hubble. And really, I just liked the alliteration of pink-pulled cotton .
The poem itself is very much how I picture floating in space would be. Allowing myself to travel throughout the universe and observing all its wonders. But, also being a bit separated from it all.
I like vague poems as well. Heck... I write vague poems. Poems so vague they don't even make sense to me.
***
I really love the Santo Domingo poem. It's like describing a painting. And indeed, I like the Courtyard title because that is what I thought the painting was about. I pictured a large dusty courtyard with small outdoor shops and people lazily walking around looking at wears.
Posts: 822 | Registered: Jul 2001
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posted
I'm glad that image came through for you, Larisse. Santo Domingo is actually a cathedral, and the courtyard, where the poem takes place, is just a large area where people sit around, nerdy art students draw, and little girls sell you things and befriend you. I don't know about the title, because I thought perhaps leaving it at simply "Santo Domingo" would have a religious overtone that I'd like to preserve and save the poem from being entirely secular.
But thanks for the input.
Posts: 8504 | Registered: Aug 1999
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Go to sleep and the world tilts Down so deep into the pit crowned in hell you have to feel with growing wail the madness grip.
You have a body but it breaks and fails now nothing to see or do so freewill feels worse than needles in barbarous jails die if you can, but there's nothing to kill this life is eternal, if it is real.
Wake and see the feelings you have while reality rebuilds your mind compassion for demons if they feel that bad therefore compassion should be easy for everyone you find.
Of course I've been describing my own fever dreams. I thought of skipping the third verse, because it stops describing the fever dream and instead is an oddly placed moral. But Oh well, that is often what I think as I come out of it, so I'll leave it.
Tell me what you think of my last two. What should I work on most?
Posts: 554 | Registered: Nov 2000
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quote:Tell me what you think of my last two. What should I work on most?
I would give the following advice to any novice poet.
1. Read poetry. Lots of it. At least a hundred poems for every poem you try. Read ALL different styles of poetry. Once you start to feel yourself gravitating to a particular style or poet, deepen your readings in that area, but don't completely abandon the others. One of the worst qualities I see in many current "young" poets is that they haven't read enough poetry.
2. Learn the terms. Dactyls, trimeters, caesura, enjambed--poetry, like any art, has a number of specialized terms. Make this study parallel to number one, above, and with both of these go on to...
3. Identify the poems you really like, and then figure out why you like them. Is it their sound? Then figure out what they're doing so well: assonance? internal rhyme? Hopkins-like sprung rhythm? Or do you like the images? Are they startling, or are they refreshing new examples of an old favorite? Do you like the form? Why?
4. Remember that occasionally trying a poem or two does make you a poet any more than changing your oil once or twice makes you a mechanic. If you don't want to be a poet, then this is fine; write a poem every so often, show your friends, and be happy. But don't expect that your poems are great just because you've written them.
I made a box in my junior high wood-shop class; having very little manual skill, I was proud of the work that went into it and how I came out with a finished product. Now, if I had presented this to a professional wood-worker and said, "Tell me honestly: is this a good, well-crafted, professional-looking box?", he would have said, "Well, no. It's crap." And that's okay. I didn't have the talent or the knowledge to make a good box. But I didn't claim that I did.
If you're a novice and all you want to do is "make boxes" every so often for your family and friends to ooh and ahh over, then that's all you need. But if you're a novice who wants to become a serious, skilled, accomplished poet, you have a lot of work and effort and study and practice ahead of you.
it's easier to be modern than not with phone and fax and iseekyou. everything exists, in short
hand. are you keyed in logged on tuned out? w(ho needs a soliloquoy when a msg will d0, ya?)ords stretch easier now, all the better to bundle you in them (enigmas are so last century).
how do you resonate in PHP?
Posts: 2443 | Registered: Apr 2002
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posted
By the way, I'd just like to remind everyone that The Metastatic Whatnot is looking for submissions. Do send us a poem or three. (We do pay! Well, a little.) If the link doesn't work (we're switching servers now), here're the pertinent guidelines:
quote:We purchase first electronic rights. Though we will consider reprints as long as they are accompanied by a declaration of this fact (including information on where the piece was previously published), we are much more interested in unpublished works.
Once accepted, we will publish your piece on our site for a period of three months (with one exception; please see the special note for details), after which we hope you will allow us to continue to display it in our archives.
We accept electronic submissions only. Submissions should be included in the body of an email (as plain text) as well as attached in the form of a .rtf file. Please send all pieces to submissions@metastatic-whatnot.com. Submissions otherwise received will be deleted unread.
For poetry, you are to submit a packet of 2-6 poems in a single email. This is to increase the likelihood of our finding a poem of yours that meets our needs for the issue being prepared. Your email header should follow the format "POETRY SUBMISSION: Title of poem (or the first poem in the packet)". The pay-rate is US $5 per poem, payable upon publication.
Simultaneous submissions are acceptable if declared as such, but we must emphasise the importance of notifying us immediately if your work is accepted elsewhere. This cannot be stressed enough.
Ok, could you suggest stuff that 1)rhymes 2)is intelligible (ie, no images that are very hard) 3)has serious subjects 4)not supershort 5)is almost something a person would say 6)is good
Oh, by the way, I think "the raven" is an example of all that. While the overall poem is very challenging to understand, none of the individual images give any trouble. Therefore the poem is no more difficult to decode than a matching piece of prose. It is almost something someone would speak.
In the silence of her memory I hear the angeled tune Her song is sweet and soothes the soul Of bitter tears I've cried She sings to me her song of grace That I her child may be My angel mother I do love She watches over me
Dreams of Stars
So many stars in the heavens That fill me with wonder and awe I look above and yearn To touch just one that I saw
They look as speckled jewels Something I would hold and clutch in my hand That would also give me comfort That they would understand
I look above and sigh For the dream that cannot be For star of night, star of morning You are so far from me
Gentle Rain
In the shadow of the night The song of death is heard But none do listen, but ignore the power of the tune It's haunted refrain weaves and slips through the sounds of broken strain But in the end, when song is done, is heard a gentle rain
Echo
Into the light Where night doth flee I lose my haunted memory Of love once had Of love once lost I live inside myself An echo of my past
Wounded Soldier
There lies the wounded soldier That fought to give his life There lies the wounded soldier Who left behind his wife
There lies the wounded soldier Who sings the song of death There lies the wounded soldier Who waits for his last breath
The wounded soldier rises But leaves his body by The wounded soldier's blood goes cold And ripped from me, I die
posted
I know a little something about dealing Blocking the pain, hiding the feeling People are afraid, and they get notions That its impossible for a friends emotions To be anything other than happy or torked Depression for some, has to be corked Don't bottle it up, you have a friend Who can try to help, I've a heart to lend I've been there, and I'm here for you Lean on me, friend, I'll help you through
Posts: 9754 | Registered: Jul 2002
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posted
My first poem in awhile, I'm not quite sure about the title. As always, you criticism is welcome and even encouraged.
friends?
All I want as the day begins is to smell her hair and taste her skin. But lonely sheets do greet my gaze as I breathe dawn through morning’s rays. This empty house my faults have bought; reminding me of what I’m not.
I’ll see her there, in silent halls beckoning me into her thrall. She’ll wave hello with head askew and flash a smile that rips in two; a small token, desperately sought, does remind me of what I’m not.
As others’ arms wrap round her waist and others’ lips caress her face, I mask myself behind a grin and feign content to play the friend; this roll in which I have been caught, does remind me of what I’m not.
A church bell tolls, the march begins with tears and lace and matching rings. The binding vows proclaim freedom from sleepless nights but do become words that linger into rot, reminding me of what I’m not.
Posts: 748 | Registered: Dec 1999
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posted
Popatr, Poe's poetry blows chunks. Seriously. He's not known for it, and I cringe whenever I read it. For the most part, it's sing-song tripe. There are a few pieces -- like "The Raven," "for example -- that are known, but they're largely known in SPITE of their style than because of it. (One good lesson from Poe, though, is that narrative poems are more memorable if you use a single strong image, driven home through clever repetition.)
That said, REAL poets that meet most of your criteria include:
T.S. Eliot Carl Sandberg Dorothy Parker Gary Snyder
These poets all used rhyme fairly often, wrote in intelligible English, and didn't produce images that were TOO hard (except possibly in Eliot's case -- but the beauty of his poesy is strong enough that you'll enjoy his poems even if you don't "get" them.)
----
Sarfa, here's one I did years ago on a similar theme. I think it's interesting how differently we approached the same emotion -- and I think I like your take a little better.
Whimper She says i shouldn't love her that everything is wrong with that we're friends we're friends we're only friends -- and that's the way it's got to be doesn't love me doesn't want me -- that that's the way it's got to be.
it wasn't like i had an option it wasn't like i swore a vow it wasn't like i signed some pact entered into some contract or ever chose all this somehow it happened when it happened sud(den swiftly lightly flash of whitely trumpets glory overnight)ly and then i loved her god i love her and she doesn't love me back.
F**k.
i'd change for her go mad for her buy jellybeans and red balloons and fill up all her afternoons with crayon joys and taxicabs. But when she wanted me I wasn't and when she didn't then I was and there isn't anything to help it and there isn't really a because.
So.
Where do we two go from here Where do we two go from here Where do we two go from here And does it really matter?
I'm a little confused by your list. For example, you want something that rhymes but "is almost something someone would say?" I think you might be missing my point; I was suggesting that reading ALL kinds of poetry would be helpful. However, I can generally back up what Tom said. I'm afraid I also have to agree about Poe. I find "The Raven" to be a tedious sing-song artificiality. While Poe is not a great poet, he did have other poems which were better: "Israfel" and "The Conqueror Worm," for instance.
Tom,
I've noticed a tendency for your poetry to sound (or at least look) like song lyrics; any of them put to music?
Scott,
Nope. Frost is good--very good--but there are better. Eliot, for one.
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