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Author Topic: Orginal Potry
TomDavidson
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I'm a pretty avid reader of poetry, myself. I think you'll find that most good poets are.
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David Bowles
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I thinking reading poetry is essential for those who want to write it, if only because it's senseless to ignore thousands of years of lyrical tradition in hopes of reinventing the wheel...
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Ryuko
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And it's PAINFULLY obvious when someone who writes poetry hasn't read it. Just as it is when someone who writes fiction doesn't read it.
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Scott R
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This is as good a place as any to post the REAL Valentine's Day poetry.


My Love

My love, she's sweet. Not just to taste,
But the whole sense of me sips her and smiles,
Like laying bare under the touch of June,
With the wind wild all around,
And she is the warmth that is above me,
Over me, finally all through me.

Sweet, my love.

My love, she's strong. Her heart holds
The strength of all the earth, to build
Or wreck. And her fingers find me, sculpt me.
Edging along the soul of me,
Til I am carved and fit, and she has
Sunk her own strength into me.

Strong, my love.

My love, she's wise. Language like light,
And she hunts my darkness out of me,
As skillful as weaving sunbeams,
To clothe my terror with her own calm.
She knows my deepest secrets.
And loves me still.

Wise, my love.

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Scott R
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This thread is part of the Grand Jatraquero Poetry Bump.

:bump:

In fact, of the first ten pages on this forum there are less than six threads with poetry on them.

And this poor guy, the granddaddy of all poetry threads, was languishing on page two-- and that's only because I posted to it yesterday! Before then, the last post was on friggin Jan. 22nd!

[No No]

Let us have days and months of poetry and wine! Or ruby red grapefruit juice!

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Scott R
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:bump:

Because the foreign language poetry should not be on the first page while this gem languishes on the fifth.

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David Bowles
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Puhahabitu*

The People knew about the truth
In ways we only vaguely see;
No man can point it out to us
No priest retains the needed keys.
Its power dwells where each believes
That truth resides; to reach its strength
There’s nothing you can really do:
The more you strive to grasp at truth
The further truth will move from you.

The People said you must lie down for power,
You pick a place where someone blessed with truth
Has spent much time, or even died, and there
You wait. And pray or meditate. And wait.
In silence contemplate while opening yourself.
And then, not God— some local source of power
May choose to pity you and gift you with a truth
That’s tailored to your needs, with special songs to sing,
Or other amulets to help you wield
The mighty tool for living well you’ve gained.

Perhaps you won’t be answered.
Perhaps you’ll die of hunger.
Perhaps you’ll choose a sterile site
Where charlatans have seemed to draw
A power that was only feigned.
But if it is truth you would have—
Real power, truth, or “medicine”
(As puha is so sadly called)—
You must lie down for yours,
And stop trying to steal ours.

*"Lying down for power." Erroneously termed the "Comanche Vision Quest" elsewhere.

[ February 17, 2005, 02:51 PM: Message edited by: David Bowles ]

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ElJay
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Paint a Monet for me with your touch
Water-lily kisses, traced against my skin
Though the only color I will turn is blush
Your pallet hides a thousand shades within

Lily-pads and sunlight, and softly drifting clouds
A pond of blue the color of your eyes
The promises you make me are never said out-loud
But the picture that you paint me never lies

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Annie
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I mean this entirely good-naturedly, but:
quote:
I'm a pretty avid reader of poetry, myself. I think you'll find that most good poets are.
is just so comical I had to point it out.

And I do think Tom is a good poet. [Smile]

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Jon Boy
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Saw a man today
Pink-and-purple umbrella
Twirling as he walked

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Choobak
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Ok... I don't try English poetry, but in french this is what i do :

Rêve en voyage

Le Wagon va, voguant sur la voie
De fer, foulant de verdoyants pois
De senteur que cent heures de langueur
Rendent heureux, amoureux de lenteur.

J’ai l’esprit pris, l’espace empli
De pensées insensées sans cesse :
L’abbaye de ma vie embellie
D’une brune béguine abbesse.

Cette vestale et altesse femme
S’empara de ma belle âme en flammes.
Elle l’étreignit, mais ne l’éteignit
En réclamant une amante vie.

Me traînant, le lent train ralenti,
Me laissant, inlassable, enlaçant
L’Eve de mon rêve aux lèvres saisies.
Je descends, dansant et rêvassant.

What do you think about ?

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Teshi
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This is the poem I wrote today. It's pretentious to the point of totally ridiculous but since I have no shame and I'm twistedly proud/amused of/by it I thought I'd let everyone else have a bit of fun untangling my "sweeping" metaphor and total lack of direction [Wink] .

Don't judge me, because I am young and impressionable and just having a bit of a laugh sounding high-and-mighty. Also, it's not supposed to be political, but it may have ended up a tinsy bit that way. Furthermore, it sounds really depressing, and I'm really not this depressing (hence the glued-on last stanza), only this poem got out of control... (It's aliiiiiiiiive)

His was a mind, hers was a body

I fell sick on Sunday.
But sunshine filled the room,
And evicted the gloom.
(All forty days
Of the rent had been paid
To the landlord)

On Monday, we laid ill together
Live, dead, forever.
The man, the woman and me.

His was a mind, hers was a body,
Curled on opposite sides of a courtyard
Where the blind gardener’s grave
Is mined and paved.
Mine was a voice gone still,
In the week’s global chill.

Dues-day brought Spring,
But no song; last night,
Someone shook the Southbank,
But there were no pennies left.
We’ve no more tax to pay.

Hers was a body,
An antique shattered visage in the sand;
Scratched by the last dry winds day
Of hundreds missed.
His was a mind,
The same stone pedestal.
Once loved, once forgotten.
Rediscovered by journeyists,
In search of a story
To relate to the guests
Of the next grand marriage.
The wedding-singer’s
Throat was parched with sand.
A rain-date was provided.

Thursday’s warmth
And the body stumbled on death,
The mind not far behind.

Fool day Friday
No one will die today
(No joke, Pope)

The angels covered their ears
Immune to the unmusical fears
Of voices in a concert
That started at nightfall.
We silently croaked out
An unspoken elegy
To her, and to him.
(I know that my
Song held my goodbye.)

Saturday: closed our eyes
And watched one side of
Our cube-shaped dies
Weep a tear or more
From every corner
Of the lonely lost marble.
“Heaven preserve us,
Animus mortuus.”

Thunder crumbled Sunday’s
Snow-filled clouds,
Scattering ashes in the soul’s sarcophagus,
And on Eros’s shroud.

Midday bells rang;
The tumbling peals
Of an afternoon wedding.
The sky brightened.

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Scott R
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In answer to this assignment on the www.strongverse.org forums, I wrote the following:

sink my lovely,
storm-tossed, forsaken worm,
thrown to sea by God's will,
man's hand.
my gentle lips enfold you.
engorge me,
worm, storm, ship, god.

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T_Smith
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It's friday night
Time to go to the hooters
Back at home I got a stack
Of first person shooters
People laugh and say
Tha I am stuck in denial
When I say to their face
That I still got my style
Oh you know who I am
And you've seen me around
I'm the drunken hairy guy
Lying on the ground
I'm an old college man
I'm in college right now
I can do as I want
Cause there's never a how
If you ask me what I'm taking
Oh you'll get a blank stare
I have never enrolled
And they don't seem to care
I've been here living life
For more than 10 years
I've broken my own record
For number of beers
I know the menu of wendy's
And they know my card number
I mutter obscenties
While deep in a slumber
I build all of my furniture
From pizza boxes
I got 20 different people
On my 5 xboxes
Oh why do I come here
Oh why don't I leave
Are questions I ask
As I'm starting to heave
I know it's all pointless
But I like being cool
So do as they tell you
And stay the hell in school.

--------


I was up pretty late last night. It's not great, but hey, I thought it was funny.

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TomDavidson
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Bumping for newbie. [Smile]
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ambyr
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I'm not the right newbie, but I'll bite anyway.

Refraction

I have never tried spearing fish,
only paper pieces,
drawn with faint suggestions of scales,
in a science classroom.

And that was only once:
a demonstration.
Afterwards, we took out textbooks,
downed our heads diligently,
and calculated angles.

Heady knowledge, but
we never put our pencils,
newly enchanted with equations,
to the test.
No one had fish for dinner.

I have hypothesized
a thousand formulae
to reach you
but I am still talking to sand.

You are still talking to clouds.
So many words of monologue
went missing in the air.

They are lost for good.
If we ever meet on the riverbank,
begin with, "Hello."

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Destineer
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Wow, it's been a long time since I've posted anything on this thread.

Here's something based on some old notes:

Scrawlings From Fall ’00

I had something to reveal
years ago
Something about flesh and metal
Curving substances, shielding us within
The cyclic quiverings, curses that rebound off the steel
Chains of wishbones binding human lives
Plural nouns and those objects afraid to be grouped
Cave-wall scrawlings, was that 2000 AD?
A mad year, but now I am truly wild
Unafraid, though my brain is a fear organ
Matching stillborn Christs for absurdity
the thought humiliates the thinker.

I forgot what it was I meant to etch
on that wall, when I was a caveman.

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quidscribis
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A caveman, he looks
for animals to hunt. None.
What will he do now?

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T_Smith
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Thalia, o great muse of my passionate heart
Where did your inspirational guidance go
Without you, O Thalia! I am torn apart
I was soaring high, and have sunken low

Thalia, I hate the ruse you send my soul
Teacher, you tease, you unrational sprite
My love, O Thalia! its taken its toll
And I ask why, and theres no light.

Thalia! I lose your gifts from my mind
My model of life, youve left me behind
Alone and afraid, I go to the grind
No inspiration for me left to find.

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erosomniac
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Interesting rhyme scheme.
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Tatiana
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<<3 this thread>
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T_Smith
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A friend I had known for a while
Left me, she had cold and gray hands
When I saw her night before last
I wasn't there when I saw her
Least ways, not acknowledging her
She was a forgotten flower
Among family, left alone
She was gone years ago, really
Spaced conversations had happened
Between us. Still, who else knew her?
Did anyone remember her?
Only gray days seperated
Us, and yet, I too forgot her
No longer in my thoughts, my heart
She truly had left me and now
Now I feel nothing, and why nothing?
Why is my body dead and cold
Why is my heart heavy and old
My eyes keep searching, and for what
I don't really know but they search
They search where a person should be
And when they see nothing, they cry
Two days, lord, it has been two days
Why cry over an aquaintance?
True, through years I had known her name
But what more did she know of me?
Still I sit in sleepless slumber
I was an ear, but she was more
She was a connection to life
I listened to her, but said nothing
I had learned I am not alone
And that my worries, that my pain
Were not just my worries, my pain
But the pains we share together
And that is why I will miss her

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Scott R
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Cagey Bird

Cagey bird, blues you sing
Keep on swinging,
Birdhouse swinging,
Blues don't mean a thing.

Cagey bird, perch is clean
Song you fling,
Turds you fling,
But spotless where you sing.

Come the cat, slinking slow
Open cage, closed window.
Song is done, feline fun
Flit about, but cannot run.

Gone the blues, gone the words,
No more swinging
No more flinging
Just a cat, and cage, and turds.

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Dante
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Mortality Boast

No one will ever read this poem.
No word-fumbling young lover
will plagiarize it for his girl-friend's ears,
no high schoolers will have to find
it in an anthology, no old man
will curse his slipping mind
because he cant remember how it goes.

At least Im realistic about it. I mean, people
ooh and ahh over the prophetic wisdom
of those poems that talk about how they will last
forever, but lets be honest: in three
thousand years, how many of those kind of poems
must have been written? The remembered
onesisnt it really just a matter of odds?

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Teshi
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I love that ScottR!
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KarlEd
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Cluelessness

Why should this big and scary bear
Lash out because I poke him there?
Except for scars, there's not a trace
Of where I shot him in the face.
In fact, my buckshot (you will find)
Has only left him half-way blind.
His other eye should clearly see
It's stronger now because of me.
He ought to greet me with applause
But all I get are teeth and claws.
What could be going through his head?
You'd almost think he wished me dead.

You see, I raised him from a cub
Way back when Mama Bear got clubbed.
(Although the bat was in my hand,
Youd think a cub would understand
Superior philosophy --
That pain and great adversity
Are better teachers in the end
Than gentle guidance from a friend.)
When I threw him to the wild,
I knew he'd hear "I love you, child"
In ever bite and every sting
My "hands-off" parenting could bring.

So when I last came to his lair,
To bless him with more tender care
By blindly slashing with my knife
To better make him fit my life
And -- a bit less bear-ish -- be
Presentable to my family
You'll understand my great surprise:
No open arms. No grateful eyes.
Instead, just roars and gaping maw.
All because I stabbed his paw?
How was I supposed to see
The pain I caused he'd blame on me?

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Scott R
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That's some clever verse, Karl.

I like it.

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Tatiana
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Hooray for the resurrection of the original potry thread! [Smile]
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T_Smith
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Take me back to the sunset I remember
Take me two summer sunsets ago
Let me live in that moment forever
Let me breath in the love that I know
Believe me when I hold your hands softly
Believe me when I look in your eyes
Live with me till my life has left me
Live with me under those sunset skies.

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KarlEd
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That's beautiful, T_Smith. It begs to be set to music.

That said, can I quibble with the first two lines? I don't like the broken meter in the first line, and the tone makes me think you're referring to two years ago, but the second line actually refers to the day before yesterday. How about: Take me back to sunsets remembered/ Take me to sunsets two summers ago/ etc. Also, if you change "Believe" to "Trust" the meter works better for lines 5 and 6 since "believe me when I" has 3 unstressed syllables in a row unless you artificially force a stress on "when". (Whereas "Trust me" begs a natural slight pause that I think breaks the run of unstressed syllables better.) Or if you really prefer the word "Believe" there, (and I can see why you might), making it "Believe in me" naturally puts more stress on "when", breaking the string of unstressed syllables.

(Just my 2 cents. I really like the poem.)

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Tatiana
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"Trust me" sounds like someone is lying, though. I prefer believe me. [Smile]
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T_Smith
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[Blushing]

Yeah, I was referring to two years ago, when I had proposed to Jamie (whom is in Atlanta till Sunday). I was hoping that "Two Summer Sunsets" would come across as "Two July 2nd Sunsets" to try to fit it into the flow of the verse, but it is worded improperly, I now see. Would "Two Summers Sunsets" convey that? If Jamie were around, I'd ask her, being an English Major and all, and the fact that my brain sucks with words.

I do like "Take me to sunsets two summers ago" as a replacement line.

I see what you are talking about with "trust me" as opposed to "believe me", and in the technical aspect, it fits better. However, like Tatiana, I prefer "Believe".

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KarlEd
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I actually like "believe" better, too. [Dont Know]
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erosomniac
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I Pen A Picture of My Father

Trying to depict the unreceding hairline
I hope Ill have when Im fifty,
To catch the Makakilo sunset on his glasses,
But I never took a decent art class
So these details escape me.

The Seattle sky dims, and
Raindrops hit the paper until
The lines blur and I
Cant recognize my father
In the bleeding ink pooling on my page.

But theyre just lines, separating
One section of white from another,
Hair from hair,
Pore from pore:
Nothing so dramatic as
Country from country,
Words from heart,
Father from son.

But there they are,
Each line a smeared memory
Stuck in my head
Like rice on the dining room floor,
Refusing to be brushed away with
Something as weak as will.

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KarlEd
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Nice one, erosomniac. [Smile]
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Lyrhawn
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I'd have considered posting something in here until I saw KarlEd's critique of T_Smith's poem.

::goes to hide in the corner with the other poetry impaired folk::

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Tatiana
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Wow, Lyr, a critique is high praise! It means the person liked your poem enough to mess around with it and try to improve it.

I haven't written any poems in a couple of years, myself. [Smile]

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T_Smith
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Pause me a moment of pure ecstacy
Let me go faster than light
Rebound that minute of child fantasy
Where dreams last more than a night
Unlock that door that is keeping me in
Unlock illogical thought
Let optimism no longer be sin
And Ill live in a land that is not.

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KarlEd
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I like that a lot, T. It sounds like a mantra or a prayer to a muse.
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KarlEd
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quote:
Originally posted by Lyrhawn:
I'd have considered posting something in here until I saw KarlEd's critique of T_Smith's poem.

::goes to hide in the corner with the other poetry impaired folk::

That makes me feel terrible. Should we not critique here? I don't want to discourage anyone from posting. On the other hand, I'd rather get a critique, myself, than no response at all. [Dont Know]
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erosomniac
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quote:
Originally posted by KarlEd:
quote:
Originally posted by Lyrhawn:
I'd have considered posting something in here until I saw KarlEd's critique of T_Smith's poem.

::goes to hide in the corner with the other poetry impaired folk::

That makes me feel terrible. Should we not critique here? I don't want to discourage anyone from posting. On the other hand, I'd rather get a critique, myself, than no response at all. [Dont Know]
It varies from person to person, obviously, but I wholeheartedly agree with Karl here, especially since what I've seen of his critiques is very to-the-point without being rude or indulging in PC "compliment sandwich" crap.
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T_Smith
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Karl, thank you for the compliment. Perhaps at one point I'll gather the poems written in the last two years and put them in one place so I can see if I've improved.

Personally, one should expect a critique when posting here, and if one is not looking for one, one can just as easily write "no need for critique", but I believe that is shooting ones self in the foot. Lyr, I would enjoy reading some of your work if you would care to share.

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Pelegius
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Other Streets, in Another Market.

I no longer believe in exclamationpoints.
from La meglio giovent
My mind drifted towards you,
Allen Ginsberg, as it is wont to do,
as the sun set over the Plaka
I went out,
questing for images.

As for style
I must keep my lines shorter than yours,
for in 50 years, we have rejected
long lines and exclamation points,
symbols of our misspent youth
and the dreams that faded
with the swish of the ducal robes of fur.

Under the bright holigan glare,
men sat speaking, smoking, laughing.
Still, no sign of Lorca
amongst the melons.
Nor do I see the Buddha
playing chess
under the watchful eyes
of a dozen theotokoi.

I wandered down a dark alley,
decorated with cigarettes, beer bottles
and other mementos of a saturday night,
and sawdust restaurants with oyster shells.

In the melancholy shadows,
I saw a Keatsean beggar sitting, smoking,
drinking and mumbling to himself,
concerning beauty, truth.

I silently walked on,
looking for poetry.

I wandered into smoke-opaque rooms
where men sat,
watching scores on plasma walls,
laughing, cheering
Brasil versus Hellas, Hellas scores
the boy cheers.

I silently walked on,
looking for poetry.

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TomDavidson
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quote:
My mind drifted towards you,
Allen Ginsberg, as it is wont to do,

I liked most of your poem, Pel, but this line actually made me laugh out loud.

The rest of it's pretty good, even if it's trying rather hard to wear its allusions on its sleeves. (I'd dump the "Keatsian" descriptor attached to the beggar, for example.) There's nothing wrong with exposing your influences, especially in poetry, but some of them are a bit too transparent. (And there's a diminishing rate of returns: when you quote a poem that in turn quotes a poem which quotes a poem, how far are you from the original inspiration?)

Out of interest, how do you feel about the "worldplay" thread?

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Pelegius
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Yes, well, the poem was inspired by a combination of main three things, an actual night out in Athens, T.S. Eliot's Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock and Allen Ginsberg's Supermarket in California especialy the idea of Allen Ginsberg being with me like Whitman was with him.
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T_Smith
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Perhaps I was dropped on the left side of my head, because I feel as though words are pus-like fluids seeping out of my ears, and not a single decent one can be retained long enough to flow out of my fingers and onto the page. Sometimes I put my ear over my keyboard in a vain attempt that they'll leak on the keys and that the prose will write itself. I'm far too unfortunate, though, because whenever I do so, all I end up with is scrambled French and German. Is it possible to cultivate my words in a jar, and run them through a centrifuge?
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Pelegius
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No Title As of Yet
I am not a Horatian character,
such heroic blood flows not in my veins,
I am a cynic, plain and simple.

A cynic cannot be a poet,
so I have been told,
go, write novels,
there is room for pessimism there.

But a poet must love,
like Mart loved Cuba,
like Dante loved Beatrice

I fear I love nothing,
nothing but myself.
I see myself in the mirror of humanity
a distorted image that still looks clear
I reach, it reaches back
Between us a pane of glass.

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TomDavidson
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Your poems are love poems, mainly to other poems.
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Pelegius
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Yes, I think so too. Actually, I tend to oscillate between deep cynicism and profound humanism. The former is a much easier position.

Thus, I present

The World's Shortest Prose Poem
There is cynicism and there is humanism and between them are synapses.

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sarfa
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Here's my first new one in years. Let me know what you think (oh yeah, girls suck).


Waiting


Pinky, ring, middle, fore

Fingers drum erratic
beats on the sofas side
while the digital clock
traps weary, darting eyes.

Pinky, ring, middle, fore

Ambulances driving
through my brain give sick hope;
rebutted by growling
knots lodged within my guts.

Pinky, ring, middle, fore

My head whips round to face
the telephone, willing
it to life, but it sits
silent and accusing.

Pinky, ring, middle, fore

My legs begin to shake,
so I leap to my feet
to continue my march
round the coffee table.
The concrete foundation
lies exposed in patches,
staring up through the worn
carpet. I curse the man
on the television
screen for laughing at me.
I begin to quicken
my pace, while my hands tug
at my hair. The muscles
in my legs ache. Sweat beads
on my brow. I collapse

back onto the sofa
to resume my solo
upon its threadbare side,
which echoes through til dawn.

Pinky, ring, middle, fore

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