Poetry

[moonmaster]

A thread for original poetry. Pretty self-explanatory.

I've been trying to write some decent poetry for about a hundred years now, and I suppose these are the fruits of my efforts. (Version 4 or 5 I believe, after about three weeks of casual writing and re-writing):

SHIVA IS WAKING

Shiva is waking
To judge the day.
Ajna opened
Bombs away.

His boundless ardor
Tumbles down
Splitting light and
Breaking sound.

Trapped in his shadows
The World lives and dies.
Is born again.
So many lives

Turning and shifting
In this great, mad prison.
Everywhere
Obliviously risen.

Risen not, as thought
From knowledge desired
But the coldest needs
That knowledge may inspire.

I take myself from the Fire
And my sight returns.
The air is choked.
Everything burns.

I realize in the afterglow
That The World is not the same.
It never was
And never shall it be again.

The burnt Earth smolders
Under Shiva's pointed stare.
Adam watches also.
The World stripped bare.

Palms outstretched
Time unfurled.
"I am become Death,
The shatterer of Worlds."


This was originally inspired by the concept from The Invisibles that the first A-bomb test was a ploy by Oppenheimer to open up a hole in reality, through which "God" fell through and was disected by the government. This disection reverberated backwards and forwards through time, causing all of the suffering that ever was or ever will be.

What do you think? I'm looking for actual criticism on this.

 

[moonmaster]

Nobody?...

 

[Joe Kalicki]

I suppose if I had my notebook with me I'd put up a poem I wrote for my girlfriend. . .

I'll try to remember tomorrow.

 

[Entropy]

Dreamsway

Sometimes, do you wonder where I went?
I'm caught in a moonbow -

on the edge of a smile,​

breathing stars through my eyes.
And while waiting for the light to drip,
I skip stones for the dreamers -

that you no longer are,​

because you've forgotten how,
how to smell the taste of outer-space.
Your magic is all gone -

and I'm still spinning spells.​

While you sit wide awake.

I'm really in no way competent as a poet, scripts and prose are far my bag. I try though.

 

[Hibiki]

Palms outstretched
Time unfurled.
"I am become Death,
The shatterer of Worlds."

This is my favorite part.

 

[ProjectX2]

Those are very good. I dislike poetry, mainly when I have to analyze and prove something that isn't always there... why should we study beauty, I suppose? I don't know. Just don't get me trying to write a poem.

 

[Joe Kalicki]

Since I said I'd post it, here's probably the worst poem ever written. I wrote it while my girlfriend was driving over to my house and it was, shall we say, a raging success.

Liz is the name of the girl I love
She likes when I give her kisses and hugs
To my eyes she is the absolute cutest
I couldn't be happier unless she was a nudist

She looks sexy naked
And I think we can make it
If we got married today we'd be happy together
If she went away I'd be lonely forever

 

[Entropy]

This is going to wind up being the preface to a piece of long prose I'm writing, but since it stands on its own, I'd thought I'd post it and see what people thought.

A nonsensiCal stoRy tOld in Some sevenTeen lInes of iambiC VERSE​

​

This is a tale that I wrote all alone,
Half at a party and a third on the phone.
I wish I could say that it wasn't untrue, or
Stitch open my mind to avoid telling you.

I stuck a red feather in my dunce cap,
Surrounded myself in gold shiny wrap.
Not to a ball did I gleefully go, but
To a funeral for a murder of crows.

And everywhere in the mundane crowd I saw. . .

Kind-hearted princes from faraway lands,
Imbibing cold blood with sweet marzipan.
Down on the altar a laughing clown prayed, all
Slashed to ribbons with straight-razor blades.

Thinking it wasn't the strangest of things,
At once did I leave with a crying girl king.
Laughing in fits we so joyfully went, and
Ended our lives after paying the rent!

 

[Joe Kalicki]

It feels very much like one of Dylan's "dream" songs from his early albums, combined with a perverse Lewis Carroll. I approve.

 

[Hibiki]

here's a poem....


rakes...
i hate them.
cheese blocks
i grate them

i beat kids when they pee themselves
i beat kids when the make me angry
the make me angry for the same reasons
i kinda wish they would all die

my boss just quit
i want her job
she said screw this crap
but she never even passed 7th grade

no lie.



discuss amongst yourself. I just had an ulcer.

 

[Planet-man]

I like Entropy's first one best. Very relevant to me, at least, if I interpreted right.

 

[Gideon Stargrave]

Here's my poem;


I bent you over
I took you hard
I knocked you out
And buried you in my back yard.

I'm so clever.

 

[Entropy]

I just made $50 bucks on this poem.

Chromatic Glissandos​

here
is a
poem that
has no real point
whatsoever than
to perform a somewhat
interesting phonetic
experiment by arranging
the syllables in a chromatic
glissando of one to twelve and back down
to one forming a very long sentence that
entails no deeper goal than for the artist to
make it work but soon finds it is spiraling
into nothing but a senseless conceit
of language and mental masturbation
that capitalizes upon the
vanity of youth obsessed
with its own ingenuity
to try and create
something that is
relevant
in its
mind

 

[Joe Kalicki]

Ha ha, you pretentious bastard! Soak 'em for as much cash as you can get!

 

[Entropy]

This one is a work in progress. I'll keep posting parts as I write them, but it's gonna be a long poem (I might start a thread of its own for it later on). Anyways. . . .

A FORLORN ARRANGEMENT

1.
"little by little"​

Little by little, they come and go,
not too many, but not so few.
Some with tears unchecked and others,
others only come for the sake of form,
or to satisfy a taste for despair.

The mood inside is definitely morose,
sick butter lights and damp colors
(brown and green and black),
stale coffee, gentle treads,
whispering prayers and wails,
and that bubble of hushing calm
that is the special climate around caskets.

The flowers are a bit like scattered confetti
(she had been very fond of carnations),
placing joy in an uneasy truce with the bleak mood
as people milled about, shaking hands and wringing others;
huddled in groups or sitting alone and lost in thought,
either fixated on or doing their best to ignore
her closed eyes that tear at their hearts.

Her skin is whiter than it should be,
even though she was a fair-faced girl,
caked with the harsh tones of make-up;
an attempt to mimic life. Her hair is styled
(an immaculate look that does not fit her),
her lips are full and still. A slender neck
traveling to the gentle green of her dress
(which seems the only natural point of the scene)
where her pale hands clasp over her breast,
and twine together with the beads of a rosary
that does its best to hide the scars on her wrist.

 

[Gideon Stargrave]

This one is a work in progress. I'll keep posting parts as I write them, but it's gonna be a long poem (I might start a thread of its own for it later on). Anyways. . . .

A FORLORN ARRANGEMENT

1.
"little by little"​

Little by little, they come and go,
not too many, but not so few.
Some with tears unchecked and others,
others only come for the sake of form,
or to satisfy a taste for despair.

The mood inside is definitely morose,
sick butter lights and damp colors
(brown and green and black),
stale coffee, gentle treads,
whispering prayers and wails,
and that bubble of hushing calm
that is the special climate around caskets.

The flowers are a bit like scattered confetti
(she had been very fond of carnations),
placing joy in an uneasy truce with the bleak mood
as people milled about, shaking hands and wringing others;
huddled in groups or sitting alone and lost in thought,
either fixated on or doing their best to ignore
her closed eyes that tear at their hearts.

Her skin is whiter than it should be,
even though she was a fair-faced girl,
caked with the harsh tones of make-up;
an attempt to mimic life. Her hair is styled
(an immaculate look that does not fit her),
her lips are full and still. A slender neck
traveling to the gentle green of her dress
(which seems the only natural point of the scene)
where her pale hands clasp over her breast,
and twine together with the beads of a rosary
that does its best to hide the scars on her wrist.

Very nice. But I still like my poem better (which, suspiciously, no one commented on). I'd point out stuff about your poetry if I actually knew enough about the subject to have criticism to offer.

 

[Entropy]

Here's my poem;


I bent you over
I took you hard
I knocked you out
And buried you in my back yard.

I'm so clever.

One comment deserves another. It could actually be flash poetry, but the last line just doesn't flow. I'd break it into two lines and possibly revise the flow of the rest of it.

 

[Gideon Stargrave]

One comment deserves another. It could actually be flash poetry, but the last line just doesn't flow. I'd break it into two lines and possibly revise the flow of the rest of it.

Um...thanks?

 

[Entropy]

Um...thanks?

I'm pretty much impervious to sarcasm, my good chum . Don't worry, I'd never dream of taking you seriously. And I mean that in the nicest of ways .

 

[DGspider-fan]

Here's my poem;


I bent you over
I took you hard
I knocked you out
And buried you in my back yard.

I'm so clever.

this is my favorite poem ever. :lol: :lol: :lol: