Bay 12 Games Forum

Finally... => Creative Projects => Topic started by: TD1 on August 06, 2014, 03:35:47 pm

Title: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on August 06, 2014, 03:35:47 pm

What? Why, yes, I know this thread ain't going to be popular. Still, nice to have it lying around, no?

So, this thread is to do with all things poetical. (And as of Reply 155, lyrics as well, it would seem!) Want help writing a poem? Ask here. Written one? Post it here. Want to discuss one? Post it here. Have a favourite one? Post i....

You get the picture. To start off, I'll post my favourite poem: The Listeners, by Walter de la Mare.

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‘Is there anybody there?’ said the Traveller,   
   Knocking on the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence champed the grasses   
   Of the forest’s ferny floor:
And a bird flew up out of the turret,   
   Above the Traveller’s head:
And he smote upon the door again a second time;   
   ‘Is there anybody there?’ he said.
But no one descended to the Traveller;   
   No head from the leaf-fringed sill
Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,   
   Where he stood perplexed and still.
But only a host of phantom listeners   
   That dwelt in the lone house then
Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight   
   To that voice from the world of men:
Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,   
   That goes down to the empty hall,
Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken   
   By the lonely Traveller’s call.
And he felt in his heart their strangeness,   
   Their stillness answering his cry,
While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,   
   ’Neath the starred and leafy sky;
For he suddenly smote on the door, even   
   Louder, and lifted his head:—
‘Tell them I came, and no one answered,   
   That I kept my word,’ he said.
Never the least stir made the listeners,   
   Though every word he spake
Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house   
   From the one man left awake:
Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,   
   And the sound of iron on stone,
And how the silence surged softly backward,   
   When the plunging hoofs were gone.

If posting a favourite/favoured poem, giving the author would help me to accredit it properly.

All poems so far posted. Those written by the poster will be noted with a "Written by himselfthemself"(Because I realised the gender problem writing "himself" poses):

Edmus

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Written by themself:

Y'all ain't never seen
Such nature as in the places I've been

Babbling brooks,
and flittering finches
Hidden nooks
and noble beeches

So shut y'all face hole.

Azkanan

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Edited by themself:

"A dwarf, a dwarf,
My kingdom for a dwarf!"
Cried the lord of the high dusty hall,
Little did he know though, this lord of the high dusty hall,
That a coarse dwarf called Porf lived in the high dusty hall,
Below the throne with a crone called Eeborf.
"The king," said Eeborf, "Calls for dwarf,
You should call all the dwarfs who built the high dusty hall."

Porf wrinkled his nose like crushed in pantyhose,
His beard like black bows and cheeks of rose.
"I'll call the dwarfs," said Porf, "and call the lord of the high dusty hall."

So Porf climbed to the roof with mountain goat hoofs
and from a horn was borne a call across the lands of Gorn,
"THE KING!" HE CALLED, "THE KING CALLS FOR A DWARF!
I AM PORF THE DWARF WHO LIVES UNDER THE HIGH DUSTY HALL,
UNDER THE THRONE WITH A CRONE CALLED EEBORF,
I CALL ALL DWARVES IN THE LANDS OF GORN,
TO COME TO THE HIGH DUSTY HALL TO ANSWER THE CALL!"

And in the high dusty hall sat the king of Gorn,
And much did his eyes not bore as Porf the Dwarf
and Eeborf the crone walked in alone.
"My king," kneeled Porf the Dwarf in front of the throne,
"I am torn and forlorn," he said with a tear of lead,
"I am the last dwarf, my kin are all dead."

Th4DwArfY1

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Written by themself:

When in your heart a gloom descends
And all seems black and dead,
Forget just what that thing portends
For this is what is said:

“Ah, music, music of my soul
Be calm, be still, be pure!
No grievances or pettiness-
My heart will not abjure.”

Take not the bristle of a thorn
And pin it in your flesh.
Take not the sting of living hell
And seal it in your breast.

Just harken, harken, hear my call
That through the darkness comes,
Don’t leave, don’t die, don’t fall
Live here where life and glory runs...

What’s this? The heart that beats is weak?
Just what is it you seek?
Some earthly gain? An end to pain?
Mayhap a shelter from the rain?

Death is no shelter. Death is no refuge.
If life is made of chains,
Then they are holding you aloft-
Go not where He in Evil reigns.

“Ah, music, music of my soul
Be calm, be still, be pure!
No grievances or pettiness-
My heart will not abjure.”

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Written by themself:

The mountains rose as jagged teeth
Above the land my fathers knew.
The rivers ran in frothing fonts
And all I saw was good and true.

The vales were green and emerald,
The sea was slate grey and free
And all the while the trees arose
And spread their leafy canopy.

The forests rolled from shore to shore
And boats abounded on the waves.
There birds of green and vibrant red
Were in the scree and hollow caves.

I wish to wander longer there
And see the land my fathers knew.
I want to know the yellow flowers
And see their golden coloured hue.
I wish to look upon the scene
Where all my kin have ever been,
I wish that I could breathe that air,
That lingers there, fresh and fair.

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Written by themself:

The dogs of war are nigh, are nigh
The horns of Satan ring.
The dogs of war are baying death
The Heralds praise the king.

Of carven throne, of yellow bone,
The king of death and war.
The heralds praise his strength of arms,
Which I myself abhor.

The gongs all sound the close of day,
The gates are closing fast.
The dead no longer need our fires,
Nor love to take repast.

You see them on the battlement,
You see them on the ground,
You hear their bays and calls
And fear that dreaded sound.

Some call them living men, the fools
That see such men wreak woe.
They say that they are men in suits
Made hard to kill their foe.

I care not, nor heed not, these words
For they have brought me pain.
You see them on the battlement?
Their strength seems not to wane.

For the dogs of war are nigh, are nigh,
And night is closing in.
So seal the gate, so seal the gate,
And then absolve our sin.

The blast of war has sounded now,
The gates are manned by Beasts,
And I must wander down the way
Where life and darkness meets.

The dogs of war are nigh, are nigh
The horns of Satan ring.
The dogs of war are baying death
The Heralds praise their king.

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Written by themself:

The boughs of old are branched above
The grave of Ilyenor
And with her lies brave Alveron
Beneath those trees of yore.

Now Ilyenor from Villa Parva came
Amongst the lords of Wood
And in Fangorn she made her way
Where elf-trees blew and stood.

An Elven-fair she once had been
And lived in Wooden Hall
Upon her brow a gem shone forth
Ere came the Forest’s Fall.

But aye, she fled and lived amongst
The village folk of man
And lived in Villa Parva Town
Where once the rivers ran.

Long years had passed afore he came,
The Noble Alveron!
His habergeon was golden bright
And on his breast it shone.

Upon his brow a leaf alit
Inside an emerald’s light
And in his hand he clenched a lance;
It blazed first gold then white.

A man from mountains tall and grim,
He’d fought the stony beasts
That lurked within the cavern halls
Where once the Dwarves held feasts.

To Fangorn came his lance and shield,
To fight the dead that walk:
They’d chased away Ilyenor’s folk
From greenery and Loch.

A glimmer through the forest came
And there stood Ilyenor.
Oh Alveron, that mighty man
Looked upon Ilyenor.

The beasts around him growled and howled,
Impatiently he smote
And into dark their corpses flew
Away from He of Golden Coat.

He turned to her, the Elven Wise;
She saw the bloody blade
And off she sped away from him
To peaceful lake and glade.

But ever came Brave Alveron
O’er misty loch and fell.
He sought her long beneath the wood
He searched the lonesome dell.

And at the border edge he saw
That Fairest Elven maid.
She laughed and sang in sunny light,
He sighed and cast his blade.

For Alveron the fighting man
Had long been fighting beast
And now he saw his heart’s delight
He wished it all to cease.

His habergeon in weeds he dropped,
His lance and shield he left,
The emerald fell to the ground-
But he was not bereft.

She saw him come, the Man Who Chased
She saw his face so fair.
His eyes of blue did pierce her heart,
The Light was in his hair.

No weapons bore he in his haste,
He ran towards the maid
And in the dark a figure rose
In which the light did fade.

It aimed at Ilyenor the Elf
And shot a bolt of night
That Alveron in front of leapt
To save his heart’s delight.

No habergeon of gold he had,
The bolt went through his breast
And ‘neath the trees he breathed his last,
An arrow in his chest.

The figure chuckled darky now
To see what it had wrought,
And back to Ilyenor it aimed,
But found not what it sought.

The Elven maid was in the trees
And saw a star on earth:
The blade of Alveron she found,
A lance beyond all worth.

The darkling figure did not see,
For still it searched the light,
Behind came Fairest Ilyenor
And smote this Beast of Night.

It fell, it howled! She wept as blood
Upon her face did spray.
She looked at Alveron who lay
Inside the trees, away from day.

Her face of beauty was besmirched
By tears that fell to ground
But still she brought good Alveron
To where she had been found.

There sang she long and sang she deep,
Her arms about him lay,
And in her sorrow did she sing
To Alveron of Day.

She spoke of water, tree and bough
Of moonlight on the lake,
She begged for him to come to her
She begged him to awake.

No stir made Alveron for,
He was beyond her song,
So now she sat and wept alone,
In grief both deep and long.

Her tears did seep into the ground,
A river did they seem,
And now she sang again, the sound
Was likened to a dream.

“Oh Alveron, oh Alveron!
Who now does lie away
Beneath no moon that I can see
Come back along my way.”

Thus saying she did lie beside
Good Alveron the Knight
And in eternal slumber sought
His soul amongst the night.

She died, aye, searching there in death
But found at last his soul
And there they dwelt together long,
The two were made a whole.

The tears she cried, the song she sang,
Enchanted earthly graves
And from those sacred waters grew
A pair of trees like staves.

They rose above the trees around,
They grew in sorrow’s wake,
But in their boughs now Alveron
In spirit form’s awake.

And at his side fair Ilyenor
In tree and branch does bloom,
For she went forth and saved her love,
She saved him from his doom.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Written by Emily Dickenson:

How the old Mountains drip with Sunset
How the Hemlocks burn—
How the Dun Brake is draped in Cinder
By the Wizard Sun—

How the old Steeples hand the Scarlet
Till the Ball is full—
Have I the lip of the Flamingo
That I dare to tell?

Then, how the Fire ebbs like Billows—
Touching all the Grass
With a departing—Sapphire—feature—
As a Duchess passed—

How a small Dusk crawls on the Village
Till the Houses blot
And the odd Flambeau, no men carry
Glimmer on the Street—

How it is Night—in Nest and Kennel—
And where was the Wood—
Just a Dome of Abyss is Bowing
Into Solitude—

These are the Visions flitted Guido—
Titian—never told—
Domenichino dropped his pencil—
Paralyzed, with Gold—

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Written by themself:

These tears. These tears. From whence fall you?
From turgid streams of pain and woe?
No. Tears like these fall from but one place
A place that all of us would fear to go.

From misery, that deadened land,
From horror and from painful grief
They fall, in drips and drabs from high,
They cast on me a mourning wreath.

This pain. This pain. From whence came you?
From heat or cold, in ice or flame
From lying in the burning sun
Or being drenched by pouring rain?

No. From inside my soul it strains,
This pain. An ache between my ears,
An inner, constant life of rains
And living with my living fears.

This cut. This cut. From whence came you?
To where does that crimson river flow?
It falls, in drips and drabs from high,
It goes, and in it lies my woe.

A knife, yet not my own, was thrust on me
A spear to lie beside my heart.
My life is done, yet youth I have:
I died before I ever got to start.

This hope. This hope. From whence comes you?
Baptise me now with your light, I beg
And I shall fly from here upon a wave of hope
And Hope to me shall be both arm and leg.

No. No hope, I was a fool,
‘Twas just a shadow
Coming swiftly, with a duel
Between myself and death
Slipping through the window.
Death has come to blot the sun.

I post too much, so if you want to see anything else I post, you'll have to read on through. I'm too lazy to put it all here :/

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And, because I'm lazy:
http://www.bay12forums.com/smf/index.php?topic=141897.msg5580032#msg5580032

T-Mick

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Written by G. K. Chesterton:

The gates of heaven are lightly locked,
We do not guard our gold,
Men may uproot where worlds begin,
Or read the name of the nameless sin;
But if he fail or if he win
To no good man is told.

The men of the East may spell the stars,
And times and triumphs mark,
But the men signed of the cross of Christ
Go gaily in the dark. . .

The wise men know what wicked things
Are written on the sky,
They trim sad lamps, they touch sad strings,
Hearing the heavy purple wings,
Where the forgotten seraph kings
Still plot how God shall die. . .

But you and all the kind of Christ
Are ignorant and brave,
And you have wars you hardly win
And souls you hardly save.

I tell you naught for your comfort,
Yea, naught for your desire,
Save that the sky grows darker yet
And the sea rises higher.

Night shall be thrice night over you,
And heaven an iron cope.
Do you have joy without a cause,
Yea, faith without a hope?

Fabulous death bringer

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Written by themself:

Slit, Crack, Stab, Stich.
Slit my wrist.
Let my blood be my ink
And write the words that died on the way to the page.
Crack my skull.   
Let my blood be my paint,
And color the canvas beyond I what my hand can do.
Stab my heart.
Let my blood act
All my emotion and thoughts without censor.
Stich me up.
Hold me close.
Let your love be my blood
So I can heal and become stronger.

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Written by Edgar Allan Poe:

It was many and many a year ago,
   In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
   By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
   Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
   In this kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love that was more than love—
   I and my Annabel Lee—
With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven
   Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
   In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
   My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsmen came
   And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
   In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,
   Went envying her and me—
Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,
   In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
   Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
   Of those who were older than we—
   Of many far wiser than we—
And neither the angels in Heaven above
   Nor the demons down under the sea
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams
   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
   Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,
   In her sepulchre there by the sea—
   In her tomb by the sounding sea.

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Written by themself:

My Pie

I sit in this café, eating a piece of pie.
At this moment I am the queen.
I am the picture of nobility
 my clothes are now the finest outfit in the city
and my manners are proper.
All the girls
envys my looks
    wish to be me,
while all the men
    feel desires of lust and romance.
Everyone’s job
 is to serve me
and please me.
I am perfect,
until I finish
my piece of pie

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Written by themself:

My love
He loves me and I love him
But we have not touched.
He is text on my screen
And I, the same to him.

He says “You can do better than him”
I tell him, “You can do better”
He could have any one he wants.
But he wants me.

He is my support, for when I falling down
My happiness for when I am sad.
My company for when I am lonely
If I lose him, then I lose me, for he is my everything.

I am weird, random, socially inept.
He is plagued with many demons,
Many more then what he has told me.
We will remained fucked up, together
Hand in hand.

Arx:

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Yes, this counts:

Behold from the past, a post arises;
Ancient and pow'rful, carried through ages
The post of warding, waiting, watching;
Cried by the masses, mindful of prizes:

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Written by themself:

Three AM comes and goes
Like the thistle and the rose
Is there purpose? No-one knows
Watch the moment, feel it flow

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Written by themself:

His boat floats down the river
Stained from the clearest snowmelt
Forsaking the trees, he wears purple
Living in his halls of stone.

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Written by themself:

Falling. Burning.
Tearing. Yearning.
White-hot sublimation,
Darkness' annihilation.

I hear the world calling
But calling not to me
Crying to the free
Or crying for the free

In the end it's no matter
Who they would have renewed
I am far the stronger
My might is raw and crude.

I will return from the light
Fight back to the blight
There can be no destruction
Of the hammers of night

Cmega3:

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Written by Emily Dickinson:

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops- at all.

And sweetest in the Gale is heard
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land
And on the strangest sea
Yet never, in Extremity
It asked a crumb of me.

Talvieno:

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Talvieno included a link to his poem here:

http://www.bay12forums.com/smf/index.php?topic=141897.msg5568148#msg5568148

Audioworm333

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Written by themself:

http://royalragequit.deviantart.com/art/My-Message-To-Pickup-Artists-476994915

Vlob:

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Written by themself:

Seven brave dwarves went through the gate,
the old gate of Mountainhomes,
off they went, not knowing their fate
was to die in pain and gore.

Their trip was long, gruelling and harsh,
but then they thought they'd succeed.
Then they arrived to evil marsh
and doubt has started to breed.

A massive tower, with giant spikes
made of black iron and stone,
stood there, piercing the thick gray clouds.
Of this they haven't been told.

But brave they were, they had no fear,
they came for riches and gold,
oblivious to the threat so near,
they established a dwarven hold.

The fortress have grown, more have come,
lured by the gold shine of coin,
and tower still stood, feared by some,
believed to be abandoned.

The fort rose to power and wealth,
fortune the dwarves have amassed,
too long they were lucky and safe,
they let their war axes rust.

Time has come, that all were proved wrong,
the dwarves have met their demise,
this was the day for them to fall,
the day for dead to arise.

Walls did not stop foul undead wave,
the bridge did not close on time,
and fought for life, the soldiers brave
but all efforts were futile.

Such was the price of dwarven gold
of coin and treasure and jewels.
And tower stands, for men to behold,
and to ignore, for such fools.

(Pour us some wine, buy us a drink,
for that we surely have earned.
Sober and thirsty dwarf can't sing,
at least when we are concerned.)

Urist Mc Dwarf:

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Written by themself:

Run from the shadow run from the light
Run from that that makes you fight
Run from the hate run from the love
Run from the hawk and run from the dove

Run from the pleasure run from the pain
Run from the honor run from the shame
Run from the market run from the house
Run from the eagle run from the grouse

Run from the in and run from the out
Run from the decision and run from the doubt
Run from the young and run from the old
Run from the dung and run from the gold

How can I live when I run
From everything under the sun

Then

Run to the shadow run to the light
Run to that that makes you fight
Run to the hate run to the love
Run to the hawk and run to the dove

Run to the pleasure run to the pain
Run to the honor run to the shame
Run to the market run to the house
Run to the eagle run to the grouse

Run to the in and run to the out
Run to the decision and run to the doubt
Run to the young and run to the old
Run to the dung and run to the gold

How can I live when I run
To everything under the sun?

Then

Run from the shadow run to the light
Run to and from that that makes you fight
Run from the hate run to the love
Run to the hawk and run to the dove

Run from the pleasure run from the pain
Run to the honor run from the shame
Run to the market run to the house
Run to the eagle run to the grouse

Run to the in and run to the out
Run to the decision and run from the doubt
Run to the young and run to the old
Run to the dung and run to the gold

Now I can live

Tiruin:

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Written by Rudyard Kipling:

IF you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!

sjm9876:

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Written by William Ernest Henley:

Out of the night that covers me,
      Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
      For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
      I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
      My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
      Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
      Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
      How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate,
      I am the captain of my soul.

Mastahcheese:

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Written by themself:

"So you think your lives aren't watched by the clock?"
He cackles and coughs, sputters and sneers,
"But when you reach the door, I know you'll knock.
I know three times, just like we did here."
And out he pulls his mysterious contraption,
"For the things we had, of knowledge, nothing,"
Meticulously measured, to divine infraction
"And even then, we never saw it coming."

Silthuri:

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Written by themself:

She looks out on the gloomy sea
Waiting for a sign.
A sight, a sound, anything,
To soothe her restless mind.
She knows not where he is
Nor if he yet survives.
She knows not when they'll meet,
But she'll stay till he arrives.
She'll always be a-waiting
There upon the shore.
She'll never lose her faith in him,
She'll only love him more.

He stands upon the lonely deck
Waiting for a sign.
He longs just for his one true love,
His dear and darling wife.
He wishes but to see her,
And hold her in his arms.
And ne'er again to leave her
And break her loving heart.
When last he left her waiting.
There upon the shore,
He missed her ere he left her
And he'll only miss her more.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Written by themself:

We have been beaten down
Left in the dark,
Out in the cold
No voice in the coming dawn.
The rising sun forsakes us.
This is the choiceless choice,
The grand finale,
The end of what was ours.
The silent voices,
The quiet pleas,
A cold winter’s wind,
We are feared, abandoned, despised.
Left for dead,
Barely alive
The innocent bystanders
Caught in the crossfire;
The ones who suffered
For those undeservingly superior.
No savior seems present
Nor answers our cries.
Our cold hungry pleas.
No conscience guides us,
No one beside us,
Nothing to catch us as we fall.
No light, no star to guide us
The world has left us
Deep within shadows of doubt
Hidden by secrets dear.
Imprisoned for life,
Sentenced to death.
Our own leaders have killed us
For rebelling against corruption
For simply being different.
The lightning points a finger
The moon casts us a hollow stare
The thunder drowns out our screams.
The clouds in our hearts
Roam across endless gray skies.
The blade of false hope
Pierces our minds.
Filled with painful apathy
We walk the night
In distant lands
In waves of silent solitude
Our souls deep in slumber,
Unlikely ever to be revived.
The animals we have become,
Our true unforgiving nature,
Remains caged within us
For the rest of time.
We are the lonely shadows.
Though we will never forget
What they put us through,
They forgot us;
We are the Forgotten.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Written by themself:

Oh snow. Drift silently down around me.
Frozen teardrops from the sky's gloomy eye.
Clouded by darkness as vast as the sea.
A gift from above from the clouds so high.

How thou reminds me of memories past.
Of life and of death, and of nights I have wept,
And a friendship, a love, not meant to last.
For what may be had when nothing is left?

I hate thee for the sorrow thou doth sow
And for the pain frozen deep within my veins.
Still, thou hast shown me the beauty I know
That allows me to forget all my pains.

No matter how much I find I hate you,
The truth is I shall always love you too.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Maya Angelou:

A free bird leaps
on the back of the wind   
and floats downstream   
till the current ends
and dips his wing
in the orange sun rays
and dares to claim the sky.

But a bird that stalks
down his narrow cage
can seldom see through
his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and   
his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings   
with a fearful trill   
of things unknown   
but longed for still   
and his tune is heard   
on the distant hill   
for the caged bird   
sings of freedom.

The free bird thinks of another breeze
and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn bright lawn
and he names the sky his own.

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams   
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream   
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied   
so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings   
with a fearful trill   
of things unknown   
but longed for still   
and his tune is heard   
on the distant hill   
for the caged bird 
sings of freedom.

Loam:

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Translated from Russian:

I loved you once: perhaps that love has yet
To die down thoroughly within my soul;
But let it not dismay you any longer;
I have no wish to cause you any sorrow.
I loved you wordlessly, without a hope,
By shyness tortured, or by jealousy.
I loved you with such tenderness and candor
And pray God grants you to be loved that way again by another.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Translated from DF Dwarven:

Alcohol is like a strong defender:
the bitter bite is a flashing sword,
the warrior is armored in a metal suit,
cold in covering iron - warm,
though, within; he gives heat to those
who drink of him, the fragrant blood,
and worries are warded off with levity.

But too much drink, and now for you
there is trouble; the warrior now turns against you,
his arm too great to oppose,
and the bitter tool of war strikes you.
The helm is split; the head aches, eyes are blind,
and you fall down, crumble in defeat,
because you made the strong one too powerful.

Apiks:

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Written by themself:

Rain crumbles
in the cacophony of silences,
the air shimmers
the city glimmers

Time indisposed,
exists now
light juxtaposed,
bleeds in view

It flows in the crevices,
unliving at last
sweeping the lives,
the lives of what once was

It rains. It rains red.

Tomasque:

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Written by themself:

See the jester dance,
His jewelled feet do prance,
While on his throne,
The king thinks to take a chance.

He calls a juggling test,
But can't use the tools,
and to him says the jest,
"You'll make the wisest of fools!"

So the king lies prone,
Jest finds the king a-moan,
He takes his gold crown,
and jumps up onto his throne!

He says, "Now this is just great!
It feels quite strange,
I like this twist of fate,
Why don't you dance for a change?"

He had to obey;
He rose from where he lay.
The king was a fool,
yet but in which very way?

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Written by G. K. Chesterton:

It is something to have wept as we have wept,
It is something to have done as we have done,
It is something to have watched when all men slept,
And seen the stars which never see the sun.

It is something to have smelt the mystic rose,
Although it break and leave the thorny rods,
It is something to have hungered once as those
Must hunger who have ate the bread of gods.

To have seen you and your unforgotten face,
Brave as a blast of trumpets for the fray,
Pure as white lilies in a watery space,
It were something, though you went from me to-day.

To have known the things that from the weak are furled,
Perilous ancient passions, strange and high;
It is something to be wiser than the world,
It is something to be older than the sky.

In a time of sceptic moths and cynic rusts,
And fatted lives that of their sweetness tire,
In a world of flying loves and fading lusts,
It is something to be sure of a desire.

Lo, blessed are our ears for they have heard;
Yea, blessed are our eyes for they have seen;
Let thunder break on man and beast and bird
And the lightning. It is something to have been.

NRDL:

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Written by themself:

The lies that we tell ourselves,
In truth, our greatest creations
The upright beast deludes itself
Into thinking itself a man
Or more
And so forgets
the hunger, and frost and fear from whence it came
So lost is it in fantasy that the word
Reality
Loses much of its potency
and all of its meaning
The Dream evolves
That which it is not it wants
Its true form something to be feared/forgotten/forsaken
Cast into the pit of never was and never shall be
It steps into impossible light
Not realising that its eyes are shut forever

Title: Re: The Poem Thread
Post by: Edmus on August 06, 2014, 05:24:50 pm

Here is my nature poem from english.
(to be read aloud in a southern accent)

Y'all ain't never seen
Such nature as in the places I've been

Babbling brooks,
and flittering finches
Hidden nooks
and noble beeches

So shut y'all face hole.

Title: Re: The Poem Thread
Post by: Azkanan on August 07, 2014, 04:20:34 am

"A dwarf, a dwarf,
My kingdom for a dwarf!"
Cried the lord of the high dusty hall,
Little did he know though, this lord of the high dusty hall,
That a coarse dwarf called Porf lived in the high dusty hall,
Below the throne with a crone called Eeborf.
"The king," said Eeborf, "Calls for dwarf,
You should call all the dwarfs who built the high dusty hall."

Porf wrinkled his nose like crushed in pantyhose,
His beard like black bows and cheeks of rose.
"I'll call the dwarfs," said Porf, "and call the lord of the high dusty hall."

So Porf climbed to the roof with mountain goat hoofs
and from a horn was borne a call across the lands of Gorn,
"THE KING!" HE CALLED, "THE KING CALLS FOR A DWARF!
I AM PORF THE DWARF WHO LIVES UNDER THE HIGH DUSTY HALL,
UNDER THE THRONE WITH A CRONE CALLED EEBORF,
I CALL ALL DWARVES IN THE LANDS OF GORN,
TO COME TO THE HIGH DUSTY HALL TO ANSWER THE CALL!"

And in the high dusty hall sat the king of Gorn,
And much did his eyes not bore as Porf the Dwarf
and Eeborf the crone walked in alone.
"My king," kneeled Porf the Dwarf in front of the throne,
"I am torn and forlorn," he said with a tear of lead,
"I am the last dwarf, my kin are all dead."

Title: Re: The Poem Thread
Post by: TD1 on August 07, 2014, 09:03:03 am

XD

Liked that one. Shakespeare would be proud!

Here's one of mine:

When in your heart a gloom descends
And all seems black and dead,
Forget just what that thing portends
For this is what is said:

“Ah, music, music of my soul
Be calm, be still, be pure!
No grievances or pettiness-
My heart will not abjure.”

Take not the bristle of a thorn
And pin it in your flesh.
Take not the sting of living hell
And seal it in your breast.

Just harken, harken, hear my call
That through the darkness comes,
Don’t leave, don’t die, don’t fall
Live here where life and glory runs...

What’s this? The heart that beats is weak?
Just what is it you seek?
Some earthly gain? An end to pain?
Mayhap a shelter from the rain?

Death is no shelter. Death is no refuge.
If life is made of chains,
Then they are holding you aloft-
Go not where He in Evil reigns.

“Ah, music, music of my soul
Be calm, be still, be pure!
No grievances or pettiness-
My heart will not abjure.”

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: T-Mick on August 08, 2014, 10:44:31 am

This little excerpt is from "The Ballad of the White Horse". It's an epic ballad, detailing King Alfred's victory over the Danes at the Battle of Ethandune. It is highly legendary in nature, in the sense that many supernatural elements contribute to the forces on both sides. In this part, the Blessed Virgin gives a prophesy to King Alfred, which turns out to not be what he was expecting.

The gates of heaven are lightly locked,
We do not guard our gold,
Men may uproot where worlds begin,
Or read the name of the nameless sin;
But if he fail or if he win
To no good man is told.

The men of the East may spell the stars,
And times and triumphs mark,
But the men signed of the cross of Christ
Go gaily in the dark. . .

The wise men know what wicked things
Are written on the sky,
They trim sad lamps, they touch sad strings,
Hearing the heavy purple wings,
Where the forgotten seraph kings
Still plot how God shall die. . .

But you and all the kind of Christ
Are ignorant and brave,
And you have wars you hardly win
And souls you hardly save.

I tell you naught for your comfort,
Yea, naught for your desire,
Save that the sky grows darker yet
And the sea rises higher.

Night shall be thrice night over you,
And heaven an iron cope.
Do you have joy without a cause,
Yea, faith without a hope?

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Fabulous death bringer on August 08, 2014, 11:21:20 am

My peom

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Slit, Crack, Stab, Stich.
Slit my wrist.
Let my blood be my ink
And write the words that died on the way to the page.
Crack my skull.   
Let my blood be my paint,
And color the canvas beyond I what my hand can do.
Stab my heart.
Let my blood act
All my emotion and thoughts without censor.
Stich me up.
Hold me close.
Let your love be my blood
So I can heal and become stronger.

My favorite peom: Annabel Lee by Edgar Allen Poe

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

It was many and many a year ago,
   In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
   By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
   Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
   In this kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love that was more than love—
   I and my Annabel Lee—
With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven
   Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
   In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
   My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsmen came
   And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
   In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,
   Went envying her and me—
Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,
   In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
   Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
   Of those who were older than we—
   Of many far wiser than we—
And neither the angels in Heaven above
   Nor the demons down under the sea
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams
   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
   Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,
   In her sepulchre there by the sea—
   In her tomb by the sounding sea.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on August 08, 2014, 11:34:26 am

The mountains rose as jagged teeth
Above the land my fathers knew.
The rivers ran in frothing fonts
And all I saw was good and true.

The vales were green and emerald,
The sea was slate grey and free
And all the while the trees arose
And spread their leafy canopy.

The forests rolled from shore to shore
And boats abounded on the waves.
There birds of green and vibrant red
Were in the scree and hollow caves.

I wish to wander longer there
And see the land my fathers knew.
I want to know the yellow flowers
And see their golden coloured hue.
I wish to look upon the scene
Where all my kin have ever been,
I wish that I could breathe that air,
That lingers there, fresh and fair.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Doomblade187 on August 08, 2014, 11:56:33 am

POSTING TO WATCH THIS THREAD BECAUSE COOL POETRY!!!

That will be all.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Arx on August 09, 2014, 04:59:57 am

Behold from the past, a post arises;
Ancient and pow'rful, carried through ages
The post of warding, waiting, watching;
Cried by the masses, mindful of prizes:

Posting to watch.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on August 09, 2014, 07:12:18 pm

The dogs of war are nigh, are nigh
The horns of Satan ring.
The dogs of war are baying death
The Heralds praise the king.

Of carven throne, of yellow bone,
The king of death and war.
The heralds praise his strength of arms,
Which I myself abhor.

The gongs all sound the close of day,
The gates are closing fast.
The dead no longer need our fires,
Nor love to take repast.

You see them on the battlement,
You see them on the ground,
You hear their bays and calls
And fear that dreaded sound.

Some call them living men, the fools
That see such men wreak woe.
They say that they are men in suits
Made hard to kill their foe.

I care not, nor heed not, these words
For they have brought me pain.
You see them on the battlement?
Their strength seems not to wane.

For the dogs of war are nigh, are nigh,
And night is closing in.
So seal the gate, so seal the gate,
And then absolve our sin.

The blast of war has sounded now,
The gates are manned by Beasts,
And I must wander down the way
Where life and darkness meets.

The dogs of war are nigh, are nigh
The horns of Satan ring.
The dogs of war are baying death
The Heralds praise their king.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on August 10, 2014, 09:56:19 am

My thread.

I can double post if I want :P

Ilyenor and Alveron

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

The boughs of old are branched above
The grave of Ilyenor
And with her lies brave Alveron
Beneath those trees of yore.

Now Ilyenor from Villa Parva came
Amongst the lords of Wood
And in Fangorn she made her way
Where elf-trees blew and stood.

An Elven-fair she once had been
And lived in Wooden Hall
Upon her brow a gem shone forth
Ere came the Forest’s Fall.

But aye, she fled and lived amongst
The village folk of man
And lived in Villa Parva Town
Where once the rivers ran.

Long years had passed afore he came,
The Noble Alveron!
His habergeon was golden bright
And on his breast it shone.

Upon his brow a leaf alit
Inside an emerald’s light
And in his hand he clenched a lance;
It blazed first gold then white.

A man from mountains tall and grim,
He’d fought the stony beasts
That lurked within the cavern halls
Where once the Dwarves held feasts.

To Fangorn came his lance and shield,
To fight the dead that walk:
They’d chased away Ilyenor’s folk
From greenery and Loch.

A glimmer through the forest came
And there stood Ilyenor.
Oh Alveron, that mighty man
Looked upon Ilyenor.

The beasts around him growled and howled,
Impatiently he smote
And into dark their corpses flew
Away from He of Golden Coat.

He turned to her, the Elven Wise;
She saw the bloody blade
And off she sped away from him
To peaceful lake and glade.

But ever came Brave Alveron
O’er misty loch and fell.
He sought her long beneath the wood
He searched the lonesome dell.

And at the border edge he saw
That Fairest Elven maid.
She laughed and sang in sunny light,
He sighed and cast his blade.

For Alveron the fighting man
Had long been fighting beast
And now he saw his heart’s delight
He wished it all to cease.

His habergeon in weeds he dropped,
His lance and shield he left,
The emerald fell to the ground-
But he was not bereft.

She saw him come, the Man Who Chased
She saw his face so fair.
His eyes of blue did pierce her heart,
The Light was in his hair.

No weapons bore he in his haste,
He ran towards the maid
And in the dark a figure rose
In which the light did fade.

It aimed at Ilyenor the Elf
And shot a bolt of night
That Alveron in front of leapt
To save his heart’s delight.

No habergeon of gold he had,
The bolt went through his breast
And ‘neath the trees he breathed his last,
An arrow in his chest.

The figure chuckled darky now
To see what it had wrought,
And back to Ilyenor it aimed,
But found not what it sought.

The Elven maid was in the trees
And saw a star on earth:
The blade of Alveron she found,
A lance beyond all worth.

The darkling figure did not see,
For still it searched the light,
Behind came Fairest Ilyenor
And smote this Beast of Night.

It fell, it howled! She wept as blood
Upon her face did spray.
She looked at Alveron who lay
Inside the trees, away from day.

Her face of beauty was besmirched
By tears that fell to ground
But still she brought good Alveron
To where she had been found.

There sang she long and sang she deep,
Her arms about him lay,
And in her sorrow did she sing
To Alveron of Day.

She spoke of water, tree and bough
Of moonlight on the lake,
She begged for him to come to her
She begged him to awake.

No stir made Alveron for,
He was beyond her song,
So now she sat and wept alone,
In grief both deep and long.

Her tears did seep into the ground,
A river did they seem,
And now she sang again, the sound
Was likened to a dream.

“Oh Alveron, oh Alveron!
Who now does lie away
Beneath no moon that I can see
Come back along my way.”

Thus saying she did lie beside
Good Alveron the Knight
And in eternal slumber sought
His soul amongst the night.

She died, aye, searching there in death
But found at last his soul
And there they dwelt together long,
The two were made a whole.

The tears she cried, the song she sang,
Enchanted earthly graves
And from those sacred waters grew
A pair of trees like staves.

They rose above the trees around,
They grew in sorrow’s wake,
But in their boughs now Alveron
In spirit form’s awake.

And at his side fair Ilyenor
In tree and branch does bloom,
For she went forth and saved her love,
She saved him from his doom.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on August 10, 2014, 04:23:42 pm

Ah, Emily Dickinson. That's a very nice poem by her, here's one I like:

How the old Mountains drip with Sunset
How the Hemlocks burn—
How the Dun Brake is draped in Cinder
By the Wizard Sun—

How the old Steeples hand the Scarlet
Till the Ball is full—
Have I the lip of the Flamingo
That I dare to tell?

Then, how the Fire ebbs like Billows—
Touching all the Grass
With a departing—Sapphire—feature—
As a Duchess passed—

How a small Dusk crawls on the Village
Till the Houses blot
And the odd Flambeau, no men carry
Glimmer on the Street—

How it is Night—in Nest and Kennel—
And where was the Wood—
Just a Dome of Abyss is Bowing
Into Solitude—

These are the Visions flitted Guido—
Titian—never told—
Domenichino dropped his pencil—
Paralyzed, with Gold—

The last stanza is just lovely.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Talvieno on August 12, 2014, 07:45:43 pm

I have a poem I wrote a while back... DF-related. I guess I might as well.

http://goo.gl/qcO3T (http://goo.gl/qcO3T)
Tim Denee illustrated a picture for it (in Tiny Pirate's "Getting Started With Dwarf Fortress" book):

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

(http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-MXY1lSFCHss/UR42y2VCvqI/AAAAAAAAAgY/jzggzFhe9qs/s1600/Forged+in+Love.png)

And then I guess there's my tumblr, which I haven't updated in... forever. Talvieno.tumblr.com.

My poetry is very much substandard. :P I'm not good at rhymes or keeping time. I tend to mess up any meter I try to use, too.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on August 12, 2014, 08:01:58 pm

I've read that poem, and there is nothing substandard about it.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on August 16, 2014, 07:02:08 pm

-snip-

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Doomblade187 on August 17, 2014, 12:09:35 am

Hm. Well done and depressing.

Say, does anyone in the world do uplifting poetry?

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on August 17, 2014, 08:50:36 am

Heh. Sorry.

Here's one I wrote a bit ago:

Oh why my son do you not go
Where rivers run and trees abound,
For there the rain and waters flow
In places where enchantment’s found.

There singing doth the birds arise
In hues of dappled brown and green
To fill the blue expanding skies
And light that special scene.

A frame of mountains glistening hang
About a gleaming loch
Where bards with chorded music sang
Of water, height and rock.

Oh why my friend will you not dwell
Where mists arise and flow,
Why won’t you live about the dell
Where wildling rushes grow.

The forests march about the hills
And spear the brooding sky,
The dell with music fills
As clouds go scudding by.

The hearth is warm, the waters cold
The skies with mountains full.
The cliffs agleam with sunlight bold
Are bright and never dull.

So aye, a place awaits you here
Where waters leap and flow,
And never will you have a fear,
Nor ever know of woe.

And a proper poet's work, one of my favourites:

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed--and gazed--but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

By Wordsworth, of course.

And here's one I wrote using the same structure as the above:

A shaded pond with silvered light
Revealed itself to scrutiny
Wherein I saw a lovely sight
Alike to emerald depths of sea;
There shook the fronds of sunken weed
Which waved to me with frantic speed.

Such was their haste I stood in awe
And looked about that gleaming pool,
For light there shone from all I saw
And in their depths the moon held rule;
For in the leaf strewn pond it hung,
As pale as silver glist’ning strung.

There white the moon held sway on high,
The trees’ reflections rearing tall
Within the fragments of the sky
Which leaves besmirched with autumn’s fall;
They hung about that heaven’s door
Before they washed upon the shore.

A shadow rippled in the scene,
And in the depths my face arose
To tremble there amongst the green
In which was drowned my human woes;
About my head was hanging strewn
A crown of leaf and argent moon.

No more I walk that forest lane
Or linger long beside that pool
Which split the forest glade in twain
And sparkled clear as leafy jewel;
There dwelt I long against all sense,
But life away has led me hence.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: IcyTea31 on August 18, 2014, 05:45:09 am

PTW, though I'm no good with poetry beyond the occasional haiku, and most of the poetry I read is not in English, so not something to post here.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on August 18, 2014, 08:11:18 pm

Yea, so, I woke up this morning and looked at the notebook I keep beside my bed. In it this was written, and I have no idea why I did it. I vaguely remember writing something in the book, but I was too tired to really think beyond sleeping.

In dagger hilt a flame of gold,
In silver blade a sheen of light,
On hilt of stone a gem of old,
In old mens’ eyes the gleam of sight.

In heroes’ hands a blade to kill,
In poet’s arms a force to keep
As in our minds a flame is still
That we have yet to reap.

The gleam of sword, the sound of coin,
The heat of flame, the flow of streams,
The heart of yore still beats its rhyme
Where heart and country deems.

Then I think I tried to write more, but it trails off into illegibility.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Orange Wizard on August 18, 2014, 08:25:30 pm

Posting to wwwwwaaaaaattttttccccchhhhhh.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Doomblade187 on August 18, 2014, 10:01:44 pm

Quote from: Th4DwArfY1 on August 18, 2014, 08:11:18 pm

Yea, so, I woke up this morning and looked at the notebook I keep beside my bed. In it this was written, and I have no idea why I did it. I vaguely remember writing something in the book, but I was too tired to really think beyond sleeping.

In dagger hilt a flame of gold,
In silver blade a sheen of light,
On hilt of stone a gem of old,
In old mens’ eyes the gleam of sight.

In heroes’ hands a blade to kill,
In poet’s arms a force to keep
As in our minds a flame is still
That we have yet to reap.

The gleam of sword, the sound of coin,
The heat of flame, the flow of streams,
The heart of yore still beats its rhyme
Where heart and country deems.

Then I think I tried to write more, but it trails off into illegibility.

Me likey. It actually has a pretty good ending point, I feel, though that could be me.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: tuypo1 on August 20, 2014, 01:55:26 am

i think i will start putting my poems from this thread http://www.bay12forums.com/smf/index.php?topic=141055.0 in here

they rarely rhyme but i like them

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on August 20, 2014, 07:35:00 am

This is the poem of a poet I met maybe a fortnight ago:

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/browse/167/1#!/20604600

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Audioworm333 on August 20, 2014, 06:31:16 pm

Wrote this (http://royalragequit.deviantart.com/art/My-Message-To-Pickup-Artists-476994915) just now.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on August 20, 2014, 07:02:18 pm

Sorry, that won't let me see anything.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Orange Wizard on August 20, 2014, 07:04:49 pm

You have to sign up, lie about your age, and then click "I want to see mature content".

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: tuypo1 on August 20, 2014, 07:57:59 pm

Quote from: InsanityIncarnate on August 20, 2014, 07:04:49 pm

You have to sign up, lie about your age, and then click "I want to see mature content".

i have 2 accounts one with my real age and one fake one it felt so good to ditch the fake one when i turned 18

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: tuypo1 on August 20, 2014, 08:00:28 pm

Quote from: Audioworm333 on August 20, 2014, 06:31:16 pm

Wrote this (http://royalragequit.deviantart.com/art/My-Message-To-Pickup-Artists-476994915) just now.

its beautiful

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on August 20, 2014, 08:04:56 pm

Tuypo, next time you want to post something else, could you just edit your previous post? I don't want to sound rude, but I don't want double/triple posting to become too common a thing :/

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: tuypo1 on August 20, 2014, 08:08:45 pm

Quote from: Th4DwArfY1 on August 20, 2014, 08:04:56 pm

Tuypo, next time you want to post something else, could you just edit your previous post? I don't want to sound rude, but I don't want double/triple posting to become too common a thing :/

i disagree i think that related additions should be edited in but i think that separate ideas should stay seperate

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: zlob on August 21, 2014, 04:46:56 am

Ummmm, this might sound childish and retarded, but this is a dwarven song I wrote some time ago:

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Seven brave dwarves went through the gate,
the old gate of Mountainhomes,
off they went, not knowing their fate
was to die in pain and gore.

Their trip was long, gruelling and harsh,
but then they thought they'd succeed.
Then they arrived to evil marsh
and doubt has started to breed.

A massive tower, with giant spikes
made of black iron and stone,
stood there, piercing the thick gray clouds.
Of this they haven't been told.

But brave they were, they had no fear,
they came for riches and gold,
oblivious to the threat so near,
they established a dwarven hold.

The fortress have grown, more have come,
lured by the gold shine of coin,
and tower still stood, feared by some,
believed to be abandoned.

The fort rose to power and wealth,
fortune the dwarves have amassed,
too long they were lucky and safe,
they let their war axes rust.

Time has come, that all were proved wrong,
the dwarves have met their demise,
this was the day for them to fall,
the day for dead to arise.

Walls did not stop foul undead wave,
the bridge did not close on time,
and fought for life, the soldiers brave
but all efforts were futile.

Such was the price of dwarven gold
of coin and treasure and jewels.
And tower stands, for men to behold,
and to ignore, for such fools.

(Pour us some wine, buy us a drink,
for that we surely have earned.
Sober and thirsty dwarf can't sing,
at least when we are concerned.)

I am not a native speaker so my vocabulary might be poor, but it's better to try than to do nothing at all.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: tuypo1 on August 21, 2014, 04:49:29 am

Quote from: zlob on August 21, 2014, 04:46:56 am

Ummmm, this might sound childish and retarded, but this is a dwarven song I wrote some time ago:

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Seven brave dwarves went through the gate,
the old gate of Mountainhomes,
off they went, not knowing their fate
was to die in pain and gore.

Their trip was long, gruelling and harsh,
but then they thought they'd succeed.
Then they arrived to evil marsh
and doubt has started to breed.

A massive tower, with giant spikes
made of black iron and stone,
stood there, piercing the thick gray clouds.
Of this they haven't been told.

But brave they were, they had no fear,
they came for riches and gold,
oblivious to the threat so near,
they established a dwarven hold.

The fortress have grown, more have come,
lured by the gold shine of coin,
and tower still stood, feared by some,
believed to be abandoned.

The fort rose to power and wealth,
fortune the dwarves have amassed,
too long they were lucky and safe,
they let their war axes rust.

Time has come, that all were proved wrong,
the dwarves have met their demise,
this was the day for them to fall,
the day for dead to arise.

Walls did not stop foul undead wave,
the bridge did not close on time,
and fought for life, the soldiers brave
but all efforts were futile.

Such was the price of dwarven gold
of coin and treasure and jewels.
And tower stands, for men to behold,
and to ignore, for such fools.

(Pour us some wine, buy us a drink,
for that we surely have earned.
Sober and thirsty dwarf can't sing,
at least when we are concerned.)

I am not a native speaker so my vocabulary might be poor, but it's better to try than to do nothing at all.

indeed it is better to try the english is a bit broken but i can understand it its a great poem

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Urist Mc Dwarf on August 21, 2014, 08:32:28 am

Run from the shadow run from the light
Run from that that makes you fight
Run from the hate run from the love
Run from the hawk and run from the dove

Run from the pleasure run from the pain
Run from the honor run from the shame
Run from the market run from the house
Run from the eagle run from the grouse

Run from the in and run from the out
Run from the decision and run from the doubt
Run from the young and run from the old
Run from the dung and run from the gold

How can I live when I run
From everything under the sun

Then

Run to the shadow run to the light
Run to that that makes you fight
Run to the hate run to the love
Run to the hawk and run to the dove

Run to the pleasure run to the pain
Run to the honor run to the shame
Run to the market run to the house
Run to the eagle run to the grouse

Run to the in and run to the out
Run to the decision and run to the doubt
Run to the young and run to the old
Run to the dung and run to the gold

How can I live when I run
To everything under the sun?

Then

Run from the shadow run to the light
Run to and from that that makes you fight
Run from the hate run to the love
Run to the hawk and run to the dove

Run from the pleasure run from the pain
Run to the honor run from the shame
Run to the market run to the house
Run to the eagle run to the grouse

Run to the in and run to the out
Run to the decision and run from the doubt
Run to the young and run to the old
Run to the dung and run to the gold

Now I can live

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on August 21, 2014, 01:01:46 pm

Was rereading Return of the King, so wrote this:

King Theoden the Brave went wandering
Pine trees were blowing, streams flowing.
They came to wood and flowers growing
Beside the road, he went wandering.
Enemies came, fire surrounding,
Knives there were, blood there was falling.
Son of Eorl with lance came striding,
Over foes the Brave man riding
On back of horse came Theoden quickly.
There Light he bore, none more kingly,
And smote he did the evil enemy,
The Southrons and the Witch King’s Army
To Gondor wandered Theoden quickly,
Afore the world grew cold and horse turned sickly.

Wrote another LoTR themed one:

The horn of Merry in the wind of yore
Was blowing through the grasses green.
The horses on its bowl did dance about
And fling their weight about that scene.
No Bullroarer to hold our walls in peace,
But Ent-Draught makes Entlings and Hobbits sprout,
And so came Merry, Sam and Frodo
Singing through the gates in time of doubt.

They came across their fellow man
Who long had sold their souls for rules,
But uplifted were the hearts of the opressed,
When Merry rang his Horn of many tunes!
They flocked around the banner then
To fight the dreaded men.
There Sam, the loyal servant came and rode
The sun upon his mail did gleam and shine,
And through the grasses Pippin strode
A Captain of the Bywater Battle,
A dweller on the banks of the Brandywine
Where waters flow and the Brandybucks did settle.

No foe could stand against those four,
For Frodo also rode that road
Along a lane inside the shire
Without his evil Load.
No Beast nor man, Orc or Hobbit fiend
No harm inside his native land.
The call went up, the weapons they did wield
Were held aloft with calloused hand
And on their arms they bore a shield
That shone a light throughout the land.


@Zlob:
Your poem was good, and I liked it.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on August 27, 2014, 04:21:24 pm

I'd appreciate it if more people would post their favourite/liked poems, but regardless here's one I wrote there now:

O’er field and fife, through toil and strife
Along this lane I gladly go.
The lowing of the cows I hear, that stick their heads
Brown-speckled over the hoary gate.
The sparrows flit in multitude,
In hosts most glory-filled with hope,
And know the gift that’s solitude,
A hand to those that cannot cope.

Yellow flowers, green-filled hedges,
Here comes the thunder to tear asunder,
The lines of brown before my eyes
The lines of rutted brown now fill with water.
Oh, little earthly lakes that fill
With water of the heaven’s tears!
For walking down that lane,
The sparrows flit and dive away,
And clouds come rolling in
That drives out sun and fearless day.

But yellow flowers will not dim,
The day will rise again.
So walk and live through sun and storm,
Come Light or falling rain.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Fabulous death bringer on August 27, 2014, 04:44:07 pm

My love
He loves me and I love him
But we have not touched.
He is text on my screen
And I, the same to him.

He says “You can do better than him”
I tell him, “You can do better”
He could have any one he wants.
But he wants me.

He is my support, for when I falling down
My happiness for when I am sad.
My company for when I am lonely
If I lose him, then I lose me, for he is my everything.

I am weird, random, socially inept.
He is plagued with many demons,
Many more then what he has told me.
We will remained fucked up, together
Hand in hand.

Made by me, for school, enjoy.....

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Fabulous death bringer on August 27, 2014, 04:48:48 pm

My Pie
I sit in this café, eating a piece of pie.
At this moment I am the queen.
I am the picture of nobility
 my clothes are now the finest outfit in the city
and my manners are proper.
All the girls
envys my looks
    wish to be me,
while all the men
    feel desires of lust and romance.
Everyone’s job
 is to serve me
and please me.
I am perfect,
until I finish
my piece of pie

another by myself

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on August 27, 2014, 04:56:02 pm

Quote from: Th4DwArfY1 on August 20, 2014, 08:04:56 pm

Tuypo, next time you want to post something else, could you just edit your previous post? I don't want to sound rude, but I don't want double/triple posting to become too common a thing :/

Same applies, I'm afraid, unless some time has passed since your last post :P

Regardless, I think the Pie one was very well done.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: sjm9876 on August 30, 2014, 01:51:31 pm

To put a name to Tiruin's, it's If, by Rudyard Kipling.

And to follow with one of my favourites:

Spoiler: Invictus (click to show/hide)

Out of the dark that covers me,
black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be,
for my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance,
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeoning of chance,
my head is bloodied, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath, and tears,
looms but the horror of the shade.
And yet the menace of the years,
finds, and shall find me, unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
how charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate.
I am the captain of my soul.

Written from memory, so excuse any errors.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on September 05, 2014, 08:31:06 pm

Quote from: sjm9876 on August 30, 2014, 01:51:31 pm

Spoiler: Invictus (click to show/hide)

Out of the dark that covers me,
black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be,
for my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance,
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeoning of chance,
my head is bloodied, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath, and tears,
looms but the horror of the shade.
And yet the menace of the years,
finds, and shall find me, unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
how charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate.
I am the captain of my soul.

That just became one of my favourites. It's always annoying to me that they can make it sound so effortless, almost easy. I envy 'em.

Ah well, here's another stab at it by me:

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

A tapestry of time,
No cloth so fair nor fine.
A net of woven strands to snare,
A gleam within a dead man’s stare.

Such is love and life,
Yes, even death and strife.
To each this tapestry will weave,
A tale of woe that can not leave.

But also hidden in the fold
Of time there lies some hidden gold-
Some recompense for all you lost,
Repayment for the dreadful cost.

A tapestry of time;
No cloth so fair nor fine,
For though the threads are dark
Its pattern’s not quite stark-

Some white amongst the black,
Some glimmer other weavings lack,
A smell of hope and taste of mystery
Offset by hate and misery.

Both in conjunction do so move
Within no preexisting groove
That time may lie within a fold of cloth
And we would not bemoan the cost.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: mastahcheese on October 03, 2014, 12:08:29 pm

Dwarfy wants me to post here because he's lonely.
(If you want to drudge my other stuff out of the Writer's thread, you can.)

"So you think your lives aren't watched by the clock?"
He cackles and coughs, sputters and sneers,
"But when you reach the door, I know you'll knock.
I know three times, just like we did here."
And out he pulls his mysterious contraption,
"For the things we had, of knowledge, nothing,"
Meticulously measured, to divine infraction
"And even then, we never saw it coming."

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Arx on October 03, 2014, 01:54:49 pm

I call these "stupid songs/poems get out of my head I'm trying to sleep". I cannot vouch for their quality.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

His boat floats down the river
Stained from the clearest snowmelt
Forsaking the trees, he wears purple
Living in his halls of stone.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Three AM comes and goes
Like the thistle and the rose
Is there purpose? No-one knows
Watch the moment, feel it flow

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on October 03, 2014, 02:36:06 pm

Ha, I get that too :P
Here's the one I posted in this thread:

Quote from: Th4DwArfY1 on August 18, 2014, 08:11:18 pm

In dagger hilt a flame of gold,
In silver blade a sheen of light,
On hilt of stone a gem of old,
In old mens’ eyes the gleam of sight.

In heroes’ hands a blade to kill,
In poet’s arms a force to keep
As in our minds a flame is still
That we have yet to reap.

The gleam of sword, the sound of coin,
The heat of flame, the flow of streams,
The heart of yore still beats its rhyme
Where heart and country deems.

Also, they flowed well, and let's face it-most poems are at best nonsensical :P

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Arx on October 20, 2014, 01:06:14 pm

And cross-post from The Writer's Apprenticeship to keep Dwarfy happy:  :P

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Falling. Burning.
Tearing. Yearning.
White-hot sublimation,
Darkness' annihilation.

I hear the world calling
But calling not to me
Crying to the free
Or crying for the free

In the end it's no matter
Who they would have renewed
I am far the stronger
My might is raw and crude.

I will return from the light
Fight back to the blight
There can be no destruction
Of the hammers of night

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on October 21, 2014, 01:45:40 pm

Poems for the poetry God! XD

Your offering has been considered.

You may not be sacrificially killed.

Here's one I wrote after reading some Dark Tower Books, quite a while back:

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Where once I met a man of steel,
Now I see a flaw.
Where once a gun, a sword or knife,
He has no thing to draw.

His face is lined in years and grief
But blue, ah softly, steely blue!
His eyes are crowned in water’s hue.
Ah, blue, bombardier blue!

This man of Gilead comes nigh
And on his head is sat a hat,
Beside me sits he, and with a sigh
He speaks in voice his father had begat.

“Fools. All Fall, these fools,
While still there is a Beam,
A path to tread, I’ll walk along
And grin, and laugh, and sing.”

This last was bit off, he looked at me.
Blue. His eyes, harpoons struck me there
And all that I could think was:
A hope. A quest, both good and fair!

His chin, hard and stubble strewn,
Was strong, his figure cast a shadow, fell and long.
It twitched, his mouth, a smile shone through;
Ensnared I sat and heard his song-

“The wild will call ‘cross the waste
And you shall answer with your heart.
The land will call for speedy haste
And you will make a questing start!
All felled, these fools, but hear me out!
The Beam is strung along the world!
A strut! Support! A banner loose unfurled!
Join me. Help me. Nay, ne’er whisper, but fearless shout!
Roland o’ Gilead a-questing has gone,
And you could come along.”

Blue. The sea. A craggy face about me swam,
And then he nodded, saw my soul,
Then left that town where I was born;
I went, to quest, to search and to
Roland 'o Gilead am sworn.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Silthuri on March 31, 2015, 06:08:52 pm

*Holds breath*

Spoiler: The Sailor and His Wife (click to show/hide)

She looks out on the gloomy sea
Waiting for a sign.
A sight, a sound, anything,
To soothe her restless mind.
She knows not where he is
Nor if he yet survives.
She knows not when they'll meet,
But she'll stay till he arrives.
She'll always be a-waiting
There upon the shore.
She'll never lose her faith in him,
She'll only love him more.

He stands upon the lonely deck
Waiting for a sign.
He longs just for his one true love,
His dear and darling wife.
He wishes but to see her,
And hold her in his arms.
And ne'er again to leave her
And break her loving heart.
When last he left her waiting.
There upon the shore,
He missed her ere he left her
And he'll only miss her more.

Spoiler: The Forgotten (click to show/hide)

We have been beaten down
Left in the dark,
Out in the cold
No voice in the coming dawn.
The rising sun forsakes us.
This is the choiceless choice,
The grand finale,
The end of what was ours.
The silent voices,
The quiet pleas,
A cold winter’s wind,
We are feared, abandoned, despised.
Left for dead,
Barely alive
The innocent bystanders
Caught in the crossfire;
The ones who suffered
For those undeservingly superior.
No savior seems present
Nor answers our cries.
Our cold hungry pleas.
No conscience guides us,
No one beside us,
Nothing to catch us as we fall.
No light, no star to guide us
The world has left us
Deep within shadows of doubt
Hidden by secrets dear.
Imprisoned for life,
Sentenced to death.
Our own leaders have killed us
For rebelling against corruption
For simply being different.
The lightning points a finger
The moon casts us a hollow stare
The thunder drowns out our screams.
The clouds in our hearts
Roam across endless gray skies.
The blade of false hope
Pierces our minds.
Filled with painful apathy
We walk the night
In distant lands
In waves of silent solitude
Our souls deep in slumber,
Unlikely ever to be revived.
The animals we have become,
Our true unforgiving nature,
Remains caged within us
For the rest of time.
We are the lonely shadows.
Though we will never forget
What they put us through,
They forgot us;
We are the Forgotten.

Spoiler: Snow (click to show/hide)

Oh snow. Drift silently down around me.
Frozen teardrops from the sky's gloomy eye.
Clouded by darkness as vast as the sea.
A gift from above from the clouds so high.

How thou reminds me of memories past.
Of life and of death, and of nights I have wept,
And a friendship, a love, not meant to last.
For what may be had when nothing is left?

I hate thee for the sorrow thou doth sow
And for the pain frozen deep within my veins.
Still, thou hast shown me the beauty I know
That allows me to forget all my pains.

No matter how much I find I hate you,
The truth is I shall always love you too.

Spoiler: My favorite poem, "Caged Bird" by Maya Angelou (click to show/hide)

A free bird leaps
on the back of the wind   
and floats downstream   
till the current ends
and dips his wing
in the orange sun rays
and dares to claim the sky.

But a bird that stalks
down his narrow cage
can seldom see through
his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and   
his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings   
with a fearful trill   
of things unknown   
but longed for still   
and his tune is heard   
on the distant hill   
for the caged bird   
sings of freedom.

The free bird thinks of another breeze
and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn bright lawn
and he names the sky his own.

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams   
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream   
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied   
so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings   
with a fearful trill   
of things unknown   
but longed for still   
and his tune is heard   
on the distant hill   
for the caged bird 
sings of freedom.

*Runs back into shadows to hide.*

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Loam on April 01, 2015, 09:26:38 pm

Kind of a necro but whatever. Here's a poem I was struck with recently, from Pushkin:

Spoiler: по-русски (click to show/hide)

Я вас любил: любовь ещё, быть может,
В душе моей угасла не совсем;
Но пусть она вас больше не тревожит;
Я не хочу печалить вас ничем.
Я вас любил безмолвно, безнадежно,
То робостью, то ревностью томим;
Я вас любил так искренно, так нежно,
Как дай вам бог любимой быть другим.

Spoiler: по-английски (click to show/hide)

I loved you once: perhaps that love has yet
To die down thoroughly within my soul;
But let it not dismay you any longer;
I have no wish to cause you any sorrow.
I loved you wordlessly, without a hope,
By shyness tortured, or by jealousy.
I loved you with such tenderness and candor
And pray God grants you to be loved that way again by another.

I haven't found a translation I really like, so I included the original. You know, in case anyone knows some Russian...

And while I'm translating poetry, here's one I wrote for the Dwarven Linguistics (http://www.bay12forums.com/smf/index.php?topic=147824.msg6125305#msg6125305) thread:

Spoiler: ak Nol-tu-Tovôn (click to show/hide)

Na abid on tu emen ùnadak:
nitig räduk, dastot risasiz in,
ïkor az onilun kel îk tosdat,
nekik ak olaltur datan – sirab
fabor nak; omam vúsh at izutuz
uzûd tu izot ór, nazush shosêl,
van obusmâl on séstin îk zalís.

Ot mân shaman omór, van voz bar than
kobmot; ïkar nastek than odeb voz,
öntak tu izot mân saràm soram,
van lòr räduk tu alnis abod than.
Zon îk ziksis; ser agseth, kêr nural,
van than busumid, usal ak kurång,
nabar gusemen than tor mân midor.

Spoiler: ak Nol-tu-Înglishil (click to show/hide)

Alcohol is like a strong defender:
the bitter bite is a flashing sword,
the warrior is armored in a metal suit,
cold in covering iron - warm,
though, within; he gives heat to those
who drink of him, the fragrant blood,
and worries are warded off with levity.

But too much drink, and now for you
there is trouble; the warrior now turns against you,
his arm too great to oppose,
and the bitter tool of war strikes you.
The helm is split; the head aches, eyes are blind,
and you fall down, crumble in defeat,
because you made the strong one too powerful.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: scrdest on April 02, 2015, 03:17:02 pm

The poem Tiru linked is 'If-', by Kipling, just for proper attribution's sake.

Also, Th4, your poems in the OP are really good! Do I sense a deliberate archaization, out of curiosity?

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on April 03, 2015, 08:39:41 am

Huzzah! Some life!

When I'm next on a computer I'll bring the OP back up to date.

And no, I don't think it was deliberate. I just like archaic themes and words.

Also, Silthuri, no need to hide! What you have posted thusfar has been good.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: apiks on April 12, 2015, 12:08:28 am

Was in a fey mood and tried my inexperienced hand at an original. This thread shall live.

Spoiler: It rains (click to show/hide)

Rain crumbles
in the cacophony of silences,
the air shimmers
the city glimmers

Time indisposed,
exists now
light juxtaposed,
bleeds in view

It flows in the crevices,
unliving at last
sweeping the lives,
the lives of what once was

It rains. It rains red.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Tomasque on February 02, 2016, 10:46:07 pm

 I necro this. I believe that this poe thread should live.

 

Spoiler: The Jester's Dance (click to show/hide)

Written by me

See the jester dance.
On jeweled feet does prance.
and on his throne,
The king thinks to take a chance.

He calls a juggling test,
but he cant know the rules.
And to him says the jest,
"Youll make the wisest of fools!"

 The poems longer, but I don't have time to post the whole thing.

By the way, The Listeners is an amazing poem. Here's one of my favorites:

Spoiler: The Great Minumum (click to show/hide)

By Chesterton, Gilbert Keith

It is something to have wept as we have wept,
It is something to have done as we have done,
It is something to have watched when all men slept,
And seen the stars which never see the sun.

It is something to have smelt the mystic rose,
Although it break and leave the thorny rods,
It is something to have hungered once as those
Must hunger who have ate the bread of gods.

To have seen you and your unforgotten face,
Brave as a blast of trumpets for the fray,
Pure as white lilies in a watery space,
It were something, though you went from me to-day.

To have known the things that from the weak are furled,
Perilous ancient passions, strange and high;
It is something to be wiser than the world,
It is something to be older than the sky.

In a time of sceptic moths and cynic rusts,
And fatted lives that of their sweetness tire,
In a world of flying loves and fading lusts,
It is something to be sure of a desire.

Lo, blessed are our ears for they have heard;
Yea, blessed are our eyes for they have seen;
Let thunder break on man and beast and bird
And the lightning. It is something to have been.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on February 03, 2016, 08:02:51 am

Did you intend to have a broken rhythm in your poem? It works as it is, though, I think.

Also, The Great Minimum is a Great poem too.

Here's one of mine

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Chained Worlds

There lie some worlds we cannot see
Within our thoughts and in our minds
That hold – unseen – such folk as strange
As any that a sleeping dreamer finds.

And here I wandered long of old, was told
That I was vague or far, my name was mist
Upon a wind of thought. But how I sang
Within the chains of thought, just like the stars

As they bed down for day. Sometimes I look
Into the heaven's vault that hides such wonders
And I think of tales our fathers knew, of love for
Sweeping rain, soft mist and mighty thunder.

Within some eldritch mystic wood the people walk
For nothing but to cry that they exist unto the sky -
And there I walked, and there I flew and sang
Without regard to how the minutes swept me by.

And I was happy, 'til the rolling years
Locked gates I'd never known to be.
But shush, as Thomas cried of time
I'll sing despite the chains, and my voice
Will be as the sea.

And one of Yeats'

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Sailing to Byzantium

 That is no country for old men. The young
In one another’s arms, birds in the trees
—Those dying generations—at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.

An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.

O sages standing in God’s holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.

Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: NRDL on February 03, 2016, 08:25:04 am

Ah Yeats.  Such nice poems, so easily ruined by compulsory school modules.

One of mine:

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

The lies that we tell ourselves,
In truth, our greatest creations
The upright beast deludes itself
Into thinking itself a man
Or more
And so forgets
the hunger, and frost and fear from whence it came
So lost is it in fantasy that the word
Reality
Loses much of its potency
and all of its meaning
The Dream evolves
That which it is not it wants
Its true form something to be feared/forgotten/forsaken
Cast into the pit of never was and never shall be
It steps into impossible light
Not realising that its eyes are shut forever

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Tomasque on March 13, 2016, 05:44:48 pm

 Jeez, I meant to do this a lot sooner, but I forgot. Here's the complete poem. I've written the syllable count and "rhyme" next to each line to show how the poem is structured.

Spoiler: The Jester's Dance (click to show/hide)

Written by me.


See the jester dance,                     A  5

His jeweled feet do prance,             A  6

While on his throne,                       B  5

The king thinks to take a chance.    A  7


He calls a juggling test,                   A  7

But can't use the tools,                    B  5

and to him says the jest,                 A  6

"You'll make the wisest of fools!"      B  7


So the king lies prone,                     A  5

Jest finds the king a-moan,              A  6

He takes his gold crown,                  B  5

and jumps up onto his throne!          A  7


He says, "Now this is just great!       A  7

It feels quite strange,                      B  5

I like this twist of fate,                     A  6

Why don't you dance for a change?"  B  7


He had to obey;                               A  5

He rose from where he lay.               A  6

The king was a fool,                          B  5

yet but in which very way?                A  7

 Maybe more poems to come. Does anyone like The Little Prince?

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on March 13, 2016, 06:36:59 pm

Finally got around to updating the OP. All authors of non Forum user origin have been accredited properly, "himself" has been changed to "themself," and all poems (barring most of mine) have been added.

That took longer than I had thought it would.

Quote from: Tomasque on March 13, 2016, 05:44:48 pm

Jeez, I meant to do this a lot sooner, but I forgot. Here's the complete poem. I've written the syllable count and "rhyme" next to each line to show how the poem is structured.

Spoiler: The Jester's Dance (click to show/hide)

Written by me.


See the jester dance,                     A  5

His jeweled feet do prance,             A  6

While on his throne,                       B  5

The king thinks to take a chance.    A  7


He calls a juggling test,                   A  7

But can't use the tools,                    B  5

and to him says the jest,                 A  6

"You'll make the wisest of fools!"      B  7


So the king lies prone,                     A  5

Jest finds the king a-moan,              A  6

He takes his gold crown,                  B  5

and jumps up onto his throne!          A  7


He says, "Now this is just great!       A  7

It feels quite strange,                      B  5

I like this twist of fate,                     A  6

Why don't you dance for a change?"  B  7


He had to obey;                               A  5

He rose from where he lay.               A  6

The king was a fool,                          B  5

yet but in which very way?                A  7

 Maybe more poems to come. Does anyone like The Little Prince?

That poem reminds me of a mix between McClean's American Pie and King Lear.

Also, the Little Prince? I don't think I have heard of it.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Tomasque on March 13, 2016, 07:29:43 pm

Quote

Oh and while the king was looking down
The jester stole his thorny crown

This line actually was my inspiration to write the poem.

 Which King Lear do you mean? The Shakespeare play, or one of the (few) songs named after it?

Quote from: Th4DwArfY1 on March 13, 2016, 06:36:59 pm

Also, the Little Prince? I don't think I have heard of it.

It's a book about a guy who emergency lands his plane in the desert, and finds a child who turns out to be from an astroid-sized planet all by himself (and his flower). The story of the Little Prince's life and his bizarre journey to Earth is revealed bit by bit. The story is a really well-written commentary on the foolish mindset of adults, told from the point of view of the airplane pilot (who empathizes with the Little Prince's view of adults).

 In other words: Read the book, then I'll post the poem up here.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on March 14, 2016, 10:57:34 am

King Lear the play. I haven't heard any of the songs.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Tomasque on March 16, 2016, 12:04:04 am

Okay. Have you read the book yet or are you planning to? I won't hold back spoilers needlessly, since not posting could kill this thread.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on March 16, 2016, 10:59:26 am

Nah, haven't read the book. No way to read it even if I wanted to.

Besides, this thread is already dead. It just hasn't quite acknowledged it yet :P

Long may that last, haha.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: scrdest on March 17, 2016, 09:47:17 am

Quote from: Th4DwArfY1 on February 03, 2016, 08:02:51 am

Did you intend to have a broken rhythm in your poem? It works as it is, though, I think.

Also, The Great Minimum is a Great poem too.

Here's one of mine

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Chained Worlds

There lie some worlds we cannot see
Within our thoughts and in our minds
That hold – unseen – such folk as strange
As any that a sleeping dreamer finds.

And here I wandered long of old, was told
That I was vague or far, my name was mist
Upon a wind of thought. But how I sang
Within the chains of thought, just like the stars

As they bed down for day. Sometimes I look
Into the heaven's vault that hides such wonders
And I think of tales our fathers knew, of love for
Sweeping rain, soft mist and mighty thunder.

Within some eldritch mystic wood the people walk
For nothing but to cry that they exist unto the sky -
And there I walked, and there I flew and sang
Without regard to how the minutes swept me by.

And I was happy, 'til the rolling years
Locked gates I'd never known to be.
But shush, as Thomas cried of time
I'll sing despite the chains, and my voice
Will be as the sea.

I have a nagging feeling that the last line of the first stanza would scan better without the 'sleeping'.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TheBiggerFish on March 17, 2016, 05:18:15 pm

I'm going to PTW this.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TheBiggerFish on March 21, 2016, 09:07:46 pm

(bump?)

The poetry thread is
And yet nobody uses it.
Much sad very haiku

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Tomasque on March 21, 2016, 10:23:49 pm

Hey guys, I'll be starting a poetry contest soon. Where should I put it?

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on March 21, 2016, 10:47:22 pm

Quote from: TheBiggerFish on March 21, 2016, 09:07:46 pm

(bump?)

The poetry thread is
And yet nobody uses it.
Much sad very haiku

The thread is not used
As much as I would like it,
So don't expect life.

Quote from: Tomasque on March 21, 2016, 10:23:49 pm

Hey guys, I'll be starting a poetry contest soon. Where should I put it?

Contests are good, so
Put it where you want it, man
And see where you are.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Tomasque on March 21, 2016, 11:10:36 pm

Creative Projects
or General Discussions?
Perhaps somewhere else?

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on March 21, 2016, 11:16:34 pm

((Good one!))

Creative projects
Is most likely I would say,
But you decide it.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TheBiggerFish on March 22, 2016, 05:06:35 am

I would too suggest
Creative Projects for this.
But it is your choice.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: hops on March 30, 2016, 06:03:41 am

PTW

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TheBiggerFish on March 30, 2016, 09:43:50 am

Yay, Cinder PTW.
It is good to see this day.
Refrigerator.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Solifuge on April 06, 2016, 02:24:20 pm

Two and two,
Bare footsteps fall on blades
Of grass,
A mass of edges cool and soft
And sharp
For bruised ones.
In warmer rains
They press them flat,
First with timid step
Then stride
Side by side.
A path trod safe
For bruised ones.

Tokens given,
Words said twice,
It's nice
To share a dream sometime.

Hand in hand,
Across a darkling land,
Up foothills hard as mountains
To an outlander.
But at the top
A full-sweet moon hung low,
Promethean fruit, aglow
In borrowed fire,
While far below
Bright Winter's waters
Washed away old wounds,
And night bloomed to Spring
The rarest thing
For an outlander.

Glances given
Lips pressed twice
It's nice
To share a dream sometime.

At least for some time.

Moment by moment,
The soft nights lapse.
"Acta est Fabula!"
As Morpheus claps.
And curtains,
Sharply drawn
Admit
A sharper dawn.

One and one, now.
Shod footsteps fall
On white pavement.
Hills, like nothing
Stretch ahead, behind,
A quiet sea of snow.
While, fire taken long ago,
The Sun above burns colder.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on April 06, 2016, 07:55:02 pm

That's a brilliant poem, Solifuge. I really like the repetition of important phrases, and the very theme. Also, "Promethean fruit aglow" is my new favourite description :P

I do think the last stanza could be improved slightly, (the last two lines are slightly off-pace, I'd say) but it's so slight that it really doesn't detract from it.

Two by me:

Where oft the Dionysian sits
And sups his cup of wine
In maddened thought of older days -
When gods controlled the heavens
And all the careful, rule-led ways
Of man were charted as the stars,
Each in his own allotted time -
There fills a pool made of eternity.
Here the fair drinker sighs into his cup
And thinks that pool is nestled in his glass,
Never aware that as he dreams, he drains
Into the stillness of the water, drop by drop.


The second one:

I am he who the poet said once flew
The sound-fraught bay, vex'd the dim seas
And sped the globe around to chase
The rainy Hyades.
I've smelled the ocean brine
And knew it well - each curve,
Each twist of its tempestuous swell
Laid open for my eyes.

The far-off wooded cove oft struck my sight
When on the sea-tossed boards,
And often when the ship was slow
Strained forward, ever forward
With thought and mind in equal store
Yearning to set my foot upon the distant shore.

But now a sea-dog left to dry,
I while away the dreary hours,
Well liked, and oft remarked to cry
“Oh how I'd sell my soul for but one fee,
To ride once more upon the rolling sea!”

Yet I am old, and age hath left me
But a shadow of my youth,
Kept nothing of my features bold,
But graven on me the likeness of death.
The blood that courses in my veins is cold,
But not from just the passing years.
You may not see it, who hears this tale
But I have wept a thousand tears
For every week away from Neptune's hold.

Take me on board and I will serve
As faithfully as God does man.
Let me once more feel land's retreat
And I will kneel down at your feet,
The broken remnant of a broken sailor.
Once, I fought on land and sea for glory,
For distinction dearly won, and wore it well,
But it does me no favour now
When I must ask with bated breath
If when you leave this god forsaken isle
You'll berth one more to sail before the swell.

Edit Edit Edit: Thanks to Smirk for the improved ending!

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: smirk on April 06, 2016, 11:07:39 pm

...hmm. Had to go back a few lines to change the rhyme, but what about:

Quote

For distinction dearly won, and wore it well,
But it does me no favour now
When I must ask with bated breath
That when you leave this god forsaken isle
You berth one more to sail before the swell.

Hells, I'm not at all sure that's an improvement; I like your ending too. It's an excellent piece! I'm a sucker for sea imagery, and you've got it down in a very evocative manner.


@Solifuge: O_o I like. It flows so well! And this:

Quote

And curtains,
Sharply drawn
Admit
A sharper dawn.

...might be the best thing I've read all week.


^{_{eurgh. Need to go improve my own writing and post something. ...eventually.}}

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on April 07, 2016, 08:08:27 am

Smirk - that's an excellent ending. Thank you! I'll change it now.

As for improving your writing, just write. "Good" is subjective - so long as it appeals to someone, then it's better having existed than not. Besides, given the way you helped me, I don't know that you need to improve all that much at all.

I always like to see people getting into poetry - keep at it!

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on May 04, 2016, 07:15:49 pm

Deep in the depths of darkness rise
The pearls of silver, golden eyes
And ribbons made of steel.
Whatever man has made for king,
Whatever he has thought to feel
Captured is by my hand, upon a ring.

Fountains of fury burst from stone,
The bellows make a distant moan
And door stands open to the yard.
I am a Blacksmith, simple-born
Raised in a landscape plain and hard,
Yet of my past life I am shorn.

Here flows the golden river bright
Blinding to man who has no sight,
Fairest to those who fair are not.
This stream I mould to suit my mood;
Made bright by demons I have fought,
Or plain when thought is calm and good.

And still I pound the anvil on,
Embrace it as a birthing song
And set the chaos of creation free.
The strain is fierce, but delicate
I craft the fairest jewellery,
So ladies can feel elegant.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Tomasque on May 04, 2016, 10:31:10 pm

 I like that dwarf poem, and how it reveals the hard truth behind what other see as shiny baubles.

 Here's a poem that's probably going to be hard to understand. Look in the spoiler for the explanation.

'vil-at-Nawton was - eh - no's rep naedud
desructon. We, bro Waltn, all a-give
'e vigallant law orb (ew not curs-ed
dude) an' person he saw not wanta liv!

 

Spoiler: Explanation (click to show/hide)

This poem is a palindrome, with none of the letters "carrying across" the lines of the poem (first line forwards is the last line backwards, 2nd line forwards is 3rd line backwards). It is written in an ABAB rhyming scheme, and is in iambic pentameter.

 Despite all this, it still sounds pretty incoherent. The reason is because it only makes sense in a specific context. It follows the first night of a Mafia game of mine, and is written from the point of view of one of the insane townsfolk. It begins by almost revealing the "Evil" of the town, but instead decides to not "ruin anyone's reputation." Then it contradicts itself by seemingly addressing the evil Walton directly, and explaining to him how the Orb was given to an "uncursed person" (referring to the Saint of the Pure), and how that person looked at someone and realized they did not want to live (referring to how he inspected the jester role "Madderman").

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: FallacyofUrist on May 05, 2016, 08:37:21 am

Oh, so that's what it meant.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TheBiggerFish on May 05, 2016, 10:33:12 pm

Quote from: FallacyofUrist on May 05, 2016, 08:37:21 am

Oh, so that's what it meant.

Were the roles also supposed to mean stuff?

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Solifuge on May 20, 2016, 04:24:55 am

Here's something I didn't write. Quick Background; John Milo Ford was a Science Fiction author with a habit of engaging in random acts of creativity throughout his day to day life, often in unexpected spaces. Neil Gaiman mentioned him turning memo emails and invitations into songs, etc. If you're curious, here's an online retrospective on some of his works: http://nielsenhayden.com/makinglight/archives/008033.html#008033 (http://nielsenhayden.com/makinglight/archives/008033.html#008033)

Anyway, something about a sonnet like this being written as a passing comment on a blog post really struck me. Ephemeral beauty in an ephemeral place, for ephemeral creatures.

---

John M. Ford, October 13, 2003 (http://nielsenhayden.com/electrolite/archives/003789.html)

The worm drives helically through the wood
And does not know the dust left in the bore
Once made the table integral and good;
And suddenly the crystal hits the floor.
Electrons find their paths in subtle ways,
A massless eddy in a trail of smoke;
The names of lovers, light of other days --
Perhaps you will not miss them. That's the joke.
The universe winds down. That's how it's made.
But memory is everything to lose;
Although some of the colors have to fade,
Do not believe you'll get the chance to choose.

Regret, by definition, comes too late;
Say what you mean. Bear witness. Iterate.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: IcyTea31 on May 22, 2016, 04:10:30 pm

Crossposting from mildsad thread to let it rerail:

Quote from: Th4DwArfY1 on May 22, 2016, 03:45:10 pm

((I should specify it's better known as "Common Meter" but I find that title lessens it, so I use the less-known name of "Bardic Meter."))

The Ballad Meter's not so strict
yet follows the same rules
a close cousin and soon with it
I'll pay my poem dues

The Ballad Meter is great: it lets me excuse near-rhymes and breaks from meter as 'conversational'.

I should post more in this thread; writing poems is pretty fun, even if I only really use them to be witty when prose just won't cut it.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: StrawBarrel on May 30, 2016, 12:55:19 pm

Warning: Long poem.

G-9, by Tim Dlugos (http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poems/detail/55132)

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

 I’m at a double wake
 in Springfield, for a childhood
 friend and his father
 who died years ago. I join
 my aunt in the queue of mourners
 and walk into a brown study,
 a sepia room with books
 and magazines. The father’s
 in a coffin; he looks exhumed,
 the worse for wear. But where
 my friend’s remains should be
 there’s just the empty base
 of an urn. Where are his ashes?
 His mother hands me
 a paper cup with pills:
 leucovorin, Zovirax,
 and AZT. “Henry
 wanted you to have these,”
 she sneers. “Take all
 you want, for all the good
 they’ll do.” “Dlugos.
 Meester Dlugos.” A lamp
 snaps on. Raquel,
 not Welch, the chubby
 nurse, is standing by my bed.
 It’s 6 a.m., time to flush
 the heplock and hook up
 the I.V. line. False dawn
 is changing into day, infusing
 the sky above the Hudson
 with a flush of light.
 My roommate stirs
 beyond the pinstriped curtain.
 My first time here on G-9,
 the AIDS ward, the cheery
 D & D Building intentionality
 of the decor made me feel
 like jumping out a window.
 I’d been lying on a gurney
 in an E.R. corridor
 for nineteen hours, next to
 a psychotic druggie
 with a voice like Abbie
 Hoffman’s. He was tied
 up, or down, with strips
 of cloth (he’d tried to slug
 a nurse) and sent up
 a grating adenoidal whine
 all night. “Nurse . . . nurse . . .
 untie me, please . . . these
 rags have strange powers.”
 By the time they found
 a bed for me, I was in
 no mood to appreciate the clever
 curtains in my room,
 the same fabric exactly
 as the drapes and sheets
 of a P-town guest house
 in which I once—partied? stayed?
 All I can remember is
 the pattern. Nor did it
 help to have the biggest queen
 on the nursing staff
 clap his hands delightedly
 and welcome me to AIDS-land.
 I wanted to drop
 dead immediately. That
 was the low point. Today
 these people are my friends,
 in the process of restoring
 me to life a second time.
 I can walk and talk
 and breathe simultaneously
 now. I draw a breath
 and sing “Happy Birthday”
 to my roommate Joe.
 He’s 51 today. I didn’t think
 he’d make it. Three weeks
 ago they told him that he had
 aplastic anemia, and nothing
 could be done. Joe had been
 a rotten patient, moaning
 operatically, throwing chairs
 at nurses. When he got
 the bad news, there was
 a big change. He called
 the relatives with whom
 he had been disaffected,
 was anointed and communicated
 for the first time since the age
 of eight when he was raped
 by a priest, and made a will.
 As death drew nearer, Joe
 grew nicer, almost serene.
 Then the anemia
 began to disappear, not
 because of medicines, but
 on its own. Ready to die,
 it looks like Joe has more
 of life to go. He’ll go
 home soon. “When will you
 get out of here?” he asks me.
 I don’t know; when the X-ray
 shows no more pneumonia.
 I’ve been here three weeks
 this time. What have I
 accomplished? Read some
 Balzac, spent “quality
 time” with friends, come back
 from death’s door, and
 prayed, prayed a lot.
 Barry Bragg, a former
 lover of a former
 lover and a new
 Episcopalian, has AIDS too,
 and gave me a leatherbound
 and gold-trimmed copy of the Office,
 the one with all the antiphons.
 My list of daily intercessions
 is as long as a Russian
 novel. I pray about AIDS
 last. Last week I made a list
 of all my friends who’ve died
 or who are living and infected.
 Every day since, I’ve remembered
 someone I forgot to list.
 This morning it was Chasen
 Gaver, the performance poet
 from DC. I don’t know
 if he’s still around. I liked
 him and could never stand
 his poetry, which made it
 difficult to be a friend,
 although I wanted to defend
 him one excruciating night
 at a Folio reading, where
 Chasen snapped his fingers
 and danced around spouting
 frothy nonsense about Andy
 Warhol to the rolling eyes
 of self-important “language-
 centered” poets, whose dismissive
 attitude and ugly manners
 were worse by far than anything
 that Chasen ever wrote.
 Charles was his real name;
 a classmate at Antioch
 dubbed him “Chasen,” after
 the restaurant, I guess.
 Once I start remembering,
 so much comes back.
 There are forty-nine names
 on my list of the dead,
 thirty-two names of the sick.
 Cookie Mueller changed
 lists Saturday. They all
 will, I guess, the living,
 I mean, unless I go
 before them, in which case
 I may be on somebody’s
 list myself. It’s hard
 to imagine so many people
 I love dying, but no harder
 than to comprehend so many
 already gone. My beloved
 Bobby, maniac and boyfriend.
 Barry reminded me that he
 had sex with Bobby
 on the coat pile at this Christmas
 party, two years in a row.
 That’s the way our life
 together used to be, a lot
 of great adventures. Who’ll
 remember Bobby’s stories
 about driving in his debutante
 date’s father’s white Mercedes
 from hole to hole of the golf course
 at the poshest country club
 in Birmingham at 3 a.m.,
 or taking off his clothes
 in the redneck bar on a dare,
 or working on Stay Hungry
 as the dresser of a then-
 unknown named Schwarzenegger.
 Who will be around to anthologize
 his purple cracker similes:
 “Sweatin’ like a nigger
 on Election Day,” “Hotter
 than a half-fucked fox
 in a forest fire.” The ones
 that I remember have to do
 with heat, Bobby shirtless,
 sweating on the dance floor
 of the tiny bar in what is now
 a shelter for the indigent
 with AIDS on the dockstrip,
 stripping shirts off Chuck Shaw,
 Barry Bragg and me, rolling
 up the tom rags, using them
 as pom-poms, then bolting
 off down West Street, gracefully
 (despite the overwhelming
 weight of his inebriation)
 vaulting over trash cans
 as he sang, “I like to be
 in America” in a Puerto Rican
 accent. When I pass,
 who’ll remember, who will care
 about these joys and wonders?
 I’m haunted by that more
 than by the faces
 of the dead and dying.
 A speaker crackles near
 my bed and nurses
 streak down the corridor.
 The black guy on the respirator
 next door bought the farm,
 Maria tells me later, but
 only when I ask. She has tears
 in her eyes. She’d known him
 since his first day on G-9
 a long time ago. Will I also
 become a fond, fondly regarded
 regular, back for stays
 the way retired retiring
 widowers return to the hotel
 in Nova Scotia or Provence
 where they vacationed with
 their wives? I expect so, although
 that’s down the road; today’s
 enough to fill my plate. A bell
 rings, like the gong that marks
 the start of a fight. It’s 10
 and Derek’s here to make
 the bed, Derek who at 16
 saw Bob Marley’s funeral
 in the football stadium
 in Kingston, hot tears
 pouring down his face.
 He sings as he folds
 linens, “You can fool
 some of the people some
 of the time,” dancing
 a little softshoe as he works.
 There’s a reason he came in
 just now; Divorce Court
 drones on Joe’s TV, and
 Derek is hooked. I can’t
 believe the script is plausible
 to him, Jamaican hipster
 that he is, but he stands
 transfixed by the parade
 of faithless wives and screwed-up
 husbands. The judge is testy;
 so am I, unwilling
 auditor of drivel. Phone
 my friends to block it out:
 David, Jane and Eileen. I missed
 the bash for David’s magazine
 on Monday and Eileen’s reading
 last night. Jane says that
 Marie-Christine flew off
 to Marseilles where her mother
 has cancer of the brain,
 reminding me that AIDS
 is just a tiny fragment
 of life’s pain. Eileen has
 been thinking about Bobby, too,
 the dinner that we threw
 when he returned to New York
 after getting sick. Pencil-thin,
 disfigured by KS, he held forth
 with as much kinetic charm
 as ever. What we have
 to cherish is not only
 what we can recall of how
 things were before the plague,
 but how we each responded
 once it started. People
 have been great to me.
 An avalanche of love
 has come my way
 since I got sick, and not
 just moral support.
 Jaime’s on the board
 of PEN’s new fund
 for AIDS; he’s helping out.
 Don Windham slipped a check
 inside a note, and Brad
 Gooch got me something
 from the Howard Brookner Fund.
 Who’d have thought when we
 dressed up in ladies’
 clothes for a night for a hoot
 in Brad (“June Buntt”) and
 Howard (“Lili La Lean”)’s suite
 at the Chelsea that things
 would have turned out this way:
 Howard is dead at 35, Chris Cox
 (“Kay Sera Sera”)’s friend Bill
 gone too, “Bernadette of Lourdes”
 (guess who) with AIDS,
 God knows how many positive.
 Those 14th Street wigs and enormous
 stingers and Martinis don’t
 provoke nostalgia for a time
 when love and death were less
 inextricably linked, but
 for the stories we would tell
 the morning after, best
 when they involved our friends,
 second-best, our heroes.
 J.J. Mitchell was master
 of the genre. When he learned
 he had AIDS, I told him
 he should write them down.
 His mind went first. I’ll tell you
 one of his best. J.J. was
 Jerome Robbins’ houseguest
 At Bridgehampton. Every morning
 they would have a contest
 to see who could finish
 the Times crossword first.
 Robbins always won, until
 a day when he was clearly
 baffled. Grumbling, scratching
 over letters, he finally
 threw his pen down. “J.J.,
 tell me what I’m doing wrong.”
 One clue was “Great 20th-c.
 choreographer.” The solution
 was “Massine,” but Robbins
 had placed his own name
 in the space. Every word
 around it had been changed
 to try to make the puzzle
 work, except that answer.
 At this point there’d be
 a horsey laugh from J.J.
 —“Isn’t that great?”
 he’d say through clenched
 teeth (“Locust Valley lockjaw”).
 It was, and there were lots
 more where that one came from,
 only you can’t get there anymore.
 He’s dropped into the maw
 waiting for the G-9
 denizens and for all flesh,
 as silent as the hearts
 that beat upon the beds
 up here: the heart of the drop-
 dead beautiful East Village
 kid who came in yesterday,
 Charles Frost’s heart nine inches
 from the spleen they’re taking
 out tomorrow, the heart of
 the demented girl whose screams
 roll down the hallways
 late at night, hearts that long
 for lovers, for reprieve,
 for old lives, for another chance.
 My heart, so calm most days,
 sinks like a brick
 to think of all that heartache.
 I’ve been staying sane with
 program tools, turning everything
 over to God “as I understand
 him.” I don’t understand him.
 Thank God I read so much
 Calvin last spring; the absolute
 necessity of blind obedience
 to a sometimes comforting,
 sometimes repellent, always
 incomprehensible Source
 of light and life stayed
 with me. God can seem
 so foreign, a parent
 from another country,
 like my Dad and his own
 father speaking Polish
 in the kitchen. I wouldn’t
 trust a father or a God
 too much like me, though.
 That is why I pack up all
 my cares and woes, and load them
 on the conveyor belt, the speed
 of which I can’t control, like
 Chaplin on the assembly line
 in Modern Times or Lucy on TV.
 I don’t need to run
 machines today. I’m standing
 on a moving sidewalk
 headed for the dark
 or light, whatever’s there.
 Duncan Hannah visits, and
 we talk of out-of-body
 experiences. His was
 amazing. Bingeing on vodka
 in his dorm at Bard, he woke
 to see a naked boy
 in fetal posture on the floor.
 Was it a corpse, a classmate,
 a pickup from the blackout
 of the previous night? Duncan
 didn’t know. He struggled
 out of bed, walked over
 to the youth, and touched
 his shoulder. The boy turned;
 it was Duncan himself.
 My own experience was
 milder, don’t make me flee
 screaming from the room
 as Duncan did. It happened
 on a Tibetan meditation
 weekend at the Cowley Fathers’
 house in Cambridge.
 Michael Koonsman led it,
 healer whose enormous paws
 directed energy. He touched
 my spine to straighten up
 my posture, and I gasped
 at the rush. We were chanting
 to Tara, goddess of compassion
 and peace, in the basement chapel
 late at night. I felt myself
 drawn upward, not levitating
 physically, but still somehow
 above my body. A sense
 of bliss surrounded me.
 It lasted ten or fifteen
 minutes. When I came down,
 my forehead hurt. The spot
 where the “third eye” appears
 in Buddhist art felt
 as though someone had pushed
 a pencil through it.
 The soreness lasted for a week.
 Michael wasn’t surprised.
 He did a lot of work
 with people with AIDS
 in the epidemic’s early days
 but when he started losing
 weight and having trouble
 with a cough, he was filled
 with denial. By the time
 he checked into St. Luke’s,
 he was in dreadful shape.
 The respirator down his throat
 squelched the contagious
 enthusiasm of his voice,
 but he could still spell out
 what he wanted to say
 on a plastic Ouija board
 beside his bed. When
 the doctor who came in
 to tell him the results
 of his bronchoscopy said,
 “Father, I’m afraid I have
 bad news,” Michael grabbed
 the board and spelled,
 “The truth is always
 Good News.” After he died,
 I had a dream in which
 I was a student in a class
 that he was posthumously
 teaching. With mock annoyance
 he exclaimed, “Oh, Tim!
 I can’t believe you really think
 that AIDS is a disease!”
 There’s evidence in that
 direction, I’ll tell him
 if the dream recurs: the shiny
 hamburger-in-lucite look
 of the big lesion on my face;
 the smaller ones I daub
 with makeup; the loss
 of forty pounds in a year;
 the fatigue that comes on
 at the least convenient times.
 The symptoms float like algae
 on the surface of the grace
 that buoys me up today.
 Arthur comes in with
 the Sacrament, and we have
 to leave the room (Joe’s
 Italian family has arrived
 for birthday cheer) to find
 some quiet. Walk out
 to the breezeway, where
 it might as well be
 August for the stifling
 heat. On Amsterdam,
 pedestrians and drivers are
 oblivious to our small aerie,
 as we peer through the grille
 like cloistered nuns. Since
 leaving G-9 the first time,
 I always slow my car down
 on this block, and stare up
 at this window, to the unit
 where my life was saved.
 It’s strange how quickly
 hospitals feel foreign
 when you leave, and how normal
 their conventions seem as soon
 as you check in. From below,
 it’s like checking out the windows
 of the West Street Jail; hard
 to imagine what goes on there,
 even if you know firsthand.
 The sun is going down as I
 receive communion. I wish
 the rite’s familiar magic
 didn’t dull my gratitude
 for this enormous gift.
 I wish I had a closer personal
 relationship with Christ,
 which I know sounds corny
 and alarming. Janet Campbell
 gave me a remarkable ikon
 the last time I was here;
 Christ is in a chair, a throne,
 and St. John the Divine,
 an androgyne who looks a bit
 like Janet, rests his head
 upon the Savior’s shoulder.
 James Madden, priest of Cowley,
 dead of cancer earlier
 this year at 39, gave her
 the image, telling her not to
 be afraid to imitate St. John.
 There may come a time when
 I’m unable to respond with words,
 or works, or gratitude to AIDS;
 a time when my attitude
 caves in, when I’m as weak
 as the men who lie across
 the dayroom couches hour
 after hour, watching sitcoms,
 drawing blanks. Maybe
 my head will be shaved
 and scarred from surgery;
 maybe I’ll be pencil-
 thin and paler than
 a ghost, pale as the vesper
 light outside my window now.
 It would be good to know
 that I could close my eyes
 and lean my head back
 on his shoulder then,
 as natural and trusting
 as I’d be with a cherished
 love. At this moment,
 Chris walks in, Christopher
 Earl Wiss of Kansas City
 and New York, my lover,
 my last lover, my first
 healthy and enduring relationship
 in sobriety, the man
 with whom I choose
 to share what I have
 left of life and time.
 This is the hardest
 and happiest moment
 of the day. G-9
 is no place to affirm
 a relationship. Two hours
 in a chair beside my bed
 after eight hours of work
 night after night for weeks
 … it’s been a long haul,
 and Chris gets tired.
 Last week he exploded,
 “I hate this, I hate your
 being sick and having AIDS
 and lying in a hospital
 where I can only see you
 with a visitor’s pass. I hate
 that this is going to
 get worse.” I hate it,
 too. We kiss, embrace,
 and Chris climbs into bed
 beside me, to air-mattress
 squeaks. Hold on. We hold on
 to each other, to a hope
 of how we’ll be when I get out.
 Let him hold on, please
 don’t let him lose his
 willingness to stick with me,
 to make love and to make
 love work, to extend
 the happiness we’ve shared.
 Please don’t let AIDS
 make me a monster
 or a burden is my prayer.
 Too soon, Chris has to leave.
 I walk him to the elevator
 bank, then totter back
 so Raquel can open my I.V.
 again. It’s not even
 mid-evening, but I’m nodding
 off. My life’s so full, even
 (especially?) when I’m here
 on G-9. When it’s time
 to move on to the next step,
 that will be a great adventure,
 too. Helena Hughes, Tibetan
 Buddhist, tells me that
 there are three stages in death.
 The first is white, like passing
 through a thick but porous wall.
 The second stage is red;
 the third is black; and then
 you’re finished, ready
 for the next event. I’m glad
 she has a road map, but I don’t
 feel the need for one myself.
 I’ve trust enough in all
 that’s happened in my life,
 the unexpected love
 and gentleness that rushes in
 to fill the arid spaces
 in my heart, the way the city
 glow fills up the sky
 above the river, making it
 seem less than night. When
 Joe O’Hare flew in last week,
 he asked what were the best
 times of my New York years;
 I said “Today,” and meant it.
 I hope that death will lift me
 by the hair like an angel
 in a Hebrew myth, snatch me with
 the strength of sleep’s embrace,
 and gently set me down
 where I’m supposed to be,
 in just the right place.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: KiwiOui on June 08, 2016, 08:58:26 pm

Okay, this is a very simple poem, and not my work. From what I know, this poem is the spawn of the internet, thus being primarily comedic.

Roses are red,
violets are blue,
but in Soviet Russia,
poem write you.

Thought it was worth a chuckle.  :D

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Tomasque on June 29, 2016, 12:15:19 pm

I'm getting back into poetry. Not only will it give me something to do, but it'll also keep this thread alive.

Spoiler: The Yellow Wallpaper (click to show/hide)

Written by me
Based on a short story of the small name

It is dark, and only the moonlight moves in this place.

 That pale light shift across the wall, making yellow seem like white.
The wallpaper is what I watch - it keeps me up at night.
I trace my eyes across it all:
The pattern on the moonlit wall;
The shadows seem to rise and fall

 But now I am unsure of something that I know is right.
Its what is moving here: Not the material, but light.
My eyes must be deceiving me,
For what I'm watching cannot be;
Moving lines is what I see.

The  visions do not cease - only increase with my own fright:
The wallpaper sags but that pattern-fungus holds it tight.
It spreads quick across the wall
In a crawl - I see it all.
It's vertical waves make it tall.

 Then eyes of heads of women trapped franticly are bit-
ing at the wallpaper to be free - but the light
so still - solid - keeps them all
behind bars of moonlit wall
while I watch them push and crawl.

 The paper's bursting at the seams now
Shrieking in the air as out bursts a twisted face
The fungus twisting
It's still resisting
It is dark and only moonlight is still in this place.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Tomasque on June 30, 2016, 05:54:26 pm

I'm trying to get a friend into poetry, so I desperately need some great new poems to get her into a creative mood.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on June 30, 2016, 06:11:32 pm

Ohh, I recommend Tennyson's Ulysseys (from which came the immortal words "All experience is an arch where through gleams that untraveled world." Mrs. Malone is quite good as well, by Farjeon. Larkin's "An Arundel Tomb" is also one of my favourites (What will survive of us is love.) Rudyard Kipling's "If" is good as well, as is "The Highwayman" and "The Listeners" ("No head from the leaf fringed sill looked down into his grey eyes where he stood perplexed and still"). Byron is always good for romantic poetry (she walks in beauty like the night of cloudless climes), as is Shelley (Ozymandias), and Tolkien is brilliant for fantasy poetry, e.g. the "Song of Beren and Luthien." I also highly recommend Yeats, his poetry is brilliant. A Circus Animals Desertion and Sailing to Byzantium ("an old man is but a paltry thing, a battered coat upon a stick, unless soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing for every tatter in its mortal dress") are both very good. Really, I could go on - and will, if you want me to - but these are just the sort of general ones that came to mind. She could take part in the Poetry Prompts thread, maybe? I'm using it myself for practice.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on July 19, 2016, 09:49:37 pm

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Awake at night, the cold air
Blowing in through an open window
The only light, this screen
This cold, cold light
Not even stars are seen
Out through that Pluto's square
And all seems washed of colour,
Desolate at the sun's demise.
Looming peripherals
Block my sight, but still I know
The lampshade feels the night
And cries within. It's white
But looks somehow less,
Drained and used. No light
Uses its draped canvas for art
For it is late, and all there is
Is that cold, cold screen
Echoing the emptiness,
The barren nothingness
That seems to have its grip
Within my soul.

Doublepost and necro, but wanted to share it. If there were a late-night-maudlin thread, I'd use it instead.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Edmus on July 20, 2016, 02:28:35 am

Quote from: Th4DwArfY1 on July 19, 2016, 09:49:37 pm

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Awake at night, the cold air
Blowing in through an open window
The only light, this screen
This cold, cold light
Not even stars are seen
Out through that Pluto's square
And all seems washed of colour,
Desolate at the sun's demise.
Looming peripherals
Block my sight, but still I know
The lampshade feels the night
And cries within. It's white
But looks somehow less,
Drained and used. No light
Uses its draped canvas for art
For it is late, and all there is
Is that cold, cold screen
Echoing the emptiness,
The barren nothingness
That seems to have its grip
Within my soul.

Doublepost and necro, but wanted to share it. If there were a late-night-maudlin thread, I'd use it instead.

Is that yours?
I very much enjoy the imagery, it gives a starlit feel.
Doesn't nothingness=nothing?
Anyway, if that's yours a proper pat on the back, 'cause I'm digging it.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on July 20, 2016, 07:35:01 am

It is indeed mine, so thank you.

And yes, nothingness does equal nothing, but I have an irrational preference for the word "nothingness." I think the "ness" adds a certain sense that it has a substance or reality? I'm not entirely sure - I just wrote it in.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Dozebôm Lolumzalìs on August 24, 2016, 04:11:49 pm

Loving this stuff. Hope there's more.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: coleslaw35 on August 29, 2016, 07:37:54 pm

Spoiler: Blood of Oil, Tears of Bullets, Hearts of Ice (click to show/hide)

War.
The greatest folly of mankind,
And the most potent of all, I find.
On oil and steel these countries dine,
So that they may push to the Volga or Rhine.

Nationalism takes hold, the people sing,
Awaiting orders from their "righteous" king.
To nations bordered and afar,
Guns, bullets, and death they bring.

War carried out, casualties mount up
As more men equip their bullpups.
Death and destruction
They pour into their cups.

Victory and defeat, both in sight.
Neither country fully right.
But each combatant continues on
In order to finish their horrid fight.

Over the hills and plains men walk,
Their eyes, focused, like hawks.
Professors of combat, their guns chalk.
To the enemy's capital for a lecture they flock.

Men, young and old,
For their country they are bold.
To kill and conquer they are told.
And so their hearts grow arctic cold.

Victory achieved
Or so they believed
For there was no winning
When families grieved

Maimed, yet no crutch
All that is gained,
Well, not much.

Widows and children, pained
Mothers and fathers, tear stained
War, but a bane.

On history a smudge is placed
Of which wishes to be erased
A time of bayonets affixed
An era of hostilities to never be fixed

Eventually forgotten, the memory is erased
Until one day an old minefield faced
War's fetid aftertaste.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Tomasque on August 29, 2016, 08:46:03 pm

FEED ME

"No! I'm not dealing with this!"

😂

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on September 05, 2016, 06:00:35 pm

The floor was thick with autumn’s tears
That covered all the ground
But she was there, and I was young
So I went all unheeding of the sound;
All I remember is a vase, pink as summer
Glowing in the windowsill, and a smile
That shone though age had creased
All that surrounded it.
She was my mother’s mother, and I
Loved her so very much.
We worked together in the yard
To sweep away each bitter shard
Autumn had left to taunt us with.
We talked of many things, I’m sure
That older people must endure
When talking to a child,
But though the day grew dimmer
Her patience did not, and at the last
We’d filled the barrow.
Glowing with happiness, I left her place
And pink, pink vase
A smile across my face.
Because I’d helped her, and she had so very,
Very obviously loved me.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Tomasque on September 05, 2016, 06:42:15 pm

 This is just one of the reasons why I love jesters:

Spoiler: Fool's Prayer (click to show/hide)

 By Edward Rowland Sill

THE ROYAL feast was done; the King   
  Sought some new sport to banish care,   
And to his jester cried: "Sir Fool,   
  Kneel now, and make for us a prayer!"   
 
The jester doffed his cap and bells,   
  And stood the mocking court before;   
They could not see the bitter smile   
  Behind the painted grin he wore.   
 
He bowed his head, and bent his knee   
  Upon the monarch's silken stool;    
His pleading voice arose: "O Lord,   
  Be merciful to me, a fool!   
 
"No pity, Lord, could change the heart   
  From red with wrong to white as wool;   
The rod must heal the sin: but, Lord,    
  Be merciful to me, a fool!   
 
"'T is not by guilt the onward sweep   
  Of truth and right, O Lord, we stay;   
'T is by our follies that so long   
  We hold the earth from heaven away.    
 
"These clumsy feet, still in the mire,   
  Go crushing blossoms without end;   
These hard, well-meaning hands we thrust   
  Among the heart-strings of a friend.   
 
"The ill-timed truth we might have kept—    
  Who knows how sharp it pierced and stung?   
The word we had not sense to say—   
  Who knows how grandly it had rung?   
 
"Our faults no tenderness should ask,   
  The chastening stripes must cleanse them all;    
But for our blunders—oh, in shame   
  Before the eyes of heaven we fall.   
 
"Earth bears no balsam for mistakes;   
  Men crown the knave, and scourge the tool   
That did his will; but Thou, O Lord,
  Be merciful to me, a fool!"   
 
The room was hushed; in silence rose   
  The King, and sought his gardens cool,   
And walked apart, and murmured low,   
  "Be merciful to me, a fool!"

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on September 05, 2016, 06:58:24 pm

Never heard of the poet, but given his writing I think I'll be looking up his work.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Dozebôm Lolumzalìs on September 08, 2016, 06:06:28 pm

I like that! Can't quite tell what it means, but a pinch of mystery makes any poem better.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Edmus on September 08, 2016, 06:31:05 pm

I wrote a sonnet!

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Interring Broken Machinery

We’re elbows deep in wire
           torn from the die cast belly
                  of a “rescued” roadside IBM-XP;
           we match our evil eyes over equal evil grins--Prognosis: Dire.

For its power L.E.D blinks a dodgy pulse,
          Its fans flare a failing breath
           that wheeze—an animal near to death.
          And then we’re solemn, (grinning,) pulling the plug.

We nab the usefuls, trash the rust
           strip the D-Drive down to motors
                   that powered whir as wicked rotors
           which with blu-tac sets us cackling well far through to dusk.

Then we cram its copper carrion a tangle in its case
         to shunt it into out of sight’n quick forgotten place.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TheBiggerFish on September 09, 2016, 05:46:36 pm

Quote from: Tomasque on September 05, 2016, 06:42:15 pm

This is just one of the reasons why I love jesters:

Spoiler: Fool's Prayer (click to show/hide)

 By Edward Rowland Sill

THE ROYAL feast was done; the King   
  Sought some new sport to banish care,   
And to his jester cried: "Sir Fool,   
  Kneel now, and make for us a prayer!"   
 
The jester doffed his cap and bells,   
  And stood the mocking court before;   
They could not see the bitter smile   
  Behind the painted grin he wore.   
 
He bowed his head, and bent his knee   
  Upon the monarch's silken stool;    
His pleading voice arose: "O Lord,   
  Be merciful to me, a fool!   
 
"No pity, Lord, could change the heart   
  From red with wrong to white as wool;   
The rod must heal the sin: but, Lord,    
  Be merciful to me, a fool!   
 
"'T is not by guilt the onward sweep   
  Of truth and right, O Lord, we stay;   
'T is by our follies that so long   
  We hold the earth from heaven away.    
 
"These clumsy feet, still in the mire,   
  Go crushing blossoms without end;   
These hard, well-meaning hands we thrust   
  Among the heart-strings of a friend.   
 
"The ill-timed truth we might have kept—    
  Who knows how sharp it pierced and stung?   
The word we had not sense to say—   
  Who knows how grandly it had rung?   
 
"Our faults no tenderness should ask,   
  The chastening stripes must cleanse them all;    
But for our blunders—oh, in shame   
  Before the eyes of heaven we fall.   
 
"Earth bears no balsam for mistakes;   
  Men crown the knave, and scourge the tool   
That did his will; but Thou, O Lord,
  Be merciful to me, a fool!"   
 
The room was hushed; in silence rose   
  The King, and sought his gardens cool,   
And walked apart, and murmured low,   
  "Be merciful to me, a fool!"

...That's...Wow.

Just, wow.

It hits hard.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on September 27, 2016, 11:42:14 am

Quote from: Edmus on September 08, 2016, 06:31:05 pm

I wrote a sonnet!

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Interring Broken Machinery

We’re elbows deep in wire
           torn from the die cast belly
                  of a “rescued” roadside IBM-XP;
           we match our evil eyes over equal evil grins--Prognosis: Dire.

For its power L.E.D blinks a dodgy pulse,
          Its fans flare a failing breath
           that wheeze—an animal near to death.
          And then we’re solemn, (grinning,) pulling the plug.

We nab the usefuls, trash the rust
           strip the D-Drive down to motors
                   that powered whir as wicked rotors
           which with blu-tac sets us cackling well far through to dusk.

Then we cram its copper carrion a tangle in its case
         to shunt it into out of sight’n quick forgotten place.

A late response, but I'm afraid I only just read it. I really like this! Definitely not a Shakespeare "Let me not to the marriage of true minds" style one!

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Tomasque on September 27, 2016, 03:06:42 pm

 During my search for various poetry I came across this wonderful poem. TBF, if you liked the Fool's Prayer, I think you'll like this:

Spoiler: The Man In The Glass (click to show/hide)

by Peter Dale Wimbrow Sr.

When you get what you want in your struggle for self
And the world makes you king for a day
Just go to the mirror and look at yourself
And see what that man has to say.

For it isn’t your father, or mother, or wife
Whose judgment upon you must pass
The fellow whose verdict counts most in your life
Is the one staring back from the glass.

He’s the fellow to please – never mind all the rest
For he’s with you, clear to the end
And you’ve passed your most difficult, dangerous test
If the man in the glass is your friend.

You may fool the whole world down the pathway of years
And get pats on the back as you pass
But your final reward will be heartache and tears
If you’ve cheated the man in the glass.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Solifuge on September 27, 2016, 06:32:42 pm

I really liked that one. Thanks for sharing.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Edmus on October 05, 2016, 07:27:55 am

Quote from: Th4DwArfY1 on September 27, 2016, 11:42:14 am

Quote from: Edmus on September 08, 2016, 06:31:05 pm

I wrote a sonnet!

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Interring Broken Machinery

We’re elbows deep in wire
           torn from the die cast belly
                  of a “rescued” roadside IBM-XP;
           we match our evil eyes over equal evil grins--Prognosis: Dire.

For its power L.E.D blinks a dodgy pulse,
          Its fans flare a failing breath
           that wheeze—an animal near to death.
          And then we’re solemn, (grinning,) pulling the plug.

We nab the usefuls, trash the rust
           strip the D-Drive down to motors
                   that powered whir as wicked rotors
           which with blu-tac sets us cackling well far through to dusk.

Then we cram its copper carrion a tangle in its case
         to shunt it into out of sight’n quick forgotten place.

A late response, but I'm afraid I only just read it. I really like this! Definitely not a Shakespeare "Let me not to the marriage of true minds" style one!

Thanks!  :D

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Tomasque on October 20, 2016, 11:18:52 pm

 All you poetry funsters and fanatics, if you're a fan of forum games  & Interactive Fiction, I think you'll find this (http://www.bay12forums.com/smf/index.php?topic=161176.0) fascinating!

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Tomasque on October 23, 2016, 11:15:48 pm

By me

In the manor, events takes place:
First an auction, and then a race!

His sharpened knife,
their starting gun.
He takes a life
and it's begun...

---

To sneak in was an easy task
A murderer mounts many masks,
and his disguise proved their downfall,
like a Red Masque at man's last ball.

    And like revelers at the feast,
    the guests joined rank with the deceased.

---

...He's finished with his vicious fun,
and now his vicious deed is done.
A judge at the old manor run:
A marathon nobody won.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on October 24, 2016, 07:20:27 am

Someone's getting in the Halloween mood....

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Tomasque on October 24, 2016, 09:22:51 am

 This is me year-round. You bet I am!  :P

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Edmus on October 26, 2016, 11:43:57 pm

Plastic Bag (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rNYaw4EJpZo)

   “Do you ever feel
   Like a plastic bag
   Drifting through the wind
   Wanting to start again”
               -Katy Perry

Do you ever feel like a plastic bag
   floating jellyfish in icy brine
      millennia of wretched persistence ahead
and a loooooooong line of turtles you're to make dead.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

srsly :|

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Edmus on October 27, 2016, 04:31:05 am

Double post in apology for that.
Here's a poem I quite enjoyed recently.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Sheep-Killer
      Ernest G Moll

I should have known, when I undid his chain,
That darkness had been busy at his brain
As at an anvil, sharpening a fang.
I should have known it by the glint that sprang
Into his eyes when the chain fell and he
Stood stiffly there, as though to let me see
That he had all the time in the world to spare,
If I so felt, to match me stare for stare,
His heart being innocent.

I watched him go
Out through the gate with just the slightest show
Of hurry in his trot, as though he kept
His body back from where his thoughts leapt
Ahead to the red kill; that holding back
A dog will never show unless the track
He follows is a secret he would keep
From men whose fingers smell of lambs and sheep.

I should have known, had I but had the eye,
That strain in hip and curving flank and thigh
For what must happen in a hawk's neck when
He spots the quail way down there, but with men
Too near in yard or paddock to make safe
The whistling lunge; the tension of that chafe
That is when lust has the red tongue on fire
But cunning is the muzzle on desire.

So he went slowly till I lost him quite
In the thick fog that made another night
Over the paddocks where beneath the trees
The lambs would be hard at it on their knees
Draining the heavy udders. In that fog
A lamb would learn the coming of a dog
Too late even to get upon its feet,
Or in one wild and lost and desperate bleat
To say that death was hard and life was sweet.

He got his fifty in a mile that day,
Crunched through the shoulders in the killer's way,
Ribs broken in to crush the leaping heart.
Though great my loss, I recognized the art
With which the thing was done. What speed, what power,
He must have known for that one breathless hour,
When long restraint was straw before the urge
Of instinct, the red longing, the hot surge
That leapt and thundered and would not be still
Till fifty lambs lay dead about the hill!

He always liked to work the sheep close in,
Sniffing the blood, no doubt, beneath the skin
He dared not tear because of watching eyes.
Why did I trust that shifty compromise!
Why must sheep stand, by fear together drifted,
Helpless as flowers when the scythe is lifted!
Who was at fault, the dog, or I, or the sheep?

But since a farmer needs must have his sleep,
That night I put a bullet in his head,
Gave the world back to God, and went to bed.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Tomasque on October 27, 2016, 09:02:08 am

 There's no need to apologize for the first poem - well, in my opinion.

 Also in my opinion: The tempo is pretty terrible  :P

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Edmus on October 28, 2016, 07:29:05 am

The poem inspired by LYRICAL GENIUS KATY PERRY, or the GENIUS LYRICS OF KATY PERRY, themself?
If it's the latter, that's why the poem's is entirely different. :P
If it's the former, don't read it to the tune of Perry's and it rolls a spot better.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on October 28, 2016, 07:46:22 am

Pop-poetry?

Dear God, what have you created.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Edmus on October 28, 2016, 08:11:08 am

You can embrace the future, or you can be left behind!!!

In seriousness, you do tempt me to attempt something of that nature...
If I don't post something of an attempt within a week, it failed dismally. Or I was lazy.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on October 28, 2016, 04:27:56 pm

Ten thousand fathoms underneath
Cruel currents pull the shaded leaf
Magic trembles the ocean brine
Where water meets the gloaming heath.

Take heart, the moon full beams
And gives the ocean lustre fair -
See how enchantment gleams!
Each wave to touch the killing air.

Oh fie, fie, fie! That so ensnared
We leave the trembling deeps
Escape the current, find we cared
Too late. Oh, fie, how sorrow weeps!

Ten thousand fathoms underneath
Ten thousand miles above the clouds
It's all the same, be ocean or be heath
We walk alone, though trapped by crowds.

Glisten the fairy mound above the Sound,
Magic and water mixing with empty air.
So sad, so sweet the hollow tune we came
And found that love bound us, and was our snare.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Edmus on October 29, 2016, 06:50:59 pm

Hey look I did it!

Love me like you do. (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AJtDXIazrMo)

Spoiler: Pop Poetry (click to show/hide)

Love love love me like you do
Lock lock lock our love struck eyes
Touch touch touch me like you do

Sudden struck with love to you
Soar soar heart to heady highs
Love love love me like you do

In your life I stick as glue
Sinking roots I loving cry
Please please touch me like you do

Obsolete old friends with new
Real men really shouldn't cry.
Just love love me like you do.

Hold hold hold love will renew
Pity proper men don't cry.
Just just touch me as I do.

Real true love can not fall through
Know there will be no goodbyes
Love love love me as I do
Touch touch touch me as I do.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Tomasque on October 29, 2016, 07:06:39 pm

Quote from: Edmus on October 29, 2016, 06:50:59 pm

Hey look I did it!

Love me like you do. (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AJtDXIazrMo)

Spoiler: Pop Poetry (click to show/hide)

Love love love me like you do
Lock lock lock our love struck eyes
Touch touch touch me like you do

Sudden struck with love to you
Soar soar heart to heady highs
Love love love me like you do

In your life I stick as glue
Sinking roots I loving cry
Please please touch me like you do

Obsolete old friends with new
Real men really shouldn't cry.
Just love love me like you do.

Hold hold hold love will renew
Pity proper men don't cry.
Just just touch me as I do.

Real true love can not fall through
Know there will be no goodbyes
Love love love me as I do
Touch touch touch me as I do.

Huh, that's pretty cool!

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Edmus on November 10, 2016, 05:52:30 am

So here's a poem I wrote a month or three ago.
Forgive the politics, but every man and his dog has criticism for progressives after some election somewhere, and I want in too. :P
To those fortunate enough to be unenlightened, Pauline Hanson is an anti-immigration anti-establishment politician here in Australia. She won some seats in the last election, much to the ire of progressives.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Within tolerance
                                                                                                                                   

I’m a tolerant man:
         be it race, sex, or favourite gender
                  I, a tolerant man,
                                extend an equal warm embrace.

Together
        empathy sets us wealthy
                we're kind in what we do & say
                        no deed barbed or word mislaid
                                careful to out tolerance they
                They that voted Hanson in.
 

Them:
        A misled, misguided, fearful lot
                They mislay the source of rural rot
                        and lower-middle class malaise
                                for they decay by their own hand
                                        while we the good enlightened
                                        by sole virtue
                                of our tolerance
                rest walled in our prosperity
        open, to all
but Them.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Tomasque on November 12, 2016, 02:50:29 am

So, I was walking down the alleyway of idle thought. and was jumped by inspiration:

 Life is bitter as lemon, and bitter as a lemon's, too
(For flowers bring forth fine fruit which sours into yellow hue).
 I've heard the proverb uttered, that life should into juice be made,
 So I've done it - squeezed life dry - and made my bitter lemonade.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Tomasque on November 12, 2016, 04:13:05 am

I suppose the other one can be called "bitter lemonade," if we're still keeping track:

 To Absent Friends
 By myself

In manor dark, a dining room
frozen by night is watched by moon
as high as sun in afternoon.

It's table sits with sixteen chairs.
On it lay sixteen shining pairs
of knives and forks. The silverware
serves the fifteen signs standing there.

From each cushion - but one - extends
a silver rod, atop which bends
to hold a card, "To absent friends."

The chair from which the sign did steal
Has seen use. Before it, a teal
handkerchief a cold bowl conceals:
The salt-stained soup; A bitter meal.

The glass - drained more than bowl - that's blue
with stain, and bottle, empty too,
bears witness to that one phrase, true.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Tomasque on November 16, 2016, 01:22:37 am

Two poems about death that I found. I find them both bitter-sweet.

Spoiler: On an Athlete Dying Young (click to show/hide)

by A. E. Housman

The time you won your town the race
We chaired you through the market-place;
Man and boy stood cheering by,
And home we brought you shoulder-high.

Today, the road all runners come,
Shoulder-high we bring you home,
And set you at your threshold down,
Townsman of a stiller town.

Smart lad, to slip betimes away
From fields where glory does not stay,
And early though the laurel grows
It withers quicker than the rose.

Eyes the shady night has shut
Cannot see the record cut,
And silence sounds no worse than cheers
After earth has stopped the ears.

Now you will not swell the rout
Of lads that wore their honours out,
Runners whom renown outran
And the name died before the man.

So set, before its echoes fade,
The fleet foot on the sill of shade,
And hold to the low lintel up
The still-defended challenge-cup.

And round that early-laurelled head
Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead,
And find unwithered on its curls
The garland briefer than a girl’s.

Spoiler: A Soldier (click to show/hide)

by Rupert Brooke

If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England's, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.

And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on November 16, 2016, 01:04:04 pm

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

And did those feet in ancient time,
Walk upon England's mountains green:
And was the holy Lamb of God,
On Englands pleasant pastures seen!

And did the Countenance Divine,
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here,
Among these dark Satanic Mills?

Bring me my Bow of burning gold;
Bring me my Arrows of desire:
Bring me my Spear: O clouds unfold!
Bring me my Chariot of fire!

I will not cease from Mental Fight,
Nor shall my Sword sleep in my hand:
Till we have built Jerusalem,
In Englands green & pleasant Land.

A well known one of Blake's. Similar in general thing to Brooke's

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Tomasque on November 16, 2016, 01:39:59 pm

Quote from: Th4DwArfY1 on November 16, 2016, 01:04:04 pm

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

And did those feet in ancient time,
Walk upon England's mountains green:
And was the holy Lamb of God,
On Englands pleasant pastures seen!

And did the Countenance Divine,
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here,
Among these dark Satanic Mills?

Bring me my Bow of burning gold;
Bring me my Arrows of desire:
Bring me my Spear: O clouds unfold!
Bring me my Chariot of fire!

I will not cease from Mental Fight,
Nor shall my Sword sleep in my hand:
Till we have built Jerusalem,
In Englands green & pleasant Land.

A well known one of Blake's. Similar in general thing to Brooke's

Great poem! I like how the "Bring me..." section adds a bit of change in the poem.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on November 16, 2016, 01:43:39 pm

I wrote thing instead of theme and didn't notice....damn, I'm tired.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Tomasque on November 20, 2016, 01:02:51 am

Quote from: Caroline on November 16, 2016, 08:31:34 pm

Quote from: Tomasque on November 12, 2016, 02:50:29 am

Life is bitter as lemon, and bitter as lemon's, too
(For flower's bring forth fine fruit which sours into yellow hew).
 I've heard the proverb uttered, that life should into juice be made,
 So I've done it - squeezed life dry - and made my bitter lemonade.

Sigged, 'cause this is really good.

Thanks! There was actually a small typo in the original version, which I've fixed. Now the 1st line has 15 syllables like all the others.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TheBiggerFish on November 25, 2016, 03:01:26 pm

Quote from: Tomasque on November 12, 2016, 02:50:29 am

So, I was walking down the alleyway of idle thought. and was jumped by inspiration:

 Life is bitter as lemon, and bitter as a lemon's, too
(For flower's bring forth fine fruit which sours into yellow hew).
 I've heard the proverb uttered, that life should into juice be made,
 So I've done it - squeezed life dry - and made my bitter lemonade.

Nonono.

Like this:

Quote from: Tomasque on November 12, 2016, 02:50:29 am

So, I was walking down the alleyway of idle thought. and was jumped by inspiration:

 Life is bitter as lemon, and bitter as a lemon's, too
(For flowers bring forth fine fruit which sours into yellow hue).
 I've heard the proverb uttered, that life should into juice be made,
 So I've done it - squeezed life dry - and made my lemons explosive.

:D
(also miscellaneous typo stuff?)

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Tomasque on November 26, 2016, 10:55:31 am

Quote from: TheBiggerFish on November 25, 2016, 03:01:26 pm

Quote from: Tomasque on November 12, 2016, 02:50:29 am

So, I was walking down the alleyway of idle thought. and was jumped by inspiration:

 Life is bitter as lemon, and bitter as a lemon's, too
(For flower's bring forth fine fruit which sours into yellow hew).
 I've heard the proverb uttered, that life should into juice be made,
 So I've done it - squeezed life dry - and made my bitter lemonade.

Nonono.

Like this:

Quote from: Tomasque on November 12, 2016, 02:50:29 am

So, I was walking down the alleyway of idle thought. and was jumped by inspiration:

 Life is bitter as lemon, and bitter as a lemon's, too
(For flowers bring forth fine fruit which sours into yellow hue).
 I've heard the proverb uttered, that life should into juice be made,
 So I've done it - squeezed life dry - and made my lemons explosive.

:D
(also miscellaneous typo stuff?)

Thanks for the correction (and the reference). I'll edit my post before internet drops out again.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on November 27, 2016, 09:03:19 am

Myself:

When I was young, I looked out of my window.
There, in the gloom partitioned by the glass
Was light. It trembled in the jumping motes
Of static falling from the sky.
It seemed apparent only to my eye.

When I grew older, I made patterns.
Dragons, knights. I took comfort
From their honour and their kindness,
Raised them from the baseness of creation.
I gave them hope and gleaming decoration.

Still older and I laughed to read the stories
Made by others. The world still seemed new
And gleaming with the potential of its birth.
All that I saw was good, for it was fiction.
I lived in worlds of others' diction.

Now, when I look out of the window
All I see is greyness, tightened eyes
Strain through the murk and see chimneys,
Money is the new principle
And I, unwilling, its disciple.

And because I've been reading up on G.K. Chesterton:

The Rolling English Road

Before the Roman came to Rye or out to Severn strode,
The rolling English drunkard made the rolling English road.
A reeling road, a rolling road, that rambles round the shire,
And after him the parson ran, the sexton and the squire;
A merry road, a mazy road, and such as we did tread
The night we went to Birmingham by way of Beachy Head.

I knew no harm of Bonaparte and plenty of the Squire,
And for to fight the Frenchman I did not much desire;
But I did bash their baggonets because they came arrayed
To straighten out the crooked road an English drunkard made,
Where you and I went down the lane with ale-mugs in our hands,
The night we went to Glastonbury by way of Goodwin Sands.

His sins they were forgiven him; or why do flowers run
Behind him; and the hedges all strengthening in the sun?
The wild thing went from left to right and knew not which was which,
But the wild rose was above him when they found him in the ditch.
God pardon us, nor harden us; we did not see so clear
The night we went to Bannockburn by way of Brighton Pier.

My friends, we will not go again or ape an ancient rage,
Or stretch the folly of our youth to be the shame of age,
But walk with clearer eyes and ears this path that wandereth,
And see undrugged in evening light the decent inn of death;
For there is good news yet to hear and fine things to be seen,
Before we go to Paradise by way of Kensal Green.

Edit: Actually, I'll say something of what the poem inspired in me. It made me think of the M1 and all the chocking lanes of traffic into London, the endless stream of commerce. I cannot help but think that we would be happier to go slower and perhaps lose a bit of money, but gain the ability to wend and enjoy life.

I think if everyone wanted a rolling, drunk-seeming road it would be a better place. Chesterton applies this concept to life; me, to living.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TheBiggerFish on November 27, 2016, 09:24:06 am

Quote from: Tomasque on November 26, 2016, 10:55:31 am

Quote from: TheBiggerFish on November 25, 2016, 03:01:26 pm

Quote from: Tomasque on November 12, 2016, 02:50:29 am

So, I was walking down the alleyway of idle thought. and was jumped by inspiration:

 Life is bitter as lemon, and bitter as a lemon's, too
(For flower's bring forth fine fruit which sours into yellow hew).
 I've heard the proverb uttered, that life should into juice be made,
 So I've done it - squeezed life dry - and made my bitter lemonade.

Nonono.

Like this:

Quote from: Tomasque on November 12, 2016, 02:50:29 am

So, I was walking down the alleyway of idle thought. and was jumped by inspiration:

 Life is bitter as lemon, and bitter as a lemon's, too
(For flowers bring forth fine fruit which sours into yellow hue).
 I've heard the proverb uttered, that life should into juice be made,
 So I've done it - squeezed life dry - and made my lemons explosive.

:D
(also miscellaneous typo stuff?)

Thanks for the correction (and the reference). I'll edit my post before internet drops out again.

You missed hew -> hue.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Tomasque on November 27, 2016, 06:41:04 pm

Thanks - also, I should have the chance to update Mafia Marathon soon.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Tomasque on December 31, 2016, 01:48:05 pm

 Huh, no one has favorite poems they want to post?

Here's another one of mine, from - of course - The King in Yellow:

Cassilda's Song, by Robert Chambers  ((I know it says song, but I always think of it as a poem!))

Along the shore the cloud waves break,
The twin suns sink beneath the lake,
The shadows lengthen
In Carcosa.

Strange is the night where black stars rise,
And strange moons circle through the skies
But stranger still is
Lost Carcosa.

Songs that the Hyades shall sing,
Where flap the tatters of the King,
Must die unheard in
Dim Carcosa.

Song of my soul, my voice is dead;
Die thou, unsung, as tears unshed
Shall dry and die in
Lost Carcosa.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Tomasque on January 05, 2017, 09:58:03 am

*Tomasque powers up the defibrillators*

Spoiler: ZAP!!! (click to show/hide)

The Liar, by myself

In mindless mantra makes amends
with promises he swiftly spends.
A broken trust, but mind that bends
can twist the truth to suit his ends.


Iron Mind, by myself

In mind designed of rails resides
free will that still aids and abides
the rules for tools that force its flesh
of steel unreal and metal mesh.


Dead Gods, by myself

Awakening from bleaker days,
a darkened god in darkness stays
when finding - though he has the rays
of sun - his sons have passed away.

((Yeah, basically just a bunch of little poems I made since the last time I was here.))

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on January 06, 2017, 11:45:46 am

Suitable for Dwarf Fortress:

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

---
The hammers fall, a work is born,
The forgers smite with eldritch might.
The lantern’s sway recalls the day,
And down, down deep, makes shadows leap.

Here dwell the Dwarves. Here they are,
Here pillars rise in carven arch,
Bejewelled with gem and crafted star
And stand on row, and silent march.

Here craft is made in Dwarven shop
Where jewels lie in gleaming pile.
The hammers ring, then briefly stop
While work is done with rasp and file.

They smelt the gold and mine the ore
With skills revered in tales and myths,
They hoard their goods in storied store,
To save the art of master-smiths.

And there is throne of gilded lights
That rises golden in the Halls;
By flame its shape with fire ignites,
By dark it wanes, its beauty falls.

By day the throne held mighty kings,
Proud men who walked when Urd was young.
And from their hands flowed golden things,
The likes of which by bards were sung.

But that was then, a shadow’s passed
Between the sun, upon the throne,
Those days, oh woe! They were the last
Of kings, of gold, of crafted stone.

The darkness broods in hallowed halls,
Where light and coin both flowed and fell,
It pierces arch and graven walls,
And lurks in room with drinking well.

Where once was wealth there now is naught;
No gold is fitted to the stone
Where skilful hands had reached, and taught
The two to join, together sewn.

No fiery gems of morning’s light
Aglow are set into the Door;
It fell to ruin with ne’er a fight,
The Dwarves, they fell with ne’er a war.

No gold that gleams can kill a foe,
No treasure hoard defend its walls
Nor can a silk be made a bow;
And so they fell, those Golden Halls.

The Silence came and broke those doors
That long had gleamed with gems and light;
He broke them down and plundered stores
To which he had no lawful right.

Bereft they fled their ancient home;
This noble race was brought down low,
Forever cursed to walk and roam
By him, their god, their Silent foe.

New lands awoke to feel their touch
On farm and taverns, forge and mines;
They dwell there now, the Dwarves,
And wait for new, more vengeful times.

Their castles fell to dark and gloom,
Their heroes long rot in the tomb,
But steel is forged in these new halls,
Where miner hacks and hammer falls.

Now light is fallen on the blade
That came once beauty died.
The fire awoke to bring it forth
From smoke and tears the fallen cried.

The shackles binding them are gone,
No rod is set to drive their kind
But still, in song and verse they keep
The tales of halls their fathers mined.

No gold is forged in liquid fire,
That brilliant ore was left in smoke,
So now they wait with blades of steel,
These men, these Dwarves, this vengeful folk.

I found it mouldering in an old file, heh.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Tomasque on January 06, 2017, 06:23:26 pm

Quote from: Th4DwArfY1 on January 06, 2017, 11:45:46 am

Suitable for Dwarf Fortress:

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

---
The hammers fall, a work is born,
The forgers smite with eldritch might.
The lantern’s sway recalls the day,
And down, down deep, makes shadows leap.

Here dwell the Dwarves. Here they are,
Here pillars rise in carven arch,
Bejewelled with gem and crafted star
And stand on row, and silent march.

Here craft is made in Dwarven shop
Where jewels lie in gleaming pile.
The hammers ring, then briefly stop
While work is done with rasp and file.

They smelt the gold and mine the ore
With skills revered in tales and myths,
They hoard their goods in storied store,
To save the art of master-smiths.

And there is throne of gilded lights
That rises golden in the Halls;
By flame its shape with fire ignites,
By dark it wanes, its beauty falls.

By day the throne held mighty kings,
Proud men who walked when Urd was young.
And from their hands flowed golden things,
The likes of which by bards were sung.

But that was then, a shadow’s passed
Between the sun, upon the throne,
Those days, oh woe! They were the last
Of kings, of gold, of crafted stone.

The darkness broods in hallowed halls,
Where light and coin both flowed and fell,
It pierces arch and graven walls,
And lurks in room with drinking well.

Where once was wealth there now is naught;
No gold is fitted to the stone
Where skilful hands had reached, and taught
The two to join, together sewn.

No fiery gems of morning’s light
Aglow are set into the Door;
It fell to ruin with ne’er a fight,
The Dwarves, they fell with ne’er a war.

No gold that gleams can kill a foe,
No treasure hoard defend its walls
Nor can a silk be made a bow;
And so they fell, those Golden Halls.

The Silence came and broke those doors
That long had gleamed with gems and light;
He broke them down and plundered stores
To which he had no lawful right.

Bereft they fled their ancient home;
This noble race was brought down low,
Forever cursed to walk and roam
By him, their god, their Silent foe.

New lands awoke to feel their touch
On farm and taverns, forge and mines;
They dwell there now, the Dwarves,
And wait for new, more vengeful times.

Their castles fell to dark and gloom,
Their heroes long rot in the tomb,
But steel is forged in these new halls,
Where miner hacks and hammer falls.

Now light is fallen on the blade
That came once beauty died.
The fire awoke to bring it forth
From smoke and tears the fallen cried.

The shackles binding them are gone,
No rod is set to drive their kind
But still, in song and verse they keep
The tales of halls their fathers mined.

No gold is forged in liquid fire,
That brilliant ore was left in smoke,
So now they wait with blades of steel,
These men, these Dwarves, this vengeful folk.

I found it mouldering in an old file, heh.

This poem is amazing! Though there are a few flaws, the story it tells is captivating and the way it tells it really brings it to life!

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on January 06, 2017, 06:48:53 pm

Thanks! I wrote it as part of a world building exercise for a book I've now discarded. Out of curiosity, what flaws do you see? I see one or two myself, but help is always appreciated.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Tomasque on January 06, 2017, 07:04:38 pm

Quote from: Th4DwArfY1 on January 06, 2017, 06:48:53 pm

Thanks! I wrote it as part of a world building exercise for a book I've now discarded. Out of curiosity, what flaws do you see? I see one or two myself, but help is always appreciated.

Remember that these might be influenced by personal preference:

 -The first stanza has different rhyming scheme than all the rest.
 -Certain lines that are supposed to be in iambic octameter aren't (Ex: "They dwell there now, the Dwarves,")
 -A few lines feel a bit awkwardly phrased (Ex: "And lurks in room with drinking well.")
 -The early bits are written in present tense, but are revealed to be the past without a good transition.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on January 06, 2017, 07:15:07 pm

Well, at least the last one was intentional :P

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on March 06, 2017, 04:47:41 pm

There was once beauty
In the poet's pen, the artist's brush
but now the lines of fate have drawn
A close to ecstasy; a breath of fog
To cloy the no-more verdant lawn.
What has done this, but time?
Words whirled, potent and strong
And figures swirled on paper, elegant
But not obtrusive. Inspiring. Now,
There is an end to rhyme
And loss of fervour.
What once was blue is red,
And all art dead, and all art dead.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Tomasque on March 06, 2017, 07:12:12 pm

 And this thread...

IS ALIIIIIIIVE!!!!

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Yoink on May 08, 2017, 06:15:45 pm

No it isn't, silly.


Anyway, I've been reading Titus Groan by an author called Mervyn Peake and it has some (in my opinion) lovely bits of poetry throughout.
I might post some of them in here, but in spoilers lest they spoil parts of the book for people. I definitely recommend it, so far at least!   

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Urist Mc Dwarf on May 13, 2017, 09:59:46 am

What is it about?

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Tomasque on May 17, 2017, 03:13:30 pm

 I first heard this as a song on the "Space Heroes and Other Fools" cassette/playlist, but when I looked up the lyrics, I found out it was originally a poem! Here is "Hymn of the Breaking Strain," by Rudyard Kipling:

The careful text-books measure
(Let all who build beware!)
The load, the shock, the pressure
Material can bear.
So, when the buckled girder
Lets down the grinding span,
'The blame of loss, or murder,
Is laid upon the man.
Not on the Stuff - the Man!

But in our daily dealing
With stone and steel, we find
The Gods have no such feeling
Of justice toward mankind.
To no set gauge they make us-
For no laid course prepare-
And presently o'ertake us
With loads we cannot bear:
Too merciless to bear.

The prudent text-books give it
In tables at the end
'The stress that shears a rivet
Or makes a tie-bar bend-
'What traffic wrecks macadam-
What concrete should endure-
but we, poor Sons of Adam
Have no such literature,
To warn us or make sure!

We hold all Earth to plunder -
All Time and Space as well-
Too wonder-stale to wonder
At each new miracle;
Till, in the mid-illusion
Of Godhead 'neath our hand,
Falls multiple confusion
On all we did or planned-
The mighty works we planned.

We only of Creation
(0h, luckier bridge and rail)
Abide the twin damnation-
To fail and know we fail.
Yet we - by which sole token
We know we once were Gods-
Take shame in being broken
However great the odds-
The burden of the Odds.

Oh, veiled and secret Power
Whose paths we seek in vain,
Be with us in our hour
Of overthrow and pain;
That we - by which sure token
We know Thy ways are true -
In spite of being broken,
Because of being broken
May rise and build anew
Stand up and build anew.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on May 17, 2017, 03:27:31 pm

I came to that poem through the same song, myself. The Sci-Fi singer Leslie Fish often uses Rudyard Kipling poems in her songs, for instance: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X8CkSw4hVog

Which uses the poem Cold Iron, by Rudyard Kipling:

Gold is for the mistress -- silver for the maid --
Copper for the craftsman cunning at his trade.
"Good!" cried the Baron, sitting in his hall,
"But iron, cold iron, is the master of them all."

So he made rebellion against the King, his liege,
Camped before his citadel and summoned it to siege.
"Nay," said the cannoneer on the castle wall,
"But iron, cold iron, shall be master of you all!"

Woe for the Baron and his knights so strong
When the cruel cannon-balls laid them all along.
He was taken prisoner, he was cast in thrall,
And iron, cold iron, was the master over all.

Yet his King spake kindly (ah how kind a lord!).
"What if I release thee now, and give thee back thy sword?"
"Nay!" said the Baron, "Mock not at my fall,
For iron, cold iron, is the master of men all."

"Tears are for the craven. Prayers are for the clown.
Halters for the silly neck that cannot keep a crown.
As my loss is grievous, so my hope is small,
For iron, cold iron, must be master of men all."

Yet his King made answer (few such Kings there be!).
"Here is bread and here is wine -- Now sit and sup with me.
Eat and drink in Mary's name, while I do recall
How iron, cold iron, can be master of men all!"

He took the wine and blessed it. He blessed and broke the bread.
With his own hands he served them, and presently he said:
"See! These hands they pierced with nails, outside my city wall,
Show iron, cold iron, to be master of men all!"

"Wounds are for the desperate, blows are for the strong,
Balm and oil for weary hearts all cut and bruised with wrong.
I forgive thy treason -- I redeem thy fall --
For iron, cold iron, must be master of men all!"

"Crowns are for the valiant, sceptres for the bold!
Thrones and powers for the mighty men who dare to take and hold!"
"Nay!" said the Baron, kneeling in his hall,
"But iron, cold iron, is the master of men all!"

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Yoink on June 29, 2017, 09:31:40 pm

Quote from: Yoink

Oh jeez / why am I wearing jeans with no knees / on days like these / when it's as cold as Hades / think I'm starting to freeze

What say ye, critics?! 'Tis my first published work of poetry!

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on June 30, 2017, 01:46:16 am

I am afraid to say that in Kipling's presence it may fade in comparison. :P

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: hops on June 30, 2017, 02:11:38 pm

Fuck that, Kipling probably doesn't even wear jeans.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Yoink on July 14, 2017, 05:11:27 am

Well, in order to contribute something actually good to the thread, here is a short-but-sweet poem from one of my current library books:

Quote from: John Keats

I Had A Dove

I had a dove and the sweet dove died;
And I have thought it died of grieving:
O, what could it grieve for? its feet were tied,
With a silken thread of my own hand's weaving.

Sweet little red feet, why should you die?
Why should you leave me, sweet bird, why?
You liv'd alone in the forest-tree,
Why, pretty thing! would you not live with me?
I kiss'd you oft and gave you white peas,
Why not live sweetly, as in the green trees?

-redacted-

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Yoink on July 30, 2017, 03:45:47 am

I'd not meant to kill the thread
With that last, foolish post of mine,
But 'tseems my clumsy rhymes have bled
It of its vim, and left it dying.

Perhaps it still can yet be saved,
By a bard of a truer sort:
And so I give to you, my friends,
Some John Donne from a book I bought.

Quote from: John Donne

The Broken Heart

He is starke mad, who ever sayes,
  That he hath beene in love an houre,
Yet not that love so soone decayes,
  But that it can tenne in lesse space devour;
Who will beleeve mee, if I sweare
That I have had the plague a yeare?
  Who would not laugh at mee, if I should say,
  I saw a flaske of powder burne a day?

Ah, what a trifle is a heart,
  If once into love's hands it come!
All other griefes allow a part
  To other griefes, and aske themselves but some;
They come to us, but us Love draws,
Hee swallows us, and never chawes:
  By him, as by chain'd shot, whole ranks doe dye,
  He is the tyran Pike, our hearts the Frye.

If 'twere not so, what did become
  Of my heart, when I first saw thee?
I brought a heart into the roome,
  But from the roome, I carried none with mee:
If it had gone to thee, I know
Mine would have taught thine heart to show
  More pitty unto me: but Love, alas,
  At one first blow did shiver it as glasse.

Yet nothing can to nothing fall,
  Nor any place be empty quite,
Therefore I thinke my breast hath all
  Those peeces still, though they be not unite;
And now as broken glasses show
A hundred lesser faces, so
  My ragges of heart can like, wish and adore,
  But after one such love, can love no more.

...Wow.
Reading a poem that good gives me such a thrill each time, like how I imagine an avid sports fan would feel upon seeing a member of their favourite team come triumph against all odds and claim a last-minute victory through some masterful display of skill.
This book of Donne was an impulse purchase when I was in an op-shop intending to buy something entirely unrelated; from the few poems I've properly read so far I am extremely glad I found it. Hooray for having no self-control when it comes to books!

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on July 30, 2017, 01:48:49 pm

I second that hurray!
Also, Donne is very good. Haven't read as much of him as I probably should, though.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Yoink on September 28, 2017, 12:15:14 am

I am having a bad day.
On the plus side, though, some of this unhappiness has manifested itself in the form of a poem! I am unable to tell whether it is any good or not, however - right now everything seems terrible.

Spoiler: Written on a sheet of my employment agency's notepaper on the way home from the pointless tedium of my weekly appointment. (click to show/hide)

(http://i67.tinypic.com/xeqs8n.jpg)

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Yoink on November 02, 2017, 10:28:27 am

-so I uhhh, posted in my sleep somehow, yeah let's go with that... whoops -

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on November 06, 2017, 09:35:37 am

Did Yoink just yoink his poetry away?
I suppose none can say :P


------------------

In halls of gold and caverns great
An evil lurking, none can sate
The King is Crowned, and Arkenstone
Sits on its mighty, daunting throne.

The heir has come to claim his own,
Of Durin's blood and Durin's bone,
And on his brow is wreathed a crown
And all have heard of his renown.

The humans grant him barge and shield,
The Elves put Spearmen to the field
And goblins, orcs, all things of night
Call curse on him 'neath Sauron's sight.

A sword he carries, know it well!
Its tale in blood the King shall tell
And falling with a fire behind
Save all his kin and racial kind.

See now the tomb in which he sleeps
While wolves the skies devour,
But none beneath the mountain weeps
For Thorin, and his finest hour!

-----

She came to me as were a dream
Of lilies on the stream,
And all about her shadow hair
Was cast, both dark and fair.
And there I lay, my heart full pierced
By grief unknown and sweet.

Her hand took hold of mine, and light
Was in my eyes, so bright
It took my breath away with joy -
What grief could this alloy!
But looking at her face, perceived
It was for death she grieved.

For in her aspect, fair and full
No darkness crept to dull
The shining brilliance of her skin
Nor cast on her a sin.
But I would grow, as all men do
From youth to age and death.

I took that hand and clasped it fast,
Like clutching moonbeams fleet
And, as a dreamer's wont to do
I kissed it, and knew true.
The stars would wither in the sky
But her... she'd never die.

Her tears would fall as waters warm,
Upon my tomb she'd mourn,
And all the rivers twixt us be
Perpetual as she.
I would have wept, had it not been
Her love about me were.

And so I laid on her a vow
That never would I break -
Her virtues many, I would love
But I would take death's glove
And wrap it 'round my fist
If she by me were kissed.

----

Yes, so someone has been reading Tolkien again.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Tomasque on November 08, 2017, 09:29:01 pm

I like that second one. What's it based on?

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on November 09, 2017, 05:35:48 pm

My most favouriteist Tolkien story.

Part of which artfully shown here (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4F3X5CrPn8I) in song form.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on November 11, 2017, 02:01:13 pm

The herd is me, I am your herd
The girl is foal and friend,
My hand is steady, true and kind
And I am broken too.

They killed my king with fire,
They slaughtered all my friends,
But when I slipped the net
My mission did not end.

I am the justice no man sees,
I am the blade of truth,
I am an old man lost in time
Whose heart is lost to him.

My coat is heavy on my shoulder,
Heavy on my mind
And I walk all the paths of life
Rage-worn, yet kind.

And I am of your herd! I see
Your outer scars, your children dead
I see the hurt they gave to you
That moulded fair to foul.

I see because I, too, am scarred
And heavy is my sword.
But listen to me now, Greathorse
For Justice is my word

And I will take your case,
And stand to judge your right.
What will it be? Death to the girl,
Or stand to fight?

A Greatcoat brings the King's Law to all.

----

Based somewhat loosely off a book I just read. It was actually a moving scene, if a scene in which a man appeals to a horse can be moving.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: AzyWng on November 12, 2017, 07:59:02 pm

Not to unfairly criticize, but the rhyming scheme seems a little... Irregular. I can't find a rhyme in the third stanza, nor in the fifth stanza, but in the other stanzas I can find at least two lines that rhyme at the end.

Also, PTW. May or may not post a poem or two of my own which will likely contain even more glaring errors than the poems on this thread usually do.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on November 13, 2017, 08:17:15 am

It was my intention to have it rhyme sporadically. The speaker is not in the most ordered frame of mind, heh. Also, welcome!

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Reelya on November 15, 2017, 03:23:49 am

Do songs count as poetry? Too bad, i'm posting my songs. They include complete chords too.

Here's the punk song I wrote today. it's a pastiche of late 1990s petrol-head/garage type punk ala Turbo A.C.s and New Bomb Turks. Basically think all big power chords and singing style as bombastic as possible:

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Code: [Select]

Octane (Burnin' Rubber)

Verse 1:

C#...
Pump that gas
F#...
Don'tcha know-o-oh
A#...
slam that door
     C#...
Man, you gotta go-o-oh

C#...
An open highway
F#...
burnin' rubber
A#...
You gotta move
C#
like no other

Chorus:

Octane
C# C# A# C# / A A G# A / F# F# E F# / G# G#  C C
Octane
C# C# A# C# / A A G# A / F# F# E F# / G# G#  C C
Octane
C# C# A# C# / A A G# A / F# F# E F# / G# G#  C C
Octane
C# C# A# C# / A A G# A / F# F# E F# / G# G#  C C

Verse 2:

        G#
Put the pedal to the floor
     A#
It's time to roll
        F#
With an Iron Fist
      C#
And a burning soul

G#
aint no time
   A#
to hesitate
F#
losers suckin' dust
     C#
man, they're too late

(Chorus)

(Verse 1)

(Chorus)

Verse 3:

G#
Blast straight through
          A#
You never pay the toll
     F#
both hands on the wheel
          C#
you gotta take control

G#
aint no time
   A#
to hesitate
F#
losers suckin' dust
     C#
man, they're too late

(Chorus)

Of course, the song is about "cars" but it should be clear that it's not really about cars at all. I'm gonna have a bash at recording this soon. It's clearly not the greatest song ever, but i'm fairly confident that this is in fact better than a lot of the shit out there for realz.

I also wrote this horrible song today, which I'm trying to polish as much as possible as a joke. i'm trying for a Franz Ferdinand sort of pacing and singing style with it. I started out thinking I should write a song about "love" but my brain rebelled. Think of it as a satire of how clingy the people in love songs generally are:

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Code: [Select]

"I still love you baby"
=======================
Chords are played as bar chords with blues-style alternating pinky hammer-downs, e.g the the tab for G# would look like:

-6-8-6-8-
-4-4-4-4-

Apply this rule generally.

Verse 1:

G#
i love you baby
F
i love you all the time
G#
I love you baby
F
so much it's a crime

Chorus (repeat twice):

B                    F#
don't matter what yo mamma say
G#
I still love you babe
B                 F#
don't matter what policeman say
G#
I still love you babe

Verse 2:

G#
i love you baby
F
wherever you are
G#
you could move interstate
F
I'll find you however far

(Chorus)

(Verse 1)

(Chorus)



Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Edmus on November 15, 2017, 05:51:59 pm

I raise your car song a car villanel!
(By Jimmy Andrews)

Intake, Compression, Ignition, Exhaust

I thrill to feel the engine go
The four-stroke's strong and well-rehearsed:
Suck squeeze bang blow! Suck squeeze bang blow!

Especially at the motor show
When rev-head fever's at its worst
I thrill to feel the engine go.

My boyish spirits swell and glow
Propelled by each explosive burst:
Suck squeeze bang blow! Suck squeeze bang blow!

Testosterone commands me so
That even when it's still in first
I thrill to feel the engine go.

The ultimate fellatio
Is guzzling fuel with vicious thirst:
Suck squeeze bang blow! Suck squeeze bang blow!

With dipstick dipped deep down below
In thick oil, thoroughly immersed,
I thrill to feel the engine go.
Suck squeeze bang blow! Suck squeeze bang blow!

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on December 11, 2017, 05:54:44 pm

I just reread through this thread, and am truly glad I made it. Great work, everyone!



I walked once where the land was fair
And knew the weight of state.
For I am ruler of that land,
Yet for me, it won't wait.
Instead, the bracken grows the hedge
And sparrow wings his way,
And when all's said and done
What's said at night is gone by day.

My heart was heavy, on return.
For I command the law be writ
Yet can't be sure that in those words
There isn't more of greed than wit;
The smallfolk die and I know not,
Enshrined in state am I.
The farmer bows before me while
His cattle in his fields may die.

I enter through my castle walls, and see
My daughter fair upon my throne
A doll in hand and smile on lip.
How can I love her so,
Yet drive my people with the whip?

I enter, yes, and now resolve
The Law of Land shall hold.
Let not the words of Christendom
Ever be said so bold
As those of bud and leaf,
A father's pain, a widow's grief.
To these bare rules I hold,
Upheld by me; enshrined in gold.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Tomasque on December 12, 2017, 12:47:35 am

Great poem. I love it.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Reelya on December 14, 2017, 10:25:46 am

Quote from: Edmus on November 15, 2017, 05:51:59 pm

<snip>

Actually I didn't really care for that poem. The reason is that the one I wrote is an analogy for "how to live" (e.g. every statement in it can be read as a statement about living your life in general, and not specifically about cars at all. That's just the surface theme / metaphor).

Whereas that's just a poem about car shows, and literally nothing more. My one is about 80% layered meaning, there are no layers at all in Jimmy Andrews' one.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Edmus on December 16, 2017, 07:26:08 pm

I can see the second layer to yours now that you point it out, but I can't see anything that flags the interpretation. Songs can get away with being less concrete in meaning, so that probably doesn't matter. I'd be keen to hear it played!
Your stalker song is pretty funny. Carry through listening to that policeman line, then half a line later it's like, 'wait... Police?' hahaha

Intake compression etc's a bawdy little poem, but I like its comparison of the masculinity tied up in cars and motor shows with that of boastful young-bloke sexuality. It doesn't take itself too seriously, but I think it's a worthwhile comparison. And while the double entendre are amusing, the sheer number of them is impressive. I'd be surprised if you missed them! But they aren't just there for giggles.
Plus, anyone that struggles all the way through writing a villanel is a trooper. :P
I have a folder of his poems, I enjoy this one a lot:

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Endgame

When I was seventeen my dad and I
drank chess each evening and played scotch & dry
till, leering at the board with weary eye
one night, a supine bishop he could see:
'He's lying,' said my dad, and looked at me
fingering a queen, as lost in thought as he.

He's got a knack for wordplays. I think he's stopped writing now, which makes me sad.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on February 06, 2018, 06:21:50 pm

Was it so easy?
Not to open wide the gate,
Nor even cut a path inside.
No enemy guarded the breach,
No foe-man died.

It is not meant to be easy.
There is to be a
Clashing of the eye,
A sparring wit.

This was a sigh, a smile.
And I was unprepared.
The doors weren’t locked.
Was there even invasion?
I feel no different
Yet profoundly so
To stay, I am indifferent
To leave, I am reluctant.

My ears were deaf
Though cupid flew
I could not hear
His fretted bow.
Was string pulled back?
Have I been struck?
To die of such a wound –
Ha! –
That would be my luck.

For though I’d swear no
Foot gained ground inside
Still, soft as mildew,
Banners furled
I feel a stealth within.
It creeps
And it must be
Coincidence
The beast inside
Reminds me of
Someone I know,
Oh,
Just passing well.

Edit: And this may as well accompany the above, though I already posted it elsewhere.

Hear now the lyrics of my heart
The apple tree with golden fruit
The hidden mountain, standing tall.
The cliff face doomed to fall.

It pierces through the land
In fold and fallow dwelling long
And in that music’s hand
We hear a sieving song.

“Where grows the smiling woods
And badger wheels his way
Where groves of elm are basking
In the daylight’s gentle sway.

“There, there my humble friends
Will hearts once more be free
To gather up their ragged ends
And simply be.”

Then tap your feet in time to it
And hear its glad refrain;
And if you hear it, oh my heart,
Ignore the hidden pain.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Yoink on April 03, 2018, 04:39:25 am

Quote from: Yours truly

I've been dead some hundred years
My bones lying in this field
And ten-thousand creepy-crawlies
Have made of me their meal.

I asked them why they did it
Why my flesh held such appeal
They said "We're only joking,
"For none of this is real".

@Dwarfy: hmm, that first poem (although the second holds more appeal for a base philistine such as I) reminds me of one I wrote last year. It's not very good, of course, that goes without saying - although I believe it was supposed to be a continuation of an earlier part that was even worse, so eh.

Quote from: Me again, but in the past!

Multitudinous neuroses,
Herculean anxieties,
I do battle with them in your name, once again,
Yet they mass ranks upon ranks in a host without end

Your banner overhead, fluttering in the breeze,
Yet the look on your face, I cannot quite see.
Whilst a hint that you felt the same, would lend heart to me,
Knowing not leaves me filled with a  vague dread and unease.

I shall fight on regardless, though, it matters not
For it is with you that I've thrown in my lot
Each flashing sword sings "she loves me,"  "she loves me not,"
This metaphor's tired but it's the best that I've got.

Not a mere soldier's place, to question his queen
So I shall press on, though my heart it doth bleed,
With the thought of your eyes, and their fires of green,
I'll cut a swathe through my problems and tame the mind's weeds.

...Ow ow ow I think I just sprained my neck from cringing so hard. D'you reckon I could get a day off work for that? Still going to post this, though. Apologies if anyone else sustains a similar injury upon reading it. 

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Tomasque on April 06, 2018, 10:48:57 pm

Heya. I made a sci-fi game with poetry stuff in it. I haven't gotten any takers, so I thought I'd see if you guys are interested. It's over here (http://www.bay12forums.com/smf/index.php?topic=170164.0).

 On that note, I'll drop some poems here when I get home. I've made a few.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on April 09, 2018, 07:38:48 am

Yoink: that last strikes me more as a cool song!

Tomasque: I'm so sorry you're wandering lost and homeless :P

Me:
Thorns and berries.
That is what you are.
When the crisp winds blow
Through the barton yonder
You are the chill hard thing
Growing steady, growing green.

The tackle swelters in the shed
And oh! The wary finger's stung
In its attempt to pick the thing
Amongst your barbs.
Black, black as sleeping coal
But round and soft and firm -
The firmament
Is in your lustrous sheen.

Many times I recall
The venture down the hedge
To see your siblings growing proud.
I picked them then.
May I pick you?

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Tomasque on April 09, 2018, 05:04:12 pm

Quote from: Th4DwArfY1 on April 09, 2018, 07:38:48 am

Tomasque: I'm so sorry you're wandering lost and homeless :P

Oof. Made me laugh out loud. Here are the poems:

Spoiler: Memories of May (click to show/hide)

The autumn left
as boldly as it came;
upon the wind,
the winter calls my name.

As boldly as
a summer storm in May,
the winter calls
'til I cannot delay.

A summer storm!
I want the snow to melt,
'til I cannot
remember how it felt.

I want the snow
in other months, but here
remember how
a summer breeze is dear.
- - -
In other months,
upon the wind I'll find
a summer breeze
the autumn left behind.

Spoiler: Pyrphoros (click to show/hide)

The windows burn with private light.
The alley is below,
teeming;
whispers, covered,
in the smothered
night.

Voices hushed;
movements rushed.
Without restraint,
the artists make the mind's
dreaming
immortalized
in pressurized
paint.

Mural drawn:
bright as dawn,
to whom desire
that world of luxury's
seeming,
now seen within
Promethean
fire.

But from the highest windowpane,
accustomed to the light's
gleaming,
will the night be
one, unsightly
stain?

Spoiler: Isidora (click to show/hide)

When leaving behind
the marshes and mire,
the traveler's mind
has a single desire.

Arriving at last,
the city's before him.
He senses its vast
many wonders implore him.

He finds all the stairs
encrusted and tiled;
he finds all the fair
women plenty and wild.

It's all that he sought;
it's all he'd been dreaming,
and yet it is not
what at first it was seeming.

The city, in truth,
is that of a bolder
man, here in his youth;
he's arrived, now, much older.

A bench in the square.
When wonders denied them,
the old men sat there;
he is sitting beside them.

Alone and bereft,
they're lost in the mire.
Just memories left,
where had once been desire.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on April 17, 2018, 11:40:28 am

Nice! Pyrphoros is my fave of them.

The sun was burning bright as polished brass
Upon the bonnet of a failing car
Which churned into the spring-time's creeping grass
But never seemed to get it very far.
And I thought to myself, as I looked on from shade
That really, life is from such moments made.
----

My lonely sons upon the twisting road
My burning boys loosed on the road
Do not forget your father's passing road
Upon the lonely, burning road.

I loved you with a frost-like touch
Which thawed come spring and rain
And ever sought to keep you well,
Though doing so could bring you pain.

I taught you all I know of life
And fit the boots onto your feet.
I gave unto my boys the one same wife -
The spectre asphalt, winding street.

And now I think, for some strange reason
That I need to ask for your forgiveness.

But I am gone now, long, long gone
And you are young and strong.
Oh, go, my wayward boys, and walk the way
That saw my failing feet into the grave.

Do not look back. I will not wave.

((Don't worry, I know they're not my best.))

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Yoink on April 25, 2018, 10:17:12 am

So, I'm supposed to be packing to leave tomorrow, which mostly entails carefully cramming as many of the books (at least a couple of dozen) that I've purchased during this trip into a suitcase. Naturally, I've gotten distracted, considering I haven't actually had time to read any of them yet.

Flicking through a Penguin poetry collection, I stumbled across a couple that really appealed to me for some reason.

Quote from: William Blake

A Poison Tree

I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I watered it in fears,
Night and morning with my tears;
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night,
'Til it bore an apple bright;
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine,

And into my garden stole
When the night had veiled the pole:
In the morning glad I see
My foe outstretched beneath the tree.

Quote from: William Blake

The Garden of Love

I went to the Garden of Love,
And saw what I never had seen:
A chapel was built in the midst,
Where I used to play on the green.

And the gates of this chapel were shut,
And 'Thou shalt not' writ over the door;
So I turned to the Garden of Love,
That so many sweet flowers bore;

And I saw it was filled with graves,
And tombstones where flowers should be;
And priests in black gowns were walking their rounds,
And binding with briars my joys and desires.

   

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Sheb on April 25, 2018, 10:34:06 am

PTW

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on April 25, 2018, 10:34:49 am

Haven't read that second one before, but the first is one I like well.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on April 29, 2018, 05:00:38 pm

In lair of things long turned to dark
Abode of devils, where all things hark
Unto the brooding throne, the seat
Of Morgoth, ancient, foul and great
A bird was seen to fly by eye
Which never thought such things to spy.
Luthien, Luthien, Nightingale of light
Flew in that hall of lasting night.
   And did she have her hair of black,
Her features fair which no things lack?
Was light upon her flowing shift
Of dreams twilit by morning kissed
In Elven glades of softness sweet.
She did, ay, even there to meet
Grim Morgoth on his throne of stone,
Great Morgoth in his halls of bone.

About the foe was army great
Which took to feast that none would sate –
For they desired more than that glut
Of devil-broth and strangled mutt.
Aye, thought the great lord’s host
The Elven maid they longed for most.
And through them all the gleaming light
Of Silmarils, the fairest, bright
Even unto the minds of gods
Made mockery of all their flaws.
The Balrog captains sheathed in steel
Against their fear of pain to feel
Stood tall and bright, misshapen yet
Of evil made, un-formed, ill-met.
The dozen hounds about the feet
Were snapping for a bite to eat
   And Beren slunk, a shadow grim
To slip amongst them at their sin.

Little hope harboured he, the man
Who’d won the Nightingale, no plan
Could think nor stratagem devise
Which would not end in laboured cries
For fairest Luthien, staunch Beren
Wrapped in chains of darkling iron.
Yet faith he kept, though flick’ring dim,
For Luthien the fair of limb
And snapped the legs of Werewolf kin
And joined the fray of fearsome din.

Then rising up to shout aloud
Morgoth challenged that woman proud
Who stood. And simply. Sang a song.
And in that place of hurt and wrong
In darkness draping arches tall
Flavouring the water in the well
And stealing light from eyes of men
There came a hush. A breath. And then
A Balrog wiped a shadowed tear
And looked on it with gloomy fear
Before his knees met floor of black
With muffled shriek, with ice-like crack.
The hounds forgot their glut of meat
And found they’d lost the use of feet
And dozed into a dawning trance
Where Elven maidens passing prance
Reminding them of days of old
When they wore collars made of gold.

But Morgoth, flame flickering in his eye
But lifted head and laughed. “For why,”
He said, “should I allow you life.
A bare thing you of magics rife
Which turned to dust with passing time.
Your forebears ‘gainst me held much crime
But never this. I would not laugh
Where I should turn to ruin and wrath.
A remnant. Pitiful. A shade
Where once a fire was flaming made.”
But Luthien her tune kept up
And ran her fingers through her hair
So seeming in the brightened air
To scatter stars from ‘cross the seas
That only Oromë in hunting sees.
They filled the caverns with their sheen,
And what is more the flowers seen
In twilit glades the world around
Let loose their fragrance in a shroud.
   She danced, Tinuviel, and at her feet
The spring time flowers were replete.
His flamings flickered. Humour died.
For Morgoth over naught had cried
In all the long time of his life,
Yet in that song he tasted strife
And found it bitter, yes, morose
Was music of the blooming rose.

In slumber deep he fell with crash
Into his Balrogs’ falling ash
And dreamt of music out of reach
The song perverted he would teach
And in it strained a newer note
A flowing music of the stream
Which permeated all his dream.
Long slept he, till he woke
And when in strangled tone he spoke
It was with anger newly fed;
The Silmarils had fled his head
And Luthien had fleeting gone,
To leave behind her just a song
Haunting the darkness and the gloom,
Dispelling all illusions, harshest doom.
Long was his anger vented out
In hate-filled curse and grumbling shout
But in his head, his flaming head
Her song still ran. Her music played.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Arx on May 11, 2018, 01:24:28 am

I've had The Second Coming stuck in my head for a while.

Quote from: Yeats

THE SECOND COMING

    Turning and turning in the widening gyre
    The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
    Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
    Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
    The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
    The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
    The best lack all conviction, while the worst
    Are full of passionate intensity.

    Surely some revelation is at hand;
    Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
    The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
    When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
    Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
    A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
    A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
    Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
    Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.

    The darkness drops again but now I know
    That twenty centuries of stony sleep
    Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
    And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
    Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

Part of the first stanza is used in this cinematic (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JDd9654uTiA) from Duelyst, and I really wish there was a full reading by the same VA.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Sheb on May 11, 2018, 11:39:03 am

Ooooh, that's one of my favourite.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Yoink on May 15, 2018, 03:16:56 pm

For those of you who know what you're doing, here is an international poetry competition (https://frontier.submittable.com/submit/111287/the-frontier-industry-prize-one-poem-3000) I found a few days ago. Grand prize is publication and three grand! You could buy a lot of... quills and ink-pots for that kind of money. /me sniffles noisily.
 

Two runner-up prizes also get publication and one or two hundred dollars. Apparently they're only looking for "emerging" poets, whatever that means, and ask for a brief cv outlining entrants' publication history. There is a twenty dollar entry fee, but they're open to submissions from around the world.

Be quick, though - entries close in ten hours!
I kinda meant to share this here days ago. Sorry. :-[

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Hanslanda on May 19, 2018, 06:43:46 am

Is a wax man afraid of fire?
Does a man hiding make a liar?
What is right to fear?
The usual things we hear?
Spiders and heights, clowns and frights.
Death and dying, or lies and lying?
Every man eventually dies.
Not every man lies.
A wax man fears being a lax man.
Failing his ideal and forgetting what is real.
Giving in to weakness and embracing the bleakness.
A wax man fears failure.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Dark One on June 07, 2018, 08:26:28 am

Sonnets and poems from a poetic volume I'm writing since a few months - Starmakers. Cliche love poems - these aren't worth even a halfpenny, but I may finish the volume one day and publish it or post on-line.

Spoiler: Orion's Pearls (click to show/hide)

All the stars in your eyes,
Through your pupils shining,
Compare not to the nebular beauty,
Concealed within your irises.

Clouds cold as ice,
Yet warmth emanating,
To take joy in them it is my duty,
As endless lie within them blisses.

Excellence they reflect,
Only seen when one is dreaming,
In white void submerged,
Clouds forming whirls.

Two comets perfect,
With starlight gleaming,
From Orion’s Belt they emerged,
Two flawless pearls.

Spoiler: The Brightest of the Stars (click to show/hide)

Throughout space far and wide
Among countless shining stars,
Two celestial bodies feelings can’t hide
An argument of lovers, Venus and Mars.

In between their fiery battles, Earth,
With its patches of green and blue,
To mere mankind gave birth,
And let it live without any clue.

On a rock by its star lost am I,
But my star I see, is you.
Your shine pleasing to the eye,
Together a nova we will do.

In this gleam will pale Venus and Mars
From our love will be born the brightest of the stars.

Spoiler: Fading Light (click to show/hide)

If our Sun will fade out
And we shall perish at once,
I will still remember,
Thousands of suns I had felt,
With your every touch.

If our Sun will fade out
And we shall perish at once,
My heart with stardust ember
Enkindled will melt,
Your shine means so much.

If our Sun will fade out
And we shall perish at once,
One last time I will ask
For your love, however shy,
And my spirit you shall receive.

If our Sun will fade out
And we shall perish at once,
In your gleam I will bask
Forsaking the blackened sky,
And your love will make me live.

Spoiler: Planewalking (click to show/hide)

Out of the space deaf and blind
With countless resonating strings woven,
I can’t put at ease my mind,
Beyond planes of reality cloven.

Thrown into black pit my body suffers,
Yet still, my spirit endures
Even though my every limb falters,
My heart withstands tortures.

It is a strange power which gives me strength,
Constantly bringing me to you,
Able to cut planes at any length
Between dimensions, across and through.

Defeated lies the void, that separated you and me,
By the might of love, as pure as it can be.

The last one is unfinished, I kinda lack incentive to continue writing it, but I'm posting it anyway:

Spoiler: Lightshade (click to show/hide)

To describe you, I will need to hue my whole universe
Taking the star paint - no worse, I will start with golden gloom of the moon,
Matching it with azure heart of the noon, and crimson flames of all the suns,
A fiery comet I will stop at once, taking its tail of rainbows and sparks
To adorn it with cosmic marks, and wrap as a band of emeralds.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: KittyTac on June 07, 2018, 09:59:16 am

Roses are green
My name is Dave
This poem makes no sense
Microwave

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Hanslanda on June 09, 2018, 06:12:14 pm

Quote from: KittyTac on June 07, 2018, 09:59:16 am

Roses are green
My name is Dave
This poem makes no sense
Microwave

Violets are orange,
And my name is Gorange.
Rhymes are like purple,
Something something nurple

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on June 11, 2018, 08:53:01 am

Quote from: Dark One on June 07, 2018, 08:26:28 am

--

Oh yea, love poems and such. I guess I'll make a stab at a sonnet again.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

They say custom can’t stale the charm of she
Nor age wither the beauty of her face.
True love, they cry, will make immortal we
Base creatures of the faithless human race.
A flash of eye may keep the memory
When time has sought and kept its glow;
Fierce flesh that glowed at times solitary
May be remembered though it fades as snow.
It takes but one hand held within another,
The joining minds and hearts of one made two;
Of someone’s son and someone’s daughter
Alight with certainty of love that’s true.
In this way, and this way alone, it’s said
May stuff of immortality be made.

Note: I did not make huge efforts to maintain the 10-syllable ideal.
Edit:
Here are some I did earlier, though I think I've posted some of them on Bay12 before.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

A Rondeau

I loved her once, when I was young
In days when songs were sweetly sung
To give her credit every way
Her lips would move, her hips would sway -
Oh, how by me her beauty far was flung!

But weary now is made my tongue,
As on the fields the petals thickly strung
Block out the healing sun shine of the day.
I loved her once, when I was young.

As per, the pendulum of time has swung
And shown me all the follies of the young.
She is gone now, and by no means I may
See where her path has gone, or where it lay.
But though our final bells have long since rung,
I loved her once when we were young.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

O soft hands, o spritely noble dancer! 
For domain you would have my heart’s secrets
And twist them, hiding from me the answer
To questions plaguing often-sought-for genius.
Your mountain lands are haven for fairy spirits,
Your form and beauty catch, ensnare with lust,
The humble man, O silver seductress!
Whose hair is like lightning, like shimmering dust
That captured me, like a lowly pig trussed
And ready for the slaughter, O lady!
Your eyes belie your heart, so often cussed!
And show to me through the veil of beauty
You; yourself, that joyous thing, and no other
O spritely dancer, who none can smother!

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

The moon has no power over your mind,
The stars which twinkle are motes in your eyes,
And gently the sun pays homage in kind,
To touch your face and hear your gentle sighs.

The gods have given us such things as stars,
So we may gaze in awe, rapt and happy
To see a sight which no mortal thing mars.
So it is when any see your beauty.

For the waves are violent and strike the rocks,
That guide them, shape them, are broken by them.
So with you, your face framed with hanging locks,
Your eyes are emerald, of forest green gem.

Not mine, not ever will you be my song,
That tune for me is flawed; to sing would be wrong

This has actually been interesting for me. The last two are some of the first ones I did, and there is a definite difference between them and the one I wrote there now. Nice to know I'm not stagnating.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: KittyTac on June 12, 2018, 01:34:38 am

First semi-serious poetry:

Kittens are cool
Soft like wool
They're so cute
But when they grow up
They make more.

Rate this, I guess. I'm not a native English speaker, the way I pronounce "more" kinda rhymes with "cute".

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Edmus on June 12, 2018, 07:09:05 pm

Quote from: Th4DwArfY1 on June 11, 2018, 08:53:01 am

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

They say custom can’t stale the charm of she
Nor age wither the beauty of her face.
True love, they cry, will make immortal we
Base creatures of the faithless human race.
A flash of eye may keep the memory
When time has sought and kept its glow;
Fierce flesh that glowed at times solitary
May be remembered though it fades as snow.
It takes but one hand held within another,
The joining minds and hearts of one made two;
Of someone’s son and someone’s daughter
Alight with certainty of love that’s true.
In this way, and this way alone, it’s said
May stuff of immortality be made.

I love this! It's so sweet!

Quote from: KittyTac on June 12, 2018, 01:34:38 am

First semi-serious poetry:

Kittens are cool
Soft like wool
They're so cute
But when they grow up
They make more.

Rate this, I guess. I'm not a native English speaker, the way I pronounce "more" kinda rhymes with "cute".

I'm trying to work out how to squeeze cute to sound like more. :P
The best way to improve it is probably looking at the meter, and a simplified way to do that is to count the syllables (this will only get you so far but works well enough) and try to keep them to a pattern. In yours you have 4,3,3,5,3. Changing the 5 to a 4 might help.

Enjoyed a really moving poem this morning by Nan McDonald, 'The Bus Ride Home'. I can't find a copy online, sadly. So here are two huge photos:

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

(https://i.imgur.com/Kcjcwj8.jpg)

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on June 13, 2018, 09:14:33 pm

And are you sleeping, Martin Peibel
With your flowers on your head,
Oh, are you sleeping my fine fellow
Beneath that faded clutch of red?
The rusted bucket on your patch
Speaks subtle words to me
How long since you first sought
Your immortality.

Your stone is unremarkable, your name
Well nigh unknown.
What reason have I to show you courtesy
In such a place as this?
I came to visit family
Who slumber down thon path.
Dear Martin, you have no such draw
On obligation nor familial awe
That would compel me to converse with you

And you are crowded ‘round with monuments
To pierce low-hanging heaven with ambition
With names engraved in Stygian iron
Proclaiming loud their living message.
You, my dear Martin,
Are entirely silent.

Perhaps I feel a shock, sharp, tremulous.
Your very unremarkable presence
Speaks of the gravity inherent in the grave,
And silence seems most natural for one
Whose mouth long since was stopped by sod.
It is as if all others put a mask on death,
A practice you yourself abhorred.

You are a stranger, one long dead
But still I feel compelled to ask.
Do you rest well with flowers on your head
Which I found scattered and abused upon your grave
And for the sake of a moment’s
Tenderness or sentiment
Had gathered as one who knew you would,
Picked up and quickly placed before your stone
So as to brighten it with faded vermilion?
Or are they gaudy, and too much a mask
For you to slumber on in peace?
Forgive me my impertinence, Martin,
If I can call you that. It’s just I felt I had to ask.

---

Went to visit my granny's grave, and on the way saw a plot with a bunch of artificial flowers spilled across it. Gathered them up and placed them at the gravestone, then wondered what right I had to do something so seemingly personal for him. Not really written to show off poetic style, more to get my thoughts on paper.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on June 19, 2018, 06:06:15 pm

Odysseus outside Calypso’s cave
Dreams of a home he lost
And mourns the love he feels –
He understands its cost.
Calypso, feet in the sands
Sees him asleep and sighs.
In all the tortured mortal lands
She’s never seen one man so wise
As could resist her charms
And turn them back a net to bind.
Love is a blade which only harms.

And in the light of day
The seagull treads the line
Along the salty way
Of sea and foam and brine.
It cares not for Odysseus
Nor for his crooked grin
Cares not for man kind’s kiss
Nor feeds a guilty sin.

----

A knight lies fallen on the field;
A maiden sits resplendent on his shield,
A handkerchief is tied about his spear.
His soul has left that barren field.

Beside an infantry man is laid
No shield to save the heart that bled
Nor handkerchief around his weapon wound.
The eyes are plucked from out his head.

But in his hand long clogged with dirt
A silver pendant with a golden heart
Holds one fair portrait, cunning done,
Of that man's wife and infant son.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Tomasque on June 19, 2018, 07:50:29 pm

Great poem!

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Edmus on June 19, 2018, 09:15:49 pm

Exam pressure always squeezes poetry out of me. No title for this one.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Again he stokes the heater with split ironbark boughs
before bed — why this ritual? What
does it achieve when winter truth’s outside?
It may be warm-sincere in anti-antipodes
But not here. The truth is always outside.
So why bother with such ritual hard-wood
to the iron in the soot — you’re always stoking
                  join us in the cold.
                        Look how free
                              to move we are outside
                  it’s enough to keep us warm.

Great poems DwArfY1!

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Qassius on June 20, 2018, 12:06:37 am

.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Tomasque on June 20, 2018, 01:53:10 pm

Quote from: Qassius on June 20, 2018, 12:06:37 am

As the candle was snuffed
And the pillow stuffed

I like this couplet.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Yoink on June 22, 2018, 01:56:19 am

This is a song, but I don't believe we have a current thread for such things. Inspired by the raggedy-ass socks I just had to pull onto my feet after showering, as my newer and less-tattered ones are in the wash.

Quote

My hooves, cut through my socks, I go through a pack a week
And you know it's a nightmare just (tryna/trying to?)  find souls to eat
'Cause you mortals just sell them away at the drop of a hat
You don't realise that once you commit there is no turning back

You (don't even/scarcely) (know/learn) who you are before choosing to hate yourself
You waste no time deciding you'd rather be somebody else
I know, in the end, regardless, you wind up in hell
But if you ask me, these days damnation's too easy to sell.

...Crap, I wrote the last couple of lines and now I'm not sure I'm correctly remembering the slightly different melody of the first two that it started with. Urgh. I don't really have time to try and remember exactly, not like I'm about to put it to music anyway.

Basically, it was loosely based on part of an old song I used to sing as a kid, which after googling the lyrics turns out to be Sing C'est La Vie by Sonny and Cher.
This unplanned shitty songwriting sesh was worth it just to remind myself of that song, haha. Maybe I should add a chorus in to match.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Dark One on June 23, 2018, 01:48:18 pm

A poem I had written as an intro for a series of stories: Tales of a crow knight. It's based on a character I came up with when writing my latest RTD and I think is interesting enough to write more about him.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

There are many birds, I see,
With whom I have had spoken,
Just like them, exploring heights free,
With my faith and will unbroken.

A gentle nightingale, singing its song
With pride of an opera singer,
And in its narcissism completely wrong,
Cursed to forever in stone linger.

A royal stork, resting in nest
Before a voyage long will begin,
And always, with the regards best,
Leaves a rattle loud and clean.

A peaceful dove, with distinct rumble
Speaking of battle’s cease and serenity,
And among them, the most humble,
Surely is for all the certainty.

A watchful raven, patrolling a street
With raspy caw suiting it well,
And focused observance is its wit
A little bird will always tell.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on July 07, 2018, 11:14:17 am

http://www.sfpoetry.com/contests.html

Some of you may be interested.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Tomasque on July 07, 2018, 01:30:15 pm

Quote

Dwarf (poems 1–10 lines [prose poems 0–100 words])

I think everyone here is interested.

In all seriousness, thanks. This might actually get me to write more poems. That Dwarf category does look pretty cool.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Dark One on September 22, 2018, 12:52:25 pm

Cliche metaphysical love poetry continued. I finished Lightshade and wrote another one.

Spoiler: Light shade (click to show/hide)

Lightshade

To describe you, I will need to hue my whole universe
Taking the star paint - no worse, I will start with golden gloom of the moon,
Matching it with azure heart of the noon, and crimson flames of all the suns,
A fiery comet I will stop at once, taking its tail of rainbows and sparks
To adorn it with cosmic marks, and wrap as a band of emeralds.

Using a prism, I will cut and spread the length of a wave
To receive shades of a manner more subtle than brave: silvery droplets of falling rain,
Daybreak arising star’s rosy stain, and all the pigments of tender light,
Ingraining the canvas of petals bright, in all of the flowers around my world
I will engrave your person pearled, so it will forever remain with me there.

My whole universe, touched with the shades of light most true
Is the only thing I can give to you.

Spoiler: Unity (click to show/hide)

Unity

For the ruthless flow of time
The remedy is none,
Separate cracks piece most sublime
But stands strong reinforced as one.

Till death and beyond,
Against entropy love goes
Forming unbreakable bond,
In unity which we chose.

Leaving our bodies bygone
And weakened by countless scars,
We shall live on,
In a dance of entangled stars.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Tomasque on September 22, 2018, 05:37:43 pm

We'll, here's two aforementioned dwarf poems.

From the world
of ice,
paradise
unfurled.
----
With heavy heart, she closed her eyes.
The clouds did part; the sun did rise.
She woke up with a start
'neath stormy skies.

I want to add more, but I'll do that later.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on October 13, 2018, 06:20:03 pm

Feel now the Changeling lace
About the throat and heart
Where beat forbidden love
For they who flew the gilded dove.
Possessive as Poseidon
Thunder of the deep -
Attractive and controlling,
Deep and dark
As moths that fly without
Their coveted light.

Spend all the hours of midnight in a breathing rush
Where chest can draw as mountain stream
The air, sweet velvet of the night
More fair than elderberry on the bough
And beat it into action, pearling thought
Along the creased quilt-work of the brow.

Think.
Think.
Think,
Who long had thought eluded
Dwell on his eyes, his augur gimlet gaze
And know he loves you much, his heart is pure
Intentions good.
Yet love is sustenance, a type of food, a sweet dessert
For one who has a tooth for it.

Feel midnight lace about your throat!
Constricting, tight,
And oh,
So beautiful.

XXXX

Long lines the fairy used to tread
Now filled with brimless dread.
Lidless, pursuing, everywhere
The eye of death and air.

Great forests filled with snow
Where winged insects used to glow
Now faded charcoal, dusty limb
And ash where scent of jasmine was.

The sun above, a blaze of red
A strand of auburn on her head
And sweetness bitter-edged just for me
Gone now. Gone beyond a sea
Of thought.

Where fairies used to walk
The cobwebs grow
And bloated stands
The carrion crow
Where walked
In silver
They
Who walked the silver elven way.
---

Was looking forward to your more, by the way, Tomasque. I must admit to writing the above on pure whim in a few minutes and without much conscious direction, so forgive any weirdness. Well, stream of consciousness and all.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Tomasque on October 13, 2018, 07:38:58 pm

Quote from: Th4DwArfY1 on October 13, 2018, 06:20:03 pm

Was looking forward to your more, by the way, Tomasque. I must admit to writing the above on pure whim in a few minutes and without much conscious direction, so forgive any weirdness. Well, stream of consciousness and all.

Oh wow, I forgot about this. Again. Remembering to do stuff is not my strong suit.

I write weird poems like that, too, sometimes.

Some more dwarf poems for ya...

----
Life is a game:
Once you're rich make a name
for yourself, then retire & win.
I see your desire;
Your eyes have the fire!
Why don't you inquire within?
----
I'm betting my behavior
on unsuitable odds.
I'm running out of favor
with inscrutable gods.
----
Let him languish in his anguish,
in despair and disrepair.
He's deposed and so disposed of;
torn apart, no part to spare.
----
If angels fallen from His grace
come falling down from outer space,
they'll strike the earth below.
Or, vanishing without a trace,
they'll find they're in another place.
perhaps we'll never know.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on October 29, 2018, 12:53:09 pm

Nice!

One I did today:

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

I walked where years had thickly strewn
The holly and the rowan leaf;
My sons and daughters, charges dear,
Stood sentinel and age-wreathed
About my path.

Oh, I can smell yet the mulch and growth
Of root and bough and beast.
The earth itself was silent, clear
And – wonder here I feel –
I was content.

Now children come and children go
And all are felled by iron blade;
The rowan and the holly fade
And nothing remains which they made
In ancient mien.

The streams are dark with fallen chiefs
Whose branches sighed a song
Now long unheard. Ah!
I can recall the path I trod among
The holly and the rowan trees
And it so very long
That I was dwarfed.

Now only I remain.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Tomasque on October 29, 2018, 01:17:42 pm

I love those sci-fi poems! Personally, though, I disagree with you - I think the first one is better. I'm a sucker for theological references.

Here's a pair of palindrome poems I wrote on a whim. They don't make a lot of sense, but they're fun to read:

Namaste gets a plan,
NAL paste gets a man.
--------
Pot on martini: ale crop.
Porcelain; it ram no top.

Also, a palindrome I wrote that I like too much not to post, even if it isn't a poem:

Sirafa sees I drawn it. "Is it I?"
"It is it." Inward, I see safaris.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Yoink on November 27, 2018, 10:04:16 pm

Came up with these lines today, inspired by real events:

Quote

You're in my fucking way
I wish that you would die
All I want's some peace
In which to sit and eat my pie

Yes, it could use some polish (and I might be misremembering part of it), but I think it really captures the moment. :P   
Replace "some peace" with "a place" if so desired.   


Edit: expanded alternate version that nobody asked for:

Quote

You're in my fucking way, you bitch
Oh how I wish that you would die
All that I want's a place to sit
And eat this scrumptious mushroom pie

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on November 28, 2018, 08:21:42 am

Well that was poetry from the heart, Yoink ;)

Meanwhile, I bashed my head against a wall making a Pantoum (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pantoum).

I no longer know if it's comprehensible I've read over it so many times to see if it fits the form.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Tomasque on November 28, 2018, 04:18:32 pm

Pantoums are amazing. Great job!

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on November 28, 2018, 09:08:55 pm

No lie, it hurt my head. To rest myself, a sonnet;

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on December 25, 2018, 05:42:55 pm

I do enjoy writing the odd ramble-poem  ;)


When the curtain is hanging half-on-mast
I’ll know these sad but honest truths;
That in the past, my best was better
And that where the hallways echoed
Now they are silent. Silent. Silent.
Silent as the graves of those who trod them.

Is this coincidence?

Sweet Baldur of the Spring was slain
With mistletoe and trickery, his love
Poured through the ruby river of his youth
And though his body never saw the End
Nevertheless his fist was strong and grasped
As fast as moonbeams in the local lake
Unto ideals and bravery and honour.

Speak not of Baldur’s beauty, reader,
Do not mention how his cheeks were red
Nor how his hair was long and brown.
This did not make him better than the best.

The fires had yet to fade from Baldur’s pyre
‘Ere grief and pain took all creation.
Frigg wept for son laid low, and Hel saw with amaze
The dead a-weeping in their grey-hamed rows.
For mischief only would not weep
One thing in all creation.

When I am old, I will not say my beauty’s fled
Nor bring as memory the darts of years –
No! The world cares not and nor should I.
My best is in the past
And age has nothing to do with it.

The hallways no longer echo, friend.
None weep. I stretch into the greyness
And those whom I loved most are dead.

Would that Baldur could meet me in that place
So I may know if it is just me
Who misses Frigg and sees
Sees with the blind man’s desperate sight;

Creation would not weep were I to die
And heart has turned to ash.

Reader, my best will soon be in the past.
Mourn it, for I will never be done
Mourning its cause.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Tomasque on February 14, 2019, 11:50:21 am

You're like cancer, but benign.
Will you be my valentine?

I am open to costructive criticism.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on February 14, 2019, 06:52:49 pm

Benign... cancer. Have you thought of writing Valentine's cards? :P

I suppose I'll write a thematic one too. Why not.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: birdy51 on February 14, 2019, 08:36:17 pm

I like! Excellent work dude.

I'm still no poet.
But sometimes, I can show it.
My haikus? Legit.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Edmus on February 15, 2019, 10:18:57 pm

not so much romantic, but i do have a cheeky one i wrote a few months ago

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Men
you’re taut like a sail full of your own energy
& i duck to dodge the boom
of your voice    as you canvas me
      in your attention,
            make me the wind
                  to animate those taut
            muscles curving hard
      under soft fabric
because i trust the way your eyes catch the sunlight
in your smile, so
you can grip the tiller,
but let me blow you, baby

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Tomasque on February 20, 2019, 02:12:32 am

Quote from: Th4DwArfY1 on February 14, 2019, 06:52:49 pm

Benign... cancer. Have you thought of writing Valentine's cards? :P

I suppose I'll write a thematic one too. Why not.

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
I will not. When we met, you whispered tales
Of storybooks and love's sweet cloistered way
Between the Cherubim and green-scent dales.
Rough winds may shake the darling buds of May
But rougher shake December's barren boughs
And so I found with you, who whispered 'stay'
Pretending oak-like vigilance and vows.
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Or shall I capture in your smile the Frost
Of early January, which will away
Come months or seconds, days, years, weeks - all lost

For gazing, gazing, not at a spring-time summer's day
But captivated by the ice and thaw and terrible beauty
Of the Queen of Ice, perfect as the cyclone on a still-lit day.

Your imagery is very nice, and it makes the changing seasons in the poem all the more vivid. However, one line ("Come months or seconds, days, years, weeks - all lost") feels weird to read, because "years" is a word that is naturally stressed, but is in an unstressed slot in that meter. Except for that, though (and a little hiccup in having to pronounce "January" as "JAN-yur-EE"), your poem is a great read!

Here's something I just wrote. I haven't worked out all the kinks yet.

The present is the moment that was never meant to last:
It matters for a minute, then it just becomes the past.
My consciousness collects it, and I try to hold it fast,
But cannot keep forever still the little I've amassed.

Is there a better way I could handle punctuation here? That last line feels like it especially needs something, because the current phrasing makes it a little obtuse.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Tomasque on March 24, 2019, 10:40:31 pm

Here's a duet bit I wrote for a non-existent musical. I'm a big fan of musicals, so I sometimes come up with these little vignettes. This one's between an accountant (George) and his assistant (John). The stress is a little awkward in parts, but it's meant to be in anapestic meter.

George: "You're the most inconsistent assistant I know."
John: "Never helps me to be."
George: "But you're just too indifferently different to grow."
John: "And it's all same to me."

I dunno. I've got a little bit more of this stuff, if you're interested.  :/

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on March 26, 2019, 05:57:44 pm

Quote from: Tomasque on February 20, 2019, 02:12:32 am

little hiccup in having to pronounce "January" as "JAN-yur-EE")

But that is how I pronounce it! Or, perhaps closer to JAN-yur-ee.

Quote from: Tomasque on February 20, 2019, 02:12:32 am

The present is the moment that was never meant to last:
It matters for a minute, then it just becomes the past.
My consciousness collects it, and I try to hold it fast,
But cannot keep forever still the little I've amassed.

Is there a better way I could handle punctuation here? That last line feels like it especially needs something, because the current phrasing makes it a little obtuse.

Hmm, yes. I'd suggest thinking about removing the first comma in the second from last line - it might improve flow and pacing. The last line needs rewording or at least restructuring. It's wordy and clunky. "But can't keep still forever what I have amassed" or something?

Quote from: Tomasque on March 24, 2019, 10:40:31 pm

Here's a duet bit I wrote for a non-existent musical. I'm a big fan of musicals, so I sometimes come up with these little vignettes. This one's between an accountant (George) and his assistant (John). The stress is a little awkward in parts, but it's meant to be in anapestic meter.

George: "You're the most inconsistent assistant I know."
John: "Never helps me to be."
George: "But you're just too indifferently different to grow."
John: "And it's all same to me."

I dunno. I've got a little bit more of this stuff, if you're interested.  :/

Looks good! But it's a bit hard to form a full opinion on four lines :P

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: RoseHeart on April 09, 2019, 03:34:24 pm

I do not know, the ways of my ancestors.
I have forgotten the wolf, the bear, the snake.
How to dance across the stones upon the river, across the lake.
My feet are bound in a leatherbound embrace.
I am but a man of the present.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on May 09, 2019, 05:16:50 pm

Bravo!

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Yoink on June 20, 2019, 09:53:41 pm

Earlier I thought it would be nice to write a poem to try and rekindle a friend's interest in poetry, since she seemed somewhat disillusioned after her entry in a competition didn't claim a prize.
Then, as if on command, inspiration struck! Lines were spewing forth from my imagination like they haven't in a long time!

...Buuuut it wound up being a poem about her, so now it's classified information. Whoops.  :-\


 

Quote from: roseheart on April 09, 2019, 03:34:24 pm

I do not know, the ways of my ancestors.
I have forgotten the wolf, the bear, the snake.
How to dance across the stones upon the river, across the lake.
My feet are bound in a leatherbound embrace.
I am but a man of the present.

Hey I really like this! I'd probably swap out "leatherbound" for something less cumbersome, though.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on June 27, 2019, 06:44:47 pm

I.... seem to have done a Haiku sometime in the past. It was just sitting there.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

The darkness stirs wings

About an empty bright throne

The gods have left us.

.....

I do not remember doing this.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Tomasque on July 09, 2019, 03:19:10 am

Maurilia, by myself

When passing through the city square,
A post card you'll be shown, to see
The picture of what once was there
And how it used to be.
But if they ask you to compare,
Then choose your words with utmost care
And say the same as me:

"Admitting that the city's got
Magnificence, it cannot match
A certain grace the town forgot,
For only now we catch
What once it held, because we spot
The ways the simple egg was not
Alike to what would hatch."

But, sometimes - as is now the case -
The gods who lived beneath a name
Have left and others took their place,
And asking who was of the two
The better is a fruitless aim.
Between them, there is not a trace;
They never were the same.


It's a poetic recreation of the excerpt "Cities & Memory 5 (https://www.aeroplane.dev/226542492172)", from my favorite book, "Invisible Cities".

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Yoink on July 11, 2019, 10:26:33 am

I dig it. Especially since I absolutely hate property development, modern architecture and the pointless, greed-driven destruction of any buildings with character. :(



Here's an unrelated poem that I recently found in my notes and revisited (previously it was just the first two... paragraph things, stanzas or whatever), although a lot of pubs are lovely old buildings:   

Quote from: A Meaning In a Bottle (working title)

Alone in this barroom save for the barkeep
To him I'm just a part of the decor
He'll chuck me out at some point if and when I fall asleep
He's my friend as long as I keep drinking more

Whether I'm perched up on a barstool or just leaning
Or passed out somewhere drooling where I lay
I turned to drink to give myself some meaning
As I wait to die just counting down the days


Once I'm tipsy, I can talk
A little more, it's hard to walk
But only a coward baulks when faced with drink

Don't leave your drink with moi
When I'm a-boozing in the bar
For I will drain your glass if you so much as blink   


Liver failure and cirrhosis do not phase me
Sobriety's the one thing that I fear
I've had a few, and a few more - but who's counting?!
Now shut up and drink, closing time is near


Ushered outside, into Melbourne City chill
At least I have a bellyful to warm me
And at home awaits a few more bottles still
With John or Jack one's never truly lonely


…This makes it sound like I'm an alcoholic
But in truth I'm just quite partial to a drink
Summer beers, winter whiskies, gin and tonics
I could stop today, if I wanted - I think.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on August 13, 2019, 07:24:13 am

Poem by Tolkien:

“The Dragon’s Visit”
By J.R.R. Tolkien, published in the Oxford Magazine, 4 February 1937

The dragon lay on the cherry trees
a-simmering and a-dreaming:
Green was he, and the blossom white,
and the yellow sun gleaming.
He came from the land of Finis-Terre,
where dragons live, and the moon shines
on high white fountains.

“Please, Mister Higgins, do you know
what’s a-laying in your garden?
There’s a dragon in your cherry trees!”
“Eh, what? I beg your pardon?”
Mister Higgins fetched the garden hose,
and the dragon woke from dreaming;
he blinked, and cocked his long green ears
when he felt the water streaming.

“How cool,” he said, “delightfully cool
are Mister Higgins’ fountains!
I’ll sit and sing till the moon comes,
as they sing beyond the mountains;
and Higgins, and his neighbours, Box,
Miss Biggins and old Tupper,
will be enchanted by my voice:
they will enjoy their supper!”

Mister Higgins sent for the fire brigade
with a long red ladder.
And men with golden helmets on.
The dragon’s heart grew sadder:
“It reminds me of the bad old days
when warriors unfeeling
used to hunt dragons in their dens,
their bright gold stealing.”

Captain George, he up the ladder came.
The dragon said: “Good people,
why all this fuss? Please go away!
Or your church-steeple
I shall throw down, and blast your trees,
and kill and eat for supper
you, Cap’n George, and Higgins, Box,
and Biggins and old Tupper!”

“Turn on the hose!” said Captain George,
and down the ladder tumbled.
The dragon’s eyes from green went red,
and his belly rumbled.
He steamed, he smoked, he threshed his tail,
and down the blossom fluttered;
Like snow upon the lawn it lay,
and the dragon growled and muttered.

They poked with poles from underneath
(where he was rather tender):
the dragon gave a dreadful cry
and rose like thunder.
He smashed the town to smithereens,
and over the Bay of Bimble
sailors could see the burning red
from Bumpus Head to Trimble.

Mister Higgins was tough; and as for Box
just like his name he tasted.
The dragon munching his supper said:
“So all my trouble’s wasted!”
And he buried Tupper and Captain George,
and the remains of old Miss Biggins,
on a cliff above the long white shore;
and he sang a dirge for Higgins.

A sad song, while the moon rose,
with the sea below sighing
on the grey rocks of Bimble Bay,
and the red blaze dying.
Far over the sea he saw the peaks,
found his own land ranging;
and he mused on the folk of Bimble Bay
and the old order changing:

“They have not got the wit to admire
a dragon’s song or colour,
nor heart to kill him brave and quick—
the world is getting duller!”
And the moon shone through his green wings,
the night winds beating,
and he flew back over the dappled sea
to a green dragons’ meeting.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Tomasque on September 19, 2019, 01:38:54 pm

They'll be games and cartoons,
Lazy, long afternoons
In the future, I know.

But today's are the last
That I spend in the past,
For tomorrow I go.

---

Wish me luck at college!

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Luckyowl on October 05, 2019, 03:02:50 am

(this poem I made using one of Dwarf fortress randomly generated poems. The Poem orginated from the Banded Realm a Tulmanian(modded Humans) civilization who enjoy to fight and explore. It was a poem made into a chant for the people of Banded Realm as in a way to bring everyone together. Theians  and Shali are people who believed  in 'The' goddess of order and discipline  and 'Shal' goddess of misery and torture. My head canon is that in the beginning The Tulmanians  killed each other over their beliefs. Their were 11 tribes and each 11 tribes believed in one god respectively, Shali and Theians were  both, at that time the most powerful tribes among the 11 . At the peak of the conflict Shali and Theians had already tooken control of  the other minor tribes and it was just these two vying for control  until an UNKNOWN HISTORICAL FIGURE LINK to their unification Unifying these two tribes and allowing minor tribes to once again pray to their gods.    )


Quiescent Luxuries


In the past we lived  untied; separate was us,
Red was the rivers and red was the dirt,
No child was safe from these senseless slaughter,
 and were seen as nothing more than cattle!
Rapes of our brothers wives and tears watered our crops,
In such dark times we were sure all was lost,

but now we live together; the past is behind,
Peace and order rings through our realm!
And this song will keep us held!
from Theians to Shali we fight together,
When foes invade our land,
We'll invade in the end!

We'll leave a past tied; the future ahead,
Our child and their child will past our songs,
In our future land,
Singing and chanting how our enemies blood shed.
And they will eat our foes food,
And  chant our songs,
And they will sleep in our foes bed,
And pray to our gods,
With us banded together,
We'll fight for the future homes,
gained  from our foes,
We'll fight not as Shali, or Theians
We! will fight as Tulmanians!

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on October 23, 2019, 08:23:02 am

I can remember
The moon’s exact place in the sky.
It was caught in a cradle of web,
Hanging like a jewel
Still and waiting.

I was in bed. There was a biting frost
Outside, but not until he spoke
Was I aware of it.
“She’s dead” my dad said,
Slow-shifting at the door.

Time was frozen. The moon, I noted
With a blank amaze
Had yet to move.
“She’s dead,” he said again
As if to make me believe.

And I did, for though I knew
Dementia does not kill,
I’d seen it in her eyes. The little death.
The death of self.
Every day a little less.

I’d thought it sad.

Now when I think that,
When I think that I am truly sad,
I feel a creeping frost
And see a shadow at the door
And I remember.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: itisnotlogical on November 12, 2019, 01:53:27 am

Money doesn’t matter if you’re happy.
No power.

“I love you all.” The truth I long but can never be believed.
Account name: Brother. Sister. Son. Daughter.
“What’s wrong with you?” A command shaped like a question. Stop thinking, stop feeling.
Account balance: not enough.

An incestuous lending company, green roads between bottomless pits.
Life becomes pavement.
Hollowed-out eyes viewing the day ahead, penniless in wealth, poor in poverty.
Familial shell.

Texas: a southern state in the United States.
The place where my nightmares gave birth.

Four walls, glass door, thin bed.
Screaming adults.
Crying children.
Darkness and fear.

There isn’t money for food or electricity or rent.
Something is happening tonight and all I can do is cry.

Dad could never be here. He didn’t want to, so he killed himself.
Now my brother is my dad, and now Mom and Dad hate each other and my sister just gave birth and none of us have money and we’re about to all be homeless and oh my God oh my God
Also
I’m here too.

I can’t say what’s wrong, if I do there’s more yelling, more fighting, Mom and Dad hate each other and the baby starts crying and my sister hates all of us and why did you ask if you didn’t want
“I’m fine.”

Wherever my family came, Texas followed.
The fighting.
The crying.
The fear.

So, if anybody asks:
“What’s wrong with you?”
I answer:
“I’m fine.”

He owes us this. She owes us that.
We did this, they should do that.
He’ll pay us back.
He never pays us back.

My body curls and all I want is to flee, to put on my headphones, to hide in my room and stop thinking. Can’t we do anything without expecting something back? Do we always have to balance the fucking books? Why are we running tabs on each other like a fucking bank? What the fuck is wrong with us? What happened? Why are we like this? Why am I like this?

“What’s wrong with you?”
“I’m fine.”

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Pencil_Art on November 12, 2019, 05:31:02 am

Quote from: Th4DwArfY1 on October 23, 2019, 08:23:02 am

I can remember...

Really, really nice job. I don't have anything more helpful to offer, but it got me.

solitude is a grey melancholy
landscape that stretches out
a stale desert of aching infinity
without limit without finish without End

one may go searching endlessly
amongst a trillion nondescript grains
for a flicker of Color even a hint
of the arch that shines through the Life
giving
rain
and illuminates for an instant

and find instead the void black
obsidian Grave,memory indelible
etched into the marker of your mind
the chasmic dullness of your pupils
your Window

a monument to your ever aloneness,
serial seclusion
under a sterile insipid sky,
standing as if to say:

I wish you were here.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Qassius on November 16, 2019, 03:13:35 pm

There, under which the branches are of eternal oak
Sat atop a stolid slab of stone
Silent like the most stygian of nights
As the dove carrying the holiest form floats before me,

And so it spoke, with words uncloaked:
"A face well-known, but a heart not so;
Whose smile disappeared from us, leaving only a warm afterglow
Gone may be the sunset, but we remember it nevertheless.”

And so it was gone as soon as it came,
Had I imagined everything that was to be
Or am I just relating it all directly to me?
Perhaps our spirits may be swayed by her legacy,
And not in the details of uncertainty.

But let us have her name in our minds, and have Faith.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on February 01, 2020, 03:33:06 pm

Thinking of doing a big epic-style poem about Hades and Persephone. The following is a two minute stab at it (perhaps 'concept art' is the applicable term?) and I'm way too tired to get any further into it tonight.


- Wow, that was bad. I've since edited it, don't worry. -

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on February 08, 2020, 07:00:20 pm

I won't pretend that the following is a good poem, but I wrote it so I'd remember, so I guess that doesn't matter.

The Price of Storm Ciara

One day a storm came out of the East.
Small, not big.
   It broke some limbs
And moved on.

But farmers need to heed such things
And in the field a calf was starving,
   Shivering,
Her mother all uncaring.

The night before the storm
When wind was building
I moved her as one moves a babe
In swaddling made of cloth
And shielded her from rain.

That night, the wind was life itself.
   It bled the building storm
And roared a road to sleep.

We measured the next day
In warping tin and rain
Until it needed fed.

I can remember a reluctance
To get wet
Before I shook myself
And braved the wind.

I was amazed. She would not stir
Not for the eau de vie I held
Nor boot nor hand.

I rubbed her throat – white, feather-like –
   Hoping she drank
   And did not choke.
Then left.

My job was done, and I
Could do no other
Except perhaps to pray.

   She died come ending of the day
Wind whistling on the roof
And water sliding by.

No one was there with her.

The winds! We’d said. The trees
And roads and drivers buzzing
   On them.
The bags and plastic, fears
Of that Chinese disease.

Somewhere in the middle of these,
Or something similar,
She died.

Who cried?
    Who cried?

Presenters say
Today a storm came out of the East.
Small, not big.
   It broke some limbs
   And moved on.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Tomasque on February 15, 2020, 06:02:42 am

I submitted some poetry to my college literary publications. Woo!

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on February 15, 2020, 09:19:58 am

Nice!
Any chance of a share?

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Tomasque on February 22, 2020, 10:08:15 pm

It's all stuff that's been on here before, I think.

Spoiler: The Tides of War (click to show/hide)

A whisper on the windowsill;
A sound when all is silent, still.
A herald of the heavens flies:
A raindrop from the distant skies.

The messenger, but one of many more;
This drop of water warns the earth of war.

But will the rains enjoy their role?
Or are they outcomes of the odds?
Or maybe tears of distant gods
Who weep, but cannot spare a soul?

And can they say, that after all we’ve built
Is washed away, that they’ll be washed of guilt?

Spoiler: Reflection (click to show/hide)

Another night, a new motel;
It's nice, compared to most, as well.
But still you've got that idle thought:
You're feeling out of place.

But everyday you're somewhere new;
This time the problem might be you.
Flick on the light, to find the sight
Of your reflected face.

What lurks behind those bleary eyes?
They’re not the ones you recognize!
What happened to the ones you knew?
What stranger took their place?

You've run too long, and now you find
That all you were, was left behind,
But who’s ahead if you, instead,
Got lost while giving chase?

Spoiler: The Sword (click to show/hide)

I heard the pen is always said to be
The mightier of weapons, though to me
It seems its stroke cannot my strike withstand,
And oft forfeits the fight when I’m at hand!

For though it is the pen that takes the word
And prints the slander down that tries to slay
My Master, where's the pen, when - undeterred -
He stops that writer's cry: "I can explai-"?

"So long!" I say to manuscript and man,
Their cutting words cut short and left to lie.
They’ll still deceive - ideas never die -
But swords will win the war that pens began.

Spoiler: Our Majesty (click to show/hide)

There was majestic splendor
in this valley long ago,
but the splendor had to go
and, as well, those who'd defend her,
for our Majesty said so.

My heart will strain, in sorrow,
with the words I'll never say:
How the Majesty, today,
can believe he brought tomorrow
when he took our past away?

In years, I've gotten wiser,
and I miss the land I knew,
but I'm guilty of it, too;
I'm the Majesty's adviser
and I told him what to do.

Spoiler: Summer Dreams (click to show/hide)

The Autumn left
as boldly as it came;
upon the wind,
the Winter calls my name.

As boldly as
a thunderstorm in May,
the Winter calls
'til I cannot delay.

A thunderstorm!
I want the snow to melt,
'til I cannot
remember how it felt.

I want the snow
in other months, but here
remember how
a Summer breeze is dear.
- - -
In other months,
upon the wind I'll find
a Summer breeze
the Autumn left behind.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on February 23, 2020, 04:16:54 pm

Nice, as always.

I experimented with a poem I posted here a while ago to see if I could make it shorter but mean much the same thing:

Edit: Hey, funny enough, my university just posted a poetry one-page competition. Maaaay stick this in there.

If you want to read the changes, I can PM it to you? (Open to all who may (but probably won't :P) be curious.)

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Tomasque on February 24, 2020, 04:07:04 pm

That is. Wow.

It's like reading a babbling brook as it tumbles down a hillside. I've never considered myself a fan of free verse poetry, but this is probably the best argument for it that I've heard.

Some thoughts I had as I read and re-read the poem:

I think it'd be a perfect touch if you tacked on "And knew." to the end. It feels to me like this is missing two syllables there, and it would rhyme nicely as well. Does adding that seem right to you, thematically and metrically?

Also, I always read "I had a longing for the sky" directly after "onwards, ever upwards", and keep tripping over the syllables. Does "I had longing for the sky" or "With a longing for the sky" sound better to you? It feels more natural to me.

One last thing. The 's' in "onwards ever upwards" drag a little bit, and I found myself just saying "onward ever upward" without realizing it. I feel like it sound better that way, but what do you think?

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on February 25, 2020, 06:32:35 am

High praise indeed! I edited it with your suggestions to see how it would read - and added a space at one point. I'm happy with the result, though I put 'I knew' in a different place.
Thoughts?

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on February 26, 2020, 05:35:54 pm

Another old one edited. Honestly, I'm finding editing to be fun. I've never done it before, but tightening stuff is actually about as fun as writing it.


       

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

 Oh moon
you knew King Alexander
and Cleopatra. You
shone over empires
growing fat as you
waxed round.

Oh yes, your memory is long.

But still
no silver secret
will be released
‘til Triton blows his horn.

The scrolls
of Alexandria.
The wheels
behind a henge.

         A thousand
modern curses aren’t enough.

But if I gaze on you
and see you silver-limned
know you
see your benevolence
writ plain in chalk
may I… just crack the seam?

The secret I would have
is soft as wings in summer –
you would not know its loss
beside the heavy Caesars
and Napoleons.

Two nights ago,
she looked at you
and mouthed some sentence
unheard
over my heart’s wings
a-thundering.

All that followed
was an echo
of that purity.

She’s gone
as women and life go;
a-waxing and a-waning.
But I need…
I need to know.

Search through
the heavy burdens which you bear,
the woes and joys
and find for me
the girl
who walked with moonlight in her hair.

And in return?

I’d share your load
‘til Triton rose
and world-below
was ash.

I ask
for one thing bare and plain.
I ask
of you again.

Oh moon,
what did she say to you?

And another....

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Betrayal

I know anatomy
And so I know
His sword
,,,,a needle through its eye…
It’s pierced my heart.

I saw him first
When with autumnal glory
The heavens burned
And fire was in his eye,
A flame within responding.

All I did was smile.
It was enough.

With winter
Love warmed us
And time brought
Children picking
Blackberries.

But somehow
It was not enough.
He was a path
I walked too often.

It was only once.

But he knew.

And now his sword
Is in my heart
And I can think
How funny it is
How insane
That my last thoughts

Are not of someone else

But are

Of him.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Tomasque on March 10, 2020, 07:05:19 am

Inspiration struck during lunch. Less of a poem, more of a song. Not really finished, but I don't know how to keep going.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

I'm familiar with the notion
I see in your eyes
and I must surmise
it's that frivolous devotion
I'm above.

But this curious emotion
I would like to see
so let's you and me
go through the motions
of love.

Smile.
Laugh.
Kept a trace on my face
for the photograph.

Dance.
Sing.
When you thank me for the date
I'll say it's nothing.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on March 11, 2020, 11:19:29 am

You could try writing it in a stream of consciousness style? I often end things in unexpected ways which I can then work into the narrative.

Also, I continue to experiment:

Running

The sunset is a blood-red orange stain
While hedges cleave the darkness of the path.
I see my mother cook, alive again
Waiting with oven-spiders and a laugh.

I run to stretch the unattainable,
Feel past-life memories still bound in twine.
Grimly I climb the postal pathway hill
Knowing I must return; that’s why I climb.

We brought as orange freshness fabric pleats
Into a kitchen sweetness weighed by words
And stirred the ripples which my father eats
Unheeding of its making on his boards.

I will clench out the juice in my next mile
And give her it for sweetness and a smile.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on March 15, 2020, 04:57:25 pm

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Persephone

Skeins of power tied into a knot
Around the chain that bites her marriage finger
Feel like water in the peak of summer
When birds fly in a cage yet clasp the key
Releasing dregs of winter.

Knowing blue-black dogs may bite
She laughs.

I have delved into the realms of poetry theory. Interesting methodologies involving contraction and expansion. Kinda fun to do.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on March 16, 2020, 04:08:06 pm

Kvothe's Walk

Bled red of heart and hand Kvothe stands as King
Alone before last season’s emperor;
The scissor-tree which makes a warrior.

Then sudden seizes wind’s imagining,
Spins it into a tale of Taborlin,
Remembers the mythologies of age.
 
Such whips as these could make a mage
Or raise the wind in channels, brim
The bunching wind in blustering of hearts

Until there lies a silence, deep as any inn’s
Where memory is wrought by light of sins.
The scissor-tree falls flat by namer’s arts

And Kvothe walks through no-one’s applause to ease
The knotted tree exhaling in the breeze.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Naturegirl1999 on June 03, 2020, 02:22:02 pm

Poems can be fun to write
Riddles can be fun to solve
Jokes try to make people laugh
All of these can distract

There are currently riots and fights
That are sadly lethally resolved
People killed by police staff
Even if they didn’t violently act

It seems distractions don’t always work
It’s difficult to clear my mind
Of all the thoughts that occur
Of possible futures soon in time

People may or have already gone berserk
Conflicts will likely increase, not unwind
Neutrality is what I prefer
To strive for during the increase in conflict and crime

I think that my country will finally fall
That the conflicts will become a civil war
I wonder if what once was whole
Will split and become more countries anew

A country this big cannot last through all
Especially given corruption to its core
A good thing that may come of this is a loss of control
By those who want all money from me and you

The sad news is history tends to repeat
With power being taken and forming new nations
Causing similar things to happen
Such as wars, sickness, poverty, and famine

It seems this poem is almost complete
Combat’s the majority of history’s information
There’s not much peaceful change that happened
People seem to worship Mammon

I guess I’m not done yet
I hope the section I end up in
Cares about the environment
More than the country that it’s part of now

I hope neutrality will protect from threats
Not getting involved in the war my country’s soon to be in
Hopefully my family and I survive this experiment
I wonder how

The idea behind being neutral
Is that you’re not on anyone’s side
And thus you’re not enemies
Because you’re also not allies

At least I’m in a rural town
Buildings spread out all around
So if some were to burn down
The fires won’t spread too far around

There’s not that many people here
Less threats that may come to our house
Less potential for raiding groups to form
Less people to worry about

Well the attempt to clear my mind has failed
But now you know what I’m thinking now
I’m thinking about what might likely happen
What I hope for doesn’t matter

Peace seems to not be an option
If history and modern times are teachers
Sadly we humans are not known for peace
With wars and conflicts seemingly constant

There’ll probably be more poems here
Hopefully they’ll be more lighthearted here
But I doubt these thoughts of mine will clear
Anytime soon maybe never

How does one clear their mind
Of thoughts like this for a long portion of time?
I don’t think I’ve had a clear mind
Since, well, forever

I have thoughts like this nearly all the time
Of war, conflict, and other things around the world
Thoughts of things I can’t control
I need to stay inside

Yes, the pandemic is still a thing
So why are businesses reopening?
All of this stuff happening
Will likely aid COVID’s spreading

My brother and a friend are visiting a lake
That is open, regardless of what’s at stake
I hope they make it back ok
I hope they remain healthy

I didn’t come with, because of the pandemic that still exist
Because of the riots and protest and shootings that still persist
My brother didn’t mention which lake it was, nor did they mention the city
I am filled with worry

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Yoink on February 16, 2021, 03:16:05 am

Necro!   
I was rummaging around through old belongings earlier and was hoping to find the original copy of a very bleak poem I vaguely remembered posting in this thread years ago. I found plenty of other ghastly writings, but unfortunately not that one, and upon searching the thread for a word I remembered using in it I discovered, to my horror, that I'd originally posted it as an image of the paper itself - hosted on bloody TinyPic.   
Fortunately, I'd also included the text in an abbr tag, so I am now going to re-post this vintage Yoink. Along with some newer shit (I've barely written anything in years) in the hopes of getting this thread moving again.   

Quote from: Yoink on September 28, 2017, 12:15:14 am

I am having a bad day.
On the plus side, though, some of this unhappiness has manifested itself in the form of a poem! I am unable to tell whether it is any good or not, however - right now everything seems terrible.

Spoiler: Written on a sheet of my employment agency's notepaper on the way home from the pointless tedium of my weekly appointment. (click to show/hide)

[IMAGE REMOVED]

I want a soul-crushing job,
The worst that I can find,
So that my aversion to employment can prove amply justified

Once I have this job
I'll be vindicated, victimised
They'll see a workplace, is no place,
For a sick and feeble mind.

At last I shall obey
I will "grow up" and "get a life"
And maybe if it's bad enough
I'll even find the strength to die.   

   

   

---

Quote from: Present-day Yoink

Strange dark highland forest   
Where the trees have learned to sweat   
Leaves green, as are the trunks   
And the very air is wet   

And creatures, spread throughout,   
In their thousands at the least   
Scream in voices myriad   
'Tis a noisy kind of peace.   

It's alien to us,   
With our blood from far away,   
This land our forebears won   
But here we plan to stay.   

   

I'm thinking of connecting this one with a couple of other verses I wrote a year or three ago, with similar themes and rhyming scheme. Probably should. Maybe I'll even continue it the next time my ageing brain decides to fart out something remotely inspired.   


Edit:   

Quote from: Th4DwArfY1 on March 16, 2020, 04:08:06 pm

Kvothe's Walk

Bled red of heart and hand Kvothe stands as King
Alone before last season’s emperor;
The scissor-tree which makes a warrior.

Then sudden seizes wind’s imagining,
Spins it into a tale of Taborlin,
Remembers the mythologies of age.
 
Such whips as these could make a mage
Or raise the wind in channels, brim
The bunching wind in blustering of hearts

Until there lies a silence, deep as any inn’s
Where memory is wrought by light of sins.
The scissor-tree falls flat by namer’s arts

And Kvothe walks through no-one’s applause to ease
The knotted tree exhaling in the breeze.

Oh my goodness, that was fantastic. It's been too long since I kept up with this thread.   

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on February 16, 2021, 07:12:55 pm

Quote

I'm thinking of connecting this one with a couple of other verses I wrote a year or three ago, with similar themes and rhyming scheme. Probably should. Maybe I'll even continue it the next time my ageing brain decides to fart out something remotely inspired.   

Do so! It's sounding good  :)


Written for Valentine's Day:

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Love?

It is not curled within a ring, or caught
Between the pages of a night. True love
Spreads no wings, though poets write
Evoking Cupid chasing doves.
I offer tailored similes instead
Of love like crossing empty fields at night
With nothingness an ember in the head
And clouds in canvas blocking sight.
Then, you speak. A clarity
Comes to clean the stars, reveals my pathway
Like the slender whispering of wind
Pressing close before oncoming day.
Love is not curled within a ring, or caught
In anything less than this.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Domaryx on February 22, 2021, 06:38:35 am

I've read it all over and over again! It's great! It's a pity I can't do that (

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Nildur on March 12, 2021, 08:44:33 am

Dwarf Haiku

LIBASH

NIMEM ARÔL ONOL
NOKZAM, ETÄG LIBASH LEGON
AZIN KIRUN

AXE

LONELY UNDER MOUNTAIN
A BATTLE, BIG AXE WANDER
WATCHING THE MUSHROOM

NILDUR

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Domaryx on March 16, 2021, 07:37:40 am

How many talented people are around! You are super guys

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on June 28, 2021, 01:29:55 pm

Quote from: Domaryx on February 22, 2021, 06:38:35 am

I've read it all over and over again! It's great! It's a pity I can't do that (

I honestly recommend just giving it a try. No one's first poems come across particularly polished, and I know mine were (are?) choked by cliches. The simple act of persisting is what brings improvement!

A villanelle I did a bit back:

When dying seasons churn the restless sea
Into a foam-flecked frenzy, freed at last
Sane men are known to flee.

Some homeward to the hearths of family
Bring word that hope is necessary
When dying seasons churn the restless sea.

Others, feeling fear of sinning, to Holy See
Bring warning and a plea, for
Even sane men are known to flee.

Jaws taut, the brave leave quay,
Seeking untethered souls
When dying seasons churn the restless sea.

Yet more, while locking doors with silver key
Sigh to feel the wind which
Sane men are known to flee.

But I, feet edging sand, fling open arms
And laugh a challenge, though I know
When dying seasons churn the restless sea
Sane men are known to flee.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: hedgerow on June 30, 2021, 02:34:23 am

Alfred Austin's My Winter Rose

Why did you come when the trees were bare?
Why did you come with the wintry air?
When the faint note dies in the robin's throat,
And the gables drip and the white flakes float?

What a strange, strange season to choose to come,
When the heavens are blind and the earth is dumb:
When nought is left living to dirge the dead,
And even the snowdrop keeps its bed!

Could you not come when woods are green?
Could you not come when lambs are seen?
When the primrose laughs from its childlike sleep,
And the violets hide and the bluebells peep?

When the air as your breath is sweet, and skies
Have all but the soul of your limpid eyes,
And the year, growing confident day by day,
Weans lusty June from the breast of May?

Yet had you come then, the lark had lent
In vain his music, the thorn its scent,
In vain the woodbine budded, in vain
The rippling smile of the April rain.

Your voice would have silenced merle and thrush,
And the rose outbloomed would have blushed to blush,
And Summer, seeing you, paused, and known
That the glow of your beauty outshone its own.

So, timely you came, and well you chose,
You came when most needed, my winter rose.
From the snow I pluck you, and fondly press
Your leaves 'twixt the leaves of my leaflessness.


Just a pretty poem.  All the great poets use repetitive syllabilism.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Magmacube_tr on August 27, 2021, 06:10:23 am

Uzun İnce Bir Yoldayım-(I Am On A Long And Thin Road)

Uzun ince bir yoldayım-(I am on a long and thin road)
Gidiyorum gündüz gece-(I am going day and night)
Bilmiyorum ne haldeyim-(I don't know how I am)
Gidiyorum gündüz gece-(I am going day and night)
 

Dünyaya geldiğim anda-(The moment I came to this world)
Yürüdüm aynı zamanda-(I walked at the same time)
İki kapılı bir handa-(In an inn with two doors)
Gidiyorum gündüz gece-(I am going day and night)
 

Uykuda dahi yürüyom-I walk even as I sleep)
Kalmaya sebeb arıyom-(I look for a reason to stay)
Gidenleri hep görüyom-(I see always see those who leave)
Gidiyorum gündüz gece-(I am going day and night)

Kırkdokuz yıl bu yollarda-(Fortynine years in these roads)
Ovada dağda çöllerde-(On lowlands mountains deserts)
Düşmüşüm gurbet ellerde-(I have fallen on foreign lands[?])
Gidiyorum gündüz gece-(I am going day and night)
 

Şaşar Veysel işbu hale-(Şaşar Veysel's plight is this)
Gah ağlayan gahi güle-(Some cry some laugh)
Yetişmek için menzile-(To catch up to the horizon)
Gidiyorum gündüz gece-(I am going day and night)

-Aşık Veysel

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on January 27, 2022, 08:37:14 pm

dreams unspoken

I wake, sometimes, in the bright electric night
with orange bars unspooling on the bed
 
(having dreamt of lakewater catching golden
or a salamander breathing over coals)
 
and, rising to reality with the spark of speech
a-sizzle on my tongue,
 
pause. deflate. a stillness slides between my ribs, and coils
itself about my heart. my quiet bubbles
 
with sirens, parties next door,
or just the restless susurration of my breath.
 
and I am alone.



 - -  Written by me

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: hedgerow on February 04, 2022, 04:49:38 am

Quote from: Th4DwArfY1 on August 06, 2014, 03:35:47 pm

So, this thread is to do with all things poetical. (And as of Reply 155, lyrics as well, it would seem!)

The greatest song of all time, and the second-horniest Amy Winehouse hit:

Quote

Look at us baby, up all night
Tearing our love apart
Aren't we the same two people
Who lived through years in the dark?
Every time I try to walk away
Something makes me turn around and stay
And I can't tell you why

Quote

Meet you downstairs in the bar and hurt
Your rolled up sleeves in your skull T-shirt
You say "what did you do it with him today?"
And sniffed me out like I was Tanqueray
'Cause you're my fella, my guy
Hand me your Stella and fly
By the time I'm out the door
You tear me down like Roger Moore

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on August 18, 2023, 04:54:17 pm

The Phone Buzzes

A comet yawns golden. I smile.
Mountain cracks its knuckles. I nod.
Author manifests magnum-opus. I salute.
You send me a text and the world becomes
A still moment between one heartbeat and the next
Which breaks sharply, as the world does, around my ears.





Calypso
i
She was

Close,
Closer than our breath,
Closest to anchor
I have ever known.

ii
Indifference swells
The seas
And on her laughter
Came becalming weather, or thunder.

iii
She is
Far,
Farther than sanity
Farthest thing from me

And indifference swells the sea.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: zhijinghaofromchina on September 23, 2023, 09:21:27 am

长风不散酷暑热，游子怀乡徒思归
李杜诗歌应犹在，明月清秋入骨来

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: TD1 on September 25, 2023, 11:38:21 am

Sometimes a comet scribes a line across
The vast velvet of space. It makes me smile.
So, too, when mountains crack their knuckles,
Yawning in their dreams of thickened moss.

Likewise, man manifests magnum opus
From the bare threads of reality, stitching
Out of words, paint, baritone, something
To make me liquify my life in reassessment.

But you, you send a text and world becomes a still moment stretched between one heartbeat
And the next, which breaks sharply, as all the world does, about my feet.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: zhijinghaofromchina on September 29, 2023, 07:56:04 am

Below is a poem written by a poet called 苏东坡, a wonderful and talented ancient poet .

明月几时有？把酒问青天。不知天上宫阙，今夕是何年。我欲乘风归去，又恐琼楼玉宇，高处不胜寒。起舞弄清影，何似在人间。

转朱阁，低绮户，照无眠。不应有恨，何事长向别时圆？人有悲欢离合，月有阴晴圆缺，此事古难全。但愿人长久，千里共婵娟。

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Digganob on October 31, 2023, 10:55:34 pm

Here is Mythopoeia, a philosophically and theologically powerful poem by Tolkien, which feels very apt for Dwarf Fortress. It is certainly memorization worthy. It has saved me from a great deal of boredom at work, just thinking about its multitude of meanings and metaphors.


To one [C.S. Lewis] who said that myths were lies and therefore worthless, even though ‘breathed through silver’.

Philomythus to Misomythus

You look at trees and label them just so,
(for trees are ‘trees’, and growing is ‘to grow’);
you walk the earth and tread with solemn pace
one of the many minor globes of Space:
a star’s a star, some matter in a ball
compelled to courses mathematical
amid the regimented, cold, inane,
where destined atoms are each moment slain.

At bidding of a Will, to which we bend
(and must), but only dimly apprehend,
great processes march on, as Time unrolls
from dark beginnings to uncertain goals;
and as on page o’er-written without clue,
with script and limning packed of various hue,
an endless multitude of forms appear,
some grim, some frail, some beautiful, some queer,
each alien, except as kin from one
remote Origo, gnat, man, stone, and sun.
God made the petreous rocks, the arboreal trees,
tellurian earth, and stellar stars, and these
homuncular men, who walk upon the ground
with nerves that tingle touched by light and sound.
The movements of the sea, the wind in boughs,
green grass, the large slow oddity of cows,
thunder and lightning, birds that wheel and cry,
slime crawling up from mud to live and die,
these each are duly registered and print
the brain’s contortions with a separate dint.
Yet trees are not ‘trees’, until so named and seen
and never were so named, till those had been
who speech’s involuted breath unfurled,
faint echo and dim picture of the world,
but neither record nor a photograph,
being divination, judgement, and a laugh
response of those that felt astir within
by deep monition movements that were kin
to life and death of trees, of beasts, of stars:
free captives undermining shadowy bars,
digging the foreknown from experience
and panning the vein of spirit out of sense.
Great powers they slowly brought out of themselves
and looking backward they beheld the elves
that wrought on cunning forges in the mind,
and light and dark on secret looms entwined.

He sees no stars who does not see them first
of living silver made that sudden burst
to flame like flowers beneath an ancient song,
whose very echo after-music long
has since pursued. There is no firmament,
only a void, unless a jewelled tent
myth-woven and elf-patterned; and no earth,
unless the mother’s womb whence all have birth.
The heart of Man is not compound of lies,
but draws some wisdom from the only Wise,
and still recalls him. Though now long estranged,
Man is not wholly lost nor wholly changed.
Dis-graced he may be, yet is not dethroned,
and keeps the rags of lordship once he owned,
his world-dominion by creative act:
not his to worship the great Artefact,
Man, Sub-creator, the refracted light
through whom is splintered from a single White
to many hues, and endlessly combined
in living shapes that move from mind to mind.
Though all the crannies of the world we filled
with Elves and Goblins, though we dared to build
Gods and their houses out of dark and light,
and sowed the seed of dragons, ’twas our right
(used or misused). The right has not decayed.
We make still by the law in which we’re made.

Yes! ‘wish-fulfilment dreams’ we spin to cheat
our timid hearts and ugly Fact defeat!
Whence came the wish, and whence the power to dream,
or some things fair and others ugly deem?
All wishes are not idle, nor in vain
fulfilment we devise — for pain is pain,
not for itself to be desired, but ill;
or else to strive or to subdue the will
alike were graceless; and of Evil this
alone is deadly certain: Evil is.

Blessed are the timid hearts that evil hate
that quail in its shadow, and yet shut the gate;
that seek no parley, and in guarded room,
though small and bate, upon a clumsy loom
weave tissues gilded by the far-off day
hoped and believed in under Shadow’s sway.

Blessed are the men of Noah’s race that build
their little arks, though frail and poorly filled,
and steer through winds contrary towards a wraith,
a rumour of a harbour guessed by faith.

Blessed are the legend-makers with their rhyme
of things not found within recorded time.
It is not they that have forgot the Night,
or bid us flee to organized delight,
in lotus-isles of economic bliss
forswearing souls to gain a Circe-kiss
(and counterfeit at that, machine-produced,
bogus seduction of the twice-seduced).
Such isles they saw afar, and ones more fair,
and those that hear them yet may yet beware.
They have seen Death and ultimate defeat,
and yet they would not in despair retreat,
but oft to victory have tuned the lyre
and kindled hearts with legendary fire,
illuminating Now and dark Hath-been
with light of suns as yet by no man seen.

I would that I might with the minstrels sing
and stir the unseen with a throbbing string.
I would be with the mariners of the deep
that cut their slender planks on mountains steep
and voyage upon a vague and wandering quest,
for some have passed beyond the fabled West.
I would with the beleaguered fools be told,
that keep an inner fastness where their gold,
impure and scanty, yet they loyally bring
to mint in image blurred of distant king,
or in fantastic banners weave the sheen
heraldic emblems of a lord unseen.

I will not walk with your progressive apes,
erect and sapient. Before them gapes
the dark abyss to which their progress tends
if by God’s mercy progress ever ends,
and does not ceaselessly revolve the same
unfruitful course with changing of a name.
I will not treat your dusty path and flat,
denoting this and that by this and that,
your world immutable wherein no part
the little maker has with maker’s art.
I bow not yet before the Iron Crown,
nor cast my own small golden sceptre down.

In Paradise perchance the eye may stray
from gazing upon everlasting Day
to see the day illumined, and renew
from mirrored truth the likeness of the True.
Then looking on the Blessed Land ’twill see
that all is as it is, and yet made free:
Salvation changes not, nor yet destroys,
garden nor gardener, children nor their toys.
Evil it will not see, for evil lies
not in God’s picture but in crooked eyes,
not in the source but in malicious choice,
and not in sound but in the tuneless voice.
In Paradise they look no more awry;
and though they make anew, they make no lie.
Be sure they still will make, not being dead,
and poets shall have flames upon their head,
and harps whereon their faultless fingers fall:
there each shall choose for ever from the All.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: pr1mezer0 on January 31, 2024, 10:44:17 am

five to 6

Will that others meet your best with theirs. Then will the best be better. Then will you meet again. When times past will be gone. While you still wish yourself the best. You know others will be better. Then times past will begone.

All knowledge will be manifested. The unknown is provident. The march to chaos is inevitable, but time will tell its tale, as suns forge their relentless path through the cosmos. Tossed by lifes current, you head for a coconut palm, while moments in ebb multiply. And fantasies R.I.P.

Swear by truth. It's a weighty matter or it won't bear. Curses in vain leave no stain. Actions are more or less intentions. Show your strength. Take care in the affair. Pray you're ahead as you prepare for bed.

I'm overcome by rigour, patience exhausted. I don't want to know what I don't know, by ghosts haunted. From little things big things grow, tennis ball slobbered. The result of the sum is bigger, high priestess robed. Follow yellow brick road, it casts a glimmering glow. The burning bush is real, tall ships slough. Silence makes me feel attuned, erase the rubber. I could swear I've never pruned, the goes the lubber. The light wanes, it's time I looked to gains. Tap more bright grows, water more light flows.

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: pr1mezer0 on April 24, 2024, 06:56:00 am

energy

Alpha seed, blooms omega,
The reed of power,
Sun casts its rays,
One marks the days,
Empty space,
Only trace,
All witness befal,
Manifest will be blest

Title: Re: The Poetry Thread
Post by: Crystalizedmire on April 26, 2024, 10:48:24 pm

There’s a conspiracy in the leaves
Spreading gunpowder in the tree
In the tree were many crows
And many woes of foes

A fuse as long as a stream
Laid there in the grass
A shard of round glass
Focused sun’s beams