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Author Topic: The Poetry Thread  (Read 44275 times)

Yoink

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Re: The Poetry Thread
« Reply #210 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.  :-\


 
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.
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Th4DwArfY1

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Re: The Poetry Thread
« Reply #211 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)

.....

I do not remember doing this.
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Tomasque

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Re: The Poetry Thread
« Reply #212 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", from my favorite book, "Invisible Cities".
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Yoink

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Re: The Poetry Thread
« Reply #213 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.
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Th4DwArfY1

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Re: The Poetry Thread
« Reply #214 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.
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Life before death, strength before weakness, journey before destination
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