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Author Topic: The Poetry Thread  (Read 49673 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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Tomasque

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Re: The Poetry Thread
« Reply #215 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!
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Luckyowl

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Re: The Poetry Thread
« Reply #216 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!



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Th4DwArfY1

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Re: The Poetry Thread
« Reply #217 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.
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itisnotlogical

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Re: The Poetry Thread
« Reply #218 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.”
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Pencil_Art

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Re: The Poetry Thread
« Reply #219 on: November 12, 2019, 05:31:02 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.
« Last Edit: November 12, 2019, 05:34:10 am by Pencil_Art »
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Qassius

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Re: The Poetry Thread
« Reply #220 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.
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