(Post Your) Incredible Poems (Here!)

[ShadeWolf]

*awesome hugs for Ren and Cow* You guys are simply amazing, I feel all abashed trying to stand my poetry next to you guys.

Your poetry is great, and I am looking forward to reading more of your (along with Ren, Jesster and The Cow's) poetry.

[Jesse]

*awesome hugs for Ren and Cow* You guys are simply amazing, I feel all abashed trying to stand my poetry next to you guys.

Your poetry is great, and I am looking forward to reading more of your (along with Ren, Jesster and The Cow's) poetry.

All my stuff is available on the blog in my sig. I think Ren has one flying about as well.

[Ren]

It's Top Secret! *Grin*

Not really, though not all of the poetry in it is the quality of the stuff posted here. And some of it is Pretty Damn Personal. If you'd *really* like a link, for better or for worse, let me know.

Here is something I found in my notebook.

[GhostWolfe]

I had an idea of something I could contribute that was waaaaay better than my lousy poetry. Sorry about the crappy image I'm still learning how to use my new camera (I got it yesterday!).

[pollywog]

I had an idea of something I could contribute that was waaaaay better than my lousy poetry. Sorry about the crappy image I'm still learning how to use my new camera (I got it yesterday!).

Did you write that? If so, that's incredible.

[Jesse]

Guys, I just wrote a poem and it isn't all that bad! It is called Stargazer:

Stargazer they call me,
My eyes always fixed on the sky;
Hands reaching up for the heavens,
Arms spread wide in supplication,
Heels dug into the earth.
I can't let go today.

Free myself from gravity,
Find myself borne high,
Flay myself of shackles,
Fail myself.
Again.

Stargazer they call me,
My eyes always fixed on the sky.
Bound by your cruel astronomy
To bear this brilliant longing.
Staring at the sun,
I lose my sight.

Still,
You shine with the light of the ages,
A north star guiding me home.

[GhostWolfe]

I had an idea of something I could contribute that was waaaaay better than my lousy poetry.

Did you write that? If so, that's incredible.

Indeed I did write that. I'm working on some more at the moment, but I'm very lazy and that makes it a very slow process.

[the Cow]

I decided to try my hand at something a little longer than the last one. Sorry again for the missed beats and bad rhymes.

Past the steps and stoops and windows where you wait
And lingering long at night while train collide in time
To the steps and stops of stations placed at intervals
And then to geometry are suddenly resigned

The borderline infantry in scorn are heatedly ignored
To Paris to London to Istanbul and beyond the guarded beach
On streets hot with dancers and rhythms no train speaks
To mountains massed with travelers and crests just within our reach

The simple songs of sailors and senators caught in flash frames
The daily chatter of song birds hungry from songs all night sung
To the gallows, the gallows breathless and starving
We will swing to the songs of the starving, starving as they hung

My hands are hurt from strumming this same song in time with the band
My hands are burnt from polish, and shining from wasp's glove and so sad
I hold them within the other, two hands held but still alone
For it isn't for nothing that they are singing, they sing for all they've had

And lost among the shifting shapes, the chryslers and the fords
The clarinets and trumpets chime in unison, angry at their tune
And bowing by the bishops and popes, yawning like they're bored
But you can see the heat in the eyes, hear the whispering silenced soon

So at that we close the car doors and rev the engine till its mad
and pop the clutch and scream away screaming, drunk and eye blind, deaf and dumb
And you empty your purse roadside, cookie crumbs for gumball cops
But all breaks down in steam and hissing prayers that no one will come

And I am no navigator, my charts are burnt and my compass mad
It spins around the circumference as though it knows the way
But we can no longer trust the roadside giftshops they all lie and weave
And have no choice to close our eyes and beg for mercy, pray and prey

For the croaking crack of some bland cadillac no hearse or horse or home
We spin our tales for fellow travellers on the bricks of old city halls
Abandoned and deserted but for broken senators and the jailers that they blow
And here and there a corner piece separate from any of a dozen walls

So, you ask, what should we do now, now that the bomb is a shadow of itself?
Should we run for cover under of the coins from heaven or collapse in the cool relief of hell?
And I refuse to answer, I have no sense of time
And spit twice, swallow once, and pawn all that's left to sell

You see this broken down old wreck, she's worth a dollar and a little more
And she runs like a dream on regular and runs like a whore on gasoline
So maybe we can make like Monty and sell her for a ride
To those places that we dreamed of when we were young, thin, and mean

And when the suckers and the pigeons and the eye lashes batting themselves blind
Painfully notice that we have taken all their dreams
And packed them up in packing cases bound for dockside to be forgotten
Among the baggage claims and asylum seekers for rainier days she steams

So check your schedules for con men, and tricksters at every door
Make you way to the empty gallows praying that no one will see you so alone
And alone place this necktie around that pretty neck and pin it to a beam
And watch the Last of the Mohicans, and pray that this time they'll atone

Because I have you in the crosshairs of a pearl handled gun
A souvenir of better times when you could still look me in the eye
And you, she says, are better, all recovered remitting those cancerous days
But the senators they know better than to trust in God they'll die

They've been promised resurrection for the crimes they hold so dear
Like children bought and bartered in the courtyards of mansions by the shore
And clergy, every one of them, on their knees to blow 'em down
The sailors beg for mercy, in paradise spent to nothing and lost among the poor

So with bouquets tossed and garters snapped and waltzes spinning on the floor
And whirling like the turk we saw, before he fell and broke the time in two
I push in through the chapel, and stare down the pastor in dull eyed revery
Because you can marry the sea and to the sea be bound by the depth of its hue

I know now you can't join me, like many I'll be always be alone
And I know that you can't hold me tight, because of every grave
And I stand in the geometric certainty that loneliness can't cure
And swim through the night, exhausted, and swallow each and every wave

[Ren]

That was...really awesome, Cow. I generally hate rhyming poetry, because it sounds so stilted, but yours didn't at all.
I would totally steal any of these lines:

To the steps and stops of stations placed at intervals

And I am no navigator, my charts are burnt and my compass mad

And spit twice, swallow once, and pawn all that's left to sell

And she runs like a dream on regular and runs like a whore on gasoline


And when the suckers and the pigeons and the eye lashes batting themselves blind
Painfully notice that we have taken all their dreams
And packed them up in packing cases bound for dockside to be forgotten

[the Cow]

Thanks.

I have a musician friend. Twenty some years ago he took home all of my poetry to see if any could be set to music. He told me that it rhymed too much to be good poetry and was a little too free with the beat to be good lyrics.

I haven't written poems (of any kind) for almost thirty years. But I've been having fun playing with words in my head. It means a lot me that you like them. I am not a very public person in general. xkcd has been a very big change for me. Scary really.

Here is one I wrote for my High School's lit mag. My wife (who I met in High School) saved it. It is 29 years old:

in this land of stones
you just have to bury your dead and move on
like it just doesn't matter
ceremony is for old widows and lovers
here holes have to be filled

in this land of stones
you don't have time for stories, or even song
like it just doesn't matter
tales are for the boast, and songs are for children
here we whisper and hide

this land of stones
you have to carry all you eat
like you don't really care
nothing lives or grows on stone
and save what's left for tomorrow

That is probably the last bit of poetry I wrote until the poem I posted here earlier.

[The Sleeping Tyrant]

I feel a tad bit apprehensive posting in this thread, especially in light of all that has come before (not to mention all that is likely to come after). I like a lot of what I've read, especially Brave Heart. Ren, I loved the one from your notebook.



This is something I wrote for a contest I didn't win. Haven't touched it since sending it off, except to move it to a fixed width font (got the idea from comic 276 actually) and to fix a couple of things that were bothering me right now.

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the field aglow
‘neath waxing moon
as the wind
in hushed eddies
passes slowly swaying corn

each husk awash
pale in that light
so pure such light
of this tepid, intrepid night

stars above in inebriety gay
easing across celestial paths
jigging merry jigs
past waxing moon
     fat and full
pale cherry blossom stars
carried down a dawdling stream
     black old dawdling stream

corn still sways
in the glowing field
   the growing field
playground of the ripple-wind

moon meets horizon
   fateful howdy-do
now abed
to sleep and dream:
         of better nights
         of brighter lights
         of further drunken gaiety
but in the field
the corn still slowly sways

[GhostWolfe]

That was excellent Sleeping Tyrant!

And I'm glad you have started writing again and sharing with us Cow because you write so well.

[pollywog]

I had an idea of something I could contribute that was waaaaay better than my lousy poetry.

Did you write that? If so, that's incredible.

Indeed I did write that. I'm working on some more at the moment, but I'm very lazy and that makes it a very slow process.

If I could do that I'd never stop.

the Cow, I just noticed your title. Is it new, or has it always been there?

And I won't put any of my poetry up yet, cause it's still unrefined.

Apart from this, which doesn't scan (or make any sense) but I like it cos it tries.

Reefton
I do wish that Reefton
were still named Quartzopolis
For I think that if Reefton
Were still named
Quartzopolis
It might have a much more agreeable
populace

Reefton is a town that once had the coolest name ever. It's not really appropriate for this thread, but, umm...

[GhostWolfe]

Reefton is a town that once had the coolest name ever. It's not really appropriate for this thread, but, umm...

Don't be silly. It's perfectly appropriate, and very good.

[pollywog]

Reefton is a town that once had the coolest name ever. It's not really appropriate for this thread, but, umm...

Don't be silly. It's perfectly appropriate, and very good.

I have six different versions of it. That's the one in my head right now.

[the Cow]

Since I posted that ugly monster last night, I thought I'd post a really short one today:

highway blind
you were, amongst the pain blue headlights
the calm and golden glow of wiser times
lit to see just far enough

[GhostWolfe]

Cow, you going to have me crying, your poetry is really moving.

[une see]

whisper he said
here he said
always he said
i shook his hand and wept until
the sun churned blue
because i did not believe
in forever

the lurching lights in my head
pound
and nothing is the same
i wonder if he's saying always
to another girl
i wonder if he means it

stagger to his door
smile when he isn't there
gone into the empty sky
will he tell me i am beautiful?

Yeah...kind of just wrote this. Like, right now, for this thread. In about 5 minutes. So if it's not any good, well...don't say I didn't warn you.

[Ren]

It's got class! I like it, une see.

Here is one called
When you have wall within, there is no place you cannot go which is a Shogun reference. I wrote it last summer when I spent a lot of time reading in large, sunny fields. It's also related to that short one I found in my notebook.

This Mass
Nothing but the wind in the trees
The obiesance of a thousand or more
Green men, bowing and swaying
Even the hundredfold trees
The priests of my ceremony
Pay their duty
Abide by honour untold
Unspoken except by the nod of their heads

For I may observe
And accept
And I am confessed of my worries
Anxieties, nightmares, doubts and anger
Absolved
In this imaginary cathedral under the breaking sky

For this service is more real
And more beautiful
Than I have ever seen before
Ever been before

[GhostWolfe]

Ren, there are no words for how amazing your poetry is, I simply love it.

[the Cow]

and so they spin
spin like the twist in a shout
as the beautiful boys drive by
in camouflage and hummers
bound for a bad end
and road side ordinance

and so they lie
in papers and pulpits
at the top of shrill lungs
or so young and helpless
beside another sad road
scattered and brokem

and so they claim
in speeches and dogma
their love is special
or holding his head up
up and off of the street
so sweet his dying eyes

and so they fall
in scandals and bedrooms
in brothels and bribes
or tell him its alright
as he becomes entangled
in the passing of sight

and so they march
along side supporters
the voters
for this cause or that
or take him back home
where he really belongs

and so they mourn
with flags all a flutter
and call out his name
among a long list of others
or just send another
on a roadside, there

[The Sleeping Tyrant]

I was dicking around at 1 in the morning a couple of days ago and this resulted. I kind of like it, but I'd really appreciate some constructive criticism (who wouldn't?).

Code: Select all

pounding through the pulsating           
air                                      shifting pressures
fingers and hands                       madlyflailingacross
twitching wildly                                     around
in time                                      and    through
pop pop pop POP pop...                       always through

pounding on wood
faux-finished                         peeling at the edges
to look like                 split by nervous diggingnails
wood?                             and nervous rubbinghands
(where’s the sense in that?)
why does it have to
make sense?
isn’t it
enough
that it is

pounding out rhythms                               on wood
(one, two, buckle my shoe)              (worn and nervous)
to music                                   from nerves not
   sweet music                                     its own
   angry music                          still infecting it
     sad music                         giving it vicarious
tapping gently-pound                                  life
away through flailing air                   with the music
along, in time                             and the tapping

The left side and right side are only loosely related. Same moment, different aspect kind of thing.

[pollywog]

How are we supposed to read it? Left side, then right side? Right across? Or is it one of those "Choose your own way" things? I like the second stanza on the right side the most.

[The Sleeping Tyrant]

How are we supposed to read it? Left side, then right side? Right across? Or is it one of those "Choose your own way" things? I like the second stanza on the right side the most.

Personally, I have no idea to read it and I wrote it, so I'd assume it's one of those choose your own way things.

[Kawa]

Something random and untitled, probably too crappy to be in here, but anyhow.

she's beautiful
but only with hair spread out
on silken pillows on velvet sheets
under you, over you, surrounded, inside
outside, within, without

she's beautiful
but only when she's yours
when you're all she's looking at
you hold her, you caress her, you make her
yours, yours, yours

she's beautiful
but only while she's hushed
because even though that's a pretty little song
it makes too many notice
her, sweet, sentiment

she's beautiful
but only where she dreams
detached from any form of reality
she's not allowed to see
truth, no, no

[the Cow]

Kawa,

Much more than good enough. Painfully beautiful.

[GhostWolfe]

Kawa, that was simply beautiful, so beautiful. Thank you.

[parkaboy]

not new, not old. the only thing i've written for a long time, unfortunately.

soft vibrations of air through nicotine touched passage ways
reach my ears the gentle purring of a predatory cat
who has just found a sunbeam with his name on it
not before batting about a new toy, a new doll, with glass eyes.
ones that blink.
and i, mistress toy, lay contentedly in a feline embrace so strong
that i could not escape it if i wanted to.
even though my eyes are closed i can hear a hint of a smile
self-assured, but not overly so, as cats can be,
until the pulse and breath slow and even
and he has become human again.
i dare to open my eyes now and glance over
to a resting face and smile and think of the feeling behind it all
not of love, a portion of lust, but more than that
a fondness... that may evolve or deteriorate...
that tattle-tale time will sing his song,
rest assured he'll take entirely too long.
i blink my glass eyes, because i am made that way so i can,
and glance hatefully at the clock glaring like angry red eyes at me
i laugh inwardly at its digital ire.
perhaps its jealous that it has spent so many years in this room
and i, the newcomer, the insurgent,
have already earned a place in the bed, not next to it.
but the thought passes and the clock laughs and reminds me
that i am late for class by an hour at least.

[Ren]

I love your style, 'Pocralypse. Fan-fucking-tastic.

Okay! I have a chore for you all! I am admittedly horrible at writing poetry about love, (it sounds pandering and terrible), but sometimes I do it anyway. So here is something I wrote today. Let me know what you think/how I can improve it/come up with a title/yell at me for being a sap.
Currently Untitled

Tohubohu and brouhaha!
I would not to be a barefoot-bride,
For you speak like one who knows.
One who has come to disturb the sleep of the world--
Do not deny it!
(I deny nothing!)

I am sorry, but
I must keep my Maenad well hid.
(Between the lassa and friska,
Largo and vivace,
Dying and dancing,
Lies the truth.)
I must keep my Maenad well hid!
She would shock the ever-patient planet.
(Oh, sing your bawdy-songs
For they come of your oft-forgotten root
Which grows underground to spite the branches.
I prefer frank innocence and mirth
To obscuring spices and blue blood.)

Just try and guess at the games
Of my multifarious and many-coloured mind!
(Poshrat! Halfbreed!
You do not know if you are gadjo or phuri dai.
Six months of sleep in my bed
With the Refined Filthy
Will quicken you from your chrysalis.)

I have been called "Sophia" and "irreverent cunt"
But call me "fathead" and I'll be yours forever.
Thank the gods you are no Wizard, no Magus
For they are incapable of human love.
(And impotent as well!)
You are no Rebel Angel either--
To sell Solomon the world.

(We were discharged from Eden because
We gained knowledge.)
At the price of our innocence!
(Never again to fart around with trivialities.)
And oh! It was worth it.

Even God is jealous.

[the Cow]

(Oh, sing your bawdy-songs
For they come of your oft-forgotten root
Which grows underground to spite the branches.
I prefer frank innocence and mirth
To obscuring spices and blue blood.)

I like the lines above very much.

Can you explain the parenthesis in the poem? Another voice? A voice under the main voice? Thoughts coinciding with the spoken?

I love the combination and juxtaposition of terms, some of it rough ("fathead", "irreverent cunt", "fart around with trivialities"), some of it approaching lofty ("Thank the gods", "Rebel Angel", "discharged from Eden"), some of it obscure ("lassa and friska", "Tohubohu", "Pohsrat") , some familiar ("Refined Filthy", "six months of sleep"). Powerful. A bit jarring. Woke me up.

[Ren]

The parentheses are a different voice, you're quite right. In written form, it alternates alignment--the original voice on the right and the other on the left, but I wasn't sure how to convey this.

Thanks, Cow.

[!]

A City Torn Asunder

A crunch beneath my feet, this soil is too black to be rich.
Rich, though, is the air, with a hesitance to call it such.
Rich not with oxygen, but with a blackness to mar the city at my feet.

With a tainted sharpness, the gloomy light glances off the freshly scored stone pillars,
they, in turn, chafe the sky, a stubborn rebuttal against the carnage around them,
all that is left of this place; my home.

The sun's light is dim, though not from Earth rolling over in sleep.
From Earth rolling over in the pain of shattered hills and firestrewn plains.
From the war that wracked this city; my home.

This devastation, pounding in my head, resonant with the blood in my veins,
speaks of such a great loss, that all I had built is now torn asunder.
That all I have ever been lies broken, beneath my feet.

A tattered garment here, there a broken, headless porcelain doll,
these memories, of a child wearing a new dress, carrying a new doll,
are as broken as the promises made to protect from this.

As broken as my heart, as I gaze upon this.
These, deception's daggers, a misleading false-heart,
Have taken a toll on the city entrusted; my home.


**Edit, I'll also stick my blog of writings in my sig, if you are so inclined to read more.

[Jadestone]

Oh ambiguous diety you all are brilliant. *hides face in shame*

[The Lone Lynx]

Such brilliant poets here?

I can't hope to compare with Ren and the like, but I'll post something of my own, just because.




Stargazing

sky, folds like a fan,
squeezes the past into a dying
point of light that slips,
soundlessly, over the horizon

I hold your hand

stars, night-swamped, resolve;
splinters of a shattered universe
held, shimmering
in a bed of liquid onyx

I can feel your heart beat

a million worlds
a million possibilities
close enough to touch,
far enough to live,
blazing, silently, to nothing

Is there life? you wonder

there is.
I can feel it here
budding silently between us
as the night folds into morning
and you lean forward -
and kiss me.

(and then the raptors come.
There is death, too.)

[Hammer]

- faith -
We hear the same song.
But perform a different dance.
As we are meant to.

[GhostWolfe]

Hammer, that is excellent. So precise. *hugs*

[Jadestone]

Wrote this last night after finsihing a book... it didn't take very long to write and it's not very good, but I'd apreciate criticism. I'd like to improve.


Would you speak for me?
as I lay dyeing
speak as I would only truer
truer to who I amiswas not
who I strive to be

(they hide their faces behind
the pretenses of masks-
how can they see?)

as the clouds cover my eyes
as I fall (closer) to the stars
wish for me
for my end
for beginings

(petals fall thick in dreamings;)
who are we really inside
in the deep darklight places
we dare not enter
who are we but continuations
connections complexities
of eachother of
stems of hopes

long for me
take the ashes of my sighs
and scatter them into
every blade of grass
waiting for the
stardawn

take my heart, (pry off the
ivy) and give it to the world

I am ending now
(but only slightly,
and endings taste of rain)
sweet and clear
and dancing the morris dance

(as the rosebuds close again)
wait for my last whispers,
catch them in a net woven of
my sorrows and tiwillneverbes
show the they sky
and let them go.

[Brian]

Just found this, written almost exactly a year ago, interestingly enough.

Bugs

I still look back for you.

Your eyes have turned me into a cliche,
I am paralyzed at the thought of you.
Ever since I've decided upon you, your hold, though undefined, is undeniable.

I hope for you to come home so that I can simply think about the chance of saying hello.
When we do cross, I could recount your every breath,
though you'd never tell.
To show interest would be to invite chance;
To provolk chance would be to risk failure.
So I wait on you to act upon a desire that you don't even know you are desired to indulge.

Then you leave, and my life becomes the longest commercial,
passing time to the next brief moment I'll see you again and put on yet another brilliant show of disintrest.

When I pass your car, or what looks like it,
I always look for the sticker that adorns its back window.
It is branded into my mind so that it cannot be simply forgotten,
forgotten like the names of any other girl I might happen to meet that day.
After I find it absent and swirve back into my lane, I convince myself that it was just an inside joke,
my mind playing a game on my neck and chin so that I might lose control of myself and my car for a moment,
longing to be in the distant presence of someone I can't even bring myself to speak to.
You get me every time.

I still look back for you.

It is the least logical among things that I fully understand:
It makes sense as long as it is flowing from my lips but then withers in rational thought as if unable to breath the air outside of my mind.
It's the hows of the equasion that have caused me to ignore the whys of this captivation,
and the result has me wandering in a mist located somewhere between love and confusion.
I cannot navigate my way out of it because I am afraid of which side I will surface on.
I must continue to plot;
To test and somehow decide which way is out.
A way that allows me to find you and yet remain encased in the haze until you call me from it.
My error is not in my goals, but in my planning.
Yes, I will find a way.
Until the mist receeds, I am yours.

Either way will lead me to dissapointment, whether it be shame or wonder.
I just need closure.
Until the mist receeds, I will plot and plan.

Surely, I am a fool.

I will always look back for you.

[KicktheCAN]

I can not hope to compare to Ren but here is a poem I wrote, I hope I can get some good critique, nobody I know in real life can give it to me.




He twiddled his thumbs from dawn until dusk,
He twiddled his thumbs at those who were brusque.
The twiddler laughed and the twiddler played,
The twiddler liked his fresh fish filleted.
The twiddler twiddled all day and all night,
He twiddled right through a city gang fight.
He twiddled through Rome and he twiddled through Greece,
He twiddled while wearing his pullover fleece.
The twiddler twiddled for as long as he knew,
He twiddled through life ignoring the view.
The twiddler twiddled his thumbs his whole life,
He twiddled his thumbs through famine and strife.
When the twiddler's time had finally come,
They all gathered 'round to hear of his sum.
As the twiddler lay upon his deathbed,
He mustered his strength and finally said.
"I've twiddled my thumbs for decades and more,
I've twiddled through peace and I've twiddled through war.
I've twiddled my thumbs all night and all day,
And now I finally have something to say.
If all that you do is twiddle your thumbs,
Do nothing all day and sit on your bums.
Then nothing will shift and nothing will change
Just sitting there waiting for your world to arrange
Only action will change the world that you know,
So get off your butts and get ready to go.
It will not be easy, but you have to try hard,
You must always be wary, never let down your guard."
And with that the poor twiddler passed from this life,
But the world continued on with problems all rife.
The poor twiddler's speech had fallen unheard,
No wisdom had left there and none spread the word.
Men went on twiddling and twiddling along,
And so they lived on in their twiddling throng.

[Dr.Robert]

I really like that poem, KicktheCAN. Not only does it convey a good point, but you managed to use a good expression such a twiddling thumbs to create a wonderful imagery in my head

And I am envious of the many talented poets posting in this topic.

As for my contribution... well, I certainly have written, but everytime I do write a poem, I can't help but become extremely self-conscious about it after reading it a few times... I'll post one of my uber-short ones, because I don't have any courage.


Thanking people is like
a reunion;
never enough does it occur
but when it does,
the colors of beauty come forth
and the despondent rise
from a white world.