Poetry

[jayseven]

Epiphany

 

When, know not I, I sit alone,

Aloud I try "can I call you home?"

Too scared to look to you a glance,

To see which fate had caught my chance

Instead I whisper in the dark;

"Heed, my angel, best you hark,"

Unsettled tears do disembark--

"A thousand acres of my life

Yours would be, if you'd be my wife"

 

Surely none have here longer knelt,

Such retribution none before felt

As now I do; a fountain strong

Each drop a sea aflame with song.

A moment leads on moments more.

They march like warriors of lore

That fight for nothing but for war.

A seven times a seventy,

But for you, it happens gently.

 

Claspèd palms that warmed my heart-

Absent, taken from me in parts;

Smote, discarded to rest a while

Broke, dismantled, left in a pile,

Now leaf in view- a visit I dreamed!

They speak of you and all you seem

And promise me more days serene

If, into you, I leap and swim;

Forgive myself for all these sins.

 

I stand, and open, and peek around

And catch your light, your grace, your crown

"With wings yet grown, a dance will do

I'd give up the world, the moon for you--"

But here the book, the pages turn

They cinder, cackling as they burn.

I wake and seek -- for you I yearn...

Silence resumes, it never left.

Realising now, I am bereft.

 

Again I try "can I call you home?"

When, know I now;

I sit alone.

 

______

 

The bit currently hassling me is "a seven times a seventy / but for you, it happens gently". I have no idea how the poem reads but it's meant to be sort of ambiguous and I'd rather hear some interpretations before I offer what it's 'about'... But primarily the metre for those two lines is way off... but I want to have seven times seventy/seventy times seven in it somewhere, and I want the ambiguity of for whom what is happening gently... blah.

 

Either way; I'm rather pleased with this. I sat down with no idea whatsoever of what to write, I just knew I wanted to write. Took me about two hours in total :| First like I wrote was "I hate the future", the next was "untied despair from my disgrace / like a mother / whose child brings home a bruise in a smile's place" but that was going nowhere.

 

So, uh... yeah. Sorry I RUINED the thread with my previous post.

[Ganepark32]

It's a very good poem. For some reason, I got the feeling of reading John Donne while reading yours which is a good thing because I absolutely love Donne's work. I do agree with you about 'A seven times a seventy / but for you, it happens gently'. While reading, that particular part stands out, quite a bit, as not really fitting in there with what else is written in the stanza, at least to my eyes and mind. Perhaps it could be broken up, so instead of the two lines you could do:

 

But for you,

A seven times a seventy,

It happens gently

 

where you can still incorporate the whole seven times bit but make it more fleeting, if that would be the correct term. As it is, it stands out too much and that way, it causes it to take a step back. Just my thoughts. Obviously, your better at this than me.

 

But as I said, it's a very good poem. Wish I could come up with similar. Haven't tried to write poetry in ages, mainly because I don't know what to write about but perhaps it's something I should try again as I enjoy poetry.

[jayseven]

Seriously; just start writing :P I sat there writing shite for ages, until I came up with "can I call you home?" and the whole thing fell into place, thanks mostly to the wonder that is subconscious accumulated data! SAD I know (lololo)... I made that up.

 

But yeah, it really took me a while to get it going. I mostly just thought of a set of words that rhymed that sounded ripe with potential (Burn, yearn, turn, learn, gurn, fern, spurn; even worm, discern, inferm, etc) and then just weasel them together.

 

Just start writing about your day while rhyming as many words as possible, but try to do a sort of rap-like repetition of sounds in an irregular beat, and as prose. Eventually a line or two will jump out and you can take it from there. Even if it takes 3 hours :P

 

EDIT: Oh, and your idea of breaking the line up could potentially work. If I find another couplet (and perhaps address the warrior/war glitch) to replace those two lines, then that could very well be the right direction to head in.

[Ganepark32]

Ok, went into the shower where, ironically, I had an epiphany for a poem. It's not great by any means but I don't think it's too bad and considering I haven't tried to write poetry for years, it could be worse. Just tried to think of something that holds something with me and this is what I got:

 

 

Tick, tock

It's a sound that can be seen with the eye

For what you see,

Is life... passing you by.

There goes infancy, childhood,

Your teen-age years.

Don't while away your time,

By wallowing in your tears.

 

There she is, standing over there

Yet all you do is stand and stare.

Don't just stand there!

Don't just listen!

Make something happen. Do

Something brash, something bold

'Cause tick-tock,

You're getting old.

 

You've gone over, said what you needed.

Now you're walking back, And

Look like you've succeeded.

She said "Yes."

Seems you've impressed.

We'll see what happens, see if it lasts

'Cause tick-tock

Life keeps going passed.

 

Took a 10 minute shower to come up with that. Was shocked I could get something so simple in such a short amount of time. Basically, I just thought I'd do something about how short life is and how you should take chances and not just stand there and let them pass you by (ironic really, coming from me ). It's enjoyable trying to come up with something to write. Perhaps I'll do more over the remainder of the easter holidays.

[jayseven]

Ah, about a girl :P You reaaally should've at least given it a shot ages ago.

 

I really like "tick tock ... life passing you by", it flows well, and makes sense. I think, though, that you're not capturing the essence of time passing. You introduce the conflict of asking a girl out then you immediately resolve the issue without us building a picture of either character; all I know of this girl is she sounds boring :P she stands there, and she says yes.

 

The voice that tells you "do it, do it, do iiiit!" is one fragment of the mind mind (sounds like a father's voice, encouraging a child). Clearly, the character has 'whiled away' their life so far, but we don't get to taste any reason why, or see the thoughts that are holding him back.

 

The triple-use of 'stand' and its variations is a shame, though. There she is whating. Just standing? That's static, immobile. We have no idea what it is about this girl that is so stare-worthy, so make her work for you :P Where is she standing? What does she look like? I want to know these things because I don't feel I'm constructing a strong enough figure in my mind.

 

Reading it aloud, the first few lines just reel off the tongue; smooth tees and esses! the Brash and Bold sound off the action well.

 

"There goes infancy, childhood,

Your teen-age years.

Don't while away your time,

By wallowing in your tears."

 

To me, there are a lot of sounds competing here. Infancy and childhood zoom past, which I guess could reflect how quickly life passes by, but it is absent of memories; it is what we remember about our past that makes us so nostalgic, so disturbed by the future (or, in this case, so eager to make sure the future is better).

 

I don't know if you've ever seen this picture of a 'timeline of man' represented by empty bottles? First is a baby bottle, next is a glass cola bottle, then a beer bottle, then a drip. The visual image alone both makes you smile at the humour but also the poignancy of the notion.

 

Compare the bottle image to just an image of what is being represented; a picture of a baby, teen, adult and old man. Sure, if arranged well it could be good, but it's too obvious, if you see what I mean?

 

You have split the stanzas story-wise; first an overview of the passing of time, then the last two stanzas are spent 'in the moment', building up to the question, then warming down from it. I think the moment would be stronger with more time spent on the sentient of the poem -- of time flying by.

 

But I'm glad you wrote! It's not that hard is it :P When you read it tomorrow, you may see some things you don't like as much as you did today, and you can either edit this poem or keep it as a keepsake, something to compare your work to in a few weeks or months time.

[Ganepark32]

It's a starting point. What's there came in about 10 minutes and that's all I put into it really. There are bits reading it through that could be done better, such as extrapolating on the girl and what it is about her yet by leaving it vague it allows the reader to come up with their own interpretations on what has been said and what has been happened. Perhaps I'll take out the 'She said "Yes"' and replace it with something more vague, making it a mystery as to what has been said.

 

But anyways, it's a crude starting point. Something to work on so thanks for the critique. Perhaps, after I've done a better job with it, I'll give it to the girl in question when I see her next.

[Paj!]

Canards Sauvages : An e.p.i.c Fusion of music and poetry by Paj

 

Are you climbing the stairs

Or are the stairs climbing you.

 

[Please now listen to the entirety of Waiting Room by No Doubt]

 

The cat takes the milk

From behind her silk

bedsheets.

 

..mo-fo.

 

She's stunning with her love glue-gunning.

 

*bows*

[jayseven]

...

 

gtfo :P

[Paj!]

...

 

gtfo :P

 

Ok.

 

*leaves really willingly*

[jayseven]

*is offended*

[killthenet]

Approachable Crotch

I have an approachable crotch, do I not?

 

 

Re: WORSHIP & A Message To Facebook

WE DON'T HAVE NO WEATHER HERE.

WE DON'T KNOW NO WAY TO DO THINGS.

THIS IS LIKE THE LIBERTINES.

EXCEPT IT'S SLIGHTLY BETTER POETRY WRITEEN UNDER THE INFLEUNCE OF HEROIN INSTEAD OF CRACK/AND OR COCAINE

 

THIS IS ALL A JOKE

 

OR AM I???

 

OR IS I A BIG FLOPPY PILLOWISH TOIRTOISE JURASSIC PARK LAKY EMO RANDY LERNER ESOTERIC LEAN MEAN HIJINKS MACHNE?

 

OR AM I???

 

YOU ARE A PORSONAL PORSCHE INAL ANAL ANAL ANAL ANAL ALMA FROM CORONATION STREET ALZEIMERS PIECE OF CADBURYS BOURBOUN.

 

AND YES I AM AWARE THAT CADBURYS DO NOT MAKE THEM. IT IS SAINSBURYS WHO ARE THE WHOLE OWNERS OF THE BOURBOUNS BRAND AND THEY ALSO LOVE NICE BISCIUTS AS IN NICE THE WORD NOT NICE THE ADJECTIVE.

 

THIS WAS A SILLY message. a massacre perhaps. IT WAS ALL IN CAPITALS.

 

AND SO ARE YOU.

 

BUT YOU WON'T READ IT ALL.

 

YOU ARE ILLITERATE.

 

AND THOSE MESSAGES WAS A JOCK. A BIG JOCK SCNE WITH NO HANDLE BARS OR FIG ROLLS OR ANY KIND OF "SURREAL" ATTITUDE TO THE WAY LIKE UNFOLDS.

 

BECAUSE LIFE IS FUCKING FUTILE.

 

JUST LISTEN TO BARLEY.

 

AND JUST LIKE TARRANT ON TV.

 

CLEAN TIT UP.

 

FROM THE START AND EVERYTHING.

 

I AM SORRY.

 

I AM DRUNK.

 

JUST REPLY WITH SOMETHING.

 

IT WOOOULD BE BETTER THAN A SILLY AND SIMPLE REJECTION.

[Ganepark32]

Another one by me:

 

The Sun beckons you to rise!

Taking a peek at you with hidden eyes.

Is it nine or after-noon?

Neither,

It's closer to the setting of the moon.

So, an early awakening

By a persistent visitor.

 

Opening the curtains,

You see why he has been so persistent.

It's a beautiful day.

So why should You stay

Couped up indoors?

Time to get dressed. Time

To greet your persistent visitor.

 

The strong sunlight hits your face,

But a cool breeze takes you back a pace.

What do you do now?

Does it matter? No.

The sunlight has put you in a daze.

So why shouldn't you enjoy one of these

Lazy days.

 

 

 

Just sort of came into my head after seeing how nice it is outside. It's short to say the least and I may extend it to cover the 'lazy day' but I also know that that could spoil it. But anyway, considering it's been awhile since I've done poetry I feel I've come up with two half decent efforts on this page.

[Paj!]

Approachable Crotch

I have an approachable crotch, do I not?

 

 

Re: WORSHIP & A Message To Facebook

WE DON'T HAVE NO WEATHER HERE.

WE DON'T KNOW NO WAY TO DO THINGS.

THIS IS LIKE THE LIBERTINES.

EXCEPT IT'S SLIGHTLY BETTER POETRY WRITEEN UNDER THE INFLEUNCE OF HEROIN INSTEAD OF CRACK/AND OR COCAINE

 

THIS IS ALL A JOKE

 

OR AM I???

 

OR IS I A BIG FLOPPY PILLOWISH TOIRTOISE JURASSIC PARK LAKY EMO RANDY LERNER ESOTERIC LEAN MEAN HIJINKS MACHNE?

 

OR AM I???

 

YOU ARE A PORSONAL PORSCHE INAL ANAL ANAL ANAL ANAL ALMA FROM CORONATION STREET ALZEIMERS PIECE OF CADBURYS BOURBOUN.

 

AND YES I AM AWARE THAT CADBURYS DO NOT MAKE THEM. IT IS SAINSBURYS WHO ARE THE WHOLE OWNERS OF THE BOURBOUNS BRAND AND THEY ALSO LOVE NICE BISCIUTS AS IN NICE THE WORD NOT NICE THE ADJECTIVE.

 

THIS WAS A SILLY message. a massacre perhaps. IT WAS ALL IN CAPITALS.

 

AND SO ARE YOU.

 

BUT YOU WON'T READ IT ALL.

 

YOU ARE ILLITERATE.

 

AND THOSE MESSAGES WAS A JOCK. A BIG JOCK SCNE WITH NO HANDLE BARS OR FIG ROLLS OR ANY KIND OF "SURREAL" ATTITUDE TO THE WAY LIKE UNFOLDS.

 

BECAUSE LIFE IS FUCKING FUTILE.

 

JUST LISTEN TO BARLEY.

 

AND JUST LIKE TARRANT ON TV.

 

CLEAN TIT UP.

 

FROM THE START AND EVERYTHING.

 

I AM SORRY.

 

I AM DRUNK.

 

JUST REPLY WITH SOMETHING.

 

IT WOOOULD BE BETTER THAN A SILLY AND SIMPLE REJECTION.

 

Genuinely a stunning composition. Could be a PJ Harvey/John Parish song. I would clap if that was put to music.

 

---

 

Ganepark, the last verse pwns the other two, imo. Not sure why.

[Ganepark32]

^ Probably the last three lines that make it better than the other two verses. Those were the first lines I came up with when doing it. Just rolls off the tongue nicely and the rhyme is nice.

[Jav_NE]

I've never written poety, but here goes....

 

And then she came

To me, i was afraid

To what do i owe the pleasure?

Poor me, preparation unmeasured

 

And then she passed

My hands, moist as dewy grass

But need not to worry

She went by in a hurry

 

And then she came

Once more my way

Do i pluck up the courage?

How are you?

A drink?

A compliment?

A thousand thoughts lost

Deafened by silence

Choked by aortic violence

 

And then she spoke

To me? Some joke

My body feels alien

Camouflage lost, no longer chameleon

Hi. What a blow

Though its better than low

She likes me, somehow

Just dont choke now

 

And then she danced

Limbs flailing, my chance

I'm hostage to her whim

But fears over. I'm in

 

And then she stayed

Five years to this day

That night, that stage

Thank God she stayed

[jayseven]

Ganepark;

 

1) Cooped.

 

etc) The persistant visitor, friendly in introduction, quickly moves to 'blind' the character, 'hitting' their face, and then it's the wind that rescues him, that reassures him that it was worth getting up.

 

It would be interesting to see some conflict between the light and the wind, and to see which is the reason the character leaves his house.

 

Jav; Preparation unmeasured is a very nice phrase to use. It avoids saying 'unprepared' but hints more at 'inexperienced' -- at not having had to test ones preparation enough previously in order to be able to measure -- not knowing the measurements.

 

A thousand thoughts lost

Deafened by silence

Choked by aortic violence

 

The latter part of the poem ('a dance') makes me think this is in a club, you, the voice, by the sidelines, just a part of the scenery, just floating in the atmosphere when you see a stunning beauty walk past and then BLAM! The conflict between safety in the scenery and the desire to reach out and connect... I can imagine it well. But the 'deafened by silence' line, while a lovely oxymoron to use, is in a sense nothing more than saying "at the end of the day" or "it's a game of two halves" -- while it sings to the emo inside me, it pretty much just relies on the reader's knowledge of where they've heard it before rather than focusing their attention on the poem itself. Plus the 'club' feel that I got contradicts it with the need for noise. If you had a contrast before the silence to show how the moment was sponged of its noise, then maybe the transitional tones would come through and strengthen the moment.

 

"That night, that stage" plays nicely on the idea that you were a part of the background, as if the whole scene was a performance - everyone else both cast and audience. It would be nice to see some more words threaded through the poem that echo that semblance of spectacle, perhaps shaded so that the spectacle instead becomes a sort of fairy-tale moment, I dunno.

 

Nice to see your words though, dude - a great first try. A few mixed-register elements like "I'm in" dampen the romantic flow, mind you.

 

Killthenet; I h8 deconstruction :P

 

MOAR!

[Coolness Bears]

Just something I thought of.

 

_________

 

Peace of Mind

 

I awaken to the sun dancing on my bed, chasing the creases across the duvet...

 

I'm not happy

I go downstairs and watch my two beautiful children eating their breakfast...

 

I'm not happy

 

I go to work and have a wonderful laugh with my many friends...

 

I'm not happy

 

I come home in the evening and sit out in the garden, calm and tranquillity surrounding me...

 

I'm not happy

 

I get a telephone call to say my husband has died in a car accident...

 

I'm happy

[jayseven]

C_B: I actually said "'reeey!" when I saw you were the newest poster in this thread Thank you for contributing.

 

I couldn't help but read the poem as if you had written it. I imagined that the children you described were your parents, and that you feel tehy are somehow beneath you. Going to work and laughing with friends is, obviously, school -- in the social sense this computes, but of course conflicting with 'work' suggests you find it a struggle to go to school. Your 'garden' I am not sure of. Gardens are by definition external to the home - and home is where you eat, sleep, and co-habit with parents. Gardens are an extension of this home, yet somehow tethered to the primal external world. Perhaps your garden is your room, or the internet itself, where you can freely experience a more 'natural' world.

 

The last key line featuring 'husband', 'call' and 'died', is interesting. As a poet/author, there is a separation between yourself and your created narrator and yet there is the unavoidable conflict between creation and admission. I believe the narrator is unavoidably a party that channels your thoughts, so saying that it is a female voice, in a strictly critical viewpoint, says that you feel a lack of control in your life, in your family. Being informed via telephone about a serious interferance with your family (that you feel paternal to) suggests that bad news always comes from without... that the external world contains horrors that amount to your worst possible fears, again a lack of control. The 'death', on this purely psychoanalytical level, maybe presents fears of alienation and/or isolation, or loneliness. The recurring "I am not happy", especially bolded, makes me assume that you are not happy, and despite your put-on demeanour of platitudes and bouyancy, you are not completely satisfied with yourself, with your life.

 

As a poem, mind you, I should perhaps not try to read into your life as much. The first line, with the sun dancing and chasing in a playful manner suggests that a new day presents mostly positive possibilities, but 'wonderful' and 'beatiful' in poetry are pretty much benign terms; their overuse in the english language has shaded their meaning with emptiness and a lack of potency. You have described these children and workmates in switchable terms that actually tells the reader nothing at all. The act of 'watching' the children suggests the narrator thinks he has played no part in the creation of the beauty (again, psychoanalytically referring to your adoption/difference with parents), yet your 'with' suggests that the workplace is an area you feel more comfortable in.

 

Being 'surrounded' is actually a rather negative term. Think of the similar sounding word 'surrender', or even 'surrogate'. Both are words that suggest a willing self-reduction, in one form or another, and in the poem's context they suggest perhaps an inner rage that needs to be calmed daily in teh garden.

 

The recurring 'I'm not happy', of course, lends the reader the idea that there is a secret that the narrator has that plays with their terminology, perhaps itself rendering the terms of endearment as ironic, but as a poem they are perhaps too bold, and too frequent, and are a missed opportunity to be subtle.

 

My brain has fizzled. there are other points (agency, structure, syntax, word choice, and especially the jarring rush from tranquility to death that doesn't work and annoys the reader) that I'd usually comment on, but for now that'll do.

[Paj!]

Hopkins is an oft-brilliant poet, but I hate how all his poems are virtually the same thing.

 

Get over God for once.

 

(Yeah, I know the context of writing...)

 

Some lines we did today I loved. For example, all of "That Nature Is A Heraclitean Fire and of the comfort of the Resurrection".

 

The opening lines pwn me.

 

Cloud-puffball, torn tufts, tossed pillows I flaunt forth, then chevy

on an air-

Built thouroughfare: heaven-roysterers, in gay-gangs I they throng;

they glitter in marches.

 

The bolded 'I''s represent the division things in the poem.

[Coolness Bears]

C_B: I actually said "'reeey!" when I saw you were the newest poster in this thread Thank you for contributing.

 

Thanks I had this idea in my head the other morning and I needed to get it down! Though I'll try and write some more when I get time.

 

I couldn't help but read the poem as if you had written it. I imagined that the children you described were your parents, and that you feel tehy are somehow beneath you. Going to work and laughing with friends is, obviously, school -- in the social sense this computes, but of course conflicting with 'work' suggests you find it a struggle to go to school. Your 'garden' I am not sure of. Gardens are by definition external to the home - and home is where you eat, sleep, and co-habit with parents. Gardens are an extension of this home, yet somehow tethered to the primal external world. Perhaps your garden is your room, or the internet itself, where you can freely experience a more 'natural' world.

 

This is an interesting insight.

 

However I didn't think about this while writing. I was thinking of my stress module for Psychology in particular the 3rd phase which is exhuastion. I wanted to go on the idea that people aren't truely happy until the source of their pain is gone. You can go through life and have all these great surroundings and not be truely happy (have you seen the film into the wild?) and to get rid of what isn't making you happy that is what gives you your "piece of mind."

 

The garden wasn't originally there it was going to be in front of the TV drinking wine but I wanted a more natural feel to it, which I feel achieved. The garden and being outside is that feeling of wanting to escape which this woman wants to do but "sitting" in the garden means she is helpless in changing her situation.

 

The last key line featuring 'husband', 'call' and 'died', is interesting. As a poet/author, there is a separation between yourself and your created narrator and yet there is the unavoidable conflict between creation and admission. I believe the narrator is unavoidably a party that channels your thoughts, so saying that it is a female voice, in a strictly critical viewpoint, says that you feel a lack of control in your life, in your family. Being informed via telephone about a serious interferance with your family (that you feel paternal to) suggests that bad news always comes from without... that the external world contains horrors that amount to your worst possible fears, again a lack of control. The 'death', on this purely psychoanalytical level, maybe presents fears of alienation and/or isolation, or loneliness. The recurring "I am not happy", especially bolded, makes me assume that you are not happy, and despite your put-on demeanour of platitudes and bouyancy, you are not completely satisfied with yourself, with your life.

 

I think here it isn't accurate now! One thing I do know is that I'm truely happy. I'm not dissatisfied with my life I geniuely just wanted to tell the tale of this character I had created in my mind. I love characters, they are my forte , in terms of writing.

 

I don't put on a fascarde? (is that a word I always seem to mix a few together.) of happiness. I used to think I didn't have control but ever since last year I've gained an inner locus of control so people work on my time. :p (might have to get out of that habit at Uni what with Deadlines)

 

What can be linked to me is the idea that I live in a fantasy world and every now and then I have to be put back into reality! Which is happening here. Essentially she is floating through life and to put her back into reality I placed a tragic accident in there. Though I'm making it sound as If I thought about it, I really didn't think about what I was writing until you replied to it!

 

So I enjoyed reading your analyse of my life and how I feel, that was cool. Some bits perhaps but others are fortunately way off!

 

As a poem, mind you, I should perhaps not try to read into your life as much. The first line, with the sun dancing and chasing in a playful manner suggests that a new day presents mostly positive possibilities, but 'wonderful' and 'beatiful' in poetry are pretty much benign terms; their overuse in the english language has shaded their meaning with emptiness and a lack of potency.

 

I agree shoddy english right there. I was not happy (lol! ) with those terms at all but couldn't be bothered to change them. I was much pleased with my first line and then it fell apart. I really just wanted to get the idea down despite the lack of depth in language!

 

You have described these children and workmates in switchable terms that actually tells the reader nothing at all. The act of 'watching' the children suggests the narrator thinks he has played no part in the creation of the beauty (again, psychoanalytically referring to your adoption/difference with parents), yet your 'with' suggests that the workplace is an area you feel more comfortable in.

 

Again I seriously didn't think about this. Which makes me thinks perhaps I should have waited until the weekend to write this when I'd have had more time to properly think about the words rather than just the idea behind this poem.

 

Yeah you see with that wording it is contradictory as I'm definately happiest when at home and don't feel alienated in anyway!

 

Being 'surrounded' is actually a rather negative term. Think of the similar sounding word 'surrender', or even 'surrogate'. Both are words that suggest a willing self-reduction, in one form or another, and in the poem's context they suggest perhaps an inner rage that needs to be calmed daily in teh garden.

 

The recurring 'I'm not happy', of course, lends the reader the idea that there is a secret that the narrator has that plays with their terminology, perhaps itself rendering the terms of endearment as ironic, but as a poem they are perhaps too bold, and too frequent, and are a missed opportunity to be subtle.

 

hehe, "teh garden" :p no idea why, made me laugh.

 

Yes she feels surronded as if she is forced into having a good time with her friends rather than willingly wanting to take part.

 

I felt it was a tad short. I wanted five versey bits though. I think it was brave to go from garden to death. Often people hate it when something quick happens but that is how life can be. Things can change in an instant.

 

My brain has fizzled. there are other points (agency, structure, syntax, word choice, and especially the jarring rush from tranquility to death that doesn't work and annoys the reader) that I'd usually comment on, but for now that'll do.

 

Thanks for taking the time to go through my poem that is much appreciated. I don't think I've had a proper critique of my writing before as usually teachers comments are sugar coated!

 

This was layed down how I like it open and honest!

Edited April 24, 2009 by Coolness Bears

[jayseven]

That's the joy of poetry; hearing other people's interpretations. On the one hand, one may take offense in how diverse and different an opinion it so the initial implication, while on the other one may take pleasure in hearing the different visions of what the collection of words means.

 

Personally, I like it when the two combine. It is criticism in itself when the reader utterly mistakes a poem for what it is worth. A poet should really be in complete control of what the reader is thinking/feeling, or at least know to what extent they are inspiring their audience. An author takes their strength from recognising when they aren't expressing themselves coherantly, but in poetry the ambiguity is strength itself, in general.

 

There are several different theories about poetry, and the current prevailing one suggests that once a poem is writ, then the author's intentions are no longer relevant. The poem becomes an entity in itself, with meaning wholely derived by the reader, and with critics arguing over the actual meaning of the original text (and in this sense, the poet becomes just another critic).

 

my 'psychoanalytical' paragraphs were intended to investigate precisely what you were not thinking about while writing it, so I don't care if you disagree with those :P In front of the TV drinking wine is still escapism, and while it detracts from the natural element, it holds the same worth.

 

Work on your flow of meaning. You want to steer and control the feelings and emotions that you are exhibiting to your audience. You want to know what the range of ideas are that they are having, and the best way to do this is to imagine each word, each line is a lilipad that a frog (the reader) is jumping to and from. If two pads are too far apart then basically it means there are parts to your poem that do not flow; that do not connect in an obvious way. While some poetry, like Killthenet's, purposefully challenges the reader to actively seek out the correct path, it takes skill and precision to determine this path. Or, at least, an awareness.

 

I am glad that I am massively wrong about what the poem means :P It makes it all the more interesting.

 

I'm no expert, I just like analysing. Keep it up, and please give other poems in this thread a read and share your opinion. There's no timescale involved, and your poetry may benefit from what you ask/hear.

[Coolness Bears]

Sorry for the late reply! Don't get me wrong I very much enjoyed reading your interpretation.

 

I like what you saw and opened my eyes to the fact that a poem can be intepreted in many different ways, which I like!

 

I found it very interesting you took what you know about me and applied it to the poem. I wasn't offended. (it takes A LOT to make me even slightly angry)

 

I would agree that once it is out there the poem becomes it's on entity as when writing I certainly didn't have any big concepts about what I was writing so it is very much in the readers hands. Although I do think the Poet has the final say.

 

Haha, fair enough. That's exactly what I said perhaps subconciously while writing I am thinking these things and in actual fact I'm a broken shell of a man. :p

 

 

Ah yes the whole lili pad thing, From verse 4 to 5 there was a too bigger leap and the frog just drowned. I will definately contribute more. I'll try offer my opinion though they won't be so well crafted as yours!

[chairdriver]

I wrote a poem for my sister's homework (because she thought her poem was too bad). She has to write a poem about the upcoming disco she's going to go to. [bear in mind she's 12].

 

Spot the lyrics I stole!

 

 

He stands there, staring solely at his feet,

Unable to scrape together enough

To seek a dance.

 

Every finger in the room is pointing

At him, and me. The music stops.

My heart is queen.

 

I take his hand, and then we are dancing.

Our eyes meet. We smile. And I say

"I love this song."

 

His face is red from reading my red lips.

I dance faster, wearing Red Shoes.

"Can't take them off!"

 

And with every heartbeat I chase my breath.

With every step we get closer.

A perfect dance.

 

And then it ends, not a moment too soon.

He shys away, my friends crowd round.

"Who was that boy!?"

 

I take off my shoes, too dazed and too bruised.

All eyes are on me now. I blush.

"I don't know."

[Paj!]

I wrote a poem for my sister's homework (because she thought her poem was too bad). She has to write a poem about the upcoming disco she's going to go to. [bear in mind she's 12].

 

Spot the lyrics I stole!

 

 

He stands there, staring solely at his feet,

Unable to scrape together enough

To seek a dance.

 

Every finger in the room is pointing

At him, and me. The music stops.

My heart is queen.

 

I take his hand, and then we are dancing.

Our eyes meet. We smile. And I say

"I love this song."

 

His face is red from reading my red lips.

I dance faster, wearing Red Shoes.

"Can't take them off!"

 

And with every heartbeat I chase my breath.

With every step we get closer.

A perfect dance.

 

And then it ends, not a moment too soon.

He shys away, my friends crowd round.

"Who was that boy!?"

 

I take off my shoes, too dazed and too bruised.

All eyes are on me now. I blush.

"I don't know."

 

 

Actually a bit good for 12 year olds, but maybe Georgie is great.

 

I spotted Middle Cyclone - Neko Case, Crucify - Tori Amos, Precious Things - Tori Amos, Red Shoes - Kate Bush, WEH - Robyn, Dazed, beautiful + Bruised - Catatonia. And whatever song "soley at his feet" is from.

 

I also got the feeling it was like he missing verses from Cracks In The Canvas, so I had PJ Harvey's speaking voice in my head the whole time.

 

----

 

Thinking about what to write for the art magazine I'm making for school to sell, as this year we're redefining what it is, making it half "looking back at the year in art" half "WOW! THIS BOOK IS LIKE AN ART PROJECT IN ITSELF!" and so are writing liitle bits for it.

 

I find poetry extremely clumsy to write, unless it's just rhyming.

 

So I don't consider this a poem. More just a collection of words I ordered. Plus it's heavily influenced by a song.

 

What should I do now?

What I do is empty, nothing there

No sign of progress.

It comes together, “yes”

Marbled eyes and dry lips

Lie above my skin

Polished but not joined.

 

Should I wait for something to happen?

-Go to sleep-

But will anything happen?

I want to know, “yes”.

But it’s not right

Not left, but not right

Why am I waiting for something to happen?

“Good Lord,

Will anything change?”

 

Such frustration

Wanting a moment.

An unfiltered moment.

Can you see the moment

I can’t? One day maybe.

 

So yeah, not poetic thought really went into it, other than some word choice, but then again, I spent 5 minutes on it.

Edited May 14, 2009 by Paj!
Automerged Doublepost

[chairdriver]

 

Actually a bit good for 12 year olds, but maybe Georgie is great.

 

Well, yeah, she is.

 

I spotted Middle Cyclone - Neko Case, Crucify - Tori Amos, Precious Things - Tori Amos, Red Shoes - Kate Bush, WEH - Robyn, Dazed, beautiful + Bruised - Catatonia. And whatever song "soley at his feet" is from.

 

In order it goes:

 

Ghosts - Laura Marling

Middle Cyclone - Neko Case

Crucify - Tori Amos

In The Flowers - Animal Collective

Your Lips Are Red - St. Vincent

Red Shoes - Kate Bush

With Every Heartbeat - Robyn

Day Too Soon - Sia

Dazed, Beautiful and Bruised - Catatonia

Floorplan - Tegan & Sara

 

I also got the feeling it was like he missing verses from Cracks In The Canvas, so I had PJ Harvey's speaking voice in my head the whole time.

 

I love.

 

How do we deal with the time after a death?

Just before the funeral, when everyone is really sad.