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What fresh hell is this? Hey yeah, so I've been looking for a place to dump out poetry that isn't a tumblr of five people who just absentmindedly like my posts, when I discovered the hot new take on writing threads that was the Daily Poetry 2013 thread. Which is locked for archiving. And no replacements have been made. So here's a fresh one for 2016, for us to gradually critique each other's skills at stacking words in stanzas! Are there any special rules? No, gently caress that. You're all adults, just post your poo poo as you write it and critique others as you want. I want to make one thing very apparent though: THIS IS NOT A THREAD FOR YOUR FINISHED POEMS, SPECIFICALLY. THIS IS A THREAD FOR YOU TO DUMP YOUR HEAD OUT SO WE CAN COLLECTIVELY PARTICIPATE IN AN EDITING PROCESS THAT BENEFITS US ALL. It's a daily thread, this isn't supposed to be a place of pristine poems that glisten with perfect meter and rhyme schemes, it's just a place for you to participate to keep your writing juices flowing. Are you going to critique every poem that is posted, like others said they would? AaaaaahahahahahahahahaahahHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. To be honest, if this thread stays slow, I just might. I have a poem that I wrote a little while ago that I want critiques on, that I did not literally write today. What should I do? I'm literally about to post one exactly like that lmbo. Just do it, friend. This is not a thread for high brow wankery about who is a good or bad poet. Take posts as they come, critique them as they are. If you are posting a poem which requires context or explanation, please do so in italics, like a fancy person before the poem. This way we know what your specific comments are, separated from the poem, and also I can pretend that a fancy french person is explaining the finer subtext of your works. Otherwise, if you are about to ask whether or not you should post something, I have some primo advice for you, right off the bat: 
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Feb 2, 2016 07:32
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Immigrants "I don’t want no loving Somalians living in my state,” he says, white knuckles wrapped around a black coffee. The irony is lost on him. “Bunch of lazy no-good idiots if you ask me,” another grunts. It is 10:30 on a Tuesday morning. “They lie, and cheat. You can’t trust any of them.” He is renting a motel room tonight by the hour. “I hear they’re a bunch of rapists. I’m worried about my daughter living so close to them.” His wife owns a different shade of foundation depending on her bruises. "At least I can provide for my family. They just want to suck on the government's teat." This will be the seventh consecutive year that his government insurance will cover his farm's drastically low yield. “They just want to move in and take over. In a few years, they’ll be everywhere. If we don’t say no now, then this country is going to go to poo poo.” The men sip their coffee, and nod in quiet certainty, on a land called Dakota
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Feb 2, 2016 07:38
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death .cab for qt posted:To be honest, if this thread stays slow, I just might.
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Feb 2, 2016 12:15
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death .cab for qt posted:Immigrants Congratulations, you have written a STDH poem! This has absolutely no nuance to the subject matter whatsoever. So it feels like you are just writing stereotypes in order to like say stereotypes are bad? There's no uniqueness to this story. What's the point? "Racism is bad and racists are bad people." But like, that's it. And you're presenting it in such a boring and generic manner. There's nothing in this poem that feels original. It's all just parroting ideas of the generic hick racist and you dont even show that well. Now, I'm not a big traditional poet. I write free verse when I do write poetry, but I'm not like a big expert on meter or beats and stuff. I just kind of read the poem to see if it flows well for me, or if it doesn't flow well, there's an intentional reason why. These just feel like sentences strung together without any regard as to how a reader will actually read them. It's choppy and doesn't flow like, at all. Like that fourth paragraph, each line just exists on its own. I feel like you didn't have any consideration of how your reader would read the poem and as such, it lacks that flow that helps make a poem more effective. Lastly, I think images are very important in poems, especially if you're going to do free verse. Your poem needs something, and racist stereotype conversations aren't enough. I need to see, or feel, or touch, or hear, or taste something in poems. You have a few that gives me images, like "white knuckles wrapped around a black coffee" and "His wife owns..." Personally, I think those images are kind of weak. The whole white knuckles/black coffee doesn't really work because you don't wrap your knuckles around the coffee, but like, the actual mug it's in, so then I'm left to make up some kind of mug. The "His wife owns..." could work stronger if you made it more specific like "His wife pulls out her pile (i dont know makeup terminology im sry) of foundation and tries to find the right one for the bruise." That doesn't flow well and I'd edit it to make have a better flow, but now I got the wife actually doing thing and a more vivid image in my head. Anyways, yeah, thanks for making the thread, I might post some poems later.
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Feb 2, 2016 21:12
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Broenheim posted:Congratulations, you have written a STDH poem! This has absolutely no nuance to the subject matter whatsoever. So it feels like you are just writing stereotypes in order to like say stereotypes are bad? There's no uniqueness to this story. What's the point? "Racism is bad and racists are bad people." But like, that's it. And you're presenting it in such a boring and generic manner. There's nothing in this poem that feels original. It's all just parroting ideas of the generic hick racist and you dont even show that well. I'm very dumb and should have done my own italicized background for the poem, or find a way to include it in the poem itself! I work at a poo poo gas station in a hick town, and a group of old farmers sit in from around 8 AM to 11 AM bullshitting about politics, and this was a series of things they've talked about over a few weeks when Somalian refugees became a hot topic in the newspapers. The attribution of things they said don't line up exactly to people in the conversation, obviously, but it's just (barely) paraphrased sentiments they all shared in their conversation. The other lines are also true facts, they're just mostly about other people from around and just outside of town who share these same opinions, tied together into the same setting. You're right, though, I'm less and less satisfied with this the more I read it. I'm going to chop through this and restructure a lot of it, because I can tell what I'm trying to do with it, but it's divorced of pretty much all context if I have to type a huge paragraph just to explain it.
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Feb 2, 2016 22:27
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ima just dump this poem i wrote for a class so it doesnt seem like im just being a dick in this thread, based off of a painting called "The Night by Max Beckmann. Cool painting, should def. check it out. maybe ill write new one tomorrow idk. What I Know The Night is a 20th-century painting by German artist Max Beckmann... The Night's illogical composition relays post-war disillusionment and the artist's confusion over the “society he saw descending into madness.” -Wikipedia I don’t know how it feels to sling a gun over the shoulder, to stare above trenches, bombs pounding dirt like a paintbrush dipped into brown ink. I don’t know how it feels to have those crosshairs trained on a gray shivering uniform. I don’t know how it feels to take in the air, and taste the dirt scrape against the tongue. I don’t know how it feels to press the trigger and see the other boy turn and fall. I don’t know how it feels to be that boy who falls to the ground, to feel the sting like a needle stabbed into the back of the skull, breaking bone, to feel the hair get cold and heavy with blood, to feel that moment of relief like a black bird, breaking through the chest, to feel the wings glide through the haze and land on smooth metal, claws wrapping around a golden fence. I don’t know how it feels to be a sculptor etching in one name in marble and hear a black bird, that boy in the dirt, crying outside. I don’t know how it feels to be that boy who comes home and drops his gun on the desk and looks at a white canvas. I don’t know how it feels to be that boy who hears water dripping from the faucet but hears the other boy dropping to the dirt. I don’t know how it feels to be that boy’s nightmare of rough rope digging into the neck, and gray faces blurring like ink, eyes and noses and mouths shifting into sharp shapes. I don’t know how it feels to be that boy who dips a paintbrush into ink and slices streaks of red across the white paper like a cut that doesn’t bleed, a red stain across the wrist. I don’t know how it feels to be that boy who takes in the bombs and the bullets, the blood and the body, the bird and the name, the bristles and the colors and throws the ink, everything into a white lockbox now stained with reds and blacks and browns and grays. I don’t know how it feels to be a boy with wet paper, stuck between fingers that look like wings, shaking, ready to pull apart the nightmare. I don’t know it feels to let the paper slide against the finger, and lets The Night land on the desk, and stay. I don’t know how it feels to be that boy, but I know that boy.
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Feb 2, 2016 23:27
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muffin is going to make poets out of us yet
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Feb 18, 2016 02:01
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death .cab for qt posted:Immigrants This is pandering to the pro-immigration camp so hard I hear Germany is closing their borders just to spite you. Now don't get me wrong, I'm in that camp, but even I feel a bit disgusted by this. Your heart's at the right place but you're writing poetry here, and not an essay on How Racists Are Actually Bigots, and even if you were, and even if these people really exist, the way you present them still makes it sound like you're sending an army of strawmen to preach to a choir that's too liberal to ever see a church from the inside. Sorry if this sounds harsh but I really didn't like this piece and that's also the reason I don't line-crit it. It just has these gaping flaws. Like, it's super obvious what you're going for from the start, and sometimes obvious is good, but not when you're trying to manipulate people into accepting your political beliefs. Is this salvageable? I think so. But it needs to give me something else than what amounts to a smear-campaign about a bunch of anonymous Dakota hicks. Show me what makes these people tick. Give me facets. Give me something human. Make me go away from this with a learning experience. "Racism is bad and racists are stupid" is not a learning experience, but "Farmer Joe works his rear end off because big agriculture industry eats him up otherwise so in the evening he's too busted to do anything but watch Fox New's brainwashing" is. Maybe there's even a bit of irony in it, seeing how Fox News usually supports big industry. There's a lot of sad stories surrounding these people, and there's a lot of insight that can be gleamed from sitting down and honestly exploring their motives and the reality they've built for themselves, and if you're taking them seriously, I think you can come away with a sombre piece about the inherent tragedy of human ignorance. Then find a way to express that in interesting pictures. flerp posted:ima just dump this poem i wrote for a class so it doesnt seem like im just being a dick in this thread, based off of a painting called "The Night by Max Beckmann. Cool painting, should def. check it out. maybe ill write new one tomorrow idk. So I guess this is about Max Beckmann coming home from war and painting The Night. Okay, well. Max Beckmann has seen some hosed up poo poo and it transformed his entire art style, but all you show us is "there were bombs and he shot a guy" (Max Beckmann was a medical orderly). The cool thing about Beckmann is that he went into war all like "hell yeah this owns my art is gonna own after this" and then he came back broken and haggard like a dry twig in the way of an elephant stampede. To be frank I would like this better if it were less about The Night and more about just a guy who was once a painter coming home from war and realizing that none of it matters to him anymore because he's so hosed up from his experiences. Also some of the hosed up experiences. Many of the parts where you reference The Night I feel are boring, but the whole human drama of him suffering through war and coming back home to deal with it, that's interesting, and I also think it gives the ending stanza a lot more power, makes it more personal. If you really want to make this about The Night, and I've already said this, then the parts where he paints the picture need to a) have more of a cathartic feel and b) be much, MUCH more intense. This is the apex of your piece but it's over before it begins and the language is a bit weak. Entenzahn fucked around with this message at 02:45 on Feb 18, 2016 |
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Feb 18, 2016 02:02
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okay maybe i should also write a poem First I want to call her an angel, but then she chuckles, like we're about to do something forbidden, and strands of her hair dance with each other as she turns, and then she raises her bottle with a residual smirk and squints at me as it touches her lips, playful eyes throwing the night-sky back at me. She drinks dark beer. She doesn't need platitudes. Instead I'll call her this: Imagine being blind for all your life and one day you wake up and see a rainbow.
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Feb 18, 2016 02:31
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Entenzahn posted:
Ah, a love poem. How adorable. I think the issue with love poems is a lot of times is that love poems embrace the cliche. Hell, even Shakespeare like a million years ago called out poets for being so cliche. You're aware of the cliches but instead of actually writing a poem that isn't cliche, you use a cliche (what, she's an ANGEL?????) and you're like "no, no, you see, I know it's cliche and I'm calling it out." Well, how about you just not use the cliche? Meter wise, this is just very... normal? The first stanza is too long and starts to drag as I read it at around the fourth line (especially with the repetition of and) because each sentence are constructed the same way. Adding periods or varying your sentences will make it flow much better. That second stanza is... I don't like that meter. It starts then STOPS........ then starts and STOPS (do you get what I mean? i'm not sure how to explain this through text tbh). Doesn't sound good. The third one is kind of like your first but it works better because it's short so you don't need to vary. But that end of "a rainbow" is just so abrupt. There's some kind of build-up I feel with this poem but it's just a rainbow? That's all you got? A word standing on it's own should be something huge or big. Why a rainbow? What is it about her that makes her a rainbow? What would be so amazing about being blind your entire life and looking at a rainbow? When I think of rainbows, I think of colors. I think of all those colors in the gray sky. Your poem doesn't have like any color. "Night-sky" is probably the one color I see. Maybe "dark beer" a bit but that's bit too vague. I think an image like a rainbow needs to come from something that's given us a lot of color. Have her BE a rainbow in the poem. Have her be that color in the gray sky. Make the reader think, unconsciously, that she is a rainbow. And then, when you get us to understand that, and we get to the end and you say "she's a rainbow" I'm like "hell yeah she is!" instead of "I guess?"
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Feb 18, 2016 03:22
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Hey guys. I noticed this thread and got so excited that I wrote a poem! Tell me what you think. "The Hog" The weak prince was mauled by a hog. The prince had skin so translucent under the sun that you could see his fear when the hog charged him in the glade, its tusks flailing east and west. When the hog was slaughtered shortly after and brought before the queen’s rapacious eye, she demanded it be placed beside her son at his wake, and thoroughly feasted upon. So the clergy all came, and the commonfolk too, and they stoically swallowed the meat, which was much, much too tough and lacking spice, although the king said he detected a tinge of—wouldn’t it be awful—royal blood.
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Feb 18, 2016 04:53
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flerp posted:Ah, a love poem. How adorable. Jumping off this, you can make the rainbow color work but you gotta go way more concrete here: cobweb whites, stained yellows, bleached blacks, murky liquid skyline, muddled viscera, desiccated emerald, blah blah vomit Even what I wrote is kinda poo poo because it isn't "attached" to anything which is the problem with rainbows too, they're kind ephemeral. In a way, you need a specific perspective to see them, but this poem isn't delving into that category of insight
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Mar 14, 2016 22:00
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G r A v E Grave gRave grAve graVe gravE
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Mar 14, 2016 22:51
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FreudianSlippers posted:G r A v E Grave Rave Grace Gravity Gravy Agog Grit Grit Grit Gravlax
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Mar 19, 2016 03:03
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The number one rule of grave poetry is that the only word you can use is "grave". It is also rules 2-10. Although I really like your poem, it could be a nice subversion of the strict and conservative boundaries most grave poetry adheres to.
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Mar 19, 2016 20:40
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Move along, nothing to see here.
Exioce fucked around with this message at 23:33 on Jun 2, 2016 |
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Mar 23, 2016 22:02
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fine
Illavick fucked around with this message at 08:54 on Apr 1, 2016 |
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Mar 24, 2016 01:18
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Posting in the Poetry Thread 1. Apologize 2. Post the poem 3. Do not post feedback 4. Do not get feedback (somehow this always works) 5. Leave forever
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Mar 30, 2016 13:32
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Entenzahn posted:Posting in the Poetry Thread This poem feels a bit dry. Almost like it's some sort of list.. However I really like how brief and to the point it is, there is no fat just muscle. I also really like the bittersweet ending.
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Apr 2, 2016 04:07
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Every walk home is an approximation of my whereabouts. And what withdrawals And Wendy homes Is this gas between today? edit: Every walk home is an approximation of my whereabouts, And what withdrawals And wendy huts Is this gas between today? Lampsacus fucked around with this message at 10:18 on Apr 3, 2016 |
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Apr 3, 2016 10:03
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In the last version of this thread someone demonstrated a weird poetry form, it was pretty short and extremely restrictive, I can't for the life of me remember what it was and none of the forms on regular lists seem familiar. What was it??
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Apr 3, 2016 16:31
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Zesty Mordant posted:In the last version of this thread someone demonstrated a weird poetry form, it was pretty short and extremely restrictive, I can't for the life of me remember what it was and none of the forms on regular lists seem familiar. What was it?? Was it double dactyls https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Double_dactyl?? Cos I posted about them in the last thread + they're great. eg Higgledy piggledy, Benjamin Harrison, Twenty-third president Was, and, as such, Served between Clevelands and Save for this trivial Idiosyncrasy, Didn't do much. I write them a lot if I can think of a double dactylic word, here's one of mine Battery Flattery Trial of the century This man’s been found making Youth’s brains enlarged He offers no defence And so our judge declares Apologetically “Guilty as charged!”
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Apr 3, 2016 19:01
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Those long legged mosquitos are aliens, you know They abducted me once From my bunk The top one by the window, boys cabin three The mosquitos wanted to know if I was the one Responsible. If it was me. I was bitten all over. But I was rescued by the Morepork Squad Who spun my sores into feathers Which were then stuffed into a cardboard envelope Labeled by claw 'Could be Him?'
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Apr 5, 2016 04:33
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A Russian poplar Surrenders to the North winds Falling to the earth
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Apr 10, 2016 17:46
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CestMoi posted:Was it double dactyls https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Double_dactyl?? Cos I posted about them in the last thread + they're great. eg Hahah yes I'm gonna try and make some up today. Thanx
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Apr 10, 2016 19:31
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Np, once you get a feel for the rhythm of them they're really easy. The most difficult parts are finding double dactylic words for the second last line and finding first lines that are nonsense while still sounding cool. Good luck and post them in this thread imo Tristran and I sold her Forcing out poems to Expel this uselessness Here’s what I tried- Reading the masters to Gain inspiration which Counterproductively Stymied the tide CestMoi fucked around with this message at 23:27 on Apr 10, 2016 |
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Apr 10, 2016 23:24
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I've been needling away at this poem recently, it feels like it's missing something, another verse maybe, and perhaps there's other stuff I've missed: Winter Grave (slight note, a sternburg is a cheap beer that's really common here) Slick cold half melted ice rehardened lines the cobblestones searching for an errant foot to trap and topple the midnight walker she slides envisions an ignoble end hand flung just in time to catch the frigid rail palms half stick to rough new frost. Straightened body reset weight she shifts to safety Reflects on near misses as gaze set down the glittering banks of the river seized in place She notes, half submerged the bodies drowned christmas trees discarded in the dark Corpses unsunk the crime revealed by frost Rime shine frost set fresh on edges revealing the reaching branches That tangle together in desperate knots Abandoned past their season Bodies shedding with frost their only friend She thinks on things abandoned after christmas Finishes her Sternburg and sets the bottle down.
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Apr 11, 2016 10:51
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Catfishenfuego posted:I've been needling away at this poem recently, it feels like it's missing something, another verse maybe, and perhaps there's other stuff I've missed: I wish I had better feedback but my gut instantly thinks that the repetition of "reflects on near misses" and "she thinks on things abandoned after Christmas" feels accidental and not deliberate. I also think the first instance (reflects on near misses) is a weaker line in the poem, too vague and improved on by the second iteration. The more (maybe ironically) free-flowing lines are good, I think the juxtaposition of ice imagery and solid frozen landscape jives with the more stream of consciousness lines : say "Straightened body reset weight she shifts to safety"
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Apr 16, 2016 03:43
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Catfishenfuego posted:
The best thing about this poem is how it finds new and inventive ways to convey the old "one foot in the grave" idea. We have ice "half melted" but also "rehardened"; presumably warm, living palms "half stick" to a frosty rail; a reflection on near misses (in the course of her life, she has been close to falling/death before); "bodies...Corpses" are only partially buried insofar as the trees are "half submerged". You really drive this point home well. Some of the images are good, for example the hand on the rail and the felled trees, half sunk and covered in frost. I think this piece is fine without another verse. Unless that verse is amazing don't shoehorn it in just to have it there. With revision, this could be a neat poem.
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Apr 20, 2016 14:35
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Nice. I'm glad you made the ice so active
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Catfishenfuego posted:I've been needling away at this poem recently, it feels like it's missing something, another verse maybe, and perhaps there's other stuff I've missed:
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Apr 24, 2016 22:47
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I've got a question about submitting poetry to lit mags. For mags that accept multiple submissions, am I better off submitting one poem I think they will really like, or should I submit as many pieces as they let me? Lately I've been using a "throw gum at the wall" strategy, thinking I should submit as many stylistically varied poems to a single outlet that I can, all in the hopes that one will stick. On the other hand, I'm wondering if a lack of consistent style between poems will hurt ALL my submissions. That is, if an outlet hates most of my work, will the staff there really ignore all that dislike just to print the one piece they do enjoy? What's the conventional wisdom on this within the poetry publishing community?
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Apr 26, 2016 00:19
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Jitzu_the_Monk posted:I've got a question about submitting poetry to lit mags. For mags that accept multiple submissions, am I better off submitting one poem I think they will really like, or should I submit as many pieces as they let me? Lately I've been using a "throw gum at the wall" strategy, thinking I should submit as many stylistically varied poems to a single outlet that I can, all in the hopes that one will stick. On the other hand, I'm wondering if a lack of consistent style between poems will hurt ALL my submissions. That is, if an outlet hates most of my work, will the staff there really ignore all that dislike just to print the one piece they do enjoy? What's the conventional wisdom on this within the poetry publishing community? so if a publication is saying "send us up to 5 poems" they generally aren't looking to publish a collection of poems. rather, they're just looking for you to send them up to 5 poems and they'll pick the ones they want to publish. it doesnt really matter if they're connected or not in any way, just send them as if theyre unrelated because they prob are. so dont worry about them being disconnected/thematically dissimilar/one of them is way worse than the rest because that shouldn't have any bearing on getting any of the other ones published.
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Apr 26, 2016 00:25
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Thanks for the feedback guys, I've altered some of the lines to tighten it up a bit, though I've become happier with how it ends rather than thinking it might need another verse. Slick grey half melted ice rehardened lines the cobblestones searching for an errant foot to trap and topple the midnight walker she slides envisions an ignoble end hand flung just in time to catch the frigid rail palms half stick to rough new frost. Straightened body weight reset she shifts to safety Her view over railing A reflection on near misses the glittering banks of the river seized in place She notes, half submerged the bodies drowned christmas trees discarded in the dark Corpses unsunk the crime betrayed by cold Rime shine frost set fresh on edges revealing the reaching branches That tangle together in desperate knots Abandoned past their season Bodies shedding with ice unhappy lovers She thinks on things abandoned after christmas Finishes her Sternburg and sets the bottle down. Jitzu_the_Monk posted:I've got a question about submitting poetry to lit mags. For mags that accept multiple submissions, am I better off submitting one poem I think they will really like, or should I submit as many pieces as they let me? Lately I've been using a "throw gum at the wall" strategy, thinking I should submit as many stylistically varied poems to a single outlet that I can, all in the hopes that one will stick. On the other hand, I'm wondering if a lack of consistent style between poems will hurt ALL my submissions. That is, if an outlet hates most of my work, will the staff there really ignore all that dislike just to print the one piece they do enjoy? What's the conventional wisdom on this within the poetry publishing community? My advice is generally submit as many as you can. As someone who organises poetry events and exhibitions if someone submits four things I don't like and one thing I think is great it's not going to make me pass up the one great thing. (At worst I'll hint to them they should definitely do more stuff in the style of that one thing so I can greedily consume their work). Catfishenfuego fucked around with this message at 12:03 on Apr 26, 2016 |
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Apr 26, 2016 11:59
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i just finished this, it's cool because the name also describes the poem. i just have been discussing these topics with a friend and thishappened .I know this forum is in english, this is only a shot in the dark. but who knows, we can be pretty global at times [poem was too bad, edited it and it's something completely different, likely wont post it] unao fucked around with this message at 23:43 on May 19, 2016 |
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May 19, 2016 10:02
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What is this thing we've built that nobody owns? I believe people grow /kinder/. Be productive between cigarettes. Repetition is /not/ the opposite of Novelty. If you wish to harvest a healthy crop of genius, spent two years encouraging the mediocre. i am the Center of my own Universe - it could not be otherwise - and so too must it be that You are the Center of Yours. That does not mean you cannot be, for a time, the Captain of my experiences, nor that i, with your consent, might not /serve/ as the Captain of Yours. "Despair Not!" she cried, "There is /reason/ for Hope!" Indeed! Imagine! What if it /isn't/ already too late? "Follow me," she continued, "that we might Collaborate - and by so doing, avoid folly." We ain't stand t'hear, round 'ere, the "I ain't et yet" blues; so part your lips, my dear, closed mouths won't get fed. If we are fated to kill our gods, shall we not begin by sacrificing Artemis, herself, upon that obscene altar? Nor ought'n't we next - slay Mars? Why shun we Venus? Why persistently defame Set, libel Muhammad, and slander Zoroaster? She is the Lightning and the Thunder She is the Crackling of a fire She is the Rumbling of an earthquake and i'm a tumbling spire If you are not bringing yourself to tears as you write, what hope have you of taking your audience there? How do you expect to moisten their eyes while yours are dry? Learn to listen to your ducts. Live, well up, /then/ write. Stain your pages with more than just Ink.
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Sep 1, 2016 23:19
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I want again to feel your teeth against mine our toes entangled, our tongues entwined wrapped 'round each other like oak and vine
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Sep 8, 2016 07:45
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epipen posted:holy poo poo nice
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Sep 12, 2016 03:10
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I have perfect timing. Like two birds colliding in the sky. Nice weather for grass on my lawn. Soaking rain into a damp morning. Then burning sun and the cool petting of the trees that line the street. Right time of the year to reach for a fireball and survive doing it. Do you remember where you were, the moment time began? I do. I was right here. So were you and all of us, and everything else and the space between. The emptiness is what pushed us apart. It never stopped and never will. Gravity tries holding us down and crushing us together anyway. It kind of works. Do you remember when we first met? Everyone in the universe was there. We met at the beginning like everything else. And then here we are. Living in the dirt and looking up at where we were.
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Oct 1, 2016 05:45
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I used this for a performance piece that had a guitar, clarinet, percussion and dancers while someone read off the poem. It was good but in a lot of ways I don't feel this poem is complete. 2+2=3 The end of the world Standing on a corner Nowhere to go, no time left to grow Everything is right before us Night's wrapping, There's movements in the shadows, It's that special time The final questions are being asked What does the end even mean? No more hangovers? Twist your head back in its place, this is our last chance It's too late for wishes The time to watch is over Let desires become motions There will be no sit-ins, no processions Tomorrow the earth falls off the edge And into the snake pit Buildings will burn Canyons will shake The rats will rise from the sewers Turn your eyes off Start loving the night Don't stop, don't ask Poise, dance, Attack, enchant We'll dance until the bomb drops, Foaming at the mouth Don't let your eyes get shifty, We're all spirits soft to the touch Fire, fire, fire Rise, rise, rise Why weren't we like this before? Did anything ever matter? The call for destruction's made us crazy Don't let rapture sway Stomp your feet All the rules are gone Twisted faces show through the woodwork As the moon eats through the streetlights Skyscrapers shrink in the fire 2+2=3 So that's it That different time of our fathers never happened What's the point in even talking about it anyways? It's been the end the whole time
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Nov 3, 2016 06:30
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| # ? Apr 23, 2024 20:13 |
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I've started going to my poetry night again. I figure I need to do this whole, "networking" business if I'm to get anywhere. There's a five word challenge. The audience suggests five words, then have 12 or so minutes to write a poem and read it out. I did so (I almost always take part,) and won for the first time last night. A free pint, a notebook, and two poetry books. Huzzah! My poem. Fly Banana Fly Banana Creation goes in a direction you cannot imagine. Life! Now that’s predictable. Birth, death, struggle, TV, joy! Procreation if you’re lucky, Not if you’re gay, Not if you take the bus to work on a cold, foggy morning. TV if your aerial happens to point the right way. Rewriting plays, Inputting invoices, Life is your sport. No! Meddle in life. gently caress it all up. Fly banana. Be your own worth. Edit: The five words were; “Banana,” “Fly,” “Creation,” “Direction,” and “Bus.”
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Dec 6, 2016 22:53
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