A Poem Thread

[airavata]

thanks circe .


THE PURGE OF THE FIELD


Streaking away, the dawn of glory,
an age plays out to end,
The field is littered, carnage broadcasted,
bodies broken beyond mend.
The time of deeds has ended,
the reign of cowards begun,
Woe betide chivalry and valour,
their time dead under the sun.
The reek of blood filters through,
a damp, decaying sickness,
The gentle soul ebbs, drop by drop,
It is the time of fickelness.

How many lives are lost?
the agony of wasted years,
Lives with a fatal ending,
bring forth unnumbered tears.
The survivors mourn and pray,
faint calm before the storm;
their time soon ending
before the new day morn.
Those left curse and whisper,
they envy their brother’s fate
they died with honour and freedom,
not tarrying with cruel fate.
Lost by time and thought,
a swift blow, passed out of reckoning,
The die is cast, they have lost,
For another, Future is beckoning.

[Circe]

Airavata,

When I asked for more, I meant more peaceful and soul-soothing poems; and here you come hitting me over the head with this..



Jesting, of course. I think you are very talented.

[Congrats]

While paying reverence to archaic forms of composition is nice, it would help to open up into a looser style. You have something to say, but your formality is gobbling it all up.

Here's one of mine:

Mid-September Clean Out

They brought us back to that tract
Of bushes
Where the thorns had dug luminosities into
Our flesh.
It had held our store

Of ambrosia, a gift of
Protection from Thor.

II.

We packed like pigs as the Raritan
Lurched out over the peonies, swallowing
Boxes, paints, aggregate junk.

It was up to our knees
When we left for The North on 78,
Making
Frantic funk

When the floodlights were dim, but
The traffic hushed.

III.

The oil tank punctured, but they still
Brought us home;

Dry, breathing, yet
Alone.

2003 © Congrats

And another one:

K.Hovanian
The tarmac, sheeted in sun-glaze,
Knows nothing of true poverty.

The weed, choked with black aggregate,
Knows nothing of our regression.

2003 © Congrats

[Congrats]

Poetry should not try to be soothing. It should erupt, enflame, and eventually cause emotional and artistic change. Sentimenatal poetry is wasted effort.

[airavata]

i actually prefer the old, formal style of writing poetry. somehow the new, freer style dosen't have as much charm. both free verse and rhyming poetry are great. you can communicate things in free verse you can't in rhyming, and rhyming poetry has a flow free verse dosen't have. i think people need to write about different issues, and not just the stereotypical stuff (death, suicide, flowers. etc.)

[Circe]

Poetry should not try to be soothing. It should erupt, enflame, and eventually cause emotional and artistic change. Sentimenatal poetry is wasted effort.

Perhaps poetry shouldn't be written to be intentionally soothing, but whatever effect it has on the reader is a different issue altogether. It's all a matter of interpretation that often depends on the reader's state of mind. One doesn't always erupt while reading explosive verses just like one might only get irritated when the piece is too sentimental.

Well written poetry will always, in one way or another, stir our emotions.

[sh33p]

Depression

Depression,
Hits me like a stone
Right to the bone
As I cripple once again
I wonder just what I have within
Why do I live for tomorrow
It only brings more sorrow
Im sitting here
Bleeding again
Oh why wont this end
The pain I hold within
Somebody take this pin
And kill me from within
Im sure nobody will care
It feels like im only here
I only live,
To be smacked down again
And have the pain within
Only take my soul again
Somebody save me
Im crashing
Once Again.

[sh33p]

Another Cut

Another cut, another day
Why do I hurt myself this way?
Just to see another day
Untill I feel i have to pay,
The razor slips and pierces my skin,
As it slices, so thick and thin
How can all this pain be held within?
The rage, starts getting stronger,
As I cut for even longer,
When will this ever end?
But you Dont need to bother.
A tear, streams to my chin,
As the pain within,
only acts like a pin.
Piercing my heart,
with nowhere to depart,
But only to take a dart
And try a new start.
Could this be the end?
or do i turn to a friend?
As the sun rises up,
I've all but given up
Why am I so fucked up?
And again,
I pierce my skin,
As the pain within,
Starts all over again.
The razor drops,
I walk to the door,
To face some more.
Why wont this all end?
All I need is a friend.

[sh33p]

Bloody Rose

As I lay in my own blood
Memories go though my mind
From my wrists a flood
Will the pain stay far behind?

I can feel the darkness
Her arms around my waist
Her lips upon my neck
Begging for a taste.

Shaking I take the knife
Across my neck it flows
Draining out my life
I am the Bloody Rose.

[sh33p]

Buried

Dirt hits my face
I push it away
Dirt covers my eyes
And blocks out the day.

The more that I struggle
The faster it falls
There's no escape
From eternity's walls.

Making one last effort
To find something of worth
Clawing endlessly
At nothing but earth.

Forgotten in soil
No more strength to fight
I say my goodbye
To the last ray of light.

[Empath]

i love that one depression posted by sh33p it crealy conveys a sense of pain that i can relate to
but while were on the subject of death heres a lighter poem about suicde... i kinda forgot the author tho

There was some poison i could drink,
and ive often thought i'd taste it.
but my mother bought it for the sink,
and drinking it would waiste it

[Congrats]

Suicide poems are wasted on me. It's hard to criticize them because they are so heavily emotioanlly invested, but they so often revert to cliches that cheapen the weight of the emotion felt. This is exactly what these last few suicide poems are.

[sargentlard]

Originally posted by Congrats
Suicide poems are wasted on me. It's hard to criticize them because they are so heavily emotioanlly invested, but they so often revert to cliches that cheapen the weight of the emotion felt. This is exactly what these last few suicide poems are.

Amen...light up you guys, seriously

[sh33p]

I'm so fucking sorry, that my life isnt as bright as yours.
Excuse the fuck out of me, let me go get another life so it will satisfy you.
Hell if I could change my life I would, if I could bring back my parents I would.
If I could, I might possibly change everything ive ever done in my life.
So sorry my poetry isn't the kind you want to fucking hear.

[sargentlard]

Dude no offense to you but there are so many out there that write about every little thing that makes them sad.."oh i broke my nail, this is giving me angst...let me write about it". Also many just do it to feel deep and cool....You may be really serious about what you write but many are not. Also BTW your last post really sounded good to me. I believed that you felt bad about your life in that post than i did from reading your poems. Call me crazy but that quasi poetry was original rather than cliche laiden poems. Sorry if any of that was offensive to you i never intended any negative intentions to be taken from that.

[sh33p]

The Wall

My world hits the floor
I begin to cry
The anger runs wild
I just want to die.

My world is a blaze
Im sitting in my tears
The anger runs wild
I must deal with my fears.

My fist hits the wall
Shocking pain is sent down my arm
Nothing bleeding, Nothing harmed
I say, not alarmed.

I strike again
In a feeble outlet of it all
Pain escapes in the blood, but not it all
For the cut is to small.

Again and again, I just keep hitting
Drip by drip, the blood keeps spitting
Each blow leaves a dent, to the wall or the hand
It's just the same, all pains demand.

Knuckles bleeding, from a painful soul
A heartless mind, a dieing role
My numb body, standing so limp
All which remain, is my hand left to gimp.

Each hit solves nothing
Yet I just keep going
Each hit hurts more
But I hit without knowing.

Not knowing about my pain
Not knowing what, or knowing why
Not knowing when, or knowing where
Not knowing how, I'm going to die.

[EvilPoet]

sh33p - I like your poetry - I can totally relate. I hope
you post more. Don't sweat what other people think.
It is just their opinion and you know what they say
about those.
___________

Superficial people living superficial lives
Staring superficial stares with superfical eyes
They are programmed to respond in superficial ways
In the rat race of lifes superficial maze

Superficial people smiling superficial smiles
Thinking superficial thoughts about artistic style
Singing superficial songs about superficial things
Wanting superficial stuff like sunglasses and rings

Superficial people living superficial lives
Staring superficial stares with superficial eyes
They are programmed to respond in superficial ways
In the rat race of lifes superficial maze

©1991

[sh33p]

Life is a Prison

Life is a prison,
Oh God let me out.
No one to listen,
To hear when you shout.
Climb the walls of insanity,
Ride the waves of despair.
If you fall it don't matter,
There's no one to care.
Used to wish for a window,
To see birds, trees and sky,
But you're better without one
Stops you aiming too high.
Watching freedom is painful,
For those locked away.
Seeing joy, love and happiness,
Another price that you pay.
Strong is good, weak is bad.
Be it false, be it true.
Your mind makes the choice,
And enforces it too.
Cell walls built by society,
With rules to adhere.
If you breach the acceptable,
You had better beware.

[Congrats]

sh33p- I didn't think your content was too negative. I respect any emotion that you put into a poem. There is nothing wrong with a dark poem, but there is something wrong with a bad poem.

Poetry is not meant to be paraded; it is meant to be discussed and criticized. I was making a stereotype about suicide poems, and that was wrong. Yet most suicide poems tend to follow the same pattern of assumed 'deepness' when in fact the entire work is full of stupid rhymes and stupid cliches.

Bad poems are written about valid subjects. Too many people let their feelings become so intertwined with their constructive poetic faculty, and are eternally stuck venting the same old things.

My criticism was on your poetry, and only that. There is nothing wrong with criticizing poetry in a thread entitled 'A Poem Thread', and if there is, then poetry is no longer an art but merely yet another device for ego-stroking and self-exhibiting.

-Jon

[airavata]

i wouldn't call this a poem in the exact sense. after listening to the song 'the end', by the doors. i wrote this as an alternative lyrics type thing.


SUSPENDED EXISTENCE ( THE REALM OF THE ASTRAL PLANE )


Lost in the west,
desert of my dreams.
experience of the purple,
the Axis churns out reams.

Ash of the hand,
tires like brutal badland.
smokey waste of ire,
past remnants of hot fire.

Spirit my old friend,
cast from me my mirth.
invade me, possess me,
draw the timelong firth.

Religion of the ancients,
unravel the old mine.
I seek the desert plains,
slowly slips...my time.

Face me, cunning wind,
blow yourself away.
the mist still haunts,
and parts the hateful day.

The Axis parts death,
the haze up my veins.
Melancholy, sweet child,
in the end..who gains?

Am I a picture to you?
sinew of despair.
The Astral plain of mine,
is suspended in cool air.

The Doors of perception,
open to fleeting ears.
Estranged, bitter love,
bring forth unnumbered tears.

Utter, dark Void,
fills my waking time.
Past, come back,
My only goldmine.

Dazzling white of naught,
my own end of time.
Spirit, dear friend,
Now I am you, and you are mine.