The Dead Poets Chronicles The Dead Poet I (after death is known?) I am thee light of a star And I am already dead By the time you hear or read The words that I’ve said I’m infested by insects In the box, condemned Lost and absent of my voice For my work is fed To minds in search for answers A light that will shed Upon the face with knowledge Unlocked for innoc’nce But for me the brilliant light Never shines to kiss I am in eternal rest No sounds of excel’ence Will fill my ears now long gone Anathematized in bliss? Never knowing if they heard Of my edifice The Dead Poet II (ignorance is bliss) Hold back your tongue who alter All works’ to disguise Tricking those to see only Through your painted eyes Waver your wand of blackness Cast it Anathematize Me damned, to my dwelling Beneath her, glory wise I wait in it’s depth biding My work to mobilize See now in the inane’s orbs A chime rings’ the bell In knowledge’s cond’scending Valued citadel Past the crevice and river In it’s gloomy hell? Now make your move, a vulture Waiting sense I fell Ignorance is bliss, expose Now open your shell ah i feel better now...lol (c) jonathan ryan alligood
been experimenting with different rhytms. don't hesitate to say if this sux. What's the meaning of us kissin Say our love but hide our mission I just want to hang out with your beauty You just want to drain my account It's wrong but so it is- nowhere near the love.
ah yes it would appear i will be adventuring on another catabasis into the great crimson vale.. (i guess i got a season pass lol)but this one will be long and allmost perfect. i consider iambic pentameter perfect for all who care . but damn i hate wrting like that.. i do however like wrting in meter. so well ..um yeah heres the precule poem for the adventure... Terminus Lest the night and what it brought on this eve I sit engaged in my toil, with ragged sleeve I wiped the moisture from my weighing brow My quell in its gest're wrote with precise haste As the clock, my enemy drifts time now My being in candlelight's supple grace With determined eyes looked out over the mire Returning gaze to that, the candlewick's fire. my manuscript's pages absorbed my black bile ink. as the melench'ly rose up out of the creek. the mudded trail across the mire fell to a spate. dripping loud, the rain thrown from the west wind, attacked my roof with horrid sounds of fate. my shutters slam, as phantom force spinned. and the ether grew cold, with humic haze rose. this once calm night razed to chaos' echoes . as my feet found their footing, I would tread to the window's view, of that which I dread from the earth's cusp a blast of lightning hit the dead willow, a mirror of my place crimson glare pierced the night, a silhouette would lift, it started a stride with wakening pace I turned from the view, this was my last night I cried - I have still two chapters to write. taken up with my pen I sat scribbling with the hordes of knowledge that was rambling -o' for this pulsate in my heart, mom'ntum rising, sending me dwelling my last hour. -o' foul beast why hath chose this night to come. please delay. can't you see me cower here? staring at my life's unfinished work. crying-my body bleeds awaiting deaths' clerk. dipping my pen with haste into the vial. no ink left to write, and closer came ancile (fallen) -o' for this my blood will now fill the page. the garnet ink now dotted the parchment the loss sent me into a silent rage as the shadow begun its encroachment screaming vile curses' as it grew near the door with fear i watched it enter from the moor. harvester of dead souls whose time beckons me now to join him on the vale of stygian's his gaseous presence, swayed like serpents slither the crimson eyes, that stare out so knowing the murky nebulas was dead black and so bitter he stood patient with his scythe drawn waiting -o' thou beast of the neither world stand still tread not close, with your cold fingers that kill on this night I need but one more moment to finish. And stand there o' so dormant for I sow that very evil seed of the tree that filled mankind with its infernal wisdom. of this, I scream awaiting what I see the ever growing fires of Pandemonium I dip this pen to finish here my life and await what you bring, my ending strife. the harvester slow now moved toward me the scarlet life siphoned out of my body and the darkness came sending me spinning as vertigo does. the reaper came over as I fell to crouching posture, waiting as the borrowed knowledge would fall to trover this once great sage, has grown and fell feeble to nothing but his inner world of evil. standing in a calm sway the serpents' hiss as I sat on the brink of deaths' foul kiss -please I beg, as light turns to obscurity before you collect on my debt and reap away; my dreams, my thoughts, my blood and misery that filled my life. please messor make the sweep a quick departure to my eternal rest hand me my quell, to clench tight to my chest for now I am ready for my last chapter but let this cold nights' breeze be my captor with my last canto on this vale be death I welcome your fingers cold touch to skin I cough the last of my ruby lifes' breath Siting within the labyrinth of my sin As the transcending colors overwhelm my soul I left life there like extinguishing coal. as the nights whispers leaked out of my hovel Into the warming mornings' new marvel The zephyr winds mild with a morning kiss Brought this mans' mortal troubles to there rest My foul remains etched in times abyss But knowledge was a priceless family's crest And of this I script to my very death But on this morning will be a new breath . (c) Jonathan Ryan Alligood
Please Register or Log in to view the hidden image! Howdy Iced_Earth! It's nice to see you moving beyond those long hellfire sagas....j/k.....Please Register or Log in to view the hidden image! Thank you. This is my first attempt at a line-by-line, and I appreciate the read. In all, you are wielding too large a club here, and could do much better without the period language and the length. This is long, bu not intense. Please Register or Log in to view the hidden image! I have to admit, though, I truly relate to your topic! Keep on being dandy- Jon
Astronomy Ah! Friedrich Nietzsche was a philosopher-poet, yet there have been no scientist-poets yet. Perhaps it is not in my nature, but my Russian ancestors cry out to me* - so here goes: The ancient light of ancient stars Caresses a troubled mind As a mother calms her newborn child I classify you, stars And the order I percieve Alleviates my personal entropy A theory contradicts fact - we throw it out Oh how an observation can suprise And destroy - yet the data never lies And who can say the same for man? Life is a multitude of stings - yet I have found The balm that is astronomy Criticism (other than the obvious "Jesus christ Xev, your poetry sucks - I know it sucks) would be appreciated. Pleaaaaaaaase? *When I am off my medication, that is. Please Register or Log in to view the hidden image!
Xev: Really good, it's scientific yet it flows nicelyPlease Register or Log in to view the hidden image!
What's wrong with feeling bad? Please Register or Log in to view the hidden image! Please Register or Log in to view the hidden image! Poems can be anything we want them to be, because poetry is an undefined artform. As with all art, it depends on the beholder. I'm sorry if my poem did not even touch your standards, but I will hold in mind your advice the next time I attempt to write poetry. I guess what I was trying to convey was that, yes, I was feeling terrible that day, and I just couldn't find a way to evaporate my anger, so it all just buried itself deep inside, until it was so far down I could slap a happy face on it and pretend it's all okay. I thought that part of the poem was obvious. Along with the title "Bottle Shards", everyone knows what will happen when you shake a carbonated drink inside a container. Boom, container explodes, everyone within a 3 metre radius is soaked in Coke, lol. The screams were heartbreaking, yet they were covered by the more alarming wails...like a "bigger than infinity, longer than eternity" thing. And yes, I agree, the use of heartbreaking is very cliched, but hey, I wrote this poem when I was 10 years old. I doubt my vocabulary would have been as it is now. But all in all, thank you for your honest opinion Congrats. Please Register or Log in to view the hidden image! Please Register or Log in to view the hidden image!
I propose a toast - to enemies My lip curls into a sneer For I am hoping he never sees My desire or my fear His eyes meet mine, flashing in hate I hope that my face is not so clear As I see the lust written on his face My own on mine, I hope, is not there *Smiles* Oh damn you! And damn me for believing you! For all the lies I accepted as truths For all the times I've been your fool For all the things I really knew And all the times I trusted you Fuck you. And fuck me for loving you. (Note: No, I am not suffering from a broken heart - I made the mistake of showing one about suicide to another person once. "Xev, you have so much to live for" is the response. Sheesh. Like I can't contemptate suicide without considering it. Please Register or Log in to view the hidden image! ) Gaa! People are stupid. I hate people. On that subject..... Do you even think? Do you truely even feel? Do you know what you could be? Or are you just like Skinner's rat Another dog salivating on cue And why are you just now discovering The things I thought you already knew. And is your mind untroubled Because you have no mind to be troubled?
I know what you mean, people think that if I write about something I must have gone through it or something........
Increan: Yeah, I HATE THAT! I mean, did Philip K. Dick ever meet an android? Fall in love with one? Obviously not. But he was able to write "Do androids dream of electric sheep?" and to make the whole thing seem real. Bram Stoker obviously never met a vampire or an undead mummy. But he wrote "Dracula" and "the jewel of seven stars" - and made the scenerios seem real. If fiction writers can do it, why can't poets?
Rightyo, need some opinions on the inscription of a doorway to the "Realm of Infinity." I started writing it because of the first line, which I am in love with... In your vicinity there is infinity Above and below, The shadows flow This you will find And many others Not of your kind While on this one path You will feel one thing’s wrath As fierce as Dromunn is Victory is not only his Because in his vicinity There is only infinity The last two mean or are meant to mean that to kill [the] Dromunn you must use his infinity against him. I guess I'm just asking any readers to bear with me here.
I dance ..in trance ..for roses Not you ..or us ..but roses I mourn ..in pain ..for roses Say farwell ..to you ..throught roses
THE VIOLIN TEACHER The streetcar I remember was a red and white big, headlighted clickety-clack that took me in the afternoons for thirty five cents that was wrapped in an empty rosin cloth to the violin lessons my mother said she could ill afford. The eight dollar fee was folded in my violin case: and my head was full of Bach: relax the left hand, remember to breathe, feel the notes rise up like smoke: and never tighten the right thumb. The studio was a third floor room with high and peeling ceiling and the place where my teacher would work his magic. He always had his bow at the ready for a ghost violin or my violin that welcomed his strength. His sounds soared, his eyes the shade of fresh washed Coca Cola bottles green and glassy. He had presence. Played a scarred but dark Strad his hand would tremble in slow motion rocking pulling notes from the depth of the soul. Vibrato's what he called it. A smell of pine trees followed him complimenting his brief bright and glowing smiles, another smell like fireplace smoke and dinners on single plates with one light lit to save on electricity. I always felt he needed the eight dollars more than we did and that melancholy seeped into the music. I now plant my feet and play breathing the same air as he. Playing music as grand as the trees. I was lucky to have a teacher that didn't make me choke and loved my partitas as much as my whoopee cushion jokes.
Prisoners of time In trance we dream and shriek in pain when sun awakes our sanity, And dust we cough and throw away our garments made from silk and damp, And in the dirty sunlight we see a rotten wooden clock with a pendulum made from chains, reminding us- we are prisoners of time.
Superficial People Superficial people living superficial lives Staring superficial stares with superfical eyes They are programmed to respond in superficial ways In the rat race of life's 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 life's superficial maze
Beautifully redunant, I must say! I'd say the excessive use of the word of 'superficial' really makes this superficial in its own right. Now, if you could make the point of view be from someone criticizing someone else for being superficial, when in fact they are truly superficial themself, that could make it interesting. What you have here is gnomish, to say the least. I quoteth: Now, this is simply more a song than a poem, since it goes nowehere, and seems to want to follow a verse/chorus repitition idea. You contradicting yourself or either just being a hypocrite. I agree with the subject matter of this poemish attempt, but am a little confused in the execution and raw attempt. Anyways, it's nice to see this thread back up again, so I will post a little poemish attempt of my own. Cleaning the Shower Fresh, restless water slipped out of your tight spout, into my old, silly tub- claw-legged and ceramic. Two months later, you tickled the feet off from my legs, and squared away my vagina, bucking the soapdish into the recesses of my thighs. It was a short courtship. The party was quick, brutal, and washed in the white of my undergarments. We had white petals falling from the ceiling, we had snow in my bouquet. O, but how the grime piles along the blanched grout! The color, pulled from a faded and singed magazine clipping, simply falls flat: Cake white, frills exhumed. So I must grip the lever, tighten the noose, and let loose the cloud. I'd have to dig into the contorted tile, his belly, his plated abdomen. Dislodging his grit, his manhood, and faded blue-jean sweat. Hands covered in yellow condoms and wild hair seared into a silky flow, the prosaic pattern of the mosiac enthralls me. Yet I wipe it away, absolve the wall of its color. I have doused your walls in Tilex, darling, yet the high, acidic arc of your rigid showerhead always brings me back.
I will look into the suggestions you made. If I write another poem I will post it. Thanks for your input. Please Register or Log in to view the hidden image!
how about an advice to me I'm sort of writing this poem, but no matter how much I revise it, I think it is bad. Especially I don't like the second line of the last stanza night, flash, an eye behind the trees glows at me green, raging eye smells and takes samples from my sweat and fear thunder, flash, fangs tremble in withheld madness insane hunger digests my courage eats all my thoughts away we run through the meadows in a moonlight so bright it shatters my vision apart I perceive only the approaching feet intense heat from the jaws close to my skin claws on my back stand like a monument to the victory I spit out blood, curse the food-chain I’m in life leaves my veins- tonight the fangs can feast
Based on some weird arsed observation that one's our are cut by the thorns when we try to weave the rose-crown of joy: I wanted to see how far I could go I wanted to see how quickly I would break I stared into the abyss And it winked I never knew you before I knew me I never lived until I died Before I knew this despair I never felt joy And I abide Or, in a more irreverent vein: And when you gaze at the abyss, it stares back at you And murmers "nice tits"
I've given up on my thread, it seems every one's over here. Innocents Turn the tv on, channel 7 news, watching the insanity, watching the innocents die. Terror is what I feel, when I see where, their choices are taking us, and I try to hide, to close my eyes, but all I can see, is the innocents die. Why can't they see, war is not the way, there's so much we could be, but instead the innocents die. Where do nations get off, choosing our paths for us, why do they think, they can sentence us to die. Understanding, just too hard for them, and I try to yell, still the innocents die. I rise up, pound my fists against the screen, I'm sure the world can hear my scream, and still the innocents die. I fall down, all resistance gone, all I can do is sigh, and still the innocents die.
