Poetry Arena

Discussion in 'Art & Culture' started by Congrats, Jan 20, 2002.

  1. iced_earth Anathematized Registered Senior Member

    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
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  3. Avatar smoking revolver Valued Senior Member

    been experimenting with different rhytms. don't hesitate to say if this sux.

    What's the meaning
    of us

    Say our love
    but hide our

    I just want to
    hang out
    with your beauty

    You just want to
    my account

    It's wrong
    but so it is-
    nowhere near the love.
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  5. iced_earth Anathematized Registered Senior Member

    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...


    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
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  7. Congrats Bartok Fiend Registered Senior Member


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    Howdy Iced_Earth! It's nice to see you moving beyond those long hellfire sagas....j/k.....

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    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.

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    I have to admit, though, I truly relate to your topic!

    Keep on being dandy-
  8. Xev Registered Senior Member


    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.


    *When I am off my medication, that is.

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  9. Increan Sage Registered Senior Member


    Really good, it's scientific yet it flows nicely

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  10. %BlueSoulRobot% Copyright! Copyright!! Registered Senior Member

    What's wrong with feeling bad?

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    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.

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  11. Xev Registered Senior Member

    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


    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.

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    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?
  12. Increan Sage Registered Senior Member

    I know what you mean, people think that if I write about something I must have gone through it or something........
  13. Xev Registered Senior Member

    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?
  14. Pollux V Ra Bless America Registered Senior Member

    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.
  15. Avatar smoking revolver Valued Senior Member

    I dance
    ..in trance
    ..for roses

    Not you
    ..or us
    ..but roses

    I mourn
    ..in pain
    ..for roses

    Say farwell
    ..to you
    ..throught roses
  16. Don H Registered Senior Member


    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
    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.
    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

    I always
    felt he needed the eight dollars
    more than we did
    and that
    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.
  17. Avatar smoking revolver Valued Senior Member

    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.
  18. EvilPoet I am what I am Registered Senior Member

    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
  19. Congrats Bartok Fiend Registered Senior Member

    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.
  20. EvilPoet I am what I am Registered Senior Member

    I will look into the suggestions you made. If I write
    another poem I will post it. Thanks for your input.

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  21. Avatar smoking revolver Valued Senior Member

    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
  22. Xev Registered Senior Member

    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"
  23. Angelus Daughter Of House Ravenhearte Registered Senior Member

    I've given up on my thread, it seems every one's over here.


    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.

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