^^ Well, at least you wrote it. And it's pretty funny.
Come on, folks, you're supposed to be Posting your own Poetry here.
My attempts at poetry malkes "William the Bloody (Awful)" and William Topaz McGonagall (mentioned above) both look good.
Poem Corner
- Thread starter NickInABox
- Start date
My attempts at poetry malkes "William the Bloody (Awful)" and William Topaz McGonagall (mentioned above) both look good.
I guess I could attempt poetry.
But then again I don't know it.... Tree.
But then again I don't know it.... Tree.
The OP never said anything about that.Come on, folks, you're supposed to be Posting your own Poetry here.
Well. RJ's right. I thought posting my own poem would exemplify what I was looking for.
See? 
Come on, everyone, strut your poetic stuff here.
Come on, everyone, strut your poetic stuff here.
Aw, come on, it can't be that bad.
Then again....
Ok, but I never said it was good. At all. Quite the contray in fact; when it comes to poetry I'd rather consume than produce.
I've enjoyed everyone else's original poems thus far, though!
---
He said,
"Third time this week, I've seen frisbees being tossed about,"
upon the grounds of the Gustav King. "How cliche."
She said,
"Maybe they are making a comeback... we should get one."
He scoffed,
"No, count me out of the revolution."
She sighed.
---
(Some background on this one: A friend and I experimented with a thing where one person would write a line, then tell the other what the last word was. The other would then take that word, write something that may go with it, then vice-versa. I thought this one worked well...)
Close the car door and stop: half-breath
away from here. transitory.
taken, tasted, tickled - stop: i fucked.
i never asked for this ambiguous space -
Fucked her, fucked up, fuck it. This isn't
how i hoped it would end?
what I thoughthoped it would be (glamour? thrill?)
the coffee break clear out. empty. bleak.
At least I still have the gift.
The cold sun, the strange incongruence of days:
...gotta love selective memory.
I've enjoyed everyone else's original poems thus far, though!
---
He said,
"Third time this week, I've seen frisbees being tossed about,"
upon the grounds of the Gustav King. "How cliche."
She said,
"Maybe they are making a comeback... we should get one."
He scoffed,
"No, count me out of the revolution."
She sighed.
---
(Some background on this one: A friend and I experimented with a thing where one person would write a line, then tell the other what the last word was. The other would then take that word, write something that may go with it, then vice-versa. I thought this one worked well...)
Close the car door and stop: half-breath
away from here. transitory.
taken, tasted, tickled - stop: i fucked.
i never asked for this ambiguous space -
Fucked her, fucked up, fuck it. This isn't
how i hoped it would end?
what I thoughthoped it would be (glamour? thrill?)
the coffee break clear out. empty. bleak.
At least I still have the gift.
The cold sun, the strange incongruence of days:
...gotta love selective memory.
I like them both. The second one is a nice example of the kind of Rorschach Test that you get with that kind of exercise. The first one is a nice, natural snippet of life that communicates a lot of personality and relationship into a few nicely composed lines.
Thanks RJ! I wish I could be as insightful towards though to be honest any words of the sort escape me at the moment, other than to say it reminds me, in a way, of a John Lennon-esque sense of longing, something that could be set to a nice piano.
Interesting way to phrase the second poem: a sort of Rorschach test. Makes sense! As reference, I was the first line, her the second, etc.
Interesting way to phrase the second poem: a sort of Rorschach test. Makes sense! As reference, I was the first line, her the second, etc.
Come on, folks, you're supposed to be Posting your own Poetry here.
My own poetry? I haven't written a poem in forever.
I have published exactly one poem, and that was in the Halloween issue of my university student newspaper. It was entitled "Villanelle of a Rooftop Sniper," and I remember it scandalized my Master's supervisor. But I don't remember how it goes, and I would have to dig an old computer out of storage to get it off the hard drive. It was that long ago.
The closest I've come to writing poetry lately is translating an eighteenth-century French counter-Enlightenment poem, Une Epitre du Diable a M. Voltaire--A Letter from the Devil to Mr. Voltaire. That, and a few lines from Dante's Inferno. (I thought those turned out rather well--especially considering that I don't speak Italian.
)When I did write poetry, it was mostly either bad sonnets and blank verse, or dada-istic nonsense.
When I applied for graduate school after a four-year hiatus, for example, I wrote the following sonnet:
Blah blah blah--I don't remember how the rest of it goes. Clio, of course, is the Muse of History, and I was applying to study for a Master's degree in the subject.
Then, when I was in a less classical mood, I wrote the following:
As you can see, my retirement from poetry-writing was no great loss. Just prose for me nowadays--as the old military saying goes, "success should be exploited rather than failure redeemed."
EDIT: No, wait--I did once write a haiku that I was rather proud of.
^^ That's good. And I got a kick out of the three minimalist poems. 
Do you mean mine? If so, you're quite right; I do hear it as a song in my head-- rather slow and mournful.
^^ That's good. And I got a kick out of the three minimalist poems.
Do you mean mine? If so, you're quite right; I do hear it as a song in my head-- rather slow and mournful.
Yep, I was referring to the one you posted.
^^ Thank you. 
Here's one that's a bit different, in an effort to get our latent poets posting (better latent than never, after all):
© 2009 Rick Hutchins
After taking for so many years
The seas gave back their dead
A thick green fog, sick and choking
Rose and filled the air with dread
Then they came, by the thousands
Draped with seaweed, muck and slime
Bloated and bony and decomposing
Reeking of rot and brine
Soon they filled the seaports
And the cities along the coasts
In a week, the entire world was haunted
By these drowned and sodden ghosts
There were pilgrims, there were pirates
Ancient Minoans and Egyptians
Horned Vikings and robed Chinese
And troops of armored Phoenicians
But they did not eat the living
Or harm them in any way
People learned not to fear them
Not to scream or run away
Instead, they came to watch them
As they wandered silently about
And developed theory after theory
As to why the sea had spit them out
But there was no explanation
Except the world had gone quite mad
For these zombies were not evil
Only desperately sad
Here's one that's a bit different, in an effort to get our latent poets posting (better latent than never, after all):
© 2009 Rick Hutchins
After taking for so many years
The seas gave back their dead
A thick green fog, sick and choking
Rose and filled the air with dread
Then they came, by the thousands
Draped with seaweed, muck and slime
Bloated and bony and decomposing
Reeking of rot and brine
Soon they filled the seaports
And the cities along the coasts
In a week, the entire world was haunted
By these drowned and sodden ghosts
There were pilgrims, there were pirates
Ancient Minoans and Egyptians
Horned Vikings and robed Chinese
And troops of armored Phoenicians
But they did not eat the living
Or harm them in any way
People learned not to fear them
Not to scream or run away
Instead, they came to watch them
As they wandered silently about
And developed theory after theory
As to why the sea had spit them out
But there was no explanation
Except the world had gone quite mad
For these zombies were not evil
Only desperately sad
I went through a poetry writng phase about 20 years (! 
) ago. While I'm pleased with some of them, or like the ideas of some but they need to be reworked and tightly edited, this is the one of mine that stays with me. RJ once described it as having
the forests of night
run through the trees of the forests of night
guessing direction, not trusting sight,
and the pines are rushing past.
the forest animals have glowing eyes,
the fire of bloodlust, the spark of surprise,
and their movements are sure and fast.
dwelling in darkness, lusting for light,
keeping the dreams but lacking the sight-
the sense of touch is sharp.
needing sleep but still awake,
stumbling on thick roots, splashing in lakes,
we wait for the day to start.
but no sun reaches the forests of night,
no echoing birdsong in pale rose light,
for there are places spirit can't reach.
still I search for forgotten pathways,
or the secret signs for finding new ways
and only old instincts can teach.
dark are the trees of the forests of night,
we all run on, not standing to fight;
the fittest and fastest survive.
and eternity waits like a tensioned wire -
we are in flight and there's no time to tire -
and onward we rush and strive.
through the trees of the forests of night.
15/7/89
) ago. While I'm pleased with some of them, or like the ideas of some but they need to be reworked and tightly edited, this is the one of mine that stays with me. RJ once described it as havingBest review I've ever had!
the forests of night
run through the trees of the forests of night
guessing direction, not trusting sight,
and the pines are rushing past.
the forest animals have glowing eyes,
the fire of bloodlust, the spark of surprise,
and their movements are sure and fast.
dwelling in darkness, lusting for light,
keeping the dreams but lacking the sight-
the sense of touch is sharp.
needing sleep but still awake,
stumbling on thick roots, splashing in lakes,
we wait for the day to start.
but no sun reaches the forests of night,
no echoing birdsong in pale rose light,
for there are places spirit can't reach.
still I search for forgotten pathways,
or the secret signs for finding new ways
and only old instincts can teach.
dark are the trees of the forests of night,
we all run on, not standing to fight;
the fittest and fastest survive.
and eternity waits like a tensioned wire -
we are in flight and there's no time to tire -
and onward we rush and strive.
through the trees of the forests of night.
15/7/89
Domestica
Ten PM, it's getting late
There's so much food we still haven't ate
The guests are gone, the house a mess
I spilt some wine on my brand new dress
A taxi's still outside your door
I left my shoes somewhere on the floor
Is it still chilly? It shouldn't be
Can you please hand my coat to me?
It's midnight now, I just got in
I can't get my head to stop its spin
I'm laying down, I can't take much more
I've never been so drunk before
Got dressed quickly, then I left the house
Some ugly jeans and a wrinkled blouse
I'm hunched over my cup of jive
It's a small miracle I'm still alive
My head tilts back and I laugh out loud
My life's a mess and I'm not to proud
I shake my head and I think of you
And that stupid party I was invited to
Ten AM and I'm running late
There's still half a bagel sitting on my plate
I check my purse, I forgot my keys
I walk to work. God, take me, please...
Ten PM, it's getting late
There's so much food we still haven't ate
The guests are gone, the house a mess
I spilt some wine on my brand new dress
A taxi's still outside your door
I left my shoes somewhere on the floor
Is it still chilly? It shouldn't be
Can you please hand my coat to me?
It's midnight now, I just got in
I can't get my head to stop its spin
I'm laying down, I can't take much more
I've never been so drunk before
Got dressed quickly, then I left the house
Some ugly jeans and a wrinkled blouse
I'm hunched over my cup of jive
It's a small miracle I'm still alive
My head tilts back and I laugh out loud
My life's a mess and I'm not to proud
I shake my head and I think of you
And that stupid party I was invited to
Ten AM and I'm running late
There's still half a bagel sitting on my plate
I check my purse, I forgot my keys
I walk to work. God, take me, please...
The Motion of a Body in Space
It was a mixup really, that set my life straight
Had a chat with Heisenberg, don't need to compensate
No time for hot Carl
no time to dilate
gotta paddle doggy style
got some particles to irritate
So I opened the box up wide
and did gaze upon the cat
changed the outcome of your inverse
but your theories just fell flat
Once again I find it hard
to tell if your event horizon's stable
are you coming, are you going?
lets work on your periodic table
Now I'm in a loop, of causality and time
my einsteinium is showing, its slowing down my rhyme
I'll just stabilize this wormhole, if only for tonight
in the morning we'll gluon faster then a Russian satellite
It was a mixup really, that set my life straight
Had a chat with Heisenberg, don't need to compensate
No time for hot Carl
no time to dilate
gotta paddle doggy style
got some particles to irritate
So I opened the box up wide
and did gaze upon the cat
changed the outcome of your inverse
but your theories just fell flat
Once again I find it hard
to tell if your event horizon's stable
are you coming, are you going?
lets work on your periodic table
Now I'm in a loop, of causality and time
my einsteinium is showing, its slowing down my rhyme
I'll just stabilize this wormhole, if only for tonight
in the morning we'll gluon faster then a Russian satellite
All Seeing Eye
Admiral
Re: The Motion of a Body in Space
I don't get it.
I don't get it.
Funny. "It's a small miracle I'm still alive."
And I haven't changed my mind. And I love the line, "keeping the dreams but lacking the sight."I went through a poetry writng phase about 20 years (!
Best review I've ever had!
Re: The Motion of a Body in Space
And as luck would have it, we have a Poetry Thread where this would be right at home. Stand back! Wheee-oooo!
Interesting. Sounds like something Scotty might write after a bottle of something blue.
And as luck would have it, we have a Poetry Thread where this would be right at home. Stand back! Wheee-oooo!
To kick this thread along, two more from other days.
After a trip to an art gallery displaying 20th Century photos.
The Museum Of Light
The actors flicker,
Twenty two frames a second;
Their skies a clear blue,
The land empty of future suburbs.
The scenes are still alive
Under the artist's touch.
Life captured centuries ago
Still filling our days.
The swift shuttering eye
As the photographer snapped again,
History a tawdry pageant
Before its unbiased, uncharmed gaze.
A million images captured
And locked in the Museum of Light.
We cruise the dusty spaces,
Never knowing all their stories.
Through the skylights
Bars of pure sun fill the room;
The dust flares and sparkles
And makes the prisoners real again.
31/8/91
The beach I used to take my kids to. I think I'll go back on the 20th anniversary and write a sequel
Surfers At Soldiers Beach, 1989
Sun-swept days, sand-warm days,
Come and go in this shallow bay.
Blue-green water, joyous laughter,
Where surfers come, and stay
And strive, to find that perfect crystal line,
Searching the water mark for a sign.
Battered rocks, black shattered rocks,
Pounded for aeons by the tides,
Sculpting valleys and fords, while on thin light boards,
New rebels learn old flicks and glides.
They dream of veteran's lore,
Swoop like eagles to the shore.
Deep bright light, strong summer light
Refracted by mirrors and glasses,
And quickly getting tanned on the crusty citrine sand
As another day and summer passes.
The beach will still be here
While we change from year to year.
Sun-swept days, sand-warm days,
While we change from year to year.
13/9/89
After a trip to an art gallery displaying 20th Century photos.
The Museum Of Light
The actors flicker,
Twenty two frames a second;
Their skies a clear blue,
The land empty of future suburbs.
The scenes are still alive
Under the artist's touch.
Life captured centuries ago
Still filling our days.
The swift shuttering eye
As the photographer snapped again,
History a tawdry pageant
Before its unbiased, uncharmed gaze.
A million images captured
And locked in the Museum of Light.
We cruise the dusty spaces,
Never knowing all their stories.
Through the skylights
Bars of pure sun fill the room;
The dust flares and sparkles
And makes the prisoners real again.
31/8/91
The beach I used to take my kids to. I think I'll go back on the 20th anniversary and write a sequel
Surfers At Soldiers Beach, 1989
Sun-swept days, sand-warm days,
Come and go in this shallow bay.
Blue-green water, joyous laughter,
Where surfers come, and stay
And strive, to find that perfect crystal line,
Searching the water mark for a sign.
Battered rocks, black shattered rocks,
Pounded for aeons by the tides,
Sculpting valleys and fords, while on thin light boards,
New rebels learn old flicks and glides.
They dream of veteran's lore,
Swoop like eagles to the shore.
Deep bright light, strong summer light
Refracted by mirrors and glasses,
And quickly getting tanned on the crusty citrine sand
As another day and summer passes.
The beach will still be here
While we change from year to year.
Sun-swept days, sand-warm days,
While we change from year to year.
13/9/89
Last edited:
Both very good. The first one really speaks to my love of old movies and photography, and history in general. And I really love the internal structure and rhyme scheme of the second; and the closing couplet is a nice touch.
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