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Jitzu_the_Monk posted:Debtor’s Ocean The single biggest issue with this is its sing-song prosody. The premise is good and some of the imagery works, but the strict iambic ABCB structure of it makes it sound like a nursery rhyme and counteracts any sense of urgency or fear or hopelessness that the poem might be trying to induce. Jitzu_the_Monk posted:my eyes are bleeding sand, Also this image doesn't make any sense. Take it out. Jitzu_the_Monk posted:But while I feign hydration This could be interesting, as I like the idea of drinking seawater as a metaphor for indulging in a convenient lie, but it's the end of the poem and we haven't been taken to a different place than the start of the poem, which renders the poem static. I would suggest recasting this poem as a sonnet in blank verse, which will let you keep the meter but break up the sing-songy rhyme structure that's holding this poem back. Also, in the tradition of sonnets, make the last two lines indicate that something has changed. It can be a very small movement or a big one, but you shouldn't have the beginning and end of the poem be in the same place, i.e., just a guy floating in the ocean with birds. You've got the bones of a good poem here, you just need to kick the poo poo out of it. Jisei fucked around with this message at 05:07 on Aug 17, 2014 |
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Aug 17, 2014 04:50
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Rememberances Videogames somehow more interesting that real life, Spending hours of the hours and every moment, Phantasies of a transient things through a youthful mind, Bound up in the stasis of school; years desolate of any education, Manhood made up into blind murder, Lies, damned lies and half-truths controlling me, As it seems conquer and slaughter are the only things that fill my belly. Best Regards, RG
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Aug 18, 2014 12:52
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Jisei posted:Excellent advice Thanks so much for your thoughtful critique, Jisei. I agree with all of your points. It's time for me to rework this into something more solid!
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Aug 18, 2014 20:18
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RichardGamingo posted:Rememberances Not really sure what this poem has to say except "Video games ate my life and made me a homicidal maniac". It doesn't really move anywhere and reads more like a eulogy than anything else. quote:Videogames somehow more interesting that real life, "Somehow"? How? Show, don't tell. quote:Phantasies of a transient things through a youthful mind, Unless you're making a reference to Phantasy Star (which is neither recent nor particularly violent), not sure why you're going with that spelling. quote:Manhood made up into blind murder, Now, this is a good, musical line. It's the only one I'd keep. quote:Lies, damned lies and half-truths controlling me, This basically seems to be echoing the right wing panic about video games turning kids into killers. Is this what you're going for? It's not a place I would suggest going. If you want to talk about videogames, I'd suggest either making VG a metaphor for something more urgent and/or lonely (a la David Bowie's "Space Oddity" as a metaphor for suburban isolation and loneliness) or make something else a metaphor for VG (the idea of escape and dissociation).
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Aug 22, 2014 02:49
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Thank you tenderly for lending me yer thoughts on the matter Jisei! Best Regards, RG
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Aug 22, 2014 15:47
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This poem comes very near the end of a play I am writing, and is therefore not intended to stand on its own but more as a summary capstone (like a couplet might end a soliloquy); nevertheless I'm curious what the response might be. Also only some of the play is in verse, and almost none of it in rhyming verse, so this section will stand out in that sense. She had when we first met that white lace hat upon her head, its brim blown down before her face and shadow gently shed: so in my mind she stands upon the strand beyond the sea, where the wind forever tickles her behind her chubby knee where, whenever I would tickle her, she always laughed at me; there – just there – the flesh behind her coffee-colored, chubby-child knee. Thus – though nomad time has come and gone and ev’ry bird has fled, and time its yurts once built upon the plains where cattle fed, and time refused the comforts of a sedentary bed; and though of passersby my mind could not detect a trace; and though my mind became in time a native of this place –- still: squat upon some distant mantle stands a granite vase, and through the air about that urn my desperate hands will trace and by this movement wish to weave white lace of ghostly thread –- my feeble-fingered soul cannot encompass this last dread: my friend – my friend – my dear, sweet, twelve-year-old friend – is dead.
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Aug 23, 2014 20:16
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nomadologique posted:She had when we first met that white lace hat upon her head, I think the second half of this poem is stronger than the fist. I'll focus most of my critique on these first few lines. It's an awkward construction to insert "when we first met" right in the middle of "She had that white lace hat." Can you imagine someone phrasing it this way in earnest? What's wrong with simply: "When we first met she had the white lace hat upon her head"? Also, when you start the third line with "so," you're implying that your mental visualization of her standing beyond the sea is a result of her having worn the hat when you first met, which doesn't make sense. nomadologique posted:sedentary bed This might be a lack of sophistication on my part, but what is a sedentary bed? Is it as opposed to a bed that moves? What contrasts a sedentary bed with a non-sedentary one? Again, maybe this is just my misunderstanding of the word.
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Aug 24, 2014 15:48
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nomadologique posted:She had when we first met that white lace hat upon her head, This works, except for the stumbling meter of the last line. However, this sounds like fondly remembering one's own child as opposed to a peer, as it (especially the last line) infantilizes the subject. quote:though nomad time has come and gone and ev’ry bird has fled, This scans really well, but doesn't make any sense. It's highly imagistic which is good, and I like each line individually, but together as a unit they paint a rather confusing picture and the images don't form a logical arc driving towards a conclusion. On a high level I get that it's a way of saying "time moves on" but the first line says what needs to be said and the next two lines just repeat the same information "poetically" and come off as filler. Which may be common in plays, but I would counter, sure, it's common in bad ones. (I realize this is the coda to a play, but here we have to judge it as a poem on its own merits, and since this isn't a traditional form like a sonnet or villainelle, there's no need to pad the structure especially since it muddies the water a bit imagistically.) quote:and though of passersby my mind could not detect a trace; Again, we'd probably know where "this place" is if we saw the play, but as a poem I need to know where "this place" is, and what relevance "passersby" have to the narrative. quote:still: squat upon some distant mantle stands a granite vase, Logic problem: if it's distant, how are you waving your hands around it? quote:and by this movement wish to weave white lace of ghostly thread –- Meter stumbles again here on the last line. Also, the soul-fingers clash with what I assume are real fingers in the previous few lines; I'd keep one or the other but not both, because now I don't know if the narrator is actually in front of the urn or imagining himself in front of it. Overall, the poem does have movement, it's image-heavy (a good thing), and evokes the Romantic-era elegaic. It's definitely not a poem I'd recommend throwing out and starting over (as I often do). But its two key issues are internal logical consistency and a kind of affected preciousness that detracts from the reader investing in the sentimental nature of the poem or sharing its sense of loss. Work on these two issues, and don't be afraid to make the poem shorter--you're not getting paid by the word after all--and I think you'll have something really nice here. Jisei fucked around with this message at 18:36 on Aug 24, 2014 |
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Aug 24, 2014 18:31
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Thanks for the responses.  I think your alteration of the first line makes sense, although the image comes up earlier in the play and for that reason may still prefer the inverted structure. But I was playing with that line and your straightforward version feels very nice. The "so" comes from just that, although you're misunderstanding it slightly: instead it's "so (with the hat, and with the shadow) she appears in my mind." Sedentary bed as opposed to nomadic bed. The nomad's bed moves. Can you tell me how the meter stumbles in the last line of the first "stanza"? "There -- just there --" is deliberately separated because it breaks the meter, and I'm fine with that, but it seems to me the line after follows the meter (child, with a dipthong, having effectively two syllables). Infantilizing is fine, thank you for pointing that out though. I see what you mean about padding. I also agree the logic stands out as odd, and have to again magically appeal to the absent play. I'm most interested in the report of affected sentimentalism, and will have to keep that in mind. Thanks again.
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Aug 24, 2014 19:31
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I took the excellent advice that I got in this thread and worked on revising this piece of mine, as recommended. How does it work now? Any other thoughts on how to improve from here?Jitzu_the_Monk posted:[Redacted, submitting for potential publication] Armack fucked around with this message at 02:42 on Sep 13, 2014 |
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Aug 29, 2014 22:02
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Bravo! Best Regards, RG
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Aug 29, 2014 22:58
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Jitzu_the_Monk posted:I took the excellent advice that I got in this thread and worked on revising this piece of mine, as recommended. How does it work now? Any other thoughts on how to improve from here? I think that's pretty good, but I'm pretty dumb so don't take my word for it. The only thing I might suggest is that "dead-man's float" sounds a bit odd. Is that a common phrase or action? Like, does it mean you're face-down in the water? Posting another thing I wrote: The halls of Baldir Mountain, Echoed with the screams of men, Whom had fallen to the wraiths, That roosted there. The fingers of the dead ones, Through their shields and skin alike, Culled the hordes of young marauders, Without care. It was Gertrude of the Seventh Moon, Who ventured forth with blade, Borne aloft like holy talisman, Into the blasted place. A call like lion's roar was heard, Within those haunted halls, As she drove her blade into, A devil's face. For seven days and nights the dame, Grappled ephemeral foes, Who twixt the cracks of life, Made shelter there. And when all was said and done she laid, Her arms before the tomb and prayed, To all her pagan gods, To cleanse their lair. Tis twenty score years hence, Since Gertrude sanctified the place, And not a whisper has been heard, Within those halls. Mighty Gertrude stands above, Her foes both mortal and beyond, In dens where evils dwell, She makes them fall.
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Sep 12, 2014 03:07
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I've got a few questions about submitting poems online for publication. I submitted a piece (not the one I posted in this thread) to an online journal that publishes similar pieces. Roughly ten days went by and I did not receive any acknowledgement of receipt for my submission nor any indication that it was under consideration. So I emailed the journal and asked if they would kindly send an acknowledgement of receipt. They eventually got back to me and they were polite about it, but they basically said "Yes we got it but generally our policy is not to acknowledge receipt of poetry submissions prior to any decision being made." My question is how normal is that policy among publishers? If it's normal then how is a poet supposed to know whether her piece is still under consideration as the days eventually turn into weeks and months?
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Sep 13, 2014 03:16
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Jitzu_the_Monk posted:I've got a few questions about submitting poems online for publication. I submitted a piece (not the one I posted in this thread) to an online journal that publishes similar pieces. Roughly ten days went by and I did not receive any acknowledgement of receipt for my submission nor any indication that it was under consideration. So I emailed the journal and asked if they would kindly send an acknowledgement of receipt. They eventually got back to me and they were polite about it, but they basically said "Yes we got it but generally our policy is not to acknowledge receipt of poetry submissions prior to any decision being made." My question is how normal is that policy among publishers? If it's normal then how is a poet supposed to know whether her piece is still under consideration as the days eventually turn into weeks and months? Unfortunately yes, this is standard procedure. It's because of the volume of submissions and the time it would take to respond to each one. Most publications will list a response window (typically 4-12 weeks, but can sometimes be 6 months or more if it's a annual, quarterly or bi-annual) in their submission guidelines, after which you can assume the poem wasn't selected. It's a pain for the writer trying to remember what you sent where and whether it's time to resubmit somewhere else, but there it is. When I'm actively submitting I keep a simple spreadsheet of the markets I have submissions out to, the date I sent them, whether they accept simultaneous submissions, and the stated response window. That tends to make things easier. Jisei fucked around with this message at 00:51 on Sep 14, 2014 |
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Sep 14, 2014 00:49
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I've been enrolled in a poetry workshop this semester and it's the first time I've ever really written any other than my senior year of high school so here's some stuff I wrote, any critique is welcome. 1. One about a fictional town "Abba Baluga" That big gray bridge has stood there, carrying loads of ash and oil. No allegiance to anyone or anything, not even the city it was named for. Abba Baluga, one big beige behemoth. Thousands of hammers cracking as men give birth to ships who leave the harbor as soon as they get their first taste of that cold atlantic broth. Down Abbey Boulevard, Old CEO's trimming their kingdoms of Kentucky bluegrass, wives working away, baking and fussing over children beleaguered with a sense of dread. Churches once white, now browned by the relentless salt air, adding a bell to the rhythm of the harbor, saving souls from the depths of hell. 2. One about a drunken thought. Richmond Nights I lose my self for days at a time. Binging on pheromones and Marlboro Lights dimmed blue in strangers rooms. Worn brown boots breaching through butts, bottles, coke residue. Passing past passed out Girls and boys get along pretty well when they're anxious as poo poo, drinking cheap dry gin. 3. No Abstractions “Loneliness” The first time I really met you, you held a newspaper upside down. Old waves of leather rolled down your aging face as you smiled and laughed at me. You dropped four sugar cubes into my tea. You held me close, as if I were your son. You thought that I was your son. Suddenly, as if violently rebelling against the sugar cubes, that tea became distinctively bitter. I wasn’t prepared to become my own father. I looked up into your glossy eyes, and I searched for myself, but all I found was a portrait of your son. Khashie fucked around with this message at 07:40 on Sep 16, 2014 |
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Sep 16, 2014 07:12
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Khashie posted:
In all these poems, you've got a good sense of alliteration pushing the prosody, which is nice. Here, there are only two real things that stuck out at me, one specific, one general. First, the lines "Old CEO's trimming their\kingdoms of Kentucky bluegrass" is kind of a nonsensical metaphor, and I can't see whatever the image is you're trying to convey, which isn't a problem anywhere else in the poem. Basically I'm saying it's awkward. Second is a general issue of the poem itself, which is that it's not really "about" anything. It's just a quick, static vignette, and the poem doesn't really take the reader anywhere or leave them with a sense of anything except "Yep, that's an old town". This is a common issue with beginning poetry writers: poems need to move. The word "metaphor" itself is literally Greek for "to transport". The poem doesn't necessarily have to take a moral stance, or tell a story, but it needs to end up in a different place than it began. This poem reminds me of some of the poems of Zbigniew Herbert, who wrote a number of poems about fictional and real towns. I highly recommend checking him out. quote:Richmond Nights I actually like this pretty well. But it has the same problem of not going anywhere. I'd consider adding a couple of lines at the end, maybe that allude to what drives the narrator to lose himself, maybe pulling back to say something general about Richmond as a city/character and how it's connected/influenced by the events of the poem, maybe something else entirely. For example, why "Richmond Nights?" Why not Topeka? Juneau? Something about the character of the town should intrude into the poem, other than just the fact that the author obviously lived there at some point. quote:“Loneliness” 1) Leave out "really" in the first line. 2) The tea becoming bitter is a) cliche and b) doesn't make sense in the action of the poem. Is the narrator literally drinking the tea while being held close by the old man? Otherwise how would he know it was bitter? 3) "I wasn’t prepared to become my own father." This line is kind of confusing, particularly in context of the action of the poem. Combined with the last line of the poem, I'm not sure if you're meaning to imply that the crazy old man is actually the narrator's father. If that's not your intention, I'd rewrite this part. I think you can change just a few lines and have the poem make better sense and flow a little easier. This is just an off-the-cuff suggestion (the removal of italics is intentional): quote:“Loneliness”
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Sep 16, 2014 21:39
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Jisei posted:In all these poems, you've got a good sense of alliteration pushing the prosody, which is nice. Here, there are only two real things that stuck out at me, one specific, one general. Thank you so much! The first one was supposed to be based off of "Degrees of Gray in Phillipsburg, but I totally get what you're saying and I'll try to apply it to my work. The second one I really had trouble finishing due to a deadline. For the third one it was about my grandfather with Alzheimers, he thought that I was my dad when I first met him, but I now understand that without any context the reader would have no clue as to what I was talking about. Once again thanks a lot for taking the time to read them and critique them , I hope to be able to contribute to this thread as I progress.
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Sep 17, 2014 04:06
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I started this as an exercise to write song lyrics with a sense of atmosphere, but then it got more poemish as I did revisions. I don't generally write poems, so advice and abuse is appreciated. quote:It's early morning and I descend, edit: Made another few small revisions. itsgotmetoo fucked around with this message at 02:02 on Sep 20, 2014 |
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Sep 19, 2014 20:31
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Bouquets and brickbats both welcome... Now --- Another day, another bother Daylight finds me Despite my best efforts Dawn breaks and so I don The clasping bonds of consequence They enrobe me, they enfold me They inform my every move To move, always to move From thought to thought And place to place Always with the shrouded trace Of promise and regret The time, the date Are always late Every now becomes then And then becomes when When? Then? Or now? It must be now It is always now
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Oct 28, 2014 21:36
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itsgotmetoo posted:I started this as an exercise to write song lyrics with a sense of atmosphere, but then it got more poemish as I did revisions. This is wicked delightful. The vocabulary and meter convey a really strong sense of setting, I can imagine what the concertina solos in the music would be like. I like it.
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Oct 29, 2014 18:04
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The_Raven posted:Bouquets and brickbats both welcome... Overall, I feel like you could steal lines and ideas from this. There are a few issues that make me feel like it doesn't work right now, though. quote:Another day, another bother I like the parallel structure and alliteration in the first stanza. It really contrasts with the rest of the poem in diction and meter, though. quote:Dawn breaks and so I don This is really tonally different from the first stanza, and it feels jarring. Clasping bonds feels a little redundant and cliche. "Clasping," "bonds," "enrobe," "enfold," and "consequence" are words that really make your choice of "inform" in the last line of the second stanza confuse the sense of force you are trying to convey. quote:To move, always to move Shrouded trace feels a little redundant, also. I am not a fan of starting the third stanza with the infinitive when the speaker/narrator was the object of the second stanza. I do like the idea of lines 2, 3, and 5 here, though. You have similarity, similarity, and then contrast. quote:The time, the date I like the thematic and tonal unity of this stanza. Every line is about time, and every line flows to the next. I really like the meter and contrast in lines 3 and 4. I also really hate the last two lines. There are definitely some interesting ideas that you could self-plagiarize here, but without revision it doesn't really mesh very well.
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Oct 31, 2014 06:38
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I'm posting a few raw poems that I wrote months ago and haven't revised yet, because this thread shouldn't be so dead and I know there's terrible terrible crap in them.quote:We could sink into this sandy dream. quote:This is it -- So it ends! itsgotmetoo fucked around with this message at 06:35 on Dec 13, 2014 |
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Dec 13, 2014 06:31
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Hi, here are two poems I wrote in the last few days. I did some poetry in high school, but these are the first few I've done in over a decade. They take around 20 minutes a piece for this kind of short form, and I'm finding much joy in writing again. Will take any critique from praise to death sentence. Just trying to improve. "Old House" A step is taken, Bare foot on wood, Silence betrayed by their groans. As walls stalk my tread, Shadows grow shorter, Then, no quarter. Now, a door with keyhole beckons, What lies behind, obscure, Its lock to pressure, inure. Body bent, to will, to dare, Once meant a glance, Turned deadlocked stare, With crystal chill, I say a prayer. "Illusion" Where black meets white, Space made possible, Range of dark to light, Form an Earthen soul. Spirals in and spirals out, Moves with indiscretion, Leaving me, approaching you, Continues on, with its precession. Half the truth and half deception, Forsake our qualms, It's all perception, One step forward, one recession. Calm fucked around with this message at 01:28 on Jan 10, 2015 |
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Jan 10, 2015 01:21
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One more I did last night. "Katabatic" She grips us like an iron wench, Tracks were left, but time won't tell, Pressed upon our lives, we clench, In blinding white, is where we fell. Release your thoughts, Release your breath, Embrace your fear, It's only death. Sweeping like a sickle's blade, Skims the ground with striking speed, Our warmth all gone, our debts are paid, We close our eyes, our final deed.
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Jan 11, 2015 17:48
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Calm posted:Release your thoughts, Calm posted:Sweeping like a sickle's blade, Am I being killed by a frosty wind or being lulled to sleep by mom on a winter's night?
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Jan 18, 2015 07:45
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I've always liked photography, I recently started drawing, and now I'm trying poetry. I'm hooked on expression. A new Woman asking Old Feminists teachers, poets and machine coffee crema a two euro field trip, me a stranger in their home a cheap price to pay for confusion, art and smells and stark vision without vibrance or lack of affect I feared these people Women bringing me Emily Dickinson Whose sense was breaking through A beating drum at every plunge. Sonorous faded to a final world's murmur. Where I was a stranger is now my home One steady rhythm, a new familiar fear Am I still a stranger? Mrenda fucked around with this message at 17:09 on Mar 31, 2015 |
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Mar 31, 2015 14:04
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Ok, that was awful (I guess I've learned a little in four days of writing poems.) Something lighter... Red Nosed Fat gently caress I thought I'd buy a bottle of wine to sit away from here in my room or the grey mottled sunken chair I painted with gold light despair A bottle of red in that tense walled trap calls me to drink with abandon beneath feet and piss and commerce carved chapel's steps but I'm a good girl so I'll sit in this bar with my putrid red and putrid red nosed fat gently caress asking me "How are ye, boy,,," looking at me like he's not an underwear wrapped poo poo Red Nosed Fat gently caress - Addendum there's a taste to life and a pace to drinking that sobriety demands to match the two so when ten or eight have called a Murphy's and I drink Beamish I'm left to wonder what's with the decor do I fit in Am I so alien? the putrid gently caress of course drinks a lager (Murphy's and Beamish are both stouts.)
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Apr 3, 2015 22:21
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I've just started writing and I'm worried about something that's cropping up: all my writing is incredibly personal. It's about what I feel, have felt a long time, putting into words thoughts that plague me. It's all a little emo. But I also find the best poetry shares something of the poet. It might not reveal them, and lay bare their deepest self unless expressed through a relationship with a cat, or kettle, but there's something there of them. I went to a poetry reading on Monday, and I was bored (but not too bored) by the poet because he seemed to give over to high falutin' thoughts borne by inanimate objects and even spoke about of how he reached for a thesaurus. None of that seems in any way to be driven by something coming from the person. Now I fully accept that maybe I didn't engage with his poetry, and that there's something deeply felt to it, why write if not? But I'm left to wonder how can I read out loud and expect other people, with valued indifference look at me and judge what I wrote? And of course I also wonder if what I'm writing is just too fcuking caught up in myself and can speak to no-one but me?
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Apr 8, 2015 18:23
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Well, you're asking the right questions. Nobody here can answer them for you, but if you attempt to answer them through the writing itself, who knows what will happen. There isn't any art that isn't experimental; these considerations of living affect, communication, meaning, value... you will have to investigate them through practice. Every new work will offer new solutions, and you will keep going from there, learning and changing as you go, along with your work.
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Apr 12, 2015 16:31
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Some people write very personal poetry, some try to write stuff that is heavily based on the society they live in, some attempt to reach something "universal", if you naturally write a certain way then by all means keep doing that, some people will like it because it's clearly very personal and important to you, some people won't like it because they feel you're being too sincere and bearing your soul to a bunch of people that don't really care to hear about your problems. Just try to write what comes naturally, and perfect writing it as well as you can so at least people that think you're being an exhibitionist can't help but feel you've got talent.
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Apr 13, 2015 00:19
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I recently learned about double dactyls, which are silly poems with a very rigid formula, and I've been trying to get a better understanding of poetic structure so here's a double dactyl: Jiggery pokery Kurt Godel's maths theory Broke the whole system and Made Russell cry Misrepresenting it: Kurt's paper argued that Ubermathematically "This line's a lie." CestMoi fucked around with this message at 01:39 on Apr 13, 2015 |
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Apr 13, 2015 00:23
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Haha double dactyls own, yours is pretty funny too. Now I want to try writing one.
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Apr 13, 2015 02:53
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Zesty Mordant posted:Haha double dactyls own, yours is pretty funny too. Now I want to try writing one. You should, they're really fun! Have another: Caltrops and candlesticks My favourite relative Old as the hills and a Sailor from birth. Lucky she was because God sent down rains and my Antediluvian Never saw turf.
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Apr 13, 2015 17:51
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EDIT: Realized this was a bad idea with active submissions out.
NewsGunkie fucked around with this message at 00:58 on May 2, 2015 |
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Apr 26, 2015 21:56
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Speck on the flag There’s a speck on the flag and we’ve tried everything to remove it We tried to pick it out flick it back to where it came from, but it’s still there We scrubbed it with holy water and beat it dry with the Christian cross to no avail We tried to hide the speck cover it up so it’s no longer visible but you can’t look at the flag without seeing it There’s a speck on the flag and nevermind that we put it there it’s been there a long, long time But it bothers us So we have a plan A glorious plan We’re gonna use bleach we’re gonna bleach that flag until the red and the blue fades until there is just one solid color left, white And it will be the brightest white you’ve ever seen whiter than Scandinavian snow whiter than the pillars of congress themselves And we’re gonna wave that white flag until everyone forgets how we soiled it
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May 7, 2015 03:59
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AND I OFFER UNTO SOMETHINGAWFUL AN ANUS TO TEAR "We are all alone, born alone and die alone. I do not say lonely --at least not all the time-- but ultimately and finally alone." Thompson shook my world with those words, Pulled back my curtain to reveal an empty venue. All the chairs filled w/ frustrating potential which is to say completely empty. You will see spectral shadows among the empty seats. A father who drank too much perhaps, perhaps a mother who cared too little perhaps, perhaps too much was expected of you perhaps, perhaps you are your own fault. I wish (I really truly do) I could tell you that you danced anyways b/c you have nothing to prove to anyone but yourself, b/c you are the master of your own destiny, b/c one must imagine Sisyphus happy; carpe diem and all that. Instead of hanging your head between your knees letting out a muffled scream, so as not to alarm the chairs. Because you are human, you feel. You feel that Camus makes a lot of sense, you feel like salvation is within you, but ultimately, you will feel frustrated. You will scream; alarming the chairs. They stare. That stupid blank stare. Vacuous yet alarmed. Suddenly you might find yourself. Or perhaps you might only feel that way. B/c who knows who's who? You are among the spectral spectators, staring back at yourself, your pathetic little head hanging between your(?) knees.
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May 23, 2015 17:19
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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 destructions 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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May 24, 2015 03:26
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| # ? Apr 19, 2024 00:37 |
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I had posted a version of this some time ago and got a few helpful comments. Here is another, slightly altered version; it's not much different but I think, for that, quite a bit stronger. For those not interested in reading upthread, it's intended as a poetic coda for a play I'm writing, where the protagonist reflects on her dead childhood friend, who features prominently in the play. Now in sonnet form! Lemme know what you think. She had when we first met that white lace hat upon her head, its brim blown down across her face and shadow gently shed, as in my mind she stands upon the strand beyond the sea, where the wind forever tickles her as gently as can be where, whenever I would tickle her, she always laughed at me: the flesh behind her coffee-colored chubby-child knee. Though nomad time has come and gone and ev'ry bird has fled, and time refused the comforts of a sedentary bed to travel over th' vast and empty plains where cattle fed, upon some spectral mantle yet remains a mason vase, and through the air about that urn my desp'rate hands make trace, as if by anxious motion weaving lace of ghostly thread; my feeble-fingered soul cannot encompass this last dread: my friend -- my friend -- my dear, sweet, twelve-year old friend is dead.
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Jun 7, 2015 20:40
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