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I'll take the ballad challenge. If anyone else applies, my flash rule is you must write the poem in iambic pentameter.
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Jan 10, 2013 16:42
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| # ¿ Mar 20, 2025 02:21 |
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I tried to play it straight- like a song you'd hear in an old pub or something. The General's Fate - 553 words Throaty howls and the clanging steel Filled the battlefield. Stomping boots crushed upon the ground as blows fell on the shield. The General stood before the men “Today’s the day we die!” And with a flourish of his sword He led them with a cry. Down deep into the blooded marsh The General killed with ease And all His men looked on in awe as they saw He was pleased. For every head that He did chop And every bone He broke The General’s grin grew larger And began His horse to stroke. “Onward steed, let no man stop us” was His coarsely uttered roar; onward they went to sow that field with discord and bloody gore. The day grew long as the battle raged And men looked on their Maker. Souls plenty sent to Heav’n or Hell As they all sought favor Of the fierce and mighty General. But when He found the camp Where the foe had kept their kin He trod forth, raised His lamp “Women, children, all without guard, what protects your righteous lives?” The General sneered and drew His blade As mothers fled amid babies’ cries. The gruesome work began with vigor. The General killed them all, Except for one – a child – No more than four feet tall This Boy of ten years stood his ground And cursed the General’s name. The Boy threw stones and hurled barbs As the General forward came. His wicked steel shone in the light Of the bright harvest moon, And He swung down to end the Boy’s Pure young life too soon. But Heav’n guided the steps of the boy As he darted beneath The General’s many vicious cuts And drew a knife from sheath. The General’s great laugh boomed aloud As he mocked the child’s play “What foolishness jest you young boy? Your flesh I’ll surely flay!” Yet the Boy let out a victor’s cry As he found the armor’s chink And thrust his blade deep in the gap Faster than his foe could think The General fell into the mud And breath’d His life’s vapor Out into that frigid black night. He saw Hell’s demons caper. “What fate finds me this fateful eve! A disgrace to my name, that my final duel did come unbid; This wound has ended my claim To an honored place in the halls Of my many lauded kin. I am done in by this youth’s blade; A warrior’s greatest sin Is to find himself thus felled Not by war but a child. The Boy responded with a voice No longer meek or mild “Go on, you beast, you soulless man, go die a coward’s death; you sought to kill the innocent, so with your dying breath I command that Hell take you on Down to the fiery pit And torture you for every drop Of blood that you have spilt.” And thus the General met his end At the hands of this young boy, A death noted for both its justice And its method of employ. A lesson learned for all men that Life’s end can soon be met By forthright battle in the field. Or, lest you all forget, That even the mighty can find Their end on a child’s knife. Beware the fate of those with hubris; Your pride will end your life.
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Jan 10, 2013 20:52
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Hey! I'm not lazy, I'm just poetically uncreative. 
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Jan 12, 2013 18:27
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Overall your beats weren’t always in perfect pentameter, but you were close most of the time. I won’t really point out all the places the weren’t, but just the more egregious ones. Most of the comments will be on your imagery. "There's a way to split your soul from body" the note I found inside my text book said. "It's a simple trick that anyone can learn. If you would like I will show you the way." "As you begin to drift to sleep tonight, you'll need to look for an immense, dark door. boring imagery; so a big dark door? Cliché. Also, you don’t need that comma there, it adds an unnecessary pause. Passing through will hurt, but then you'll be free. Going through will be just like a death." A death? Confusing sentence, breaks your flow. Also, I count 4.5 I found the door - walking up its shadow. To reach the knob, I had to climb its front. Splinters, slivers, cut my fingers and toes. The knob numbed me like my hands were in snow. Don’t use similes “X like Y”, they are very boring. Use a different way of conveying your imagery. It opened like a wake in deep water. My chest opened then too and I poured out. My being, thoughts, feelings like a long piss - dilute, expand and drift to find more souls. Huge shift here that I don’t entirely understand. I see that you are a free soul examining your physical life, but at the same time I don’t know who “we” is, so it’s hard to follow your line of thought. We sit with our coffees warming our hands. The street out the window is quiet still. Only we're up - not even the baker. Our eyes are low in the heavy morning. Water runs warm, heated by the bonfire that makes dashes into the dark forest. Dirt and stones stick to our many bare feet. We're up when the night bleeds to day, like souls. ^This last stanza was particularly difficult in terms of finding its meaning. Is it just meaningless pictures? For a moment it's day during the night. Lightning falls down on the valley below. We point up and light splits sky like black cloth on white screen that shears and shines from behind. Sometimes I shrink, condense - droplets on glass. I funnel to my source, to my body to see how it's doing without me there. It must be hard living without a soul. Soon I find it sitting in a sleek building. It has a crease etched in its brow line now. Its tie cuts off air from reaching its lungs. It's bent over a screen that I can't read now. It forgets what day it is - they're the same. It wakes with a girl who's name he doesn't know and wonders as he walks home, what her days are like and if she still has her soul. Books sit, lonely now. "I don't have the time anymore." I heard it say, Even that text book lies uncracked, spine unbent, words unread. This was something we used to do as one. It sleeps on a couch, bathed in blue light from the TV deep in a beer-sleep, snoring. Assonance here is p. good I should be sad for it, but then I think: If this is life, then I'll choose death. Cliché The last three stanzas are okay, while I find your overall goal (a soul viewing its life and finding it unsatisfactory) to be interesting, if not overdone, I think your poem is somewhat poorly executed, due to clunky writing, overuse of similes, and a weird shift in perspective in the middle of the poem.
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Jan 14, 2013 18:51
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twinkle cave posted:RECAP: Try reading an actual poem from the last 20-30 years idiots. Here's a place to start. Best of Poetry any year, the Pulitzers and runners up any year, godforsaken McSweeny's for all you sarcastic catz, Nobel's that wrote poetry, a college lit book, Glimmertrain, Plowshares (50-100 others of these pretentious slag collectors), the goddamn internet filled with legit poetry. Write like you know how to read. And regarding prompts, you will very rarely to almost never find half of these ponyboner poem forms in anything that has been published seriously at all in the list above. Apparently we've become the COCK-JUGGLING SLAPSTICK DOME where any-ole-hehaw goes instead of THUNDERDOME were warriors of writing are made. Despite this, It really isn't your fault, while totally and completely still being your fault. Throwing down the gambit of the near worthless art of poetry in front of a bunch of fiction-soldiers was surely risky, but to then give them the reigns of decision making... where's the loving flamethrower and pointy stick, they should be kabobbed So I went and checked out Versed, by Rae Armantrout, to try and expand my poetic experience, and I don't loving get any of it, which makes me feel stupid and uneducated. Is there an accessible poet of the last 20-30 years you'd recommend, or should I just keep pushing through Versed? Edit: Like for real, I've read and enjoyed poetry before, but this feels like I'm watching the poet masturbate with the english language. I'm not sure how that makes me feel. sephiRoth IRA fucked around with this message at 19:26 on Jan 14, 2013 |
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Jan 14, 2013 19:19
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Zack_Gochuck posted:You are allowed to read Rae Armantrout's poetry and think it's self-masturbatory dogshit. I'm sure lots of people do, but that doesn't mean it isn't a prime example of good poetry to someone else. There are a bajillion different audiences out there. But that's my point- what if I can't appreciate it due to my ignorance of what constitutes good poetry?
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Jan 14, 2013 22:51
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Erik Shawn-Bohner posted:ATTN poetry nerds: Already did, motherfucker  Sorry to clog up the 'Dome with bullshit 
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Jan 14, 2013 23:03
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Please tell me how to be a better writer through constant abuse and constructive criticism. In!
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Jan 16, 2013 16:05
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I tried to work on rules 3. Regardless if I’m writing for work or for fun, I’m very verbose. Throughout this piece I tried to remove excess verbosity while also trying (and failing) to follow rule 4. Amish Country 1343 words It took a solid week of bargaining, begging, and nagging, but Ben finally convinced Katie to go. Ben’s obsession with antiquing had been cute when they first started dating, but after a year of marriage, Katie would have died happy never seeing another century-old end table. She knew when she got her assignment, an article on the Mennonites in Lancaster County, PA, there would be trouble on Ben’s end. “Aren’t you excited? Think about all the history here!” Ben was looking out the window like an overeager puppy. Katie sighed, thinking about how her entire weekend was shot. If Ben hadn’t caught wind of where she was traveling, she could have been in and out in a day. Now, she was faced with at least 72 hours worth of boredom. But she loved the guy, and thus put on a happy face. “Definitely! I can’t wait to see what some of these stores have to offer.” Their drive took them through Adamstown, where Ben proceeded to purchase yet another coffee table, and Bird-in-Hand, where he snagged a mirror, when Katie finally had to interject. “At some point I need to interview some people, so would you mind if we put the antiquing on hold for a bit?” “Sure, sweetie, sorry to drag you along. You’re very good to me, did you know that?” “I do now!” Katie smiled, and turned the car out towards the sticks. The Mennonites in Lancaster county were a fixture in the tourism market. Many people came to the small towns scattered across the county to experience life at a different pace. Some admired the Amish for their natural, simple lives, while others came to ridicule their seemingly backwards ways. Katie had came to get their opinion on the recent tourism boom and how it affected their lives. When she pulled up to the little village a half-hour outside of Bird-in-Hand, the first thing that stood out to Katie was the untarnished beauty of the landscape. She saw horse-drawn ploughs, people gardening and picking apples, and mothers doing laundry. It was a pure life, a wholesome life, especially contrasted with her life with Ben. Not that Ben was the problem, but rather their city apartment and the constant struggle with traffic, bills, and the hurry of modern life. She and Ben managed to track down her contact, a man named Isaac Troyer. Many of the Amish in the area had the surname of Troyer, so it took time, but soon Isaac was leading them around the little village. “The tourists don’t really affect us out here, in honesty. It mostly affects us down during the farmer’s market, where we take our crops. So many people look at us like we are not even men, but beasts in a zoo.” “But doesn’t the city have ordnances that prohibit the harassment of your people?” Katie’s pen scrawled her shorthand, taking careful notes as they walked. Ben was also taken with the Mennonite village, but for different reasons. Nearly every piece of furniture, every tool, even the houses, everything was an antique! These objects had been passed down for generations, and Ben was able to hear all the histories he could ask for. Everyone was happy to oblige him, always with an offer of pie or other food. Katie had what she needed for her story. “Thank you, Isaac, I appreciate your openness. Would you mind if I took your picture for my story?” Isaac recoiled. “No! No, I’m sorry, but I cannot allow you to take my picture. It is against our teachings.” Katie nodded, and put her camera away. “Of course, of course, I should have remembered that. I’m terribly sorry, I hope I didn’t offend you!” Isaac shook his head. “It is not a problem. It was a pleasure to meet you.” *** In the car, Ben asked Katie if she had her story. “Well, did you get everything you wanted?” “Sort of. I want a picture! Do you think we could go snap a few without them noticing?” Ben grinned. “We could try!” *** Katie and Ben crept forward. The sun was setting, and Katie didn’t have much time before she lost the light. “Let’s just get a couple. Look, there’s a guy chopping wood. Come on!” There was just enough light to catch a series of photos without the flash. “OK, I think I got them! Let’s get out of here!” *** Ben pulled the car out onto the main road when Katie gasped. Ben looked over, concerned. “What?” “Jesus, Ben, stop the car!” Ben pulled to the side of the road. Katie handed the camera to him, disgusted. “Look at his face! What in the hell is going on?” The picture was of the woodcutter. Everything was in focus, but instead of the bearded face Ben was expecting, there was the face of a leering demon. It’s fanged jaw seemed to be mocking them. Scanning through the pictures, Ben saw that every photo had that same face. “This is weird, Katie. What’s wrong with your camera?” “There isn’t anything wrong with my camera, idiot! What could possibly go wrong with my camera that would cause this?” “Well, what do you want to do?” “I want to take more pictures, dammit!” Katie snapped a few images of Ben, but upon looking at them, they were normal. “Let’s go back.” *** Night had fallen, which made sneaking around the village easier, but it also made getting pictures more difficult. Katie gestured to a house where people could be seen sitting to dinner. “There. I want to see what in the hell is going on.” “Wait, wait!” Ben hissed after Katie as she ran up to the window. Katie took a few more pictures, frantically gesturing to Ben. She handed him the camera, which showed a picture of a family of demons gathered around the dinner table. Every photo that included one of the Mennonites had the face replaced with a horrible monster. “Good god, Katie, what does this mean?” “I don’t know, Ben, but we need to get out of here. We need to tell somebody!” They ran back to the car. When they reached the spot where they parked, however, they saw that their truck had been pushed onto its side. “gently caress! We’re hosed Ben, we’re so hosed. Let’s just run!” Ben was about to reply, when he caught movement on his peripheral vision. It was an Amish women, sliding across the ground with preternatural speed. “Katie, RUN!” *** Katie fled through the woods. Ben had thrown himself at the women, screaming for Katie to run, run as fast as she could. She heard Ben continue to scream, although he wasn’t forming words anymore. It was just screams of agony, and they brought tears to her eyes. She continued to run until she was out of breath, tripping and falling to the ground. Realizing no one was following her, she turned back to face the village. A bonfire had arisen in the town center, and the faint echoes of screams could be heard on the wind. She couldn’t leave Ben. Moving back towards the village, she finally caught sight of the bonfire. Ben was crucified on an inverted cross, with the Amish dancing around the flames. Ben was screaming and wailing as the Mennonites used knives to cut off pieces of his flesh. They were eating the pieces raw. Men, women, children, all capered forward to lick the blood and tear Ben’s skin. Katie sobbed, muffling her cries with her sleeve. She crouched behind a woodpile, watching in horror as the demons pulled out Ben’s eyes and tongue. His guttural moans drew out another burst of tears. Then she found the axe. She looked at the blade gleaming in the firelight, and then back at the crowd around Ben. “I’m going to loving kill you all.” With a scream, she leapt from her hiding spot raising the axe high. She plunged into the crowd, swinging with all her might.
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Jan 19, 2013 03:17
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Ah, loving typo. I got so excited to post something that wasn't dogshit after three days of writer's block.
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Jan 19, 2013 12:55
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Withdrawn 
sephiRoth IRA fucked around with this message at 18:36 on May 30, 2013 |
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May 29, 2013 19:20
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| # ¿ Mar 20, 2025 02:21 |
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I have to withdraw. Boss dumped a bunch of poo poo on me this morning. Sorry to flake out.
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May 30, 2013 18:36
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