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Thread: Poetry Thread

  1. #121
    Starcrossed Seafarer Array Aquarelle's Avatar
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    Jun 2010


    This is a poem I wrote as kind of a re-writing/parody of Tennyson's "The Lady of Shalott."

    Knighthood’s Flower Strikes Again


    Outside the walls of ghastly gray,
    The lively lawn and river lay
    And farms where rows of barley sway,
    Bathed in golden light of day
    That warms the island of Shalott.
    The crops there wrest themselves from soil
    So the folk don’t need to toil,
    Lest the thought of working spoil
    Their trips to nearby Camelot.

    The river winds between the trees,
    The way to Camelot it leads.
    And playful butterflies do tease
    Young children as, with dirty knees,
    They act out scenes from Camelot.
    A lady watches children play
    From inside her tower of gray;
    They whisper that she must be fay,
    The Lady of Shalott.


    She glimpses peasants selling bread,
    Couples who have just been wed,
    Kings and queens in royal red
    (All backwards, for they’re mirrorèd)
    Riding through Shalott.
    Her web she weaves through dark and light,
    (Although she cannot see at night)
    In hopes that someday it just might
    Adorn the walls of Camelot.

    With threads of richest gold and blue
    She renders, beautiful and true,
    The characters her mirror’s view
    Reflects (despite its copp’ry hue),
    The Lady of Shalott.
    Now one may see it as adverse
    To view one’s models in reverse.
    But it makes sense if one is cursed
    If one looks at Camelot.

    The cursèd lady oft does sigh,
    “Oh me, I’m cursed but know not why,
    Or even whether I should die
    Or what if I should set my eye
    To look on Camelot.
    The world seen mirrored can be a bore,
    Especially with this gray décor.
    I half-wish I could see no more
    Mere shadows of Shalott.”


    One day her copper mirror caught
    The image of Sir Lancelot,
    His arms of gleaming metal wrought,
    His charger at a gentle trot
    On his way to Camelot.
    A knight before a lady kneeled
    On the device upon his shield.
    For any maid his sword he’d wield,
    The good and humble Lancelot.

    Sir Lance, the brave and gallant knight
    Was every blushing maid’s delight.
    Unequaled in courage and might,
    He also stood a goodly height,
    The tall Sir Lancelot!
    Courteous he was as well--
    He spared the lives of those he fell!
    Her lust for him she could not quell,
    The Lady of Shalott.

    True lovers know lust love is not,
    From Cupid’s bow it is not shot,
    But she was young and so she thought
    She loved this bold knight Lancelot,
    The childish Lady of Shalott.
    She thought his face was very fair
    (Although his visor he did wear).
    She said, “I’d gladly die to stare
    Directly at Sir Lancelot.”

    She daydreamed that he’d take her up
    Behind him on his horse’s rump.
    He’d kiss her then shout “Giddy up!”
    And on that fair steed they’d gallop
    Away to Camelot.
    She said, “So this’ll be my doom,
    But still I’m going to leave this room
    And they can write upon my tomb,
    ‘The Lady of Shalott.’”

    “Lance, wait!” she cried and stood up fast
    And promptly fell upon her ass
    She also fell against the glass--
    Seven years bad luck, alas,
    For Lady of Shalott.
    “The curse has come upon me now,”
    She cried, “I knew it would somehow
    But nonetheless I make this vow:
    To reach Sir Lancelot.”


    So she found a little boat
    That had been floating in the moat.
    In case she died, she held a note,
    And too, across the prow she wrote,
    ‘The Lady of Shalott.’
    As on the stream she drifted west,
    She lay down in the boat to rest,
    And she clasped against her breast
    The letter for Sir Lancelot.

    She sang, and she was heard by all--
    It sounded like the blackbird’s caw.
    Slowly rain began to fall
    But she’d not thought to bring a shawl
    To sunny Camelot.
    The rain fell hard, the thunder rolled,
    At night the stormy air got cold
    And froze the lady’s hair of gold,
    Poor Lady of Shalott.

    Seven years, it seems, was wrong,
    Because she did not live that long.
    The wind was cold and very strong
    And soon she could not sing her song,
    The Lady of Shalott.
    At last it was Gawaine who found her
    And everybody gathered ‘round her
    To see the soakèd mop that crowned her
    There at Camelot.

    Dead and robed in ghostly white,
    She must have been a scary sight
    For every bold and noble knight
    Felt a cold and haunting fright,
    But brave Gawaine and Lancelot.
    “She held a note,” said Sir Gawaine,
    “And though it’s soggy from the rain,
    It seems this girl was called Elaine.”
    He gave the note to Lancelot

    Who read aloud, “My dearest Lance
    You know me not, but at first glance
    I loved you. If I’m dead, by chance,
    Please pray for me, that God may grant
    Me peace. Elaine, of yon Shalott.”
    He said, “May Heaven grant her grace,
    She has a very pretty face.
    On top of that, she had good taste,
    The Lady of Shalott!”
    Masquerading as a normal person day after day is exhausting.

    My blog:
    TypeC: Adventures of an Introvert

  2. #122
    From the Undertow Array CuriousFeeling's Avatar
    Join Date
    Dec 2009
    4w5 sp/sx


    I wrote this one after I had played a bit of piano. Basically describing how it feels like to play music on it.

    Tangled Up

    Black and white keys undulate,
    A rushing river current, the pull of the tide
    To take red leaves bleeding from the trees,
    The pain of the past, withering to brown,
    And cast them out to sea, far away from me.

    Let each string be set in motion,
    The strings tied to my heart,
    Where I can feel each movement
    Of the hammer striking the string,
    The waves coming to crash upon
    The shoreline of my soul.

    The chords moving from each string,
    My heart lain entwined in them,
    Caught in a web of inescapable passion,
    Lost in a rhapsodic romantic reverie.

    Heaven is where you are,
    When you play upon my deepest emotions.


    “Thoughts are the shadows of our feelings -- always darker, emptier and simpler.”
    ― Friedrich Nietzsche

  3. #123
    78% me Array Eruca's Avatar
    Join Date
    Nov 2008
    5w4 sx/sp


    I'm not sure if this counts as poem but I will post it anyway. To those that don't live in the UK the man in the pub reference might be a little confusing.

    Had to post this though. With feeling.

    What the man down the pub knows.

    The man down the pub knows how to captain a football team.
    The man down the pub knows better than the other guy.
    The man down the pub knows that he best be home early, or he will get it from the wife.
    The man down the pub knows everything.
    The man down the pub knows that that there guy is one of those pansies.
    The man down the pub knows how to fix the economic recession.
    The man down the pub knows what he knows, and no one can tell him any different.
    The man down the pub knows what's wrong here.
    The man down the pub knows what there is to know.
    The man down the pub knows that his childhood was harder than yours.
    The man down the pub knows all about philosophy, psychology and politics without taking a single lesson or reading a single book.
    The man down the pub knows he knows enough to know better.
    The man down the pub knows

  4. #124
    Member Array Penda's Avatar
    Join Date
    Oct 2008


    Words are a poor palette to illustrate the horrors and wonders of the soul,
    Inhibited by fears and our own fragility, our actions portray us as meek lambs,
    While a river of boundless passion presses heavily upon the dam of composure,
    But if the torrent is unleashed, we know not what form it will take
    So we let out a slow trickle of honey, enticing others to the pastoral scene,
    But when they arrive the gate is closed

    Our dreams are as infinite as our flesh is limited,
    Coaxing us to greater heights but causing such sorrow as knowledge is increased
    Dawn emerges into day, illuminating starkly what has been and what is,
    Until one day we open our eyes to find ourselves strangers in the land of our birth,
    And only closing them once in awhile gives us the strength to persevere
    Last edited by Penda; 08-11-2010 at 03:38 PM. Reason: typo
    There are miles to go before I sleep...

  5. #125
    Senior Member Array Quiet's Avatar
    Join Date
    Mar 2010


    My frustration is too high to manage

    I have not slept properly all week now,

    We fight the same fight over and over

    insanity brings me shame,

    Feeling useless and unmotivated

    by our toxic situation

    and by my inability to take chances

    because change is scary too,

    Wishing you would hear me

    wishing you would be more intuned

    wishing I wasn't so devoted

    to something that is not worth my feelings,

    I am stupid because I'm here again

    thrown all my awareness away again

    ashamed of my own emotions

    my own normal needs,

    Wishing I could cry

    wondering why I can't

    yearning to reach within

    and tear you out of my chest,

    wishing you would just die

    in a car accident or something

    so that you being gone this way

    would have made it happen for me,

    I'm so in love I'm useless now

    focussing on anything else

    to distract me from your truths

    keeping you around in the background,

    where we both live together

    where you keep me and I keep you,

    while we dance this awkward dance

    called dysfunctional incompatibility

    with emotional ties and mutual dependancy.

    and I am hopelessly yours

    while you put me last

    until we both are numb enough to meet again...
    "What's Taters, Precious?" --- Gollum.

    "Bring your pretty face, to my axe". --- Gimly.

  6. #126
    Senior Member Array ubee0173's Avatar
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    Sep 2010


    wow- this is my first post and its freakin' poetry. i just cant escape the writing! this is one i won a contest with back when i was a gonzo-journalist extrordinairre. i was a-gonna publish me a book, but the whole enfp thing got in the way...

    driving and daily news

    Kids set fire to southern churches
    and god turned a blind eye
    to this spectacle
    when he sent flames to ravage
    the flatlands.
    the dirge of a dying Democrat's
    diseased voice strains
    through the blown out
    crackling speakers in my
    car that was shaking apart
    as we drove further West
    towards the smoke and sirens,
    the highway coddling it's median,
    black with charred grass.
    Sun shone through a cracked window,
    while outside, the shimmering
    wheatfields and acres of sunflowers
    were pushing us farther
    into unknown territories,
    the many fenceposts passing like hours,
    we want them to go quickly...
    something better must be hiding
    behind the next plateau.
    We clung religiously
    to our notebooks
    and copies of "Being and Nothingness ",
    a pen in one hand,
    a lighter in the other,
    discussing ways to twist the words of others
    into our own truths.
    The butane flames dance,
    igniting the scorched images
    of smoldering plains and wooden beams,
    angels crucified with the
    damning politics of hope.

  7. #127
    Senior Member Array ubee0173's Avatar
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    Sep 2010


    and then there is bukowski. i just have to show everyone i meet this, its my favorite poem. well, one of 'em anyway.

    charles bukowski

    there's a bluebird in my heart that
    wants to get out
    but I'm too tough for him,
    I say, stay in there, I'm not going
    to let anybody see

    there's a bluebird in my heart that
    wants to get out
    but I pur whiskey on him and inhale
    cigarette smoke
    and the whores and the bartenders
    and the grocery clerks
    never know that
    in there.

    there's a bluebird in my heart that
    wants to get out
    but I'm too tough for him,
    I say,
    stay down, do you want to mess
    me up?
    you want to screw up the
    you want to blow my book sales in

    there's a bluebird in my heart that
    wants to get out
    but I'm too clever, I only let him out
    at night sometimes
    when everybody's asleep.
    I say, I know that you're there,
    so don't be
    then I put him back,
    but he's singing a little
    in there, I haven't quite let him
    and we sleep together like
    with our
    secret pact
    and it's nice enough to
    make a man
    weep, but I don't
    weep, do

  8. #128
    Member Array Levitas's Avatar
    Join Date
    Mar 2009


    Had to write a "Soul" poem for my creative writing class and this is what I came up with.

    Guarded with bone and flesh
    Deep inside my chest
    A soul resides
    A firming apparition
    In a burning cloud of red

    Sometimes I want to reach it
    But mostly I'm afraid
    Places that it leads me
    Can be the wrong way

    Uncontrolled and underfed
    My soul yearns for touch
    As fast as you came
    You left just as soon
    Leaving my soul needing you

    Alone once again
    My soul continuously screams
    Against the fleshy-bone box
    In which it's contained
    "Was I born a cute, vindictive little bitch, or did society make me that way? I go back and forth on that."

  9. #129
    Permabanned Array
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    Sep 2007


    Have you ever thought you were dreaming, not quite awake?
    And in a dream a lady spoke to you, but refused to tell you her name?
    It happened to me the other night,
    In retrospect, it was real.
    I couldn't understand the fragment,
    but slowly, they were taking over


    Out of my mind.
    This gift,
    No peace,
    but in time.
    Last edited by mysavior; 10-08-2010 at 12:50 AM.

  10. #130
    Senior Member Array Jaguar's Avatar
    Join Date
    May 2007


    Quote Originally Posted by Chaolioe View Post
    I live my life in iambs
    Syllables and moments
    Words that mean no more than they are
    and become, or are becoming
    like me
    An unreal part of
    this real world
    I'm speechless and out of tune
    I have no meter
    No rhythm
    Just steady thoughts
    in anything but four-four
    An enigma in d-minor
    suffering and classic
    destroying the lexicon
    and slaughtering the scale
    I am the fermata
    And the conductor
    I'll only stop when I say I'm done
    Still like this as much in 2012 as I did in 2010. Write on.
    When all else fails, claim it's rigged.

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