Poetry Thread

[Aquarelle]

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


I.

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.

II.

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.”


III.

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.”



IV.

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!”

 

[CuriousFeeling]

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.

 

[Eruca]

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

 

[Penda]

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

 

[Quiet]

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...

 

[ubee0173]

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.

 

[ubee0173]

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


bluebird
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
you.

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
he's
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
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?

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
sad.
then I put him back,
but he's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep, do
you?

 

[Levitas]

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

 

[mysavior]

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,
Thoughts,
but slowly, they were taking over
Me.

-----

Out of my mind.
This gift,
divine.
No peace,
but in time.

 

[Jaguar]

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.

 

[UniqueMixture]

Has anyone ever experimented with abstract poetry? I like the way multilinear poetry feels to me. I write these short haikuish things that I use as mantras to express core concepts like: I/Us/We/Them/You/They/Whom am/are/was/were/will be that/which/who they/us/I/we/who/you/them was/be/are/will be/were/when. You're supposed to pick one from each group then read them different till they stand asa an eigenstate and are experienced as THOU ART GOD and the self steps outside of time with being compounding on itself letting the lines of code form circular matrices whose interstices are the individuals on the earth

 

[Mole]

The 11th Rate Poets.

The nice thing about 11th rate poets is that we are not embarrassed.

We don't care whether we write good or bad; and nor does anyone else.

Prizes are out of the question. And ecstasy is out of reach.

We are inclined to temptation and to tempt others. And learn to dodge the swinging slap.

We breath deeply, smile into your blue eyes and say the first thing that comes into our minds.

And it shows.


We are tatty and we play at being sad but it's a sad smile breaking through, and before long you're smiling a bit too.

Our mothers don't approve of us, nor our sisters. And we rely on the kindness of dogs and coffee.

But our hearts beat strongly, and our hearts beat shyly, in the hope of writing some 11th rate poetry today.


Victor.

 

[EEW]

 

[Mole]

For a while, I thought I didn't know enough about poetry to have a favorite. Then I remembered Dylan Thomas, though I doubt I'm the first person to do so in this thread:

You don't think we should be sticking to 11th rate poetry because it is the poetry we write ourselves?

Why dig up dead white poets when the members of Central can write our own poetry?

Should we ask someone else to make love for us? Should we ask someone else to dance for us? And should we ask someone to write our poetry for us? Or should we break free and do it ourselves?

 

[Julius_Van_Der_Beak]

I'm a robot, and am only capable of replaying the greatest hits of others. But it seems this would be better off in the other thread. I'm going to move it there.

 

[Mole]

Marvin

I'm a robot

My favourite robot is Marvin, the depressed robot in Hitchikers' Guide to the Galaxy. A work of art in himself, click on - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dcqmVws4nr4
or click on - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tJNRxetY6DY&NR=1&feature=endscreen
or click on - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SySlNAw1fB4

 

[Salomé]

You don't think we should be sticking to 11th rate poetry because it is the poetry we write ourselves?

Why dig up dead white poets when the members of Central can write our own poetry?

Because bad poetry is very, very painful to read and ought not to be inflicted upon others unless we bear them malice.

I am reminded of this one dead white guy...

No worst, there is none. Pitched past pitch of grief,
More pangs will, schooled at forepangs, wilder wring.
Comforter, where, where is your comforting?
Mary, mother of us, where is your relief?
My cries heave, herds-long; huddle in a main, a chief
Woe, world-sorrow; on an age-old anvil wince and sing —
Then lull, then leave off. Fury had shrieked ‘No ling-
ering! Let me be fell: force I must be brief’.

O the mind, mind has mountains; cliffs of fall
Frightful, sheer, no-man-fathomed. Hold them cheap
May who ne’er hung there. Nor does long our small
Durance deal with that steep or deep. Here! creep,
Wretch, under a comfort serves in a whirlwind: all
Life death does end and each day dies with sleep.

~Gerard Manley Hopkins

Good poetry is like a tiny miracle. Learning the difference (and understanding your own limitations) is part of growing up.

 

[Mole]

Because bad poetry is very, very painful to read and ought not to be inflicted upon others unless we bear them malice.

So I guess malice is out of the question?

 

[Pinker85]

Sorry, posted this on FB and don't want this to be searchable.

 

[AzulEyes]

Poetry Corner: Share Poetry You've Written (or write it on the spot)

I know of a thread to share favorite poetry- but this is for your own personal musings. To share your personal poetic justice.
I'll start.

taunting me
scaring me
running while I lay still
the chaos that is you
once strangled my soul
then up to my neck
I ran from it
it's chasing after me
how many times did I trip
I'm running now so fast
just a blur you don't recognize me
you don't see me
I've turned the corner
too late
can't kill me now
I've hidden my soul
you'll never find it
even if you try