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Poetry Thread

BlueScreen

Fail 2.0
Joined
Nov 8, 2008
Messages
2,668
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YMCA
I am in the mood to write a poem for you...here goes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I sit here in silence, it's never enough, I swallow the pieces whole.

I came up with an idea once, felt like such a surprise, it fell through, though, when forced to face the facts.

I am tired of trying, trying to find something to quell what will be and is, the inevitable collapse.

And these people, they keep coming back

These moments, as they pass, how they seem, in retrospect, as units of life lived.

To live within a perpetually permanent past. A life defined by an accumulation of acts.

I am tired of an aloneness I chose but, still, I cannot ignore this hunger for more.

I am a speechless poet, a metal muse, an intense implosive fuse.

Lost in the infinite, my anchored -self , completely and utterly confused.

This is way more human. And I identify with it, as much as we are aware of stuff we are unsatisfied and restless in a way.

We should random post in here more often. I had the last line of your other one pop into my head today when I was doing something.
 

BlueScreen

Fail 2.0
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I like bed hair.
They say that beauty lies
in imperfections;
The mascara in her eyes...
The smudges on her lips...
She was so rigid last night;
now wildness exists.
She wants to turn away..
"You can't see me this way!"
Never tell me, I won't love her
in the morning.
 

SillySapienne

`~~Philosoflying~~`
Joined
Jan 14, 2008
Messages
9,801
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4w5
I like bed hair.
They say that beauty lies
in imperfections;
The mascara in her eyes...
The smudges on her lips...
She was so rigid last night;
now wildness exists.
She wants to turn away..
"You can't see me this way!"
Never tell me, I won't love her
in the morning.
:wub:
 

Salomé

meh
Joined
Sep 25, 2008
Messages
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sx/sp
*for ragashree*
(excuse lack of punctuation/sense ;))

driftwood


1.
dark and celestial
wild nomads
star a broad way show
milky migration
rhythmic undulation
in hypnotic suck and swell.

wine-fragrant, the pregnant air
thick, sultry as the soil's blood,
diffuses ebbing shafts of light;
a stallion, salt-maned, rough-shod
foams blind
upon the boiling shore.

2.
to night, drowned
are the sweeter sounds-
cadence of cicada,
essence of Africa:
a passive scream
against the coral roar

alone, beached and unbarbed
crustacean
on the sun-bleached sand
a pearl stripped
ocean discard

overwhelmed,

quicksand steals language
with an alien tongue
forked, like a sword.
doubled, a single word
negates its power.

3.
how earth and water will conspire
against a daughter of the plains
stirring deep
unsettled waves,
those memories best
repressed in the untamed.

like sea on granite rock,
fear of confinement closes in.
with frenzied rasp,
undressed; without escape,
hard-pressed; thus
landscape will domesticate
a lioness.
 

SillySapienne

`~~Philosoflying~~`
Joined
Jan 14, 2008
Messages
9,801
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Here, I will share some of my haikus:

Utterly alone
They're afraid of the silence
Empty space to fill


The paradox box
Identical opposites
Nothing is something


Men are like answers
Simple and informative
Leave women asking


The curse of caring
Is both knowing and feeling
The truth about life
 

defragmybrain

New member
Joined
Nov 17, 2008
Messages
250
MBTI Type
ESFP
Enneagram
9
Shoreline

Each night I walk along the curving shore
behind my house, hands eager to grasp
at small, meandering crabs drawn like war
to thoughts of easy food. They softly rasp
the sand, antennae out, prepared to bore
into small worms, who can't even gasp
as death uncoils under their skins, surprised
and then discarded: used, but not despised.

Held from behind, their claws fail, though they try
to attack, with quick serrated scythes dyed
with blood from past meals. I know that hunger -

I know the way my tongue mimics them, scarred
by my need to gorge until filled with flesh.
With shells like Gothic castles under stars
fading by sunrise, they keep weapons meshed
against skin, ready for siege. It is hard
to understand their lives, each step a fresh
start, hunting the gifts of translucent tides
with goals they cannot know, though glad to ride.

Nightly, crabs spread legs dried by winds that linger,
and shudder free of evening's tired fingers.
They plunge into their depth, freer than I am.

How relentlessly high tide comes and goes!
It brought you to me, and sucked at our toes.
Tonight I see your ghostly reflection

carried on the crests. Love is dissection,
the slicing of the heart's inner chambers.
When they dropped, it left you and I strangers.

My sense is that the light of day is not
for wasting. Even now this beach I cross
peels into ebon rind and pulp, its rot
marking the boundary of time, embossed
by kelp tangles. I still dream, body hot
with memories of the roving touch I lost.
Your wings of rope and canvas steer you out,
leaving me in fog, crusted with my doubts.

Tonight, like every other night, is truce:
the day's soft laurel wreath becomes a noose
draped firm around my neck, its fibers twisting.

- defragmybrain
 

The Ü™

Permabanned
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I wrote this just now:

I am going to
Write what I think
By placing my words
Into a pointless format

But I can't think
At least not now
Maybe I'm just dead
Maybe I'm just stupid

Or maybe, just maybe,
I am extremely bored
And have nothing else
To occupy my time
 

SillySapienne

`~~Philosoflying~~`
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These words are composed of letters and this letter is composed of words.

I write these letters inside letters in hopes to convey and relay an intangible part of me to you.

You, the getter of this letter, am I coming through?
 

BlueScreen

Fail 2.0
Joined
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Messages
2,668
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Here, I will share some of my haikus:

Utterly alone
They're afraid of the silence
Empty space to fill


The paradox box
Identical opposites
Nothing is something


Men are like answers
Simple and informative
Leave women asking


The curse of caring
Is both knowing and feeling
The truth about life

Nice :).

I'm really bad with Haikus and sonnets, and anything that requires much predefined order. I just seem to randomly write and sometimes be serious enough. Maybe like with your painting. I write way too much also. It is sort of addictive. I like writing little statements too, like:

Poetry is the art of combining words,
not finding words.


Emptiness is gone
when there is something.
Absence longs
to be destroyed, by your return.
And the silence
waits to go, when you say something.
Your voice exists again
when it is heard.
 
Last edited:

Salomé

meh
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*for Uber*




poetry is writing only more so...


I
heard
it said
that, with
appropriate for
matting
even an army man-
ual, can look
like a poem.
left


right

central
to this
ideology
is
the notion
that
Romeo is bleeding

obvious-
lie
the more obscure
1 can b
the more
cree 8 IV
1 may seam

war games
that maim
language
and meaning.

i don't know
military strategy
but i suppose
there is an art
to devastation.
 

The Ü™

Permabanned
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Wow.

That was painfully
incomprehensible.
And the format
Made no sense.
Just like always.
Why don't you
Quit wasting bandwidth
And just get to
The point?
And please, pretty please
Don't write a book
You'll just waste paper
You'll terrorize the trees.

Just
Just don't.
 

iwakar

crush the fences
Joined
May 2, 2007
Messages
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Yay, thread participation FTW!

This was an experiment with form that translates poorly from Microsoft Word... thoughts?


Making Insignificance

I wish to walk out
like leaves glide;

down,
beyond,
looping and reeling silently,
spinning to soundless music,

> skirt of air <

feeling light as a feather,
then rising through invisible spheres,
twirling like an ice skater
on
a
string,
the clouds between my toes;
a Palomar knot in my breast .
reeling me towards
the stars;

so I might look back to you
and see
insignificance.
 
Last edited:

Eileen

New member
Joined
Apr 19, 2007
Messages
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INFJ
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6?
I found this one tonight while looking through some old files:


Apparitions

I.

My brother lies in his coffin
in our old living room,
the one with the water-damaged wall
and the ratty old couch
clawed half to death by the cats.

He lies there, so peaceful and still,
quiet as always,
and as happy as we could
hope to be ourselves,
while the room blazes
with a strange, smokeless fire.

The flames, bright petals of heat,
consume the old couch,
bring down the crumbly ramparts,
make embers of the floor.

I rush in, grasping.
Everything I’d loved and resented—
all the comforts and discomforts—
transformed to ash
as I reached for his body, wailing
for home.

II.

This is how it happens:
One day, her gaze will change
and you’ll know by the feverish, fearful scribbling
that she has left you
without packing her bags.

It will catch you off-guard,
because her threats always included
that pea-green suitcase
thrown across the bed.


III.

Near-loss bears down as if it is heavy
precisely because it is not.

Actual loss shifts our paths,
changes our directions permanently,
while the hypothetical sustains infinite possibilities
of what might not have been.
We mistake infinite intangibilities
for a bulk to endure.

IV.

Sometimes she gazes
at a word that she knows she should recognize:
sleep, lamp, Michael.
The letters lay out familiar syllables
that for split-seconds
seem foreign, strange, even absurd.
 

BlueScreen

Fail 2.0
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Messages
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I was reading the tangent thread and I thought it is funny how Ne expresses in our writing too. Sometimes a thought just comes out in one weird but sort of complete torrent.


I’m meant to sleep,
but I have hit a wall.
I’m frustrated, I’m confused
by what’s in the world.
And the last thing I will do
is fall into it all,
and flow into the sea,
and fit into the mould.
And I can not believe,
but I know there’s something better
waiting there for me
on the other side of this,
where I will finally see,
and I will finally know,
and I will finally have
something worth enough to miss.
 

ragashree

Reason vs Being
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(For Bluemonday -I finally get around to posting that free-verse African one I promised about an aeon ago - yay! It's not really prose, honestly... I expect I've messed up the line breaks by having to do it from memory... oh, well)

Eating a Mango

I asked how a mango could be eaten
without cutting it up with a knife

After all, that's how the locals did it:
Knives were precious things and not always at hand.

One man showed me, picking from the pile
which lay on the trestle table in front of us,
Biting easily through the outer skin with his strong white teeth,
And peeling it off with his lips,
gnawing at the sweet orange flesh which lay beneath.

Looks easy, I thought
taking one myself.

Not quite as simple as it appears though
and the one I picked was over-ripe
skin marked with a rash of dirty brown spots
indenting the rich crimson and green.

I preserved to the end, even so
white boy with mango juice all over his face,
and bright fibres stuck between his teeth.

If the locals found this spectacle amusing
they were much too polite to laugh.

Not so one of my companions, who explained
unasked to all and sundry that
my role in their group was that of the joker, the fool,
Like a pet monkey's
my antics always provided them with great amusement
and they eagerly awaited my next faux pas
to give them something to laugh at.

Naturally I was perturbed by my sudden change in status
but perhaps I see her point:

after all
count the cost to one who does such things
here, in public,
with all these black people to see us!

all those gently smiling faces that might so easily
assume expressions of mocking ridicule,
of jealous hatred,

surrounding us, watching our every move

Who would protect us here, so far from home,

all alone?

And what was their hospitality if not
(for their betters)
Respect?

A girl my own age felt sorry for me
and beckoned me to the nearest water
which she carefully poured out from a bowl
to bowl of my sticky hands
until I had cleansed myself.

I returned to find that my failings
were being expounded no more.
For my chief detractor
(Doctor's daughter)
was dozing in the stifling afternoon air.
Several months' wages hereabouts was cradled in her arms
cherish thy baby
tiny black cable snaking upwards
branching into two
one for each ear
closes them off.

She recieved no covetous stares
Nor yet respectful sidelong glances, Memsahib:

And I may decide to eat another mango soon
the hard way.
 
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