Poetry Corner (No Spam please)

[Nasuke]

well, i'm glad you guys have a poetry corner, and from what i've read from the first posts, i would have to say, your guys are pretty damn good!! i guess i'll post one too:

Warped & Twisted

harsh words & violent blows
hidden secrets nobody knows
eyes are open, hands are fisted
deep inside i'm warped & twisted
so many tricks & so many lies
too many whens & too many whys
nobody's special, nobody's gifted
i'm just me, warped & twisted
sleeping awake & choking on a dream
listening loudly to a silent scream
call my mind, the number's unlisted
lost in someone so warped & twisted
on my knees, alive but dead
look at the invisible blood i've bled
i'm not gone, my mind has drifted
don't expect much, i'm warped & twisted
burnt out, wasted, empty & hollow
today's just yesterday's tomorrow
the sun died out, the ashes sifted
yet i'm still here, warped & twisted

[VoodooDali]

one of my threads is still alive...

A poem I've thought of a lot in these past few years of losing my father and little brother, Pete.

ONE ART by Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

[Lasher]

An excerpt from The Duchess of Malfi, by John Webster:

Cover her face; mine eyes dazzle: she died young.

The first time I'd heard it was in Interview with a Vampire... A tribute to the diseased Claudia. It was a goddamned tearjerker...

[Fiona]

@ Voodoo Dali. That is a very beautiful poem. I have not come across this writer before. Thanks


@ Lasher. Got a link for the whole thing ? It put me in mind of a much more menacing poem ( would suit Lestat)

My Last Duchess
(Ferrara)

Robert Browning

That's my last duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive. I call
That piece a wonder, now; Fra Pandolf's hands
Worked busily a day, and there she stands.
Will't please you sit and look at her? I said
"Fra Pandolf" by design, for never read
Strangers like you that pictured countenance,
That depth and passion of its earnest glance,
But to myself they turned (since none puts by
The curtain drawn for you, but I) [10]
And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,
How such a glance came there; so not the first
Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 't was not
Her husband's presence only, called that spot
Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps
Fra Pandolf chanced to say "Her mantle laps
Over my lady's wrist too much" or "Paint
Must never hope to reproduce the faint
Half-flush that dies along her throat:" such stuff
Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough [20]
For calling up that spot of joy. She had
A heart - how shall I say? - too soon made glad,
Too easily impressed: she liked whate'er
She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.
Sir, 't was all one! My favour at her breast,
The dropping of the daylight in the West,
The bough of cherries some officious fool
Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule
She rode with round the terrace -all and each
Would draw from her alike the approving speech, [30]
Or blush,at least. She thanked men - good! but thanked
Somehow - I know not how - as if she ranked
My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name
With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame
This sort of trifling? Even had you skill
In speech - (which I have not) - to make your will
Quite clear to such a one, and say, "Just this
Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss
Or there exceed the mark"- and if she let
Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set [40]
Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse
- E'en then would be some stooping; and I choose
Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt,
Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without
Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;
Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands
As if alive. Will 't please you rise? We'll meet
The company below, then. I repeat,
The Count your master's known munificence
Is ample warrant that no just pretence [50]
Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;
Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed
At starting is my object. Nay, we'll go
Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,
Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,
Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me.

[Lestat]

Since my name has been invoked here, I thought I'd better post.
And to stay in character (but also because I like it), this poem by Neil Gaiman:

Vampire Sestina

I wait here at the boundaries of dream,
all shadow-wrapped. The dark air tastes of night,
so cold and crisp, and I wait for my love.
The moon has bleached the colour from her stone.
She'll come, and then we'll stalk this pretty world
alive to darkness and the tang of blood.

It is a lonely game, the quest for blood,
but still, a body's got the right to dream
and I'd not give it up for all the world.
The moon has leeched the darkness from the night.
I stand in shadows, staring at her stone:
Undead, my lover . . . O, undead my love?

I dreamt you while I slept today and love
meant more to me than life – meant more than blood.
The sunlight sought me, deep beneath my stone,
more dead than any corpse but still a-dream
until I woke as vapor into night
and sunset forced me out into the world.

For many centuries I've walked the world
dispensing something that resembled love -
a stolen kiss, then back into the night
contented by the life and by the blood.
And come the morning I was just a dream,
cold body chilling underneath a stone.

I said I would not hurt you. Am I stone
to leave you prey to time and to the world?
I offered you a truth beyond your dreams
while all you had to offer was your love.
I told you not to worry and that blood
tastes sweeter on the wing and late at night.

Sometimes my lovers rise to walk the night . . .
Sometimes they lie, cold corpse beneath a stone,
and never know the joys of bed and blood,
of walking through the shadows of the world;
instead they rot to maggots. O my love
they whispered you had risen, in my dream.

I've waited by your stone for half the night
but you won't leave your dream to hunt for blood.
Good night, my love. I offered you the world.

[Fiona]

What do you mean, "in character" *balloon of illusion bursts*

That poem is a very successful, uncomfortable read

[Lestat]

Another poem by Neil Gaiman, fitting for a Games' forum:

Virus

There was a computer game, I was given it,
one of my friends gave it to me, he was playing it,
he said, it's brilliant, you should play it,
and I did, and it was.

I copied it off the disk he gave me
for anyone, I wanted everyone to play it.
Everyone should have this much fun.
I sent it upline to bulletin boards
but mainly I got it out to all of my friends.

(Personal contact. That's the way it was given to me.)

My friends were like me: some were scared of viruses,
someone gave you a game on disk, next week or Friday the 13th
it reformatted your hard disk or corrupted your memory.
But this one never did that. This was dead safe.

Even my friends who didn't like computers started to play:
as you get better the game gets harder;
maybe you never win but you can get pretty good.
I'm pretty good.

Of course I have to spend a lot of time playing it.
So do my friends. And their friends.
And just the people you meet, you can see them,
walking down the old motorways
or standing in queues, away from their computers,
away from the arcades that sprang up overnight,
but they play it in their heads in the meantime,
combining shapes,
puzzling over contours, putting colours next to colours,
twisting signals to new screen sections,
listening to the music.

Sure, people think about it, but mainly they play it.
My record's eighteen hours at a stretch.
40,012 points, 3 fanfares.

You play through the tears, the aching wrist, the hunger, after a while
it all goes away.
All of it except the game, I should say.

There's no room in my mind anymore; no room for other things.
We copied the game, gave it to our friends.
It transcends language, occupies our time,
sometimes I think I'm forgetting things these days.

I wonder what happened to the TV. There used to be TV.
I wonder what will happen when I run out of canned food.
I wonder where all the people went. And then I realise how,
if I'm fast enough, I can put a black square next to a red line,
mirror it and rotate them so they both disappear,
clearing the left block
for a white bubble to rise . . .

(So they both disappear.)

And when the power goes off for good then I
Will play it in my head until I die.

[VoodooDali]

@Lestat -- The first gaiman poem you posted made me think of Algernon Charles Swinburne.

Here's an excerpt from his poem, Anactoria

Ah, ah, thy beauty! like a beast it bites,
Stings like an adder, like an arrow smites.
Ah sweet, and sweet again, and seven times sweet,
The paces and the pauses of thy feet!
Ah sweeter than all sleep or summer air
The fallen fillets fragrant from thine hair!
Yea, though their alien kisses do me wrong,
Sweeter thy lips than mine with all their song;
Thy shoulders whiter than a fleece of white,
And flower-sweet fingers, good to bruise or bite
As honeycomb of the inmost honey-cells,
With almond-shaped and roseleaf-coloured shells
And blood like purple blossom at the tips
Quivering; and pain made perfect in thy lips
For my sake when I hurt thee; O that I
Durst crush thee out of life with love, and die,
Die of thy pain and my delight, and be
Mixed with thy blood and molten into thee!
Would I not plague thee dying overmuch?
Would I not hurt thee perfectly? not touch
Thy pores of sense with torture, and make bright
Thine eyes with bloodlike tears and grievous light?
Strike pang from pang as note is struck from note,
Catch the sob's middle music in thy throat,
Take thy limbs living, and new-mould with these
A lyre of many faultless agonies?
Feed thee with fever and famine and fine drouth,
With perfect pangs convulse thy perfect mouth,
Make thy life shudder in thee and burn afresh,
And wring thy very spirit through the flesh?
Cruel? but love makes all that love him well
As wise as heaven and crueller than hell.
Me hath love made more bitter toward thee
Than death toward man; but were I made as He
Who hath made all things to break them one by one,
If my feet trod upon the stars and sun
And souls of men as His have alway trod,
God knows I might be crueller than God.
For who shall change with prayers or thanksgivings
The mystery of the cruelty of things?

The full poem can be found here:[url="http://www.letrs.indiana.edu/cgi-bin/acs-idx.pl?type=section&rgn=level1&byte=97791"]http://www.letrs.indiana.edu/cgi-bin/acs-idx.pl?type=section&rgn=level1&byte=97791[/url]

[Robnark]

A poem by Don Marquis from his fantastic book 'archy & mehitabel'. it lacks capital letters and punctuation because it was written by a poet who was ressurected as a c0ckroach and operates a typewriter by jumping on the keys. just so you know.

and the 7th line is a synonym for 'cat'

some natural history

the patagonian
penguin
is a most
peculiar
bird
he lives on
****y
willows
and his tongue
is always furred
the porcupine
of chile
sleeps his life away
and that is how
the needles
get into the hay
the argentinian
oyster
is a vey
subtle gink
for when he s
being eaten
he pretends he is
a skink
when you see
a sea gull
sitting
on a bald man s dome
she likely thinks
she s nesting
on her rocky
island home
do not tease
the inmates
when strolling
through the zoo
for they have
their finer feelings
the same
as me and you
oh deride not
the camel
if grief should
make him die
his ghost will come
to haunt you
with tears
in either eye
and the spirit of
a camel
in the midnight gloom
can be so very
cheerless
as it wanders
round the room

archy

[Fiona]

@Robnark. toujours gay, archie, toujours gay

On another theme:

Siren Song

This is the one song everyone
would like to learn: the song
that is irresistible:

the song that forces men
to leap overboard in squadrons
even though they see beached skulls

the song nobody knows
because anyone who had heard it
is dead, and the others can’t remember.

Shall I tell you the secret
and if I do, will you get me
out of this bird suit?

I don’t enjoy it here
squatting on this island
looking picturesque and mythical

with these two feathery maniacs.
I don’t enjoy singing
this trio, fatal and valuable.

I will tell the secret to you,
to you, only to you.
Come closer. This song

is a cry for help: Help me!
Only you, only you can,
you are unique

at last. Alas
it is a boring song
but it works every time.

-Margaret Atwood

[Rookierookie]

Windows

Once there were
A dozen windows
Inside my soul
Looking out
Looking in
They brought my sorrows out
And brought me joys instead

One day
They did not carry away my tears
And so I looked out
And sorrow poured in
And it did not stop

And so
I closed the windows
One by one
One a day
One every day
And tore my soul apart
Piece by piece
One a day
One piece every day

And so I closed my eyes
And so I closed my ears
And so I shut myself in
I closed the windows
I shut out the sorrows
I shut out the joys
And I let the sorrow stay

And so the windows are closed
My soul is in pieces
And the sorrow will stay

[Fiona]

Rookie, I like that very much. Did you write it?

[Rookierookie]

Yes.

Added title to poem since I thought it up on the spot.

[Fiona]

I'm impressed

[Lestat]

[QUOTE=Fiona]I'm impressed [/QUOTE]
I second that.

[Rookierookie]

Home

This is where I was born
This is where I grew up
This is where I live
But this is not home

I don't feel warm
I don't feel safe
I don't feel happy
This is not home

They're whom I play with
They're whom I study with
They're whom I talk to
But they are not friends

I don't feel close to them
I don't feel happy with them
I don't feel like part of them
They are not friends

I have no home
I have no friends
Where is my home?
Where are my friends?

I don't seek a home
I don't seek friends
This is where I stay
They are whom I'm with

There is no home
There are no friends

[Demortis]

This is one I had writen this past year, when I was heavily depressed. Writing this helped, alot.

Depression

Depression is the like the blackest of nights,
It sounds like an alcoholics’ gulp,
It’s the taste of Wild Turkey watered down with tears,
It’s the smell of the alcohol on your breath the next morning,
It looks like the never-ending battle to forget,
It makes me feel like there’s nothing I can do.

Depression is the color of blood.
The sound of a fix being cooked in a metal spoon,
It tastes of a leather belt being tightened around your arm,
It’s the smell of personal carnage of what has become of your life,
It’s you watching your-self stab your-self with a needle to try and end the pain,
It is self-imposed guilt that leads to these actions

Depression is a void, no light, no sound, just emptiness.
It’s the sound of a gun’s hammer being pulled back,
It tastes like finely-oiled metal
It’s the smell of gunpowder
It is watching your-self pull the trigger to end the pain.
It’s knowing that everything, the pain, agony, anguish will all end.


Depression is anger without enthusiasm

[Rookierookie]

A poem for the season...bah, HUMBUG!

Christmas Lights

Myriad red, blue and green
Colours shifting, colours dancing
Colours dancing in my eyes
Under the big big tree

Christmas lights, big and small
Christmas lights gleaming, Christmas lights shining
Christmas lights shining in my eyes
Under the big big tree

Under the big big tree Christmas lights shine
The gleaming star, the rainbowed sky
The tree and its lights dancing in my eyes
Over the sea of heads

In the sea of heads the people danced
Dancing in the lights
Dancing in the colours
Camera flashes, Christmas bells
Christmas confetti, Christmas gifts

Christmas gifts, grand and quaint
Christmas gifts for everyone
Christmas gifts from above the sky
Christmas gifts from beside you
Christmas gifts to suit the lights
Christmas gifts to match the colours
Christmas gifts to please the heart
Christmas gifts to sooth the soul
Christmas gifts, shining in the lights
Christmas gifts, shining in my eyes

But though covered by light
I am in the shadows
In the shadows
Of the Christmas lights

I am not gleaming, I am not dancing
I am not shouting with the rest
I am not waiting, I am not giving
Christmas lights shine not on me

Christmas lights, shining far away
Christmas lights on the big big tree
In the Christmas lights I do not belong;
Into the shadows I return
Back to my lonesome home

[Rookierookie]

To be frank and very, very impolite, Demortis, I didn't like your poem. It simply doesn't sound well on the tongue, and I get the feeling that you were trying way, way too hard to make your words more complex and "poetic". It's not too bad when you are just reading it on paper (or in this case monitor), but if you try to read it out aloud, it gets stuck on your tongue like the wild turkey.

[TonyMontana1638]

While rookie may be right that some of it is verbose (I'd first edit the line "watching your-self stab your-self with a needle to try and end the pain" as, though I get the point, it just doesn't sound right: don't use "your-self" twice) I rather enjoyed it. The distinct characterizations were interesting to me and the tone was also quite clear; I'm no poetry expert however. I was also especially fond of the end line "Depression is anger without enthusiasm": did you come up with that one yourself? It's quite good.

Keep at it .