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Post yer Poems in the [poetry] Thread!

Metzger MeisterMetzger Meister Registered User regular
edited September 2015 in The Writer's Block
Hello! I'm Metzger, and I write bad poetry, like this!
A forest
Like
A cornfield
Perfect rows
Of conifers.
Dark giants
Looming in the night
Around me.
Straight and evenly spaced
Like prison bars.

It's about a recurring nightmare I had when I was a kid! Lots of people write poetry. I usually only write it as a journaling thing, and so I do very little revision or anything, but lots of people spend years writing even a single poem!

So post your poetry! Either your own, or maybe an old favorite. Discussion of the craft is obviously encouraged, and when I can get on my desktop I'll post some more myself.

Metzger Meister on
KCWiseDisruptedCapitalistRonin356

Posts

  • Metzger MeisterMetzger Meister Registered User regular
    Yo! Back on my desktop so I figure I'd dump some more terrible poems on you poor, wretched souls.
    A Million Dollars

    If I had a million dollars
    I would buy a piece of land
    I'd work and till the soil
    With my rough and callused hands
    I would beat the sun in waking
    And smoke a pipe at dusk
    While my wife was inside making
    Bread from corn I’d husked
    I would lie in bed beside her
    With her hair of gold and copper
    And dream of city life
    If I had a million dollars



    An Ode to the Wind

    The wind is sighing softly
    Whispering at my window pane
    Her hair is sylvan moonlight
    She seems to know my name.
    She’s soothing in the summer
    Rolling cross the golden plain
    She cools the sweat upon my brow
    And she brings the gentle rain.
    She is beautiful in autumn
    In a golden gown of swirling leaves
    That she has plucked from quaking branches
    And stolen from the trees.
    She is bitter in the winter
    In a shroud of gray and white
    She sweeps the snow into a whirlwind
    With wailing cries into the night.
    She is most gentle in the springtime
    When infant leaves are green again
    And as she dances in the garden
    She gently calls my name.


    If I Were a Bird

    If I were a bird
    I’d fly out to the sea
    And call out to the gulls
    Calling out to me

    I would answer their complaints
    With a chirping, trilling song
    And soar through golden sunlight
    And the warm air, rising strong

    I would ride upon the zephyrs
    And make the clouds my home
    With no reason to stay static
    And with adventure in my bones

    I’d sail the sky forever
    With the wind to carry me
    And with music in my heart
    And no cares to harry me.



    Wendel the Weird

    The Wild Wooly Poz of Jusbecoz
    And other nonsensical poems
    Were jotted down by Wendel the Weird
    In a series of magical tomes

    Us other wizards are quite concerned
    About this silly waste of time
    If we had our wizardly way
    This poppycock would be a crime.

    Wendel, he just sits around all day
    Laughing and having fun
    While us serious wizard-types
    Try to get our work and research done

    He hasn't tried to cast a spell
    In weeks or even months!
    While serious warlocks, like ourselves,
    Are scraping up moth-wing dust or fairy dung.

    We banished poor old Wendel
    His mind was a broken thing
    We stroke our beards in somber thought
    And never laugh or sing.

    We sit alone in our towers of gloom
    Working to our wizardly ends
    While Wendel laughs and dances and sings
    With all his strange new friends.



    I know I've posted a few of these before, a very long time ago, and I've left out some of the more personal and darker stuff I've written just cuz, you know, I don't wanna be a bummer.

    DisruptedCapitalistrRootagea
  • QuothQuoth the Raven Miami, FL FOR REALRegistered User regular
    I'm wrestling with this thing right now. Not sure if it needs more form or less.

  • Metzger MeisterMetzger Meister Registered User regular
    I like that a lot, Quoth!

    Also, I've been thinking a bit. It seems to me that really over-analyzing your own poetry is very self-defeating and rather misses the point, at least in my opinion.

    Poetry, to me, is one of the most organically emotional and heartfelt ways of expressing oneself. And when you commit those words to paper (or a doc file or whatever, as it may be,) that first draft is essentially a distillation of the thoughts and emotions that you were feeling at the time.

    Maybe it's simply my inherent laziness coming out, but I feel as if revision almost lessens the meaning of a poem. For the author, anyway, and again, this is more specific to me.


    Also thanks for posting @Quoth ilu <3

    Quoth
  • QuothQuoth the Raven Miami, FL FOR REALRegistered User regular
    The first draft definitely has to be you working through your ideas and emotions and getting it all down, I agree. And it's okay to stop there if that's what you want to do. For me, the next drafts are about looking at what I was thinking and feeling and trying to tease out the theme better, sharpen the images, use the best words I can.

    Metzger Meister
  • credeikicredeiki Registered User regular
    Quoth wrote: »
    I'm wrestling with this thing right now. Not sure if it needs more form or less.

    Ok, my understanding of this poem is:

    --stanza 1-4 describes fairytale heroines (/disney princesses)
    --stanza 4-8 describes acts of rebellion by the fairytale heroines/against the concept of fairytale heroines

    --it is narrated by the women
    --it is addressed to a man/men
    --it plays with the modern concept of 'not like other girls' which fits well with most people's concepts of these fairy tales
    --it's written in very plain, colloquial, low-syllable-count words

    Thoughts:

    Stanza 2 feels off somehow. Either it's unnecessary or maybe I just really don't like the sentence 'strangers can't help but want to help us' which I am only parsing correctly now as I type it out even though I read the poem a couple of times.

    I don't know how I feel about two stanzas ending with two lines with similar endings (help us/test us other girls/other girls) but the rest of them not doing that at all. I think I don't like it; that sort of structure should feel more deliberate, either part of the whole poem or for special emphasis.

    I don't know what Stanza 4 refers to; I assume it's a fairy tale I don't know?

    Stanza 5 has its own structure. Again, why does it have this structure and no other stanza does?

    I like Stanza 6 the best because the language and imagery are vivid.

    Overall, the plain language makes me not want to read the poem as much, not without something else drawing me, like maybe interesting structure.

    Steam, LoL: credeiki
    3DS FC: 1134-8436-4363
  • QuothQuoth the Raven Miami, FL FOR REALRegistered User regular
    Thanks so much! I'm going to tinker with it both ways--free verse with stronger imagery and some kind of form that relies on repetition. Make it consistent one way or the other and see which works.

  • viegasnviegasn Writer, journalist, gamer Santa Maria, Açores, PortugalRegistered User regular
    I've been mostly writing in Portuguese lately, and I must say I write better poetry that way, but here's the last couple of thing I've done in English.
    Omnia ego sum

    I, once, stood upon a pillar of flame.
    Beneath me, travelers heralded tales of fame.
    Above me, gods played deadly games.
    Within me, demons crafted mighty frames.
    On which to store their claims,
    to the hidden names,
    at which they took aim.

    To me, one day came
    a, scarlet and silver, dame.
    Who, from a hig cloud, proclaims
    "He, who such calidity overcame.
    That wishes to bring no shame,
    to the light he became.
    Shall no man maim!"

    And, in blatant defiance,
    I perversely declaim
    "How can you acclaim
    those who built the same,
    as the ones that before came?
    Since, they deserve no fame.
    Wish for no name.
    And feel no shame."

    As her podium inflamed,
    The elegant spectre exclaimed
    "You are to blame!
    For too long have you claimed.
    To holy writtings set aflame
    and raging fires have tamed!"

    With that, I, proudfully, became
    The God of the con game.
    The bearer of false names.
    The slayer of grande dames.

    As the ghost of fog fell,
    I mightly proclaimed
    "Omnis, I am named!"
    For I am water and flame.
    Heaven and hell.
    The dark, where monsters dwell.
    The light, where angels swell.
    Never chained,
    nor slightly constrained!
    For are they not all truly the same?

    And
    The White Castle

    Upon an aerial mountain.
    An alpine man once built,
    an august fountain.
    Possessing a marvelous gilt.

    In the eye, an effigy stands.
    Bellowing an eager shake-hands
    on the robust hilt,
    of a blade, deprived of guilt.

    With dark eyes, he scans.
    Even before revealing his banns,
    he, perpetually, bans
    the tall man, from his own lands.

    Across a pedestal, rebuilt.
    Siberian drafts whirl.
    Taking, from the fountain's curl,
    the wide stone stilts,
    of the figure gaining tilt.

    Nostalgically laying on golden slabs.
    Drowning under heavy flags.
    Following a steady lilt,
    into soft beds of silt.

    Against herculean jaws, lay
    slim blades, full of shame.
    Across their guard they weigh:
    "Do not pry for my name"
    Deep on their hilt they pray:
    "For Death you may not tame"

    Toe and thumb they slay.
    Gaining deadly fame
    as they maim and prey
    the child Lords. Who disclaim
    the laughter, of child's play.

    Comic-book writer, occasional poet.
    Writer for Pushstart Magazine.
    Metzger Meister
  • Metzger MeisterMetzger Meister Registered User regular
    Nice, excellent poems bruh. I like how they feel kind of old-school if that makes any sense.

  • viegasnviegasn Writer, journalist, gamer Santa Maria, Açores, PortugalRegistered User regular
    I think I get your meaning, they are heavily influenced by more classical poetry, lyrical storytelling like Homer's Odyssey or Camões' Lusíadas.

    Comic-book writer, occasional poet.
    Writer for Pushstart Magazine.
  • DissentDissent Mr. Fancy Pants Flavour CountryRegistered User regular
    viegasn wrote: »
    I've been mostly writing in Portuguese lately, and I must say I write better poetry that way, but here's the last couple of thing I've done in English.
    The White Castle
    With dark eyes, he scans.
    Even before revealing his banns,
    he, perpetually, bans
    the tall man, from his own lands.

    Against herculean jaws, lay
    slim blades, full of shame.
    Across their guard they weigh:
    "Do not pry for my name"
    Deep on their hilt they pray:
    "For Death you may not tame"

    Toe and thumb they slay.
    Gaining deadly fame
    as they maim and prey
    the child Lords. Who disclaim
    the laughter, of child's play.
    Try adding more variation to your rhyme scheme if you're doing metered/form works. Too much steady repetition of sound or meter pattern and you risk having the reader disengage midway through.

  • DissentDissent Mr. Fancy Pants Flavour CountryRegistered User regular
    Might as well. Let's get weird with it.
    All Together Now
    Because I'm hungry-
    dazed, I order
    #28 off the menu
    at Emily Dickinson's
    Golden Wok Palace and
    finally get what I deserve.

    Taste:
    Strange-surreal,
    flowery with hints
    of unknown
    kill.

    Do people survive
    this meal?


    Full,
    I throw up
    the mystery
    pieces and keep
    the needed:

    Command-oration.
    Spontaneous-combustion.
    Coalescence.

    What dreams may be made real
    by human suffering?


    Dog whistles.
    Capitalist regimes.
    Comrades get no relief.

    9-5 bleeding.
    Night shifts.
    Death rattles.

    This air's too thick
    to breath.


    Currency screed.
    The Bodies Politik.

    Desperation: the globe was
    spun before creation.

    Black-White.
    Success-Failure.
    Absolute: At all times

    the stars
    and God
    must shine
    at night
    to hide
    the sheen
    of hovering mother-
    drones directed
    to write obits
    from orbit.

    The end.
    The End.

    What's that?
    I say to a friend, proving
    with eyes closed, I can
    still respond
    with sound.

    Metzger Meister
  • viegasnviegasn Writer, journalist, gamer Santa Maria, Açores, PortugalRegistered User regular
    I admit, that is some extreme progressive alternative work, well beyond my style.

    Comic-book writer, occasional poet.
    Writer for Pushstart Magazine.
  • DissentDissent Mr. Fancy Pants Flavour CountryRegistered User regular
    viegasn wrote: »
    I admit, that is some extreme progressive alternative work, well beyond my style.

    In perspective, maybe. Not in form. Extreme would be shaping a poem based on fractals, or restricting oneself to found words based on bible numerology. In free verse, you punctuate and line break for sound. That poem was originally subtitled Mushrooms in Public, so its lines are short in order to mimic a sort of breathless, desperate freakout as the narrator thinks about all the terrible things happening in the world at once.

    Metzger Meister
  • Metzger MeisterMetzger Meister Registered User regular
    Fuckin drug poems HELL YES

  • DissentDissent Mr. Fancy Pants Flavour CountryRegistered User regular
    edited December 2015
    Fuckin drug poems HELL YES
    lol...INCOMING:
    qmotd9ze6zx6.jpg
    can't really do drop lines/indents on the forums. That is poopy.

    Dissent on
    Metzger MeisterRonin356
  • viegasnviegasn Writer, journalist, gamer Santa Maria, Açores, PortugalRegistered User regular
    Dissent wrote: »
    viegasn wrote: »
    I admit, that is some extreme progressive alternative work, well beyond my style.

    In perspective, maybe. Not in form. Extreme would be shaping a poem based on fractals, or restricting oneself to found words based on bible numerology. In free verse, you punctuate and line break for sound. That poem was originally subtitled Mushrooms in Public, so its lines are short in order to mimic a sort of breathless, desperate freakout as the narrator thinks about all the terrible things happening in the world at once.

    Definitely in perspective. I work a lot in unstructured free verse for my recent work in Portuguese (as in, 500 words of free verse per poem, in average), so that doesn't scare me. The theme and writing style, however, defy my conventions to an unexpected level.

    Comic-book writer, occasional poet.
    Writer for Pushstart Magazine.
  • Metzger MeisterMetzger Meister Registered User regular
    Ey yo I been writing a bit lately.

    Untitled
    My heart has been shattered
    It will not be mended
    The sun has blinked out
    The summer has ended
    This wearisome burden
    Like a purchaseless stone
    Will crash down upon me
    It will pulverize bone
    Grinding, sliding, slipping
    Ever downslope
    A smothering sadness
    That obliterates hope

    I have a couple other new ones but they're super work in progress and probably more suited to song lyrics. Which I'm realizing is kinda how a lot of my poetry is, actually. You spend a pretty good chunk of your adult life in a band and that'll happen I guess!

  • JuggernutJuggernut South CurrrrlinaRegistered User regular
    edited November 2016
    So I've never really written poetry before but I've been reading some and jotted this thing down on my phone during work one night and I've kinda been noodling on it off and on when I get the chance.
    No man is an Island
    Yet here I am
    Looking out over jagged shores
    In all directions the horizon and broken ships
    Mouldering in the shallows
    Their masts thrown down and their hulls split
    The wind moves through them and they moan
    They speak in an old tongue
    And I cannot speak it
    Though I know it well

    I move in between their skeletons
    With the lapping sea about my ankles
    And send out empty bottles on iron waves
    Watch them bob and spin
    Out into the expanse pulled by current
    I hope to some fairer land
    Where someone will read the nothing inside
    I burned the paper long ago
    Not for warmth but to entertain my eyes
    I drank the ashes with the salt water
    And reveled in the madness it brought
    I spoke with the things in the deep waters
    I spoke and they listened and knew
    And I gave myself to them and denied the land
    I summoned up a squall with my heresies
    Dancing on broken shells and rock in defiance
    Cutting my feet and cursing the thunder heads
    As the swelled and rushed against me
    In my ecstasy I rushed out
    Waded into the surf to meet them
    Waded up to my mouth
    Sucked in the brine and sputtered
    But I could go no further
    I felt the spray in my eyes and it burned
    And below the unknown things circled me
    Cold and slipery they brushed against me
    Nudged and pulled and bit and scraped
    Urging me onward
    But I went limp and let the tide push me back
    I rolled ashore and sank in the sand and slept
    It washed away under my weight
    And widened my imprint
    The wind moved through the broken ships
    And they moaned but I did not answer
    The storm above raged on and away
    The bottles returned
    Brought back by the current
    More empty than when they left
    No man is an island
    Yet here I am

    I kinda want to maybe put it to some art? Like, sort of an illustrated comic poem? The only thing is, how do you write poetry and then look at it after you're done and not feel like it was written by a 6 year old?

    Juggernut on
    Metzger Meister
  • Metzger MeisterMetzger Meister Registered User regular
    I haven't figured that out yet myself.

  • LilnoobsLilnoobs Alpha Queue Registered User regular
    So, I'm getting back into the publishing world of poetry. Got these two little snippets published at a small e-journal. I like the journal, and the editors include an audio file of the poet reading his or her work with every poem.

    What do you think? They're centered around bugs. Leeches and Crickets, to be exact.

    http://concis.io/issues/spring-2017/lyons-leeches/

    http://concis.io/issues/spring-2017/lyons-crickets/

    Metzger Meister
  • Metzger MeisterMetzger Meister Registered User regular
    edited January 21
    I love em! :D

    The leech one is particularly evocative. Something about the word flacid just tickles my fancy to no end.

    Metzger Meister on
    Lilnoobs
  • laservisioncatlaservisioncat Registered User regular
    hey, I've been meaning to get back into writing bad poetry for a while. I've never been good at distilling a feeling into one moment and wanted to give it a shot.
    these were supposed to be seedless
    he thought
    when the tangerine-orange rind of the clementine
    peeled off and he separated a few
    bit effortlessly into vulnerable flesh
    sweet, all natural gmo free
    bit into a seed?

    there was still juice and it still smelled sweet
    But-

    There she is with him
    With them
    and they ask if
    he'd
    like to come a long
    too

    he added him self to the group chat
    you know

  • NoedigNoedig BlindCleric on Twitch Registered User regular
    edited March 9
    Wrote some road poetry. Putting it here for summary vivisection.

    'What's it like?'

    It's like...
    A rick-e-ty ride down the ridges of Ever-rest
    on a crap K-Mart bicycle, rocks ripping passed,
    hands warped with rigor mortis, holding handle-bars
    with a white-knuckled grip!

    It's like...
    Assailing scouring solar winds
    of stars like Rigel
    in a second-hand hang-glider,
    riding scorching thermals
    hands seared to the metal
    in a white-knuckled grip!

    It's like...
    Ca-coph-o-nous cries of crazed lovers
    caterwauling and waking elderly neighbors,
    as they crawl and claw and climb their way
    to catharsis, crushing the bedposts
    in a white-knuckled grip!

    It's like...
    Look, it's weird, okay?

    Noedig on
    Metzger Meister
  • Metzger MeisterMetzger Meister Registered User regular
    Untitled

    A hundred million fearful faces
    Only clean spot is the teardrop traces
    Filthy coal-dust crusted cheeks
    Haven't seen a decent meal in weeks
    Can't fall if you've never been in good graces
    The smell at the bottom of the trash-heap reeks

    Big bright dentist-white smiling teeth
    A pocket full of power that beggars belief
    Trickle-down ignorance, keep the slaves on the chain
    Til only the sobbing of their spirits remains
    Tiny little voices crying out for relief
    But we can't raise a fist so this shit stays the same

    Tusks tucked tight behind slaughterhouse glass
    Fire on the crowd, that'll scatter em fast
    The kettle's heating up and the boil starts to roll
    The voice of the unheard growing out of control
    The fact that you're right won't cut through the gas
    Or help you not catch brass-jacket freedom to the skull

    Freedom only comes when the powerful run
    Whether from the gun or the light of the sun
    Watch em scatter like roaches wearing three-piece suits
    When the people load the cannons of our voices and shoot
    High and mighty brought down back to level one
    People starving in the street sink their teeth in the fruit

  • FuselageFuselage Bantha Three ValhallaRegistered User regular
    The other day I was inspired to write a bad sonnet on a postcard and mail it to a woman. So I did. This is my bad sonnet, but it's effort that counts.

    Metzger Meister
  • Metzger MeisterMetzger Meister Registered User regular
    edited April 19
    I actually was inspired to write a sonnet recently, probably by your post now that I think about it. I liked it a lot, and I'd never written a sonnet before, and I wanted to try and challenge myself to have it be very good technically, as far as to how a "traditional" sonnet would be, and while it was an interesting exercise it sure was tough! Also the person I wrote it for loves it so much they're going to have it printed on canvas and framed, so there's that I suppose.


    Sonnet #1
    Anthony C Leander

    My love is not alike to a songbird
    Frivolous, flighty, foolishly flitting.
    She is more than this, her beauty stronger.
    An eagle, a raven is more fitting.
    There is a fierceness to her quiet strength,
    A canny, subtle beauty about her.
    Her looks I could expound upon at length
    But her cleverness is what truly stirs
    The fires of my tumultuous soul.
    Like a raven, her beauty is darkness
    Without her wit, my day is made less whole,
    Her absence renders me cold and heartless.
    My love’s wit shines, yet more does her smile
    Her elegance outmatched by her guile.

    Metzger Meister on
    GoatmonFuselage
  • GoatmonGoatmon I can't stop. This is all I have left.Registered User regular
    And now, forumers,
    I will share haiku with you.
    With that, we begin.
    What do the stars say
    when they see us gaze at them?
    I bet they feel weird.
    Minding their business;
    Suddenly, out of nowhere,
    tiny prying eyes.
    Must be strange for stars;
    being so vast, so long lived,
    but no privacy.
    Marvel wants Hulk film
    But Universal says no
    HULK WILL SMASH COMCAST!
    Just to let you know;
    Comcast owns that studio,
    so I went with that.
    Ah, Dishonored 2;
    you seem like such fun to play.
    Too bad my comp sucks.
    You ever wonder
    just how many corks would fit
    into Trump's butthole?
    He doesn't seem loose.
    I bet it's a small number.
    Maybe 1 or 2.
    He'd probably say
    "My butt holds SO MANY CORKS"
    "Just ask anyone."
    CNN would say
    "This claim has no evidence."
    Trump's retort: "FAKE NEWS"
    Saw Power Rangers!
    Better than I expected!
    Rita: great villain.
    Cranston was there, too.
    Kinda weird to hear his voice
    from a talking wall.

    C9yxlJQU0AAD83e.jpg

    Dear lord almighty
    I can't wait for Ragnarok.
    It's a half-Hulk film!
    All y'all might not know...
    It's like this; Me and the Hulk?
    We are like THIS, son!
    These haiku highlight
    my lousy attention span
    and outstanding taste.

    Metzger MeisterShadowenFuselage
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