And the word is...

[ampoule]

In the wake of that wondreful poem and all it implied, can you doubt what sort of "meeting" it was?!

Oh, how I wish.

[firefangled]

In morning’s last darkness I found you out
on your way home, under the full moon,
through the shroud of misty air. You did not know
it was me, the soft white night that enveloped you,
lying moist against your vibrant skin; it was I,
who could not speak, who drifted lightly to your lips
and gently rested there, then played and sparkled in your hair.
Caught within your motion, for the moment your captive there,
unseen you carried me inside your house, and I watched you
take petal from petal of clothing and could say nothing,
and could no longer touch you, could give no sign of love
you would see, but for one small tear, unnoticed on a chair.

Later, as you slept, I moved, silently, a thief enthralled,
through your room, feeling the residual warmth of your
clothing, touching what you hold dear, cherishing
each precious item as do you, becoming for the moment
the enveloped, letting you surround me as I had you.
For hours, hovering above the floor, so close with the fragrance
you had worn, like light against the morning breeze, I danced.
And then, glorious moment, I lie beside you sleeping there
and by your heat lost all form as I melded into you...
and slept as you slept, and breathed as you breathed,
and in the fading darkness, became the fabric of your dreams

[Adolescent09]

Man.. that's so wonderful. What brilliant imagery.

[PrinceMyshkin]

In morning’s last darkness I found you out
on your way home, under the full moon,
through the shroud of misty air. You did not know
it was me, the soft white night that enveloped you,
lying moist against your vibrant skin; it was I,
who could not speak, who drifted lightly to your lips
and gently rested there, then played and sparkled in your hair.
Caught within your motion, for the moment your captive there,
unseen you carried me inside your house, and I watched you
take petal from petal of clothing and could say nothing,
and could no longer touch you, could give no sign of love
you would see, but for one small tear, unnoticed on a chair.

Later, as you slept, I moved, silently, a thief enthralled,
through your room, feeling the residual warmth of your
clothing, touching what you hold dear, cherishing
each precious item as do you, becoming for the moment
the enveloped, letting you surround me as I had you.
For hours, hovering above the floor, so close with the fragrance
you had worn, like light against the morning breeze, I danced.
And then, glorious moment, I lie beside you sleeping there
and by your heat lost all form as I melded into you...
and slept as you slept, and breathed as you breathed,
and in the fading darkness, became the fabric of your dreams

But compared with the fever pitch you must achieve when writing such extraordinary poems, how do you tolerate the in-between times? Do you go and set off small tactical nuclear weapons in your back-yard?

You ARE sending these around for publication, aren't you? Or they've been published aready?

[symphony]

In morning’s last darkness I found you out
on your way home, under the full moon,
through the shroud of misty air. You did not know
it was me, the soft white night that enveloped you,
lying moist against your vibrant skin; it was I,
who could not speak, who drifted lightly to your lips
and gently rested there, then played and sparkled in your hair.
Caught within your motion, for the moment your captive there,
unseen you carried me inside your house, and I watched you
take petal from petal of clothing and could say nothing,
and could no longer touch you, could give no sign of love
you would see, but for one small tear, unnoticed on a chair.

Later, as you slept, I moved, silently, a thief enthralled,
through your room, feeling the residual warmth of your
clothing, touching what you hold dear, cherishing
each precious item as do you, becoming for the moment
the enveloped, letting you surround me as I had you.
For hours, hovering above the floor, so close with the fragrance
you had worn, like light against the morning breeze, I danced.
And then, glorious moment, I lie beside you sleeping there
and by your heat lost all form as I melded into you...
and slept as you slept, and breathed as you breathed,
and in the fading darkness, became the fabric of your dreams

Oh my!

[Adolescent09]

My Fog: The Moral Cleaner

I sat by droplets licking the light of a sunset's glean;
It dubiously trickled, then quickly took form,
On my shoulder's, in the guise of compassion it waned my forlorn,
And just like a friend on whose shoulder you lean,
When adversity is the visage of all that you've seen,
It seeped out my woe in the form of an evil conformed,
and hurled it in the crest of a volatile storm.

My heart was set free in a verdurous green,
My sockets of fog-lifted pupils now showed,
Life in creatures and redolence for what it was,
the last frost on the end of a dead tree bow,
a silver-limped collection of mushroom villa-fuzz
the rebirth of green from a seed moist sowed,
and a pollen adhered bee irradiating every petal with its buzz
while I sat by droplets licking the light of a sunset's glean

[Adolescent09]

Ech! I give up! I suck!

[PrinceMyshkin]

Ech! I give up! I suck!

I don't think you suck but I do think you're making a BIG mistake by using language that belongs to another age and mode of thinking. In general it's probably best tostay away from that self conscious state of thinking I'm writing OH MY GOD poetry!!!

"Say it simple, forget your Dixie grammar." Jack Teagarden

[Adolescent09]

Yes, you're right. I'm sorry. Is the vocabulary in my poetry really difficult? I might have been oblivious to that..

[firefangled]

But compared with the fever pitch you must achieve when writing such extraordinary poems, how do you tolerate the in-between times? Do you go and set off small tactical nuclear weapons in your back-yard?

You ARE sending these around for publication, aren't you? Or they've been published aready?

I have to say with all sincerity that I appreciate very much the responses from everyone here for what I write. The feeling is equally mutual.

I have never really published anything but 2 poems that were in a couple start up magazines, one in NC and one in NH. I mostly do this for enjoyment. I write software documentation all day and although I enjoy that in a different way, it very unemotional as you might imagine. Poetry is a great outlet and keeps me in touch.

[Adolescent09]

Can someone tell me what's wrong with this poem or how I could improve?

My Fog: The Moral Cleaner

I sat by droplets licking the light of a sunset's glean;
It dubiously trickled, then quickly took form,
On my shoulder's, in the guise of compassion it waned my forlorn,
And just like a friend on whose shoulder you lean,
When adversity is the visage of all that you've seen,
It seeped out my woe in the form of an evil conformed,
and hurled it in the crest of a volatile storm.

My heart was set free in a verdurous green,
My sockets of fog-lifted pupils now showed,
Life in creatures and redolence for what it was,
the last frost on the end of a dead tree bow,
a silver-limped collection of mushroom villa-fuzz
the rebirth of green from a seed moist sowed,
and a pollen adhered bee irradiating every petal with its buzz
while I sat by droplets licking the light of a sunset's glean

It's my first real Sonnet (I think).

[firefangled]

Yes, you're right. I'm sorry. Is the vocabulary in my poetry really difficult? I might have been oblivious to that..

Prince is so right about using the language of another age.

I think that happens because we are forced to study the classics in school and only the best teachers bother to tell you why or bother to encourage students to write from your own time and heart.

The classics of literature are to illustrate a lineage of form and style, an evolution of language. On your own read Billy Collins, Sharon Olds, Mark Strand, Ann Sexton. Try to find poems that sound like you talk, that are about things you know about. These will help you find your own voice and you do have one like no one else.

[Adolescent09]

The French 'lai'

The stalwart chief came,
to guard the king's fame,
for he,
was a pompus stout,
with a case of gout,
and a
flee infested cat,
which tore his cravat,
with greed

[PrinceMyshkin]

Can someone tell me what's wrong with this poem or how I could improve?



It's my first real Sonnet (I think).

My hope is that no one will try to tell how you might improve any more than they should try to tell you how to be more like yourself or a better version of yourself.

READ! READ! READ! More contemporary stuff... the poets Firefangled suggested or pick up an anthology of 20th c. poetry that catches your eye and BROWSE through it. Do not consciously try to copy anyone else's style, but the things that are right for you will sink in more or less on their own.


By all means hope for and appreciate those who like what you produce BUT TRY TO BE YOUR OWN BEST AUDIENCE. Don't try to BE a poet - write poetry!

[Adolescent09]

You've got a point. I've been reading far too much of John Milton's Paradise Lost (this is my second time reading the unabridged epic) and Geoffrey Chaucer's The Canterbary Tales.

I've read absolutely nothing in contemporary poetry so I may fathom why my style of writing appears to be so pretentiously quaint. Thanks for your thoughts, Myshkin. (I would have called you Prince but that would make me look obsequious )

As for reading... I do that.. A LOT (but no, not contemporary literature, so you make a point there as well).

I actually like and appreciate a lot of my poetry. But it tends to get ignored so I'm stuck with the presentiment that my fellow audience of Lit-net forumgoers don't share my respect for my work. Well... I'll try HARDER! Let me just get out of this bum stage (or writer's block).