My Latest Poem :)

[dyingflame]

Hi guys :) I posted here because I think it's the only serious place where I can get honest critical comments :) thanks, and enjoy. don't hesitate to tell me it sucks :crash:

Permission for a Floral Tribute

Sharply, the sound of hounded teeth drooled shrapnel-
silently signed the dust; spoiling all moot-soil crops:
Missed-hit their grinning targets, thawed and flayed at marks
that sagged ‘neath the corrugated sizzling, brownish boring sparks.

Mercy-actors chanted in drunken unity-
Raw banners of new regimes marched sober clarity
Only canine ears saw tears, heard the shrieks
Of ex-mothers licking saltless cheek-lips.
And form-lumps of flesh
Cringed to swarthy skirts that cleaned the “streets.”

Smiling, they let their offspring strew cheap flowers along tracks-

Sour scarlet poppies streamed along slowly,
tolled by toneless singing, borne on by old songs
that rained a single harmonious rant.

In imagined snow, earth’s sprung present
streamed unsightly shallow sick-mud, overflowed,
son‘s blood aloof- amassed in source to mould all
sweet constrict tightness, congealed in sudden sullen gain.

Pain was not the noise of screams,
Nor the looming flays of falling beams.
Beyond that void, a cast was set, wounds crested
afore an old noon’s death
in downpour doused, in moist grey dirt,

all mist and glory sweat.

The crimson bloomed, bridging drainage-greens
within the hasty murk of that mosque ringed loving air.
Send papers, or prayers or the useless old flowers.

With a praise they’re sent, risen, unbidden- a silent chanting vision,

a ghostly wail

Without a tear-

sure as the sand unflinching,

ever-near.

[LauraJayne]

Wow :]

I wish I could say something more intelligent, or analytical.
But, wow. This is amazing :]

x

[Triskele]

far be it from me to tell you that it sucks, it is an excellent worded piece of literature and beyond that it is intense, whirling round and round in a violent (almost a social commentary on the inherant violence in our society, i dunno, thats what i get out of it) poem that truly grasps (at least to me) the bestiality of war. however please do publish your original message for this poem, i would love to hear the writers perspective.

[dyingflame]

i will. there's a whole history to it. but first i would like to hear some more comments; specifically i want to know what images managed to strike out best..thanks for the comments btw :)

[dyingflame]

should I go ahead? lol

[seasong]

The images that stuck out most to me were "Drooled shrapnel" "Congealed in sudden sullen gain" and "ex-mothers licking saltless cheek-lips." Especially the drooled shrapnel, it's just such a nontraditional image and incredibly effective.
I love your use of dashes, I think you should consider putting spaces between them and the words on either side, at first I though they were meant to be part of the same word, the spaces would connect the thoughts rather than the words, which I think is what you intended however if you intended the latter it is quite effective.
Good job! It's an amazing poem.

[dyingflame]

hey seasong- thanks a lot :) I'm sorry i don't participate actively in this forum- im quite busy with my a levels exams coming up in 86 days from now hehe! anyway. my dashes often seek to connect words especially if they're in the middle of a verse: for example moot-soil, I want that to be read as one word and yet not be a single word. The implication is that the soil is dead; to attempt to grow anything anything on it would be moot.
I have a confession to make. this is actually the seventh draft of this poem; it's the first time I have changed a poem so much. The third draft, for example, was entirely owenesque in style, with fast rhtymn and many pararhymes. In the end, however, I managed to find my own style back.
The most powerful image i wanted to convey, btw, is grief as result of a senseless war: a grief so huge in scope and magnitude, the pain is unimaginable- even for the mothers themselves, it is inexpressible; they can't even scream or cry anymore; they're tired. It all started from me reading an article where a journalist described dozens of poppies floating down a river. I used that image and edited a bit; applied it to modern warfare in the east as seen from here in the west, though I've never been there, downgraded the river to a dirty stream, and questioned its implications- did these orphans and ex mothers have to ask permission to even attempt such a miserable attempt to honour the fallen ones? It is essentially the result of how the journalism of that war and its consequences affected me. In fact the original one started out as questioning even the media representations themselves, to give you an idea, this poem was first entitled "Western Microphones in the East" and later "Plotting for Pulitzer?" However that idea was scrapped in favour of implying the persona speaking in the poem is present, watching this ceremony with the detachment he needs to have unless he wants to lose his mind entirely. Of course this last bit is too subtle for the casual reader to catch, but it was definately in my mind.
That's all I think lol. I refrained from mentioning the country all this is taking place on purpose- I'll let the readers form their own ideas

[dyingflame]

I haven't anything anything plausible yet and this poem was completed two weeks ago; should I be worried? And about the drooled shrapnel- its part of the canine imagery which I wanted to convey- at first in fact this was an attack on the west and represented it as an angry dog. Much of these images have been toned down to reflect the changing ideas that led me to this final product, but I loved drooled shrapnel and loved how "not even canine ears saw tears"

[seasong]

I'm confused. What is it you should be worried about? What isn't plausible?

[dyingflame]

LOL sry I wasn't clear- wasn't talking about this poem at all. I was rambling about my factual concern of having a writer block; I said I haven't been able to write anything else which I like immediately since I wrote this poem. Anyway, hope I gave you some insight on "floral tribute"

[seasong]

Yes, that did help quite a bit. Don't worry about writers block. Just keep writing, keep a journal, write down ideas or just experiences and things have a way of formulating in your mind.

[dyingflame]

i've been writing seriously for over a year now so I know my worrying is irrational and unjustified but I can't help it though.
Thanks seasong, any other comments are welcome. :)

[dyingflame]

“Within weakly conflicting wind and rain
those shrine-shackled transcended pain,
For all ports were barred.
A sickly sweet sight-
I’m deaf, I’m mute, and I’m poorly blind;
My experience of the world reduced to night.
Help my sorrow- catch my blade
Hark my wisdom, as my life shall fade.”
Anon

Vacuum Within

Evening fell at dusk that day and saddened air with stretchered blanks.

The door slid open.
Impulses fell.
The wires tangled around hedged-metaphors uncaught by inexperienced genius.

Fear broadcasting itself trembled
Within the parodied safety of everlasting peace, stories born and articles lost.

Sensibility shattered.
Thundered-torn the trees.

Boys becoming bald in days put sheep wool on torn-off heads
to think warmly of Jim close to home worried about exam fees.



prose elements cropping up in my work? that's something weird I never expected lol

[dyingflame]

Fishermen’s Net

On coarse hands we slither our salt to keep fish fresh:
Straight out of net, of course m’am. These jolly blighters
One kick-off ago still choked on air.

Each grain of sand we counted and got to know like
Our spine burnt maps. Dear, those silver-studded
Bits of cloth were dyed before my birth.

In grateful slurs the broken arms race and arch in ceaseless
Bending pauses. Poised, for ever, in nights gleaming ardent
slayings that were never stifled down in breasts:

The sigh of small square caps rushed round “en masse”-
Street corner shrines of canine lords in army trucks-
The shouts and yells of broken “Sir’s” and marching socks-
…wrenched our hearts into the sea to cut down trees.

And yet no ocean ever failed to soothe
The blood-roaring in our mouths-
A single heron set flight to our fires
And prayed our mercy knew forgiveness.

[Logos]

You've got some nice visual images here dyingflame :) .... but what I really wanted to say as a moderator is, thank you so much for posting your poems in one topic!! a lot of people don't do it (http://www.online-literature.com/forums/showthread.php?t=21394) :p
.

[dyingflame]

i read the sticky first :P

[dyingflame]

If you guys have time can you read and comment on at least one of these poems ?



The 22nd Flight of Stairs

I once knew a girl who knew she could fly;
felt sure by all her fantastical delights
that delusion was in itself a mirage
unhindered by hearsay hindsight-
sighted in a sign that warmly welcomed her home.

she felt sure
that to leap blindfolded
surely led to lost flights.

Thus, she ran that unhurried dance
of shimmered veiled sights.

Her voice, oh, I can...still feel it's warm,
absolute texture
on my closed eyes,
and I can still hear it falter briefly
and see her

Pacing closer to the top, and me
unknowing, smiling like sunshine's shield naked.

Then she leapt.
Stonily
tipped in plunges, floated, glided
crashed and gilded
into the depth of shallow waters. Droplets washed the rocks-still
and the caverns withheld
twisted echoes reverberating vital energies that
cringed to damp cloth skin.


The sin undamaged changed,
a precious life forged- regained by
a sickening thud that slackened-rolled-beats
Dragged down tracks of ice-clad mourners.

And I know one now and
Earth-bound hollow carving
with no wings, but tattered flesh
no glamour now, merely a sash-
a senseless weight tied to a broken neck,
a coveted comfort, hidden in a well who's visible end,
is a web of unriddled hastes,
of profound wisdoms,
and acquired misbeliefs.

For the man who never knew them both,
but observed the canonical fluctuation
of several sets of stairs-
is now free.

Though the rise (or fall)
that won't make a difference
still burdens the present-
It holds them not backwards:
Glanced off rings and necklace nectars.


Defused

Hang on- for your sake!
Lunge! The pillars rake-
There, did you not read
The instruction booklet?

The ninth chapter was for us-
Dreaming together- hand in hand
With timers set on sickened end-
a dangerous task indeed.

The seed, planted again- spurted
And blindingly rendered swirls that know
the wall is still unchanged.

Wipe off the purposefully blank stare
a state of advantage to blast air
with your charismatic explosions.

Since I may find myself unravelled in the process;
consumed, lost, bearing down in sleep-
slipping on a world that runs on oil
gazing for an invisible moon that's up for sale.

Public Restroom

Current sizzles. Wheel squeals, hot water, both ways;
he tries to spit, dismally fails,
neon glares
reflects in a craze
paced all-over.
Squints into cracked mirror;
it panes all over.
His hair stands on end, an end to all that's never.

Warmth, unremembered, a shadow outside.
White blur-sign flashes and fades;
spray unseeingly- unrestrained.

Graffitied arts of subculture sound, impression, expression.
Broken chipboard tiles; half-grown teeth-fangs,
needles snuggling deep, in the discarded autumn skins-
stale urine and doles dealt way cheap, heavy gold on black-burned skin.

Take away, walk into the unremembered shadows of the roof-lit maze,
take care to discard the cumbersome cardboard foil- remember that.
Devour and disregard the distant crackle of the roach-king's nest,
crawling up the kingdom within cavernous leviathan stomachs.

Welcome to paradise, the stain that washed away soon returns,
the safety net for family and rest (no alarms are heard in the nest)
roused from sleep, her children crease and slumber,
with the soothing roaring machines as their lullaby thunder.

Yet in the unfound cave of twisted norms,
the stranger paints strange discordant notes:
the accurate nightmare
of a ten-fold masterpiece.

[NDL]

Dying flame
Permission for a Floral Tribute
My only comment
George Cukor: "Give it less, Jack. Give it less."
Jack Lemmon "If I give it any less, I won't be acting at all."
George Cukor. "Now your talking, Jack."

[dyingflame]

translation? i didn't get it :S do you mean..its overdone?

[dyingflame]

War Again...




Don’t Baptize the Sun


I entered the field of dust
unknowingly grinning
an anticipation of boots
but men were strapping harshly
and sweat droplets were filling flasks.

Here the cries faded…called out, echoed
- and I was there standing ground
without knowing what I would find.

I reached the other side unbelieving
loyal still to the end that had brought my days
down to end in a gulf of spent sands.

Wind tree and sun unite to form the world
Of my perfectly blurred vision-
a dream that houses blasts of another life-
Jill’s pregnancy for a misinformed child.

For a little while,
a smile carries me along on
a single eternal moment,
Until everything merges
in one single struggling
image of pink confetti rain.

A deep sense of loss overtakes my memories
rushing along the river of the enemy's friendly
Blood.

Warmth is felt in the wind running
through returning leaves fallen last-
the presents of kind autumn, its breath
resurrects them - their colours green become.

Last night I sinned again in the silence of the noise;
By the flash-defining gunfire I sat once more
ringing my bones with strength filling urge
in a world where no life remains unreal.