Post your Poems and Get Reviews!

[Adolescent09]

This might sound a bit strange and this thread might die very quickly as most of my threads do but I am currently in the mood to rate/judge/review poems submitted in this category by all the poets of litnet. Although my reviews might be too self biased to be considered beneficial it can help me to become a better writer/reviewer. And it wouldn't hurt anybody else to get your poetry some attention right!? More than half the poems in this category are recieved with zero replies and I would like to see if I can make just a small difference in this even if it isn't significant and this topic falls onto page 10 in a few days after recieving 400 hits and not one reply.

That's perfectly fine with me! If you post a poem in this thread... it will be reviewed whether you like it or not :D! Heck, if you post anything in this thread I'll reply.

So come post your poetry and get some reviews!

[Adolescent09]

I'll post some of my own poems and review them myself if I haveto in order to keep this topic alive :D. (Yeah, I know it sounds pathetic but you'd be surprised how dogged I am at times) Have a great day everyone.

[Il Penseroso]

Here's something I started but pretty much lost interest in when I realized it wasn't going anywhere. Comments would be appreciated, to see if it might be salvaged.


In sunshine swells of imagination
curtains transfigure their pattern
on crumbling walls, the suffusion
of a dream.
Captured filaments sparkle by
rays of an opulent priority,
the scene grows heavy with luster.
Each wall sags in opalescence,
ruffled light seeps through draped wings
masking the room in pigment,
grey turns to a chromatic gloss,
points of light linger their dazzled
diligence in shimmering waves.

[ktd222]

Here's something I started but pretty much lost interest in when I realized it wasn't going anywhere. Comments would be appreciated, to see if it might be salvaged.

It's going, Il Penseroso. I think you're at the point where reality ceases and imagination is given existence. Really...it's up to you whether you want to crossover and fully immerse yourself in this world of Imagination.

[the silent x]

i'll give you three to comment on adolescent 09, anybody else can reply if they want,

The Living Ghost

All alone in a crowded room,
Isolated by all
Accepting his doom
Multiple acquaintances, short and tall
Look through him like at a ghost
Look through him at the wall
Invisible in everyday apparel

Refrain

And every Friday night,
He dresses black with a mask of night
And as his gloved fingers dance
Over guitar strings
His sounds piercing like a lance
He screams his hate and rage
Through the speakers to the cheering throng
And now he realizes
He is still not seen

During the intermission
He undergoes fission
The lead singer stays in back,
While the person behind the mask
Goes about a personal task
Slipping silently through the crowd
He knew he still had his invisibility shroud

Refrain

And every Friday night,
He dresses black with a mask of night
And as his gloved fingers dance
Over guitar strings
His sounds piercing like a lance
He screams his hate and rage
Through the speakers to the cheering throng
And now he realizes
He is still not seen

He dons his face for the last time,
Hiding his mask under it
Upon leaving the stage his body collapses
With a flutter of falling clothing
His face and gloves fall away
Revealing nothing
Nothing to cast the slightest shadow


The Unbridled Flood of Power
I want strength
I want fire to blossom in my hand
I want power
To turn my enemies to sand
I want ferocity
To instill fear, in those so weak to cause fear in me
I want invincibility
To bring out the best in me
I want knowledge
To keep many forces at bay
I want stealth
To assassinate my foes while they’re unwittingly
Playing into my hand


Because I am bound by unseen chains,
twisting and tightening their grip around me
they all seek to control me,
why is their beast of burden me?
All I know right now is,
They fear me,
with all sincerity
they hate me
they hate me
and they want me to die
but let me tell you what
I’m am up here standing on this stage,
Tearing apart these chains with my strength
Burning them with my power
Drowning them as the tidal waters flow
With my phrases and metaphors so
Suffocating them in their own literal inadequacy
Speedily releasing my power into them
that they might know how dangerous my weapons of war have become,
burying them under any sort of literature possible.
Undying,
Much knowing,
Forcing them forward their fear showing,
Because there is a monster inside me,
he is hibernating,
waiting
watching as I grow
that one day my words will throw
the world into a state of passion
like a classical song
rising,
thrashing,
pulling those from their seats that may be able to see colors unseen
think in thoughts flowing through time that are too complex to be thought
speak in tongues undying, yet still gone
hear more than music,
apply their full energy potential into that one part
just before the crescendo
when feelings run strong,
swords, guns, and stones lie useless
as the roaring tumult of undying power washes over them
as if they would use all of their last energy to show what they hear
to let the world feel their undaunted power
so that the world will want what it cannot have
to put everything they own into that last crescendo
to hear
to see
to feel the music


Like an eagle in the sky,
I will fly above the rain,
I will fly to you so high,
Though resisted by my chains.

You my father and my king
You my brother all the same,
You released me now I’ll bring,
Light brought by my fire and flame.

To the owl goes the night,
Royal swans, the lakeshore buy,
Eagle, woodland, his noble right,
For my realm, I choose the sky.

I give life through my great light,
And I cause little one’s fun,
At each day and after night,
I assure, I am the sun

[maimed_observer]

I

the neighborhood children, through knitted paws
squeal, shriek, and scream their playful calls
as their voluminous silhouettes cascade upon
the ivy-covered, fissure-riddled walls

icy fingers, concealing eyes of a mind
that ponders peeking, but then decides
against when visions of gifts under tree
present the pleasant memories of sweet surprise

cleverly hidden beneath an old canoe
an older boy has tips on girls for sale
despite the dusk and cold cheeks flushed
the younger cannot keep concealed a blush

wet, rhythmic smacks of shoes on grass
the dry, quick breaths of the pursued
"tag, you're it" a muffled giggle, the snap of a stick
such are the sounds of youth on the move

II

brusque flashes from a television screen
irradiate a couched woman under heavy shawl
while mute upon the floor with a sportive magazine
lays a remote man in lackadaisical sprawl

wet lips hover over another, frozen for a moment
as the thoughts of family linger then leave
with but a quiver of atonement
before they rejoin and passionately weave

cloaked in the shadows of a thick fir tree
a husband with secret cigarette inhales
despite his wife and doctor's desperate pleas
his attempts at quitting have always failed

weak, defeated looks at all the promise now passed
exhausted sighs from the broken and bruised
"i'm tired of your sh*t" a frightened cry, a slap so quick
such are the sounds of an age unmoved

[Pendragon]

OK, 'Dole. Have at it!

Sacrifice #2

The flames lick their lips
as they sample the sacrifice.
A frightened stream of blood
vainly tries to escape,
but the fire has a thirst that cannot be quenched,
so a long, dripping tongue of flame extends
to greedily lap up each drop of crimson moisture.
Finding the repast to their taste,
the scarlet diners toast each other with sparks,
and toss scraps to the coals.
When dinner is finished,
the flames put on small blue jackets,
toss their yellow hair in appreciation,
and gather their cloaks of vapor about them.
It’s time to say goodnight.
A single glowing shadow remains at the table.
The others gone,
Fear remains to get his meager meal
from the small scraps that remain.
It’s not much,
but it will suffice to keep his own thin flame alight.
He raises sparks in toast,
then, even he, takes his leave.

*Raven Darkendale

© 2/27/98

*Yet another Pen Name

[Adolescent09]

In sunshine swells of imagination
curtains transfigure their pattern
on crumbling walls, the suffusion
of a dream.
Captured filaments sparkle by
rays of an opulent priority,
the scene grows heavy with luster.
Each wall sags in opalescence,
ruffled light seeps through draped wings
masking the room in pigment,
grey turns to a chromatic gloss,
points of light linger their dazzled
diligence in shimmering waves.

I think it sounds beautiful besides the lengthy clumsiness of the word 'opalescence'. I discover a certain stiltedness from
'Captured' to 'luster' but I can't pinpoint exactly where. I love the
abstract ending from 'grey' to 'waves' and the way in which you
are able to manipulate the dull to resplendant atmosphere through
appealing descriptions of light.

[Adolescent09]

The Living Ghost
All alone in a crowded room,
Isolated by all
Accepting his doom
Multiple acquaintances, short and tall
Look through him like at a ghost
Look through him at the wall
Invisible in everyday apparel

I am intrigued by this adequate introduction to the first part of an ethereal creature who is to be embellished on in the following stanzas. Although your starting lines flow well and a reader may be treated to an appealing, distorted visual sketch of your character I can't help but to think you could put the word 'ghost' into more metaphorical terms. Instead of 'ghost' you could use other phrases which would idyllically suffice like maybe.. 'look at him like at a wisp' or 'look through him like at a vacant plaque'... something like that.

[Triskele]

here is a poem, although i think you are a little bit swamped so it may take you a while to post on this poem...

Echo of the Sun

Trembling in the white eyes of city streets, facing the fiery remnants of the sun
Blood red wine drips from the bottle, its twinkling like the stars as it shatters
A myriad of memories, scars of battles past, voices in his head all coming undone

Sad whispers of desperation, driving him mad, forcing his mad mind to run
Scuttling away from itself, swimming down to the crimson depths of the forgotten
Trembling in the white eyes of city streets, facing the fiery remnants of the sun

Whose lost thoughts are these, the bright eyes and flashing smiles lost in oblivion
Whose fading laughter and sun streaked days of old are these, lost in the pain
A myriad of memories, scars of battles past, voices in his head all coming undone

The conscience awakens in the white sands, out of the bloody water, alive and unsung
The lighting strike eyes of self rebuke strike at the shadow he has hidden in, there he is
Trembling in the white eyes of city streets, facing the fiery remnants of the sun

A cry of realization, revelatory thought strikes the darkness, and knocks down the gun
But it takes a hero to face down the past, and the courage was lost, the coward drinks
A myriad of memories, scars of battles past, voices in his head all coming undone

A simple sigh of tears washing down, sobs fill the alley, his moment of light is done
Memories softly whispering away like the smiles, like the smiles that fell on that day
Trembling in the white eyes of city streets, facing the fiery remnants of the sun
A myriad of memories, scars of battles past, voices in his head all coming undone

-Triskele-

[Adolescent09]

Refrain

And every Friday night,
He dresses black with a mask of night
And as his gloved fingers dance
Over guitar strings
His sounds piercing like a lance
He screams his hate and rage
Through the speakers to the cheering throng
And now he realizes
He is still not seen

During the intermission
He undergoes fission
The lead singer stays in back,
While the person behind the mask
Goes about a personal task
Slipping silently through the crowd
He knew he still had his invisibility shroud

This second part to your poem reminds me of T.S. Eliot but also of forced rhymes. I think the first stanza of this 'Refrain' part portrays the enigmatic side to your character. He is a singer/guitarist who compels a vivacious crowd with his superb melodies. I like the way you implemented 'and his gloved fingers dance' which sounds so much better than 'his gloved fingers strum' or 'his gloved fingers pluck'. You bring color to the first part of 'Refrain' with interesting word usage and a knack for making the reader actually want to know more about the surreptitious characteristics of your 'ghost'.

The second stanza of 'Refrain' reminds me of forced lines. Although this form of rhyming may be construed differently according to the diverse poetical appeals among readers, I believe forced rhyming restricts and conforms your poem's meaning. I think it's best to be less rhythmical and more critical about the development of your 'ghost’.

[Adolescent09]

Refrain

He dons his face for the last time,
Hiding his mask under it
Upon leaving the stage his body collapses
With a flutter of falling clothing
His face and gloves fall away
Revealing nothing
Nothing to cast the slightest shadow

Although I don't think the word 'dons' makes sense in your first line of the second part of your 'Refrain' poem I am quite content in the way your able to portray him falling away yet no one is there to give him a helping hand. The falling away of his cloth revealing nothingness shows his audience's ambivalence towards his physical being in a sense. They admire him for his music but don't respect him for much else. Well done :)



The Unbridled Flood of Power
I want strength
I want fire to blossom in my hand
I want power
To turn my enemies to sand
I want ferocity
To instill fear, in those so weak to cause fear in me
I want invincibility
To bring out the best in me
I want knowledge
To keep many forces at bay
I want stealth
To assassinate my foes while they’re unwittingly
Playing into my hand
Ah! A new poem here... goodie goodie :D. The repetition of 'I wan't' and 'to [do something]' outlines an interesting determination to get what 'you want'. It shows slight superciliousness and blatant desire for provincial strength. Nice :).



Because I am bound by unseen chains,
twisting and tightening their grip around me
they all seek to control me,
why is their beast of burden me?
All I know right now is,
They fear me,
with all sincerity
they hate me
they hate me
and they want me to die
but let me tell you what
I’m am up here standing on this stage,
Tearing apart these chains with my strength
Burning them with my power
Drowning them as the tidal waters flow
With my phrases and metaphors so
Suffocating them in their own literal inadequacy
Speedily releasing my power into them
that they might know how dangerous my weapons of war have become,
burying them under any sort of literature possible.
Undying,
Much knowing,
Forcing them forward their fear showing,
Because there is a monster inside me,
he is hibernating,
waiting
watching as I grow
that one day my words will throw
the world into a state of passion
like a classical song
rising,
thrashing,
pulling those from their seats that may be able to see colors unseen
think in thoughts flowing through time that are too complex to be thought
speak in tongues undying, yet still gone
hear more than music,
apply their full energy potential into that one part
just before the crescendo
when feelings run strong,
swords, guns, and stones lie useless
as the roaring tumult of undying power washes over them
as if they would use all of their last energy to show what they hear
to let the world feel their undaunted power
so that the world will want what it cannot have
to put everything they own into that last crescendo
to hear
to see
to feel the music

The lower middle to last part sounds very interesting and I personally think it's near your best. But I'm a little nettled with the first part. :p

'Why is their beast of burden me' doesn't make sense but that can easily be changed.. They fear you with sincerity.. then they hate you and you repeat it twice.. confuses the hell out of me! Lol.. What did you mean by this? They want you to die but you tell them this: ' I’m am up here standing on this stage'.. just change 'I'm' to 'I am'.

For the rest of this verse I believe you should make it generally more coherent and give the reader a better idea of what exactly these 'chains' or restrictions are, why these people 'hate' him and why the people who hate him are illiterate numbnuts.


Like an eagle in the sky,
I will fly above the rain,
I will fly to you so high,
Though resisted by my chains.

You my father and my king
You my brother all the same,
You released me now I’ll bring,
Light brought by my fire and flame.

To the owl goes the night,
Royal swans, the lakeshore buy,
Eagle, woodland, his noble right,
For my realm, I choose the sky.

I give life through my great light,
And I cause little one’s fun,
At each day and after night,
I assure, I am the sun

Your two middle stanzas could be near flawless with a bit of brushing up but your poem appears to hang at the end. Perhaps you should add more to better resolve it?

[motherhubbard]

Alright, I feel so vulnerable sharing. I just write things down for me so I probably should keep these things hidden. But I keep telling myself that none of you know who I am really. Then again, maybe you know me better than many of my friends because you’ve seen what I think.


The First Day of Preschool


We started with our normal routine
up at six, dressed and fed
At seven thirty we’re on our way.
But, today was different.
For four years you’ve been my daily companion.
You’ve helped me load the breakfast dishes and
found where I set down my coffee.
Together we’ve carried on with the matters of the day.
Alone, I cleaned up our breakfast and worked through the house.
When I made the bed I folded your Spider Man blanket.
Today, I will not read the story just one more time
and you will not nap next to me.
Today you grew up more than I am ready.
Now your world reaches beyond me.
You gained a life that I am not a part of
and had experiences that we do not share.
It is the first day of preschool.
I am lonely and ready for story time.

[dyingflame]

ok adol...i agree; I just posted a poem I wrote and nobody seemed to care...I'll post the first part...coz it's long and I don't want to overtax you!

Contemporary Dust

The soft claws of the ageing felines tread softly,
padding on chipped piano keys, churning up old dust,
slinking around marble vases of antique origins,
careful to evade the overflowing waste of drying flowers,
happy to reside within the shafts of yellowed life,
permeating through thin walls and sinking inside
the greying remains of former quilts now torn to shreds.


have at it- you're a great critic, you're ****ing honest and that's the best thing in a critic

[vhaney]

Wow Adol,
Your quite the good person to want to comment on eveyone poems in your thread. Here is one I posted earlier but had no constructive critique (except Pen said he liked it). Motherhubbard and dyingflame are in line ahead of me.
Dyingflame, I like the quality of visual imagery of your piece. I've always liked Motherhubbards writings. They remind me of reading Erma Bombeck except there is sometimes a bit of a sad feel.

To Make a Poem

The poem understand is easy to make
Take you your heart which then you must break
A little sorrow then add and melancholy blue
I know it sounds silly but really it’s true
Once there has passed a right proper time
You sharpen your knife to begin in the rhyme
Slice the heart now in pieces so thin
Resemble they paper, That’s how you begin
Lay them out now and arrange them aright
(At times you must work this into the night)
Note on the edges some bleeding there be
It’s ink of the poem and the part of me
That flows from the hand thru the plume to the page
A poet I say and never a sage
The funny thing is the heart’s never used up
It flows from the hand and again filled in the cup
A Romantic is messy and bleeds rather well
When images of life on the pages he’ll tell
Yes the making of rhymes, is easy you see
It’s the living of life that’s the hardest for me

[Adolescent09]

Wow Adol,
Your quite the good person to want to comment on eveyone poems in your thread. Here is one I posted earlier but had no constructive critique (except Pen said he liked it). Motherhubbard and dyingflame are in line ahead of me.
Dyingflame, I like the quality of visual imagery of your piece. I've always liked Motherhubbards writings. They remind me of reading Erma Bombeck except there is sometimes a bit of a sad feel.

Why, thank-you Vhaney and I apologize to the other poem posters in this topic for my insufficient response time. I've been busy lately, but I will try my best to bring this thread back to life by providing my opinions in consecutive order down the page. Have a great day all. :)

[Adolescent09]

I

the neighborhood children, through knitted paws
squeal, shriek, and scream their playful calls
as their voluminous silhouettes cascade upon
the ivy-covered, fissure-riddled walls

icy fingers, concealing eyes of a mind
that ponders peeking, but then decides
against when visions of gifts under tree
present the pleasant memories of sweet surprise

cleverly hidden beneath an old canoe
an older boy has tips on girls for sale
despite the dusk and cold cheeks flushed
the younger cannot keep concealed a blush

wet, rhythmic smacks of shoes on grass
the dry, quick breaths of the pursued
"tag, you're it" a muffled giggle, the snap of a stick
such are the sounds of youth on the move

Hello maimed observer and welcome to the forum. The first stanza of your poem starkly resembles my previous style. In the line ' the neighborhood children, through knitted paws' the word 'though' appears a bit clumsy and the idea of childeren vociferating through their knitted paws might sound confusing. When you say 'knitted' paws do you mean their hands are laced together by their fingers, cupped around their mouths or clenched in a fist? It is actually good in the sense that it gives the reader an impetus for diverse imaginations but some people may be confused.. I really like the 'ivory colored, fissure-riddled walls'. I like the uniqueness of the coined term 'fissure-riddled' because a reader may instantly identify it as a cracked wall making up a boundary or outside an edifice.

Your second stanza of this 'I' part sounds like an entirely different poem because while your first stanza entails physical and realistic description, your second part seems to inventively abstract away from the topic point. Although I'll say your metaphorical rhythm is intriguing I think it strays a bit too far, but would provide a great first stanza to a new poem.


despite the dusk and cold cheeks flushed
the younger cannot keep concealed a blush

In your third stanza you bring up a potential contrast. The word 'despite' is the reason for contrast because it implies 'Even though..something.... this something happened'. You see, the word 'despite' brings up an instance or situation where a particular occurrence would appear highly unlikely. For instance:

'Even though' or 'Despite' the fact that it was pitch dark in the woody expanse, the guide had an innate sense of direction.

Your lines bring up a contrast because you say 'Despite the dusk and cold cheeks flushed the younger cannot keep concealed (by the way-- 'the younger cannot conceal' might sound better) a blush. It appears that you're saying that inspite of her cheeks being flushed or red due to the cold she cannot conceal a blush..Well it might work perfectly fine to you and other readers but perhaps you should give that maybe another look-over. Hope you can see my point...

Your last stanza of this 'I' part seems to return us to continue off from the first stanza which adequately consummates the first part. Nice :)

[Adolescent09]

II

brusque flashes from a television screen
irradiate a couched woman under heavy shawl
while mute upon the floor with a sportive magazine
lays a remote man in lackadaisical sprawl

wet lips hover over another, frozen for a moment
as the thoughts of family linger then leave
with but a quiver of atonement
before they rejoin and passionately weave

cloaked in the shadows of a thick fir tree
a husband with secret cigarette inhales
despite his wife and doctor's desperate pleas
his attempts at quitting have always failed

weak, defeated looks at all the promise now passed
exhausted sighs from the broken and bruised
"i'm tired of your sh*t" a frightened cry, a slap so quick
such are the sounds of an age unmoved

The word 'lackadaisical' which basically means unenthusiastic seems like an arbitrary inclusion in the first stanza. Instead of using one pretentious and overly clumsy word to describe the way in which this man is 'sprawled' why not coin an intriguing phrase such as your previously used, and very well placed, 'fissure-ridden walls'. Shorter and catchier phrases could also suffice for sportive an irradiate (although irradiate is a very interesting word in that line and might just be best left alone).

In the second stanza you abstract again which is oddly interesting because this is exactly what you did for part I. Perhaps you're just raondomizing with your second stanzas so as to give it a type of rhythm but I'm not sure. I still mantain that this second stanza would perhaps sound better as a whole new poem.

You're third and last stanzas sound pretty great and your last line provides wonderful closure. Have a good one, maimed_observer and I hope this review has been minimally beneficial to you in some way. :)

[Adolescent09]

---If my work schedule remains as busy as it is I might have to cut down my given reviews to one poem a day. Sorry for the inconvenience and long wait but I will get around to all of the poems posted here!... even if it takes me a considerably long while. Thanks for hanging in there, everyone.---

[dyingflame]

don't worry man we're just lucky to have such an energetic member in the personal poetry forums such as you :)

[NSAM]

Well i apologise for contributing to your considerable workload.
But i would really value your opinion on this (it's rough around the edges) :


Through urban attraction, we become one
Like fag ends trod in chewing gum.
Grit and affection, I've a favoured one
But they follow each other around.

Even the night sky that the city rents
Helps catalyse the malevolence
The ominous gift of Frankinscence
Scorches the dark in burning cars

In a terrace theres a thug or thief
That made me swallow both my wisdom teeth
Though digested naivety dilutes the grief
And misery loves company.

But I found a side I hadn't seen
That doesn't feel like Neoprene
Veined with rivers, and dressed in green
She opens her arms and mothers me

So take my hand, and we'll escape from this
On hills we'll drown in fetal bliss
Not doubt and know, but hope and assume
To be lost forever in nature's womb

[ktd222]

I’ve decided to try and breathe life back into Adolescent09’s “Post Your Poem and Get Reviews” thread. I don’t know what reminded me of his thread, but the idea popped into my head last night and I thought it would be a good idea. If you would like to check out the original thread you can find it here:

http://www.online-literature.com/forums/showthread.php?t=24694


There are no rules (for now…lets see what happens).

[Yashad Kirtane]

Please reply on my poem.

Stare into the sky
Now on the road
Amid a chaos of souls,
Look into your own.

[ktd222]

Please reply on my poem.

Stare into the sky
Now on the road
Amid a chaos of souls,
Look into your own.


Hi Yashad,

How are you? Welcome to Lit-let! Thanks for posting your poem. I have to admit that the images from line to line in your poem left me dizzied. I think it may be because of the abrupt shift in direction from the sky, to road, to the souls, then to our own souls. But it is this same abruptness and inward movement that intrigues me. Maybe expand on the images in each line so that these things that you identified in your poem are not so vague.

Take care

[SleepyWitch]

i wasn't dazzled by the abruptness, but then, I'm image-challenged anyway :)

[Yashad Kirtane]

ktd222 thanks..... the poem is titled "Vague" anyways....
also i tried in this poem to move in a very vague way but theres also a pattern to the movement.... the sky is universal.... road is subjective..... chaos of souls.... is something which we see everyday.... and finally our soul which we almost never see...
see if that makes sense now....
all comments are always valued....
thanks again...

[ktd222]

ktd222 thanks..... the poem is titled "Vague" anyways....
also i tried in this poem to move in a very vague way but theres also a pattern to the movement.... the sky is universal.... road is subjective..... chaos of souls.... is something which we see everyday.... and finally our soul which we almost never see...
see if that makes sense now....
all comments are always valued....
thanks again...

Hi Yashad,

Yes, you make sense...but the poem is still iffy. Maybe a way to show subjectivity is to introduce a character which interacts with the image.

Take care.

------------------

Anyone else? Feel free to post your poem anytime.

[ktd222]

Still no takers, anyone? I'm not all about negative comments, I promise.

[Yashad Kirtane]

thanks..... ktd....

[Yashad Kirtane]

this ones called "Exhibit A"
it is a romantic poem...
its my first attempt at the genre...

Day in, day out,
You are in my eyes,
The hollow inside me
Waiting patiently
But now it can't wait
Languishing for nights on end
Spending countless hours in anguish
Uncomfortable, insecure
It's time you know this
That you are the piece that
Fills my hollow completely.

[ktd222]

this ones called "Exhibit A"
it is a romantic poem...
its my first attempt at the genre...

Day in, day out,
You are in my eyes,
The hollow inside me
Waiting patiently
But now it can't wait
Languishing for nights on end
Spending countless hours in anguish
Uncomfortable, insecure
It's time you know this
That you are the piece that
Fills my hollow completely.

Hi Yashad,

I’m glad you felt comfortable enough to post another one of your poems. This is definitely a good first attempt. You have some interesting things working in this poem, especially the inner/outer deal. I saw this aspect working in your previously posted poem as well. Maybe that is the natural way you set up your poems? But did you know that the way you had set up your lines, the way it reads, can be read as almost a literal thing? What I mean is in line two, the “You” is actually in “my eyes,” which is strange, yet interesting, because it summons up an image for me that this person requires some palpable sense of this other person to be fulfilled, or comfortable, or secure. What do you think? I think this would be a great way to end your poem. A part of me still feels you are dancing around exploring the subject of your poem. I would love to know what aspect of this other person gave this person the feelings he/she yearns. The ending seems out of place for me, as if it were unneeded explanation to accompany an already telling image.
I like the title. Nice way set up the subject of romance for an examination.

Take care

[Yashad Kirtane]

Thanks...
the reason the poem ends the way it does is that for me every poem should have a central idea.
when i wrote this one the idea was a "square peg in a round hole"
but if i am writing a romantic poem that idea wouldn't do....
so i put it in an antithetical manner in the poem....
i know i tend to dance around with my subject but i feel that it the only way i can find my niche...
another aspect of the idea is that sometimes you dont know what the other person has that makes you feel secure....
hence the ending..... the persona cant explain what "it" is..... it just is....
another thing i dont believe in making the reader make an effort to understand my poetry hence i write what i feel and as you aptly mentioned it is literal thought....
i hope that comes across in my writing....
Thank you all the "constructive" criticism....
hope you enjoyed it as much as i did when i wrote it...
Take care and please keep aiding me by your reviews.

[ktd222]

anyone else feel like their poetry isn't getting replies...why not post it here?

[stephofthenight]

Deadly Game of Passion

the hot flame of love
licks at my steaming skin
as you seductively whisper
the things in my ear
that every girl wants to hear
in this game of passion,
there is no way to win
its a lose, lose situation
a fight until the end
struggling to tame
that engulfing hunger
trying to extinguish the flame
but your kiss just seems to linger
leaving prints upon my parted lips
panting your name
hungering for your touch
our body's are melting into one
calling for your caress
your husky voice saying my name
longing for your lips
to be back exploring the hidden secrets
knowing I'm losing control
I cry out your name
playing with our
passion is playing a deadly game

[stephofthenight]

FALLING STAR

i cry as i hold onto your shirt
the memories bring back the familiar hurt
its amazing how the smell of your cologne
makes me realize that im truly alone

will you ever be mine to hold? i wonder
will you ever be mine and mine alone? i ponder
its out of hand, how’d it get this far
so much for trust, im your falling star

falling for you was suicide
i was in love, now i want to die
the temptation is deadly, for me and you
all i wanted was to hear you say i love you too

[ktd222]

Deadly Game of Passion

the hot flame of love
licks at my steaming skin
as you seductively whisper
the things in my ear
that every girl wants to hear
in this game of passion,
there is no way to win
its a lose, lose situation
a fight until the end
struggling to tame
that engulfing hunger
trying to extinguish the flame
but your kiss just seems to linger
leaving prints upon my parted lips
panting your name
hungering for your touch
our body's are melting into one
calling for your caress
your husky voice saying my name
longing for your lips
to be back exploring the hidden secrets
knowing I'm losing control
I cry out your name
playing with our
passion is playing a deadly game

Hello stepofthenight,

Thanks for posting your poem. Well, where do I start? I like the endlessness of the subject in your poem, a back and forth play of seduction and desire between two people whom never seem fully fulfilled unless they are fully immersed, loving in each other’s arms. But I have to say the many cliché lines, from the title to “hot flame of love”…well, there are just too many cliché lines to make for a unique perspective on the subject. I would recommend maybe going back over the poem and taking a line like “hot flame of love,” and rephrasing it in a way where it expresses how you felt when this line came to mind.

[ktd222]

FALLING STAR

i cry as i hold onto your shirt
the memories bring back the familiar hurt
its amazing how the smell of your cologne
makes me realize that im truly alone

will you ever be mine to hold? i wonder
will you ever be mine and mine alone? i ponder
its out of hand, how’d it get this far
so much for trust, im your falling star

falling for you was suicide
i was in love, now i want to die
the temptation is deadly, for me and you
all i wanted was to hear you say i love you too


Hello stepofthenight,

I like this poem much more than the first one you posted. I liked that you structured your verses and used end rhyme; by doing this you frame the thoughts of this person in your poem. It really makes for a clean and nice progression. Although I found the beginning image somewhat cliché still, when you hit the part about the falling star, the poem became interesting; the speaker was framed in the stars; love, it seemed, required the fall of this speaker…so it seemed. The ending reminds me of a wish one makes upon witnessing a falling star, except that all of this is framed around assumptions: whether or not this other person would even wish to say “I love you” if he/she saw this falling star. Did you mean “want” or “wish” in the last line?

[ktd222]

Does anyone have a poem that's not getting enough attention? Post it here and get a review.

[motherhubbard]

Does anyone have a poem that's not getting enough attention? Post it here and get a review.

OK, here is one. I'm not around enough for people to take much interest. I let my husband read this and I'll tell what he said after.

what tomorrow brings



I feel so lost, or maybe just empty,
sitting here a hollow woman in the fullness of life.
What blessing I lack I do not know
and there is nothing I can say is amiss.
Still I feel a longing for rest or togetherness or maybe just time.

I’d like to think that tomorrow will be different,
But I know what tomorrow brings- more.
More, slung over his hunched back
gaining distance on me with every steady step
Clomping heavy boots that sound like Doc Martins on hollow stairs

I wish I could reach out - lock the door and hook the chain
Pretend that I’m not home. Tomorrow might think I’ve taken a vacation.
Would he be angry if I ran off to some little bed and breakfast in the hills
and woke to the smell of someone else cooking?
I’d have two farm eggs over medium, bacon and coffee.

Tomorrow might just plop his old bag down on the porch,
and kick the door with his steel toed boots.
He might scream or try to see in the windows.
But I’d be hiding quietly in a hot bubble bath,
my smiling face under a hot washcloth

by Tonya

[AdoreroDio]

A poem I wrote a while ago:


Who are you?

Who are you
that you love me
even when I sin?
Who are you
that you died
that I might live?
I am worthless,
nothing
and you are everything
greatness and joy
who are you?
you are a mystery
that I want shown to me
you are th unknown
that speaks to my heart
Who are you that
my heart won't beat
without you?
You whisper to me
once and it is worth
more than a thousand
words from another
Who are you that
this could be?
You are my God
My Savior
Again I ask,
Who are you?


By AdoreroDio

[ktd222]

OK, here is one. I'm not around enough for people to take much interest. I let my husband read this and I'll tell what he said after.

what tomorrow brings



I feel so lost, or maybe just empty,
sitting here a hollow woman in the fullness of life.
What blessing I lack I do not know
and there is nothing I can say is amiss.
Still I feel a longing for rest or togetherness or maybe just time.

I’d like to think that tomorrow will be different,
But I know what tomorrow brings- more.
More, slung over his hunched back
gaining distance on me with every steady step
Clomping heavy boots that sound like Doc Martins on hollow stairs

I wish I could reach out - lock the door and hook the chain
Pretend that I’m not home. Tomorrow might think I’ve taken a vacation.
Would he be angry if I ran off to some little bed and breakfast in the hills
and woke to the smell of someone else cooking?
I’d have two farm eggs over medium, bacon and coffee.

Tomorrow might just plop his old bag down on the porch,
and kick the door with his steel toed boots.
He might scream or try to see in the windows.
But I’d be hiding quietly in a hot bubble bath,
my smiling face under a hot washcloth

by Tonya

Hi Tonya,

Your poem is both funny and interesting. I wonder how your husband feels about being tomorrow, and always carrying more your way.
The indecisive tone the speaker has toward herself is interesting. Even at points where she was decided in her decision making, all were undermined by it being directed toward him, or how she labeled him, or of her actions merely as suppositions, although I have an inkling that at the end of your poem you were trying to break out of this pattern you’d created. Maybe be more definitive in the last stanza. Set up the last stanza as a scene where the affect of what you do has no bearing what he did. Or take him out of the stanza all together.

[motherhubbard]

Thanks for the review. It's not about my husband, just all the crap I have to do tomorrow and the next day and the next day... you know how it goes. I'm ready for this semester to end!! I'm glad you thought it was funny. I didn't mean for it to be serious at all. My husband thought it was depressing and all down in the dumps, but it made me smile to think of hiding from my responsibilities like that. I laugh at the thought of soaking in a tub and ignoring the knocks at the door as if I didn't even hear them while I giggle to myself.

[ktd222]

Thanks for the review. It's not about my husband, just all the crap I have to do tomorrow and the next day and the next day... you know how it goes. I'm ready for this semester to end!! I'm glad you thought it was funny. I didn't mean for it to be serious at all. My husband thought it was depressing and all down in the dumps, but it made me smile to think of hiding from my responsibilities like that. I laugh at the thought of soaking in a tub and ignoring the knocks at the door as if I didn't even hear them while I giggle to myself.

But I think by way of this you've created someting interesting to explore. It would be quite an interesting direction to take this poem, wouldn't it?


A poem I wrote a while ago:


Who are you?

Who are you
that you love me
even when I sin?
Who are you
that you died
that I might live?
I am worthless,
nothing
and you are everything
greatness and joy
who are you?
you are a mystery
that I want shown to me
you are th unknown
that speaks to my heart
Who are you that
my heart won't beat
without you?
You whisper to me
once and it is worth
more than a thousand
words from another
Who are you that
this could be?
You are my God
My Savior
Again I ask,
Who are you?


By AdoreroDio


Hi Adorerodio,

Thanks for posting your poem. A part of me sees (and you probably recognized as well) a few places where the language is trite, too generalized and unresolved. I feel this is an examination that turns into a self examination. Which sin have you committed in your life you feel most measures up to this other person’s love for you? I’m saying…injecting a little personal experience goes a long ways. Through defining the aspect of your faults maybe you define the qualities of this other as well, so the poem works on both levels.

[ktd222]

Would anyone else like to post a poem of theirs for commenting/review?

[Pendragon]

Have a go at this sestina. If you are unfamiliar with the form, go here first: http://www.baymoon.com/~ariadne/form/sestina.htm

TABOO

Professor Wilks stopped at the base of the massive tor.
He rubbed his eyes. How long had it been since he’d slept?
He pulled out a faded piece of parchment with trembling hands.
“The treasure lies where the full moon points a finger at midnight.” He quoted.
“But let the man who searches for it beware! It is taboo
to cross the buried dead!” Involuntarily, he flinched. His skin

burned. Of course, he had seen almost everything. Most of the skin
on his left arm had been torn off in torture by natives. The tor
was like a grayish, bony finger—Finger! The landmark mentioned! “Taboo!”
Dear Lord, did he need some sleep!
His mind told him. “It is taboo to cross the buried dead!” The quote
rang like a death bell. He looked up. The hour was at hand.

As the full moon rose behind the rocky spire, its shadow resembled a hand,
the weathered stone reminiscent of bleached bones, skin
long withered away. “Where the full moon points a finger…” he quoted.
He watched the shadow of the mighty tor
carefully. He trembled from excitement and lack of sleep.
Finally, the shadow lengthened to a single finger. This, then, was the place of taboo.

He ran his shaky hand across his suddenly sweaty face. Taboo?
He was more afraid of men than of spirits. Spirits did not have hands
that came from the dark nor creep upon you as you slept
and deprive you of several pounds of skin!
But it was now or never. The shadow of the tor
was a long finger indicating the treasure as the parchment quoted.

He read the ancient script again. “Points a finger.” He quoted.
He felt elated and at the same time terrified. “Taboo?”
He whispered. Resolutely, he stepped away from the safety of the tor,
out onto the barren plains where the shadow lay like a giant hand,
finger extended. An unpleasant smell struck his nose, and his skin
tinged in alarm. He desperately needed to get some sleep.

“The buried Dead!” a voice whispered. “Disturb not those who sleep!”
Wild-eyed, he stared everywhere. “It is taboo!” The voice hissed the quote.
From somewhere in the darkness, the drumskins
began to throb. Eerie voices came from all directions. “Taboo! It is taboo!”
The ground in front of him split, and a decaying hand
Grabbed for his legs as he leapt for the safety of the tor…

Professor Wilks was found at the base of Diablo Tor, his deeply tanned skin
pale in death. His face was peaceful, as if in sleep. A mummified hand
grasped his leg. His colleagues said, quote: “He should not have broken the taboo!”

Dale Harris

© 8/14/97

[ktd222]

Have a go at this sestina. If you are unfamiliar with the form, go here first: http://www.baymoon.com/~ariadne/form/sestina.htm

TABOO

Professor Wilks stopped at the base of the massive tor.
He rubbed his eyes. How long had it been since he’d slept?
He pulled out a faded piece of parchment with trembling hands.
“The treasure lies where the full moon points a finger at midnight.” He quoted.
“But let the man who searches for it beware! It is taboo
to cross the buried dead!” Involuntarily, he flinched. His skin

burned. Of course, he had seen almost everything. Most of the skin
on his left arm had been torn off in torture by natives. The tor
was like a grayish, bony finger—Finger! The landmark mentioned! “Taboo!”
Dear Lord, did he need some sleep!
His mind told him. “It is taboo to cross the buried dead!” The quote
rang like a death bell. He looked up. The hour was at hand.

As the full moon rose behind the rocky spire, its shadow resembled a hand,
the weathered stone reminiscent of bleached bones, skin
long withered away. “Where the full moon points a finger…” he quoted.
He watched the shadow of the mighty tor
carefully. He trembled from excitement and lack of sleep.
Finally, the shadow lengthened to a single finger. This, then, was the place of taboo.

He ran his shaky hand across his suddenly sweaty face. Taboo?
He was more afraid of men than of spirits. Spirits did not have hands
that came from the dark nor creep upon you as you slept
and deprive you of several pounds of skin!
But it was now or never. The shadow of the tor
was a long finger indicating the treasure as the parchment quoted.

He read the ancient script again. “Points a finger.” He quoted.
He felt elated and at the same time terrified. “Taboo?”
He whispered. Resolutely, he stepped away from the safety of the tor,
out onto the barren plains where the shadow lay like a giant hand,
finger extended. An unpleasant smell struck his nose, and his skin
tinged in alarm. He desperately needed to get some sleep.

“The buried Dead!” a voice whispered. “Disturb not those who sleep!”
Wild-eyed, he stared everywhere. “It is taboo!” The voice hissed the quote.
From somewhere in the darkness, the drumskins
began to throb. Eerie voices came from all directions. “Taboo! It is taboo!”
The ground in front of him split, and a decaying hand
Grabbed for his legs as he leapt for the safety of the tor…

Professor Wilks was found at the base of Diablo Tor, his deeply tanned skin
pale in death. His face was peaceful, as if in sleep. A mummified hand
grasped his leg. His colleagues said, quote: “He should not have broken the taboo!”

Dale Harris

© 8/14/97

Hellow Pen.,

Thanks for posting. Is this form stringent? Just noticed a couple places where there was variation of a word or rhyme instead of repeating words. The storyline is predictable. But in any case the story was well written. I liked the main character; he seems unbound by any rules. On the other hand those colleagues of his seem bound, if not trapped, within the confines of the rules they follow. In a way I think this story is much about how we live our lives: following rules or following our feelings. And once we meet our death, will we feel fulfilled, and rest as peacefully as Professor Wilks seems to at the end of your story? This leaves me a bit bewildered at those dead, though. I can’t say I can identify their meaning as far as the storyline is concerned…that is whether they represent the fulfilled or unfulfilled.

[RoCKiTcZa]

Hi guys... I posted this poem somewhere in the main poetry section a few days ago... sadly only a few people took time to give it a review (thanks to those who commented on them... you are my trusted friends :)) I shall post it once more with hopes that it will get a few more reviews...

Here's a link to the poem in the thread itself...
My First Poem on Litnet (http://www.online-literature.com/forums/showthread.php?p=473263#post473263)

However, should you wish to read it right away and give comments directly to it (Warning: this poem is really long; I hope you wouldn't mind)...


Catharsis X*
“Lethal Obsession”

Do you see me
And do you understand

me, the way I have yet to
understand
you.

No. For you have never felt

me, and had you ever come to
know... of those

Restless nights I spend

swiftly running
my eyes
over

Obituaries,

all these
I can only desperately
atrribute to
you.
Never would

my heart be
obliged to beat
in this utterly
intricate matter,
running a marathon
against itself...
neither would
I hunger

for
your name
resonating
down chasms
of enormous wealth
where diamonds sparkle
glistening by the
threadlike rays of light
cast by the
moon,
seeping through the crevice
hovering above the abyss
in which I am trapped
in a state of gradual death.
Everything is senseless, yet

what does make sense with
me feeling this way...
you take claim over everything...
you are my universe, and
around you
are my stars
swirling in a vast expanse
of glitter
before
my dazzled eyes...

(yes,
light
is what
you've
gained
from
me
and
light
is what
I
lose...)
Can't you see the way

I'm burning
Out, out,
Like a candle barely surviving
the night;
the way I want to know you
while knowing you the way I do,
the way I want to hold you
while holding the truth that I'm off limits beside you,
the way I want to kiss you
while kissing these desperate thoughts adieu.
Anarchistic thoughts wriggle in the spaces of my brain

and bore holes in what has been filled
with thoughts far more rational
than the thought containing you
Your shadow is a dream come true.
I crave too much, my longings are far from thinkable
Still I never truly wanted you to know
and in spite of everything, I reckon you do
though I've always wondered how indifferent
you were truly
in the way you appeared to be indifferent to it.
For in the space between
you and me
exists some room for doubt.
Songs will be sung,

yet they will never be enough
For I will never hear you.
Though your voice relentlessly pounds into my ears
I will never hear you.
Negligible are the notes of flowing sweetness
veiled beneath coarseness of tone.
Sounds are heard and forever lost
Trapped in the dungeon of void
Captured and shackled with iron chains
Never to be freed again
no, 'tis not the way
I wish to lose you.
Invincible is the truth, though bitter,

the truth I must learn to bear,
that you will never come to stay with me
forevermore,
for since when have you ever been here?
And in our lives that mutually touch,

vulnerable to existence
and submitting to change
nevertheless refusing to change
the way they truly might or should,
we are together,
fused in silence,
though never aware;
Two glaciers, melting
in the presence of one another,
yet never for each other.
Transformed into bodies of water,
we run,
down the slopes where our paths first crossed.
I settle in a basin, too large, too deep,
where my surface finds its rest,
yet in my depths I feel the pressure,
inside, I bubble and churn,
knowing you are here,
never too far
but too shallow to know
the manner in which you dwell in me.
I am the ocean.
You are the sea.
I will die remembering
you.


©acg2007

[Pendragon]

Hellow Pen.,

Thanks for posting. Is this form stringent? Just noticed a couple places where there was variation of a word or rhyme instead of repeating words. The storyline is predictable. But in any case the story was well written. I liked the main character; he seems unbound by any rules. On the other hand those colleagues of his seem bound, if not trapped, within the confines of the rules they follow. In a way I think this story is much about how we live our lives: following rules or following our feelings. And once we meet our death, will we feel fulfilled, and rest as peacefully as Professor Wilks seems to at the end of your story? This leaves me a bit bewildered at those dead, though. I can’t say I can identify their meaning as far as the storyline is concerned…that is whether they represent the fulfilled or unfulfilled.In sestina, chosing endwords that can mean several things or using different forms of the word is allowed, but you cannot change the root word. Like one of my words was "quote", giving me leeway to use "quotes", "quoted", "quoting", "quoth", etc. I could not replace the word "quote" with "recite" however, as that changes the root word, does that help any?

The Buried Dead in the story are the reason for the ground being Taboo. There is a treasure buried where the shadow points a finger at midnight, no other way of finding it. But to get that treasure, you must cross the area of The Buried Dead who protect the treasure. After midnight, they come to life, to defend against grave robbers. Story ended!

Pen

http://i94.photobucket.com/albums/l108/AbsalomKane/Smilies/LP_skull.gif

[ktd222]

The Buried Dead in the story are the reason for the ground being Taboo. There is a treasure buried where the shadow points a finger at midnight, no other way of finding it. But to get that treasure, you must cross the area of The Buried Dead who protect the treasure. After midnight, they come to life, to defend against grave robbers. Story ended!

Pen

http://i94.photobucket.com/albums/l108/AbsalomKane/Smilies/LP_skull.gif

I understand this. I was just looking for some poetic effect beyond it just being a story.

[ktd222]

Hi Rockitcza,

Thanks for posting your work. You can always count on one response when you post it here. For me, poem length matters way, way, way less than quality.

As for your poem, I can’t say I understand the purpose for the structure you are using. I don’t know what it adds to what you are trying to express, which, from what I can gain through reading is about sensing: whether the other feels the way you do, and how you can know. This is the part of your poem I liked very much. I think it starts somewhere in the middle. I kind of wish it were at the beginning as to disorient me and give me the senselessness of this experience of yours. And at times I think your rambling does a different sort of disorienting, confusing me, the reader. You should definitely let the images speak for themselves, because they do! Especially here:


Two glaciers, melting
in the presence of one another,
yet never for each other.
Transformed into bodies of water,
we run,
down the slopes where our paths first crossed.
I settle in a basin, too large, too deep,
where my surface finds its rest,
yet in my depths I feel the pressure,
inside, I bubble and churn,
knowing you are here,
never too far
but too shallow to know
the manner in which you dwell in me.

a very nice job of interweaving the self into the image.

[scarlet pain]

FORSAKEN

A slippery moist path
Of pitch black echoes,
The cold touch beneath
Icy feet that walks the hollow.
Two trembling hands touch-
Touch the door- ancient,
Worn with passing age;
Still elegant, divine yet dreary.
The large bronze knocker
Serpent heads coiled along,
Slightly touching the edges
With thousands of locked queries.


The door opens like-
Like a gust of wind,
Creaking and revolting,
Slowly revealing the other side!
As frozen, chilling winter,
Gloom hits the soul—
Sucking all pleasures at heart,
Yet a silent smile remains.
There on the other side,
A place of passion stands,
With its wearing glory –
Holding the breeze of past.
Angels standing on both sides,
In curved-cold stone,
Heartless, lifeless but pure,
And a moon-shine glow flickers.
Vines of wild rose;
Holding the palace,
With scarlet love-
Of their glowing heart.

Walking further through—
Through the gardens glorious;
Once blooming in valiant colours
Now destroyed and devoured in vain!
And there lay in silence
A pond—green, dark and cold
Restless, it tries to reflect,
The white-blue, bright sunny sky.
Seems like, souls of the past
Locked in chains,
Choked to certain death,
Doomed below this green blood.

At last the feet rest,
Sitting by the pond-
In utter silence, disturbs—
The surface in thousand years!

And suddenly the overcast head—
Clears, the eyes open,
The mind sighs and lament-
A forsaken dream in lost eternity.

[Pendragon]

OK. KTD. What you need then, is another example of my sestinas. This was my first published one. I have the copyright, so no worries there. I use sestina to tell a story. As this story is a familiar one, not one from my imagination, it may help you see how the structure of the poem serves to tell the tale. I present The Hunchback of Notre Dame by Victor Hugo, reduced to a 39 line sestina:

Abnormal: Quasimodo’s Tale

They locked me away up here in the tower—
To be the Caretaker and Ringer of the Bells.
They have always said that because I was abnormal,
I would be but a laughingstock, and never have any friends.
Do t’was best for me to remain here, said my Master,
The solitude would keep me away from a world filled with evil.

It stalked all through the streets of Paris, this Demon of Evil,
Perhaps it even lurked in the silence of my tower.
“Better to be safe than sorry!” Said my Master.
But I longed—how I longed—each time I rang the Bells
For their voices to call out and bring me a few friends!
And I wished with all of my heart that I wasn’t abnormal…

Today, there was revelry in the streets, something quite abnormal,
And I longed to go and see; and so I was evil
And I sneaked from my chambers in search of some friends.
I was caught and chained to the pillory in front of my tower.
The crowds mocked, laughed, and danced; mocked me and rang bells.
And there upon a throne sat the man I called “Master.

His eyes blazed with cold fury and the voice of my Master
Trembled with rage as he spat out that I was abnormal.
The silence spoke louder than the ringing of my bells.
His eyes gleamed as he told me that I was evil born of evil,
And lashes fell as I cried for water in front of my tower.
But out in the crowd I had made a new friend…

She came to my side in defiance, whispering that we were friends,
And angrily she turned and scolded my Master.
He arose in a rage, and she fled into the tower.
Bursting free, I screamed, “Sanctuary!” in a voice most abnormal.
Now, after all these years I knew where the true evil
Lay. “Sanctuary!” I screamed again while tolling on my Bells.

He slew her while I was off tolling those Bells.
I returned only to rescue the body of one who had called me “Friend.”
“At last!” I snarled., advancing on him. “I know now what is truly evil!”
I flung him from the battlements, this evil one I had called “Master,”
Hearing him shriek as his body twisted in many abnormal
Ways. Then his body stuck the cobblestones in front of my tower…

Notice: While doing renovation in the tower beneath the great bells,
We found something abnormal: Two skeletons, sad, but not evil.
They must have been friends. They we buried by order of the new Master.

© 6/30/97
D.L. Harris

Published in Tucumcari Literary Review in 1997 their reprint rights recognized. Poem copyright returns to author.

[ktd222]

FORSAKEN

A slippery moist path
Of pitch black echoes,
The cold touch beneath
Icy feet that walks the hollow.
Two trembling hands touch-
Touch the door- ancient,
Worn with passing age;
Still elegant, divine yet dreary.
The large bronze knocker
Serpent heads coiled along,
Slightly touching the edges
With thousands of locked queries.


The door opens like-
Like a gust of wind,
Creaking and revolting,
Slowly revealing the other side!
As frozen, chilling winter,
Gloom hits the soul—
Sucking all pleasures at heart,
Yet a silent smile remains.
There on the other side,
A place of passion stands,
With its wearing glory –
Holding the breeze of past.
Angels standing on both sides,
In curved-cold stone,
Heartless, lifeless but pure,
And a moon-shine glow flickers.
Vines of wild rose;
Holding the palace,
With scarlet love-
Of their glowing heart.

Walking further through—
Through the gardens glorious;
Once blooming in valiant colours
Now destroyed and devoured in vain!
And there lay in silence
A pond—green, dark and cold
Restless, it tries to reflect,
The white-blue, bright sunny sky.
Seems like, souls of the past
Locked in chains,
Choked to certain death,
Doomed below this green blood.

At last the feet rest,
Sitting by the pond-
In utter silence, disturbs—
The surface in thousand years!

And suddenly the overcast head—
Clears, the eyes open,
The mind sighs and lament-
A forsaken dream in lost eternity.

Hi Scarlet,

Thanks for posting your poem. I do like the path your poem led me, having both direction and resolution. It’s also very interesting you don’t have I, you, she, he, walking this path. Gives the movement through this path a very disjointed feel, which is what I think you were after. An example is you say “at last the feet rest.” Very strange it’s not his/her feet, but just “the feet.” But you also have a lot of just out-of-the-blue images I don’t understand. At points I don’t understand why the path would be “slippery moist path/of pitch black echoes,” at other places why “weary”? Maybe rational doesn’t exist in this place? I truly don’t know.

[ktd222]

OK. KTD. What you need then, is another example of my sestinas. This was my first published one. I have the copyright, so no worries there. I use sestina to tell a story. As this story is a familiar one, not one from my imagination, it may help you see how the structure of the poem serves to tell the tale. I present The Hunchback of Notre Dame by Victor Hugo, reduced to a 39 line sestina:

Abnormal: Quasimodo’s Tale

They locked me away up here in the tower—
To be the Caretaker and Ringer of the Bells.
They have always said that because I was abnormal,
I would be but a laughingstock, and never have any friends.
Do t’was best for me to remain here, said my Master,
The solitude would keep me away from a world filled with evil.

It stalked all through the streets of Paris, this Demon of Evil,
Perhaps it even lurked in the silence of my tower.
“Better to be safe than sorry!” Said my Master.
But I longed—how I longed—each time I rang the Bells
For their voices to call out and bring me a few friends!
And I wished with all of my heart that I wasn’t abnormal…

Today, there was revelry in the streets, something quite abnormal,
And I longed to go and see; and so I was evil
And I sneaked from my chambers in search of some friends.
I was caught and chained to the pillory in front of my tower.
The crowds mocked, laughed, and danced; mocked me and rang bells.
And there upon a throne sat the man I called “Master.

His eyes blazed with cold fury and the voice of my Master
Trembled with rage as he spat out that I was abnormal.
The silence spoke louder than the ringing of my bells.
His eyes gleamed as he told me that I was evil born of evil,
And lashes fell as I cried for water in front of my tower.
But out in the crowd I had made a new friend…

She came to my side in defiance, whispering that we were friends,
And angrily she turned and scolded my Master.
He arose in a rage, and she fled into the tower.
Bursting free, I screamed, “Sanctuary!” in a voice most abnormal.
Now, after all these years I knew where the true evil
Lay. “Sanctuary!” I screamed again while tolling on my Bells.

He slew her while I was off tolling those Bells.
I returned only to rescue the body of one who had called me “Friend.”
“At last!” I snarled., advancing on him. “I know now what is truly evil!”
I flung him from the battlements, this evil one I had called “Master,”
Hearing him shriek as his body twisted in many abnormal
Ways. Then his body stuck the cobblestones in front of my tower…

Notice: While doing renovation in the tower beneath the great bells,
We found something abnormal: Two skeletons, sad, but not evil.
They must have been friends. They we buried by order of the new Master.

© 6/30/97
D.L. Harris

Published in Tucumcari Literary Review in 1997 their reprint rights recognized. Poem copyright returns to author.

Hi Pendragon,

I don’t need another example. I think what I needed was a better story. This is it. What I can say about the sestina is that it keeps the storyline concise, by keeping it within the parameters of a few key words. The thing which interests me about this story is not the story itself, but the word “abnormal” in relation to “they” and “I”. I love how the story changes perspectives towards the end, and shifts from “I” to “we.” This is such a subtle little thing, but has a dramatic affect on me, placing the previously “abnormal” “I” with “they” to create the “we,” which is now no longer abnormal.

[ktd222]

To Pendragon,

To give you an example from another poet. This is a poem by Rilke which shows the same sort of shift from a singular voice to singular voice encompassing both the “you” and “I”. Notice this shift, and also notice how well it goes with the topic of love being dealt with at hand.

Love Song

How shall I keep my soul
from touching yours? How shall
I lift it over you toward other things?
Ah, I would like to lodge it
in the dark with some lost thing
on some foreign silent place
that doesn’t tremble, when your depths stir.
Yet everything that touches you and me
takes us together like a bow’s stroke
that from two strings draws one voice.
Across what instrument are we stretched taut?
And what player holds us in his hand?
O sweet song.


Rilke, translated by Edward Snow

I see the same sort of thing in the latest poem you posted.

[Pendragon]

To Pendragon,

To give you an example from another poet. This is a poem by Rilke which shows the same sort of shift from a singular voice to singular voice encompassing both the “you” and “I”. Notice this shift, and also notice how well it goes with the topic of love being dealt with at hand.

Love Song

How shall I keep my soul
from touching yours? How shall
I lift it over you toward other things?
Ah, I would like to lodge it
in the dark with some lost thing
on some foreign silent place
that doesn’t tremble, when your depths stir.
Yet everything that touches you and me
takes us together like a bow’s stroke
that from two strings draws one voice.
Across what instrument are we stretched taut?
And what player holds us in his hand?
O sweet song.


Rilke, translated by Edward Snow

I see the same sort of thing in the latest poem you posted.True. The comparisson is there, though I would hardly claim to be as famous a poet. I have two most sestinas in my blog you should check out. I was challanged to write them. The story is Robert Louis Stevenson's Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. What I was challanged to do was write from both characters perspective. I can't resist a challange!

http://i94.photobucket.com/albums/l108/AbsalomKane/Smilies/PuppyLove.gif

[scarlet pain]

Hi Scarlet,

Thanks for posting your poem. I do like the path your poem led me, having both direction and resolution. It’s also very interesting you don’t have I, you, she, he, walking this path. Gives the movement through this path a very disjointed feel, which is what I think you were after. An example is you say “at last the feet rest.” Very strange it’s not his/her feet, but just “the feet.” But you also have a lot of just out-of-the-blue images I don’t understand. At points I don’t understand why the path would be “slippery moist path/of pitch black echoes,” at other places why “weary”? Maybe rational doesn’t exist in this place? I truly don’t know.

thank you so much for the review,its actually a dream i saw several times(you can call it a nightmare),i have no idea why i saw it,id made me very sad and gloomy and in the poem i described exactly what i saw,i guess that explains the 'slippery moist path'.i even cried once,it made me feel very empty and alone.anyways thank you again!

[scarlet pain]

Thoughts


Thoughts come-like a river flow,
Like May flower and a quick rainbow!

As days pass and years grow,
Some mislead and some show-
Paths of truth,paths of pleasure,
paths of sorrow and distress beyond measure.

A sudden thought a misplaced foot,
Into the abyss,a demon's loot!
One step forward with a well earned thought,
A rise and shine and a fight well fought!

Thoughts of Dreamy eyes and a loved heart,
Lyre of passion and graceful 'Motzart'!
Thoughts of yesterday,tomorrow and today,
Memories or things-to-do or a well planned way!

Thoughts come-like falling snow,
Like May flower and a quick rainbow!

Bright,blue sky and an airy mood,
Nothing impossible-feels so good!
A dull snowy day-dampy wet streets,
A sunken heart,tearfull eyes and an angry hiss!

A twisted mind can think much worse,
And have no regret,no remorse!
A simple mind is thought to be,
Wild,green,vivid and so free!

Like some dreams true and vivid,
Thoughts are yet so varied indeed,
From era to era and age to age,
From people to people,young-old phase!
Thoughts are but thoughts for certain,
Like sparks of glory and blazing pain!

[ktd222]

Thoughts


Thoughts come-like a river flow,
Like May flower and a quick rainbow!

As days pass and years grow,
Some mislead and some show-
Paths of truth,paths of pleasure,
paths of sorrow and distress beyond measure.

A sudden thought a misplaced foot,
Into the abyss,a demon's loot!
One step forward with a well earned thought,
A rise and shine and a fight well fought!

Thoughts of Dreamy eyes and a loved heart,
Lyre of passion and graceful 'Motzart'!
Thoughts of yesterday,tomorrow and today,
Memories or things-to-do or a well planned way!

Thoughts come-like falling snow,
Like May flower and a quick rainbow!

Bright,blue sky and an airy mood,
Nothing impossible-feels so good!
A dull snowy day-dampy wet streets,
A sunken heart,tearfull eyes and an angry hiss!

A twisted mind can think much worse,
And have no regret,no remorse!
A simple mind is thought to be,
Wild,green,vivid and so free!

Like some dreams true and vivid,
Thoughts are yet so varied indeed,
From era to era and age to age,
From people to people,young-old phase!
Thoughts are but thoughts for certain,
Like sparks of glory and blazing pain!

Hi scarlet pain,

You cried? Oh boy! I need to see a shrink, because I never cry. Thanks for posting again, though.

I’m guessing you also sensed that “May flower” sounds kind of corny. And on the other hand if you mean flower in May, then it doesn’t make any sense at all with the river flow or rainbow.

I’m also sensing that you’re trying to make that invariable connection between thoughts and feeling, or lack of feeling. But I think the only way to properly express how you feel about certain thoughts is fully, and vividly describe a thought. So far I’m only getting glimpses of one thought at a time, and that’s not enough for me to appreciate how you feel about it. I could easily envision a compare and contrast style poem.

So yes, at places I still feel you are saying what can be shown, and by way not showing what you are feeling.

[ahsiam]

well i wrote 6 poems and among them i liked it most.so i am giving it here,if there are any flaws.............

EMBLEM OF PASSION

come at dark depth
when water drops tune a lyre
and call it a rain.


come as my thoughts
when i think about you
and call it a dream.


come as my voice
when words make a harmony
and call it a song.


come as my sorrow
when a pearl arise from the sea
and call it a tear.


be my vision
when thousand colours dance together
and call it a rainbow.


be my shelter
when i live in you
and call it a home.


be with me
when i hide you behind everyone
and call it a shadow.


let your hand touch me
when moonlight touches the earth
and call it a heaven.


let your soul meet me
when true souls give birth to a story
and call it a history.


born as a sire of streams
and flow in my heart
then i will call it love

[ktd222]

well i wrote 6 poems and among them i liked it most.so i am giving it here,if there are any flaws.............

EMBLEM OF PASSION

come at dark depth
when water drops tune a lyre
and call it a rain.


come as my thoughts
when i think about you
and call it a dream.


come as my voice
when words make a harmony
and call it a song.


come as my sorrow
when a pearl arise from the sea
and call it a tear.


be my vision
when thousand colours dance together
and call it a rainbow.


be my shelter
when i live in you
and call it a home.


be with me
when i hide you behind everyone
and call it a shadow.


let your hand touch me
when moonlight touches the earth
and call it a heaven.


let your soul meet me
when true souls give birth to a story
and call it a history.


born as a sire of streams
and flow in my heart
then i will call it love


Hi ashiam,

Thanks for feeling I could be of some help. So I think what you’re doing is identifying experiences of passion you’ve had through symbols. Some of your stanzas are set up in a very peculiar way. I would usually expect the symbol causes the passionate experience to manifest itself. But you don’t always do that. In stanza four the symbol is “when a pearl arise from the sea.” The symbol is in the middle line of that stanza; from which the symbol changes into another symbol in the third line; then the symbol stirs a type of feeling from you in the first line. This is like have the feeling, then seeing the symbol that represents it. Really backwards, I think.

And in some cases I can’t identify the emotion. I mean in stanza three…where is the emotion? I can’t identify it. But maybe it’s not supposed to be there? I am reading the poem as if there was to be an emotion revealed in each stanza. Maybe all the stanzas together were supposed to be representative as an “emblem of passion?” Sorry, sometimes I like to talk myself through my own confusion.

I really can’t pinpoint what you are doing. But in reading through your poem, and looking at the repetitions and progressions of first lines in each stanza, you are moving towards creating an experience you had with this other person. Which I think is happening…I’m just having trouble following the story, per say. I would prefer something more straightforward to tell about this “emblem of passion,” say, a walk in the park where things begin to become more and more recognizable to you. I think that would parallel well with the first lines you’ve got in culminating to an “actual” experience.

[stephofthenight]

Forget It

forget you
forget him
i love you
i hate him

you hate me
he loves me
how complicated
can life be

you notice me
he sees me
why cant this be
a fairytale

you cause the tears
that he wipes away
why does
it have to be this way?

[stephofthenight]

what a brave, brave girl
she holds her head up o' so high
she doesnt fear it,
she knows shes about to die
what a brave, brave girl.

her daddys yelling
her momma hits the floor
she doesnt take off running
she doesnt head to the door
she just stands there,
accepting whats to come
what a brave, brave girl

the county sent some poeple out
and every single time
she holds her head up high and says
im fine
daddy loves me,
mommy loves him
everything is as it should be,
no, he didnt hit me,
i fell down the stairs
no, momma got that black eye in a bar.
what a brave, brave girl

she goes to church that sunday,
ask god to forgive her lies,
im only trying to protect him
even if he does make momma cry
what a bave, brave girl

the preacher knows whats in her heart
everyone in the church seems to know
that the brave, brave girl standing in front of them,
didnt get those bruises from the stairs
they all know, as they look at her,
she's just an innocent girl right now
but as soon as she goes home
daddys yelling
momma hits the floor
she just stands there waiting for her turn
what a brave, brave girl

that night as she goes to bed
she talks to god and this is what she said....
i know that mommy loves me
i know that daddy realy cares
but lord they both hurt me
please take away my fears
im just a small child,
im not that brave of a girl
please watch over daddy
and take care of mommy
i want to join you up there
i wanna be out of his reach,
his fist and words cut so deep
lord, please take me home with you
Daddy says im bad, but i promise ill be better
Mommy says its not my fault, but i promise i wont fallter
lord, i can cook and clean, i mind real well.
please just take me away from here.
shes a brave, brave girl

the very next morning, shes found dead
under all the bruises and shame
was a small innocent child
her daddy went to jail
her momma went insane
and that brave little girl went home.
what a brave, brave girl.

[ktd222]

Forget It

forget you
forget him
i love you
i hate him

you hate me
he loves me
how complicated
can life be

you notice me
he sees me
why cant this be
a fairytale

you cause the tears
that he wipes away
why does
it have to be this way?

Hi stephofthenight,

It seems like you’re utilizing syllable counting in your poem. In this way each line can work as a statement…which I think works well in this poem…but you broke the count part way through. Although I must agree with you that that last stanza works well as a flow to “connect” all three individuals.

As for the idea expressed in the poem, looks like a love/hate triangle without any direct relationship or mutual feelings. Nice turn in the end with an indirect connection between all three of the people in the poem. It almost made up for the cliché love/hate thing.

The words “fairytale” and “complicated” seem oddly out of place. I like the cyclic thing happening in your poem…so when you inserted a word like “fairytale” I got confused. I would say try and keep your words within the framework of what you are creating.

[ktd222]

what a brave, brave girl
she holds her head up o' so high
she doesnt fear it,
she knows shes about to die
what a brave, brave girl.

her daddys yelling
her momma hits the floor
she doesnt take off running
she doesnt head to the door
she just stands there,
accepting whats to come
what a brave, brave girl

the county sent some poeple out
and every single time
she holds her head up high and says
im fine
daddy loves me,
mommy loves him
everything is as it should be,
no, he didnt hit me,
i fell down the stairs
no, momma got that black eye in a bar.
what a brave, brave girl

she goes to church that sunday,
ask god to forgive her lies,
im only trying to protect him
even if he does make momma cry
what a bave, brave girl

the preacher knows whats in her heart
everyone in the church seems to know
that the brave, brave girl standing in front of them,
didnt get those bruises from the stairs
they all know, as they look at her,
she's just an innocent girl right now
but as soon as she goes home
daddys yelling
momma hits the floor
she just stands there waiting for her turn
what a brave, brave girl

that night as she goes to bed
she talks to god and this is what she said....
i know that mommy loves me
i know that daddy realy cares
but lord they both hurt me
please take away my fears
im just a small child,
im not that brave of a girl
please watch over daddy
and take care of mommy
i want to join you up there
i wanna be out of his reach,
his fist and words cut so deep
lord, please take me home with you
Daddy says im bad, but i promise ill be better
Mommy says its not my fault, but i promise i wont fallter
lord, i can cook and clean, i mind real well.
please just take me away from here.
shes a brave, brave girl

the very next morning, shes found dead
under all the bruises and shame
was a small innocent child
her daddy went to jail
her momma went insane
and that brave little girl went home.
what a brave, brave girl.

Hi stepofthenight,

I don’t know why but when I read this I thought about William Blake’s The Little Boy Lost. Here it is:

'Father, father, where are you going?
O do not walk so fast!
Speak, father, speak to your little boy,
Or else I shall be lost.'
The night was dark, no father was there,
The child was wet with dew;
The mire was deep, and the child did weep,
And away the vapour flew.


I think it is the loss of innocence toward the end of your work that struck a parallel for me with this Blake poem. I wonder whose voice this is telling the story. The voice sounds like the recounting of a story told by a social worker or someone of that nature, which is fine, except the recounting sounds child-like. This voice can’t be her referring to herself in third person, can it? I think this needs work, depending on who is telling the story.

[cracking muse]

Welcome to the human condition
where you hate me and I hate you.
Where pure rage fuels the world
and the raindrop whispers melt the truths.
Look through ice cold window panes,
stare at the people sleeping on the streets –
and the men and women who wrinkle their
noses at those poor unfortunate souls.

Welcome to the human condition
where peace means more war
and war means so-called peace.
Where glass in your feet hurts less
than the glare of the man who made you.
That imaginary smile on your face
will only help you walk along the street,
while the face of reality is the one
who pushes you in front of the cars.

Welcome to the human condition,
where no one cares at all.

[ktd222]

Welcome to the human condition
where you hate me and I hate you.
Where pure rage fuels the world
and the raindrop whispers melt the truths.
Look through ice cold window panes,
stare at the people sleeping on the streets –
and the men and women who wrinkle their
noses at those poor unfortunate souls.

Welcome to the human condition
where peace means more war
and war means so-called peace.
Where glass in your feet hurts less
than the glare of the man who made you.
That imaginary smile on your face
will only help you walk along the street,
while the face of reality is the one
who pushes you in front of the cars.

Welcome to the human condition,
where no one cares at all.

Hi cracking muse,

Sorry for the late response. I’d been ill for the past week.

I’m guessing what you are getting at is that this infliction of hatred by humans on humans has no logic to it. There are no sensible reasons for hatred being present, yet it is present, presenting itself to the detriment of its host.

You set up such strict terms as to what afflicts humans. With such strict terms comes the responsibility of producing exact imagery, and at times I think your departures left me bewildered. I don’t know what “raindrop whispers” nor who the “unfortunate souls” are; nor can I even guess at “the glare of the man who made you” has anything to do with war; or even how/why hate turned into peace which meant more war, then changes to a scene with streets and cars. I think your transitions need work.

[mikeymo]

flightless fool
Delusional storms of hail decay the sky
In this sleep, we shall fly
When awake, have but voiceless wings
We had the feathers, now the tears
Why would anyone provide the fear-oh dear!

Unlock beliefs which measure despair
Why cry? For the hornbull once flied

Disavowing wings in these cold cellophane nights
True dreaming now dead!
Forced keys to reality
A destined death, a future life

Purists in bliss, pure woolen glee
Fallen through clouds of peril
Light shunned through damp decree
Those demeaning souls standing high in the hills,
Fall down laughing, yet I cried

Leaving sins forevermore asleep
Breathes, though frowned upon
To love all hope, die anew

Those soulless dreamers, consume all life
True existence is dead!

Sunken hopes appease the herd
Sacrifice freedom and die twice our featherman friend
This was a drowning here!

Swallows life, only to serve the captain of the sin ship
Hold my regards! Come ashore, we sail no more.

[ktd222]

flightless fool
Delusional storms of hail decay the sky
In this sleep, we shall fly
When awake, have but voiceless wings
We had the feathers, now the tears
Why would anyone provide the fear-oh dear!

Unlock beliefs which measure despair
Why cry? For the hornbull once flied

Disavowing wings in these cold cellophane nights
True dreaming now dead!
Forced keys to reality
A destined death, a future life

Purists in bliss, pure woolen glee
Fallen through clouds of peril
Light shunned through damp decree
Those demeaning souls standing high in the hills,
Fall down laughing, yet I cried

Leaving sins forevermore asleep
Breathes, though frowned upon
To love all hope, die anew

Those soulless dreamers, consume all life
True existence is dead!

Sunken hopes appease the herd
Sacrifice freedom and die twice our featherman friend
This was a drowning here!

Swallows life, only to serve the captain of the sin ship
Hold my regards! Come ashore, we sail no more.

Someone of my ilk attempts to determine the conveyance of any written piece. Sadly this poem is impenetrable to my reasoning. I have no idea what this is, or what this stands for. Does it have something to do with sleep, wings, voiceless wings, plastics, the featherman and a ship of sin? Ah! I don’t know. At times I know inspiration can hit and there you go writing down whatever is in your head. And this step may be all that’s required to create an interesting, maybe even amazing poem. But most of the time I think it is worth investigating what one wrote in moments of inspiration, and outline the idea behind it; then take that idea as the basis in building a poem around it.

Or you can just tell me what you were communicating and I’ll have a basis for reading what you wrote.

[QuietMurmurings]

The clock is endlessly tick tick ticking...:(
inside my head echoing oing ing n

Time is standing oh so very very still
Yet things often race past at break neck speed

Folks always seem to be talking, squawking
Focusing and yet still disconnected
Scurrying about like ants on the ground
Steeped in worries of the current moment

There's no cosmic collective consciousness
Is there one who can see the whole picture?
Where's this all leading, or will it ever
be revealed to our primitive closed minds?

So in the meantime, we keep scurrying
Hurrying on our way to our little affairs
Blind to or in denial of our end fate
...and always the clock keeps tick tick ticking

[ktd222]

The clock is endlessly tick tick ticking...:(
inside my head echoing oing ing n

Time is standing oh so very very still
Yet things often race past at break neck speed

Folks always seem to be talking, squawking
Focusing and yet still disconnected
Scurrying about like ants on the ground
Steeped in worries of the current moment

There's no cosmic collective consciousness
Is there one who can see the whole picture?
Where's this all leading, or will it ever
be revealed to our primitive closed minds?

So in the meantime, we keep scurrying
Hurrying on our way to our little affairs
Blind to or in denial of our end fate
...and always the clock keeps tick tick ticking

Hi Quietmurmuring,

Thanks for posting. This is in response to your smilie.:eek: If you don’t recognize it, it is a look of consternation. I had never seen symbols used in poetry until now, and frankly I don’t know what to do with it.

Your idea about the importance of what we do in our lives have in the whole scheme of the universe intrigues me. Too bad I didn’t gain any insight from what you’ve said. The whole poem seems to trace around the edges of the subject, instead of punching a hole in it.

The manner which you chose to explore the subject seems inconsistent and cliché. Should it not just be the “ticking” that is evaporating in your mind as well? And why at times is time “standing still,” and at other times seems to be stretching out? Why, when you spoke about the “folks”, you have them wasting time, have an adjacent rhyme, and another time have them moving speedily, have the same type of adjacent rhyme? I think the consistency thing need be worked out.

[ktd222]

Post a poem and get a review! I guarantee you might not like what I have to say.

[ktd222]

Does anyone have a poem they feel needs critquing? Post it here. I promise you feedback.

[marymmmm]

This might sound a bit strange and this thread might die very quickly as most of my threads do but I am currently in the mood to rate/judge/review poems submitted in this category by all the poets of litnet. Although my reviews might be too self biased to be considered beneficial it can help me to become a better writer/reviewer. And it wouldn't hurt anybody else to get your poetry some attention right!? More than half the poems in this category are recieved with zero replies and I would like to see if I can make just a small difference in this even if it isn't significant and this topic falls onto page 10 in a few days after recieving 400 hits and not one reply.

That's perfectly fine with me! If you post a poem in this thread... it will be reviewed whether you like it or not :D! Heck, if you post anything in this thread I'll reply.

So come post your poetry and get some reviews!
I would very much like you to look at my poem. But please go easy on me i'm fairly new at this.

Suicide, watch

There are lots of ways
pills, a gun, poison
to kill ones self
a knife, a rope, the jump

There are many ways
newspaper, word of mouth
you hear about it
news, witness it

There are many reasons
dept, being alone
someone would want to commit
depresion, adultery

There are many ways
a note, an e-mail
that someone could let you know
they were going to do it.

I personaly choose a poem,
why, i feel alone
how, a jump
i can only hope you will hear about me
it's suicide........ watch

[ktd222]

Gosh!!! I guess some people only want criticisms which will reinforce how good they think their poems might be. Adol. is no longer part of this site; so you'll be waiting a long, long while for a response.

P.S. You can post your poem on the general area for written poems if you want a response from someone other than mine.

[marymmmm]

I would very much like you to look at my poem. But please go easy on me i'm fairly new at this.

Suicide, watch

There are lots of ways
pills, a gun, poison
to kill ones self
a knife, a rope, the jump

There are many ways
newspaper, word of mouth
you hear about it
news, witness it

There are many reasons
dept, being alone
someone would want to commit
depresion, adultery

There are many ways
a note, an e-mail
that someone could let you know
they were going to do it.

I personaly choose a poem,
why, i feel alone
how, a jump
i can only hope you will hear about me
it's suicide........ watch

[marymmmm]

Gosh!!! I guess some people only want criticisms which will reinforce how good they think their poems might be. Adol. is no longer part of this site; so you'll be waiting a long, long while for a response.

P.S. You can post your poem on the general area for written poems if you want a response from someone other than mine.

I'm not sure if you were refering to me, but i honestly don't know if my peom is any good.

I'm not sure how to post my poem is there any chance you could give me a few pointers.

[crazefest456]

You could post them by starting a new thread in the Personal Poetry section (http://www.online-literature.com/forums/forumdisplay.php?f=14) and clicking the new thread button on the top. And here's some advice about posting poetry:
http://www.online-literature.com/forums/showthread.php?t=21394

[marymmmm]

Thank you.

[Pendragon]

Here KTD. This one is from my blog and I'd really be interested in getting your review. Thanks.

This is just a weird one about ghostly places, I've been chatting with someone about ghosts and stuff. Marie Laveau is a favorite song by Bobby Bare as well. The wail from the song goes into the poem. BTW she doesn't haunt this particular cometary, she's in St. Louis Number 1, but it felt good to throw her into the whole mess. Have Fun. I chose Cyprus Grove as the cemetery, because it's on every list of haunted New Orleans Cemeteries. Never near the top, it is still significant, and always in the top ten.

The Significance of Five Years

Full moon rises over the bayou,
Mist hangs in the Spanish moss in the trees.
Saw someone moving in the Cemetery at Cyprus Grove
The hour is Midnight in the garden of good and evil.
She wails away somewhere in the swamps
Voodoo Queen, dead undying Marie Laveau …
Gonna be some trouble come morning…

My cloak always hides me in the darkness of the night,
Seems some old boy acquired a hand of glory.
I could tell him that in these graves Tis best to leave the dead alone.
But he has the spells and the wax and now the hand.
He moves away towards his target, a mansion near the entrance to the Grove,
Laveau screams in the dark somewhere behind him…

Now he’s made his move inside the house and the Hand of Glory flames.
As long as those fingers glow blue none in the house but he can move!
What does he want from them? Their daughter. How pleasant! Lovers.
They are outside now. He draws a water pistol filled with milk and removes the flames.
In a second or two he has recovered the limp hand of the hanged man,
Now something follows as he carries his girl away in the fog

Said I not these graves in Cyprus Grove are best left undisturbed?
It is Laveau again, but this time chanting, as if dancing in a spell.
The Young Man lays his burden down to rest for a moment,
And taking the hand out seeks to throw it as far a he can.
The wind sighs down through the Cyprus tress stirring the beards of moss.

A hand takes the young man by the throat.
Eyes like flames inside of cannon barrels fixate themselves on his face.
“I’ have back my hand, me. You take from Rene, eh? Rene take from you.
“My han’ have five fingers, yes? You use no p’misson. I tink I take 5 years of your life.”
The Horrible eyes turned and spotted me among the stones,
“You tink Rene be fair, Reaper?” I silently raised my scythe in a sign of justice.

Now you know why the haunted graveyards of New Orleans are so popular.
The have a lookout to see things go on, but go on fair.
The couple were married and are doing quite well.
He worries about the little tattoo mark on his chest now and then
And he still hears Marie Laveau cry in the misty nights.
He shouldn’t worry that much. That mark just sped up his date with me.
By exactly 5 years…

Pendragon
© 12/21/07

[ktd222]

The Significance of Five Years

Full moon rises over the bayou,
Mist hangs in the Spanish moss in the trees.
Saw someone moving in the Cemetery at Cyprus Grove
The hour is Midnight garden of good and evil.
She wails away somewhere in the swamps
Voodoo Queen, dead undying Marie Laveau …
Gonna be some trouble come morning…

My cloak always hides me in the darkness of the night,
Seems some old boy acquired a hand of glory.
I could tell him that in theses graves Tis best to leave the dead alone.
But he has the spells and the wax and now the hand.
He moves away towards his target, a mansion near the entrance to the Grove,
Laveau screams in the dark somewhere behind him…

Now he’s made his move inside the house and the Hand of Glory flames.
As long as those fingers glow blue none in the house but he can move!
What does he want from them? Their daughter. How pleasant! Lovers.
They are outside now. He draws a water pistol filled with milk and removes the flames.
In a second or two he has recovered the limp hand of the hanged man,
Now something follows as he carries his girl away in the fog

Said I not these graves in Cyprus Grove are best left undisturbed?
It is Laveau again, but this time chanting, as if dancing in a spell.
The Young Man lays his burden down to rest for a moment,
And taking the hand out seeks to throw it as far a he can.
The wind sighs down through the Cyprus tress stirring the beards of moss.

A hand takes the young man by the throat.
Eyes like flames inside of cannon barrels fixate themselves on his face.
“I’ have back my hand, me. You take from Rene, eh? Rene take from you.
“My han’ have five fingers, yes? You use no p’misson. I tink I take 5 years of your life.”
The Horrible eyes turned and spotted me among the stones,
“You tink Renee be fair, Reaper?” I silently raised my scythe in a sign of justice.

Now you know why the haunted graveyards of New Orleans are so popular.
The have a lookout to see things go on, but go on fair.
The couple were married and are doing quite well.
He worries about the little tattoo mark on his chest now and then
And he still hear Marie Laveau cry in the misty nights.
He shouldn’t worry that much. That mark just sped up his date with me.
By exactly 5 years…

Pendragon
© 12/21/07

Hi Pendragon

Sorry it took so long to respond. I didn’t realize anyone posted on this thread. This is a fun story. I like how the same hand that allows him not to be disturbed by the dead is the hand which takes five years from his life. I think the hand represents many things in this poem, both literally and metaphorically. It is the hand of the hanged man, the hand of justice, the hand of glory which permits him access in the cemetery, the hand that wakes the dead, the hand in marriage and the five fingers of the hand that sped up his meeting with the speaker.

[summermemory]

I wrote this one last year. It is not one of my best works. I was trying new things out with it. I promise, I have written better works! This one kind of stinks. I do want to improve it, however. Any feedback would be welcome.

scars
flashbacks
of a bittersweet past
emblems
little mistakes
one has made

imprints
reminders of defacement,
past regrets.
beautiful
faded with time
becoming whole

taunted
by voices and illusions
horrors and delusions
each one
leading to more
scars

[ktd222]

I wrote this one last year. It is not one of my best works. I was trying new things out with it. I promise, I have written better works! This one kind of stinks. I do want to improve it, however. Any feedback would be welcome.

scars
flashbacks
of a bittersweet past
emblems
little mistakes
one has made

imprints
reminders of defacement,
past regrets.
beautiful
faded with time
becoming whole

taunted
by voices and illusions
horrors and delusions
each one
leading to more
scars

Hi!

Thanks for posting. Aren’t we all trying to learn and improve? When I look at this poem I can’t determine what is “bittersweet” about this past of yours. I understand that the physical scars are emblems of the “little mistakes” which have inscribed themselves on your skin, a reminder of the “bad” part of past experiences, but I am not given an experience (as reader) to connect with. Also, I can not find the “sweet” part of your experience. How are scars beautiful? I think this is where an illustration would be helpful as well. Is the beautiful part of this “bittersweet past” the fact that the scar is no longer raw, fleshy, it is not as painful? That somehow over time the physical pain faded, so that you can look at the scars and not feel this type of pain? I’m not fond of the line breaks either. It makes the whole experience feel incoherent to me. You may be trying to literally create flashbacks of the past, but, to me, the line breaks create nothing more than glimpses of words without images. Keep the idea, but extend the lines. It is interesting to note the contrast between the type of scar that starts off your poem and the type of scar which ends your poem: literal to psychological. I think this idea would be wonderful to explore further.

[andave_ya]

Hello! This is my first structured/somewhat scansioned poem, but I think my meter is a bit off. I'd love your critique.



I heard a melody, note by note,
A tune on which I now will dote.
It swelled before it dipped down low,
And following, I heard it go.

To plumb the leagues of an ocean deep,
Seeing visions that make me weep.
For were it not for that lightsome sound,
To earth and things known I would yet be bound.

So to you, to this music sublime,
Bowing I offer my humble rhyme.
In the distant memory of things not yet seen,
I found the girl I might have been.

[davyp]

There was a young man from Venus
Who was famous for his greeness
He had a venutian cat
Who sat on a mat
Neither were noted for leanness

[davyp]

p.s. yer all bolloxes

[ktd222]

Hello! This is my first structured/somewhat scansioned poem, but I think my meter is a bit off. I'd love your critique.



I heard a melody, note by note,
A tune on which I now will dote.
It swelled before it dipped down low,
And following, I heard it go.

To plumb the leagues of an ocean deep,
Seeing visions that make me weep.
For were it not for that lightsome sound,
To earth and things known I would yet be bound.

So to you, to this music sublime,
Bowing I offer my humble rhyme.
In the distant memory of things not yet seen,
I found the girl I might have been.

Hi andave


I don’t know exactly the type of meter and accent pattern you are using, because in places you have stressed words one after the other, and in other places you have patterns of irregular unstressed and stressed syllables. But I think you know that. So then this is a poem about the appreciation of sound itself, the ability for one to control it instead of being controlled by it (at least I hope this is what you mean). I also like how the end-rhyme pattern moved from perfect rhymes to the half-rhyme at the end of your poem. It’s a playful poem. I like it.

[ktd222]

There was a young man from Venus
Who was famous for his greeness
He had a venutian cat
Who sat on a mat
Neither were noted for leanness

Hey davyp

I’m sorry but I don’t like this. Sounds like rhyming for the sake of rhyming, thought-of substituting what was thought-up. Right now, I do not understand what you have here. If I said my socks are like a box of foxes, what am I saying? I don’t know. I’m merely connecting different things because I want them to connect…there is no underlying creation beyond this fact.

[ktd222]

I haven't had a post on here for the longest time. Does anyone want me to look at their poem? Post it here - you'll definitely get a reply.

[Captain Pike]

T'was just about then, that the Princess walked in.
Her fine garments were ragged and bloody.
Her perception was one,
of ghastly atrocities done;
there was plenty of Scarlet to study.

[ktd222]

T'was just about then, that the Princess walked in.
Her fine garments were ragged and bloody.
Her perception was one,
of ghastly atrocities done;
there was plenty of Scarlet to study.

Hi Capt'n!

I must say you left a few things to the imagination. Is this on purpose? For example, the when or what time is “then”? What exactly were the “ghastly atrocities”? These mysteries go so well with the scene. You leave me wondering if the scene that unfolded actually led to murder. And the “twas” throws this scene back to the time even before Shakespeare. I think what you might be doing is, as the scene unfolds, leave hints for the reader to pick up on to try and resolve the scene. I also think that is why you have the rhyme pattern: to connect different ideas into one uninterrupted scene. That’s actually a neat idea to work with.

But this poem is way too short for me to be sure of anything. I would definitely expand on the plot of the poem to reinforce these ideas.

[Sigvard]

The cast of nations performs its` illusions,
A show that is spiced with riddled confusions.
Presenting its` latest act - the creation of a much debated confederation.
Could well be the preparation for a super-state formation.
To a new beginning - to brotherly ties,
Raise your glasses, " Mud in your eyes ".

Plans are proposed in halls of power,
Signatures, treaties ignored every hour
Symbolic handshakes- ` Europe shall rise !`
To nations united in half truths and lies,
Let us drink,
A toast ! - " Mud in your eyes "

The phoenix is re-born from the fire,
Transformed to an eagle soaring higher and higher,
To unlock the future we must turn to the past,
When a prophet spoke,
"Rome shall not last,
your lots have been cast."

To The New World Order, " The Beast " soon to rise,
To control our alls` fates until Yeshua arrives,
I say dear chaps,
"Fill the cup"
"Bottoms up"
"Mud in your eyes.

[Sigvard]

If I walked with you
Amidst the blaze of beautiful flowers,
I would ask them to bow to you
For you are my Queen.

If I could affect the light of the moon that`s full, at will,
I would command it to change its` color
To the one that is your favorite,
for you are my Queen.

If this my poor attempt at painting words for you,
Can bring home to your understanding
Only some of the deep feelings, that I hold for you,
I would have achieved something.

And if I could speak my words with a voice that does not break up
For all the emotions that swell up inside of me,
I would try whilst you listen, to convey to your mind
All the things, that I always wanted to say to you,
But that can not be easily expressed in common speech -
Such as my deep devotion, that I would be prepared
To take all the pain and unhappiness that ever may come your way,
Gladly upon myself, to suffer in your stead,
So you may be happy,
For you are my Queen.

If all the music that has ever been written, could be put together
As one composition of immortal sound,
I would get the greatest masters to work on it
And present it from me to you
As a confession of my everlasting love,
For you are my Queen.

If it were at all possible for me
To form the stars of a nightly summers` sky
Into an orchestra, I would do so -
Then tell them to play just for you, whilst I myself would conduct
This concerto of a million harmonies and magnificent beauty,
For you are a very precious gift -
My strength , my friend, my life,
you are my world, my beloved wife,
You are my Queen.

[Sigvard]

"We belong to the clan of Neanderthal-man,
Clear proof of evolution.
God is dead, creation a myth", so the ` Know it all ` said -
And " Let science be your solution. "
But now it has come out that after all,
He wasn't our original father at all,
That today`s knowledge has shown,
From the DNA in his bones,
We must be related to totally different species.
Perhaps to prehistoric garden-gnomes,
Or the long extinct tribe of highland-trolls,
Therefore, I am convinced that the blighters can see,
Our advancement is continually.
So, naturally from garden gnomes, from highland-trolls,
From our present stage of existence,
We have already started our next gradual change,
Into the next specie -
Of cabbage-patch dolls.

[keyheld]

The cast of nations performs its` illusions,
A show that is spiced with riddled confusions.
Presenting its` latest act - the creation of a much debated confederation.
Could well be the preparation for a super-state formation.
To a new beginning - to brotherly ties,
Raise your glasses, " Mud in your eyes ".

Plans are proposed in halls of power,
Signatures, treaties ignored every hour
Symbolic handshakes- ` Europe shall rise !`
To nations united in half truths and lies,
Let us drink,
A toast ! - " Mud in your eyes "

The phoenix is re-born from the fire,
Transformed to an eagle soaring higher and higher,
To unlock the future we must turn to the past,
When a prophet spoke,
"Rome shall not last,
your lots have been cast."

To The New World Order, " The Beast " soon to rise,
To control our alls` fates until Yeshua arrives,
I say dear chaps,
"Fill the cup"
"Bottoms up"
"Mud in your eyes.

Hi Sigvard,

How are you? Good I hope.

This is a scene acted out on a world stage, in consideration of other nations. The way each nation behaves is phony, and the storyline is phony. You have a concrete idea about the way people behave in front of the public is not how they really behave in private. I wish I would have gotten more of a dialogue between actual characters, so as to play with the illusion and what’s real. Also I had hoped for a more detailed scene played out, but all I got were generalized characterizations, which are not fine; you run the risk of your work being considered superficial in its idea. If being phony in this context is all show, then shouldn’t what is revealed, what is truthful, be more insightful?

[Sigvard]

Friends, Romans and countrymen - lend me your ears.
Hallo everyone I think it is about time that I introduced myself to you.
As I am a newcomer to these shores, I do not know if this is actually the
right way. However let us see what happens. I hope to get some communications in return.
My name is Sigvard von Brevern. I am of German nationality, but have for
some 40 years lived in the United Kingdom, my abode is "sunny " Brighton.
Since a young age already I have been interested in writing some form of
poetry, mostly the rhyming type. Well, as you probably gathered, I am quite
an old " biddy " I am of the tender age of 70.
Besides of writing poetry, I also like the composing of music in various styles,
some of which has been performed to live audiences at different venues,
such as stately homes, ships, hotels/restaurants, music bars etc.etc.
I hope to hear from some of you, especially some comments and constructive
criticism to my poetic contributions.
For now, Roger and out, arrivederci, ta-ta and so forth.

[Sigvard]

Spring brought warmer days,
Melted the ice on the lake,
Found the willows still asleep
And kissed them awake.
Countless hours and more
Have I searched our haunts of yesterday,
Where were you when the song-birds flew back
From their far-off hideaway?

Summer came with those
warm nights in soft shades of blue,
Gave a new lease of life
To my memories of you.
I recalled how we hand in hand chased the wind
Like children play,
Where were you when the wild geese returned
From a cold and distant bay?

Autumn changed summers` brightness
To new color-schemes,
Leaves fell, drowned in the lake,
Sadness lived in my dreams.
Once more winter winds
Drifted the snow across a moody sea,
Where were you when a cruel, frosty morning
Froze every hope in me?
where were you when I thought of you,
longed for you,
wanted you with me?

[Sigvard]

Spring brought warmer days,
Melted the ice on the lake,
Found the willows still asleep,
Then kissed them awake.
Countless hours and more
Have I searched our " haunts of yesterday ",
Where were you when the song-birds flew back
From their far-off hideaway?

Summer came with those
Warm nights in soft shades of blue,
Gave a new lease of life
To my memories of you.
I recalled how we hand in hand chased the wind
Just like children play,
Where were you when the wild geese returned
From a cold and distant bay?

Autumn changed summers` brightness
To new color schemes,
Leaves fell, drowned in the lake,
Sadness lived in my dreams,
Once more winter-winds
Drifted the snow across a moody sea,
Where were you when a cruel, frosty morning
Froze every hope in me?

Yes, where were you when I thought of you,
longed for you,
wanted you with me?

[babyface123]

This is the poem I have wrote..
I walked into that hollow room,
I looked and looked to find you.

There you were, sitting and stairing at me like you were guilty. Why not smile at me?

I wanted to run into your arms, but can't because I felt like I would get trapped.

Just keep waiting, and you will have me all to yourself forever and always.

I mean that because here you were. I saw you the first time after all of this. There you were.

There you were sitting and stairing at me.

[babyface123]

Another poem I have written: Why
All the days have passed by and thinking of you. Why not think about me?

You have the key to my heart, why not use the key?

You play our song, Why not dance to our song?

I dream of you, why not dream of me too?

Why,
Why,
Why?

[Sigvard]

Spring brought warmer days,
Melted the ice on the lake,
Found the willows still asleep
Then kissed them awake.
Countless hours and more
Have I searched our " haunts of yesterday ",
Where were you when the song-birds flew back
From their far-off hideaway?

Summer came with those
warm nights in soft shades of blue,
Gave a new lease of life
To my memories of you.
I recalled how we hand in hand chased the wind
Just like children play,
Where were you when the wild geese returned
From a cold and distant bay?

Autumn changed summers` brightness
To new color-schemes,
Leaves fell, drowned in the lake,
Sadness lived in my dreams,
Once more winter-winds
Drifted the snow across a moody sea,
Where were you when a cruel, frosty morning
Froze every hope in me?
Yes, where were you when I thought of you,
longed for you,
wanted you with me.

[babyface123]

I like your poem Sigvard.

[keyheld]

If I walked with you
Amidst the blaze of beautiful flowers,
I would ask them to bow to you
For you are my Queen.

If I could affect the light of the moon that`s full, at will,
I would command it to change its` color
To the one that is your favorite,
for you are my Queen.

If this my poor attempt at painting words for you,
Can bring home to your understanding
Only some of the deep feelings, that I hold for you,
I would have achieved something.

And if I could speak my words with a voice that does not break up
For all the emotions that swell up inside of me,
I would try whilst you listen, to convey to your mind
All the things, that I always wanted to say to you,
But that can not be easily expressed in common speech -
Such as my deep devotion, that I would be prepared
To take all the pain and unhappiness that ever may come your way,
Gladly upon myself, to suffer in your stead,
So you may be happy,
For you are my Queen.

If all the music that has ever been written, could be put together
As one composition of immortal sound,
I would get the greatest masters to work on it
And present it from me to you
As a confession of my everlasting love,
For you are my Queen.

If it were at all possible for me
To form the stars of a nightly summers` sky
Into an orchestra, I would do so -
Then tell them to play just for you, whilst I myself would conduct
This concerto of a million harmonies and magnificent beauty,
For you are a very precious gift -
My strength , my friend, my life,
you are my world, my beloved wife,
You are my Queen.

Hi Sigvard,

I really do love the ideas presented in your poems (at least the ideas from two of the poem I’ve read). I do wish you would expand on the depictions presented in each stanza, though; or at least make them more vivid. These feelings that you are expressing to your queen seem impersonal as they stand. I understand that the way the poem starts off possibly is supposed to be impersonal, because you lack the words to express your feelings to her. But I think a more power depiction of an impersonal relationship can be created through colors, gestures, etc. I’m in want of that extra layer for clarity. The last stanza is wonderful because you take a step forward in trying to express yourself to her, by being the conductor of the musical piece and not merely telling them to play a musical piece for you. Although in this last stanza, as in the other stanzas, there are no differences other than what you mean.

[Sigvard]

Present your thesis, speak up, be bold,
Explain the power from its source of Old,
That you express in kilowatts and volts.
Whence came this energy unseen,
Governed though by definite laws,
so its action can bee seen?
Oh, postulant - hear the mystic voice,
Tease inside that brittle shell,
Just as there is no one who can tell,
Did the sheaf come first,
Or did the grain of corn?
There is not one living soul that knows,
Where or when this power was born
Except -
" I AM ", THE POWER THAT HAS ALWAYS BEEN.

[keyheld]

Friends, Romans and countrymen - lend me your ears.
Hallo everyone I think it is about time that I introduced myself to you.
As I am a newcomer to these shores, I do not know if this is actually the
right way. However let us see what happens. I hope to get some communications in return.
My name is Sigvard von Brevern. I am of German nationality, but have for
some 40 years lived in the United Kingdom, my abode is "sunny " Brighton.
Since a young age already I have been interested in writing some form of
poetry, mostly the rhyming type. Well, as you probably gathered, I am quite
an old " biddy " I am of the tender age of 70.
Besides of writing poetry, I also like the composing of music in various styles,
some of which has been performed to live audiences at different venues,
such as stately homes, ships, hotels/restaurants, music bars etc.etc.
I hope to hear from some of you, especially some comments and constructive
criticism to my poetic contributions.
For now, Roger and out, arrivederci, ta-ta and so forth.

Hi Sigvard,

I’m glad to know you better. The “gathering” is easy; it is the retaining what’s gathered I have trouble with. It makes sense to me that this would be your natural trajectory: writing poetry from composing music. Aren’t words, when broken down to their syllables, notes on a musical scale? I will try my best to give you some constructive criticism…as you can already gather from my responses to a couple of your written pieces.

[Sigvard]

She said, this sleepy, little town was draped in gray
And that real soon she`d go insane,
It is even more depressing,
When biting, cold November-winds howl
With their skin-seeking, stinging rain.

On days like these, when feeling low
How can she turn those blues to warming cheer?
The answer is to light a fire,
Burn sweet-smelling incense,
Go for the drugs that cost her dear.

She said,that like before she would welcome
unworldly beings leaping from the glowing coal,
Reveal exciting worlds
In yet unknown dimensions
To her anticipating soul.

Yes, she would fly with them in vivid visions,
Explore the secrets of the spheres,
Ignore the sudden warning flashes -
Of those life-scarring
Mental flares,

What else might she encounter
In the greater depths of the unknown?
Would she behold in sudden anguish
The face of death -
In the doorway of the reaper`s home?

Then yet to come the inevitable, slow sliding
From the grip of the drugs to a paralysing state of fright
For even after hallucinations have subsided,
She may still gape in convulsive terror down the widening abyss
Of deep despair, in the coming and perhaps endless seeming night.

Is it all worth it, to face the let down,
That leaves her drained, as everything turns gray,
How will she soothe the pain, the numbness,
When all the psychedelic dreams have died away?

She said, that she might well consider,
To go to church when evening falls,
To pray within the cooling comfort
Of solid stone and marble walls.

But will Lord Jesus really help her
And heal her wounded, tormented mind?
Lest she will make the first, hard effort
To leave those former delusions behind.

Would she remember after prayer,
When she returns to her domain,
That the demons she had summoned
Could be waiting to creep once more inside her tortured brain?

Would she be strong, prepared to give up
This gnawing, re-occurring lust,
Or would the heavy lid slam shut -
And she`d be taken - into the undertakers` trust? ....

[keyheld]

"We belong to the clan of Neanderthal-man,
Clear proof of evolution.
God is dead, creation a myth", so the ` Know it all ` said -
And " Let science be your solution. "
But now it has come out that after all,
He wasn't our original father at all,
That today`s knowledge has shown,
From the DNA in his bones,
We must be related to totally different species.
Perhaps to prehistoric garden-gnomes,
Or the long extinct tribe of highland-trolls,
Therefore, I am convinced that the blighters can see,
Our advancement is continually.
So, naturally from garden gnomes, from highland-trolls,
From our present stage of existence,
We have already started our next gradual change,
Into the next specie -
Of cabbage-patch dolls.

You got some chuckles out of me with this one. I always feel ignorant when discussing (religion, for example) certain topics that I have very little understanding of. Not to say that you don’t have a grasp on the scientific POV, but it is conveyed that way here. Your correlation that we could have easily come from highland-trolls as from Neanderthal man is to degrade science down to imagining and guessing. Science is more than that, don’t you think? I mean you start out with an educated guess; then research is done to determine whether that guess is likely to be true or false. In this way, doesn’t science deserve more of our trust than guessing (which the speaker seems to do towards the end of the poem)? I know there is a fine line between arrogance and ignorance…and scientist cross that line all too often, but don’t you feel you are doing the same thing by treating the subject of science this way?

[keyheld]

Spring brought warmer days,
Melted the ice on the lake,
Found the willows still asleep,
Then kissed them awake.
Countless hours and more
Have I searched our " haunts of yesterday ",
Where were you when the song-birds flew back
From their far-off hideaway?

Summer came with those
Warm nights in soft shades of blue,
Gave a new lease of life
To my memories of you.
I recalled how we hand in hand chased the wind
Just like children play,
Where were you when the wild geese returned
From a cold and distant bay?

Autumn changed summers` brightness
To new color schemes,
Leaves fell, drowned in the lake,
Sadness lived in my dreams,
Once more winter-winds
Drifted the snow across a moody sea,
Where were you when a cruel, frosty morning
Froze every hope in me?

Yes, where were you when I thought of you,
longed for you,
wanted you with me?

Hi again, Sigvard!

Great idea! Looks like the memories of her coincides with the seasons of the year, blooming (in you) in summer, and disappearing in autumn. Why does she not appear (physically)? Her physical appearance is the only unpredictable factor amongst the seasons and the memories, for the speaker. If there is a relationship between being able to remember her and the season of year it is (which I can sort of sense in the way the description of spring flows right into your memories of her), then why (when talking about the absence of her physically being here) is there not feeling, or description…or just something to detach me along with her, from the memories and the season? I feel she shouldn’t even be in the same stanza.

[keyheld]

This is the poem I have wrote..
I walked into that hollow room,
I looked and looked to find you.

There you were, sitting and stairing at me like you were guilty. Why not smile at me?

I wanted to run into your arms, but can't because I felt like I would get trapped.

Just keep waiting, and you will have me all to yourself forever and always.

I mean that because here you were. I saw you the first time after all of this. There you were.

There you were sitting and stairing at me.

Hi babyface123,

You wouldn’t be offended if I said this is terrific, would you? I like how the poem connotes reconsideration from itself and the reader, to the image. Of course I’m having trouble orienting myself to properly view the two of them. The jump from stanza one to two is disorienting because the speaker does not see the other character; yet there are these details about how the speaker feels the character feels about her. How can this be? Unless you meant “and found” in the first stanza? The way you set up your lines are also strange. Is there a reason?

[keyheld]

Another poem I have written: Why
All the days have passed by and thinking of you. Why not think about me?

You have the key to my heart, why not use the key?

You play our song, Why not dance to our song?

I dream of you, why not dream of me too?

Why,
Why,
Why?


How odd – even though every single line is cliché, the poem is still working for me. What works is the speaker is unquestionable about her feelings towards this other person, yet is unsure whether this other person knows this, and if so, why is he/she not returning those feelings. The whole poem seems to center around the speaker, as if she is having a conversation with herself…and as the conversation progresses, self-assurance turns into self-doubt. I would work on those cliché lines, though. I would also work on the context of this poem, because as it stands now I don’t know if the speaker is alone or not.

[keyheld]

Present your thesis, speak up, be bold,
Explain the power from its source of Old,
That you express in kilowatts and volts.
Whence came this energy unseen,
Governed though by definite laws,
so its action can bee seen?
Oh, postulant - hear the mystic voice,
Tease inside that brittle shell,
Just as there is no one who can tell,
Did the sheaf come first,
Or did the grain of corn?
There is not one living soul that knows,
Where or when this power was born
Except -
" I AM ", THE POWER THAT HAS ALWAYS BEEN.

Hey Sigvard,

This is very similar to Neanderthal-man in its message about the fine line between understanding, ignorance and arrogance. I’m not going to repeat what I said, but this poem has the same sort of problems that Neanderthal-man has. The main difference is the introduction of the speaker at the end of the poem, his tone, is more believable and not as ridiculous as that of the speaker in Neanderthal-man. I don’t know, maybe it’s because I can connect and understand the power of the mind as an apparatus that reasons.

[Sigvard]

" There will be rain and high winds tomorrow ",
The expert said
" All across the British isles ".
Well, he knows his job, his cyclone charts,
Knows all about computer files.
He is a learned meteorologist, tells the weather on TV,
And yet at times he fails to see,
The winds can change quite instantly.
Alas, the sun shone brilliant all day long
Once more the weatherman was wrong,
Quite obviously -
And this in spite of his bachelors`degree,
In the science of meteorology.

[keyheld]

She said, this sleepy, little town was draped in gray
And that real soon she`d go insane,
It is even more depressing,
When biting, cold November-winds howl
With their skin-seeking, stinging rain.

On days like these, when feeling low
How can she turn those blues to warming cheer?
The answer is to light a fire,
Burn sweet-smelling incense,
Go for the drugs that cost her dear.

She said,that like before she would welcome
unworldly beings leaping from the glowing coal,
Reveal exciting worlds
In yet unknown dimensions
To her anticipating soul.

Yes, she would fly with them in vivid visions,
Explore the secrets of the spheres,
Ignore the sudden warning flashes -
Of those life-scarring
Mental flares,

What else might she encounter
In the greater depths of the unknown?
Would she behold in sudden anguish
The face of death -
In the doorway of the reaper`s home?

Then yet to come the inevitable, slow sliding
From the grip of the drugs to a paralysing state of fright
For even after hallucinations have subsided,
She may still gape in convulsive terror down the widening abyss
Of deep despair, in the coming and perhaps endless seeming night.

Is it all worth it, to face the let down,
That leaves her drained, as everything turns gray,
How will she soothe the pain, the numbness,
When all the psychedelic dreams have died away?

She said, that she might well consider,
To go to church when evening falls,
To pray within the cooling comfort
Of solid stone and marble walls.

But will Lord Jesus really help her
And heal her wounded, tormented mind?
Lest she will make the first, hard effort
To leave those former delusions behind.

Would she remember after prayer,
When she returns to her domain,
That the demons she had summoned
Could be waiting to creep once more inside her tortured brain?

Would she be strong, prepared to give up
This gnawing, re-occurring lust,
Or would the heavy lid slam shut -
And she`d be taken - into the undertakers` trust? ....

This makes a nice story Sivgard. I don’t or can’t identify any poetic qualities expressed in this piece, though. From the first line I had hoped for an inward/outward thing, which I got from the “glowing coal” and little town “draped in gray”. That spark of outer feeling from an outer thing transposed in her turned quickly into explanation though, this was where you lost me. Why not let the “glowing coal” and what happens next to it be the emotions she is trying to express?

[keyheld]

" There will be rain and high winds tomorrow ",
The expert said
" All across the British isles ".
Well, he knows his job, his cyclone charts,
Knows all about computer files.
He is a learned meteorologist, tells the weather on TV,
And yet at times he fails to see,
The winds can change quite instantly.
Alas, the sun shone brilliant all day long
Once more the weatherman was wrong,
Quite obviously -
And this in spite of his bachelors`degree,
In the science of meteorology.

I’m starting to detect a single theme in your written work no matter the subject. I feel as though this poem is a third draft of the previous two poems which dealt with the same theme. I no longer feel like the speaker is ignorant (as I did in Neanderthal-man) because he is not making anything up. I also feel you’ve used a metaphor which is much more identifiable to the reader. I like the opposing viewpoints, and the introduction of opposing voices. You definitely have the tone down.

[AdoreroDio]

My sonnet-

It has been said a rose is but a rose
All that’s pink cannot be called a beauty
But if a rose is nothing but a rose
Life’s succumbed to nothing but it’s duty
A single breath is nothing more than this
Lungs retract and then expand in motion
But truthfully if that is all it is
Than life is not but a repetition
If it is true a rose is but a rose
Than why strive to become anything more?
For we will be like arrows without bows
We cannot change; we have no way to soar
We will always be this and nothing more
If a rose is but a rose to the core.


More poems:


Diamantes

Art
Simple, beautiful
Inspiring, commenting, awing
Unique, individual, new, universal
Forming, shaping, living
Dynamic, exquisite
Creation


Religion
Mythical, reliant
Comforting, fulfilling, unifying
Living believing, knowing, seeing
Separating, teaching, learning
Complicated, logical
Science




Kyrielle

Sitting at the crossroads at last
I must come to my decision
I’ve been told to forget my past
To look ahead with new vision

But how can I not glance behind
When my future gets provision
From all that in the past I find
Then look ahead with new vision

I’ve been told to go everywhere
For it’s the correct direction
I’ll leave my past and leave me bare
And look ahead with new vision

Some other poems by me

[keyheld]

My sonnet-

It has been said a rose is but a rose
All that’s pink cannot be called a beauty
But if a rose is nothing but a rose
Life’s succumbed to nothing but it’s duty
A single breath is nothing more than this
Lungs retract and then expand in motion
But truthfully if that is all it is
Than life is not but a repetition
If it is true a rose is but a rose
Than why strive to become anything more?
For we will be like arrows without bows
We cannot change; we have no way to soar
We will always be this and nothing more
If a rose is but a rose to the core.

Hi AdoreroDio!

This poem is beautifully constructed. I love it! Is “My Sonnet” the title of this poem? If it isn’t, may I suggest the title be “Their Sonnet”? Because when I think about “their” I think about their opinion, how they feels about a certain idea, which definitely falls in line with the opinion expressed by them through the speaker. I’m also wondering about the ending and “core”. If living things do not have an inner need to aspire for something greater than what they are, (which is what I feel they have conveyed) then why not chose a word that is repetitive in sound with “rose” and “rose” in the last line. Your first two images are wonderful. The third image seems out of place. Maybe an image that is an extension of the second image would serve as a better fit.

[AdoreroDio]

Thank you for you ideas- I put the title as my Sonnet only because I have no title yet but I wanted everyone to know what form I used, which also explains the word core because the rhyme scheme for a Shakespearian Sonnet, such as mine is abab cdcd efef gg. I will try and come up with another third image....the current one does seem a bit out of place as you say. Thanks.

[kiz_paws]

If I walked with you
Amidst the blaze of beautiful flowers,
I would ask them to bow to you
For you are my Queen.

If I could affect the light of the moon that`s full, at will,
I would command it to change its` color
To the one that is your favorite,
for you are my Queen.

If this my poor attempt at painting words for you,
Can bring home to your understanding
Only some of the deep feelings, that I hold for you,
I would have achieved something.

And if I could speak my words with a voice that does not break up
For all the emotions that swell up inside of me,
I would try whilst you listen, to convey to your mind
All the things, that I always wanted to say to you,
But that can not be easily expressed in common speech -
Such as my deep devotion, that I would be prepared
To take all the pain and unhappiness that ever may come your way,
Gladly upon myself, to suffer in your stead,
So you may be happy,
For you are my Queen.

If all the music that has ever been written, could be put together
As one composition of immortal sound,
I would get the greatest masters to work on it
And present it from me to you
As a confession of my everlasting love,
For you are my Queen.

If it were at all possible for me
To form the stars of a nightly summers` sky
Into an orchestra, I would do so -
Then tell them to play just for you, whilst I myself would conduct
This concerto of a million harmonies and magnificent beauty,
For you are a very precious gift -
My strength , my friend, my life,
you are my world, my beloved wife,
You are my Queen.
Wow, to be loved like this! Awesome, Sigvard!


Spring brought warmer days,
Melted the ice on the lake,
Found the willows still asleep
Then kissed them awake.
Countless hours and more
Have I searched our " haunts of yesterday ",
Where were you when the song-birds flew back
From their far-off hideaway?

Summer came with those
warm nights in soft shades of blue,
Gave a new lease of life
To my memories of you.
I recalled how we hand in hand chased the wind
Just like children play,
Where were you when the wild geese returned
From a cold and distant bay?

Autumn changed summers` brightness
To new color-schemes,
Leaves fell, drowned in the lake,
Sadness lived in my dreams,
Once more winter-winds
Drifted the snow across a moody sea,
Where were you when a cruel, frosty morning
Froze every hope in me?
Yes, where were you when I thought of you,
longed for you,
wanted you with me.Beautiful, I loved this poem. Cheers, Kizzo :)

[keyheld]

Sitting at the crossroads at last
I must come to my decision
I’ve been told to forget my past
To look ahead with new vision

But how can I not glance behind
When my future gets provision
From all that in the past I find
Then look ahead with new vision

I’ve been told to go everywhere
For it’s the correct direction
I’ll leave my past and leave me bare
And look ahead with new vision

I admire your writings for taking into consideration the poem’s structure. It shows you have a certain level of control in containing and conveying your ideas. “Containing” is good – not at the expense of expressing yourself though. I feel like the ending could have broken out of the mold, the form – new direction, new vision…move somewhere beyond the scope of present and past.

[Sigvard]

In nomine Dei nostri Satanas Lucifery excelsi
Regie Satanas Ave Satanas
Shemhamforash !

In the shady grove of yonder ancient trees,
Lies an old, neglected cemetery,
That has seen in it`s day half the worlds` tears,
And, as the story has it - the wonder of a miraculous healing.

Here they laid young Esther McCray, lamenting her untimely passing away,
b`neath the wording on stone " Rest beloved child in heaven`s peace "
Yet still she kept stirring and her tormented soul,
Pleaded for its release.

On her overgrown grave grew a strange, unknown flower,
that was black like the cloak of the priest,
who had summoned Satan`s power, cast a spell at the hour,
The hour of the ritual to the horned beast.
Tracing the serpent-circle with revenge on his mind,
of the most unholy, the most gruesome kind,
he uttered a curse that broke her will, her will for life,
when his efforts had failed to make her his wife,

vile servant of hades, prince of night,
then - her memory had died.

In nomine Dei nostri Satanas lucifery excelsi
Regie Satanas Ave Satanas
Shemhamforash !

With those lewd incantations and with dark invocations,
He would turn her into his master`s slave,
I am told of rumours that kept flying, someone heard a faint sighing,
From within the deep of her grave,

And in her state of death-like sleep,
She could still hear the daywinds, hear the nightwinds weep.
Oh to break the devil`s power, who would pluck the demon-flower,
So her poor, her tortured spirit could go free.

Satan`s priest deemed it duty, when he cursed her young beauty,
till her life`s blood dried up in her veins,
though her body was dying, Esther's` soul was still trying,
to be rid of it`s terrible pains.

In nomine Dei nostri Satanas Lucifery excelsi
Regie Satanas Ave Satanhas
Shemhamforash !

Through the seasons, through the years in this restless sleep,
She could still hear the winds, hear the tall trees creek,
feel the winter`s cold,
feel the summers` heat.
Oh to break the devil`s power,
Who would pluck the demon-flower,
So her imprisoned, tortured spirit could go free ?

Then the Lord intervened, caused a young man to ponder,
How to wrench her from Baphomet`s claws,
He revealed in his dreaming how to work out a scheming,
To be truly a plan without flaws.

The young man saw quite clearly, he who loved Esther dearly,
That he must be prepared for the worst,
But with God by his side and love as his guide,
He would free her from the infernal`s curse,
free her from the curse.

It was almost the ninth anniversary
since the rape of Esther`s liberty,
Then when the actual day drew in,
triumphantly the priest did shout " My time has come, I shall yet win ! "
The final bond I shall yet complete,
This day shall see my victory,
And I will win !

In nomine Dei nostri Satanas. "

Suspended from heaven`s canopy,
A waning moon shone through the rustling trees,
the only witnesses to see,
The renegade enter the cemetery.

With him he carried the pentacle of shame,
Inscribed with the cyphers of the beastly name,
and a mantle of crimson that by her grave he would spread,
In readiness for the marital bed.

Asmodeus he would invoke, the lord of flies,
To make her re-animated body to rise - from the bowls of the earth,
And in virginal white,
He would dress her for the wedding rite.

Rex Mundi`s chalice of blood would be filled to the brim,
He`d have her drink thereof, she`d be ready for him
Intoxicated with the elixir of desire,
She would open to him, her loins on fire.
But, he would not be rushed, first he would tease her,
Oh, how that should please her,
Then he`d close in - hold back - only half way would he meet her
Until she`d beg him to ravish, mistreat her.
Then he`d fall upon her with all his might,
And in sexual frenzy he would beat her.

Ha ! what delicate foreplay this might be, tingling, heightening the ecstasy,
Her delicious, whimpering cries, her deep-throated sighs,
will sound like hell`s choir sweet harmony,
Praise ! thrice exalted satanic majesty.
Finally, with one more brutal thrust of lust,
He`d consummate this hideous union
achieved through sorcery, with an act of unspeakable vulgarity.

The droning strokes of a church-clock spoke midnight,
As if to urge the young man, no longer to wait,
Before dawn he must challenge the blasphemous fiend,
Beyond the cemetery`s rusty, old gate.

He was trembling with fear on his slow-paced approach to the grave, -
Then his tightening grip tore hard at the flower,
With desperate strength and power,
with a prayer on his quivering lip:
" Lord deliver me from evil,
And the terror that haunts the night. "

Sudden flashes of lightning, earth-shattering roars of thunder,
Then a blood-curdling, unworldly scream,
The black priest fell dying and his soul came out flying, -
To hell ! in a green-colored steam.

`Twas the Lord`s mighty wrath, that had felled the great sinner,
The young man stood transfixed, struck with awe,
Then the darkness was lifted, God ! The earth on her grave shifted,
He could not believe what he saw.

From the dust of the ground, from the opening mound -
There was rising his beautiful Esther,
But that just could not be, it was a ghost, he should flee,
Just a vision - it could not be Esther.

But then forth from her eyes shone a new-given life,
When they suddenly fully opened,
Then, as her arms reached for him, she spoke " touch my skin,
for to know, the sting of death has been broken. "
Oh Lord was he sleeping ?
Could he still be dreaming ?
Oh, dear Lord, could this really be true ?
But due reward had not missed him,
For the lips that now kissed him,
Were as fresh as the morning`s dew.

[keyheld]

Work and school and work has taken up most of my time. Is there a kind volunteer here who would like to take over the task of replying to the poems people post on this thread? If you are interested, just PM me. I would hate to see this thread go into oblivion. :(

[Sigvard]

The evening`s shadows are growing longer,
As hazy twilight of dusk softly fades.
Silence falls all around,
Lingers profound - a hush prevails,
Even within silences` sound.
Changing colors - red, purple and a hue of green,
Give way to indigo, as the cool of the dark comes
creeping.
The glow of street-lamps pales the night.
Sheds a cold and ghostly light on a world that locked it`s doors,
That`s sleeping.
Passing faces mirror thoughts -
and for a fleeting moment we are aware,
That they hold questions which need answers,
But who does really care?
Curtains are being drawn hastily,
And the weight of silence lies heavily upon silent tongues,
Whereas they should debate, should communicate.
Still, they remain silent,
And the silence lingers -
yes lingers .... on.

[Sigvard]

This poem I posted some time ago and had it commented on by fellow poet
" keyheld ". Whilst all other poems posted by me can be located by me on
my posting site, the particular one titled "Mud in your eyes" I can no longer
locate. I would be very grateful, if someone could kindly enlighten me, why
this should be so.
Thanks very much - Sigvard

[Sigvard]

To everybody who has kindly taken the time to comment on my attempts at
writing poetry, if indeed it can be called poetry, I would like to say - many
thanks and much appreciated .
There are some further postings, perhaps some of you would kindly comment
on them too?
Again, a huge thank you,
Sigvard

[PrinceMyshkin]

I make another attempt to get some possible explanation, as to what has
in fact happened to my posted poems?
User Name Sigvard - thank you to who ever provides me with a possible
explanation. I have posted this question several times and as private
messages to various fellow poets, but have received no answer.
Sigvard

I suggest you address your question va PM to either Logos or Scheherezade

[TheFifthElement]

Sigvard, all your poems are in this thread. The poem Mud in your eyes is entry 92 (click on page 7). If you want to find all of your postings, click on your own username and from the drop down options select "Find more Posts by Sigvard". This will list all of your postings and you can find whichever entries you're looking for from there.

[TheFifthElement]

Sigvard, I'm on a long trip tomorrow, but if I get time I'll read your poems and try and review. Fifth :)

[Wookiedana]

My voice is loud,
Why can’t it be heard,
Are all people deaf, or am I mute
Why don’t they hear me, why.
Why can’t I be understood,
Why am I the only one who can hear my voice,
And it is so loud,
Louder than loud at times.
Why do they just see me and not hear me,
Why smiles are only for their seing
And not for the words coming out of my voice,
And it’s so loud,
Louder than loud at times.
Why do they feel my touch but don’t return it,
I wonder if I'd yell so loud and lose my voice,
Will they hear me when I have no voice.
I will keep silent, maybe they will hear me.
Now it’s quiet,
But I still hear my echo,
Screaming for understanding in my head.
Silence or not,
My mind is insanity's shelter,
because I can’t be heard.
Silence or not,
I can t be heard.
So I give up
So I give up and live in my insanity,
Mind of illusions,
Which is never silent.
Although I will keep silent,
Whilst my mind is insanity's shelter,
Silence or not.


Wookiedana

[Sigvard]

I`d like to enter TheFifthElement`s, to look at my poems

[Niamh]

I`d like to enter TheFifthElement`s, to look at my poems

There is no Fifthelement thread with your poems in it. :rolleyes: the Poems you put in here to be reviewed are found on page seven of this thread as Fifth element pointed out. All you have to do is look back over the last few pages of the thread and find them. Or Just click on your name and go to "find more posts" and all your posts will show up.

[Dry-ice]

it is very lonely in the city of the lost
the people walk around unaware of others
as others are unnoticed by all
so obsessed with self-absorption
they stand there screaming to be heard
afraid to give in to the realization
of the horrible thought, no one is listening
convinced of their own superiority
they yell louder

their arms held out and lifted up to the sky
oblivious to the passage of time
as their bodies age into dust
they keep repeating the same incoherent words
each word out of sync from the masses
bringing a hypnotically soothing tone
as the words become lost in each other

the tone heard by all and ignored by most
putting it off as background noise
others who hear it are trapped by its song
tinnitus: a ringing, the buzzing, a crackle or hiss
or so the doctors like to call it
but for those who have loved ones in the city
we know it so much more
helpless to free them from their prisons
we are left with the reminder of our own sins

[ShadowFire]

I know this is Adolescent09's thread but I have to say...Dry-ice, I love "The Ringing". It is very nice and so true. The images painted and the descriptions are awesome. Thanks for sharing.

[Dry-ice]

Thank you ShadowFire, I just thought it fit well with Wookiedana's... That and I had a headache. :)

[Sidewaysview]

I would appreciate any honest feedback, positive or negative! I'm a beginner at this whole writing poetry thing...this is one of my firsts. Thanks!



I cry
When I’m alone at night
And think of you and think of me
Force closed the window and it’s view
And bolt the colored shutters too
I lock the door and flip the switch
So darkness can be filling
With every ray of sunlight now banished from the room.

Curled up under heavy blankets
Filled with feathers and cotton balls
That get lumpy if I squirm too much
I lie still.
And try not to think…
Of you
Of me
Of who I am
So I won’t cry.

But in the darkness I can’t hide
Just like at night without the light
And feelings that I thought were slain
Reborn to torment to my grave
And hatred for the girl I am
Creeps up and stares me in the face
It mocks me, I am helpless.

But in the dark I have permission
To finally feel and free from prison
My twisted insides and tangled thoughts
That all day long I have concealed.

So in a fit of gasps and sniffles
I try to sleep and hope its sweet
While the color of my pillow changes
from little drops of salty water, little drops of me

And though my mind refuses God
I like to think he’s there with me
Holding out his crystal vial to catch the tears that I’ve set free.

[Dry-ice]

Sidewaysview,
it doesn't matter what others think as long as you like it. Now on the other side, I can't stand rhyming poems, but the image is great. I would work on the line lengh and rhythm. Something like:

I cry when I’m alone
and think of you
thinking of me

Force closed
the window
it’s view

bolt the colored
shutters too

I lock the door
flip the switch
So darkness
can be filling

With every ray
sunlight now banished
from the room.

...

You done the hard part, just polish it up a bit.

[ShadowFire]

Sidewaysview,
Well you could have fooled me about how new you are to poetry. Like Dry-ice said...the image is great. I feel some of what you say especially the lines about twisted thoughts. It is interesting...you seem to like the dark and yet as you are thinking in the dark you don't like it. It is an interesting conflict that has created beauty. I may be off but I like this poem all the same. Thank you for sharing.

[luthien_yt1200]

Seperated by a black, metal gate

from the charcoal grey horses,

we faithfully gazed upon them

as their images disepated

beyond the reaches of light.

We stared uninteruptedly,

mezmerized by their silver manes

dancing in the swift, brisk breeze.


As the moments drew us closer

to the end of the night,

the winds began to harshen.

The distance between us lessened.

The icy breathe of a late autumn night

was masked by his solicitude.


Our eyes wandered;

we fixed our admiration

upon the flecks of light

illuminating the empitiness above.


Thanks for reading! This is my first poem, so I hope you like it! Please be VERY honest!

[Paige19]

luthien -
There is something very compelling about this poem. It is one of those poems that I do not entirely understand but do not feel I need to. The surreal quality of the central images and the consistently hushed, intense tone is interesting enough to make me think and wonder, which is a fine thing for a poem to succeed at doing.

I think it could be improved with some minor revision. You also need to spellcheck.

I think the word "charcoal" in the second line is unnecessary, and in fact weakens the line. They are gray, that's enough. More is not always better when it comes to adjectives; in fact it usually is the reverse.

I like the phrase "we faithfully gazed upon them." What, it makes me wonder, is the mission of these people, so that they must be faithful?

The next two lines I think need some revising. "as their images dissipated/beyond the reaches of light" is confusing. What are you actually trying to describe? Is each horse fading out at the edges? Is the herd disappearing into the distance? A rethink of what you mean here and a rewrite to capture it would strengthen that stanza.

The rest of that stanza I like very much. Again, the intensity of the watching is very interesting and gives one cause to think. (Mesmerized is the correct spelling there). The image of the grey horses, with their silver manes dancing in the "swift, brisk, breeze" (very good language choice there, the rhythm is lovely) is almost dreamlike.

I also very much like the first four lines of the next stanza. You write those line in two sentences, and in my opinion you choose to break them up most effectively. The language is simple and clean, but strong. I feel perfectly the cause and effect of the winds harshening (good word choice) and the watchers drawing close, as if to stay warm.

I do find the final two lines of that stanza confusing and intrusive. There is this sudden "he" and "his solicitude." It feels like these lines come out of nowhere. Who is "he"? Can these lines be rewritten to be more clear?

The final stanza is good just as is. Here we have the watchers shift their attention skyward, but it is as if something has distracted them, their gaze "wanders," and then they refasten their intensity on the lights above them. It seems that these watchers must observe with intensity, whatever they observe.

Well, those are my thoughts. I took you at your word when you said you wanted a heartfelt critique. Of course you will take anything I say and use it or not as you feel you should. But I would not have taken the time to write if I had not been struck by the piece. With a little work, it could be a very lovely poem. There is something of the spiritual in it, somehow, or perhaps that is just my way of taking your imagery and spinning it in my mind.

Good luck and keep writing.

Paige

[luthien_yt1200]

I truely appreciate your views on my peice, however, i think an explanation is due in order for you to determine what makes sense. The horses are symbolic of waves. My boyfriend and I parked by the water's edge at night and watched the waves. The only waves visible were those lit by the headlights of his car, explaining why "their images dissipated/beyond the reaches of light".

Being a personal experience, I do not know how I can clarify the "he" in the poem, whether I should introduce him earlier in the poem or not, I am unsure.

I also feel that there is no ending and I do not know how to end it. It feels like it just ends and it sounds unfinished. If you have any advise there it would be appreciated as well.

Once again thank you for your opinion. I enjoyed the review and your honesty.

[Paige19]

I wondered about whether the title was to be taken literally or not. Now that I know, I can look at the pieces again with different eyes.

I'll answer your questions first:

I do not think you need to use "his" at all. Why not just say "The icy breath of a late autumn night was masked by solicitude"? This makes it clear that one of the watchers was solicitous toward the other. We don't need to know more.

I'm looking at the work "masked" there, though, and wondering if there is a better and more interesting word you could use. Do you really mean that the cold was hidden or covered over by solicitude? Think about that.

I don't agree that the poem is unfinished. I think it is complete. The night passes, as the watchers are mesmerized by the waves, and then, as the sky lightens, the mesmerizing quality of the waves is lessened, and the sky, instead, becomes the focus. However, rhythmically, it would be pleasing to have one more line in that last stanza (that's what I'm betting you are instinctively feeling - why it feels unfinished to you), and I would place it as the first line, and have it lead us to the transition of looking upward at the sky. Perhaps a line about some change in the horses because of the light. Read the poem out loud and when you get to that final stanza, mentally mark out the beat of a line before the first one, and see if that does not make the poem feel more complete to you.

Now that I am clear it is waves, your lines "as their images dissipated/beyond the reaches of light" makes sense. So leave that.

As for whether you need to set up a direct metaphor early on within the poem to make it clear that you are talking about waves, or whether the title is sufficient, well, I think I will leave that to you. The fact that I didn't entirely get it (I did briefly wonder about it) might be my fault only. It would be quite easy to insert something within the poem to make it more clear, but I would show the poem to others and see if they get it. If most do with just the title, then leave it as is. Or you could change the title a bit, if you feel most don't get it. But first see what reactions you get, you might find that everyone understands right away and I am odd man out!

luthien, I want to say again that I think that this is a lovely poem. It just needs a little bit of revision to bring it to total completion.

If you want to talk about it further, I'll be happy to do so. Again, I don't set myself up as an expert, or the last word. Please take what I say and use it - or not - as your heart tells you.

Paige

[lukelord]

bullying

i used to see myself the best
i used to have it all
i used to be invincible
but bullies made me fall

i used to enjoy coming school
i used to feel so tall
i often see myself a fool
and now i feel so small

they call me names
they hit and kick
they throw my stuff around

they bully me and not my friends
what have i done wrong

i cut myself
untill they stopped
it never seemed to end

i often think
whats happened now
i wonder who i am

[sidonkey]

love i thought lost in time


BY ALEX COPLEY

WRITTEN IN THE MOMENT OF EMOTION



A love I felt so tender and true..

A love I thought that couldn’t be true..

As I think of how I feel..

This love to me is more than surreal..

A glimpse of what I didn’t think could exist..

Seemed to be something that slipped threw clenched fist..

At first I didn’t release what was sublime…

Something that seemed to be in its prime..

Through trials that seemed wouldn’t endure…

This love to me was more than pure..

Through time apart mind wonders, thoughts set in..

The coo coo physic’s sayings seemed so dim..

Made me wonder whats real and fake..

What I felt worried for my hearts sake..

Proven to be more than a kiss…

This love, this friendship more than meer bliss...

The future unknown but certain it is..

My love for you can not diminish..

I believe in us and how we feel..

Believe the never ending connection is real..

My heart I break on the day to day..

Is all just a game i would die with out..

And tested through what seemed as a draught..

I hold your heart so close, so dear..

Losing you is my biggest fear..

Something I know I cant live without..

Once you’ve tasted what true love is about..

Without you Amanda I don’t know if I could survive..

Something I learned I have to strive..

Everything your heart desires..

Is what I will build up on my empire..

They say a man is judged not by what he has..

But what he leaves behind and so far something special I know I can grab..

To fulfill everything you thought you never had.. a kiss means so much to me its true..

My heart beats for one and that one is for you..

I love you so much I can never let go..

Ill be your stalker the one that you know..

The one that you love not by what I have..

But what I give for you to grab..

If ever there was anything more..

I would say not for its you I adore..

A sort of sin if you will..

Glutteny for you if you get that speal..

I cherish your mind, your love, and affection..

You are my convection..

Like an ovens thermodynamics..

Heat rolling over and over in a panic..

This glut, this lust something I feel…

This love to me is more than real..

I love you Amanda more than maybe I show..

But I think you know..

That bond and understanding is what drives it so deep..

So full off meaning so full of life..

I think to be forever could be a strife..

A trail of tests we must pass to the end..

The rest of my life with you im willing to spend..

I love you Amanda so much its true..

I don’t know what I could ever do with out you..

As I approach the end of this rhythm..

I fell that together we have all the time..

As long as we are honest and true to our word..

I belive this love will endure..

Statistically speaking couples our age..

The come and go they pass with age..

Even if two our age together from here on out is a high percentage of doubt..

Not us, not this, this is real..

And when I say that its not just a spiele..

I mean every word that I say and if need be we can survive day by day..

Day by day is kinda what I want..

I want to win your heart every day so I can feel..

That every moment with you is more than surreal..

A test of what I only want..

To be with the girl I love and flaunt..

Your beauty is so powerful so amazing that even half asleep this poem to you is a true quote of my emotion ..

This love for you has my heart wide open..

My heart has been stitched shut from a terrible time..

I love you so much I believe we have so much time..

Indefinet bounderies I truly feel sublime..

This poem just came to me as I awoke, had to right it down more serious than a stroke..im corny this is true but I love you mandi more than I thought I could feel..

You’re the world to me I could turn my back on anything that might make us step back..

These things I think about before I proceed to do..

Is a testament of how my free will do for you..

For what that means is that I once could breeze in the wind..

End over end in an endless spin..

Wanting this wanting that no care to the world..

Now its you my lifes little swirl..

Happiness that comes from the heart I could die today knowing you loved me from the start..

I love you Amanda this is more than true..

More than maybe anyone knew..

From the time you said I guess we are going to be roommates..

You not being mine at the time was a stake in my heart a chain that dragged me behind..

My weekness of carrying for people..

Wouldn’t allow me to show you how I felt then..

Even though it drove me crazy like a plane in a tale spin..

Amanda I write this cause I know..

You’re the one for me I think together we glow..

I don’t care if anyone else sees..

I think peoples hearts are just diseased..

Since we came to be..

I am the happiest person that could ever be..

I end this with a simple I love you..

But to us it means more than anyone knew..

I am so happy..

I am pure..

I know our love will endure..



I love you Amanda and I always will. I promise ill be the man of your dreams and give you more than you need. Im a very simple man but now I have a simple plan. Its easy even to understand. The plan is this its very simple I strive for you and wont stop ever. Until my heart dies and I am deceased ill love you in my grave you make me complete..







I love you always and maybe more than you know but im telling you now

I love you

[dara.cv]

I am in debate with myself to pursue a degree in English focused on literature. I know writing, particular poetry is a passion of mine, but i wonder if it would be personally irresponsible to pursue it. There are other, more financially sound, choices i can make for my career focused future. but none i would enjoy as much as learning of literature. so I am here on this site, testing the waters, and would love your reviews. Maybe with confidence i can make the decision that will be best for my self.


Love is Always Fresh when New


i do enjoy your company
but i dont trust that it will last
here for now
gone tomorow
why bother- waiting- only slows the past

sweet dreams are memories
meant to fade away
sweet things are destiny's
promises of decay

whispers said at one breath
vanish in the vapor of their wake
love is but a word
short lived and short lengthed

tender touch
gives only so much
as temporary relief
when the feeling is released
there remains only the need

soft kisses like silken wings
are fleeting and retreating
fragile to the touch
to only cripple the entreated

eye to eye a burning flicker
lust thrives and consumes
till the heart is given to the pyre
of sacrifice that resumes

live the moment
in no shame
but know the moment
wont remain

present tense is innocence
never expecting future demise
in love,two happens at one's expense
a sum of momentary prize

[hillwalker]

A couple of points merichm -

Firstly, these two poems show how much effort you have put into them, and they portray the agonies so many of us suffer at different times in our lives in trying to come to terms with hope slipping away and perhaps giving in to temptations.

My only criticism would be that they need a little trimming - condensing the 'mess' of thoughts so that they come into sharper focus by perhaps concentrating on just one or two particular issues. Also you have employed rhyme in such a way that I think it is twisting or distorting the ideas you are trying to express. Lose the rhyme and write what you really want to write would be my advice to begin with.

Secondly - if you want to share your work with other poets, have them offer criticism and read what they themselves have written you are better posting your work on the :
Writing - Personal Poetry forum (it gets read and commented on by dozens of people every day whereas this particular thread hardly gets looked at)

H

[dark_writer500]

The battlefield, filled
with the dead bodies
and live, just.
Faces contorted, agonized
in gruesome pain
but yet, so still.
In the darkness, no one can tell
the tears that fall to my lap
as I, solemnly, watch over the land.
Stripped of peace, a killing place
as soldiers, old and young have died, but
alas, for what? the whims of a madman.
Blood-soaked ground, black in the night
The cries, the gasps of the dying
and the wails of the souls as, they leave.
Part person, part wraith, I roam
seeing, but blind, i watch the pain
emotionless, but crying inside.
The world seems torn apart, by violence
the evil so far away, now near
lies low over the land, stifling.
Terror through homes, i notice
the end is near.

[Tinbit]

All of everything I have
is more than what I should have.....
for there are far better candidates
deserving what I took for a grant
If God ever held a grudge, it would be worst on me
cause I never said Thank You enough
but rather complained daily
And if God ever punished me, it wouldn't be this simply
far worse things could happen
than just a few fateful twists....

[darknessinside]

A travellers diary


I am a traveller on earth ,
I am aware of my own worth ,
And i know clearly where to go ,
But my past's ghosts make me walk slow ...

I saw straight road in front of me ,
I wandered often , could it be ?
But now the road turns right and left ,
What should i do ? I cannot rest !

But i'm confused ... What to do next ?
What has this road instored for me ?
Where are the signs ? I cannot see !
Should i go on ? How should i be ?

There are no signs , there is no light ,
I feel my body getting tight ,
I feel my heart racing for gold ,
It tells me stop !! You should be bold !

But what good does boldeness alone ?
When luck is cloud and i am stone ?
I try to reach ! And then again !
My luck is gone ! I've missed my train ...

[darknessinside]

Sensless words

Help , love , honor ,
respect , compassion , manners !
Broterhood , gentilness , chivalry ,
Goodnes , honesty , loialty ...

All of us know what they mean ,
But to apply them , we are not keen ,
For in the world we live today ,
They are a luxury , i say !

Bring back the times , let us renew ,
For mankind whas more pure and true ,
Bring back those times for mankind's sake ,
For if we don't mankind will break ...

Sensless words ... ore are they ...

[darknessinside]

Tormented ...

I have seen both good and bad ,
Far too early , a small lad ,
Being thrown from gentile hands .
Forced to do a deadly dance .

I see happynes , it goes ,
Neverending are life's blows ,
And tough i am a warrior at heart ,
I cannot fight , it is too hard !

I am ashamed of what i am ,
I had such dreams of wealth and fame ,
And now i know , nothing is true ,
There's but one thing for me to do ...

I hope altough i pass from here ,
On my behalf you shed no tears ,
For this is not a world for me ,
A point in staying , i don't see !

I hope my lesson will be learned ,
I hope that i shall not be mourned ,
Instead my name should be forgotten ,
I hate myself for i am rotten...

[darknessinside]

Retrosectiva zilei ...
Sunt fericit ....Sau sunt ? Sau sunt pur si simplu uimit ...De ce ? Nu stiu ....Nas vrea sa stiu .....Coltul meu de lume , acum e auriu ...Dar stiu ... si-mi pare rau ca stiu ,Ca momentele de genu , se duc asa cum viu ....Cu ce raman ... analizez ....Incerc faptele sa-mi motivez ....Gasesc ceva , ma consolez ,Si totusi instant realizez ,Iluzie , trecatoare , fara sens ....too late now tough ..

[yuka]

delete

[conrado888]

Hi there, Ive been writting poetry for quite a while now but have never had the chance to have it critiqued:



The Mountain Range

Before this range of catalytic mountains
Where the sky is for once in the right proportion
The sun becomes nothing more than a fountain
Of light that serve up their beauty as its mission
The rock is anchored in the hidden ground
Traversing it with roots of time unfound
Trees dot and streams stroke, the stone is settled
To always remain the same, with or without the rain
Calm and devouring strength sits static, unheckled
Raised to compound the land with an imperious hand

Poised before it, Man can only wonder what he deserves
Confronted with the beauty of triumphant simplicity, he purrs
Intimidated, his nebulous mind is mated by the unmoved stroke
There is a standstill in thoughts to emulate its passivity and to soak
Into the questioning of the gap of size and his permanent demise
The breeze rustles his hair while the rock stays so placidly wise
The dormant power crushes him without even noticing
Blind and deaf, it molds the earth and all its surroundings
While the spec of human stays content that he is standing

But then comes a deep bolt, from the entrails of within
Inside that darkness, something is moved and it is red
It brews buoyantly, shackled until it reaches the head
The teeth become tight, and the eyes suddenly lock and narrow
Upon those blocks of limestone, no longer in wonder but as a foe
These mounts are so old and dominant, says the rage of the unnatural instinct
The land they share has been submitted but not him, unlike it he will not sink
But rise up and fight against this arrogant might, or at least he must try
The winds and the water has slowly made them weaker, stones cannot lie
These geological masters finally have a threat they can’t begin to interpret
The breath of the man is heavy and deep as he readies to become vicious
Rummaged and auto destructive, blessed and cursed with this genius
He will become the best, whatever the number, the pain, the time
And so he onrushes like anybody else, getting ready to start to climb

----------------------

There you go, any thoughts and advice on this would really really appreciated! Thanks!

[Sweta Jain]

Does anyone have a poem they feel needs critquing? Post it here. I promise you feedback.

Look at her thinking of a way to make her smile,
To bring back some happy memory, take her to another time,
Cant see her this way , she wont speak, she wont grieve,
Wanna break the walls around make her reach out to me..

I’d scarcely understood his thoughts when he took my hand,
Some music played by, wonder when he put it on,
Pulled me close to him, and then again far,
Moving me in rounds, trying to make me laugh,
Played with me like I was a toy,moving me here to there,
No touch could be gentler, it felt soothing to have someone care,
Smile I did but it ended with a sigh,
Stopped moving, waiting for me to decide,
Could rest on his arms, break down every wall,
Could push him away, like I didn’t care,
What if he knew, how weak, how alone I was?
Would he still be there or leave like the others....

Wonder what conflicts went through her mind,
What stopped her from accepting the love I gave,
A thousand questions ran through my mind,
The next moment would decide my life..

Held him closer and placed my head on his chest,
Cried like a child, clutching as if never to move away,
The walls broke down and all he did was held me close,
Like a promise to be there, take me away from the world,
If forever was a moment, this one it’d be,
gave away myself, and yet felt so free.....

[Carol58175817]

The last flower stands quiet and still,
shedding petals of tears without a will.
Unheard sobs and unseen sorrow,
she cries as there is no tomorrow.

That is the best poem I have written lately. Both positive AND negative comments are welcome, as long as they are objective. Thanks!

[Asif Tahir]

Don’t you see that the nature despises you when you degrade yourself.
Look at your clay like fingers which when clasp together form a rugged projection,which molds the clay childishly from which it's created.
Look at your piercing eyes under the dark shadowy shelter.which unveils the many veils that are unseen.
Look at your radiant face that is a scripture of scattered pearls,glued with brown of desert and white of snow.

Your body is an amazing wonder of this generation.
Carved out of mud , artistically bent on corners.When you raise your eye lids up.
You don’t look at the sky.But the sky looks at you ; dumbfound at art of your Creator.
Believe in infinite power of imagination,that rests behind your sharp sight.
This world was born barren with ugliness in its lap.
But your power turned it into the beautiful mirage you see today.

Oh human ! A piece of universal sphere !
Seek yourself to find the infinity woven into your body.

[baeuty]

deleted

[angeliquenjones]

Here's something I started but pretty much lost interest in when I realized it wasn't going anywhere. Comments would be appreciated, to see if it might be salvaged.


In sunshine swells of imagination
curtains transfigure their pattern
on crumbling walls, the suffusion
of a dream.
Captured filaments sparkle by
rays of an opulent priority,
the scene grows heavy with luster.
Each wall sags in opalescence,
ruffled light seeps through draped wings
masking the room in pigment,
grey turns to a chromatic gloss,
points of light linger their dazzled
diligence in shimmering waves.


I love this poem. It takes me on a adventure into your imagination. Great job!

[andreometa]

This mind is frozen on topics at night
who are we? Do we follow the light?
What is my goal? What do I say?
Where is my church? To who am I preaching?
A choir of voices are calling me, leeching
Why is this tourniquet desperately screeching?
To get my attention?
To stop me from bleeding?
I cant help but wonder if silence is greedy.
But who am I telling?
Am I yelling? Or pleading?
The answer is both but who knows what im thinking
Time is alive and its keeping me drinking
Its hands pour the wine, and im taking in, teeming
With words, and souls, and lies for the keeping
Again do I know, today what im speaking?

[YesNo]

I like the sound of the poem, but I don't know what it is about. Generally, I view poetry as sound and meaning but meaning is the dominant of the two.

[Jufranos]

Alternative

I see fear in a world
Not heeding the plight
Of past and the blood
Long faded from sight

Once more have we fallen
For the new face of evil
Now masses are seeking
Through words of upheaval

We seek what we’ve lost
We deserve what we had
No matter the cost
No matter how bad

Deliver deliver
We incessantly plead him
Finding solace
Oblivious surrender of freedom

Dispensing of justice
At hands of new tyrants
Restoring our glory
At the price of our silence

And our brothers and sisters
Cold and despairing
They reach for our shores
They greet the uncaring

Repeal the malevolent
Threat of our time
No brother of yours
No sister of mine

We march to the future
In solidified union
We turn a blind eye
To unholy communion

[YesNo]

Nice meter and rhyme.

I assume this is about politics, but I don't know which side you are on or what the cause is. I sense it has something to do with immigration. The "unholy communion" suggests to me that you are anti-immigration. However, the "They greet the uncaring" suggests to me that you are pro-immigration. There is a lot of talk about "freedom" and "justice" and "glory". Every political group sees themselves as the good and the beautiful and the future. They are all the good guys and their enemies are always the bad guys.

[Jufranos]

Nice meter and rhyme.

I assume this is about politics, but I don't know which side you are on or what the cause is. I sense it has something to do with immigration. The "unholy communion" suggests to me that you are anti-immigration. However, the "They greet the uncaring" suggests to me that you are pro-immigration. There is a lot of talk about "freedom" and "justice" and "glory". Every political group sees themselves as the good and the beautiful and the future. They are all the good guys and their enemies are always the bad guys.

Thank you for your thoughts!

Its always interesting to see what sticks to the reader's mind. You correctly picked up on the political theme. Which side this advocates, however, is of less importance. The ambiguity allows for the reader to extrapolate what they need according to their own conviction. I do however hold a strongly subjective opinion that resonates in the piece.

[Babyguile]

Hello. I posted this as a thread in the Personal Poetry section. I hope it's OK to post it here too. It hasn't received replies yet.

I didn't ask for them to invade my prison-kingdom,
Of zirconium, old oak and iron.
Of wilting lavender on the windowsills.
For years I heard them but didn't see -
The humming of the horse fly, boring
Into the orifice of my brain.
The chord of Lacewings, a storm in membranes.
Insecurities throbbed in waves.

The house fly, especially, nags at you.
Snagging at the fabric of your conscious.
The torturous locust.
Worse still the jab of the bot fly.
The stab of its tongue. A tiny intruder.
Together, they pulled back the calm I constructed,
Baring a flea-bitten body, gasping for air.

They were more urgent then, at summer's end;
When my isolation heightens.
Folding dutifully to the darkening light.
A tireless buzzing under the pillows.
A faint tapping against glass.
Like thoughts continually deferred.
Like lives adjourned.
Drops in a putrid broth.
I simply swatted them away.

And flies flail and twitch terribly when they die,
And they always die by the windows,
Where the air is freshest.
Under the murky glow of the new moon,
All their lives trying,
Unable to get through.