what was your first lit-net poem?

[motherhubbard]

I just wondered what the first poem you posted here was. Can any of you remember? How long has it been? Have you improved? How do you feel about that poem now? Dig out that old poem and post it here, or you could just add a link.

[Riesa]

well, Jon has already aired some of my dirty laundry today, so might as well dump the whole basket. :D Incidentally, this was also the first poem I'd written in over 8 years. Nice idea for a thread, Motherhubbard. :) I wonder if Virgil still hates the puppy rubble and the does mowing the grass. :lol:

Morning

Dark, warm.
Morning.
Resenting rustling, your curses,
I fall dreaming again;

Tripping like a puppy
In rubble; I'm in dreams
Loping across
Caribbean beaches
Storms in hammocks;
Naked, in our cups,
Disguised in sand.
A field of wild yellow grass,
Mown by white-tail does.
Crimson river raging,
Bearing ships, with golden sails.

Shoreline of Grackles
Scolding, waking me;
Blue field claims my gaze
Lugging Mexican lilies
On my back I submerge,
Separating me from us.

A murmur, traveling my eyes, my mouth,
The room, fragrant with coffee.
Waking, reaching for you,
Grasping thick wool, cool linen,
Your head, your face,
Sharing this room,
This life, this bed.
This gentle thought,
Your touch
Bringing me home.

Struggling,
Regaining sleep;
My dream.
An ocean,
Viridian glass lures the size of boulders,
A shifting floating graveyard.
Reflecting the blinking stars,
The burning sun.

Plate-glass cliffs,
A thousand stories high
Riddled with cenotes.
I’m in a cave, diving underground rivers
A thousand pecking fish, seeking
Sustenance in air bubbles.

Dry, standing; I lean, look out
Peering through plate glass walls;
A thousand stories down
The ocean roars;
Giant glass elephants,
Scattered and rusting in low tide.
The walls give way,
I tumble, wake.
You’ve gone.

[AimusSage]

:lol:, that is ages ago, and even then it was an old one, because I didn't find my destiny back then :p

The Beast Within

Falling away from me is this Sanity
And all I can do is watch the event
Change before my eyes, before the end
I live in a world of inhumanity

Deeper into the abyss I will fall
When monsters take over my mind
How is it that I could be so blind?
Before the end, I will know the call

The call of wisdom beckons me
I see the truth floating high above
Reaching out, I am touched by love
Yet hated by many, forced to flee

The love is left behind in Sanity
Is this truly how it was meant?
It is an event I cannot comprehend
Am I the victim of my vanity?

They hunt me down like a beast
I see hatred not of their own
In my eyes its true nature is shown
Their fear has been unleashed

Deep inside me the wolf dreams
Full moon, the monster will awake
Take over my mind everything’s at stake
In the night, helpless screams

Seeing blood is on my hands now
The love I knew is gone
It was the wolf that took her at dawn
I am never to know how

Killing myself, again I rise
The wolf, the beast must be why
Immortal, Therefore I cannot die
Again I hear the endless cries

Hunters searching for my lair
Tormented with guilt I hide
The wolf, long ago he took my pride
Leaving me only despair

A piece of silver pierces my heart
The beast inside me dies
From within nevermore to arise
Now I am finally free to depart.


http://www.online-literature.com/forums/showthread.php?t=4567

[NickAdams]

The following is from May of this year. It's only a Haiku, so I'm posting what I believe to be my first poem afterward.

Vacancy: Ames room.
Accommodations vary.
High ceilings, high floors.

The Wooden Boy (Posted 06-01-2007, but written when I was sixteen.)

Do not distress my Dear,
for you can never bring me harm.
Tonight I shed these splinters
and move towards guiding stars.

Today you've pulled a string,
without a beating heart.
As the curtain's called,
you vanish into the dark.

And if we're to regret,
regret what we now know:
An innocent wooden boy should never leave his home ...

[firefangled]

I think this was my first.

Nebula

We do not so much choose,
rather we know somehow where
and when to allow the transformation.

Have you seen the Small Magellanic Cloud?
The journeys for you begin there,
yet even now you cannot find where.

Long ago in Sweden the easy trail turns,
possibly toward the great dreamers and thinkers,
busy in their fields of immense faith,
or figuring the complex wheels, or perhaps
enticing water from the gathering sky —

and you were always part of the secret,
beautiful and nameless.

[Niamh]

I posted this last december

REMEMBRANCE

Life so sad and lonely
Full of death an destruction,
Quite close to home, and only
Peace of mind is in construction.

With great fears of sudden loss,
And sudden loss revealed,
With only happiness to toss,
The fate of the world is sealed.

Two towers that stood grand and tall,
Two gliding birds crash into a floor.
Thousands die beneath its fall
And bring the world into a war.

School kids mocked, teased and jeered,
Segragation within their neighbourhood,
In twenty years we may hear they've cheered
A saddened cry against a loss of childhood.

Corruption is nothing but the beginning,
Destruction middle, loss the end.
And with a band of heralds singing,
God his Angels shall he send.

Niamh Anne king 02/oct/01
http://www.online-literature.com/forums/showthread.php?t=20920

[symphony]

The first? Well then I'll have to post the same old poem that I posted in "Your favourite poems by yourself"-thread. :D No problem with me though, I post it in anywhere I can! :lol:
I wrote it before shifting my house and posted it in here, it was the first one I ever posted, and it's still one of my favourite favourites. :)

To the Tree at My Window

And so it is,
Now that I am leaving you,
I am as silent as you always are,
Just as calm and just as indifferent
My outer self is.
But inside I’m shivering
Like your leaves did
When the rain rushed upon them—
The panorama that never
Failed to enchant me
By its divinity;
And so it is, now that I gaze
At your silent silhouette,
A single tear
Roll down my face
Like a nameless ode.

[Lote-Tree]

I think it was this one:

Broken Rose

I gave her roses
They were red
Like the colour of my heart
And had the fragrance of my
Undying soul...

Instead of a clutter of words
The dead sound of insignificant phrases
Instead of cold metal gold
That silently shines
I offered her flowers
As token, as totem of my love
Reducing my poems and prose
To a symbol of a Single Rose
Red like the colour of my heart
Red like passion
Red like love...

I saw the petals on the floor
Like drops of blood
From a wound
Cut deep
I saw the stem
Broken into pieces...
The symbol shattered
The fragments scattered
The petals red like the colour
Of my broken heart...

[blp]

Pretty sure it was this from a couple of years ago. I did improve just afterwards, then quickly plateaued.

And I love the shapes in your head, your projects and your political fervour

But I really do hope, she said gently, that we might, she looked at him with sincere, pious sorrow, be able to stay friends, she touched his hand, well, he replied, do you know, he replied, what I think of that, he replied, what, she said softly, large, damp eyes regarding the world with receptive wonder, It makes, he began, me want to leave, he told her, the country, he added, and go, he went on, somewhere harsh, he blurted, and unhygienic, he said strangulated, to ensure, he explained, that I will never, he insisted, have to see you or, he nearly sobbed, your stinking happiness (which does not include or depend on me in any way) ever again. He got up with knives in his shoulders, belly, ****, head, arse, upset a plant pot, knocked over a baby’s perambulator and crashed, self obliteratingly, into the keys of a grand piano as he made his way, with as much dignity as possible, towards the exit.

[amuse]

Oh gosh, I remember this one, it was...raw, beautiful.

I love the "unhygienic" and how he left "with as much dignity as possible." It is a beautiful, beautiful scene. A novel would be lucky to have such a one in it.



This was my first:

this is my heart

this ain't a mother****in'
drive-by take
your
finger off the
trigger

[blp]

LOL. That's mother***in' fantastic, amuse.

And thanks.

[ampoule]

I joined at the end of June and this was the first poem I shared. I was so shocked when replies were made saying things like, 'how sad' and 'awwww' and people talking about their dogs. Well, duh...what should I expect? It may not be what poets are supposed to do...(are we supposed to DO anything?)...but I found that my mission was quite accomplished...to bury a bone. But I was cheap because I later added 'A Tale of Unrequited Love' in hopes that people would stop talking about dogs.

Bad Dog: A Tale of Unrequited Love

Bad girl! You should not chase cars!
You are going to get killed!

with wild eyes i try to say,
"but you won't play fetch anymore".

Bad girl! You should not beg at the table.
People don't like that.

with hungry eyes i try to say,
"but you gave me my first scrap".

Bad girl! Stop walking under my feet!
You are going to make me fall.

with sad eyes I try to say,
"but i want to be next to you".

You raise your hand and point at the door.
I lower my head and slowly walk toward it.

"go ahead and do what you must.
i guess that's the only way".

With determined eyes you tie me out back.
You tell me you have had all you can take,
That we......are through.

amp, February Sixth, TwoThousandOne

[firefangled]

Oh, that is so sad. I think it is quite clear you are not talking about a Girl Dog. This was before my time, but I remember the second one.

[PrinceMyshkin]

Pretty sure it was this from a couple of years ago. I did improve just afterwards, then quickly plateaued.


And I love the shapes in your head, your projects and your political fervour

But I really do hope, she said gently, that we might, she looked at him with sincere, pious sorrow, be able to stay friends, she touched his hand, well, he replied, do you know, he replied, what I think of that, he replied, what, she said softly, large, damp eyes regarding the world with receptive wonder, It makes, he began, me want to leave, he told her, the country, he added, and go, he went on, somewhere harsh, he blurted, and unhygienic, he said strangulated, to ensure, he explained, that I will never, he insisted, have to see you or, he nearly sobbed, your stinking happiness (which does not include or depend on me in any way) ever again. He got up with knives in his shoulders, belly, ****, head, arse, upset a plant pot, knocked over a baby’s perambulator and crashed, self obliteratingly, into the keys of a grand piano as he made his way, with as much dignity as possible, towards the exit.

Yeah? Well somebody ought to have cautioned you not to start with something so damned good.

[ampoule]

Pretty sure it was this from a couple of years ago. I did improve just afterwards, then quickly plateaued.

And I love the shapes in your head, your projects and your political fervour

But I really do hope, she said gently, that we might, she looked at him with sincere, pious sorrow, be able to stay friends, she touched his hand, well, he replied, do you know, he replied, what I think of that, he replied, what, she said softly, large, damp eyes regarding the world with receptive wonder, It makes, he began, me want to leave, he told her, the country, he added, and go, he went on, somewhere harsh, he blurted, and unhygienic, he said strangulated, to ensure, he explained, that I will never, he insisted, have to see you or, he nearly sobbed, your stinking happiness (which does not include or depend on me in any way) ever again. He got up with knives in his shoulders, belly, ****, head, arse, upset a plant pot, knocked over a baby’s perambulator and crashed, self obliteratingly, into the keys of a grand piano as he made his way, with as much dignity as possible, towards the exit.

Yes, absolutely, absolutely fabulous.

[TheFifthElement]

This was mine :


The road is an open wound
from which cars bleed.

Coagulating on the surface
until the scab is picked.

They move -
drip,
drip.

The flow is menstrual;
frustration and anger
punctuate.

Workers, like maggots, chew
away rotten flesh.
Sterilising.

Arterial integrity restored,
the suicidal rush resumes.

[andave_ya]

Tihs is the first poem I ever wrote on my own accord, and the LitNet inspired it.

Shades of half-grown stories flitting through my mind
I am left breathless by the quick succession of ideas
What does it mean to be a writer?
To find fact in fiction and fiction in fact?
To travel the journey from beginning to end?
In earnest of more tales to come?
Writing a character isn't easy.
Why do people write?
It clutches your mind until you're finished,
But it's liberating, isn't it? To rise above reality and
Escape from its unrelenting grasp?

[blp]

Yeah? Well somebody ought to have cautioned you not to start with something so damned good.


Yes, absolutely, absolutely fabulous.

Thank you. I'm touched. :)

And, on a second look, struck by the fact that amuse and I both made our entrances with bleeped words!