Thanks Janine! I will keep writing, wild horses couldn't stop me.
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Thanks Janine! I will keep writing, wild horses couldn't stop me.
So glad and remember - have fun; we all do on this site. Nice people here and very encouraging, too.
What the heck!? Why have the comments and posts on this amazing thread been neutralized!? Shall I reboot this auspicious thread by posting yet another masterful work by the master Adolescent? Lol, just joking. Please give constructive opinions on my latest work :)
It is called; Gardeners of the World and strives to be VERRY vague, but at the same time nice and understanding through repeated readings.
Steps on mossy foundation,
squeeking patterns of mirky delight,
a rat scuttling between icy steps,
blending its scrawny proportion in the night,
milky patterns curving,
where sprouted in soft earth, grow stout petals
a rose, a daisy, a lily bud,
a cactus with acute nettles,
whereupon i feel the flowers,
tangentially on their stems, their heads brush by
like His breath on the open moors,
so soft, so compliant, bending with the ease of my touch,
yet its acute counterpart embeds my skin,
lacerates my hand and soul,
what torn within me,
encumbered with misery,
a bottle of joy uncorked and wrought,
nature is a puzzling place,
with wonderous growths,
of temptations and evils,
caramels and sweets.
we are many gardeners,
our lives and productivity
are on a scale of what we sow.
Very good, Adolescent. Seems you took some time and much thought on this poem. I like it. Here are a few questions. On the line "milky patterns curving," - does this refer to the line prior to it about the rat. I am not sure I get that connection. Can you explain. Later on "His breath - does this refer to God since the H in His is capitalised? Funny, you should mention the moor; last night I watched the "Return of the Native" adaptation and it was filmed on the moors - really awesome scenery!Quote:
Originally Posted by Adolescent09
Another observation is in the beginning when you mention the flowers or the bud sprouting - I somehow get an image of this being in a city between blocks of cement or stone - probably since you start out with the fountain. Am I wrong? Anyway, I feel the cactus is out of place with the other flowers, but maybe they are all just symbolic such as opposites (?) - the cactus pricks while the other flowers are lovely and relate to the sweets. Not sure this impression is correct either, on my part. The last lines impart a nice message. It is said a little tritely perhaps, but still good and very nicely written.
I like the poem as a whole and think clarifying could be achieved with a little adjustment perhaps. "master Adolescent" - How's that for an impartial critique? :D
That was a great critique Janine, informative and addresses the correct matters of high ambiguity. The main gist of this poem is for the reader to formulate his/her own thoughts on the theme. For instance, your example of that show you saw recently in allusion to the "moor" part of my poem makes you sort of draw a vague image of what you saw on the show. The "milky patterns" part of the poem is perhaps the vaguest line of all. I was concentrating on summarising the atmosphere of my poetic setting in just six syllables. Perhaps it is for this reason that you have second thoughts of its meaning. By "Milky patterns" I meant the light from the moon shining on an open land but it is is far too general a description to make the reader conscious of the fact that it pertains to the night/sky/atmosphere/stars. For all you know it could be a garden of white flowers! The cactus, I will acknowledge, is a bit erroneous with the rest of the setting. The poem does have a city-like atmosphere and this is a mistake because I was focusing on my poem being more like a "baren", empty wasteland. About the relation of God with my capitalized "H" in the line with "breath", yes I was alluding to Providence.
Thanks a lot Janine for your not so impartial critique! I had a hunch you would be the first to reply ;)
Could you insert (add) a few lines to clarify this image or whatever image you are thinking of? Just a suggestion to make it more distinct. Images are important to me, being an visual person and an artist. I relate to the solid image. I could see pavement, with bits of nature springing up between the cracks, but I could not perceive an image for the "milky patterns"; the moon casting them would be excellent.Quote:
Originally Posted by Adolescent09
There again, something to emphasize the idea of "city", being the setting, would be good. I think from reading some of your other posts, I gathered you lived in the city and that is part of what lead me to think that, but most people reading your poem might not get that idea. True that fountains usually are in cities, so that also helped me think this way, but that is not necessarily true either.Quote:
The cactus, I will acknowledge, is a bit erroneous with the rest of the setting. The poem does have a city-like atmosphere and this is a mistake because I was focusing on my poem being more like a "baren", empty wasteland. About the relation of God with my capitalized "H" in the line with "breath", yes I was alluding to Providence.
Thanks a lot Janine for your not so impartial critique! I had a hunch you would be the first to reply ;)
Glad you are happy with my critique this time. I always try to be honest and at the same time encourage - this is important, too, as I said before. Yes, I should get a life, right? I check in on this site too often to see what has developed. Keep writing, as I am enjoying your poetry very much.
The not so impartial critic. Janine
God?
Who dares disturb the eternal question?
With infernal nattering of thought
Barbarian hordes and African gourds
Sound the hollow echo, of God
Drums in the mountains, on the plains
In the passes, and on the free range
The soft echoes of religion bring
Deadly sounds of a believers faith
Complete and utter denial of life
The possibility of life without eternity
Drive the Godly, the divine, to war
But ye dare not to question
The intellectual atheists disdain
Of an existentialist’s existence
In a world without hope
Beliefs in thought, rather than of hope
Drives love from without
Away from within
The love within religion
And of gods chosen sect
Brings out the hate in all others
Save the agnostic kin
Who doubt both parties equally
And live on the knifes edge
Just daring one to tip them
From this sharpened perch
here ya go, my thoughts were a bit on other threads for a while but i am back now, and though a bit rusty, eager to write.
Tris, the poem flows well and is well written. I would only ask about your target audience. Whom are you trying to reach? The subject matter is one that could be termed "inflammatory". But the poem stands as well written, well metered, and reads fine. Just know your audience.
Castle Death
Out in the woods so dark and deep,
upon a grayish, granite tor,
where the setting sun goes to sleep
there stands a castle, with moat and keep.
Inside lives One whose name is lost forevermore—
out in the woods so dark and deep.
The castle is filled with scaly things that creep
around in eerie silence among the shadows on the floor,
where the setting sun goes to sleep.
The silence is unbearable. Not a single peep
of sound escapes the thousands of throats that implore,
out in the woods so dark and deep.
HE keeps watch. For HE needs no sleep,
burning eyes watching for souls to cross the forbidden moor
where the setting sun goes to sleep.
Should you wander there once, your wanders will never cease—
around and around in the dust upon the castle floor
out in the woods so dark and deep,
where the setting sun goes to sleep…
i realize that it could perhaps be construed as inflammatory, but i think that the target audience was more of the community of agnostics, or peope that are sick of inane religious wars, the idea just spawned from a religious texts discussion labeled "god?" that i have been talking on for the last few days, a thouroughly fascinating discussion with all sides well and fairly represented
She used to hum
over the dishes as
she stroked them dry,
and sing softly
over her cooking as
she stirred perfection,
but you stopped
coming home on time
and slowly
The singing stopped.
The humming faltered.
And tears replaced the smile.
I liked that seasong.
Seasong, I love it!......write more....
Urbane
Summertime, is it easy, waves of distortion rise, the night blind child of a blood stained street, denizen of city squares in a checkerboard world, drive the grey pawns to oblivion in these binary times. No hands to spare for loopholes, no gold to spare from chained spare change. Coins withheld from the blind in rags spent on honeyed tones. Glowing broad vocals of a former pavement child sparkling with borrowed finery. Curious that those who would walk over that gravel toned bluesman and his grinding brass band applaud the glitter stained songbird singing the same dirty old songs.
perhaps a bit political, but barring that, i would like some input on the imagery, some suggestions perhaps on ways to improve it, you see, i like it, but it just doesn't seem... "polished"
Who dares disturb the eternal question?
With infernal nattering of thought
Barbarian hordes and African gourds
Sound the hollow echo, of God
Drums in the mountains, on the plains
In the passes, and on the free range
The soft echoes of religion bring
Deadly sounds of a believers faith
Complete and utter denial of life
The possibility of life without eternity
Drive the Godly, the divine, to war
But ye dare not to question
The intellectual atheists disdain
Of an existentialist’s existence
In a world without hope
Beliefs in thought, rather than of hope
Drives love from without
Away from within
The love within religion
And of gods chosen sect
Brings out the hate in all others
Save the agnostic kin
Who doubt both parties equally
And live on the knifes edge
Just daring one to tip them
From this sharpened perch
I trully admire your poem Triskele and singular use of words but I can't help thinking that the last verse maybe cut off too sharply.
"And live on the knifes edge
Just daring one to tip them
From this sharpened perch"
The line "From this sharpened perch" sounds great but I can't help feeling that it hangs in the air. It's funny because I liked reading your poem so much that by the time I was finished, I found my self wanting to read more but that was the end... Your poem was fantastic though; thank you for sharing it trisk.
I on the other hand am getting worse and worse at poetry. I believe I am pushing my self to far in vain attempts to produce good works. I am not putting the thought and controversial perception into my poems the way I once did. Here is something I've written though as a warmup. Any comments or thoughts would be appreciated.
20th poem------ "The Cellular Age"-----(8)
A tete ā tēte we had, close and near,
not too long ago,
You divulged it in a whisper, so soft,
so serene, brushing my ear,
like a shell's sonorous ocean,
On opposite sides of a table of provisions,
On rainbow swings at a park,
On a bench made only for two,
such memorable times between us,
have been terminated by invention,
I can still hear your voice's soft sweetness,
Through waves that dangle in the air,
hit satellites in the sky,
but do not carry my thoughts to you,
the discussion is blank,
swings in a park seem pale and bourgeois,
with many children, not you and I,
A bench for two,
is now a seat for many,
as I stand here with a three inch device,
plastered in my ear,
and muse of olden days,
when it was you, not it, near to me.