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Bump :)
I haven't forgotten, I have just had stuff going on. I will try to get to it tonight.
Great job everyone. This was a touch one to judge.
YesNo: Nicely done, I quite enjoyed reading this one. It was both humorous and philosophical, and I thought cleverly done. I really liked the contrast between the two individuals in the poem. I could picture the scene within my mind.
EvoWarrior5: I thought this was a very interesting perspective of the Sun and Moon and I quite enjoyed it. It brought to mind some of the various different mythological stories about them. The idea of the sun and moon being captives in the sky and watching the freedom of people on earth with envy was interesting.
And the winner is.....
Pendragon: Really like this, there is some wonderful imagery here, and I really like the atmosphere this poem sets. I love the allusion to some long ago ancient rites. This time of year it brings me to mind of the first Winter Solstice celebrations. There were some beautiful and well crafted lines.
Thank you. The lines lead easily to ritual.
Let's see here: OK. the line is from Emily Dickinson: "Because I could not stop for Death, he kindly stopped for me."
Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me
To make me pause upon the path
I traveled anxiously.
And as we paused the world went by
Consumed along its way.
Could someone be that kind to me?
Wait for me every day?
Death, oh Death
The time has come to leave this life
that once belonged to me.
But I do not have time to stop
so Death, please stop for me.
My life has been a life that is
as good as life can be.
But Death, oh Death, thou cryptic shade,
I cannot stop for thee.
How pristine is this carriage that
rides ever through debris.
Now Death, oh Death, thou wondrous shade
please hear my cry, my plea:
I’ve packed my bags, said my goodbyes,
I’m ready to be free.
But I do not have time to stop
so Death, please stop for me.
Death is known for his kindness and as such he stops here and there,
Takes care of passengers who have lost their way.
He checks into old folk homes, so I've heard.
He looks after the atrophied.
I met him once, in the park, he was sad.
He said, this business of mine is not always easy.
How do I go on, he asked.
With the weight of life and this damn heavy cape.
I assured him, and Death I said, no one wants your job.
It's uncool, and plus I bet the pay stinks.
I offered him a ride back to his motel.
He was good enough to say, well I'll help pay for gas.
I couldn't wait too long, seeing I had life to do.
But he kindly waited for me.
I suppose he might even give me a few extra years out of that.
A few lousy years, perhaps.
Not sure he had much of a sense of humor.
Happy new year and bump!
Only YesNo used the exact quoted line, which is the purpose of this contest. Congrats, YesNo!
Oh I thought that you could change up the line and still conform to the rules provided your poem fits the theme. Shame.
Congrats YesNo.
(I thought a close approximation that stuck to the theme might work.)
Thanks, Pendragon! Sorry for the late response.
The next quote is from E. E. Cummings: http://en.wikiquote.org/wiki/E._E._Cummings
I'd rather learn from one bird how to sing
than teach ten thousand stars how not to dance.
Deadline: January 26th
On this page is the text of the poem "you shall above all things be glad and young" containing the quoted lines: http://www.abuddhistlibrary.com/Budd...20cummings.htm
i'd rather - feather the skies and
learn - sing with birdsong spring
from one bird - one feather has all the song
how to sing - in one egg lies all birdsong feathering the skies
than - dark night frightnight
teach - teachers see nolight
ten thousand stars - deep frightskies blightsight
how not to - never never-ending nightblight
dance
- little star with birdsong filling nightskies
I'd rather see the midnight sky than lights of cities in the dark
I'd rather learn from one bird how to sing than teach ten thousand stars how not to dance
I'd rather hear a loved one's last faint whisper than a million voices spewing hate
I'd rather know I touched a single life than feel ten thousand slip away
I'd rather know a little of everything than be fool enough to think I know it all
I'd rather taste one sweet victory than savor a million defeats
I'd rather smell one tiny flower than inhale the essence of war and blood
I'd rather write a single poem than pen manifestos to rock the world
I'd rather live a single life and face my problems than live forever and live a lie...
Pendragon
(C) January 7, 2014
How Marilyn Got Her Coo
Stepping onto Apollo's parquet plain,
Marilyn hosts her troupe in solid gold.
Spandex fleece for a shimmering cotillion,
her choreographed dream was about to unfold.
But gods doth tease and sway our hopes
Marilyn's train crashed; a desultory dance.
In solitude she peered through Coleridge "fleecy veil",
to the zodiac gods for a second chance.
Helen abides in Aquarius' forest;
the goddess Lark whose trills do please.
Her soft refrain, the quest of mortals
(during the '40's, she was Artie's squeeze.)
Marilyn gazed into the firmament.
Helen's visage perched on Aquarius' hand.
Pondering a thought she snapped a Hemlock
and quoted the following in Psamathe sand:
"I'd rather learn from one bird how to sing
than teach ten thousand stars how not to dance."
At this melancholic plea, Helen tipped the urn
pouring dulcet nectar on her cords to enhance.
Dawns warming rays lifted Marilyn's voice
beyond Olympus to the fifth dimension.
No longer burdened with parachute pants,
her coordinate reached at right ascension.
Inspirations:
Marilyn McCoo and Solid Gold
http://m.youtube.com/watch?v=IKNrTxP9U-8
Helen Forrest and Artie Shaw
http://m.youtube.com/watch?v=PkFexfgZ3CA
5th Dimension
http://m.youtube.com/watch?v=kjxSCAa...%3DkjxSCAalsBE
A Song To My Mother, A Dance With My Father
I'd rather learn from one bird how to sing
Than gather all the hymns of the morning
Or all the notes and rhythms of May spring.
It is my curse to sing lullabies as firstborn
And as a son to a mother beaten and torn
It is my destiny to offer a song then mourn.
My raging feet know the mad lyrics of the tango
But my mouth only whistles the bass and its flow
As my hands’ revenge goes deep and very slow.
Inside this world of iron bars and concrete walls
Where I wait for rare letters and quick phone calls
I sing to the ceiling and dance until the curtain falls.
I’d rather slide on a blade, hop and step on a lance
And tumble to the orchestra of my fate and chance
Than teach ten thousand stars how not to dance.
miyako, that is beautiful.
Crikey! I think I'll pass, the standard's too high for me.
I'd rather learn from one bird how to sing
than teach ten thousand stars how not to dance.
that is because a bird is a music heard
all over the fern
its twitter earns
symphony sterns compare to its learn
a star bothers not it is too high up
to cult
who cares if it dances as long as it lances
giving the view a moving prance
that is better then a dance
anytime of the salse.
sky is lured.
YesNo I think this one is time's up ;)
Right, cacian. I'll get a response tomorrow morning.
Here are the results. Thanks to all who participated!
windblown: This poem represented an interesting technique. If I just read the part after the hyphen, there is a nice series of rhyme on the "light" sound with hope in the first stanza and fright in the second.
Pendragon: The first line about the midnight sky and city lights seemed to go well with the last where one lived a life well facing one's problems as compared to living an eternal lie.
Gilliatt Gurgle: The line where the Gods "tease" and "sway our hopes" keeps coming back to me. I usually think of them as more blunt. Nice homage to Marilyn.
miyako73: I liked the last two lines. They flowed with the meter. It seems as if this is from the perspective of the father in prison or a son who is imprisoned and who remembers a beaten mother.
cacian: You make a good point in this poem. The bird and its song are more significant to us than those stars.
I have no clue who really should win this and I was thinking of procrastinating further because I can't decide.
But I have delayed too long.
The winner: miyako73
Okay... here it is:
Let's use this by Neruda:
“It was at that age
that poetry came
in search of me.”
Deadline: On the last second of February
The Age of Poetry
From the first moments breath,
it seemed a flutter,
something caught just in the eye-corner,
yet tantalizing out of reach,
and completely beyond comprehension.
it remained, something taunting,
a laughter in the wind,
a stalker in the shadows,
a seducer of dreams.
then there came the long winter-like hush,
and I shall not know
if it was I who caused offense,
or if it cruelly discovered
fairer game to engage in
catch-me-if-you-can,
forget-me-not,
masquerades.
There descended
the long era of darkness,
and even if at times I wanted to strangle it,
now I am the one to become suffocated,
left voiceless,
the precarious time
of angst rages
unchecked rebellion
a need for destruction,
both internal and external,
It was at that age that poetry came
in search of me once more,
now clearly defined,
no longer a phantom
but a raging force
not to be denied
but ready to be harnessed,
to create worlds,
bring ruin to civilizations,
to speak of that which
has no words.
Singing a New Song
Looking back on my life and how it has been
Do I really want to walk down those roads again?
Youth and inexperience were ruining my life
Feeling like I should be pleasing people all of the time
About the day I woke up and realized I could see:
It was at that age that poetry came in search of me...
So I follow my heart, walk my own path
I no longer fear the icy certainty of death
If people don't understand and they get in the way
I just smile and whisper, "Have a nice day!"
The music of nature and the sounds of the sea:
It was at that age that poetry came in search of me...
I won't say it isn't lonely or the road doesn't grow dark
But beneath the cloak of midnight you can see the faintest spark
People that I tried to please, still shake their heads and turn way
So tell how is that any different, they never chose to stay
Eyes now filled with brightness, a better life I see:
It was at that age that poetry came in search of me...
Pendragon
(C) February 6, 2014
Life poetry.
It was in that age
that poetry came
In search of me.
But I was watching my mother's hands,
Thumping out the rhythm of the dough,
Pushing back a loose strand of hair,
Leaving a streak of floured sable,
The first touch of grey,
Recalling times yet to come.
And later.
But I was away gathering sheep,
Striding across the high moor,
In the company of skylarks,
Watching the sleek black dogs,
Lift and plunge like porpoises,
Through purple heather billows.
And again.
But I was holding my grand daughter,
And feeling the light of her existence
Suffuse each atom of myself and of every other thing,
With a warmth like a poem of spring,
Melting away an old man's rime,
So it never found me,
But did not need to look,
I was never lost,
Nor held by any book.
I'm sorry for the late verdict. I just could not easily decide. All three are good. Maybe the winner wins only by .1 in my imaginary pointing system.
I like Dark Muse's use of words.
I like Pendragon's narrative.
Prendrelemick has both. He wins, and this is the .1 that makes him win:
"But I was away gathering sheep,
Striding across the high moor,
In the company of skylarks,
Watching the sleek black dogs(,)
Lift and plunge like porpoises(,)
Through purple heather billows."
Thanks,
Miyako
Thanks .
Next up some Christina Rossetti
My heart is like a singing bird.
My heart is like a singing bird
Responding to what it has heard,
A lonely lover in the spring,
Responding to a tease, something
That's waiting out there, like a friend,
Who gives my fear a fearless end.
Heartbeat
His heart beat
was like an eagle's wings,
thunderous, strong,
beating freely, wild
at times seeming untamable
ungraspable,
yet there were moments
it could soar silently,
barely perceptible
and within these
moments of serenity
I knew its warmth,
it's life, were for me
and only me,
and then my heart
is like a singing bird.
My heart is like a singing bird
Enclosed within a golden cage
I sing to keep from weeping
I laugh to still the rage
I weep sometimes and tremble
Often I cannot find the words
But engaged or free, sorrow or sunshine
My heart sings like a tiny bird...
Pendragon
(C) 3/10/2014
Bump.
One week to go.
Presence of Evidence
My heart is like a singing bird
The Lark within is gently purred
My master is none too pleased
Feathers flew out when I sneezed
GG. Beautiful allegory of the dangers of trying to swallow Morpheus Sandman's arguments on that other thread. Explosive plucking is the best result one could hope for.
Yesno. Simple and straight forwards as usual
A tie between Dark Muse and Pendragon. Pen as usual has a story I can relate to, while the Muse has poetry perfection. Hmm...
On re-reading I shall give it to Dark Muse. such a well crafted poem, it grows on you at each reading. Lovely imagery.
Time will say nothing but i told you so,
eat that pill so you will imagine no more;
remember the metaphors poets used
are common language and ancient tools
discarded in time and recycled again.
what is new? you asked,while carrying
a gene of your father's dad.
what is there to say or make?
we spent all life hallucinating
about existential eternity
when nothing gold can stay.
all things will die!
all things will crumble,
shall i compare life to a gameshark'ed pokemon game?
there is no fun anymore,
the day you know
is when you choose to lie or go.
tonight i can write a list of dead people,
the march hare spoke to me
in multiple voices; nautilus's hermit
reminded me the simplicity
of writing something imagined
and not experienced,
we are never passing facts,
given that we never were facts.
let me have my decided end,hemingway
with red eyes spawned from a corner;
a large figure essentially begging.
a choir of patients rambled:
the world is too much with us..
i know,when
they have fears that they may never cease to be,
that misery shouts: back out of all this now too much for us.
we are all judges of each other's show,
the stage is disfigured from our disapprovals;
together we make the caged bird
lose its voice.
what then? Asked a common life.
maybe we should all believe
perhaps the roses really want to grow.
^Nice work your Majesty.
Entering a supermarket with
my glossy new red sunglasses.
The shelves, crates, fridges
are all filled with bear, pumping,
breathing, spitting blood hearts.
On the shelves in neat rows,
with students cleaning up
the bloodied floors.
Long and tall corridors of shelves
and a frosty wall of bloodied refrigerators.
Walking through you hear one big thump every 3 seconds,
you're eyes report that all heart's beats are apart.
Its easy to lose your sense of this rooms capacity
and air, and get absorbed in the inconsistency of
your eyes and ears, its clear your heart closed itself
and is humbing only that melody your mom sang you
before going to bed, before the monsters reached your head.
The selves have different prices and different tags
all the products differ by their fat coatings and shining valves.
Walking through, and losing my
appetite, I'm not sure if I should take a heart and
spend my comfortable luxury at home
by bringing this messy product home.
I don't want to lean on any counters
I don't want to clean the trail I'll
leave after.
I'll put them in my basket and they'll drip
from the market, to the street, to my
home, and then in my stomach.
I miss the days I could see the grocery store
without a heartbeat.
Two nice poems posted above, but alas too late. Judgement has already been pronounced, and Dark Muse has been declared the victor of this particular round.
Thank you, I will have the next line up soon.
Ok your next line is:
Gaze no more in the bitter glass
From The Two Trees by Yeats
Dealing April 10