Picture Poetry Contest (...continued...)

Wow, well done everyone, i didnt expect so many entries, and good ones, so soon! :thumbs_up

And thanks Fred for the wonderful entry.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Virgil

Oh, oh, I got to start crackin.

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:D I expect u to.

C'mon everyone, lets see what u've got there! :lol:

C'mon guys and girls!! You've only got 11 days! Well, 12, depending on where you live....

I'm working on one. I'm not a fast writer. :p

Quote:

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I'm working on one. I'm not a fast writer.

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Understatement of the week. :p


Anyway keep working on it, fellas, if the time's not enough, it can always be extended. :)

Shall it whither, and shall it soon fade?
As the bird and beast war in their hope
The gutter hosts a man’s promenade
Nervously pawing the Bridge, yet in scope.

Shall the ditch devour another?
Samaritans shuffle awkwardly by.
Another returns to the Great Mother,
Or can the bravely humble yet try?

Ramses played the fool, but, so did you
Will the birds be your only heralds as
You depart in a tomb of dust and dew?
No bulwark of deeds if you shall pass.

Would debunked arrogance be your wish?
Or shall you drain the hemlock-filled dish
In full uncertainty and be a great king,
Or chose unearthy dignity o’er wing?

Hi, I'm a newcomer to the whole poetry world, so this will be my initiation poem. Of course, I have absolutely no idea about poetry techniques and so on, so please feel free to enlighten me. I did use the picture as a basis for this poem, though it might seem a little vague- I was slightly discouraged by all the other poems, they were fantastic. Anyway, here's the poem, and please be frank, I have a problem with the "It was great BUT...." thing.
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We huddle under white sheets in the morning.
Sunlight streams through our windows:
a thousand golden fingers;
too thin to feel, and too frail to touch,
sending cold fingertips into our thoughts.

My mind is restless; it struggles for an answer,
Or perhaps for a better question,
But my soul is just tired.
The magpie-lark perches on the windowsill,
And I watch as it flies away.

We still breathe sterilized air,
We still hear processed sounds,
Our walls are smooth and pale,
Our feet still rest on carpeted ground.

Outside, the crimson trees are yawning.
The earth breathes into the air
a million inexplicable scents.
Dogs smell the musk of crumbling stones;
Too heavy to lose, but too loose to hold;
It rings with the eternal sadness of slow decay.

Their world is too large; they long for a barrier,
Or a cage to keep the air away,
But mine is too small.
Thoughts are never content with what the soul requires
Birds don’t fly, they only run.

And in the mornings, we will still lay under white sheets
With sunlight outside our windows.

streetlife
wake up shivering
hard cold cement
paper thin cardboard
makes an uneasy bed
it is of little value
in life on the street
an everyday occurrence
of sleeping in too many
yesterday clothes

friendships made
created to survive
love grows strong
sweet and fast
in quick short beats

life skills required
learning on demand
paid the toll
to invisible hands
oh weary days
written on wrinkled
empty faces

stake your piece of ground
like gold in a rush
shoes wore thinly
in abundance everywhere
laces untied, no longer worn

who needs shoes
when your heart is bare
contact made
this is home

..incredible entries as always...here is mine...lw

Here's mine.

Quote:

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Waddy

The snooty unbeknownst
Send me to the valley’s river, to hidden streams,
A preacher in the midst of fraught motorcars.

The quarrelsome horns
At busy intersections cavil
Their tinctures, their padre parades.

They come across the plains
Like tuna fish cans jogging.

Bah—Where are the days of waddys?

There was a time
Between hay and grass
A steer ended up in my lasso,
Rustling the day to the sunset,
Cavorting in the evenings
With the horses and the cowpokes,
Campfire in our faces.

After a cowboy cocktail,
A reprise of blanket in the night
A breath of prayer and then quiet sleep.
The dog may be a croaker,
But he don’t fuss much.
Biddy birds wake me in the morn.

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I'm confused...
Where's the picture?

Quote:

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Originally Posted by packersfan

I'm confused...
Where's the picture?

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On page 18. A few pages back.

For general convenience, here's the picture again:
http://www.banglagallery.com/gallery...ainting-09.jpg


And again- the deadline's November 1, 2007.
10 entries so far. Well done everyone. :thumbs_up

Quote:

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Originally Posted by schadenfreude

Hi, I'm a newcomer to the whole poetry world, so this will be my initiation poem. Of course, I have absolutely no idea about poetry techniques and so on, so please feel free to enlighten me. I did use the picture as a basis for this poem, though it might seem a little vague- I was slightly discouraged by all the other poems, they were fantastic. Anyway, here's the poem, and please be frank, I have a problem with the "It was great BUT...." thing.

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Firstly, WELCOME Schaden :)
My first poem in this forum was also a poem in this picture-poetry thread. :p
Please dont feel discouraged if the other poems are good, 'cause that never means yours is not.

And about the poem, I'll comment on all the entries before picking the winner. You'll read my review in there. :)

I should preface this by saying that for some unaccountable reason when I looked at the picture for this round I instantly, and somewhat ironically, thought of the theme to Antony Dvorak's Humoresque. I found this very odd, since I have always thought of that piece only in terms of the most simple, unadulterated bliss, while the picture is anything but. Then I thought that perhaps that is the point. Anyway, since the piece was very much in my mind while writing my entry I thought I'd post a link to a recording in case others here do not know the music and would like to know what I'm referring to, or perhaps would like to listen as they read: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ScSCILXXLnM


He once owned a violin
Which made his friends smile to hear
And made all people smile to see him coming.
On city corners he played
The old tunes people love
And Dvorak’s humoresque.
He loved that best:
The way the clear notes passed
Effortless through city air heavy with smog,
The way the joy of it was joy
Not unacquainted with grief
But laughing still.
The notes he played then
Were rich, full, satisfying
And the people who heard were fed.
Light delicacies of staccato
And the hearty richness of a low legato
Sated the nameless, unconscious hunger of their daily lives.
When he was done they cried:
“Encore! Again, again!”
And so he played again
And they stood, lips gently parted,
Eyes closed as they savored
The notes that held them transfixed
The notes that poured like warm wine
From the violin he once owned.

Then came the day in a dirty shop
And a quick exchange
(Better not to dwell on loss).
It bought enough to keep
Body and soul whole
For a few weeks.
Inevitably the empty arms,
That play the winds and sway
To unheard music in the city air heavy with smog,
Inevitably they wither as they play
Unseen strings. Inevitably they weaken
And they cannot hold
Even what is imagined.

Against the cold
He keeps a thin blanket
And a thinner dog
The only creature glad to see him coming.
His hair is a comic mop.
His body odd emaciated angles
Like the lines of a caricature,
Like a cartoon of himself
He has become
Humoresque.
He loved that best
He hears it last.

Silence
Broken by the cry
Of the magpie.
To those harsh notes comes reply:
“Encore! Again, again!”
Lips gently parted.
Hunger sated.
An hour after these words are exhaled on a penultimate breath the thin dog leaves to find warmth.

You may have waited until you returned
to your home or studio, but I have heard
the parchment renderings, the scratching
of pencils, for some the soothing charcoal
and rubbing of the thumb. Nevertheless,
it keeps me here in your minds, asleep.

Once a man watched my dog while I shopped,
with money he gave me, for food and tea,
Don’t forget your dog, he said, as I left
to go inside the bright dream, full of eyes.
There, I remembered once I was an engineer
for shimmering towers of steel and glass

reflecting the eyes from what was inside,
from what happened each day, where slowly
the pencils started and parchment made way
for linen vellum and my shoes began to fade
with my coat and tie, my wife and child,
and the memory that I designed roofs and walls.

The worst are the silent images, instant,
the kind that show Joe Montana in mid air,
his arm back, about to be creamed, look
at his fingers relaxed as the release starts
for the winning pass, it is quite a pillow —
silent images of me, no protractor, you pass…

I am not asleep, you know, my dog also knows
not to look for fear of fear. He lays for hours
in this well wrought pose, nestled against me
as if to stay warm. And I — pail, dish and blanket —
listen to your footsteps, fast and slow, sometimes,
hesitating, hoping it is you, who knew me once.

fire, this is wonderful! It's one I will read again and again. Perfect.