its been doing that to me too in other threads.
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its been doing that to me too in other threads.
Okay, out of the blue it came, but it was fun writing it:
Out of the blackness
between the blue water
and blue mirage of heavens
a cross-shaped conture
hung out for forever
flies.
And all the sunken boats come to surface
dead bodies grasping air
people stepping out from the trees
into which they grew
in graveyards.
stepping out from the heat of the ovens
and boxes in museums.
"where the hell is my left foot?"
somebody, forgetting when he is,
speaks.
Somebody, whose body was long stored away
for the glory of history.
Everybody, in long patient files
waiting for Judgement.
But the figure flies on
uncaring of the files below
freely
without having to stand for anyones' hope
suffer for the guilty
with no responsibility left
it has all passed on
and he can rest now.
Last chance of
bading goodbye
to the blue skies
which won't be here tomorrow.
Sunset of the world.
The Son is free.
Flying
exalted
as if it was the last day of Earth
into the dying skies.
Lightness is unbearable.
How do they deal with it?
Light
ever bound to dark,
as truth to deceit,
far below vertiginous heights
depths
whirl away,
flotsam and jetsam
grip and ride
sucking,
twist-
ing
waves
Hanged man
shimmering
in the oily heat,
flies tickle and drink;
but agony ends,
adjusts to pain by
turning numb,
and he has witnessed,
in a metamorphic flash
toed-fish
slink from the primordial deep
mammoth beasts fall,
and furred, grimy hunters
reflect fire in dark eyes
and
begin to sing
and
forget to sing as
blades dig, scrape earth and tender flesh,
flesh bathed in war's craze,
hate in hot and sultry waves,
the grim disdain of God's soldier
meting out ordered death.
Hanged man beyond broken:
this is not what I meant, no
You were mistaken,
let me go, Father
let me join the dead gods.
There was no hope.
(And yet,
salvaged from the muck
of humanity’s wreck,
deep in an expanse of
sea,
a sailor,
boat tied to the rhythm of
Southern winds,
sailing quiet
beneath
Cassiopeia;
Stargazer
on the clean wooden deck
night cracking open,
spilling starlight so potent
he opens his soul and howls
unsuppressed.)
nice. good job everyone. impressive, impressive. virg, cmon out with it. ill give you guys a few more days. woot.
Oh please let me have one more weekend.:bawling:Quote:
Originally Posted by holograph
Hi,
My appologies but I haven't been able to work on this at all so don't wait on me I'll catch up on the next one. :sick:
ok kids, ill give you another 48 hrs. but that's it. :) cmon virg and orion. you still have some time.
Just finishing up, Halo. I'll post my poem within an hour. Thanks.
OK, here's my poem. I don't have a clear sense of an assessment, but I'm sure you will tell me.
Quote:
The Rivet
A thunderous evening and the last moments of human marrow.
This is the moment that life severs to spirit,
That timber crosses to pole,
When positive and negative lose static opposition.
As the earth spins in perpetual motion
It spins along the axis of this cross,
Along the axis of this body, poor and beaten.
I am the mandrel of this world,
The cosmic rivet of all that is stone and mineral and gas;
The universe here is concentered.
Can corporeality end this way, so notorious,
So lapsed of bowel movements,
And flowing of fluids,
Not even to have the dignity of recumbence?
Soon, forty days or so, another transfiguration,
To wheat, to vineyard, to an aroused rose,
Proud and red and facing the sky.
Endemic to all, having been burned into flesh,
And ripped out of flesh,
What thoughts to raise? The two halves of this cross?
What words to say as one breaks from this?
Insuperable, solicitous, metabolous.
And what then? To circle back to life?
In passing out this bread and wine
The spinning world returns to where it began.
To return to the sea and hook once more,
The camaraderie of line and tackle,
Of fish and water, of flesh and blood?
No, the flesh is gone, but the rivet remains.
The spinning earth, the expanding universe,
The hills are fixed to earth.
you guys all are amazing, seriously, I couldn't make up my mind as to who's the best:thumbs_up
nice poem, Virgil! yep. darn. :D oh, well.
Are we allowed to comment on the submitted poems, and ask questions of the submitters?
Maybe on an individually assented basis?
Why don't you do that, Shout, after a winner is chosen? Otherwise it might influence the decision.Quote:
Originally Posted by ShoutGrace
I guess I will, but I wouldn't want to talk about someone's work if they weren't up for that (like the short story competition). Though the judges have been critiquing the submissions so far, so I guess it's expected.
Well, the short story contest is an official lit net contest; this poetry contest is completely informal and done as a member inspired thread.Quote:
Originally Posted by ShoutGrace
BTW, Shout did you read my short story in that contest, "Shop Talk?" What did you think? I didn't get many comments. Here I set up a thread for comments: http://www.online-literature.com/for...447#post280447.