Poetry Contest

OK, here's my entry.

Quote:

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A Desert In The Heart

Through sage brush and ironwood
Brown dust floats so fine it seems
The entire moon’s dirt has been
Transplanted to this flat plane
Of sun and dry wind.

Sunset brings relief.
A man settles beneath
A canopied enclave with cold drink
With dust powdered on his jeans
Face burnt from day’s labor.

She amazingly replied,
But asked him not to.
“Why should she have the last word?”
He thought to himself,
Chapped lips recalling
Feminine mouth and breath.

Well, she was the woman,
And deserved that honor.

He decided to have a scotch.
No rocks, straight up.
It tasted good,
But it did not change anything.

He fixed himself another,
Dark-brown bite
Like a scorpion’s sting.

---

bump.....................

Sunset scintillating
On overworked oasis;
In insect-induced ictus,
Eagles endure egg-full eyries.

Desert darkness –
Night nears narcolepsy
As all animals are asleep.

Dawn dimming dark –
Heartbeats hasten, heralding heat.
Sun seizes supremacy –
Basilisks bask beneath burning.

Fire fades;
Dusk deepens dumbly.
Out over orange-tinted oasis,
Slowly sinking sun shadows scorpions.

Water with wasteland –
Such secrets seek sand.
Life living, laborious, leafless –
Such secrets, seek scorpions.

mua ha ha, ten minutes in study hall = really crappy poem. still, good contest, blondeatheart!

bump.......................

The End

Beauty is poised in a jointed pentagon.
Supple Grace curves in a tense backward question mark.
Beauty and Grace are a deep black silhouette.
Every joint, every limb, every tiny hair
Sharply visible against the violent death
Of the light. All revealed distinctly down to the last
Sharp Point.

Beauty is poised in the end it posesses.
Its end is curved like the talon of an eagle,
Or like the tooth of the great Smilodon cat
(Once great, now old bones poised in a museum).
Beauty's end is curved like the thorn of a rose;
Prouder than the rose by possessing poison in its
Sharp Point.

Grace holds itself still and always ready,
Aware of the great power contained in movement.
It knows the way to curve itself gently.
It knows the way to hold the pose steady.
Grace knows the end of its every swift movement.
Grace knows how to grant grace painlessly with a flick of its
Sharp Point.

Okay guys, beautiful entries so far, from all of you. I'm going to pick a winner, (maybe out of a hat ;)) on Monday, to give white camellia and spally a chance, or anyone else too to submit a poem.

Soft, sick sunset seeping in
With submission
My bruised pinchers unknown
To confession,

Stirred, stygian Styx sighs over
Beyond sands
My Scorpian lover's specter
Amid bands.


Thanks, Riesa. ;)

I've chosen a winner among the excellent submissions.

This really got to me, PL. I felt it was the most connected to my own feelings about the image.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Petrarch's Love

The End

Beauty is poised in a jointed pentagon.
Supple Grace curves in a tense backward question mark.
Beauty and Grace are a deep black silhouette.
Every joint, every limb, every tiny hair
Sharply visible against the violent death
Of the light. All revealed distinctly down to the last
Sharp Point.

Beauty is poised in the end it posesses.
Its end is curved like the talon of an eagle,
Or like the tooth of the great Smilodon cat
(Once great, now old bones poised in a museum).
Beauty's end is curved like the thorn of a rose;
Prouder than the rose by possessing poison in its
Sharp Point.

Grace holds itself still and always ready,
Aware of the great power contained in movement.
It knows the way to curve itself gently.
It knows the way to hold the pose steady.
Grace knows the end of its every swift movement.
Grace knows how to grant grace painlessly with a flick of its
Sharp Point.

---

Congratulations, Petrarch. Gorgeously done.

Yes, congratulations Petrarch. Very nice.

Oh wow, I won?! :banana: Gee, thanks Riesa. I thought all the submissions were really good. I'll have to go find a fascinating pic. for you guys to write on now. I may not post it until later though, because I'm in the middle of preping for a really big presentation just now and must run. Maybe this win will grant me luck and the profs won't tear my paper to shreds too badly as I sit there parrying their questions about it for two long hours :eek2:. Anyway, couldn't be happier with honor of winning contest, and picture due to arrive this evening post paper defense.

O.K., here's the new picture. I browsed around a little and this one really grabbed me. Have fun!
http://i43.photobucket.com/albums/e3...doD/ansel1.jpg

bump.......................

What is it? :lol:

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Virgil

What is it? :lol:

---

I think that's what you're supposed to tell us, right?

Quote:

---

What is it?

---

That's why I picked it. ;) I found it striking in it's ambiguity, and I thought it would be interesting to see what people make of it. If you really can't stand not knowing any background info., I'll give you a hint that it's an Ansel Adams photograph. I'm sure a quick google or google image search will help demystify things for those who so desire. :nod:

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Xamonas Chegwe

It looks like a gate, but it ain't
It's just paint.
And the sunlight, so bright, is just white;
And the grass and the trees, is just green;
Not a tree trunk, instead, it's just red;
And the building itself is a hue,
Grey or blue?
And the curling wrought iron
And the dapples of shade
And the half-seen facade
And the balled balustrade
Are just splashes
And dabs
And swirls
And specks
And touches
And swathes
And flicks
And flecks
Of pigment and water, applied with a brush
With painstaking care, or perhaps in a rush,
By an artist unknown but with well-tempered sight
For colour,
Perspective,
For texture,
And Light.
It all looks so real but it lacks a dimension;
A beautiful scene, but merely pretension.

---

I.Love.This.

bump..........................

ha ha! the photographer yells at the sky,
you ruined my pictures so now say good bye!
you furred them, you blurred them, you reddened blue eyes,
you wouldn't respond when i cried to you, "why?"
but here's my revenge, and boy will it be sweet,
this picture box holds in it for you a treat.
it'll split you and kit you with your deeds to eat -
it'll change your high tune, i swear by my big feet!"
the box then unloading, the photoman set
some strange things by his feet - strange, alien, yet -
to see those set free from the box which he let,
one did not think of such words as "weird" or "grosquete".
no, to all purposes it looked as his equipment
was such as could be found in any new shipment
to room or dark tomb in which photos' lips sent
sweet uncaught kisses to unseen and skipped gents.
yes! none but a camera, lens pointed on high
as the man shouted curses at the silent sky
and railed and bewailed the unfortunate tie
between he and the life-debt given by sun's bye.
"But be that as it may";
he shouted at the day,
"I'll change you - rearrange you - just as i say!
you'll see that you shouldn't to treat me this way!"
and things set - though do not ask me how they work -
he poised one thin finger and did not once shirk
but pressed it, and blessed it, the button which lurked
on the side of his camera, primed, ready, and perked.
then a flash of bright light split itself 'cross the air -
and more, and another; there one, and there! -
and in glee, jubilee, the photographer stared,
"how's that, sky?" he yelped, "now 'tis you who's ensnared!"
and thunder and lightning rent the afternoon -
as far off, the sun's light began to vent the moon
and sunset fell, soft clouds dwelled 'mong the loud booms
as the sky cracked and writhed, its peace ended too soon.
but strange - far too strange for the man on the mount,
whose dreams had poured themselves into this mad fount,
the flashes did fade, did shade themselves out! -
and night fell with calmness upon day's account.
"what"? mumbled the picturist, fervor now worn,
"what - how -" but no words came, his genius was torn,
and he walked but not talked away from the sky's scorn -
and that is the why, and the how, of a storm.

whoa . . .that turned out interesting. oh well, anyone who likes canterbury tales or Kipling's just so stories . . .

Thunderstorms crash
And the sky cracks,
Raving in anguish and beauty and story.
"I must take it back!
I must get it out!
I must capture the dream on a canvas of glass!
The blue is now grey
The white will be black
Grass will grow longer and brush at my back"
The shadow, the shadow, the shadow is coming
The darkness, the darkness, the darkness surrounding
Now as I stand and gaze and imagine
The shade of the stone is so cold, now imagine
A world of no clouds
Or never-blue skies
The hunger, despair, and cold beauty my eyes
Would behold if the sky
Keeps splitting and storming and crashing and growing.
Again, he cried out that he'd soon have it done--
Forever engraved catapulting sky action
Of minutes worth hours of time and refraction.
Now he stands back and sighs with new joy
As the blue returns quickly with new sunny ploys.
The shadow, the worry, the storming is done,
And a gentle light rain breaks through the bright sun.
All that remains is a plate of dark glass
That keeps the remainder of thoughts going past.



That was fun :)

There am I
At least one who I once was
Where am I now
That there once was

Who shall I be
When I return where I was
Will the shadow lay as it did
Exactly as it was

P.S. What a great idea. I read the entire post. Lot's of good stuff.

Here's my entry.

Quote:

---

The Climb

This purgatorial climb thins
The breath from my lungs.
The boulders lay like zebras
Drinking from a desert pond,
Mountain stones shaped by eternal storm.

I drink from my canteen
And reinvigorate the rivers of my spleen
Until the dryness behind my eyeballs
Awaken the vital flesh of life
Like a flower stem uplifted after
A dry day and moist night.

I reach the third ledge,
That of the proud, and remark
At my climb. How high?
Seven thousand feet perhaps
And I feel the eyes of God
Pressing me onward, upward,
Without guide, without even onlookers.

I rest here, unpack my camera,
The dry highland, brown terrain,
Making a picturesque moment.
Will God allow me this superbia
In the calefactive afternoon,
Gazing at Earthly veins,
Which are but negatives of human?

---

Skies have no shadows
just the ones of clouds
wandering birds
flying dutchmen and
dragons.

Skies have no open holes in them
just those that are filled
with industrial smoke
shadows of birds
lightning and
light
(speed of 300000 kilometres per hour)

Skies are not old photographs
they have no dust on them
no cracked edges
no coffee stains
(but perhaps both forgotten
by the ones
that made them?)
No dead art
nor capturing the soul
of the shadow.

So, certainly
this thing
(jumping over its nonexistant shadow)
this rain
rainbow
moon
stars
and the footprints of legendary lovers and hair of a young greek girl
fullness of night
(and the promises whispered in it)
are just

graffiti
on a wall of an old soviet-time
block of flats

Hope im not too late........

Tender

I have wandered through these gates in my childhood dreams. I have sat with my bare feet dangling in the fountain, the cool water encapsulating my skin allowing for no penetration. I come here to think of you and plunder the treasures that we once enjoyed. No sadness is present here no pain stalks me in this haven I am free from the world outside. I have not forgotten you I have just buried you deep inside of me and when a certain song or spoken word reminds me of you I come to my garden to quell you. I can control you here I can allow the presence of our warm embraces to flood uncontrollably over me. I bathe in the incandescent light you once shone on me. I will go forward one day, but not today, not yet ,my wounds are open and my lifes blood flows freely from me.

Think of me my Juliet, remember our time, and let my love for you encapsulate you forever in my warm embrace.

ooops bus missed well done Riesa!!

The camera never lies

“Why , because it was there and now I am here, do I want to be elsewhere”?
I am alone ,the picture testifies to my throne, but I am alone, so alone.
The air rips into my lungs searing my throat with every breath I take
I am not moving from this place ,I have no feeling in my face, but I am awake
Cold fire burns in the extremities, but no warmth is evident to me in this place
Up here where only the wind whispers your name ,life stands still. I feel no pain
Solitude fuels the philosophers and our true worth is understood and defined.
But it casts no shadow , only mine, only mine ,only mine.

My, looks like a tidy sheaf of entries has cropped up the last few days. Since interest seems to have just recently been rekindled, and to give all who are interested the chance to participate, I'm going to refrain from judging until the week is out. Saturday I'll name the next winner. Looking like a tough job so far. Best luck all. :)

Quote:

---

whoa . . .that turned out interesting. oh well, anyone who likes canterbury tales or Kipling's just so stories

---

I love how what you write takes you by surprise...the poems come inspite of and through you, not because of you. It's like a thrilling ride...

i know . . . it's so fun to start writing something with absolutely no idea what you want to say, and watch it evolve on its own . . .

Just a reminder for any interested parties...today's the last day before judging.

O.K., at long last we have a winner. There were some really intriguing ones in this batch, and I'll admit I was a bit torn but I finally decided the winner is (drumroll please)

Virgil, with this ascendant poem:

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Virgil

The Climb

This purgatorial climb thins
The breath from my lungs.
The boulders lay like zebras
Drinking from a desert pond,
Mountain stones shaped by eternal storm.

I drink from my canteen
And reinvigorate the rivers of my spleen
Until the dryness behind my eyeballs
Awaken the vital flesh of life
Like a flower stem uplifted after
A dry day and moist night.

I reach the third ledge,
That of the proud, and remark
At my climb. How high?
Seven thousand feet perhaps
And I feel the eyes of God
Pressing me onward, upward,
Without guide, without even onlookers.

I rest here, unpack my camera,
The dry highland, brown terrain,
Making a picturesque moment.
Will God allow me this superbia
In the calefactive afternoon,
Gazing at Earthly veins,
Which are but negatives of human?

---

Those last few lines really sold me. So congrats Virg., and have fun selecting the next pic. :)

great job virgil! nice poem!

Oh wow. Thank you all. All the poems were very good. I did get lucky with the last two lines. Those actually came to me first, and I built the rest around it. Let me go find a photo for the next contest. I have something in mind, but I guess it has to be on the internet.

OK. Here's the picture of the next photo contest. I hope we get lots of entries. For those who haven't played yet, it's fun. Just try to put together some lines that form a poem based on the photo. After several weeks and at least four or five entries I'll pick a winner.


http://www.oceansbridge.com/painting..._Behind_Me.jpg

Good pic., Virg. Reminds me of something out of a Bronte novel. Should get some nice dramatic entries. I'll meditate on it a little and pen something when I've the time.

O.K., here's my entry. It doesn't have a title yet, but maybe I'll think of one.


Mother dead, father dead
Only their names remain
Entered three times over:
Births, Marriages, and Deaths
Entered three times over
In the family bible
Held to her heart like a sheild
Her name entered just once.

Sky dark grey, ground dull brown
Yellow hair in the wind
Wind blowing to reveal
A firm little profile
Wind blowing to reveal
A vibrant, living red
She is the color left behind,
The others swept away.

One foot firm, one forward,
She stands and advances
The coming and going
Of parents is in her,
The coming and going
Of herself and her child
And of all those the wind sweeps away
While land stays and art stays.

This was it; no more decisions,
No more digressions. Her life had been decided.
Why should she fight?
For a split second it flashed
In her mind: resist, run, assert yourself...
But these thoughts felt just as other
Dreams she had recently encountered.
No. This was her time, she would accept it,
As everything else; just one more step.
She was silent...

They are her only friends now, those worn pages.
There is comfort in that, and yet
She is unconsolable.

Together, they look out over the dreary cliff
Into the weary looking span of sky
And she wonders.

A tear threatens to wet her eye and quickly
She forces it back, then finally
The figure turns, and breathes, and hopes.

The hill is bare now, and one drop that might
Have fallen upon its soil
Remains in her equally dry eye.

Nature

If you close your eyes and listen intently
You'll hear the voice that resides in the wind
It whispers secrets to the trees ever so gently
It soothes the raging soul of the beast.

If you watch the ripples of rain upon the lake
You'll see the movements of those who are lost
They twist the water; make it shimmer and shake
When the lines between living and dead are crossed.

Listen to the raindrops beat out a tune
A rhythm to calm and soothe the soul
Look out and see the mystery of the moon
Let it's healing powers comfort and console.

Bump......

Another person contributing a poem would round out the contest. Any takers?