Poetry Contest

[Virgil]

OK, here's my entry. I've worked on it long enough. It will never be perfect.

Self Portrait

The pencil shadows the face,
Rounds the head into a sketch,
The dark hair, the thin lips,
Features of a Roman bust,
Tied through DNA,
The blood at Cannae, victory at Zama...

What blood, what victory?
Does the mirror lie?
The face, fattened and graying,
Has never confronted a bayonet
Not even saddled arms upon the back
Or paraded upon a field.

Perhaps then the reflection is not a sketch,
After all, perhaps a schiacciato
From the Quattrocento,
Links of DNA reach there as well.

That figure on the left,
In sacre conversione,
That St. Francis figure,
Draped in rags with a skull cap,
Resembles the artist, touches and
Sooths hounds with upraised palms.

But St. Francis was a pauper
Passing up his coat to indigents.
What starveling life has pressed
Upon this face? You sip
Cabernet every night and
Whine about your taxes.

Possibly then this countenance
Could fit as a bronze head
Upon a majestic stallion,
A cavalry man, a statesman,
A gattamelata of Donatello?

What? Calvary, horse?
Don’t mind the saddle sores,
Statesman with a shriek,
More like un gatto malato
Sleeping on a chair.

The glass now shatters
Into composite fractions.

An irascible son
De quello paise d’o sole,
Narcissistic husband,
Abbraciatta with my honey pear,
Stoic and spoiled, lustful and laughing,
Adopted citizen and patriot,
Flourishing the flag,
Inseminating the garden,
Eagle and oriole from Brooklyn.

[I wear the Renaissance like a necktie.]

Dutiful and sinner,
Pius and pagan,
The caress of family on one’s back,
Petulant engineer, cleanly shaven,
Combative tactician, with that mustache,
A writer with eyes.

Does one have to crawl
Through Purgatory to bring
Oneself into syncretic form?

[Il Penseroso]

This is a terrible self-portrait, but I wanted to add something.



A semblance play of myself
this shadow sprung from the slanted sun,
the grey sidelong profile
stretched across the grassy stage,
leaning aside by leaden rays.

Eclipse of my shape that dims the ground,
accident of the angular beams
conformed by the orient sky,
an ornament of the earthen reply,
the dusky reflection that opens the void,
the double print impalpable.

Is this the shape my future stores?
This blurred copy of my form,
no custom figured, just the grey expanse?
Each color dropped by poorer light,
my existence fled to shadow?

Skimming the serrated surface
the hollow twin grafted like a stone
to tragic end, silent repose,
grades the inclination to sustain,
the reflection made too true.

[Poetess]

Well, I imagined myself as a Pakistani politician (believe me they are artists in deceiving people) and that's what came into my mind. God forbid my crappy mood.

It is a famous Urdu proverb about siasatdan (Politicians)

Jab paida hoa siasatdan to shaytan ne kaha
Lo aaj mein bjhi sahab'e oolad ho gaya.

It means that when the politician was born, devil said that he had become a father.

Hahahah believe me Lebanese politicians are much more deceiptive! Anyway, nice shot up there

[Riesa]

so is everyone finished? and where is holo? Janine? Susan Sonnen?

[Petrarch's Love]

It's still pretty rough, but since the contest is either closing or already closed, I thought I'd go ahead and post. If I'm too late for contest entry purposes, this can just be considered a decorative entry. Of course, given that we can't see ourselves in the image of the mirror, I was sorely tempted to pretend I as a vampire in this round, but I'm not sure there's enough out there to rhyme with Dracula.


Reflections

Two eyes, seeing and seen,
Gazing through the looking glass
To what is and will be and what’s been
Fresh skin of the child; red blotches of the teen;
Plucked brows of the woman; laugh lines of the mother;
Folds and wrinkles of the grandmother;
And the eyes are the same.
Two eyes seeing and seen,
In the vision passing like stop-motion animation
Of what is and will be and what’s been.
Gleaming surface bordered by flowers.
Childhood on tiptoe
With only eyes peering over the painted edge;
Standing tall with pale hand pinning up hair
While a fresh corsage waits downstairs;
Standing too calm and stoic
In clothes blackened by loss;
Glint of gold on the hand;
Standing back to see the belly’s growing crescent;
Standing behind child on tiptoe
With only her eyes peering over the painted edge.
Eyes watch the child’s eyes,
And the eyes are the same.
Two eyes, seeing and seen
Changed and unchanging
By what is and will be and what’s been.

[Riesa]

all right, great Petrarch! I guess the contest will close tomorrow.

[Il Penseroso]

Sweet, I still would like to edit mine - I just hate editing however.

[Triskele]

uh, well, i might as well swing, here are my somewhat meager effort, enjoy, or not, not my problem


simple sway of time
echos of a wishful past
winding word blow
down the road at last

the sad lament of time
sad creaks tell the tale
of loves lost garden
and how it came to fail

still the image lives on
the oily swirls dry
leaving dust a bit more
then an ancient sigh

[Riesa]

Pensive ~ interesting poem. a nice portrait, you managed to give him depth at the same time as painting them so shallow. I like your spunk, kid. Grow up and become a politician, will ya? but remember this poem and when you look into the mirror- don't see someone like this, but instead a beautiful free bird!!

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Orionsbelt ~ as always your poem has such a wonderful rhythm and imagery I can sink my teeth into…

Were I he and were he me,
Where in us would conscious be,

And I really felt like I was getting a glimpse inside your head..which was very cool and what I was hoping for when I posted that image. Intriguing, guruesque type of person, eh?

Contemplate those eyes staring at you, staring at you, staring at you

A little eerie, but I know that sensation, I like the whole poem very much.

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Mir, you have such a delightful wit, sometimes I think you are Jane Austen reincarnated. (lots of coffee on those days) darling poem. With a funny twist, you had me going there for a while…feeling a little confused by the

Every surface bears short fur

I was relieved when I realized you were talking about the cat.

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Taliesin!
Excellent through and through, I loved the (Kigele!’s)
And wow, did I ever get a sense of your culture and the integral part it plays in who you are, not to mention discovering more about you, I’ve always been fascinated by the We thing, I just thought you were some locked up royalty somewhere with access to the net.

Marsh behind me
its bogs crying for the words and wisemen (Kiigele!)
and mittens with old patterns that ward off evil but what nobody can read anymore
besides the cranes but they fly off with aurora boreolis

Where can you find a smith strong enough to hammer together
the past and the future? Culture and land? Me and us?

Swing goes faster and higher
until I fly so high (Kiigele!)
that I make a circle
of past and future (Kiigele!)
there are no contradictions left.
And one equals many.

What else can I say, I loved your poem. Thanks.
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Pendragon,
You astound me with those villanelles and sonnets you write, this one had such a sweet wistfulness to it, drew me in and showed a lot of love, and I liked the circle of life in it too.

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Bookworm:

I'm lost. No idea where I am. Just wondering around. Hoping I find my way. But if I don't. It's not the end of the world. Just of me finding out what I really knew in the first place. Nothing.

Cool. just great. Feels familiar to me, and very honest. Love the shortness of it, don’t really know if it is an actual entry or not, but tempted to give you the contest based on originality if nothing else, but I haven’t seen you since…so.
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Toni ~ wow, very dignified and a little dark, cool.

From her twisted mouth flowed twisted ideals

I really like your language here.

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Virg ~ another epic poem. Some great lines.

What starveling life has pressed
Upon this face?

I liked the integration of your Italian heritage, and Catholicism, building blocks of yourself. And there was brutal self-honesty in there I have to admire…

The face, fattened and graying,
Has never confronted a bayonet
Not even saddled arms upon the back
Or paraded upon a field.

An irascible son
De quello paise d’o sole,
Narcissistic husband,
Abbraciatta with my honey pear,
Stoic and spoiled, lustful and laughing,
Adopted citizen and patriot,
Flourishing the flag,
Inseminating the garden,
Eagle and oriole from Brooklyn.

The glass now shatters
Into composite fractions

(that reminded me of my Light poem)

[I wear the Renaissance like a necktie.]

A writer with eyes

All wonderful lines.

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IP ~ ok, I’m probably going to get in a little trouble for this, but honestly I think you are the best poet around here. Imagery is always stunning, your layered depths make me want to talk philosophy, words are always beautiful, and there is this timeless quality to your style I absolutely love.

Eclipse of my shape that dims the ground,
accident of the angular beams
conformed by the orient sky,

Crap, I wish I could write as consistently well as you do.

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Petrarch ~

Cool. You got it all in those lines, past present future, admirable feat!

Changed and unchanging
By what is and will be and what’s been

Nice feel of watching a montage of your life..

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Triskele ~ I enjoyed it anyway, so thanks.

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But....
Please, Taliesin, choose the next image!

[Virgil]

Congratulations Tal. I thought it was excellent too. Besides the ones Riesa mentioned, I loved these lines too:

Polaris reflecting from the midnight bogs (Kiigele!)
Moss makes plasters to bind wounds and mouth
but also intellect? Will it free us of that? Will it free us of me? (Kiigele!)
Stones and trees are forgetting their songs
in the walls of the supermarkets. In the pages of books. (Kiigele!)
How old am I really?
How old are we really? (Kiigele!)
Blood. (Kiige-
Me. Us. (-le!)

What does Kiigele mean?

[Riesa]

Congratulations Tal. I thought it was excellent too. Besides the ones Riesa mentioned, I loved these lines too:




What does Kiigele mean?

this is from's tal's entry, Virg.

Considering it being made on the last minute we wrote it out of the blue, with no plans or anything. But here it is. "Kiigele!" is a phrase meaning "to the swing!"in Estonian. Often used in older swinging folksongs as a one-word refraine.

[Petrarch's Love]

Congrats Tal. I really enjoyed your poem too, and had a suspicion it might win. Looking forward to the next pic.

[Pendragon]

Nice going Tal! A good, strong poem, and actually the inspiration for the villanelle I posted (already written ) as it spoke of childhood to me, and I actually never saw the picture we were all writing about! I'll look forward to this one, though!

[Pensive]

Pensive ~ interesting poem. a nice portrait, you managed to give him depth at the same time as painting them so shallow. I like your spunk, kid. Grow up and become a politician, will ya? but remember this poem and when you look into the mirror- don't see someone like this, but instead a beautiful free bird!!

World will be better off with all of us as birds, wouldn't it be? But even in birds, there are always some birds who eat each other's eggs.

Taliesin!
Excellent through and through, I loved the (Kigele!’s)
And wow, did I ever get a sense of your culture and the integral part it plays in who you are, not to mention discovering more about you, I’ve always been fascinated by the We thing, I just thought you were some locked up royalty somewhere with access to the net.





What else can I say, I loved your poem. Thanks.
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But....
Please, Taliesin, choose the next image!

And he says that he can't write good English poems.

Congratulations! And keep on writing poems, it is not always good to be so modest!

*waiting for the next picture eagerly*

[mir]

Great job, Taliesin - and everybody else!!

Come on, Tal, post, post!