Poetry Contest

[Petrarch's Love]

Yes, I think we'd all like to see a winner for this round so we can get to writing some more poems. Don't worry about responding to everyone, Tal. Just relieve us all from the suspense.

[Janine]

I think there should be a time span or limit - maybe a month for each poetry contest. Two months is too long...some people may lose interest in the thread and depart forever.

[Riesa]

It hasn't been two months, not even a month yet. He posted his picture on the 22knd. and Virg, if I'm not mistaken YOU are repeatedly asking for more time to write them, what's the big deal if he takes a few days to judge them?

[ktd222]

It hasn't been two months, not even a month yet. He posted his picture on the 22knd. and Virg, if I'm not mistaken YOU are repeatedly asking for more time to write them, what's the big deal if he takes a few days to judge them?

I think he meant it felt like two months But I must say I lean towards agreeing with you. We Lit-Net members are just going bananas for this poetry contest deal!

[dramasnot6]

Let's just wait for Tal for as long as it takes before we brainstorm big changes like this. Everyone goes through busy times.

[Pendragon]

Well, as I said, the picture left so many interpretations. Give Tal a break, it must be hard to chose. I agree there should be a time limit. However, if we say poems must be in by a certain date, then there should be no extension of writing time if one is not willing to wait on judging time. It would only be fair. Then the one judging would have "x" amount of time to review and judge. The day for the posting of the winner would be known to all from the start. Sound reasonable?

[Janine]

Sorry, I was thinking also from what others said it was two months. If it was just over one - understandable with the holidays and all and eveyone tired and sluggish afterwards. I agree with Pen, maybe some kind of loose structure would be good....some time limit and some guide lines.

[dramasnot6]

Sounds good! Of course, like the contestants, I think under reasonable circumstances the judge should be able to request an extension for maybe a few days? But we can limit extensions too?

[Virgil]

It hasn't been two months, not even a month yet. He posted his picture on the 22knd. and Virg, if I'm not mistaken YOU are repeatedly asking for more time to write them, what's the big deal if he takes a few days to judge them?

Oh you are quite right. I just cheked and Tal posted his picture on December 22nd. My humblest apologies Tal. For some reason it does feel like a long time ago.

[Riesa]

btw...where is tal?

[Pendragon]

Sounds good! Of course, like the contestants, I think under reasonable circumstances the judge should be able to request an extension for maybe a few days? But we can limit extensions too?

It would certainly have to be guidelines everyone is involved in drafting, or someone is going to get their feelings hurt. So we should perhaps all be thinking about this, how much time limit is reasonable for writing of poems, how much extention is reasonable, how much time limit is reasonable for judging (always taking into mind the number of poems submitted!) and how much extention is reasonable before making a decision. But it must be a team effort, not crafted by any one of us. Virgil makes a good chairman, if no one (besides himself!), objects, we could pass the info on to him, or run a poll. What say you?

[Virgil]

Let me say that when I've been a judge, it has taken me about two hours to read the poems and come to a decision. It's usually just a question of finding two straight hours available. And then perhaps a third hour to write up something which offers comments. I don't really understand what takes so long.

[ktd222]

I think that this round is just the rare exception. Every contest before this one I felt was done in a timely manner.

[Taliesin]

We are sorry for being so late judging the poems. But anyway, here goes.

Moon

Dark suns of fiery grace
Parade the sunshine of lost souls
Who dares the shrapnel of the heart?
What thought drives men to love
Darkened spires of desire, tipped with poison
The jagged shaft of deaths arrow
Speeding onward, driving we to act
In desperation before days moon ends
Lack of light skies in our minds
As thoughts travel onward… past… present
Life’s love of action drives men to fly
Pushes women to deaths edge
So all can say they have gone

A good, eerie poem.

We especially liked these stanzas:

Who dares the shrapnel of the heart?
What thought drives men to love
Darkened spires of desire, tipped with poison

As thoughts travel onward… past… present
Life’s love of action drives men to fly
Pushes women to deaths edge
So all can say they have gone

***

Speared sky

In paths of darkness
Walk the worker
Only ever
Looking down;
Though the sun
Fell ever slowly
To its end,
He looked not round.
What meaning
Are worlds given
When each tenant
Never sees them
Trapped inside
Their own dimension
With wireless
To disease them?
If the sun,
The moon, the stars,
Should quietly
Implode
Wishing only
To be noticed
For their work -
A heavy load! -
No cell phone
Would ring a query,
No email
Comment
On how dark
It seems these days
Or where the
Rainbows went.
For no one
Looks anymore
Or has a care.
These mumbles -
As skies fall down
Upon our heads,
We watch our feet
For stumbles.

We like the short, rhyming stanzas. The rhythm of the poem feels punctured, almost broken. And these lines were fantastic:

What meaning
Are worlds given
When each tenant
Never sees them
Trapped inside
Their own dimension
With wireless
To disease them?
If the sun,
The moon, the stars,
Should quietly
Implode
Wishing only
To be noticed
For their work -
A heavy load! -
No cell phone
Would ring a query,
No email

***

A Toy


The immensely dark clouds are over him
Night has fallen on everything;
To him everything looks very dim

He can't guess what's happening around
Whoever is playing with him, he can't merely think
From a human being, he is made a machine
Who can't sing, who in front of his controllers, can't even blink

Holding his briefcase, he is ready for the bomb blast
Ah this terrorism, wasting and killing lots
Just the battle of race and sexes
It has already killed enough with its cruel shots

Out of his mind
He works and works
Keep on doing his dirty work
In the alley, the little girl shrieks
"Beware of the evil that lurks!"

A very dark night
Full of silent horror
Evil again regaining power

Using him as a tool
Making him a fool
Controlling him
His mind, his soul
His doings and his fate
Developing his personality
Into what everyone would hate

Treating him like a toy
After it, they will destroy
Destroy the world
Destroy the very him

After all he is just a toy they are playing with
A doll being used as an actor in this drama of world

These gods
His creators
Have no pity
They try to be witty
But killing people
And creating a DEVIL
I think is really ****ty

Interesting interpretation, Pensy. And you know, somehow, when we first read the poem, we missed the rhyme sceme and read it “Reality” and thought why you should censure it, but then we understood.

And

He can't guess what's happening around
Whoever is playing with him, he can't merely think
From a human being, he is made a machine
Who can't sing, who in front of his controllers, can't even blink

***

The Stork's Nest: Changes

High above precariously perched atop the highest chimney,
The bundle of sticks seems to be a monstrous thing;
Down below, all the lights are on, and people are so busy—
A young man ducks to one side as he hears his cell phone ring.
Progress has came, and with it taken many of the legends we once heard,
The television set replaced the books and nursery rhymes.
In that nest of sticks up there, there lives a very special bird—
Who would have never gone unnoticed in those slower times.
Now the story that she brought humans their babies is only fairytale,
Told by parents too embarrassed to try to explain the truer word.
But when she built her nest upon the housetop, o’re the eves it’s shadow fell—
And everyone rejoiced with gladness, for it was a good-luck bird!
Time does more than change a village into busy cities that never are still:
It steals from us things that we should treasure while we have them with us still…

We liked the general tone of the poem, uncle Pen. It’s atmosphere is different from the others – lighter, more happier. The more classical form of the poem also stresses the point, in our opinion.

***

The call

Dooooooooooooooooooooo, Dooooooooooooooo, click, Joe?
Yeah! George. Look, I need you to know.
Later, can we meet?
There are unspoken things that I need to say.
Face to face seems the best way.

Sure George. Say four. Starbucks OK?
We can meet at the office and walk a short way.
Plan for a treat!
They have in the window a white icing truff,
Expresso, Frappuccino, and the regular stuff.

Ahhhh, great! Don’t worry. Forgive my tone.
Some years I have carried a secret alone.
It’s good, a warm place to eat.
The weight this burden I do want to end.
Joe as always you are a good friend

Say George can you give a glimmer or hint?
I’m not a fast talker, my thoughts do not sprint.
Simple, and sweet.
As a friend I have moved to some concern.
What ails my companion, I would like to learn.

The trouble grows larger each passing day.
It’s not easy to keep things from you in this way.
Please wait to meet.
Like a dark cloud in the air it presses on me.
Some sun in the sky I am longing to see.

We liked the last stanza, and that the form of the poem was a cell phone call. Starting it with “Doooooooooooooooo, dooooooooooooo” made us smile.
And we miss sun too.
***

The roots of heaven descend in a balled up mass,
And below in the dingy light
The message is lost in a bad connection,
The coming unseen in the night,
The eyes below fixed on streets below as they pass.

Tall spires reach out toward heaven to touch the gray
Some end in the sign of the cross
Some finish in an offering of smog incense
And all blink with a pulse of loss
As red lights keep things that fly in the dark at bay.

With his hearing trained on the faint voice in the phone,
The young man misses the sharp scream
That emerges from the alleyway behind him
And he walks, wrapped in his own dream,
With all the others, through a nightmare, toward home.

Passing through the maze of streets, at last they also pass
(They hope) to heaven and to bliss.
But those creatures below, How can they blame God’s sins?
How can they hope for grace when this
Is the earth the roots of heaven grow in?

Wow! This poem has a nightmarish, dark tone that we enjoyed very much. Especially these lines:

The roots of heaven descend in a balled up mass,
And below in the dingy light
The message is lost in a bad connection,

Some end in the sign of the cross
Some finish in an offering of smog incense

and the last lines really have impact:

How can they hope for grace when this
Is the earth the roots of heaven grow in?

***

Funny, you know
How time presses forward
In scenes such as these --
And you call me a coward!

Sit tight and I'll show you
Ambition's the key
To removing the madness,
Miss Earth? Who is she?

Have you noticed I see it?
The thing passing by
Oh there -- to the side now
That man with one eye.

Sit tightly! I'll teach you
To see what is there
Relax - Watch the teacher
Don't worry, I'll share.

Remember the task now
Look closely, you'll see
Right there - by the trashcan
The real world? Who's he?

We found these lines especially amusing:

Miss Earth? Who is she?

The real world? Who's he?

[Taliesin]

Lacy metal overpass,
I've seen shades of the greenest grass,
Among other shades are cool glades,
'Twas beside a brick barrier, fortifier, or gate,
'Twas of perfect use, when shown irate,
'Tis of induced serenity when near,
What is there to fear here... nothing,
Even the trees cast sightly songs of peace,
A true place of freely existing,
All who've seen left missing and longing,
Picture this long and tapered entrance of stone,
Stone that reflects radiantly... all shown,
Behind stone of romancing,
'Tis many 'o species prancing,
Faint singsong stretches my way,
This home reminds me of pure joy within today,
Seeing species casts at me meanings,
If I weren't there I'd still not it's steaming hot,
Almost as Palm Springs, but not,
Picture this threefold heat mold,
Though humidity keeps a far from deep fold,
'Tis shallow,
For whom can swim?
Not I,
Perfect.

We like the a bit archaic style (‘twas, ‘tis) but we think that your poem was inspired by some other picture - you mentioned in your comment that somehow you saw two of them.
But a good poem anyhow, serene and full of greenery.

***

The Conversation

Branching from the orb of human existence
Enclosing my thoughts in designer bags
As I step from my building
With the others, all identical with tags

Hello, it’s me, I’m calling
Sorry, but I’m terrible with names
Just thought I’d be remembered
An exception in midnight games

Only freckled neon that surrounds me
Red lipstick and red lights a brush from bright
Yet my dim composure insidiously blinds me
Trading livelihood for bitter sight

Just hoped you got home safe
Watched the news, I think there was a storm
You left so quickly
What scene did you perform?

My mind turns to sweeter days
When the heart, boundless, sunk its teeth
Back then misty evenings had no ways
Ending nights with sheets beneath

Oh, I’m terribly sorry
Will your mother be okay?
You used my favorite story
Lies are great fillers of the day

A passion becomes clandestine then turns to dust
Impaled by carnal candles from the gut
My fingers pinch the cell phone, kills candle’s flame
Door creaks open, found the window firmly shut

Do tell me when we meet again
Preferably when you are coldest to touch
Don’t bother with a note this time
Easier when there is emptiness to clutch

Immune to city smoke selling whispers
Retching from the alienation of my soul
Crosswalk lined with paths of solitude and hiding
The looming darkness of urban control

I’ll have to call you back.

A very good poem.
We like the rhyming and the touches of irony:

Hello, it’s me, I’m calling
Sorry, but I’m terrible with names
Just thought I’d be remembered
An exception in midnight games

Oh, I’m terribly sorry
Will your mother be okay?
You used my favorite story
Lies are great fillers of the day

Do tell me when we meet again
Preferably when you are coldest to touch
Don’t bother with a note this time
Easier when there is emptiness to clutch

And the last line stands out because it is out of stanzas and therefore one notices it better and it has more effect to end the poem.
***

falling evening beats it’s
slow pulse,
pushes
grey to black,
obscuring
day’s shimmering
nucleus
in an obsidian nest

a million mill-stoned
voices rise
above the bones of a church
to the hovering
technical God engorged to
starry magnitude
by the city’s
electric impulses

The voice of
home tempts
in candlelit tones,
(Come, be still.)

but he blends elementally
with the undercurrent
and finds it is
increasingly difficult
to deny
the hinting shadows.

We like the freeform lines, it gives the whole poem an interesting rhytm.

And these lines we especially liked.

obscuring
day’s shimmering
nucleus
in an obsidian nest

a million mill-stoned
voices rise
above the bones of a church
to the hovering
technical God engorged to
starry magnitude
by the city’s
electric impulses

The decision was difficult but the honour of posting the next picture belongs to Petrarch's love.