Do You Write Poetry?

Status
Not open for further replies.
Hey guys. I'm new here so please don't hesitate to tell me if i'm doing something wrong.

Here is a bit of poetry of my own:
[FONT='Verdana','sans-serif']Darkness[/FONT]
[FONT='Verdana','sans-serif']We are the stonemasons of fate
We are the gods of blood and hate
We are the masters of dark ways
We are the princes of decay [/FONT]
[FONT='Verdana','sans-serif']Blood and spasming corpses mark our way
We traverse death, dark night and day
Break loose! the daemonfolk and fey
To hold these shattered mortals in our sway.

Consuming soul and leaving empty shell
The rotfiends, daemonfolk so fell
The gaze and dreadful stare of Mastiphal
Released from twisted gates of fiery hell

The hellish land of walking dead
Angels themselves would dare not tread
Where dreadful beast on souls are fed
And wicked gates seen pulsing red.

Daemonfolk running 'cross the wastes
With splitting scream and undue haste
Be man's death, fast or slow by time
Theis petty world SHALL NOW BE MINE! [/FONT]
[FONT='Verdana','sans-serif']
We are the stonemasons of fate
We are the gods of blood and hate
We are the masters of dark ways
We are the princes of decay…[/FONT]


Hidden Meaning

Dark, dank, dirty.
Every second tears at the body, flensing
At the mind and the soul.
The footsteps draw nearer, not
Hard and harsh, but soft and beautiful.

Cracks in his skin and
A jovial, weatherbeaten face, he
Liberates pain, sorrow, anger and forces them,
Lost, to flee from his scythe and shrouded form,
Smiling, for another has been freed from cruelty.


Thanks all
 
How Do I Get You Out Of My Heart?


By Stuart Lynn Sexton



How do I stop loving you,
When my love for you is deep?
I really can not get a clue,
So, instead, I cry; I weep.

How do I uproot my love for you?
Please, tell me. I want to know.
What is the magic I must do?
How do I make love go?

You are still there, within my heart.
So deep, and so infused.
To let go tears me apart.
Help me! I’m so confused!


How do I get you out of my heart?
How do I undo this thing?
How do I make this love depart?
How do I keep from caring?
 
I write poetry sometimes. And because of that I've gather a band. And make one neo-classical/ambiental project (for I'm also singing and playing piano and keyboards).

There are 3 type of poetry, which I write:

Slavic/Slavonic one, on Croatian, for my band (Slavogorje) - based on ancient Slavic culture, history of the moving tribe and heathen religion;
Fantasy songs - for my project, inspired by all the fantasy books I've read, and RPGs I've play.. it is nothing special, actually; :/
The poetry for my novel (for it contains some bard-like and folklore songs).
 
And yes, these days I'll C/P here some of my poetry, but also I'll translate it to you. :)
 
A Man's Wish - dark and depressing. Need critique on rhythym, flow, and word choice - not really grammar.



In the depths of his mind
He searches for what went wrong
The catalyst he’ll never find
At least not in this song

She left three years before
Walked out on a stormy night
His heart she mercilessly tore
And took away the light

The love of his life
She left him forever
Left nothing but strife
He will feel happy never

She left for another love
This tale is no lie
She flew away like a white dove
She left him out to die

He weeps and cries every day
Over what he lost
No words will ever suffice to stay
His heart, which love had cost

He’s found dead one stormy night
A bullet to his brain
His body is wrapped up tight
But left out in the rain

She’s the first to hear the news
A smirk crosses her face
For lying in the morning dews
He finally found his place

In his heaven he will find
What he wanted down in life
A girl, pretty, gentle, and kind
Who will be his wife

Do not cry, my dears
Over this man’s death
For he distilled all his fears
With his dying breath

His soul lives on and on
In peace he never knew in life
And the sun rises in morning dawn
Away from grief and strife

For death had not been bad
Just a brand new start
To something he never had
True love to fill his heart
 
Perhaps more prose than poem, but nevermind. :)

Ajar


Tangled sheets,
of him no sign,
Pale walls blush
beneath the inquisitive gaze
of dawn, spilling all they have seen
at a glance (brazen).
Passion's passage,
strewn across glossy floorboards,
lit softly,
(striped through blinds not yet fully opened)
And for a moment,
(a glorious moment)
the scene is an installation of love (Lust?)
that holds no shame.
Glass kissed brightly,
stings sleepless eyes,
and the slightest shift of limbs,
leaves her bereft (of hope?)
Goosebumps dance along skin and soul,
as doubts tumble through the blinds,
quicker than the new day,
(yet another new day).
When all she longs for is last night,
the fierceness of kisses,
the abandon of anonymity,
the promise of marbled flesh,
strobe lit by moonglow (not neon).
All at once the room is pierced by reality,
and she is naked in more (manners) than skin.
Displaced,
an intruder (a coward),
and words remembered scare her now,
under the knowing eyes of a sun,
whom still rises, (no matter what lies are told).
Curls no longer scented with orange blossoms,
shake cigarette smoke loose-
although for a moment,
his smell clings to her shoulder,
as she buries her face against the truth one more time.
Eyes close and she watches herself,
pad across the gleaming wood,
(barefoot) towards the ensuite,
white tiled, unspoiled, untrue,
And climb into the shower to surprise him?
(delight him, disgust him, confuse him?)
And she smiles, and touches the skin at her wrist,
where he kissed her not long before,
shaking her heart along with her head,
(free of the not to be's).
Fresh faced,
towel wrapped, he steps back into the room,
A hesitant (hopeful?)
smile hovering about his lips,
Which fades as his eyes take in the empty bed,
and his ears hear a door close
somwhere down the hall,
And his anger tries to slam a door inside,
but then he spies her note,
Lipstick scrawl across glass framed blandness,
Sorry xx
And the smile breaks through,
and the door inside
stays ajar.
 
Write poetry? I don't believe I can.
Possessed of near obsessive joy in word,
A need, and an ability to scan,
Perfectionism not to be deterred,
Joy infantile in language game.
Manipulating useless symbol sets
To beat the similies to beaten time
Enamoured of the tyranny of rhyme
Imagination many-faceted begets
Something that's but a poem by the name.
I own myself defeated from the start
Beloved words in senseless piles stack.
For poetry, they say, comes from the heart
'Tis recognised, that organ there, I lack.
 
I own myself defeated from the start
Beloved words in senseless piles stack.
For poetry, they say, comes from the heart
'Tis recognised, that organ there, I lack.

Chris those lines were my favourites-they struck a chord or something. More please.:)
 
More? When I have demonstrated that I can write something in pure sonnet form (except for the typo; it was supposed to be "in senseless piles to stack") which is not a poem because it lacks the spark, the emotion. A mere technical exercise. I think I should stick to limmericks (where no-one expects heart) and songs (where no-one recognises its lack)
 
chrispenycate said:
More? When I have demonstrated that I can write something in pure sonnet form (except for the typo; it was supposed to be "in senseless piles to stack") which is not a poem because it lacks the spark, the emotion. A mere technical exercise. I think I should stick to limmericks (where no-one expects heart) and songs (where no-one recognises its lack)
Click to expand...


The fact that those lines spoke to me is what matters. Poetry is not something I consider definable-its like art-what some consider genius others view as pants. Besides, you were moved to write it-whether as a technical exercise or not, something made you pick those words-perhaps you have a more poetic soul than you give yourself credit for.
:p(Shh-I won't tell):)
 
ok this is one I wrote for UNI about 10 years ago

Shamharoth,
Shamharoth sighed as he looked at his list.
He remembered how it used to be,
A plague here,
A peasant uprising there
Maybe a dragon or a witch to spice things up.

No he thought, it is not how it used to be,
He just wasn’t enjoying being chaos anymore.
Now it wasn’t as much fun,
Now it was a stained blue dress,
A Nutter with a Messiah complex,
A bug in the water supply,
Or a dead princess.

The world was different now,
People had changed,
No longer controlled by religion,
But now by Corporations.
Capitalism ruled
Poor suffered
(Though this was nothing new)
People had a new set of anxieties now.

Am I fat?
Will she like me?
My hair is falling out,
My breasts are too small
My bum is too big,
I think I’m gay.
Why can’t I find the G-spot?

Magazines told people how to think,
What to wear,
How to look,
How to have sex,
How to attract the One
What to like,
What to hate.

No body had a mind of their own,
It was a world full of impressionable idiots.
All Shamharoth had to do was to whisper an idea
Into some idiots ear and
BOOM
A new chaos would spread,
A new crisis would arise.



Monica Lewinsky, Pauline Hanson, David Koresh.
They were all too easy.
All you needed for an instigator
Were a woman scorned, and charismatic ignoramus.
Or to whisper into a lonely boy’s ear that he is Jesus Incarnate
And pandemonium ensues.

Every day a new craze,
A new panic.
Today Cryptosporidium in the water supply,
Tomorrow a new war in Africa.
And all he had to do was whisper into someone’s ear.

Millennium, Prophecy, X-files,
Alien abductions, Government conspiracy,
The book depository and the Grassy knoll.
Vampires, werewolves, area 51,
Nuclear War, Doomsday, Armageddon.
These ideas had all started with a whisper from him.

His greatest achievement in the century was the Millennium Bug
Years ago, when computers where first being created
Shamharoth had whispered into someone’s ear that to save space
You only had to put the date as a six-digit number,
And now that the new millennium was fast approaching,
Who knows what chaos will occur.

No, it wasn’t as much fun anymore,
It’s just not what it used to be.
There is a lot more people,
A lot more work,
But nothing really creative.

Maybe, He thought
Next year will be better.
Maybe I will get an apprentice.
Maybe I will raise Atlantis just for
The hell of it.

He sighed as he put his list away
Oh well, tomorrow is a new day
He thought as he stood up
And maybe, he thought,
There was still some fun to be had.
And he whistled as he stalked
Invisible, yet visible
Through out the world.
 
Wow! I like this. The idea of an invisible man/god/something instigating choas and violence, it's great! Not that I am an expert, but the poem is smooth, with no jarring points to halt the flow.

Well done, Celestia! :)
 
Thanks Leisha :) I had to write something about current events. Not to sound smug or anything but it did get a really good mark :p
 
On angel wings, on dragon wings.
I flee the grimy Earth.
A rocket's blast my spirit flings
To frontiers of rebirth.
A harmony of planets sings
A counterpoint of mirth.

Of wings bereft, by gravity
My body's held behind.
Observing with some jealousy
The antics of my mind.
Tied down by its solidity,
Immobile, but not blind.
A stodgy, boring animal
In situation terminal.
 
Peace by Piece



Grandad was an Orangeman,
He marched every year fierce with pride,
Mum, dressed in best walked beside him,
Too young to be took for the ride.
Yet my dad is an Irish catholic,
And he married my mum just the same,
A divorced single parent-families shuddered,
But defiant she took on his name.
In Ireland it would have been foolish,
In England it just seemed like love,
Peace can be found amid madness,
It exists all around, not above.
We all have the right to feel angry,
We all have the right to our pain-
But to shed others blood is barbaric,
And guilt is all death has to gain.
Memories are long for the victims,
Grief will never be stilled by a pen,
Tim Parry's face is so clear even now,
Surely Peace was obtainable then.
Step out from the shadow of conflict,
Forgive what you can, lose the rest,
Take hold of the future, its yours now,
Peace is your right, not a test.
The scars of dear Ireland are many,
But the children of Eire can be free,
Pass peace down the line, not your anger,
Let them heal over wounds we can't see.
Time is a curse and a blessing,
We can not go back make it right,
But at least we can have a tomorrow
A new day, to say no to the fight.


Something I posted on another site-figured I'd share it here, seen as the topic has been discussed recently. :)

Probably more like a statement in rhyme, but nevermind. :D
 
Status
Not open for further replies.
Thread starter Similar threads Forum Replies Date
Stephen Palmer Where You Write *Matters* Writing Discussion 2
Pyan Lord of the Rings fan fiction writer tries to sue Amazon for infringing his(!) copyright.. JRR Tolkien 12
S Is it viable to write a story taking place in four spatial dimensions? Writing Discussion 62
B What Would H P Lovecraft Think Of Modern Horror Writers and Who Would he Like ? Classic SF&F 14
Princess Ivy Poetry to the Prose writer Writing Discussion 5

Similar threads


Back
Top