"Hail, poetry, thou heav'n-born maid ..."

Kolya on 28/2/2011 at 11:27

Skin-Job

I was sitting next to her
In a café on Animoid-Alley
She was reading a book by Balzak
And I was watching the telly

I went by train to AI-Lane
Where I lived in a humble flat
It had been years since the rain begun
But it never rained that red

Next day's morning breaking news
Said we'd been betrayed
There were never any reps
But for her it was too late

Mr.Duck on 28/2/2011 at 16:43

Directionless

I follow a path
That leads me
To nowhere
And to never

I wonder why
I wonder when
I follow this road
Of endless circles

Must be madness
Some utter
Must be purpose
Others whisper

Lies and hearsay
That is all it is
I walk this path
Because I am lost.

Aerothorn on 28/2/2011 at 18:00

Sg3: There is totally a point. I'm a moderately skilled poet - I honestly think poetry would be one of my great strengths had I really practice the craft, but instead I've written little over the years and so am pretty mediocre (though I might post some stuff here later).

Yet this year I decided to take an advanced poetry workshop class despite it being completely unnecessary for my graduation and it blowing a big hole in my thesis schedule. Though at least part of the reason is that it's being co-taught by the great Richard Wilbur, who turns 90 tomorrow. There's something really important about creative production, and while it doesn't have to be poetry I'd encourage you to pursue it if that's what strikes you. My #1 piece of advice is to experiment with form. If you do free verse all the time it's easy to fall into a stylistic rut, and form forces you to go out of your comfort zone.

Also, writing lyrics is a great idea. As we all know, most lyrics blow chunks, and so you don't have to be a truly great poet to write something above average, especially if you have a good eater for rhythm.

Sg3 on 28/2/2011 at 22:34

Quote Posted by Aerothorn

My #1 piece of advice is to experiment with form. If you do free verse all the time it's easy to fall into a stylistic rut, and form forces you to go out of your comfort zone.

Hmm. All but three of my poems have been rigidly formed. Iambic or trochaic, matching syllable counts, rhyme, etc. I'm only now beginning to experiment with free verse, as the rut I've been in seems to be exacerbated by my conformity to, well, form.

june gloom on 28/2/2011 at 22:40

The first poem I put up was essentially 7 words per line (though I did spot a mistake while re-reading, I'll have to fix that.) This one is much more free verse, and I think I was slightly, if unconsciously, emulating Ulver's lyrical style.

Quote:

Midnight by the Fountain

Night has fallen as I walk across the dead city centre
A fountain shrouded in light, surrounded by nobody
Papers fluttering across the square like leaves
I see a salaryman with his briefcase in one hand, his jacket over his shoulder
Looking for his car
The jazz singer on the corner, tired from singing
“Lord, it’s another sad day” all day long
As tears stream down his brown cheeks
Has packed up his things
I feel a chill in the air as I walk across the bridge
Beneath my feet thunders a single train
Its yellow-light windows reflecting the backs of tired waitresses’ heads
As it slides like a snake into the tunnel
I don’t smoke, but a cigarette dangles from my lip
Hanging on for dear life
The quiet ocean-noise of a passing car- is it the salaryman’s?
Seems to be the only sound for a moment
I pass a diner, something Hopper would have come up with
And inside I see Chandler and Gibson
Discussing society
Gibson seems bent on inventing another genre on a white napkin with a pen
It seems like the sort of scene
A session musician with a saxophone might have something to say about
I think about going inside but I decide I’d rather go home
I look up at some point, into softly falling snow
And realize I don’t know where I am
A narrow city street, a warren of dwellings behind the quiet facades
Signs of a city that wasn’t planned
But darker than night
The only people on the street are the girls
But one of them is sweet, like she’s only there for the bus
And to my surprise I feel a kiss on my cheek as I pass
I’m lost in moments as I feel the scar of a cold kiss
I flick my unlit cigarette into a gutter
Pull my coat around me
I think of going back to ask her name but she’s already gone
I wonder where Gibson will sleep tonight.
In a Victorian bed
Or in a tube, one of hundreds, rentable for $2 a night?

Spot the things this poem is a love letter to.

theBlackman on 28/2/2011 at 23:55

Another well done piece dethtoll. Sounds like, rather a description, of a lonely night in Tokyo or Osaka.

Nice metaphors and it almost cadences like a Haiku.

Well done. :thumb: :thumb: :thumb:

henke on 2/3/2011 at 10:55

oh squiggly line
in my eye fluid
I see you there, lurking
on the periphery of my vision
but when I look at you,
you scurry away.
are you shy, squiggly line?
why, only when I ignore you
do you return
to the centre of my vision?
it's alright squiggly line,
all is forgiven.

theBlackman on 2/3/2011 at 11:46

Ah. Floating bodies. I know them well. ;)

demagogue on 2/3/2011 at 16:46

Nothing more touching than a love poem to bacteria shit in your eye juice. :)

confession: I'm affectionate to my squiggly lines and follow them around sometimes too

Kolya on 2/3/2011 at 18:47

Quote Posted by demagogue

bacteria shit

Just because it's in/on your eyeball doesn't mean you suddenly gain microscopic vision.