One of my poems

[Carebarebaby]

Deep.....very good. Here's one I wrote in 7th grade for a project.


~green~

Those beautiful eyes,
A “just ate salad” smile,
Eaten under the apple tree,

The grass where we played,
The house where we stayed,
Surrounded by yet to bloom flowers.

The great wired fence,
The birds ribbon nest,
The field behind the woods,

While the other life lives in envy.

[Starshade]

I like some of these indeed.

How about one of mine...

Concealing my heart,
you know you want to steal,
Pay for me on the black market,
before the pain starts to peel.

Strung up like a broken cord,
from the noose of the doomed man,
Dead eyes through the soul,
of a mottled and cracked tan.

Do I need my eyes again,
for all I see is dead and dying,
Always falling over themselves,
To see at my soul, pick and prying.

Avaricious and controlled,
I sell for spittle and butterfly wings,
I get bought for the spirit and white,
of my light inside,
and hope to float,
and spread my heart to sing.

Well, it started ok...

[Aletheia Dolorosa]

I like the meter of this one. And I disagree with you, I think that the last two stanzas are the best.

[Starshade]

Btw whats Meter?

But thank you all the same, and i have stiff competition here

Solving my problems,
Consumed by the needs,
Evolving like tree's,
From the tiniest of seeds.

See me grow tall and bright,
As i search for the sun,
Crows nest in my hair,
And butterflies break the one.

Take me away,
Hold my hands slow and soft,
Keep my heart close,
Down in this croft.

Never have i seen such love,
Can I believe such soul,
Does life exist beyond this tree-top,
Can you make me whole?

[Aletheia Dolorosa]

Btw whats Meter?

I probably should've spelled it as metre

[Bellerophon]

You're all very good! My humble contribution:

The lonely poet thinks
his verse diffuse
for want of inspiration;
for trembling lips held
flush that prolix couplets
elide in shared space.

Yet the rarest lines
flow not from experience
but from incapacity;
from omission compelled
by the soundless depths
of another's eyes.

Be not surprised, my love,
to make me mute;
look up again and I shall
forget the loss.

[Aletheia Dolorosa]

really awesome poem

*is in awe*

That's really nice. It's nicely circular and has a very pleasing rhythm.

[Bellerophon]

Thanks, I appreciate that. I really liked the poem you posted to this thread a few months ago. "November" might be a good title for it I think . . .

[Aletheia Dolorosa]

I really liked the poem you posted to this thread a few months ago. "November" might be a good title for it I think . . .

Thanks. Although being from the southern hemisphere, I think 'April' would be closer to capturing the meaning. (But it was really written in February...)

[Starshade]

I'm impressed mostly by the fact that I didn't know some of the words from the poem.

But yes, very good rhythm indeed.

I really need to get back into it.

[eggnostic]

A poem I wrote today about a vicious car crash I was in on January 1st.
Would love some feedback. I've always been a little scared of poems, not really knowing how to go about writing one, but I am very happy with this one.

I-64

Smooth
yellow lines swim
so swiftly by

Ahead
won't go faster
than five and five

Pass
the left lane clear
don't see the ice

Skid
no time to act
stomach in throat

Death
comes into mind
Is this the end?

Life
it does not flash
before my eyes

Jeep
collides with stone
and sets to spin

Pure,
fear.
Pray

the wheel I clench
white knuckles ache
pain I don't feel

Brake.
Stomp.
Pound.

Crash.
deadly, carnal,
satisfying


Steel
crumpled and one
with icy rock face

ringing, not in
my ears but in
Soul

tendons, muscles,
racing heart, toes
Ring

alive or dead?
abyss or hell?
Which?

Friend,
stranger, or God?
"Are you okay?"

Yes.

[Charon]

That's way cool, I love the short lines. Here's one of mine:

Sea Glass

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust?
No, we are born from the waves
And to the waves we shall return.

For months, our world
is the glossy shell of a giant mussel.
We do not see its obsidian sheen
as we are swathed in the warmth
of alabastor blankets,
wrapped up, a caterpillar in a cocoon.

After our grainy souls, sprouted from seed
are coated in the smooth softness of pearl ...
We are separated from the eternal heartbeat,
which will always be a part of us.

And so we are gently laid in a pristine haven,
guarded by coral spires
sea horses twirling over our heads
as we watch in wide-eyed wonder.

Even a perfect paradise cannot sate curiosity.
We take our first steps and pursue the chaotic prisms.
Our gaze fixed on the rainbows, we trip on the stones,
but loving hands catch us and shield us from harm.

Slowly, we learn to walk the well-tread paths of life-
but the taller we grow, the farther we fall,
and no matter how close our friends are,
they don't always know how to save us.

So we crash on the beach
Our eyes sting with salt
Our mouth fills with sand
And we weep.

Our woes are soon forgotten,
and we recklessly race and chase
in pursuit of anything that catches our eye.

Eventually, these simple joys lose our interest,
and we search for the greatest bliss
that our world has to offer: sea glass.

Ever elusive, incomparably beautiful;
Some stumble on it by accident
and do not truly understand what they have found,
for the colors of the sea glass are not yet revealed.

But those of age who find the sea glass
can only marvel at their discovery
and hold it gingerly in cupped palms
lest it snap and shatter
and flay their hearts like shrapnel.

If we do not discover the sea glass until later in our lives,
then we will find it dulled, worn down
by the incessant crashing of the waves.
It is more difficult to see the beauty under the white scratches.

But if we are patient and polish this priceless glass,
we will find the treasure beneath as beautiful as ever.
When we age and wrinkle, our light does not shine
for all to see; it is not apparent to all who pass us by.

It is never too late to find the right person
who has the patience to give you a second glance,
discover what lies under your appearance,
and find that your core has only grown brighter
after condensing and burning over the countless years.

[Peter]

You're all very good! My humble contribution:

The lonely poet thinks
his verse diffuse
for want of inspiration;
for trembling lips held
flush that prolix couplets
elide in shared space.

Yet the rarest lines
flow not from experience
but from incapacity;
from omission compelled
by the soundless depths
of another's eyes.

Be not surprised, my love,
to make me mute;
look up again and I shall
forget the loss.

I like this a lot, especially the way you vary the rhythm thoughout. It sound a little bit Peake-ish to my ears (this is a compliment!)

I'm an indifferent (read: bad) poet, but I still quite like this one, from The Clockmaker's Girl:

In The Field Hospital

Blood is our stock in trade,
The matron says,
And broken limbs,
Our exchange currency.

Pain is our meat and drink;
And when we sleep,
The light still falls,
Behind our eyes.

Death is our daily task;
The living men,
Are bathed in mud,
The winding sheets betray.

[Charon]

The Clockmaker's girl, eh? I didn't really understand it, unless it was just describing suffering. Anyhoo, here's another of my poems with a similar title to that. It's about deism or the watch-makers theory- the concept that some supernatural being created the universe and whatnot, but no longer intervenes in it.

The Watch-Maker

Once there was a man before the beginning of time
Who didn't know where he came from, or why he was there
He knew not how he was alive, but nor did he care
For resonating in his mind was an insistent chime

Not knowing how he existed, still he wished to create
Sprung from his desire, intricate tools appeared in his hands
He began to forge the steel and pull it into thin bands
He melted the white sand into bright glass, for this was his fate

For eons, the man labored with the countless dials and gears
As his weariness grew, he struggled to attach each ring
Finally, only the three hands remained before the glass cap:
He shaped the planets and formed the stars over the years
Single cells evolved into silver fish and birds that could sing
Last and swiftest, mankind arose and spread across the map


The man lifted his delicate watch and undid the clasp
Gingerly twisted the dial to wind up the spring
And with infinite care, released his creation from his grasp
His energy spent, he lay down to rest, his eyes unseeing

But he had made a slight error with the second hand
And with each tick, mankind shifted further out of alignment
With each murder and each theft, they destroyed their home land
That their creator had spent an eternity bringing to fulfillment

Horrified, the creator watched helplessly as mankind
Smashed the gears, melted the glass, ripped apart the levers
They claimed fragments as trinkets; the springs started to unwind
The numbers chip, centuries pass in moments, time severs

When the creator tried to repair the watch, his unwieldy tools
Only hastened the damage ... our fate is in the hands of the fools

[Peter]

The Clockmaker's girl, eh? I didn't really understand it, unless it was just describing suffering.

Perhaps it was unfair of me to post it out of context. The poem is written by Sonya Moon, a 16-year-old girl who joins the Ambulance Corps so she can do her bit in the war (following the death of her brother). Although she had encountered wounded men in London she was not prepared for the reality of injury and death at the Front, and she wrote In The Field Hospital to help her deal with her shock and horror.

It's typical of the war poets that many of them wrote - pre-war - about the Big Themes that adolescents are so interested in. What is the Meaning of Life? Why do we Suffer? What is Love? And any number of other Capitalised Questions.

When they got to the sharp end (the trenches, the vermin, the desperation, the fear) they had to grow up in a hurry, just like Sonya did, and their poems become more particular, more to the point and more concentrated, while not losing the love of lyricism and imagery that drew their writers to poetry in the first place. They wrote about pain and fear, not Pain and Fear.

That's why Sonya's poem is so specific and grounded in her immediate experience.

I'd like to finish this lecture with my favourite war poem, Break of Day in the Trenches by Isaac Rosenberg. I won't analyse it line by line, just leave it to you to discover how much he puts into a few short lines:

Break of Day in the Trenches

The darkness crumbles away
It is the same old druid Time as ever,
Only a live thing leaps my hand,
A queer sardonic rat,
As I pull the parapet's poppy
To stick behind my ear.
Droll rat, they would shoot you if they knew
Your cosmopolitan sympathies,
Now you have touched this English hand
You will do the same to a German
Soon, no doubt, if it be your pleasure
To cross the sleeping green between.
It seems you inwardly grin as you pass
Strong eyes, fine limbs, haughty athletes,
Less chanced than you for life,
Bonds to the whims of murder,
Sprawled in the bowels of the earth,
The torn fields of France.
What do you see in our eyes
At the shrieking iron and flame
Hurled through still heavens?
What quaver -what heart aghast?
Poppies whose roots are in men's veins
Drop, and are ever dropping;
But mine in my ear is safe,
Just a little white with the dust.

[Carebarebaby]

Pretty, I missed so many beautiful poems posted in my absence

Here's one I wrote when I hadn't had any ice cream for a long time


Chocolate

Chocolate is a lucious beauty
creamy or crunchy
milky, white, and dark
home to nugats and nuts
Cream and caramel

Celebration and mourning
both call for it's precense
happiness in every bit
anytime, any day
Cocoa keeps us going

[eggnostic]

How beautiful a world;
a boy sits, alone
in semi-dark,
music plays softly,
(Iron and Wine)
clock says go to bed,
his head floats past Saturn.

[Starshade]

For all those who like a bit of poetry, enjoy.

Who would have thought I could fall so deep.
Deep within those eyes so far athat i can't make out myself from the edges of your heart.
Heartfelt and unadultered I speak these words.
Words of understatement and words of belief.
Belief in that when I see you walk by, I smell your scent, intoxicating and tightening.
Tightening on my throat as I gasp in disbelief to how such a small thing can grip me so.
So many small things make me wish to be with you more and more, keeping me smiling sadly.
Sadly I can't tell you that your eyes are like fire in my soul, that I wish to caress your skin with the lightest touch, that I would want to sleep to your heartbeat.
Heartbeats passing, upped the tempo to allegretto as you shimmy past again to sit by your boyfriend.