Poetry Arena

The Dead Poets Chronicles

The Dead Poet I (after death is known?)

I am thee light of a star
And I am already dead
By the time you hear or read
The words that I’ve said
I’m infested by insects
In the box, condemned
Lost and absent of my voice
For my work is fed
To minds in search for answers
A light that will shed

Upon the face with knowledge
Unlocked for innoc’nce
But for me the brilliant light
Never shines to kiss
I am in eternal rest
No sounds of excel’ence
Will fill my ears now long gone
Anathematized in bliss?
Never knowing if they heard
Of my edifice

The Dead Poet II (ignorance is bliss)

Hold back your tongue who alter
All works’ to disguise
Tricking those to see only
Through your painted eyes
Waver your wand of blackness
Cast it Anathematize
Me damned, to my dwelling
Beneath her, glory wise
I wait in it’s depth biding
My work to mobilize

See now in the inane’s orbs
A chime rings’ the bell
In knowledge’s cond’scending
Valued citadel
Past the crevice and river
In it’s gloomy hell?
Now make your move, a vulture
Waiting sense I fell
Ignorance is bliss, expose
Now open your shell

ah i feel better now...lol (c) jonathan ryan alligood
 
been experimenting with different rhytms. don't hesitate to say if this sux.


What's the meaning
of us
kissin

Say our love
but hide our
mission

I just want to
hang out
with your beauty

You just want to
drain
my account

It's wrong
but so it is-
nowhere near the love.
 
ah yes it would appear i will be adventuring on another catabasis into the great crimson vale.. (i guess i got a season pass lol)but this one will be long and allmost perfect. i consider iambic pentameter perfect for all who care . but damn i hate wrting like that.. i do however like wrting in meter. so well ..um yeah heres the precule poem for the adventure...

Terminus

Lest the night and what it brought on this eve
I sit engaged in my toil, with ragged sleeve
I wiped the moisture from my weighing brow
My quell in its gest're wrote with precise haste
As the clock, my enemy drifts time now
My being in candlelight's supple grace
With determined eyes looked out over the mire
Returning gaze to that, the candlewick's fire.

my manuscript's pages absorbed my black bile ink.
as the melench'ly rose up out of the creek.
the mudded trail across the mire fell to a spate.
dripping loud, the rain thrown from the west wind,
attacked my roof with horrid sounds of fate.
my shutters slam, as phantom force spinned.
and the ether grew cold, with humic haze rose.
this once calm night razed to chaos' echoes .

as my feet found their footing, I would tread
to the window's view, of that which I dread
from the earth's cusp a blast of lightning hit
the dead willow, a mirror of my place
crimson glare pierced the night, a silhouette
would lift, it started a stride with wakening pace
I turned from the view, this was my last night
I cried - I have still two chapters to write.

taken up with my pen I sat scribbling
with the hordes of knowledge that was rambling
-o' for this pulsate in my heart, mom'ntum
rising, sending me dwelling my last hour.
-o' foul beast why hath chose this night to come.
please delay. can't you see me cower
here? staring at my life's unfinished work.
crying-my body bleeds awaiting deaths' clerk.

dipping my pen with haste into the vial.
no ink left to write, and closer came ancile (fallen)
-o' for this my blood will now fill the page.
the garnet ink now dotted the parchment
the loss sent me into a silent rage
as the shadow begun its encroachment
screaming vile curses' as it grew near the door
with fear i watched it enter from the moor.

harvester of dead souls whose time beckons
me now to join him on the vale of stygian's
his gaseous presence, swayed like serpents slither
the crimson eyes, that stare out so knowing
the murky nebulas was dead black and so bitter
he stood patient with his scythe drawn waiting
-o' thou beast of the neither world stand still
tread not close, with your cold fingers that kill

on this night I need but one more moment
to finish. And stand there o' so dormant
for I sow that very evil seed of the tree
that filled mankind with its infernal wisdom.
of this, I scream awaiting what I see
the ever growing fires of Pandemonium
I dip this pen to finish here my life
and await what you bring, my ending strife.

the harvester slow now moved toward me
the scarlet life siphoned out of my body
and the darkness came sending me spinning
as vertigo does. the reaper came over
as I fell to crouching posture, waiting
as the borrowed knowledge would fall to trover
this once great sage, has grown and fell feeble
to nothing but his inner world of evil.

standing in a calm sway the serpents' hiss
as I sat on the brink of deaths' foul kiss
-please I beg, as light turns to obscurity
before you collect on my debt and reap
away; my dreams, my thoughts, my blood and misery
that filled my life. please messor make the sweep
a quick departure to my eternal rest
hand me my quell, to clench tight to my chest

for now I am ready for my last chapter
but let this cold nights' breeze be my captor
with my last canto on this vale be death
I welcome your fingers cold touch to skin
I cough the last of my ruby lifes' breath
Siting within the labyrinth of my sin
As the transcending colors overwhelm my soul
I left life there like extinguishing coal.

as the nights whispers leaked out of my hovel
Into the warming mornings' new marvel
The zephyr winds mild with a morning kiss
Brought this mans' mortal troubles to there rest
My foul remains etched in times abyss
But knowledge was a priceless family's crest
And of this I script to my very death
But on this morning will be a new breath .



(c) Jonathan Ryan Alligood
 
:D Howdy Iced_Earth! It's nice to see you moving beyond those long hellfire sagas....j/k.....:rolleyes:


Lest the night and what it brought on this eve
WHY... did you say 'lest'? This is the 21st century- period poetry is little more than a novelty.
I sit engaged in my toil, with ragged sleeve
I wiped the moisture from my weighing brow
Nice, but the flow from L2 to L3 is rough. Perhaps you should integarte into one sentence?
My quell in its gest're wrote with precise haste
Gest're?
As the clock, my enemy drifts time now
My being in candlelight's supple grace
With determined eyes looked out over the mire
Returning gaze to that, the candlewick's fire.
The rhyme seems forced, but the image is good. However, exactly what you are doing with the candlestick and the clock seems quite abstract. You need less graceful language, and more cohesion.

my manuscript's pages absorbed my black bile ink.
Too many modifiers here!
as the melench'ly rose up out of the creek.
You know...the melench'ly. Is this an actual Old English translation, or just you interpretation?
the mudded trail across the mire fell to a spate.
This is a fragment. (S2L3) But a damn good line...
dripping loud, the rain thrown from the west wind,
attacked my roof with horrid sounds of fate.
These two lines run quite well, but 'sounds of fate' is cliche.
my shutters slam, as phantom force spinned.
and the ether grew cold, with humic haze rose.
this once calm night razed to chaos' echoes .

as my feet found their footing, I would tread
to the window's view, of that which I dread
from the earth's cusp a blast of lightning hit
the dead willow, a mirror of my place
crimson glare pierced the night, a silhouette
would lift, it started a stride with wakening pace
I turned from the view, this was my last night
I cried - I have still two chapters to write.
OK- this strophe started out great- but the last line trivialized the rhyming scheme (which is irregular to begin with). You might want to (and this goes for the whole piece) tighten up your punctuation and capitilisation on a line by line basis.

taken up with my pen I sat scribbling
with the hordes of knowledge that was rambling
-o' for this pulsate in my heart, mom'ntum
rising, sending me dwelling my last hour.
-o' foul beast why hath chose this night to come.
please delay. can't you see me cower
here? staring at my life's unfinished work.
crying-my body bleeds awaiting deaths' clerk.
Same goes here. This is riddled with careless(?) or just natural(?) overlooks....enlighten me here....

dipping my pen with haste into the vial.
no ink left to write, and closer came ancile (fallen)
-o' for this my blood will now fill the page.
the garnet ink now dotted the parchment
the loss sent me into a silent rage
as the shadow begun its encroachment
screaming vile curses' as it grew near the door
with fear i watched it enter from the moor.

harvester of dead souls whose time beckons
me now to join him on the vale of stygian's
his gaseous presence, swayed like serpents slither
the crimson eyes, that stare out so knowing
the murky nebulas was dead black and so bitter
he stood patient with his scythe drawn waiting
-o' thou beast of the neither world stand still
tread not close, with your cold fingers that kill

on this night I need but one more moment
to finish. And stand there o' so dormant
for I sow that very evil seed of the tree
that filled mankind with its infernal wisdom.
of this, I scream awaiting what I see
the ever growing fires of Pandemonium
I dip this pen to finish here my life
and await what you bring, my ending strife.

the harvester slow now moved toward me
the scarlet life siphoned out of my body
and the darkness came sending me spinning
as vertigo does. the reaper came over
as I fell to crouching posture, waiting
as the borrowed knowledge would fall to trover
this once great sage, has grown and fell feeble
to nothing but his inner world of evil.

standing in a calm sway the serpents' hiss
as I sat on the brink of deaths' foul kiss
-please I beg, as light turns to obscurity
before you collect on my debt and reap
away; my dreams, my thoughts, my blood and misery
that filled my life. please messor make the sweep
a quick departure to my eternal rest
hand me my quell, to clench tight to my chest

for now I am ready for my last chapter
but let this cold nights' breeze be my captor
with my last canto on this vale be death
I welcome your fingers cold touch to skin
I cough the last of my ruby lifes' breath
Siting within the labyrinth of my sin
As the transcending colors overwhelm my soul
I left life there like extinguishing coal.
I've picked up here because in the last strophes, you've said so much of the same idea. You need to boil this down so we get the point. It's clumsy long.

as the nights whispers leaked out of my hovel
Into the warming mornings' new marvel
The zephyr winds mild with a morning kiss
Brought this mans' mortal troubles to there rest
My foul remains etched in times abyss
But knowledge was a priceless family's crest
And of this I script to my very death
But on this morning will be a new breath .
Click to expand...

Thank you. This is my first attempt at a line-by-line, and I appreciate the read. In all, you are wielding too large a club here, and could do much better without the period language and the length. This is long, bu not intense.

:D I have to admit, though, I truly relate to your topic!

Keep on being dandy-
Jon
 
Astronomy

Ah! Friedrich Nietzsche was a philosopher-poet, yet there have been no scientist-poets yet. Perhaps it is not in my nature, but my Russian ancestors cry out to me* - so here goes:

The ancient light of ancient stars
Caresses a troubled mind
As a mother calms her newborn child

I classify you, stars
And the order I percieve
Alleviates my personal entropy

A theory contradicts fact - we throw it out
Oh how an observation can suprise
And destroy - yet the data never lies

And who can say the same for man?
Life is a multitude of stings - yet I have found
The balm that is astronomy



Criticism (other than the obvious "Jesus christ Xev, your poetry sucks - I know it sucks) would be appreciated.

Pleaaaaaaaase?


*When I am off my medication, that is. ;)
 
What to say- one giant cliche. This is abstract, trite, and pretentious, along with the fact that the subject matter is a basic no-no in any poetry- the whole 'look at me! I feel bad! I'm alone! I'm lost!' complex.
Click to expand...

What's wrong with feeling bad? :( :D Poems can be anything we want them to be, because poetry is an undefined artform. As with all art, it depends on the beholder. I'm sorry if my poem did not even touch your standards, but I will hold in mind your advice the next time I attempt to write poetry.

I guess what I was trying to convey was that, yes, I was feeling terrible that day, and I just couldn't find a way to evaporate my anger, so it all just buried itself deep inside, until it was so far down I could slap a happy face on it and pretend it's all okay. I thought that part of the poem was obvious. Along with the title "Bottle Shards", everyone knows what will happen when you shake a carbonated drink inside a container. Boom, container explodes, everyone within a 3 metre radius is soaked in Coke, lol.

Think- in L4- you use the word 'heartbreaking' then 'covered by my wails'. Whatever connection you trying to make there was killed by the fact that being heartbreaking carries no extra precedent that it must be covered by wails, or even that it usually isn't. You merely put heartbreaking in there because it was the easiest word choice.
Click to expand...

The screams were heartbreaking, yet they were covered by the more alarming wails...like a "bigger than infinity, longer than eternity" thing. And yes, I agree, the use of heartbreaking is very cliched, but hey, I wrote this poem when I was 10 years old. I doubt my vocabulary would have been as it is now.

But all in all, thank you for your honest opinion Congrats. :D :D
 
I propose a toast - to enemies
My lip curls into a sneer
For I am hoping he never sees
My desire or my fear
His eyes meet mine, flashing in hate
I hope that my face is not so clear
As I see the lust written on his face
My own on mine, I hope, is not there

*Smiles*

Oh damn you!
And damn me for believing you!
For all the lies I accepted as truths
For all the times I've been your fool
For all the things I really knew
And all the times I trusted you
Fuck you.
And fuck me for loving you.

(Note: No, I am not suffering from a broken heart - I made the mistake of showing one about suicide to another person once.

"Xev, you have so much to live for" is the response. Sheesh. Like I can't contemptate suicide without considering it. :rolleyes: )

Gaa! People are stupid. I hate people.

On that subject.....

Do you even think?
Do you truely even feel?
Do you know what you could be?

Or are you just like Skinner's rat
Another dog salivating on cue
And why are you just now discovering
The things I thought you already knew.

And is your mind untroubled
Because you have no mind to be troubled?
 
Originally posted by Xev
(Note: No, I am not suffering from a broken heart - I made the mistake of showing one about suicide to another person once.

"Xev, you have so much to live for" is the response. Sheesh. Like I can't contemptate suicide without considering it. :rolleyes: )
Click to expand...

I know what you mean, people think that if I write about something I must have gone through it or something........
 
Increan:
I know what you mean, people think that if I write about something I must have gone through it or something........
Click to expand...

Yeah, I HATE THAT!

I mean, did Philip K. Dick ever meet an android? Fall in love with one? Obviously not. But he was able to write "Do androids dream of electric sheep?" and to make the whole thing seem real.

Bram Stoker obviously never met a vampire or an undead mummy. But he wrote "Dracula" and "the jewel of seven stars" - and made the scenerios seem real.

If fiction writers can do it, why can't poets?
 
Rightyo, need some opinions on the inscription of a doorway to the "Realm of Infinity." I started writing it because of the first line, which I am in love with...

In your vicinity there is infinity
Above and below,
The shadows flow
This you will find
And many others
Not of your kind

While on this one path
You will feel one thing’s wrath
As fierce as Dromunn is
Victory is not only his
Because in his vicinity
There is only infinity

The last two mean or are meant to mean that to kill [the] Dromunn you must use his infinity against him. I guess I'm just asking any readers to bear with me here.
 
I dance
..in trance
..for roses

Not you
..or us
..but roses

I mourn
..in pain
..for roses

Say farwell
..to you
..throught roses
 
THE VIOLIN TEACHER

The streetcar
I remember was a red and white
big, headlighted clickety-clack
that took me in the afternoons
for thirty five cents
that was wrapped in an empty rosin cloth
to the violin lessons
my mother said
she could ill afford.

The eight dollar fee
was folded in my violin case:
and my head was full of Bach:
relax the left hand,
remember to breathe, feel the notes
rise up
like smoke:
and never tighten
the right thumb.
The studio was a third floor room
with high and peeling ceiling
and the place where my teacher
would work his magic.

He always had
his bow at the ready
for a ghost violin
or my violin
that welcomed his strength.
His sounds soared, his eyes
the shade of fresh washed
Coca Cola bottles
green
and glassy.

He had presence. Played a scarred
but dark Strad
his hand would tremble in slow motion
rocking pulling notes
from the depth of the soul.
Vibrato's
what he called it.

A smell of pine trees
followed him complimenting
his brief bright
and glowing smiles,
another smell
like fireplace smoke
and dinners
on single plates
with one light lit
to save on
electricity.

I always
felt he needed the eight dollars
more than we did
and that
melancholy
seeped into the music.
I now plant my feet
and play breathing
the same air as he.
Playing music as grand
as the trees.

I was lucky to have a teacher
that didn't make me choke
and loved
my partitas as much
as my whoopee
cushion jokes.
 
Prisoners of time

In trance we dream
and shriek in pain
when sun awakes our sanity,
And dust we cough
and throw away our garments
made from silk and damp,
And in the dirty sunlight
we see a rotten wooden clock
with a pendulum made from chains,
reminding us-
we are prisoners of time.
 
Superficial People

Superficial people living superficial lives
Staring superficial stares with superfical eyes
They are programmed to respond in superficial ways
In the rat race of life's superficial maze

Superficial people smiling superficial smiles
Thinking superficial thoughts about artistic style
Singing superficial songs about superficial things
Wanting superficial stuff like sunglasses and rings

Superficial people living superficial lives
Staring superficial stares with superficial eyes
They are programmed to respond in superficial ways
In the rat race of life's superficial maze
 
Beautifully redunant, I must say!

I'd say the excessive use of the word of 'superficial' really makes this superficial in its own right. Now, if you could make the point of view be from someone criticizing someone else for being superficial, when in fact they are truly superficial themself, that could make it interesting. What you have here is gnomish, to say the least.

I quoteth:
Singing superficial songs about superficial things
Click to expand...
Now, this is simply more a song than a poem, since it goes nowehere, and seems to want to follow a verse/chorus repitition idea. You contradicting yourself or either just being a hypocrite.

I agree with the subject matter of this poemish attempt, but am a little confused in the execution and raw attempt. Anyways, it's nice to see this thread back up again, so I will post a little poemish attempt of my own.

Cleaning the Shower
Fresh, restless water
slipped out of your tight spout,
into my old, silly tub- claw-legged
and ceramic.

Two months later, you tickled
the feet off from my legs, and
squared away my vagina, bucking
the soapdish into the recesses
of my thighs. It was a short courtship.

The party was quick, brutal, and
washed in the white of my undergarments.
We had white petals falling from
the ceiling, we had snow in my bouquet.

O, but how the grime piles
along the blanched grout! The color,
pulled from a faded and singed
magazine clipping, simply falls flat:
Cake white, frills exhumed.

So I must grip the lever,
tighten the noose, and let
loose the cloud.

I'd have to dig into the contorted
tile, his belly, his plated abdomen.
Dislodging his grit, his manhood,
and faded blue-jean sweat.

Hands covered in yellow condoms and
wild hair seared into a silky flow,
the prosaic pattern of
the mosiac enthralls me. Yet
I wipe it away, absolve
the wall of its color.

I have doused your walls in Tilex,
darling, yet the high, acidic
arc of your rigid showerhead always
brings me back.
 
I will look into the suggestions you made. If I write
another poem I will post it. Thanks for your input. :)
 
how about an advice to me
I'm sort of writing this poem, but no matter how much I revise it, I think it is bad. Especially I don't like the second line of the last stanza



night, flash, an eye
behind the trees glows at me
green, raging eye
smells and takes samples from my sweat and fear

thunder, flash, fangs
tremble in withheld madness
insane hunger digests my courage
eats all my thoughts away

we run through the meadows
in a moonlight so bright
it shatters my vision apart
I perceive only the approaching feet

intense heat from the jaws close to my skin
claws on my back stand like a monument to the victory
I spit out blood, curse the food-chain I’m in
life leaves my veins- tonight the fangs can feast
 
Based on some weird arsed observation that one's our are cut by the thorns when we try to weave the rose-crown of joy:

I wanted to see how far I could go
I wanted to see how quickly I would break
I stared into the abyss
And it winked
I never knew you before I knew me
I never lived until I died
Before I knew this despair I never felt joy
And I abide

Or, in a more irreverent vein:

And when you gaze at the abyss, it stares back at you
And murmers "nice tits"
 
I've given up on my thread, it seems every one's over here.

Innocents

Turn the tv on, channel 7 news,
watching the insanity, watching the innocents die.
Terror is what I feel, when I see where,
their choices are taking us, and I try to hide,
to close my eyes, but all I can see,
is the innocents die.
Why can't they see, war is not the way,
there's so much we could be,
but instead the innocents die.
Where do nations get off, choosing our paths for us,
why do they think, they can sentence us to die.
Understanding, just too hard for them,
and I try to yell, still the innocents die.
I rise up, pound my fists against the screen,
I'm sure the world can hear my scream,
and still the innocents die.
I fall down, all resistance gone,
all I can do is sigh, and still the innocents die.
 
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