| For Critique |
[22 Jan 2007|09:00pm] |
Heroin girl clutches the headboard,
head slumped against the wall –
one lightbulb, in monochrome
flickers
Baby, I’ve walked a mile with your feet,
[so smudged with road dust
whores have refused to wash them
with their tears]
and swung a lifetime on your
pendulum noose –
[praying for God in
quiet desparation,
waiting for fate to appear]
with accepted resignation -
I've knelt on your knees,
on alcohol-sweat soaked sheets
waiting, like Joan of Arc,
for someone to strike the match
[Come on Baby, light my fire]
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[14 Jan 2007|11:22pm] |
I made this community and I nearly forgot about it until a conversation just now with  aphoenixrain. I might have quit poetry for a while. I think I have, but I have asked myself the question at the top of this page so many times and the answer is always a resounding YES. Here is something I wrote a few months back:
Cholera Tea in the Time of Love
When he ran out of dust,
and when he ran out of life-breath, we began
breathing in to each other,
spreading life, vapor thin and asthmatic.
I am eyeing your cholera tea,
in the time of love.
I can sense you cortical blind,
Our story is in the leaves:
The stars are out but they ran out of light,
and in orison I good night moon,
and knights ride in on clouds to my dreams.
I will knit you into me, love
We will knit each other new.
an exercise. we had to write a poem about this photo: http://www.flickr.com/photos/rebba/171966912/in/set-72157594157565155
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[10 Dec 2006|01:32pm] |
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mood |
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 creative |
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Hello everyone! I'm obviously new to this community. I write for many reasons; I feel there are two that drive the force behind my writing. First, unlike speaking our ideas, which disappear, it seems that writing captures these words before they vanish. As we educate ourselves the vocabulary changes and you can look back upon your development as a writer, and the observations that you make of the world remain after you've been buried like a memorial of how you viewed reality. Second, it stimulates the imagination, which is used in forming our beliefs of reality. Before an idea can be understood physically, the mind must apprehend the idea. Therefore, one can assume the imagination is part of the process of forming our beliefs and ideas. I feel there is a stigma that the imagination is something only children use. When this assumption is made, I feel society steps away from the creative thinking process. This is a step in the wrong direction. So, not only do I appreciate writing as an art form, I also appreciate it as a form of understanding the world we live in.
I hope from this community I will receive constructive criticism in the process of creating my own unique poetic voice, while helping others to develop their voices as well, such as the intent of a workshop. I've written with poetry groups for a while now, and as many poets have stressed quite recently (in forming our poetic voices), I believe it is important to work as a collective.
Here is one of my poems I've written recently. Constructive comments are appreciated.
( Adam FrostCollapse )
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| (Insert Snappy Poem Title Here) |
[09 Aug 2006|07:01am] |
The essence is magnified
Chasing the sun on wings of steel
I am Bird
I am Man
A synthesis that knows
The freedom of the Ether
And the bindings of the Earth
But in my heart
I am more then my parts
I am a power unto myself
I am the essence
The soul of the universe
I am you and you are I
And we are the essence magnified
Chasing the sun
On wings of steel.
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| Somewhere |
[23 Jul 2006|05:27pm] |
Somewhere he is crying
Drinking his dinner
In hopes to hide from madness
Somewhere he is crying
For what he's lost
What was his
And what will never be
Somewhere he is crying
Afraid this is the best there will be
Afraid that it's not good enough
Somehow he's lost too much
But he didn't see it leave
He didn't see it leave
He doesn't know where the years went
Or why they can't come back.
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[12 Jul 2006|06:37pm] |
The Intimacy of History
There comes a certain intimacy with history -
A familiarity of rhythm,
having danced with you before.
There comes a certain closeness
that rejects the need for small talk -
just catching up on lost time.
There comes a certain intimacy with history -
A familiarity with your skin
that clothes can't hide.
There comes a certain closeness
that allows me to recognize
you walking in the room.
There comes a certain intimacy with history -
already knowing all the irregularities
of your voice,
your skin,
your heartbeat,
your breathing
your profile in the dark
that I, an infant knowing nothing
reaches for instinctively
something familiar.
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[16 May 2006|11:27am] |
May we have but a brief moment
To honor a great among us
Who has fallen to the trivialities of time
A life rich and full
Brimming with the art we all hold dear.
Time is the thief of all
And we have had greatness stolen from us.
The voice is silenced, but the words go on.
Rest in peace, Stanley
We shall never match your skill
You power or presence
But we shall endeavor
To make you proud.
RIP, Stanley Kunitz, 1906-2006
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| Of Flight and Falling (A Poem Revived From an Old Entry) |
[17 Mar 2006|11:52am] |
In the woods
Below the silver moon
I came to a deep dry well
In the well, a man lay
Broken from the fall
And he is I
Only he has run farther then I have
And come to this place
His ending, my beginning
And from him I run
by silver moonlight
To make it out of this wood
And see the sunrise
Before all others.
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[21 Feb 2006|11:06am] |
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mood |
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 okay |
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(Ok, like all of my pieces, any critiques or help is appreciated, but let me let you know what I need. The most glaringly obvious thing is that it needs tightening up, and I need a title. Anything else you think will help, let me know)
( Untitled, Rambling CompositionCollapse )
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[17 Feb 2006|11:32pm] |
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mood |
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 weird |
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His eyes are shut tight
And tears fall into an agrivated silence
What happened herre
To harrow him so?
His tears splash on the floor
Though still, to his ears
There is no sound but sorrow.
Finally, unable to bear any more
He screams
And screams and screams
Till his throat is horse and hurt.
Then he sobs.
Only then is the silence broke.
The music and ticking clock come rushing back.
And he sobs and sobs...
Sorting out that still, silent place
In the back of his mind
THat just refuses to go away.
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| These Times |
[17 Feb 2006|08:38pm] |
"These times"
He whispers
"Are the times I hate the most
All silence and snow
And cold and grasping darkness"
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| Nella Risposta |
[10 Feb 2006|11:59pm] |
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mood |
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 amused |
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He sobs in a forlorn and deeply despondent way
Tears roll, like the boulder of Sisyphus
Down either side of his face.
His wretched heart is torn in twain
His sorrows are deep as seas.
The pain and sheer emotive force
This tide of troubles has turned
Is far to much to be burdened by
A simple essay or statement of thought.
No! He knows what he must do!
He turns instead to the depressants tool
The fine and fluid (yet all too concrete)
Words and phrase of poetry!
So he sets himself, then, to the task
Of forging a piece (a fine and concrete term)
That uses abstract forms
To build a stable base
(Rather, he thinks, like a tower being built on air)
As he has been told, he must avoid
All allusion to philosophy
(And so must, as many have, reduce emotion to chemicals and that)
And must studiously shun any abstraction
(Though it would appear, the rules contradict
Fora good poet uses plenty
Of Metaphor and Simile)
He stops his pen, a single drop of ink hanging above the paper
What is he to do now?
He cannot expound on his hearts deepest sorrow
For his heart is an organ, and feels nothing of the sort
He tries in vain to write his thoughts
But thoughts, by their nature, are abstract
(With no concrete form of their own)
He ponders and fights between instinct and instruction
And finally he sees the light
Why hadn't he thought of it before!
With great care to mark the page
With excellent calligraphy
He writes what must be the greatest poem of the century
For he has followed the pointed advice
Of those who are "better" then he
And marks the pages with the spoils of their sympathy
(For what else might one call it
When a "better" aids such a pathetically poor poet as he)
And after hours of careful thought and painstaking penmanship
He stands and marvels at his masterpiece.
Then with full excitement taking his voice
He shouts his opus to the world.
And as the echos die the shadows hear
The reverberence of that finest piece.
He drops the paper and it falls to the floor
Written on it, in simplest forms:
I
Am
Sad.
(Let me know what you think.)
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| Whose Dream |
[06 Feb 2006|11:35pm] |
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mood |
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 good |
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(Let me know what y'all think)
Whose dream is this?
Certainly not mine
If it were, it'd end much happier.
Am I a dream of God,
Or do I dream God, dreaming me?
In whose world is who
And who is outside creating it?
Is this world made
Only as I see each part?
Or has the world seen me
And put me here to add spice to the tale?
Am I a figment of imagination,
Or the imaginer?
And who are you to be in all of this?
Perhaps this makes it plainer to see
And indeed, it is you who dreams of me.
If this be the case, then please hear my plea
Tell me now what the wakeful see
Tell me soon, before you flee
And I, in this dream, cease to be.
(I know it breaks down into simple rhymes at the end, but I don't know if I should keep it or change it...)
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[15 Aug 2005|02:27pm] |
+A Poetry Rating Community.
-Jazzy
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[29 Jun 2005|04:22pm] |
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| Untitled |
[26 May 2005|03:04pm] |
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mood |
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 happy |
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In a dark room with walls too distant to be felt
I'm screaming
But the words find no purchase in the air
I hear only static
My voice has been tuned to a station too far off.
The lyrics are dead
The signal is blocked by mountains or mores.
Silence is golden
But pain needs a voice and my brain just isn't supplying.
Where is the sound?
The walls don't feel the reverberations, they don't echo
Just the static remains.
Eventually I wake to a golden afternoon and the world is good
But somewhere in those dreams
I'm screaming layers of white noise and nonsense.
Pain needs a voice
But in the morning, in her arms
Silence is golden
The pain is forgotten for those waking hours
Peace needs no voice.
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| This isn't supposed to be anything other than random =] |
[13 May 2005|01:21am] |
following, following,
eyes clouded by
envy.
you know as much as
you absorb
the quality's never
there.
a mind, so empty
so bleak
desperate to be filled with
something
other than loneliness,
a soul craving an identity
all it's own.
"name me!"
it shrieks,
"etch my face among the clouds!
for I have suffered
and dwelt in isolation
long enough.
my time has come,
release me to my own!"
but the clouds do not answer,
and the masses pass you by.
for what can ever be claimed
as your own,
when you cling and steal
as a leech.
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| April |
[26 Apr 2005|03:39pm] |
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mood |
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blah |
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This poem's kinda long so I cut it to save room on everybody' buddy lists:
( AprilCollapse )
The end seems a little choppy to me, any suggestion would be great.
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awake