|
|
Post by James on Nov 13, 2010 4:17:43 GMT -5
With writing Phantoms, I find myself in a peculiar situation. I seem to be in a purple patch, but I'm terrified that it will end. The most obvious threat is that I will simply burnout and therefore I have concocted a plan as cunning as a fox who used to be Professor of Cunning at Oxford University but has now moved onto bigger and better things at the U.N Department of Cunning Planning. So to keep the burnout away, I will be writing little non-Phantom pieces. I'm not a fan of writing Flash Fiction and short stories are too long. So that leaves me with writing poems to keep me sane. The first two are much older work, the third onwards shall be new. Also, there is a second thread for other poems/stories that fit into the Anglo-Saxon literary traditions, you can find it at: Englisc LéoþwíseAnd now to non-Saxon poems, I can only hope that they are not too painful to read since poetry has never been a strong suit of mine. Also, you have Pete to blame for the third poem. I wanted to see what it was like to write in a style that I sincerely don't like. |
|
|
|
Post by James on Nov 13, 2010 4:18:39 GMT -5
Not Near Naples
Suffocating grey clouds floating,
Above the colourless city.
Great slabs of dead concrete bloating,
Hiding beauty that should be pitied.
Little ants rush in the busy street,
Unaware, uncaring, not there,
And yet this is a world to meet,
To run, to jump, to live, to dare.
Joy still reigns in my beating heart,
I cannot help but laugh and cry.
Life is too wonderful to mark,
By having a great life go dry.
Modern solitude rules this city,
Alas though, is it also pretty.
|
|
|
|
Post by James on Nov 13, 2010 4:19:04 GMT -5
Upon the Quiet Street I step upon the quiet street,
A thick Darkness shrouding my way,
I look upon the silver stars,
And wonder if they’re the same.
Each glistening light,
Each shining pebble,
Lights my way,
And still I yet wonder,
If they are the same.
Isn’t it funny?
So very weird?
That each and every blemish,
of that black sky above,
Is all the same to us?
Not identical,
Not even twins,
I mean that what I see,
Is what you see,
When we both look above.
Not distance or time,
Can change that fact,
And it strengthens my heart to learn,
That all of the cosmos works together,
To keep both you and I,
whole. |
|
|
|
Post by James on Nov 13, 2010 4:21:15 GMT -5
A Notice
Small crib for sale,
partially used.
A hundred quid price,
will accept lower.
Quality elder wood,
it’s strong and durable.
There are no bad stains or smells,
perfectly acceptable.
Except the small shadow of death,
and a thousand fucking hurt tears.
Please ring if you are interested.
|
|
|
|
Post by Kaez on Nov 13, 2010 10:45:28 GMT -5
A Notice
Small crib for sale,
partially used.
A hundred quid price,
will accept lower.
Quality elder wood,
it’s strong and durable.
There are no bad stains or smells,
perfectly acceptable.
Except the small shadow of death,
and a thousand fucking hurt tears.
Please ring if you are interested.
Hemingway wrote that. |
|
|
|
Post by James on Nov 13, 2010 13:47:17 GMT -5
A Notice
Small crib for sale,
partially used.
A hundred quid price,
will accept lower.
Quality elder wood,
it’s strong and durable.
There are no bad stains or smells,
perfectly acceptable.
Except the small shadow of death,
and a thousand fucking hurt tears.
Please ring if you are interested.
Hemingway wrote that. I know, it was basis for the above. |
|
|
|
Post by James on Nov 13, 2010 16:04:35 GMT -5
Sunday Morning
It’s raining right now,
I thought it’s meant to be Summer.
It’s raining right now, pretty hard actually,
The wind’s more akin to the darkest days of Winter.
It’s raining right now, pretty hard actually, water smashing against the house
The green leaves must be broken from their homes, forced from the naked branches like in Autumn.
It’s raining right now, pretty hard actually, water smashing against the house, the noise thundering above my music.
Yet from the window there are clear crisp blue skies, not a single raindrop, like during the finest and most beautiful days in Spring.
It’s raining right now,
Oh… someone’s using the shower.
Ignore me.
|
|
|
|
Post by James on Nov 13, 2010 19:13:08 GMT -5
Blackness descending,
strength quickly ebbing.
Can’t hold open the windows,
both are slowly falling.
The building’s quickly drooping,
to rest upon cushioned ground.
Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
|
|
|
|
Post by James on Nov 14, 2010 21:15:24 GMT -5
A Quick Lunch
The plate is put before me,
smelling of melted cheese.
The bread is finely toasted,
contents oozing at the sides.
It’s desperately trying to make an escape,
pouring out from the sandwich like lava
Steam rises into the air with twists and turns,
liquid pooling on the base of the plate.
The smell is becoming stronger as the cheese pulls itself free,
the greatest of any known escape for over sixty years.
My plate is fuller than the sandwich - nothing between the bread,
as I’ve sat and thought of useless things my great lunch has gone.
Cheese is cold and the bread is moist,
I take a taste and cringed.
My lunch is badly ruined,
but I don’t really mind.
Pineapple,
not cheese. |
|
|
|
Post by James on Nov 15, 2010 3:51:04 GMT -5
Not Again
The bus is late, just like always. It’s comforting actually, would be unsettling if it got here on time. I wonder why it’s always late, there’s no reason I see for it when I’m on the bus. Goes quite fast for a bus actually, those drivers are verging on being clinically insane. Maybe they’re just going slow to annoy me, maybe I’m the star of my very own Truman show. Or perhaps there’s a huge military checkpoint down the road, or a VIP that gets off before me who demands the whole bus, Hell, it could even be a time loop that causes the damn problem, the bus ensnared in some hellish perpetual cycle of me being late. Oh well. [/right] Enough wondering. Here it comes. [/blockquote] |
|
|
|
Post by Jenny (Reffy) on Nov 15, 2010 12:05:43 GMT -5
Blackness descending,
strength quickly ebbing.
Can’t hold open the windows,
both are slowly falling.
The building’s quickly drooping,
to rest upon cushioned ground.
Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
I want to see you work further on this one >.> No, I am not being mean or anything. There is so much possibility with this one! It can be soooo much better. The premise is there and I liked it. |
|
|
|
Post by James on Nov 15, 2010 15:14:33 GMT -5
Blackness descending,
strength quickly ebbing.
Can’t hold open the windows,
both are slowly falling.
The building’s quickly drooping,
to rest upon cushioned ground.
Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
I want to see you work further on this one >.> No, I am not being mean or anything. There is so much possibility with this one! It can be soooo much better. The premise is there and I liked it. I might come back to it. I actually wrote it completely exhausted (I drank coffee afterwards... I don't drink hot drinks much). But for now it's those 2 lines, 2 lines poem because I'm going to put a group of them in for the assignment. |
|
|
|
Post by Jenny (Reffy) on Nov 16, 2010 8:45:09 GMT -5
I might come back to it. I actually wrote it completely exhausted (I drank coffee afterwards... I don't drink hot drinks much). But for now it's those 2 lines, 2 lines poem because I'm going to put a group of them in for the assignment. I have a few new Flashy ideas to work on later tonight >.> Heh. No internet is murder and has me just writing. Suppose its like a real writing retreat :] ... cept I'm also looking for a job >.< If you are submitting a group of those "2 liners" will they connect? Or just be completely random? It would be awesome if they had some kind of connection that ran through ... just sayin' |
|
|
|
Post by James on Dec 2, 2010 1:21:16 GMT -5
My Love,
a gift
the pen runs a sensual finger
across the naked page
the ink oozing lightly
upon the white skin
beautiful blue mixing
with unblemished perfection
the two exploding in passion
eyes blushing at such wonder
Your body stands at approximately
five foot six, possibly another inch or two.
Brunette hair is situated on the top of your head,
which is an aesthetically pleasing shape.
Hips that would be exemplary for
the purpose of childbearing.
A round and healthy bosom,
which would feed any hungering infant.
I
fuck
you are gonna be pissed
i messed up the tone
for each stanza
you probably hate me
now.
what bout if i write you a poem?
to say sorr- never mind
pretend i didn’t say anything
dont hurt me
((I said it before, but I'm going to say it again just because the style is so similar at the end. Pete's poetry has been a huge inspiration for this style, although I think we have differing reasons for the no punctuation style. Still, Pete, you da poet. )) |
|
|
|
Post by Kaez on Dec 2, 2010 11:45:19 GMT -5
(( Given that I've been doing so little poetry this past week or so, yours is becoming inspiration for me to do some.
IT IS A PERPETUAL CYCLE OF INSPIRATION. ))
|
|
