<p>No problem and No need to apologize
Thanks for the comment</p>
<p>bump... comment on my poems, I'm needy wah wah</p>
<p>I don't know a thing about structuring poetry, but I like to write it when I'm feeling angsty. </p>
<p>Ready, Set, Go!</p>
<p>In all actuality, it was you who broke me.
You plucked at the slack string when my insides began to trickle,
and spun me 'round until my casing ruptured before you, and I lurched out
in one winded heap.
After the initial falling apart,
I fell apart some more, dear.
Now I'm totally dismantled and rummaging through all these fractured parts of parts.
I want to glue myself back up into something that works!
But nothing in this disarray has been kindly labeled and I can't distinguish a scrap of my arm from a fleck of my face, internal from external.
In short, I don't know where to start.
When I think about you...
every 2.478 seconds or so,
hurt bleeds into my eyes.
And I have to bat it away,
because I'm afraid I might drown in it.
F*** you.
When I think about you, it's tender, I'm gentle,
vulnerable, susceptible, vapid.
And it feels good.
Then subsequently, I want to hurl my heart onto the floor,
and
crawl
away...
Even if it feels like I'm squirming over busted bottles and hot stove tops.
Your optimism kills me, babe.
You'll find someone else that makes your palms slick,
and your pretty eyes twinkle and glimmer and flicker like hazel flames,
your heart will slam and stall in your chest like it won't do for me.
And you'll leave me.
Alone.
So I'm running from you now, trying my damnedest to skirt your snare with heavy steps
and tactfully disbursed gulps of breath.
Every inch I take grates, throttles and pricks my lungs
because the oxygen feels thinner the further I wander.
I don't care if I kick up dust and smudge your sweet eyes with darkness,
because it hurts me more, darling.
You're alive inside me, so f****** vibrant.
You always leave me gasping,
scurrying
for
more.
If I could I'd stitch our interwoven fingers snug, palm to palm,
and topple and tumble behind you,
Happily.
Because I'd be sated, just
holding your hand.
I want to say Goodbye
before we've said our proper Hellos.
Because you've already f****** broken me.</p>
<p>bump I like this thread and need inspiration</p>
<p>I write poetry, but I r t3h N00B. :o</p>
<p>this thread needs CPR. I mean is no one here into poetry? Come on don't let this thread fade into nothingness, to be forgotten into oblivion. Heck write a poem about it.
Basically what i'm saying is bump....</p>
<p>btw i think hemingwayisdead is the only true poet here. I really liked to Marat example in your poem</p>
<p>Ooh, hemingway, loved the poems. Especially the first one. Maybe it helped that I felt that I got most of the allusions. God, I love allusions. That made my day. [and the Virginia Woolf/Sylvia Plath lines...I liked especially well]</p>
<p>I plan on posting..once I can dig out my old poems.</p>
<p>I am too scared to post my poetry. :p</p>
<p>fine then rate mine</p>
<p>It's ballin'. :cool:</p>
<p>Soon, I shall muster the courage to post. Soon...</p>
<p>Ha, this is my first post in CC, although I've been reading through it for months. Quite appropriate :]</p>
<p>Here's some stuff I've written recently. Every few months my style and subject matter tends to change, so these might seem rather similar:</p>
<p>Swift</p>
<p>The crowd is right and I am right
There is no hesitation in their steps,
No thoughts crossing their minds other than Crap, Im going to be late.
They are the crowds of the city
And they dictate the sounds we audibly make this morning.
Are we to be stopped or slowed down by injury or insanity?
It is, of course, not unheard of
But still slightly irritating.
But most of us this morning are used to it,
And after an eye roll and a barely audible sigh,
Go back to our music or news.
I am the observer, and I see this all unfold
I see the tension increase swiftly
As the train jerks to a
Stop.
We are used to the rapid transitions and quick meanings,
But some are shaken,
Like deer caught in headlights.
They need to reassure themselves
And after noticing that all is safe,
They wonder if maybe, just maybe,
It was a figment of their imaginations.
No, I assure you, simple-minded tourists,
The action wasnt.
But the threat was.
There are no plausible threats to us here,
In our cosmopolitan utopia,
Just like there is
No universal truth
No irrationality
And, of course, no show of emotion.
But this is simply my interpretation of our actions
And I am but an atom in the bustle of my world, our bubble
And I am but an observer,
Albeit a poetic one.</p>
<p>~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~</p>
<p>rebellion (à la mode)</p>
<p>weve progressed from
sultry midsummer eves spent lying on dirt-caked ground
to the cigarette perched precariously on the tip of your lips.
and you said danger is my middle name and I rolled my eyes
and moved half an inch closer to
letting your red embers and apathy burn me.
and you were the king of cool and I was your hipster queen,
and we celebrated with shots of bubbling frost filled up to the brim
and heard them clink and smiled back.
and you pulled a strand of my hair away from the candles
and I thought that if god made man in his image,
I might just believe in him after all.</p>
<p>~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~</p>
<p>And let the slivers of sweet spring be obstructed by the scorching sizzling sunlight summers and let those foxtrot into foggy, frantically-primping falls and then those will fade into freezing familial finales
But the seasons are much too obvious, much too organized, much too anticipated. Isnt poetry supposed to be a window into the soul? Or am I just being dramatic and repetitive? Is this free verse stretching the limit, taunting the imaginary barriers of the all too vague label of free verse? Is this too liberal for your liking? Should I mix things up a bit? Should I try? God may be one but Im no DJ, although I can understand and sympathize with the feeling of learning a piece of art so well that you can feel free to make it your own, the strange attraction of turning well-known into personal, the liberation that can only be achieved by the admiration and awe of your audience as their fragmented minds silently scream out your name
And then one day youll need to get away from the density of the dance floor for a moment, so youll step outside onto the balcony overlooking the East River with a dry martini in your left hand (the glass is half-full, the glass is always half-full) and the remnants of a cigarette in your right. And youll take two steps forward, perfectly aware that sweat is running down every crease of the outside of your body and that alcohol is running down every vein within your core, and youll take a breath and feel the cold air rush in around you to fill the now empty space that used to be occupied by bodies, and youll let a much-needed sigh escape your chapped lips. Theres a split second between hot and cold, between sweat and skin, and in that moment everything changes and everything becomes clear, and I want you to hold on to that. Grab that moment and hold it still in the hole between your two front teeth. That second is full of broken promises and missed opportunities, the signs of everything that youve done wrong and every sin youve committed and have yet to commit but know you will someday. Let your pulse pause and your sweat cease and let that moment out slowly, let the bright lights from the inside world you just left for this one color the wisps of smoke you exhale vivid hues of purple and magenta and lime green and watch that smoke make its slow ascent beside the neon lights against the brick background into the starless but helicopter-ridden New York City sky.</p>
<p>I had a question for everyone. For me a poem must have a proper rhyme scheme and meter. The avant garde work I see here makes me cringe. Anyone else here feel the same?
btw what's the opposite of avant garde? vieux garde maybe?</p>
<p>Well, the poems I write don't ever rhyme (except sometimes some rhyming within a specific line, but no meter or anything), but I also write songs (lyrics), and for me, that sort of needs to have some sort of rhyme scheme, although I do end up using many rhyme schemes throughout the course of one song, etc.</p>
<p>So, in a word, no. I don't agree with you that poetry needs to be kept in a strict format.</p>
<p>everyone's entitled to their own opinion.</p>
<p>Hunched, engaged, bent chest downed on bulb belly that hung over belt and under which dampish crinkled shirt fabric clung to moist skin, David took from the carpet a single book, shadows stamped in hard cover, near blind1, the gold leaf that once lined them now a few faint and lonely flakes. He rocked jerkily along, feet pulling chair across carpet whose fibers had all long ago split apart or stuck together, to a stack of books limply hugged by a dark gray tie, lain so since it was thrown to the floor that afternoon when he came from the door.
No. Tonight a short story, and placed the book with care on top, then reached for another of the piles that encircled him. He took a softcover by the binding and rose, paced to the window, bent and regarded in pause the brownstones2 that lined the streets regularly and interminably as the sidewalk trees that partnered them. He slid closed the glass, sat, stared back, one moment, through the newly muted light. The book’s glossy cover lifted to a curl in his lap, slow pale white streaks caught from the window calmly traversing its arc.
He switched on the standing lamp at his chair-side and watched the creeping electric bands, intense now in the lamplight. 'A watch's minutehand moves more quickly'3 – in the air before him: the tiny uneven litter-stricken alley downtown where he once stared with his nephew between the lines of neglected buildings until together they saw Poe walking calmly in the opposite direction toward the buildings that towered just above the low rooftops – one of which, David told Seth, housed the offices of the newspaper at which Poe worked. He walked this route all the time from his home to work and Can’t you just picture it?
Seth agreed, though he soon lost his image of the somber and mysterious man to a fascination – an excitement – over the tall buildings beyond. He had long and desperately wanted to establish a navigational home around which he could imagine himself a satellite, a maternity in the crooked and nonsensical lower Manhattan streets – a purpose which these past few days of his visit had been served by Dave’s apartment – but those buildings, glowing warmly on the bosom of midday, offered themselves inevitable as a true and final center.
David laughed and shook his head as they walked away. Isn’t that fun to imagine? Seth kept the buildings in mind. Right, straight, left. That’s
north now. “Impressive, what we’ve done in, what? – three hundred, four hundred years,” pointing backwards.
“Andt’s got nothing to do with government, that’s the wonder.”
“Well, Clinton’s Ditch4. The canal, know?”
“The will to build wasn’t Clinton’s.”
“S’true’s true gets, ‘suppose. All driven by the money, not that there’s much wrong withat.”
“Not at all. God bless5.”
David and Seth entered the delicatessen where two employees prepared put the shop to rest. Early, eh? ah, ‘tsaSunday. One, languid and lithe, hummed idly as he circled a rag across spots of crispy scum on the counter, staring blankly at the center of the ellipses. The other, broad-backed, olive-toned, a university student, with a thick and meaty sharply-maintained beard, occupied a step ladder, pushing forward his shoulders in a shameful slouch. The lights, so intrusively raw and blaring when the shop was silent, buzzed dutifully. The bitter and acidic smell of garbage, foul piles of it, held the air – byproducts of the day, to be left out and collected at the curb.
Seth’s nostrils flared. “Smell that?”
“No, what do you mean?” David said loudly, sarcastically. Seth smiled.
The bearded man dismounted, sidestepped and gripped the counter’s edge: “How can I help you, sir?” in a voice bold and acoustic.
“Twenty full-sours please. Make sure you get some juice in there, too.” The man nodded and turned away to the plastic drums behind him. “Make sure you get some juice in there, too.”
To Seth, “I always get full-sours. Never half-sour. Half-sours remind me of just little baby pickles trying to be adult pickles. That’s what I picture. Little kid pickles, need their parents.”
“You’re a man of principle, Dave.”
“Well, you know, I have my priorities in order.” He graveled a laugh and Seth smiled shortly.
A moment. “Do you hear a ‘tonal center,’” he said these last two words unsurely, “in public places?”
“How do you mean?
“Like you could sing along to the general sound? I was reading something where a classical musician said he can point out the general ‘sound center’ or ‘tonal center,’ something to that effect, and I was uh, just curious if that sounded familiar to you.”
“Tonal center’s like,” he paused, “the sound consensus. When all the vibrations meld together you can point out where the tones average out.”
“Ohhh, interesting, interesting.” He backed against the counter and drummed his fingers. “Can you do that in public places though, just from your experience playing the guitar, as a musician?”
“Never thought about it,” Seth replied. He stared down at the counter. “This one’s easy,” then pointing to the lights. “Ummmmmmm,” he sang along to the buzz.
“Ha ha ha, very good. Very good.”
Another moment. “Let’s stop by in a restaurant and I’ll point it out for you.”
“No, that’s not necessary.”
“No, I –”
David leaned in. His whisper was gravelly like his laugh. “Listen, we’ll do it some other time. We should get back.”
“It’ll take five seconds!”smiling.<br>
Slowly: “Some other time. Some other time,” reassuringly.
Seth became privately upset at his uncle’s unwillingness. He’d been the one who wanted to know, hadn’t he?
The bearded man handed Dave a brown paper bag and they exited the store, turning at the corner. Seth, lost, tried to add his surroundings to the map, based round the tall buildings, for which he had now grown a filial fondness, or should he use Dave’s apartment now, yes he will for
now
which rudely came into view, crumpled his map, wrong, wrong, and deeply offended him
now
as they approached, the excited din thunder growing sonics of a crowded restaurant at the corner. He broke away from Dave, who had been explaining that Post-war buildings have their ventilators built in as opposed, pointing to another building, To the pre-wars where they hung out the window, and pressed his ear against the restaurant’s window glass.
“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,” he grinned and turned to see Dave’s reaction, which, if anger, disappointment, disapproval would be frightening, could be embarrassing, but never anger, thought not ever and
David’s surprise relented into a smile. He stepped closer and, eyes gently shut, listened to the two sounds meld. “Ha ha ha, very good, very good.”</p>
<ol>
<li>Blind is a term for hardcovers in which words are stamped but no leaf lines the imprints.</li>
<li>Brownstones are a type of building characteristic of Brooklyn or residential parts of lower Manhattan.</li>
<li>A quote from Edgar Allan Poe's "The Telltale Heart."</li>
<li>The Erie Canal, built by George Clinton, New York governor.</li>
<li>God bless America.</li>
</ol>
<p>I could kick a rhyme for as many days
or I could be gone in 60 seconds like Nicholas Cage
don't matter, whether the full hour
or in a split second
my verses' ingenuity and power</p>
<h2>tag team ya like Teken</h2>
<h2>continued...</h2>
<p>so as the velocity of my ferocity is increasing continuously with t set to infinity
best believe ya catching that heisman for even dreaming of contending with me
the epitome of superiority
in this game, I'm like Rick James
cold-blooded
the streets are flooded
with the rhymes of crime
I switch the game upside down
throwing out the trash for a new sound
scientifically proven to be so raw
that if Can-I-Bus read it--it'd be the illest verses he ever saw</p>
<p>ok...well this is one i wrote last year for a poetry day in english class [[ i wrote it in like 10 min because i forgot to write one for the class so i did it in class ]]:</p>
<p>I MISS YOU
when i smile, i feel guilty because you cant smile anymore
i miss you
when i laugh, i feel guilty because you cant laugh anymore
i miss you
when i hug someone, my heart aches because i cant hug you anymore
i miss you
but i know, if you were here, so would say "i miss you too"</p>
<p>"For me a poem must have a proper rhyme scheme and meter."
I completely disagree. I think that poetry is such a personal medium that there is no "correct" way to write a poem. Certain forms strike certain people. I personally prefer free verse. Rhyming can be good, but many times, the rhymes make the poem seem contrived.</p>
<p>I enjoy writing poetry, yet I hate it at the same time. I prefer short stories... It's easier for me to capture my thoughts in words in story form than in poems- I'm never happy with what I write. I type, delete, type, delete, type half of a poem... and then delete it all for good. I'm a perfectionist =)</p>
<p>This is written in the style of the prologue of The Canterbury Tales, if you can't tell. Every line is either 10 or 11 syllables.</p>
<p>"The American Dream"</p>
<p>When in the morning the sky is red, bleeding,
High clouds are but wisps, and darkness is fleeting.
When the icy morning fog is struck by
Warm rays from the Sun, hung low in the sky,
It begins to fade away as does the night
To make way for the new day, young and bright.
Then the once-empty streets begin to fill
With people hooded against the winter chill.
Down came they to the Financial District
To this caf</p>