New Poetry Thread

mirinda said:
The fire rises in my throat, I spit it up, I cough, I choke.
The stinging flame it fills my eyes, I’ll burn you with your wicked lies.
Your words are vicious they reek of deceit; soon my revenge will be complete.
I burn your skin, I break your bones, you’ll fall ^broken, bleeding alone.
The hate seeps forth, it changes me, I’m not quite what I used to be,
¥ou woke the sleeping beast within, your hate is what will do you in.
You act as a self-righteous lord; you’ve fallen on your own sharp sword.
You bleed, you ache, you cry in pain, do you think your words were vain?
I hope you hurt, I hope you cry, I hope you’re asking yourself why.
Do you really think you’re true, so kind and filled with such virtue?
Inverted accentuation
The mirror reflects only the flesh; inside your heart is heart's a blackened mess.
Your eyes look out ^ judging us, we are ^whom you beat and cuss.
You draw some in with your false tongue with promises and a hidden gun.
The phantom lies within your soul; you don’t know that it has control,
Think yourself so fair and kind, ^ only in your perverse mind.
The truth you bend it to your will, those who argue shall be killed.
But no longer must I stay; the beast will beat you down today.
My fire chars your skin so fast I strike you down with one clean blast.
You’re Your words no more poison my air, the beast returns to her dark lair.​


I'm sorry if this is hard to read I can't seem to get it as broken up as the others. Hmph.
Click to expand...

Now you see why I don't do poetry. ^symbols indicate a missing beat in the rhythm, blue words are suggestions, things that could be taken out or changed to make it flow better; they should be fairly obvious.
 
Now, now, Chris, this isn't time for the red pen-or in this case, your blue.


I had noticed that myself reading it aloud but this is from her heart and soul, sir. The passion behind a poem matters far more than the rhythym and your blues. :)D)


Beyond that, though, any poem can change its tempo to fit almost anything. I suppose I should consider myself lucky you didn't dissect my last poem post here, Corruption of Wonderland.
 
Okay so I've fixed a couple things I hadn't noticed when I posted.




The fire rises in my throat, I spit it up, I cough, I choke.
The stinging flame it fills my eyes, I’ll burn you with your wicked lies.
Your words are vicious they reek of deceit; soon my revenge will be complete.
I burn your skin, I break your bones, you’ll fall broken, bleeding alone.
The hate seeps forth, it changes me, I’m not quite what I used to be,
¥ou woke the sleeping beast within, your hate is what will do you in.
You act as a self-righteous lord; you’ve fallen on your own sharp sword.
You bleed, you ache, you cry in pain, do you think your words were vain?
I hope you hurt, I hope you cry, I hope you’re asking yourself why.
Do you really think you’re true, so kind and filled with such virtue?
The mirror reflects only the flesh; inside your heart's a blackened mess.
Your eyes look out judging us, we are whom you beat and cuss.
You draw some in with your false tongue with promises and a hidden gun.
The phantom lies within your soul; you don’t know that it has control,
Think yourself so fair and kind, only in your perverse mind.
The truth you bend it to your will, those who argue shall be killed.
But no longer must I stay; the beast will beat you down today.
My fire chars your skin so fast I strike you down with one clean blast.
Your words no more poison my air, the beast returns to her dark lair.​





Hmmm bit better I think. Though I'm not sure how to make someone pick up the rythym I have for it, because it works fine for me.
 
I am aware of the fact I am not a poet (and probably just as well; one in the family is an elegant sufficiency, and my sister is a published poet) and generally leave well alone; but either you use the mnemonic accentuation of rhythm, and get it right – or you write blank verse.

Bits of this, the rhythm carries it along, pounding it into you. Other bits it limps, with no forward momentum. If these had corresponded to changes in the sentiment transmitted, I would have said naught; as it is, I suggest no major modifications.

All poets go over their work, tightening and improving (I've watched it happening). Even if the original inspiration is very powerful, the details can always be polished.
And indications of possible points for concentration can betimes be useful, even from a non-poetical technician.
 
This one is rather short, since I wrote because I was trying to make myself tired, nearly 7am and I haven't been to bed, company tonight and I'm going to sleep through it if I can't get some sleep.


Mockingbirds don’t sing for me
Lullabies of innocent dreams
Sing along my darling see, the monster is a part of me.
Rockabye baby don’t say a word, you don’t know what you just heard. Swaying high up in this tree, when the bow breaks will you catch me? Rock cradle rock you carry me, no sweet dreams I ever see.
Mockingbirds don’t sing for me
Tunes of childhood memories
Sing along my darling see, the monster is a part of me.
No diamond ring, no looking glass, rest for me will never last. Close your eyes cover them fast, maybe this bad dream won’t last. My bow broke my cradle fell, no one ‘round for me to tell. Down came baby, down came all, baby survived her great fall.
Mockingbirds don’t sing for me
Memories of what used to be
Sing along my darling see, the monster is a part of me.

​



You're not a poet and I am no expert in grammar, we are what we are, nothing wrong with that.
 
I like it Mir, and thats saying something because it isn't what I usually read. Flows well, reads nice and smooth :) Got some good imagery there too.
 
Poetry I kinda understand. Poems less so. So I'm looking at two poems on this page that look like poetry to me. The first one, "The fire rises in my throat, I spit it up, I cough, I choke..." (good grief, woman haven't you never heard of titles? :rolleyes:), in its original, un-Chrispied form works fine for me. I yield to no man, no nor woman neither, though by your smiling you seem to say so, in my respect for Chris's expertise, but in this I think there is another interpretation.

I read it as a performance, as if spoken in a theatre of combat, and all the halting rhythms worked for me bar one - the stress inversion as noted. I'm not sure if that's how poetry is meant to work or how poems are allowed to be, but I found that a broken beat allowed me a moment to find the anger and that - for me - was a vital part of the poem. Not only in the words, but in the phrasing and pacing. I'm neither expert enough nor clever enough to know if it's an acceptable form, all I can say is I could find it. I could follow it. I could perform it. Maybe it's a rap :)

The second, the Mocking Bird take is just exquisite, though. I love subversion of nursery rhymes and the like (and I really like Eminem, however un-trendy that may make me these days :p) .

Okay, you're right, I should probably say something negative, otherwise you'll start thinking I'm just a fanboy or something. Ermmm ... Okay. How's this: What, nobody gets the girl? That's not poetry, that's story telling! Bleaughhh!

Just went back a bit and found this:

mirinda said:
Waiting, running with my song, chased by winds so fierce, so strong .....
Click to expand...

This didn't work anywhere near as strongly for me and I think it's because of the absence of the subtlety that appears in the other two. It seems a little too "Here's what it is, here's my feeling about it, here's why you should feel that, too", certainly by comparison with the two above. I suspect you'll say there's more of your own raw feeling at the time in this one, but I also suspect that's why it isn't so strong.

Still, two out of three is a pretty good average.

Also bear in mind what I said at the top. I'm no expert, here :eek:

All comments meant with respect for your skill and the talent that has gone into your work, and only made with the best of intentions.
 
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Something that I wrote about an hour ago.

One Day

We stuck it through the bad days,
We stuck it through the pain.
There wasn't much we didn't know,
We flew and tumbled together as one.

I wiped away the tears from your eyes,
Waited with you until you were on your feet.
The sleepless nights, never changing,
The day would come, one day.

They tried to take you away
And I just held on tighter.
You keep me smiling,
Keep me wanting for a new day to come.
 
Many people prefer rhyming poetry but personally I hate writing it because a lot of the time I can't use the words that I want to use. So hence why I don't write rhyming poetry.
 
Make of this what you will.


Oxycodone​
​
Prescription pill, so round and white
To love you is wrong, yet so right
Your hold is strong through the night
Your powers call; I cannot fight

To kill my pain, I'll use you now
I wish to stop but don't know how
I've broken down, to you I bow
Sleep no longer haunts me now

My will is dead, it is now yours
You opened up all of my doors
You broke my mind, and snapped its cords
Drained me of my mental stores

Lock me up, destroy the key
There is no longer hope for me
It's like I'm drowning in the sea
The white pill's slave, no longer free

Prescription pill, so round and white
To love you is wrong, yet so right
Your hold is strong through the night
Your powers call; I cannot fight
 
I'm trying to sit down and do some proper writing but my brain won't sit still so this happened instead. It probably makes no sense, and is probably full of errors, but I figured I'd post it just so I feel like I've done something productive! :D

Mafia Lions
A dozen yellow dandy lions
Six with hats and six with frock coats
Visit stores and there they try on
Big purple bow ties at their throats

Although their manes are coiffed and clipped
And their whiskers are long and curly
They’re still lions and are equipped
With sharp claws and muscles burly

A dozen yellow dandy lions
With sharp suits and muscles bulging
Spread fear throughout all the aeons
With secrets I’m not divulging.
 
Haven't tried much poetry for a long time, because I like to eat.
This is the place to try a spontanoid proem. and it will be neat
To have Chris come in and make it reet.


Wandering, writhing, and blind as a leech
he yells at the cars as they pass on the street
Some people cross over - stay out of his reach !
Another street loonie, ranting and mad
Invisibly living in a private street niche
At home where there's none to be had.
No time to pity him, no need to pray,
all will be well - today is check day.






sspare change ? :)
 
riff raff said:
To have Chris come in and make it reet.
Click to expand...

What, some masochist who actually wants me to comment on poetry?

All right, then. The first three lines:-

Wandering, writhing, and blind as a leech
he yells at the cars as they pass on the street
Some people cross over - stay out of his reach !

have a splendid driving rhythm that drags you along with it (I suppose that, since it is in three four, it is technically a canter, not a gallop; but powerful, nonetheless) The fourth:-

Another street loonie, ranting and mad

has a perfectly good rhythm, but not the same as the previous ones, so the forward momentum stumbles a little. The fifth:-

Invisibly living in a private street niche

has a syllable too many. Remove the "a", and it charges along with the first ones, unstoppable until the sixth:-

At home where there's none to be had.

, which is short of three syllables to continue the progression, and stops the motion a couple of lines early. Nothing wrong with it as a line; in another poem it would be fine, but here it's too short. Particularly that the seventh uses the original energy to lead into the different, terminating last line.

No time to pity him, no need to pray,
all will be well - today is check day.

As regards the rhyme scheme, I like it (even the winceworthy "niche" with the perfect "leech" and "reach") but it's a slight pity that there is nothing for "street". Maybe an internal rhyme, a "complete" or "concrete" in the middle of the short sixth line (no, I am not allowing you the "because I like to eat" in the header. For shame.)

There are now going to be those who decry this post, claiming you don't judge poetry like that. Of course you don't; you feel it, but my analysis merely followed the roughnesses I had already felt.
 
Sitting at home,
Ah, now I feel great
Will fix up my poem
N' make it first-rate

This fine Chris review
Has straightened me out
I no longer feel
Like a syllabic lout.
 
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