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Challenge & Invitation: Self Portrait

Sex and Death

Sex and Death

Literotica Guru
Joined
Nov 29, 2005
Posts
697
I am enjoying reading the poems here, and getting to know the poets through them. It has flared my imagination, watching ghostly images of each of you materialize and enliven more with each read.

I thought it might be an intriguing and fun to challenge, even a manner of deepening community, to compose self portraits in poetry and share them here.

I'm suggesting a deadline: Monday, April 23. Poems to be posted between Friday, April 21 and Monday, April 23.

Anyone interested?

Please announce comittment before posting so we can all enjoy the anticipation.

I will send a reminder a week before the deadline to those who have comitted to the challenge.

Please make these non-erotic because I am also starting a thread for erotic self portraits: Challenge & Invitation: Self Portrait in Blue. I thought it deserved its own thread, this being Literotica and all.

S&D
 
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intriguing challenges! what a great idea!

i may need six months to write mine. :D


;)
 
I'll do this one...
if you all forgive me for not being a "real" poet... :eek:

and more people will commit, cuz I can't just hang myself out there like that if no one else is gonna do it, too...

gotta have a bunch more hanging out there with me...! :D
 
I'm in, mostly to get to know more of Selena, but for an interesting exercise as well.

Now to find that blue one too.
 
Ah, this be easier.

Not making any promises though.
 
Salvor-Hardon said:
I'm in, mostly to get to know more of Selena, but for an interesting exercise as well.

Now to find that blue one too.
Click to expand...

Cool! Welcome aboard. I'm certain your contributuions will be finger lickin' good. (Sorry, couldn't resist). :D

RE Selena, she's certainly more than worth knowing, in every way <grin>, but you and your 9 brothers should know she has a tomcat and that the last cat who attempted to let his fingers do the walking is now refferred to as Lefty. :devil: Lefty has been heard to say that it was definitley worth it, but he still has a helluva time tying his own shoes. :D Of course, I can't tie my own shoes when Selena walks by with those perky ears and that tail in the air, either, not to mention that rough little kitty tongue.

S&D
 
Of course, I can't tie my own shoes when Selena walks by with those perky ears and that tail in the air, either, not to mention that rough little kitty tongue.
Click to expand...


M-R-O-W-R ! :catroar:
 
Sex&Death said:
Cool! Welcome aboard. I'm certain your contributuions will be finger lickin' good. (Sorry, couldn't resist). :D

RE Selena, she's certainly more than worth knowing, in every way <grin>, but you and your 9 brothers should know she has a tomcat and that the last cat who attempted to let his fingers do the walking is now refferred to as Lefty. :devil: Lefty has been heard to say that it was definitley worth it, but he still has a helluva time tying his own shoes. :D Of course, I can't tie my own shoes when Selena walks by with those perky ears and that tail in the air, either, not to mention that rough little kitty tongue.

S&D
Click to expand...

Well, just from reading her posts on the boards she is a wonder to behold, and that tomcat has got to be the luckiest of 9 lives!
 
Me in brief highlights

Poet, Tinker, would be spy
That's the kind of man am I
Dreamer, Thinker, lost in time
Trying to put myself in rhyme

Student, lover, computer nerd
Appreciates the spoken word
Laughs outloud at stupid jokes
Bought a round for all my blokes

Charmer, scoundrel, raconteur
Gourmet chef with kebab skewer
young at heart, but getting older
Like Atlas, with the weary shoulder

A mug of piping hot black tea
Thinking of the inner me
Then with a sigh I take a pen
Cross out the lines and start again
 
Selena's Self-Portrait

Let me tell you about
a little girl lost
in search of daddy/god—
she is an accidental mother
and lover of beginnings.
Often she returns
to a feral, wild-eyed thing,
licking endless wounds
in need of deep, dark healing.
Mostly she feels hidden.
Did someone bury her alive?
Her tears have turned to dust,
her flesh to brittle bone,
and her tongue tries to speak the words
but no one can understand.
Her love could heal the world,
but if you touch her, she will crumble,
turn to dust under your fingers
and leave you empty-handed.
 
Self-Portrait (as he sees me)

I always look ready for bed
my eyes, dilated reflectors
of candlelight, are halfway
shrouded by lids, heavy
with sable lashes.

My hair, set free from pins
and ties, floats in deep
tannin pools around high
cheeks and scalloped ears.

His finger, beneath
the shallow dimple
at the centre of my chin,
lifts my face to better
see the flare of narrow
nostrils as I breathe
his potent fragrance
deep into the heart of me.

Two tiny teeth capture
one corner of a mulberry
lip, sliding silky
fullness between to fall
free and land in pouty
temptation exactly
where my mouth should be.

He whispers my perfection
as, finally, his own
two wonderful lips
take mine, his glorious
eyes so bright that mine
must close in reply.
 
You Ask Who I Am

There is a vessel of clay, fired
and tempered, full of the water of life,
that becomes empty when it is immersed;
water inside and water outside.

You ask who I am, you want to know,
and this is what I want to tell you, that I am not
that vessel, but I cannot say that to you.

I can only say that I have books whose chaliced
pages once and ever cupped the blood of my
humpty dumpty heart as it cracked open, hurtling
me from home onto the grail’s dark path.

I can only say that I have red quiet and angry
scars on my wrist and at my throat, sacrifices
for my truth, my woman, my children;
every rite of passage draws blood, marks flesh.

I can only say that now I search on trails
for sign of god; a broken branch, a cold print,
his dew breath condensed on leaves, his name
written under stones. My arrow is ready.

You ask who I am, you want to know,
and I can only say to you that who I am
is not this,

not this.


~S&D
 
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Dear Will
by My Erotic Tail ©

Dear Will:

I dare not tell
the men of musket and rye
that a poem was written
much less claim
it was I

For their views of worth:
a hundred yard bull's eye
wrestling a bear
after a keg
of ale or rye

I drinketh not
and for that I am shunned
but they're impressed
with my handling
of Griz and a gun.

That's the way of the forest
where I reside
but by candle light
my words to paper fly
by day
they I must hide

To be
or not to be
maybe a choice
but my mind is drawn
to script of a pen

I am no Romeo
Perhaps I am dull
But poetry grasps me
like Hamlet holds a skull

Life's tiny stage
you are known to rule
here you would be the fool
I feel you only know
how my pen is a tool

To remove my hand
would surely end my write
But that wouldn't stop
the words inside
my tongue would improvise

I write you now
cause I feel you know
the inner beast
that knaws at my prose
and my scribbles
in a candle's lite glow

Is there a cure
for my desires?
this need to write
an act or scene
or is it death
that awaits my poetry?

My dear friend Will,
I suffer a madness
in my head's sphere
a need to write
and tonight's,
to you,
William Shakespeare
 
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I am what I am

I am what I am

Throw away inhibitions, strip
the excess baggage, the whole
package chaff and voice
that sings of beauty
and peace. I am country, lover
under the sun's strokes,
friend around curved
shadows, rain and snow.
I am complex
yet simple.
I am woman.
I am what I am.

:rose:
 
Identity

I am
a number

defining I am
not an animal

I am a line of conversation

pieces of me will be picked up
with intent or unwittingly
to echo in further text

as I have adopted and assimilated
other's footprints as my world
and as my word

I am process, I am as you are
the start of the future
or man

all is that
which it is

except me

I not is
I am
 
An old one

A stranger’s face looks back at me.
Blood-shot eyes
in a morning glory mirror.
How haggard starts the morning,
this morning,
every morning.
The news is on,
It’s a new day
Painted smiles
tell me of the dirge,
just in time for breakfast,
breakfast of champions,
coffee and a cigarette.
Then out the door.
The great American dream,
the dream is dead
long live the dream
from lack of love
and time
and energy
at the ripe old age of forty.

A stranger’s face looks back at me.
Blood-shot eyes
in a morning-glory mirror.
Gray in the beard,
lines on the face,
pain in the eyes.
What happened to that young man
I saw yesterday?
Or was it the day before?
A bare wisp of a mustache,
a smile for all the girls.
The stranger smiles in memory.
(How pathetic.)
Dreams become memories,
children become life,
life moves on
and out.
Then memories become dreams
replayed ad infinitum.
 
Seen In Blue

whoops!!!! Forgot about this>>>>>>>>>

Seen In Blue

In youth I did not stop to see
The reflection that was to be me
Running too fast to win life’s race
To see the furrowed lines upon my face

I watched water flow its course
Between life’s rocks with no remorse
Each sunrise another day to pace
Footsteps sometimes wearily place

Slowing down as life passed me by
Realising time I could not buy
Age quickly catching up with me
Yet even so, my spirit is still free

So now the portrait of self is seen
Near time the slate to be washed clean
If seen in blue, it’s the skies reflection
Of mind and memories lost collection…
 
Thank You!

Never saw a room full of people exposing themselves so artfully! Thanks for sharing yourselves!

Salvor-Hardon…an ink smudged thumbs up, warmed by a cup of Darjeeling, to the roguish jack of all trades!

SelenaKittyn…waiting in fear of love’s unfaltering eyes to press her open, and its fearless hands to wipe the ash from her face, leaving her drenched in the honey of sunlight.

Champagne…the deep joy of her heavy lidded surrendered heart being uncovered relentlessly through his burning eyes.

My Erotic Trail…claiming his literary fraternity and, with sheer force of Will, bending muse o’er his mighty knee, poses the question, he, of what is manhood to thee?

Wildsweetone…an unapologetic bloom bravely displays her peaceful heart and beauty, singing forth from the conventional chorus.

Liar…an existential epic ode to the contemporary postmodern deconstructionist structuralist construction!

The Fool…hidden hopefulness, to make found object art out of such life refuse.

White Warlock…a train window blur of life lived and lost and found again and again.

Your contributions are inspiration to come up with yet another challenge thread! Steam is already coming out of my ears!

Thanks, all!

S&D
 
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Thank you for the challenge S&D. It turned out some incredible poetry and interesting insights, including your own.

:rose:
 
Kudos, S&D. Granted I can get lost in introspection but I do like the challenge of putting myself out there now and again.


Maybe the next round should be "Self portraits squared: illustrated poems"
 
I do everything in my own time.






Down to bleached bone
beyond the muscle wall and tissue
blood pumps through,
it's river courses
split into a million paths
behind the skin
behind the eye
the spark of life
where galaxy's were formed
deep to the begining
some where it was written
charted in the book of time
where I become the river
frozen and quiet
yet still moving
with the flow of life
glacier still down the face of the mountain​
 
Kind of inspired by Angeline so I tried a visual free verse poem sort of thing
 
Salvor-Hardon said:
Kind of inspired by Angeline so I tried a visual free verse poem sort of thing
Click to expand...

Well, she is less than impressed.

Cant blame a bloke for trying (too hard)
 
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