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Discipline

greenmountaineer said:
December 1984

The lion will be sacrificed
when it creeps
like fog in the night
through village streets
where infants sleep
naked and brown
as their parents once did

while those in high places
make love,
perhaps with their wives
or someone else,
but absent that
they will with themselves
under their well balanced sheets.
.
Click to expand...

finely balanced, imo.

the title gives all the pointers but doesn't get in the way of the write.
 
todski28 said:
Writing like this corndog makes me realise I'll never be a poet, brilliant poem.
Click to expand...

*stern look over the top of my glasses*

don't do that. it's silly.

you, of all people, have something deep and fierce and raw that you're learning to harness and polish without it looking bling. you've also started to allow the more delicate nature of some emotional content some leeway in your writes, without sliding into mawkish sentimentality or juvenile overstatement.

so... behave. :cool:
 
I don't write poetry now and I suppose this isn't good poetry and on a subject that is probably better not touched. But I had to respond to the image I saw on the news.

how to lose the propaganda war
kill children and blame the parents

the man with the expression
of having a corkscrew through his heart
is returning from the market
with the remains of his son
in a plastic bag

this he is told, is his fault
his fault his grandparents were cleansed
his fault, no state protects him
his fault, he is a refugee his whole life
his fault for living in a prison camp
his fault, no one cares

in the plastic bag, is a smashed head
a jumble of limbs and an odd bit of torso
blood leaks and pools like acid
etches another stain on holy earth
and renders history an irrelevance

god has witnessed his own offence
and left the scene of the crime
left them to create their own hell
where the weak are blown apart
and the strong have lost their hearts

on TV the smug spokesman
educated and fluent in Newspeak
explains in reasoned tones
how the father is at fault
for being what he is, where he is
and for not being one of them
 
bogusagain said:
I don't write poetry now and I suppose this isn't good poetry and on a subject that is probably better not touched. But I had to respond to the image I saw on the news.

how to lose the propaganda war
kill children and blame the parents

the man with the expression
of having a corkscrew through his heart
is returning from the market
with the remains of his son
in a plastic bag

this he is told, is his fault
his fault his grandparents were cleansed
his fault, no state protects him
his fault, he is a refugee his whole life
his fault for living in a prison camp
his fault, no one cares

in the plastic bag, is a smashed head
a jumble of limbs and an odd bit of torso
blood leaks and pools like acid
etches another stain on holy earth
and renders history an irrelevance

god has witnessed his own offence
and left the scene of the crime
left them to create their own hell
where the weak are blown apart
and the strong have lost their hearts

on TV the smug spokesman
educated and fluent in Newspeak
explains in reasoned tones
how the father is at fault
for being what he is, where he is
and for not being one of them
Click to expand...

Who gives a shit whether it is good poetry (which I think it is), or not? It is saying the truth and that's good enough for me.
Good poetry devoid of reality is not poetry at all. Your choice of subject should be one of our main choices. As for your expression is straight forward. What more poetical?
Thanks.
 
todski28 said:
Writing like this corndog makes me realise I'll never be a poet, brilliant poem.
Click to expand...

I'm glad the poem worked for you.

And I second Butters' comment: you show tremendous insight and commitment to the craft.

Related to the comment above regarding honesty in poetry, I agree that it is a necessary component. But it is not sufficient. Poetry remains art, and that, too, is required.

What is art? Art is what I like.
 
butters said:
*stern look over the top of my glasses*

don't do that. it's silly.

you, of all people, have something deep and fierce and raw that you're learning to harness and polish without it looking bling. you've also started to allow the more delicate nature of some emotional content some leeway in your writes, without sliding into mawkish sentimentality or juvenile overstatement.

so... behave. :cool:
Click to expand...

are you saying I'm getting all flowery?? :p

ok, point taken *looks at ground, scuffs foot*
sorry :D
 
silent screams and jumbo shrimp
life is full of oddities and half truths
maybe that is why
we find solace in fantasy
 
i wonder which way you take her
i wonder what makes it real
are you kissing her slowly
do you cherish her like you ought
are you making her real

is it because her eyes are always open
and that she's so serene
she never asks for what she wants
never bruises, never bruises and never bleeds
is it because she loves you so indiscriminately

i could never be so perfect
and i never forget a grudge
but she's not flesh and blood
so who am i to judge
 
I don’t want polar bears in my backyard
or my cells to randomly replicate
or all the coral to bleach and die
while my great grandchildren drown
in forever rising seas but

I want a passport of plausible deniability
and a new mythology that carefully places
blame on the intangible and avoids
the individual. I say bring back the unseen
scapegoat, maybe a giant or a witch
to edit the global narrative so I can
have fries with that and always answer
last call with a yes. I want no windows
to the world and a painting
instead of a mirror so I can happily-ever-after
drive my guilty conscience to work
in the car pool lane and fight
for the window seat on morbid flights
of fantasy to see Venice
before it sinks and Pisa’s Tower
before it falls all the while thinking
it’s somebody’s else’s problem.
 
bogusagain said:
I don't write poetry now and I suppose this isn't good poetry and on a subject that is probably better not touched. But I had to respond to the image I saw on the news.

how to lose the propaganda war
kill children and blame the parents

the man with the expression
of having a corkscrew through his heart
is returning from the market
with the remains of his son
in a plastic bag

this he is told, is his fault
his fault his grandparents were cleansed
his fault, no state protects him
his fault, he is a refugee his whole life
his fault for living in a prison camp
his fault, no one cares

in the plastic bag, is a smashed head
a jumble of limbs and an odd bit of torso
blood leaks and pools like acid
etches another stain on holy earth
and renders history an irrelevance

god has witnessed his own offence
and left the scene of the crime
left them to create their own hell
where the weak are blown apart
and the strong have lost their hearts

on TV the smug spokesman
educated and fluent in Newspeak
explains in reasoned tones
how the father is at fault
for being what he is, where he is
and for not being one of them
Click to expand...
I may want to use this in another thread, asking for your permission
This is reminiscent of a drone incident in Kandahar, that surprise, no one cared to hear about.
And really how much more artifice would be appropriate?
 
Tzara said:
Orlando’s Lost Soliloquy from As You Like It, Act III

[Enter ORLANDO, solus, holding a sheet of foolscap.]

The way a drawing is a thing but not
The thing that's being drawn, so is this poem
A portrait sketched in words wherein I've caught
Small semblance of her speech, her charm, her pose.
Impressions, gathered, flow here into ink,
Becoming undulations in a pond,
Where her reflection’s rendered indistinct,
As if it wasn't her I'd written of.
My letters blur and fade upon the page
Although I've written carefully and sure,
Her beauty's seen as if through smoke and haze,
My rhymes exposed as trite and immature.
Great poets can, for love, extemporize;
We lesser ones best quote and memorize.
Click to expand...

Nicely done, Tzara. Iambic pentameter and a Shakespearean sonnet as well.
 
Or forever hold your peace

Speak to me
With dis eased lips
Over foam spittled dry tongue
About what bleeds your heart
About what cramps your brain
About the empty glass and
Full platter before you
Pull me under your empty oceans
Hold me there
Kicking and fighting to surface
Until I drown
And I will love you forever
In that moment
 
Trixareforkids said:
Speak to me
With dis eased lips
Over foam spittled dry tongue
About what bleeds your heart
About what cramps your brain
About the empty glass and
Full platter before you
Pull me under your empty oceans
Hold me there
Kicking and fighting to surface
Until I drown
And I will love you forever
In that moment
Click to expand...

I really liked this trix
A passionate plea for passion
After reading it, i did again, going directly from the first line to the last
~speak to me
in that moment
And all the deep oceans in between spawned life
 
pensivepoet said:
I really liked this trix
A passionate plea for passion
After reading it, i did again, going directly from the first line to the last
~speak to me
in that moment
And all the deep oceans in between spawned life
Click to expand...

Thanks Pen.

It feels unfinished to me, but I'm not sure what the rest is supposed to be.
I like your line there, hmmm...
 
You've lost her eyes
to everything and nothing
on the table. Latte steam rises
past her lips which suck indulgently
on a cinnamon stick while her fingers
unconsciously touch the lemon
you requested for your tea-like them
she is both sweet and sharp.
Your mistake is in hunting
for her tangible self and in thinking
you can find nirvana
in deciding not just her answers
but also her questions. The monotonous
basso of the bean-grinder layers
with the cappuccino-maker’s soprano
but even their duet cannot drown
the half-bitten words rolling
back and forth in this argument
that condenses the longer it continues
until even from the corner of the café
I can almost see slick words, collecting
between you like a web of dying
insects full of poison, waiting
to be fully consumed later
or for a magnanimous hand
to sweep the toxic silk away.
 
We must embrace the snow
for it comes whether
we welcome it or hide
beneath the covers
of a poorly made reality
consisting of short-sheets
and even shorter sight
that tells us to close
our eyes instead of diving
into the eternal white
and lying on our backs
to at least recreate the impression
that angels exist on earth.
 
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