Poetry

[deldaisy]

The River, Jan, the allegory likening it to life is so true. Lovely poem. I like your other poem too, good advice.

Totally agree .....

[Batty]

Good poems, peeps!

Tread Softly

Tread softly o'er people's thoughts
For fear of trampling hearts,
A footprint left on mind and soul
Can tear a world apart.

Tread softly o'er people's hearts
For fear of trampling minds.
A thoughtless footprint can tread deep
And leave a trench behind.

A trampled mind can run on thoughts
On memories ne'er forgotten.
So softly tread near Mind and Heart -
Take care just where you've trodden.

[Tiffany]

Lovely, Batty.

[MongoGutman]

I'm gonna write like I know what i'm talking about. Which I don't - I just make it up as I go along, but I'll try to be honest, if arrogant.

Batty - The Control Freak confused me at first because I was thinking diskworld troll not internet troll, but I got it in the end and you got to the heart of the beast. The quadruple rhyme/verse is a hard one to pull off and I'm not sure if I like the repeated first/last line per verse, but then again I do like a structured poem - being able to convey meaning despite the self imposed constraints of rhyme and rhythm marks not only an artist but a craftsman(woman?) as well. I see this discipline again in Tread Softly, and am struck that both are very empathic messages - in the one you're warning others to beware of the monsters lest they get hurt, in the other you're asking that the reader be considerate of others.

Oberon, I hated The Tortoise Shout. I thought it was self indulgent, self pitying drivel. Sorry. No offence. I dislike that whole style of stream-of-consciousness writing so it had no chance with me.

Mina Bird I liked your September Song, which is saying something because I tend to be very resistent to first person poems, when the poet it the person in question (a character speaking in the first person is another kettle of monkeys). Although somewhat melancholic it managed to avoid the maudlin.

Tiffany This Road Once Lead to Camelot is superb. Bravo. I really like The Lady of Shallot, so could easily have felt that you'd denigrated it but no, it was well done. Just one thing: I want another verse, maybe in the middle, maybe on the end... I Can't Do It, well it's fun, which is enough in itself.

Jan the metaphore of The River works well and you worked it well but somehow it didn't engage me as it should, I don't know why - the ending maybe, but then the metaphore breaks down: the end of the river of life is death and unless you want the poem to finish on a real down note you're kind of stuck. Listening, not Listening was deceptively simple, but I don't really agree with the sentiments, at least with the "not Listening" part of it. But that's a matter of philosophy.

...And here's one of mine. This was mainly written as a two part exercise, first Most of my poems rhyme and have a strict verse structure and I wanted to see if I could do something decent that didn't and hadn't. Secondly it was an exercise in description, to try and evoke a visual response. It's probably too long but I've tried to edit it down and I can't. If you want the best from it then try and read it slowly and enjoy the journey rather than race to the end.

The Queen of Khittai

The Queen of Khittai lounged in silk and gauze
Upon the velvet cushions of an opalescent throne
Which crowned a marble dais, each step inlaid
With glyphs of lapis lazuli and mother of pearl
Beneath a crystal dome which so gathered light
That she was all bathed in a soft rosy glow.

A kings ransom of fine cut emeralds fell
Like trailing ivy strands from each rounded ear.
Upon her brow she wore a diadem forged of ore
From a fallen star and set with a thousand gems.
Between the ripe mounds of her ivory breast
Lay the Tear of Isis, that jewel of much renown
Sought by Gods and Heroes of many a myth and tale.

Tending her were princesses from fabled lands
Who offered sweetmeats of luxuriant delight.
- chilled with ice brought from distant mountains
By runners who, dying in their exhaustion
Whispered her name with their last gasped breath -
Else eased off her diamond encrusted slippers
To lave her perfect toes and dainty feet
With soothing balms mixed to secret recipes.

Marching either side of her league long audience hall
Were dragon carven jade columns between which stood
Ebon warriors in crimson turbans with ruby clasps
Adorned with peacock and ostrich feathers
And wearing voluminous pantaloons of cloth of gold
With gleaming tulwars unsheathed and held ready
To defend her honour, dignity and sacred person
'Gainst any that would to her do harm or offer
The slightest word to stand athwart her munificence.

Hourly high priests reading pictorial scripts
On ancient crumbling scrolls of parchment,
Sonorously intoned the long hidden prophecies
Inscribed by elder races, long lost and now forgot
That tell of the regal wonder of her coming
And the splendour of her rule.

Languid wreaths of cyan smoke from incense
Distilled from the petals of that dusky orchid
Which opens but once upon a moonless night
And blooming, dies, slowly curled and coiled
From censors swung by blindfolded acolytes.

Choirs of angelic children sang trilling songs
Of praise and adoration for her presence
And of their own joy for their lucky fortune
In having been born within the years of her reign
With voices which, untarnished by time's travails,
Were so simply sweet and pure enough
To silence the nightingale in envy and in shame.

Naked acrobats and tumblers leapt and dove,
Seemingly immune to Natures laws of flight and fall;
Jugglers spun scores of blades and flaming brands
In perilous balance and in high and dizzying cascades;
Fakirs making mystic passes to ululating wails
Performed feats of disappearance and transmutation;
Battalions of fools in motley cavorted and sprang
Absurdly capering in vain hope for her merest smile.

Grey bearded wise men hovered waiting for her beck,
Ready to offer all the wit and sage advice of their years
In all matters of justice, diplomacy, finance and state
Generals in gaudy armour of burnished bronze and steel
Discussed strategies and deployments, marking time
'Till she should unleash her armies in national defence
Or foreign conquest for the glory of her name.

Knots of courtiers in the colourful costumes of fashion
Formed and dispersed in the never ending patterns
Of plots and intrigue, commerce and conspiracy,
Seeking preference, advantage and promotion
Like fluttering birds of paradise in balletic display.

Kings and High Wazirs prostrated themselves before her
Displaying cedar chests full of gifts and tribute
Pledging their loyalty and obedience to her rule.
The world and all its peoples danced to her attendance
With utmost service and unquestionable devotion
Her whim their command, their reward her satisfaction.
And the Queen of Khittai wept.

…Mongo

[Jan Van Quirm]

Deep and true Batty - should be everyone's motto

Feeling a little off kilter today and deep and true struck home maybe...

Still and deep

Outside I am still.
No ripples. Deathly calm.
Inside the depths pull
and spiral, claiming
responses I cannot bear.

Within I am deep
and currents twist and turn.
Without, the façade
watches, silent, still,
thoughts only sinking in.

My mind. Still and deep.
Surface quiet and mute.
But sink down beneath
and the maelstrom swirls -
a riptide of the soul.

Deep and still. My love
deep like a vast blue ocean
undisturbed by waves,
harbouring lava,
that burns my lonely heart.

Still and deep. Life hides,
reflecting mirror-bright,
while cruel currents
erode my spirit.
And still waters run deep


That's actually quite an old one - well all my stuff is at least a year or more old as I haven't written anything new for aaaaaaaages.

[Jan Van Quirm]

Mongo - not arrogant Poetry's not objective - that's its antithesis. It has to have meaning if only to the writer, so whilst one person like the 'forms' others feel entirely frustrated with it. There's also the 'feeling' versus the storyteller aspect and I don't do the latter too often.

The River's a kind of a story and maybe if I put it in context - that it was a piece written for/by my Tolkien roleplay character who happens to be an elf and so, in that world, immortal then perhaps that explains why it goes on after the death. It's also one of the first poems I wrote 'for myself' i.e. not in a school situation. The continuation past the 'void' is therefore deliberate, but it works for this world too, in that death is perhaps not always the 'end' and also that rivers don't always end where you think they do. The Amazon for instance, rather than being tidal, pushes its fresh water over a hundred miles into the Atlantic so the 'wide seas' still to travel has resonance for the elf in a 'sailing into the West' which is paradise for them where they can live on (or again) till the world ends. From a human PoV the river is about life and experience and the sea is about endurance and the unknown perhaps - a carrying on that could be spiritual or at least a living on in memory maybe? That's the dichotomy I was thinking of when I wrote it anyway.

As you like stories with or without rhyme perhaps this one will make up for my usual maudlin repertoire. It's also about my roleplay character (who's in fact a changeling elf ) with the emphasis on play as this is almost complete nonsense and definitely meant to extract the urine...

Ears (unspecified version)

There once was a babe named Janowyn,
Whose dear little ears kept on growin’
These sweet Elven tips,
That her Mommy’s sad lips
were cryin’, 'cos their growth wasn’t slowin’.

Aldred, her step-dad round the room paced
Such a dilemma he never had faced.
He was truly dismayed
At the fuss those tips made
And a Healer was called – with all haste!

Now this poor man, he was almost clueless
On the pointy disease and its newness.
His talents were all spent,
And his instruments – bent
By the strong little tips in their pureness!

Had they paused to ask Jano she might
Have said “Love my ears” but her plight
Meant she wouldn’t -
Far too young, she just couldn’t.
So they all trekked to the City of White.

Now their plan was to ask of the great Queen
How such ears on a girl-child could be seen
And suddenly grow
‘Cos they just didn’t know
And by this time their size was – obscene!

Well the Queen, ne’er flummoxed, asked her father
If he’d tell, how they’d got in such mather
He said “’Course I can
‘Cos I am The Man,
The best healer in Arnor or farther!”

Well the Elf lord, of course he was wise
But these ears wore a cunning disguise
That, try as he might
The mystery stayed tight
As a clam, to their beastly loud sighs.

But this Elf Lord had more to his skill
Than some charms or a bitter-sweet pill.
So the Queen he did task
For Mom’s ancestry to ask,
And at last truth could finally spill.

Jano’s kin, they came from Dol Amroth
A town close by sea and wild wave froth.
Once a place that could tell
Of Elves from Nimrodel
And Dunedain mingled, so ’tis quoth.

So - half an answer they had finally got
That perhaps had been so hard to spot.
But now – where to look?
Such a long time it took
Findin’ theories that 'splained quite a lot!

Well Jaenarra, the Mom, finally told
Of Nazgul wounds, whilst her tummy still swoll’d.
Now although she was cured,
Her babe reeled as tho’ skewer’d
Like a fish, by cruel poison so cold.

Now comes the time for conclusion,
'Twas no cause to feel disillusion,
For Jano’s young blood
By kingsfoil ‘twas flood
When her Ma drank it strong by infusion!

'Tis said that kingsfoil it is strong
From it purged was that poison so wrong.
E’en with athelas 'twas said,
A human child might be dead,
So Jano clung to her Elven blood’s song.

Though different, Jano’s healthy and blest
With love, Elven ears and heart 'neath her breast.
She’s still Momma’s child -
Aldred’s love’s still beguiled
With her life’s blood - Elven noblest.

[Batty]

I thought I'd lighten the mood! This poem came to me when I was in the bathroom getting ready for bed, and had been thinking about flowers beginning to awaken once more.
It is a complete change in style and meaning.

Spring

The Sun shone out with all its power
It shone its warmth upon a flower,
That flower shook its leaves and stretched -
Its stem began to stand erect.
So it turned its face towards the Sun
Happy to see the Winter done!
And as it straightened up its back
It felt the warmth rise in its sap
It looked around upon the ground
New shoots, new Start, new buds abound!
Oh Happinness! Oh Joy of Spring!
To see New Life now blossoming!

[Batty]

Mongo - not arrogant Poetry's not objective - that's its antithesis. It has to have meaning if only to the writer, so whilst one person like the 'forms' others feel entirely frustrated with it.

Poetry is totally subjective and dependant on the mood of the writer.

I am enjoying people's different styles though, so keep them coming!

This poem I wrote this morning. It is true.

I hear the ghostly footsteps
Of someone who isn't there
It walks along the landing
Or else upon the stair.
It does not mean to frighten me
It does not mean to scare -
Yet I hear the ghostly footfall
Of someone who isn't there.

[Tiffany]

Super poems everyone & I would not dream to criticize any, my own are not perfect.
Though there are poems I like more than others & I love to rhyme. I have however written a prose poem, just the one. It started as a story, but a friend said changed a bit it would make a poem, so I changed it slightly.

Death Of A Tree.

Gone, is the landmark that showed me
from the main road where my house stood.
They came and cut down the huge Scots Pine
that stood at the back of our gardens,
on the other side of the lane.
For 15 years, we, my husband, neighbours and I,
had watched the antics of the Rooks
who nested in the Rookery at the top of the tree
and other birds going to and fro.

With chainsaws, ropes, tackle and lots of noise,
they cut the tree apart, piece by piece,
leaving until last the top most branches with their nests.
The next day, those also had gone.
I didn't interfere though I was very tempted,
but I'd arrived home on the Tuesday,
from work far too late.
They had already cut off the lower branches.
We couldn't have done anything anyway,
there is no preservation order on Scots Pines.

A few branches were dead,
it was very old,
maybe it was diseased?
Perhaps the people in the new house built close to the tree
thought it might fall on them one day?

Whatever the reason it is gone,
nothing can bring it back.
Seems terrible that a tree
taking close to 100 years to grow that large,
can be reduced to firewood in a few hours.

I feel sorry for the Rooks,
where will they nest now?
We shall miss them,
but mostly we will miss the tree.
In time, I suppose,
we can get used to the empty space in the sky
where it grew.

[Batty]

Jan, I loved Still and Deep. Your poems touch an emotional button, which I cannot quite discern - if that makes sense!
Ears bobbed along dancing to its own tune and rhythm.

Tiffany - I really enjoyed your poem as well. I rarely do prose as I feel that they are an excuse to write a short story and just label it as 'poetry', but yours is a poem - as are other people's efforts on this thread!

Well Done!

[MongoGutman]

Super poems everyone & I would not dream to criticize any, my own are not perfect.

well thanks for nothing then.

[Dotsie]

Not everyone is a critic Mongo, and not everyone who posts here wants to be criticised

[Jan Van Quirm]

It's how the criticism's done though so honest critique can be forgiven clumsiness if it's expressing a valid response and not intended to wound gratuitously (the Tortoise Shout was DH Lawrence's so it's fine to hate it if you want as he was paid for it! ).

The problem with poetry (rather than creative writing that may or may not be fanfic ) is that it is deeply personal - especially the 'not-a-story' sort, so really I think this thread is more about 'sharing' than picking over as people could be doing some 'soul-baring' and then even well-meant constuctive crit can burn too much?

Batty - you got the the emotion full throttle there as my 'Muse' (a magnificent scumbag) had just dealt me another double-edged blow of what he thought was nobility and I was definitely sitting tight on top of some volcanic feelings, some of which were definitely neither still, nor deep-seated! He was great at 'inspiring' words though - he wrote poetry too and had excellent artistic taste - here's a nicer one if a little prophetic to how it all panned out.

Close call?

I feel you so close – yet you are far away.
I reach toward you in my mind and sigh
My need for you, all night, all day.
I feel the fever and want you all the time.
You give me joy unstinting, yet I fear I’ll get
Too close for comfort and drive us both apart.

You are the candle to my moth, my fantasy,
Both light and heat. Forbidden. Free-falling
In passion and desire. I call you friend but feel
That you are so much more. And I know
I get too close for comfort, the more we learn
Each other, across the cold, wild sea.

So maybe it is best to have this distance.
Close enough in fascination and dreams
Of beauty and illusion shared, defined
Only by our boundless fantasies. So close.
So close my dear, as our passion climbs -
Unless? Until? We get too close to find our comfort?

[Batty]

I think you should take a cold shower, Jan!!

[Jan Van Quirm]

I did - frequently!