drummondo

Beware the poet's curses three; Depression, loneliness and thought. Your pen shall bind thee; verses wrought With passion, pride or even jealousy. For sometimes, finding I'm without The joys of life, as others share, I spit my spite as words, and wear My label; "Useless poet", I don't doubt. But why continue writing such Depressing and disjointed verses? Addition to the list of curses; My pen and I are one. I thought as much. And so, on every noiseless night, No light alighting from my eyes, I still can't sleep, such futile tries. Do other poets feel this restless plight? Please, let me go, I cannot write Another thought-out set of lines, I've run out several thousand times, But still the harsh words hit, with no respite. Now, watch the car pull up; a dead, black hearse, And ponder as to how it could get worse, For you could try to capture death in verse, And so, miss out on life; the poet's curse. Help me :<

Sleep walks my weary mind In search of certain rest, But all that it can find Are second thoughts, at best, And though the drooping windows slowly fade, My pen rejects relief, and writes, unswayed, And, on the paled page, The words of weakness weave A playful web; their stage Is but a slight reprieve From unfilled hopes of dreaming in one's bed, For we have thought - the poet's curse - instead. New line: "An endless parade of partners"

It's finished anyway, I don't want to talk about it... The blooded curses, worsening the air, In wooded, green tranquility, rage free, While branches in the wind sway with despair Around the figure of the youngest tree. An elm, to signify an untold pair, With intertwining roots and banded heart, And colours that the leaves and insects share Whilst hiding from the sudden form of art Of death in nature's grasp, without a care For peaceful silence, lonely with the birds, Where thoughts of you dare not covertly flare, And I can live without your weary words. "It ends tonight," I scream, and with cold hands, I fell the helpless elm tree where she stands.

I couldn't live without music I could, however, still play guitar when blind. EDIT: So I choose blindness

So for those who are still pondering on the first two lines; The time in the poem is 12:02. Twelve chimes, and 120 seconds. "Modern Time" is a digital clock, when you see 12:02 on a digiclock and kinda squint, it looks a bit like her name... 12:02 R: o z :< And I've now found out she's kinda got another guy on the go, the question is, do I still let her know I like her? :\ Sorry to turn this into a relationship advice thread :\

If you're really clever, you can figure out her name from the first two lines. I'm talking "Sherlock Holmes"-clever though. You can have a cookie if you can even be bothered trying

I wrote this for a girl, but I'm scared to show it to her. In your experience, do girls get freaked out by guys writing them poetry? :< And is this a decent enough sonnet? And is romance dead? And should I show her? :< Twelve chimes, one hundred ticks, and twenty more, And modern time displays your fatal name, Which stops my breath; an effort to restore My thoughts leads only to your face, the same Resplendent beauty keeping me, less bold, From reaching out at once to hold your hand, Or offering my arms against the cold, Upon that night that you and I did stand, Awaiting signs of romance. Who'd have known That one such night, alone, could symbolise An interest more serious than shown? For even as I looked into your eyes, And longed to hold you closer, (I still do...) I couldn't say a simple "I like you..."

Is "Overwhelming" a good thing or a bad thing? :\

I wrote the majority of this as a text message in my phone last night, because I was in bed, kept awake by the wind, and couldn't find a pen. Autumn Strolls And Seasonal Observations The cold breeze bites, and frosts our very sight, Enough to bring a tear to one's eye, With waves of wind cracking against our backs, And dead leaves surfing silently upon the autumn sky. Their scarves of red, wrapped round, for mother said "You'll catch your death", but still they play their games, And tag their mates, a child's control of fate, Amid the blend of silent leaves, and screaming of their names. And in the wake of wind, upon the lake, The ripples rolling rapidly across The water, try to show that in the sky, The clouds move just as quickly, though they lack the liquid's gloss. Along the tree-lined road, in sadness, we March slowly through the lifeless leaf parade, And comment on the beauty ranging from "They look so peaceful", to "I liked the range of reds they made." Imagine, when the time comes and you then Pass on, to words like "How the white of fear And sadness lies in unconnected eyes, And joins the pale, drained face he wears, now bland; devoid of cheer." For you shall know the envy of the trees, As we find beauty in the death of green, Such picturesque scenes, toyed with by the breeze, A massacre of red, yet so serene. For jealousy would haunt the minds of ghosts, Could they return to life in thought alone, And, vengeful apparitions in the night, As autumn mists amidst the failing light And falling leaves, may bring themselves to tears For even plotting crimes against the pure Resplendant glory of an autumn leaf, However hestitant its graceful drop. The listless leaves are weakened as they weave Their weary path away from tree-tops, tall, Laughter was once childish innocence, But now it mocks and ridicules; just watch the children fall.

I'm 18

It's random, I'll give you that O_o I think it should be longer. Randomness gives you an unlimited canvas on which to paint your words. Make use of it

The house always wins, eh :< Very thoughtful poem, made me think a lot about relationships. I loved the rhythm of it to begin with, and I figured that the way it changed and became a little more disjointed towards the end was symbolic of the way a relationship does much the same thing. The word "wiffle" made me laugh. If you're after card imagery, I think you may have meant "riffle", which is another term for shuffling. The line "Black and red, clubs and spades" didn't make sense to me; I figured it would have been a little better to have a black and a red suit used as an example; I also would have gone with "hearts and spades", because there's the double meaning of having "hearts layed out on the table". If you don't mind losing that rhyme with arrayed, perhaps "hearts and clubs" would be even better because hearts are fragile, and clubs are menacing weapons. You also repeat "whisper" towards the middle, which I think detracts a little from the flow of the poem. Apart from these opinions/slight faults, I thought this was an extremely original piece, and I enjoyed reading it. Good job

I figured I'd bump this with a sonnet I've been working on. For I'm A Simple Poet I feel a father's joy when watching words Awaken, crawl and walk to form a song; A different glee, to spot a flock of birds In angular formation; is it wrong To look at separate beauty with such rare Intent to capture nature in its glory? And do the swans themselves resolve to stare At frozen trees, and spare thought for their story? They say that writing's much like life, for I'm A simple poet, trying to make his way Through many a twisted plot or storyline, And, dealing with emotions every day, Still nature leaves me speechless, full of awe; The whiteness of the ice in words; so pure.

I think I gave you all or most of my comments on IRC last night, but here's a summary anyway. It's easily one of the most heart-felt poems I've read in a long time, but it also reminds me of war poetry in that it shows almost satirical contempt; the war poets used to show their resentment of war through satire and cynicism, and the way you end this piece shows contempt for the health system, or something. It's very touching. The layout, as I said, is interesting. Stanza one concentrates on your relationship with the guy, stanza two is almost like a eulogy, and would be the part at which I would cry if I had any emotion at all, and stanza three shows the aforementioned satirical contempt for the health system. I think I may be alone with this one, but I took a lot from simply the first and last lines: "Easily the fittest man I ever knew, He died of complications." This perfectly demonstrates how fragile we all are, and gave me a lot of perspective in a way. Anyway, this was brilliantly written and very touching. I have no doubt it would've made the guy proud.

I love the rhyme scheme, and your rhythm was pretty strictly used too, which was nice. I can't really comment on the content of the piece because I don't know the people involved as well as you do, but the initial verse contains some rather brilliant imagery An impressive poem structurally, and, I assume, with some... errm... "meaningful" meaning By the way, here's a weird coincidence for you; our Yorkshire Terrier had puppies around seven weeks ago (if anyone likes pictures of puppies, PM me), and we decided to keep one of the males. We've also decided to call it Finnius, before I was aware of your own existence So we have a dog called Finn

A Quickly-Etched Edit I realised my last post may have seemed Foreboding in a harsh, threatening way, But understand that waiting to be deemed Acceptable for a public display In such an office, capable of driving Dead men to regret their loss of choice Of leaving, or remaining and contriving Such ways to spread their words without a voice, Could lead an applicant to turn to terror, And make one reconsider his real reasons, I think suggesting violence was an error, Forgive my lack of patience, and my treason, I simply crave acknowledgement, not war, Be it "Yes", "No", or "Could you write me more?"

Bored Belligerence It seems the wait is longer than at first I'd planned for; and my patience wears quite thin. I wonder if my sonnets have dispersed Rumours that I am unable to spin A rhyming narrative. Now, still I wait For judgement, and I cannot stand this strain, And forced I am to metrically relate My boredom, in a bid to entertain Myself and others (and it also might Add to my quest to join your writing ranks). I'll add another sonnet out of spite And leave without acknowledgement or thanks If I'm not seen before the twenty-third; Six days before I wage my war of words.

The first thing I noticed here is that there are rhymes, but that they don't follow any obvious scheme. None of them seem forced, which is a good thing, but I think I'd like to see it organised into more structured stanzas from a poetical point of view. In terms of content, what you have so far is very well written, I liked this bit in particular: Irony's face is a deathly shade, Paling in comparison To the affliction of my soul. I also like the way you begin with "I am", and then conclude "I am--afraid" I guess one would argue that it could be longer; there's a lot you could write about how are stuck with the "miserable flesh", and how it hinders you in some ways. You could get some decent imagery out of being cut/injured, stuff like that. Illustrate the weakness that leads to the fear, if you know what I mean. What you have so far is good though, very original idea

I like its tone, although the word "nostrils" doesn't fit with said style. I think, if you changed "nostrils" to "mind" or something similar it would fit a little better, because "nostrils", to me at least, is a) too scientific and too harsh a word for use in such a poem. I agree with Wyvern that it could use expansion; as it is, it's nice to read, but it doesn't say as much as it could. You've got this opportunity, now dead, to show the beauty of nature, the sheer uncomprehendable splendour, and yet maintain a massive element of depression at the fact that you can't touch it. It's a brilliant idea for a poem, and you should definitely make more of it. I particularly liked the suggestion of suicide in the final line; a bullet to the mouth, to me, suggests shooting yourself. This, too, links with the regret of not being able to touch the beauty of the world; in this way, you could bring out the idea of wishing you hadn't done it a bit more. Anyway, interesting piece, and well-written so far. I'd love to see a more elaborate version though. Good stuff

Misplaced Musings... While sitting, waiting silently and still, I find the time to pen my thoughts; I ponder Perilously close to boredom, 'til Disturbed by sleep, my mind resolves to wander; If it takes so long to get to each Potentially accepted application, Why then, must we sit ever in reach Of absence from one dragon on vacation? Instead, we could be sitting down outside, To watch the world at play beneath the sky, Where poetry and inspiration hide; It's hard to conjure lines inside this dry, Intolerably lifeless waiting room, I'm contemplating leaving pretty soon.

I'm not sure if this is allowed, I figured it didn't deserve its own thread, even though it's all my own work. Basically, I set myself my own first line today; "Mere moments make men mad" And I changed it to fit into iambic pentameter, and came up with this poem; Time; Unsigned Mere moments make men mad; my own meek mind Masks not my many malliable mights. Instead, while waiting wistfully, the white Incessant glow of glorified, unsigned Cold contracts closes in; control reclined. And, fitting though it seems to brag or boast Of potent hopes and soon-to-be tied times, A second thought, minute, steadily climbs And makes its humble home higher than most; Indifferent to the will of its host. Now, waning with the light of gloomy skies, And labouring to drag the pen across The paper, in an effort to emboss A signature; I fold the unsigned lies, And fling the paper plane; Oh! How time flies! So yeah, see if you can do any better

Wishing For Warm Welcomes, Without A Word... As I am not inclined to write at length Of visits to this office of such planned Procrastination, I shall use my strength Of words, and write poetically, off-hand. This sonnet form alone should show my sheer Unmeasurable love for words and verse; I could not even bring myself, I fear, To play the role of applicant, and curse At Wyvern's late replies and stuttered wit; Instead I'll pen this poem on a scroll, And then, without a whispered word, submit My application, character and soul, And wait, although the hours may seem cold; For warmth resides in this pen that I hold.

I found, once you'd explained the two different voices, that I read it rather like a play. Nice rhyming throughout, and very original presentation. Also, although one doesn't notice when reading the two voices separately as it is so easy to do with the different colours, you maintain a decent rhythm for all the lines. The only line that differed from the rest was line 5, it seems to be missing two syllables. May I recommend "Through all this useless nonsense far...", or words to that effect. There are the obvious schizophrenic connotations; you explained that it was two different kinds of people, but it could still be the same person debating in their own mind. From another perspective, I can also see it as an argument between two lovers. In this respect, it's a very interesting piece, well presented I could do a more detailed breakdown of the bits I liked, and thoughts I had, but basically all you need to know is that I enjoyed reading this piece, it was very poetic in its nature while still maintaining an obvious air of originality. Good job EDIT: My only negative comment would be on the line "You see? You lie! You see (Or saw)", it's too repetitive. While I'm with the negativity, however, I will also point out the repetition of "detract" and "flaw", which I noticed. Only minor quibbles though

I like the rhythm of lines 1 and 2, they flow well together. The sudden change in tone between lines 2 and 3 is nicely done; it presents the almost remorseful end to this stanza rather well. The line "Do they only exist in my memories?" is a bit of an anomaly here; it has a weird rhythm, is a single-line stanza and just doesn't seem to fit. I notice that the following stanza has only three lines, so I assume it kinda tacks on to that, but it doesn't fit with the iambic pentameter that you seem to achieve in said final stanza. Moving on to the last three lines; I love the line "If that is true, where will my children play?", brilliant use of the aforementioned iambic pentameter. The same can be said for the final line, but the penultimate one could use a little rewording; may I suggest "On dirty pavements full of razor blades." That way, you can keep the flow of the rhythm and meter for the entirity of the last stanza. Nice poem though, I liked the meaning and the images at the end were well done. I was saying to someone just last night that I was disappointed at the lack of poets using certain meters, but you have revived a little of my former hope and enthusiasm Good job

I Won't Be The One To Leave: Part I He takes his pen; His name, engraved in gold upon the side, Catches the light Of interrupted glimpses from the moon Through clouds so white And pure, (But only for the night's illum- -inating glow), and then He writes a saddened letter to his bride; "I love you not, we cannot be, We live our lives without the 'v' Of virtue or valour, for love relies On truth, and it should come as no surprise; Our lives are lies." He makes a seal; A tear falls and lands beside his name Signed at the base, And, finished now, he scans his means of murder As his face Contorts in realised disgust, and further- More, he does reveal That worried look of doubt; A sign of shame. He strikes a match To signify the partnership between Husband and wife, And, holding flame to paper at the base, He takes the life Of murderous thoughts; instead he does replace Them with a patch Of charred, black words, which now resolve to mean; "I love you, We live for love" He notes the play Of flames upon his desk, and can't believe He ever thought To question love. Reflected in his eye The fire is caught By wind, and slowly now the passion dies, As if to say; "My darling, I won't be the one to leave." ~ I Won't Be The One To Leave: Part II I take your hand, and lead you past a stream, And note the glint of sunlight in your eyes, Yet as I plunge the knife in, you still scream, And leave a look of terror and surprise. I grasp your locks of auburn as you fall, And give you a slight push, so that you'll land Right in the water. You don't even call For help, you simply smile and hold my hand. And then I wake, a knife upon my bed, And remnants of a doll, sliced, on the floor, Her hair, due to the draught, is fairly spread. I take the knife and lock it in a drawer, And thread the key upon a golden chain; A gift to you, to show we shall remain. Thanks to all who take the time to read it fully. Comments appreciated