NickCall

A realm of poetry I don't much find myself entering. Poetry emphasizing love or even a deep affection for usually fall too short of my own expectations. I think just about everything I can delve into on the subject falls short of the goal, so I try and just keep things simple. Though this has already been given to my girlfriend, to her approval, I'm sure I'll feel inspired to write her another, and I wouldn't mind pointers on making it...better in general. I don't have a specific complaint about it, I just don't feel it good enough for her, is all... Anyway, I never want to cloud the message of poems like this, so they are usually far more simplistic than my other stuff, and contain little to no metaphorical or allusory references. Is it a sin to bask in your skin? Velvet blankets to embellish; caress. Is it insane to swim in your eyes? Deeper than oceans; glistening like stars. Is it selfish to revel in your smile? Soothing and warming; comforting and compelling. Is it childish to wish you the world? Give all that I can, and that I cannot. Is it foolish to think you'd have better? That I am a taint, rough and crude. I dwell on such thoughts, and come to realize; Though you are the world's beauty, for me you have eyes. I am adorn, with good fortune my dear; With your caring and compassion; My loving Panda Bear.

It's really an old work, and oddly enough bears no allusory element towards Eve at all Though it is funny to step back and see that there now. The original intent of the poem was actually to be a message, just a vent. If I get bored one day, I'll re-work it, but inspiration long lost, it might not be suitable I do appreciate the extensive critique, though.

Actually, I like that input. I'll take that and run with it, see if I can't alter those lines involving sunlight. My older themes, the ones I liked doing, were light-based themes. But the focus on this poem isn't so much the light, as you pointed out, but rather the element. Water is the focus. Perhaps, and this might fit with a deeper meaning in the poem itself, is the ironic nature of water: That it is needed for life, but can take it as easily. Unless the impact of the brooding nature of the work would be hindered by such a break-up strain, so to speak.

[Mr. C hands over the forms with a reluctant grunt; emitting an exhasperated sigh as the large lizard claws at it greedily. He then gives a light grin as the over-grown iguana is rather taken a-back by the letters "I O U" scribbled all over the form with a green-crayon.] Sorry, Wyvern, told you I had no Geld to give. Though... [Mr. C nods towards the table behind Wyvern's desk. In it is a rather extensive collection of live octupi of various natures] I believe that was the alternative? Makes a suitable decoration, I think. As you said, had to entertain myself somehow, so I built you an aquarium.

DEADLINE An Original Concept Nick C. The rain dumped down by the gallons, outside, washing away the heat of a lonely night. I stood under the awning of the International Inquisitor, listening to the soft roar of the falling drops. I leaned on my knee, waiting for my last knock to draw some attention. A small hole in the door slid open, and a mean-looking pair of eyes glared at me, just begging me to start some trouble. The gruff gorilla behind the door bellowed at out me, snorting betwixt his own words. It took me a minute to piece together what he was saying, like a badly made jigsaw puzzle, but I got the gist of it, “Whatcher business here, Jack?” The name wasn’t Jack, it was Murphy, Joe Murphy, “Name’s not Jack, Mister; it’s Murphy. I believe that your boss is waitin’ for me inside?” He slid the peep-hole shut, and I could hear the clank of the locks. The door creaked open, moaning like a… well, just moaning a little. The door could use a good oiling, and I knew just the fellow that could take care of that. “You got a creaky door, there, Mister. I know someone who can fix that right up.” I just got a grunt. He certainly was a gorilla. Large, hairy forearms bulged out in a funny sort of way out of a prime-tuxedo. Tears along the elbow tell me his tailor wasn’t the brightest fellow. He had a face that looked like it was beaten in with a sledge-hammer. His forehead and chin protruded out, but the center looked pushed in. I almost felt sorry for the oaf; best he could do with his life was guard the door of some tabloid paper’s offices. One hairy arm lifted up and pointed me towards a stair case, which I began walking to, with a tip of my hat, of course. The stairs creaked underneath my steps a fair bit as I clambered up slowly. In that slow ascent, I reflected on how I even got into this position. Well, it started after I lost my last job… I used to be an investigative reporter for the Dim Street Tribune; I was a star reporter, too. I got to the bottom of all my cases and provided all the right facts. But there was a time I had went too far. Jimmy “Two-Fingers” Johnson has not had the most pristine of reputations. In fact, he was quite well known as a gangster. In my naïve pursuit of bigger stories, I tried to finally link the fellow to a number of crimes. But when I finally delivered the paper on deadline, my editor was rolling on the floor with laughter, telling me no one would buy that heap of story. Apparently I got my facts mixed up, and my job taken away… …At least that’s what I was told. And that brings me here, standing in a grungy staircase of some run-down building in the middle of Chicago, cursing myself for getting in this mess. And more so for only being able to get a job at a tabloid. Should be a cush-job, though. Just make a few things up, turn it in, and let these nobodies pay my way through the rest of my life, while I retain some shred of decency. …At least that’s what I thought. So I headed up those grungy stairs, and was met with a lot of fellas in hurried moods. They was rushing this way and that, trying to meet their deadline no doubt. I was surprised at how serious some of these fellas took this job, to be honest. Little did I know at the time, but still… A scrawny fellow brushed past me, carrying a stack of papers twice his size. “s’cuse me mistah” he chirped at me, then he kept bumbling along. I tilted my hat back, folded my arms across my jacket, and just took it all in. A large fellow with gargantuan fingers sat pecking at keys as gingerly as anyone with logs for fingers could. It seemed to do him little good, as all he ended up doing was cursing and backspacing and trying again. Click “Ohdarn…” Click “Ohdagnabbit” Click Click He got two clicks out; I was impressed. He had a bit of a dazed stare as he looked over his computer screen; big glossy eyes reflecting the dim monitor. His lower lip drooped out a bit, and his forehead was gargantuan. Hair grazed his knuckles, and poked out of his shirt at random locations. He seemed like a nice fella, just a bit of an oaf as well. Next to him was the scrawny fella that was carrying all the papers. Now this was a pair if I’ve never seen one before: the little guy was a fireball of energy with buggy ey…what’s that? A Cliché? Nonsense! I swear it, the Tabloid office really had this. Fine, don’t believe me, but I’m pressing on anyway. Anyway, he had buggy eyes amplified by his rather gaudy glasses. He wasn’t necessarily a nerdy fella, but definitely annoying in his presence. The surprising thing, though, is their conversation. “Borees, cuhld you type mine for meh nixt perhaps?” “ItoldyouSeniorEduardoIhavedozensofarticlestowrapupmyself” “Oh baht Borees…” “dontgimmenonnathatSeniorIcanhelpyoushortly” Doesn’t seem that troublesome, right? Well, how about the way I heard it: The big guy turned to the little guy, but the little fella said, “Borees, cuhld you type mine for meh nixt perhaps?” Then the little fella shook his head, and the big fella’s head drooped. But then the big fella said, “ItoldyouSeniorEduardoIhavedozensofarticlestowrapupmyself,” And this is where I started getting confused, ‘cause the big fella began to pout, and the little fella replied, “Oh baht Borees…” Then the little fella whacked the big fella all while the big fella shouted, “dontgimmenonnathatSeniorIcanhelpyoushortly.” I pieced together that something wasn’t quite right about those two, so I just wandered off, listening to some sort of banter about body swapping or some nonsense. It actually inspired me to write my first article on the dangers of body swapping. Should prove interesting. Around this time I realized I should probably talk to the Editor: my new boss. I realized I didn’t even know where to start looking. Then it hit me over the head like a big sack of potatoes; a door right in front of me with big bold letters that said, “Mr. Butler: Editor.” I felt I was on the right track. I gave a light knock, letting the rhythm echo a bit around the room. The busy patter of keys pressed on; no one really bothering to look at the new fellow join their pathetic ranks. The door creaked open, but to my surprise there was no one there. I stepped inside and nearly tripped. I had found the editor, all right, literally fell right on the poor fella. “Gerroff of me!” I got up. “Sorry Chief, didn’t see you there.” “How astute! Get in here, and shut the door” He yelled at me for the better part of an hour. Likely not even realizing I didn’t quite work for him yet. I wanted to point it out to him, but every time I put a finger up, he just got louder. He was a short fat man, his nose kind of crooked, and his ears a little jagged. If I had believed in fairy tales, I’d likely mistake him for a goblin. His skin was a sort of sickly colour, and his eyes very beady. He had a rather disturbing scent about him, but other than that, just seemed more of an irritance than a threat. “You listening under that hat of yours, Gumshoe?” “Can’t really say I have; can’t really say I haven’t” “What’s that supposed to mean?” “Means I was listening to what was relevant to me. Name’s Murphy. I’m your new reporter” To my surprise, he got rather ecstatic. He leaped up and shook my hand, and I couldn’t help but notice that he left something behind. I knew my hand likely reeked of whatever he was, and I certainly wasn’t bold enough to check. I simply shoved my hand in my coat pocket, and carried on talking to him. He told me about how excited he was when he heard about my report on old Two-Fingers, and expressed his deepest disappointments that my paper let me go. He told me that, though he himself could never publish the work, he knew that I was a star reporter, willing to go where no others would. I was tempted to ask him what this had to do with anything; that all I had to do was a little imaginative writing, but I let him live in his grandiose little dream. We talked. Better part of another hour passed, and he welcomed me aboard. Told me my deadline for my first story was a week later, and that if I had any questions, I could ask around the office. “And if you have any questions, just ask ‘round the office. Looking forward to seeing your stuff, Murphy. NOW GET TO WORK” The door slammed behind me. I hadn’t even realized I had been shown out. The room seemed a lot friendlier after that. A few nods here and there were tossed in my direction. I was a part of their demented little club, now, dealing out poison to people’s minds, and feeding on the fantasy-oriented. I strolled out dragging my dignity behind me. The moonlight danced on my paper like a seductive woman on a hot night. It teased me with sleep, but deadline was fast approaching. Tabloids are harder to write than you’d think. Took me an hour just to come up with a concept whacky enough to work. My fingers were cramping, but I kept hammering away on those keys; beating out a rhythm to the moonlight and the stars. The bustle of late-night traffic and noisy neighbours was somehow soothing in my purusuit of words. I heard old Scott McScott, the Irish fellow who was born and raised in Scotland, ranting about the Loch Ness monster again. That’s when it hit me. Like a ton of bricks from the back of a pick-up truck that was moving too fast: The Loch Ness Monster! The click of my keys rattled out into the night, and by the next morning, I had a full article on the Loch Ness monster moving itself into the far more suiting Lake Eerie and eating a few locals. I even completed it with a crude little picture I said a little seven year old girl drew of the beast. My poison in tow, I made my way quickly to Betsy. I started the ole girl up and floored it to the office. I was speeding, and speeding is a good way to get noticed. Since I wanted notice, I sped. No one noticed. I raced through the front doors and into Mr. Butler’s office. I slapped the paper on his desk and he bolted upright. He gave me one of those quizzical looks, pondering the moment, then he glanced down at my hard-worked pile of… “Bullshit!” “Excuse me?” “This is absolute garbage! We run a professional paper, Murphy, and I can sniff out Bullshit right off the knocker!” “Look Mr. Butler, you run a tabloid, there ain’t stories for you other than bullshit ones.” I just noticed him get read in the face. I told him something he didn’t really want to hear, and I could tell. “That is not something I am happy to hear, Murphy. You’re a non-believer, and you keep that up and you’ll be out of a job!” Now, I needed the money something fierce, and I was willing to even put up with this crap heap of a job a little while longer at least. “Wait wait wait, is there anything I can do to keep the job?” “There might just be. Head out and talk to Gilligan MacGhillacutty. You’ll be his deputy for a few weeks, ‘til you’re more suited to our type of work. If he signs off that you know what you're doing, you can keep your job. Now GET OUT!” A non-believer. That’s what he called me. I couldn’t believe it, but what choice did I have? I had to keep the job, of course, and as long as I keep the boss happy, who cares if I really believe in what I’m writing about? Well, that’s what I thought anyway. What Gilligan showed me, however, opened my eyes completely. But I better stick to the order things happened, eh? Gilligan MacGhilliacutty--Star of the International Inquisitor; guy was a real ace investigator by their standards. I walked over to his office to see it littered with pictures of a large, blurry silhouette. They were all over the floor and the walls and even in frames on his desk instead of a wife and kids. “Ah, Murphy, have a seat” I sat down. Gilligan was a sharp looking fella; he had slicked back hair, mounting a clean-shaven face, chiseled features shaded by a pair of signature sunglasses, all topped off with a black suit of high quality. He took things very seriously, you could tell, and his demeanor was always relaxed and analytical. He noticed me glancing at his pictures, however, and jumped right on that. “I guess you’re wondering about all the pictures here. I guess you could say it has been my passion hunting the creature known as Bigfoot.” He picked up a frame, heart shaped no less, with a shot of Big foot inside. “You’ll be helping me. We’re going to New Jersey in a few days to snap more shots of him…” At the time I thought he was crazy, but I know the truth now. I stared at the picture in my hands while Gilligan booked our flight.

Very different. Kind of eerie, though. I like it. I guess I have an analogy for it: Like one of those Cafe' poetry sessions, but...online. An online cafe'? Needs a bongo drum But yeah, very different. Weilds a multitude of jargon, and that could be problematic to the meaning, otherwise, very cool.

Parade Dark Clouds, Billowing over my head Black Clouds Raging inside of my mind The water keeps rising, Ebbing and flowing, The conduits roaring My doubts keep on growing When it rains: It pours Engulfed in the haze of this When it drizzles: It storms Drowning and dying and drifting in this Sunlight, An emblem of hope long lost. Sunshine, Her cheery warmth long forgot. The water keeps rising, Building, destroying, This dam is exploding My will keeps on dying. When it rains, it pours I can no longer fight this When it drizzles; it storms And Life’s postponed.

I wasn't apologizing to you!

I am open to full suggestion. I do love the imagery I've concocted in this work, but the message is hazy, and it seems to bear a foggy purpose. I want to clean it up, maybe add a little more direction to it. Right now it is just generic paradox, but I'd like to give that paradox a fuller purpose.

I like the parallelism there. "Until that day" repeated adds a subtle emphasis, and really empowers the last line's message.

I'd like to take a small moment to apologize to you as well Sparhawk, if I got too out of line. I'll admit I got a tad carried away, but I have my reasons for having done so. Please don't take this as some personal attack. After all, I r just a n00b here. It was me getting worked up over my own passion. So much so, I forgot to offer advice in a far more sympathetic way.

Fair point. Essentially my only advice was to make use of the Literary Techniques available. Not even the complex ones; a simple simile goes a long way. But my point keeps getting missed, for some reason, so I guess I'll just stop. I dunno if I can attribute that to my lack of communication, or to the psychological defense of polarization. Probably the former, since I bit my tongue through half of my posts, trying not to be as brutally honest as I wanted. Meh, I can't wander off. My point, from the get-go, in this entire thread, was to say that his work is a little bland, and that the use of literary techniques (I'll admit to that correction) is a possible way to add to the piece and make it seem more fitting for a subject like love. At this current point in time it looks like a glorified definition: as if Webster attempted poetry. After he said the Techniques were superficial, I felt need to defend the time-tested principles with a few examples. My interpretation of the work is more than likely not what Sparhawk intended it to be, and that's all I wanted to point out. I read it as, "Love is cut and paste, and though the greatest of all emotions, is fairly simple rather bland, and none-too-exciting, but it should be enjoyed by all." And I'm more than certain he intended it to have a different meaning. So, there are no specifics for me to cite in his work, save his style, which I did. The work itself, however, is what my critique falls on. I did support my critique, last I checked, though I can't give him specifics without making it seem like I'm trying to write it for him. He doesn't even need to use techniques, persay, another suggestion is just to change styles. To what? I don't know, that's his decision, really. But the current style is very dry, which would be good if he was describing love as something dry. Love is a passionate subject, so perhaps a style in the writing that reflects the passion of Love a little better. That is my point at core: The Style clashes with the subject matter to a negative effect on the reader. A change in style, (at the very core, diction and syntax) would have an astounding effect on the quality of the piece and the perception of the reader.

Yeah, it's a tad clouded. Essentially it is just the series of paradoxes that live within every person's life and how perplexing they can be at times.

Shattered Breath A heartfelt whisper On a Shattered Breath A cheerful lullaby From the jaws of Death... I flutter through a Crimson Sky On the broken wings of a butterfly Inspiration flows, with a sparkle and gleam, Somehow from a forgotten dream. A single flower, on the grassless knolls; A child is born while a death bell tolls. Of this bittersweet madness, I do not condone; Loving the presence of others While being alone... I soar across a Crimson Sky On the broken wings of a butterfly

I'm gonna double post myself, but whatever. Just adding a little addendum to things. Literary Devices are simple little flairs and additives that show that you are serious about your work. Yes there should be a direct flow from heart to hand, but not everyone can read your heart. These devices allow your true meaning to be interpreted, and to really allow a piece of poetry come to life. They should not be forced, of course, but a conscious effort to recognize a good place for one and to put it there will give your work a greater level of effect. A poem, by far, is no quick and easy thing to write. In fact, I find poetry EXTREMELY hard to write. What appears to me here, and this may or may not be true, is that you sat down, and spat this out in 5 minutes. I'm not out to get your goat or anything, I'm just saying, there's a lot here not being used. Even the simplest of devices would increase the value of your poem. Unfortunately, as it stands, it does look just like some bland definition and an essay on the, as you seem to present it, simple and easily defined emotion of love. Remember that the words themselves are a mere tool. It does not make a work any less poetic if you take a few minutes to choose them wisely. In fact, quite the opposite is true. If I may be so bold as to cite a work by one of my favourite poets: John Keats wrote a poem entitled Ode to a Nighting Gale, and it is a fantastic piece of work. It expresses his sense of loss after the death of his brother, and the reader can feel his sorrow. The specific element I wanted to cite, however, and this might help you see what I mean, is his rhyme scheme. Rhyming is the thing that people feel makes poetry repetative, and gives it that false feel. My rhyme schemes, if you read enough of my works, are sort of bland, and I really dislike the way they turn out sometimes; from a literary perspective, at least. What people get caught up on is the 'Dr. Seuss' pattern, which is essentially AABBCC and so on. Keats, however, utilizes rhyme scheme to actually give his work a natural flow, and it makes a HUGE impact on the feel of the piece. His particular scheme fluxuates, ABABCDECDE. Now, that might not seem special at first, but the feel it gives is one of a tottering and finally falling nature. After experiencing a heavy loss, a person tends to fluxuate in their moods, then gives a sudden fall into another. The 'falling' CDE CDE pattern exemplifies and provides that feeling. That particular passage also has a number of other powerful literary devices that make it an absolutely astounding and moving work. Essentially, all I am saying is, Don't cheat yourself. You have these emotions, and they are genuine. It should take you a fair bit of time to construct and present them in a moving and empowering manner. We want to feel what you feel, and you want us to feel that, otherwise you wouldn't write the poem. [Raises a Carpal-Tunnel-Afflicted hand to wipe the sweat from his brow] Thank god I decided not to get into Meter... Well, I'm not a big fan of meter anyway. But yeah, a poem should take you a fair bit of time to write, otherwise, and in my completely and fully honest opinion, anyway, you are being half-assed. I think it's time for some sleep now. G'night.

I agree, it shouldn't be something forced, and if you don't want to take the advice I give, that's your perogative. Just saying I didn't enjoy it and I gave my reasons why. As for the devices being superficial? That's a load of bollocks. They're there to convey your emotion. If you don't convey it, we don't feel it. Instead I read an essay with spaces between the lines; a mere definition of love, not a single emotion to it. And if I start stepping on toes, just say so, and I'll stop, but I have a strong passion for this stuff; not only writing it, but also being able to read and enjoy it. If you're in love, you honestly could've fooled me. And I'm sorry, but that's how I feel on the subject.

I suppose my perception of the lack of emotion stems not so much from the fact that you aren't FEELING the emotion, rather moreso from some hinderance on CONVEYING the emotion. The work just seems bland. There's litle flair, no verve. Where're the literary enhancements? The devices that give poetry that empowering feel? The best way for me to put it is I feel cheated. It's just bland to me is all. Hence my inability to feel the emotions you have on the subject

I don't want to come of as an ass (though I might), but I would like to offer criticism, if I may: To me this seems more like an essay in line form than any sort of poem. It just comes off as something spouted from a soapbox with little meaning; a simple theory shouted as if from a herald on a street-corner. To be fair and honest, I feel little emotion at all from it, I feel as if you really don't give a damn about love, and that it is merely a definition to you. Love is so much deeper than that, and much less superficial and it is near impossible to make an abstract seem logical, which you seem to be trying to attempt. Love is not only a positive but also a negative, and so much more. Even when entangled with love, it causes you paranoia or a fear of loss. Hence why Jedi do not love I say that because I used to do the same thing. Just write thick meanings but no emotion. Poetry, as I have come to learn, is more an art for providing words for feelings. At least the good poetry is. Not saying follow my critique or anything, just saying, it didn't speak to me. Poetry should go from the heart to the hand, with no stops in between.

Thought I should probably put SOMETHING out there to show that I am a writer. I signed up, dropped a few comments, and have yet to finish my story I'm writing, so figured I'd just throw a poem out for you guys to enjoy: The Serpent She sits on your shoulder, Hissing sweet words in your head Playing your emotions-- Corruption manifested. She hisses directions, To you, her sweet pawn, Changing your perception, Of what is right and wrong. She plays this sick game, And with the peices she toys. Each move calculated, With frightening skill and poise. Destroying the bonds, Without sense of sorrow. Ending these worlds For her idea of tomorrow. I'm sorry, dear pawn, You've collected this fiend. Now you're a sacrifice, Instead of a queen. I wish you well, in your planned life, Though I imagine you'll have struggle and strife. By The Serpent's dark tongue, this chaos create-- All for her gain, her attaining 'Checkmate'

In light of all the fru-fruness of this thread, I have decided, unanimously with myself and me, that there should only be one piece of advice for people. And that is: When presented with advice, take it with a grain of salt. What works for one will not always work for another. Find your own way through life.Ironically, my own advice is a contradiction of itself, and therefore is meaningless. Carry on with your words of wisdom.

Ahh, that's the sort of thing I was looking for Ozy, thanks. I appreciate the input. Hope you have lots of time to read Wyvern, I'm on fire with this thing.

I'm one for the dramatic, don't get me wrong, but the term 'excess' readily comes to mind. Hardly a special greeting if everyone says the same thing in the exact same manner. Don't know you Peredhil, but Happy Birthday none-the-less; belated as it would seem, so happy ex-birthday.

Thanks for the input. Essentially my tale will make tabloids true, but you'll just have to see what I mean when I write it out fully. Anyway, cheers, this helps a lot.

We all know Tabloids are some of the more colourful venues of news reporting in the world, but what is it about them that makes them so unbelievable? This is mostly just a brainstorm to help me write a story. I will eventually be using this as my "application" piece, and I'm actually excited about the idea behind it, so I want to make it a very good piece of work. Essentially, what I would like from you guys is when you read a tabloid, what elements do you see that make you say, "I don't believe that!" be it shoddy pictures, or made up countries. I'm trying to address as many of the issues behind them as possible in my chosen tale. Oh, and I'll say hi, too. I work with Ozy, and he kept telling me about this place, I told him, "Hey, I could use a place that'll get me writing again" and so on, so here I am. My handle says 'Memento Mori' but Nick works, too.