Poetry can't be that bad

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    Oct 22, 2007 3:47 AM GMT
    notice some people can write poetry. Can anyone else? Got any examples?

    neva been to good at it myself.

    figure those good can be applauded, those bad can be laughed at.

    come on lets write about anything.
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    Oct 22, 2007 2:25 PM GMT
    You wanna write poetry??? Here's how you do it..

    First you get abdominal injections of Zoladex for a few months. By about that time, your brain should pretty much disfunctional emotionally. Look for massive episodes of depression...crying jags you have no control over ....waking up in dread and terror in the mornings ...and living in sheer boredom cuz you cant enjoy anything ...then if you have any talent, you might be able to write a poem.

    Any takers? Shall we have a contest?

    ...sorry, just a little gallows humor.

    My poetry only started when it was the only thing the cognitive and emotional parts of my brain would cooperate on. And I was sooooo bored, besides being depressed. The poetry engaged my brain and past the time.

    But there is one thing I can say about writing poetry...you have to have something to say. The poem comes out of the topic, the topic doesnt go into the poem. You notice that I usually just write about something that I just read the RJ and my depression.

    It would be fun to see what others could write. I love the way poetry can get a point across more emphatically with a greater economy of words than prose.

    My favorite poems of mine so far are:
    ..Honey in the Shower
    ..I Cried Again This Morning
    ..Hello Depression
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    Oct 22, 2007 3:59 PM GMT
    I have to agree.

    You have to have something to say. Anything written without purpose would be a complete waste of time to both read and write. There has to be some message I feel, something that you are trying to get across. Afterall, art is meant to communicate.

    I know many of the things I write as well as paint I acually have very little control over whatsoever. I am one of those people who depend solely on inspiration. I slightly envy those who can create at will.

    I have found that my best stuff has always been created at crappy times. The worster the occasion, the more passionate and creative the piece usually is.

    I'm afraid that I'd probably be too shy to post any of my stuff unless other people did too and seeing that Caslon, the poetry expert lol, refrained from doing so, I guess I might go ahead too.

    Besides many people often dislike the things I write because they can be morbid and so metaphoric that the lack of similes make people dismiss that its poetry altogether. Some also run extremely long, almost like a short story if you will.
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    Oct 22, 2007 4:15 PM GMT
    I don't like to write poetry at all, and prose I'm not big on. However, I really enjoy reading poetry (though again, I prefer prose). I wrote a sonnet a bit ago, I should go dig it out...
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    Oct 22, 2007 4:28 PM GMT
    Y'all might wanna look up John Fox's Institute of Poetic Medicine. His book, Poetic Medicine, is a classic.


    I just got an email from him today that Steven Levine, who has done pioneering work with the grieving and dying since the early 80s, has published a book of poetry, "Breaking the Drought."

    If you're interested in going even deeper, look up the work of Gaston Bachelard, a French phenomenologist of the imagination, who basically launched imaginal psychology, which asserts that the natural state of the psyche is poetic.
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    Oct 22, 2007 5:02 PM GMT
    OW, thanks for that link...I have glanced at the site and it looks interesting. I will look at it more and see if it correlates to my experience.

    Maybe I was "healing" some aspect of myself and didnt know it...

    aw, but come on, isnt anybody gonna post a poem?
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    Oct 22, 2007 6:22 PM GMT
    alright had to check and remind myself that I have balls, so here it goes. Just please don't laugh.

    Moon beam shades bring fourth a sea of reveries
    an ocean that flows on endlessly as the waves of reverance rekindle thoughts formed so long ago
    This word called memory
    So often traversed within a clogged chamber's muffled beats
    greets with angry cold kisses
    intents nearly forgotten, but still not sweet at all
    for bitter is the taste of its wet tip
    soggy is the load that begins to fill inside
    paradox being the empty yet full fool of a vessel when it is departed.
    should sinking ships keep sailing through treacherous waters,
    should fleeing hopes keep escaping the prison of he who truly loves
    there will be no escaping that one last tidal crush
    just inspirational enough to carry us to the abyss

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    Oct 22, 2007 7:16 PM GMT
    Ok I guess all dat muscle don't stop yall from bein pussies

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    Oct 22, 2007 8:09 PM GMT

    Ask not for whom the bells toll.
    Don’t get yourself in a stew.
    As long as you can hear the clang,
    Relax; they’re not for you.

    by Joseph Paul Tierney

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    Oct 22, 2007 8:16 PM GMT
    dat was nice
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    Oct 22, 2007 8:21 PM GMT

    You’re the top!
    You’re Miss Pinkham’s tonic.
    You’re the top!
    You’re a high colonic.
    You’re the burning heat of a bridal suite in use.
    You’re the breasts of Venus
    You’re King Kong’s penis,
    You’re self-abuse.
    You’re an arch
    In the Rome collection.
    You’re the starch
    In a groom’s erection.
    I’m a eunuch who
    Has just been through an op,
    But if, Baby, I’m the bottom
    You’re the top.

    by Anonymous

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    Oct 22, 2007 8:25 PM GMT

    What, still alive at twenty-two,
    A fine upstanding chap like you?
    Sure, if your throat 'tis hard to slit,
    Slit your girl's, and swing for it.

    Like enough, you won't be glad
    When they come to hang you, lad;
    But bacon's not the only thing
    That's cured by hanging from a string.

    So, when the spilt ink of the night
    Spreads o'er the blotting pad of light,
    Lads whose job is still to do
    Shall whet their knives, and think of you.

    By Hugh Kingsmill (after A. E. Housman)

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    Oct 22, 2007 8:28 PM GMT
    thats some creative shit yall spitin out.
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    Oct 22, 2007 8:43 PM GMT

    Sun that givest all things birth
    Shine on everything on earth!

    If that's too much to demand
    Shine at least on this our land

    If even that's too much for thee
    Shine at any rate on me ... icon_biggrin.gif

    by Piet Hein
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    Oct 22, 2007 8:59 PM GMT
    I have one to post...I have a few that have been published...I can't say that I really like my work..being as it's all depressing. But here is one of them.

    Unseen Sadness

    Trying to think of happy thoughts,
    trying to ignore the beast of sin.
    Never thought I'd have to fight,
    to free the soul within.
    If I remain to be depressed,
    a million stings it seems to me.
    And if my soul will be repressed,
    my mind will not truely be free.
    And the people who I love so dear,
    feeling no sign of my sadness,
    will discover what I truely fear.
    The painfull thoughts I must repress.
    And so at night I go to sleep,
    nightmares, which are in nature, mean.
    I know myself, I cannot weep,
    and I hope my sadness remains unseen.

    Zackary K Brooks
    Copyright ©2007 Zackary K Brooks
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    Oct 22, 2007 9:40 PM GMT
    Ok, here are 3 more...


    I don’t understand
    How its so easy for you
    To ignore all the feelings
    That I cannot subdue

    You could make me warm
    By just being around
    You could make me feel sad
    Without making a sound

    I gave you the most
    Important thing that I had
    But you turned it away
    And it drove me mad

    I gave you my heart
    My body and even my soul
    With nothing left
    I lost control

    You didn’t just break what
    Was most important to me
    You chopped it up and
    Set fire to the debris

    And after all that I
    Still begged for your touch
    I felt it was the only thing
    I had to use as a crutch

    But of course cheap wood
    Often gives one a splinter
    A splinter whose bite
    Is as cold as the winter

    I’m glad that you didn’t
    Take me back
    For all that I gain
    You will still lack

    You mistook my
    Undying love for lust
    You lied to me
    And betrayed my trust


    I promised to love you
    And of that I kept true
    Do I even have to tell you
    What you put me through?

    Without your love
    I begged for death.
    You were what fueled
    My every breath.

    But apparently that
    Doesn’t mean enough,
    For you ran away
    When things got rough.

    I hope you enjoy living
    The rest of your life
    Knowing it was your hand
    That held my knife.


    There is no mute button inside of my head
    I can’t turn the voices off when I go to bed

    The things that they say make me break down and cry
    And they wont go away no matter how hard I try.

    All I want is for a few moments without all the chatter
    I just want some peace and quiet but I guess it doesn’t matter

    The constant talking doesn’t make me feel any less alone
    It isn’t like conversation when you are talking on the phone

    I think I’m getting more insane day by fucking day
    And my mind, heart, and soul are beginning to decay.
  • phill

    Posts: 117

    Oct 22, 2007 11:23 PM GMT
    I am a moderator on a harm reduction drug website in their words form section so i constantly am around and write poetry. I have an English minor so words have always been the stuff of magic for me.

    Here is a poem i wrote about a lover i had:

    My mid summers nights dream-

    I was blind
    Searching your body with trembling fingered eyes
    Tracing secret messages into your flesh
    Translated in sighs of contentment

    Will you be my muse
    Lines and patterns intersecting, vertices's
    So beautiful at times I forget to breath

    Your perfect no matter how i see you
    curled in on yourself
    my arms cradling your head and through it your dreams
    least they spill forth

    A calm comes over you
    no worries
    your laugh lines creating a topology
    a warmth
    making me smile
    The slight upturn of your lip
    hinting at jokes and a past full of love and deep friendships
    whose memories will last a life time

    I wake a half dozen times, loving the way your hand always finds mine,
    not realizing i'm dreaming
    to stare with awe
    at my puck like prince
    on this mid summers nights eve

    Impish, full of mischief and heart
    With a subtle passion that draws you in with a power
    enough to fill a thousand poems

    You dont have to say whats on your mind
    its written clearly in your honest expression
    dancing with merriment in your eyes

    I am so lucky
    I repeat over and over again
    like a mantra
    afraid if i stop, just for one instance
    it wont be real

    I break free of my silent revelry
    to sit once more
    tracing and decoding my secret messages
    riding the electric pulse of desire to pathways of contentment
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    Oct 23, 2007 1:43 AM GMT
    WOW, lilmaninsc and phil! Those are great poems!!!!
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    Oct 23, 2007 3:16 AM GMT
    Thanks Caslon, yours are good too icon_smile.gif
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    Oct 23, 2007 3:30 AM GMT
    Calson: Tierney's got nothing on Donne.

    For example:

    Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
    Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
    For those, whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,
    Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
    From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
    Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow,
    And soonest our best men with thee do go,
    Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
    Thou'rt slave to Fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
    And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
    And poppy, or charms can make us sleep as well,
    And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then ?
    One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
    And Death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.
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    Oct 23, 2007 3:42 AM GMT
    Here's one (not my own) on a topic that's not usually considered poetic: roadkill.

    Small Frogs Killed on the Highway

    I would leap too
    Into the light,
    If I had the chance.
    It is everything, the wet green stalk of the field
    On the other side of the road.
    They crouch there, too, faltering in terror
    And take strange wing. Many
    Of the dead never moved, but many
    Of the dead are alive forever in the split second
    Auto headlights more sudden
    Than their drivers know.
    The drivers burrow backward into dank pools
    Where nothing begets

    Across the road, tadpoles are dancing
    On the quarter thumbnail
    Of the moon. They can't see,
    Not yet.

    ---James Wright
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    Oct 23, 2007 4:54 AM GMT
    Brane Mozetic
    from Banalities

    I watch all these thin boys, posing in the corners,
    Chinese, Arabs, Blacks, Latinos, Bosnians, how
    they laugh, spit while grabbing their dicks.
    I undress them with my eyes, over their chests,
    their flat stomachs, their dark muscles, about their
    bodies to and fro. How they hurl themselves at the ball,
    take their shirts off in the heat until beads of sweat
    glitter, whistle at girls, and I imagine how they’d
    go after me if they knew I was watching them.
    Their eyes curiously leap into the world,
    and it is clear that the worst is behind me, I can
    observe them with ease, for what on earth
    would they do in my bedroom, where things are
    in order, no need to look out for the police, no need
    to get excited about fights, or run from gunshots.
    What ever would they tell their friends, what would
    they brag about, what would lend them glamour, the heroes
    of the next block. I find smoothness at the gym
    where muscles are on display. Or at the
    bars, or on the beaches, where thousands of gay men
    race against time. Yet how would they
    train in my bedroom, how would they compete, when
    time stopped, how would they comprehend tiny
    kisses, enjoy silence or a whisper.
    The unknown would frighten them, as it did you, who,
    smiling, proudly stepped through the door, then
    became smaller and smaller until you
    vanished in the morning haze.


    Uros Zupan

    Slanting rain is falling from the sky. I cannot
    split myself into different personalities and live
    so many imaginary lives. I cannot.
    Even if I am trapped inside unfinished metaphyics.

    Even if love letters seem ridiculous to me,
    also. I’m ashamed of them, and am burning them.
    I don’t get along very well with my former
    self. He was too savage, innocent,

    trusting the grace of heights. However, I summoned
    you with the letters, with what are now
    as you lie by me, ashes on the palm of the hand. Our bed
    is our sole sustenance, you say. You lie next

    to me, you lie in my thoughts even when not present, while I
    am vanishing, sustained, sewn together with depth.
    Slanting rain is falling from the sky. Your father and mother
    are white clouds, dances of light sailing over our days.

    Pain rises and dies in you. I keep quiet. With love
    it is the same as with a catastrophe. It transcends speech. We
    are left with babbling and hawking when we find ourselves
    in the grip of its power. Even without words the two of us are protected

    and wealthy in it. Our thoughts intersect and shake hands
    continually. They mix breaths, adding some weight to the air.
    Short are the days, and even shorter are the nights when I am
    startled in sleep, and watch you from the height, how you lie in your

    body, deeply immersed in the folds of linen. No one knows
    which one of us will be the first to hand a coin to the somber
    . But long before, we’ll live in a house with gay balconies.
    Your flowers will bloom and drop, will drop and bloom.

    And outside will fall the slanting rain.
    And outside will shine the horizontal sun.


    Thanks, OP, whoever you were -- This thread has inspired to write my own.
    Sirkyous, Lilmaninsc and Phill -- Thanks for sharing your work (yourselves) with all of us.
    Calson, you began all this -- jocks getting gushy on RJ -- so thank you, too.
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    Oct 23, 2007 9:25 AM GMT
    I just read OW's post and when he talks like that.... i get a little aroused and my toes turn up....
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    Oct 23, 2007 2:32 PM GMT




  • phill

    Posts: 117

    Oct 23, 2007 8:33 PM GMT
    here is one more:

    break down to build up.

    I'm a well of surging tides
    ever changing instabilities
    of fragile possibilities
    Hidden emotions leaking through the blockade

    today i will just be and nothing more
    riding on the wave of freedom
    Crashing and surging and living and dieing
    this whole human drama
    i love it
    even the parts that change us
    upsets the balance
    reminds us about life's entropy
    and the challenge of existence
    these things, these very real forces
    are our purpose
    to experience
    to learn
    and from that learning
    become what we were before this solid existence
    divine in our own rights
    powers to be reckoned with
    empathy and passion and fire and rage
    healing the wounds left from a thousand generations of seekers
    giving back what was given
    just seeing something thats true
    even in its undefinability

    Truths, varying
    Always seeking even after we let loose the volley from our mouths
    digging, twisting
    searching for an opening to unlock the hidden agenda of said Truth

    It serves itself
    it has become its own master
    bowing to no one
    emotionless but honest
    integrity but stern devoutness to the ultimate mysteries of connectivity

    those tenuous webs that bind us all
    selling and bartering our own truths to each other
    Mini PR campaigns