pick one of your poems and tell me all about it

[UnderYourSpell]

there are so many fabulous words in our language that rarely, if ever, get an outing. sometimes it's great to see them out on a little promenade. at one stage my writing was all about using rich and wonderful words; it almost got to the stage where i felt the words were running the show and using me as their tool rather than the other way around; then i completely switched style and began to place emphasis on simpler language that i wanted to 'disappear' as the reader 'saw' the imagery. i still miss those wordy days sometimes

The trouble with using fabulous words is that the reader may not understand what they mean and having to go to a dictionary for every second word is a right pain in the bum

 

[butters]

Trojan Horse

i rode into battle
armed only with bravado and scant knowledge
searching for rats to kill
scared of what each keystroke might impart

you'd dropped your payload
deep within my walls
making a fool of me and my
sweating attempts to destroy and delete before you did

it wasn't me who opened the gates
invited you in
hidden within a gaudy gift
all show, not a thought given
to protocols

but fight you i did
desperately brave
fatalistic and waiting for that
sudden Ping of Death but
no
this fool turned jobbing carpenter
sawed the legs right off your wooden horse

ha!






ok, this one was inspired by my fight with a nasty pc virus that was wrecking my puter the language in it (Trojan horse, rats, payload, destroy and delete, protocols, and Ping of Death) were all terms i found whilst desperately looking for info online about this particular nasty and how to eradicate it. bear in mind i haven't a clue about most stuff puter-related other than how to type on the things, hence the lines:

i rode into battle
armed only with bravado and scant knowledge

making a fool of me and my
sweating attempts to destroy and delete before you did


it would have never been written (and the world would surely not have suffered for this) if it wasn't for one of the challenges here that involved a historical theme or summat that then reminded me of this damned Trojan Horse that had been used to infect my system. c'est la vie!

 

[butters]

The trouble with using fabulous words is that the reader may not understand what they mean and having to go to a dictionary for every second word is a right pain in the bum

this is so true - though i always tried to temper the obscure but still allow the rich and evocative to shine through - words most readers of poetry would have been familiar with (largely from reading older poetry like Byron, Milton, Keats etc) but had fallen out of fashionable useage. i still think it's a small shame that such a rich and eloquent language has shrunk so much to the more mundane. still, a poet should write in the style of their times, i suppose, if they wish to be read at all

 

[greenmountaineer]

This post and your previous one reminded me of Ken Burns' documentary on the American Civil War. The voice over narration quoted several letters written to loved ones by soldiers, using eloquent language and lengthy sentence structure. The surprising thing was that the authors were often teenagers or in their early twenties, and by today's standards would not be regarded as well educated as the average young adult.

Of course, this was the time of Whitman who, I suspect, wrote according to the times. Leaves of Grass was published in 1855, so I doubt it was required reading in America's public schools.

I think when popular expression reaches a critical mass of frequency, the avant-garde seeks completely new expression. I believe that's the nature of the artistic beast. So I can imagine eloquent expression of words may again become a dominant theme in poetry, although I'm sure there will be other forces vying for dominance also.

this is so true - though i always tried to temper the obscure but still allow the rich and evocative to shine through - words most readers of poetry would have been familiar with (largely from reading older poetry like Byron, Milton, Keats etc) but had fallen out of fashionable useage. i still think it's a small shame that such a rich and eloquent language has shrunk so much to the more mundane. still, a poet should write in the style of their times, i suppose, if they wish to be read at all

 

[UnderYourSpell]

Trojan Horse

i rode into battle
armed only with bravado and scant knowledge
searching for rats to kill
scared of what each keystroke might impart

you'd dropped your payload
deep within my walls
making a fool of me and my
sweating attempts to destroy and delete before you did

it wasn't me who opened the gates
invited you in
hidden within a gaudy gift
all show, not a thought given
to protocols

but fight you i did
desperately brave
fatalistic and waiting for that
sudden Ping of Death but
no
this fool turned jobbing carpenter
sawed the legs right off your wooden horse

ha!






ok, this one was inspired by my fight with a nasty pc virus that was wrecking my puter the language in it (Trojan horse, rats, payload, destroy and delete, protocols, and Ping of Death) were all terms i found whilst desperately looking for info online about this particular nasty and how to eradicate it. bear in mind i haven't a clue about most stuff puter-related other than how to type on the things, hence the lines:

i rode into battle
armed only with bravado and scant knowledge

making a fool of me and my
sweating attempts to destroy and delete before you did


it would have never been written (and the world would surely not have suffered for this) if it wasn't for one of the challenges here that involved a historical theme or summat that then reminded me of this damned Trojan Horse that had been used to infect my system. c'est la vie!

Oh we've all been there! I reckon the only time you find out how to use a computer is when it goes wrong!

this is so true - though i always tried to temper the obscure but still allow the rich and evocative to shine through - words most readers of poetry would have been familiar with (largely from reading older poetry like Byron, Milton, Keats etc) but had fallen out of fashionable useage. i still think it's a small shame that such a rich and eloquent language has shrunk so much to the more mundane. still, a poet should write in the style of their times, i suppose, if they wish to be read at all

In the times of Byron, Keats etc being a poet seemed to be an ok thing I'm afraid we poets have gone out of fashion

 

[bflagsst]

band/hand, march/hearts not rhyming enough for you then? what about the hard I sounds of blindly/behind/bright?

i am so disappointed
but thanks, i am always willing to listen to crit, even if i don't agree with it

I just thought on the final word you could have a nice tidy rhyme. Internal devices and imperfect rhymes are better exposed when there's some statement of more traditional end rhyme somewhere else.

It's a neat contempo form. Perfect on the first stanza 1, 3 or last stanza 2, 4, fill in with internal imperfect and alliteration, assonance etc.

That's why I stopped by anyway, to see if people were talking about their own personal poetic theory

 

[UnderYourSpell]

arem't you the one that got us doing a challenge which included imperfect rhymes?

 

[butters]

This post and your previous one reminded me of Ken Burns' documentary on the American Civil War. The voice over narration quoted several letters written to loved ones by soldiers, using eloquent language and lengthy sentence structure. The surprising thing was that the authors were often teenagers or in their early twenties, and by today's standards would not be regarded as well educated as the average young adult.

Of course, this was the time of Whitman who, I suspect, wrote according to the times. Leaves of Grass was published in 1855, so I doubt it was required reading in America's public schools.

I think when popular expression reaches a critical mass of frequency, the avant-garde seeks completely new expression. I believe that's the nature of the artistic beast. So I can imagine eloquent expression of words may again become a dominant theme in poetry, although I'm sure there will be other forces vying for dominance also.

generations come and go, and the things of our parents tend to hold less interest to us (as teenagers) than those of our grandparents or, even better, the ancients the world would stand still if we never adapted and adopted new fashions; even so, the cyclical nature of fashions means there will always be some sort of revival, given time.

maybe, in the future, we'll speak directly mind to mind - oh boy, we're gonna need some good firewalls for that bit of fun, aren't we?

Oh we've all been there! I reckon the only time you find out how to use a computer is when it goes wrong!



In the times of Byron, Keats etc being a poet seemed to be an ok thing I'm afraid we poets have gone out of fashion

people try to help, but without the basic language, i hadn't a clue what they meant half the time ... more than half the time. most the time!

yes, it was fashionable, but that's not to say all the people writing poetry were any good at it. i'd hazard a wild guess that the ratio of people naturally talented at writing good poetry hasn't changed at all. but i agree, it's something less fashionable today; when someone tells me they're a poet, i'm ashamed to say my immediate reaction is to mentally wince before i've read them (if i'm not familiar with the person) incase they turn out to write like some of the worst examples we read on websites

I just thought on the final word you could have a nice tidy rhyme. Internal devices and imperfect rhymes are better exposed when there's some statement of more traditional end rhyme somewhere else.

It's a neat contempo form. Perfect on the first stanza 1, 3 or last stanza 2, 4, fill in with internal imperfect and alliteration, assonance etc.

That's why I stopped by anyway, to see if people were talking about their own personal poetic theory

well i am sorry it didn't write that way i don't even want to try changing it right now, as it feels 'done' to me; maybe time will make me look at it differently and give me the perspective required to tackle any edits.

tbh, i didn't give form a thought, it was all about trying to voice the images in my head. i'm still learning how to do this stuff, you know

 

[UnderYourSpell]

generations come and go, and the things of our parents tend to hold less interest to us (as teenagers) than those of our grandparents or, even better, the ancients the world would stand still if we never adapted and adopted new fashions; even so, the cyclical nature of fashions means there will always be some sort of revival, given time.

maybe, in the future, we'll speak directly mind to mind - oh boy, we're gonna need some good firewalls for that bit of fun, aren't we?


people try to help, but without the basic language, i hadn't a clue what they meant half the time ... more than half the time. most the time!

yes, it was fashionable, but that's not to say all the people writing poetry were any good at it. i'd hazard a wild guess that the ratio of people naturally talented at writing good poetry hasn't changed at all. but i agree, it's something less fashionable today; when someone tells me they're a poet, i'm ashamed to say my immediate reaction is to mentally wince before i've read them (if i'm not familiar with the person) incase they turn out to write like some of the worst examples we read on websites


well i am sorry it didn't write that way i don't even want to try changing it right now, as it feels 'done' to me; maybe time will make me look at it differently and give me the perspective required to tackle any edits.

tbh, i didn't give form a thought, it was all about trying to voice the images in my head. i'm still learning how to do this stuff, you know

How do you handle it if when shown their poetry it is as bad as you feared? I smile and say lovely !!

 

[butters]

How do you handle it if when shown their poetry it is as bad as you feared? I smile and say lovely !!

i have to handle that individually; depends on what the person wants from showing me. if it's their intention to just show it and otherwise keep it as something they enjoy doing, i will try to pick out at least one thing i am able to say something positive about and tell them to enjoy the process. if they're looking to share online in a public forum, i'll look for strengths but point out areas where they might improve and maybe make suggestions. if they're looking to publish, i am honest but still always try to find at least one positive note. a crit that's harsh just for the sake of it is an unbalanced crit, and more about the critter than the poem being toothcombed.

 

[UnderYourSpell]

i have to handle that individually; depends on what the person wants from showing me. if it's their intention to just show it and otherwise keep it as something they enjoy doing, i will try to pick out at least one thing i am able to say something positive about and tell them to enjoy the process. if they're looking to share online in a public forum, i'll look for strengths but point out areas where they might improve and maybe make suggestions. if they're looking to publish, i am honest but still always try to find at least one positive note. a crit that's harsh just for the sake of it is an unbalanced crit, and more about the critter than the poem being toothcombed.

Online yes I do try to critique although I terrible at it, but several people obviously just want to be told how wonderful their baby is and get very shirty when told otherwise

 

[butters]

Online yes I do try to critique although I terrible at it, but several people obviously just want to be told how wonderful their baby is and get very shirty when told otherwise

diplomacy diplomacy

 

[UnderYourSpell]

diplomacy diplomacy

awwwwww with the verbal dire rear bloke too?

 

[butters]

awwwwww with the verbal dire rear bloke too?

i was


restrained, was i not?

 

[UnderYourSpell]

i was


restrained, was i not?

sort of you edited it lol I saw the original

 

[Trudy_Antone]

Amazon Rain

(i)
Him again
Blatant now
Looking her up and down

First time he'd swaggered past, she'd near spilt tea and spat a mouthful.
A hair's breadth decided cool from shame; cool won.
Her in her 'Army' tee, camo pants, converse; with walled, get-away-from-me attitude.
Hungry for sex, hoarding far too much pride.

Grateful for sunglasses, anonymous, sly, Livia could gobble him up with her eyes,
in awe of the blonde Adonis, sauntering.
Eyes on her.
Checking her out.

Fuck me, she thought,
heat and ice,
dying and blooming inside.

He was lethal.
He knew it.
A fatal addiction: One night with him would mangle her soul.

It was best to stop this nonsense at once.
Look
Away
Don't dare dream.

He was one of those; the privileged few,
personified wealth,
a spew with breeding,
collected hearts strung off his belt.

Square jaw.
Rakish hair.
Vivid, quirky, intelligent eyes.
A shimmering smile to blind the world and sway every woman's clothes off.

She would harshly dwell on the endless hordes,
the vast, unknown masses, the screaming groupies.
The women the cocky rogue must've conquered.
Bastard
Trawling for fun. Scouting her as the One.

God.
Good god
He was good.
He was tempting.
A shiny, red apple of man-flesh.
Sink teeth in: Bite god, get whiplash.

But Livia erred to the cautionary side;
scared, and scarred,
and flawed as she was.

As if I'd fall for your reckless charms.
Walk on by, Angelic Stud.
Hasten and hit the road, Heartbreaker.

Of course that was never to be.

The moon had already risen that day, low over the trees, waxing, full.
Ready to wash over lonely hearts.
And drown them.


(ii)
Livia's chest caved in when,
he abruptly stopped,
turned,
returned,
hipped her table,
positioned himself,
at a one next to her's: Close.

And her heart para-diddled, when she heard his voice,
such a sonorous, honeyed, melt your skin sound.
He ordered in fluent Espanol, gracias.
Easily winning the first round.

Fuck You Good Looking
Her petulant thoughts,
Stubborness creeping in.

Clear as pond scum, her Spanish was...earnest.
Which could be turned to advantage if. . .
No entiendo.
I don't understand.
She'd used that excuse, deterred many a man, from Lima to Terra del Fuego.

And she didn't want to know him.
Really.

No man,
no freelance god,
no radiator of heat who ignited her body merely by sitting,
too close,
who heightened awareness with every breath,
the magnetised charge around him,
pulling her, draining her, dragging her in and stealing her air-
(gasp)
-was ever permitted near.

Unexcelled at self-protection,
the only way to deter a hunk
was careful, feigned, indifference.

Inclining her head,
hair slid over shoulder,
blocking him,
gone from her view.

There.
He didn't exist.

Smirking, she silently sipped her tea,
as elegant as one could be in converse boots, the urban, perfect, lady.
Her spine, perhaps a little stiff.
Her secret pulse dear running wild;
unfettered and loud and dreadfully obvious to all.

Especially him.

Please, no. Already.
The makings of paranoia.
Beads of sweat, gained momentum, plunged between Livia's breasts.

So, he ventured, is this all there is?

English,
the liar,
the cad,
the bi-lingual shit,
the golden skinned hound.

With no respect, whatsoever, at all,
for boundaries and such,
and the bloody unfairness of heavenly aftershave.

Damn him.


(iii)
His words struck home, to which Livia could only act, react, splutter in utter indignation.
Crystal clear her critique of him: Scathing.

All there is?
She spat in his corner,
icier,
more scrotum shrivelling,
than any arctic abattoir.

(then)

Kicking herself for taking the bait.
Engaging. Being sucked in. Unwilling. So willing.
To take him on.
Slap him.

Narcissistic tool.

Too spoiled to count his blessings.

Look around you.

She illustrated;
an emphatic stab of her arm,
invading his space,
tit for tat,
to fully encompass for him,
a pointed sweep of paradise,

And the focus was gone, off him, though never far away, to the Rio. . .

The Rio, long and wide,
shrouded in mist and secrets,
brimming with love and learning.

The sky alive and free; the sound of ten thousand wings flocking.

Can you dig that Mister?
Do you know beauty at all?

Frogs that crouched and croaked in shadows,
fireflies flickering,
clouds and trees and houses that floated on logs and reeds,
their spirits entranced by the water,
captured in crisp perfection.

The sun meeting the moon.

Shaman's mysterious ways with ayuasca and mobile phones
The mysteries of ancient spirits cloaked in cigarette smoke

You're on the banks of the Amazon River, she cawed,
On the most incredible summer's day, and you're asking if this is all there is?
What more can you possibly want?

Tacit in that was, 'superficial ingrate',
but Livia held her tongue.
Just.

Stunned for a moment; slowly, he grinned.
He knew a worthy opponent on sight:
A woman who liked to fight,
before she tumbled into make up sex, all hot and pouty.

His smile broadened.
Smuggened.

The last tango before the kill...

Always so sweet.

 

[butters]

sort of you edited it lol I saw the original

 

[Trudy_Antone]

Apologies to all for posting that long work in progress with more chapters on the way.

It should be obvious to all that I am not a poet. Having no understanding of form etc, I write what I want to. This is my first attempt at poetry in at least a decade. So I'm here, throwing myself down before exalted company with actual knowledge. Is this a poem? A story in poetic form? What's right, and what's wrong with it? Oh yes, and punctuation issues...

The word paradiddle was already there before I found this thread, honest. I paradiddle all the time. A remnant of my relationship with a drummer.

And backstory: Real life folks, a honey I met in Iquitos, Peru, a meeting that led to a fabulous summer fling. Standing naked with your lover in a tropical deluge... Mm, just mm.

 

[butters]

(i)
Him again
Blatant now
Looking her up and down

First time he'd swaggered past, she'd near spilt tea and spat a mouthful.
A hair's breadth decided cool from shame; cool won.
Her in her 'Army' tee, camo pants, converse; with walled, get-away-from-me attitude.
Hungry for sex, hoarding far too much pride.

Grateful for sunglasses, anonymous, sly, Livia could gobble him up with her eyes,
in awe of the blonde Adonis, sauntering.
Eyes on her.
Checking her out.

Fuck me, she thought,
heat and ice,
dying and blooming inside.

He was lethal.
He knew it.
A fatal addiction: One night with him would mangle her soul.

It was best to stop this nonsense at once.
Look
Away
Don't dare dream.

He was one of those; the privileged few,
personified wealth,
a spew with breeding,
collected hearts strung off his belt.

Square jaw.
Rakish hair.
Vivid, quirky, intelligent eyes.
A shimmering smile to blind the world and sway every woman's clothes off.

She would harshly dwell on the endless hordes,
the vast, unknown masses, the screaming groupies.
The women the cocky rogue must've conquered.
Bastard
Trawling for fun. Scouting her as the One.

God.
Good god
He was good.
He was tempting.
A shiny, red apple of man-flesh.
Sink teeth in: Bite god, get whiplash.

But Livia erred to the cautionary side;
scared, and scarred,
and flawed as she was.

As if I'd fall for your reckless charms.
Walk on by, Angelic Stud.
Hasten and hit the road, Heartbreaker.

Of course that was never to be.

The moon had already risen that day, low over the trees, waxing, full.
Ready to wash over lonely hearts.
And drown them.


(ii)
Livia's chest caved in when,
he abruptly stopped,
turned,
returned,
hipped her table,
positioned himself,
at a one next to her's: Close.

And her heart para-diddled, when she heard his voice,
such a sonorous, honeyed, melt your skin sound.
He ordered in fluent Espanol, gracias.
Easily winning the first round.

Fuck You Good Looking
Her petulant thoughts,
Stubborness creeping in.

Clear as pond scum, her Spanish was...earnest.
Which could be turned to advantage if. . .
No entiendo.
I don't understand.
She'd used that excuse, deterred many a man, from Lima to Terra del Fuego.

And she didn't want to know him.
Really.

No man,
no freelance god,
no radiator of heat who ignited her body merely by sitting,
too close,
who heightened awareness with every breath,
the magnetised charge around him,
pulling her, draining her, dragging her in and stealing her air-
(gasp)
-was ever permitted near.

Unexcelled at self-protection,
the only way to deter a hunk
was careful, feigned, indifference.

Inclining her head,
hair slid over shoulder,
blocking him,
gone from her view.

There.
He didn't exist.

Smirking, she silently sipped her tea,
as elegant as one could be in converse boots, the urban, perfect, lady.
Her spine, perhaps a little stiff.
Her secret pulse dear running wild;
unfettered and loud and dreadfully obvious to all.

Especially him.

Please, no. Already.
The makings of paranoia.
Beads of sweat, gained momentum, plunged between Livia's breasts.

So, he ventured, is this all there is?

English,
the liar,
the cad,
the bi-lingual shit,
the golden skinned hound.

With no respect, whatsoever, at all,
for boundaries and such,
and the bloody unfairness of heavenly aftershave.

Damn him.


(iii)
His words struck home, to which Livia could only act, react, splutter in utter indignation.
Crystal clear her critique of him: Scathing.

All there is?
She spat in his corner,
icier,
more scrotum shrivelling,
than any arctic abattoir.

(then)

Kicking herself for taking the bait.
Engaging. Being sucked in. Unwilling. So willing.
To take him on.
Slap him.

Narcissistic tool.

Too spoiled to count his blessings.

Look around you.

She illustrated;
an emphatic stab of her arm,
invading his space,
tit for tat,
to fully encompass for him,
a pointed sweep of paradise,

And the focus was gone, off him, though never far away, to the Rio. . .

The Rio, long and wide,
shrouded in mist and secrets,
brimming with love and learning.

The sky alive and free; the sound of ten thousand wings flocking.

Can you dig that Mister?
Do you know beauty at all?

Frogs that crouched and croaked in shadows,
fireflies flickering,
clouds and trees and houses that floated on logs and reeds,
their spirits entranced by the water,
captured in crisp perfection.

The sun meeting the moon.

Shaman's mysterious ways with ayuasca and mobile phones
The mysteries of ancient spirits cloaked in cigarette smoke

You're on the banks of the Amazon River, she cawed,
On the most incredible summer's day, and you're asking if this is all there is?
What more can you possibly want?

Tacit in that was, 'superficial ingrate',
but Livia held her tongue.
Just.

Stunned for a moment; slowly, he grinned.
He knew a worthy opponent on sight:
A woman who liked to fight,
before she tumbled into make up sex, all hot and pouty.

His smile broadened.
Smuggened.

The last tango before the kill...

Always so sweet.

a rich, evocative write, TA!
thankyou for posting this here. now all we'd like you to do is tell us about its making. of course it stands on its own feet and creates its own blend of shadow and light, but we want to get behind the write, into your mind ...

 

[champagne1982]

Verbal spew written before I read on in the thread.. Pay no attention to the avatar in the photo...

 

[Trudy_Antone]

Into my mind...ooh, scary. You're asking for the truth from someone who lies to herself on a regular basis. Hm.

So, after a ridiculously long, unwanted period of celibacy, off I went on my South American adventure with a packet of condoms supplied by my two besties, and instructions to not come home unless, for god's sake woman, I got myself laid, good and proper.

There I was, sitting in a cafe in Iquitos when this drop dead gorgeous creature walked past a number of times, staring at me, finally taking the table next to mine. Being far too good-looking for his own good, I gave him the cold shoulder, repeatedly, but the man was just too happy-go-lucky to be slapped down. He didn't know how to get to Colombia which was pathetic. How do people get by without the Lonely Planet? Told him I was buying a hammock and getting on the slow boat downriver, at which point he said, "So, when do WE leave?"

God I was easy. The intention to keep my clothes on was there...it just got lost. Next thing I'm in a Shaman's lodge downing Ayauasca with him, my entire body breathing in colour and light, telling all the spirits in the room to please, leave me alone. Shortly after, he was on his knees in the shower, making my dreams come true.

Long story short, it was one of those Mills and Boon flings. A man who can dance, tells funny stories, and loves to eat pussy. We parted after a month, him to the Northern Hemisphere, me to the Southern. I was sad

Ever since, we've been cyber pounding each other, getting progressively kinkier. The problem is, he's killed my writing. The only characters I can think of at the moment are him and me. Other authors on this site told me to 'write our story down' so here you go. Trying to exercise him from my head so I can get on with other things.

 

[Trudy_Antone]

And anyone know a good poetry editor in case I submit this?

 

[butters]

Verbal spew written before I read on in the thread.. Pay no attention to the avatar in the photo...

x2

 

[butters]

And anyone know a good poetry editor in case I submit this?

where are you thinking of submitting it to?

 

[UnderYourSpell]

Long poems usually lose me about halfway through but yours was good enough to keep me interested to the end