So...

[CeriseNoire]

what is the poem you're most proud of? Putting aside feedback, reads and scores. What's the one poem that you're really proud to call your own?

 

[LadynStFreknBed]

My villanelle about the recurring dream I had for years after my grandfather died:

Dream From Grandpa

Scared little girl facing a raging stream,
overwhelmed by helplessness and fear,
feel the love and support of Grandpa’s hand.

Water churning, pounding upon the rocks
creating deafening noise that draws tears.
Scared little girl facing a raging stream,

Algae-slick rocks make a treacherous path.
Small footsteps flounder with the current near.
Feel the love and support of Grandpa’s hand.

She holds on tightly, forgetting to breathe,
waiting for the distant bank to appear,
scared little girl facing a raging stream.

Her grandpa’s grip steadies her faulty stance
with encouraging words for her to hear.
Feel the love and support of Grandpa’s hand.

As nervous slumber turns to peaceful rest,
the message delivered by dream is clear-
scared little girl facing a raging stream,
feel the love and support of Grandpa’s hand.

 

[miss_mystery]

this poem. despite the fact that has very little in the way of concrete imagery, and feels rather naive, I think that it's quite possibly the best of anything I've written.

a proper mourning


they have to keep you talking

in order to make absolutely sure
that you cannot succeed
and succumb to the honeyed numbness
of shock,

slip smoothly away
from the stirrups unnoticed by the nurse
to find a gentler,
more muted place where it

doesn’t hurt quite
so much.

instead of this
dreamlike small talk,
i wish that i could somehow
give a real voice
to my sorrowing body

so that it could wail and keen and shriek
its grief and pain
until the whole building
shakes and shivers
in sympathy:

give this tiny ghost
of opportunity
a proper mourning.

 

[kingbadman]

wow very deep poetry, lets have some poetic nominations on the forum

 

[CeriseNoire]

wow very deep poetry, lets have some poetic nominations on the forum

Um, there are already official contests and nominations.

I just find it interesting to see what writers themselves like when it comes to their work.

 

[unpredictablebijou]

okay, I'll play

Miss Mystery, that one hit home for me. Beautiful. And right on.

As for myself, what the hell, I'll put one up: this is one that I'm incredibly pleased with, and very few would ever bother to dig around in it enough to figure it out. Don't care. I like it.

It was written for a friend who would definitely have understood every word, since she is both tantric and a sacred mathematician, but she never got a chance to see it. Sometimes I actually care deeply about whether or not someone is willing to understand what I'm trying to say in a piece, but in many cases, I'm just writing for God and myself, and I've always been quite sure that God gets all my references. I've considered pulling a T.S. Eliot and footnoting the hell out of this piece, but it seems self-conscious and I've never gotten around to doing it.

As such, then, as inaccessible as it is, it may not constitute a "good" poem in the traditional sense of being able to communicate a common sensation or sentiment, but I suspect this piece is just always going to be what it is, no more, no less.

So here ya go.



Music of the Spheres

*it is as if*
no belly but ocean, you (or what-was-defined-till-now-as)
become mist from the navel out.
The color is purple-except-bright
pristine mist, smooth, and the sound
unsound that finds itself (yourself) singing
is (lion silence, you remember)
more song than song, a bone sound,
light, and light
which rhymes (rimes) with purple
and with the sound and your unfingers
you turn the axes and graphs and
dimensions round, shifting a link here
delicately, precise
(the beads dropping into place)

*it is as if*
the goddess (of course, Her hands, after all
or it is the Moon and Sun or ancestors or angels
yes
who do it of course yourself and God working together
remembering that the two of you can trade places
that you can be, are one another
and you remember)
you (god) fall upwards
and you remember
a tunnel, and a wedding
that is taking place
one thing joins with another
and the words now all mean
the same thing:
hearn, kernel and corn
the tunnel, the horn
the spiral road you travel
all made from circles, angles and lines

*it is as if*
their mirror images manifest themselves
and they perform
the ritual of the opening of the mouth
the woman bends over the lion
gently, unlocks
with the instrument, the key (cleito)
the key (an octave, a chord, an interval)
you unlock a door (as if a door)
with music, a series of angles and patterns
it is a cave entrance, a tunnel, a border
or an opening (you climb upward
and out through the hole in the roof of the world)
this is the boat of time
the choir of chords and angles,
the key, the code
that opens the gate. Sung, it opens the mouth
which turns itself (you) inside out
with a roar
sah-hung: I Am That
unfolding: sah-hung: sung.

*it is as if*
a drumbeat were thunder, and a
word: DA
the clap of thunder that is
the beginning of the world
the roar of the lion
seven cones, umbrellas, colors
nested and towering
nine worlds of wealth and
ten of pentacles' points
all circles, wheels within wheels
singing
DA
and the universe opens
like a fan
like a chord
like a rose.

 

[beautyandwine]

Hmm, I was thinking of posting a thread of the same topic.

Well, my favorite is likely not my best (but I have oh-so-far to go), but it's this one:

I Wish I Were a Few Years Naive

I wish I were a few years naive,
living in disillusionment
wherein romance never died.

Where playful romps
in satin sheets
stayed young, while
tickle wars
and late night passions
conquered worn carpet.

Each morning a fresh
smile, mischievious eyes
and strong libido
would follow our kisses.
And with every shower,
your hands would pronounce
me beautiful beneath the suds
as I drew road maps
over your familar landscape,
stopping to smile
and vacation
in my favorite dips and angles.

The wallpaper would peel
into comfortable smiles,
guarding over
as I'd cook your eggs soft-scrambled,
only browning them a bit
when your hands slink and distract.

I'd never lack for kisses
or conversation, and
every evening I'd wear
your arms around me
to melt away the world.
We'd never tire, no,
but when we did
we'd snuggle and snooze,
limbs entwined and lips
inches apart.

The bookshelves and boudoir
would envy us
our lack of dust
and I'd never walk out the door
without telling you
"I love you."

(c) TDP 2007

 

[Avery_Reynolds]

Congratulations one and all! These are all marvelous.

 

[Guest]

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