NationStates Jolt Archive

hey, there was this thread once called poets of NS, and it had a bunch of really good poets on it and stuff, but it no longer exists. so, I'm remaking it. this is a nice place to put poems, posts about poetry and a gathering place for poets on the site. ENJOY!

i keep having this dream...
it's you and me on a beach
with no sign of civilization around
and it's storming
the lightning reflecting on the water
the thunder and rain giving us
rythm to dance to,
singing at the top of our lungs
to the music in our heads
because there's no one there but us -
they arent there to tell us that
the way we do things is not "socially acceptable"-
not like we'd care anyway
but it's just nice without the nagging

and, for a moment we fall silent and still
letting the wind do circles around us,
the rain pound through us,
and the light flash over us.
and regardless of what my mind's screaming,
my heart feels perfectly safe being
out here in this storm because it knows
that was are the ones giving it life:
with every touch of our bodies
we make the thunder;
the electricity in our kisses
causes lightning to shoot across the sky;
and the rain? the rain falls to try
to put out the fire in our hearts...
but baby, we laugh because we know
it never will

and now as i'm lying here
waiting for sleep to finally
come and claim me
i find myself praying only
to have that dream again
because tonight follows a day
that blew me away
almost as much as you did
the first time we met
and if you were here with me
i wouldn't feel so godamn guilty
cuz everything here is screaming your name
but you're too many miles away to hear it
and i'm trying my best to relay the message
but hearing is so much different than feeling it
and maybe, if i could stay in
that dream long enough,
i could hitch a ride on a lightning bolt
and wake up where you are...
because baby, i miss you
with my whole heart.

I do not like George W. Bush.

I will not vote for Bush in a box.
I will not vote for Bush watching Fox.

I will not vote for Bush in my house.
I wouldn't vote for Bush if I had a same-sex spouse.

I will not vote for Bush in a sack.
I will not vote for Bush in Iraq.

I will not vote for Bush because he's scary.
I will not vote for Bush because I choose Kerry.

-----------------

I do not like John F. Kerry (A parody of my own "I do not like George W. Bush" poem)


I will not vote for Kerry with a pen
I will not vote for Kerry watching CNN

I will not vote for Kerry with Hop or with Pop
I will not vote for Kerry with Flip or with Flop

I will not vote for Kerry in a car
I will not vote for Kerry despite a Silver Star

I will not vote for Kerry; he's nothing but mush
I will not vote for Kerry because I choose Bush

From Three Doodads ala Dorothy Parker

Change, you must,
to lure him to your bed.
Burn up all your old things
and take up new instead.
Wear only such colors
as he proclaims are gay.
Laugh only after
his laugh leads the way.
Cry only for the things
he finds to be sad.
Strive for all his goods.
Forsake all your bads.
Always slow your stride
to match his even pace.
Measure out your hours
by hands on his watch face.
Simply put:
Be what you’re not.

He’ll claim he loved you
Right from the start.

just wondering if anyone's heard of the national poetry slam

just wondering id anyone's heard of the national poetry slam
Yea.

Yea.

did you go this year to st. louis?

did you go this year to st. louis?
I hate literature of all kinds...I find it dull...

i abhor people who try to rhyme and let it get in the way. triteness does not sound good.

on a side note about things i don't like, a bunch of retarded angsty emo kids posted their shitty poems about how much their moms hate them and how they cut last time this thread existed. it would be grand if this one could remain emo-free. if it does not, i shall mock the poet into leaving, or at least call them retarded.

i abhor people who try to rhyme and let it get in the way. triteness does not sound good.

on a side note about things i don't like, a bunch of retarded angsty emo kids posted their shitty poems about how much their moms hate them and how they cut last time this thread existed. it would be grand if this one could remain emo-free. if it does not, i shall mock the poet into leaving, or at least call them retarded.
Err...the cutters are goths dood...

And if you're talking about the rhymes in my poem

1) I was trying to do it in the style of Dr. Suess in case you missed that
2) I hate poetry and don't care enough to make a good poem.

Err...the cutters are goths dood...
you see, i wish it was confined to goths. but it is growing within the emo community. they do it for attention, and because they think they are put upon by the world.

Err...the cutters are goths dood...

And if you're talking about the rhymes in my poem

1) I was trying to do it in the style of Dr. Suess in case you missed that
2) I hate poetry and don't care enough to make a good poem.

I really liked your poems... they were quite refreshing to read

1) I was trying to do it in the style of Dr. Suess in case you missed that
2) I hate poetry and don't care enough to make a good poem.

yes, i obviously missed that because i never had a childhood and obviously never read doctor seuss.

in other words: i could tell you were fucking around, and since you weren't trying to make something meaningful the rhymes were inoffensive.

Alas Opal Isle--you cut me to the quick. Literature is what I do! But that's okay. Try this poem on for size--it's about a day in Arkansas.

Buffalo River, 2002

It might have been the way you yelped
at the paddle-splash of water
on the back of your neck, snowmelt crisp,
an April afternoon just warm enough

for us to steer away from cliff shadows,
from wind-rustled pines. Or the way
you shed shoes and hat to clamber
the sandstone face of Jim’s Bluff,

wet footprints diminishing, step over step.
Maybe the romantic sweep of dragonfly
skimming the river surface to light
on flotsam, but in the end I think it was

the way you bent into each stroke, pulled
river behind you, pulled us deeper into it.

You think you're special enough to not capitalize the first letter of each line?

here is a poem i enjoy:

sometimes when I remember how it was,
I’m drinking cheap liquor from a tin cup I
had from the war and I can’t hold it
steady and it falls on the floor, spills out and
runs in the cracks in the wood and

it reminds me of that time in Khe Sanh when it
rained all day, pissing down in muddy streamers
and collected in little pools and
wore tributaries in the mud and when it
stopped

there was this little girl skinny and naked with
just a rag wrapped around her waist and
she huddled in the waste and shit of the village

when I walked by she looked me with
these huge eyes driven deep in her face and
she held out a hand and said probably the only
word she knew "water" and again
"water" so I give some water in the tin cup I had

and she holds it and stares at her own big
brown eyes and then she crouches down
in the mud and carefully pours the water out
onto the ground and it flows in the rutted cracks
and makes little rivers

and when they ask me what it was like
I say "follow me" and take a cup and
fill it full of water and

I go outside and pour it out on the ground
and they say "what does that mean" and I
point at the water trickling dirty through
the cracks and I say "that's what it means"
"that's what it's about"

and they say I’m crazy and they
go away and leave me dripping water
on the cobblestones and laughing and

there was a little girl in Khe Sanh
who knew the truth even though
she was blown to hell the next day

You think you're special enough to not capitalize the first letter of each line?

when i write poetry i think i'm special enough not to capitalize at all and punctuate sparingly.

thats a bit militant, I may find the flooding of angsty depressing poetry annoying, but I'm not going to push any buttons, poets should be tolerant and open minded I think. but hey, I'm also not the controlling type. you can flame me, I don't mind, but lets limit the flaming of others unless they say you can. I hope lovestruck fools don't upset you too...

The moon holds its breath
Before the splendor of the sun
And she cannot help but blush
When she sees him at the dusk
The earth sings them a melody
And the skies paint them a picture
Reds and pinks and purples glow
But it pales to their hearts

Let this evening last all night
Until the morning rise
Let I always remember
The sunset in your eyes
Waltz until the day has come
From dusk till night and dawn
Let this twilight dance continue
Until the dark is gone

We wake to the sound of singing
Because our dreams were spent in bliss
And in the days I cannot see you
My spirit knows your kiss
The stars can be our light
When we look upon them
Stare up at them above you
And know I see the same

Let this evening last all night
Until the morning rise
Let I always remember
The sunset in your eyes
Waltz until the day has come
From dusk till night and dawn
Let this twilight dance continue
Until the dark has gone.

I'm so tired of serious poetry, yet that seems to be the kind of poetry I write... hmm...
I smell a style-change coming apon me.

Anyway, heres something useless to read. It's not very good... eh... but hey, the way I see it... ahh nevermind.

(arrr goddamn the formatting didn't work.. anyway..)

With no rescue I have become a ghost
My saviors have been imaginary and I
Wander the halls looking for distraction.
I've lost it, lost face, lost touch.
I'm sorry if this is too much for you.
And it's true, I won't lie.
I still shake every time I think of you
I can still see your face clearer than his
I know you probably don't miss me much.
Grown away from the attraction.
Apologies and au-revoirs for my sudden shift in face
Hormones or a change of fate but
It's undeniable something is
Wrong.
Amen.

thats a bit militant, I may find the flooding of angsty depressing poetry annoying, but I'm not going to push any buttons, poets should be tolerant and open minded I think.

yes, true, but i am not open-minded about people who think they are poets but actually are not, and are crass and stupid and drivelling and self-important.


an unrelated question: am i the only one who writes short poems?

I'm so tired of serious poetry, yet that seems to be the kind of poetry I write... hmm...
I smell a style-change coming apon me.

Anyway, heres something useless to read. It's not very good... eh... but hey, the way I see it... ahh nevermind.

I write non-serious poetry...
err, I wrote 2 non-serious poems...

yes, true, but i am not open-minded about people who think they are poets but actually are not, and are crass and stupid and drivelling and self-important.


an unrelated question: am i the only one who writes short poems?

i try to write short poems. it doesn't happen often. i consider it a weakness in myself... i'd like to be able to contain what i like to say, to choose my words better. i used to make a point of only writing short poems.
i've slipped... i've had to write in shorter amounts of time, which, ironically, leads to longer things.

anyway, the idea of being a "poet" often bothers me. pretty much anyone who calls themself a "poet"... its like their purple heart or something. i dont know, i think that's also a flaw in me... a negative association i have

I write non-serious poetry...
err, I wrote 2 non-serious poems...

i liked your poems muchly. hehee. notice above comment of mine... :D

oh wait, here's a random one, because when i write poetry i generally somehow relate it to music. inspired by a night when the fucking birds would NOT shut up. sure, it was only for a few minutes, but i was really trying to sleep.

11:36 with the moon in sight and
the silence is rhyming to
the beat of my heart. ParrUMP-ump.
ParrUMP-ump. Rolling the
r's and sounding like grandpa
struggling up and sinking
back down for a moment in the
LA-Z-Boy recliner. The second
ump all resigned and the
first overexerted. Overextended.
And now the birds tune up at
11:38. They hear the rhythm,
provide the tune: t
w
e
e-TURR!
Sliding down and hitting hard
on that turr. Mama bird spurns
the song, Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch! she scolds.
11:42 and she sends the song to
bed. All that's left is the lazy
bass line of the silence. 11:46
and the audience goes home.

I write short poems, from time to time, when thats how long the poem just ends up being. this ones not short though...

It’s a buyer’s market

Can’t you see?

Buy me! Buy me!

Two for three

Name your price

We have to sell

Was 200, prices fell

It’s a sale! Sale!

Don’t you fret!

We’ll help you gather up your debt

I’ll tell you now

You MUST buy!

Just think up an alibi

It’s a buyer’s market

Can’t you see?

Driving your economy

It’s a buyer’s market

Can’t you tell?

Even your soul

It all must sell!

kern... now THAT is poetry, mate.

good stuff. it stands out.

i think you can be a poet and not take it seriously.... i think it gets to be more fun when you do start to take it seriously and realize that you can do things and go places with the words you write...


i think haikus are incredibly hard to write. does anyone else?

everlasting music = neverending rain

am i right?

i think you can be a poet and not take it seriously.... i think it gets to be more fun when you do start to take it seriously and realize that you can do things and go places with the words you write...


i think haikus are incredibly hard to write. does anyone else?

i think haikus are quite easy.

in my blog, i like writing entries in haikus... i used to a lot, less these days.
i love them.

everlasting music = neverending rain

am i right?

^-^ not quite... in a way, yeah

kern... now THAT is poetry, mate.

good stuff. it stands out.

thankee.

^-^ not quite... in a way, yeah
well, either you are you, or you aren't.
i don't see how there could be a gray area...?

a short one:
Can she spend the night?
A little-girl question.
An interesting question.
Well tell me, child,
is it hers to spend?
Indigo currency to
be payed at dawn?
If the answer is yes
then she may buy the sun.
If it is no
then she is welcome to stay
but cannot use the stars.

neverending rain would be everlasting music, but neverending rain is not everlasting music.
although we are very much alike... kindred spirits you could say

and then i challenged myself with a sonnet about muffins in iambic pentameter with a traditional rhyming couplet as lines 13 and 14. the emphasis is on 3,6,and 9, so some words have to be screwed around with, but do you realize how fucking hard it is to write a shakespearean sonnet about muffins?

O my mighty and wondrous muffin!
Thy crenulated sides do me beckon-
Thy delectably succulent stuffin'
Creates a most tasty treat I reckon.
Thy top so brown and so spectacular
And thy chocolate that's so very sweet
Have created my lapse to vernacular-
With irresistable charm thou'rt replete.
The English have perverted thy goodness
With the English muffin as it is called
I think that I shall demand some redress-
Their mad shamelessness has left me appalled.
And now that I have sung thy temptations
I cave and give in to sweet sensations.

and my school-inspired 17 haikus:

I: Calculus

1. Woes upon my head!
The enclosed area is
not the right answer.
2. Yes, I can derive
Derivatives are easy!
Just kidding, I can't.
3. Related rates of
Cylinders, cones, squares, and spheres-
Oh, and wrong answers.
4. I watch my grade drop.
Can I ever retrieve it?
No, I don't think so.
5. The Fundamental
Theorem of Calculus is
Retest on Friday.

II: History

1. Teacher glares at me-
I have been talking again
and am sent outside.
2. I yawn mightily,
What do I care of Wilson?
I mean, he's dead now.
3. I should read tonight-
The book will help me pass but
Reading is for squares.
4. Taft was very fat.
He got stuck in a bathtub.
We all laugh at him.
5. Modern connection-
George Bush, the Patriot Act-
Damn, we're back on track.
6. History, U.S.:
Taught by a Canadian.
Find that funny, eh?
7. After AP tests,
No more history for me!
Ditching class is fun.

III: Physics

1. Physics goes like so:
Assume: there are no clocks here.
Given: nothing, Find:
2. Frequency of source?
Not given, so do something-
Answers are needed.
3. When in doubt draw things-
Diagrams make it seem like
You have done some work.
4. The magnetic field
Of a loop with a current
Is deep deep sadness.
5. Twenty-one percent
Jesus, save me from my grade,
Help me pass this class!

and then i challenged myself with a sonnet about muffins in iambic pentameter with a traditional rhyming couplet as lines 13 and 14. the emphasis is on 3,6,and 9, so some words have to be screwed around with, but do you realize how fucking hard it is to write a shakespearean sonnet about muffins?

O my mighty and wondrous muffin!
Thy crenulated sides do me beckon-
Thy delectably succulent stuffin'
Creates a most tasty treat I reckon.
Thy top so brown and so spectacular
And thy chocolate that's so very sweet
Have created my lapse to vernacular-
With irresistable charm thou'rt replete.
The English have perverted thy goodness
With the English muffin as it is called
I think that I shall demand some redress-
Their mad shamelessness has left me appalled.
And now that I have sung thy temptations
I cave and give in to sweet sensations.

lol, awesome.... must have been extremely hard, i imagine... a good challenge

This is the first real non caffeine heart
palpitation that I've had in a long time.
If you shuffle to the origin, there is a
Kit, a bass, a smile and mark my words
a llama.

Euphoria.

The synapse between this feeling I have and
the prior before as been too long. Look! It's
Dawn!

Bliss.

There's no turning back now, the message has been
sent. Check my quivering hands, but I'm not scared.
This is my most confident in ages. And I'm not
lying this time.

Where have you been this whole time?

ahh shakespearian sonnet is so insanely hard!!

good work.. those are quite a challenge

lol, awesome.... must have been extremely hard, i imagine... a good challenge

yeah, it was kind of hard. i actually wrote it because i took a poll of things i should write and people generally agreed a sonnet about muffins would be good.

and this one i was just in some weird mood. no, i'm not trying to be pretentious or an avant-garde asshole with this one. it just kind of popped out. i'm crazy but generally harmless.
“I am Nobody, who are you?”
O hermit from the wild wild world!
Meet i who is I
(and the pleasure is mine,
and the pleasure is I)
And turn Nobody back-
choose you who is You
So
Together, perhaps, we make Us
no room for Nobody in two
for You see, You know,
neither Somebody nor Nobody
am I, are you, are You

and one more weird one for the night before i inject some levity with one my ridiculous mother inspired:
She comes towards you shuffling. You
notice the bruise on her face, right above her eye. Faintly
ringed in brown; soft so your touch
penetrates the skin.
You won't touch it though.
You know peach bruises and how
they work their way in. Rotten. You've
had a few yourself.
You won't touch it.
And she stops to feel
it for you. The skin caving in. A vaccuum.
And you have access to her mind and
you can see yourself through her
eyes. You bow your head to
will yourself away. Just as she knows you would. Just
as she knows that
you wouldn't touch it.

reminds me of cummings

<----Too shy to claim poetry with her main nation
Also...I'm not a cutter...

Looking down, my eye catches a speck of glinting obsidian
As a self-fulfilling smile distracts my lips,
the startling contrast distracts my thoughts
I laugh, dejectedly
at the chipped black of my fingers
resting unamused on my pastel flowered silk skirt
I march out, in file,
passing a hundred blank faces
I pass 50 empty conversations
And I wonder if everyone would gasp and whisper "freak" into the emptiness
If I were to drop to my knees in front of them
Or if someone would laugh with me at the irony.

My skirt now matches my broken nails.

I keep walking.

reminds me of cummings
are you talking to me? if so, thank you, for he is one of my favorite poets.

hey problem children, i like the empty conversations bit.

my mom is absured. the first lines are seriously something she said to me.

My mother wants to be
an ice cream man because
it sounds romantic.
Here baby, let me sweep
you off your feet with
my soft-serve swirls and
multi-colored Astro Pops-
Freud would say something
about those pops.
We can nestle in my
Italian villa (apartment on Main Street)
and share our love
(lick sprinkles off each other's bodies).
Together we can ride into the
sunset (ice cream goes to your thighs,
that's improbable)
and dance the night away (reprise
comment about thighs).
Baby, I can be your
Ice Cream Man
and you can be my Ice Cream Queen.

Inspiration trumpets forth
Three things I can’t ignore
The sight, the sound
This picture of myself
I paint with words
Reflecting, inspecting
Is this the one I want?
This image formed
of words and phrases
Will it show me well?
Will it capture each complexity
That can’t be seen with eyes?
Will it capture imperfection?
Can I write the wrong?
Can It speak of good times too,
Of my half-mad joker’s smile?
Can it show the random style
With laughter all the while?
Can it show the tears and shadow?
The shading in the corner?
I want to show it all
To show all that is true
This is my portrait hung in empty halls
This is my picture on the walls
No fantasies, no fiction
No lies, but contradiction
This is who I am
This is my symphony
This will be my novel
My biography
this will be my snapshot
from cameras in my head
thought and wrote and drawn and said
a photograh thats read

pretty good.

my problem is that i want to write little 4-liners that are just an impression of something i see. unfortunately, you can only get away with that if people already respect you as a poet.

yeah, it was kind of hard. i actually wrote it because i took a poll of things i should write and people generally agreed a sonnet about muffins would be good.
I did something similar about 4 years ago for a class--only mine was about sausage. I used slant rhymes in some cases--there's really no way to rhyme kielbasa.

Sonnet to Sausage
-for Enid


(This is the nugget, the meaning you must
glean from this poem. You should interpret
it only this way, for there is just
one way, that I, your poet really meant

for you to read it.) I hate kielbasa,
the greasy juiciness of it; I hate
the feel of teeth that pop the sausage
casing to squeeze out the ground pig meat,

the leftover chunks that even butchers
figure can’t be sold without a disguise,
some skin or otherness. On pictures
of pigs sectioned off by dotted lines

into hamhocks, pork loins, bacon and chops,
there’s never one called sausage, no kielbasa.

I did something similar about 4 years ago for a class--only mine was about sausage. I used slant rhymes in some cases--there's really no way to rhyme kielbasa.

Sonnet to Sausage
-for Enid


(This is the nugget, the meaning you must
glean from this poem. You should interpret
it only this way, for there is just
one way, that I, your poet really meant

for you to read it.) I hate kielbasa,
the greasy juiciness of it; I hate
the feel of teeth that pop the sausage
casing to squeeze out the ground pig meat,

the leftover chunks that even butchers
figure can’t be sold without a disguise,
some skin or otherness. On pictures
of pigs sectioned off by dotted lines

into hamhocks, pork loins, bacon and chops,
there’s never one called sausage, no kielbasa.
ha. 1. i can't believe you don't like sausage. 2. i have a friend who, for some odd reason, abhors slant rhymes. we slant-rhyme at her all the time to tease.

the one thing that bugs me about poets these days is how self centered everything they write is. whatever happened to observance of the surrounding world? or talking about something close to you that can be seen universally (sp, ik, for a writer, my spelling sucks)? idk, it seems like a lot of people get wrapped up in themselves to the point where they put blinders on.

i wrote this one on a rainy night after i'd been driving around with some friends...

the road under the stoplight
looks like the scene
from mary poppins
when all the colors bleed
in the rain
washing a day(of)dream(s
so far) away

and then one on war:

pull my pencil out of my bag
like it's a weapon of mass destruction-
what the world seems stuck on today.
but in all actuality, i intend to
make it a weapon of mass
enlightenment or encouragement...
well, okay - i Do want it to
destroy the walls between us all -
destroy the thoughts that keep us apart
destroy the ignorance that makes us fight
destroy the grudges from long ago that won't
end...
end the flag burning
end the indifference
end the struggle
end the 'victim triangle'
end the war
(where we gain more enemies than we destroy)
end the butting in
(it's not our business)
end the hate
(we do Not know everything)
end the violence
(but i am niether God nor satan so what's the
use of some erasable words on a paper
the world will never know?)

an unrelated question: am i the only one who writes short poems?

When I feel sad,
I remember the clouds above my head,
the stones beneath my feet,
the rain on my cheeks,
and how indifferent they are to how I feel.



Any good?

ha. 1. i can't believe you don't like sausage. 2. i have a friend who, for some odd reason, abhors slant rhymes. we slant-rhyme at her all the time to tease.
I actually love sausage, especially a good spicy andouille. Grew up in Louisiana and we'd put sausage in cake if we could get away with it. And in my serious work, I generally slant rhyme whenever possible--I prefer it to hard rhymes.

*bump*

“A Past Not Forgotten”

A silent saxophone sitting there
Leaning wearily against a wooden wall
Its last note played, now collecting dust from the air
Never to sing a song, or any sound at all
The reed is cracked, the pads are torn
The beautiful tenor voice is gone
The bell is bent, the shine is worn
It sits in the dark, no one will turn a light on

But it remembers the days!
Those glorious days!

(had a nice sketch of a tenor sax in the background)


“USEless”

DREAMS give you NOTHING!
Naught but AIR
A wish, a LONGING just there,
Out of REACH

They are ENTERTAINMENT
A vision to WATCH while you SLEEP
WHY do you think your brain doesn’t KEEP
Their MEMORY?

So FULL of meanings you NEVER get
And yet…
(yes, it is finished)


“Wondering Why”

Along went a Wondering Why
To visit a very far-off land
Knowing he would soon die

A puzzled What came walking by
The Why offered him his hand
Then along went the Wondering Why

A be-fuddled How was gazing high
The Why tried to point him to the sand
Knowing he, too, would soon die

An inexplicable Who caught the Why’s eye
The Why greeted him kindly and
Along he went, the Wondering Why

He met a dull old When and sighed
This world, he thought, is far to bland
He knew, though, that he would soon die

At last the Why could touch the sky
Away from all the problems of man
Along went the Wondering Why
No more worries that he would die

(last one, unless someone wants to hear more from me...)