Author Topic: Pick out the best poem  (Read 1411 times)

ZeaLitY

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Pick out the best poem
« on: September 10, 2005, 01:30:14 am »
Not best for length, but best because it subscribes to your definition of poetry. And not like "poetry is crap," but "poetry is overflow of powerful emotion," "poetry is quiet reflection," "poetry is the language of the beautiful," or something in that vein. Pick out the best poem.

Quote from: Candidate A

Writing Contest Submission: Poetry

Quote
Tariq

He’s my half brother.
I have two other brothers.
A total of three.

We don’t share a name.
We have nothing in common.
We don’t look the same.

He lives with his mom.
This summer, he’s visiting.
Then, he’ll go back home.

He is six years old.
I’m about to be twenty.
I can’t talk to him.

He whines to get things.
He can’t do that with me though.
Our father gives in.

He always takes things.
He just freakin’ lost my sword.
I really liked it!

But he’s in a jam.
His parents aren’t really great.
That includes my dad.

His mother is weird.
She’s just not responsible.
She likes to run off.

He gets left behind.
His aunt takes care of him then.
And she seems crazy.

He’s not alone though.
He has two other siblings
That get shuffled too.

Does his mom want him?
Was she ready for a kid?
I don’t think she was.

He has no self-worth.
His other brother is mean.
He calls Tariq dumb.

“I can’t! “I don’t know!”
Those are his favorite words.
He hates to learn things.

No one teaches him.
He doesn’t know the basics.
He can’t spell his name.

People called him slow.
But they wouldn’t let him try.
Great job, mom. Great job.

Dad wants him to stay.
He says Tariq needs his dad.
He talks a good game.

But dad ’s not better.
Just different, in some ways.
That’s just not enough.

Dad can’t raise Tariq.
He takes credit from my mom.
He couldn’t raise me.

Mom struggled for me.
Dad was in California.
Off making Tariq.

He says he’ll do it.
He will fix Tariq’s problems.
But he can just walk.

A three story fall.
On the job three years ago.
Broke both of his legs.

Pain is a constant.
Oxycontin helps a lot.
But it knocks him out.

How can Dad raise him?
Sometimes he can sleep for days.
Who will watch Tariq?

School conferences?
How will my father get there?
He can’t drive or walk.

And what about room?
How can six people live here?
Not in three bedrooms.

Tariq is just screwed.
His birth was a sad mistake.
Condoms were ignored.

Mom is immature.
She doesn’t know what to do.
Where the hell is she?

Dad at least wants him.
But he’s not ready for this.
He can’t even work.

It’s not my problem.
He’s only my half brother.
Soon he will be gone.

Things will be fine then.
No more crying for ice cream.
To hell with that runt.

Yet it’s not like that.
For some reason, I do care.
And it makes me sad.

I care about him.
I want to see him do well.
Is it possible?

How can things work out?
I ask myself that a lot.
I can’t find answers.

He shouldn’t exist.
My father’s too old for him.
And his mother’s dumb.

It is too late now.
I don’t think he will succeed.
The odds are too great.

But I could be wrong.
Miracles really happen.
He could be one too.

I hope that he is.
He just got dealt a bad hand.
Life can really suck.

But I’m his brother.
Half or not, I’ll still help him.
Right up ‘til the end.


Quote from: Candidate B
Category: Poetry

Title: Illusion Tree


The forst winds on and on,
There's a path in the underbrush.
Roots coil and brambles foil
Any attempt to rush.
The trail twists over and in,
You can see a clearing at the end.
You can feel your breath pound in your chest
As you round the final bend.
And there it is, The Earthen Tree,
Sun sprinkling through it's green lament.
Morning dew sparkling as you
Sigh, and breath in the worlds scent.
On the side reaching out her hand,
In a straw hat, is a little girl.
She beckons you to come into the Sun
and leave behind this world.
Life springs from Deaths wings,
Tommorows another day.
The girls call, a moss cracked wall-
"Beauty is only a breath away"



Quote from: Candidate C


Midnight Glove

Note: My sister wrote the second verse, coz the beginning of this poem was meant to be a joint poem, and I can't be bothered to change it.

Feel the shining winds of night,
Swirl around you, filled with light,
To stand here listening to the laughs,
of close yet distant men,
be filled with subtle, recollective joy
At celebration, and colours...

Digging through the snow,
And seeing something glow,
Touching those dazzling jewels,
Having bright festivals,
People wih cold, red noses,
All the happiness never closes.

Circuits and wires, and metal and lights,
Electricity flowing all around,
You put in the passion, the crackling,
The buzzing, the flowing of warmness
And brightness and sounds.
All through the night, reflected in your eyes,
And early morning drives in a truck

Gliding up the bowling alley,
Shopping centres at space stations,
On a small, grey planet
Lies a secluded food store:
Though brilliantly lit, as everything else,
It stands alone in a multiverse
Of astro- centres...
Yet someone drives...

Barren stretches, dusty roads,
Sand dunes, horses, camels and guns...
Life in the desert, for years and years,
Galloping on horseback under a clear blue sky,
Your war days are over; there is no more bruising,
But even now, they can seem confusing...
But even then...

(But red like crimson,
on a sparkling night sky,
from a Princess's gown
living, and dancing,
and no life flying by)

I start anew; words which I have few,
In a desolate era, this strange world.
I know not how to keep my head above water,
mind above reason, this blue life.

And to remember those I once was, and now am not,
lost to the world,
confused and swirled,
in a strange life, so full of hate-
half promises- hidden crevices, from those
I may never see again.

Laughing and eating,
which so disgusts me,

now in this cold, dreary hellish cell, where a vampire stalks,
my room he walks by, watching and smiling
At I and my lost comrade, whispering and whimpering into my clothes...
I escaped from the castle and lost into the darkness...
I awoke one day,
to say,
"Today is the first day,
of the rest of my life
My blue life"
And now I am here,
this loud world...

I said little, but I knew much;
a 'teacher', who came to us,
By fate or misfortune?
Think I now, 'both to few
and one to some'

He said to me, "Your mother came to hear you speak!"
I nod grimly; wise words to keep,
Her angry words, her hasty words:
"Weren't you even listening when I came to that bloody classroom?"
And so I imagine, it's as she said,
Full of blood
And swathed in red.

"I don't want to!" said the man, in the rocky crevice,
The old lady smiled
In her cottage.
"We shall see what the days shall bring. Just pray to the stars...
And they will give..."
"But nothing,
But nothing!"
He smiled.
"But the darkened thing!"

Silent night,
Unrequited night,
I crept up to you,
I watched you sleep,
For hours,
I tried to touch you,
And nothing pulled me back
And no-one could say
that nothing had happened
In the midnight hour
For I walked away
And the curtain of wind
was your only reply.

The darkness leads;
my life turns to turmoil,
The Black Mist
Of silence and misery.
Twas' the ticking,
the ticking of the clock that kept me awake.
The downpour of rain, on the windows, that illuminated the night
(Like the desert moon, from under a sand dune)
The falling of the raindrops,
pattering on my heart,
bruising it softly,
from the inside out.
The whispering wind, distant, sealing me
To silence.
To darkness.
The pale moonlight, through the curtains
On my hand, on my face,

The moonlight reflected on the missionary base.
To give the fuming machines
Some pace.
The aliens will run,
The humans outdone
But under the reflection, of the sun.

The pool of water under the tree caverns
The maze of fairies in the forest
The highest rock with the haunted mansion,
in the darkest land ever known to man.
I ask you!
Of what fate is a being to suffer this?
The days are a dream, our illusion
shrouded by night
Until it shows.
What fools we have been.

The Midnight Glove
To eternity shall do
Adieu!
With you
And only to accept it.

I feel an emptiness,
so hollow,
that it was as if all of creation had passed successfully
and I had been an observer on the outside, wondering what had happened and why I
hadn't been a part of it.
In the end,
that which knows all, shall be alone.
All alone.
But I like you standing there, in the rain drenched evening.
Wet.

2002



Quote from: Candidate D
Writing Contest Submission: Poetry
(in the spirit of OCR, all of my entries will be remixes of familiar themes)

William Carlos Williams Redux

so much depends
upon

a glowing fusion
reactor

glazed with radiated
water

beside the whitecoat
technicians


Quote from: Candidate E

Category: Poetry, free verse
Replace Free With On Fire,
A Ransom Letter to NASA

8/20/05

Orange engine fire feathers from the eastern sky
a kiss on the coast for luck
and I sit on the beach
sand wet on my palms
as rocket propulsion and technological wonders
conspire for a proto-orbital gleam
past the purple autumn dawn
where the dragonfly practices his painting.

It's the way the crow flies--
an arrow towards Polaris, not the heart.
Away from me as I walk on earth;
away from me with my ear to the ground.

This distance is a funeral
and the casket is not the Great Wall.
You'll never see it from where you are--
from the barrel of that gun.

A sand granule tumbles past your mouth, invisible
And maybe I rake my fingers through a dune at that same moment
Such a small, unaccountable thing.
Such a small, deadly thing.
Bilinear angles that nestle in the controls, it will cause a fire on re-entry
Lick the postage, this letter’s done


They say that if you shoot for the moon and miss
you'll end up among the stars.

They say that if you remember one thing,
remember who you are.

They say that if you love someone, set them free.

And if I ever see you again,
if we ever walk the same ground,
I will tell you to remember
that the stars are free
Then I will take a deep breath
to set you


free



Quote from: Candidate F
Writing Contest Submission: Poetry

Type: Free Verse

Quicksand

How did I let myself get into this mess?
To become entrapped in all of this stress...

Slowly, I’m sinking in the quicksand of frustration,
Rapidly, depression makes a deep penetration...

Into my mind...
But still I find...

Some faith to reach for a helping hand,
To deliver me from the grip of the sinking sand...

Frustration...
I need liberation...
Because I feel like there’s no way out...
And I just wanna shout!

Still, I’m sinking...
But yet I’m thinking...
There must be some conclusion,
Amidst all of this confusion,

My hand is still reaching for a helping hand,
To deliver me from the grip of the sinking sand...

But at this point I begin to wonder,
As this quicksand of frustration keeps pulling me under...

Will my own problems eventually drown me?
Have I become my own worst enemy?

With all of the trauma I’ve been going through,
Things only get worse and I don’t know what to do!

One thing I do know...I want to be free...
But is there anyone who is willing to help me?

How I wish just to be free...
Is there anyone who is willing to help me?


Quote from: Candidate G

Poetry - Free Verse

Quote

How to write a political poem
Aude Odeh

Political poetry kinda sucks.
No time for it to brew within.
Once the news is out,
ya gotta start writing.
Too late and people won’t
remember it. Too early and
you won’t get it.
Got it? Exceptions may
lie, but few and far between are they.

So stay current,
stay serious or stay satirical
never mix unless your name happens to
be under “Writers” of “The Daily Show” or
“The Simpsons” or
“Family Guy”
or some conglomeration.

Only write where press is “free”
Unless you want to rot in prison
for staying true to the law and using your
freedom of speech to stay quiet.

Be smart and appealing to all
(not as big as a contradiction as it may first seem).
Stay informed of the lies
cover ups
and make up flaws.
Live it.
Breathe it.
The beauteous world
that people live in
but never bother to partake in.



Quote from: Candidate H


Quote from: Submission
A Night at the Palace

August 23rd, 2005

Be mindful that ‘run’ is past tense.


Sipping the rosy blush of midnight wine,
I recline in my chair, dreaming dockside,
Beneath painted skies of purple cloud floes –
At the lake near the palace – rolling fine,
While mystic sounds dance from the turning tide –
Alive in the ev’n air with perfumed scents.
A woman walks near, in the watered glow,
Her green eyes sparkling through the night at mine;
And on her bosom, my head I confide,
Her hands run through my hair in loving hold –
And our passioned hearts to the heavens went,
From that cool embrace in the starry light.
Our eyes, for each other in love were meant –
We kiss – and we dream – on this matchless night.


Quote from: Candidate I


Submission for Contest: Poetry (free form)

title of piece: crying moon (by a.b.r.)8/18/05

I've never seen
the man in the moon,
and until I was twenty
I couldn’t see her,
the sad lady
drawn by Yoji Shinkawa.
Her eyes are sad,
and the hair
in her face—
it’s floating
and wild.
A face
of contrast,
blinding white paper,
and the darkness around her eyes
the faintest stains of ink.  
But she’s never happy
up there
even though she’s never at a loss for light.
The light of the sun,
always
reflecting off her paleness
every time I see her.
And eyes, and mouth
reflecting some sadness
that can’t be blotted off the paper
even by the sun—
the stars.
A great contrast
to that
of the glittering sparks around her.
-------------------------------------------


Quote from: dama BSc

Poetry Entry (freeform): 200 words
Social Butterfly

Bad lighting and painful music,
teeth gritted for the begrudged appearance.
Glad you could make it, she says,
and you smile, thanks for inviting me.
Sharp thoughts curse her for it.

No date tonight?
Not tonight, you reply.
You'll have to bring some cutie one of these days.
Maybe we'll hook you up later.
She won't: it's a relief and a disappointment.

Survey the roomful of incomplete strangers;
find someone whose name you can remember.
Tom? Tim? There's that Jerry guy: he'll do.
Attach yourself to the circle; orient yourself just right.
Don't wanna look like an outsider.

Every circle has a nucleus;
the strong ones have two.
Holding the conversation all on his own.
He's interesting for awhile, then less so.
It doesn't matter; it keeps you busy.

I'll be right back, he says.
He was the glue.
Shape is maintained out of memory alone.
Dissembled then, by passersby, in spurts.
Cover's blown: alone. You escape.

Wander the party a bit.
Always on your way to somewhere else.
Go to the bathroom; get a drink; nod to people.
Can't join their circle, you don't know them that well.
What time is it? That early? Fuck.

Time for some fresh air.
No one notices you leave, and you make note of it.
Do you have to go back? You never said goodbye.
You leave without meaning to.
You'll tell her you were sick. It's simple and it works.

This should be everyone...[/quote]

DeweyisOverrated

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Pick out the best poem
« Reply #1 on: September 10, 2005, 01:32:05 am »
Wow, sorry.  Those poems are way too long.  Doesn't help that I don't liek poems.  Except haikus.  Those can be funny.  Good idea for a thread... actually...

Sir Frog

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« Reply #2 on: September 10, 2005, 01:39:00 am »
Are any of these yours, ZeaLity?

nightmare975

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« Reply #3 on: September 10, 2005, 01:40:03 am »
I liked the first one.

Daniel Krispin

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« Reply #4 on: September 10, 2005, 01:50:17 am »
Well, this is a difficult thing to discern, I'll admit. You see, you say that it should be the one that best subscribes to my defenition of poetry. The problem is: most of the poetry I like (outside of usage in songs) is of the old structured variety - maybe it's what I can comprehend the best, I don't know. Structure and meter - that to me is most clearly a poem. I cannot think free-verse very well. Moreover, the penultimate poem, to me (though I certainly don't limit myself to only this), is that which tells a story* and, in its grandest incarnation, the epic, such as Homer's Iliad and Odyssey. So, as such, it is difficult for me, when poems lack a meter and rhyme and the like, to judge them. However, what I can say about these is that I prefer the mood ones over a reflection of circumstance. I'll admit, due to their length, I only scanned the beginning of most - I don't have a poetry reading mind right now - but of what I did read, this I can say with surety. I liked The Illusion Tree the best of these. That's my verdict. If clear structure and rhyme is lacking, I'd look next to the mood of setting and word usage of the poem - and that one seems most to my liking in that regard.

*That is, lays and ballads and long poems such as that. Ie. A king there was in days of old/ere men yet walked upon the mould./His power was reared in cavern's shade/ his hand was over glenn and glade. - the Lay of Leithian.

By the way, is this thread for people to list an assortment of poems and ask which sounds the best, or did you merely wish for a commentary on this array?

nightmare975

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« Reply #5 on: September 10, 2005, 01:51:44 am »
I just liked because it touched my heart, :cry:

ZeaLitY

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« Reply #6 on: September 10, 2005, 02:08:18 am »
Nah, I'm pissed off about modern poetry winning the OCR writer's thread. I still won't divulge which is mine, but it should be obvious. I don't like modern poetry because more often than not, if you remove the line breaks, you have a piece of dull, rambling prose.

Daniel Krispin

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« Reply #7 on: September 10, 2005, 02:30:01 am »
Wait... I like Night at the Palace, too. Midnight Glove isn't bad, either. And sorry, it's not obvious. I'm not all to good at judging things like that.

Like I said, though, personally, I like poems that tell a long grand story best of all. I would say of all poetry, my favourite is the Lay of Leithian, and that is probably several thousand lines of octosyllabic rhyming couplets. That, and he has some marvellous word choice. Another good poet in that regard is Tennyson, particularly his Lady of Shallot.

Anyway, my original question: was this meant to be a sort of poetry thread, or was it just a specific question on these? Regardless, we should make a poetry thread - have people post theirs. I'm a horrid poet, for the most part, though.

ZeaLitY

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« Reply #8 on: September 10, 2005, 02:33:18 am »
Oh, just a question. I'm somewhat fuming at that contest.

I suppose we can establish a poetry thread.

Daniel Krispin

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« Reply #9 on: September 10, 2005, 02:37:01 am »
Quote from: ZeaLitY
Oh, just a question. I'm somewhat fuming at that contest.

I suppose we can establish a poetry thread.


Oh. I understand now. So, the modern poetry won, did it? If it's any consolation, I don't generally like it much, either.

BlueThunder

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« Reply #10 on: September 11, 2005, 09:25:00 pm »
They were all good in different ways, and bad. :D  :D  :D  :?  :?  :(  :(  :(  :(  :shock:  :shock:  :shock:  :shock:  :shock:  :shock:  :shock:  :shock:  :shock:  :shock:  :shock: