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FilipeDumas

Poetry (post yours, if you wish)

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Dream...

 

I saw a woman die in a dream when I was dreaming of a glorious battle.

Where the battle was quick to be over, the woman tribe sneaky;

They dived towards the enemy to victory, and they weren't blocked.

Except by one lucky man, who reacted in time, and could flip his attacker over, and stab her in the stomach as she screamed.

Her ally dashed to her aid, and threw the man aside and slew him, but the woman's eyes were fluttering, and her blood and innards strewn.

And the ally could only look at what was below her eyelashes, a pearly and flickering white.

And though the battle was won, all the girls saw their comrade dying, and felt like the battle was lost.

 

The girl was scarcely known to them; she didn't speak much or pray.

Or look with much fear or excitement, or have too much strength in the fray.

The girls never tried to befriend her, as they all heard death's great moan,

But as her neck was cradled, and her harpstring was snapped, she felt like somebody they'd known.

 

I really like this one! I love a poem that can plant vivid pictures in your mind. This one did that. It was very believable :happy:

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I haven't written poems in god knows how long, and these need some serious editing, so if anyone's got any suggestions that would be great.

 

 

I dreamt that we were

Meant to be together

I dreamt that you had

Dreamt of me all this time.

I dreamt that we had

Finally found each other

And that our bodies moved

In harmony with our minds.

 

I dreamt that you would

Gasp my name in pleasure

I dreamt that you'd be

Honest with your love.

I dreamt that we would

Not fight with each other

I dreamt, and then I mourned you

In my sleep.

 

We were never really

Any good together

You're happier with her

And I with him.

But sometimes in the dark night

I wish for you

I miss you in my dreams

I always will.

 

 

 

You lie to me with your kisses

I lie to you with my hands

You breathe your deception

Into my open mouth

I look you in the eyes

And break my word.

 

You don't owe me your honesty

I do not owe you my trust

We both know that we're lying

And we both know why we should.

 

Lie to me then, with your hands,

Your eyes, your body.

I'll lie to you with my smile,

My slow caress.

Look me in the eyes

And tell me you don't love me

It's safer that way honey,

You know that.

 

When you can't tell me lies

And we admit those things that we can't say

It's over. You know well, and so do I.

So this bittersweet deception serves its time,

Lie to me, then, and kiss me.

I'll believe.

 

 

Yes, I know they're kind of confused and stuff, I need to go through them and redo them properly, any suggestions?

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Babies.

 

O unlovely much-loved thing!

Is the baby, seven pounds,

Of useless weight, insatiable noise.

Where all but prettie things in girls,

To differie them from boys.

 

And how’s my mind to put a babe?

She’s in my arms, she’s soft and calm.

She looks with thought behind her eyes.

She does not speak, and barely cries.

And yet she rarely smiles as well,

But looks as if to say, “Hello,

I am yours, and I admire you,

My nutrition is your voice.”

She says in dress, her curved legs bare,

Had me a little woman there!

And there weren’t a wife there to recess,

The goodlook’d charm with which she blessed.

 

Luck not, alas, wouldst she be made,

Would me possess’d the price I paid.

While hers, A sole desire to crush,

Thou greedy destination; crust,

And stuff, and mourn, and stuff, and mourn,

With youngest ones woudst I be worn.

Box’d before my generous bear,

Her clothes unvogued with babywear.

And so, where any dialogue we’d share,

She’d look, plain hunger; A blank, cold stare.

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Blue Screen of Death

 

With breaking heart and angry vigour!

I curse this electronic, fucked-up trigger of poems!

Innocent if cold, maybe you thought,

In a world of mechanised humans such fortitude of wisdom

Was not allowed, you cold ingrate! You merciless beggar!

Why did you stop me? Why did the world?

Why did the controller of volts deny this sole transmitter of mine and mine only?

Around I hear no fellow shouts, complaints, in this land of scholars,

Tried and tested in faulty ports, in scratched disks, and broken drives!

Why me? WHY ME?

Why my ten minute vent of ste-

#####################################

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hi, erm, i haven't posted on this thread yet, though i posted on the Write a poem off the top of your head thread :)

 

so.... shitty first attempt. i recently got back into writing (i mean im always into it, just sometimes i lose the muse lol) and this is one of my recent ones...

 

Who Knows

 

she's not a saviour

but he believes

she will cut him up, clean and neat

but he will pick up the pieces

and give them to her, in a box

because he know no better.

 

and she will kiss him

and believe

in a love that does not cut

but caresses

because she knows no better.

 

and they will fall apart

again and again

trapped in a warp

because they know no better.

 

i could show him the universe

start to finish

in all it's pointless glory

and a love that never hurts

always caresses

but i never do

because i know no better.

 

and he will show me the sea

on the edge of a knife

and a love

from the edge of the bed

but he will never love me

because we know nothing.

_________

 

so yeah. that was the best one so far. i dunno. :$

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Blue Screen of Death

 

With breaking heart and angry vigour!

I curse this electronic, fucked-up trigger of poems!

Innocent if cold, maybe you thought,

In a world of mechanised humans such fortitude of wisdom

Was not allowed, you cold ingrate! You merciless beggar!

Why did you stop me? Why did the world?

Why did the controller of volts deny this sole transmitter of mine and mine only?

Around I hear no fellow shouts, complaints, in this land of scholars,

Tried and tested in faulty ports, in scratched disks, and broken drives!

Why me? WHY ME?

Why my ten minute vent of ste-

#####################################

 

:eek: WOW. i reeeallly like this one. it's so, i dunno, building, to this raging crescendo, a dying man, and then all of a sudden it just stops- and he's dead. kinda workds with the song im listening to now as well... and the rhyming scheme/pattern, sort of stunted and half way through the lines...

 

it's really cool!

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This is for my English assignment :)

 

The Moon

 

A pearl upon the velvet folds

Of jewel box skies so infinite,

Rests amongst the diamond stars,

Her face so pale and delicate

 

A Midnight Queen, her snow-white sheen

Sits upon the starlit clouds

A smile bestowed upon them all

They gather in admiring crowds

 

Until the Sun King rises from below

He stamps his fiery feet and roars

“How dare you rule my eastern lands?

Away with you and appear no more!”

 

Her smile slips off her gentle face

And with that she disappears

“Oh come back!” the lonely clouds all cry

And weep their bitter tears

 

Her beam is stolen by the Sun

Her tears by mother Earth

The lustre of the pearl is gone

Not a penny is it worth

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Shutter

 

If a picture is worth a thousand words

Does that judge a poem

Merely on its length?

 

Or is the transfer

Between the laughter and the tears

To the page

Worth more

Than the still snapshots

Of what once was?

 

When words can be relived

In more ways

Than the one you see

Blankly

Before your eyes

 

Can just

Graphite on paper

Be worth more

Mean more

Be more

Than just the scribbles

On the page

Forming together

To one

Emotion?

Or more?

 

A picture

Can only be seen

In one way

Right or wrong

Or right.

Or left.

Correct?

Stop,

Shutter

Snap.

 

Is the click

Capturing the beauty

Around you

In a single frame

Worth more

Or less

Than a word

On a page?

 

Is a poem

Worth anything at all

Today?

 

With a snap

A click

Point.

Shoot.

Shutter.

 

Putting emotion

Or more

Into your work

You feel your work

Written for one

Read by another

Hoping

That maybe

You're reading it

And you're feeling,

Too,

What I've been writing.

 

And if a picture is worth a thousand words

Who determines

What art

Is worth?

 

Who put forth the demand

And said

It must be it must

Be

Must

Be.

That

Way?

 

How much can you capture

Before you run

Out of film

Out of memory

Out of devotion

And creation

And passion.

 

How much can you write

Until the words

Stop

Making

Sense?

Until

The sole purpose

Of your writing

Has been lost?

Because maybe

You were only trying

To write

A

Love

Poem

But instead

You wound up

Talking

About

Nothing

At

All?

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I don't know why I'm sharing this, but....

 

"He Rose Up From The Dead"

 

An endless Ghost trip

Across the city-desert-vastness.

Lost travelling, non-directed souls.

Preacher

Listens

In a tunnel the words

Unclearly clear

Everything slightly distorted.

A jazz funeral.

Happiness

a celebration

of a life,

at a funeral,

tunneled jazz

jamming funeral.

Pall bearing

dancing down the

processional street.

Sleeping like the dead.

And he never

said a mumbling

word

not a word.

Wandering

to the ocean

life giver

and taker.

 

(inspired by Bill Morrison's film Ghost Trip)

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This is for my English assignment :)

 

The Moon

 

A pearl upon the velvet folds

Of jewel box skies so infinite,

Rests amongst the diamond stars,

Her face so pale and delicate

 

A Midnight Queen, her snow-white sheen

Sits upon the starlit clouds

A smile bestowed upon them all

They gather in admiring crowds

 

Until the Sun King rises from below

He stamps his fiery feet and roars

“How dare you rule my eastern lands?

Away with you and appear no more!”

 

Her smile slips off her gentle face

And with that she disappears

“Oh come back!” the lonely clouds all cry

And weep their bitter tears

 

Her beam is stolen by the Sun

Her tears by mother Earth

The lustre of the pearl is gone

Not a penny is it worth

 

:( That's lovely. You've personified it so beautifully.

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Poetry is a way to let our positive and negative feelings out, our ideals and such. In a structured way, the flow of words makes poetry an easy way to express ourselves without worrying somewone will read that and judge us.

It gives us freedom, knowing that only we understand what's there. Only we have the real interpretation, but not the only true one. A poem belongs to everyone, not just to the writer. We all read poems and feel a certain way about them, even if that is not what it really says. It's still true to us.

When writing a poem, no one will tell us "you can't use that word" or "that word isn't appropriate" or "you can't use curses". We decide everything, yet we are controlled by it.

 

I invite you to read, criticize, comment and expose your poems here.

 

I'll begin with some of mine:

 

 

 

 

Forever Once

 

I once lived a hollow love,

The only thing inside was me

And that just made it emptier.

I once flew away from here,

It was only to find out

That I was falling in a well.

There was a colour in my heart,

Painted over a cold grey stone

Made out of your lies.

 

I once lived a hollow love,

The only thing inside was me

And that just made it emptier.

I was hoping everything,

I was waiting for you,

And that was hoping for nothing.

I know that I’m unfair,

That’s my scar burning away

And know I don’t regret it.

 

I once lived a hollow love,

The only thing inside was me

And that just made it emptier.

I moved past your fields

Of green and blue and life,

To feel the pain that shines.

You once lifted my love,

But now you breed my hate

Because I was inside you.

 

Now, I hope you know

That I’ll be forever free.

The chain you leashed on me

Is now completely shattered

And I forever free.

 

Filipe Dumas, 17th November 2008

 

 

 

 

A Tree's Poem

 

 

Your wind swallows our life,

Your wind takes our children,

Your wind takes our pets,

Your wind kills everything.

 

Your hands mutilate our life,

Your hands are our pain.

 

Your wind swallows our faces,

Your wind takes our arms,

Your wind takes our feet,

Your wind kills everything.

 

Your hands mutilate our life,

Your hands are our pain.

 

Your wind swallows our green,

Your wind takes our breath,

Your wind takes our lovers,

Your wind kills everything.

 

Your hands mutilate our life,

Your hands are our pain,

And our pain is your death.

 

 

Filipe Dumas, 24th September 2008

 

 

 

 

Bats In Silence

 

We want more than there is,

The reason is a mirror of sounds.

We're not a unit anymore.

 

Across the world's landscapes

Broken pieces of a perfect jar,

We're shattered in millions.

 

If we suffer we will not cry:

The witches have no more potions,

We will fly in the night.

 

There's a feeling of doom in us,

Hope has faded from our eyes,

Our souls cannot go back.

 

We have constructed this Hell

On this Lord given land of Heaven,

There was a lady after all...

 

Forbidden thinking saves our death,

Its lovers are dying in hunger

And no one will ever care.

 

Filipe Dumas, 29th October 2008

 

 

sorry Filipe, I never had this opportunity to give a feedback of your own poetry after you put nice words about mine (I took off my poems from the site now).

I really like the construction of the first one. I like the length of your poetry and there is a contempary style, which I would like to have more.

Bats in silence would be a great song for Porcupine Tree ;)

The two last ones are rather dark but realistic. I can see the atheist's point of view in there and your stressing humans' weakness. If you have them on a site or somewhere, I am wishing to read more.

aw and I like the way you describe poets at the beginning of this thread. I fully agree.

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I dunno if it's finished yet, it probably needs an edit, but feedback would be lovely :)

 

i am the ghost

i am a memory

i am the dawn that does not shine

the bell that does not ring

(save to sing)

 

i am a writer

a writer of fictions

i am a dead poet

i am the blank page

staring

glaring

torturing with cackles of glee

 

i am the madman

raging, drooling

i am running through the forests

i am not seraching

or working

or trying or dying or crying

i am joy

 

and you will find me

in the well worn pages

the dark street corners

in the sewers

on your news program

in the disaster wreckage

 

but you will not find me sad,

or sleeping,

or glad or bad or alive

you will find me mad

delirious

joyful

and i will sing it to you

 

i am not here

i am in there

i am your nightmare

and your loneliness

the noise in the darkness there

the filth in your water

the hair on your neck

that stands up when your fear augments

 

i am your dream

i am a whisper

a shard of glass

a lone figure

tranquil.

I.

AM.

but i am not

I am the ghost of...

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Look at me go, integrating Matt Bellamy into an English assignment (done in free-verse or free-prose, whatever it may be called, I don't quite remember):

 

Your voice, a beauty on its own

alongside arpeggios and synths

singing guitar, angelic piano

create lyrics and composition

electrify and set my soul alight

 

You don't just write music

you build doorways,

yet leave a path to a key

break down walls

change them to windows

with a beautiful view

my life on the other side

 

Pull at my every emotion

minor tones

major tones

slow tempos

upbeat tempos

lyrics, logical

lyrics, interpretive

 

Matthew James Bellamy,

composer, musician

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Every pair of haiku tells a story.

 

* * *

 

Sub-par lunch: too tart

Summer gooseberries pose as

delicious lamb stew.

 

Unsugared acid

destroys my stomach lining.

Memo: label tub.

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^inspired me to write these quickies. :happy: They're separate though.

 

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

 

Beauty: no finer

Than she whom you cannot have,

Who is just human.

 

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

 

A summer will bring,

Not much productivity;

Do I like working?

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lose yourself in this sea

 

but keep this skill just between you and me

 

ink scattered around you

 

staring like you did to a few

 

and gathering things inside your mind

 

——————————————————————-

 

slipping all through your hands

 

changing steadily for what you do stand

 

move aside and nod for a while

 

you wanna develop a new style

 

but still have to be left undefined

 

——————————————————————-

 

oh, I’ve got a recommendation

 

stay with me to see its true form

 

though its not well known for

 

hope I do not bore

 

——————————————————————-

 

what an identifying concept we found

 

looking around to see if you’re safe and sound

 

so deep inside the fiction tale

 

at every description turning pale

 

just the hero looks like one of a kind

 

——————————————————————-

 

maybe real maybe not,

 

you’ve been captured in a pot

 

please outsiders leave me alone

 

want to know where words have gone

 

this really is turning up good

 

——————————————————————-

 

exhale at every full stop is now a must

 

just retaining in your brain every word read past

 

this is getting out of control

 

you wanna help him get him to his goal

 

but you know you never could

 

quite random; I imagined how I feel when I read a quite interesting book...and might have some (lots) of mistakes; I'm not used to do such things in English.

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Here's mine:

 

Boosting to Heaven

Mountains point the way to my destination

The clouds part for my ascension

3,2,1,thrust!

Boosting to Heaven

 

The shooting stars play with my heartstrings

Nebulae envelope my soul

Galaxies so close tantalize me

 

A taste of my home

A morsel of me

Free falling

Back to ground

Earth,release me

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Dude is a state of mind i.e. it ain't gender specific.

 

Too quantify further, catharsis, which seems to be the general direction of most of the poetry I've read on this forum, is inarguably a good thing.

 

Poetry demands a little more than that though: a twist, a vision.

 

I favour light at the end of the tunnel as the basis for most of my poems and while I respect everyone who's posted on this forums integrity as an artist, I would point out that catharsis alone only works when you burn something real to you; all emotions are worthy of representation. It is the artist's job to awaken and indeed seek out emotion:

 

 

The Moon

 

A pearl upon the velvet folds

Of jewel box skies so infinite,

Rests amongst the diamond stars,

Her face so pale and delicate

 

A Midnight Queen, her snow-white sheen

Sits upon the starlit clouds

A smile bestowed upon them all

They gather in admiring crowds

 

Until the Sun King rises from below

He stamps his fiery feet and roars

“How dare you rule my eastern lands?

Away with you and appear no more!”

 

Her smile slips off her gentle face

And with that she disappears

“Oh come back!” the lonely clouds all cry

And weep their bitter tears

 

Her beam is stolen by the Sun

Her tears by mother Earth

The lustre of the pearl is gone

Not a penny is it worth

 

Without playing favourites, this was eh... my favourite. The anthropomorphism, representing the Sun as male and the clouds grieving over the loss of their female Moon is captivating from the beginning with some very interesting imagery. You also (something I'm guilty of) don't let your love of language get in the way of your meaning.

 

I'd suggest there is a variety of meanings at play here... Alluding to the pearl as the moon's effect in the sky values her immediately above the dominance of the sun and in effect you are showing the reader that beauty is to be valued and that it might not be here, from one moment to the next, depending on the innate power dynamics that you yourself feel party to.

 

I also like the masculine/feminine divide. I'm a bloke, but I'd love to see women have a bigger impact on the world stage; in fact, it might be absolutely necessary and I reckon time is fast running out for that age old imbalance to be corrected.

 

Some politician dude once said in 1920's Britain that women are "too soft for politics." (Just when the Cabinet were about to grant Universal Sufferage I think)

 

I think it should be clear by now that men are too hard.

 

(Margaret Thatcher doesn't count... She was clearly driven absolutely stark raving mad by trying to compete in politics without showing her emotional self while in amongst "the boys". Rules of the Free Market economy, yeah lets apply that to everything, why not humans obviously don't have feelings?!)

Edited by SgtDong

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This is something (I think) Matt Bellamy does every so often in his lyrics... (Or Chris Wostenholme, depending on wither you believe my wank journalist mate or common sense, either way, whoever does it has access to some awesome poetic powers).

 

Basically, switch the meanings of the characters (Bliss for example). Instead of the writer of Bliss wanting the peace and joy of the minds of others, he is asking others to stop taking the peace and joy out of him.

 

I was feeling adventurous so its in a syllabic pattern... I think. Rubbish at maths and didn't pay much attention in school I was too busy reading. Is called:

Titan on the Stairwell

 

A muscular twitch in this dark chasm

Brings no relief nor light to this black bastion

I hunger for the light

Hunkered on all fours through eternal night

Doomed and restless

Damned then aggressive.

 

Alone I have crawled for countless years

Above ground salty rivers flow with my tears

I hunger for the light

Sent deep below as punishment for the blight

I visit on man

As I am what I am.

 

My scarred fingers creep forth to find

A tiny ridge of dank stone that brings to mind

The likeness of a stair

To stir a new emotion into bleakest despair

Hope, soft, sweetest hope

To slice the hanging rope.

 

The opening leads upwards and onwards

Though it was never designed for giants fingers

I howl my great anger

Smash my vast fist regardless of the danger

From cascading rocks

Through the cracks light spills forth.

 

To breathe new life on gigantic bones

Stirring quick as I ache to reclaim my throne

Quiescent for aeons

For I am the last true enduring scion

My kindred bled dry

So that I should survive.

 

Wasted sinews stand taut on my arm

Skeletal where once they were bunched and strong

With a warriors wrath

As saccharine light bleeds forth in blinding shafts

Burning bloodshot eyes

Seeking their own demise.

 

And the demise of man, long presaged,

For the doom I beget is the end of days

How I long to be free

So that I can enact the catastrophe

As I crush the stairs

And suck in the fresh air.

Edited by SgtDong

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I wonder how we'd make our bed

What ornaments above our heads

pleated tales of mythic feats

And butterflies trapped in our sheets.

Would you only play for me to sing

Or push my fingers on the strings

Do you alway grimace in this fashion

Or only in the heat of passion, Love.

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She belongs to death

 

You saw her higness,

in the end of autumn gloom.

While the night was running,

below the sad eyes of the moon.

 

She raised her hand,

begging you to stop.

'Cause you only saw her beauty,

everything you had dreamed of.

 

You saw the eyes of sorrow,

wanted to bring the joy.

And how she sihged your name:

"You silly, silly boy."

 

"You see the picture,

but can you see the cracks?

A kiss from me would surely be,

the last you ever have."

 

And you wanted to be silly,

silly just for her.

If she was the queen of night,

then your place was there.

 

"Well come just few steps closer,

it's the closest you can get.

Never can you touch me,

see, I belong to death."

 

And then you saw her bones,

coming through the flesh.

She smiled her smile so despret.

"Oh he can't be happy with less."

 

"Who?" you asked,

still childness in your voice.

"My husband", she said.

"My really only choise."

 

"Run away, you still can,

don't look at me anymore.

Beauty is my outside,

but you don't wanna see the core.

 

Oh you wanted so badly,

but you better had to hide.

'Cause night was vanishing away,

and death came to see his bride.

 

Very last time she smiled to you,

and let herself to be kissed.

But not by you, oh it hurted,

but forever she'll be missed.

 

Never you saw her again,

no matter how you tried.

But that night you met her,

you weren't only one who cried.

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Unwise regrets by me

 

I saw her from a distance

with her flowing hair,

at her first glance she gave me her stare.

I knew it was her deep in my heart,

so I walked to her and that was the start.

 

I ask her her name,

she giggled "What's yours?" from her lips so red.

"For now" I said "Thats not on a need to know".

From there the night took us,

we wanted to go.

 

In a blink of an eye she was gone

forever more,

so now I wait where we met,

down by the shore.

Her name I don't know but from my mind

her smile will never go.

 

I sit here now as an unwise old man,

as passing people throw change to a can.

I dream of her on that night

long ago and wonder

where I am does she know.

But my last wish is to see her

young or not,

so this old broken heart can stop.

 

The end.

Edited by Dave

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