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    •  
      CommentAuthorRT3
    • CommentTimeJun 10th 2009
     

    So I figure there have got to be a lot of closet beatnik types on here. Who all writes poetry? If I’m not the only one maybe we could post stuff and critique it here, to sort of vaguely and feebly attempt to keep things somewhat distantly writing related.

  1.  
    Sorry, my poetry is beyond terrible.

    However, when I actually resume writing for JulNoWrimo, I might post for critique.
    •  
      CommentAuthorArtimaeus
    • CommentTimeJun 10th 2009
     

    It’s hard to critique poetry. I may post something that I wrote later…

    •  
      CommentAuthorRT3
    • CommentTimeJun 10th 2009
     
    okay, well I guess I'll post one. It's not exactly great, but it doesn't make me wince to read it unless I'm particularly awake. Plus I figure if I post mine it'll make y'all more likely to participate, which worked so well in the picture thread.

    Icy winds drive fiercely in the season
    that brings about the death of summer's tide.
    They ripple, whispering, but without reason,
    for anything to eavesdrop's long since died.
    My skin is cold, it's numb, and I am finding,
    through the waters of this dismal pool,
    that sights, though hard in coming, can be binding,
    and words, however shallow, can be cruel.
    The fire in their eyes is soft and fading,
    a cheerful moment only few remember,
    For some find simple pleasures are degrading,
    and few can see the beauty in the embers.
    •  
      CommentAuthorArtimaeus
    • CommentTimeJun 10th 2009
     

    Ok, here’s a poem inspired by the IB and AP tests that I recently had to take.

    Testing:

    Here come the days for which we’ve all waited
    we’ve studied and struggled to see if we’re fated
    to pass all our tests and receive a diploma
    (else our brains overheat and pass into a coma)
    And once we’re in college a chance to bypass
    the classes that really aren’t worth a rat’s ass

    The test morning comes and like zombies we swarm
    (but to where brains are scarce) so that we may inform
    Parents and teachers and boards of admissions
    That we can be smart under testing conditions.
    we open our books with a prayer for the trees,
    Putting pencil to paper with creeping unease.
    As the session goes on we start to perspire
    Could a rubbing eraser set paper on fire?
    Once finished we leave with our heads hung in sorrow
    all knowing that we must repeat this tomorrow.

    As more tests plod by, all looking the same
    we seek someone to curse: whoever’s to blame
    for this futile endeavor in which we have delved,
    but the fault can fall upon only ourselves.
    For this is the fate we regrettably chose
    likely unknowing how much testing blows;
    The more tests I take and the longer I sit
    The more my wrists look like they want to be slit.
    If there’s one thing that could give us comfort, however:
    the knowledge that we are all in this together.

    •  
      CommentAuthorRand
    • CommentTimeJun 10th 2009
     

    My heavans, Artimaeus, I like that poem!

    The more tests I take and the longer I sit
    The more my wrists look like they want to be slit.

    QUOTE.

  2.  
    Haha, Artimaeus, that's such a cute poem!

    'The test morning comes and like zombies we swarm
    (but to where brains are scarce) so that we may inform'

    Second line seems a bit out of rhythm to me, though.
  3.  

    Heh, nothing like a poem to get you excited about something! No, wonderful poem Artimaeus. :D

  4.  

    Lol. I have a morbid poem about too much schoolwork.

    You Can’t Cheat It Forever

    Her whitened face shows the weariness she is proud of;
    It makes her look like a fighter—
    Stubborn, determined,
    No matter the odds.
    Her thin figure shows her disinterest
    In taking care of herself
    When there is work to be done.
    No time for food.
    Her purpled eyes, puffy and pale, show the lack of rest,
    She does not know sleep.
    Energy never appears,
    Yet is hiding underneath—
    She thrives on having nothing left.

    ———-

    Someone said it needed more structure, so I tried that. But I didn’t like the way it came out.

  5.  

    Don’t use the word disinterest in that context. To be disinterested means to lack bias in judgement (i.e. not to have an interest in either party).

  6.  

    Thanks for the concrit. No, you’re right, disintrest isn’t the right word there. I need something shorter…

    I’m going to let that idea simmer in my brain for a few days.

  7.  

    How about “apathy”?

    “Purpled” should probably be changed to “bleary”.

  8.  

    Hmm. I’ll continue thinking.

  9.  

    I’m resurrecting this thread due to my CW class making me write poetry.

    I’ve already turned this one in, and I wrote it in an attempt to get a scholarship, but I didn’t get it, so it was just sitting around on my computer:

    And this one I’m considering turning in tomorrow. I probably will because I don’t have anything else. I wrote it yesterday, and I’m pretty sure it’s terrible:

    Actually, I think that last one makes me sound disturbed, so I’ll probably try to think of something else.

    • CommentAuthorDeborah
    • CommentTimeJan 26th 2011
     

    Here’s the first stanza of a poem I started doodling in English the other day. I haven’t got any further on it yet:
    No coward’s path tread I
    Though danger’s ‘round me lie
    And terrors fill the sky
    I will not fear.

  10.  

    The one I will actually use tomorrow:

    • CommentAuthorNo One
    • CommentTimeJan 26th 2011
     

    I really like RT3’s poem. And NP, your Headphones In is pretty good. It reminds me of my disability (in a good way… kind of. Ah, it’s hard to explain.) and how headphones can be a problem to some people. Kind of. It’s also consolation to some people…

    Sorry, I’m not good at this thing.

  11.  

    Okay, so this one had all these restrictions we had to abide by. She said to do iambic pentameter if we could. I have no idea if I did, but I did put ten syllables in each line.

    •  
      CommentAuthorTakuGifian
    • CommentTimeFeb 23rd 2011
     

    I should put some of my poetry up here. I once wrote an epic Shakespearean sonnet about washing the dishes after a party.

    I tend to favour strict roundel forms (where the final word of a line repeats in pattern) like triolets (ABaAabAB), rondeaux (AABBA/AABC/AABBAC) and self-made models, like the ‘scroll’ form of ABC/BCA/CAB/ABC and variations.

  12.  

    I am really not a big fan of Pope. I’m reading him now for poetry class, and while I appreciate his cleverness, I’m not sure if that cuts it for me. Poetry is, for me, an intimate form of expression, not an excuse for pretentious waffling.

    • CommentAuthorNo One
    • CommentTimeFeb 25th 2011
     

    ^^Seconded.

    I found a very nice poem in the novel “So Much to Tell You” by John Marsden… I don’t know where I put it though.