Poetry Thread:

Creeping the Rubicon he holds his breath,
Unsure if at the mouth stands life or death,
White hooves advance in gallant strides,
Nearing with sword and pen held high,
Waves scatter, bend and take a knee,
They know their king is not the sea,
Blue legion swifts through water red
Wet leather on the riverbed,
They wait for Caesar tall and dry,
To finally say he’s cast the die!

The piece is called 'revisionism'

The stench of piss soaks the walls,
the s’s broken up on every corner,
torn and twisted beyond recognition
empty cups lined up against the surface
of a desk that once had legs.

Three bottles roll among the breeze
that blows through six glassless windows.
Swollen books tower below the crack on the ceiling.
Drop, drop, drops tick tick tick
R I
O C
P K
S
a wet hole through the paper
wroingdoing words wasted on water
that no roots fed,
that no leaves grew,
that manages somehow to stench of piss and broken bottles
blowing eerie whistlings through the rubble
among which you can see a little arm
and you pray,
you pray that’s just a doll under debris.

You move the bricks and dig in
and the blood stains your fingers.
You pick up the purple, swollen body of a baby,
swollen like books, broken like bricks,
purple like curtains in postmodern tales,
and you cry,
(first a sob, then a heaving, then a whimper,
then the tears and the wail and the limpness of knees)
because this,
all this destruction
was not really necessary.

This used to be a house.
Now, it isn’t.

>modern poetry.jpg

You will outlive this pthos-full writing still if you're lucky enough to have some brains to store above your heart. Otherwise, keep it up and go to slam sessions and try to be as pathetic as possible, you'll be lauded for minutes.

I liked it. Not specially the rhythm or the cadence, or the rhyme, which is appropriate for what you're doing, but for the images and feelings you're evoking. Would save/10

well thanks!
>Not especially the rhythm
any particular problems with the it or does it just not affect the poem much to you?

This was a different type of poetry than I'm used to writing, it's more of a black humor poem
It feels somewhat incomplete, so feel free to advise me on weak points and lines

A JOYFUL DAY, A JOYFUL DAY

Oh how giddy I am
Like daisies in may
Oh how happy I am
Like a jew with pay

Look at how talented I am
Admire me as I wheel and fray
Look at all the people
So beautiful in Jay
Look at how smooth I am
Like rastas with jane

And we are appointed!
By a god we say
And we are damned!
if we hang it today
And we are spooked!
By working for pay

And we are sinless!
Like dead infants from the clinic
And we are soulful!
Like epileptics on the dancefloor
And we will die!
Like depressions jumping Golden Gates Bridge

I appreciate the actual use of meter, so rare in these threads.

>as ten, tenfold
the 'ten' in the last foot sounds sort of jarring/awkward, since it's the same word twice, stressed and then unstressed

>Bring me my bow of burning gold
>Bring me
Words like 'me,' or 'he' or 'she' are usually unstressed, so that first foot might sound better if you had 'Bring' as the stressed syllable, it would sound stronger. Like: 'And Bring my bow of burning gold,' idk.

>Bring me my spear: O clouds unfold!
Same with this one, :And Bring my spear, O clouds unfold:"
Also, just personal taste, but explanation points seem cheesy and necessary

>Unleash the cherub of desert sand
Something sounds wrong with the meter here, unless you slipped in an anapest i'm not seeing

Overall I liked it, the imagery is creative, and again I appreciate someone actually using meter for once.

Here is my most recent:
I live within this basket-weaving dream;
a life of spinning looms, to thread the seam
of present, past, and future, joined in threes,
midway between these twin eternities;
to suture here this flowing present-tense,
into some sort of semblance, making sense
of all of this, of life thus far I’ve seen—
and what are we, but moments in between:

The time it takes a flower to unfold,
we find ourselves already growing old;
as life were but a flutter flouting death,
the breadth of time in pause between a breath;
as life were but the flicker of a flame,
a light extinguished quickly as it came;
the candle-light of life, the time it takes,
the waver of a wave before it breaks.
Between our fingers sift what time is left,
when suddenly in death our life is reft.

This is absolutely fucking terrible and expresses nothing original
Do me

do me

It doesnt matter if the hills will sway
up the mountain to the dirt of river
cheap taste in the grain and the fragile adjust came to face
and bleeding out the howling winds; they fray
if there was no point in this
why would the trees sing for the morning rain
they sing something more like
"try and stop this pity I have made and heal the roots, let me grow
in grace" oh how the leaves danced and the bushes always hoorayed
Just loving the risk we take
always holding on to dear life but never being afraid
keep raining and shine on you broken fencepost
keep running away from yesterday