Practice

Poetry

Someone's about to convert to Christianity after being non religious their whole life, but they feel extreme anxiety about committing them self principally.

Being eighty (born in 1930's) while your grandkid tries to show you his waifu on a smartphone

That's a pretty funny premise, on it.

I switch to prose, then.

(Part 1)

John laid in his old yellowed mattress, gradually awakening from a deep sleep. After up with a grunt and a moan, he burst into a coughing fit that left his throat burning. John was eighty and miserable most mornings, but this morning was different. This morning his beloved son was bringing his beloved grandson over, those two seemed to be the only things to bring John happiness anymore since his wife died at the age sixty seven. At the old age of eighty, John knew he was dying soon. For this reason he wanted to spend as much time with his grandson as possible.

Tim, John's grandson awoke from his sleep, also in pain. Tim however didn't feel pain because of his old age, as he was only sixteen. He instead felt pain because of the toll his three hundred and twenty pound body took on him. Tim didn't feel the excitement his grandfather felt, as he would've rather spent his time watching his favorite anime, "Cyber Ninja Training Academy".

Tim's father, David, drove Tim over to his grandfathers house. Before getting out of the car, David told Tim to be polite and that his grandfather looks forward to seeing them.

John smiled when he saw the car arrive. David and Tim got out of the car, and David waved to the window John looked out of, while Tim stood awkwardly in the heat. John was sad to see that Tim hadn't lose any weight. John reflected momentarily on how he was at his peak shape at sixteen while David and Tim walked up to the door. He would've gotten up from his chair to greet his son and grandson as they came in, but his legs gave him trouble.

Nine millimeters and ten Hail Mary's
for each ring I'll descend, in Dante's head.
A quick tear and two steps to pit

is the only other means to this end--
Pretend the light of love does not shine
lightly against this mind by His end.

Or sterilize wicked wounds from mine
jagged tip of mind. Relief
from walking on glass while blind.

To bring such lacks the very belief
I lack in faith to stop hating myself.
Yet here I sit, unrequited yet bequeathed.

Ready to return to the hearth of the Earth,
and lift these eyes from pits to help and love.

(Part 2)

The door opened.
"Hi dad!" David said loudly as he opened the door.
"Hey Davey! Hey Timmy! Come on in, I'd get up but my legs aren't what they used to be! Please, take a seat!"

From there, David and his dad burst into conversation. David told about his new job, John talked about the TV shows he was watching, David talked about his first girlfriend since the divorce, and they both talked about politics and current issues. All the while Tim sat silently and awkwardly, occasionally smiling to himself about something or other. John diverted the attention.

"And Tim! What's new with you?" John asked.
"Oh, well not much. Last time we met I was really into video games but I've matured a little bit, now instead I'm getting really into anime and Japanese culture."
"Wow, it's great that you're taking interest in foreign culture, that sound very academic of you! But what's.. An-ee-may?"
"It's a form of animation very popular in Japan" Tim replied. He was now smiling, as he is always happy to talk about Japan and anime.
"How about friends? Have you gotten your first girlfriend yet? I remember I got my first girlfriend at your age, she was my first kiss."
Tim hesitated. "I don't have a girlfriend.. But I do have a crush on a girl".

John was happy to hear he at least had a crush. He seemed to be such a strange boy, but having a crush made him seem more normal. David however, looked down in shame.

"And what's this girl's name?" John asked with a smile.
"Akiko" replied Tim, also with a smile.

Prose pls

Not good mane, sorry. Banal and cliche. Like you took each word from the guys prompt and build each paragraph around it. No creative thought outside of the information you were given. You've gotta make a character, at least. Put them in places--let things happen. Don't give us flashcards with crayon drawings on them. Give us something real.

Prose Prompt:

While working on a yacht off the coast of Spain you find a man treading water with no other boats around. You pull him on board at the yacht owners request and you find he has no tongue (it was cut out, some time ago) and a plastic bag containing 10 grand and a brick of coke.

Defending a medieval castle wall as it's being besieged when you look over and watch several fellow guardsman begin to break rank and murder their and your fellow men in arms. You have only a bow and dagger, he has a shortsword and shield and chainmail on. The assaulting enemies is just about to break through.

What does that mean

Nine millimeters and seven Hail Mary's
for each ring I'll descend, in Dante's head.
A quick tear and two steps to pit

are the only other means to this end--
pretend the light of love does not shine
lightly against this mind by His end.

Else sterilize wicked wounds from mine
jagged tip of mind. Relief
from walking on glass when willingly blind.

To bring such lacks the very belief
I lack in faith to stop hating myself.
Yet here I sit, unrequited yet bequeathed.

Ready to return to the hearth of the Earth,
or lift these eyes from pits to help and love.

John became more inquisitive while David furthered a shameful look.
"Akiko.. That sounds foreign." commented John.
"Yeah, here's a picture of her!" Tim said excitedly and quickly pulled out his phone. It was exciting for him that someone was interested in his waifu for a change. Tim took his phone out his pocket, opened to one of his many pictures of Akiko, walked over to John's chair, and put the phone in front of his grandfather with a smug grin.

The picture showed a drawn asian woman with exaggerated large eyes and a smile, wearing a red skimpy bikini. The bikini revealed her pale skin, gigantic breasts, and hourglass shape.

John's face sunk. He reflected back to when he was sixteen. He'd end his work day at the factory exhausted and excited. He hated his job but needed it to support his family. The job he hated however, only made him more and more excited to see his first love at the end of the day. Marilyn was a beautiful blonde girl. She was five feet and five inches, built like a delicate twig. Every once in a while she would catch John staring at her tiny perky rear end, or small but firm breasts. She had the sweetest smile, and laughed like an angel. Her blue eyes radiated purity. At that age John was very physically fit, not by choice but rather as a product of manual labor. Him and his Marilyn made a beautiful and sweet couple. They'd do everything they could together, wether it be sitting on a porch with friends or going to church.

At the time, even if his family was poor John was happy. He was happy to have a roof over his head and some food to eat, not to mention the girl he loved so dearly. All this out weighed him having to work up a sweat at a factory, it seemed him praying every day had paid off.

He now thought about his son, sitting in his own filth watching cartoons and developing romantic feelings for an animated character. He had so many things John never had as a kid, yet he was such a poor excuse for a young man. John wondered how Tim could ever lose all that weight, as he looked like an acne ridden blob. John wondered how Tim had even gotten this fat. It must've taken years of sitting around doing nothing but playing video games and watching idiotic Japanese cartoons.

John thought about David now, this was clearly a result of David's parenting. John must not have been a good enough father, one must lead by example after all. The cruel reality sunk in that John had somehow failed as a father. He tried so hard, how could this happen? Tim was the last descendant of the Smithers bloodline. Oh god, what a nightmare this was for John. Tim would never have kids! Instead of having sex he would masturbate to cartoon characters! His bloodline was doomed and it was all his fault for not being a good enough parent.

A white light showed, and John more then happily escaped to it.

I read a decent amount, but this is my first time trying Prose (except for high school english class). It's a shame that I suck, probably shouldn't of put the effort in. ;_;

A poem in the form of Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night. I think I switched an 'e' and an 'a' though. Villanelle*

Good stuff

>While working on a yacht off the coast of Spain you find a man treading water with no other boats around. You pull him on board at the yacht owners request and you find he has no tongue (it was cut out, some time ago) and a plastic bag containing 10 grand and a brick of coke.

"Senor! Look at what he has in his hand!" I said, pulling the man onto the boat.
"Por dios, por dios! I did not know that coke came in bricks," the yacht owner cried, snatching the bag away. "And look at his tongue! You man from the water, go lie down over there. Vamanos!"
"Senor, do you think we should report this to the policia? They could be looking for him."
"Don't be silly my servidor! You are not thinking clearly. This is worth thousands of euro! Thousands!" he said, waving the bag in my face.
"Well then," I took a step closer, "I believe I deserve a reward."
"A reward? Estas loco? For what? Pulling him out the water? Idiota this is my boat! Without me there is no pulling out of water. Your reward is you aren't fired."
I sighed in defeat and walked over to the man with no tongue. He was lying back on a chair breathing heavily. As he heard my footsteps nearing he sat up quickly and motioned for me to come near. I keeled on the ground next to him. He reached into his swimsuit, fishing around his crotch. He then pulled out what appeared to be a rubber tongue and shoved it onto the stump of his tongue. The dingy man pulled me closer and whispered in my ear with a rubbery lisp, "Thhhhe ghold. It ish hiddeshn in ststhe abanshoned housh on the ighland. you shaved my life! Take thhe gohld!"

didn't really know where i was going with this

He made the awkward sobbing of a deaf man after he warmed up. That morbid hum shook the grocery bag he clutched near his face till it sounded like flies circling over him. Mr. Jeffers came to speak and play hero, causing him to shrink further.

“Are you okay? I saw you out there and I was so worried! Goodness, you’re like a leaf!”

Jeffer’s pale hand reached out to him, or rather, reached for him and grasped the brown plastic. Shooting up like a geyser, he wailed inhumanly, tremoring while I saw why he didn’t speak. The floor of his mouth was cartoonish and flat, hedged by a spotty set of teeth. He growled more like a child than a wolf, with no tongue pressed behind his grin. He jerked back and the bag ripped open, flinging money all over the deck. With a thud and then a gulp, we all looked down at the white brick. Jeffer’s started stammering until he was as dumb as the man scrambling to recollect the money scattered.

To fight through the cold (winter), knowing that the warm (spring) is sure to soon follow.

That was good for the shitty prompt

The frost will find its way away from me.
The wind will calm itself and rain will fall,
as spring will thaw my earthly body free.

This shore of ice has shored against my key
to lock this ghastly winter in my call,
but frost will find its way away from me.

The scent remembered still of flowered tree
retraced this cooling path with trem’bling scrawl.
The spring will thaw my earthly body free

or stone or colder things. The honey bee
will wake from slumbering inside its wall,
for frost will find its way away from me.

Though cold and steely chains encumber me,
the lovely bloom will purchase winter’s thrall,
and spring will thaw my earthly body free.

Unless death come first and I never see
the sun grow warm and sun ‘come slow to fall,
the frost will find its way away from me,
as spring will thaw my earthly body free.

That was fun. Thanks

Poetry

A fishing pole lying in the water.

Bump

Nor the dude who you replied, but I'm gonna give this a shot

Stop voicing prompts in the second person you redditing faggots. "You" this, "You" that. These aren't real prompts. They offer only a singular direction and shoehorn a writer into fulfilling the author's expectation. Half of them tell the story on their own, serving as one-off jokes. They kill the exercise and destroy the medium. Seriously, fuck you people.

Some great old kingfisher, who skims
along rims of river water,
has left their rod and bait within
the currents which gently wander.

The plastic worm waves while hanging
sideways from it's transparent line--
cast unknowingly by meandering
waters with no purpose in mind.

Salmon, carp, and gar swim along
beds of stone which stir the river
to life through a trickling song;
crawfish hide while minnow quiver.

Murky water muddles the vision
of smallmouth hunters seeking feed.
Plastic worms may be mistaken
for the sustenance that they need.

In some forgotten, woodland steam,
at night while fishermen will dream,
a fish fights with forgotten bait
and the standstill reel of its fate.

You literally have no idea what your talking about.

This has just as much potential as this . Sorry you have a narrow mind.

Passive aggressive, and burdened with poor grammar and worse opinions. You are the rotting mind of a generation.

prose ?

Active articulation for casual posting on 4cgan is a sign of autism. Taking clear-cut aggression as passive means you're quite closeted as well. Repelling from 'fact' to opinion has revealed your ignorance. Realize constraints don't hinder prompts, only those who aren't skilled or imaginative enough to work with them.

Seeing a severed bird wing but no body

Flaccid and defensive. An animal bites, a man reasons. Sometimes with himself.

>is it rabid?
>perhaps feral?
>why nip at itself then flash fang to me?
>is it blind?

I like to watch, but think I'll leave.

give me a poetic form and a prompt plz

>Sonnet

>a cold and lonely winter night

Careful, your 18 is showing

A sonnet about the oozing feling you get from a rotting corpse

whoop, whoop

As dark surrounds the fire and pressed the cold
against my back, a dusky mood took hold.
The only eyes around this night are stars,
and they are hung in air above and far
too far to reach. Yes, not an eye but them
or mine. Yes, not a light save mine they hem.
The pallored snow a sickly symbol shored
against the lively ash this fire poured,
but watch it melt! No eyes, but god the sky
is full of stars! A trillion gems to pry
from air and sell to better poets cheap.
My god the glories froze upon this heap
of solitude are sweeter than the flame
of kin’s or friend’s love by another name.

happy now?

The sores and pus, the scabs and rust of dead
unearthed by spade and vice are laid out flat.
Mucosal slickness shines around the head,
especially the nose and mouth. The gnats
surround inside the sticky air and flit
about this putrescence. What bitter luck!
For knife to press against the corpse and slit
a cove with which I can begin to fuck!
My moribund attempt to reconnect
my heart and duchess, prick and lover’s hold
would be unseemly should I press this wreck
I am against a warm I knew now cold.
Make no mistake what I know feel is lust,
so I carve out a putrid place to thrust.

>far too far
Dropped

Rude

This idea is brilliant OP, i've never seen posts with this thematic.

I hope I see more from now on.

Prose - a man with a fear of water is gifted a goldfish and was too polite not to accept

Not to side with the other guy, but you did swap tenses in the first sentence. That's like a 101 no-no.

Got tired of seeing the same shit for community writing. Got tired of hitting mental blocks. Figured this would make a good thread for both parties participating since writing for a prompt and coming up with one are each good creative exercises.

Gotta read the OP man. You can give someone a prompt, or post a medium you wish to write in, then receive a prompt. Not both in one.

whoops, didn't proofread thanks for pointing it out!

Poetry. Dealer's choice on specific kind.

I can't help but notice that you guise have become a bunch of cocksucking faggots during my absence. What happened to Veeky Forums? Are there to many reddit dicks on the plate?

Ghazal on the loss of God

No prob. Given the time limit, it's honestly a tough exercise for up to moderate writers. Little edit and proofread time.

Give me prose

You're peeling an orange but a little bit of the juice squirts right into your eye

Prose? be back in an hour to write it

Never written in this form before. I think I got it right. I struggled desu.

Stars will drip off harvest moon.
Tears that slip in darkest gloom.

Doom does black this faithless night,
soon to weep all motes of light.

Bright will shine the hollow eye
Right center of dewy sky--

This glint from a distant sun
gives hint of false reflection.

Then, bleeding slow, forgotten,
them liquid suns, dropping,

will feed dirt the light of life.
Still tonight, I'll kick the earth

Birth may and will come again;
first my eyes must loose a sun.

Watching your child play with your favorite toy when you were a child

Lol.

Or...

Your best friends mother has just passed, and they seek utterly unphased by it.

That's more of a conventional rhyming couplet, but don't fret, the first time I tried to write one I thought every line had to rhyme with each other. A Ghazal only has one rhyme (the first couplet) and then repeats the final word/phrase of the second line at the end of the subsequent couplets. Thanks for running with it though, it was a fun read.

Here's a famous one

What will suffice for a true-love knot? Even the rain?
But he has bought grief’s lottery, bought even the rain.

“our glosses / wanting in this world” “Can you remember?”
Anyone! “when we thought / the poets taught” even the rain?

After we died--That was it!--God left us in the dark.
And as we forgot the dark, we forgot even the rain.

Drought was over. Where was I? Drinks were on the house.
For mixers, my love, you’d poured--what?--even the rain.

Of this pear-shaped orange’s perfumed twist, I will say:
Extract Vermouth from the bergamot, even the rain.

How did the Enemy love you--with earth? air? and fire?
He held just one thing back till he got even: the rain.

This is God’s site for a new house of executions?
You swear by the Bible, Despot, even the rain?

After the bones--those flowers--this was found in the urn:
The lost river, ashes from the ghat, even the rain.

What was I to prophesy if not the end of the world?
A salt pillar for the lonely lot, even the rain.

How the air raged, desperate, streaming the earth with flames--
to help burn down my house, Fire sought even the rain.

He would raze the mountains, he would level the waves,
he would, to smooth his epic plot, even the rain.

New York belongs at daybreak to only me, just me--
to make this claim Memory’s brought even the rain.

They’ve found the knife that killed you, but whose prints are these?
No one has such small hands, Shahid, not even the rain.

oh and the syllables before the refrain are supposed to rhyme

Bob Gold had never done a criminal thing in his life, nor had the idea of doing anything unlawful ever seriously occurred to him.

The wallet that lay beside his chair was not only full; it was literally stuffed. It lay on the floor near his feet where it had fallen.

His action was as purely automatic as an action can be. He let his Racing Form slip from his lap and cover the billfold. Then he sat very still, his heart pounding. The fat man who had dropped the wallet was talking to a friend on the far side of the box. As far as Gold could see, his own action had gone unobserved.

The horses were rounding into the home stretch, and when the crowd sprang to its feet, he got up, too. His mouth dry, he nudged the wallet with his foot off to his left. Blindly he stared out at the track. He was a thief... he had stolen money... how much?

Panic touched him suddenly. Suppose he had been seen? Perhaps he should leave, get away as quickly as possible.

Cool sanity pervaded him. No, that would never do. He must remain where he was, go through the motions of watching the races.

After the sixth race, several people got up to leave, and Gold followed suit. It was not until he was unlocking his car that he realized there was a man at his elbow.

He was a tall, dark-eyed handsome young man, too smoothly dressed, too--slick. And there was something sharply feral about his eyes. He was smiling unpleasantly.

"Nice work!" he said. "Very nice!" Now, how about a split?"

That actually seems like a lot of fun to write. Man I wasn't even close though. I think I'll practice one if these next time I write. That poem you shared is very good.

Which prompt is this for?

They are, talking about them made me want to write one to

>hat poem you shared is very good.
agreed, makes me sad how people how people discount contemporary (or in this case near-contemporary) verse

Modern generations have too much access to distractions and offhand knowledge. It's easy to discredit their artistic beliefs to those of old. Where lives were much more ingrained and isolated. While this also includes me, I do still believe gems such as this style and it's masters may yet be uncovered.

do you have any contemps you like?

pic-related's one that's been growing on me

the work that got me into her
poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/92670/keats-is-coughing

Not particularly. I have very limited internet access, and hate reading a lot off my phone. What books I read (can afford) are usually collected works of past great poets. I like Eliot, Dante, Keats, Dickinson, Byron, and such. Like I said, not that I don't believe contemporary's aren't skilled; I just don't have easy access.

I dunno. I appreciate that poem, but don't admire it. It's clever, but drags on. Like a rambling thought rather than a rolling image. It was good at first. But by the time she defined undersong, I was fairly disinterested. I liked the Ghazal much more.

That's fair. I've mostly read older works myself, but the more I write, the more I want to look around me.

I can see why you'd say that, but I disagree pretty strongly with you're assessment. Strikes me more as patient than rambling.

Agree to disagree, brother. Nothing personnel.

>Watching your child play with your favorite toy when you were a child
"Oh look dad. It's one of your old toys," my daughter said as she pulled a wooden gun out of the cardboard box she was emptying. Her phone rang and she got up to leave the room, leaving the toy gun lying on the floor. "I'll be right back, you watch bobby for me."
I glared at her from my wheelchair as she left the room. I hated it when she talked to me as if I were still my old self, when I was able to move. I'm sure she knew how I hated her brat son. The little child crawled over to the toy gun. I loved that gun. When I was young I would shoot Indians and Germans. I carried it with me everywhere. Looking at it now, with all of its dents and scratches brought back many wonderful memories. All of which faded away when I saw little Bobby slobbering all over it. "Get your hands off of that!" I screamed in my head.
"Die grappa, argh!" the boy lisped, holding the barrel with his clumsy little fingers and hitting me in the knee with the gun.

prose

a young boy, naturally in awe with the world, begins an expedition of discovery whereupon the greeting of a talkative ghost is made, of which is opinionated towards a world the child doesn't understand but attempts to interpret

>tfw trying iambic pentameter
How do I git gud?

"He stood upon the shore and saw his ship
his pride descend and break against the reef
it broke like waves and surf against his feet."

How do I write a Greek epic?

Hopefully this time it won't fuck up my formatting.

What in general do you feel like you struggle with when you try to write it?

Poetry

Sense essay about erasing with a pencil too vigorously

Hard mode: iambic tetrameter in quatrains

Woah this is not the thing to take away from that criticism, my man. Trying is brave enough. You can always try to improve, if you care enough.

Here's a prompt: Pus landed on something precious, maybe it's contaminated now.

Alright. I've gotta get off work first. Can't invest in that in down time. Gimme an hour.

Play scene.

I just want some kind of conflict, not plot direction.

This.

If you wanna write, can't take heat personally. Just keep working at it until you develop a sense of what you're really trying to accomplish when you begin writing something. If you aren't naturally drawn to doing it, then maybe writing isn't for you. But you can't try once and give up when it isn't good.

A man who abuses his wife

I'm intrigued by how trite this conflict is. I hope to come up with something in time and share it with you!

prose

Getting something better than what was expected, but still being upset.

I made this post, still embarrassed about the awkward writing style desu

Veeky Forums seems to like it, congrats on some attention.

Prose

Not him but I had to take this opportunity to wrong something about John Lennon. Did you know that he beat his wife?

----
John Lennon busted down his front door. It was four hours past midnight and alcohol surged through his veins like the Amazon river during wet season. He fumbled around the wall trying to find a light switch. After locating and almost breaking the switch, John swung his head around and directed his droopy eyes at his wife, Cynthia Lennon, who stood upright on the opposite side of the room.

Cynthia's facial expression had a clear sense of worry, though lacked any shred of surprise. This was the third time this week that John had army-crawled back home from the pub with enough alcohol in his system to kill a horse. Cynthia's worry was not for John's safety. The tiny hairs on her arms were raised and the goosebumps collected together like a colony of flesh-colored ants.

John, contending with the simple task of walking, inched closer to Cynthia. Her heart started to beat like John's whenever he insufflated a line of cocaine. One second she saw her husband stumbling towards her and the next she was on the floor. She saw the all-so-familiar red river flow on her kitchen tiles. Saltwater evacuated her eyes and mixed with the blood. She stared at her wedding band. That was all she could could stare at. She wouldn't dare make eye contact with John.

As Cynthia heard John's footsteps growing rumbling away further and further from her, she closed her eyes. As her mind began to drift off, she heard a baby's cry coming from upstairs.