Some more old poems.
By zoolaneI scold thee with my tongue.
I mark thee with my cane.
I will bound thee with my rope.
I will lay thee down.
I will enrage thee with my angry.
I will vicious kiss thee.
I will careless crest thee body.
I will be release and you stay bound.
The Struggle.
Bubbles that rising to surfare.
Struggling to catch a breath.
See the bottom coming toward you.
Intense feeling of be pulled and pushed at same time.
The hands that griping sides tightly and with fear.
Free to breath the cool air.
Dripping wet all over the place.
No shadow lurking in a dark corner somewhere.
The Whispering.
The whispering in the shadow, It calling me 'come here'.
I look round, seeing only me.
The whisper is now chanting.
The shadow is getting taller.
The whispering is everywhere.
The chanting with a angry voice.
I am move closer but with caution.
As I get closer the whisper gets quiet.
Now my curiousity mind is wonder 'why me'.
I get to the corner, where whispering come from.
The shadow fade into light but .....
The only thing I see is written on wall.
The playground.
Pow going the fist.
Twisting as flys through the air.
Sliced above the eye.
Drip, drip going scarlet liquid.
Thumb going the other one.
Double over in pain.
Spawl out on the playground.
The Monster.
Here come the boot.
As she lay under the sheets shrivering.
Her mind wonders what horror is in store for her night.
She try hard as she can to stay still.
Suddenly her leg twitch.
She hears the door opening.
Footsteps are getting closer to bed.
The sheet is lift up, small breeze washing over her.
The hand is slowly moving it way to her.
She pulled out from under the sheet.
She whisper ''Please not again, I won't tell M..''
Slowly the hand smooths down ruffle her hair.
She began to cry, wishing she was somewhere else.
The big,rough hands are now under her nightie.
She is pushed on to the bed, the monster climb upon her.
Sticks.
Sticks to poke you with.
Sticks to battery you with,
Sticks to threat you with.
Sticks to use trip you with.
Words threw at you.
Words to hurt you.
Words to cut your emotions with.
Words to make you feel worthless with.
Poems from different point of view main two.
By zoolaneWhat did I do wrong?
Why did my mum leave me?
My father is work all time and drink lot.
Why do I feel so unloved?
Please someone help me.
My friend as the later trainers and phone.
Why can't I have them things to.
Her parents must love her so much.
My friend tell me' that she in love with men'.
He the one that brough her all things.
I met him, he is nice and he said' will look after me'.
That last I feel loved.
'Special''
The room is thick with smoke.
I am feeling giddy, the room is spinning.
I have warm, fuzzy feeling inside me.
I know I am special and lovely because he told me so.
When I with him.
I am glowing with bright light all round me.
I am floating high with in and amongst the cotton wool clouds.
I can dance in the rain with glee.
Changing for season.
My days grew darker.
When he got mood.
I ran away to find a small corner to hide.
I wish that I could of melt into background.
In 1 minute he was all over me.
In next minute I would see a fist come at me.
First time I met one of hes friend.
I was coming down, had jitters, sweat and anxious.
I began to frigid, beggar for more on my hands and knees.
It was suggest by hes friend, that he would share.
I would have to do favour for him.
In to bedroom I go, follow by friend.
I felt degrade, dirty, worthless,used.
My hands had mark round wrists.
Obsession.
You are going to mine.
Even I have to put my mark on you.
By ink or with my blade up against your neck.
You're young,naive and stupid.
I think that I grow man.
Could ever love you.
I will get you hook on me.
I shower you with lavish presents and promise love.
As you fall for me and with your parents seperated.
Here my chance to introduce to you.
Your new medication.
It inject in to your arm.
In to your arm it goes up vein and your eyes rollup.
You addiction to me and new medication.
Now you belong to me.
Street Lamp.
She in the public toilet.
She make herself look lovely.
It cold outside but she goes anyway.
She stand under the street lamp on corner.
Smile that the passers by in their cars.
Dark car stop under the street lamp.
And said' are you free'.
She said 'yes' getting into the dark car.
Desert car park is were seedy act take place.
Condom is disregard in a tissue and money is exchange.
She is drop off under the street lamp again.
She decides to visit a friend.
At friends she ask if any 'coke round'.
Friend relpy 'yes' and money, coke is exchange.
She gets the white powder and spead it across table.
Use her rent card, she put white stuff in to lines.
She lend forward, hold on nostril and sniff with other.
The white fairy stuff is gone from table.
She leave and going back to her street lamp again.
Acts.
The things I have done.
I should be ashamed of myself but I am not.
With my heart and soul black as night sky.
Here I am in my own personal hell.
With only depths of despair and the devil for company.
Here I am swallowing in the hole of self pity.
I am engulfed in acts of revenge and devaition.
The Mother's Prose
By YuriposaThe Mother’s Prose
A pebble kisses the water
The water ripples as it blushes through
The passion manifested by the fire which
Consumes and burns through, the woody cells
As the lumber romantically melts… into ashes,
Meanwhile, the air caresses the child’s sweet face
Grounding the light that guides, liberates and shines
Like a candle amidst the beautiful dark Sky
Washing away all fears, as the carefree laughter
Echoes, reverberating through the walls of the Mother’s womb,
GAIA…
You stretch, shake, open and release.
Ascend, breakthrough and give, so much love.
Unspeakable is your truth.
Your healing blessings penetrate through
And through, as our hearts open to the crescendo
Of tides dancing with the Moon
The ebb, the flow
Reaches and takes hold
Deep within us to awake
Sacred strands of divinity
Seeking to express the full potentiality
That awaits within our united and yet unique souls.
The ancient wisdom The Mother carries within her bosom
Suckles us back to health, restoring our yearning for the Sacred Union.
So that we may enter anew, the state of pure innocence;
So we may Love, So we may heal.
So we may find peace, as we become a piece of the Whole.
So we may merge…and ride on the Merry-go
‘Round we go, spinning to the theme song of this lifetime’s vision.
We spin, spin, and spin into the diversity of our Union.
It is The Elder’s dream that we hold hands anew,
Free of judgment and separation, in respect and unconditional Love
Simple and free with uninhibited shrieks, carelessly escaping our hearts
‘Round, ‘round, the merry round we go.
We conjure, a cure, coming together with pure heart’s to adore,
The spark, residing within the womb of the One, who birthed into life,
Me in You…and You in I
The poets are going to hate me...
By Jess LI've just got in from my poetry lecture. Anyone who read my last blog may recall that these are my least favourite. I am very aware, as the title implies, that a fair few poets on the Cloud will not like me for saying this but, heck, I'm going to rant about it anyway.
So, we were discussing Villanelles today, a form I had never heard of before. I won't go into detail on them but basically you do some weird repeating with two lines throughout and you have two constant rhyming patterns. The lecturer read out a couple of examples and after each one my irritation grew and grew.
I was starting to notice something that really grated on me as an avid prose fan.
Poets have so much damn freedom to do whatever the hell they want! They can twist, turn, change, warp, alter, ruin or destroy an original form and get away with it scot-free.
Poets, I know what you're about to retaliate with - us Prose writers can do that too. We can change plot lines, we can add twists, we can alter POV. Yes, we can but there is no way that we can have as much freedom as you!
This one Villanelle altered the rhyming scheme which was 'disaster', 'faster', 'vaster' etc, but then she threw in 'gesture' and 'fluster'. These words don't rhyme and I was looking at the poem thinkning, it looks like she's used those words because she couldn't find anything else that meant 'gesture' but rhymed with the others.
I may not be making sense here, I'm in an irritated state!
I just feel like poets can totally jumble up their work and be applauded for it becuase it's "Creative", "New", "Innovative". They can slip in a word that doesn't rhyme and use 'creativity' as an excuse, yet I'm looking at it thinking, 'you weren't being creative, that was just the only word you could use.'
Us Prosers get so many guidlines - we're not even allowed a prologue if the agent/publisher doesn't like it! If a poet was to submit a collection do they get told that they can't use certain rhyming schemes or metres??
I do apologise if I've offended any poets here. (I'm not a total hater - I love Sonnet 130 soooooo much) I'm just sick of being told that my stories have to follow a certain pattern else I won't get published, when poets can get away without even using punctuation because it's "effective".
Feel free to rant your replies at me. I've stated my case, I'm ready for the poets to fight back.
From imagination to (almost) a reality.
By John TaylorFrom the outset, a poem by Gillian Clarke, Climbing Cader Idris, has been in my mind while writing The Blackbird Effect. Today, she gave me her permission to quote from it at the head of the book. A tiny step, seeing as I haven’t yet sent the present draft of the book out to agents, but for me, this makes the book more real.
Gillian Clarke is a poet who writes in a way that has always drawn a response from me – even to the poems I find uncomfortable. I grew up in Cardiff, her place of birth, and my novel breathes South Wales air – in a way, I guess it’s the writing of an exile. It’s easier to love a place when you don’t have to live there!
I won’t quote the poem here – I would rather you discovered
Gillian Clarke for yourself. (see http://www.gillianclarke.co.uk/ )
And, in the fullness of time, maybe you’ll discover the two
sisters in my novel who are not unlike the two climbers in the
poem.
And, if by some remote chance you discover this blog, thank you,
Gillian!
'Free Verse' - Poetry or Prose?
By Wrathnar the UnreasonableThough some might bemoan the fecundity of my loquacious effluence
It has never been my intention to discombobulate, perturb or flummox.
Whereas I would ostensibly apostatise the insipidity of mundane prose
There are those who would demur that vers libre lies not within the bailiwick of poesy;
Innocent as it is of alliteration, assonance, rhythm, rhyme or meter,
Nor even the resonance between the penultimate phoneme of some polysyllable
Reflected in the articulation of a sonorous diphthong in a subsequent ablative or gerund,
It is a contentious controversy which may never be susceptible to consensus.
If I might be permitted briefly to digress, in order to elucidate
That literary form is merely an aperture through which one may endeavour to communicate,
Then may it not be efficacious to abjure and abrogate prolixity and concatenation,
To be abstemious of verbosity, aspiring towards the idealistic acme of succinctness?
Although my vocabulary is incontrovertibly diminutive,
I require no authoritative dispensation in order to fabricate any conceptual edifice
For the edification of my hypothetical prospective readership:
No composition reminiscent of the Juggernaut of Biblical scripture
Shall be disseminated by the contrivances of my disingenuous calligraphy.
A perfect world.
By Emeraldgreenwhere boundries are unseen.
Birds fly beyond rainbows,
amongst pearls of hate, has been.
Money is the root of distant memories,
cancer is a cure of humanity.
Life is a gift of love,
pain is the past of reality.
Smiles tired, weary and bereft,
become the morning sunshine.
Wrapped in a lull of serenity,
a passionate gift of life sublime.
But in our creation of perfection,
slept in a universe of dreams.
Is a world we seek beyond,
hanging onto the edge of a scream.
And, Chapters 41-52 (Conclusion)
By Edward Picot
"The elements of the dinner-parties which Mrs Lennox gave, were beauty, men, and pedantic conversation. They talked in a sensuous way outside, lashed themselves when they were alone, and squandered their capabilities in the drawing-room."
Concluding the abridged version of Elizabeth Gaskell's North and South - abridged on the principle of leaving out all the important bits. Margaret spends some time in Cromer. Dixon is either dead or blue. We finally learn what happened to Frederick; Mr Thornton is in difficulties; and his mother has had wind.
http://edwardpicot.com/and/
- Edward Picot
http://edwardpicot.com - personal website
http://hyperex.co.uk - The Hyperliterature Exchange
The Script
By Sarahi don't feel real anymore.
i feel like i'm watching life, not living it.
i’m just a cartoon. untouchable.
unshakable.
my body feels uncomfortable,
like i'm detaching from it,
like i'm pouring out of myself,
out of my cage.
that could be dangerous for me.
but what could possibly threaten a ghost?
laughing is effortless.
i'm not depressed-
i'm not real.
anything goes. but nothing is.
that didn't count. i fucked it all up.
i'll rewrite it tonight,
re-right it tonight.
make it better,
more beautiful,
like a well-told fairytale
so god damn unreal
and melodic,
with a bitter sweetness that’s nearly sickening.
it’s my dream. my rules.
what's the difference between the hand i see in my head
and the hand i see on my body?
there are no boundaries.
i can see whatever i want.
none of it’s real anyway.
numbness is bliss.
life on sedatives can take the pain away.
embrace the ignorance.
significance is insignificant.
everyone's playing their role,
oblivious to the fact that it's nothing but a play,
a show.
why so serious?
why plan tomorrow
when i'm only one action or event away from an unpreventable exit?
my body is not a temple,
it's a prison.
trapped.
externally? internally? both.
but why does it matter where i am?
or where i’m going?
or what i feel?
nothing matters.
i'm not real.
Oh The Rain!
By Imagination runs wildIt touches the ground in an old friendly way,
Not missing a place as it drops,
The clouds start to let go of nature’s creation
Oh the rain is with us once more,
Helping the flowers, and helping the land
Giving life is what it does best,
Oh you will hear the brides say it better not rain
On my
wedding day!
No it better not do that
My Mum will go mad if it ruins her new hat!
But
it’s rained since life began
and I’m sure that’s how it should be,
And we
may not always like it,
for this is very true
But its
nature’s watering can sent
To me and you.
Subscribe
Visitor counter
Blog Roll Centre
Blog Hints
