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Poetry
#1
Dont know if a thread for poetry was ever created, had a look through general and searched but I couldn't find anything. Someone posted this poem on facebook and I really liked it, very touching:


What do you see nurses? . . .. . .What do you see?
What are you thinking .. . when you're looking at me?
A cranky old man, . . . . . .not very wise,
Uncertain of habit .. . . . . . . .. with faraway eyes?
Who dribbles his food .. . ... . . and makes no reply.
When you say in a loud voice . .'I do wish you'd try!'
Who seems not to notice . . .the things that you do.
And forever is losing . . . . . .. . . A sock or shoe?
Who, resisting or not . . . ... lets you do as you will,
With bathing and feeding . . . .The long day to fill?
Is that what you're thinking?. .Is that what you see?
Then open your eyes, nurse .you're not looking at me.
I'll tell you who I am . . . . .. As I sit here so still,
As I do at your bidding, .. . . . as I eat at your will.
I'm a small child of Ten . .with a father and mother,
Brothers and sisters .. . . .. . who love one another
A young boy of Sixteen . . . .. with wings on his feet
Dreaming that soon now . . .. . . a lover he'll meet.
A groom soon at Twenty . . . ..my heart gives a leap.
Remembering, the vows .. .. .that I promised to keep.
At Twenty-Five, now . . . . .I have young of my own.
Who need me to guide . . . And a secure happy home.
A man of Thirty . .. . . . . My young now grown fast,
Bound to each other . . .. With ties that should last.
At Forty, my young sons .. .have grown and are gone,
But my woman is beside me . . to see I don't mourn.
At Fifty, once more, .. ...Babies play 'round my knee,
Again, we know children . . . . My loved one and me.
Dark days are upon me . . . . My wife is now dead.
I look at the future ... . . . . I shudder with dread.
For my young are all rearing .. . . young of their own.
And I think of the years . . . And the love that I've known.
I'm now an old man . . . . . . .. and nature is cruel.
It's jest to make old age . . . . . . . look like a fool.
The body, it crumbles .. .. . grace and vigour, depart.
There is now a stone . . . where I once had a heart.
But inside this old carcass . A young man still dwells,
And now and again . . . . . my battered heart swells
I remember the joys . . . . .. . I remember the pain.
And I'm loving and living . . . . . . . life over again.
I think of the years, all too few . . .. gone too fast.
And accept the stark fact . . . that nothing can last.
So open your eyes, people .. . . . .. . . open and see.
Not a cranky old man .
Look closer . . . . see .. .. . .. .... . ME!!


..................................................................................................


I wrote this after dealing with a few skeletons in my life and realising only I can change me. Thought I'd share it.

What is life, I don't really know
Some say fast, some say slow
Which direction, can you choose?
Are you that winner, or will you lose?
Who is wrong and who is right
Is it god with all his might?
We try to reach those expectations, to please those who didn't reach
The goal of life that they beseeched
I only know that I am me
And i've no plans of where to be
With each and every step I take
My own history I do make
Whether right, wrong or true
You decide whats best for you.
It's ok if you disagree with me. I can't force you to be right.
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#2
Monkey your quite the bard :-) I write loads of things down or draw pictures with lots of words around them sometimes its a great release to put things on paper, thanks for sharing with us.
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#3
Since the response has hardly been overwhelming, I thought I'd take a stab at it myself. I'm not hugely well-versed in "proper" poetry, but I have been known to kick some rhymes now and again. Ironically that habit made it difficult to break the habit of creating a rigid rhyme scheme and iambic pentameter (thankyou GCSE English!) and I'm sure this needs a lot of work.

Nevertheless, do feel free to poke holes in my pretentious bullshit poetry (I suppose this kind of poem does lose some punch without the benefit of good delivery by a talented performer, so please bear that in mind). I present to you, "Shaving Cuts".

Predictably our last big hurrah
Becomes a desultory mumur and a long walk home
And now every time we talk during a call on the phone
We forget the names of friends and where we used to live
And conversation devolves to listing what things did before smiles came to a skidding halt,
Days when our God was each other and our God was ourselves
And prayer was still being awake on a lazy Sunday with no sleep but good intentions,
The way to salvation paved by isotonic sports solutions and stupid illegally streamed South Park internet videos,
When that room still smelled more like success than regret
And we found our pulpit prowling in the park in the dark
Delivering sermons whilst standing on the swing set
Midnight talks with a strangely attentive blackbird
Reluctant ceding of fears, curses, rap words,
Pushing the envelope but forgetting to lift the letterbox up,
Leaving a crumpled bar napkin with a message written in ash and Lagavulin
Reading "Howell Road. Yours truly, stupid"
We thought the monsters and dogs were alarming imagination, the ghosts a shutter speed adjustment
Lack of sleep muddling our minds like history's unluckiest lime in some time wormhole mojito
But little did we know that the trap was already sprung, snare no longer loose
The notion of a happy conclusion, staying in touch, fading bruises,
Creative bluffs, naked truths, decaying looks, lasting youth.
Shaving cuts. Scathing proof.


DISCLAIMER: This is really fucking hard, I welcome everyone to give it a shot though.
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#4
Mmmm,i have written one poem in the last 12 years,and its very far from decent,almost embarassingly so,particularly compared to some of the stuff postwd on this thread,and sir bors's effort, But i think ill post it,because my relationship with chemicals has a lot to do with it.Its obviously not at all in the style of anything else here,but tough,im hijacking this thread for my own nafarious means.

WARNING:what follows is a hugely rambly,self involved and self pitying backround to the poem. Its unlikely to be that interesting,and can be summed up by some shit happened,i got depressed and wrote a poem,which is at the bottom,and can be skipped to,if you dont wanna read my tedious and trivial whining!!

Ill give a little backround to set the situation. It was the meph days,and my group of very close friends were taking huge amounts and having amazing times.Over the next hedonistic year i was taking several grams a week most weeks(certainly more towards the end,to avoid dealing with reality),as were my friends. Through a series of misfortunes and drug fuelled misunderstandings my amazing group of friends fractured,all sorts of crazy shit happened,including some pretty horrific things,and with a lot of paranoia and hurt flowing around,friendships ended. I had fallen in love with a friend i had helped deal with some tough issues, and through standing up for her against another friend who had taken advantage of her in the worst way,that person then went on to ostracize me,as either a punishment or out of guilt,spreading lies and poison. The stress of all of this,the pain,the loss of most of my friends, and with the chemical imbalance of my out of control habit,depression hit hard, which led to me being a twat,and breaking up with my girlfriend. I knew i had to stop all drugs at this point,and did,and went from having the most amazing group of friends you could have hoped to have,the most stunningly special girl and a happy life, to pretty much having nothing. I was severly depressed,barely left the house for a year,barring work and generally felt extremely sorry for myself. About about 18 months of my exile from life,one day i just decided i had taken enough of this depression shit,and was gonna do something,anything and i ended up grabbing the closest thing to me,which was pen and an envelope which i wrote the following poem on. As soon as i finished it was like a switch was flipped,and i felt happy for the 1st time in ages. Writing the poem was me taking control of my life suddenly,and was the start of my recovery/dealing with depression (which has continued to this day. For the few months after i wrote the poem just having a read of it, helped me deal with my feelings. I still get depressed,but rarely,and through experience know how to counter it. Im generally a very happy and upbeat person,but its only been in the recent future that i have felt confident in myself to take drugs and rc's again,and its been fairly rewarding.Sorry for the huge rambly,self involved,dull account-have never really talked about this before.




Anyway,here is the poem.its shit,but its my shit :-) :)

The Darkness:

You feel it,lurking in the shadows,
desolate,demented,despair.
The hairs on your neck scream at you,
the pit of your stomach shouts run!
So you run.
Step after step after step,
and you are free,
you are safe.

You don't notice it at first,
crawling,clawing,cold,
in the corner of your eye.
The chill of your heart warns you,
the beating of your chest urges you hide!
So you hide.
The walls of your keep strong,
the ease of companionship protects you,
you are safe.

You are alone,and now you see it,
rushing,roaring,rage.
The fear inside freezes you,
Yet the fire implores you fight!
So you fight.
It is strong,so strong,too strong,
you give in to it.
The hateful horror flows over you,
the anger ensnaring,holding you tight,
yet you welcome the sweet torment.
You bask in the pain,the suffering,the sadness,
and you know you can never be free,
you can never hide,
you can never be safe,
for the darkness comes from within.
The most merciful thing in the world...is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents
H.P. Lovecraft
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#5
[Image: 2008-06-12-death-and-life.jpg]
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#6
ok ok, the boys are putting me to shame, so I've tried to write a poem for the first time since 1990 (theme: the poll tax riots!) & inexplicably, decided to try & rhyme, which i was never into when I used to write stuff. Apologies in advance, especially if I've unconsciously stolen any of it from any of my favourite poets..I'm cringing!


ANGST

I’ve got angst in my pants and it’s making me itch
for the nights that were long and the days that were rich
with laughter & mayhem & things that were wrong
but a feeling that we were all singing one song.

My misty eyes are cataracts that seek to hide the brutal facts
of heartbreak, violence, lies, addiction,
muddy homes, one more eviction.


So......despite the grey hair, aching bones,
the messy kids that make me moan,
long days at work, the bills, the rent, the lessons learned
in time I’ve spent, the love I earned
from all that’s special, the times I still dance with the devil.
It’s all worthwhile, the stench, the filth
when a 20 year old lad in the pub calls me milf!
This.....is real life
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#7
I think i may have posted this before but it is worth reading.



Whoever we are, wherever we're from, we shoulda noticed by now our behaviour is dumb
And if our chances expect to improve it's gonna take a lot more than tryin' to remove the other race or the other whatever from the face of the planet altogether
They call it "The Earth" which is a dumb kinda name but they named it right 'cause we behave the same
We are dumb all over
Dumb all over, yes we are, dumb all over, near and far, dumb all over, black 'n white, people, we is not wrapped tight
And nerds on the left, nerds on the right
Religious fanatics on the air every night, sayin' the bible tells the story and makes the details sound real gory about what to do if the geeks over there don't believe in the book we got over here
You can't run a race without no feet
And pretty soon there won't be no street for dummies to jog on or doggies to dog on
Religious fanatics can make it be all gone
I mean it won't blow up and disappear, it'll just look ugly for a thousand years
You can't run a country by a book of religion
Not by a heap or a lump or a smidgeon of foolish rules of ancient date, designed to make you all feel great while you fold, spindle and mutilate those unbelievers from a neighbouring state
To arms, to arms
Hooray! That's great, two legs ain't bad
Unless there's a crate they ship the parts to mama in
For souvenirs: two ears (Get down)
Not his, not hers but what the hey
The good book says, "It's gotta be that way"
But their book says, "Revenge the crusades"
With whips 'n chains and hand grenades
Two arms, two arms
Have another and another
Our God says, "There ain't no other"
Our God says, "It's all ok"
Our god says "This is the way"
It says in the book, "Burn and destroy"
And repent and redeem and revenge and deploy and rumble thee forth to the land of the unbelieving scum on the other side
'Cause they don't go for what's in the book and that makes 'em bad
So verily we must choppeth them up and stompeth them down
Or rent a nice French bomb to poof them out of existence while leaving their real estate just where we need it to use again for temples in which to praise our god, 'cause he can really take care of business
And when his humble TV servant with humble white hair and humble glasses and a nice brown suit and maybe a blonde wife who takes phone calls, tells us our god says it's ok to do this stuff, then we gotta do it
'Cause if we don't do it we ain't "Going up to heaven"
Depending on which book you're using at the time
Can't use theirs, it don't work, it's all lies, gotta use mine
Ain't that right?
That's what they say
Every night, everyday
Hey, we can't really be dumb if we're just following god's orders
Well let's get serious, god knows what he's doin'
He wrote this book here and the book says, "He made us all to be just like him"
So, if we're dumb, then god is dumb and maybe even a little ugly on the side
Dumb all over, a little ugly on the side
Dumb all over, a little ugly on the side
Dumb all over, a little ugly on the side
Dumb all over, a little ugly on the side
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#8
Have something what I did writes just yesterday. You need the status updates first for the background. T'was a most traumatic day . . .

Sepher, enjoying himself with aforementioned squirrel earlier this morning Wrote:Staring contest with a grey squirrel not five feet away atop the racking up on the mezzanine floor. I won! Ha! Take that squirrel. I yam the staring contest champion in this warehouse, and never forget it! :)

Sepher a short while later, racked by guilt, a valiant attempt at rescue now gone horribly, horribly wrong Wrote:Oh noes! Ummmmmm . . . don't suppose anyone knows what the likely survivability is for a grey squirrel falling from a height of approx 8m onto a reinforced concrete floor is by any chance, do they? :shock: uhoh:

I was trying to rescue it, honest, coaxing it down but it was right up in the cross members of the roof trying to find its way out and . . . oops! Its valiant attempt at being all flying squirrel-like was truly admirable but alas, wrong genus entirely, divergent evolution taking its horrible toll. Last seen running round the warehouse hidey holes, search parties still out. And yes, yes I do feel tight actually, before you ask. I'm trying to console myself with the thought that there's a red squirrel somewhere that will sleep more soundly in its bed this evening but given there ain't a red squirrel within a 100 chuffin' miles of me it's proving difficult to sustain the notion.

Picture the scene . . .

In the quiet dark of a deserted warehouse, alone now office hours are over Sepher makes his way across the mezzanine to make his umpteenth coffee of the day, a little jolt needed for the small pile of work there have not yet been enough hours in the day to complete, sick of finding his to-do list hanging over from evening to morning. Between ringing footfalls on the steel floor a scrape, a rasp of wood against steel perhaps, or maybe, just maybe a tiny claw on concrete. Freezing motionless for a moment Sepher strains to hear the sounds of twilight. There it is again, faint but unmistakeable. Stealthy as a very stealthy thing Sepher creeps to the edge of the mezzanine and looks down, surveying the shadowed expanse of the warehouse below.

Movement, sharp as a knife. Creeping from the shadows towards the pile of muesli ringed with marker pen for just this purpose, out comes our squirrel, apparently unharmed, and seizes what may well be the fat, juicy raisin at the centre Sepher left strategically as the most enticing offering he could think of. All is well. Sepher smiles, relieved that he is not a squirrel murderer after all, but realises he is now faced with a further problem: how to get said squirrel from the shadows among the racks of steel and cardboard boxes to freedom. Sepher returns to his desk to ponder on this some more, making sure at least the fire door is open should our woodland visitor wish to avail himself of the emergency exits . . . . .
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#9
The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore -
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is, and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you"- here I opened wide the door; -
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!" -
Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice:
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'Tis the wind and nothing more."

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore -
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning- little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door -
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered- not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered, "other friends have flown before -
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said, "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of 'Never - nevermore'."

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore:
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted- tell me truly, I implore -
Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil - prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend," I shrieked, upstarting -
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!- quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!
Cookie My common sense is tingling   Cookie
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#10
Thats Princess looking at Dragon I tell you.....
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