[Baverel]

*shudders*
a bit awkward, but *shudders*

[Aimless]

quote:

---

Originally posted by Cause:
To me if you have something to say say it. Why hide it in metaphors and similes and complex imagery.

---

I agree. Compulsive originality (read: eccentricity) is a terrible thing.

Personally, I go for sound. Both in prose and poetry, what I find most attractive is a smooth and natural flow, something that _sounds_ good when its read. Something that bears the marks of a, well, a technician (an artist by another name!) For that, you don't need obscure references and forced similes and metaphors.

I like elegant simplicity, and I dislike the overload-approach most teen poets (and flashy writers) seem to take. But, that being said, I also like jokes, and, if a poet isn't serious about his metaphors, I feel he should be forgiven.

I'm sure deciphering the "code" in the coffee poem won't be too difficult (except, perhaps, the "blue expanse" ).

[Apsalar]

Now I feel all warm and bubbly inside...or is that supper? nevermind.
Thanks you two.
@Orfantal I've been experimenting with freeze frame movies lately. Must have carried over a bit.

[Baverel]

why r we spamming the poetry thread???
i might b the queen of spam but hey..this is just crossin the line now

how old r u smartypants?

[Darkwatch]

I wrote this ballad after reading the account of the siege.


The Siege of Golden Byzantium

They stood before the walls,
80’000 Ottoman soldiers of Islam.
With Urban’s behemoth cannon
Poised to challenge the mightiest bastion of Christian strength.

Cannons bellowed acrid black smoke
Great flights of loosed arrows.
Among the din of singing steel
The horror of unleashed Greek fire.

Oh Byzantium! Constantinople,
How bright were you,
Before the smoke of Urban’s behemoth
Oh Golden city we mourn your loss.

And the ships rowed to the Horn of Gold.
Where the Turkish oar ships battled the Christian galleons
Oh and how the Turks learned
That their boats were but small craft to the Christian titans.

On the field the army waited
Whilst filling the moat with debris
For the order to come from the young Sultan Mohamed
To take the great city.

Oh Byzantium! Constantinople,
How bright were you,
Before the smoke of Urban’s behemoth
Oh Golden city we mourn your loss.

The defenders resolve was all but lost
7000 brave Greeks and Genoese,
All weary, hungry
Holding against the vicious horde of Bashazouks.

The Horn of Gold, vital port
So elusive to the Sultan’s desires
Saw ships walk the land
Too swim in its waters.

Oh Byzantium! Constantinople,
How bright were you,
Before the smoke of Urban’s behemoth
Oh Golden city we mourn your loss.

The mercenary Bashi-Bazouks attacked the wall
They but lasted two shadow lengths on the sun dial
For they were crushed, shot and summarily cast down
But they left the defenders tired yearning for respite.



Finally the once great walls fell,
And forward came the proud Jannisaries
Ruthlessly trained destroyers of life
They broke into the Golden city.


The city has fallen! The city has fallen!
The streets filled with the seething mass of Turks
Who pillaged, raped and desecrate
Now the city is no longer but an empty shell of what once was.

Oh Byzantium! Constantinople,
How bright you were,
Now the smoke of Urban’s behemoth settles
Oh Golden city we mourn your loss.

[rlfcl]

well i read the last page only but i liked what i saw, good work blokes & blokettes (most of u on that page are from across the pond...i dont know the weird english term for girl). heres one i wrote for writers craft a while back, came from the fact that me and a good friend sort of fell apart all of a sudden

A pyre within my mind
my memories burn away to naught
No crimson rage within my heart
A sense of loss is all I find
The fractures, barely seen
With time did split, did feed and grow
The fissures, some had human names
Others, they could not be known
Divergent paths, and such is life
Perhaps they twist to meet again
Yet life is lived, lived day by day
The pain is felt, but soon it fades.

and forgive me but i had to add my children's poem:

Paddy McGee, a poorly dressed flea
Has stolen a hat for his head
He’ll put it on, stand up, admire his reflection
Then run and jump straight into bed.

Officer Bligh, a tough little fly
Has come to grab Paddy today
He rode in on a snail, and threw Paddy in jail
And the hat has been taken away!

Paddy’s been taken and put behind bars
But bars can’t hold fleas! They should’ve used jars
They’re looking for Paddy, this way and that
But Paddy is gone, and so is the hat!

[Aimless]

On coffee waves I surf,
Until the world slows down,
turns to toffee in my mind.
I frown--I've stared myself
blind, at this blue expanse.
(It's been three hours now)
Sleep burns my eyes, and
in the manse of my skull
I can feel how the flies
leap to the dull tunes
of leaden lullabies.
(It's been ten years now!)
A voice croons softly,
"To bed now, my sweet,"
treating me to a vision
of shifting red sheets--
I make my decision.

*post*

And I surf on, to the sound of sublime trance. (how cheap, that rhyme!) All my tries are now null and void--said mind has been led astray (though cleverness can't be beat, it rarely survives a collision with most art).

Tadah :-O

See if you can figure out what I was doing

[Baverel]

...?

[Aimless]

Troy story, bloody BRILLIANT mate

Rock on!

[Orfantal]

Bav - we all have those moments, go on let it all out and rant away, you'll feel better for it.

Here's something different - a few haikus

Face sharp with anger
split by whetted hatchet nose
and razor blade smile

Anger’s instant slap,
icy frozen pause and then
recrimination

Your love is fractured
once whole, now split to splinters
I and our children

Death tips his top hat
I take his subtle warning,
squeeze joy from each day

The fragile acorn
dreams of birds and squirrels and
stretching for the sun

A fleeting first kiss.
A baby cries out, both a
promise of new life.

White starched and pristine,
the world swathed in candyfloss.
A virgin snowfall.

[Baverel]

heeeeey, orfantal....r u retired or what? not like there's sth wrong with retired but...meh...
u write a lot don't you?

just wait, i don't have as much time as u apparently

[Orfantal]

Nice one Bavvy, screams out with raw passion and power. You could perhaps tidy it up slightly but I don't think that would improve it. It works because of that raw edge.

[Orfantal]

Ho Ho! what's this juvenile humour?

[Baverel]

my ugly manierism you mean?


*glances at Aimless*
*glances at Orfantal*

[Orfantal]

Apsalar - don't kow why, you should, and if you don't write often, again, you should. I've only seen two things by you and they both had something to say. Its often hard to put things out there to be criticised, but you learn from it. Lets see some more.

Here's another from me:

Me, Myself and I

A microbe in a raging infection.
One ant among the teeming millions.
A grain of sand on the empty beach.
One drop of water in the boundless sea.
A single star in the endless universe,
one spark of life in eternity.
I cannot conceive my insignificance,
I cannot sense the infinite world
all around me.
For in my life I am the centre,
in my mind I reign supreme.
In my thoughts I am the master,
though my life seems but a dream.
After all, I’m Me.

[Orfantal]

farad - that sounds intriguing

Aimless - now that's not nice

Bav - O mighty spam queen I think I can safely say I'm at least twice your age.

[Orfantal]

some more:

Rolling the Bones

My bones are rolling and echoes
reverberate dully within my aching skull
as I blindly pin my tail on this asinine concept,
and place my claim my stake in the Lady’s
covetous and notoriously fickle glance.
I bite my bridges and burn my tongue
in a last retort, resorting to a hollow bravado
that spews from my mouth like jackpot coins
from a overgenerous slot machine.
My conscience wriggles fundamentally
basting on a burning griddle of sweat
as I draw down chips off my shoulder
and stack my future on the bonfire.
Knuckles crack like shotgun blasts as
I shuffle a weary coin between finger bones
on a well worn path of worry,
chanting a mantra of useless encouragement.
I shiver and bear a manic grin
a red-arsed baboon, taking my fix.


Behind the Smiles

Love lies
through a mouth full of meat
spits out wet disgust

Tongue tries
to kindle the furnace that
burns holes in dissent

Voice cries
a linguist of guile
smothering mistrust

Flesh sighs
slick slippery friction
opposing intent

Love dies
cold heartedly coupling
left only with lust

Hate buys
passion’s impostor, anger
that will not relent

[Orfantal]

Aimless - cheers for the explanations. Here's a couple:

The Road To War

The war began, as many do,
with endless provocations.
But looking back it’s hard to say,
in truth, what started the inexorable
decline in once good relations.

There seemed to be no turning point,
no crux or vital matter that
drove the sordid process.
Instead a host of tiny irritations
that slowly escalated.

Perhaps a deep intolerance
for other ways of life and
points of view was all it took.
A gradual erosion of trust
replaced by tawdry suspicions
and a growing sense of anger.

The violation of boundaries
and borders that were set,
each issue causing resentment
and a hardening opinion.

A rising tension, with an
underlying current of fear
creating clashes, secretive at first,
then open in the full light of day.

A fear of backing down,
and a raising of the stakes,
each minor battle a barrier
to any hope of rapprochement.

Conflict accelerating into
open war, no holds barred,
no quarter asked or given.

Until at last, the threshold passed,
the ultimate threat unveiled,
mutually assured destruction.
It’s time for the divorce.



This one's a bit of a laugh:
Troy Story – The Sillyad

Champagne-bottle faced Helen,
woman of many layers,
tired of her Spartan existence
and sought the joys of Paris.
That callow youth, hoarder
of golden delicious apples,
archer struck by Eros’ bow,
lacked the stomach for battle,
so stole her away to Ileum.

This deed enraged the
brothers grim, and Aga Khan
resolved to fight a war
for all the Hellenes,
as long as he could lead it,
bronze pot dictator.

The call went out and
all the mighty gathered,
kings and lords and heroes,
a dummy-god or two.
The thousand ships
hit the Trojan shore
and sandals tramped on sand.

The armies clashed and battles raged
the ebb and flow of war,
and all the time the heroes fought,
squabbled and carried on.
The Trojans worked like, well you know,
and manned the walls quite manfully,
while Paris ran for his brother.

No bull Hector rallied his troops
and swept the Greeks back to the sea.
Achilles in a Briseis crisis
sulked within his tent,
but sent out his best chum Pat
to fight for him instead.
Patroclus carried the big guy’s
armour as well as a torch for him
but Hector knocked him down and did him in.

Achilles stiffened his sinews,
a tendency sometimes strained,
nabbed himself new armour and
went out calling Hector names.
The heroes met and fought it out
and the Greek boy was the winner
and dragged poor Hector round
and round until he was much thinner.

Paris, being such a heel,
shot Achilles in the week spot.
His modesty thus pierced he fell,
hamstrung by his shame.

Now ten years on a crafty Greek
was mightily pissed off
at camping out through so many
rosy fingered dawns.
Odysseus, that Penny pincher,
built a house of sticks, the clever swine,
that looked just like a stallion
some said it was just
compensation for his limp.

The dopey horse loving Trojans,
not yet having heard the saying,
hauled the wooden beastie
inside their battered walls.
A just reward one would suggest
to see them slaughtered in their beds.
At least we see that evolution
winnows out crass stupidity.

The war now won the heroes left
departed home for their reward.
Agamemnon got a few cutting
remarks from his grumpy missus,
while Odysseus took the long way round
but got there in the end.

As for the Trojans there was only
Aeneas left who merely said
“There’s no place like Rome.”