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Post by wanderer on May 18, 2009 11:53:17 GMT
I write for the sake of having to get all of the words and feeling out of me, to let off the excess, it sounds very EmoTeen™ but because of it I don’t have to see therapists. I often enjoy reading absract writing, Alan Ginsberg’s ‘Howl’ is about as abstract as it gets but it still evokes feelings, (madness, joy, understanding) which is really just the purpose of writing for an audience (besides entertainment) I like trippy literature, it’s a legal drug.
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Post by scarredbyfallout on Jun 1, 2009 13:17:04 GMT
I like the way the these, sometimes obscure, abstract images can invoke all sorts of emotions and reactions without being fettered by the preconcieved ideas we hold for their actual, literal meanings. It can be confusing for some people and maybe it can be difficult, if not impossible, to pin down excatly what the writer originally intended, but it is simply a matter of perspective. I like a piece which allows the reader to transpose a little bit of themselves into it's meaning, read and understand a little bit from their own perspectives and experiences. I just like being challenged to think. That's not to say i won't enjoy something with a more solid grounding, it can be just as relevant and enjoyable, but in the the end it's the abstracts which stay with me longer.
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Post by cmj on Jun 1, 2009 21:04:16 GMT
I had to write a poetry collection for my English coursework at school. This is one of the poems I chose; it's long, but it tells a story and has a conclusion of sorts;
Way across the river there's a boy I call my friend We tell each other all the time we'll be together till the end Way across the river there's the boy who makes me burn And even though he has to go I do not doubt that he'll return
Way across the river there's the tree where we would play And although it has not been long it seems like it has been an age Way across the river there's no boy that I can see Shipped him away to foreign lands to help us claim our victory
Way across the river I reminisce of those days Spent long ago in lost woods and fields where we would play And way across the river I sit and still I read The letters from a foreign land that needs him more than me
Way across the river I pray for he who vowed That he would come home safely and be a boy of whom I'm proud And way across the river I pray for him to send Notice that the deed is done and he is coming home again
Way across the river the battle has just been won But there is no joy in my heart until I've seen my treasured one Way across the river there's a figure drawing near And in those eyes of joy and youth I see nothing but doubt and fear
Way across the river there's a boy I do not know The face looks so familiar but it's strange how much he's grown Way across the river there's a boy that I once knew But I fear he left his heart in the foreign lands that he went to
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Post by wanderer on Jun 3, 2009 18:14:34 GMT
Good. - a bit like a story wrote, originally a dream I had. Short & sweet: 'Ropes of Rain.' Now the garden’s drenched, In ropes of rain, And I’m asking myself, If I’ll ever see you again. I do not regret, I will not fear, I’m done with that, It’s a new year. Merlot and fennel, Moon setting low, Cold, crisp stars call, It’s time to go. I do not regret, I shall not cry, I’m done with that, Don’t say I didn’t try.
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Post by Rhiflect on Jun 4, 2009 16:21:32 GMT
cmj, i adore your poem! I love rhymes, i always forget how much nicer I think it is to read a rhyming poem.
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Post by jay on Jun 4, 2009 19:23:36 GMT
totally exalted cmj for that gem.
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Chris
Libertine
Posts: 85
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Post by Chris on Jun 4, 2009 21:00:05 GMT
Exalt for everything. There's so many talented people on this board I haven't posted anything in a while so I thought I'd give you all a taste of my AS English Lit Coursework... We had to study Sassoon and then re-write one of his poems about a completely different subject. I re-wrote 'Suicide in the Trenches' and tried to write it about depression and mental illness. Malady in the MindI knew a pale, nervous youth; Who studied hard and told the truth. Shunned large crowds with anxious eyes, And with his former friends broke ties. * * * Through Autumn nights; desperate- alone, With cries and shouts and bitter moans; He battled an illness through his brain Unknown to all but deeply ingrained. You ignorant people who mock and jeer When someone you don't understand is near, Laugh long and hard and try to fake- For even the strongest mind can break.
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Post by cmj on Jun 4, 2009 22:28:46 GMT
The last few lines of the original are some of my favourite lines ever, and you definitely did them justice re-writing them. Well done! And thanks for the praise everyone
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Post by Rhiflect on Jun 6, 2009 14:32:48 GMT
I've taken to writing short, very short, stories in my book thing, about people in my head, since most of my poems are personal. They're a page long on there. I'll type two out.
Structures and Framework
Despondent and uninspired, she treads the streets, caring more about the cracks in the pavement than the cracks in the system. Arriving home she can't wait for evening before she collapses. Under her cold, negligant covers, she hovers on her knees for a moment before falling face-first into the mattress. But after the primary release, she starts to feel awkard. Dusting imaginary dirt from her thighs, she coughs and moves downstairs, glad no one has seen her own cracks.
Steps outside her doorway startle her and remind her why she is home at 3pm. Her own stronghold, her fort, is being destroyed. And on passing the sadistic crowd, watching a demolition, she hates every last, expectant-faced one of them.
Dipsomania
Hot, buttery tears seared through what was, at the start of the evening, hopeful make-up. Now it had all sunk in, her face just looked lacklustre. As those deceitful tears neared her chin, Clarry turned her face down the street and swiped at her cheel, as if swatting flies. "We're so fucking wasted, aren't we, Clarry?" Tilly stated. The giddy boy in front of Tilly looked suitably impressed. "Mmm" mumbled Clarry, barely acknowledging the greaser in front of her. Drinking vodka herself, she wasn't too fussed about how she felt. Sat on the pavement, she was only fussed about the cold. Tilly however, was drinking what she thought was vodka - it was water. Tilly was a dipsomaniac.
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Post by tarantella on Sept 17, 2009 9:50:41 GMT
I miss this thread. Does anyone have any new writing to share?
Here's a ridiculous poem that I wrote in history class today. It is so bad that I'm weirdly kind of fond of it.
trudging home -- it's a beautiful day -- I'm trying to make life livable
rock under heel toes cramped in the toes my name makes me choke on its syllables
walking straight into the setting sun that spears my eyes with its fiery glare I'm burning to make life livable
lololol, wtf? So bad! HEY, you know what would be great? For everyone to post their bad poems. Seriously, it would be amazing.
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Post by the kalashnikov kid on Sept 17, 2009 10:00:40 GMT
I am a huge dollop of ice cream there is nothing I can't eat. Sometimes overcooked chicken this is my aversion to meat
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Post by Rhiflect on Sept 19, 2009 11:39:15 GMT
Well, this isn't one of my considered bad poems (yet), but it is my most recent. I haven't written anything for like 5 months :/
Alll The Fun Of The Fair
My gooseberry hands My gooseberry hands Spit from fat, from fryer to floor. The rampant vulture thrusts her boobs and wails, moving to life before my eyes. What's the appeal of a scream? Mid-air torture, night sky (with intruding feet) pressing down. Pressure all the way round. Shoes left smoking, like discarded show-thrown roses. It's all just poetic. All i hear is lines for a fresh page. What's the appeal of a scream? Cling tight, cling to anything. I can, because of my gooseberry hands.
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Post by wanderer on Nov 28, 2009 17:47:28 GMT
i'd forgotten this thread too. It needs a resurgance. ...like discarded show-thrown roses. That line is just, wow! The rest I could probably get into more if that line wasn't in it, because it just dwarfs the rest. It's a bit...absract. But a good crazy rush. I've been trying to write more lately, and started a LiveJournal page to put it all on, but I feel a bit if a tit because only my friend reads it. (Link: minty-tintagel.livejournal.com/ ) Anyways...wrote this while wandering London, it's kinda a conclusion to a series of poems I was writing. Although I'm worried it's too long. Unspoken 25/11/09 This one’s for all the runways, This is for all the misfits and strays, The ones who wanted, needed fame, Justice is served in the strangest of ways. More than anything this is for you, Because you were a runaway too, Unbelievably you made it through, To fame and stardom, bright and new. I see you as a teenage runaway, Making your way be vagrancy, You have to live through beauty, It is the only way you can be. Upon South Bank I stopped to shiver, Chilled by anonymousity in a river, The great life-taker, great life-giver, A number, a death-toll, a hunger. This is my tribute to all the miracles, Happening, subtly, under our noses, Those who go from streets and gutters, To the greatest high that is Selfridges. In the sun, I sing “welcome to London”, Throwing down all the advice I was given, I’m not a runaway, my departure’s forgiven, Yes, I’m leaving but I will be returning. But I have time to waste on busses and tube trains, I have tears to pour into the Thames, Afternoons to loose in parks and gardens, And most of all, a thousand unwritten poems.
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Post by Xteenuh on Dec 1, 2009 1:23:27 GMT
ummmm i wrote something kinda stupid, it's called Cookie. Here it is.
I feel like a cookie. I feel like a cookie taken out of the oven and placed on a plate with fellow cookies. I feel like the color brown, like the warm soft comfort of the colors brown and dark brown. I feel like a cookie. I feel like my insides are soft, like a soft large cookie. I feel like I am slowly cooling and my spectacularness is fading in a cruel exothermic process. I feel like a cookie.
I am ready to be eaten before I turn to cold compacted crumbs. I am ready to be eaten while I am still inspiration. Salvador Dali is going to chew on my soft warm gooiness and I will be his inspiration. I will travel to his stomach and flow through his veins and his muscles will pick up a paint brush.
I am the cookie that Andy Warhol will enjoy for dessert.
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skylarky
Apparition
Ohhh that is negligent!
Posts: 23
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Post by skylarky on Dec 1, 2009 1:50:19 GMT
OH! this totally reminds me of a start of a poem I actually found on the ground a few years ago. I have no idea who wrote it, as there was no name. But it went like this:
Johanna drives across the bridge The Hudson River all frozen over She spies the ring on her honors finger Whoa, oh oh ~anonymous
Seriously, that poem/song thing made my day. I still probably have it, somewhere...
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Post by Rhiflect on Dec 1, 2009 21:51:34 GMT
That sounds suspiciously like the beginning of a Vampire Weekend song! SERIOUSLY! You may have found a demo or something?!
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Post by Xteenuh on Dec 2, 2009 0:16:07 GMT
It's the beginning of A-Punk!
"Johanna drove slowly into the city The Hudson River all filled with snow She spied the ring on His Honor's finger Oh-oh-oh"
Wow, how weird!
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Post by wanderer on Dec 4, 2009 13:14:21 GMT
That is weird, the Vampire Weekend lyrics...I wonder if it was fan written or some kind of original. That would be an awesome thing to find.
I leave copies of my poems on trains and busses, or give them to good looking train/bus inhabitants on my way out. Sometimes I include website/e-mail addresses. It's a fun thing to do!
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Post by victorinox on Dec 5, 2009 18:12:49 GMT
^ That's a cool idea. I leave paper cranes on the bus sometimes, but never poetry or anything, I'm too self conscious about it.
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Post by Rhiflect on Dec 5, 2009 19:07:20 GMT
I seriously wish someone would leave a paper crane for me on a bus! I properly want one!
Although on a bus in my town it would probs get chucked out of a window...
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