Oh Alberto, that was amazing! That really said something to me - it's a fantastic piece of poetry.

You are without a doubt, an inspired individual. You have what the Celts called the "fire in the head", the soul of Inspiration

write more!!!

me
xxx

I like that! It reminds me both of Poe and of Ted Hughes. (Sorry, English student comment.) :oP

Thanks for the compliment, by the way. I'm glad you enjoyed that. I find it a bit too wordy, my poem, though.

There goes another one.


Sometimes I wonder at your lips,
at all they've said
and all they've concealed.

Sometimes I wonder at your smile
and try to guess how many tears
edged your mouth with bitterness.

Sometimes I wonder at your heart
and realise how little I've heard it sing,
and suddenly wish to be a harpist

to unloose your strings and teach you to fly.

nice imagery annie

Fantastic escapism from this bastard **** of an essay i'm writing

Waking Up Next To You

The best feeling in the world
is waking up next to you
cos it's then I know
I aint dreaming
and I really have got
the best thing in the world
laying next to me.

i went to "the tomb" today, to look up german stuff, and felt like id stepped into a catacomb....nice and quiet, but still very eeeeeeerie...

i shall be visiting that place when i really need to get work done in future. i agree with thaidave, it is reminiscent of a tomb, lol. not that that's a bad thing.

me, rambling on.
xx

Alberto, you must eat idea biscuits for breakfast.

like ur poems alby

anytime luv

Wow, Dave, that's impressive!

Alby's back, and he had time to write a poem in the airport!



Your pencil caresses Larkin's words
while you stab Eliot's Waste Land
with a hundred black arrows.

Tintern Abbey could be in Africa
for all you care.

Your poetry has only been servant
to a reel of smoke and a kiss,
never flying with the skylark.

Tropes can piss right off -
you're not in the mood for technicalities
but for a savoury line worth forty pence.

If it were up to you
you'd send Emily Bronte sea-bathing.
Bless her! She needs it more than you.

Your friends are the paving stones
that say hello and lead you to places
everyone's been to before.

Who cares as long as the wind
helps you go uphill
with a friendly push?

On and on you tread
in time to catch the last train home.

I think one day I woke and said
better to be alive than dead:
better to sing my hate away,
than live to write "I'm dead today".

It happened fast, just like a dream
where all the clouds take wraith-like form,
and just as i begin to scream,
they vanish like a passing storm.

Better to throw my soul up high,
than sink below and wait to die.
This is what I live to say -
"tomorrow can f*ck itself today".

me
xx

thanks alby, i'm a real believer in reclaiming rhyme. so many people use it as a dirty word these days, mostly due to people (like me) who can't rhyme for toffee. bleh. i dont even like toffee

i thought a poem might concretize how im feeling lately. keep your poetry coming, i love it =) annie, your poetry is equally amazing missy!

me
xx

Trick

Your wings
fan the air
that sidles up
and nudges my eyelids.
I blink.
A jetstream of white feathers
marks your absence.

---------------------------------------------

Back

I can sense you, in the shed wall,
next to the lawnmower.
You’ve been living
not living
there for a while now.
Haven’t you.

You used to spend a lot of time
down there
but you don’t need to trim the lawn
any more,
so why bother?
I have a gardener now.

Come to the living room. There’s
a fire, the new telly, I bought
some comfy chairs. I miss you -
And I could get you some food
except you can’t eat.
It’s funny, really, isn’t it,
The walls in the living room
have always been much nicer
than the shed walls.

But then you did make it yourself.
The shed, I mean.

---------------------------------------------

And, a wanky, slghtly experimental thing,

There, Then, Not Now

----------------liver packed in at 69, an
Unfortunate age but he’d
‘had a good innings’; chat
shows, gameshows, variety,
Even a spot on daytime,

----------------gone before contract expired -
Career spiralled with furtive
Boozing losing self and
Celebrity, wearily thinking through
Nothing on leather couch, whiskey
In one hand, life in the other
(One more): Life hand reaches to
Flecked Anglepoise (dated), pulls
Cord, sits in black; life hand,
Again, reaches for bottle, encircles with
Fingers grasping,

----------------grey messes commute
Up towards the exit sign; a multitude of
Muffled, apologetic croaks (a frog chorus)
Fills cobwebbed microphones
(The fire has faded, the stock spent):
An unutterable distortion of the unreal,
The imminent, difficult loss comes immediate, and
Fading fast, segues smoothly, all
In front of the audience, agape,
As staring passive they sway
(To the beauty of a new – different -
Kind of performer) and now the frenzied
Outbursts of the exhausted souls,
The anxious, once powerful, now agéd,
So recently replaced -
“The new are too much, the new are, too much” -
As sweeping regeneration strikes down
The ancient, weary and restless legions

----------------around the corpse, gently weeping
(Not family), “such a nice man,”
last quiet years at home,
Tragic; Nation Mourns as

----------------Prometheus is tied to his Deathbed,
The crowd at his old haunt
Excitedly shouting: “Open the box!”


---------------------------------------------

I have an unassessed essay to write, is why.

Oh, and Sash, that one's my favourite of yours, agree with Alberto about the rhyming, normally not my thing but you've got it so it's a function not a constraint there. Annie, I'm imagining a childish grin with womr juice dribbling out. Alberto, I always enjoy poems about poetry, and that one is no exception.Dave, that's an exceptionally well-captured moment of craze (or at least I think that's what it is).

-- Edited by falafel at 18:23, 2005-04-20

The dogs party.

The dogs all held a party and they came from near and far,
Now some they came by aeroplane and some by motor car.
Now one inside that meeting place instructions they all took
That each dog take its arsehole off and hang it on a hook.
They filed in slowly one by one, each mother son and sire
But ere the party had begun when a big dog shouted FIRE!
They dashed out madly in a pack, they had no time to look.
Each dog it took the nearest arse hole from the nearest hook
But when they put those arse holes on they were extremely sore
For each dog found he had an arse hole he’d never had before.
So that is why you’ll always find a dog will leave a bone
To go and sniff another dogs arse, in the hope of finding his own.


-- Edited by inlowercase at 11:59, 2005-04-27

Isn't it weird how sometimes
you lose track and fail to see
the maple tree in your back garden?

You cycle on admiring the rosebuds
until the old fragrance opens your nostrils
and makes you follow the trail
back to the dear old place.

The maple tree stares at you
and weeps syrup a-plenty,
wondering why it took you so long
to go back to his leafy shelter.

Life has a marvellous way
to trick you into unknown streets,
but round the corner from somewhere unknown
you always find - with a clicking of heels -
the way back to your own backyard.

Interestin poem that... nowt wrong wi KD tho

Hallelujah!

Sam, Nice one!

I wrote a poem yesterday with very similar ideas to those you've expressed there, Sam. Yours, of course, knocks various kind of spots off of mine. Damn you and your talent.

ripped up, torn, alone
the memories so fresh
from so long ago.

i read what you wrote to me
in my head, the words etched
they still have that effect
lustful tingle turns to tears
once again i cry over
nothing.

inside is a hatred bound inside love
a desire
to cease
to care
to know
to want
to hurt.

one day.

I've felt like that sometimes! The only remedy is friends.

seek, breathe, eat, sh1t, fvck, dream.

funny,
the things we hold up
to be our dreams.

dreams,
wishing wells in fields
and clouds,
bowls of silver fire,
liquid ecstasy in parody.

keep dreaming, child.
it's only a life -
nothing more, nothing less.

me
xxx

-- Edited by chemicalfears at 02:11, 2005-05-07

Hi.
I think everyone else's poem is really great.
I ain't no Eng. major, but here it goes:


Everyday the guerrilla attack of the enemy, the tone of the phone
A sensation of serenity is what I desire after the chase

Granted, it's an expressway traffic jam, but it's still too fast
Societal logic that runs contrary to the truth,
I will pose with an obedient attitude

I can't claim that everything is good
But I don't really resent things either
What day was today, again?
And isn't that a problem?
Ah, I just want to feel hurt
Consistency perfect to the extent that my interests and concerns have been snatched away
Or maybe you're working on a plan to catch the eye of somebody else

Would you please control me?
Boredom annoys me
When is the time that the last train departs?
And isn't that a problem?
Ah, I just want to become a machine

Hey, what does it mean, to love?
I can't seem to remember....


-- Edited by indie_hunk at 20:34, 2005-05-07

-- Edited by indie_hunk at 20:39, 2005-05-07