Forums → Art, Music, and Writing → Periodic Poetry Contest - Theme: Touch of Truth (Page 390, due Jan. 28)
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First, I will post the overall rules, and then I will post the specifics about this week.
Original rules, as stated by Ubertuna:
It must fit the week's theme.
It must be submitted by the deadline.
It cannot have inappropriate language in it.
It cannot be stolen (if you plagiarize, we will find you).
Also:
The poem must be created for this contest
A user cannot win two weeks in a row (though everyone is welcome to submit every week!)
Only one submission per user will be accepted
As we all know, the winner will recieve a merit, and their poem will be featured on the _Poetry_ page.
OK, on to this week's topic...Again, we are having a style instead of a theme. Also, this week we are having TWO WEEKS to do it, instead of the usual one. Why? Because this will be an EPIC poem. Or, rather, a parody of an epic poem. Generally, epic poetry is very long, and tells the serious story of a heroic figure. Well, this week, the epic figure is YOU! Write a long poem (I'll leave the definition of 'long' up to you, but give it a good go) about the heroic story of you! It can be silly, serious, whatever... just have fun with it. You have two weeks, so have a great time!
- 3,868 Replies
Seeing as we had four poems this last one, I figure I'll throw each of you a critique before moving onto the judging. Let's take a chronological look.
Hyper
I return to my home, now old.
To discover that it's been sold.
My bed, the only thing they kept.
Or at least, that's what I was told.
I went to where I had once slept.
Still seemingly wet with tears wept.
I pulled the sheets over my head.
Recalling secrets he had kept.
Once hidden safely 'neath the bed,
secure from what they'd done or said.
He'd go to a Land far away,
and there his sorrows he would shed.
This Land where he would always stay,
was how he'd make it day by day.
Despite the way he'd been reviled
for fear that he might disobey.
This Land where he had, as a child
stayed and where my time, he'd whiled.
Protected me from wounds once dealt.
After I'd been fiercely trialed.
The father, drunk, would get his belt.
And deal the child welt after welt.
Till his back was bleeding and sore.
But in the Land, no pain was felt.
I knew the kid who walked these floors.
But I do not belong here, for
I do not know them anymore,
I don't know myself anymore.
I like the rhyme scheme, and for the most part the poem moves about with a brooding rhythm, although some sequences aren't as good as they could be. Be careful that your punctuation doesn't obscure your meaning; prose grammar still pertains to most poetry unless there's a good reason to deviate from it. I had a hard time figuring out stanza 5 in particular. As a whole the poem reminds me of Theodore Roethke's "My Papa's Waltz." It has that jig-like feel and sad, miserable sort of escape for such a grave topic.
ReikoJ
As I look into the water,
All that I see
Is my angry face,
Glaring back at me.
I look determined,
But I feel my own fear.
All I have to do,
Is jump down from this pier.
I can't look to the sky
Because I don't want to worry about my salvation,
Isn't taking my own life
Condemning me to d@mnation?
Oh no
Here I go
Wondering about what is next.
Is there a way to say that I am afraid?
Without having some one coming in to invade
On my poor little pity parade?
I can't remember the last time I prayed.
But this is why I want to leave
So I don't have to wonder.
If this next life really exists.
After I stop unclenching my fists,
I jump off the rail, and start to fall.
I hit the water, with a sound as loud as thunder. Hoping it was heard by all.
As I lose my sensory feelings, One clear thought screams through my head.
I'm going under and there is nothing I can do.
Nothing I want to do.
Nothing to be done.
I guess I lost in the long run
Because all I see is black
I don't hear a voice,
Trying to call me back.
I don't feel my self being lifted or pulled
To heaven or hell.
There goes my shot at figuring it out.
Seems useless now to think, Oh well.
I feel myself
fading away
Not even darkness
Just a generic shade of grey.
So this is what it boils down to.
Nothing in itself.
Let me fade off with this last adieu.
A look into the mind of the suicidal. I liked your description of the person's death and how they actually reflected on the event and its aftermath, more so than the actual reflection that lead to the suicide. Try to break up the chunky lines into organized, clearer lines of thought and words, as a suggestion. This will greatly help the pacing of your poem.
wolf1991
The Sea Will Not Dream of You
Oh pale undrawn breath that shall never be,
What have you become? A working of links;
Naught but chains. Your gaze has met an eye more subtle,
A voice more melodious than yours, a heart
That still beats in time with life given.
You now gaze into an indifferent sky, as the wind
Caresses the skin that once felt, the lips that once
Tasted the kiss of a lover. And the heart of the sea
Beats on, while your heart has ceased all beatings.
You are but one link in an imperfect chain. A chain
That tried to circumference the world. And failed.
Does it not sting you? Even beyond the reach of such feeling?
Does it not reach into that dead heart of yours
And steal the last stubborn will that I know has not yet died
Regardless of the fact that you have stopped all living?
You tried to rule, and have fallen. You tried...
But what of your triumphs? Oh what triumph is there in death?
Should we all bow our heads? Should we look to see you rise?
I think not. Your cold gleam has now be cast aside.
Into the shadows from which it sprung, and took out hearts
Like some ravenous beast that longed for feeding,
Despite already being fed. You twisted us into your slaves,
Made us wear chains of our own making, brought the clash
Of swords and the cries of widows to our very homes,
Seen proud men march off under the burden of you expectation.
And yet. You claimed it was not enough.
The fire of war must be fed, so you declared! Declared!
For the whole world to hear. For everyone to be subjugated,
To bow to your throne of lies and imperfection.
And you ask to speak of triumph.
Dead lips may not move, but well do I hear your voice.
It whispers false assurance into my ear. It tells me
That you will rise in the guise of another.
That all I say to your dead form is to no avail,
That the sea shall indeed dream of you, and so be content.
But, you are as mad in death, as you are in life.
Cruel King of Chains, I once knew than man you were,
No longer. A corpse is all I see now, and all your imperfection
Is revealed to my ever keen eye. And this I know, dear brother.
The sea shall not dream of you. Not now, nor ever.
There is a sea of emotion in this poem, the churning of reflections multifarious. I think this poem evokes the complexity of human reflection: It starts off relatively positive towards the addressed, but turns bitter and indicting as the reflection moves on. To me it's as if the poem itself represents a continuum of reflections across time, and how these conceptions evolve.
FallenSky
Daydreaming
Ticking on the mantelpiece
Cleaving away ribbons of age
As if they were soft fleece;
Countless writings on a page
A war of thought to gaze upon
Is what you wrought from lands undrawn;
A clash of skies and lands alike
To confound both sides of the glass
Stomp them hard the nails of present
That circle the edges of the coffins
Coffins made for well taught thoughts
And reflections of what is and what if
Ticking on the mantelpiece
In a iron frame is contained
A countless amount of mirrors
All in the embrace of twelve numbers
I greatly admire the wistful nature of this piece and how faithfully it evokes the style of daydreaming. It's a departure from your fixed forms, but not quite, as if it were the primordial poetic thoughts of Fallen himself. I like the layered rhymes especially, they do it very successfully. There are a number of images that are not necessarily compatible, but they fit well with the theme you set.
Now to pick the merit winner. 'tis a difficult choice again. This is the part of the contest I like the least, but if I gave it up it wouldn't be a contest, now would it? The winner for this week, as judged by exploration of the given theme, technique, diction, and meaning, is wolf1991. It demonstrates a mastery of the impact of raw emotion as well as an understanding of the changing tides of man's reflection. So off to your merit. My hat goes off to the other three participants for a job well done as well.
Just a reminder that the theme is "New Beginnings," due 1-11-11.
The Good Ship, WoadShip
There once was a good ship, WoadShip,
She was painted, all a blue.
She sailed around the coastal lands,
And to places no one knew.
She traversed across the mighty seas,
And many tales She spawned.
And when She happend 'cross a port,
A fresh new coat She donned.
Sadly, the good times could not last,
The final hour had come.
Dawn soon cast her morning light
On a harbor, filled with scum.
The mob soon reached her beryl sides,
And climbed up her bowsprit.
With their axes biting into her,
She was reduced to bits.
The people mourned, and gnashed their teeth.
As her peaces floated 'round.
Men went out to collect the bones,
And dragged them to dry ground.
The race was on to save the wood,
And soon the task was done.
Stacked about in neatened piles,
And baked dry by the sun.
Carpenters came from near and far,
And took what they saw fit.
They loaded carts up to the brim,
And were gone, lickety-split.
The wood was used for many things,
Like beds and shelves and beams.
A figure was cheif among the works,
Decreed by fate, it seems.
Carved from the ribs of WoadShip,
Stood a maiden, fair and lithe.
Her eyes gazed out to the unknown,
And her face was free from strife.
The People carried Her among the streets,
Until they reached the ship.
Then carried her up to the bowsprit,
And attached Her at the hip.
And now She sails out to the sun,
And through the great beyond.
And though the WoadShip is no more,
They share a special bond.
I have one, but, it is really horrible so.. it's for my eyes only..
Curse you, Maverick. At this point I have now tossed out 3 possible ideas. Your poem is just better than mine. >,< I shall have to try, though.
Also; I googled "New Beginnings" and a support group for domestic violence victims came up.
Curse you, Maverick. At this point I have now tossed out 3 possible ideas. Your poem is just better than mine. >,< I shall have to try, though.
Then maby I can win for the first time EVAR. I've gotten 4 or 5 second place finishes. If I get second again I'll...
Also; I googled "New Beginnings" and a support group for domestic violence victims came up.
Same here. Its an interesting web site, though.
Judging time is here! Before I start, I'd like to thank wolf1991 for giving us an interesting theme to think about. It was very interesting to read all your different interpretations of a new beginning. There were two poems that stood out to me, which I'll introduce to you here.
Efan
Wolf
Ah the Wolf,
do you hear him not?
Howling cries,
a tortured soul,
happiness forgot.
Oh the Wolf,
I hear him so,
giving star-ved moans,
what it hungers for;
I don't know what.
Sh, the Wolf,
and you'll see his eyes,
so close to the shelter that lies.
Ya the Wolf!
He listens so,
hi-ding in the bushes crouched down low,
not trusting the warmth,
seeing false hope.
Lo the Wolf,
mourning the cold,
seeing the others and the food they hold.
So the Wolf,
two choices he knows,
the others see him,
he shies away like startled prey,
comes back, edges out.
Yea the Wolf,
he takes the chance,
strange acceptance,
joyous experience,
a new beginning;
a home.
An interesting style with the interjections...I enjoyed the narrative of the wolf and how each little stanza seemed to be its own separate chapter in a narrative, although some parts could have used a tightening.
Maverick4
The Good Ship, WoadShip
There once was a good ship, WoadShip,
She was painted, all a blue.
She sailed around the coastal lands,
And to places no one knew.
She traversed across the mighty seas,
And many tales She spawned.
And when She happend 'cross a port,
A fresh new coat She donned.
Sadly, the good times could not last,
The final hour had come.
Dawn soon cast her morning light
On a harbor, filled with scum.
The mob soon reached her beryl sides,
And climbed up her bowsprit.
With their axes biting into her,
She was reduced to bits.
The people mourned, and gnashed their teeth.
As her peaces floated 'round.
Men went out to collect the bones,
And dragged them to dry ground.
The race was on to save the wood,
And soon the task was done.
Stacked about in neatened piles,
And baked dry by the sun.
Carpenters came from near and far,
And took what they saw fit.
They loaded carts up to the brim,
And were gone, lickety-split.
The wood was used for many things,
Like beds and shelves and beams.
A figure was cheif among the works,
Decreed by fate, it seems.
Carved from the ribs of WoadShip,
Stood a maiden, fair and lithe.
Her eyes gazed out to the unknown,
And her face was free from strife.
The People carried Her among the streets,
Until they reached the ship.
Then carried her up to the bowsprit,
And attached Her at the hip.
And now She sails out to the sun,
And through the great beyond.
And though the WoadShip is no more,
They share a special bond.
A lovely ballad about the WoadShip, and a very creative look at how a new beginning can change for the benefit of all, not just one.
Based on these two finalist, I believe that Maverick4's entry stood out the best from both a poetic and a thematic standpoint. Congratulations, Maverick, you win a merit! Please contact a mod to receive it.
The next theme is going to be Mythical Creatures: Unicorns, dragons, krakens, you name it. Or perhaps man is a creature of myth? Convince me with your poetry! The deadline for the theme is January 21, 2011.
And congratulations to Efan, for placing on his first submission.
The dragon roars, his nostrils flaring.
The tail flailing and eyes glaring.
The roar echoes through the valley like thunder.
Waking the townsfolk from their slumber.
Raises his head, stands tall and awe inspiring.
His nostrils glow of a fire never tiring.
Then, a roar, sending chills to every spine.
His breath sets fire to grass and pine.
Villagers, filled with fear and anger,
Quickly claim that this dragon is danger.
But I ask you, give him a chance, please,
For even the mighty dragon will occasionally sneeze.
Elf
The elf looked upon man,feeling quite sad.
How he longed to join in,even if they were bad.
Then he decided,he could not be held back.
He pack up his things,in a nice leather sack.
As he left his people,feeling no remorse.
He traveled to the land of men,on his trusty horse.
Passing hills and rivers,through towns and cities.
Elves left and right,fiddling with their ditties.
He steps off his horse,to ask for directions.
But all he finds are more and more rejections.
He sets out again,taking a guess.
Up a high hill,to think and reassess.
He travels far,getting closer every step he takes.
One look and he can see great lakes.
After stopping for the night,he goes to sleep.
He awakes the next morning,by a sheep.
He finds he is followed,by large creatures.
Unusual beasts,with unusual features.
He runs until he has got away.
Scared of dying,he walks all day
Two days on,the elf has arrived.
The men,surprised to see he survived.
Welcome him happily,host a great feast.
The elf has come a long way to say the least.
The unicorn was a bright color pink,
At least, that's what human's think,
Apparently, it could fly,
High, high, in the sky,
Battering each wing,
As, they would sing,
It, would be a humming tune,
As they fly above the moon,
Unicorns, invisible to human eye,
Looking for them, we still try.
Magical blood, it would shed.
Always, reviving the dead.
Unicorns are magical things,
A pet, to the kings.
Umm.. I couldn't think, I wanted to do dragons, but didn't want to copy someone.
The unicorn was a bright color pink,
At least, that's what human's think,
Apparently, it could fly,
High, high, in the sky,
Battering each wing,
As, they would sing,
It, would be a humming tune,
As they fly above the moon,
Unicorns, invisible to human eye,
Looking for them, we still try.
Magical blood, it would shed.
Always, reviving the dead.
Unicorns are magical things,
A pet, to the kings.
Oh, yea, this is my new account, but that's still my entry for this one..
The wyrme creeps up beside,
I cover my mouth, try to hide,
Slow my breathing,
I know what its seeking,
It can smell the stench,
My stench.
My fear.
Drawing near, I close my eyes.
Sweat beads slide down the sides
Of my nose,
I can Here the tongue whipping back and forth,
and it creeps ever closer.
It knows Im here.
Ive revealed my fear.
Eyes wide open,
It strikes,
I jump back,
With my mighty blade 'WHACK!'
Thump on the floor,
It is no more.
It's over, Ive survived the beast,
But this is only the least,
Much more to come,
This barren wasteland, Has only begun.
They can be anything,
Good or bad,
Big or small,
Or worse
They can be unicorns to flying snakes,
Lurking around flying around,
They can be happy or sad,
But will you survive?
Through all the crrazy animals that have lived,
Humans survived.
Hiding behind a rock, panting,
Listening to the loud trumpeting
Of the human faced lion,
Blood red creature
with most insane feature
A dot on the horizon.
A derisive grin, and beneath,
Three rows of pointy sharp teeth.
The feline follows your track
Through desert's sand
While in your hand
Ebony amulet shines black.
Drawing your sabre, finishing your prayer;
Of your resistance's futility well aware.
Can't run anymore, can't hide anymore.
Come out of your hideout
and give a loud shout
But freezing fear deep in your core.
Both man and beast now storming,
Manticore's voice roaring,
Looking deep in the eyes
Of that bearded old face
Causer of the chase
Lightened up by sunrise
Suddenly, the creature raises it's tail
Throws it at you, and then stands still
You feel a sting, notice a skewer so frail
Planted in your chest, hurting, until
You finally stop, drifting away into death
Overwhelmed by the Manticore's poison, cursing him
With your last breath.
Local Legend
Death steals in from across the moor,
Masked in chilly crystal vapour,
Proceeds to call his hounds to light,
Releasing beasts into the night.
Past weathered tors the keen dogs bound,
Paws sturdy over granite ground,
With hooks of steel set in the pads,
Could tear a man to myriads.
Eyes of fire, coat of charcoal,
From slender snouts does hellfire roll.
Set deeply in their ghostly jaws,
Canines of canines of the moors.
Reflected in river Bovey,
Stood a string of Dartmoor ponies,
Windswept manes encase their ears,
The nightly fog reveals their fears.
The ponies don't seem too unnerved,
Which gives us cause for much concern,
As closer to the water creeps,
The shadows of the hounds to leap.
Creatures, ultimately condemned,
Before the hounds were upon them,
Tried desperately to race away,
Their hind legs at the dogs they fleyed.
They were no match for spirit hounds,
And heavily they fell to ground.
The beasts devoured every one,
Death called them back from where they'd come.
The morning came, with it the sun,
Surprised to find the ponies gone.
But farmers came and knew the lore,
The fiendish hellhounds of Dartmoor.
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I think this may be the first time I've participated..
Thread is locked!