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
Ugh, I'm totally blocked for this theme. . . .
I may scrounge something up though.
I cower in the corner,
But they find me, they find
Me, in fetal position
To morals they're blind
I bleed like an ocean
And cry with a passion
And I wonder, I wonder
Will I survive this lashing?
I cave in inside myself
And I don't feel the pain
I hug the ground for dear life
The ground covered in blood stains
They hunt me, they hunt me
It's all in good fun
A can of beer in one hand
And in the other a gun
Someone looks at me
He looks, and peers
"Oh God! Oh f**k!"
He shouts out in fear.
"This isn't a buck!"
"This isn't a deer!"
The tears have stopped coming
All liquid has left me
They cry out in despair,
And death comes to see
The torture, the torture,
the death I inhale
I collapse on myself
(I am so frail)
They argue, they argue
"Should I call 911?
Should I hide the body,
Lie about the gun?"
"What about college?
Him, He's dead.
But not us, we've got
Our entire lives ahead."
One of them sneaks off,
And on his phone,
He calls in to save me
But he starts to groan
He's got no battery or reception.
Bleh, I don't like this poem. It makes me feel Emo-y writing it.
An Old Piece...tweaked a little...
A Werewolf and the Moon
Staring woefully at Her,
I sit listlessly downing the bitter liquor.
She calls to me a silent siren,
More entrancing than Lord Byron.
The blood-red Moon she signals to me,
Desperate I struggle to break free.
These iron chains bind me to a curse,
Condemned to an eternal thirst.
The clock strikes a sinister twelve,
Into a Feral hell I know I must delve.
My soul it trembles and shrivels,
An ancient battle of accursed devils.
My primal instincts grow stronger.
My mind is possessed human no longer.
My resistance crumbles and shatters asunder.
My body intend on vicious murder.
The Brethren call for me,
Only they hold the Cure and Key.
Whither shall I painfully go?
To treat them as friend or foe?
The dreaded fur pierces as I falter,
My pupils widen, their colours alter.
The Human in me is finally dead,
The emotions in my eyes ominously fade.
The Moon's silvery tones and voice,
Cruelly drain me of my own choice.
I cannot restrain the overwhelming tide,
The Wolf in me stirs where it resides.
I tear and rip at my chest,
Nothing can behold me I withstood Time's Test.
The hot saliva coats my long teeth,
I crave the Holy Waters of the Church's priest.
My limbs lengthen; I walk on all fours,
As I smash through the magnificent oak doors.
Snarling I spit vehemently on the fields,
Graveyard of my merciless kills.
The Moon controls me like a marionette,
It has all been a glittery masquerade.
My hunger knows no bounds,
My razor claws rake at the grounds.
A faithful servant of darkness,
Patter of heavy feet in the forest.
Twin crimson spots flit at the flimsy gate,
Cloaked in malevolence and pure hatred.
I howl aimlessly for my true brothers,
Shunning all the others.
My mournful cry rocks everyone to the core,
Wild splashing of blood and gore.
People bolt their wooden houses,
Lowering already hush whispers.
My name speaks of dread and despair,
One of Nature's ruthless Corsairs.
Cold winds ripples my hide,
None but the Moon as a guide.
A shapeless shadow silently running,
Mouth agape, tongue hanging.
Hated and feared creature of the night,
I am the Infernal Blight.
Without a thought I stalk and slaughter,
Amidst the crunching of bone and hyena laughter.
I am more than a terrifying nightmare,
To challenge me none will dare.
My bite carries the Curse,
The thrill of midnight hunts,
Under the spell of a trance,
Satisfy the growing hunger,
And across the plains I wander.
Wallowing in decay fully immersed.
The Moon how she torments me on the rack,
To lie bloated on the essence of the infected.
Vile and immortal desecrator of tombs.
A Werewolf and the Moon.
That poem is amazing. Nice use of alliteration. The rhyme scheme is nicely laid out as well. Well, the whole poem is amazing.
Nichodemus, really nice poem. I thought I had a chance until you entered
Eh, I never stood a chance to begin with...
And Nicho, Ive written one or two werewolf-ish poems, you may have seen them. There somewhere in the huge wall of text that is my story threads' OP...
Oh bulll!!!!! Wait I mixed the whole poem up when the title merged into the first verse....
A Werewolf and the Moon
Staring woefully at Her,
I sit listlessly downing the bitter liquor.
She calls to me a silent siren,
More entrancing than Lord Byron.
The blood-red Moon she signals to me,
Desperate I struggle to break free.
These iron chains bind me to a curse,
Condemned to an eternal thirst.
The clock strikes a sinister twelve,
Into a Feral hell I know I must delve.
My soul it trembles and shrivels,
An ancient battle of accursed devils.
My primal instincts grow stronger.
My mind is possessed human no longer.
My resistance crumbles and shatters asunder.
My body intend on vicious murder.
The Brethren call for me,
Only they hold the Cure and Key.
Whither shall I painfully go?
To treat them as friend or foe?
The dreaded fur pierces as I falter,
My pupils widen, their colours alter.
The Human in me is finally dead,
The emotions in my eyes ominously fade.
The Moon's silvery tones and voice,
Cruelly drain me of my own choice.
I cannot restrain the overwhelming tide,
The Wolf in me stirs where it resides.
I tear and rip at my chest,
Nothing can behold me I withstood Time's Test.
The hot saliva coats my long teeth,
I crave the Holy Waters of the Church's priest.
My limbs lengthen; I walk on all fours,
As I smash through the magnificent oak doors.
Snarling I spit vehemently on the fields,
Graveyard of my merciless kills.
The Moon controls me like a marionette,
It has all been a glittery masquerade.
My hunger knows no bounds,
My razor claws rake at the grounds.
A faithful servant of darkness,
Patter of heavy feet in the forest.
Twin crimson spots flit at the flimsy gate,
Cloaked in malevolence and pure hatred.
I howl aimlessly for my true brothers,
Shunning all the others.
My mournful cry rocks everyone to the core,
Wild splashing of blood and gore.
People bolt their wooden houses,
Lowering already hush whispers.
My name speaks of dread and despair,
One of Nature's ruthless Corsairs.
Cold winds ripples my hide,
None but the Moon as a guide.
A shapeless shadow silently running,
Mouth agape, tongue hanging.
Hated and feared creature of the night,
I am the Infernal Blight.
Without a thought I stalk and slaughter,
Amidst the crunching of bone and hyena laughter.
I am more than a terrifying nightmare,
To challenge me none will dare.
My bite carries the Curse,
Wallowing in decay fully immersed.
Flee, flee behold I descend,
No stronghold will suffice to defend.
A maelstorm of pure hate,
My hunger will never abate.
The thrill of midnight hunts,
Under the spell of a trance,
Satisfy the growing hunger,
And across the plains I wander.
The Moon how she torments me on the rack,
To lie bloated on the essence of the infected.
Vile and immortal desecrator of tombs.
A Werewolf and the Moon.
Oh adn Parsat...I wrote it in May, but tweaked it a little....I know oh well...can it still be accepted? *looks at rules*
As long as you tweaked it, I believe that it'll work.
All right guys, midnight in AG is past, so submissions are closed! Judging will be submitted tomorrow or the following day; I will be as prompt as possible.
Shucks...it's:
Flee, flee before I descend,
Not
Flee, flee behold I descend,
All right, here's the moment you've all been waiting for. Judging time! To me this theme was very much a judgment in the use of raw emotion and instinct. There were some very outstanding entries, and it was quite difficult to pick the winner out of the final two. But first, let's introduce our runner-ups.
Wood: Ligaboy--The Banality of the Hunt
Untitled
Gathering Speed
Chasing a doe
You shoot, You miss
Then you reload
Deep into the woods
Far from civilization
As you get ready to shoot
This fearful creation
It's done nothing wrong
You just want the thrill
Trying to show off
Your superior skill
But is it really skill?
For you have a gun
Your prey has but four feet
Which it uses to run
The fight isn't fair
Your prey is outnumbered
You and your gun
The doe now encumbered
You chase after the doe
Gun at the ready
You shoot, it's a hit
Your hands now unsteady
The doe whimpers and whines
As it falls to the ground
You walk to the fallen
Its face looks confound
The kill is now yours
The doe is now dead
You don't take the dear
You leave it instead
Because for you this was a game
It was purely for fun
Twas not an act of survival
And now the game is done
First up, we have Ligaboy's interesting perspective on hunting. Some poems described hunting as a thirst for revenge or something repulsive. This poem took a very unusual standpoint: one of complete apathy, with perhaps the tiniest twinge of guilt. Although a few words were a bit awkwardly used (encumbered, confound), the apathy of the last line was very striking to me.
Bronze: TheWarTank33--The Dominance of the Hunter
A Week in the Woods:
Light the candle,
Feel the flame,
A humble warrior,
Perhaps gone insane.
A soft gust of wind,
A bush slightly annoyed,
He lunges to the right,
A bit paranoid.
The moon is a smile,
He thinks it's a frown,
Slowly unwinding,
He looks around.
And off in the distance,
The sounds of the beast,
For days he was hungry,
But tonight, He shall feast.
Wow! What a mystical, shrouded poem. I loved the aura of darkness, aided by the short, well-implemented meter. I also found it very intriguing that all instances of the word "He" are capitalized. You don't recognize it until the last "He," and you realize this shadowy, insane, malicious individual is in control...or is he? Perhaps nature is conspiring against him and his mind. It sends shivers up my spine to read! Very well done.
Silver: Nichodemus--The Hunter and the Hunted
A Werewolf and the Moon
Staring woefully at Her,
I sit listlessly downing the bitter liquor.
She calls to me a silent siren,
More entrancing than Lord Byron.
The blood-red Moon she signals to me,
Desperate I struggle to break free.
These iron chains bind me to a curse,
Condemned to an eternal thirst.
The clock strikes a sinister twelve,
Into a Feral hell I know I must delve.
My soul it trembles and shrivels,
An ancient battle of accursed devils.
My primal instincts grow stronger.
My mind is possessed human no longer.
My resistance crumbles and shatters asunder.
My body intend on vicious murder.
The Brethren call for me,
Only they hold the Cure and Key.
Whither shall I painfully go?
To treat them as friend or foe?
The dreaded fur pierces as I falter,
My pupils widen, their colours alter.
The Human in me is finally dead,
The emotions in my eyes ominously fade.
The Moon's silvery tones and voice,
Cruelly drain me of my own choice.
I cannot restrain the overwhelming tide,
The Wolf in me stirs where it resides.
I tear and rip at my chest,
Nothing can behold me I withstood Time's Test.
The hot saliva coats my long teeth,
I crave the Holy Waters of the Church's priest.
My limbs lengthen; I walk on all fours,
As I smash through the magnificent oak doors.
Snarling I spit vehemently on the fields,
Graveyard of my merciless kills.
The Moon controls me like a marionette,
It has all been a glittery masquerade.
My hunger knows no bounds,
My razor claws rake at the grounds.
A faithful servant of darkness,
Patter of heavy feet in the forest.
Twin crimson spots flit at the flimsy gate,
Cloaked in malevolence and pure hatred.
I howl aimlessly for my true brothers,
Shunning all the others.
My mournful cry rocks everyone to the core,
Wild splashing of blood and gore.
People bolt their wooden houses,
Lowering already hush whispers.
My name speaks of dread and despair,
One of Nature's ruthless Corsairs.
Cold winds ripples my hide,
None but the Moon as a guide.
A shapeless shadow silently running,
Mouth agape, tongue hanging.
Hated and feared creature of the night,
I am the Infernal Blight.
Without a thought I stalk and slaughter,
Amidst the crunching of bone and hyena laughter.
I am more than a terrifying nightmare,
To challenge me none will dare.
My bite carries the Curse,
Wallowing in decay fully immersed.
Flee, flee before I descend,
No stronghold will suffice to defend.
A maelstorm of pure hate,
My hunger will never abate.
The thrill of midnight hunts,
Under the spell of a trance,
Satisfy the growing hunger,
And across the plains I wander.
The Moon how she torments me on the rack,
To lie bloated on the essence of the infected.
Vile and immortal desecrator of tombs.
A Werewolf and the Moon.
Next we have an excellent poem by Nichodemus, who gives us the narrative of a werewolf. Now it should be noted that the poem before it focused on the insanity of the hunter, but it remained a mystery of where this insanity stemmed from (that's an observation, not a reason to judge between the two poems). In this poem, we see this unusual development of the werewolf's mix of bloodlust, greed, and guilt. Suddenly we realize that the theme of this poem does not choose between the hunter and the hunted; it's the hunter and the hunted in a dual existence, and the internal struggle that follows. It's a heavy theme helped by a marvelous use of diction, albeit at the cost of a more continuous rhyme. An excellent poem nonetheless...but who could be the winner?
Gold: Reton6--The Ubiquity of the Hunt
Hunting
The set up, the set up
The feel and sensation
A secret, A secret
Add with hesitation
A face that's so pretty
And also the same age
Added as a friend
On one's myspace page
The trap, the trap
The objective and thrill
A secret, A secret
Information that kills
Not close companions
Far too much concealed
Some intimate facts
One's willing to reveal
The trap, the trap
The objective and thrill
A secret, a secret
Emotions that kill
The connections one shares
The same feelings and fears
Both lovely and real
Nothing left veiled
The pursuit, the pursuit
The excitement and danger
A secret, a secret
Don't get close to a stranger
A meeting in person
At the mall or the show
Watching and waiting
Dressed up and aglow
The attack, the attack
The struggle and fray
The secret, the secret
A stalker catches its prey
Now let's face it. The poems of this poetry contest were great as a generalization, but many of them dealt with an alternate world, with circumstances that would not normally happen. This poem distinguishes itself from the rest by describing something that has happened, something that happens, and something that will continue to happen: stalking and assault. With a very tight meter, rhyme, and amazing use of repetition, there's a continuous sense of tension that doesn't end even after the poem is finished. Despite a curious lack of punctuation to denote pauses (which should have been clearly indicated; I had to use some intuition to figure out where they came), I feel it's a worthy winner. So congratulations, Reton6! You are this contest's winner! Please contact a moderator to receive your merit.
Now for the next theme, I want to introduce to here a style of Japanese poetry that's NOT the Haiku. Much as I love the haiku, I've read too many skill-less haikus to want to pull one like that. Instead, I would like to introduce this week's theme: the Tanka.
Like the Haiku, there's a set number of syllables for each line. In this case, it's 5-7-5-7-7. Here's an example of a translated Japanese tanka (which does follow the format):
What are they to me:
Silver, or gold, or jewels?
How could they ever
Equal the greater treasure
That is a child? They cannot.
Remember that a tanka, as with all Japanese poetry, should not just seek to follow the syllables but also impart special meaning into the message. Read the haikus or tankas of the old masters, and you'll realize what a tough art this is. The last day to submit is September 11, 2009, after which submissions will be closed and judging will commence. So give me a good birthday present! Give me the best you've got!
I often write poetry so I figured that I would actually submit something for once. Hope ya like it.
Drip drop,down my face
rain falling cold from the sky.
But for now I sit
to let it heal wounds inside.
Glad that none may see my tears.
Wow...this is darker than I expected it to be. Oh well.
As the earth takes hold
As we all feel dark and cold
Crying inside, dead
With the lies stuck in my head
Drowning in my blood and tears
Thread is locked!