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
Glad to see you back, Maverick.
Did you mean "attache" in that second to last line?
I said last time I was here that I would make a poem, but I lied. So I'll make a poem in this post.
Welcome back Maverick even though I've never met you. But I do know you made the Haiku thread somewhere in the 1st page.
I may not be good until I get the gist of things.
Chained
I sit feeling uncomfortable,
my arms confined, unable to move.
So then I moved my body
and got splinters from the chair.
But not just any chair you see,
it was one built for me.
It can fit many others,
one, two, three.
But I sit alone, by myself
hoping to be set free.
@Parsat
Yes, I did. ANd both times, I'm missing an extra 't'. Much obliged if you would count it as such.
@1337
Hello to you to. Thanks. ANd yea, thats me.
Today is the last day for submissions! Submit now, or hold your peace!
Hang in there, and take your time.
I've experienced the horrors of judging first hand and I must say; it's a pretty rough job.
I daresay it's better to take your time and make it nicely than to hurry and wind up with an incomplete judging.
Many apologies for my tardiness. Evidently I chose a bad time for judging to happen, with finals going on. In any case, I've asked wolf1991 to judge this one, since he is December's Poet of the Month.
And I had made this sonnet especially for Parsat; Ah! The pain!
Then again, I'm glad wolf is judging; he's a trustworthy critic.
Bronze: The "Cold Iron" Award (IcyIndia)
A metal, motionless snake.
An empty, twisted skeleton.
It lines a park, endless and curving,
A place for everyone to sit.
The edges of the solid iron are cold,
arched around frosted wood,
like arms that
hold everything together.
What I enjoy about this poem is its simplicity. After reading this outloud a few times I gained a good feel for the flow of the poem and how it actually presented the reader with a feeling of cold. I also enjoyed the imagery within the poem of a desolate park in the middle of winter, or autumn with a grey overcast sky. The last two lines jarred the poem's flow for me, but I liked how it managed to finish as if the bench was litterally being held togeth by the frozen wood and iron.
Silver: The "Burdened Stranger" Award (Maverick4)
Crackiling cold; burning iron,
Wooden slats frosted white.
Cigar embers, burning hot
Ashes floating
to the ground
Overcoats pulled tight
Seat leeching cold
from his body, atache
at his side.
Shuffling over, stamping
heavy boots, the weight
of the world carried.
On his back.
A short exchange; a brief
murmering.
Atache in hand.
Gone.
Again I am left with a desolate feeling after reading this. It starts off with a seeming battle between hot and cold where cold eventually prevails. When I read the line where the seat was leeching cold from the body of the individual seated on the bench I was a little confused. Perhaps I misunderstood, but I think leeching heat was what was meant. However, near the end of the poem I am intrigued to see a mental image of a man on a lone bench shivering in the winter wind. And suddenly getting up and walking away. The use of one word lines within the poem, especially the last line, really drives the feeling of emptiness home.
Gold Merit: The "King, Queen and a Bench" Award (Fallensky)
Wooden arms
She came into my shop sparkling with graces
Aglow despite her pale frugal attire
Divine amidst the white and brittle faces
Of these women who live to rouse desire
I left alone the oak I was carving
Into a plain prie-dieu for priests to chant
And walked toward her shape silhouetting
In the doorway where light was abundant
With unrestrained passion, though quite briefly
I made her mine on a table sculpted
But the Queen she was in reality;
Summoned I was, my hands and knees grounded
For him, the King to sit on my backbone
And mold and mesh my soma ever prone
This is quite the piece of writing, and not a half bad sonnet. I am quite impressed with the way you managed to pull off this particular style seeing as sonnets have always given me trouble when writing them. However, I enjoyed reading this aloud to pick up on the rhymes and how the seem to play off eachother. Your use of imagery and the contasts between the plain and extraordinary were done superbly. I particularly enjoyed how the character within your poem seems to be meek and meager yet captures the attention of those around her. while I know she isn't the true focus of the poem, she really helped draw out the focus, which I find to be subtle and clever. Well done.
Well folks I now I await your displeasure at having to deal with my substandard judging (compared to Parsat). However, let's hope I keep my head for another day or two shall we? Anyway, I've been told to tell you the next theme is Winter Dreams. I'd also like to inform you Parsat should be returning to his position as judge, if not, I'll step in again.
Deadline: December 21 2010
Congrats Fallensky. Yours is like Sonnet 130, and I cannot compete with love, which conquers all...
And first place eludes...
Thanks for the judging wolf!
I was trying to show how sordidly ironic life can be at times; and how it has a constant metamorphic nature.
Upon straying just a little while out of his path, the carpenter became the carpented, and these arms who gave life to wood became the lifeless wood they carved themselves.
All for an unfruitless affair; ah, how cruel can life be!
I don't. Can you tell me what it means?
I might get involved in this poetry contest.
Use your imagination.
Although, if you wish to have a starting point, you can read F. Scott Fitzgerald's (of The Great Gatsby fame) "Winter Dreams".
Thread is locked!