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!
Something casual, rhymed and ordered; though I wanted to exploit Brock's steely cyinicism to make a stylistically free poem, I couldn't help but think that it was risky, especially given the quality of this week's submission. Plus, we have a new poet that proves to be quite formidable, and it cheers me up to see the competition getting fiercer!
''Life handed us a paycheck, we said; We worked harder than this!'' -Isaac Brock
As a tree's numerous prominences Sinuously living amidst the dances Crammed inward as a bone's marrow Hardly ever growing to be ripe and mellow
Of meager glimpses you feed the thought That someday you'll burst splendidly With thousands of arms to constantly Shape the matter for which you fought
And that hope exudes a terrible mephitis The foul stench of sensible flesh For the deceit will forcefully mesh All your bricolage ideas of life's bliss
Be it for the camel, the lion or the baby It will all become clear eventually That no matter to what avail you mow You'll end up biting your tongue below
All the hard work will eat itself effortlessly Like a soft fruit with an avid set of teeth And you'll wonder why you toiled so strenuously To finally lose it all in a missing heartbeat
Looks like I'll have to stock up on raw caffeine powder.
You know, Mcdo's having this free coffee campaign in Canada right now, I wonder if it extends out to other country though. As crappy as their coffee may be, when it's free...
I shake my fist at you guys making my job harder
Well, after all it's the poet corp's job to do so isn't it? Honestly, I feel bad for you right now...Good coffee Parsat...
Yes, unfortunately, submissions have been closed. Don't worry, there's always a next time. In fact, while I'm ruminating on hot pot and judging, here's the next theme in advance, due December 4: Benches.
And another difficult judging arises. The level of writing in this contest was perhaps the most virtuosic I've seen in two years. It was extremely difficult to figure out what to feature and what to select as the merit winner, but I'll take the plunge.
Bronze: FallenSky
''Life handed us a paycheck, we said; We worked harder than this!'' -Isaac Brock
As a tree's numerous prominences Sinuously living amidst the dances Crammed inward as a bone's marrow Hardly ever growing to be ripe and mellow
Of meager glimpses you feed the thought That someday you'll burst splendidly With thousands of arms to constantly Shape the matter for which you fought
And that hope exudes a terrible mephitis The foul stench of sensible flesh For the deceit will forcefully mesh All your bricolage ideas of life's bliss
Be it for the camel, the lion or the baby It will all become clear eventually That no matter to what avail you mow You'll end up biting your tongue below
All the hard work will eat itself effortlessly Like a soft fruit with an avid set of teeth And you'll wonder why you toiled so strenuously To finally lose it all in a missing heartbeat
I've said this about FallenSky's work many times, but the images that he evokes in his poetry is second to none, and this poem demonstrates it. While the poem is a bit ungainly to read, when taken up phrase by phrase it really hits deep at the futility of a wasted life. At the same time, it doesn't just criticize, it attempts to show why it is so, whether it be from our utterly inconsistent views on the perfect life ("our bricolage ideas" or our desire to taste the fruits of our work while we work ("a soft fruit with an avid set of teeth".
Silver: Zaork
"I love deadlines. I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by." ~Douglas Adams~
Copious stimuli. A fevered fervour, scribbles lining the thoughts of retirement. Searching reiterated, clarity is borne. The singular explains extensive. Morality, duality, salinity, the subject, romantic dreams of the tired poet. Outdone posthumously.
Following in the style of last week's poem, Zaork focuses his poem's strengths into each individual word. I actually found the style of the poem to be very Eastern, where we use characters to represent ideas or objects that take on large dimensions of detail in the imagination of the reader. At the same time, I do think that this poem was more successful than his previous ones because it didn't present itself as hopelessly oblique. The frustration of deadlines as related by this poem is allowed to fully shine as a result, and that's an improvement.
Gold: wolf1991
"Mine is the heart that will break ten thousand times for the good of the world"
-Tyler Kent
An End of Sorts
Dare I question? I question These questions of questions? And that all good things come to an end. And should they end? Why do they end? These good things that we cherish so, yet never measure. But, claim that measure is the measure of measure And never should these good things be subjected so. Yet, how do they end? Do the grow sick and old? Rotting as if a mere piece of overripe fruit. Maggots squirming through the cavities of them. And these are what we once called good times.
There were times of sorrow And times of joy. Times of times, and half times and no times. A time to know and time to be known. And here, here among the halls of memory Of peace and prosperity Where dark things never crawl or creep, slither or slime. And these we call good times.
We were friends, you and I. As I paced the halls of thoughts unknown, lies and deceit were my trade. And you, a sweetness of memory, worried in ways and ways Ways of known and unknown. Such a Paragon I have never known. And compared to I, I the crippled crawling thing. The one That sleeps among the shadows as blackening fogs Creep among the brickyards of the mind. My mind. and these we call good times.
And we came to a crossroads So many times. And we had chances to take our chances With chance for chance and at a chance. We took chances with each other And continued onward. Down the road we had been walking Down to the sea of our own making. And should we ever come to a waking And wake from this dream we have dreamed. Where the day is measures by pacing feet We have come to our last crossroad, Or so it seems.
And here I know To the sea I shall not go.
And these roads have ended. These winding wayward streets that never mended a single soul, They have ended. Ended. Ended. Ended. Such a bitter end. And not the ending I would have had. No ending I would have had, had I had the way I had planned. No ending of this you and me And together we would sit by the sea. A sea of waking dreams. A sea of our own making.
And here I know To the sea I shall not go.
Here is our end. My sweetest of friends. My true listener of hearts. One of love I bear this hard. And you would have me spent, Wasted away and left to wait Upon the sands of the beach where no waves flow. A desert bereft of hope. And should this, this fate for me be the thing you wish Then let it be so. And to the sea I shall never go.
I shall grant you any wish Should it be within myself to give. And if you wish to send me away I'll never trouble you again. Not today nor ever. But I would have you know, I am sorry. Sorry that I have little left to give And have given you so little in the end. And let the punishment fit the crime I have burned you, scarred you and harmed you, for the last time. I would have you know, I do apologize.
And here I know To the sea I shall not go.
And here, now as I stand beside the cliffs I can hear the waves call me. And I reflect on these twisted rotted thing The things we call good times. And of friendships then and now. And here, here sit the waves. And I shall never know, For to the sea I shall not go.
In my mind, wolf1991 is like a contemporary Ezra Pound. I have mixed feelings on modernist poetry, but this poem is his absolute best, in style, theme, diction, and reading. It is profound to read and perfect in execution. It is, in my view, the best poem of the week, but since wolf has won the merit prize for the week before, the prize must pass to another. So who shall it be?
Gold Merit: IcyIndia
"Be the change you want to see in the world" ~Mahatma Ghandi
Life does not spring from death Freedom is not a force that breaks chains Love will not erupt from hate Power does not flow from weakness
You must make your life what it is be it happy or sad slow or fast light or burdened
You must have willpower to fight against what you do not want life does not happen, before your eyes while you watch and be lazy sitting on a couch eating Doritos
Yes, you may watch television and see what you think is life but you will never be exhilarated sitting down
You need to be the one standing at the edge of the cliff trying to keep your balance while someone is pushing you down You need to be the one rushing down the slope in makeshift skis trying to get away from your captors
No house will rise from the rubble if no one works to build it you will not eat if no food comes to your mouth
What you want will not happen if you do not make it so.
With a unique wisdom that starts off very timeless but gradually focuses down to the details of a lethargic society, IcyIndia's poem stands up as a call for action. To me, I think it also created the best link to its source quote. I could imagine a Gandhi in my mind giving me the very same words to me! Congratulations for an excellent poem, and please contact a moderator for your merit!
A wonderful show for all who entered. The next theme, as I've stated on page 270, is Benches, due December 4. I hope to see more excellent writing.
Um. I know I say this all the time, but this is the AMW, and offtopicness always happens. So I could go on a rant about pretty much anything here and not have my post deleted.
