Top three and a runner-up, as per usual.
runner-up, with a nice piece about being a puppet, Wolf!
Tangled and twisted,
I've been short listed
For the life of doll.
And that is what they call
Me. Who is nothing but a puppet...
I am on ropes
Bound with no hopes
Of ever escaping this fate.
The wood grinds with my gait
And I walk on by,
I walk on by.
Oh what a lonely soul am I...
Here are my ropes
There binding strings
That hurt and sting me so.
The rhyme is all gone
Goodbye and so long,
Oh wounded puppet am I
Your rhyming is nice, and although the flow isn't perfect(I was a bit thrown by the period on the 5th line of stanza one, because of how quick the stop is after an enjambed line)it was nice, and the 'woe-is-me' tone is perfect for a bound puppet.
Third Place, a light-hearted male . . . whimsyboy!
Hey, there's your strings.
May I pluck them?
We did many things,
Now I'm left and sullen.
I played your strings back and forth,
You played mine all day and night.
But now my strings snap and contort,
My strings fly away like a kite.
My strings were once in tune with yours,
Landing on the same old shores.
But they had the weakened cores,
Tattered walls, collapsed floors.
So now we set our sails again,
Say that "We can still be friends,"
Get rid of all the loose ends,
Power down, cover the lens.
Make our way through different field,
I sigh and scream and weep and kneel,
Lurk the shadows like an eel,
Get rid of all that I can feel.
My rhymes begin to tremble and cease,
You took of my heart a giant piece,
Feelings find their holes and heaps,
My love is now on New Lease.
This is a heartfelt and well-composed piece, for sure. Your motivation for writing it adds a dimension to the emotion felt here, as well. I do read the word 'collapsed' in stanza 3 as 'col-ap-sed' to even out the flow, which seems one syllable short. The flow is good for the most part, with minor hiccups. The reason this wasn't second or first was really because of the merits of the other two, not shortfalls of this one. Congrats, as this is a great piece.
Second place, my first friend on AG and a kind Frenchman, Fallensky!
Machine
6 am; it's time you woke up already
Be glad the sun's not yet raised
A lot of work's waiting for thee
Go stir some void, go sing some praise
You might as well thaw in the fray
You will thaw out anyway...
The faces on the screen
The articles in the magazine
They tell you what you mean
They tell you what you've been
7 o'clock; it's time to work
Sign in, sign out; thicken the murk
You can't escape the gregarious ties
They define your very existence
Don't try to fend those lies
They are this world's essence
Dance for me little puppet
Phone calls to make and papers to sign, it's no time to fret
Don't be glad you're alive
It's time to make us thrive
As you said, this poem is daring in its minimalism, which I appreciate. It captures the Orwellian machinism of labor perfectly, how culture and media can be prisons, each person being but a puppet. I also noticed a running theme of water - thawing out, thickening the murk. The first stanza is one of the best stanzas I've read in a long time - acrobatic rhyming, flow, mood, all of that. You get lots of happy creds for writing sch a challenging poem to write, and doing it so well. It's direct and in-your-face, and I think you made the right decision in going for minimalism. Congrats again, because this is phenomenal.
Which makes the first place poem even more impressive . . . with a repeat victor impressing again with a wonderful piece, Parsat!
Rhapsody for String Quartet
My first love was a curvy dame
I heard first in third grade,
Her red complexion won her fame,
Along with mellow serenades
She sang to woo young men to feel
Her neck and figure hourglassed.
I let her be; for her my zeal
Was rather quick to pass.
The love affair that sang instead
In honeymoon was lithe and coy;
Her songs were those of fingers spread
In voices one knew only joy
Or sadness, anger, death. Her face
Was ever filled with moodiness,
She always sought the highest place
In gaudy ways without a rest.
No longer was her neck a silken lure,
Her thin body felt a weight.
And in that day I felt unsure
The most, new love arose from hate.
The middle sister came to me
And spoke in softened melody
Filled with wisdom in my ear.
How beautiful did she appear:
Her luscious body in my hands,
Exotic looks and sweet commands
In tones seductive in a trace,
Moans not treble, neither bass,
But alto in our fresh embrace.
To Viola, my fantasia
For your savant aphasia.
This poem has everything. It has a great flow, rhyming, feel, all of it. The running personification adds to both the mystique of the poem and the complexity of it, providing an interesting contrast to Gab's entry. I like the subtle enjambment you use in the second stanza, which accentuates the rhythm and rhyming. You convey enchantment and love for the viola honestly and perfectly, and the almost frustrating immaculacy of this poem earns it a narrow first place over Gab's also phenomenal entry.
Alright, the decision between first and second was probably the hardest judging decision I've ever made. If I could give both of you merits, I certainly would, but for this one, Parsat gets the merit.
New theme: Pulse
Deadline: The friday two weeks from now. Judging the following weekend.
