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!
Wether it be Old Saint Nick, Or if your the slightest bit sick, There's always one thing, You can always here ring, Is it the chilly winds blowing? Is it the pack of wolves howling? Could it be... Is that what I see? It's Winter Dreams! It's Winter Dreams! They're all around and all about it seems. And as I lay down in my bed, I think of all that I have said, And with my blankets on top of me, Winter Dreams are all I see.
HURRAY FOR 5 MINTUES OF POETRY WRITING. Seriously... my first one... and it took 5 minutes. No extremely rude critiscism please? :3
I'm not exactly sure what the first half of your poem means LiveInPeace. I like the rhyme you have in your poem, but you need a tighter meter as it constantly changes.
I have found my thoughts a wander of late. In hopes that they may bring me cheer. Alas I must confess to myself, That the chill wind that blows Outside my very window, is nothing in compare to where my thoughts have been. Such a desolate cold I have never known. Yet, for some strange reason I have yet to Come to terms with. I hold out a hope A hope that guides me, a weary traveller On this snow covered path, that hides the ice Beneath. This hope is my lantern in the dark, The warm fire that I long to sit beside In some wing-backed chair with steaming Tea wrapped in my hands. It is this hope That drives me through this storm of cold Loneliness and isolation. If only to hope for a hope, that this winter, for me, Will not be so barren.
Just announcing that tomorrow will be the deadline and I shall be posting the results seeing as Parsat has yet to tell me otherwise. The results will be up sometime tomorrow nght, no later than the afternoon of the 22nd. So here's hoping we get some more entries.
This is a land where time stands still at night Never ending blood will flow into the fight Liquid water is a thing of the past With the rolling streams, the last die is cast
Light is never there, be it day or be it night What once was frozen is now a crystal of our plight Into the deep, the freezing divisions Out of the light, the heartfelt revisions
Icy swords of glass, run through the veins Arterial collide of the horseman's reins No more can we take this, not anymore I can't bear this, this frozen gore
What I thought was a dream was always light Never did I think I may have been right I never stopped the needles from tearing through my flesh This must be my mistake, I never start afresh
Soon I live where the punishment is through They all live alone, their Hell is never true In this nightmare we exist alone The life we live is gone, our world is made of bone
I can't take the weight of this life I live Where we fight, the warlords won't forgive This nightmare I can't believe will never bend Dive unto my will until this is the end
The misery is through, what have I done? From the battlefield I cannot run Through the snow and blood of many men I count the seconds on my watch until I reach ten
Lost in this paradise of the powder snow I can't see around me, where can I go? We all smash through this devil's game Until our mind we maim
No more can I run, a force is over me They all look at me as if I'm going free A sudden sleep throws over them, I'm going insane The world is now gone, made of cocaine Now I wake up to the revolution's bane The truth is I do not know, but the world is made a grain
Thanks for the entry, Orion. Submissions have closed, so expect a judging from me soon. If all goes to plan, wolf1991 is going to be supplying the next theme.
Judging is finally here. I understand I chose a rather difficult theme for you all to undertake...although compared to our old days of "Old Gregg" and "Narcoleptic Dragons," I'd say it's a cakewalk! This week took a much more specific form of imagination to write about, I imagine.
Wood: alt
Planned in water, etched in ice, It's not conveyed by satellite, It's not shown in fluorescent light. Simple, ethereal paradise.
Like a sprig of edelweiss, it creeps and sneaks in through the night, cloaked and shrouded, ecstatic white, Beating hail from poltergeists.
A hated foe of Yggdrasil, Weaving frozen tears with skill. It numbs and starves before it kills, And someday melts away.
When sun peaks through the frozen clouds, when natural warmth has been allowed, It starts to melt away.
Winter dreams are not eternal, and thus they melt away.
The rhyme and meter in this was quite enjoyable in the beginning, I think. It flows very nicely on the tongue, and I enjoyed the imagery of the creeping dream. Towards the end though, it sort of petered out. Good beginnings, but I think that the dream didn't last throughout, if indeed it was a good one.
Iron: wolf1991
A Dream Along a Snowy Path
I have found my thoughts a wander of late. In hopes that they may bring me cheer. Alas I must confess to myself, That the chill wind that blows Outside my very window, is nothing in compare to where my thoughts have been. Such a desolate cold I have never known. Yet, for some strange reason I have yet to Come to terms with. I hold out a hope A hope that guides me, a weary traveller On this snow covered path, that hides the ice Beneath. This hope is my lantern in the dark, The warm fire that I long to sit beside In some wing-backed chair with steaming Tea wrapped in my hands. It is this hope That drives me through this storm of cold Loneliness and isolation. If only to hope for a hope, that this winter, for me, Will not be so barren.
This work is practically prose, but I think it combines a variety of different styles to great success. The technique itself is modernist, where the words flow rhythmically without meter, but the sentiment is much more Frostian. The words, however, are unmistakably's wolf, and that's the best of all.
Gold: IcyIndia
Thunder of Glass
The lady of silver Spun tales of wrought iron, But the fables She spoke of Gave way to the pyre.
These tales of ice, These tales of desire, They leave us behind, With the need to inquire:
Where were you when The snow fell softly, Heightening its masses Higher and higher?
Did you see the Ice locking us in, The hostility of its beauty, Creating a skin?
Where the branches crackled overhead, Threatening their fall, With one arrogant wind, We may lose it all.
This is unrestrained verse at its best. I do not say free verse because it does not fit the term completely, but it is unrestrained. One moment there is rhyme and meter, and another it fades away, just like thoughts and dreams of winter. Just reading the poem, I get a feeling of unrestrained passion and mystique, the "need to inquire" that does not satisfy easily. A very worthy merit winner this week.
Now there are only five days left in this decade. For some of our younger members, it may be the only decade we can remember with any real clarity. For others, it may be one of great accomplishment and achievement. Whatever your decade has been like, I want to know what the decade has brought you, and what hope you have for the next. The theme will be Reflections. However, there's not a lot of time! The last day of submissions is December 31. As soon as midnight of the new year strikes, no more poems will be accepted.
It depends on the extent of the change. If it's only a few words or punctuation marks, that's not allowed, but if it's more substantial, then it's permissible. Use your discretion.
Hmm...how about I post the original and then post the mod version, and bold the parts I have changed. Then you can decide if it's been modified enough for eligibility.
ORIGINAL I return to my home, now old. To discover that it's been sold. My bed, the only thing they kept. I was let in, out of the cold.
I went to where he had once slept. Still seemingly wet with tears wept. I pulled the sheets over my head. Recalling secrets he had swept.
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. A salve for pains that he'd been dealt. For fear that he might disobey.
His father, drunk, would get his belt. And deal the boy welt after welt. Till his back was bleeding and sore. But in the Land, no pain he felt.
I knew the boy who walked these floors. But I do not belong here, for I do not know him anymore, I do not know him anymore.
NEW 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.
