Here is a thread dedicated to my work as a writer. This thread will mostly be filled with my poems which vary in theme but I try to fashion myself after my favourite poet T.S Eliot, who I believed captured human nature in his words. I aspire to do the same. Please feel free wo citique and review my work. However, simply saying "I like it" is not good enough, as a writer I must grow and develop so I beg you readers to give me a reason as to why or why not you liked the poem. To start off I shall provide you with one of my personal favourties.
These Are The Boring Bits
Call life what you will, A joke, A curse, A gift, An adventure. Take from it what you will, Joy, Sorrow, Love, Hate. Lose yourself in it Find your purpose Or, Find nothing at all.
A man asked, "What is the meaning of life?" A woman told him, "Whatever you make it to be." A child asked, "Is god real?" A parent told them, "Only you can decide."
Personal opinion is what we use to guide us, The opinions of others are what lose us. We can never be certain That we are certain of anything Because of change, And because things stay the same. What makes sense one day, Will confuse us another, And so it goes on. People tell others to: Get in line, Grow up, Get our lives straight, Who told these people these things? And why tell us the things that broke them?
Is it human nature to be unhappy?
Two men sit on a bench, In a park, Under a tree. They talk about family and friends They talk about work and dreams. One man says, "It is a waste of time to dream," The other says, "Yes, but to have dreams is not." Dreams are what the world is made of Bad dreams, Good dreams, Lost dreams.
Hope is never far off, As the old die, The young are born, The young grow, They become old, The old die. But while they are young, They change the world. Some for the better, Others for the worse.
Inspiration is a dream.
The only inspiration in life is life: What to do? How to do it? Can we change the world? How to change the world? Is there purpose? Are we real? Or a figment of imagination? All questions do not need answers.
Call life what you will, These are the boring bits.
They say I have a kind heart. They say I'm Mr. Dependable. They say I'm a good person. Well that's what they say But not what they show. I fix them up And they walk away. Only to show up again With what they want to say. They say I'm someone But what they say And what they believe It's hard to tell. All I know is I'm Mr. Kindheart.
Well those of you who frequent (or merely show up to pass the time)this thread know that I've been working on a restructuring of my current major project The Saga of Eurwa well, it's almost done. In fact I shall begin the writing a completely new rough draft some time this week. Several changes have been made and I now have found a title I feel is suitable. The Saga of Eurwa: All That Lies Bare Furthermore I introduce the poem under the title All That Lies Bare for this will be part of the opening scene. Please read this poem with the utmost scrutiny and critique harshly for this must be perfect.
All That Lies Bare
Cruel winter wind you seek me out in jest If only to bind me in the workings of your malicious cause. Ah how the bite of your teeth sting Driving the thought of feeling from my flesh. Leaving naught but the numb sensation of defeat. And you would call this a masterpiece of achievement.
All the while your minions stalk the wastes Lying the homesteads bare and burnt. Ahses only to be swept Cleanly away by your unsubtle hand. Which leaves A frightening subtlety in it's wake. And this I cannot abide. For to abide such a thing is to accept it as truth. And how can a man accept that which he does not understand? Understanding is mean for those above such mortality.
And the gods play their games. Tripping men within wired webs Only so that men may stumble heedlessly onward Delluded in his belief that it is he that chooses the path walked. Not the unseen hand that lacks all sympathy. While men Lack all comprehension. Such a sad world in which we live. But lo...there is a glimmer upon which I would rest All hope that I conceitingly have left to my heart. That these words be read. And read true. For they do impart A most bitter truth. That all machinations of gods and men Lie bare upon the tip of a sword, or ink filled pen.
1. It really needs a spell/grammar check. Be very careful not to be lax with your punctuation, especially with prose-like free verse. 2. I feel that in this poem the pacing plods a bit without adding much substance. Part of this is the blurring of poetry and prose, and part of it is because it simply lacks the strength of emotion in your past poems. It lacks the depth of introspection and the general skill of wordcraft. 3. The line that stood out to me most was that last line: "That all machinations of gods and men/Lie bare upon the tip of a sword, or ink filled pen." It's this line that best sets the mood of what is the come. In narrative poetry, it's all right to get lost in the words and description and feelings to an extent, but you need to always keep into consideration the mood of the piece as a whole.
Cruel winter wind you seek me out in jest If only, in joy, to tear horendously into my mortal coil Ah...how the bite of your teeth do sting Driving all thought and feeling from my flesh. Leaving naught but the numb sensation of defeat. Rendering me a vesel of mere dumb mumbling. Deaf and mute to all passions save the pain you drive into me And you would call this a masterpiece of achievement. This you would call your sole purpose. Fie on purpose! Fie on your self interested ways That leave nothing but ashes and dust behind. Bare bones stripped of all warmth from their living shells. Oh cruel you are indeed; minion of Friil.
All the while you stalk the north ceaselessly. Lying the homesteads bare and burnt by your dread chill. Dust only to be swept cleanly away by your unsubtle hand. In turn it leaves a frightening subtlety in it's wake. And this I shall cannot abide. Nor, I suspect, shall others. For to abide such a thing is to accept it as truth. And how can a man accept that which he does not understand? Understanding is meant for those above such mortality. Frail though we are.
But it is with us that gods play their games. Tripping men within wired webs, Only so that men may stumble heedlessly onward. Delluded in his belief that it is he that chooses the path walked. Not the unseen hand that lacks all sympathy. While men Lack all comprehension. Such a sad world in which we live. In which men are naught but the tools of cruel masters Who regard us as naught but livestock. Meanwhile Fire rages against the winters bitter chill! The fires of war that bring naught but death to the land. Kings and Emperors flock to the call. Moths to a flame! Ah twisted comparison that is so apt for the two. So apt indeed!
But lo! There is a glimmer upon which I would rest All hope that I, out of misplaced conceit, have left to my heart. That these words be read. And read true. For they do impart A most bitter truth. That all machinations of gods and men Lie bare upon the tip of a sword, or ink filled pen.
**NOTE!: While I do appreciate the mention of spelling and punctuation I am more interested in your thoughts on how this flows and how you perceive the message of futility I have tried to convey in this work.
So this is how it ends. Not with the whimper as decreed by Eliot, Nor with the bang that men claimed. But, with a blink. A sudden irrevocable twisting. And then... Silence.
Add a comma after Wind in the frist line. Also, in the last line of the first stanza, I think you should say, "Leaving naught but the numb sensation of defeat. And you might call this your acheived masterpiece."
Ashes* as pointed out before.
Last stanza... "As always, the gods play their games." "Delluded in his belief, [+comma] that it is he that chooses the path that he will walk."
