Forums → Art, Music, and Writing → The writings of IcyIndia!

The monster is modeled after a Hollow from Bleach. The manga. So I hope no copyright is messed up, because the soul eater is not quite my idea.

They are great. I like the poems. Good way to spend your time creatively.

Byakuya will get you for that.

What has stricken me the most as of yet concerning your poetry is your exceptionnal sense of lyrism. You play with meters with what seems to be calculated candidness. Good job.

Who is Byakuya?

It's actually not very calculated. I honestly don't really know about meter and all that. I just write what sounds good. And thank you, Fallen.

Thus the ''what seems''. It's as if your visceral inspiration alone pave your words in an elegant fashion.

Byakuya; captain of the third squad, step brother of Rukia. You said something about bleach back there right, well Byakuya's their henchman.
Of course I'm joking :P

I don't know what you'd be joking about, so I don't find it funny. But it isn't offending me, either.

Actually, I've only read the first book. So I don't know about Byakuya.



This poem has no name.

Something whispers in your ear.
No- not something, someone.
He murmurs, "Are you here?"
You answer: "I won't run"

He stands back, satisfied
You ask, "Were you scared?"
He looks at you, mystified
"Don't worry, I wouldn't dare."

I think that last one's pretty cool because it doesn't really make sense between two or three lines together, but when you look at the whole poem altogether, it's totally understandable. I hope I can finish my next one soon...

Interesting.

I like the last one. It is as you said, if you read it chopped, it makes no sense. Together though, it had a significant "chop " to it, but flowed together and became understandable.

Woohoo! I finally have two more to share with you today. Finally.

Silence

The quiet presses against my ears so solidly,
It feels like noise.
My last thought of this strange sensation
Seems so far away.
Does it even count as a thought?

My mind is like
A blank wall,
With no substance.
It is just plain white,
Paper thin,
Yet
Blocking everything else out.

It seems more like death
Than life
More like darkness
Than light.

Peaceful turmoil.
It is unsettling.
I would rather die
than be this alone.

Bubblehead

Stare at me,
With a vacant smile,
Not seeing anything.

Just sit there,
Not engaging
In a conversation
That could have been.

And take the credit
That I deserve,
Inheriting the "genius"
That isn't yours.
But
What happens
When that bubble pops?
_________

This one's a little weird and I wrote it in like five minutes, so it isn't very good. But I like it enough anyway.

I submitted this for the Ten Day Contest, with the theme of benches.
_________

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.

The similes that you use are very good. Very good. I can't exaggerate that enough.

Short, simple, true, your bench poem has everything!

Thanks! Anyway here's another one from the FLP thing.
_______________________


Once the leaves fall,
The only sound
is
Crunch, Crunch, Crunch.

With elegance abound
as kids are
jumping off roofs
and into a pile of leaves.

But it is not so graceful
the way they walk
after they have their
casts on their arms
and legs.

So don't be reckless
or you might become
agile
for a minute.

Ok, finally, after four days, I am able to post again.
I wrote a ton while I was gone.
I wrote a super long poem during my brother's concert. It took both sides of one sheet of paper and the front of another.

Anyway.
__________________________

Christmas at St. Olaf 2010

The flow of voices,
Like honey and silk,
Swelling ever gently over
the concert-goers' ears.

The voluminous rolling
Of the orchestra's music.
The leaning of the violinists'
bodies, synchronized with
the movement of their bows.
The quiver of the bassists' hands,
As they adjust the note they are
Sounding.

The calming, strong voice
Of the reader, reading a story,
Speaking the words of security.

The intricacy of perfect vocality,
With awesome notes
From an orchestrated compilation.

Surrounding our souls with
A purity of ease.
Joining in, inclusion with such
beauty, a change.

Jubilance, with clear enunciation.
A soft, peaceful river is rising through
their lungs, quietly intensifying.
They are singing out now,
With a single violin, the bow easily
Ringing out with true notes.

A short song, but filed
with everything; their voices
are smooth and bright.

Pure and light,
Their voices carry a weight
That is only matched
With the noise of bows,
Drawn across loose strings.
Lyrical and deep,
Their voices are together, as one.

Pummeling that drum,
Sounding more like the wind,
Swaying and lingering,
Their song drifting in the air.

The layers of the choir,
The bass and the soprano,
And everything in between
Holds everyone's focus.

Seeing my brother,
In his royal blue robes, singing
When I can feel the sound
Of the trumpet under my feet.

Feral tintinnabulation,
Abrupt with exclamation,
Announcing a change of action,
Erasing grief and troubles
With a single chime.

It's past three a clock,
But these songs could last forever.
Noël, noël, chantons ici
Here, the here and now
Is all that matters.

The coughing in between songs
Is comical.
I can see the collective
page-turning
during the transition.

The sound of the basses'
Power washes over me.
It soothes my already calmed
Emotions.
This is truly peace.

A single note, sung by all,
But so quiet,
It lures the breath of all
listening.

Undulating over the crowd,
A farewell long dreaded,
With its muddled clarity,
Its blended brevity.