Print

Please login or register.
1 Hour 1 Day 1 Week 1 Month Forever
Login with username, password and session length

[Tomasque]

Em, about your previous poem, I just reread it and realised that "Once Upon a December" (Which was playing in the background while I read it) matches it eerily well.

Oh my god, you're right.

Attempting to achieve the unattainable:

When honour shines the darkness through to dawn
And sips the cup of honesty,
When virtue, nobly, speaks through lips of men
And thought is turned to chastity.

Then, as the hour slips by with none to cry
Will I be glad, and smile, and sing.
For I have striven long and hard to fly
On honour's oft forgotten wing

But never found it held my weight. I'm flawed.
For I can never see a thing
That's pure, or dedicated unto God
Without the feel of envy's sting.

And pride is my standard, replacing steel
In thought and sinew. Fools will please,
Not turn with grit the great ship's guiding wheel
For fairer fortunes, calmer seas.

I strive for honour, hope for strength and truth
But know that in myself I fail.
But still I try, and hold those virtues not aloof
And grab the wheel. But can it sail?

Prompt for tomorrow: Childhood fancy.

The topic of the poem is amazing, and I love the use of imagery. Occasionally, though, it feels as if the stress that words would normally have clashes with the stress that the iambic meter wants them to have:
And pride is my standard, replacing steel

Also, your second to last line has 12 syllables instead of 10, is that purposeful?

[TD1]

Perhaps it is my Northern Ireland accent. I say Stan-derd.

As for 12 instead of 10, that's a big oopsie. I seem to be suffering from not looking over it after I write it

Still, I like the sound of it, so I think I'll leave it.

[Tomasque]

Perhaps it is my Northern Ireland accent. I say Stan-derd.

As for 12 instead of 10, that's a big oopsie. I seem to be suffering from not looking over it after I write it

Still, I like the sound of it, so I think I'll leave it.

I say stan-dard, but I think the proper English way is stand-ard, lemme google it.

Stand-ard is correct. Isn't going to change the way I pronounce it

[TD1]

Ah, yes, Stand-ard. That's a better way of representing how I say it. Perhaps Stand-erd is closer, though. Anyway, it works for me and fellow British Islers.

So there.

Lightning:

Seen from afar, it paints the clouds
With limelight from the stage.
A jagged ladder to the sky
Which heroes climbed in days long gone,
The wielder of the sword and sacred song
Who sang the land to wakefulness
Beneath the ever-moving plough.

His hand was harsh, his heart stone-fired
As they who wield the lightning bold must be.
The heroes move their way into the stage
He makes, the clouds are moving
Flashing over our more mortal age
With nothing to reveal, nothing, nothing
But light, cold, perfect, and undying.

He is the Lightning God, and all must bow
Before his field of churned up-clod,
His harvest rising to the blooming sky,
His many virtues, many sins
The tear within his blinded eye.
We weep with him, while up above
The heavens crack, no one knows why.

((Went with a stream of consciousness thingy there whereby I wrote whatever came to mind and didn't change it, so if it makes no sense, it's because my mind apparently makes no sense, heh.))

For tomorrow: A word cut by a sword.

[Tomasque]

Wait, do you know the song "Michaelmas Time?"

[Yoink]

For tomorrow: A word cut by a sword.

Love, mercurial,
A thing of shadows and of light

Angelic, infernal,
Buoying hearts and burning souls alike

Bravos, strutting,
Think pursual of love a friendly game,
A clever, dashing joyous art

But, far too late,
Learn duellist's hired swords pierce, not only
Jerkin, but both Love and heart.


...Yes, I realise it's terrible.
It is past four in the morning and I was feeling strangely inspired.     
For some reason renaissance duels were the first thing that sprang to mind when I thought of words and swords.

[Tomasque]

That's pretty neat. Lemme give it a shot.

[Tomasque]

I heard the pen is often said to be
The mightier of weapons, though to me
It seems its stroke cannot my strike withstand,
If it is even there when I'm at hand.

For though it is the pen that takes the word
And prints the slander down that tries to sway
My Master, where's the pen, when - undeterred -
He stops that writer's cry: "I can explai-"?

"So long," I say to manuscript and man;
Their cutting words I cut and hang to dry
To show that though ideas never die,
The sword will win the war the pen began.

[TD1]

"Stand and deliver!" cried the man, a hard gleam in his hand.
"For I am Edward of the Marsh and Bog
And come from water, fern and fen, to steal from greedy men."
His foe but reined a black-marked horse and smiled.

"Yet I am Baron Marque de Gaul," began the noble man,
"My lands stretch far and wide, though no bogs have,
And I own many tonnes of golden coin from mountains cold.
Yet I would die before I part with one."

Edward the Marsh man raised his sword, "'tis well" said he, quite calm
"For ever has this blade drunk blood of fool and knave alike.
Stand, and do not deliver, then. Still, gold will grace my fen."
The Baron, smiling still, drew out his blade.

The duel began - the horse fell first, and breathed its last of life
But Marque de Gaul launched from his seat, and stood.
His foe was agile with his skill, but it takes more to kill!
So Edward thought, as he pushed forth to strike.

And there was blood in air, and sword on sword was heard to ring;
The dance that ends in death. Foul, and yet fair
To see the two, striving each side for sustenance or pride,
While wind through forest over all noise sighed.

It ended. Baron stood above a commoner and thief,
And felt a stir of pity deep within;
Unwanted but hard to ignore. He bled, both red and sore
Our Edward of the river's fickle fen.

"Surrender" Marque de Gaul began to say, but he saw not
The hidden blade the Marsh man had at side.
As fast as river came the blow; the lord was much too slow.
The word unfinished was his death.

Wait, do you know the song "Michaelmas Time?"

Nope, afraid not. Is it any good?

Love, mercurial,
A thing of shadows and of light

Angelic, infernal,
Buoying hearts and burning souls alike

Bravos, strutting,
Think pursual of love a friendly game,
A clever, dashing joyous art

But, far too late,
Learn duellist's hired swords pierce, not only
Jerkin, but both Love and heart.

Also, Tomasque, you've got an 'it's' instead of 'its' in there.  I like the last two stanzas, but I have trouble following the first.

Edit: Whoops, forgot the prompt.
For tomorrow: underwater.

[Tomasque]

Nope, afraid not. Is it any good?

I like it. Anyway, your previous poem reminded me of it, so I thought it may have inspired you somehow.

Also, Tomasque, you've got an 'it's' instead of 'its' in there.  I like the last two stanzas, but I have trouble following the first.

Thanks. The poem is told from the point of view of the sword, so the first stanza is saying, "I've heard the pen is mightier than the sword, but it seems to me that its stroke cannot withstand my strike (in combat), if it even shows up when combat begins (because the writers are always cut down quickly (and you can't really fight with a pen, anyway))" Basically, the sword finds no merit in the pen, because it interprets it through a sword's point of view.

[birdy51]

Depth, crushing pressure,
Dragging down, deep 'neath the waves.
Drown ye spirit, drown.

[Tomasque]

Oh, hey. I wrote a poem with an "underwater" theme a couple of days ago. I'll share it soon, when I have the time. Lunch break's almost over.

[TD1]

Deep below the waves
Blue is all that's left of life
And death comes quickly.

For tomorrow: A city

[TD1]

I see it. Horses from the Camargue
Gust down the street in silver falls
Of molten flesh.
A single vendor shouts his wares
In calm precision, money-minded
To the end.
The crowds walk by. And up above,
A King in Silk and Golden Robe
Sits a throne.
None see the other. The horses
Stream by to some thought of a sea,
Leaving all;
Vendor sells and barters with the city
But holds not one for friend,
Nor as love.
And up above the shining streets
A King signs off decrees, his head
Worn by crowns.

Only one sees them all, the power
Of the horse in flight,
The yearning merchant
And the ruling monarch.

Brick, mortar, and cold, cold stone.

For tomorrow: Music.

[JoshuaFH]

I so rarely look into the creative projects portion of the forum, but it seems I need to change my evil ways because you guys are fuckin poeticizing it up in here. I'm very impressed.