Poetry

[Farah]

I see this forum had no topic like this, so I am taking it upon myself to make this topic. This is for posting random poetry that you've created, so you can easily criticise and explain etc.
I'll start off with a poem I wrote to try and to destroy my lack of inspiration months ago(I am doing that 50,000 word novel thing to try and alleviate myself of this perpetual writer's block!).

We are the fallen.
The composed, the artist - the scripted;
yet we yield nothing in our gains.

You study what we do,
and become our art.
You'll not reap what
you sow.

Funds are down, you
become the best! -
It'll not be as malleable
as music, graphics.
Money does not become you!
Names will be forgotten as
soon as the People leave.

We are the fallen.


I think this is an alright poem, but kinda crappy so I'll need some decent crits.

[{LAW} Gamer_2k4]

Was there any particular reason you split it up the way you did? I couldn't spot a syllabic pattern, and I don't remember if there's another way (besides rhyming, of course) for poems to have rhythm.  Poetry IS more than vagueness and formatting, you know.

As for the poem contents, there are a couple of things I'd like to mention.  In the second line, "artist" seems out of place; it's kind of the opposite of the other two terms.  In the second stanza, you say that some unknown entity will become your art, which seems unlikely if YOU'RE the scripted one.  Finally, the third stanza (at least the first four lines or so) is kind of nonsensical to me.

By the way, don't take this criticism too hard...it's easier for me to pick out what I think are flaws than what I think is good, and part of that right now is me not trying especially hard to understand your poem.

[Farah]

Was there any particular reason you split it up the way you did? I couldn't spot a syllabic pattern, and I don't remember if there's another way (besides rhyming, of course) for poems to have rhythm.  Poetry IS more than vagueness and formatting, you know.

As for the poem contents, there are a couple of things I'd like to mention.  In the second line, "artist" seems out of place; it's kind of the opposite of the other two terms.  In the second stanza, you say that some unknown entity will become your art, which seems unlikely if YOU'RE the scripted one.  Finally, the third stanza (at least the first four lines or so) is kind of nonsensical to me.

By the way, don't take this criticism too hard...it's easier for me to pick out what I think are flaws than what I think is good, and part of that right now is me not trying especially hard to understand your poem.

As for the way I split it up, it was more going from point to point. It's supposed to be about how writers barely get credit/money for anything in comparison to musicians/producers/actors of the like. If you made games or something like that you'd get the comparisons easier.

In the second line, artist is more supposed to be pronounced "arteest" because it fits, and it's also a reference to how (when a game or of the like is made, but i made it again applicable to most things like TV) by using the word "scripted". Most amateurs make games in an external program, which requires scripting, but this is is made applicable to normal and more film-oriented people by using this word for the writers who compose the scripts. The use of the actual works(music is "composed", art is made by "artists", writers/scripters "script" their work) to reference the maker is used to reinforce the seriousness of this narrator's art; he is embodied within his work and thus his intentions to "whine" about this is justified.

As for the rest, the word "malleable" is used for two reasons. Music and art, the more recognised components in film/games according to the narrator is made clear in that gold is very malleable, yet silver/bronze is not. Thus hinting at a superiority in music/art in comparison to writing. The next reason is that music/art can be used and money gained(this is made explicit by the next line "Money does not become you!") in more ways than writing can, and in more ways, as metals more malleable can be bent and drawn out into more shapes. It's a pretty subtle objectification of the concept which is pretty vague.
The end really sucks to me, I know and I do plan to rewrite this soon after nanowrimo!.

[Sticky]

Was there any particular reason you split it up the way you did? I couldn't spot a syllabic pattern, and I don't remember if there's another way (besides rhyming, of course) for poems to have rhythm.  Poetry IS more than vagueness and formatting, you know.

As for the poem contents, there are a couple of things I'd like to mention.  In the second line, "artist" seems out of place; it's kind of the opposite of the other two terms.  In the second stanza, you say that some unknown entity will become your art, which seems unlikely if YOU'RE the scripted one.  Finally, the third stanza (at least the first four lines or so) is kind of nonsensical to me.

By the way, don't take this criticism too hard...it's easier for me to pick out what I think are flaws than what I think is good, and part of that right now is me not trying especially hard to understand your poem.

It's, like, poetry, man

[Wraithlike]

The Scarecrow stood stoic, solemn, in the field.
Day by day, he stood, serving no purpose,
As the crows tore and ripped and rended
His soft cloth skin and brittle flesh of straw.

One day, the Scarecrow fearfully asked God,
Why God, do I exist, but am not alive?
Why God, can I not be like my creators?
Or why God can I not be like the crows?

God then spoke calmly back to the Scarecrow:
"Scarecrow, you have stood ages, with much care,
As you followed your task: guarding each row.
Why now, Scarecrow, do you wish to have life?"

"God please," the Scarecrow said, "the time has hurt.
I have not done wrong, but I am alike
to Prometheus, as I constantly
Suffer while birds devour my flesh."

God said, "Yes Scarecrow, I now see your strife.
And to pay for the pain, you shall have life.
But scarecrow, if life is not what you wish,
I will not be there to take you from it."

"Thank you God, thank you God, I am alive.
I must go to the farmer to thank him
For creating me, so you could, my Lord,
Breathe into my empty husk my new life."

"And so Scarecrow went, to the farmer with glee,
He could feel his heart beat, and his lungs breathe.
And the Scarecrow saw the farmer alone
Sitting in rest on the porch of his home.

And the Scarecrow ran to him shouting in glee,
And the farmer got up,
Saw the Scarecrow,
and in fear,

Shot him dead.

[LeetFidle]

Nice work. Wraithlike. i enjoyed that poem, very much.

[Farah]

The Scarecrow stood stoic, solemn, in the field.
Day by day, he stood, serving no purpose,
As the crows tore and ripped and rended
His soft cloth skin and brittle flesh of straw.

One day, the Scarecrow fearfully asked God,
Why God, do I exist, but am not alive?
Why God, can I not be like my creators?
Or why God can I not be like the crows?

God then spoke calmly back to the Scarecrow:
"Scarecrow, you have stood ages, with much care,
As you followed your task: guarding each row.
Why now, Scarecrow, do you wish to have life?"

"God please," the Scarecrow said, "the time has hurt.
I have not done wrong, but I am alike
to Prometheus, as I constantly
Suffer while birds devour my flesh."

God said, "Yes Scarecrow, I now see your strife.
And to pay for the pain, you shall have life.
But scarecrow, if life is not what you wish,
I will not be there to take you from it."

"Thank you God, thank you God, I am alive.
I must go to the farmer to thank him
For creating me, so you could, my Lord,
Breathe into my empty husk my new life."

"And so Scarecrow went, to the farmer with glee,
He could feel his heart beat, and his lungs breathe.
And the Scarecrow saw the farmer alone
Sitting in rest on the porch of his home.

And the Scarecrow ran to him shouting in glee,
And the farmer got up,
Saw the Scarecrow,
and in fear,

Shot him dead.

Mmm. I like this poem a lot. A lot of thought and work was put into it, and that's not just from the size of the poem.

Before I address the actual content, I have to address the premise. This poem is a very good extended metaphor for the ails in today's society, including but not limited to issues like sexism in the workplace, racial hierachy etc. The predicament "scarecrow"  being appeasing to a child reader who just sees what's happening, and older readers who see so much more. I think you did a pretty good job with this, you thought about how this is going to go down and you put pen to paper(or finger to keyboard). Seriously, a lot of people do not think through what they are writing about and will give an excuse IT CAME FROM MY SOUL, which really isn't an excuse for a crap poem which hasn't been thought through. So yeah, good job on that.

Alright, now for the actual poem:

The Scarecrow stood stoic, solemn, in the field.
Day by day, he stood, serving no purpose,
As the crows tore and ripped and rended
His soft cloth skin and brittle flesh of straw.

This first stanza is done pretty well in terms of the actual words used and to some extent the punctuation and devices used. The only quarrel I have here is the control of pace, it sounds too unnatural and no obvious progression is used to emphasise that these crows are tearing at his skin, the pain felt, the helplessness you provoke in use of the phrases "soft cloth skin" and "brittle flesh of straw".  This double-standard where the scarecrow is standing "stoic" and still being "ripped and rended" is actually pretty good, and I'll commend you for that though; it provokes a lot of thought and makes the association with contemporary society, the fact this poem is an extended metaphor, analogy if you wish, a lot more obvious. And that's a good thing, poems should never be subtle to the point only the writer can explain it, but never too obvious either!

One day, the Scarecrow fearfully asked God,
Why God, do I exist, but am not alive?
Why God, can I not be like my creators?
Or why God can I not be like the crows?

And now in this stanza you've expanded upon this imagery of the scarecrow questioning his existence, why he cannot have what people who "created" him, created meaning the people giving him the purpose, like an employer does an employee(this also represents praying, and this expands upon the whole association in ordinary society, which I find to be pretty awesome). But I do have a slight problem with the execution, i.e the wording. It rushes the reader, it doesn't give time for thought, the pace control is pretty mediocre here. You need to have a consistent flow of which the reader can immerse theirself within this premise, and ultimately be able to interpret the poem without getting bored.

God then spoke calmly back to the Scarecrow:
"Scarecrow, you have stood ages, with much care,
As you followed your task: guarding each row.
Why now, Scarecrow, do you wish to have life?"

This kind of goes away from the analogy, and into a more demented, psychotic if you wish, side of humanity affected by the issue. Which is fine, since it introduces the next few stanzas well. But again my pet peeve is the pace yet again! The first stanza is pretentiously worded and it actually tires my breath to read it. Try to punctuate it, generally the only times where this lack of punctuation works is in short lines coupled with enjambment.

"God please," the Scarecrow said, "the time has hurt.
I have not done wrong, but I am alike
to Prometheus, as I constantly
Suffer while birds devour my flesh."

God said, "Yes Scarecrow, I now see your strife.
And to pay for the pain, you shall have life.
But scarecrow, if life is not what you wish,
I will not be there to take you from it."

I have put these two stanzas together because I feel they contribute to the bare storyline together, to put this into a more moral aspect for both the shallow and deep end of this stick. I like these two stanzas the most out of the whole poem because they are pretty well done in terms of wording, pace and the content itself, what's between the lines.  The loose rhythm in the latter stanza is actually really done well, with a clear intent of putting the whole narrative into perspective and actually foreshadowing the moral of this poem! So subtle and yet pretty awesome at the same time, good job dude.

"Thank you God, thank you God, I am alive.
I must go to the farmer to thank him
For creating me, so you could, my Lord,
Breathe into my empty husk my new life."

"And so Scarecrow went, to the farmer with glee,
He could feel his heart beat, and his lungs breathe.
And the Scarecrow saw the farmer alone
Sitting in rest on the porch of his home.

And the Scarecrow ran to him shouting in glee,
And the farmer got up,
Saw the Scarecrow,
and in fear,

Shot him dead.

Now I like this twist, even though the reader in the back of his head knows this will happen, it does not become apparent as a possibility because we want this "farmer" to accept what the "scarecrow" has become: his equal. This rages him, and is disguised as fear but we really know it's not acceptable for this superiority so established within his mind to become nothing at all!

So yeah, this poem is actually really done well. The only advice I can really give is read your work and try to get the pace to compliment your concept and keep writing!

[ElephantHunter]

The ending to the scarecrow poem is neither fluid nor very ironic. An ending where the scarecrow pleads that god return him to his former tortured life would be better suited.

Not to say I dislike the poem! You did a really good job, and I see the direction. I don't see any of what Farah refers to as "extended metaphors" in your poem. Personally I doubt you intended any, but correct me if I'm wrong. I do agree with him about the whole "FROM THE SOUL" tidbit, as poetry requires more than brute creativity. A poem needs logical regularity to ease the reader into your story. Without this, you have lost the distinguishing qualities of poetry and your "poem" starts to blur with prose.

[Farah]

I do tend to have very weird interpretations of poems though! I forgot to state this and maybe anything I said doesn't apply to what you intended.
Anyways, as for the ending, I didn't state it was ironic. It made sense, and it was foreshadowed in the stanzas beforehand imo.

So yeah I have a really fucked up take on writing poetry!

[Wraithlike]

Farah, thanks for the in-depth analysis, It's much better feedback that I ever could have expected. You also understood the metaphor perfectly, which is reassuring. As a grossly simplified clarification, the poem is about both the absurdity of class based oppression, and of mankind's general fear of the unknown, even if the unknown is essentially the same as them.

I chose a scarecrow, because it's an object created in the image of man, and something nearly incapable of causing harm. To further this, and it's not explicitly stated, but scarecrows are generally mounted in manner similarly to Jesus' crucifixion. That's something though, that I didn't intend for anyone to pick up on.

As for the last stanza, it intentionally lacks fluidity to show that the life that God gave the Scarecrow is destroyed by man. It's difficult to explain, but I guess I made the meter die along with the scarecrow.

I hope that all made sense.

[ElephantHunter]

Jester propped by the cooling tree
Scratching at chin with dirtied nails
Staring at window fiendishly
His smile growing with the wails

Desperate clawing, pleading and gnawing
Locked doors don't budge for cheeky folk
Fire growing, roaring, enduring
Black smoke fogging windows as they choke

"Tell us a funny! Don't be daft"
had bellowed fat child, growing impatient
For which Jester reasonably asked,
"Three pence so I might pay the rent"

Spat on his eye and crippled his toe
Bruised the arm and broken the knee
This spawn's father had wanted to show
Payment was optional (apparently)

Goes without saying, if you have sense
Just pay the fool his due
'cause if you are without the pence
Storm's a'coming for you

[Smegma]

Obtuse Hierophant

Down a while yonder, this ditch did lay
Four brave men sat near and gay
Echo hymns of rejoice, they pray:

Tapping tempos of a standard drum,
Hail to me the mournings done

Eulogist greeting the mound,
Staring kin over such a tumulus,
Star lighted hollows confound
These cognate of barbarous...

...Fools

And this night I did spy
three more men to arrive
Shovels of ox bone, made
Each following the other's spade
The dirt flies high, each segment collapsed
Amassing on the troupe's laps

Rhythm unhindered, it rang through night
These meddlesome men did spread their blight.

And grave now filled in with earthen clay
Red hues laden the growing trough
The speckled stones did wink back
The spaded ones knew from each stone flipped
That these new sides held ancient lore
For each one grabbed, they discovered more

Until all left was nothing but drum
It crack and splintered, skin snapped back
Bindings lose, the music quit
Shovels ladened thick with grit

The spaded ones took their spots
Three men now hunched over naught.


--
Still kinda rough.

[Horve]

experimental, wrote it during the night so mind the spelor

"Incognito"

I'm just living day by day
time is ticking life away
When I don't have anything to live for
is it the end or will there be more

cold mornings replaced by sleepless nights
open the shutters then turn on the lights
wait and count the seconds on ticking clocks
it's just boring seeing how doing nothing mocks

we are young, we don't want to work nor share your pain,
memories and thoughts that remain but will never happen again
are we stupid to quench our fists or cut wrists
when stepped on, crushed, raped, could you stand this?
Now adults are getting younger every year
kids will be mature, isn't that something to fear?
Juveniles wearing skirts, hanging out with men
your own girl pregnant at the age of ten.
But what is the reason for all this happening now?
Is television promoting violence, crime, or reality just maddening?
Just a thought, who would have known
that the crown of future generations
would end up in the hands of a clown
slowly meant to fall to twisted elation
or drown in the happenings of the past waiting to rewind
and unwind what was meant to be forgotten
and left beind, buried forever, rotten
past mistakes returning to haunt the innocent.
Is that what we strive for? To survive alone til' everything's gone, the scent
of death staining your life,
then inherited by those who will live when you're long dead.

Are your sins reflected in the mirrors of your children
or are your children a reflection of you?
If noone is guilty in what you see today, then who?
Searching for someone so obvious to blame but ends up all the same
shame, but as always, you give up and can't find nothing else to do
but wait for the days to end with you

Little kids running in the streets, shooting everything that moves
with guns that you used back in war, they want to be just like you
Turn on the TV, any time given, but what you see there
should be forbidden, burnt and ashes blown away from here
If you don't see death, its obscenities, if not it,
then something violent or detrimental enters the scene
that's not the main reason, we know it's fiction, lies
but tell that to the young child's eyes

I'm just living day by day
time is ticking life away
When I don't have anything to live for
is it the end or will there be more