Reincarnation of the poetry thread

[raggedyanne]

there is a place
there must be a place
somewhere where light does not reach
upon a rock
a craggy broken rock
where once a sword did breach
now there is no longer a sword
and now there is no longer a rock
is there no longer a place

[Aaroneet]

Submerged in dreaded euphemism

Through fleeting mounds, behold, the fleeting system

Bound in hackneyed and long coveting stagnation

Affronted, and by and by in size, lately daunted

In embittered subtlety, reluctance embedded through wary

miss takes-

Closer, closer, and ever-the-farther gone

Imbued in idle vicariousness which with ailment turns up

newly drawn.

[A Simple Poet]

And so here I come barging into this thread like I belong here. But some of you have been wondering where I've been. So this poem (albeit a cheesy rip off of Lennon's: Ballad of John and Yoko ... and meant to be sung to the tune) may explain most of my hiatus. I know it's not in with the gothic genre, but it's meant to afford a humorous explanation and shan't be repeated. Forgive the length and understand that I am Will and Elfie is my wife.

Elfie and Will go to Europe

Elfie and Will flew into Europe
And promptly lost our bearings in Rome
The rendezvous’ went amiss
But the whole journey was bliss
Sure as hell better than staying at home

Man, you know it’s not easy
Just see how hard it can be
The way things were going
This trip just might have killed me

Will got tossed from the Sistine Chapel
For trying to take pictures of God
With a St. Peter’s repent
Elfie and Will were then sent
To the back of the bus for the ride

Man, you know it’s not easy
Just see how hard it can be
The way things were going
This trip just might have killed me

We cruised the gondolas around Venice
Trying hard to just keep afloat
Had a helping of fish
A fine Adriatic dish
Until one thick bone got stuck in Elfie’s throat

Man, you know it’s not easy
Just see how hard it can be
The way things were going
This trip just might have killed me

Left Varese at dawn for Lugano
Motoring high through the Swiss Alps
Luzern was a drag
I tore my new luggage bag
Two days after my recorder fell out

Man, you know it’s not easy
Just see how hard it can be
The way things were going
This trip just might have killed me

But a late trip to Paris
Really changed the course of our lives
The Louvre and the Tower and the Opera House
Are great scenes to spend with your wife …

Had dinner on the Rue de Wigham
After digging the pad of the Sun King
Then across the North Sea
Where London awaited me
And Elfie’s credit card case was itching

Man, you know it’s not easy
Just see how hard it can be
The way things were going
This trip just might have killed me

Rolled up to Jury’s Ford in Westminster
Roamed Marylebone High Street most the day
Got smashed in a pub
Back in bed we made love
I really wonder what John Lennon might say

Man, you know it’s not easy
Just see how hard it can be
The way things were going
This trip just might have killed me

Finally took the noon train to Gatwick
Were frisked down by the guards at the gates
Our two spirits were crushed
I mean what was the rush,
Must we REALLY go back to the States

You know it never is easy
Just see how hard it can be
The way things were going
The trip home might’ve kill me

After staying in Europe
The U.S. might just kill me


Thanks for your patience.

[Aaroneet]

Restlessness in piqued attentions

Sparing and sparse, the whims in levity which go by

newly marked

And forever in means of haplessness, the sickness, once more,

by sensations here through sparkling,

Evanescence, now embarking

Between vexed purity through cliches in distance, here

proudly worn

Like adjacence queued in volumed nothingness, which

by the mile grows thinly drawn.

[Corpsey]

Hahaha oh my, it's Simple Poet again! I adored your witty little Ballad, it was rather genial I must say.

Here's a poem I'm giving my Grandfather on his birthday, so it will have more relevance to him than to many.

Hue

In amoungst the Leigon's stance
One calls
It's uttering
Is a haze
Nothing less than a quiet charm
And in the hue
It falls deep

Love for one's self
Is all but lost
For want of a better desire
Peace looses their guard
And hypnotic is
The obedience
In a leigon

Chance for change
Her majesty grasps
Honour's falsehood

Death has many hands
And gloatingly,
As a Jester
She plucks
Several thousand strings fall
The rest are left jagged
From being nicked by her knife
A lesson she teaches
Seldom learnt
By the frosty dawn

Deny
Deny it all

Foul utterance,
You fool me not.

[HumanePain]

God, it is most delightful to see your posts again!
And what an entrance it was, that funny little ditty of yours!
Please post more!

[Smile]

Here are the lyrics to a song I wrote, I'm not sure if it belongs in the right thread.


You're an unkempt rose or
So you seem
I think I dreamt of you
Once upon a daydream
Run with me to our place in the sky
Where we never say goodbye
And with the moon above
Forever we'll be making love

You and me
Can end our celibacy
In our place
Where the miles don't matter
And even though I miss you
I can always kiss you

Take me, take me up high
While I scream and moan and sigh
A thousand miles away
Yet still in you I bathe as in a sun's ray
In my mind I smell you and breath you
These thoughts of mine I know you knew

You and me
Can end our celibacy
In our place
Where the miles don't matter
I can do more than kiss you
While still I miss you


That's all I have for now.

[Aaroneet]

Shifts in mire's subtlety

Betwixt volumed embitterment

Or evermore the certain

amidst seas of stagnated recklessness

The haplessness, in dwelled subtlety

endured yet newly pristine

And by the by enrapt in all due trappings

Further absconding and queued with

the tide of embittered laughing

To-and-fro, in light of ire imbued by rekindling stake

In seasons of queued nothingness which absconding minds

in fetters eagerly take.

[raggedyanne]

one angry:

trap me in an iron grip of lust
your strength is contagious
as your kisses convince me to kill
anger oozes from your every pore
side by side we seek revenge
their broken bodies will bleed again

one freeing:

do not forgive me
I know I could not handle that
this existance must be validated
by me and me alone
there are boundaries
that I must cross
forbidden phrases
that I am obligated to say
I will rock my own world

[raggedyanne]

Why does no one comment on the poetry thread? We have a handful of literary geniuses here (not including myself) just begging for someone to tell them to stop the poetry and slowly make back away from the keyboard. Or you can say you love their work and they will be your bestest friends.

[A Simple Poet]

raggedyanne wrote

Why does no one comment on the poetry thread? We have a handful of literary geniuses here (not including myself) just begging for someone to tell them to stop the poetry and slowly make back away from the keyboard. Or you can say you love their work and they will be your bestest friends.

Probably because people are afraid to critique poetry. Despite the potential litterateurs who may or may not lurk here at GNet, poetry is an art that is lost in the 21st century particularly with the proliferation of free verse. "The dog sitting in the grisly poop" could be a poem and it would be tripe, only people don't have the bollocks to tell others that and the poet probably doesn't have the guts to take the criticism.

This, of course, is not true of everyone. But with regard to this thread, most poems will be dark, about "gothic" topics and usually comes across as cliche unless a literary device or syntax wrinkle is thrown in. Ezra Pound said to make it new, but is that easily done in this genre? I'm not sure. Gothic poetry in my mind should contain darker elements and allegories, yes, but I think there should be certain things such as heavy irony, condemnation of societal mores (or the transgressions beyond such norms) and soul searching all above and beyond cliched imagery.

Your point is valid, raggedyanne, and I agree with you. If more people had the stones (and I mean world wide in the arena of poetry, not necessarily in THIS thread) to intelligently critique poems, there might be more of a place for them in the world.

[HumanePain]

I read the Poetry Thread, but alas! I have been remiss in my stewardship. As a member of Gothic.net I should take a more active role. Your words are a just accusation Raggedyanne. Thank you for the reprimand, I shall turn over a new leaf!

[Corpsey]

I would critique poetry if I had more time and more motivation, buit then again I would probably only critique really poor or really amazing poetry. It's just something I never manage to get round to doing, usually, so I never expect mine to be critiqued in return.

[raggedyanne]

While I am excited about the prospect of rallying my troops (all two of them) against the forces of terrible literature, one can only wonder how many innocent yet angst ridden teens will be cut down in the name of digestible reading . . .

oh well.
More bad teenage angsty emo poetry that results from meds and english after lunch from your favorite rag-doll.

A silence more painful
than the words etched in your skin
excruciating to admit
we still do fear what we have been
so comfortably awkward
so differently the same
the hearts of the world beating in tandem
drowning my sanity within

[HumanePain]

Originally Posted by raggedyanne

While I am excited about the prospect of rallying my troops (all two of them)...

Haha! Oh my, I must thank you for giving me my first laugh of the day!
It is so pathetic that a literary site with thousands of members has only two troops that I laughed, lest I cry.

As a side note: the Poetry Thread has over 21,000 views, so somebody is reading it, even though there have been only 500+ posts in it. Methinks there are other "troops" undercover!

[A Simple Poet]

raggedyanne wrote:

One can only wonder how many innocent yet angst ridden teens will be cut down in the name of digestible reading . . .

Acceptable losses.

[raggedyanne]

Ooh! Undercover readers, lurking in the dark recesses of the thread . . . you know what this means? I have spies! From now on you may call me Charlie. HP, you may be Dylan, Simple Poet, I see you as a Natalie. Now who could be Alex? Excuse my Charlie's Angels obsession.

silent
defiant
confused
unable to contribute?
it is a choice
preferring to watch
bouts of insanity
misleading the viewer
never really was that interesting
did nothing wrong
or everything
depression
isolation
the price to pay for silence
yet, sometimes too much is said
lesson digested
no more trusted
loneliness
an acceptable
trade for peace of mind
________________________________

ashamed
the sinister seed of doubt
grows so quickly in the shallow soil
trust comes not with ease
but the arms of a lover
reassure fidelity with every caress
love may be sightless
but vision is not needed
when it is the heart doing the leading

[HumanePain]

Originally Posted by raggedyanne

HP, you may be Dylan... Excuse my Charlie's Angels obsession.

Charlie's Angels? Aw shucks, I thought it was a reference to Dylan Thomas, Welsh poet who wrote "Rage, rage against the dying of the light."

[Aaroneet]

Emancipation in lulling tolls

Within intrepid levity spoken in valued folds

And in dread ire spoken with audacious nothingness,

the subtlety,

Closer and further the lurking with renewed embitterment,

Yet evermore the consequent in phases of untelling hold

Behold. In all-the-more through hapless shifts the settling,

few

Incandescence by-the-by in bestowing wave of vigor, askew

And by the plight of consequence in volumed

pulsation renewed

When befuddling goodbyes empart in mounds of severed ways

a befuddled intrepidness from the future's once bidding haze.

[raggedyanne]

Originally Posted by HumanePain

Charlie's Angels? Aw shucks, I thought it was a reference to Dylan Thomas, Welsh poet who wrote "Rage, rage against the dying of the light."

Fine then, you may be that Dylan. (Puts Seamus O'Grady back in cage)

[Born Again]

Here is something I wrote just a few days ago....inspired by my current and adverse love life. I know it's a bit choppy, but it is one of my more personal poems.

Purity

In this light
Amongst the shadowless pavement
Before streams of silver lined rosary
and breadth of crisp, fine life.
My Paris awaits, for this sense of forever.
He holds onto these beckoning smiles with a hint of creamed surety.
Seamless touch...
And an alluring charm to cast away any impurities.
To make me whole again...
Once again..
I am free...
To chant the triumph that I was so sacredly promised.
Into your eyes I beam...into this light I glide.
Forever you may echo,
Within these walls of purity.
For a shade of white I ask,
Make me pure..once again
As a child glee's with hope..
To eye the nocturnal..
and to witness bloom.
Words have no more, as these eyes search into you.
So obscured.
My blinded reality stalks every shadow you spawn.
Is there nothing in your heart?
May these hands lay upon you?
As I melt in the midst of this moment.
Into the air I soar, as this rejection unfolds the truth.
And as I fall, onto the earth.
Will you carry me into the light,
surpassing this darkness
and healing this wound
that has laid dormant within you.

[Aaroneet]

Implored in subtle seems of nothingness,

Behold, and evermore the wayward in telling, winded tolls

Between indellible human eyes and the ire's near chagrin

And evermore the farther in straits of foreboding kin

Submergent in layered tidings spoken unto saccarinistic mouth

Amidst haplessness spoken in dread spaces of

consequential doubt.

[A Simple Poet]

Here's a little poem I wrote not too long back ...

The Other Side of Twilight

at the other side of twilight

… where moths mimic butterflies and ruined colonnades boast the canards of progress …

cobwebs are not gossamer.

and neither are the neat rows of powder in your daughter’s half bathroom where she sits feigning the luster of Goth, without discerning the meaning of the charade.

there is only just the brazen fullness of the Moon whistling somber gray truth to distant trees dancing desperate in the cloak of darkness.

trees or people, there is no difference in that song.

it’s not beauty.


it’s a wasteland.


but it is what’s real, rejected by the dying of that light



where that maiden, industry, snickers surreptitiously as stocks soar in lieu of rustic ballads toward the indifferent stars.

she’s betrayed Eden ever since the days of the Somme.

those aren’t God’s stars there, but winking voyeurs as insatiable as we.

and so, like morlocks united, we others grip hands retreating into half light where things promise to make sense.

meanwhile, brazen elephants and mules squabble on television screens asserting the false truth that …

twilight is for cowards, unless gift wrapped in a Flag.

[raggedyanne]

stepping and circling
blind hands stumbles in search of an intangible door
this labyrinth with be my doom
solitary by default
even the voice within me has fled
unable to cope with new sensations
how does one confront the content?
let her bury the bones of his deceit
she will continue her twirling spirit dance
until, dizzy, she pitches sideways
falling with eyes wide open into the rabbit hole
the mystery is solved as the cosmos descends
frozen ground melted by burning stars

[Aaroneet]

Between unending paths in marring cliches

By the by in newfound steps of maturing, brazen days

And further the aghast in waywardness betroved by volumes

of pitch fury

Locked in effervesce progressing amidst dreading stages of

dread, imploring duty.