Young Writers Society

YAY SOMEONE IS STILL READING!

Haha, I wondered if anyone would get the beard poem and I didn't want to put the title at the top because that would ruin the effect. You know, with the last one, I didn't deliberately intend to alternate light and dark, but I found it interesting that the alternating lines almost worked on their own.

Yeah, the last line initially was:

'and know that we are watched
with covetous eyes'

Which reads better than what it is now, but then is repetitious as I mention eyes earlier...maybe you're right and it should just go. ^_^

Thanks for the comment. I don't need constant commenting but every now and then a reminder that it's being read is nice, y'know.

The dragon's raspy chuckle
smokes through the air as puffs
of warmth heat my skin in
sweaty patches. It refuses
to die; the glitter of its
clickity-click scales has
faded, vision filmy and blurred
in the blue black dark. It will
not fly at my command, just
stares with sinister calm,
waiting for me to
falter.

*

^^ My laptop...oh how I rage at it.

I'm still here, too! I've been meaning to comment only I keep running out of time -_-

Re: the Apr 13 poem, I love the bit about the madman (incidentally, there's a typo there - it says madmen XD). I also loved Apr 17's "fitful candle." As Navita says, they're cute, your poems ^_^

I didn't entirely get Idle Hands, but the idea of "the nightshirts/of angels" stood out for me. Nice work.

One thing I will suggest is perhaps trying out varying structures and styles; I'm getting much the same vibe from many of them and I'd like to see what you could do with a new/different format. But that's kind of just a personal preference XD

You do realize this means you're no longer allowed to say you're not a poet, don't you? I'm forcibly inducting you into the Poet Society

ETA: And I *love* that one you just posted. It really conveys the malevolence of it, lol.

Lies! I am no poet.

I actually fixed up that typo on Facebook (I've posted some there, lulz) and obviously forgot to do so here. I could write poems about my laptop all day lol, good ol' untrusty Dragon. It doesn't know it yet, but I've ordered a replacement.

...fairly sure it's going to kill me now, but oh well! I died fighting! Remember th----

And an eerie silence
descended, but no one
heard it coming. It came
from the heavens, slipped
through the holes in the sky,
the burning lights we call
stars. One by one, we lost
our sounds, our moans were
quenched,
our cries muffled.

**

Sorry if these are getting, as you said Bubbles, repetitive -- I don't really know any 'forms' or structures outside of a traditional-looking (or what I imagine is such) stanza.

Madness stalks me, with bated breath
a shadow of a ghost I just can't track;
run on, run on, run on - keep building
a latticework of lies and half-truths, bent
into cutting edges with no time to wonder
if it has fingers to cut and bleed ---

It's gaining.

Run on, run on, run on - losing
sight of what's chasing, consumed
by the effort to just keep going
and to never look back, not that, not
ever - there isn't time and even
if there was, all would be lost

Can it climb? Can it swim? How
far do I have to go before my
limbs stop moving and the engines
stop running, stutter, gasp, and
die? These circles have grown dizzyingly
vast, with serrated sides that cut
slim fingers already slippery with sweat;

there is nothing more
to hold on to.

I enjoyed that last one; you have a couple of sneaky almost-rhymes in there that add to the flow, plus the image builds on an old idea in an interesting way. I like the way you increase the suspense and speed through the first few stanzas, then bring it to a graceful close. Nice

If you want to try working with form, you might find the domino rhyme an easy way to start off- it's very flexible with just enough shape to give it character. Try this site for the "rules" (but just to clarify, the rhyme scheme is roughly abcd/befc/eghf/gadh, though it can be extended as long as you like...I found it a bit dizzying trying to read it out lol).

The musician's hands are burnt;
his beard is scratchy and gruff,
head bent beneath a shaggy mane,
eyes closed to better catch the
fading echoes of music's last
cry.

He had it once, cupped
between his palms. Sitting beneath
an elder tree one night, watched
by the cycloptic, unwavering gaze
of the moon - he played, guitar
cradled, body bent over it as he
whispered stories in the half-light
to his inconstantly constant lover.

Pulsing rhythms called it and music
came, writhing in the sky, the Aurora
Borealis he'd dreamed of as a child,
its taunting cry a distraction he could never
put out - conversations paled, sensations
faded until nothing but the warmth of taut
strings registered.

He had to match it; it yearned for
a partner, a song to be raised to
the stars - no half-baked melody
would do, no stuttering lyric could
sweep through the cosmos and match
its stride.

It came to him, hope burning in
its eyes, and he arched to meet it,
fingers slipping in and out - muted,
their passion was completely silent;
his throat closed up, the heat too
strong, the need consuming his all
and he crashed back into the earth
ears ringing with the haunting, already
fading moan of frustration,
lost.

The musician sits in the tunnel, blanket
folded before him, humbled. His fingers
are burnt, with nothing more to say.
The strings quieten at last. His world
is silent but for the memory of that
dying gasp.

Yes, yes, YES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! *dances around wildly*

You're writing longer poetry!!! Which means even more words to savour and enjoy! YAY!!!

Won't give you something overwhelmingly thorough just now, but this last one was brilliant - I love any poetry to do with music, actually - and although the ending was rather morbid, the rest of it more than made up for it.

I loved how you started off with 'the musician's hands are burnt' - I was so insanely curious here. 'Cycloptic' was interesting in my mouth, but seemed too scientific a word, so took away from the emotion of the line. And 'inconstantly constant' was weird...but I liked it. The third stanza was lovely, and while the fourth was a tad too direct, it was sweet and haunting nevertheless. I'm a big fan of nostalgic writing. I liked how the last couple of stanzas read like something out of a Shakespearean Greek tragedy - sort of like the rise, the fall and the consequences.

Can you believe it?? It's almost the end of April! I hope you'll MISS writing poetry...since I'd love to read some more.

I'm not sure if I'll *miss* it, but I won't actively detest it, or fight it and maybe on occasion, some fine spring day, I'll sit down and write a couple more. But that remains to be seen.

I'm glad you've enjoyed them. ^^

Cliffs tall as you can see rise
up, a thousand wrinkled
crevasses brazenly display age,
completely unashamed before the slip
of a youth that stands at its
feet.

The roar of the sea against its walls,
the wail of a million crushed mermaids,
bones left on the barren reach of shore,
an offering on the alter of this unwavering
titan.

The world rests atop
the immense sweep of its shoulders.
At its feet the tears of the ocean
crystallize into diamonds that cut. Scissoring
scars sweep down and up, and you can see
how far its grief once reached, its rage
at this monster that keeps its lover at bay
and steps on the bones of its children.

The mirroring curve of skies sweet blue,
reflects no concern, as the child held aloft
on its fathers shoulders knows nothing of
fear and everything of glee; it has forgotten
the ground, and the pain that comes with
falling.

Luminescent skin - lined with a child's
sprawling notes, words smudged and forgotten
or else etched deeper than skin, muscle
and bone, pressed into the soul itself -
stretches in a smile, aged beyond
its years by the burden of dreams, never
realised, carried away by the storm
of youth's passing, lost forever. Her
arms are too tired and the cost of swimming
upstream is too high.