Young Writers Society

#19:
Considering the length at which you
would jeer and patronize education,
it was an unpleasant surprise to
spot you in the library.

I undid my step, moved reverse to hide
by the nearest shelf and, through the gaps,
I knew you knew someone was there.
Well, I successfully made that worse,
I mused.

I turned and ducked and grabbed the largest book
into which I hid my face. My mind elsewhere,
my eyes focused on the pages before me; sports.
Considering the length at which I
would jeer and patronize these guys, I thought,
this would be a poor way to be caught.

I replaced the book in an awful mess and noticed
the sleeve of your dress rounding the corner.
Impetus rocketed me into the next row
as my mind scrambled for a sensible treatise
should I be forced to say hello.

A long aisle lay before me, and my hasty feet
hurried forward.

The sound of your sandals
followed behind, ominous and steady,
drumming a story towards its ultimate scandal.

I could feel the steely searching gaze
on the back of my head and hoped
my hair had grown longer since those
unfortunate days.

I lowered my head and walked with
ardent intent, so sure that you
were aware of the heightened foolishness!

At the end of the row, I turned and
sprinted.

I grabbed another heavy book,
and sat at a table, almost among a study group.

And imagine my despair to realize I could not flee!
Your steady drumbeat turned the same corner
and was bearing down on me!

I could not stand! I could not hide!
Discovery, shame, and my poor pride!
Lay your hand on my trembling shoulder,
oh, skeletal hand of death!

My treasonous eyes disobeyed my will
and lifted to watch
the axe fall of my beheader.
But I did not recognize her at all.

A tingle lingered from my dismembered scalp
to my disembodied limbs.

My eyes focused on the pages before me; self-help.

#20:
she always chewed her fingernails
because her mother told her not to.
the scraggly algae that lined
her fingertips caught
the fabric of her nightdress
every night and slowly tore
moth-like perforations because of the
enthusiasm with which she faced sleep.

her enthusiasm must not be
confused with joy, however.
to her, sleep was a god and she the
fervorous disciple
prostrate and praying for eternity.

You know, I really shouldn't be writing these since it's kind of late here, but really, I HAVE to, since you're so amazing at poetry. And I can't afford to not tell you that - since I need you to write more!

Number 18

This one really resonated with me - and I enjoy poems with a sciencey theme running throughout - it adds such an interesting touch! I love how the first stanza beings all gory and vivid, almost mocking the 'intellects pushing the sun away' (a stunner of a first line, by the way). And although 'slake my thirst with steel' was slightly old-fashioned, I still thought you blended it in perfectly with the rest. The bit about biologists and chemists wasn't as inventive, but it was interesting all the same; and I liked the dark, almost bloodthirstily morbid way in which you ended that one.

Number 19

What an amusing first stanza! It's kind of in-your-face and too-formal to be so direct all at once - I loved it. And in the second and third stanzas, it only gets funnier. I think it was a good idea on your part not to clog up the narrative behind the poem with too many similes and metaphors and such, since it really brings out that honesty, that clear simplicity and partial annoyance. And 'the sleeve on your dress rounding the corner' was HILARIOUS as well as really vivid. It went on for just a tad too long, but even so, I think that made it all the more entertaining.

Number 20

This one I had mixed feelings about. It was definitely leading into a really good story - 'she always chewed her fingernails...the scraggly algae that lined/her fingertips caught/the fabric of her nightdress/ every night and slowly tore/ moth-like perforations' were some sweet lines, but then it got a little too pointed and serious in the next stanza ('her enthusiasm must not be...' - seems too commanding). 'Sleep was a god' was meh, and the ending was not terribly enlightening - but it's NaPo, and so that's understandable.

Pretty much all that just to tell you that it's wonderfully written and to CATCH UP AND FINISH THIS CRAZY NAPO!!! Oh, and, I can't wait to read the rest.

I have yet to take the time to figure out what timezone these timestamps are centered around. I'm pretty sure I mentally do the math every time, but the number never sticks. I just need to locate the strip on the globe that it corresponds to. GMT? Most likely.
Edit: US Central time? Okay.

There might be a reason that the first line in No. 18 is so different, and you might be amused to know. It was completely accidental.

When I dropped into the chatroom, there were a few people debating evolution which then turned into debating religion and law and banging their heads against each other because none of them understood that you can't argue with someone's fundamental understanding (such as, "God is right" or "morals are the foundation of law" or vice versa), instead you have to trap them in their own logic. Otherwise, it's just "Nuh uh!" "Yuh huh!"

Anyway, long story short, some were having a side chat, and someone used the blinking bright sun emoticon that burns your eyes. So I said to let the intellects push the sun away, as in, push it off the screen. Totally different connotation!

Number 20: it is my firm belief that poems are better when you know/believe what you're talking about. ...I really had no idea what I was talking about I was chewing a hangnail moments before it.

Thanks! You are a reviewing fiend, aren't you?

Sarg's dueling rappers thread.
Go google "Fear the Boom and Bust" video to see how the masters do it.
Read out loud and with rhythm and force, preferably some made-up hand signs.

#21:
Says one,
"The banality of evil
is explained in the natural human
fear of upheaval.
Maintain the status quo,
and be a normal Joe,
else you will not get
a chance to spend that dough.
Just obey your superior
and fear for your job,
evil's got nothin' to do
with the personal interior.

This level of thought
shows that you can be bought.
Pennies on the dollar,
it's the market price
of your shiny dog collar.
So salivate for cash
while you take out the trash.

Just take heed from Milgram, Arendt,
and by the time we clock out
all the money's been spent.
You feeling lucky, Pilgrim?
Try to represent."

Says two,
"Your sweeping statements
do not ring true
cos they don't explain
society's evil abatement.
So let me turn your attention
to my main man, Gruen,
who'll turn your modern invention
into historic ruin.

Countless accounts of evil
stem from the primeval.
These people don't have jobs:
the uncontrollable mobs,
the racist ghost in a sheet,
the massacres in the streets
over looks, over difference,
there's endless evidence.

They learned it, this hatred
from what the peers forbid.
Listen to the parent,
the friend,
the Man,
the latest trend.

You're ugly, you're vain,
you're gypsy, you're gay,
or Germany, Japan, or maybe Spain.
That's all they need to say.
Dehumanize them, and they'll go away.

You learn it through your life
from those you yearn to love,
and perpetuate this strife
to be what you're proud of.

So my friend, don't tell me
we shouldn't be aware
of our own hypocrisy-
We can fix this poor affair.
It begins at the start;
we gotta show some doubt,
and grow into our hearts.
Peace, now I'm out."

#22:
A girl raised a disheveled head,
and her face gave a sleepy question.
I mouthed that I needed some air,
and she smiled (most likely not understanding)
and lowered her head,
reuniting the picture of nine
sleeping bodies in the living room.

I pushed open the door and let
the crickets' hum inside momentarily
before closing it gently behind me.
The pulsing night crept across my chest,
the hollow new moon hovered somewhere to the west,
and I no longer felt like a hapless guest.

Like all things I remember saying,
I had told her a half-truth,
It was time to go home.

Four hours until sunrise;
It'll be close.
but there's something so pleasant
about these forgotten goodbyes.

#23:
The moon waited behind the clouds;
a light fringe gave away its position.
The streets were all black stones
and blue shadows, like body parts
and blood.

A 15 year old boy,
all skinny legs and
dirty hair,
with a retired tommy gun
and a finger that itched
to the beat of his heart
hesitated.

The VC line was "several klicks out"
(as he heard the elders say),
but he could have sworn
he saw their political agenda
scurry in the darkness ahead--
he paused and realized
he did not even know what--

Last night, he dreamed
that his arms would open wide,
and his family would fly to him on wings.

--that meant. A flash of fire,
like a scratching Zippo, and he
hiccuped. His hand moved to his
upset stomach, and he noticed
he felt warm and slick.

His mind reeled to the soldier whose
raincoat sleeve he'd grasped
saying, 'GI OK,' only to receive
a look of mistrust and disgust.

He crumpled into the shadows.

#24:
They came in with the summer rain,
shrapnel fell like hail,
and tracers like snow.

They rocketed the marketplace,
and hearts were big as apples,
and blood was syrup in the noon sun.

They bombed the offices,
paper billowed in the wind,
and all was merely telephones ringing.

We never had a chance to surrender,
we surely would have, if we had
any weapons to let fall.

The last time I saw my parents,
I gave them all my money, fifteen thousand;
I later learned this was 12.3 American cents.

The boat was calm--safe, but stoic.
And I couldn't sleep for three nights
because there were no explosions.

#25:
Two cans and a string,
walkie-talkies with one frequency,
or maybe even smoke signals
could best describe the way we communicate.

I know that the novelty
has got you all excited again,
but I'm not really into this.
Besides,

You've got to pull the string tight--
you've got to let go of the button--
did you even wet the blanket?

Oh. No. There it is--burning.

And you've given up on another new plan
because it didn't agree with you.

Come on, I hear there are ladies
that dance with scarves in New Mexico.
I'll come with--or you can go alone;
just don't forget that the boy
you sit next to on the plane isn't me.

#26:
Life does not live here,
if that is what I seek.
All that's left are bones:
canvases bleached by the window,
scrawlings faded in the stone,
untuned, antique instruments,
and notes of ancient content.
Evidence it once lived here alone.

In turn, I look at these remains.

The canvas painting is an impression
that neither I nor the painter can hardly see.
The sun did not take kindly to his vision
and turned his lilies into debris.

Whose words these are, I think I know.
But he has passed on years ago.
He will not know I read his work,
and in time, his words will fall to snow.

The piano has long since lost its key,
and the deaf notes give tremor to the dust.
Facing mortality, he may have asked, "Must it be?"
And a solemn echo returned, "It must be."

The ancient journals, perhaps, move me the most
likely since the meaning in the words is foreign.
His justified beliefs are fervently written,
but in this room, utterly forgotten.

No, life does not live here,
and I am uncertain if it ever did then.
The only things here evidenced
are the raging throes of mad men.
And even they will decay one day.

I really have nothing against Frost. But this stanza from the last poem amused me so much I wanted to expand on it.

#27:
Whose words these are, I think I know.
But he has passed on years ago;
He will not know I read his work
And, in time, his words will fall to snow.

You, my friend, must think it queer,
To read classic poetry without a teacher near
These words to which we don't relate
And whose irrelevant voice we cannot hear.

You may have to give me a shake
To slowly rouse me awake.
I will probably have drifted off
To take a five-minute break.

The words want to be lovely, dark and deep,
But they make me want to weep,
And hours more I wish to sleep.
And hours more I wish to sleep.

Now I'm Pound?

#28:
Under a willow by the sea

The sails billow like the kites;
We, the sleeping, hold onto our dreams.

#29:
That which happens once
may as well have never happened at all.

How can we continue
without a control to compare ourselves?
Decisions thrown into the well
and wishes that never bear fruit
weigh down heavily,
and drag our feet.

But likewise,
that which never happened
may as likely have happened once.

What does our past mean
if it exists only as a retelling?
Love and lust grown from the clay
and experiences ever ripe
lift our weight easily,
and are unbearably light.

And thus ends a saga of 30 poems in, essentially, 16 days (since I started the 9th and didn't work weekends).

Well, that was fun. Thanks for watching. Let's go home.

#30:
And when we die,
the set will clear.

Some old man will sweep
his way across the street
and mop up our last words,
before wringing them out
into the sink.

The setting, no more than a screen,
will lift on iron pulleys,
ascending skywards--but only
to the ceiling.

The camera will watch
until the tender moment
we climb inside the open earth.

Tight focus on the dirt
crammed under the nails--
before turning off.

The red beacon dotting
the empty studio will
extinguish.

So, we've come to the agreement that you do not care if I am expressing my enjoyment at these a tad late, and that I definitely would like to comment since I loved the above poems. And voila, my thoughts;

Number twenty-two (why do you not title these, Sarg?)

This was vivid. 'Girl raised a dishevelled head...sleepy question...and she smiled (most likely not understanding)' ---> these were great lines. I have often looked at people sleeping and wondered how on earth I might capture that half-sleepy cuteness of the instant in a camera; so you did it well in the poem. It's so tight, too; the feeling is almost clenched, like I'm watching him edge out of the door, try to escape, but even outside, the narrator can't. There's always this feeling of being crushed: 'pulsing night crept across my chest' was brilliant. Can't say I enjoyed the ending two stanzas much - they lacked the imagery so apparent in the other two stanzas.

Number twenty-three

Whoa - the scariest combination of cute and bloody I can say I've seen in a poem. I didn't like the poem, actually, but I still appreciated it for how it was written - 'moon waited behind the clouds,' 'black stones and blue shadows like body parts and blood,' 'he hicupped,' 'soldier whose raincoat sleeve he had grasped, 'he crumpled in the shadows.' Creepy, but effective.

Number twenty-four

Similar to the previous one. This time, it was a combination of pretty imagery and bloody imagery. Scary again. 'Summer rain' mixed with 'shrapnel' ; 'hearts as big as apples,' mixed with 'blood as syrup in the noonday sun.' I'm not a big fan of war poetry, actually, since I rarely think it's donw well enough without seeming overdramatic and all, but the edge on this made it interesting enough for one read. Can't say I'd reread it, though.

Number twenty-five

This was AWESOME. Loved the beginning, loved the ending, and the middle...well, it'll have to do, won't it? I mean, it can be improved; I'm sure you could be a lot more creative with the images and such, but given the speed at which I guess you were writing these in NaPo, I understand.

Number twenty-six

Argh. This is ghastly and morbid. And not terribly insightful either. I get the feeling you didn't enjoy writing this one, which might explain why I didn't enjoy reading this. Too bland; nothing described in a new way and nor were many, if any, new things given.

Number twenty-seven and twenty-eight

Errrr, well the latter was...you don't need me to say it, I think. And the former - I liked the way you continued the poem on. Some rhythmic issues I think - 'to read...without a teacher near' was one such line.