Young Writers Society

(of actually completing this, I humbly open this space for the occasional bedraggled poem to crawl into and die a lonely death. please observe with restraint and a proper air of mourning - none of that 'celebrate-the-life' hippie nonsense, ya hear? also, no pets allowed.)

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Stories have to begin somewhere.
There are so many now, everywhere –
So similar, so different, walking and driving and swimming and flying;
Surrounding us, formless, liquid dreams. Where did they come from? We are
each trapped within our own, locked, criss-crossing through a multitude of others,
some known, some not; rippling in countless concentric cascades [imagined].
Follow the threads, follow them back.

#

And this, the first customer to enter this whorehouse
climbs gently into the fresh dug grave. Take note
for though he leads a party of one, the trail is blazed
and others will follow its light
no matter the darkness that waits.

These are two separate poems, yes? If that is so, I like the second one better. It's less broken down, not as easily digested as the first. I like it when my poetic stomach acids have to work a little bit. And it reminds me of East of Eden by John Steinbeck.

-Kylan

I'm starting to weave a bit of poetry into my current novel, before the chapters begin and such, so I'm testing my hand out - the first poem is my 'official entry' yes, the second is basically my commenting on the first poem being first haha; I've decided that along with whatever I submit, I'll do a small little piece that contain in some fashion my thoughts regarding the entry...

If that made any sense, I'll be very surprised. But it's 2am, so whatever. :p

Thanks for popping by though

I agree with Kylan, the second one is better. Very strong images and you have to think it through a bit. I like the idea of a poem reflecting on another poem XD

Haha, thanks. I think you guys take this more seriously than I do, you guys know poetry and read it and I don't, so keep in mind these are just rambles. >.<

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Your countless serenades are meaningless,
and you give yourself a title, a role to which you have no
right, these thoughts are an imposition, a carefully arranged
reel of destruction;
your arms are reaching, grasping with a thousand false platitudes
that just can't cover the





distance.

#

I can't breathe. I need a form
something to pour myself into, a fixture
in space and time that is not fixed -
wandering lost in this generic wilderness
of a million million paths [too small, too big, too soft, not soft enough, an odd colour, or no colour at all] and perhaps this in itself exemplifies
the utter irrationality of forethought.

Broken winds howl. i hear only their echoes
between the beige coloured walls;
sensations of emptiness amplified in domestic
silence, my bare feet roam the unfamiliar [no nucleus here; modern and traditional expectations come here to die] unfulfilled spaces
replacing the void with the last static images still
buzzing in my mind

mum sits in her chair at the kitchen table, rubbing red
eyes as I come from outside with baskets full of laundry;
magazines and newspapers day-old litter the tabletop.
there is no food.

his room is empty, plasma TV shouting silently -
Clint Eastwood stands on his porch, smoking a cigarette
his graven face with its papyrus-etched lines is
stark. i can't deal with so much colour,
it blinds; beat a hasty retreat. Even darkness
is preferable to the transparency of
contrast.

I think you take it plenty seriously enough - as evidenced by today's poem I love some of the imagery; a domestic silence, lack of nucleus, Clint Eastwood on the TV. I did think that, in a way, the images have a tendency to occlude the meaning, perhaps because they're packed too densely. You might want to try slimming them down a bit. Otherwise, nice work ^_^

Thanks Bubbly

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i found him in the valley of the dead,
this once-summer boy, all greys and blues
but with a stiff upper lip. his eyes
were still blue, baby blue, the kind that
sings and that doesn't seem right
in this sacred silence. his gaze is open
upon the sky and this too, is wrong -
windows should have shutters;
pity the restless, that squirm
under the eternal light of the stars.

Interesting installment. "Once-summer boy" is nice. I want to like "windows to the soul should have shutters", and I might, but it feels like it's been done before. Nix the baby blue description.

"Broken Winds Howl" is your best so far, I think. It's different, and it doesn't sound like a fiction writer's poem. So good job there.

-Kylan

It's interesting reading them all in one go, because you're definitely getting better and better as you progress. I liked the last two poems especially - sophisticated, while still accessible by a general audience - nice clear imagery, minimal verbiosity, an eye for details which are quietly slipped into the back corners of phrases...they just 'work.'

Thanks

Hey

Poem One: I'll admit I didn't like this one much. I thought the first line was good, but I thought "So similar, so different, walking and driving and swimming and flying;" was too much and I didn't like "liquid dreams" as an image, but that's just personal taste I think.I thought there was too much telling and not enough showing, but I did like the last line.

Poem Two: I loved the imagery of the first three lines and they flowed really well. I felt the light and darkness references were a bit flimsy-I'd try something more detailed.

Poem Three:I really liked this one, especially the space before "distance". Can't fault it.

Poem Four: This wasn't my cup of tea-I thought it was too stream-of-consciousness, too internal and not visual enough, and I didn't think the list really added anything.

Poem Five: I loved this. It flowed nicely and the imagery was great. I'd omit "coloured" as I don't think you need it.

Poem Six: I really liked this, again the imagery is great. I'd change "stiff upper lip" to something fresher.

You're doing great, I'm looking forward to reading the rest of them.

Jas

Toy planes buzz against the backdrop
of wintry clouds, the mottled fur
of the sky. And I shiver in the chill,
looking up so high above, at these
would-be bombers of old raining down
self-recriminations, questioning their
sacrifice for those not born with the grace
to fly.

Jiggity, you write my kind of poetry. Short, but with an interesting use of words.

This is my favorite:

I can't breathe. I need a form
something to pour myself into, a fixture
in space and time that is not fixed -
wandering lost in this generic wilderness
of a million million paths [too small, too big, too soft, not soft enough, an odd colour, or no colour at all] and perhaps this in itself exemplifies
the utter irrationality of forethought.

<3 Clo

Yay, short poetry appreciation!

My favourite is the last one.