MEMBERS VERSE

[yandee]

currently working on the translation of two new poems
extinction
outdoor miner
I'll get them fixed until tuesday I think.
better be prepared to get...bored
...ah yeah and thanks for the lovley words you all have in store for me...I'm blushing...glad you can't see

[chicken]

currently working on the translation of two new poems
extinction
outdoor miner
I'll get them fixed until tuesday I think.
better be prepared to get...bored
...ah yeah and thanks for the lovley words you all have in store for me...I'm blushing...glad you can't see

heh. bored. right, right.
i sent off some poems to a serious genius/poet friend of mine about 10 days ago.
two thursdays ago i received this snippet in reference to them:
<!--quoteo--><div class='quotetop'>QUOTE</div><div class='quotemain'><!--quotec-->
I read a few this morning...and my God, I was stunned... you've learned how to modulate and are writing about a thousand times better... ie you've swerved back on to the narrow line of total freedom and total restriction... In other words, you are a poet... These are my first, general impressions. I must spend a good deal of time with them and beg some patience while I do. Clearly, the poems aren't to be taken lightly. At first I wasn't sure about the whole tite but I'd prefer to mull it over awhile.<!--QuoteEnd--></div><!--QuoteEEnd-->
since then, he's written two or three times, but he's super-busy working on a book. thus, his editorial hand to my scribblings is on the back burner. regardless, i think that is some good gnus.

wanted to share this with you folks, particularly those of you who have stuck behind me with my poetry.

so yandee: just remember sometimes praise for your work has nothing to do with how crappy your self-esteem is, bur rather with the quality of your work in and of itself. i still struggle with that, tbh.

[Miserable Liar]

Hansel

I need some guidance, where’s my home?
On this road alone I roam,
talking to faces, forgetting as I pass,
petrol stations, the smell of gas.

This place is shaped funny, tell me where to go,
where there’s millions of people, people that I know.

I came to a sign, that pointed to a path,
I walked down the slope, which lead me to a map.
This didn’t help much, as the names where all in French,
I thought about which country I was in, sat down on a bench.

I can see a McDonald’s sign, so I could be anywhere,
in no place in time, have I been here or there.

This place IS shaped funny, I feel sorry for this man,
there are billions of people, who can’t tell him where I am.

[chicken]

toying around :unsure: :

<!--quoteo--><div class='quotetop'>QUOTE</div><div class='quotemain'><!--quotec-->
Man's Child

I know all the Promethian things
hunter, shaman,
priest, healer, astrolo-
gist, natural-
ist, physi-
cist, chemist, psychologist,

and


prophecy

i know it all
even Paradise Lost

this bitter white,
the boat at my back,
because of these Promethian things<!--QuoteEnd--></div><!--QuoteEEnd-->

(somehow i'm going to get Frankenstein out of my blood )

[chicken]

yet more toying about:

<!--quoteo--><div class='quotetop'>QUOTE</div><div class='quotemain'><!--quotec-->
what to name this?

man's baby, thus far, has been a little on the
stillborn side; maybe
it's just failure to thrive...
it's still too new for me to make up my mind, i've yet
to even cut the
cord.
<!--QuoteEnd--></div><!--QuoteEEnd-->

[yandee]

here are two new poems: the first one was screwed up yesterday about 2:00 AM, the second really required a day of work, but I guess you won't really notice, for it was written in German and translated. It is a bit clumsy, but it really kicks ass in the original version


don't have a name for this one yet

there’s nothing much to say
everything i wanted to tell you
before you leave, where ever you might go
i guess it doesn’t really matter now
whatever i wanted to say
there’s probably no more need to
should i wish you good luck, fare thee well?
should i wish you a nice life?
what do you think i should do now?
can you think of anything better?
anything better then just standing around
anything better then scratching my feet across the ground
drawing circles in the dust
starring holes into the air
what do you think i should do now?
should i ask you to stay?
should i ask you to come with me?
what in this world would you do?
what would you say to me?
i guess it doesn’t really matter now
if i asked you, if i begged you to come with me
you would look at me seriously
with your big glass-and-water-eyes
smile with your...
you’d put on that sad sad smile
that knowing smile
you’d just look me in the eyes
“where do you want to go now?”
“i don’t know for sure”
you’d smile
you already knew
that i don’t give a fuck
what i’m gonna do
what i’m gonna be someday
as long as i can be with you
you didn’t think of that one, did you?
why should you?
it’s better for you to go now
catch your train
now
the rattling of the wheels
the calming rhythm of the tracks
the holy mantra of the street
and i know that you got to go
and how i long to come with you
how i long to go back onto the streets
away from here, once and for ever
but i stay
in the house jack kerouac built


quartet for strings and a broken heart

the soil under my feet soft and organic
moves, creeps up my legs
hip-height of fern, no passing through
sunspotted mist and flocks of birds
i follow the red road
further – inside
a storm is gathering
inside, inside
the sky is woven with dark arms
layer after layer
walls of clouds are piling
over each other
under each other
a great heavenly orgy
made of holy fury
still the sun burns
prehistoric sings onto my back
the grapefruitmoon begins to sink
behind the wall of sound
forget the swan
follow the red road further
on and on, inside, inside
frida in field of carnation
a shadow in the twilight
smoke-black sky and blood-red width
marlen on a bed of white lillies
dressed in a white summer dress
for the last time
on these darker green sunday afternoons
follow the red road further
on and on, inside, inside
sunlight in the glass-stomache of water
postcard-motives
lonley beams of sunshine break
through the washed concrete of the sky
like rash on the fields of barley
the thunder crashing
i count the seconds to the flash of lightning
but it doesn’t come
doesn’t come
doesn’t come anymore
nothing comes anymore
just go on and on
follow the red road
the whispering in the wind
the silent roar of the woods
in the epicentre everything’s silent
stone dead
out there on the fields
crucified with blackened nails
so she dies for the sins of this world
for the sins of a world that forgot how to live
the ghost of electricity howls through the bones of my face
the great soul we’ve been waiting for
the wing of the angel
the magnificent daughter of pure poetry
the only real connection
to the hevenly relams of the irreal
should this have been all?
a simulation of an attac to the apparatus
und that’s it?
was she found before we lost her?
lightning flashes out there in the distance
splits the cross a-two and sets it a-fire
but i’ve got to go on
on and on
follow the red road
inside inside
nothing is really important anymore
nothing is important enough to be remembered
nothing is important enough to be recorded
nothing is important
nothing except for us
now that she’s gone
now that our dream has crumbled to pieces
now that nothing seems to make any sense
now that the sky is getting darker
now that the connection to the sky is cut
give me your hand
follow me down the red road
follow me down the red road to the end
follow me through the night-shadows of the woods
follow me across the endless fields of barley
follow me to the shores of solitude
give me your hand
come with me
past the decaying ruins on the edge of town
past the mouldy treetrunks in the midday sun
past the valleys, lonesome and forgotten down there in the fog
past the bleeding waves of sleeping poppies
past the last shores in the salty winds
give me your hand
come with me
follow the red road
on and on, inside, inside
until we lose ourselves in the thick mist
until we float in the cold waters
until we can finally be as one

[Miserable Liar]

Peace

A time will come, a perfect time,
where no speak of lords will rise and shine,
time one day will stop and look,
at the wars we've caused because of those
supposedly,
stronger than ourselves,
more important than them, or me.
If man is one thing, it is individuality,
so grab your guns and shoot them north,
shoot the sky and not your brother,
would you shoot these "beings"?
or another?
Maybe a mother.
Heaven's a place we wish to see,
if god said a thing, then it would be,
free yourselves, and each other,
follow your selves, don't be another,
led by a book but to go against,
hold the blood, it's such a waste,
of time lieing on your side with pain,
with hope for death, it's such a shame,
to go down on ourselves just to be called brave,
Use the pen and drop your weapons,
that my friends is what I call heaven.
Does that make me god? I think not.
Words go further than bullets,
words can hurt and also mean love,
a gun if you hit, can only draw blood.

Father, I want you near,
mother, we need you here.
Brother, I don't follow you,
brother, I have a different view.
Brother, be closer to me,
brother, love your family.
Sister, you're my angel.
Girlfriend, I need your touch.
Friend, you mean so much,
friend, you're so significant.

[Miserable Liar]

Claims He's Magic

I don't believe in magic,
and I don't believe in you,
although some of the tricks confuse me,
so please show me what to do,
you brought in lots of music,
and your camera crew,
humming along we played the game,
and dared the whole night through.

Some magicians like to keep their secrets,
and lots of them don't paid for what they do,
I don't want your money so just keep it,
i'll calm down and go home too.

We Are Birds

The food we ate came from the ground,
we look for a house and what I have found,
is that we're like birds, we wake in the day,
we hunt and live until we're taken away.

We can fly like them,
and we mate like them,
so please come along,
we could fly like birds together,
when we hear the rain on the leaves,
we can make a nest in the trees,
lets go to the sun no matter what the weather,
into paradise and i'm sure we'll live forever.

Freedom take me,
and my good friends with me,
I will not forget them,
they are my best friends.

[OrwellThatEndsWell]

I started MEMBERS VERSE, three years ago. I don't know what I expected would be in it, but I know I didn't expect there to be anything like the quality that there has been. It's sheer bloody poetry.

[chicken]

I started MEMBERS VERSE, three years ago. I don't know what I expected would be in it, but I know I didn't expect there to be anything like the quality that there has been. It's sheer bloody poetry.

and it is one of the three deciding factors why i joined this community in the first place.

i've scads of new stuff, but as of right now they are all still little embroynic things....nothing quite ready to be posted anywhere.
but mostly i've been sitting at the 'revision desk' kneading some older works into new and improved versions. the advise i got from my poet friend has proven to be more involved than i had first thought, but fun.
somehow i need to tune my ear more towards vowels; part of his feedback was that i need to "make the vowels build on themselves." :blink: easier said than done, that's for damn sure.

within the past 30 days, i have had two published poets say my work reminds them of Yeats. :huh: oh dear. though flattering, i won't even pretend to fill that man's shoes. no way.

great thread indeed, Noonan.

[madmancmonkey]

I am currently scanning my way through a few collections from reknowned poets at the moment. Hopefully the gushes of inspiration will spring forth.

[chicken]

i've nothing to add myself....and reading through tomes only confuses me more :unsure:

who, truly, is my audience when i write? i was asked that in all seriousness two weeks ago and just now it's really starting to sink in. i was also asked if i'm ready to make writing 'work' (i.e. get serious about being published). :unsure: :ph34r:

it would appear the revision desk i spoke of formerly has deeper drawers than i had anticipated. (wow, that's almost a line!!)

the last time i did anything close to writing was printing off my feeble epic attempt of "Neptune's Trinity" intending to red ink it, expand it, go from six parts to twelve.
alas, no progress.

yet, i know how things work in these doldrums. it's just a matter of time until the sails are again filled.

[OrwellThatEndsWell]

<!--quoteo(post=41742:date=Jun 17 2007, 02:13 AM:name=Orwell)--><div class='quotetop'>QUOTE(Orwell @ Jun 17 2007, 02:13 AM) [snapback]41742[/snapback]</div><div class='quotemain'><!--quotec-->
I started MEMBERS VERSE, three years ago. I don't know what I expected would be in it, but I know I didn't expect there to be anything like the quality that there has been. It's sheer bloody poetry.

and it is one of the three deciding factors why i joined this community in the first place.

i've scads of new stuff, but as of right now they are all still little embroynic things....nothing quite ready to be posted anywhere.
but mostly i've been sitting at the 'revision desk' kneading some older works into new and improved versions. the advise i got from my poet friend has proven to be more involved than i had first thought, but fun.
somehow i need to tune my ear more towards vowels; part of his feedback was that i need to "make the vowels build on themselves." :blink: easier said than done, that's for damn sure.

within the past 30 days, i have had two published poets say my work reminds them of Yeats. :huh: oh dear. though flattering, i won't even pretend to fill that man's shoes. no way.

great thread indeed, Noonan.
__________________________________
Hey, Chicken! No need for "Great thread, Noonan", that's for damn sure. When I passed comment on the quality within these pages I certainly wasn't looking for any of the credit for it, as god knows I'm not due any of it. The perspective which work submitted by your good self and countless others has placed my own verses in are proof of that fact, and no mistake!

There's them what is poets (you, Billy Yeats, etc) and there's them what aint (me!)

Keep doing that poetry what ye do.
<!--QuoteEnd--></div><!--QuoteEEnd-->

[Miserable Liar]

In Pain I dwell

I think about you sometimes,
but only a few times,
maybe once or twice.

This broken bone keeps me swollen,
so I don’t feel any pressure, it feels golden,
to know that you’re here, only sometimes,
maybe once or twice.

It comes and goes, this cut from which I bleed,
I don’t dwell in my pain, in pain I dwell,
but you could help me much more,
life would be so sweet, so swell.

I wish I could tell you, exactly what I mean,
but I can’t write, and mute I stay around you,
come around, and I’ll show you,
maybe I could’ve impressed you.

It comes and goes, this cut from which I bleed,
I don’t dwell in my pain, in pain I dwell,
but you could help me much more,
life would be so sweet, so swell.

[Miserable Liar]

In a Room

The room span around that night, with me inside the coffin,
the darkness spilt an atmosphere, with no-one there to witness,
I broke in two, locked in my cage, going nowhere any quicker,
making faces I cannot recognise, into a mirror I cannot see.

Hunting for some food, what’s on my plate tonight?
Bedpost with pillows on the side and a antique statue,
No-one knows I’m here, infact sometimes I doubt myself,
The door seems so far away, because it’s on the other side.