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Welcome to you. Please, pull up a seat, fetch a cup of tea or other calming beverage of choice. Take a moment for you. Let my meager words entertain you briefly, if they can.
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Hello!

Interested Party

Forever Tired
Location
United States, EST
Pronouns
He/Him
Hello everyone, and thank you for stopping by.

I do a little bit of poetry-writing in my spare time, nothing serious but I enjoy doing it. Thing is I never really show any of it to anyone, which seemed like a bit of a shame. So I decided to make this thread where I can dump what I write for your viewing pleasure, like the title says.

A few notes to be taken into consideration:
  • Constructive criticism and discussion are appreciated when they appear, but this is hobby-level stuff for me so don't expect me to take it too seriously - and you guys should probably try to avoid taking it too seriously as well.
  • Subject matter can and will vary wildly depending on what I feel like writing about.
  • I mostly write in the style of the Shakespearian sonnet, but I may not hew too closely to the technical restrictions of the style and I will write in alternate styles when I choose to.
  • Finally, if for some reason you like what I'm writing and want to offer a prompt idea for a possible poem, feel free. If I like the prompt and think of something to write for it I'll write that something and dump it in here while quoting the prompt in question. If I don't like the prompt and/or can't think of anything good for it, I'll ignore it. No guarantees either way.

I'll also try to keep each poem in its own post for organizational purposes and so each poem can be rated and reacted to individually. Anyways, I think that's just about everything for now, so I'll wrap this up here. Thanks again to everyone for stopping by!
 
My Mask
My Mask

My mask has razor wire on the inside, you know.
It's insidious, cutting through my very being with greatest ease,
But on the outside it appears there is nothing for it to show,
And I can't take it off whatever I please.

My mask has a smile painted on it, can you see?
It is false, stopping short of even being skin-deep,
But it looks happy and content and cheerful as can be.
I wish something true could through that smile creep.

I show my mask to others often, prominent and fully.
Truly I wish that someone could tell it to be a false face.
But their vision of the world they do not want to sully,
So they pretend that past that smile of nothing there is a trace.

Whatever I wish, whatever I do, my real face I cannot show,
My mask has razor wire on the inside, you know.
 
Darkness
Darkness

It is the lack of light,
It is called void by some.
It is a lack of sight,
And from it frightful things come.

For our minds it is the greatest canvas,
On which it can impose things most horrible.
Things that growl and stalk and attack en mass,
And which bear intentions most terrible.

The mind's brush is dipped in sleeptime terrors,
As it paints on bloody eyes.
A flourish is used to finish the horrors,
In the form of wings that block out the skies.

It is this deep and inscrutable thing;
Who can know what darkness will bring?
 
Let These Iron Bones Rest
Let These Iron Bones Rest

Is there someone there?
It is hard to tell from underneath the waves,
Where the gentle flow of ocean currents are all I can hear,
And I am left to serve as so many men's graves.

But now I feel something near,
That comes closer to what is left of me.
I don't recognize it from before the fire and fear,
But it is no fish I have before seen in this sea.

Tell me little thing, why are you here?
Do you think someone needs a defender such as I once again?
Does destruction and death reign once more, up there?
I am too old, have rested too long in this place where I was slain.

I ask you see, little thing, that I bear no jape, joke, or test,
But simply a plea that you let these iron bones rest.
 
Killer
Killer

I laugh and laugh and laugh,
Because it is a most funny joke.
I laugh on the world's behalf,
At the jest that has been spoke.

They tell me I've gone mad,
To find amusement in such horrible things.
But I find it quite sad,
That the humor in murder escapes their beings.

The joke is simply thus:
Despite all of one's aspirations to importance,
Their lives can be snuffed out without change in fuss,
In this terribly hilarious dance.

And so I laugh and laugh and laugh and laugh as they take me to the chair,
And I laugh and laugh and laugh as they see that there is no difference in how I fare.
 
Arizona
Arizona

<A follow-up of "Let These Iron Bones Rest">



I was a proud ship of the fleet
Perhaps not the newest, my guns not the largest
But in competition my boys had the others beat
My pride did not require my hull to be strongest.

The attack was unexpected, unsurvivable, from planes on high
So many swarming o'er head, like we had angered so many bee hives.
In my rage and grief then I cried "Why?
Why do you attack us so, leave my men barely a chance to save their lives?"

When the last explosion tore through myself,
It was the final toll for most of my crew, a number that is a horrible size.
My sisters, cousins, family, they sought revenge for my death,
But no matter the injury they visited on the enemy I would no longer rise.

I have lain here now for many years, a rest I did naught to earn
But all I ask now is that of the names of my crew and of me, Arizona, you learn.
 
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Nevada
Nevada

<Part of the "Iron Bones" series>



Attack! Without warning, damn cowards
We were barely awake when they arrived
Man the AA guns! Plenty of planes to fire towards
Let us try to make sure that this attack is survived.

Got to get out of port, got to get to sea
Want to make them pay, at least a little bit
No! You bastards, get away from me!
Have to beach myself - Dammit!

So many dead as the dust settles, so many dead after this
And I am raised, my hull repaired to fight our enemy
A bloody toll is extracted before the end of my service
A combination of atomic fire and practicing gunnery.

I fought as hard as could be asked of me, but that could not undo the past
But mayhap, just perhaps, the legacy of the Nevada shall last.
 
Westminster
Westminster



The great stone structure,
Looms over the large and grand city;
A grand palace in which a God can live and present His scripture,
And where priests attend to the spiritual needs of royalty.

Men and women, royal and common, in grave and shelf,
Keeping visitors under watchful eye.
Here by grace of God or grace of wealth?
Either case the beauty and awe one cannot deny.

Here the living bare their beings before the dead,
Both seeking approval and hoping to keep them at rest.
Living persons are honored for services before they've reached their end,
In the same place the dead are honored for having done their best.

And on the hour the holy man speaks his piece,
And throughout the whole building his voice can reach.
 
Scharnhorst
Scharnhorst

<Part of the "Iron Bones" series>



My sister and I were proud to serve,
Our frames German hopes made manifest.
We stormed the Atlantic and praises we did earn,
And we ran through the channel, we passed our test.

I was charged to raid the Arctic routes in cold and storm,
The weather forced my escorts back, but I remained
Contact! And then blindness, so good a shot not the norm
I tried to flee, but found that my way home a battleship had claimed.

The relentless fire left me prone,
And I knew that I would end in this folly.
In frozen waters I died alone,
As I slowly sank I murmured "Sister, I'm sorry."

I did not know of how my nation had become so horrible,
And that I, Scharnhorst, had to sink to make life there once more bearable.
 
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This one was rather solemn. A piece on the living and the dead that makes less makes you think and rather makes you... more aware, I think is appropriate.

Very nice.

Based it on how I felt actually visiting the place. It's really quite something to see with your own eyes, I recommend it. Incredibly long lines to get tickets though, I was lucky to be going as part of a group and therefore skipped about 90% of it. And no indoor photography, hence why the image attached was from street level. (Yes, that is a picture I took for myself, why do you ask?)

I'm just going to sit here and cry, thank you very much. :cry:

Working as intended then. ;) The stories of a lot of these ships can be very hard to see as much other than tragedies if they or their compatriots were sunk, especially when telling their stories from their own points of view.

Just wait until I get around to writing a poem for Gneisenau...

Started that one after visiting the HMS Belfast actually. She was one of the ships that took part in sinking Scharnhorst, so a fair share of the exhibits on Belfast describe the battle in which Scharnhorst was sunk. Once again, I highly recommend it.
 
Ooooooooooh.

I do like the tone, the feel, the emotion of them. Sombre and depressing. Really great work on both. I do especially love the eulogy for Scharn.
 
There's something detached, cold and lonely about Westminister, or at least that is the feeling I get. You can feel the separation between the holy and the mundane, the abbey and the city, the living and the dead; which to be honest feels like a loss of purpose for a place that was meant to unite these and imbue them with meaning. The setting, too, is almost a bit sad. Not Nietzsche's 'sepulchers of a dead God' sad, but like something small, reduced. It is an ancient beauty we cannot bear to discard though we no longer understand it. I loved that touch a lot.

Also, if you'll pardon my being the crusty old Elizabethan (when I'm very much not), I wonder if we're being a little too free with the base sonnet form here in that particular poem.

The evident ABAB CDCD EFEF GG of both that and *Scharnhorst* threw me just a bit with the sometimes wild lack of iambs and the highly irregular meter. I'm as big a fan of modern poetry as most -and by that I mean I am quite iffy on it- but I do think that irregularity should still serve the flow of ideas. Your ideas are there for sure, but the flow of them and the way they keep place and pace through the meter could use some work.

There's a reason sonnets tried to keep to five iambs a line (unstressed-syllable to stressed-syllable) - to make reading in the author's world an easier experience flow-wise. Therefore any reversal or change in flow should be intentional. That is why, say, Lear's "never, never, never, never, never" in Act 5 Scene 3 of King Lear is powerful in context. His world is reversed, upside-down and wrong, and as such five trochees (stressed-syllable to unstressed-syllable) are used instead of the usual five iambs or some variant thereof to emphasize that; variants which, as you might be aware, were common enough anyway.
 
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There's something detached, cold and lonely about Westminister, or at least that is the feeling I get. You can feel the separation between the holy and the mundane, the abbey and the city, the living and the dead; which to be honest feels like a loss of purpose for a place that was meant to unite these and imbue them with meaning. The setting, too, is almost a bit sad. Not Nietzsche's 'sepulchers of a dead God' sad, but like something small, reduced. It is an ancient beauty we cannot bear to discard though we no longer understand it.

What I was trying to do with Westminster was capture the sort of feeling that I got while visiting the Abbey. Now something to be understood with that is that I was firstly visiting the place as a tourist, not as someone come to worship; and secondly that I fall more under the label of "agnostic" than anything else to begin with anyways.

Having come as a tourist, a lot of time was spent looking at and talking about the various burial places in the Abbey - King Edward, Queen Elizabeth I, Queen Mary, and so on. And we're just one of these groups of tourists shuffling through the place, looking at these grand old sarcophaguses holding the remains of these people who were so very influential in their own time, and I can't help but feel both that if any semblance of who they were is still there then they're watching me as I pass through; and at the same time the embeleshment of their graves, descriptions of the things they did in life, and the sheer space of time leaves me feeling utterly distinct and separate from them. I knew - know - that they logically cannot directly act on the world today, but some amount of the presence they had can still be felt.

The bit about my agnosticism might explain the lack of any feeling of bringing people together in unity, I think. When I walked into the Abbey I recognized that the place was considered a house of God and tried to be duly respectful of it as such, but I sort of... lack the ties to Christian deity that might help with that feeling unification. We were in the building when the priest gave one of his on-the-hour speeches, and for someone who was devout perhaps that would have inspired a feeling of connection with God, but for me it just inspired admiration of the building's acoustics.

And the living/dead split that the poem focuses on a bit was further inspired by how, in the very back of the Abbey, there is this section where people who have been knighted into the Order of the Bath have flags with their family crests hung up. It just struck me as rather odd and jarring; all of these elaborate tombs honoring the dead, and suddenly colorful flags to commemorate the achievements of the still-living?

Also, if you'll pardon my being the crusty old Elizabethan (when I'm very much not), I wonder if we're being a little too free with the base sonnet form here in that particular poem.

The evident ABAB CDCD EFEF GG of both that and *Scharnhorst* threw me just a bit with the sometimes wild lack of iambs and the highly irregular meter. I'm as big a fan of modern poetry as most -and by that I mean I am quite iffy on it- but I do think that irregularity should still serve the flow of ideas. Your ideas are there for sure, but the flow of them and the way they keep place and pace through the meter could use some work.

There's a reason sonnets tried to keep to five iambs a line (unstressed-syllable to stressed-syllable) - to make reading in the author's world an easier experience flow-wise. Therefore any reversal or change in flow should be intentional. That is why, say, Lear's "never, never, never, never, never" in Act 5 Scene 3 of King Lear is powerful in context. His world is reversed, upside-down and wrong, and as such five trochees (stressed-syllable to unstressed-syllable) are used instead of the usual five iambs or some variant thereof to emphasize that; variants which, as you might be aware, were common enough anyway.

Hm. Some of that might be that I'm not exactly trying to convey ideas, as it were; in Westminster I'm trying to convey an impression, a feeling - possibly multiple. And in *Scharnhorst* I'm more almost trying to tell a story, a brief overview of the ship's life from her own perspective. That might contribute somewhat to the differences between what you're expecting and what you're seeing, maybe?

Nonetheless, I must confess that I've never fully grasped the usage of the iamb or the iambic pentameter. A few different times I have written something that I had thought followed the proper pattern of unstressed-stressed, only to be later informed that I did, in fact, wildly break from the pattern. This feeds into issues with knowing that I have kept it to five; if I cannot tell if I have used an iamb, how can I tell if I used five of them?

Further, I have run into difficulties in the past with having enough space to say what I wish within the structure of the iambic pentameter. Speaking for myself, I would rather break the pentameter and paint the metaphorical portrait that I want to in full than to obey the pentameter and leave things half-done.

That being said, my own method is the much less stringent "does it read through with a good flow, from line to line and verse to verse?" and I must confess here that I am not as happy with Westminster and *Scharnhorst* than I have been with previous works. There are transitions and word choices that are a tad... jarring, is the best word I can think of for it. I might come back later with a clearer head to see if I can smooth it over, but as of the immediate moment I cannot see how I would change it overmuch without losing what they are intended to convey.

Ultimately, I work with the ABAB CDCD EFEF GG rhyming layout and verse set because that setup is what I feel I know best and can work with to greatest effect at this time. Since these are two of three characteristics of the Shakespearian sonnet I characterize my works as that, particularly because I will sometimes find that I have in fact fallen within the "proper" iambic pentameter by chance and because it satisfied the qualification of flow best for that work. If my deviations from the iambic pentameter are enough to leave a work or works outside that category, however, then I suppose creating a new deviation on the sonnet poetry style is hardly a new thing.

Thank you very much for the constructive criticism, I daresay you've left me with a few things to mull over.
 
What I was trying to do with Westminster was capture the sort of feeling that I got while visiting the Abbey. Now something to be understood with that is that I was firstly visiting the place as a tourist, not as someone come to worship; and secondly that I fall more under the label of "agnostic" than anything else to begin with anyways.

Ah, that explains quite a great deal of it for me, I would say! I think you captured the sense of distance quite well.

And the living/dead split that the poem focuses on a bit was further inspired by how, in the very back of the Abbey, there is this section where people who have been knighted into the Order of the Bath have flags with their family crests hung up. It just struck me as rather odd and jarring; all of these elaborate tombs honoring the dead, and suddenly colorful flags to commemorate the achievements of the still-living?

While I cannot claim to be British in any way apart from having lived there a while in my childhood and an ongoing postcolonial negotiation of thought, I would think that it is a symbol of continuity of sorts - that those who lie here were the protectors and Britain's best in the past...and that 'as then, so now.'

Hm. Some of that might be that I'm not exactly trying to convey ideas, as it were; in Westminster I'm trying to convey an impression, a feeling - possibly multiple. And in *Scharnhorst* I'm more almost trying to tell a story, a brief overview of the ship's life from her own perspective. That might contribute somewhat to the differences between what you're expecting and what you're seeing, maybe?

Well, as far as I'm concerned an impression is an idea, or at the least the spidery-handed sketch of a concept...so we're not really in conflict here? I was thinking more about the way the impression itself is laid out for you to read.

Nonetheless, I must confess that I've never fully grasped the usage of the iamb or the iambic pentameter. A few different times I have written something that I had thought followed the proper pattern of unstressed-stressed, only to be later informed that I did, in fact, wildly break from the pattern. This feeds into issues with knowing that I have kept it to five; if I cannot tell if I have used an iamb, how can I tell if I used five of them?

Further, I have run into difficulties in the past with having enough space to say what I wish within the structure of the iambic pentameter. Speaking for myself, I would rather break the pentameter and paint the metaphorical portrait that I want to in full than to obey the pentameter and leave things half-done.

Well, uh...then there's no way to sugarcoat your experience. I think those people just do not know what an iamb or pentameter is, end of story.

It's either that or they are an example of vernacular variations in English pronunciation and questions of their veracity/acceptability, which is a whole new postcolonial can of worms I would rather not open here.

An iamb is simply unstressed-stressed, while pentameter just means there are five in a line...so that's iambic pentameter - five iambs in a line. Also, it is indeed as you say that variations on the form are and were common even in their time. There was literally a practice (among many others) known as the volta, where they would insert a line that wasn't 5 iambs just to show that this was where the theme of their sonnet turns and such.

It's a matter of visible intention...and the fine line between writing poetry and prose, which Scharnhorst toes with divided results. On the one hand, I thought 'Contact!' as a trochee -or indeed as a stressed-stressed spondee!- to set the pace of battle was a beautiful touch. On the other, the very last line of Section EFEF feels over-long and not punchy enough. What was it said again? 'We do these things not because they are easy'. It is something of an art form to express all you wish in five iambs. Nonetheless to break with it is also an artistic choice, and I think we should fall somewhere in the middle of two, as you do - and I try to do.

So yeah, keep it up for sure. And you've given me some things to think about too so it's all good.
 
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Loss
Loss

I have trouble recalling the time it's been
Time since they passed away.
Is the count in months or years since they were seen?
One, or two, or four, or more, I can't say.

They were wonderful when they were here.
We used to laugh and play and jest all day,
And in sorrow we'd reach out with naught to fear.
Can you remember it as it was, before you went away?

I can't help but remember still
The times we played without care
Or when you got your favorite meal
And of your absence I am ever more aware.

I wish, I wish, I wish that a message to you I could send
But against my will our time together reached its end.
 
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Break
Break

Is it possible to just - break?
To snap in parts and sunder
With nary a warning creak
Nor ominous crash of thunder?

For a mind to twist itself to ribbon
For emotions to tangle their threads
When nowhere are causes hidden
And where danger never treads?

Can feelings be made foul
Without trauma first visiting?
By hearing another's howl
Can one fall by just listening?

Is it possible to just - break?
I ask for my own sake.
 
Strength
Strength

Persevere my friend
Even through this pain
Beg off from the end
Do not let yourself be slain

It hurts to carry on
And no relief is given
But if you are gone
The others'd give in

You may well be bent
But you must not break
Into dark you are sent
But in light you awake

Persevere my friend, though you grow weary too
If you fall, then the rest of the way I shall carry you
 
Free Market Death March
Free Market Death March

So what then is your age?
Seventeen? On your feet, then,
No time for rest, nor for rage,
You're one of the Death March Men.

The market is free and without limitation,
And you are now Product Two-Hundred-Ten.
This is cause for celebration!
But not for the Death March Men.

Tired? Do you wish to rest?
No! Not 'till someone dies again,
And still not then for a sick test.
So it is for Death March Men.

But don't feel lonely Product Two-Hundred-Ten,
All of us here are Death March Men.
 
Be Over, Never Occur
Be Over, Never Occur

Heart in my throat,
Stomach in foreclosure,
Mind in rote,
I wish it'd be over

Dark impending,
Despair's murmur,
Doom rending,
I wish it'd never occur

Fretful rising,
I wish it'd be over
Anxiety building,
I wish it'd never occur

Time to stop or time to banish,
Which is the more foolish wish
 
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