Poetry thread anyone?

Ariadne

I seem to be climbing the walls due to steroid-induced mood swings and I decided to write a poem since sleep seems to be more of an idea than a state of consciousness right now. I haven't written anything since I was fifteen and I'm no poet but it helped to get something off my chest. I thought it could be a nice little thread for others to do the same.

Burned

Every raw nerve is exposed. Burned down until it's revealed. The slightest breeze is agony, the mildest brush past me an orgy of suffering. A harsh word the worst of all.

Longing to be wrapped up in a womb, a cocoon of warmth and safety. To chrysalis myself.

The earth is too painful a place, too full of mundane horrors.

It is too tender to even wrap myself in the softest of blankets, I have no protection from the elements. I am completely naked and revealed to all. There is nowhere to hide, to conceal myself. Nowhere to seal away the shame, no little cubbyhole in my heart to shield the emotions.

I must bear it.

I must bear it.

Your Face

I must bear it also.

I'm half asleep. Threw this jumble together.



D, the clay tagine dish is on the top shelf of the hot press.
You were supposed to collect it or I was supposed to bring it. I can't remember anymore.
It wasn't yesterday or last week or even last year. It was before.
Before my life became the water in a sink with the stopper pulled out.

That was a bit grim of me.

Here is something more, erm, light


There once was a lady called Ariadne
Amazing and kind and beautiful was she
Only one wish this woman had
To no longer be driven so mad
By those pesky steroids her lungs did need
As they caused her poor nerves to shatter and bleed.

Roger Hassenforder

Threw this haiku together

Fcuk. I hate poems
They are absolute scutter.
Long are the days

jcorr

Op definitely on the beer. Or something worse!

Montage of Feck

Kurt Cobain took cocaine,
Shot himself in the head,
Now he's dead,

ILoveYourVibes

Ariadne wrote: »

I seem to be climbing the walls due to steroid-induced mood swings and I decided to write a poem since sleep seems to be more of an idea than a state of consciousness right now. I haven't written anything since I was fifteen and I'm no poet but it helped to get something off my chest. I thought it could be a nice little thread for others to do the same.

Burned

Every raw nerve is exposed.

I think that is what they mean when they say someone is burned in. They touched a nerve.

Tikki Wang Wang

I’m eating my breakfast, Kate.

Zaph

Roger Hassenforder wrote: »

Threw this haiku together

Fcuk. I hate poems
They are absolute scutter.
Long are the days

In a similar vein

Poetry is ****
Complete pretentious nonsense
All poets must die

Ah crap, I just wrote a poem

McMurphy

Here's me sat, with two cheeks parted
I'm trying to poop but only farted.
A strong fart it was, it even rattled the bowl.
And from what I can see, it's scorched the hairs around my hole.


Do I win?

ILoveYourVibes

Johnny Dogs wrote: »

Here's me sat, with two checks parted
I'm trying to poop but only farted.
A strong fart it was, it even rattled the bowl.
And from what I can see, it's scorched the hairs around my hole.


Do I win?

Pretty strong rhythmically JD.

Ariadne

[Deleted User] wrote: »

It wasn't yesterday or last week or even last year. It was before.
Before my life became the water in a sink with the stopper pulled out.

My favourite part.

Ariadne

[Deleted User] wrote: »

That was a bit grim of me.

Here is something more, erm, light


There once was a lady called Ariadne
Amazing and kind and beautiful was she
Only one wish this woman had
To no longer be driven so mad
By those pesky steroids her lungs did need
As they caused her poor nerves to shatter and bleed.

Aww that was lovely Perse. Now if only it were true but sure you know yourself flattery gets you everywhere with me thank you

Ariadne

Ariadne wrote: »

My favourite part.

x

frag420

I don’t have the time
To learn how to rhyme
And because I know it
I’m now a poet...bitch!

Ariadne

AH poem:

If I were a dog and you were a flower I'd lift up my leg and give you a shower

diusmr8a504cvk

Swiggity Swooty, I'm coming for that booty.

diusmr8a504cvk

Hippity Hoppoty, your asshole is my property.

Immortal Starlight

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Timber is thick
And so are you.

gozunda

One from previous ...

The fly flew down the flue
He flew it straight and true
But once a fire was lit he fled
The flames were quicker than the fly
as he flew up the flue  - fly now is dead

Noveight

1 was a racehorse.
2 was 1 2.
1 1 a race
2 1 1 2.

Graces7

difference between poetry and the rhyming doggerel here; :eek:

Lil Sally Anne Jnr.

a little known fact about kurt cobain
is that he was a prostitute serving men all night and all day,
travelling around from one town to the next,
until he was discovered by a record exec.

fryup

apples be ripe
nuts be brown
petticoats up
trousers down

@spike milligan

Hammer89

I like Emmet Kirwan's latest spoken word piece. Forgive me if I can't recite it, but it's about him hovering in a helicopter about 50 meters above the Spike in O'Connell Street, and he pushes bankers out, impaling them. I think it's called Skewers for Whores, but said in a Dublin accent so the 'whores' was pronounced 'whooo-were'.

One lady finger snapped so hard that her index just broke off, but Emmet put it back together, much like how Jesus reattached a guard's ear in the Garden of Gethsemane.

It's about timw this thread had some real poetry. This is CROW by Ted Hughes.

When I was 17 I rewrote the Crow poems (CROW is really a very varied series of poems -- happy, silly, cruel, sad) for a girl I was in love with. Goodness knows how I'm still a virgin and living with Mother.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_Ml6UehFhG0

Hammer89

Hammer89 wrote: »

I like Emmet Kirwan's latest spoken word piece. Forgive me if I can't recite it, but it's about him hovering in a helicopter about 50 meters above the Spike in O'Connell Street, and he pushes bankers out, impaling them. I think it's called Skewers for Whores, but said in a Dublin accent so the 'whores' was pronounced 'whooo-were'.

One lady finger snapped so hard that her index just broke off, but Emmet put it back together, much like how Jesus reattached a guard's ear in the Garden of Gethsemane.

I don't know the one you're referring to, but Kirwan is a master of his art. This one was hugely relevant to a lot of people who found themselves saying goodbye to most of their friends during the last recession

Aimless Love

This morning as I walked along the lakeshore,
I fell in love with a wren
and later in the day with a mouse
the cat had dropped under the dining room table.
 
In the shadows of an autumn evening,
I fell for a seamstress
still at her machine in the tailor’s window,
and later for a bowl of broth,
steam rising like smoke from a naval battle.
 
This is the best kind of love, I thought,
without recompense, without gifts,
or unkind words, without suspicion,
or silence on the telephone.
 
The love of the chestnut,
the jazz cap and one hand on the wheel.
 
No lust, no slam of the door –
the love of the miniature orange tree,
the clean white shirt, the hot evening shower,
the highway that cuts across Florida.
 
No waiting, no huffiness, or rancor –
just a twinge every now and then
 
for the wren who had built her nest
on a low branch overhanging the water
and for the dead mouse,
still dressed in its light brown suit.
 
But my heart is always propped up
in a field on its tripod,
ready for the next arrow.
 
After I carried the mouse by the tail
to a pile of leaves in the woods,
I found myself standing at the bathroom sink
gazing down affectionately at the soap,
 
so patient and soluble,
so at home in its pale green soap dish.
I could feel myself falling again
as I felt its turning in my wet hands
and caught the scent of lavender and stone.

Billy Collins



I love poetry and this is one of my new favourites.

Roses are red
Violets are glorious
Don't shut the door
On Oscar Pistorious