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  1. #1
    Guardian of sffworld
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    Dec 2000
    Columbus, Georgia, USA

    Anyone else write poetry? Just curious.

    OK. I'm a little bored here at work today. But it is an honest question.

    So, . . . anyone out there write poetry or do you all just write fantasy, horror, and sci fi?

  2. #2
    Snazzy Dancer Alucard's Avatar
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    Jul 2001
    I live in my own little world . . . or one of its suburbs.
    I do, but it's usually pretty bizarre. I just start with absolutely no subject in mind, and see where it ends up by the time I've filled up a page. I usually feel pretty pleased with it, but I doubt it would make any sense to anyone else...

    Maybe I'll post one sometime and see what happens....

  3. #3
    Senior Member
    Join Date
    Sep 2001
    Fort Worth, Texas, USA
    I have written a lot of poetry. I have some samples on my website. I also include poetry in my novels, sometimes as introductory pieces and occasionally as an intrinsic part of the story. It offers a means of expression that can enhance prose artistically. Sometimes I can state a thought poetically that doesn't carry as well by narrative means. It is a classic decision, whether to dribble in patterns, dabble with prose or draw with odes.

  4. #4
    Keeping The Equilibrium Erebus's Avatar
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    Mar 2001
    I have been known to dabble with the odd poem from time to time, and actually have an e-book of comtemporary poetry entitled Visions of Transition.

  5. #5
    Senior Member Giarc's Avatar
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    May 2000
    Washington, USA. ex New Zealand
    I too occasionally dabble with it. In fact, the only short story I have submitted here was quasi-poetry. (The Clown Prince of Fools by Craig Dolphin.) Not into rhyme myself.Of course, the setting for it is fantasy so I thought it qualified being listed here.

  6. #6
    I write tons of poetry. Gobbs. I had to stop. It was too much. I also write rap, short stories and novels.

    Now if I could only make a LIVING at it......

    You can e-mail me if you want to read some of the poetry. I'll send you the link.


  7. #7
    My last story posted, The Life Union, actualy ends with a poem. Actualy the poem was the reason the story was written. If anything skip to the last page of it and read the poem

  8. #8
    Books of Pellinor alison's Avatar
    Join Date
    Nov 2001
    Yes, I've been writing poetry full-time for the past decade.

    Fantasy gives me a chance to use rhyme, which I don't much in my other stuff! I love fiddling around with difficult metrics.



  9. #9
    Guardian of sffworld
    Join Date
    Dec 2000
    Columbus, Georgia, USA
    Alison, I’ve finally been able to read a few of your poems. I rather enjoyed reading them. I must say that Medea, in particular, has me rather intrigued.

    [This message has been edited by KATS (edited December 09, 2001).]

  10. #10
    Join Date
    Nov 2001
    Houston, TX, USA
    I once was assigned a poem and here come the flames because of its length:

    Arvada and the Boars

    After sailing from the Cyclops’ island, Odysseus and his men head for the island of Aoelia. While en route to the home of the wind king, Odysseus’ ships come across a small isle, uncharted on the map. His famed curiosity pulls Odysseus towards the isle, and he defers sailing for the island of Aoelia. One of his crewmen proposes the name “Calagea” for the newfound island, and Odysseus approves.
    Odysseus’ ships have discovered a small river coursing inland the isle, but the ships are too large to navigate it. Odysseus decides to explore the island solo, while some of his crewmembers forage the island for food.
    Odysseus is still speaking to the court of King Alcinous.

    “Into a hidden cove the ships sailed,
    anchors cast into the lapping waters.
    Now my men unloaded the cluster of rafts:
    small, crude vessels of oak, old beams tied
    5 at both ends. Our group, a score, rowed unto
    the mouth of a river. Placid it was,
    with currents of crystal: it was here
    that we diverged: I, to tread this navy serpent;
    my men, to search for game and fowl. With quick strokes,
    10 my oar cut the water, and ere long
    the banks, adorned with the figures of my men,
    fled my sight. To the sides of the river stood,
    like a great arch of Nature, a canopy—
    oaks and beeches, intimately embraced;
    15 a profusion of leaves hung overhead,
    shading from Helios’ radiance.
    Passing under this verdant arch, I discovered
    a lake: small and still was this basin;
    as I passed the oar into the water,
    20 I descried a colony of houses.
    And now came a rush of anguish: Ithaca
    stole into my mind—Penelope,
    dear wife she was. These thoughts were promptly borne away,
    on wings of shock, as my eyes took in this solitary hamlet .
    25 Bereft of life these abodes appeared: no souls
    stirred among their premises. Ensnared, I was,
    in Curiosity’s grasp: I rowed with vigor
    and beached my raft fast. In the veldt, a tiger will
    stalk the gazelle; he will pounce on his victim
    30 with a flurry of fur, and have his meal—
    just so did I spring onto the sandy shore.

    Odysseus enters the village, mooring his boat at the empty pier. He finds a brick road leading from the pier into the hamlet, and follows its path.

    My footfalls echoed in this lifeless place—
    oh it was strange, I tell you—this labyrinth:
    tiny houses with roofs of thatch, and doors
    35 wide open, revealing an obscurity of death.
    A scent of cedar greeted my nostrils,
    guiding with mastery my feet inward land.
    And faithful guide it proved, for a bridge was
    revealed at this hamlet’s end. I tread the old beams
    40 and saw under my feet the navy serpent;
    but a dash ‘twas across the way, and now
    I met land once more—trees were fled, and
    into this meadow I strode. A profusion of
    Sun-kissed flowers gave welcome to this place:
    45 a sight arresting my step emerged—
    a house, imposing in antiquity,
    and smoke issuing from the chimney!—
    but nay, this shock would not suffice, for there emerged
    a crone from the entrance: the door flew open
    50 and out she shuffled. With eyes of a hawk she saw me:

    ‘Approach, man! Advance upon my abode!’

    she declared. I sped with utmost haste unto
    her side as she descended the stairs: Curiosity
    leapt for my vocals and suddenly spouted:

    55 ‘Where are gone the villagers in yonder town?’

    The veiled figure eased itself onto the grassy lawn.

    ‘Anxious man!
    Surely I may enlighten you if but over steamed tea and fare?’

    The voice of honey entranced me, I admit,
    and I followed the woman into her house.
    60 I was met with a delicious waft of food,
    Nectar and ambrosia could scare compare
    with this divine aroma: an eternity
    elapsed as I proceeded behind the woman,
    whose silence I nay cognized . Of this floor of
    65 the crone’s abode no memory was provoked, save one:
    the victuals, surely come from Olympus.
    Pies and cakes, beef and herring—platters fit for
    Zeus upon his throne. Thoughts had fled and feast I did,
    devouring the banquet until—
    70 how acutely I recall the moment!—
    my wits broke the surface of the sea of spell:

    ‘I am finished.’

    I said with a sickening sigh.
    The crone, swept up in cloak, scolded herself,
    for she had lost thought of my gift.

    75 ‘Take step behind me, man, as I fetch your gift.
    Know me as Arvada, if you may.
    I have lived in this realm for ages,
    since the day the Fates deemed my doom:
    of matters too twined for minds of men,
    80 I shall not divulge; yet take heart that to
    Poseidon I am in debt. We have landed,
    and I shall now present you your gift. Great deeds
    shall you commit with this strong-wrought arm;
    into my quarters we shall now proceed.’

    85 Now Arvada led me into her chamber—
    queer was the feeling coiling my gut as I took in
    the plethoric effigies, talismans, and
    multifarious charms overlying, as would a
    coat of grass the forest floor, the base of her room.
    90 Gliding through these articles, Arvada
    descended upon a rear shelf: from this chestnut
    furnishing, she upraised a sheathed blade. In an aged
    scabbard, she presented this gift. With silence
    taking reign of the place, I bowed before the woman
    95 in humble gratitude. Those eyes of a hawk bid me
    rise—I heeded their command and erected myself.
    The crone turned her ashen countenance the door,
    releasing but one inquiry from her parched lips:

    ‘Man who visits my island, what be your name?’

    100 Now I—oh what recklessness it was of me—gave reply:

    ‘I am the man
    skilled in all ways of contending, whom men hold
    formidable for guile in peace and war.
    I am Laertes’ son, Odysseus.’

    As this last word flowed from my vocals,
    105 a blossom of bright crimson suffused
    the visage of this queer woman; she
    bellowed, with the force of a thousand beasts, :

    ‘Odysseus! Archenemy of my own savior!’

    She turned the entirety of her body
    110 toward my front—at this moment, I acknowledged that
    I had committed a mistake of gravest
    egregiousness, yet was wrapped in beguile from
    the rage exuded from this personage.
    With another roar, she deafeningly let forth:

    115 ‘Sia , oh faithful creatures of might:
    come forth from your lair, I say;
    behold the audacious adversary—he
    strode into this hallowed house with sullied
    hands—now ye shall dine upon his rotten flesh!
    120 Emerge now! Terminate this knave at once!’

    At the enunciation of the accursed name, at which
    a pack of fiendish boars arose—no doubt—
    I tore the scabbard from my sword, and plunged
    the blade into the evil woman.
    125 But I slashed naught save a bit of air:
    the witch had fled the room, and her footfalls
    resounded on the wooden steps. I flew in
    pursuit, like a fleeting blur. I descended
    the stairs with godly rapidity, my
    130 inflamed eyes riveted upon the evanescent
    gray cowl retreating to the door. In seeming
    impatience, Time himself accelerated so that
    I was promptly alighted upon the lawn.
    Here the witch halted: a disdainful smile appeared
    135 upon her haggard face. Of the source of this newfound
    pride I had no second’s repose to ponder—
    an infernal series of growls issued yonder,
    and tempted my eyes revelation.
    Dire it was—oh, even Curiosity
    140 mocked me now—a score of boars stood huddled as one.
    I approached the beasts with caution, sword
    taunting them with the gleam upon its blade—
    without warning, the boars charged: the witch had faded
    from my vision and flown from my thoughts.
    145 As the boars advanced with bearing tusks, fear stabbed
    my heart with a vicious force—The beasts shall
    overpower me! Their snarls engulfed my ears,
    and my hands began to falter their clenching grip.
    It was in that decisive second that a great
    150 thunderclap boomed from the heavens; a dazzling
    ray of lightning ripped the air and smote the boars:
    brilliant light exploded from the place, severing
    the sepia life-threads that had sustained
    the witch’s pets. As the scene fast revealed,
    155 what had been the boars was now a heap of flesh—
    in semblance as if come from Hades.
    I turned my head to the firmament, and spoke:

    ‘Most gracious Zeus, he who reigneth upon
    Olympus’ high peak: I am in interminable
    160 gratitude to thine scarce past endeavor—
    yon extrication hath slain the vile boars.’

    Ere had I concluded of this thanks when,
    from my rear, I was tackled by a boar.
    The cumbrous creature felled me to the soil,
    165 and ripped my attire with his sharpened tusks.
    With forefront in the ground, I grappled for arms—
    my sword had flown out of reach—and by the ruth
    of the Fates my hand struck a bough. I grasped this
    newfound lance and thrust its shaven end into
    170 the flank of my molester. A keening wail issued
    from the animal’s throat as its heart was impaled—
    I relished even this strident death-cry, for now
    the bane was dead. I rose from the limp body to
    meet those ubiquitous eyes of a hawk.
    175 Blanched was that wrinkled face, with an overt
    tinge of trepidation. I strode over
    to the motionless woman, now emasculated
    from the demise of her swine. I upraised my sword,
    and lifted its sheath. With wry solemnity I uttered:

    180 ‘My dear Arvada, enchantress gone awry—
    the Fates sneer at you this day: for you were
    slain by the selfsame sword you handed
    to the foe as visitation gift.’

    I ceased my speech and slashed at the stoic hag—
    185 A tiger’s paw rends his prey’s throat,
    passing in a graceful arc across the animal’s flesh—
    in this manner my sword gouged the witch’s neck;
    with silence as her sole companion, Arvada
    left the realm of men and descended to Hades.

    After slaying Arvada, Odysseus collects his thoughts. Still dumbfounded as to what happened to the villagers, yet starting to suspect Arvada, he returns to the village. Here, he finds to his amazement that the villagers are returned. The townsfolk are all congregated in the center of the hamlet around a solitary figure—none other than the god Apollo! Odysseus arrives at the town center and the crowd silences.

    190 With utmost awe I neared the jubilant citizens,
    and that central personage—Phoebus Apollo.

    ‘Welcome, Odysseus’

    said the ethereal being, while the mortals looked on.

    ‘You have killed the accursed Calagaen boars; you have slain
    the witch Arvada; you have broken the charm
    195 over this town; and you have avenged
    the death of my son, Pelyous . For these deeds of
    valiance, I cannot conceive of aught recompense save one.’

    At this, the villagers bowed their heads
    and from their midst emerged a man. As he neared
    200 my side, his figure provoked a long-shunned memory—
    no, it cannot be him—I told myself,
    yet my eyes affirmed this absurd conclusion.

    The man spoke:

    ‘It is I, Jobeus, returned from the grave.
    Apollo, oh great god of kindness,
    205 lifted me from the depths of Hades,
    reinstated my soul, and resurrected
    my body. Old friend, I am here now.’

    Quivering breaths escaped my vocals
    as Jobeus advanced: incredulity
    210 clung fast upon my heart. But then it could
    hold no longer, and I embraced my old friend.
    Now the crowd was dispersed and Apollo gone:
    Jobeus and I commenced a walk across the bridge
    and over the navy serpent—the reception
    215 of Sun-kissed flowers gave me deferent
    bows in the wind as I entered one last time
    to fetch my sword. I lifted the blade and scabbard
    off the lawn and rid them of blood. With arm in sheath,
    I led Jobeus to the river: we tread the
    220 crystal waters ‘til reaching the serpent’s mouth.
    At this place we converged with the forage score.
    Laden with deer and hare we returned
    to the anchored ships. Thus I recounted the tale:

    ‘The navy serpent beckoned me with flowing call….’”

    Odysseus tells all of his men about his adventures with Arvada and the boars. The ships remain anchored that day, embarking on the journey to the island of Aoelia the following morning.

  11. #11
    Keeping The Equilibrium Erebus's Avatar
    Join Date
    Mar 2001
    Hi Feacus,

    We have reminded others, as we have yourself, that the forum topics really aren't the place for such long posts. Is it possible that you could perhaps just post an extract from your work and include a link to your web site so that the rest can be read there?

    This is not a criticism mind, merely the asking of a favour to help control the amount of server space on the Forum, which tends to run slow when it's swamped with massive posts.

    Alternatively, submit your work into the Story section, where it will be posted in a user friendly format complete with a voting box so readers can give you real feedback, as it were. I know we've been a little slow getting the posts processed, and I apologise for that, but we're getting there and working really hard to catch up. We all have other jobs as well as volunteering here, and can only do so much in a 24 hour day!

    Thanks for your understanding!

    Cheers, Neil

  12. #12
    Join Date
    Nov 2001
    Houston, TX, USA

  13. #13
    Books of Pellinor alison's Avatar
    Join Date
    Nov 2001
    Hi Kats

    So you've looked at my "other" life? Glad you liked Medea, it's written in a form called the pantun, which is actually incredibly difficult, even though it looks so simple. I really like the repetitions, they give a poem a very particular music.

    Just for the hell of it, here's a fantasy poem, my take on Anglo-Saxon alliteration, which I also love - though the line endings will probably get stuffed up in the window -

    Glad was the world, and golden the greenwood
    In dawndays of Ulnar, unstained and undarkened
    When strode Mercan Goldhand singing in sunlight,
    Lord of a proud people, fearless and prescient,
    Singers of Maldan, matchless in magecraft,
    But master of all was Mercan the Maker:
    Deepest in lore among lordly Loresingers,
    Arestor¹s firstling, the archmage of artists,
    Tongued with the star speech, speller of seasons,
    Singing the spring on Lir¹s silver waters.
    Long were the days then, and bright laughter lingered
    Long in the halls where the high people harkened,
    Lost now in legend, lamented by Loremen
    Reckoning ruins to raise the remembering.
    Great grew the houses, gilded with glory
    Over the mere where the melt waters murmured.
    High then the heart-home, where held Mercan hearth-feast,
    Golden the light on the lost land of Lirion.

    Cheers all


  14. #14
    Guardian of sffworld
    Join Date
    Dec 2000
    Columbus, Georgia, USA
    I saw the pattern and I appreciated how complex it actually is. I’ve recently looked at Edgar Allen Poe’s style. It’s like every word he wrote was chosen for a very specific reason. It's amazing.

    I’ve written a few poems about my worlds, but they just don’t seem right. Those poems come across, to me anyway, as being forced. I think it’s because my poetry is generally about deep issues. Things that I’m emotionally charged about, whereas my stories are just stories. So my poems that are for my stories are written with less emotion.

    Does that make sense? Anyone else have this problem?

  15. #15
    Join Date
    Nov 2001
    Houston, TX, USA
    I dare someone to read my poem

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