November 2nd, 2001, 06:50 AM
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?
November 2nd, 2001, 08:02 AM
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....
November 2nd, 2001, 09:33 AM
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.
November 2nd, 2001, 12:38 PM
Keeping The Equilibrium
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.
November 3rd, 2001, 01:05 PM
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.
November 5th, 2001, 09:00 AM
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.
November 7th, 2001, 04:32 PM
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
December 2nd, 2001, 07:48 AM
Books of Pellinor
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.
December 9th, 2001, 10:48 AM
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).]
December 9th, 2001, 01:37 PM
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.
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.
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.
December 10th, 2001, 01:38 AM
Keeping The Equilibrium
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!
December 10th, 2001, 02:07 PM
December 11th, 2001, 06:29 PM
Books of Pellinor
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.
December 12th, 2001, 03:56 AM
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?
December 12th, 2001, 01:12 PM
I dare someone to read my poem