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I don't really like poetry, but who can say no to a little Wilde?


It was night-time and He was alone.


And He saw afar-off the walls of a round city and went towards the city.


And when He came near He heard within the city the tread of the feet of joy, and the laughter of the mouth of gladness and the loud noise of many lutes. And He knocked at the gate and certain of the gatekeepers opened to Him.


And He beheld a house that was of marble and had fair pillars of marble before it. The pillars were hung with garlands, and within and without there were torches of cedar. And He entered the house.


And when He had passed through the hall of chalcedony and the hall of jasper, and reached the long hall of feasting, He saw lying on a couch of sea-purple one whose hair was crowned with red roses and whose lips were red with wine.


And He went behind him and touched him on the shoulder and said to him, `Why do you live like this?'


And the young man turned round and recognised Him, and made answer and said, `But I was a leper once, and you healed me. How else should I live?'


And He passed out of the house and went again into the street.


And after a little while He saw one whose face and raiment were painted and whose feet were shod with pearls. And behind her came, slowly as a hunter, a young man who wore a cloak of two colours. Now the face of the woman was as the fair face of an idol, and the eyes of the young man were bright with lust.


And He followed swiftly and touched the hand of the young man and said to him, `Why do you look at this woman and in such wise?'


And the young man turned round and recognised Him and said, `But I was blind once, and you gave me sight. At what else should I look?'


And He ran forward and touched the painted raiment of the woman and said to her, `Is there no other way in which to walk save the way of sin?'


And the woman turned round and recognised Him, and laughed and said, `But you forgave me my sins, and the way is a pleasant way.'


And He passed out of the city.


And when He had passed out of the city He saw seated by the roadside a young man who was weeping.


And He went towards him and touched the long locks of his hair and said to him, `Why are you weeping?'


And the young man looked up and recognised Him and made answer, `But I was dead once and you raised me from the dead. What else should I do but weep?'


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I don't really like poetry, but who can say no to a little Wilde?


I know I can't.


Yeah, I get very wobbly over poetry. I'll find out the list of poets/poems I made last time this came up (and of course add a few people I've discovered since then), but I don't know if I'll share anything I've written; I didn't always get the best reaction on here in the past, and I've read enough to be more critical of my own work. :p

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My first two good poems are on my website, but they're not very accessible. Here are three of my more recent poems, from this year.


The first one is "Maddish Krulb's Radish Bulb". It's lengthy, and it rhymes. Rhyming is not something most of my poems feature, but this one rhymes. here


Next is "Florpishnoy, Dloo-Prum, Jidknarf". You may recognize the title from my Spidweb forums Location message from years ago. I've composed numerous acrostic poems centered around gibberish words, and I'm quite fond of writing them. here


Last is "Poeshrub". It's got no rhyme or meter, like most of my poetry. here


These poems are MINE and YOU CAN'T HAVE THEM OR USE THEM OR PROFIT FROM THEM, but you may enjoy reading them. I hope to publish a book of poetry some day, and these three will be in it.


EDIT: Fixed the links to my newly updated site.

Edited by The Almighty Doer of Stuff
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Kublah Khan by Coleridge:



In Xanadu did Kubla Khan

A stately pleasure-dome decree:

Where Alph, the sacred river, ran

Through caverns measureless to man

Down to a sunless sea.

So twice five miles of fertile ground

With walls and towers were girdled round:

And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,

Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;

And here were forests ancient as the hills,

Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.


But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted

Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!

A savage place! as holy and enchanted

As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted

By woman wailing for her demon-lover!

And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,

As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,

A mighty fountain[1] momently[2] was forced:

Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst

Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,

Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:

And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever

It flung up momently the sacred river.

Five miles meandering with a mazy motion

Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,

Then reached the caverns measureless to man,

And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:

And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far

Ancestral voices prophesying war!


The shadow of the dome of pleasure

Floated midway on the waves;

Where was heard the mingled measure

From the fountain and the caves.

It was a miracle of rare device,

A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!

A damsel with a dulcimer

In a vision once I saw:

It was an Abyssinian maid,

And on her dulcimer she played,

Singing of Mount Abora.

Could I revive within me

Her symphony and song,

To such a deep delight 'twould win me,

That with music loud and long,

I would build that dome in air,

That sunny dome! those caves of ice!

And all who heard should see them there,

And all should cry, Beware! Beware!

His flashing eyes, his floating hair!

Weave a circle round him thrice,

And close your eyes with holy dread,

For he on honey-dew hath fed,

And drunk the milk of Paradise.



Ozymandias by Percy Shelly.



I met a traveller from an antique land

Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone

Stand in the desart. Near them, on the sand,

Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,

And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,

The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed:

And on the pedestal these words appear:

"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:

Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare

The lone and level sands stretch far away.



Many soliloquys by Shakespeare and from Goethe's Faust (and Goethe's poems), but I can't currently point to any particular favorites by the former, and the latter doesn't usually translate into English well.


But anyway:



Über allen Gipfeln

Ist Ruh,

In allen Wipfeln

Spürest du

Kaum einen Hauch;

Die Vögelein schweigen im Walde.

Warte nur, balde

Ruhest du auch.


And a loose translation for style:


Up there all summits

are still.

In all the tree-tops

you will

feel but the dew.

The birds in the forest stopped talking.

Soon, done with walking,

you shall rest, too.



I've written some stuff myself, but it isn't really up for quoting here. Part of it is archived on Shadow Vale.





oh, I actually like this one. Forgot I'd written anything like it.





By the lake the sun forever

Sinking, and the sound of evening

In the endless song of crickets

Never rising, never falling

Still enduring now and ever:

Sun, though setting, never sets.


Sky so stained with clouds of crimson

Wild and wicked, seeming storm-tossed

Yet no breeze to break the boundless

Silence, while the sun - a lamp-post

From a scene of Revelation -

Through the trees like fire glows.


By the shore, a ruined tower

On the sands, by shadows fenced:

Blackened form against the sunset

Never sleeping, watchful 'gainst

The coming nightfall, dark and dour

Its portentous bulk is set.


Wrathful grumbling mid the painted

Clouds is sounding: Thunder calling

For the Stormwind's awful might

Lightning strikes with crackling power

Shattering the ruined tower

And the spell is ended, roaring

Rain to wash the tainted

Air like endless tears is falling

And the day goes down to night.




In other news, I still can't type Shadow Vale without typing Shadow Value^H^He. My fingers have a built-in autocomplete.

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That SV link reminds me that 1) I miss Zeviz, and 2) I was way obnoxious.


As an apology, here's the only piece I've ever published/received money for:





Two plus the world.


The night slinks slow over the wood-chipped walls

creating a valley of shadows,

an intrigue never to be explored.


With a testing push against creaking windows

they send the wind to envelop,

but our foundations withstand


the onslaught of rain comes slowly, at first,

but shattering glass as shards of ice

clatter-splatter-smash against the panes.


Inside the spider’s web, the light flickers,

and the house of cards before us wavers.

Gentle hands stop it falling down,


until the door is opened, and the outside lamps

burn away the shadows and intrigue,

as echoing voices bring down the walls.



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i have seen with my own eyes the Cumaean Sibyl hanging in a jar, and when the boys asked her, "Sibyl, what do you want?" she answered, "I want YOU for U.S. Army"



I. The Burial of the Dead


April is the cruellest month, breeding

Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing

Memory and desire, stirring

Dull roots with spring rain.

Winter kept us warm, covering

Earth in forgetful snow, feeding

A little life with dried tubers.

Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee

With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,

And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,


And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.

Bin gar keine Russin, stamm' aus Litauen, echt deutsch.

And when we were children, staying at the archduke's,

My cousin's, he took me out on a sled,

And I was frightened. He said, Marie,

Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.

In the mountains, there you feel free.

I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.


What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow

Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man


You cannot say, or guess, for you know only

A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,

And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,

And the dry stone no sound of water. Only

There is shadow under this red rock,

(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),

And I will show you something different from either

Your shadow at morning striding behind you

Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;


I will show you fear in a handful of dust.


Frisch weht der Wind

Der Heimat zu

Mein Irisch Kind,

Wo weilest du?


"You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;

They called me the hyacinth girl."

— Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,

Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not

Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither

Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,

Looking into the heart of light, the silence.


Oed' und leer das Meer.


Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,

Had a bad cold, nevertheless

Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe,

With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she,

Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor,

(Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)

Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,

The lady of situations.

Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel,


And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card,

Which is blank, is something he carries on his back,

Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find

The Hanged Man. Fear death by water.

I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring.

Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone,

Tell her I bring the horoscope myself:

One must be so careful these days.


Unreal City,

Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,


A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,

I had not thought death had undone so many.

Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,

And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.

Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,

To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours

With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.

There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying "Stetson!

You who were with me in the ships at Mylae!


That corpse you planted last year in your garden,

Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?

Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?

Oh keep the Dog far hence, that's friend to men,

Or with his nails he'll dig it up again!

You! hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable,—mon frère!"



II. A Game of Chess


The Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne,

Glowed on the marble, where the glass

Held up by standards wrought with fruited vines

From which a golden Cupidon peeped out

(Another hid his eyes behind his wing)

Doubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabra

Reflecting light upon the table as

The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it,

From satin cases poured in rich profusion;


In vials of ivory and coloured glass

Unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes,

Unguent, powdered, or liquid—troubled, confused

And drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air

That freshened from the window, these ascended

In fattening the prolonged candle-flames,

Flung their smoke into the laquearia,

Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling.

Huge sea-wood fed with copper

Burned green and orange, framed by the coloured stone,

In which sad light a carved dolphin swam.


Above the antique mantel was displayed

As though a window gave upon the sylvan scene

The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king

So rudely forced; yet there the nightingale

Filled all the desert with inviolable voice

And still she cried, and still the world pursues,

"Jug Jug" to dirty ears.

And other withered stumps of time

Were told upon the walls; staring forms

Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed.

Footsteps shuffled on the stair.


Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair

Spread out in fiery points

Glowed into words, then would be savagely still.


"My nerves are bad to-night. Yes, bad. Stay with me.

Speak to me. Why do you never speak. Speak.

What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?

I never know what you are thinking. Think."


I think we are in rats' alley

Where the dead men lost their bones.


"What is that noise?"

The wind under the door.

"What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?"

Nothing again nothing.


You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember


I remember

Those are pearls that were his eyes.

"Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?"


O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag—

It's so elegant

So intelligent


"What shall I do now? What shall I do?"

I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street

"With my hair down, so. What shall we do to-morrow?

"What shall we ever do?"

The hot water at ten.

And if it rains, a closed car at four.

And we shall play a game of chess,

Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.


When Lil's husband got demobbed, I said—


I didn't mince my words, I said to her myself,


Now Albert's coming back, make yourself a bit smart.

He'll want to know what you done with that money he gave you

To get yourself some teeth. He did, I was there.

You have them all out, Lil, and get a nice set,

He said, I swear, I can't bear to look at you.

And no more can't I, I said, and think of poor Albert,

He's been in the army four years, he wants a good time,


And if you don't give it him, there's others will, I said.

Oh is there, she said. Something o' that, I said.

Then I'll know who to thank, she said, and give me a straight look.


If you don't like it you can get on with it, I said.

Others can pick and choose if you can't.

But if Albert makes off, it won't be for lack of telling.

You ought to be ashamed, I said, to look so antique.

(And her only thirty-one.)

I can't help it, she said, pulling a long face,


It's them pills I took, to bring it off, she said.

(She's had five already, and nearly died of young George.)

The chemist said it would be alright, but I've never been the same.

You are a proper fool, I said.

Well, if Albert won't leave you alone, there it is, I said,

What you get married for if you don't want children?


Well, that Sunday Albert was home, they had a hot gammon,

And they asked me in to dinner, to get the beauty of it hot—




Goonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight.

Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight.

Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.



III. The Fire Sermon


The river's tent is broken: the last fingers of leaf

Clutch and sink into the wet bank. The wind

Crosses the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed.

Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song.

The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers,

Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends

Or other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are departed.


And their friends, the loitering heirs of city directors;

Departed, have left no addresses.

By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept . . .

Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song,

Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long.

But at my back in a cold blast I hear

The rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear.


A rat crept softly through the vegetation

Dragging its slimy belly on the bank

While I was fishing in the dull canal


On a winter evening round behind the gashouse

Musing upon the king my brother's wreck

And on the king my father's death before him.

White bodies naked on the low damp ground

And bones cast in a little low dry garret,

Rattled by the rat's foot only, year to year.

But at my back from time to time I hear

The sound of horns and motors, which shall bring

Sweeney to Mrs. Porter in the spring.

O the moon shone bright on Mrs. Porter

And on her daughter


They wash their feet in soda water

Et, O ces voix d'enfants, chantant dans la coupole!


Twit twit twit

Jug jug jug jug jug jug

So rudely forc'd.



Unreal City

Under the brown fog of a winter noon

Mr. Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant

Unshaven, with a pocket full of currants

C.i.f. London: documents at sight,

Asked me in demotic French

To luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel


Followed by a weekend at the Metropole.


At the violet hour, when the eyes and back

Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits

Like a taxi throbbing waiting,

I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives,

Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see

At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives

Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea,

The typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lights


Her stove, and lays out food in tins.

Out of the window perilously spread

Her drying combinations touched by the sun's last rays,

On the divan are piled (at night her bed)

Stockings, slippers, camisoles, and stays.

I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs

Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest—

I too awaited the expected guest.

He, the young man carbuncular, arrives,

A small house agent's clerk, with one bold stare,

One of the low on whom assurance sits

As a silk hat on a Bradford millionaire.

The time is now propitious, as he guesses,

The meal is ended, she is bored and tired,


Endeavours to engage her in caresses

Which still are unreproved, if undesired.

Flushed and decided, he assaults at once;

Exploring hands encounter no defence;

His vanity requires no response,

And makes a welcome of indifference.

(And I Tiresias have foresuffered all

Enacted on this same divan or bed;

I who have sat by Thebes below the wall

And walked among the lowest of the dead.)

Bestows one final patronising kiss,

And gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit . . .


She turns and looks a moment in the glass,

Hardly aware of her departed lover;


Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass:

"Well now that's done: and I'm glad it's over."

When lovely woman stoops to folly and

Paces about her room again, alone,

She smoothes her hair with automatic hand,

And puts a record on the gramophone.


"This music crept by me upon the waters"

And along the Strand, up Queen Victoria Street.

O City city, I can sometimes hear

Beside a public bar in Lower Thames Street,


The pleasant whining of a mandoline

And a clatter and a chatter from within

Where fishmen lounge at noon: where the walls

Of Magnus Martyr hold

Inexplicable splendour of Ionian white and gold.


The river sweats

Oil and tar

The barges drift

With the turning tide

Red sails


To leeward, swing on the heavy spar.

The barges wash


Drifting logs

Down Greenwich reach

Past the Isle of Dogs.

Weialala leia

Wallala leialala

Elizabeth and Leicester

Beating oars

The stern was formed

A gilded shell

Red and gold

The brisk swell

Rippled both shores

Southwest wind

Carried down stream

The peal of bells

White towers


Weialala leia

Wallala leialala

"Trams and dusty trees.

Highbury bore me. Richmond and Kew

Undid me. By Richmond I raised my knees

Supine on the floor of a narrow canoe."


"My feet are at Moorgate, and my heart

Under my feet. After the event

He wept. He promised 'a new start'.

I made no comment. What should I resent?"

"On Margate Sands.

I can connect

Nothing with nothing.


The broken fingernails of dirty hands.

My people humble people who expect


la la


To Carthage then I came


Burning burning burning burning

O Lord Thou pluckest me out

O Lord Thou pluckest





IV. Death by Water


Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead,

Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep sea swell

And the profit and loss.

A current under sea

Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell

He passed the stages of his age and youth

Entering the whirlpool.

Gentile or Jew

O you who turn the wheel and look to windward,

Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.



V. What the Thunder Said


After the torchlight red on sweaty faces

After the frosty silence in the gardens

After the agony in stony places

The shouting and the crying

Prison and palace and reverberation

Of thunder of spring over distant mountains

He who was living is now dead

We who were living are now dying

With a little patience


Here is no water but only rock

Rock and no water and the sandy road


The road winding above among the mountains

Which are mountains of rock without water

If there were water we should stop and drink

Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think

Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand

If there were only water amongst the rock

Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit

Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit

There is not even silence in the mountains


But dry sterile thunder without rain

There is not even solitude in the mountains

But red sullen faces sneer and snarl

From doors of mudcracked houses

If there were water

And no rock

If there were rock

And also water

And water

A spring

A pool among the rock

If there were the sound of water only

Not the cicada

And dry grass singing

But sound of water over a rock


Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees

Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop

But there is no water


Who is the third who walks always beside you?

When I count, there are only you and I together

But when I look ahead up the white road

There is always another one walking beside you

Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded

I do not know whether a man or a woman

—But who is that on the other side of you?


What is that sound high in the air

Murmur of maternal lamentation

Who are those hooded hordes swarming

Over endless plains, stumbling in cracked earth

Ringed by the flat horizon only

What is the city over the mountains

Cracks and reforms and bursts in the violet air

Falling towers

Jerusalem Athens Alexandria

Vienna London



A woman drew her long black hair out tight


And fiddled whisper music on those strings

And bats with baby faces in the violet light

Whistled, and beat their wings

And crawled head downward down a blackened wall

And upside down in air were towers

Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours

And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells.


In this decayed hole among the mountains

In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing

Over the tumbled graves, about the chapel

There is the empty chapel, only the wind's home.


It has no windows, and the door swings,

Dry bones can harm no one.

Only a cock stood on the rooftree

Co co rico co co rico

In a flash of lightning. Then a damp gust

Bringing rain

Ganga was sunken, and the limp leaves

Waited for rain, while the black clouds

Gathered far distant, over Himavant.

The jungle crouched, humped in silence.

Then spoke the thunder


Datta: what have we given?

My friend, blood shaking my heart

The awful daring of a moment's surrender


Which an age of prudence can never retract

By this, and this only, we have existed

Which is not to be found in our obituaries

Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider

Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor

In our empty rooms


Dayadhvam: I have heard the key

Turn in the door once and turn once only

We think of the key, each in his prison

Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison

Only at nightfall, aetherial rumours


Revive for a moment a broken Coriolanus


Damyata: The boat responded

Gaily, to the hand expert with sail and oar

The sea was calm, your heart would have responded

Gaily, when invited, beating obedient

To controlling hands


I sat upon the shore

Fishing, with the arid plain behind me

Shall I at least set my lands in order?


London Bridge is falling down falling down falling down


Poi s'ascose nel foco che gli affina

Quando fiam uti chelidon— O swallow swallow

Le Prince d'Aquitaine à la tour abolie

These fragments I have shored against my ruins

Why then Ile fit you. Hieronymo's mad againe.

Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.


Shantih shantih shantih


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i have seen with my own eyes the Cumaean Sibyl hanging in a jar, and when the boys asked her, "Sibyl, what do you want?" she answered, "I want YOU for the U.S. Army"

(Spoliered 'The Waste Land')


Ugh. Eliot's Waste Land is one of my favourites, but that's probably because Modernism/Post-modernism are my favourite genre of poetry. <3

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I have written a bit of poetry in my day as the need arises. Did a lot of poetry writing in HS and college English. Wrote a couple song lyrics round then too.


Wrote a Little Cesar Pizza jingle for a radio ad most recently but it disappeared when my HD crashed. Other than that there have been bits and pieces incorporated into larger RP writings.


~"Babe of brightness, child of light,

Fear not, dear one, when you take flight.

Rise up and stand, for stand you must.

'Gainst peril upon peril of windy gust.

Prepare, young one, as you grow strong,

To come home to where you belong.

Let not a soul know from whence you came,

Son of the fire, daughter of the flame."~ A lullaby of the Fire Plane.



Ender, Ender, Justicairne awake!


When time is dark and all is despair,

When death reigns free and shadow fills the air,

When life submits to chaos, mankind beware.

The Abomination seeks to kill and ensnare.


Ender, Ender, Justicairne keep watch!


Scent of terror, essence of nightmare,

Thief of innocence, none does he spare.

"Fear me!" does the immortal blackness declare.

Cancerous debauchery of hexen lair.


Ender, Ender, Justicairne speak!


Observant enchanter, seek out with prayer

The accursed Amazon, widow of warfare.

It follows, peruses her, chains does she wear.

Yet heart never crushed, the Free Spirit prepare.


Ender, Ender, Justicairne decide!


Daughter of ignorance and arrogance, take care.

Mother of innocence and timidity, be aware.

Before the Abomination, will you be laid bare.

From your very heart, the soul shall he tear.


Ender, Ender, Justicairne rule!


Free spirit shall wield that blade most rare.

Ender will seek out and find her there.

It's chains of bondage she cannot forebear.

Into the eyes of her destiny she stares.


Ender, Ender, Justicairne command!


The injustice and balance we must repair,

Or a dire fate, all mankind will share.

Ender must meet Abomination to impair

Forever and always existing nowhere.


Ender, Ender, Justicairne avenge! ~Prophesy of Andaria



Yeah, I like to rhyme...


Edit: I like writing poetry spontaneously. Give me a topic, any topic.

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"Nightfall", "Two Plus the World", and "A Lullaby for the Fire Plane" were wonderful. In the first two, it looks like there's some sort of symbolism I'm not grasping, and I haven't read the Book of Revelation yet. But the moods are quite nice.


My poetry is generally light on symbolism. It tends to be either nonsense, or very straightforward. The only one where I consciously included symbolism is "A Tree" (here) but it's so obscure that sometimes I can't even remember what it means myself. :p


I saw your second one, Jewels, and it started with "Ender" and I immediately stopped reading, assuming it has to do with "Ender's Game" which I've not read. Is that so?




Edit: I like writing poetry spontaneously. Give me a topic, any topic.




Huh. Uh huh. Huh huh huh. I said "poop". Huh huh.

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Edit: I like writing poetry spontaneously. Give me a topic, any topic.

Try writing one without a topic, plot or characters, I once read a author who set out to write a story about how writing a story without these three was not possible and ended up with the realization that it was in fact possible.

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"Have [the robot-poet] compose a poem--a poem about a haircut! But lofty, noble, tragic, timeless, full of love, treachery, retribution, quiet heroism and in the face of certain doom! Six lines, cleverly rhymed, and every word beginning with the letter 's'!!"


"And why not throw in a full exposition of the general theory of nonlinear automata while you're at it?" growled Trurl. "You can't give it such idiotic--"


But he didn't finish. A melodious voice filled the hall with the following:


Seduced, shaggy Samson snored.

She scissored short. Sorely shorn,

Soon shackled slave, Samson sighed.

Silently scheming,

Sightlessly seeking

Some savage, spectacular suicide.

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Your poetry always reminds me of the Jabberwock, ADoS. I'm not sure why, but I found "Florpishnoy, Dloo-Prum, Jidknarf" the most enjoyable despite not really understanding it. I dug* the imagery in poeshrub, but rolled my eyes at the pun.


*Pun not intentional, but I refuse to change it just because it's there.


I often find myself on the same page as Nikki, so I'm not surprised that his stuff appeals to me.


In general, it takes me several reads to grok most poetry. Some pieces (The Wasteland, for instance) have taken me years to appreciate properly.

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I dabble in poetry as a hobby. Here is one of mine from last year; my style has changed a bit since this, but I still like it.






Dance like the rocks

Raising themselves in grand defiance

And in unforgettable love for the sky

These monolith pillars stretch up cradling

Airy clouds in their midst

Nurturing not delivering necessity but didactic

Meaning but not in the is or are

Just crazed values and insane unexplainable happiness

They reflect sunshine in their times

And though water breaks them down with whips

And lashes of a thousand meager punishments

Over time like us in unsettling ways

They rebuild monuments to the seas and skies

Or to our own inspired childhoods unfettered


Dream like the stones

With a core of passion and a balance

Of carved poetry tattoos and blind

Allowance of flowers in the brokenness of

Deserts or refuge

In the ebb of the ocean's mightiest

Their feet are grounded but they

Plan new parental achievements

Novel bursts of ingenuity over magnetic

Canvases and lava blend palettes

Ferocious ideas to revitalize the compost heap


Smile like the boulder

For when it explodes dramatically at the

Dynamite's surge it still lives on in

Captivity to its unbound adoration for existential

Chances it continues its exploration as a

Sandstorm or catalyst for an avalanche

The ferocious grin never really vanishes from

The terrors of tornadoes and the possibilities

It tells you stories from the concrete

Of the saga of life personal odyssey touching people

In a way totally unlike anything the capricious moss or the

Judgmental heated waters of the spring

Time rain can ever deliver



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I love your poem, Goldenking. The rhythm is as jagged and shifting as the mountains it describes. (It does describe mountains and erosion and such, right?)


Here's my newest poem. It's called "The Hobbiswipe". here


EDIT: Updated the link.

Edited by The Almighty Doer of Stuff
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Spanish is not my first language, but for whatever reason I like Spanish poetry a great deal.


I know I've posted it before, but you should read it again. (Or not, since it's in Spanish.)

"Canción del pirata"



Con diez cañones por banda,

viento en popa, a toda vela,

no corta el mar, sino vuela

un velero bergantín.

Bajel pirata que llaman,

por su bravura, el Temido,

en todo mar conocido

del uno al otro confín.

La luna en el mar rïela,

en la lona gime el viento,

y alza en blando movimiento

olas de plata y azul;

y va el capitán pirata,

cantando alegre en la popa,

Asia a un lado, al otro Europa,

y allá a su frente Stambul:


Navega, velero mío,

sin temor,

que ni enemigo navío

ni tormenta, ni bonanza

tu rumbo a torcer alcanza,

ni a sujetar tu valor.


Veinte presas

hemos hecho

a despecho

del inglés,

y han rendido

sus pendones

cien naciones

a mis pies.


Que es mi barco mi tesoro,

que es mi dios la libertad,

mi ley, la fuerza y el viento,

mi única patria, la mar.


Allá muevan feroz guerra

ciegos reyes

por un palmo más de tierra;

que yo aquí tengo por mío

cuanto abarca el mar bravío,

a quien nadie impuso leyes.


Y no hay playa,

sea cualquiera,

ni bandera

de esplendor,

que no sienta

mi derecho

y dé pecho

a mi valor.


Que es mi barco mi tesoro,

que es mi dios la libertad,

mi ley, la fuerza y el viento,

mi única patria, la mar.


A la voz de «¡barco viene!»

es de ver

cómo vira y se previene

a todo trapo a escapar;

que yo soy el rey del mar,

y mi furia es de temer.


En las presas

yo divido

lo cogido

por igual;

sólo quiero

por riqueza

la belleza

sin rival.


Que es mi barco mi tesoro,

que es mi dios la libertad,

mi ley, la fuerza y el viento,

mi única patria, la mar.


¡Sentenciado estoy a muerte!

Yo me río;

no me abandone la suerte,

y al mismo que me condena,

colgaré de alguna entena,

quizá en su propio navío.


Y si caigo,

¿qué es la vida?

Por perdida

ya la di,

cuando el yugo

del esclavo,

como un bravo,



Que es mi barco mi tesoro,

que es mi dios la libertad,

mi ley, la fuerza y el viento,

mi única patria, la mar.


Son mi música mejor


el estrépito y temblor

de los cables sacudidos,

del negro mar los bramidos

y el rugir de mis cañones.


Y del trueno

al son violento,

y del viento

al rebramar,

yo me duermo



por el mar.


Que es mi barco mi tesoro,

que es mi dios la libertad,

mi ley, la fuerza y el viento,

mi única patria, la mar.


José de Espronceda





And in English:




The breeze fair aft, all sails on high,

Ten guns on each side mounted seen,

She does not cut the sea, but fly,

A swiftly sailing brigantine;

A pirate bark, the “Dreaded” named,

For her surpassing boldness famed,

On every sea well-known and shore,

From side to side their boundaries o'er.

The moon in streaks the waves illumes

Hoarse groans the wind the rigging through;

In gentle motion raised assumes

The sea a silvery shade with blue;

Whilst singing gaily on the poop

The pirate Captain, in a group,

Sees Europe here, there Asia lies,

And Stamboul in the front arise.


“Sail on, my swift one! nothing fear;

Nor calm, nor storm, nor foeman's force,

Shall make thee yield in thy career

Or turn thee from thy course.

Despite the English cruisers fleet

We have full twenty prizes made;

And see their flags beneath my feet

A hundred nations laid.

My treasure is my gallant bark,

My only God is liberty;

My law is might, the wind my mark,

My country is the sea.


“There blindly kings fierce wars maintain,

For palms of land, when here I hold

As mine, whose power no laws restrain,

Whate'er the seas infold.

Nor is there shore around whate'er,

Or banner proud, but of my might

Is taught the valorous proofs to bear,

And made to feel my right.

My treasure is my gallant bark,

My only God is liberty;

My law is might, the wind my mark,

My country is the sea.


“Look when a ship our signals ring,

Full sail to fly how quick she's veered!

For of the sea I am the king,

My fury's to be feared;

But equally with all I share

Whate'er the wealth we take supplies;

I only seek the matchless fair,

My portion of the prize.

My treasure is my gallant bark,

My only God is liberty;

My law is might, the wind my mark,

My country is the sea.


“I am condemned to die !—I laugh;

For, if my fates are kindly sped,

My doomer from his own ship's staff

Perhaps I'll hang instead.

And if I fall, why what is life?

For lost I gave it then as due,

When from slavery's yoke in strife

A rover! I withdrew.

My treasure is my gallant bark;

My only God is liberty;

My law is might, the wind my mark,

My country is the sea.


“My music is the Northwind's roar;

The bellowings of the Black Sea's shore,

And rolling of my guns.

And as the thunders loudly sound,

And furious the tempests rave,

I calmly rest in sleep profound,

So rocked upon the wave.

My treasure is my gallant bark,

My only God is liberty;

My law is might, the wind my mark,

My country is the sea.”

(trans. James Kennedy)




—Alorael, who considers this early pirate fan poetry. After the golden age of pirates perhaps, but still during the Age of Sail when pirates were a real risk and not exactly popular with sailors or anyone depending on shipping.

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@ADoS No, it's not about Ender game. I've never played an Ender game... it was just a random throwing together of syllables to form a random name.



A Poem for Vincent


The apples that don't grow on trees

Are falling down in autumn.

Be careful if you walk behind

Don't be the one who caught'em


The pies that bake out in the sun

Are rising up in the spring.

Be careful when you watch the sky

Don't misstep on anything.


Those chocolate buttons? Pass them by.

Those raisins? Don't you eat'em.

The jellybeans might be okay

But only if E.B. made'em.



Try writing one without a topic, plot or characters,


Was or wasn't, I don't know.

Did or didn't go with the flow.

A picture now can only show

A dark and dreary haze.


Could or couldn't. Oh, for woe.

Should or shouldn't make it so.

There is no sign now high or low

Caught lonely in the gaze.

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Yeh, fair enough. Though the one thing I took away from a generally misguided attempt at auditing an introductory course in ancient Greek was that there wasn't a lot of Whorfian stuff going on with the koinia Greek of the New Testament. It was a second language for most if not all of the writers, and Jesus probably never spoke a word of it. Word-for-word translation into English was generally perfectly good.

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I love your poem, Goldenking. The rhythm is as jagged and shifting as the mountains it describes. (It does describe mountains and erosion and such, right?)


I'm glad you like it. And yes, your interpretation is valid; death of the author, and all, y'know :p


Am I alive or dead? You'll have to ask Schrodinger's cat.

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Yeh, fair enough. Though the one thing I took away from a generally misguided attempt at auditing an introductory course in ancient Greek was that there wasn't a lot of Whorfian stuff going on with the koinia Greek of the New Testament. It was a second language for most if not all of the writers, and Jesus probably never spoke a word of it. Word-for-word translation into English was generally perfectly good.

One of the reasons Paul got so much coverage in the NT is that he was a reasonably literate Greek. He never knew Jesus or anything; he just knew how to write.


Anyone who thinks Revelation sounds weird in English should read it in Greek. Yes, you get the general sense of it in translation, but it loses some of its flavor in translation. It's really weird in the original.


On calling it "Revelation" vs. "Apocalypse": tradition makes for bad translation. Look at the Latinate names of what we call Genesis, Exodus, etc., and compare them to the Hebrew-translated names. The Hebrew ones are vastly better.

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I'm not quite sure what you mean, but the Hebrew names of the first five books of the Bible aren't intentionally descriptive. They're literally just the first word of the book.


B'resheet = "In the beginning." Genesis conveys the same idea.

Shemot = "Names." As in the names of those who fled Egypt. Exodus is a little bit more descriptive.

Vayikra = "And he called." Which essentially conveys no information. Leviticus isn't great either; it's about Levites, but "Ceremonial Rules" would be more accurate.

Bemidbar = "In the desert." Numbers describes the census in the beginning, but the Hebrew conveys the whole stuff happening in the desert better.

Devarim = "Things." This is about as unhelpful a description as anything can have. Deuteronomy doesn't mean anything to English speakers. Call it a wash.


—Alorael, who will just point out that God didn't name the books anywhere. That was entirely a later editorial decision. Yes, even God has to put up with stupid titling by publishers.

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Back on topic, as I've mentioned, I enjoy these two poems, by Edward Lear. One is far more well-known and popular than the other, but both feature the word "bong".


"The Owl and the Pussy Cat"


The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea

In a beautiful pea-green boat,

They took some honey, and plenty of money,

Wrapped up in a five-pound note.

The Owl looked up to the stars above,

And sang to a small guitar,

"O lovely Pussy! O Pussy, my love,

What a beautiful Pussy you are,

You are,

You are!

What a beautiful Pussy you are!"


Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl!

How charmingly sweet you sing!

O let us be married! too long we have tarried:

But what shall we do for a ring?"

They sailed away, for a year and a day,

To the land where the Bong-tree grows,

And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood,

With a ring at the end of his nose,

His nose,

His nose,

With a ring at the end of his nose.


"Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling

Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will."

So they took it away, and were married next day

By the Turkey who lives on the hill.

They dined on mince, and slices of quince,

Which they ate with a runcible spoon;

And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,

They danced by the light of the moon,

The moon,

The moon,

They danced by the light of the moon.



"There Was An Old Person of Sestri"


There was an old person of Sestri,

Who sate himself down in a vestry,

When they said, 'You are wrong!'--

He merely said 'Bong!'

That repulsive old person of Sestri.



I haven't read very much of Edward Lear's work, but I find what I've read to be brilliant.

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This is one of the earliest things I ever wrote, I think. I like the how rhythm in the first half makes me a little breathlessness, but it's certainly not my favourite.




In the purple hues of twilight

Just outside her window frame

Where she sat and saw the sun set

On the darkened evening grass,

Fell a feather from a sparrow

Through the fading summer light;

Flew a bird with wild abandon

From across the distant plains

At the edges of the fields

That stretched out in all directions

And around her lonely house.


Beneath the watching rain of starlight,

She leans out her window frame:

Runs her fingers down the cool wood,

Extends her hand into the night.

The still and western air embraces;

Wraps itself around her fingers,

Whispers softly through her window,

Runs itself throughout her hair,

And past her cheek it slowly drifted,

And around her darkened room,

Then it blew back out the window

Where she sat and watched the night.




And this is one that Tyranicus said he liked one time: I think it probably had something to do with Regina Spektor.





40 Days. 40 nights.


All must let the flood consume them

Greet the waves with joyous cheer,

And gasping jaws may grasp your ankles,

But leave them, lest they find the shore.

The city walls must not be broken

Build them up with those that fall;

For if the stone gives way and breaches

Those outside will ruin all.

When the gates are shut behind you,

Make your way to City Hall,

The wooden doors, just fling them open,

Drag outside the hiding hordes,

And hold them down beneath the deluge

Their clutching hands will quickly fall.

All this done, the people finished

Your seat in heaven is assured.




My favourite of all time isn't really suitable for posting here, because it's fairly critical of organised religion and I don't want to cause a ruckus (or rather, I DO, but shouldn't :p), so I won't, Oh! Also, if you download and play my Blades scenario there's a poem in there that I wrote, but I can't bring myself to indulge myself further in this thread right now.

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I won't post the whole thing, but my favorite Wilde is the "Ballad of Reading Gaol." Especially this part:



Yet each man kills the thing he loves

By each let this be heard,

Some do it with a bitter look,

Some with a flattering word,

The coward does it with a kiss,

The brave man with a sword!


Some kill their love when they are young,

And some when they are old;

Some strangle with the hands of Lust,

Some with the hands of Gold:

The kindest use a knife, because

The dead so soon grow cold.


Some love too little, some too long,

Some sell, and others buy;

Some do the deed with many tears,

And some without a sigh:

For each man kills the thing he loves,

Yet each man does not die.


I'd recommend you read the whole thing if you haven't. He wrote it in prison and it's devastatingly sad:



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My favourite of all time isn't really suitable for posting here, because it's fairly critical of organised religion and I don't want to cause a ruckus

on the other hand i posted the doer of good which made local biblethumper number one threaten to walk out of my ap english class (which is taught by the like one liberal teacher in the school, guess who gets bitched at the most during parent conferences) so yeah :p

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I really like that first one, Nikki. Does it have a title? I'm not sure what you mean about breathlessness, but the imagery is pretty.


The second one sort of seems Noah-ish, but I'm not sure. City Hall? That must be another symbolism I'm not grasping situation. Maybe someday it'll click.

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This is one of the earliest things I ever wrote, I think. I like the how rhythm in the first half makes me a little breathlessness, but it's certainly not my favourite.



In the purple hues of twilight

Just outside her window frame

Where she sat and saw the sun set

On the darkened evening grass,



The imagery and meter are both great. I don't think of the trochaic tetrameter as particularly breathless; but it does have this rolling and somewhat implacable/inevitable/endless feeling (I also used it in Nightfall for that reason). I looked for examples on Wikipedia, which lists Hiawatha and the Kalevala, some pretty neat works.


Tempted to say the Raven (actually octametric) is another example but for line-breaks, since the rhymes divide each sixteen-syllable line in two.


Speaking of it, that's one of my favorite poems and hasn't been posted yet, so here goes:



Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

`'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -

Only this, and nothing more.'


Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow

From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -

Nameless here for evermore.


And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating

`'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -

This it is, and nothing more,'


Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

`Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; -

Darkness there, and nothing more.


Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;

But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!'

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!'

Merely this and nothing more.


Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

`Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;

Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -

'Tis the wind and nothing more!'


Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -

Perched, and sat, and nothing more.


Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven.

Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore -

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'

Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'


Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -

Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

With such name as `Nevermore.'


But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -

Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before -

On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'

Then the bird said, `Nevermore.'


Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

`Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,

Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster

Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -

Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore

Of "Never-nevermore."'


But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;

Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore

Meant in croaking `Nevermore.'


This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,

But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,

She shall press, ah, nevermore!


Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.

`Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee

Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!'

Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'


`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -

Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -

On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -

Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!'

Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'


`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!

By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -

Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,

It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore -

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?'

Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'


`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting -

`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!

Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!'

Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'


And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,

And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

Shall be lifted - nevermore!


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It's the meter coupled with the (almost) lack of punctuation. When I read it, at least, I don't pause for line breaks and just stop with the punctuation, so that the meter is leading you on endlessly (and as it's falling it's dragging you down too), and I sort of end up drowning in this widening image of the fields around the subjects house.

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Reading it more closely, I'm somehow stumbling over "from across the distant plains / at the edges of the fields", since it's two headless lines in a row where it otherwise alternates (in fact, this tipped me off to there being an odd number of lines in the first half). Of course, the meter becomes less strict in the second half, so it doesn't stand out much.

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My G1 Poetry:



Once there was a bad man named Trajkov

I'm not sure what rhymes with Trajkov.

But he invaded an Island named Sucia.

And he got his just Shaper Restitutia (as in restitution).

At the hands of me.


And at the end I was like wee!

When I got away from the Sholai saying "HEY!"

So then I was like, Goettsch, you traitor.

You're dumber than that pickup named Mater.

And I just hated that annoying her.

Or was Goettsch a she?


I gotta pee.


iCarly is the silliest show ever!


And that's all folks!



G2 to follow.

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Here's my newest poem. It's called "The Hobbiswipe".


Interesting, off-color, and unique. It'd something I'd never think to write about... something I've never thought about period. So add thought-provoking to the list. Perhaps not many thoughts but some.


But it doesn't rhyme so, meh. :p Just a personal preference.

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Thanks for the compliments, Jewels!


It's not something you never thought about perhaps, but I think about it frequently, because my family is always criticizing me because they don't like my hobbies. Unfortunately it seems the Hobbiswipe may have gotten to them. :(


As for meter and rhyme, I'm not especially good at either. I just write freeform or even just prose with line breaks, and I judge line length more by the literal distance from beginning to end in monotype characters than by the number of syllables. Maybe that makes me a lousy poet, I don't know. I just know they're not essays or articles, and most of them aren't narrative stories, so I figure they must be poetry. :p

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Here's another one I dug up, which I've probably never put online. I think it was originally for a story I was writing and then took on a life of its own.


Also, still trochaic tetrameter. It really is my favorite. Pretty much no rhyming.


cast your gaze about the tower

see ye not the signs of daybreak?

mind ye well these words of foresight:

here the night shall not endure


wisdom of the stars is fading

in the age of sunrise ending

grey and shrouded world awaking

from its slumber unto dawn


here the night is slow in leaving

see the north-star, star of guidance:

six and twenty thousand winters

has it shone and will yet shine


there the signs of day arriving

red star passing, sunlight's herald

all the world in scarlet dousing

end of shadows, end of fear.


then the ocean's empire rising

beacon of the great tomorrow

destiny of earth propelling

from the waves unto the stars


ware the words of wrath emerging

see them written, hear them spoken

bar your heart and mind against them

darkness beckons those that heed


age of light and thought arriving

discord and disorder breeding

thus behold the mighty towers

dragon's ire laid them low


of all perils fear the silence

for no noise can hold such terror

neither discord sow such darkness

neither words can spell such doom


heed these words yet seek for wisdom

follow none yet serve all others

and by dawn remember starlight

when the morning turns to day.


(Don't really know what's up with the lowercase. It's not like the style has any similarity to ee cummings or something.)

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There's another one by Goethe that mostly sticks to this meter:



Hat der alte Hexenmeister

sich doch einmal wegbegeben!

Und nun sollen seine Geister

auch nach meinem Willen leben!

Seine Wort´ und Werke

merk´t ich und den Brauch,

und mit Geistesstärke

tu ich Wunder auch.

Walle! walle

manche Strecke,

daß zum Zwecke

Wasser fließe

und mit reichem, vollem Schwalle

zu dem Bade sich ergieße!


Und nun komm, du alter Besen,

nimm die schlechten Lumpenhüllen!

Bist schon lange Knecht gewesen;

nun erfülle meinen Willen!

Auf zwei Beinen stehe,

oben sei ein Kopf!

Eile nun und gehe

mit dem Wassertopf!

Walle! walle

manche Strecke,

daß zum Zwecke

Wasser fließe

und mit reichem, vollem Schwalle

zu dem Bade sich ergieße!


Seht, er läuft zum Ufer nieder;

wahrlich! ist schon an dem Flusse,

und mit Blitzeschnelle wieder

ist er hier mit raschem Gusse.

Schon zum zweiten Male!

Wie das Becken schwillt!

Wie sich jede Schale

voll mit Wasser füllt!

Stehe! Stehe!

Denn wir haben

deiner Gaben

vollgemessen! -

Ach, ich merk´ es! Wehe, wehe!

Hab ich doch das Wort vergessen!


Ach, das Wort, worauf am Ende

er das wird, was er gewesen.

Ach, er läuft und bringt behende!

Wärst du doch der alte Besen!

Immer neue Güsse

bringt er schnell herein,

ach, und hundert Flüsse

stürzen auf mich ein!

Nein, nicht länger

kann ich´s lassen;

will ihn fassen.

Das ist Tücke!

Ach, nun wird mir immer bänger!

Welche Miene! Welche Blicke!


Oh, du Ausgeburt der Hölle!

Soll das ganze Haus ersaufen?

Seh´ ich über jede Schwelle

doch schon Wasserströme laufen.

Ein verruchter Besen,

der nicht hören will!

Stock, der du gewesen,

steh doch endlich wieder still!

Willst´s am Ende

gar nicht lassen?

Will dich fassen,

will dich halten

und das alte Holz behende

mit dem scharfen Beile spalten.


Seht, da kommt er schleppend wieder!

Wie ich mich nur auf dich werfe,

gleich, o Kobold, liegst du nieder;

krachend liegt die glatte Schärfe.

Wahrlich, brav getroffen!

Seht, er ist entzwei!

Und nun kann ich hoffen,

und ich atme wieder frei!


Beide Teile

stehn in Eile

schon als Knechte

völlig fertig in die Höhe!

Helft mir, ach, ihr hohen Mächte!


Und sie laufen! Naß und nässer

wird´s im Saal und auf den Stufen.

Welch ein entsetzliches Gewässer!

Herr und Meister! Hör mich rufen! -

Ach, da kommt der Meister!

Herr, die Not ist groß!

Die ich rief, die Geister,

werd´ich nun nicht los!

"In die Ecke,

Besen! Besen!

Seid´s gewesen!

Denn als Geister

ruft euch nur zu seinem Zwecke

erst hervor der alte Meister!"



There are several English versions, but I like this one most:



That old sorcerer has vanished

And for once has gone away!

Spirits called by him, now banished,

My commands shall soon obey.

Every step and saying

That he used, I know,

And with sprites obeying

My arts I will show.


Flow, flow onward

Stretches many

Spare not any

Water rushing,

Ever streaming fully downward

Toward the pool in current gushing.


Come, old broomstick, you are needed,

Take these rags and wrap them round you!

Long my orders you have heeded,

By my wishes now I've bound you.

Have two legs and stand,

And a head for you.

Run, and in your hand

Hold a bucket too.


Flow, flow onward

Stretches many,

Spare not any

Water rushing,

Ever streaming fully downward

Toward the pool in current gushing.


See him, toward the shore he's racing

There, he's at the stream already,

Back like lightning he is chasing,

Pouring water fast and steady.

Once again he hastens!

How the water spills,

How the water basins

Brimming full he fills!


Stop now, hear me!

Ample measure

Of your treasure

We have gotten!

Ah, I see it, dear me, dear me.

Master's word I have forgotten!


Ah, the word with which the master

Makes the broom a broom once more!

Ah, he runs and fetches faster!

Be a broomstick as before!

Ever new the torrents

That by him are fed,

Ah, a hundred currents

Pour upon my head!


No, no longer

Can I please him,

I will seize him!

That is spiteful!

My misgivings grow the stronger.

What a mien, his eyes how frightful!


Brood of hell, you're not a mortal!

Shall the entire house go under?

Over threshold over portal

Streams of water rush and thunder.

Broom accurst and mean,

Who will have his will,

Stick that you have been,

Once again stand still!


Can I never, Broom, appease you?

I will seize you,

Hold and whack you,

And your ancient wood

I'll sever,

With a whetted axe I'll crack you.


He returns, more water dragging!

Now I'll throw myself upon you!

Soon, 0 goblin, you'll be sagging.

Crash! The sharp axe has undone you.

What a good blow, truly!

There, he's split, I see.

Hope now rises newly,

And my breathing's free.


Woe betide me!

Both halves scurry

In a hurry,

Rise like towers

There beside me.

Help me, help, eternal powers!


Off they run, till wet and wetter

Hall and steps immersed are Iying.

What a flood that naught can fetter!

Lord and master, hear me crying! -

Ah, he comes excited.

Sir, my need is sore.

Spirits that I've cited

My commands ignore.


"To the lonely

Corner, broom!

Hear your doom.

As a spirit

When he wills, your master only

Calls you, then 'tis time to hear it."



Oh, and if this seems familiar, you may be thinking of this.

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I like your poem, Aran. I kind of like the lowercase actually. Somehow it makes the subject seem quieter, I think.


Also, I'm surprised. Goethe was truly a man ahead of his time, writing about space robots.


Walle! walle


More seriously, the closest I've ever come to any of Goethe's work is watching "Fantasia" and "The Phantom of the Paradise". Maybe I should actually read some of his work.


Also, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Goetheanum Wow, what beautiful buildings!

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Beautiful building, though the organization that owns it sounds kinda freaky. I'm not sure how happy the man himself (natural philosopher, humanist and kinda-but-not-really-Christian) would have been to be associated with spiritual mysticism. Though apparently he did dabble a bit in it, so who knows.


Since I'm now studying in Goethe's birthplace, my university is also named after him.


Edit: I don't normally like to post stuff that isn't done, but this line somehow got into my mind while I was waiting for the bus this morning.


Brittle the air that turns leaves into glass


This is usually how I start. Not sure if or when I'll manage to come up with the rest. But I want to invoke an image of a really cold day without using any word actually related to cold.

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