Poetry

[Adam]

OK. Now that everyone is posting their poems, I want to join in. Please note, I do not take poetry too seriously and Know next to nothing about how a poem should be written. But I enjoy it anyway.





Forest of Emerald Light.

When forest green of emerald light, becomes deep shadowed darkened night,

The glory of that brighter land will disappear.


Evil shadows will descend as now darkness rules the land,

And all around creatures of the night appear.


With searching eyes of roving light, they seek their prey without invite,

There are no rules no courts no judges here.


But sentence it is passed on to, the week, the young, the lame, the few,

By predators who feed upon blind fear.

[Riothamus]

Great stuff.

I may have to dig up one of my former efforts....

[twyrch]

Adam said:

OK. Now that everyone is posting their poems, I want to join in. Please note, I do not take poetry too seriously and Know next to nothing about how a poem should be written. But I enjoy it anyway.





Forest of Emerald Light.

When forest green of emerald light, becomes deep shadowed darkened night,

The glory of that brighter land will disappear.


Evil shadows will descend as now darkness rules the land,

And all around creatures of the night appear.


With searching eyes of roving light, they seek their prey without invite,

There are no rules no courts no judges here.


But sentence it is passed on to, the week, the young, the lame, the few,

By predators who feed upon blind fear.

Wow! That is very good Adam. As I read it, It came to life within my minds eye. Very visual.

Keep 'em coming.

[dinadan]

Adam, your poem is great. It has a...strange quality to it that is both visual and (maybe a little) visionary. I like it very much.

[Child of Immanuel]

Adam, dinadan, your poems are very good!

[dinadan]

Thanks a lot!

[twyrch]

dinadan said:

Thanks a lot!

Dinadan,

Are you writing these poems about Arthur or did you find them somewhere....

They are very good.

[dinadan]

Evenything I've posted has been original.

Thanks again for the compliment.

[twyrch]

dinadan said:

This one is not narrative like the other's I've posted. It's more of a metaphysical type poem. Feel free to tell me what you think:

"May-Crowned"

She stands, May-crowned in wreaths of flowers
Waiting, wondering, wanting--though she knows not what.
Her beauty, simple and uncomplicated,
Blinds the eyes of all True Men
With the stunning purity of an unjaded grace.

Her face, more tawny than ivory,
Her hair, more corn than sunlight,
But from her extended and outstreched hands
Flows forth a bounty and goodwill--
A graceful elegance of meaning--
To all who have sought her out.

Daughter and Mother,
Maiden and Crone,
She listens, she comforts, and she beguiles
With sincere and honest smiles
And with a love that would wound Angels to see--
For then they would know the limits of their own charity.

She stands, May-crowned, in wreaths of flowers
And whispers my Name to the wind.

That is awesome....

I wish I could make poems that visually stimulating. I'd add them to my story.

[dinadan]

For me, I think poetry falls into one of three catagories.

First, there is the kind of poetry that you set out to write and do so; it has a definite point, it has a definite message, and this kind of poetry is usually highly stylized. I call this intentional poetry.

The second sort is a bit different. This is the sort that comes from personal experience, personal rememberance, personal triumph or tragedy. Elegy, Odes, pastorals, lots of these things easily fit into this catagory; I call it personal poetry, although that could be misleading because it isn't always a private thing. This kind of poetry is a vehicle for expressing personal emotion.

The last kind of poetry is way different from the other two; it may be stylized, it may even be regular and formal, and it may be very emotional and nostaligic. The difference is that this kind of poetry comes upon you from somewhere else--it is the kind of thing that, once it finishes pouring out of you, you go back and read and think "Where did that come from?" I call this wu wei poetry; wu wei is ancient chinese for "non-action"--it's a kind of experience of doing something while stepping outside of yourself, something that you can only do when you are in tune with the Tao (using Taoist philosophy here). This kind of poetry is my favorite, because it is always special and unique. And once you've read a lot of poetry, you can pick out poems that were written this way. Yeats has tons of them, which is why I love reading his work.

Oh well, just some thoughts. I mean, this is by no means a definitive treatise on poetry, just my opinion of it.

[twyrch]

dinadan said:

For me, I think poetry falls into one of three catagories.

First, there is the kind of poetry that you set out to write and do so; it has a definite point, it has a definite message, and this kind of poetry is usually highly stylized. I call this intentional poetry.

The second sort is a bit different. This is the sort that comes from personal experience, personal rememberance, personal triumph or tragedy. Elegy, Odes, pastorals, lots of these things easily fit into this catagory; I call it personal poetry, although that could be misleading because it isn't always a private thing. This kind of poetry is a vehicle for expressing personal emotion.

The last kind of poetry is way different from the other two; it may be stylized, it may even be regular and formal, and it may be very emotional and nostaligic. The difference is that this kind of poetry comes upon you from somewhere else--it is the kind of thing that, once it finishes pouring out of you, you go back and read and think "Where did that come from?" I call this wu wei poetry; wu wei is ancient chinese for "non-action"--it's a kind of experience of doing something while stepping outside of yourself, something that you can only do when you are in tune with the Tao (using Taoist philosophy here). This kind of poetry is my favorite, because it is always special and unique. And once you've read a lot of poetry, you can pick out poems that were written this way. Yeats has tons of them, which is why I love reading his work.

Oh well, just some thoughts. I mean, this is by no means a definitive treatise on poetry, just my opinion of it.

That's a good catagorization. I think most of mine fall into the last catagory. I rarely write it unless I feel the words burning inside me to be released...

I'll post a few more...

[twyrch]

Friendship Lost
Oh, what a friend that I have had,
The loss of which will make me sad.
I considered him as a brother,
A kinship felt with one another.

We told each other of our lives
Of good and bad, of peace and strife.
We shared each others problems close
And trusted each other more than most

And then one day, my secret told,
Our friendship turned to bitter cold.
A friendship I had once felt strong,
I now was told did not belong.

A lie was spoken, although it small,
Was large enough to ruin all.
I wish that I could talk again,
To him I still consider friend.

Regret now eats away my soul,
A formless void as dark as coal.
A friend, a brother, I now have lost,
Revealed my truths, but at what cost?


Jeremiah Daniel Edwards

[Child of Immanuel]

Wow.



Maybe later I'll post some from my 'poetry phase' last year.

[twyrch]

Child said:

Wow.



Maybe later I'll post some from my 'poetry phase' last year.

Yeah! I'd love to read it.

Friendship Lost was written a little over a month ago... it's a long story but things have actually gotten better between me and this friend since I wrote this.

[twyrch]

Dinadan,

Wow... That is very good as well. Poetry is out outlet for the soul and creates such beauty from its sadness.

This is a poem from one of my Wiccan friends at TB...

LIGHTS PASSING


My prison has no bars
No locks and no guards.
There is no one here with me
At least no one I can see.

It is cold and dark and I’m so all alone
In this place, this hell I call home.
Why am I here, what did I do?
It has been so long, I wish I knew.

In one small corner is a light,
Not very large but oh so bright.
Once there was joy and laughter in the brightness,
A feeling of comfort a sense of rightness.

Why does the light seem so far away?
Why can’t I move, why must I stay?
I want to live, I want to be free
Why can’t the light hear my plea?

Now this sliver of light used to be larger
But as time goes by it has grown smaller.
I listen and listen very hard indeed
But the sound has subsided and the laughter has ceased.

There is a strange sense of peace as I sit in this darkness.
I no longer feel the pain and no longer feel the sadness.
For somehow I know that when the light disappears,
The end of this hell will finally be here

- By Kimberly Anderson