[SynthethicalY]

Tell me what you think, what would you change? Or whatnot.

I am tired of sorrow,
Of morbidity,
I am looking for burning minds,
And mirror images of bliss.

Alone in white rooms, I left my sadist body in flames,
My rocky heart,
My eyes of pessimism,
All invaluable thoughts.

In beams of light, the past dissolves into the future,
Time dragging me unwillingly,
Leaving me in morphed positions,
Looking for an exit from my childhood ways.

From dusk to void I leave traces of my memory,
They linger with the scent of compressed flowers,
At dawn they dissapear with the coming of mist,
And through the early minutes of light I don't look back.

[floatingslowly]

although I'm a peddler of abstracts, poetry is not my forte.

give me a beat.

ms. jackson if yr nasty.

[SynthethicalY]

I see, thanks anyways.

[alyasa]

Metamorphosis; in irregular meter?

I love life every day
In each and every way
Kafka would be proud, to find out
I’m certain of the end
It’s the means that has me spooked
It takes an unknown truth to get out
I’m guessing I’m born free, silly me
I was meant to beg from my knees

That's the Smashing Pumpkins' Doomsday Clock... I think your poem is beautiful, reminds me of fragmented tapestries of memory, colliding in the grey fog of dawn. Did you mean to have unbalanced meters?

[SynthethicalY]

Yes, mine never have any rhymed meters, it is just how I want to express a stanza or line.

[alyasa]

It reads like stream of consciousness... If only porky were around...

[nomadicfollower]

No, not a stream of consciousness, but a randomazation of known words into 'poetry'. Some would argue the best poetry is as such - that is, unconcious; however, some will stand to argue its baselessness. I think it is not an expression of the true self but the expression of an inauthentic self filtered through personally coveted literary idols.

[alyasa]

In other words, you're saying it's contrived?

[alyasa]

When the ghosts came again; there were strands, threads caught in every which way, to begin to stitch up the universalities; un-truths and bounded realities, mirroring actuality; in truth a mirror of shards and sharp ends; profoundly ugly to behold, to favour to acknowledge; broken dreams that flow over endless islands of hope, like rocks smoothed by a stream, like the edge over which the water falls; yawning, gaping, inviting; never knowing; never seeing, blind and mute; thwarted senses; having never seen or known, would have had emancipated the luckless, the slaves, the bulldozers, the proles; unmitigated ridicule as babel fell and grew again; yet nothing freed that could be perceived; all therein was darkness, utter and complete and motion was free of meaning or relation; then points like stars arose; blinking out strobes of direction and vagaries; leading out into the saturated holes of daylight and death; duplicitly lyric and prose; turning and churning to a standstill, centrifuge and fuse; burnt and charred beneath recognition; and then there were alkalis and oxides; exploring regions that were helpless to conciliate, a strain, replete with hoarse, rasping scratches; ashes like dust buried in the leavings and autumnal piles; eternally hoping against the brutality of the changing seasons; the moon, the sky, the stars and the sun; vastly majestic, cruelly empty, like needles leaning left, that bow to the alarming tendencies of the courageous hue and shades; the fiery reminder of auto-nutrition gone horribly mainstream, capitalist like spreading shadows over blank earth, tired of growth and life, the ceaseless battles of death and microbes, challenging, breaking; all within; all tucked in, and so there was morbidity, as there was life, and there were spirits, grey and unsubstantial, always fleeting out of the corners of shapes, smoke rising out of the depths of burning quarries, of the bleeding earth; and then the ghosts came again, falling into step with the marching troops, the uniform and the consonant, their cries; whimpers of subordination; subservient to banners of heaven and nature, as they lay open to the sky, pounding, like feet on asphalt and concrete; relentless; creep and unabate; seep; the sound of utter defeat; the sea, roaring to sweep its waves over the functionary masses, plebeian thoughts cleansed by the streams of earth's vessels; no longer hollow; filled by the forces that govern the universe itself; the mysterious, cascading, indiscriminate; that balms like bitter roots; tearing into stone and mortar, that which breaks and contains, that shelters and crushes; a lilting vine that twines, weaves and laces; as it rips into gossamer lace that sublimates, diffusing into the open light; the death of night, the dearth of blight, the spreading dawn; the prolixity and suffusion of day, as the words begin to take hold, to have effect; as the brain registers the impact and the inevitable reaction; the battering of atoms and particles over the laid out paroxysms of brilliant blue depths; unconquered, as yet untouched, unfinished, the resolve of being, of reaching into self and glimpsing divinity and glass, the wind blowing, shuddering into sighs and eddies, forever lost to the eyes of man...

[5Against1]

Roses are red and violets are blue, I have multiple personality disorder and so do I...pretty deep huh? I didn't think so either.

[nomadicfollower]

Originally Posted by alyasa

In other words, you're saying it's contrived?

Yes, meticulously. No such free-form, abstract poerty is free ('such' being the simplistic mirror image of popular poetry). This form should not be taken up with ease.
But this just expresses my pains with most forms of poetry. Anyone can take words, carelessly write them down, and call it poetry. However such poetry fails to have any meaning at all. It only succedes in appearing as something similar to poetry.

[alyasa]

How do you think poetry translates onto the electronic medium? Does it lose something in the process? I would think that there would be no difference from the printed form, unless of course, the context of the presentation of the poem itself is taken into account...

[nomadicfollower]

There is a certain power in a thing (such as a poetry book) that is closer to us than a temporary image.
It is the same, however, in either form. It's really just a matter of aesthetics.

[gmku]

Syn, use this as a first draft. Rewrite by striking out all abstracts such as sorrow and morbidity and substituting those with concrete images, even if they don't exactly fit or make sense. Sometimes the best poetry is that which doesn't make sense on first read. "I am tired of graveyards in the rain, of leaves in the gutter..."

Take out the "emotional" words and replace them with images.

And be careful of what seem like images but are just as abstract. It's hard to picture burning minds, for example.

This is a great start, a lot of fire to it, which is what you need. But the strength in poetry comes from the surprising image.

[alyasa]

I would say that you should stick to your gut feelings... Perharps that is why academia shuns me so...

[cryptowonderdruginvogue]

bow down on your knees and pray
to the images as they hiss and flicker
pray and pray until everythings okay
pleasure yourself until you quiver

[alyasa]

Originally Posted by cryptowonderdruginvogue

bow down on your knees and pray
to the images as they hiss and flicker
pray and pray until everythings okay
pleasure yourself until you quiver

whoa, cryptowonderdraginvogue.

[Norma J]

I’m doin' everything to keep whiskey outta my mornin' coffee
But I almost hope you got a loverboy so I can put a fuckin shot thru his knees
I won't come creepin' round tonight, I'll just give ya a call before midnight
You'll know if I been drinkin', coz it'll be Creedence playin' over and over...

[alteredcourse]

Originally Posted by gmku

Syn, use this as a first draft. Rewrite by striking out all abstracts such as sorrow and morbidity and substituting those with concrete images, even if they don't exactly fit or make sense. Sometimes the best poetry is that which doesn't make sense on first read. "I am tired of graveyards in the rain, of leaves in the gutter..."

Take out the "emotional" words and replace them with images.

And be careful of what seem like images but are just as abstract. It's hard to picture burning minds, for example.

This is a great start, a lot of fire to it, which is what you need. But the strength in poetry comes from the surprising image.

this is very good advice .
poetry....doesnt make sense .
you cant just go "im so sad ,
etc ,
so sad . "
you gotta think about ways to get to your feelings and experience them in new ways rather than just saying them straight out . you could always call someone and just say it or beat your head against a wall if you wanted to do that .

im really enjoying this guy's poetry lately .
http://www.marxists.org/subject/art/...myfuneral.html
http://www.marxists.org/subject/art/.../iloveyou.html

[nomadicfollower]

It is good advice and to some extent what I was trying to get across.