Poems



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Wire

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Hello there. I'd like to share my work with you all. I've been writing for a long time, and though I don't feel I'm all that good at it, I am in love with poetry. I welcome your criticisms.

Spin

Hollowed summer
On your bicycle;
That circular motion,
Stated in a thought.

In afternoon,
Near leaves,
We sat idly,
Catching.

This boardwalk,
Near blue hill,
Is a lonely place
That used to rain.

Yellow friend,
Painted at night,
You never met
Autumn brown.

We tried
To catch
To meet
To know,

But never did.

That old boardwalk,
Near old hillside,
Stood as a memory,
Left in a thought.

Rosary

Small bud,
Unsure if
Rose, or
Daisy;

Without thorn
Or honey lip,
Still: a scent
Binding humility.

Small bud,
Kind friend,
Through
Quiet sway;

Stumbling
Through the mall,
Hand in hand,
Wall adjacent.

Staring white,
A cold advantage;
Wide eyes,
Faceless wall.

Small bud,
Unsure if any,
Without thorn
Or honey lip.

Earrings

Happy bell,
Raised like
Noose, or
Stuck in
Train,
Rang inside.

Dropped off,
Worn a lot,
Glittering stop,
Happy ring,
Your earring.

Happy bell,
Raised in
Town, or
Lost in
Ash,
Fell out.

Dropped off,
Worn a lot,
Glittering stop,
Happy ring,
Your earring.
 
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Wire

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Holiday

Sitting in the jungle,
Quietly handed.
A color set;
Unfinished.

Waiting in the jungle,
Chairs missing.
Seeing carnival;
Unnoticed.

Walking through treasure,
Browning as leaf.
Torn at the stem;
Adjustment place.

Clay

a better self
made of clay.
a constant ring
farming steps.

summer motives,
forming lemonade.
a better self instead,
a life in yellow icicles.

washing off
a staining dirt;
a caustic red,
or bluer light;
raining down
on a somewhere;
a summer red,
or bluer sight.

a smiling self
made of clay.
a better song
made to ring.

In a Lonely Place

In a lonely place,
Another green world;
A zero hour,
Cannot recall.

Can you see her?
Can you see her encased?
Who does she wear?

In a lonely place,
Stardust encased;
That zero mouth,
Cannot recall.

Can you hear her howl?
Can you hear her?
Where has she gone?

In here,
A room
Too loud.

In here,
A world
So loud.

Can you meet her in the garden?
 
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Wire

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Temple

Charred hill,
Steps lost,
To silent age.

His only son,
Polarized,
Drowned in lemonade.

Doing all the housework;
Forgetting all the homework;
Dining at midnight;
Smiling near the lake,
All like yesterday.

Charred hill,
Steps lost,
The temple.

His only son,
With a friend,
Fell like yellow icing..

Doing all the housework;
Talking out the past;
Being good to one another,
All like yesterday.

Charred hill,
Ascending,
For the night
Is never-ending;

Regrets fall instead,
To align with the silence;
Deafened on the stage,
Were we angry with each other,

All like yesterday?

Meter

Burned vase,
Tamed by
Butterflies,
In the daytime.

I said,
Lay your head down,
In the daytime,
With the tree.

Tree fell,
In the daytime,
With the leaves,
Below.

No woman
Tried to
Follow,
You.

No man
Tried to
Know
You.

Left burning
Those bridges,
With eyes closed,
In the daytime.

Gift

How did you know?

Of his remembrance,
That it tied.

Left to instill,
Blooming dry.

How did you know?

Of his purpose,
That he tried.

How did you know?

Of his fire,
And his life.

Did he instill those
Broken bones?
 
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Wire

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Contender

To see what you saw;
In the night,
Deaf falling.

Fear, moving closer,
To the river;
Deaf rising.

On your last legs,
In the vacant
Deaf falling fear;

Do how you feel,
Day after day,
Deaf rising fear
;

Temple

Wash your wings
Now (through your
Body) Calmly
Falling; spread
Your wings now,
(Through your
Body); swim
In the
Sea,
Wash your
Face now
(Through
Your body).
Candle

Lost in
A glance;
Forgotten
Pieces of
A place
You gave
Pain.

Last to see,
Left with
Tiger traps
And battered
Trees.

You can be;
Every voice
To give,
Not to
Take;
Listen, with
Rain.

Dream & Rock

To be what you saw,
Day after day, in
Crowded scene;
Content;
On your last legs,
Day after day,
To determine if
The same dream.

To be what you saw,
In the night,
Deaf falling,
Fear.

What do you feel,
In the vacant,
Deaf howling,
Fear.

To be what you are,
Day after day,
In deaf and forest
Fear.
 

Wire

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Zebra

Touching from a distance,
Trying to catch to you.

Burnt flowers,
Near a bird's
Song, overtaking.

Crystal procession,
Made in a candle,
Burnt like flowers,
Lifting their scent.

Orange casket,
Wet by weekend.
Impounded grief,
Beat happening.

Do you miss
Lonely winter,
Or friendless
Christmas?

Mother in a bouquet,
And father on the road;
Brother's key
On his chain, and

An ocean tree.
 

Max

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These are all really enjoyable poems to read. I think my favorites that stood out to me are "In a Lonely Place," the first "Temple" (since you had two posted), and Zebra.

Every poem paints a certain picture. I think what I like most though is the pictures painted all felt very personal to me specifically, which means to me that they are rich with detail while still being able to present something different to every reader.
 

Wire

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These are all really enjoyable poems to read. I think my favorites that stood out to me are "In a Lonely Place," the first "Temple" (since you had two posted), and Zebra.

Every poem paints a certain picture. I think what I like most though is the pictures painted all felt very personal to me specifically, which means to me that they are rich with detail while still being able to present something different to every reader.
I align myself with the school of Imagism. Imagism is a form of poetry where the author uses direct and concise language in order to form an image, or, as you put it, paint a picture. An image, however, is not the same thing as in photography. An image, as defined in Imagist doctrine, is when an author successfully evokes an emotional reaction out of the reader. Since emotions are highly subjective, each person will read the emotion differently, and thus develop different images.

I also really enjoy the Confessionalist and Romantic schools a lot as well. Blake and Sexton are two of my biggest influences, as well as guys like Wordsworth and Keats. Cummings is, of course, another huge influence. Joyce, Plath and Pound are more on the modernist side, with Cummings being an intermediary of sorts, or an outlier, depending on your view.

Thank you for reading my work, Max. I truly appreciate it. If you ever want to give me feedback, don't be afraid to be tough on my work.
 

Max

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I've never heard of imagism, but I really dig the ideas behind it. It sounds like the perfect way to reach out and grab your audience (I'm honestly thinking I should look some more into it for my own writing). Poets I really enjoy are Jim Morrison, Walt Whitman, Robert Frost, and Edgar Allen Poe. Those are Poets whom I have several books or collections though, I still really enjoy reading miscellaneous poems by random poets and here and there. I have a weird liking for writing random haikus myself haha.

And no problem man, I enjoy picking apart poetry and seeing what it might stir up in me. I'm definitely fine with critiquing as well, although with poetry I don't critique as much due to its sheer broad scope in the many ways it can be written (I mean unless your following a set poem style, ex. haiku, you can really write poetry however you want).
 

Wire

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Jim Morrison is definitely one of the best lyricists in all of rock. I consider lyricists as poets, too, so some of my all-time favorites are Julian Casablancas, Ian Curtis and David Bowie.

Frost is an excellent poet. I am amazed at his ability to use cliches without seeming cheesy. Fire and Ice is easily one of the best examples of this, as it uses two very cliched metaphors and uses them in a really clever and moving way.

Haikus are very cool. I remember being really into Japanese forms for a while. They focus more of tonnes than syllables, and there's a whole world of difference in how they use and define meter. It's hard stuff. I never was that good at it, so I stuck to haikus. One thing I did take from Japanese form, however, is their obsession with nature. I really enjoy Japanese metaphors, specifically ones that relate life and death to patterns and cycles in nature, such as the transition of seasons, or the sound an animal makes in its youth vs the sound it makes when it's old, i.e. a higher pitch vs. a lower pitch, and many others.

I understand the difficulty with critiquing poetry. I can critique poetry, but I cannot critique prose nearly as well. I am just not suited for that.
 

Max

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Have you read any of Jim Morrison's books of poetry, such as The Lord's and the New Creatures or Wilderness? They are so good, you can feel that all of his motivation for his song lyrics are definitely poetic. If we are counting lyricists as poets as well though, then that's a whole new ball game. Julian Casablancas would be up there for me as well. 11th Dimension definitely stands out to me as a poetic work of his.

And that's the thing with Frost! To many he comes off as more of a simple poet, which in a way he is, but he is simple in such a complicated way! It's easy for people to pick meaning and such out of his poems, but actually seeing how he does it is amazing.

Japanese form is definitely very complex. I specifically enjoy haikus, but the rest of their is very hard for me to grasp how to write. But I agree, they have something very special in their symbolism and metaphors that connects people with the earth, kind of a "bigger picture" kind of deal.

And I'm more suited for critiquing fiction or essays honestly. More where I can look at the grammar and sentence structure on one hand, and then the content itself in another.
 

Wire

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I have read a few of his pieces here and there. I remember reading a piece that used a lot of bits from The End, and I thought it was extremely interesting. Jim wanted The Doors to be his way to spread his poetry, but the critics labelled him as a rocker and nothing more. This is what drove him to gain a ton of weight, so people would focus on what he was saying rather than how he looked.

Frost is indeed simple, but that is the best part. Simple is always best. I'm a minimalist, and I really dislike obtuse poetry. I tend to see a lot of it as fluff, and it usually is, more often than not. Frost's forms are actually pretty complicated, as you say. If you really read into how he structures his poems, such as the amount of lines in each stanzas or where he chooses to break his lines, you'll see just how skilled he is at theming using mechanics.

Yeah, there's something very attractive about that whole "everything is connected" philosophy. It ties in a lot to quantum mechanics as well as determinism and the existence of free will and the influence of causality on existence.

I like prose, but only certain parts of it. I love descriptions and narrations, but I just can't get into dialogue. Certain dialogue I can get into, but it has to be nuanced and must tie into the themes of the work. If I'm going to read dialogue, it must be meaningful dialogue, and it's rare for me to find that. It is not rare, however, to find great descriptions. Steinbeck and Wilde are masters of describing the world the characters around them.
 
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Wire

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Charm

Charming on
The highway,
Stripped of
Skin and
Floating in
Animation,
Our voice
Carried
Against
Us.

Severity told,
Not a wink
Of rest let,
Tasked with
Keeping calm,
Thanks to fire
And corrupted
Voices, carried
Against us.

Are you all right,
Brilliant as star,
Are you all right,
Bright indicative;
Are you all right:
Echoes of our
Inner chamber,
Carried against
Us.

Wave

Driving farther,
On the road,
Near that tunnel
With the faces.

Caving in,
Black rock
Face, light
Limited,
That blind
Face,
Haunting.

For the last time,
And only time,
Done with
Regret, and
Anxious
Reprise,
We ask how
Grass
Grows.

Thank goodness,
We aren't free,
Of body, and
Fragment soul.
Kissing bottled
Spirit, we ask
How
Grass grows.

Wash your face
Now,
Through your
Body.

We're done here.
 

KingdomKey

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My favorite pieces happen to be Dream & Rock, Candle, In a Lonely Place, and Wave. I can't really critique poetry because, I'm not a poet. However, I greatly enjoyed seeing someone write so many pieces because it shows how much passion you have for it, Wire.

Out of all the ones I picked as a favorite, Wave is at the top of my list. It makes me think of summer time, somewhere near a beach with a compelling story to tell; where some thing changes, or it's a turning point in somebodies life. Where a person can move forward. Or if I were to take the water into something symbolic, perhaps making it a way to cleanse the self until they're anew again too. :) Well done in writing these pieces of poetry, Wire. I hope you continue to write more!
 

Wire

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Collapse

Born into a man,
Without progress,
And tilted heart,
Breathing
Without progress,
Collapses

In time,
When stars
Are wet
Like tilted
Heart,
Breathing
Without
Anyone.

Born to be a man;
Taught to love
By a fist, and
Taught to hate
Out of fear, and
Taught to hide
Away from others.

Blood held down
In white sand,
And blood
Removed,
Harder to
Pronounce;
Lost in a reason,
Without motivation;
Lost in a moment,
Under sandbars.

Born as a man;
Violence
Innate,
Though structured
By refusal;
So to fight
A nature questioned,
One must seek,
The word character.
 

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I feel like this one is about humanity. Learning what defines you as a person as you grow up, choosing to love or hate in a world full of violence and peace.
 

Wire

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I Can't Save Anyone

In vast
Sea, with
Blue regard,
Someone
Drifts into
Solitude.

That abyss,
Black in
Regard,
Can't forgive.

No one wants to hurt you.
No one wants to lose you.

In vast
Sea,
With
Blue regard,
A whale
Rings.

That abyss,
Cold in
Voice,
Permeates
Through
The only room.

No one hates you.
No one hates you.

---------------------------------

I Hate Myself

On the bus,
During wartime,
The river sings
As it's used.

Bodies crumble together,
On the bank and
Near the mouth.

On the bus,
During wartime,
No one is perfect.

That's okay.
That's all right.

Bodies crumble
As leaves die
In springtime,

And that's okay,
And that's all right,

No one is perfect.

With all these flaws,
You can do anything
During wartime.
 

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I Can't Save Anyone

This reminds me a lot of Nobodies in KHII because, they can't be hurt emotionally. Or this makes me think of someone falling through an abyss of darkness, completely safe despite being alone with only their own voice to hear themselves as a whale that passes through time and dimensions shows up, moving peacefully to show they're not alone.

I Hate Myself

War brings out the ugly side of humanity. Perhaps being a soldier and taking innocent lives as collateral damage is enough to make one hate themselves. Or a thief making do by stealing things while ignoring the amount of bodies piling up could fill them with disgust despite knowing they're not perfect. OR I could interpret this as a person waging war inside of themselves, finding the flaws they dislike, but accepting they're not perfect as their past self, present self, and future self are crumbling from it all. This is what I love about poetry, because it's so easy to imagine what it could mean. :3
 
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