NationStates

I've posted a fair amount of poetry in the Writing Discussion thread, so I figure I might as well collect it all in one place. This may happen rather slowly. Comments would be appreciated.

But first, an introduction (in verse, of course):

Dear Reader

A word of warning: while I worked my way
through sentences and stanzas' slow array
to build some better bits from broken lines
I hardly had a heap of grand designs.
I write for reckless reasons, rarely more,
nor settle some uncertain soulful score,
and so it seems you'll see, when soon I share it,
alas, a lack of literary merit.

Poems

Paradelle to a Bat

Post Zombie Stress Disorder

To 2014

Why is it Love which I am loath to write?

Great Benjamin Steals Lighting

Rot

Cynghanedd-esque

Post Zombie Stress Disorder

They burst through boards, and broke each barricade,
unfeeling, fleshless fingers flailing wild.
The scratching, soulless sounds they sometimes made
could make a mighty man a mindless child.
These hellish hunters, horrid, hard to kill,
Unliving, lurched and leapt, alert though blind.
Around the ruined roads they roamed, and still
they haunt my head, and hunt my helpless mind.
Each shadow shakes me, shows my shame inside.
Each sudden sound will scare one scarred as I.
I fear these fiends, though false, and flee or hide.
In bed, with bated breath, I beg to die.
I live no life alone; the living dead
still screech and stumble, stuck inside my head.

From around New Year's Day 2014:

To 2014

In two thousand fourteen, it remains to be seen
whether Scotland will find itself free from the queen,
and if Russia will say that it might be okay
for a person to openly show that he's gay.
We'll see scandals, for sure, and feel bad for the poor,
and be lead quite astray by th'economy's lure,
and the Syrian war will drag on like before,
North Korea will threaten the South even more,
but, though houses may burn, don't be racked by concern;
human life will go on and the world will still turn.

Something more recent (Valentine's Day):

Why is it Love which I am loath to write?

Why is it Love which I am loath to write,
while Death flows freely from my frantic pen?
Is it that I embrace the calm of night
but shrink from that which melts the minds of men?
Perhaps I hate to hear my private pains
express'd for all the world to gape and stare.
Perhaps I think the reader seldom gains,
because I have no passion left to share.
Or do I think it such a lofty aim
to put this primal feeling on the page
that I should leave the task and all its fame
to greater poets of a future age?
'T were this, perhaps, which stopped a better bard,
but me, I just think rhyming "love" is hard.

A very technically challenging piece:

Paradelle for a Bat

With wings of grace his beauty rides.
With wings of grace his beauty rides -
and sings he to the velvet night?
And sings he to the velvet night.
He rides to grace the night, and sings
of beauty with his velvet wings.

His motions cross the heavens calm.
His motions cross the heavens calm.
He swiftly dips and trips and glides.
He swiftly dips and trips and glides.
His motions calm, he glides and dips,
and ‘cross the heavens swiftly trips.

How great, this dance by chance to see!
How great, this dance by chance to see!
And look: now rise the lively stars.
And look: now rise the lively stars.
Now stars look by - how great the chance
to rise and see this lively dance!

The velvet heavens of the night
look by, to chance his rise and dips,
and grace to motions swiftly sings,
and calm and great this dance he trips.
Now ‘cross the stars his beauty rides,
with lively wings - see how he glides!

Respubliko de Libereco wrote:I've posted a fair amount of poetry in the Writing Discussion thread, so I figure I might as well collect it all in one place. This may happen rather slowly. Comments would be appreciated.

But first, an introduction (in verse, of course):

Dear Reader

A word of warning: while I worked my way
through sentences and stanzas' slow array
to build some better bits from broken lines
I hardly had a heap of grand designs.
I write for reckless reasons, rarely more,
nor settle some uncertain soulful score,
and so it seems you'll see, when soon I share it,
alas, a lack of literary merit.

Aw, don't sell yourself short. You hardly ever write anything without literary merit.

USS Monitor wrote:Aw, don't sell yourself short. You hardly ever write anything without literary merit.

I don't necessarily agree with everything I write. In the intro, I hoped to establish (in a self-deprecating way) that I generally don't prioritize meaningful/"literary" content, an approach which is frowned upon by the literary community in general. Of course, I ended up sacrificing some clarity in favour of a feminine rhyme "punch line" of sorts that didn't turn out all that great, ironically demonstrating the very phenomenon I wanted to warn against.

I really need to get around to collecting some more stuff. Here's a legend from a post-apocalyptic future.

Great Benjamin Steals Lightning

They say that in the Ere-Before, when Man was just begun,
some hero stole the secret of the flame within the sun.
Much later, in a greater age, when Man was in his prime,
another thief arose to such a task a second time.
The people of the World Before had harnessed steam as well,
but even greater power lurked where rain in torrents fell.
The gods controlled the lightning, with its flash and sudden roar,
exceeding any force that any man had tamed before.

A man they call Great Benjamin had seen the lightning’s strength,
and swore “To catch and keep it, I shall go to any length!”
Although ‘twas nigh impossible, he’d not forget his vow.
He planned to enter heaven, and he soon determined how.
Great Benjamin constructed all the things that he would need:
a key would gain him entry, and a kite would be his steed.
The lightning would be bound inside a length of copper wire,
and soon mankind would master something greater still than fire.

The time arrived at last, and perched atop his giant kite,
Great Benjamin ascended high into the stormy night.
Though thunder roared about him, he ignored the urge to flee,
and opened up the heavens with his finely-crafted key.
The Gods were truly angry, and they sought to strike him dead.
Their lightning hit his copper trap, and soon was his instead.
Great Benjamin returned to Earth, his lightning bolt in tow;
the gods had just been bested by a mortal from below.