Poetry competition CLOSED 28th April 2015 3:59am
WINNER
Anonymous
Anonymous
RUNNER-UP:
LobodeSanPedro
POETRY CRUSH [me] into dust [&] CALL [me] anonymous
Poetry Contest Description
This is no ordinary poetry crush competition... this is where memories are erased and the poetry experiment begins.
Background
I'm going to try to keep this brief and case uncomplicated as possible. This comp is a bare knuckle talent quest for a multimedia project I'm coordinating this year. The project will be a collaboration of poets telling a story through poetry, prose and spoken word, creating and contributing to a collective piece of multimedia art, that will be published online with full credits to all involved.
Criteria
We are looking for poets who have been kicking for a while, who want new challenges in a potent creative group of open minded poets.
We are looking for poets who may also be artists, photographers, filmmakers, musicians, sound producers, singers, editors, or any other creative talents I've missed... because I've gone blank.
We are looking for poets who want to shed their skin and feel the freedom to being reborn, because once you've been recruited into this poetry crack squad, you will be anonymous, no one will know who you are, not even me.
The Talent Quest
Each contestant is to post an example of their best work, poetry or prose [one submission only], including a link or a photo of their other creative talents. Those who are interested in being an editor for the project, I want you to post your edited version of a poem posted by a contestant in this comp.
Note: The winner of the comp is not guaranteed a spot on the project, however, you'll be awarded the imaginary accolade of being one talented deep underground mo-fo. Also, I can't announce the final squad at the end of the comp, because then they won't be anonymous, but you'll be able to follow the project here on DU, FB and on the official website, once it has been launched.
Anonymous
Will surely participate,sounds like a great idea
Anonymous
hmmmmm....interesting. very interesting.
Ok--here 'ya go, Case; a very old story I wrote, but lost the original manuscript, and recently rewrote it from memory, so it's kinda new, but old at the same time. I have to submit it as a link, because forum posts only allow an 8000 character limit:
http://deepundergroundpoetry.com/poems/200587-the-cheater/
_______________________________
And for the talent-stuff/links, I do amateur photography, mostly graveyards, railroads, churches--odd things, quiet places, and you'll find them all in my photos section at Facebook:
https://www.facebook.com/kirsten.hall.35
Also, I do seamstress/costuming/alteration work on the side, and here's a link to my Facebook page for photos of all that stuff:
https://www.facebook.com/LisaSewOn
http://deepundergroundpoetry.com/poems/200587-the-cheater/
_______________________________
And for the talent-stuff/links, I do amateur photography, mostly graveyards, railroads, churches--odd things, quiet places, and you'll find them all in my photos section at Facebook:
https://www.facebook.com/kirsten.hall.35
Also, I do seamstress/costuming/alteration work on the side, and here's a link to my Facebook page for photos of all that stuff:
https://www.facebook.com/LisaSewOn
Anonymous
EMPTY CANVAS
A bird tapped on my window
Woke a solid tune within my soul
Somewhere a ballerina danced
to and endless tune
As it flicked through the veins
of my mind, like a music box
Broken photographs and paragraphs
The stigma of a child, in the eyes
of a worn out woman, of a man
Who never stepped out from the shades
Fifty pastel ghost fading
On a paintbrush
From the echo of this empty canvas
Comes the color of chastity and sweat
That clings to these sheets,droplets
of tears and lust, leaking from lips
The taste upon my tongue, of your name
Night,soars, like a bouncing kite
within my soul, a waking tune
On my window, a bird tapped
--------------------------------------------------
HAVE REMOVED MY LINK DUE TO SCAMMERS
guess they find it funny[lol
[lol
A bird tapped on my window
Woke a solid tune within my soul
Somewhere a ballerina danced
to and endless tune
As it flicked through the veins
of my mind, like a music box
Broken photographs and paragraphs
The stigma of a child, in the eyes
of a worn out woman, of a man
Who never stepped out from the shades
Fifty pastel ghost fading
On a paintbrush
From the echo of this empty canvas
Comes the color of chastity and sweat
That clings to these sheets,droplets
of tears and lust, leaking from lips
The taste upon my tongue, of your name
Night,soars, like a bouncing kite
within my soul, a waking tune
On my window, a bird tapped
--------------------------------------------------
HAVE REMOVED MY LINK DUE TO SCAMMERS
guess they find it funny[lol
[lol
the curious case of vigour mortis
(http://deepundergroundpoetry.com/poems/77434-the-curious-case-of-vigour-mortis/)
Count one, count two or countless more,
it won’t move a muscle in me, my ways, my days.
Just as is.
Frequent wash-outs in routine,
rolls-out from my robotic manual.
Statistically, more an after-dinner ritual.
Desiccated whites of patchy mapped hands cry tearless,
worn and torn finger-ridges run beyond reversible numbness.
A germ’s ruthless plane graveyard in plain words of any language,
anyone’s warmth of embrace is in my denial, even this microbial.
Now that this hard-core hand wash-maniac walks -works- stops.
Yes, walks-works-stops.
Walks-works-stops.
Walks-works-stops.
Cycle continues until something inner withdraws,
till a plotted point of finite infinity or the vice versa,
for the rigoured world waits to contain my atmosphere.
A
programmed
corpse
in
action. Vigour mortis.
Ceramic wash tap reflects a mocking irony.
Its white pokes me with ‘here and there’
winking-dying laughter sparkles.
Such spotless bland days move on
fading-shrinking-wrinkling me. Vigour mortis.
A whirr window breeze
sneaks to dash over my stoned face.
Linear rowed pencil rays pierce my pores,
forces a windward corneal glance in search of clues.
A balled clog of ‘white smoke’ mistaken night clouds,
moves slowly in mysterious master-minded circles,
A puffy rolling slug with a wild devouring need,
I doubt they do it with much difficulty from obesity,
scary to hear its hidden hunger pangs in secretive resonance.
Curiosity had been killing me these days.
Dickens would be proven wrong. No great expectations.
Zero demanding matrixes works well on me like a neutralised old monk.
Contemporarily time-bottled, to its own evasion.
A time-kill to be in timeless dimensions.
No harm I convince myself, like Simon’s satisficing principle.
Eager sparks kindle to fill in those stacks of vacuumed passion barrels.
Pascal slaps with his words the same morning.
His wordy wisdom quote I glimpse blows punch on my hollowed logics.
“Curiosity is only vanity.
We usually only want to know something so that we can talk about it.” Oh boy!
Ghostly curiosity still screams within.
Just as is. Eagerness seeds have been dormant needs.
Explodes now and then, quenches its underlying demand.
Now, what makes this night sky lighted up in blue vividness?
Used to shrill cricket screams and pitch dark nights, this feels like fantasy…
…and I wonder about the absence of moon now,
Hiding yet diffusing light to a scenic paradise.
The other (curious) day of a full moon,
stood loaded with a firing debate on differing yellows,
how hues range bright ivory through dull straw to almost mustardy.
A befuddled (or a curious?) man
staring me from a distant as I gaze skies above,
Shuts his window in a hurried note,
finds me a midnight mothy silhouette spinning crazy cocoons.
(http://deepundergroundpoetry.com/poems/77434-the-curious-case-of-vigour-mortis/)
Count one, count two or countless more,
it won’t move a muscle in me, my ways, my days.
Just as is.
Frequent wash-outs in routine,
rolls-out from my robotic manual.
Statistically, more an after-dinner ritual.
Desiccated whites of patchy mapped hands cry tearless,
worn and torn finger-ridges run beyond reversible numbness.
A germ’s ruthless plane graveyard in plain words of any language,
anyone’s warmth of embrace is in my denial, even this microbial.
Now that this hard-core hand wash-maniac walks -works- stops.
Yes, walks-works-stops.
Walks-works-stops.
Walks-works-stops.
Cycle continues until something inner withdraws,
till a plotted point of finite infinity or the vice versa,
for the rigoured world waits to contain my atmosphere.
A
programmed
corpse
in
action. Vigour mortis.
Ceramic wash tap reflects a mocking irony.
Its white pokes me with ‘here and there’
winking-dying laughter sparkles.
Such spotless bland days move on
fading-shrinking-wrinkling me. Vigour mortis.
A whirr window breeze
sneaks to dash over my stoned face.
Linear rowed pencil rays pierce my pores,
forces a windward corneal glance in search of clues.
A balled clog of ‘white smoke’ mistaken night clouds,
moves slowly in mysterious master-minded circles,
A puffy rolling slug with a wild devouring need,
I doubt they do it with much difficulty from obesity,
scary to hear its hidden hunger pangs in secretive resonance.
Curiosity had been killing me these days.
Dickens would be proven wrong. No great expectations.
Zero demanding matrixes works well on me like a neutralised old monk.
Contemporarily time-bottled, to its own evasion.
A time-kill to be in timeless dimensions.
No harm I convince myself, like Simon’s satisficing principle.
Eager sparks kindle to fill in those stacks of vacuumed passion barrels.
Pascal slaps with his words the same morning.
His wordy wisdom quote I glimpse blows punch on my hollowed logics.
“Curiosity is only vanity.
We usually only want to know something so that we can talk about it.” Oh boy!
Ghostly curiosity still screams within.
Just as is. Eagerness seeds have been dormant needs.
Explodes now and then, quenches its underlying demand.
Now, what makes this night sky lighted up in blue vividness?
Used to shrill cricket screams and pitch dark nights, this feels like fantasy…
…and I wonder about the absence of moon now,
Hiding yet diffusing light to a scenic paradise.
The other (curious) day of a full moon,
stood loaded with a firing debate on differing yellows,
how hues range bright ivory through dull straw to almost mustardy.
A befuddled (or a curious?) man
staring me from a distant as I gaze skies above,
Shuts his window in a hurried note,
finds me a midnight mothy silhouette spinning crazy cocoons.
Le Fay and MadameLavender, thank you ladies for your entry.
I just want clarify, mono-talented poets are not to feel discriminated by this comp. If you can write poetry, have a tongue and at least one good eye, then you can read. Whether you've had a crack at spoken word or not, I will accept a recording of a poetry reading as an example of your extraordinary talent.
I just want clarify, mono-talented poets are not to feel discriminated by this comp. If you can write poetry, have a tongue and at least one good eye, then you can read. Whether you've had a crack at spoken word or not, I will accept a recording of a poetry reading as an example of your extraordinary talent.
I am currently (for the last 3 years) involved in writing a big story in rhyming verse.
Here I submit what I believe to be one of my best poems out of one of the best chapters of that story.
I also write (under my real name) music for orchestra and other instrumental combinations.
The link provided is for an orchestral ouverture that I wrote a few months ago for a composers forum competition. It gives the music as written in pdf score and the realisation in mp3.
Sorry, for the sound quality, it is only played by synths but it is meant for real people.
http://composersforum.ning.com/forum/topics/crane-park-winter-ouverture
EDELTRAUD 3=> BIG SOUTH WEATHER no. 3
CAFÉ BOCCA
Ierapetra
Sunday afternoon
17/2/2013
THE STORK
1 FIFTH WINTER
I thought that the next spring was coming fast,
I thought this summer coming I’ll be fine,
Today I see the sky overcast,
And negative around me every sign.
I’m here again, in Kyrva, a few days,
This winter is the fifth I haunt this town,
I’m like a ghost so used to my set ways,
That nothing can uplift or bring me down.
I haunt this town and Kyrva haunts me back,
With memories impossible to capture,
If all is bad, then I don’t give a fuck,
I’ll follow this collapse in every rapture.
My country on its knees and out of work,
My love life in despair and in destruction,
My family and friends another joke,
Save a few souls that they are still in action.
2 WINDY BOCCA
I used to go to work my every day,
To this work ethic always I obeyed,
I saw results convincing me to stay,
I trusted in us both and so I stayed.
So here I am, fifth winter in a row,
“BOCCA CAFÉ”, in Kyrva, windy night,
Comparing memories that overflow,
To tell me what was wrong with my foresight.
So here I am, depressed and unemployed,
Observing a deserted market place,
Politically deliberate this void,
Where fascism shows again its ugly face.
So here I am, a teacher out of work,
And still in love with you my pretty lass,
Although you believe I was the stork,
That brings the babies without any fuss.
3 HARD ROCK
In a few things you said you got them right,
This country has no future for a child,
But many things were wrong with your foresight,
Even if you were borne just to be wild.
You see, I also can rock hard like you,
I’m really not a stork, by what you gave me,
I am your lover from a summer blue,
It was all up to you to kill or save me.
I had agreed to give to you my all,
I had believed your vows of love eternal,
Between us you have build the Berlin wall,
Your motives seem self-centered and external.
This country that you loved does not exist,
This lover that you had is getting older,
This poem that you read in a long list,
Will sleep tonight in its proper folder.
There’s nothing left but time that has been,
And maybe just a call per week between us,
I’m still in love with you through thick and thin,
And people still recall us as they’ve seen us.
4 A LIFE PLAN
A lover and his lass, in Shakespeare’s words,
A rocker and his chick in rolling years,
I’d put our case to the House of Lords,
Before I do, I pray, lend me your ears.
My tale will take time to unfold,
Technology and poetry in motion,
By song every detail to be told,
By hyperlinks connect every emotion.
You have a predefined plan of life,
Your family, your lover, and a child,
Maybe someday you’ll be a middle class wife,
And your hard rocking years will turn mild.
Your country, your security, your hope,
Your little car that daddy bought last year,
You’re now a good girl, you won’t elope,
With strange freaks in countries not so near.
Your family, grand parents, friends and all,
National socialists or red brigades,
To me your Brave New World is just too small,
Advancing in ridiculous parades.
You have indeed these marvelous bright things,
From your new plan of life I’m excluded,
Maybe I was the stork that changes brings,
“But I was a bad man”, you all concluded.
On top of having all these bright new things,
You also have betrayal in your soul,
Believing I'm a stork you break my wings,
You break me and you take away my all.
So now that you have some things concrete,
You don’t care really if I live or die,
To you I am free holydays in Crete,
And our whole life you turned into a lie.
THE STORK
EXCERPT FROM "WEEK FROM HELL"
Escorted by police you chose to go,
This summer dies forever in my heart,
Inside you feel false as we both know,
I'll speak, but I don’t know where to start.
I'm left with two suitcases in our room,
You call from far and ask me to deliver,
Of course, my love, what's left let us consume,
As always, you the taker, me the giver.
I took your suitcases promptly to the post,
I took some photos and I paid the postage,
Like one of them, I am, in time lost,
And all I care is who you took as a hostage.
"WEEK FROM HELL"
THE STORK
5 GOING FROM KYRVA
I want to go from this town for good,
I cannot be forever unemployed,
The Bugle Of Loneliness I withstood,
I'm not by that , but by you destroyed.
I'm waiting still because I feel depressed,
Protecting others from this cursed depression,
Hopping this summer coming I can test,
Whether our friendship still is in probation.
I'll go from Kyrva’s weather bitten bay,
I can no longer stay hesitating,
I hope I will be able some fine day,
To speak about our loving and our hating.
THE STORK
Here I submit what I believe to be one of my best poems out of one of the best chapters of that story.
I also write (under my real name) music for orchestra and other instrumental combinations.
The link provided is for an orchestral ouverture that I wrote a few months ago for a composers forum competition. It gives the music as written in pdf score and the realisation in mp3.
Sorry, for the sound quality, it is only played by synths but it is meant for real people.
http://composersforum.ning.com/forum/topics/crane-park-winter-ouverture
EDELTRAUD 3=> BIG SOUTH WEATHER no. 3
CAFÉ BOCCA
Ierapetra
Sunday afternoon
17/2/2013
1 FIFTH WINTER
I thought that the next spring was coming fast,
I thought this summer coming I’ll be fine,
Today I see the sky overcast,
And negative around me every sign.
I’m here again, in Kyrva, a few days,
This winter is the fifth I haunt this town,
I’m like a ghost so used to my set ways,
That nothing can uplift or bring me down.
I haunt this town and Kyrva haunts me back,
With memories impossible to capture,
If all is bad, then I don’t give a fuck,
I’ll follow this collapse in every rapture.
My country on its knees and out of work,
My love life in despair and in destruction,
My family and friends another joke,
Save a few souls that they are still in action.
2 WINDY BOCCA
I used to go to work my every day,
To this work ethic always I obeyed,
I saw results convincing me to stay,
I trusted in us both and so I stayed.
So here I am, fifth winter in a row,
“BOCCA CAFÉ”, in Kyrva, windy night,
Comparing memories that overflow,
To tell me what was wrong with my foresight.
So here I am, depressed and unemployed,
Observing a deserted market place,
Politically deliberate this void,
Where fascism shows again its ugly face.
So here I am, a teacher out of work,
And still in love with you my pretty lass,
Although you believe I was the stork,
That brings the babies without any fuss.
3 HARD ROCK
In a few things you said you got them right,
This country has no future for a child,
But many things were wrong with your foresight,
Even if you were borne just to be wild.
You see, I also can rock hard like you,
I’m really not a stork, by what you gave me,
I am your lover from a summer blue,
It was all up to you to kill or save me.
I had agreed to give to you my all,
I had believed your vows of love eternal,
Between us you have build the Berlin wall,
Your motives seem self-centered and external.
This country that you loved does not exist,
This lover that you had is getting older,
This poem that you read in a long list,
Will sleep tonight in its proper folder.
There’s nothing left but time that has been,
And maybe just a call per week between us,
I’m still in love with you through thick and thin,
And people still recall us as they’ve seen us.
4 A LIFE PLAN
A lover and his lass, in Shakespeare’s words,
A rocker and his chick in rolling years,
I’d put our case to the House of Lords,
Before I do, I pray, lend me your ears.
My tale will take time to unfold,
Technology and poetry in motion,
By song every detail to be told,
By hyperlinks connect every emotion.
You have a predefined plan of life,
Your family, your lover, and a child,
Maybe someday you’ll be a middle class wife,
And your hard rocking years will turn mild.
Your country, your security, your hope,
Your little car that daddy bought last year,
You’re now a good girl, you won’t elope,
With strange freaks in countries not so near.
Your family, grand parents, friends and all,
National socialists or red brigades,
To me your Brave New World is just too small,
Advancing in ridiculous parades.
You have indeed these marvelous bright things,
From your new plan of life I’m excluded,
Maybe I was the stork that changes brings,
“But I was a bad man”, you all concluded.
On top of having all these bright new things,
You also have betrayal in your soul,
Believing I'm a stork you break my wings,
You break me and you take away my all.
So now that you have some things concrete,
You don’t care really if I live or die,
To you I am free holydays in Crete,
And our whole life you turned into a lie.
EXCERPT FROM "WEEK FROM HELL"
Escorted by police you chose to go,
This summer dies forever in my heart,
Inside you feel false as we both know,
I'll speak, but I don’t know where to start.
I'm left with two suitcases in our room,
You call from far and ask me to deliver,
Of course, my love, what's left let us consume,
As always, you the taker, me the giver.
I took your suitcases promptly to the post,
I took some photos and I paid the postage,
Like one of them, I am, in time lost,
And all I care is who you took as a hostage.
THE STORK
5 GOING FROM KYRVA
I want to go from this town for good,
I cannot be forever unemployed,
The Bugle Of Loneliness I withstood,
I'm not by that , but by you destroyed.
I'm waiting still because I feel depressed,
Protecting others from this cursed depression,
Hopping this summer coming I can test,
Whether our friendship still is in probation.
I'll go from Kyrva’s weather bitten bay,
I can no longer stay hesitating,
I hope I will be able some fine day,
To speak about our loving and our hating.
http://deepundergroundpoetry.com/poems/199735-gods-bomb---reposting-with-video/
[Quote -
‘I realize the tragic significance of the atomic bomb ... It is an awful responsibility which has come to us ... We thank God that it has come to us, instead of to our enemies; and we pray that He may guide us to use it in His ways and for His purposes.’
President Harry S. Truman, August 9, 1945
Gods Bomb
Gods bomber who
Flies in the heavens
Enola be thy name
Thy kingdom nuked
Those people cooked
In Hiroshima as they
were are in Nagasaki
Give survivors this day
Their daily dose
Forgive them their deformities
As we forgive ourselves
For their deformities
Lead us not into compassion
We’ve delivered the evil
For thine is the H-bomb
The blast and the fallout
For ever
Amen
[Quote -
‘I realize the tragic significance of the atomic bomb ... It is an awful responsibility which has come to us ... We thank God that it has come to us, instead of to our enemies; and we pray that He may guide us to use it in His ways and for His purposes.’
President Harry S. Truman, August 9, 1945
Gods Bomb
Gods bomber who
Flies in the heavens
Enola be thy name
Thy kingdom nuked
Those people cooked
In Hiroshima as they
were are in Nagasaki
Give survivors this day
Their daily dose
Forgive them their deformities
As we forgive ourselves
For their deformities
Lead us not into compassion
We’ve delivered the evil
For thine is the H-bomb
The blast and the fallout
For ever
Amen
Mr Case, what on Earth are you up to here?! I've been watching this thread from afar, but too nervous to enter. Just for clarification, this is just a one shot entry, if you participate, you only post once, not have to be in three or four more rounds of things like the Arena Comp? But if you win, you might have to participate in a huge multimedia project? I would enter but I would not want to win, as I took too much from the buffet table and anymore on the plate and I'll burst!
Some real good entries above!
Some real good entries above!
http://deepundergroundpoetry.com/poems/200136-head-bangers-ball/
I took this picture
https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=967734973256657&set=a.
and this picture too. I took photography as a jr in highschool
sorry link is not working properly, so i have to post the whole thing.
https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=766416920055131&set=pb.100000604904602.-2207520000.1429077231.&type=3&theater
I took this picture
https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=967734973256657&set=a.
and this picture too. I took photography as a jr in highschool
sorry link is not working properly, so i have to post the whole thing.
https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=766416920055131&set=pb.100000604904602.-2207520000.1429077231.&type=3&theater
