Poetry competition CLOSED 6th September 2020 9:37am
WINNER
DaisyGrace
DaisyGrace
RUNNERS-UP:
LobodeSanPedro
and badmalthus
Go Bukowski, it’s yer (100th) birthday
Anonymous
Poetry Contest Description
Write a poem honouring Charles Bukowski on his 100th birthday
Today, on August 16th, 2020 Charles Bukowski would have been 100 years old.
For this comp I would like to honour his birthday and his life. Please write a poem honouring the poet, but more than that... how have his words effected you and your life? This isn’t an imitation competition... I’m interested in how his work has impacted you. What have you learned from his work.
Perhaps you would like to take inspiration from a title of one of his poems, or a line or an image. Don’t forget to credit this in your author’s note.
Please note there is a #CharlesBukowski theme that you can tag your poem with should you choose too.
Rules
* New entries only
* Up to 2 entries per human being
* any length just don’t go mad
* audio / visual / video accepted
* Poem will be judged by myself
Song of the Soul...
Life is a journey, defined by time,
guided by fate but controlled by you.
The story in our minds eye is a fantasy.
That fantasy sees us as the hero,
meeting all challenges and
slaying many dragons.
But life isn’t fantasy and fate isn’t friendly.
Some dragons are bigger than others,
their breaths of fire burn the options and melt
the dreams you thought were certain, leaving you
with only uncertainty. The fire blinds you
to what you know and to any path of escape.
When all seems lost is when you hear
the song of the soul. It sings only when
it is threatened with destruction. It’s song
reminds us when all seems hopeless
we have a song with a message to
keep singing our own song. Eventually
the world will listen, your eyes will open
and the new and brighter world will appear.
Written by anvinvil
(Anvillan)
Go To Page
Lonely River...
The flow of life is like a river, fast currents,
slow currents, shallow water, deep pools
rocks, logs and other impediments that
require changes in course. How do we
handle the flow?
When life moves fast we grab what we
can before it passes us by. Things are
not always what they seem with just a
quick look and get discarded. Things
discarded are collected down stream in a
vessel called Abandoned Dreams. This
vessel once full is dumped in the bin of
Expired Possibilities.
The life we live and the life we want differ.
Our expectations are often obstructed
by unexpected snags and obstacles in life.
We must meet and navigate the path around
and find our way. Companion souls shout to
help but they pass to fast. I am alone in this
river of life, floating, drifting, unattached.
slow currents, shallow water, deep pools
rocks, logs and other impediments that
require changes in course. How do we
handle the flow?
When life moves fast we grab what we
can before it passes us by. Things are
not always what they seem with just a
quick look and get discarded. Things
discarded are collected down stream in a
vessel called Abandoned Dreams. This
vessel once full is dumped in the bin of
Expired Possibilities.
The life we live and the life we want differ.
Our expectations are often obstructed
by unexpected snags and obstacles in life.
We must meet and navigate the path around
and find our way. Companion souls shout to
help but they pass to fast. I am alone in this
river of life, floating, drifting, unattached.
Written by anvinvil
(Anvillan)
Go To Page
a song on which Kafka choked
a
door collar
o my dug pup shame, a pet
you shuffle between the corduroy
and the cardboard
of your mousy brown hair,
sea shells
bo’ chained and spliced
to your necklace; a heavy pence
worn like a five-fifty dusk,
shaken,
jaded dark-berry weather
let Jayne play the middle- weights,
let her land-lady mark each banister scuff,
just play and lift your nightie sweet sunset,
a sweet known shade for my eyes.
door collar
o my dug pup shame, a pet
you shuffle between the corduroy
and the cardboard
of your mousy brown hair,
sea shells
bo’ chained and spliced
to your necklace; a heavy pence
worn like a five-fifty dusk,
shaken,
jaded dark-berry weather
let Jayne play the middle- weights,
let her land-lady mark each banister scuff,
just play and lift your nightie sweet sunset,
a sweet known shade for my eyes.
Written by nomoth
Go To Page
Buk Naked
"Burning in Water, Drowning in Flame" ~ Poetic Response
Marinated in poetic sauce
tawneyed by stubby cigarettes
this feverish pecking
never finding the right key
always better stale
like stiff cold pizza
piss warm beer
Burnt in the shower
drowning in a fiery plume
Showing me in each line
unrolling the fraying twine
loosing me on up ...
with an extant urgency
no longer afraid to spill
the whole frigging bottle of ink
Marinated in poetic sauce
tawneyed by stubby cigarettes
this feverish pecking
never finding the right key
always better stale
like stiff cold pizza
piss warm beer
Burnt in the shower
drowning in a fiery plume
Showing me in each line
unrolling the fraying twine
loosing me on up ...
with an extant urgency
no longer afraid to spill
the whole frigging bottle of ink
Written by LilDragonFly
Go To Page
Holy Rollin' Ass Holiness
Holy Holy Holy
Assholiness
Like Words Spit Out From Twisted Lips
Too Tempted Not To Speak
Yet Truth Is Between The Lines
Like In A Store Buying Peanut Butter
Just To Practice Reading Too Dense Poetry
And The Shit We Say Latrine Like
When We Think No One Is Listening
Lips Smacking Mind Cracking
Like A Two By Four Over A Head
When You Can't Think Straight
And You Need A Third Shot Before You Can Get Up
Just Always Remember
We May Defecate With Our Luscious Language
But No Matter What We Say
We Are Never Very Fart Apart
Assholiness
Like Words Spit Out From Twisted Lips
Too Tempted Not To Speak
Yet Truth Is Between The Lines
Like In A Store Buying Peanut Butter
Just To Practice Reading Too Dense Poetry
And The Shit We Say Latrine Like
When We Think No One Is Listening
Lips Smacking Mind Cracking
Like A Two By Four Over A Head
When You Can't Think Straight
And You Need A Third Shot Before You Can Get Up
Just Always Remember
We May Defecate With Our Luscious Language
But No Matter What We Say
We Are Never Very Fart Apart
Written by Blackwolf
(I.M.Blackwolf)
Go To Page
Related submission no longer exists.
Anonymous
<< post removed >>
The scent of Copperheads
Burning through
Archaic sentiment
.....But burning
And an appreciation
An appropriate passion
For what is not gold
But the tint of Calx
rusted root
Or the rust of a tin can
Planted in soil
For generations
And the dangerous space
That leads the Copperhead
Ahead of Chevron tiled slither
A scent of foreboding fortune mixed with feces and intent
But comes to some
The smell of cucumbers
To some plain foul
As flared and frightened nostrils
Take it in
And exhale no art
Poetry
Music
Stroke
Of mimic
The raw colors of the world
The value of salt
As it adds to the human condition
Or reflects
Truly the grimy
And honest
Often fuck you
Often Jesus Christ
Cornerstone, of humanity
The weary and brutal
Sidewalks
Filled with pissed off seekers
Rattling keychains
That hang from pockets
Spilling Velcro unicorns
In colorful plastic
Burning through ..
and these things around me
Spill
A pilgrimage of sorts
To the Buk
And his awareness :
....Need to find art ...
To seek it in the ally’s
Or the eye of the convict
Where some might see
Only concrete and grey
Archaic sentiment
.....But burning
And an appreciation
An appropriate passion
For what is not gold
But the tint of Calx
rusted root
Or the rust of a tin can
Planted in soil
For generations
And the dangerous space
That leads the Copperhead
Ahead of Chevron tiled slither
A scent of foreboding fortune mixed with feces and intent
But comes to some
The smell of cucumbers
To some plain foul
As flared and frightened nostrils
Take it in
And exhale no art
Poetry
Music
Stroke
Of mimic
The raw colors of the world
The value of salt
As it adds to the human condition
Or reflects
Truly the grimy
And honest
Often fuck you
Often Jesus Christ
Cornerstone, of humanity
The weary and brutal
Sidewalks
Filled with pissed off seekers
Rattling keychains
That hang from pockets
Spilling Velcro unicorns
In colorful plastic
Burning through ..
and these things around me
Spill
A pilgrimage of sorts
To the Buk
And his awareness :
....Need to find art ...
To seek it in the ally’s
Or the eye of the convict
Where some might see
Only concrete and grey
Written by Calamityofgin
Go To Page
Anonymous
<< post removed >>
Anonymous
Some magnificent entries so far! Glad you’re all honouring the old git 
