Poetry competition CLOSED 4th February 2021 00:03am
WINNER
slipalong
slipalong
Page:
Have you really read Poe?
Poetry Contest Description
A poem about your favourite Poe poem
I'm embarrassed to say that I'm not sure I've ever even finished "the raven".
It's long been on the to do to list for me to read some of Edgar Allen Poe's work. Maybe somebody out there can help me pick a good starting poem, or
maybe the lot of ya will convince me to read them all.
You can choose "the raven" if you want but I'm curious which poem's will be mentioned that maybe others haven't heard of, or have noticed but not tried yet.
Here's your chance to tell them it's worth it. Make a poem about the Edgar Allen Poe poem of your choice and tell us all why it's the best:)
I see him in alot of members favorite poets
It's long been on the to do to list for me to read some of Edgar Allen Poe's work. Maybe somebody out there can help me pick a good starting poem, or
maybe the lot of ya will convince me to read them all.
You can choose "the raven" if you want but I'm curious which poem's will be mentioned that maybe others haven't heard of, or have noticed but not tried yet.
Here's your chance to tell them it's worth it. Make a poem about the Edgar Allen Poe poem of your choice and tell us all why it's the best:)
I see him in alot of members favorite poets
I’ve read only The Raven and The Tell-Tale Heart which are probably his most famous poem and short story respectively. The Raven is a particularly great piece of poetry due to the complex rhyming scheme, which whilst he didn’t invent he certainly mastered. I attempted a piece inspired by The Raven’s style and posted it on the DUP, but I really struggled with the rhyming scheme. He makes it look easy and he did it without a computer, which makes it an impressive achievement indeed.
Poo Poo for Poe Poe Buffs
On that night in rain drenched eerie as I disrobed being leery
of mother's words of how a good wife should appear
Whilst I primped and peered seeking beauty within the mirror
'twas startled by a gentle tapping
tapping, rapping upon the bathroom door.
A voice so reassuring with words like "do not worry
for it is you I do adore"
"Please wait", I did implore
For wedding bells had rang that noon, and while upon our honeymoon
my flower would be taken soon
for 'twas my first time to explore
anything past heavy petting or anything past of him getting
inside me with his warm tongue wetting
the thing for which he'd waited for.
Where within life's secret stored
And although I did not finish my hesitation he did diminish
so out the door, cross the floor, into his bed I scampered
where upon he did pamper
my racing heart with words and more
obliging slowly my nervousness thus energizing my wantonness
"Yes, oh yes", mon doux amour
When acts of love we did complete, and we both were fast asleep
my mother's words again did creep,
what a good wife should ignore, that a good wife should ignore
all small faults
to include his deafening snore.
But with a gentle stroke then with a harder poke
I tried to move him over
no longer did I lie in clover
nor wish to work ever bolder
to stifle his incessant snore
His mighty snore and roar
So to fill my sleepless nights, and fore go unwanted fights
I've found within a page's folds writings which some feel are gold
from the famous Poe
of which provide much needed light to take just such a desired flight
so bold
from his imagination told
And to this day we're still together though stormy seas we've had to weather
for in my cap, he is a feather
a mighty, mighty feather
with a loud consistent roar which I've come to ignore
still not adore
but sleep I now outside his door, and very thankful for nevermore
Thankful, thankful for nevermore
On that night in rain drenched eerie as I disrobed being leery
of mother's words of how a good wife should appear
Whilst I primped and peered seeking beauty within the mirror
'twas startled by a gentle tapping
tapping, rapping upon the bathroom door.
A voice so reassuring with words like "do not worry
for it is you I do adore"
"Please wait", I did implore
For wedding bells had rang that noon, and while upon our honeymoon
my flower would be taken soon
for 'twas my first time to explore
anything past heavy petting or anything past of him getting
inside me with his warm tongue wetting
the thing for which he'd waited for.
Where within life's secret stored
And although I did not finish my hesitation he did diminish
so out the door, cross the floor, into his bed I scampered
where upon he did pamper
my racing heart with words and more
obliging slowly my nervousness thus energizing my wantonness
"Yes, oh yes", mon doux amour
When acts of love we did complete, and we both were fast asleep
my mother's words again did creep,
what a good wife should ignore, that a good wife should ignore
all small faults
to include his deafening snore.
But with a gentle stroke then with a harder poke
I tried to move him over
no longer did I lie in clover
nor wish to work ever bolder
to stifle his incessant snore
His mighty snore and roar
So to fill my sleepless nights, and fore go unwanted fights
I've found within a page's folds writings which some feel are gold
from the famous Poe
of which provide much needed light to take just such a desired flight
so bold
from his imagination told
And to this day we're still together though stormy seas we've had to weather
for in my cap, he is a feather
a mighty, mighty feather
with a loud consistent roar which I've come to ignore
still not adore
but sleep I now outside his door, and very thankful for nevermore
Thankful, thankful for nevermore
Chapel of Rest
I stood and watched it slowly sink
as it sank, define conflict.
As on the pew, my head in hand
and prayed to rays, cast by stained glass.
Recalled the beauty, that is past
Portraiture, when she stood tall
fractures of rainbow, on surfaces did fall
Like statue's stone, their cast beset
In solemnity, eyes, downcast rest.
Loud silence scream's, goodbye sweet love,
melt the starch of my resolve.
Stirred the tears, amongst the grief
as on cold slabs they etched a need.
Inscribed to bones, beneath the feet.
Prostrate, Gods will, put to the test.
Persephonie, snatched by Hadies sods.
The wood so polished it pervades.
Tarnished coins to close the lids
sparkling eyes the grave forbids.
Reminiscence of such charm,
aquaintances will flock and swarm,
but feelings stand alone forlorn.
The coach of death, steers careering
its violence, stabs a blooded spear.
A vacuum when a soul departs.
To soon that portal door ajar,
a sextons spade the graves deep spar.
For is purgatory, adorned bouquets of flowers.
Length and depth its waiting bower
cold and damp, it's need so sour.
Ever be the flaxen maiden so,
taken by the the black cruel crow.
Murder; not appease the deep hollow
But be the radiant nebula,
the southern cross afar.
Love letter pressed against the breast.
A fragrant scented handkerchief.
Vespers sung in the evening mass
Headstones echo with your laugh.
A sprite like Isadora Duncan; dance!
tribute to "The Sleeper" by Edgar Allan Poe
https://poets.org/poem/sleeper
as it sank, define conflict.
As on the pew, my head in hand
and prayed to rays, cast by stained glass.
Recalled the beauty, that is past
Portraiture, when she stood tall
fractures of rainbow, on surfaces did fall
Like statue's stone, their cast beset
In solemnity, eyes, downcast rest.
Loud silence scream's, goodbye sweet love,
melt the starch of my resolve.
Stirred the tears, amongst the grief
as on cold slabs they etched a need.
Inscribed to bones, beneath the feet.
Prostrate, Gods will, put to the test.
Persephonie, snatched by Hadies sods.
The wood so polished it pervades.
Tarnished coins to close the lids
sparkling eyes the grave forbids.
Reminiscence of such charm,
aquaintances will flock and swarm,
but feelings stand alone forlorn.
The coach of death, steers careering
its violence, stabs a blooded spear.
A vacuum when a soul departs.
To soon that portal door ajar,
a sextons spade the graves deep spar.
For is purgatory, adorned bouquets of flowers.
Length and depth its waiting bower
cold and damp, it's need so sour.
Ever be the flaxen maiden so,
taken by the the black cruel crow.
Murder; not appease the deep hollow
But be the radiant nebula,
the southern cross afar.
Love letter pressed against the breast.
A fragrant scented handkerchief.
Vespers sung in the evening mass
Headstones echo with your laugh.
A sprite like Isadora Duncan; dance!
tribute to "The Sleeper" by Edgar Allan Poe
https://poets.org/poem/sleeper
Written by slipalong
Go To Page
The house that should not be (competition entry)
When stars align and night is still,
And gibbous moon bears eerie chill,
Perched upon, dark dreary hill,
Resides the house that should not be.
Who knows what horrors lurk inside
Where fear and loathing coincide,
And death itself has faltered, died,
How did this abomination come to be?
‘Tis a horrid mystery...
Warped doors and window panes,
Wrapped in howls of fear and pain,
Driving those nearby insane,
It is a malformed monstrosity.
This aberration you will find,
Mercifully, one of a kind,
An architecture made of fevered mind,
At the crossroads of infinity,
‘Tis a macabre obscenity.
Where corruption grows, twists and turns,
Blasphemous chaos swells and churns,
Seared by deep infernal burns,
Resides the house that should not be.
It’s presence solid, or so you feel,
But there is alas, one last reveal,
The house itself, well its not real,
My dearest friend can’t you see,
‘Tis naught but your insanity...
And gibbous moon bears eerie chill,
Perched upon, dark dreary hill,
Resides the house that should not be.
Who knows what horrors lurk inside
Where fear and loathing coincide,
And death itself has faltered, died,
How did this abomination come to be?
‘Tis a horrid mystery...
Warped doors and window panes,
Wrapped in howls of fear and pain,
Driving those nearby insane,
It is a malformed monstrosity.
This aberration you will find,
Mercifully, one of a kind,
An architecture made of fevered mind,
At the crossroads of infinity,
‘Tis a macabre obscenity.
Where corruption grows, twists and turns,
Blasphemous chaos swells and churns,
Seared by deep infernal burns,
Resides the house that should not be.
It’s presence solid, or so you feel,
But there is alas, one last reveal,
The house itself, well its not real,
My dearest friend can’t you see,
‘Tis naught but your insanity...
Written by Noble_Incubus
Go To Page
THE TELL-TALE TRAGEDY : CRIMSON DELIRIUM
The raven sounds its call this night
“Nevermore” to the wraith of Poe’s midnightmare
My severed heart calls from is tomb
You wanted thunder among the murder
O, I beat my fists against the stone
As utter darkness finds its way home
Shuddering with the twitch of the vein
I deserve to settle in my grave
Shall I tell you a tale
Of blackest night?
Is there a place in Hell
For those without light?
When all that’s left is fear
Creatures in the dark
Soul of man wish to hear
Of the tell-tale heart
Behold the mercy of zealots
Seven white candles feed my delirium
Hell bound before the abyss
Beneath the moon, the pendulum’s doom
tick, tock
fall once more
TICK, TOCK
FALL ONCE MORE
O, I come to the haunted palace
Alive with such nightmares and malice
Where the dead linger in the vespers
Shall I fade with the Usher’s whispers
Shall I tell you a tale
Of blackest night?
Is there a place in Hell
For those without light?
When all that’s left is fear
Creatures in the dark
Soul of man wish to hear
Of the tell-tale heart
Sickened, gruesome profuse bleeding pores
Prospero adorned technicolor whores
The ebony clock stills the masquerade
Death in crimson masque has come this day
‘THERE ARE SOME SECRETS
WHICH DO NOT PERMIT THEMSELVES TO BE TOLD”
angels from up high
sigh as i mime
smile as i churn
inside the worm
Shall I tell you a tale
Of blackest night?
Is there a place in Hell
For those without light?
When all that’s left is fear
Creatures in the dark
Soul of man wish to hear
Of the tell-tale heart
“Nevermore” to the wraith of Poe’s midnightmare
My severed heart calls from is tomb
You wanted thunder among the murder
O, I beat my fists against the stone
As utter darkness finds its way home
Shuddering with the twitch of the vein
I deserve to settle in my grave
Shall I tell you a tale
Of blackest night?
Is there a place in Hell
For those without light?
When all that’s left is fear
Creatures in the dark
Soul of man wish to hear
Of the tell-tale heart
Behold the mercy of zealots
Seven white candles feed my delirium
Hell bound before the abyss
Beneath the moon, the pendulum’s doom
tick, tock
fall once more
TICK, TOCK
FALL ONCE MORE
O, I come to the haunted palace
Alive with such nightmares and malice
Where the dead linger in the vespers
Shall I fade with the Usher’s whispers
Shall I tell you a tale
Of blackest night?
Is there a place in Hell
For those without light?
When all that’s left is fear
Creatures in the dark
Soul of man wish to hear
Of the tell-tale heart
Sickened, gruesome profuse bleeding pores
Prospero adorned technicolor whores
The ebony clock stills the masquerade
Death in crimson masque has come this day
‘THERE ARE SOME SECRETS
WHICH DO NOT PERMIT THEMSELVES TO BE TOLD”
angels from up high
sigh as i mime
smile as i churn
inside the worm
Shall I tell you a tale
Of blackest night?
Is there a place in Hell
For those without light?
When all that’s left is fear
Creatures in the dark
Soul of man wish to hear
Of the tell-tale heart
Written by HadesRising
Go To Page
Alan's favorite work. Imitation
Edgar Allan Poe published collections of poetry, but stories were the main work of his life. He is considered the pioneer of detective stories and psychological thrillers. To understand Alan Poe you need to be able to read, you can read more about it here https://studymoose.com/reading many tips on this topic. His works have always been shrouded in melancholy and mysticism. The writer pulled his readers out of real-life and immersed them in the philosophical literature. He competently kept the balance between the happiness of death and the fear of life.
IMITATION
Dark bottomless tide
Endless pride -
Mystery and dream
My early life must appear;
I say the dream was fraught
With a wild and waking thought
The creatures that were
Whom my spirit has not seen.
If I let them pass me by
With a dreamy gaze!
Let no one from the earth inherit
This is a vision of my spirit;
The thoughts that I would like to control
Like a spell on his soul:
For this bright hope at last
And that bright time has passed
And my worldly peace is gone
With a sigh as he passed:
I don't care if he dies
With a thought that I really cherished then.
(1827)
Edgar Allan Poe published collections of poetry, but stories were the main work of his life. He is considered the pioneer of detective stories and psychological thrillers. To understand Alan Poe you need to be able to read, you can read more about it here https://studymoose.com/reading many tips on this topic. His works have always been shrouded in melancholy and mysticism. The writer pulled his readers out of real-life and immersed them in the philosophical literature. He competently kept the balance between the happiness of death and the fear of life.
IMITATION
Dark bottomless tide
Endless pride -
Mystery and dream
My early life must appear;
I say the dream was fraught
With a wild and waking thought
The creatures that were
Whom my spirit has not seen.
If I let them pass me by
With a dreamy gaze!
Let no one from the earth inherit
This is a vision of my spirit;
The thoughts that I would like to control
Like a spell on his soul:
For this bright hope at last
And that bright time has passed
And my worldly peace is gone
With a sigh as he passed:
I don't care if he dies
With a thought that I really cherished then.
(1827)
The winner of this competition and any runners up were decided by public vote.
Thank you to the following members for voting:
Numer90, Insiderew, Valeriyabeyond, nutbuster, wilberfloss, Noble_Incubus, Gahddess_Worship, Marks, Bluevelvete, Honoria, Tallen, PoetsRevenge, Phantom2426, RiAN, lepperochan
Thank you to the following members for voting:
Numer90, Insiderew, Valeriyabeyond, nutbuster, wilberfloss, Noble_Incubus, Gahddess_Worship, Marks, Bluevelvete, Honoria, Tallen, PoetsRevenge, Phantom2426, RiAN, lepperochan
