Poetry competition CLOSED 22nd September 2021 3:13pm
WINNER
Anonymous
Anonymous
RUNNER-UP:
badmalthus
Poem of the Month - SEPTEMBER 2021
Poetry Contest Description
Three weeks to nominate your favorite poems!
You have THREE weeks to nominate no more than THREE of your favorite poems from another DUP poet!
Please note the following guidelines when making nominations:
The voting for this competition is anonymous; therefore,spoken word nominations will be disqualified. You may nominate Spoken Word pieces in the competition below.
Spoken Word of the Month Comp is here:
(Link coming soon!)
New Member ( six ( 6 ) months of less ) of the Month comp is here:
https://deepundergroundpoetry.com/forum/competitions/read/12017/
1. Self nominations are not accepted. The great majority of the competitions here are about spotlighting one's own work on a particular topic or theme. This is a chance to nominate that poem that you wish you had written but some other great talent here beat you to it.
2. You may nominate only THREE poems from THREE different DU members.
3. No DUPLICATE NOMINATIONS. If you nominate a poem that has already been nominated you will be asked to replace the nomination.
4. Any genre except erotica or pornography. This is a Facebook feature and we must adhere to their guidelines.
5. Any member who is banned or disables their account PRIOR to winning will be automatically disqualified.
6. One win per member per calendar year, beginning with the month they win.
7. Please notify your nominee they have been nominated.
Nomination Duration is three weeks followed by a week of site voting!
Current Poem of the Month Hall of Famers:
2021:
January - brokentitanium (k.)
February - SatinUgal
March - X
April - RiAN
May - DaisyGrace
June - Bluevelvete
July - Jemac
August - pending
2020
January- NEW BEGINNINGS
February - EDIBLE WORDS
March - MADAME LAVENDER
APRIL - MONKEYMAN
MAY - TIMAGINATION543
JUNE - LEPPEROCHAN (Craic-Dealer)
JULY - STRANGEWAYS_ROB
August - Daniel Christensen
September - Aspergerpoet
October - Lunagreyhawk
November - Kristinax
December - Ahavati
2019
January - DANIELCHRISTENSEN
February - SOPHIE_ERICSON
March - AUDIOHARLEEA
April - FROM THE ASH
May - MISS_SUB
June - NAAJIR
July - LAYLA
August, 2019 - AHAVATI
September - MISS_SUB
October - HOWLING_WHELMS
November - JOHNNY BLAZE
December - RACHEL_LAUREN
2018
January - LADY_OF_THE_QUILL
February - LEPPEROCHAN Craic in a Box
March - TINABUBUYA (Tee Mali)
April - CROWFLY
May - ATOMIKBOMB
June - MISS_SUB (Missy)
July - MEADOWSWEET
August - LAYLA
September - COLD FUSION
October - TODSKI28
November - TheMUSE22
December - BENDER
2017
January - VEE
February - CRIMSIN
March - ONEFIFTYSIX
April - DANIEL CHRISTENSEN
May - ALEXANDER CASE
June - AEMelia564
July - THE_SILLY_SIBYL (Jack Thomas Heslop)
August - QUIETUSQUILL
September - _SHADOE_
October - POETSREVENGE
November - NAAJIR
December - POETSPEAK
2016
November - JOHN FEDDELER
December - AHAVATI
Please note the following guidelines when making nominations:
The voting for this competition is anonymous; therefore,spoken word nominations will be disqualified. You may nominate Spoken Word pieces in the competition below.
Spoken Word of the Month Comp is here:
(Link coming soon!)
New Member ( six ( 6 ) months of less ) of the Month comp is here:
https://deepundergroundpoetry.com/forum/competitions/read/12017/
1. Self nominations are not accepted. The great majority of the competitions here are about spotlighting one's own work on a particular topic or theme. This is a chance to nominate that poem that you wish you had written but some other great talent here beat you to it.
2. You may nominate only THREE poems from THREE different DU members.
3. No DUPLICATE NOMINATIONS. If you nominate a poem that has already been nominated you will be asked to replace the nomination.
4. Any genre except erotica or pornography. This is a Facebook feature and we must adhere to their guidelines.
5. Any member who is banned or disables their account PRIOR to winning will be automatically disqualified.
6. One win per member per calendar year, beginning with the month they win.
7. Please notify your nominee they have been nominated.
Nomination Duration is three weeks followed by a week of site voting!
Current Poem of the Month Hall of Famers:
2021:
January - brokentitanium (k.)
February - SatinUgal
March - X
April - RiAN
May - DaisyGrace
June - Bluevelvete
July - Jemac
August - pending
2020
January- NEW BEGINNINGS
February - EDIBLE WORDS
March - MADAME LAVENDER
APRIL - MONKEYMAN
MAY - TIMAGINATION543
JUNE - LEPPEROCHAN (Craic-Dealer)
JULY - STRANGEWAYS_ROB
August - Daniel Christensen
September - Aspergerpoet
October - Lunagreyhawk
November - Kristinax
December - Ahavati
2019
January - DANIELCHRISTENSEN
February - SOPHIE_ERICSON
March - AUDIOHARLEEA
April - FROM THE ASH
May - MISS_SUB
June - NAAJIR
July - LAYLA
August, 2019 - AHAVATI
September - MISS_SUB
October - HOWLING_WHELMS
November - JOHNNY BLAZE
December - RACHEL_LAUREN
2018
January - LADY_OF_THE_QUILL
February - LEPPEROCHAN Craic in a Box
March - TINABUBUYA (Tee Mali)
April - CROWFLY
May - ATOMIKBOMB
June - MISS_SUB (Missy)
July - MEADOWSWEET
August - LAYLA
September - COLD FUSION
October - TODSKI28
November - TheMUSE22
December - BENDER
2017
January - VEE
February - CRIMSIN
March - ONEFIFTYSIX
April - DANIEL CHRISTENSEN
May - ALEXANDER CASE
June - AEMelia564
July - THE_SILLY_SIBYL (Jack Thomas Heslop)
August - QUIETUSQUILL
September - _SHADOE_
October - POETSREVENGE
November - NAAJIR
December - POETSPEAK
2016
November - JOHN FEDDELER
December - AHAVATI
HEY! where did you come from?
while drinking coffee, or
reading a book,
I feel his hand resting
upon my
shoulder.
I look back and no one is
there.
when walking down the
street,
I see his shadow
following me.
I turn around, but nobody
is present.
I taste him in bites of my
food and sips of wine.
I sense him in the words
I write,
and see him in the eyes
of others.
in bed at night,
I think about how I
would chase
the tigers of passion,
all those beautifully
imperfect women
and men who
welcomed me to
enter the sacred
temple's of their
bodies, hearts
and souls,
and afterwards,
lying together,
the twilight falling
around us like manna,
soft, gentle giggling at
little secrets shared
between small kisses
of afterplay,
whispering silly pet
names like song birds
singing from tree to
tree.
now I lie here,
feeling the weight of
his arm dangling over
my back in some
spectral hug,
I roll over,
but no one is
there...
not yet,
anyway,
but soon
enough,
soon
enough.
Written by buddhakitty
Go To Page
little things found in secondhand books
a photograph of a young Jack Russell
with a scruffy black head
and white body,
looking like a plucked chicken.
a birthday message,
handwritten, dated two weeks
before it reached my hands.
(the recipient must not have liked
Southern Gothic short stories.)
a postcard of a Van Gogh scene
(“Wheatfield, with Cypresses”).
that one i keep on my nightstand,
backlit by my reading lamp.
i think about the hands
that placed these little gifts
between the pages of the books.
a woman’s hands,
wrinkled, writing on
the first blank page.
a male hand marking the spot,
with the picture of the dog.
with a scruffy black head
and white body,
looking like a plucked chicken.
a birthday message,
handwritten, dated two weeks
before it reached my hands.
(the recipient must not have liked
Southern Gothic short stories.)
a postcard of a Van Gogh scene
(“Wheatfield, with Cypresses”).
that one i keep on my nightstand,
backlit by my reading lamp.
i think about the hands
that placed these little gifts
between the pages of the books.
a woman’s hands,
wrinkled, writing on
the first blank page.
a male hand marking the spot,
with the picture of the dog.
Written by The_Silly_Sibyl
(Jack Thomas)
Go To Page
Wings of Shame
Even the butterflies
seem terrified
As a boy
they would settle on my head
a kindred flower to bask on
Much rarer now
they shun us all
with wary wings
while our Mother screams
Look!
See what you’ve done
And In silent lines
the birds stray North
flying hard
to escape the sun
Written by Abracadabra
Go To Page
Related submission no longer exists.
Picnic in the park
carrying stones of loneliness
in her cheap Salvo handbag
she stumbles
and
staggers from
park bench
to
park bench
searching for meaning
...for a future
...for something remotely
related to love
and friendship
while by the small pond
she sees Jesus treading
water
while holy humans
throw tired prayers
of wanting
and
longing
into his drowning arms
from her handbag
she unpacks her life
and
spreads
it on the grass
for all to bear witness
before swallowing
the world's misery
and
dying all alone
by the daffodils
Written by badmalthus
(Harry Rout)
Go To Page
Muted
As I endure alone, I think.
Shadows flow around me, taunting.
Frightened words do not formulate.
I am left drowning in the ink.
Bold thoughts gather but quickly shrink.
The effort put forth is daunting.
Words pile up, becoming dead weight.
I am left drowning in the ink.
Hoping to see, I do not blink.
I gaze, and it leaves me wanting.
Why does my expression negate?
I am left drowning in the ink.
Steadily I silently sink.
Formless expression is haunting,
and the words become serrated.
I am left drowning in the ink.
Shadows flow around me, taunting.
Frightened words do not formulate.
I am left drowning in the ink.
Bold thoughts gather but quickly shrink.
The effort put forth is daunting.
Words pile up, becoming dead weight.
I am left drowning in the ink.
Hoping to see, I do not blink.
I gaze, and it leaves me wanting.
Why does my expression negate?
I am left drowning in the ink.
Steadily I silently sink.
Formless expression is haunting,
and the words become serrated.
I am left drowning in the ink.
Written by Ljdynamic
Go To Page
all the centuries in one night
lying beside
you
watching you
sleep in the
quiet morning
tide
thinking of last
night:
your
feel,
your
taste,
your
sound,
your
motion.
how you gave
yourself
freely,
how you gave
in to yourself
freely,
the wine of your
hair spilling
over our
faces.
and all the centuries
that came
before,
and all the centuries
yet to come found
their way to
this one
night.
all the defeats
wiped clean
from the
slate,
all the victories
became inert
in this one
night.
and any words I
write, nothing
more than
obvious
hollow
cliches.
all I'm left
with is:
thank you,
Danielle.
Written by buddhakitty
Go To Page
Framed [The Loneliness of the Soul]
“As for me. I am a watercolor. I wash off.” Anne Sexton
Knuckled strokes
Wrest wine from skies.
Seeds of light, palimpsest
On the white maps before creation,
That grew here and gave being
In remote corner of the universe
To a suggestion of God’s palette.
Hopper’s triangle of lights dissect
dust bowl__ rail road__phantom house__
Curtain-veiled silhouettes seduce the sun:
Skinned as raw deer wounds
To open and invite passing strangers.
In this theatre of drowned clowns
Every waiting moment is a circus of sorrow,
‘Two Comedians’ step into the spotlight
Before all that is known…..recedes and fades.
Somewhere, along dusty kerbs
Beside gasoline streaked streets
Lie pyres of deckchairs
Thumbprint forked by those
Who have sat and watched.
Seas brooding like an empty hospital -
Cancer-soaked blankets await ripple of limbs -
Ships seek coloured harbours
Mute to monochrome by an unstilled vision.
See the waves strain above the anchor
Eternal trench of sadness
----- towards silence
----- of oils & liquid flesh
Picasso blued up the ruelles
Feeding poverty with guts of a guitar,
Absinthe-rich bar dwellers gazing into the void
Of brutale blue that drinks and spills
Over edges of the frame,
Beyond the brink of sight.
Compact machinery of pigment muscle
Strips sinew from lungs of canvas,
Scissored breath sketches
Small worlds within worlds:
The world is everything
That is the case
(Emin)ently, folds in Tracey’s bedsheets
Hold the piss of the universe urinal:
Collect as stained stars in a petri dish.
Abuse sits north by north-west &
Mind the craters on the greyed moon.
Abuse is the heavy breathing fifty yards away
Slashed arms searching for holes to conceal herself.
Fabrics, needlework and crayons
Are just the chicken bones and feathers
Of the animal which some call man.
Sin is often smeared in blood.
The man who paints with his tongue
Tastes the tails of bone windmills, churns
Air in the land they name forever.
And a day,
His teeth rot
Take root in
Canals of abstraction.
He no longer talks, walks
Between rooms until, inevitably,
Comfort is the bedroom:
For the dreams arrive
Always they arrive.
About suffering The Old Masters always knew.
Where were you, dear gallery viewer,
When Icarus crashed from the sky?
How the suffering takes place
When someone else is just eating a burger,
Or listening to R&B on a MP3.
‘Weathered Beach House’ above the mantelpiece,
My eyes diluted by the blackened windows
& stretch of unforgiving coast.
“It will always be summer in here,” Mum chimed -
Fingering the painting
In rhythm to frost-wreathed clock.
On the day we left
‘The Beach House’ sat alone, unframed,
A gravestone for kith and kin
In kiln of broken bricks.
All vision has been inspired by love.
Scream to a sigh
Stars scar the night:
Rather talk of Van Goch ear
Than the beauty inside.
Life still is self-portrait
Inner self being painted
It’s all invented:
Case of cutlery
Vase on a window
Winter trees…..
#Thomas Jones. Häuser in Neapel (Naples) 1782
Knuckled strokes
Wrest wine from skies.
Seeds of light, palimpsest
On the white maps before creation,
That grew here and gave being
In remote corner of the universe
To a suggestion of God’s palette.
Hopper’s triangle of lights dissect
dust bowl__ rail road__phantom house__
Curtain-veiled silhouettes seduce the sun:
Skinned as raw deer wounds
To open and invite passing strangers.
In this theatre of drowned clowns
Every waiting moment is a circus of sorrow,
‘Two Comedians’ step into the spotlight
Before all that is known…..recedes and fades.
Somewhere, along dusty kerbs
Beside gasoline streaked streets
Lie pyres of deckchairs
Thumbprint forked by those
Who have sat and watched.
Seas brooding like an empty hospital -
Cancer-soaked blankets await ripple of limbs -
Ships seek coloured harbours
Mute to monochrome by an unstilled vision.
See the waves strain above the anchor
Eternal trench of sadness
----- towards silence
----- of oils & liquid flesh
Picasso blued up the ruelles
Feeding poverty with guts of a guitar,
Absinthe-rich bar dwellers gazing into the void
Of brutale blue that drinks and spills
Over edges of the frame,
Beyond the brink of sight.
Compact machinery of pigment muscle
Strips sinew from lungs of canvas,
Scissored breath sketches
Small worlds within worlds:
The world is everything
That is the case
(Emin)ently, folds in Tracey’s bedsheets
Hold the piss of the universe urinal:
Collect as stained stars in a petri dish.
Abuse sits north by north-west &
Mind the craters on the greyed moon.
Abuse is the heavy breathing fifty yards away
Slashed arms searching for holes to conceal herself.
Fabrics, needlework and crayons
Are just the chicken bones and feathers
Of the animal which some call man.
Sin is often smeared in blood.
The man who paints with his tongue
Tastes the tails of bone windmills, churns
Air in the land they name forever.
And a day,
His teeth rot
Take root in
Canals of abstraction.
He no longer talks, walks
Between rooms until, inevitably,
Comfort is the bedroom:
For the dreams arrive
Always they arrive.
About suffering The Old Masters always knew.
Where were you, dear gallery viewer,
When Icarus crashed from the sky?
How the suffering takes place
When someone else is just eating a burger,
Or listening to R&B on a MP3.
‘Weathered Beach House’ above the mantelpiece,
My eyes diluted by the blackened windows
& stretch of unforgiving coast.
“It will always be summer in here,” Mum chimed -
Fingering the painting
In rhythm to frost-wreathed clock.
On the day we left
‘The Beach House’ sat alone, unframed,
A gravestone for kith and kin
In kiln of broken bricks.
All vision has been inspired by love.
Scream to a sigh
Stars scar the night:
Rather talk of Van Goch ear
Than the beauty inside.
Life still is self-portrait
Inner self being painted
It’s all invented:
Case of cutlery
Vase on a window
Winter trees…..
#Thomas Jones. Häuser in Neapel (Naples) 1782
Written by Strangeways_Rob
Go To Page
12122010
December 12, 2010
first night you
were
gone
realized it was
over
went to backyard
for smoke
looked up
thought of
counting
stars
changed
mind
counted the
darkness
between
the stars
instead
Written by buddhakitty
Go To Page
Anonymous
Caffiene
He called it
coffee table artwork,
illustrations of a bicep
working,
a scarf around a wrist,
wound
contracting at the fixture,
a mixture of his mind
and modern relevance
made a mine that seemed
could be unspent.
His trousers were soft linen,
eyes, almost beige.
I could consider myself an artist
but the portrayal would pale
in comparison to that
coffee table artwork
and so
I distract myself with window greens,
ignore the simple hues of his
slanted nose and thumbnails almost aether
and we
make petty conversation about the shape of someone's genes,
make up of old wounds,
and heaps of healing time.
I recall my mother's mouth wrapped around some anecdote he bleeds,
make tea,
he reads
something off the shelf,
a bird flaps off,
it's wingspan beats against my eardrums
and someone leaves a something
on the 'mat.
coffee table artwork,
illustrations of a bicep
working,
a scarf around a wrist,
wound
contracting at the fixture,
a mixture of his mind
and modern relevance
made a mine that seemed
could be unspent.
His trousers were soft linen,
eyes, almost beige.
I could consider myself an artist
but the portrayal would pale
in comparison to that
coffee table artwork
and so
I distract myself with window greens,
ignore the simple hues of his
slanted nose and thumbnails almost aether
and we
make petty conversation about the shape of someone's genes,
make up of old wounds,
and heaps of healing time.
I recall my mother's mouth wrapped around some anecdote he bleeds,
make tea,
he reads
something off the shelf,
a bird flaps off,
it's wingspan beats against my eardrums
and someone leaves a something
on the 'mat.
Written by ImperfectedStone
(The Gardener)
Go To Page
Anonymous
Limbic System Failure
Letting the mind destroy
what the heart has built
is second nature.
Up and down.
Right to go left.
The rubble is where poetry lives,
without the stones of decimation
I fear I'd have nothing to say.
what the heart has built
is second nature.
Up and down.
Right to go left.
The rubble is where poetry lives,
without the stones of decimation
I fear I'd have nothing to say.
Written by nikkimoe
Go To Page
