Poetry competition CLOSED 16th February 2019 1:52am
WINNER
Ahavati
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Love of the written word

poet
Bonzi
Fire of Insight
United States
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Joined 7th Sep 2017
Forum Posts: 61

Poetry Contest

Write a poem about books

Being a lover of book I have written a variation of poems about them and how they make me feel, some shared, as those given as samples below, others in my own private collection.

I would like you to write a poem about books and what they give you or how the make you feel, where they are housed....the possibilities are endless.

No limit on length but also not asking for a book, ha!
Any genre is welcome as books come in many of their own.


Samples that have been posted


Books
Never is the imagination precluded
Within smoothness of your pages
A multitude of worlds emerge
Bestowing upon the recipient
a myriad of feelings  
Leaving more than a vestige
imprinted on the seduced mind.

Vellichor
Many places like this exist
Yet this one is uniquely mine
 
Scents grip and transport me  
With every step through time  
Aroma after aroma lifts my head  
Stages of atrophied leather  
Binding sheets of parchment  
Fighting to hold entire worlds together  
   
I could live in this universe  
With out stretched arms  
Walk through every galaxy    
With fervent wonder  
Visiting every world within  

Have fun with it!

If you have any questions please let me know, it's my first hosted comp so I might have missed important details.

poet
Blackwolf
I.M.Blackwolf
Dangerous Mind
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Joined 31st Mar 2018
Forum Posts: 728

Inscribe My Headstone With These Tomes

Ah , 'Tis The Turning Of The Page

Wafting The Uplifted Scent Of Aged

Vellum , 'Tis The Fine Grain Held

Between The Fingers , 'Tis The Look

Of Volumes Shelved On Old Wood

With Bindings And Covers Of Leather

Stained By Hands Of Untold Numbers

Of Seekers Of Knowledge And Tales

Of Wonderment , Folly And Adventure ,

'Tis The Smell Of Slight Must Or Of Dust

When One Finds A Tome Long Forgotten ,

'Tis This That Stirs The Cauldron Of Sensory

And Unleashes The Magic Of Images Abounding

Before The First Word Be Read ;

The Glimmer Of The Ink Laid Upon The Surface

Is No Less Than Dancing Moonlight , Or Sun

In It's Blaze Of Glory , As I Caress Each Individual

Treasure And Hold Each Close To My Chest

A Bibliophile In Ecstatic Trance ;

As One Accused Of Epeolatry And Bibliosmia ,

This I Can Not Deny , I Was One Whose Early World

Was Book Bosomed Daily And Whipped With A Belt

For Reading By The Light I Could Gather From Under

My Closed Bedroom Door From The Light In The Hall ;

Ah , A Childhood Of Books !

I Built Castles With Them , I Slept With Them , I Dreamed

With Them Under My Pillows ;

Ah , Yes , 'Tis The Memories Of These Days I Carry With Me ,

As I Walk In My Inner Library Of Memory !
Written by Blackwolf (I.M.Blackwolf)
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poet
Ahavati
Tyrant of Words
United States
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Forum Posts: 1854

Sacred Contracts XXXIII: 'Dead Poet's Society'*

I              
                 
I’ve spent too much time                  
away from their Holy grounds;       
                 
their imagery and metaphors –                  
ones that molded my belief                  
through fine point verse                  
not needing to be understood                  
to be absolute truth.                  
                 
Sometimes it’s difficult to grant the dead          
an audience when the living demand                  
every moment you have to give;                  
                 
or, when sprinting toward home      
but never reaching its butterflied      
tactics of evasion with your dreams.                 
                 
They become unkempt memorials –               
years coating their cracked spines                  
with light inhaling the vibrancy                  
of their once richly dyed skin.                  
                 
II                  
                 
Tonight, I inadvertently bumped                  
against their epitaph while packing –                  
their shelved cemetery vibrating                 
under the category two imbalance.              
                 
Trapped in a web of melancholy                  
I wiped the dust, adhered as lichen-                  
munching to the embedded words                  
carved over their stone allegories,                  
                 
I thought about their sacrificial lives                  
their masticated ribs between                  
the yellowed teeth of glue                  
slowing pulling them apart;                  
the sternum of their bloom                  
casting downward when opened                  
seeds across a hardwood understory.            
                 
I thought about their hearts                  
vulnerable and exposed in death;                   
starving animals vying for remembrance                  
in a dying world too busy to notice                  
their once painful existence.                  
                 
I thought about my life too, and yours                  
among these dormant 'Winter Trees'                  
the perpetual cycle of this lifetime –                
as some 'Handyman'                
who could never get ahead                  
despite how hard he tried                  
                 
III                  
                 
My weekend bag is packed                  
waiting beside the door                  
as a faithful dog;                  
there is gas in my car –                  
and he patiently waits            
beside the hearth      
with a meal and warm fire.           
           
Yet, I sit unmoved on this floor                  
listening to the dead orate                  
in their forgotten tongue of words.               
                 
IV                  
                 
He'll understand –                  
It’s not like I haven’t told him                  
like everyone else                  
there would be times                  
I wouldn’t choose anything                  
over the books;                  
letters, emails, texts,                  
calls, or pouting silence;                    
                 
it’s not like I haven’t said                  
I wouldn’t be swayed                  
by bulging zippers                  
or swollen suitcases                  
by the door                  
yes; including my own;            
                 
it’s not like I haven’t said,                  
‘If you want to be first                  
in someone’s life                  
you must know                  
it can never be mine.’                  
         
V          
                 
“It was at that age that poetry                  
came in search of me."
                 
saved me from the living                  
and fateful beginnings              
               
I am a soul inductee                  
into a 'Dead Poet’s Society'                  
Thus, I pay homage                  
to their skeletal memory                  
with the only thing left                  
in this world I fully possess:                  
                 
Myself                    
~                  
Written by Ahavati
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poet
Bonzi
Fire of Insight
United States
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Joined 7th Sep 2017
Forum Posts: 61

Blackwolf and Ahavati, thank you for getting us started with outstanding entries.

poet
Jade-Pandora
jade tiger
Tyrant of Words
United States
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Joined 9th Nov 2015
Forum Posts: 4170

A Singular Book📖

 
A brilliant career we had calved,  
The places master and I roamed.

Memories... are all that I have,  
While wedged between brothers I’ve known.  

The years have not gone very well  
Since master’s fortunes have all flown.  
 
He looks for answers from the shelves,  
His’try, as books like me have shown  
 
Is bound to repeat, as he delves,  
He prays that his luck will come home.  
 
There’s ‘neigh can be done by the elves,  
On pages, words written in stone.  
 
Though hundreds of me by ourselves,  
Both master and I stand alone.
Written by Jade-Pandora (jade tiger)
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poet
ImperfectedStone
P M Banks
Dangerous Mind
United Kingdom
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Joined 10th Oct 2010
Forum Posts: 994

Tail

In the bleak salt spray, watching baby seals at play, a book, rather a page, steals my mind away -
a book buried within my palms that harms progressive social conduct - I wash my claws of it.
My soul instructs one chapter more,
excused away to the cottage floor
stretched out as a ribby cat
that shamelessly rolls about beside a roaring fire.

The Father begins a conversation on appropriate walking shoes, fetches a map for forward planning
all of which are shoved to a corner nearer the binding,
purring fondly over a place and time, these folk at the table can't comprehend.
Eye-watering is meal time when punctual convention dictates extraction. Food is king.

The teacher is small, so close to ending, humans outside shaking with impatient need for attending -
my heart still leaping far, far fom this headland. The fondest memories of this tale will be with me for years.
The violet sky burns above the page edge, as the author and I share our final moments.
Three more days left and no replacement against predators of my time.

In the bleak salt spray, watching baby seals at play, a book, rather a page, steals my mind away -
a book now sat upon bedside table, the holiness of it still burning within every thought.
My soul instructs to hold on a little longer,
let it linger as we muse hikes upon the cottage floor
stretched out as a ribby cat without her warmth,
shamelessly lusting after a too-long ended fire.
Written by ImperfectedStone (P M Banks)
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poet
Bonzi
Fire of Insight
United States
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Joined 7th Sep 2017
Forum Posts: 61

Jade-Pandora and ImperfectedStone, thank you so much for your contributions.

poet
Miss_Sub
- Missy -
Tyrant of Words
United Kingdom
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Joined 26th June 2011
Forum Posts: 7054

Tropic Of Cancer

     
I remember June 6th      
       
you placed tropics in my palms      
kissing my closed eyes—      
I studied the gutters,      
the Parisian arthouse whores.      
       
Henry Miller first edition
your pencilled dedication      
slotted inside the cover,      
the scent of you on the spine;
French cigarettes lingering      
amongst silent footnotes.      
       
You’d marked your verses        
methodically:      
       
in-breaths      
old grief      
ennui      
       
the lines feeling familiar,      
each numbered leaf a memory      
of cheap wine, skin-tickets,
the solitude of a small apartment      
in a strange town, anchored  
in lyrical failure.        
       
The pages        
turned a year of seasons      
until I never saw you again.      
       
I held the book some nights  
weighted in forgiveness        
just to feel the silk paper,      
to breathe you in:      
       
palms,      
my neck      
       
your face.
Written by Miss_Sub (- Missy -)
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poet
RexDurkin
Thought Provoker
Australia
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Joined 13th Jan 2019
Forum Posts: 41

My Books

I have read so many books
over my well read years

More books than everybody else
I shame you all to tears

I keep them sitting on my shelf
like trophies bright and glowing

With every new title that I add
I feel my I.Q growing

And because I’ve read so many
that proves that I'm the smartest

The most intelligent intellectual
The most insightful artist

I try to impress the women folk
by showing them my collection                                                                                              

But unfortunately I have not yet
given any of them a nip erection

Why can't they just appreciate
my level of sophistication

Their cold disinterested stares
fill my heart with sore frustration

So again I lay alone
in my single futon bed

With feelings of unfairness
bouncing in my head

When my mind is not respected
It sure gives me the blues

I suppose they’re all just jealous
of my library of Dr. Seuss
Written by RexDurkin
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poet
runaway-mindtrain
Fire of Insight
United States
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Joined 30th July 2017
Forum Posts: 121

sentenced

Newborn words will flow out the pen
So often seemingly to ink themselves
From places unknown time and again
Never wonders far from bookshelves,
 
Dressing up the thought consummate
A conjugate that never procrastinates
Unlike some that can't wait to be late
Instead the words flow with no delay,
 
Well...only if the well is flowing, then ok...
 
A sentenced line lays low on induction
So a font the internalized construction
The walls are a deconstructed passion
With doors, the unlocked compassion,
 
Breaking out of the self-inflicting zone
Those bloody muddy ideas of low shit
Making a mockery of the truth known
And the process we are taught to spit,
 
While the new pen will just wait and sit...
 
And never need repent
Of lies that were spent
Writing of untrue sin
With made up bend
On our life road
With no end...
Written by runaway-mindtrain
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poet
Bonzi
Fire of Insight
United States
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Joined 7th Sep 2017
Forum Posts: 61

Missy, Rex and runnaway-midtrain, thank for your entries.

I’m very pleased with what has been posted so far! DUP poets are fabulous!

poet
slipalong
Thought Provoker
United Kingdom
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Joined 1st Jan 2018
Forum Posts: 143

Page turner

Chapter 1
  
Ancient art, for on cave walls  
The alphabet of life was drawn  
 Perils faced from tooth and claw  
 Cave mens records, captured scrawls  
Just bits and boobs the intrigue of their lifes and skills  
   
Chapter 2  
   
Civilisations come and go and war lords fight another day  
Wise men and the prophets    
The visionary they taught just by hearsay  
Folklore gathered round the fire  
 Stories handed down the elder statesman to his son inspired 
   
Chapter 3  
How came the written word  
My guess was commerce trade and such  
Tallys kept the abacus  
To make your mark and not bring shame upon your house  
The slate is crossed, the wax bears your emboss    
   
Chapter 4  
Egyptians used papyrus scrolls    
To document there daily toils  
The mathemetics of the piramids  
That dynasty the hieroglyphics of the life they lived  
The Rosetta stone the key to unlock all  
   
Chapter 5    
For onward languages they seemed to thrive  
The Chineese wrote on a paper from plants derived  
And so the scribes complied a book    
So inscrutable wrote in reverse    
 Secrets the characters the orient contrived  
   
Chapter 6  
The bible and all holy works    
The Pope the power of the church  
They kept the populus in fear  
With latin text  and ignorance and brutaliy indeeed  
   
Chapter7  
That time would always come the metal  
It was wrought the furace cast the letter  
Roman numerals to form the rows    
Sentences and paragraphs and chapters grow  
That  library we all enjoy may the Kindle die unpleasantly  
   
Chapter8  
That ink upon the page  
That book its spine of the modern age  
All learning imaginations profound profanity  
The affair to keep you glued to the last page  
But are we dust up on the shelves    
   
The end    
   
   
  
Written by slipalong
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poet
MadameLavender
Guardian of Shadows
United States
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Joined 17th Feb 2013
Forum Posts: 4712

The Stories We Tell


Read not
the words, but
the whispers between—

lives
emblazoned ‘tween inks
and fonts, stamped
as little memorials
to what was.

Dust and yellow
pressed
among time; attics
where first roses found
their way betwixt pages,
preserved.

My thoughts ride waves
not of plot twists, but
rippled pages, christened
in puddles
where books fell
unintentional
then dried on radiators, waters
evaporating waters.

How much caffeine
can there be in stains, and
chocolate fingerprints
on dog-eared chapters?

They crumble.
They all crumble at the touch—
parchment words, too old to survive in print
yet committed to memories.

Some books have more than one story
to tell.

poet
Bonzi
Fire of Insight
United States
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Joined 7th Sep 2017
Forum Posts: 61

Slipalong and MadameLavander, thank you so much for your entries!

poet
wallyroo92
Fire of Insight
United States
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Joined 11th July 2012
Forum Posts: 627

I wish I

I wish I had more time
More time to read books and invest on my mind
To learn new things and maybe become a little more refined
With the kind of books designed to challenge my thinking
To break through my subconscious and letting it sink in
Inclined to learning and discovering more of my self
With a wealth of knowledge filling up my book shelf
But I’m running out of space…

I wish I had more book cases
Or better yet a bigger place to house and store them all
Like a private study or a library literally covering the walls
But no matter how big or small my collection will be filled
With the likes of Wilde, Donne and Poe to help me build
A better construct and theory in inspirational composition
And the vision of my writing will come to full fruition
But it makes me think about the past…

I wish I could go back in time
But not to correct the errors or the right the wrongs
To have been lost in the confusion of where the heart belongs
Or wonder why I made some decisions emotionally blindly
But maybe have spent my time more wisely, sagely, kindly
And have seen the wisdom of the ages in my younger days
Found in the pages of the great works of poetry and essays
Then I would’ve have grown…

I wish I could have more time
To read more classics and epics delving deeper in philosophy
Living up to the moral and ethics like a self-fulling prophecy
Becoming the positive change I want be in my own psychology
And the works I read will help me develop my known anthology
With one book at time I’ll always be learning something new
And within I’ll find the answer and always find break through
So then I think…

There is no sense in wishing
It’s just a useless way to express the vision of who I want to be
Like a dream without a vessel nestled somewhere in my memory
Studying the greats will influence me to become something more
Like a calling from within something that I simply can’t ignore
Solely relying on prayers won’t fix my affairs when I’m in despair
I have to work and take action so the chain reaction gets me there

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