Poetry competition CLOSED 27th February 2010 8:14pm
WINNER
rayheinrich (Death Plane for Teddy)
rayheinrich (Death Plane for Teddy)
RUNNERS-UP:
CruelHandedWriter
and diddi
competition 'My writing'
Anonymous
Poetry Contest Description
Write a poem about your own poetry (for example, why you write, what you write about, how you write, when you write or how you see your writing).
Hi Deep Undergrounders!
With this competition I would like to try something new.
Write a poem about your own poetry, it can be anything.
(why you write, what you write about, how you write, when you write, how you see your writing, enc…)
Let us say that the endings date is :
[color=Navy]February 20 …
At the end I would like that everybody (or the ones that want to of course!)
Give there opinion about who they think wrote the best poem, who should be for them the winner and why.
In the end I am going to read them too and consider all the others opinions too …
So, it would not only be me who chooses the winner,
also all the participants …
I hope you think it is a good idea …
Good luck !!![/color]
With this competition I would like to try something new.
Write a poem about your own poetry, it can be anything.
(why you write, what you write about, how you write, when you write, how you see your writing, enc…)
Let us say that the endings date is :
[color=Navy]February 20 …
At the end I would like that everybody (or the ones that want to of course!)
Give there opinion about who they think wrote the best poem, who should be for them the winner and why.
In the end I am going to read them too and consider all the others opinions too …
So, it would not only be me who chooses the winner,
also all the participants …
I hope you think it is a good idea …
Good luck !!![/color]
Anonymous
You are welcome Abra,
hope it is a good idea ...
Mmm, multiple entries... Didn't think about that. (Thank you for helping me!)
Let's say:
[color=Navy]- Maximum 2 entries for each person
[/color]
hope it is a good idea ...
Mmm, multiple entries... Didn't think about that. (Thank you for helping me!)
Let's say:
[color=Navy]- Maximum 2 entries for each person
[/color]
Brave
I'd like to write about being brave
first I thought
don't know much about this
then I realised
I'm brave just to be sitting here
every breath I take
is brave
the pain as I write
bearing that hurt
is brave
freely surrendering
every last word
now there's real bravery.
I'd like to write about being brave
first I thought
don't know much about this
then I realised
I'm brave just to be sitting here
every breath I take
is brave
the pain as I write
bearing that hurt
is brave
freely surrendering
every last word
now there's real bravery.
I write not only because i want to,
but because i have to.
My poetry is my talent,
I don't have many others.
Poetry is my dream,
and my body is usually sleeping.
Poetry is my addiction,
I need those words,
rhyme or not,
to make me high for the day.
Poetry guides me to happiness,
The words form together as my map,
my map of life.
Poetry is my gifted talent,
just like my wings.
So i write about what comes from my heart,
as i fly through time
x
but because i have to.
My poetry is my talent,
I don't have many others.
Poetry is my dream,
and my body is usually sleeping.
Poetry is my addiction,
I need those words,
rhyme or not,
to make me high for the day.
Poetry guides me to happiness,
The words form together as my map,
my map of life.
Poetry is my gifted talent,
just like my wings.
So i write about what comes from my heart,
as i fly through time
x
Anonymous
Those who have entered me
and those who I have entered,
will stay with me until I rot.
Some have provided me
with divine experience,
but others with piercing anguish,
mental torment.
Few have given me lung conditions,
heartache; others, pulsing gristle.
The rest affords me weightless glee,
restrained violence, unconscious lust,
conditional love, mindful hate.
No catharsis here, everyone done
has been done and always will be.
Revolving, reloving.
and those who I have entered,
will stay with me until I rot.
Some have provided me
with divine experience,
but others with piercing anguish,
mental torment.
Few have given me lung conditions,
heartache; others, pulsing gristle.
The rest affords me weightless glee,
restrained violence, unconscious lust,
conditional love, mindful hate.
No catharsis here, everyone done
has been done and always will be.
Revolving, reloving.
Anonymous
You are welcome Skinn !
My two entries:
|
|
| < all i can give you >
|
| The rats of a good purpose,
| run away. I enter this in the
| logbook, and i know you will
| be checking on me. But i know
| a lot. More than you think.
| Maybe enough. I enter this in
| the logbook too. And then, i
| give up, and change the logbook
| into this poem. Knowing you
| will check it too. And here
| you are, reading this. So see,
| i was right. Now maybe i asked
| you to read this; and maybe i
| didn't. Maybe, i want to invite
| you in. Here, have this food
| and drink made into words.
| You see, no matter how much i
| might love you, all i can give
| you are these words.
|
| - - -
|
|
|
|
|
|
| < gray >
|
|
| the world outside is real
| and can be described
| in those terms
|
| but
|
| we live in here
|
| inside
|
| in the landscape
| of where
| our life is a story
|
| where magic is real
| and
| available
|
| and a single word
| can make
|
| you
|
| or you can vanish
|
|
| a key
|
| pressed
|
| in the late afternoon
|
| can leave you
|
| gone
|
|
|
| painted out like white on white
|
| or
|
| like gray
|
| (if you prefer it that way)
|
| on gray
|
|
| - - -
|
Take twenty five grams
of rolling tobacco,
all the trimmings
and a six pack
of tall beers.
Then realise,
once the throne is set
that you'd be much better
in the pubs,
reeling off interruptions
as the punters
swallow each other.
This guarantees
a constant flow
of inspiration
straight from the town's
gutters.
Otherwise the mind
is allowed to spare
a few moments
to dress up the word
until every line
verges on becoming
a floral metaphore
for something that should
be left
to make us sick.
This is the way
the pen works.
Away from the dancers
and scenic artists
of literature
and closer towards
the back-alley brawls
and the ripped
short skirts
of decency's
rape victims.
of rolling tobacco,
all the trimmings
and a six pack
of tall beers.
Then realise,
once the throne is set
that you'd be much better
in the pubs,
reeling off interruptions
as the punters
swallow each other.
This guarantees
a constant flow
of inspiration
straight from the town's
gutters.
Otherwise the mind
is allowed to spare
a few moments
to dress up the word
until every line
verges on becoming
a floral metaphore
for something that should
be left
to make us sick.
This is the way
the pen works.
Away from the dancers
and scenic artists
of literature
and closer towards
the back-alley brawls
and the ripped
short skirts
of decency's
rape victims.
Will you come with me
on these travels
Inside, my mind, my heart
as it unravels.
Take note, take heart
there's plenty so
Like it or not
away we now go.
To visit the lands
of this mind
To see which or what
we can find.
Up and inside the
Tower of Rapture,
Where happiness stays
in blissful capture.
The Despair Dungeons
down below
Where the black heart
crawls to.
And of course the
Castle of Content
And its creative
rhyming couplet.
This is the kingdom
of words
Filled with peotic
high lords.
These are the places
you could go
If you just care to
see the show.
on these travels
Inside, my mind, my heart
as it unravels.
Take note, take heart
there's plenty so
Like it or not
away we now go.
To visit the lands
of this mind
To see which or what
we can find.
Up and inside the
Tower of Rapture,
Where happiness stays
in blissful capture.
The Despair Dungeons
down below
Where the black heart
crawls to.
And of course the
Castle of Content
And its creative
rhyming couplet.
This is the kingdom
of words
Filled with peotic
high lords.
These are the places
you could go
If you just care to
see the show.
My Prose ( to jinty )
Sometimes I am cryptic
other times analytic
on occasion
a sceptic
or a Long Wave station
thats hard to get
some feel the abbrasion
others like the invasion
A lot can make the calculation
for the given equation
you
plus a few
say the word
enigmatic
Ive also heard from
insanely absurd
to painfully systematic
and in jocularity
a kind of empathetic
also an imagery
of aesthetic
most times though
I think only you'll know
I can be
biographic .
Sometimes I am cryptic
other times analytic
on occasion
a sceptic
or a Long Wave station
thats hard to get
some feel the abbrasion
others like the invasion
A lot can make the calculation
for the given equation
you
plus a few
say the word
enigmatic
Ive also heard from
insanely absurd
to painfully systematic
and in jocularity
a kind of empathetic
also an imagery
of aesthetic
most times though
I think only you'll know
I can be
biographic .
Anonymous
I swallow lumps on a daily basis
not because i particularly relish it
its the way with sissies I guess.
May be, I sit on a cartload
of might-have-beens.
I wince at smirks behind my back
by the pious many,
"a female who writes about prostitutes
has to be one herself!"
The blinding metal-glint of sure selves
that hits you first
before being actually hit.
Like coins in a temple-vault
I hoard them in dumb,inflating anger,
gropings in buses,
sweat of a stranger
sticking stubborn
to my break-time sighs,
the gaunt adolescent in tatters
who slaps paste on gaudy film posters
of honest oomphs on stilettos
and modest machos on funky bikes
who stick together
in slurpy sweet tales of forever,
and
grimy little fingers that spell need
scratching on my not so bad middle class windows,
softly dying thus in every spoonful of weekend dinners.
I flash false smiles
to mom and dad who kill me
with their kindness,
and to him
who loves me enough
to let me be,
and most of all to his happy little self
that thinks I am a hero.
I am a coward alright
and thumb-suck my guilt
in frequent risings to catch air.
I jangle these little bits
in my cocooned quiet
and breed bleeding words
and smile
as if I had done my little bit.
not because i particularly relish it
its the way with sissies I guess.
May be, I sit on a cartload
of might-have-beens.
I wince at smirks behind my back
by the pious many,
"a female who writes about prostitutes
has to be one herself!"
The blinding metal-glint of sure selves
that hits you first
before being actually hit.
Like coins in a temple-vault
I hoard them in dumb,inflating anger,
gropings in buses,
sweat of a stranger
sticking stubborn
to my break-time sighs,
the gaunt adolescent in tatters
who slaps paste on gaudy film posters
of honest oomphs on stilettos
and modest machos on funky bikes
who stick together
in slurpy sweet tales of forever,
and
grimy little fingers that spell need
scratching on my not so bad middle class windows,
softly dying thus in every spoonful of weekend dinners.
I flash false smiles
to mom and dad who kill me
with their kindness,
and to him
who loves me enough
to let me be,
and most of all to his happy little self
that thinks I am a hero.
I am a coward alright
and thumb-suck my guilt
in frequent risings to catch air.
I jangle these little bits
in my cocooned quiet
and breed bleeding words
and smile
as if I had done my little bit.
Anonymous
Poetry
is that blood-smeared little thing
between your shivering legs,
as you watch stupified
and spread-eagled
much like a frog on a dissecting slab.
And then
meandering through
your pethadin highs
at last
you hold it at full stop,
the final washing over,
spent,
you inhale it deep,
fearing within still
if you will hurt
its tender life.
Then you weep and smile
and start dreaming
silly dreams of forever.
is that blood-smeared little thing
between your shivering legs,
as you watch stupified
and spread-eagled
much like a frog on a dissecting slab.
And then
meandering through
your pethadin highs
at last
you hold it at full stop,
the final washing over,
spent,
you inhale it deep,
fearing within still
if you will hurt
its tender life.
Then you weep and smile
and start dreaming
silly dreams of forever.
