Poetry competition CLOSED 22nd June 2013 6:03pm
WINNER
JohnFeddeler
JohnFeddeler
So you want to be a writer?
Poetry Contest Description
Write about writing
As writers, we tend to write about things that we feel passionate about and most of us feel passionate about writing yet there are very few poems written about writing. Here is your chance.
Just a few ideas to get your creative process started:
Write about why you write.
Write about how you write or your style.
Write about who or what inspires you to write.
Write about your process or writing.
Those are just some ideas and by no means are you limited to those ideas. I look forward to seeing what you've got. Have fun!
Just a few ideas to get your creative process started:
Write about why you write.
Write about how you write or your style.
Write about who or what inspires you to write.
Write about your process or writing.
Those are just some ideas and by no means are you limited to those ideas. I look forward to seeing what you've got. Have fun!
Anonymous
pissing rainbows and being lucky
God built writers
to be caged-
he took a few bones, curved them
to push out chests;
squeezed my tightened heart
that existed only beyond the bars
and I resented each literary rib
of my near-thirty capture,
swaddled in swears and skin
that had never touched freedom
in the rare sense of the word
because no writer made a living
out of pissing rainbows,
or gifting keys with tags
that read "everything will be alright"
that unlocked the dead-bolts,
as all my withered butterflies
rotted slowly in black-ink pools
from the inside out.
There was a quietness,
so stunted by apathy
that I mourned
God built writers
to be caged-
he took a few bones, curved them
to push out chests;
squeezed my tightened heart
that existed only beyond the bars
and I resented each literary rib
of my near-thirty capture,
swaddled in swears and skin
that had never touched freedom
in the rare sense of the word
because no writer made a living
out of pissing rainbows,
or gifting keys with tags
that read "everything will be alright"
that unlocked the dead-bolts,
as all my withered butterflies
rotted slowly in black-ink pools
from the inside out.
There was a quietness,
so stunted by apathy
that I mourned
Anonymous
http://i.telegraph.co.uk/multimedia/archive/01245/Polyhmnia__the_mus_1245701c.jpg
WHY DO I WRITE?
I started writing to keep from going crazy
I kept on writing to keep from being lazy
I wrote on to keep my brain alive
Then I discovered erotica
***my oh my***
I started writing erotica for my online lover
Then erotica took my poetry over
Searched for erotic art to illustrate my ideas
Found erotica was wildly popular
Many comments on my work
***popularity***
My mother could read, speak and write
In four languages...then along came her daughter
For whom writing was torture
Science writing was not so hard
Cite every sentence
***publish or perish***
Inspiration comes from everywhere
I had a muse for about two years
She joined the muses union
Is now “working to rule”
***writers block***
So then along came the competitions
Always an idea whirls around
Seeking my pen and my creativity
Sometimes I cannot make it
So I just fake it
***hope what I write has some quality***
One thing I know to be true
That when you write from the heart
When you bleed your emotions
That this shows in your poem
***helps me heal***
To conclude “poetry therapy” works for me
If I have written one poem a day
Or even three
Poetry is as comforting as art
Art and poetry are essential to me
Like breathing and eating
I cannot live without
My “plain” poetry
***Thank you DUP***
WHY DO I WRITE?
I started writing to keep from going crazy
I kept on writing to keep from being lazy
I wrote on to keep my brain alive
Then I discovered erotica
***my oh my***
I started writing erotica for my online lover
Then erotica took my poetry over
Searched for erotic art to illustrate my ideas
Found erotica was wildly popular
Many comments on my work
***popularity***
My mother could read, speak and write
In four languages...then along came her daughter
For whom writing was torture
Science writing was not so hard
Cite every sentence
***publish or perish***
Inspiration comes from everywhere
I had a muse for about two years
She joined the muses union
Is now “working to rule”
***writers block***
So then along came the competitions
Always an idea whirls around
Seeking my pen and my creativity
Sometimes I cannot make it
So I just fake it
***hope what I write has some quality***
One thing I know to be true
That when you write from the heart
When you bleed your emotions
That this shows in your poem
***helps me heal***
To conclude “poetry therapy” works for me
If I have written one poem a day
Or even three
Poetry is as comforting as art
Art and poetry are essential to me
Like breathing and eating
I cannot live without
My “plain” poetry
***Thank you DUP***
Anonymous
*deleted*
will post entry soon
will post entry soon
It's all in the name
Pointless and aimlessly,
The poet takes flight.
Unaware at the moment,
Of what he will write.
The precursor begins the flow,
The go,
The,
"He knows that he wants to write",
Yet doesn't quite know,
What avenue of creation to take.
Slowly,
And surely
As the creek will rise,
Creative juices aplenty,
His art takes form
As ink meets with paper,
And,
With a little help from a friend,
The words woven intricate,
Lay out a form unknown.
Interlocked and likened literature Of a duly noted nonsensical.
Deep and steeped
In stark contrast
From the norm of poetry,
My flowetry takes form.
"How B?
Words so intricate in flow?"
"A mad man's internal",
I say.
Thirty years in the making,
A mad man's nonsensical
Takes on,
In a busy mind of mine.
Thought odd and weird,
A style unique;
A story of epic proportions unfolds
As a knightly troubadour led astray,
Cuts a lyrical hand,
Opens his mind,
And in doing so,
Opens a vein of creativity
That spews forth...
This...
Tlowetry...
Little upper thought,
And
The proverbial flood gates
Of my mind open,
And with a thought,
Brain sends message
Through billions of electrical signals.
Message sent down wire,
Through arm into a hand,
Weak and weary
From hours of holding this pen.
And,
At this pen
The electric signal stops.
It...
Ceases..
From there,
The ink dances a waltz
Across a once blank paper,
Now...
Not so blank.
An ink released
To paint upon this canvas,
A picture unseen.
A picture is worth a thousand words?
Well,
Picture this...
My words
Are worth a million images.
Images that,
Through a sequence of words
Rendered upon parchment,
Intricate in detail so...
Deep...
And meaningful,
That images grow
And appear upon the mass's,
Impressionable mind.
Like this....
"The lovers entwined, legs interlocked. A love so deep; a love so inspiring and moving unknown. Two souls merge as one... heartbeat... breath in unison, and from between one's lips, under breath, and heartfelt, the verbal archer takes aim, and release... "I"... slowly and quietly... "love"... fluidly into the ear canal... "you"... to vibrate ever so soothingly, reverberating upon the ear drum. A lover's passion so great. Doing a dance of passion... forever locked in a soul mate's embrace..."
And,
As my flowetry free form
Becomes the image in your mind
And you see the two
Entwined in prose,
You heed the gravity of my words
Intricate.
The words aflow,
To impress upon your mind
That
"Million picture, flicker show",
And you realize,
Truly within...
"A mad man's nonsensical"?
Truly not nonsense.
And,
With that,
A lovely picture is painted,
And
For fear of over doing
With verbal vomit,
Intricate B...
must part...
Pointless and aimlessly,
The poet takes flight.
Unaware at the moment,
Of what he will write.
The precursor begins the flow,
The go,
The,
"He knows that he wants to write",
Yet doesn't quite know,
What avenue of creation to take.
Slowly,
And surely
As the creek will rise,
Creative juices aplenty,
His art takes form
As ink meets with paper,
And,
With a little help from a friend,
The words woven intricate,
Lay out a form unknown.
Interlocked and likened literature Of a duly noted nonsensical.
Deep and steeped
In stark contrast
From the norm of poetry,
My flowetry takes form.
"How B?
Words so intricate in flow?"
"A mad man's internal",
I say.
Thirty years in the making,
A mad man's nonsensical
Takes on,
In a busy mind of mine.
Thought odd and weird,
A style unique;
A story of epic proportions unfolds
As a knightly troubadour led astray,
Cuts a lyrical hand,
Opens his mind,
And in doing so,
Opens a vein of creativity
That spews forth...
This...
Tlowetry...
Little upper thought,
And
The proverbial flood gates
Of my mind open,
And with a thought,
Brain sends message
Through billions of electrical signals.
Message sent down wire,
Through arm into a hand,
Weak and weary
From hours of holding this pen.
And,
At this pen
The electric signal stops.
It...
Ceases..
From there,
The ink dances a waltz
Across a once blank paper,
Now...
Not so blank.
An ink released
To paint upon this canvas,
A picture unseen.
A picture is worth a thousand words?
Well,
Picture this...
My words
Are worth a million images.
Images that,
Through a sequence of words
Rendered upon parchment,
Intricate in detail so...
Deep...
And meaningful,
That images grow
And appear upon the mass's,
Impressionable mind.
Like this....
"The lovers entwined, legs interlocked. A love so deep; a love so inspiring and moving unknown. Two souls merge as one... heartbeat... breath in unison, and from between one's lips, under breath, and heartfelt, the verbal archer takes aim, and release... "I"... slowly and quietly... "love"... fluidly into the ear canal... "you"... to vibrate ever so soothingly, reverberating upon the ear drum. A lover's passion so great. Doing a dance of passion... forever locked in a soul mate's embrace..."
And,
As my flowetry free form
Becomes the image in your mind
And you see the two
Entwined in prose,
You heed the gravity of my words
Intricate.
The words aflow,
To impress upon your mind
That
"Million picture, flicker show",
And you realize,
Truly within...
"A mad man's nonsensical"?
Truly not nonsense.
And,
With that,
A lovely picture is painted,
And
For fear of over doing
With verbal vomit,
Intricate B...
must part...
Journal
The rage in these pages
Shows my suffering in stages
Drops of ink that reveal my sins
Display my struggle within
Shameless wallowing
A photo taken inside
Nowhere for truth to hide
Bleeding wounded pride
Ramblings of a troubled mind
View of the world unkind
Gifted, twisted and blind
These rhymes are my bible
Proof of my survival
Journey to my arrival.
The rage in these pages
Shows my suffering in stages
Drops of ink that reveal my sins
Display my struggle within
Shameless wallowing
A photo taken inside
Nowhere for truth to hide
Bleeding wounded pride
Ramblings of a troubled mind
View of the world unkind
Gifted, twisted and blind
These rhymes are my bible
Proof of my survival
Journey to my arrival.
Anonymous
<< post removed >>
Anonymous
Madame Lavender - I can feel that poem - beautifully written
with the show of faith at the end.
with the show of faith at the end.
Anonymous
To Feed A Muse
The whisper is a command
"Open, woman, open to remember beauty."
The quiet is a desire
"Open woman, open to remember naked fire
before death comes in little waves
wet mouths full of voodoo,
briny hands sculpting lava gingerly as slip."
Woman concedes, recedes, peels back.
The need asserts itself
fusing our supine spines into lovers.
Seeds of night poems transcend graphite
growing glass spiders with gangly legs
spelunking through our ribcage,
bodies becoming ovens of psalms
the unknown lying unspent between our limbs.
Words metastasize into moonlight.
With slight of hand I wind back the dawn
tumbling where the tallow dripped untamed
giving again and again and again
as we rise and fall, gift and destroy
pressing petals against the living flame.
Mistress orb weaver spins her silk
and with kinetic motion confined
we sigh, coiling against wax zippers
gathering sustenance until the muse awakens
bruised tender from too much sleep
and begins the holy hissing kiss
"Open, woman, open..."
*Slip is a wet mixture of clay used by potters*
The whisper is a command
"Open, woman, open to remember beauty."
The quiet is a desire
"Open woman, open to remember naked fire
before death comes in little waves
wet mouths full of voodoo,
briny hands sculpting lava gingerly as slip."
Woman concedes, recedes, peels back.
The need asserts itself
fusing our supine spines into lovers.
Seeds of night poems transcend graphite
growing glass spiders with gangly legs
spelunking through our ribcage,
bodies becoming ovens of psalms
the unknown lying unspent between our limbs.
Words metastasize into moonlight.
With slight of hand I wind back the dawn
tumbling where the tallow dripped untamed
giving again and again and again
as we rise and fall, gift and destroy
pressing petals against the living flame.
Mistress orb weaver spins her silk
and with kinetic motion confined
we sigh, coiling against wax zippers
gathering sustenance until the muse awakens
bruised tender from too much sleep
and begins the holy hissing kiss
"Open, woman, open..."
*Slip is a wet mixture of clay used by potters*
Carpe Noctem Poeta
You might be
a writer
with that over
thinking mind
Awake at 3am
I must be lonely
sausage, love it
just rolls off
the tongue
I emit extremely
incandescent ink
the tears I shed
Dancing about
here, I am Picasso
this is my canvas
Poetic genius forever
lost to my
inner monologue
http://deepundergroundpoetry.com/poems/110479-carpe-noctem-poeta/
You might be
a writer
with that over
thinking mind
Awake at 3am
I must be lonely
sausage, love it
just rolls off
the tongue
I emit extremely
incandescent ink
the tears I shed
Dancing about
here, I am Picasso
this is my canvas
Poetic genius forever
lost to my
inner monologue
http://deepundergroundpoetry.com/poems/110479-carpe-noctem-poeta/
You gave me life
Mighty pen that guides my hand
And words to release my soul
I thank you for the gift you gave
The power to make me whole
You've given me the story's
To live so many lives
Handed me strength to wonder
And Opened up my eyes
So this is my adventure
Writing is my foal
I am the master of ideas
I am the captain of my soul
benediction of suffering
does she come when we call? …not at all.
I attempt to lamely march with the legions of poets & artists
throughout a history of embattled passions, who have taught
us one steadfast truth: suffer for art, or find another playground.
we are writers, we are painters, and we feed like lambs at the teats of
the apathetic mother who holds us in thrall, the muse who nurtures us
with the sweetness of wise & romantic arias today, and tomorrow destroys
us with the slings & arrows that the Bard of Avon warned us about.
how long have I sat, while she laughs at my tears, at my blank paper
and my worthless pen?
drunk on inspirational wine, I stumble from the writing table,
scorned by the words I worship,
lost in allegories.
does she come when we call? …not at all.
I attempt to lamely march with the legions of poets & artists
throughout a history of embattled passions, who have taught
us one steadfast truth: suffer for art, or find another playground.
we are writers, we are painters, and we feed like lambs at the teats of
the apathetic mother who holds us in thrall, the muse who nurtures us
with the sweetness of wise & romantic arias today, and tomorrow destroys
us with the slings & arrows that the Bard of Avon warned us about.
how long have I sat, while she laughs at my tears, at my blank paper
and my worthless pen?
drunk on inspirational wine, I stumble from the writing table,
scorned by the words I worship,
lost in allegories.
