Inspired By: Viddax

crimsin said:This is a poem written by me inspired by true events
MadameLavender said:Write a poem about whatever the poem below, inspires you to write

Following in the grand footsteps of Crimsin and MadameLavender, here it is folks, the competition no one has been waiting for!
Read the poem below and use it as inspiration to write a poem and have a chance at a trophy.

The tone so far in these competitions has been somewhat bleak and dark, and I had thought about using one of my rapturous rambling poems as inspiration, but thought against that torture. Instead is a poem about being a poet/poetess/writer/thinker, and the unseen world in my head. Its not always easy writing, but together we can smash through that writer's block with the Hammer of Inspiration.

Absolutely no constraints on style or category; Love, Dark, Erotic, Upbeat, Self, etc etc. The page is your canvas, paint well!
Enter as many times as you want.
No collaborations.
Two weeks.
Winner gets to host a competition where one their poems is used for inspiration.

Friends, DUers, Deeplings, give me your words and worlds!



Why I am not such a writer


I want to be a writer but cannot find the words.
Buzzing swarming elemental mess
flying round my head and in my heart
But trying to pin them on the page,
Well, lets just say
Its like trying to shout dragons out of the sky
while the world walks by with headphones on
carrying some mocha cappa frappa bean-beast.
While my land is filled more with cyborgs
drinking tea wearing monocles and proclaiming huzzah
Where humanity is diverse and unified
Where the wild punks roam and rub shoulders
with steam punk knights.
 
But writers seem to catch the zeitgeist train early,
And catch the modern masses feeling in jars
Thus writing for themselves and then many.
 
But I am no writer, I write for myself
Maybe one day someone will have tea with words and me...

Inspiration

A toff perhaps
a dandy with a purple kerchief
powdered wig tickling his nose
heels hitting cobbled stones

passing by and someone curtsy
falling over on their wooden shoes
a pointed nose go an inch higher
oh such stink the market place

scurrying maids with goblets
of ale only from the best brewery
oh look a button is undone
go home wench and change

M'lord the master of the house
the breadwinner the castle master
not a drug lord, God forbid
but one who heads the table

inspired by these I do declare
I see someone walking a poodle
that meet the queen's corgi
that companionably poo on palace grass.

Barren

Most nights now
I sit and stare
waiting for the words to come
to prance and play
to weep and wail their way from a dormant pen

and lighten the load of my mind once more
as they've done so many times before
When the golden swirling words
caught my minds eye like falling autumn leaves

with images of combustive hearts
searing their soot into the watching world
and silver tongues dripping their molten charms
to stopper ears from mere mortal words

what woes were they
that soaked through the pages
and let them bleed how I could not

oh father, doused in tears
let them flow how my words will not
make them burn and spit
the way they did when the fires still soared
before the numbness of nothing doused them

The moment you pause to think of what
someone else might think
is the moment where you've
fucked up. Writing, at least for me.
It's personal, see I can say whatever I want,
and be whoever I want to be.

I can even write about
fucked up sexual fantasises
without bothering to dress it up
for the filth and smut it actually is
so I'll write blatantly obvious shit instead.

I turned off auto correct last week
and I never had a problem since.
I could switch and swap structure
tepidly tie together timeless texture

But for all I know
woven words woe the wicked.
And metaphors & imagery
are lost on the rest of this lot.

Snap on back to attention, now.
I shouldn't have to say it all again.

http://i1317.photobucket.com/albums/t623/curlycue23/cavemansmall_zpsc3950859.png

BULLSHIT VIDDAX!

If you’re not a writer
What the Hell am I?
A Neanderthal making
Some charcoal lines?

If you’re not a writer
Then I should leave quietly
And find someplace to hide
Where no one can find me

deleted.

Well lets see what we have so far.
A tale of flippant foppery by missus Grace, where wigs and chins wag far from those putrid peasants.
A piece of penance and cry for succour from upon high, by Dystopian, invoking a landscape covered in the bitter snow and far from the fresh spring of inspiration.
While Eaun is telling us to not fucking care what others think and just damn well write; the shit sorts itself out.
As Snugglebuck cries 'Bullshit' with simplicity and pithiness masquerading as stupidity or flattery.
And a charming one word mystery from Holly...

Jolly good! Thats all I shall say now, don't want to give the game away yet.

It's all a crash site anyway: ( literary eulogy )   


Here lies a lost language
butchered, rotten to decay
beyond any shadow of creative

not a word lived longer
than the tick of time it took
to throw insult
at the eyes that read them

Lights flicker
I hear a snicker
am I getting tricked by the treat not the tricker

A glare on floor
what is it for
shining deep into my core

I grab my knife
prepared to end my life
and slash on my inner strife

Blood starts to seep
I start to weep
and death starts to creep

But I do not die
to my surprise
but only cry

for the pain is unbearable
a lesson from a parable
only these are comparable

lightning strikes across my body
I see colours way too gaudy
and my soul is disembodied

Cold is my soul
heat it up with some hell coal
live in the depths of the earth like a mole

Fire
A hellion Squire
my name he does require

The gates of hell
as all do tell
are made of the bones of the angels that fell

The Devil is not kind
He'll fuck with your mind
Your body he will grind

Woe is me
Woe is me
My soul never to be free

Deep in hell
Is where it fell
Now fire is all that I see

********

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Feeding the Muse

The professor asks us to explain why we write.
How can I express the trail of living fire
seared onto my brain like Braille for the lost,

those snippets branded hot onto the cow-hard
flanks of my soul, visceral and raw-boned
as a death-row inmate's touch?

I was ten when the vellum like a soft-gloved
hand caressed my bleating ship's heart.
There was the soft intake of breath,
the little hiss

as the yes yes and the oh yes trickled over me
in a thick glowing soup because how could
someone paint the exact hue and thunk and shape
of my yearning especially when so few yes's
exist in this world?

I want to echo the professor in that writing
is like first sex or childbirth, it pokes
and stings on its way in and out but I hunger
for it like all good masochists do.

I could echo the textbook author and say
I have a choice in that I have really no choice,
it's either writing or dying, that the pen
is like a gun filled with black blood
aimed at my heart or any other major organ.

And would he understand the sweet-red
wash of explosion, the heartwrenching
humanity-kissed music of this luminous
splintering inside me, no matter
its infantile burps and gurglings?

He opens himself to us, says he’s written
poetry for over forty years and he sports
a silver-threaded pony tail and visits rehabs
to mesh with his own kind, engorging

on the slobbering emanations of drunks
and junkies like me, our needle-pitted pores
sucking in light through liquid language
like a thousand gray kitchen sinks,

a thousand blistered mouths slacked
and whimpering for that first jolt
of rich-brown junk to ease
the emptiness from our bones.

http://favim.com/orig/201102/24/Favim.com-847.jpg

butterfly

let me have it tonight
give it to me
I need it
so
bad

I don’t feel good today
for some reason I feel like dying

please whomever you are
whoever gave me this chance now
let me write about it

about anything

let the words come

the fever hurts
the yearning won’t stop
I could eat myself alive

but when I write
that euphoric giddiness
drips over me
soothing
scintillating

and it’s the only time in life
when I feel as if I don’t need anyone
that I’m okay with just myself
that I shouldn’t be doing anything else

it’s the only thing
that can make me get it out
cough it up onto the page
examine it
scrutinize it
as it squiggles
in its ugly-wet cocoon
becoming something
some thing
apart

that eventually grows into a force
light and beautiful
like a butterfly

my tongue becoming wings
and flying away

*********

Inspired

he walks sadly in the magic forest
to him it is the domain of gods
for none see him and he sees none
rustles are nothing human

he sees his sad reflection
upon the crystal clear pond
he thinks his eyes squint
and his lips like Angelina Jolie

he hates his face so pretty and fine
his aristocratic nose so aquiline
he wishes his curls are not so springy
and eyelashes not so long and curly

so he takes a cardboard from a store
carves it to fit his face
forever more he hides his beauty
and to this day he frowns behind it.

Good things come to those who wait, grand things come to those who bugger off on holiday for a week! Scuse my parlez vous francais.
So here is what has been added.
A eulogy from Craic, mourn ye the lost langauge, abandoned all skill those who speak.
As Ali fights his inner demons, falls to damnation, only to feel the kiss of flame.
Holly provides the birth-spwan of the Jabberwocky and penny dreadfuls, its name a pennywocky.
Lost Girl shares an insight into the seductive and intoxicatave power of words.
Followed by the transfomative and restorative power of words, both to poem and poet.
An unabashedly flattering piece by Holly, to which the inner mysteries may well be privy to only a few.
And a story or fable by Idryad that bears the Muse's favour.