Defenestration: Your First Poems, Mortified
Here, you share your beginner writes. That's right- the birth of you as writer. Post your first poems.
(Your raw ore. Your cells pre-mutation. That creative hot mess. Tug them out of the trashcan- real and digital.)
This is a place to celebrate how far you have come as a writer. And a place to help bolster others who may be new as a glimpse into their future, comparing the now and then.
It's a place to laugh at ourselves. Be silly, be embarrassed, and most of all- swallow it as a nail for our house.
They can be the ones you've shared here already,
or they can be the ones who've never even made it to DUP.
Share as link or copy and paste, your call.
(Your raw ore. Your cells pre-mutation. That creative hot mess. Tug them out of the trashcan- real and digital.)
This is a place to celebrate how far you have come as a writer. And a place to help bolster others who may be new as a glimpse into their future, comparing the now and then.
It's a place to laugh at ourselves. Be silly, be embarrassed, and most of all- swallow it as a nail for our house.
They can be the ones you've shared here already,
or they can be the ones who've never even made it to DUP.
Share as link or copy and paste, your call.
Nothing is that Serious
“All the great sadnesses, great temptations,
and great mistakes are almost always
the result of loneliness.”
-- José Saramago, Margaret Jull Costa
In the end we all become graves,
our differences united by the same
neglect of weeds and immense
necropolis whose swathed residents
observe from quiet encasements.
Beyond our mounds will spread
giant limbs of balboa, tapping
like trapped hangers behind closet
doors casting macabre shadows
across plastic flowers and dirt.
Visitors and memories are decimated
by time until all that remains
is a hovel of chiseled stone.
History becomes an illusion
of mystery, like that black dog,
there -- just beyond Aiken's bench,
sniffing out with such diligence you
would swear it was seeking the birth
certificate of God, until it cocks its leg
and pisses on the concrete instead.
~
and great mistakes are almost always
the result of loneliness.”
-- José Saramago, Margaret Jull Costa
In the end we all become graves,
our differences united by the same
neglect of weeds and immense
necropolis whose swathed residents
observe from quiet encasements.
Beyond our mounds will spread
giant limbs of balboa, tapping
like trapped hangers behind closet
doors casting macabre shadows
across plastic flowers and dirt.
Visitors and memories are decimated
by time until all that remains
is a hovel of chiseled stone.
History becomes an illusion
of mystery, like that black dog,
there -- just beyond Aiken's bench,
sniffing out with such diligence you
would swear it was seeking the birth
certificate of God, until it cocks its leg
and pisses on the concrete instead.
~
Written by Ahavati
Go To Page
Ha! My first post here:
I think I was 17?? (life was so grim, lol!) *covers eyes*
1. Significance
Multiple fingers strobe
faces flash to shades
eyes watch and probe
as each shape fades
From one meaning to another
expression of thought
no sound can smother
a language that's not taught
Though flapping lips and tongue
rather the body and space
movements are sung
with loving embrace
Among a blend of hands
an effort sans
the buzzing of statues
2. Untitled
un-electrified, petrified
I'm a stranger in this kind of life
I was weary before I began
when the peak's reached
can I touch the dizzy sky
with the ball of fire
hanging from a string
I'm two-dimensional
the rain falls
on my head
my face's un-washed
on a sheet of paper
there's nothing
behind or front
where to go but up
or I'll reach below
and touch my toes
numb and cold, I'm two-dimensional
flat-lined at the apex of this kind of life
petrified, electrified, frozen
on the top underneath
1. Significance
Multiple fingers strobe
faces flash to shades
eyes watch and probe
as each shape fades
From one meaning to another
expression of thought
no sound can smother
a language that's not taught
Though flapping lips and tongue
rather the body and space
movements are sung
with loving embrace
Among a blend of hands
an effort sans
the buzzing of statues
2. Untitled
un-electrified, petrified
I'm a stranger in this kind of life
I was weary before I began
when the peak's reached
can I touch the dizzy sky
with the ball of fire
hanging from a string
I'm two-dimensional
the rain falls
on my head
my face's un-washed
on a sheet of paper
there's nothing
behind or front
where to go but up
or I'll reach below
and touch my toes
numb and cold, I'm two-dimensional
flat-lined at the apex of this kind of life
petrified, electrified, frozen
on the top underneath
I think many people will simply be too embarrassed to post their earliest work here on this forum, especially if it's crap! I could be wrong but for the record, I wrote my 1st poem, which was really song lyrics, back in 1980, when I was ten. It's called 'Out In The Rain'. Interestingly, more recently, I tried to remember the words & I recalled at least two verses.
However, it remains crap!
I believe everyone remembers the first time they wrote something, like they remember the first time they had sex. It's the same for Paul McCartney, who recalls his first song as being, 'I Lost My Little Girl' for example.
However, it remains crap!
I believe everyone remembers the first time they wrote something, like they remember the first time they had sex. It's the same for Paul McCartney, who recalls his first song as being, 'I Lost My Little Girl' for example.
From way back in 2013. When I had to walk ten miles in the snow to get to school... Lol
Anonymous
<< post removed >>
Billy_Snagg said:I think many people will simply be too embarrassed to post their earliest work here on this forum, especially if it's crap! I could be wrong but for the record, I wrote my 1st poem, which was really song lyrics, back in 1980, when I was ten. It's called 'Out In The Rain'. Interestingly, more recently, I tried to remember the words & I recalled at least two verses.
However, it remains crap!
I believe everyone remembers the first time they wrote something, like they remember the first time they had sex. It's the same for Paul McCartney, who recalls his first song as being, 'I Lost My Little Girl' for example.
you gotta share those two verses! you were 10!!
that's the point.. BE embarrassed but also look at where you've ended up at!
However, it remains crap!
I believe everyone remembers the first time they wrote something, like they remember the first time they had sex. It's the same for Paul McCartney, who recalls his first song as being, 'I Lost My Little Girl' for example.
you gotta share those two verses! you were 10!!
that's the point.. BE embarrassed but also look at where you've ended up at!
From way back in 2013. When I had to walk ten miles in the snow to get to school... Lol
I checked out your most recent poems, you've certainly come a long way in honing your words. It's all still dark but not so heavy-handed which is like the mallet into a scalpel. I enjoyed reading through your evolution.
I felt this so deeply, but it seems so plain and terrible to me... I'm embarrassed.
It sounds good as a song tho, maybe.
This is my first poem.
i've taken some of my old ones and retrofitted them... some people believe you have to preserve your old writings, i say.. it's yours.. do what you want. reincarnation.. why not?
this one maybe not since it was your first and it's profound. what a way to start writing right out of gate with your truth. hugs.
BLEED
(my first heartbreak/break-up)
It was during that night, after dinner,
And tight on bottles of wine, your words
Hung sublime like crystalline birds.
And I, dazed from the sound as they passed,
Could only look at you through my glass
Held up to my gaze, and filled with wine,
And saw, with the passing of time how the
Candle's light imbued everything in a
red hue as I stared at you, intoxicated,
Till through my fingers, slipped, its descent
Lingered, the beat of my heart, hindered,
Shattered its perfection across the floor,
Just as my heart tore and came apart in a
Flood of wine: red as blood, painful to see,
As if my eyes had burst, but which would I
Notice first: the innocuous stench of sick,
Or the shards of glass' trick of the light.
Still, I bleed in your presence, my tears
Are bleeding; don't staunch the flow.
You've tipped the waiter, now
I beg you, please, just go.
.
It was during that night, after dinner,
And tight on bottles of wine, your words
Hung sublime like crystalline birds.
And I, dazed from the sound as they passed,
Could only look at you through my glass
Held up to my gaze, and filled with wine,
And saw, with the passing of time how the
Candle's light imbued everything in a
red hue as I stared at you, intoxicated,
Till through my fingers, slipped, its descent
Lingered, the beat of my heart, hindered,
Shattered its perfection across the floor,
Just as my heart tore and came apart in a
Flood of wine: red as blood, painful to see,
As if my eyes had burst, but which would I
Notice first: the innocuous stench of sick,
Or the shards of glass' trick of the light.
Still, I bleed in your presence, my tears
Are bleeding; don't staunch the flow.
You've tipped the waiter, now
I beg you, please, just go.
.
Written by Jade-Pandora
(jade tiger)
Go To Page
My first poem at age 14.
My first poem at age 14..
lots of mature themes here... wining and dining.. broken hearts.. and all with a dramatic flair! really good for that age actually.. we feel things so deeply then.
read above to see mine at 17.. it was just mostly being emo.
