poetry: a(n incomplete) collection

[MinionOfBoredom]

I wrote these in my spare time as either a result of boredom, deep thought, or curiosity. Any thoughts would be nice. :)

preface

I will sing not of myself nor leaves of grass
but rather, what is, for it is truth:
what is, is, and what is not, is not
and what is shall be sung, for what is shall be.
Let what is not lean and loafe on the Lethean shore
and watch the forgetful dead like spears of summer grass.

emotion

cowper was right about everything but emotion:
they say that the more you feel, the fuller your life.
i don't buy it--
for who can say that emotions,
in their wanton displays of tears and laughs
and their promiscuous smiles and frowns
could ever really fill anyone?

personally, i'd feel one emotion
regardless of what it would be.
i would let my soul into it,
playfully exploring its banks
or wallowing in its depth,
every moment intimate
between me and my dearest emotion.
it would come to define me,
and i, it, sooner or later.
we would be one and the same as the lake in the water,
beautifully spiraling to wherever it goes.

kindly tell that to the hookers you call joy, love, and misery
as they seduce you again into a quick stand.

confession!?

There was a time, maybe--
when I thought that a warm touch upon my skin
the passing of a gentle sigh across my lips
softly intertwining with my own hushed breaths
could be more than physical:
a collection of impulse, drive, mainly impulse,
more than earthly.

And maybe that lavender scent
that crawled from your bathroom to your skin to my heart
had an undertone of indescribability
And maybe that bond
between your cheek and my mouth
was a little more than a gesture.

But a time will arrive
when we're all grayed, old
and in some cases, dead, gone,
and maybe just gone,
and whatever perceived infinite depth above
will tell us: it was what it
was, and it is what it
is, nothing more -- like the foam across the ocean surface
carelessly, freely caressing the surface of the water
without even a nod to the infinite depth below--

to you,

dearest;
let it be(softly)said
i love;i
(live through)
you:r trembling breaths:
letting beat a quavering
(smiling)heart
letting smile a scarred
(charred)soul

nameless (so far)

Winter's chill cozens the senses:
warmth lies beneath its ivory robe.
Perhaps it is only numbness. Perhaps
not. A traced figure is motionless there,
its form immersed in saintly white.
It is warm. I am not, and this is.
The only difference between us?
It will never be closer to Paradise, I,
ever closer to salvation.
But I, too, am under the sky's cloak.
I daren't come out, lest Heaven find me, and all is lost.

Why, then, stand I in the holy
shadows cast from empyrean shores?
Why, then, cast the cosmos hallowed
tears upon our ground?
Only the Wintermute knows--
alas! he cannot speak.

[npmshah]

whoa. jaw dropping. il have to think about any constructive criticism

[Ryzenfall]

I like this actually. I will also have to read this again. But this was far more than just a pleasant surprise. The Whitman references in the tag caught my attention.

Props for using "empyrean," I love that word. Used it in a piece i did a while back.

[MinionOfBoredom]

Thanks for the kind words. Any other criticisms, praise, or just plain out thoughts would be nice to hear. Glad to see that it surprised you, Ryzenfall; I'm curious, though, what were you expecting?

And for the record, I'm a fan of Whitman and Collins -- so stylistically, I might steal some stuff from the both of them.

---

ps. I learned the word "empyrean" about eight years ago from the game Diablo. :P

[Ryzenfall]

Thanks for the kind words. Any other criticisms, praise, or just plain out thoughts would be nice to hear. Glad to see that it surprised you, Ryzenfall; I'm curious, though, what were you expecting?

And for the record, I'm a fan of Whitman and Collins -- so stylistically, I might steal some stuff from the both of them.

---

ps. I learned the word "empyrean" about eight years ago from the game Diablo. :P

I was expecting something less, because, quite frankly I'm more judgmental than I should be, haha. Seeing your age, post count and simple thread title, I figured this would just be something simple and common. I apologize for this though, and don't encourage following that pompous example.
Anyway, welcome to the forum, and I hope you post more. I'm fairly new to this particular forum myself, so I'm not going to bite your head off neither now or later, and neither will anyone else, in my experience.

Yeah, I could sense the references influence. Great artists steal, right?

Ha, Diablo, nice. I remember way back in grade school when all the cool kids were playing it and I didn't know what soulstones were or anything they were talking about. Games can be good for that though. I remember learning a lot of terms from Age of Empires myself.

[MinionOfBoredom]

Hah, no worries. I can be something of an elitist myself when it comes to anything dealing with the English language -- but hey, pleasant surprises can be fun. And thanks for the welcome! I can see myself posting quite a bit more in the near future...this small collection is my first step into the "poetry that isn't complete crap" scene, and I'm hoping to extract all of the criticism, praise, and thoughts that I can out of AP.net.

So every poem that I produce will, for better or worse, find another home on this board.

[fishingthe_sky]

preface

I will sing not of myself nor leaves of grass
but rather, what is, for it is truth:
what is, is, and what is not, is not
and what is shall be sung, for what is shall be.
Let what is not lean and loafe on the Lethean shore
and watch the forgetful dead like spears of summer grass.

emotion

cowper was right about everything but emotion:
they say that the more you feel, the fuller your life.
i don't buy it--
for who can say that emotions,
in their wanton displays of tears and laughs
and their promiscuous smiles and frowns
could ever really fill anyone?

personally, i'd feel one emotion
regardless of what it would be.
i would let my soul into it,
playfully exploring its banks
or wallowing in its depth,
every moment intimate
between me and my dearest emotion.
it would come to define me,
and i, it, sooner or later.
we would be one and the same as the lake in the water,
beautifully spiraling to wherever it goes.

kindly tell that to the hookers you call joy, love, and misery
as they seduce you again into a quick stand.
As I mentioned in some other piece (maybe the one you wrote for the writing prompt), these feel too colloquial and musing to be as effective and heady as they attempt to be. They don't cover any new ground in the issues you're discussing, they don't push their boundaries with a new twist on imagery, metaphor, or even just phrasing. And for the Preface, I'm all for alluding to Whitman, since he is the man, but writing lines so close to his own words seems more an attempt at forgery than an ode/imitation. I'm sure that's not what you're were going for, but such is the way of the work.

confession!?

There was a time, maybe--
when I thought that a warm touch upon my skin
the passing of a gentle sigh across my lips
softly intertwining with my own hushed breaths
could be more than physical:
a collection of impulse, drive, mainly impulse,
more than earthly.

And maybe that lavender scent
that crawled from your bathroom to your skin to my heart
had an undertone of indescribability
And maybe that bond
between your cheek and my mouth
was a little more than a gesture.

But a time will arrive
when we're all grayed, old
and in some cases, dead, gone,
and maybe just gone,
and whatever perceived infinite depth above
will tell us: it was what it
was, and it is what it
is, nothing more -- like the foam across the ocean surface
carelessly, freely caressing the surface of the water
without even a nod to the infinite depth below--
This reminds me of some Petrarchan work or something. It's not bad, but it very much has that "done before" feel.

to you,

dearest;
let it be(softly)said
i love;i
(live through)
you:r trembling breaths:
letting beat a quavering
(smiling)heart
letting smile a scarred
(charred)soul
All I see is ee cummings.

nameless (so far)

Winter's chill cozens the senses:
warmth lies beneath its ivory robe.
Perhaps it is only numbness. Perhaps
not. A traced figure is motionless there,
its form immersed in saintly white.
It is warm. I am not, and this is.
The only difference between us?
It will never be closer to Paradise, I,
ever closer to salvation.
But I, too, am under the sky's cloak.
I daren't come out, lest Heaven find me, and all is lost.

Why, then, stand I in the holy
shadows cast from empyrean shores?
Why, then, cast the cosmos hallowed
tears upon our ground?
Only the Wintermute knows--
alas! he cannot speak.


This collection of work demonstrates that you have a good foundation in the work of some of the greats, and that you have a grasp on poetry that exceeds your age. What it's lacking is your own voice. Much of this feels imitative, a mere twisting the words of others. What you need to learn how to do is to use your poetic inspirations as the scaffolding needed to build your own towers, rather than using them as the walls you simply paint. You have a great talent, one I wish I had when I was your age, and I am excited to see what happens as you develop your own voice.

[MinionOfBoredom]

This collection of work demonstrates that you have a good foundation in the work of some of the greats, and that you have a grasp on poetry that exceeds your age. What it's lacking is your own voice. Much of this feels imitative, a mere twisting the words of others. What you need to learn how to do is to use your poetic inspirations as the scaffolding needed to build your own towers, rather than using them as the walls you simply paint. You have a great talent, one I wish I had when I was your age, and I am excited to see what happens as you develop your own voice.

Coming from you, that's quite an honor. If you plan on sticking around for the next five years or so, you'll probably see where that voice goes. At this point in my life, my experience pool from which I can draw inspiration isn't exactly the deepest, but I'm certain that that will change within the coming years. I'm sure that will shape my poems more so than the greats of the past.

And as always, thanks a lot for the commentaries and critiques. They're always appreciated, especially from English majors.

[fishingthe_sky]

Coming from you, that's quite an honor. If you plan on sticking around for the next five years or so, you'll probably see where that voice goes. At this point in my life, my experience pool from which I can draw inspiration isn't exactly the deepest, but I'm certain that that will change within the coming years. I'm sure that will shape my poems more so than the greats of the past.

And as always, thanks a lot for the commentaries and critiques. They're always appreciated, especially from English majors.
I'm flattered that you consider it an honor; thank you very much. You've hit the nail on the head with the age-experience thing, but it's alright, because a vast majority of kids your age have no concept of imitating the greats (which, of course, is an age old poetic tradition in itself). I'm positive that once you begin to amass more experiences your poetry will begin to be molded by your own hands and not by the hands of other poets. Keep posting.