Life is like a poor metaphor on life. It blows.
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Life is like a poor metaphor on life. It blows.
#52
Hand, you could more easily summarize that with three words: Not Worth It.
Hmmmm ... I've been going through some of my older writing and came accross these pieces I'd liek to share with you guys. I haven't toutched them up as I think it's best the way they are. They are after all how I left them. While not exactly poems, I found them in my poem folder ...
I don't have a name for either of them, so I'll just put a few lines between them.
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Dragged from the depths of my pain, it holds on to my bones. Blood runs down my back, it comes to a rest in my shoes. My feet fester in my own juice, red veins cover my flesh. Slowly it climbs my spine, stabbing each joint with claws of ice. The rope holds me up, but only till my hands slip. It is a long way down, and I’ll die before I reach the bottom. A piercing claw rips through my back, and closes around my heart. A final scream of pain passes my lips, my hands slip and I fall. Franticly my hands reach out, seeking a new lifeline. Darkness covers my eyes, and life leaves me be.
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Now while the pain is still felt. I can’t think it though because it is still so clear in my mind. Everything else is covered in a dark haze. The truth is painted bright against the dark background of my thoughts. I feel it in my bones. It chills my fingers making it hard to type. The bitterness is still fresh, so it is now that I must get it out or else let it consume me from the inside out. I don’t know which I would rather happen. Time has no meaning, this has no meaning. Why do I sit here and type, I could be doing something about all this … what? Could I have asked her? What would she have said? “What did you mean? Do you trust me enough to tell me? Are you just trying to spare my feelings?” “It’s a nice day today ...” … Will I get over this? Not lightly. Why do I make myself do this? It would be so simple to just let it consume me … I think … I think I’ll let it consume me. That way I can avoid the same happening again. Twice in one life is more then enough. I can’t let it happen again. No more. I will not let it happen. I didn’t even know her for very long, why do I feel like this then? Meeting her less then ten times should not make me fall in love. Love … is there love? Or is it just human stupidity, they put a name on their need to be with someone, their want to belong to someone. I will have no more of it. I here after state that I will not longer bow to my primitive human wants. Hurt me once, shame on you. Hurt me twice shame on me. I will not be hurt again. It is not stupidity, it is survival. Why do I want to survive? I don’t, but I can not kill myself. I may be weak but I am no coward. My pain will save me. I have learnt to wear shoes when walking over thorns. Never again, never again. So ends my hope, so ends my life. I can not do it again. I can not blame her, I have only myself to blame. I should have known. If anything I should thank her. She helped to put me where I am now. Unwittingly she saved me by hurting me.
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And now this one ... this one I really like. I remember the exact moment when I started writing this. I remember the feelings, the time of day, how much dust there was on top of my screen ... everything.
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An Empty bottle.
I’m staring at a crate,
A crate full of bottles.
One of them is leaking.
Slowly its contents spread.
Covering those around it,
With it’s cold glow.
The bottles are people.
There lives are inside.
One of them is leaking.
Its contents seeping out.
Those around it don’t see.
They see only their own.
It’s nearly empty now.
It sounds different now.
The other bottles ignore it.
They can’t do anything now.
The hole could not be seen.
So it could not be fixed.
I’m staring at a crate,
A crate full of bottles.
One of them is empty.
Its contents are gone.
It will be thrown out now.
Cause it’s just an empty bottle.
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Let me know what you guys think.
#54
The first two (particularly the second) appear to be too personal a commentary for me to offer any kind of criticism on them. They're almost like stylized diary entries.
However, as I have mentioned on IRC, the poem is really great. It's a very simple idea, done in a very simple way, with a very unusual perspective. Top notch.
#55
That poem is sad, yet very true. Excellent metaphor for life, excellent poetry.
#56
Life is like a metaphor.
Now, about the poem. I find myself liking the imagery, but poetry is by its very nature a very metaphysical, ethereal thing, which takes a great deal of critical reading to dig through. That's why it's so hard to create good poetry - one must consider these things. With one line - "The bottles are people." - that genius is tossed out. You've got a great image, here, but bury it a little further. Don't just place it in the open for anybody to see. That's the beauty of poetry - it's not for everyone.
#57
I couldn't disagree more. The way the imagery is presented is perfect, and such elitist snobbery as above is the exact reason that poetry is so inaccessible to the average person.
#58
I'm not big on my free-form poetry; I believe that my structured verse is more inherently elegant and beautiful. However, this just came to me, and some things are better said without trying to fit them into a box.
- The Road Forever
I am walking down the road, hearing nothing.
Seeing nothing--because I have heard it, seen it, all before.
Even though every moment is new, it is old. Redundant.
And even though every moment is redundant, I want it to continue
so I can see it again.
Crunch crunch, says the gravel to my boots. Crunch crunch.
Creak creak, say my boots to my feet. Creak creak.
And the sound hits my ears, and is gone. Hits my ears, and is gone.
Always gone before I can grasp it. Every moment a lie to cover the last.
Never stopping, every lying moment avoids me by turning into another.
Always on, never changing until you look away, and it's too late.
Like the atoms of time, each one alone insignificant--
single letters of words reading sentences into paragraphs
of the tragedy of time.
#59
Life is like a road trip. The journey is more memorable than the destination.
Life is like an egg. We all get laid.
#60
"Life is..." metaphors are inevitably trivial.
#61
Some thoughts on 'The Road Forever':
I have heard poems described as 'a patterned intensity of language', and as this, I think it succeeds admirably. The structure, here, is what caught my eye; less so the individual choice of words. The repetition, the redundancy, the feeling of wanting to stop but always, always keeping walking - these things are communicated through the poem's mimicry of them. Chameleonic sentences shift to emulate their context - the concepts, the substrate of ideas that surround any artistic venture.
To be honest, reading this poem I realise that my technical vocabulary is woefully limited, so I make do with descriptiveness. The point, I think, is that the rhythem, the structure of the piece, make its point as strongly as the words themselves.
#62
A
letter is Nothing
Without the rest of the word.
A
note is Nothing
Until It becomes a part of a concerto.
A
leaf is Nothing
Without Its tree.
A
grain of sand is Nothing
If taken from Its beach.
A human being
is Nothing
when It is alone.
--Anonymous
Last edited by Handarazuur; 16th Mar 04 at 5:47 AM.
My direction, not my intention, will determine my destination. - A.S.
#63
Hand, you sound like you're trying a bit too hard there.
"A note is nothing until it becomes part of a concerto?"
Hrmm. Not sure I agree with what your saying.
wtfs you changed it. Is that your work still? Mr Anonymous?
#64
Yeah, can't agree with your latest piece Hand. It doesn't really read like a poem even. It tries for repetition, but lacks any uniform rhythm to keep it consistent, and the whole concept is terribly trite.
Sorry \:
Trite = a well used and proven poetic form?
Go back to school Bnonn, major in English this time... good grief even a Biochemist like me can appreciate that. The rhythm in this sense is not in terms of syllables, but in terms of form and structure. Granted your critique carries a little merit, because he could revise it further and work in a fairly good syllabic rhythm as well.
I'd suggest 1 change:
A
human being is Nothing
When It is alone.
...but then it starts becoming my poetry or someone elses poetry, and not your own. You have to write this according to what you want, and what you desire it to be.
I like how the only lines that don't begin with a capital letter (standard in poetry), are the 2nd line of each stanza, thus emphasizing how the named object is indeed, "nothing". It's not even important enough to capitalize.
What is further interesting, and a bit clever, except that it isn't continued through the rest of the form, is how "A" is used to start the first stanza, and "A" is actually a real letter in the alphabet. "A" is then used to start the 2nd stanza, and "A" is actually a real note on the musical staff, as well. Maybe something like:
A
word is Nothing
Apart from a sentence
...could continue this idea?
If this was a spur of the moment idea, nice work capturing it.
If it's a work in progress, revise away, it can only get better. A good poet is never afraid to revise, revise, revise.
#66
Aiie structuralist!
#67
Good job Ghent, you over-analyzed a poem and praised aspects of it that only exist in your imagination.
There's no need to address your ad hominem, since I actually put my money where my mouth is and post my own work on this forum. People here know exactly how good or bad I am, and can judge my critiques accordingly. So, moving on.
Trite. Lacking power to evoke interest through overuse or repetition; hackneyed.
#68
I'm gonna lock this and move it over to the Garden now, so it can continue acting as a repository for our imaginings. A new thread will be started along the same lines.
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