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Author Topic: Poets' Corner  (Read 11629 times)
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Alýr (Rayne)
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« Reply #45 on: May 17, 2012, 09:31:11 AM »

Leif: I should note that I generally consider myself something of a traditionalist. I usually adhere to rules of spelling and grammar, and I have a penchant towards meter and rhyme. I notice you have these elements in many of your poems, too. Besides, you are British.  :P

Emrah: I looks about the same. I'm not sure if the rhyme is necessarily needed for your message. I associate lack of rhyme and set meter as indicative of more dystopia-esque poems, but it's up to you! Not all poems need these conventions to create their message. :)

Dek: I'm sorry your PC is back in the shop! At least we get entertaining poetry out of it! :)

I've been shuffling through poetry from a few years ago; I wanted to make sure there was nothing left on my PC I wanted to keep, in case something happens in the next few years. Unfortunately I found significantly less stuff than I was hoping to find, which means I have a lot of old poems and whatnot still missing somewhere. Hopefully I'll be able to find them somewhere!

In any case, this was a melancholy poem that I had utterly forgotten...


I draw ever farther. I close my eyes
to the fire. I shiver out of my skin,
and press my wet wings against the walls.
Barring but bearing the burning
of masks, I show more than I mean.

I resist the reaction to reclaim pieces
I imparted to your keeping, because
they can never be mine again. I resist
turning my impressions in you
into the chains that bind you to me.

Fire imparts warmth without charge.
And our heat exchanged equally, yet
I tremble in the transaction. What did it
mean to you? What have I given to you?
... Have I given too much?

I descend back into my cocoon self.
My psyche crawls into the shadows
behind my eyes. I pull sheets around me,
naked, pressed into well-worn darkness,
breathing with a tinge of terror.

I am not entitled
to anything.

Emrah Lark
Swell Rogue on the Road
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« Reply #46 on: May 22, 2012, 02:57:16 AM »

Currently, I started to work on a series of poems inspired by pornography. Don't get me wrong: it's not pornographic or erotic poetry. It's just inspired by some concepts found in porn. I'm not going to elaborate theoretically about it too much but I'll add a translation of the first piece instead (it's more of a literal translation, so the rhythm and rhyme got broken)


three glasses of colourful air
standing on a coffee table
i'm not alone today in this old flat
there are two visitors with me

the first one has long blonde hair
black uniform cartridge belts
under herself on the floor she closes her eyes
like a wild beast preparing to jump

the second one in white dress sadly
rests her head on her knees soft rose
in her black hair is a symbol of light
a walking stick that was broken

it starts to rain the three of us play chess
and when i think i have nothing to lose
i suddenly get hit from ambush
by smiling lips so it goes

"Yea, I be a proper gentleman."

Emrah Lark
Irid alMenie
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« Reply #47 on: May 22, 2012, 07:04:22 PM »

If the original is in czech, would you mind posting that as well? Just out of curiosity :)

Stat rosa pristina nomine, nomina nuda tenemus.
Irid al'Menie
Emrah Lark
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« Reply #48 on: May 22, 2012, 07:22:28 PM »

Sure thing, here it is:


tři sklenice barevného vzduchu
stojí vedle sebe na konferenčním stolku
dnes nejsem sám ve staromódním bytě
jsou se mnou beze slov dvě návštěvnice

ta první má dlouhé zlaté vlasy
černou uniformu nábojnicové pásy
pod sebou na zemi přivírá oči
jako šelma která se chystá skočit

ta druhá si v bílých šatech smutně
opírá hlavu o kolena měkká růže
v jejích černých vlasech světlo znamená
vycházková hůlka jež byla zlomena

dělá se déšť ve třech hrajeme šachy
a když si říkám že už nemám co ztratit
jsem najednou zasažen ze zálohy
úsměvy na rtech tak to chodí

"Yea, I be a proper gentleman."

Emrah Lark
Leif Terskun
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« Reply #49 on: June 09, 2012, 03:42:27 AM »

Well, let's see if I can breathe a bit of life back into this thing, shall we? And Emrah, I wouldn't say your competence in English was low at all. Now you know!

Dek, I liked your little protest about the damned computer shops. It's always nice to get little poems that just give a window into people's feelings; however, I think that you might mean "bear" in the last line, not "bare".

Rayne, I admit that you've got me with the British thing. We are rather stuck in our ways - because they're good ways. :P I was, in all seriousness, very moved by your poem. The last two lines, shrinking away from the pattern of the rest of the poem and the reassurance that that brings; and the powerfully simple language. A real low is communicated, and a strong sense of pathos. I hope you know we don't think you're not entitled to anything Thumb up If you ever read this, that is. I'd love there to have been a flurry of activity here that buries it by the time you regain the Internet.

Emrah, I thought the concept of your poem was interesting, and I was a little apprehensive, but I thought that the execution was very nice, and even just as a simple descriptive piece it worked well. I'd love to see what it'd be like with the rhythm and rhyme, but I don't know how feasible that'd be for you in English - the words might simply not work in the same way, and render it impossible.

And now my own poem. You may or may not have read the poem referenced in the title, but it was a comparison that occured to me as I finished the poem and rewrote the last few lines.

Juveniles: An Updated Report to Wordsworth

Sun shines bright in summer sky;
Dappled shade beneath the trees;
Kids with ASBOs getting high;
Smell of weed on balmy breeze.

Insects buzzing in the grass -
Long, soft grass on yielding ground;
Clever fools who never pass
And never seem to be around.

A small stream laughing on the stones;
The sun a-gleam off dampened rocks.
Turning off their mobile phones
Children hide their fags in socks.

Beneath the wisps of fluffy clouds
Artfully positioned sheep
Are scared and flee the hooded crowds.
If Wordsworth saw, he'd break and weep.

Until next time, my friends, adieu.


Words convey knowledge; knowledge is power; thus power lies in words
Leif Terskun
Leif Terskun
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« Reply #50 on: June 15, 2012, 06:07:42 AM »

*Is sad at the recent lack of activity*

It appears that this thread is in danger of becoming my personal vanity-board, because I've got another poem I felt like posting. Maybe it'll encourage some of you to do likewise...

This poem is very improvised in its creation. I scribbled it on the palm of my hand earlier today, because I didn't have any paper. The first two lines I wrote on the back of my calculator in an exam for the same reason, and then this afternoon I was struck by continuation.

Ceci n’est pas une počme d’amour

The truth of a statement may change;
Its beauty will always remain.
You may no longer love me
But those three words
Are as beautiful now
As when you meant them.

I love you.

Words convey knowledge; knowledge is power; thus power lies in words
Leif Terskun
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