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Makyn Loneseeker · **02-25-2015, 10:54 PM**

I like poems! They're fun to write, and once I get an idea down, the pen does too, and doesn't come up until the thought process is done, or the emotion is gone.

So post any and all poems/free writing!

The road to revolt isn't Paul Revere's
ride at midnight.

It's that man who yells down at the
end of the street,
Covered by a throng,
The one you're not allowed near.

It's the raised hand,
The one you're not allowed to fight,
The one you can't say no too.

It's the stopper
hat keeps you silent;
Glaring, yet silent.

It's the man dragged out of his room,
by men in red.

It's the looks,
Those armored men receive,
Walking down the paved walk,
Looks of their own.

Its the bears tanks,
Creeping down the dusty
neighborhood,
The threads kicking it up.

It's the sunlight blocked out not with
oppression,
But with smoke.

The road to revolt isn't the first shot.

It's who fired it.

((Something i'm proud of (though it might not be the best) to start off!))

Aya · **02-25-2015, 11:07 PM**

A Sonnet for the Fury
Iceborn goddess, for our own heart's solace,
Renew today this sacred trust that binds
Our towers gleaming, your image flawless.
So they together ever will entwine.
We knoweth thee, beneath our frigid plea;
That you alone command hard frostbit cold
And harken not to warm our land with glee,
But narrow lucent eyes on us to scold.
For what is fear of bidden ice-cold rime
Compared with perils of dragon fire.
Learn thee to face the harshest cold, sublime.
Lest fail yourself the test of time, and tire."
But... as she cloaks our land with bulwark cold,
Shall she our hearts' goodwill and warmth withhold?

An Ishgardian Girl's Retrospective
Cold spring gives way to colder summer.
The seasons having lost their way.
â€˜Twas not that sun chose to slumber,
But that the frost preferred to stay.

Â
Whatever spell was cast upon it,
On that remembered fateful day,
Could not be fled, except by permit,
Sooner some escape, than to obey.
To find the world, than to submit.

Â
I once was one that longed to see
To hear, to feel, to learn, and know,
What it meant to be a woman free.
To leave it all behind, and let it go.

Â
Now I know, the taste and feel of sun.
Beach-hot white sand beneath my feet,
In salt-sweet air, and carefree fun,
And endless smiles for all I meet.

Â
But I cannot forget, or cease to care,
From where I came, and who I am.
Embittered cold, that all must bear,
From where I came, and who I am.
The howling gale, hope, despair.

Â
Where cold-capped snow peaks linger still,
Where frost strong-clings to all it sees.
Where hearth and home bring warm goodwill,
Where love exists beneath the freeze.

Black Sands of Ul'dah
Black sand stands watch, bitter sun
Days hard toil, spirit spent, wages won
Beneath tall spires, that toward the sky stretch on,
Wondering from day-to-day when it will be done,
And who, when it comes, will have won
And what it is, they shall acquire.

Those who cannot shun hard sand blown,
Know what those above have never known,
Where hot air boils, and bakes the bone,
Spirits worn to pound the sand and stone
Yet still are told they must atone,
and stubbornly refuse to tire.

While those in towers watch with scorn,
Upon those lesser, to toil born,
Whose clothes, tools, and hands hard-worn,
Have little, gilded, or untorn,
And know not what it truly means to adorn,
The polished pleasantry of the buyer.

Upon hard dust, where pity breaks,
All are owned or bought by he who takes,
And uses them for all good things he makes,
Reminding each again of the stakes,
The threat that awaits when he awakes,
Should the master, in his whim desire.

Hope, and eyes raised to aspire still,
When rain comes to bring its thirsty-thrill,
Letting all below, devour and drink their fill,
While, showing masters beyond the till,
Who know the truth, and all they will,
Give faith to eyes, and inspire.

The sight of rain that cannot recognize
That doesn't know or seem to realize
That it should know who to penalize,
and who its supposed to demonize,
But instead, seems to emphasize
That none should be the drier.

Y'lani · **02-25-2015, 11:10 PM**

Here's something I did as a class assignment. I'm not much of a poem writer, myself, so I ended up starting with the first stanza of one of Y'lani's songs. The theme was, "Connecting Communities, Peace and Prosperity".

Tales from Lost Nights

With a passion for all, he held out his hands
Only to be dealt a blade with disastrous plans
No courage, no strength, could keep him from running
And so he changed, alas, now very cunning!

Bright as the moon over starlight
His people feared and fretted, stirred no quarrels or fights
They lit the flames of the night, the night!
Their union defaced by an infectious plight

With a retreat for all, she holds out her knife
Only to be defied by a king razed by strife
No promises, no lies could keep her from slaying
And so sheâ€™s deranged, alas, left for laying!

Lost like the widow in white
Her family begged and pleaded, prayed lost loveâ€™s might
They let their hearts fall alight, alight!
Their merger unlaced by a formidable height

Our battles are waged with smiles and sighs
No blades, no knives, no arrogance and lies
We, their people, have learned from before
And have grown to love one another at core

This is our tale

Cliodhna Eoghan · **02-25-2015, 11:25 PM**

i'm not very creative when it comes to poems...can we post our favorite published ones too?

Makyn Loneseeker · **02-25-2015, 11:39 PM**

(02-25-2015, 11:25 PM)Cliodhna Eoghan Wrote: i'm not very creative when it comes to poems...can we post our favorite published ones too?

That's no problem at all! Go ahead!

If that's the case, I'll post one of my favorites, too. c:

Do not go gentle into that good night
Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Cliodhna Eoghan · **02-26-2015, 12:24 AM**

The Highwayman
By Alfred Noyes
PART ONE

The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees.
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas.
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came ridingâ€”
Ridingâ€”ridingâ€”
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

Heâ€™d a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin.
They fitted with never a wrinkle. His boots were up to the thigh.
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard.
He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred.
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlordâ€™s black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlordâ€™s daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened. His face was white and peaked.
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlordâ€™s daughter,
The landlordâ€™s red-lipped daughter.
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber sayâ€”

â€œOne kiss, my bonny sweetheart, Iâ€™m after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
Iâ€™ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.â€

He rose upright in the stirrups. He scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair in the casement. His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(O, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.

PART TWO

He did not come in the dawning. He did not come at noon;
And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon,
When the road was a gypsyâ€™s ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marchingâ€”
Marchingâ€”marchingâ€”
King Georgeâ€™s men came marching, up to the old inn-door.

They said no word to the landlord. They drank his ale instead.
But they gagged his daughter, and bound her, to the foot of her narrow bed.
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.

They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest.
They had bound a musket beside her, with the muzzle beneath her breast!
â€œNow, keep good watch!â€ and they kissed her. She heard the doomed man sayâ€”
Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
Iâ€™ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!

She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

The tip of one finger touched it. She strove no more for the rest.
Up, she stood up to attention, with the muzzle beneath her breast.
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her loveâ€™s refrain.

Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horsehoofs ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came ridingâ€”
Ridingâ€”ridingâ€”
The red coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still.

Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer. Her face was like a light.
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned himâ€”with her death.

He turned. He spurred to the west; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head oâ€™er the musket, drenched with her own blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, and his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlordâ€™s daughter,
The landlordâ€™s black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

Back, he spurred like a madman, shouting a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high.
Blood red were his spurs in the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat;
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat.

. . .

And still of a winterâ€™s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes ridingâ€”
Ridingâ€”ridingâ€”
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard.
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred.
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlordâ€™s black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlordâ€™s daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

Edvyn · **02-26-2015, 12:40 AM**

[youtube]NS43YRKRgZs[/youtube]

ChewableMorphine · **02-26-2015, 12:54 AM**

[Image: Latvia+joke+4_708fe1_4706574.jpg]

The snow falls on Mt Fuji

Erik Mynhier · **02-26-2015, 03:24 AM**

I have drawn much from poetry, this one more then once. I even went so far as to integrate the poem into the meta-rp of the Red Wings.

My favorite rendition, as spoken by John Gielgud:

Aduu Avagnar · **02-26-2015, 03:26 AM**

My favourite piece of spoken word poetry:
[youtube]V7OGY1Jxp3o[/youtube]
followed shortly by this:
[youtube]aZc2VUQ05w4[/youtube]

Elysia · **02-26-2015, 05:21 AM**

P-Poems we like? ...There're too many...

BUT. Hopping onto the spoken word poetry bandwagon is far easier, so. Â In my opinion, Andrea Gibson can do no wrong:Â

[youtube]vptC-9Nx52c[/youtube]

Also, have Moriarty reading Pablo Neruda, or Helena Bonham Carter being entirely herself with "Warning" by Jenny Joseph.Â

I am done... for now.Â

Makyn Loneseeker · **02-26-2015, 05:57 PM**

(02-26-2015, 03:26 AM)Nako Wrote: My favourite piece of spoken word poetry:
[youtube]V7OGY1Jxp3o[/youtube]
followed shortly by this:
[youtube]aZc2VUQ05w4[/youtube]

Shane Koyczan could inspire an entire mountain to move.

I always get goosebumps Â near the end of each poem. xD

((posts))

The Mechanics of Men
BY DAVID TOMAS MARTINEZ

I have never been the most mechanically inclined of men.
Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Wrenches, screwdrivers, or shovels
have never made nice with me. In the shipyard,

I worked alone, in the dark, deep in
Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â the bilges of frigates. For two months,
I hooked a torch to an oxygen tank with a green line and pulled a red

hose through bulkheads to gas. The brass tool
Â Â Â Â Â Â Â hissed like an ostrich
when it fed on metal. That day, my flame cut

permanent deck fittings; the loops fell like bright oranges;
Â Â Â Â Â Â Â I ripened the rusty metal. I knew
that this was a job to baby-sit me, a job they gave to bad burners,

beginners playing with their tools: who pretended their brass torches
Â Â Â Â Â Â Â were trumpets, and that gulls in the bay were tables
of distracted diners. When my father was a boy, his father loaded him

and his siblings in the car and dropped them off downtown
Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â so my grandfather could get drunk and my
grandmother could pretend he wasn't drinking again. When I was a boy,

I enjoyed watching my father dig; with dirt between his palms, he spun
Â Â Â Â Â Â Â the shovel before he dug. As I grew, I tried
to stay away from work, even when he paid me. I stayed away from him too.

I never understood how he could work around so much grass. For him,
Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â life was work. For him, everything was hard. For me,
it was not hard. He stalked my mother a long time after their divorce.

He never understood she was not sod to be laid, or a sprinkler to be
Â Â Â Â Â Â Â attached to a pvc pipe seven inches in the ground.
That pregnant at fifteen was too soon. Neither of us is the most

mechanical of men, yet we still pride ourselves on how we fashion our tools.
Â Â Â Â Â Â Â I wake up shivering and crying in an empty bed,
the afternoon light entering and leaving an empty bottle of wine near

an emptier glassâ€”or roll over and try, and fail, to remember a woman's
Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â name, which never really gets old, just uncouth
to say so, and feel fixed. To feel fixed is to feel a mechanical spirit, to feel love,

or at least to play at paste for an evening, to make believe she will never leave me,
Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â as life almost did when I cut the green hose, and was
lonely and shaking that day on the deck of the destroyer, looking into the

green water, and wondered what would be written on my tomb:
Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â "Killed by oxygen was this unmechanical man."
In that moment close to death, I only wanted my own lungs. I didn't regret

returning home and sleeping on my father's couch. And that summer, I returned
Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â to each of the women of my past and bedded
them all, trying to reheat our want. I don't regret thatâ€”drinking wine

and making love, or writing poems and making love, of wanting to stay
Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â but nonetheless leaving. I don't regret returning
with Said and Spivak, with Weil and Augustine, of telling my father

"All sins are an attempt to fill voids" or rebuilding my grandfather's
Â Â Â Â Â Â Â house with Hopkins in my head
as I ripped the tar and shingles off the old roof with a shovel.

And I am not mad for being the second favorite son,
Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Esau turned inside out. Can't regret saying
that summer, I was, in fact, already, a bigger and better man

than my father because I understood more. I didn't mind he
Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â favored my younger brother, who knew less
than him. I favored my brother's way of living, of skating

in the park and smoking weed while I studied and wondered for us all.
Â Â Â Â Â Â Â How ridiculous I was that summer for us all;
for not attempting to rebuild any of his love that summer, at all.

Khoure · **02-26-2015, 09:08 PM**

*casually pretending I didn't just make a poetry thread and post these 2 days ago* Feel free to have a look at some very unskilled but self indulgent babby poems. I'm probably going to make a verse for each of the 12 but I also don't write poetry often. And these are all my character's patron deities which makes them a bit more special to me.

Oschon the wanderer
Patron of rogues and vagrants
The aimless fool with his walking crutch
Passing through fields, rivers, mountains, valleys
Guardian of the invisible

Llymlaen the navigator
Lady of the compass, master of the four winds
The pirate's patron
Holding hands with the sea
Leader of the stray

Nymeia the spinner
Weaver of fate, watcher of stars
Binding free will with lengths of thread
Overseer of pain and fortune
The gagged observer

Makyn Loneseeker · **02-27-2015, 08:52 AM**

(02-26-2015, 09:08 PM)Khoure Wrote: *casually pretending I didn't just make a poetry thread and post these 2 days ago* Feel free to have a look at some very unskilled but self indulgent babby poems. I'm probably going to make a verse for each of the 12 but I also don't write poetry often. And these are all my character's patron deities which makes them a bit more special to me.

Oschon the wanderer
Patron of rogues and vagrants
The aimless fool with his walking crutch
Passing through fields, rivers, mountains, valleys
Guardian of the invisible

Llymlaen the navigator
Lady of the compass, master of the four winds
The pirate's patron
Holding hands with the sea
Leader of the stray

Nymeia the spinner
Weaver of fate, watcher of stars
Binding free will with lengths of thread
Overseer of pain and fortune
The gagged observer

-Hugs- I'm sorry. :c I checked to make sure I wasn't making a repeat post here in the Off Topic area, but...

These are good! I feel like you'll be able to expand them pretty well. xD

Khoure · **02-27-2015, 10:00 AM**

(02-27-2015, 08:52 AM)Makyn Wrote: -Hugs- I'm sorry. :c I checked to make sure I wasn't making a repeat post here in the Off Topic area, but...

oh, no worries! I put it in the artisan section, thinking it fit with "other media" which in retrospect wasn't a good idea

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