Some poetry

[Baqal]

Poems I've written. Feel free to critique any of them. I may post more poems later on.

---

Gravity
What is this law
that doesn't let me fly?
Like shackles to the ground,
it limits my freedom.
Like a mother's hug,
it gives me safety.
Is it to curse,
or is it to thank?

During the night
Black robes and white skin,
creepy smiles and nice eyes,
one of them repeatedly cries,
others ignore it.
They march out to the swamp,
no trace is left during the way,
one of them repeatedly cries,
others ignore it.
A small, red pond is reached,
sharp blades are pulled out,
one of them repeatedly cries,
others ignore it.
The blade went towards the neck,
liquid of crimson color came out,
one of them is silent,
others are smiling.

The mannequin
Am I alive or not?
My single atom of consciousness
wants me to scream my lungs out,
but I don't have them.
Not enough strength to tilt my head
slightly to the left,
and not enough will either.
I haven't got a brain
in order to have emotions
like sadness or happiness.
But I do feel neglected.
Will these people recognize
that I'm self-aware?

---

[BrianSoddingBoru4]

Not to my taste.

Boru

[Baqal]

@BrianSoddingBoru4
-Not to my taste.
Leemons.

---

Lullaby
My father has entered the hovel,
the cave of fantasies,
the domicile of felicity,
the dwelling of pretty creatures.
He opens the basement door
to soothe the monstrosities of the past,
the whispers of sorrow,
the glances of disdain.
Taking a lump of clay,
he builds a giant
to guard me,
to appease me
whenever I feel scared.
He kisses my forehead
and wishes me sweet dreams
as he opens the door
to go out in the forest.

---

[Baqal]

This is an old one. I think I was around nine years old when I did this one. I don't really like it, but, what the heck.

---

An extinguished star
A dim gleam illuminates my room
by passing through the window glass.
Sitting by the table
and writing a letter
I wonder if this
faint ray of light
will soon
be quenched.
Hearing movement behind me,
I pull out a match
and use it to light the candle.
Then,
sudden disappearance
of any natural light source.
My sentience of what will happen
was true.
If I did not light the candle,
whatever I heard behind me
would probably swallow me whole.
It is my darkest of fears,
my most horrible incubus,
the loudest of frightening screams.
It is, in fact,
darkness itself.

---

[Rhizomorph13]

I randomly put,
letters to paper,
they do not rhyme,
poetry?
What is this thing?
Life the stink of forbidden snatch?
did robins fly so low?
Limping sodden lumpy grass,
How flummoxed the rose was to find,
A little bird to flip and dive,
pudding.

Eh, look, I'm a poet or something.

[Baqal]

@Rhizomorph13
-I randomly put,
letters to paper,
they do not rhyme,
poetry?
What is this thing?
Life the stink of forbidden snatch?
did robins fly so low?
Limping sodden lumpy grass,
How flummoxed the rose was to find,
A little bird to flip and dive,
pudding.
Eh, look, I'm a poet or something.
The lack of rhymes... I don't find rhymes very necessary. It also limits what you can write, and might result into complete randomness. I also think that, with a lack of rhymes, I can give poems a slight prose format.
And random? You can say they are random if you want to, but I assure you that they do have a meaning and a message.

[Losty]

I don't mind the lack of rhymes. A friend of mine from another forum helped me with some of my poems. He says you have to de-personalize them so that can have meaning for anyone instead of just you. That is, if you want to publish them or if you're writing them for other people to read and not just for your own pleasure of writing. I have a really hard time doing that because my poetry is so personal, but I sometimes enjoy having other people critique my poetry and help me make it something that could have meaning to someone besides myself.

---

This is an old one. I think I was around nine years old when I did this one. I don't really like it, but, what the heck.

---

An extinguished star
A dim gleam illuminates my room
by passing through the window glass.
Sitting by the table
and writing a letter
I wonder if this
faint ray of light
will soon
be quenched.
Hearing movement behind me,
I pull out a match
and use it to light the candle.
Then,
sudden disappearance
of any natural light source.
My sentience of what will happen
was true.
If I did not light the candle,
whatever I heard behind me
would probably swallow me whole.
It is my darkest of fears,
my most horrible incubus,
the loudest of frightening screams.
It is, in fact,
darkness itself.

---

I really like this one. I amazed that you wrote it at nine years old. I wrote poetry when I was really young too, but nothing quite so eloquent.

[Mudhammam]

Keep it up. By the way, have you read any Charles Bukowski? If you don't mind my sharing, I love this poem of his (called A Smile To Remember):

we had goldfish and they circled around and around
in the bowl on the table near the heavy drapes
covering the picture window and
my mother, always smiling, wanting us all
to be happy, told me, ‘be happy Henry!’
and she was right: it’s better to be happy if you
can
but my father continued to beat her and me several times a week while
raging inside his 6-foot-two frame because he couldn’t
understand what was attacking him from within.

my mother, poor fish,
wanting to be happy, beaten two or three times a
week, telling me to be happy: ‘Henry, smile!
why don’t you ever smile?’

and then she would smile, to show me how, and it was the
saddest smile I ever saw

one day the goldfish died, all five of them,
they floated on the water, on their sides, their
eyes still open,
and when my father got home he threw them to the cat
there on the kitchen floor and we watched as my mother
smiled

[ManMachine]

I randomly put,
letters to paper,
they do not rhyme,
poetry?
What is this thing?
Life the stink of forbidden snatch?
did robins fly so low?
Limping sodden lumpy grass,
How flummoxed the rose was to find,
A little bird to flip and dive,
pudding.

Eh, look, I'm a poet or something.

I accept there is a distinct difference between poetry and song lyrics but David Bowie went through a phase where he used to cut up his lyric lines and randomly reassemble them.

Hence... ' I am an alligator, I'm a mamma-papa coming for you'

Randomness is almost always part of creativity, usually there are a few more cognitive processes between the random inspiration and the end product, but it's viable to strip that away and present those random inspirations/thoughts/ideas as poetry. Why not?

I once published a poem that had no words. Just a blank page. I figured I'd write a poem where the words don't get in the way. It pissed a lot of people off, which is fine by me. It's easy to sit inside the comfort zone and act smug about what we think we know, but the people who I personally admire are those with the stones to put something new out there and deal with whatever comes at them, good or bad.

MM

[Little lunch]

I like your poetry.
Here's a couple more from Adam Ford.

Beard.

Actually, I didn't shave.
My beard left me.
I woke up that morning,
clean faced.
A note on my bedside table
told the sad story.
"Sometimes you can be
too close to someone.
I need some time alone.
I'll call you.
Love,
B."

A small revenge.

After we fought I
went downstairs and
left the house,
but not before I
put that song you hate
on the CD player
and pressed repeat.