****ing Christ.... Dark, yet disturbingly brilliant. To this point, I'd not read such well-written poetry from modern-day poets. Reminds me of the well-versed poets of old, but much darker themes than most of them would have dared to write. You have left me in awe.
****ing Christ.... Dark, yet disturbingly brilliant. To this point, I'd not read such well-written poetry from modern-day poets. Reminds me of the well-versed poets of old, but much darker themes than most of them would have dared to write. You have left me in awe.
Finally someone that agrees with me; I am the best poet alive today. Yes, you are very accurate. I wrote these poems in full striving to recreate the style of word usage of the old gothic poets of the eighteenth-nineteenth centuries. Thank you for your wonderful thoughts. Now, for some more poetry:
Bleeding Moon
A deep, black current stirring
An ocean of blood
The moon falls upon it
Suspended on venial iniquity
Is the cuspent Crescent Blade
The dull reflection stares
Yearning to be divulged
Yet the sinister image repulses
And repels the weary Vagrant
Does he wish it to be his?
Is this the power he sought?
He is afraid of his own wrath
As he cowers beneath the dark blanket
The remnance of light
Sleeping, softly, but not rested
The illuminated disk spirals to his mind
And hovers
A virus of his thought
Neither living nor dead; light nor dark
Neither awake nor asleep
Nothing is real
With the only exception:
His farcical dreams
In the lazy water meadow he awakes
The sun bright upon his face
In the sky, a bird was heard to cry
Icy wind of night, this is not your domain
The semi-sigmoid crest is engraved in his mind
Dull ambient light flows from his brain
The Vagrant is again uneased
His quest for the night trails through the day
An active slumber
A passive sleep, he wanders through fiction
The hunt for reality is won
The dogs are housed, the guns are locked
And the fox is left bleeding by the gulch
Ripples
Water, water, everywhere
Water here, water there
Waiting for a drop of air
To fall upon the soil bare
Bare and barren without care
A drop of air settles there
Sand fills in this empty place
Empty piece of empty space
Inorganic living race
Thriving in an empty case
Lined with shining silver lace
A thriving race fills in space
This drop of air that settles flat
Settling simply to a mat
A mat that stands as tall as fat
Sitting now where it once sat
Thinking this, thinking that
Sitting flat, an airy mat
Meddle blue and meddle round
Meddle dropping without sound
Rippling echoes, newly found
Waking, sleeping in the ground
Seamus stoned, Seamus drowned
Without a sound, his death unfound
You set a stone upon the heap
Giving depth, a soul to rest
An inorganic soul to rest
An interwoven sequin vest
In it, is a place to rest
A place to sleep upon the heap
I found you there, sitting there
The air was resting in your hair
I see your face, so pure, so fair
I step into this place, your lair
I'll give you love i'll give you care
Just leave me there inside your lair
You pondered if it were to be
To think of thought and sought to see
To live with life which cannot be
Distance broad, under the sea
The sands of which there lay an air
A later leap a lesser care
Of air that lays to form a mat
Sitting now where it once sat
Echoes make a ripple found
A sense of feeling, tightly wound
I'd give you love, i'd give you care
But water, water's everywhere
I only read the first two....and they are awesome...I havent met one person that compares that well. They fall a touch short yes. But those ARE brilliant...
I can't think of another way to describe your poems then as absolutely brilliant. They actually made me stop and think. Well done, you've got a heck of a lot of talent
Thanks for the awesome comments. Here's a free-verse I just wrote while listening to some Beethoven. The first two verses represent the first movement of the Moonlight Sonata; the third verse represents the second movement; and the fourth and final verses represent the third movement:
Moonlight Sonata
Dull light scattered around
Filling in the empty night
They are helpless
Grasped by its intrigue
Dancing, they are but dolls
It has captured the souls
And footing has been lost
As they drift in the black night
The waltz grows soft
But returns to spin them 'round again
The bare sustenence
They soar to the peak
Yet fall again in a bloody rain
Puddles of life left on the ground
Those who remain wade
In their somber ripples
The blood creeps up their legs
As the moonlight begs for another
Waltz into the dark sky
Its deep voice protrudes from the minds
And once again
They rise into the night, dolls dancing
Yet they forget the blood
And leave it lazy in the meadow
The soothing tone returns
A festive mood replaces despair
As they, dolls of the moon, dance
On the clouds of night
One more round of drinks for all to share
And by strings, taught by wind
Limbs are wild and fly all about
Caught in a trance
The dolls are servants of the night
And yet they grow mad
The cool moon is crazed
Dancing turns to aimless willowing atop the clouds
As they die, they fall to the ground
And splash the remnant blood
Kicking and throwing 'round their lust
None should sleep
Above the clouds, the others soar onward
Struggling to reach the dull light yet again
Climbing on the pitch of black
The dolls become the moon's rays
Tears of the moon
The lunar rain penetrates the corpses
And carries off the blood
The river of the night drains into the soil
Rich and dark, the mealy things
Find humble abode within its confines
And praise the night
An offering which is expected
And 'fore the dawn, the sun's unease
No trace of the bloody dolls remains
But the fading moon
Last edited by Honest Abel : 06.05.04 at 11:35:06.
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