Do You Write Poetry?

[giles121183]

Bayleaf,

Are you aware that "your" poem that starts this thread was actually written as a tribute to Station Officer Colin Townsley, who was killed in the Kings Cross Fire 1987?

Were you the original author, or have you poached it?

Judging that your date of birth in your profile would make you 12 at the time of the disaster, and that your occupation is listed as Sales Assisstant, I'm guessing you've poached it.

Many thanks for bringing such a moving poem to the attention of many, lest we forget the deaths of many of those members of the emergency services who are prepared to give their lives while saving others.

But to claim this poem as your own work?

Shame on you.

[jackokent]

I'm confused Bayleaf's poem refers to a Mike, not a Colin.

"But when the grieving's done
& the bitterness is spent,
They'll speak again of Mike
of what he did & meant.
& each will write an epitath
to the Fire-figther they all knew,
Who gave his life in a job he loved
a fireman through & through."

Are you sure you are thinking of the same poem? You're right, it would be a shame if it's poached.

Just as an aside are you suggesting sales assistants don't write poetry or that this poem would seem to be written by a fireman and Bay doesn't mention being one?

[Chrystelia]

Wow all the poems are great, I'm so embarrassed to post mine.

[Chrystelia]

Here's one of mine, but *embarras* it's a bad one.

They shout it in the streets,
Kill peace for sweet release,
They chant in every town,
To war, to war, to war!

They sealed the pact with blood,
From wells of a ravaged land,
In the name of love and freedom,
Invoking the god of fear.

They set the skies ablaze,
With fires of sacrifice,
Praying they'll find the prize,
Weapons of destruction.

Babylon has indeed fallen,
And all humanity,
Banished, anguished, famished,
Lost eternally.

[Commonmind]

A child's rhyme meant to scare other children, this is a piece from a novel I'm working on. I don't normally write poetry unless for one of my stories, so I hope this fits and is still considered sharing. The rhyme is called "The Witherman,"

Eat the still, those hearts that chill, grown cold and stone from lack of till,
Plow their souls, for the boatman’s toll, their seats kept counted and cozy

Devour the idle, weary of title, grown thick and dull from laze and dawdle,
Bring them whole, bring their pieces, places are numbered and plenty

The Witherman sows when sitting on hands, the Witherman reaps who kicks the can,
The Witherman boils who plays with fingers, the Witherman toils those that linger

Chew the petty, cuddling sweets, greedily coddling their tasty treats,
Gather them up, the fringe of their cuff, come one come all come every

Gorge the whine, of those crying in time, easily poked and easy to rind,
Collect and bag, number and tag, the homes in the dark are many

The Witherman tears who's bubbling round, the Witherman steals who eats as hounds,
The Witherman swipes those that wail, the Witherman takes whom hides their tail.

[jackokent]

Originally Posted by Chrystelia

Here's one of mine, but *embarras* it's a bad one.

Why on earth were you embarrassed. I thought it was great.

[giles121183]

Jackokent,

Perhaps the poem I referred to by Bayleaf was poached from another poacher! I can guarentee this poem was written as a tribute to Colin. "Mike", whoever he is, must've been a slight tweak.

As for the reference to Bayleaf's line of employment, I am not suggesting for a moment a sales assisstant isn't capable of writing dazzlingly brilliant poetry, but certain points of the poem, for example the reference to riding at four and not five, are terms that would only really be used and known by somebody with an inside knowledge of the job.

I'm not on a witch hunt, just want to make sure that credit is given only where truly due!

[BUSHLEADER]

I live in Africa... and much of Africa inspires me to write poetry. Here is one completely and truthfully inspired by personal experience:

TANZANIAN NIGHTS

Here is night scene; there I’m sitting,
On a clay-smooth log, ages felled,
Along with friends, warm beer sipping;
Where hopes are spilled, and memories held.

In the spider-shadows dancing,
Ghost-glimmer smile in candle glow,
Wide eyes of mocha, heart a-melting;
Forbidden to stay, too tired to go.

In the ambient firelight twisting,
Haunting writhing shadows cast;
Hollow plea of witch-drums drifting,
Voices scream from an ancient past.

Aromas wild of bush are weaving;
Wild with dung and wilder tune,
And through them, wilder voices calling,
Echoing up, as far as the moon.

In the sky dark, phantoms gliding;
Grey flamingos on whispering wings,
Instinct calling to north lake-breeding,
On blacksmith rock, the plover sings.

Another night; here I’m driving,
Across the plains, natures boon,
The dark is cold, wind is blowing,
Deprived of sleep, and blind by moon.

In grazing sea my car is ploughing,
A bow-wave ripples with alien fear;
Behind; an empty grass-trail leaving,
Tainted blood red from lights at rear.

Soon again the wake engulfing;
A wildebeest ocean, swelling round,
Into the vacuum of my passing;
The inheritors of the grazing ground.

Untamed odours, around me washing;
Wildness and vastness of endless plain,
Mountain thunder, flash-bulb lightning,
On distant horizon, shadows of rain.

Another evening; flies are buzzing;
Children shying, under blue skirts hide,
Musky cattle, wood smoke cooking,
Sun dust-shrouded on its evening ride.

Cattle strings are loose approaching,
Returning from the daily graze,
Rising billows brown dust trailing,
Lit within from dead sun’s gaze.

Cow bells muted, softly tolling,
Laughter mingles, high and clear,
Into the village, comfort drifting,
Children squealing as herds draw near.

Knots of warriors, on long spears leaning,
Greetings spat and fingers brushed,
Women bustle - laughing, clucking,
Goats are bleating, children hushed.

Ebony polished, black skin shining,
Silken smoothness in firelight’s glow;
Wind-chimed ear lobes softly dangling,
Myriad beads, girls flirting show.

Other beauty there is no matching;
Just stars cold-harsh in the African sky,
Violent colours in the twilight evening...
And the twinkle in a maiden’s eye.

[Chrystelia]

BUSHLEADER, that was beautiful.

[jackokent]

Originally Posted by giles121183

Jackokent,

Perhaps the poem I referred to by Bayleaf was poached from another poacher! I can guarentee this poem was written as a tribute to Colin. "Mike", whoever he is, must've been a slight tweak.

As for the reference to Bayleaf's line of employment, I am not suggesting for a moment a sales assisstant isn't capable of writing dazzlingly brilliant poetry, but certain points of the poem, for example the reference to riding at four and not five, are terms that would only really be used and known by somebody with an inside knowledge of the job.

I'm not on a witch hunt, just want to make sure that credit is given only where truly due!

Thanks for explaining and I completely agree with your last point,

Bushleader, I think your poem is amazing.

[Talysia]

Reading through this thread, it makes me glad that there are so many talented poets as well as writers on Chronicles. Some of these are truly beautiful.

[Adasunshine]

Like Chrystelia I have found some of the poems on this thread really quite wonderful but it's made me embarrassed to post my own. Still, I am after some critique that's not biased so *takes deep breath*...

It feels weird that you're not here
Strange you've gone away
I wish that you were near
Around so I could say

I love you
(You knew that one already)
I miss you
(More now than in the past)
That you were a wonderful man
(Taken away too fast)

I hope you're being looked after
By the ones we've lost before
I hope you know that hereafter
Our love for you will last forever more

It feels weird that you're not here
Strange you've gone away
I wish that you were near
Then the world would not seem so grey

xx

[Commonmind]

Very nice ada, very nice indeed.

[Talysia]

I wish I could write poetry. The closest I've come is the creative rhyming thread, and it's making me wonder if I could write something more serious.

[jackokent]

I wrote this after listenning to yet another episode of my teanage god-kid's chaotic love life.

I fell in love last night
after a party.
It was love at first sight
and everything was perfect, like it should be.

We walked home past the beach
I noticed the moon for the first time
Huge and bright, only just out of reach.
and I held her hand in mine.

We look out over the sea
It was like a mirror you could almost touch
She leaned up and kissed me
Then I said I loved her, very much

We sat on a rock holding hands.
We counted all the stars in the sky
we made a million different plans.
Then we said goodbye.

She came round this morning
I met her at the door
It's cold today, it's started raining
and I don't love her anymore.