As a young girl I was so free
Laughing, jumping, climbing a tree
Then I grew older and worked in the pub
With seamen to serve and floors to scrub
Stolen from bed deep in the night
Dragged to a schooner unable to fight
Bent over backward, bound to a barrel
My dress torn open, feeling of peril
Used as an object for sailors delight
A victim of lust that is my plight
Flesh on my wrist, torn from the rope
They put out to sea, I lost all hope
Unable to scream because of the gag
They named me a wench, called me a hag
One thing they never can take from me
Dreams of that girl who was climbing a tree
Amera
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dreams
the days that all u have is dreams. the horrid times wen you locked down and stuck with nothing but the never ending sea of your mind.its tearable. i count the hours till i get to go to bed. till im put to sleep. till i can dream. vived sights of memorys. any way great write. i love the sick thot an how its enlightend by the past. BRAVO!!! and i would of said boatmen or sailors insted of seamen.
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Bountiful~Wise~Uniquely~Beautiful...
This poem is rich in imagery, symbolism, rhythm and lexicon. From line one to line sixteen, each and all sing to flash and picture a clear image.
The only negative point in this composition is that it is lacking the due punctuation ~ considering the fact that it is written in English.
In respect and admiration,
Andre Emmanuel Bendavi ben-YEHU
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good
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What's it with you and scrubbing floors my friend? Second poem today I read of you and the floors
Lovely poem "little blue star"!
Take care
Becks
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Well I don't know what to say, it is very good. I suppose that is all.
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I can almost see this as the song of some unsung heroine in a novel of the Sea. This was a well penned verse, with such great feeling and so well moving, in it's flow. Colorfully portrayed. I loved it.
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It definetly had a dark feel to it, but such an enjoyable one. That is your skills coming through
Each line, just painted out the story so well..
Maybe not such a nice tale, but truth be told it happens, so telling of it is important to in some degree.
Again effortless rhyming, I am really enjoying your rhyming skills, as I am not a rhymer myself lol
Just an exciting pact full of stuff read
Cindy
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I enjoyed this poem immensely!
I am particularly fond of the last stanza:
"One thing they never can take from me
Dreams of that girl who was climbing a tree"
Outstanding and so true.
No-one can steal the treasures
we value, and guard close to our hearts.
Thank you for sharing
~Pastel
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I like to be constructive in my critcisims, therefore let me first praise you for your use of some form. Although neither form nor rhyme is nessesary for a poem, often poets write too freely, being guided by no rules, and thus the poem does not come of in the least bit musical, as any poem should. A poem should not read like prose, even in free form. Consider Milton's Paradise Lost. Though he used not proper form, read the first few lines and you will still he weaves the words in a way that they sound musical. Besides, in the Greek and Roman classics, I believe, no rhyme was used. So I like how you allow form to guide your for that sake alone, but also because it more charmingly conveys your message. Had you just told it freely, it would not have been so powerful, because the rhyme makes the message stay in the head. Also you connect well, and your poetry does not sound forced, but flows naturally, despite form. Often the problem in using form is people try to FORCE the form. Perhaps they trust their own mind, rather than the muse.
But I feel that a critic's job is not to be kind, nor cruel, but to be fair. A critic loves the criticised, and like a father critcises his child out of love for him, so must the critic criticise the artist out of love to better him. People who without wit praise a poem are not friends to art. I cannot really think of much to say wrong with it truly. My scruples and ethics dictate me to, but it would be wrong to cricticise things that I do not see wrong with it. Perhaps I would have written it differently, but a critic does not criticise one because they wrote well, though not in a way the critic likes, but rather if the writer writes in a way that is contrary to beauty and good taste. There are many ways to say things. As long as they are done properly, the critic should not criticse. This is kosher writing. Good job.
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Wow! What a wonderful critique. Thank you so much. I wish you had chosen one of my more recent works. That poem was written so long ago and my writing has improved by leaps and bounds. Yes, I am still a formal poet but I use the form as a tool and not a master. For instance my poem today is a Shakespearian sonnet. I did not use
iambic pentameter I decided to use a variation to retain a classic flavor with elegance. I was still able to provide a volta and compose the entire poem in decasyllables with a floating four-stress rhythm and a climax at the couplet.
Your knowledge of poetry is impressive and I thank you.
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Well, I should know more, but somthing I criticise myself about it my fickleness. I am inconstant to my studies and therefore I do not know as much as I should know. In fact I have Aristotle waiting for me, and Dante too, but here I am criticising poetry, though that is a learning process. You learn by teaching. But I am a scrupulous person, perhaps too much. It is somthing I struggle with in making my confessions, somthing that is dangerous to the soul. I want to criticse my every action and dig into the details of it. So my conscience is very nervous and critical of itself. But despite my scrupulosity, instead of putting it to good effect by living in trepedation against my conscience, I arrogantly slack off in both my prayer and studies.
I use form for tool too, though I will always write classicaly. But I do not feel I have the wit to write a freer verse without the aid of rhyme, which at least keeps me in ratio. In fact I just invented a new form of poetry for narrative verse, namely as follows
a(10)
b(5)
c(7)
a(10)
a(5)
That would be one stanza, hence I write in a poem that speaks of a lady whom I beheld (see my sonnet I) with eyes that sparkled like the stars of how if her face is the heavens, her eyes being the stars, then what each other body part is, even being suggestive, though I have not gotten that far yet. The vagina shall be the Valley of Death, but to kiss her face, or go to Heaven, one must die in God's Grace (ie in a state of Grace as theology dictates) or on her legs. Hence the sexual act is death and going to Heaven. Also her lips are the Father and the Son, and her tongue is the Holy Ghost. In kissing, she bestows the Holy Ghost, and since theologically the Holy Ghost proceeds from the Father and the Son, so does her tongue (ie dogma of Filioque) But in any case, I begin the poem:
If thy face is the heavens, then thine eyes,
are two nymphs, here stars
on whom Hope hopes and Love loves, [dies
whom belief believes bright, though blind, and hoping
for love of thine eyes.
And it flows on an on, restricted to three stanzas per body part, though I would like to restrict myself to a certain amount of body parts. Of course I am also writing a more "story style" , in that it is a poem that shall realate a story, a shorter poem inspired by Shakespeare's Venus and Adonis. But this a story of lesbian seduction, the story of a beautiful and seductive lesbian who falls for the chaste virgin. It shall be a shoter poem, similar length of Shakepeare's, since I want to build my way up to writing a true epic later in life. But I am longwinded. I actually sometimes think of myself as Polonius, to whom Queen Getrude says, "More matter and less art." They say brevity is the soul of wit, but I am not brief.
Indeed, use classicism to your benefit. No poem shoul be out of proportion with ratio, and too often people just seem to write a poem without any effort to make music, as if they love themselves more than the muse.
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This is so sad, but written so beautifully. It still amazes me how a poem like this can cause so many emotions, sadness through to appreciation for the words...
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you
was rhyming your butt off in this piece. I was holding my breath even before I start reading because I am easily bored by some material and I was saying to my self I hope she is not to bore me this was great and was worth me realeasing my breath I loved it. -
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"One thing they never can take from me
Dreams of that girl who was climbing a tree"
This whole piece is a cornflake. The last line. . .well the last line will sadden me for an unspecified period.
I have two daughters after all.
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Sounds like a lousy job. I'd look for something else.
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