Solid forms, regulated in shape and structure,
Textureless apparitions yet technicolour bright.
Designed to tease the eyes of children still
Fascinated with the vibrant hues of nature,
To guide them into building walls
To keep the wild things out.
Many were the days these blocks occupied
The imagination while, left alone by the
Heavy stepped giants that orbited at the
Very fringes of awareness during the grey
And dreary winters that marked
A cold and solitary development.
To merge the reds, blues, greens, yellows
Blacks and whites, sculpting uniform
Patterns to their grand applause, hiding
Creativity in the constraints, concealing
The true texture and uniqueness lest
It be crushed beneath uncaring scorn.
Taught, in this way, to be just another shadow
Stumbling blindly, looking for a greyscale,
Featureless terrain to be safe in, the little
Godling, red faced and crying, staggered out
Of the wilderness and broke his arm
On the doorstep of his own creation.
Thus, ageing ever more, no longer the
Maker but the made, another faceless
Orbiter, growing ever distant, still constrained
By form and pattern, rules and expectations,
Losing sight of the horizon; ever
Yearning for the shadow of the leaf.
And in the basement of the ever-growing dull
Featureless isolation, still hiding in a golden
Chamber filled with ruby, emerald and sapphire
Striations was the true-born nature spirit now
Scraping at the ancient mortars, screaming
To escape the brickwork that he shaped.
Burning with ever-growing fury, crashing against
A lifetime’s diligent labour, a vortex of passion
And desire clutching at the last remaining key.
Snapping at the time-wracked tumblers but the
Hinges; latches brothers, can’t but hope to
Withstand the daemons thumping need.
Freedom, unfettered by a ceiling of dank, smoky
Blackness, hearing the call of an unbounded azure
Heaven, the bricks of fears and fantasies crumble;
The ruins rapidly concealed by the encroaching
Needs of the universe, leaving but a few moss
Coated stones to glitter in the glorious sunlight.
Rules once unbending, now scattered,
Shattered guide lines; regulatory advice
To lead a still-blind Godling through the
Hazards and wondrous explorations of
The chaotic, formless new world
Now his to make, to take, to share.
The universe; a playfield where naked
Seraphim frolic and sing, weaving stardust
Through their fingers to festoon the steel
Grey shell-towers of Gods as yet unborn,
Still hiding in the rigid structure
Of a lesson tried but never taught.
In a list
A contest entry
- Opiate rubber chicken dipped in play dough (3 judges contest round 1) by Progandother.
1900 points, ends December 3, 50 entries
• next poem in this contest, • Add to finalists list, or remove from contest
What did you think
Comments
1 - 7 of 7
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mmmmm
This piece surprised me, at first glance it seems rather formulaic with a rather jarring and polysyllabic lexis. But then when you look even deeper you see that the metric structure of the poem is rather varied and with very few stanzas upholding the same rhythmic pattern; and yet, at the same time it seems to flow absolutely flawlessly.
For some reason the imagery I get from this is the empires of a Roman Amphitheatre in the middle of the night, with the slight smell of dead flesh from years ago that creates a calm and sombre effect within the dead quiet night (probably not what you were going for, but alas!! My mind is implying these ideas).
So I shall give thee a yes.
Good luck.
Oliver
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Very well written and another very deep poem to sit and ponder. I love to read that type of poetry. You have great imagery with nice metaphors and flow. Keep on penning like this. I am impressed.
Brook
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Lol So ok, I came here thinking I could cretique something of yours. And I honestly tried. I read it 3 times looking for something to mention; butt there was nothing but one two small things.
Don't use upper case letters for everyline. Only use for names and after full stops. The rule remains the same in poetry. It can stop a reader in their tracks. I used to do the same when copy and pasting a poem from word untill a judge explained how it bothered them.
To be honest it lacked a strong base. I like to think that when im reading something Im ' seeing' rather then listening to someone tell. Remember " Don't tell me the moon is shining. Show me its glint on a broken shard of glass".
Other then that, there were no spelling or grammer mistakes and what you had to say was very detailed. Bravo.
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Sorry it took so long to reply, I felt the need to critique the poems in my contest before responding to anything other that I recieved in the mean time. Unfortunately it took me longer than I truly wished to do so.
Now I'm taking a break before I judge it, so I have a little time to spare
Please don't think I'm jumping down your throat while I write this reply, if anything I would like to throttle the person that explained to you how it bothered them.
The use of 'start line capitalisation' is very much traditional in poetry. You are an Aussie (for all that you are a Sydney-sider, I'll forgive you for that this once
[Go the Storm] ) and there is no great Australian poetry that does not have start line capitalisation, nor is there a great deal of deviation to that rule in classical English poetry.
There is nothing wrong with starting each line with a capital letter, I write my poetry with pen and paper (the only thing that transposing to word does for me is save me the hassle of pressing the shift key at the start of each line), nor is there any true reason not to capitalise the start line, except for the writer's personal preference and sense of stylistic presentation.
I capitalise words to make them the subject of the concept that I am presenting, also to indicate periods where a reciter may feel free to take a breath, a vocal pause, much in the same way that musical breaks are indicated to musicians that use wind or reed instruments (please note that I consider other aspects of punctuation to be differentiated from this, although I tend to capitalise the next word after a full stop or a question just the same).
The effect that the person who made that comment on your writing was to impel you to conform to their perceptions of what is reality, and my thoughts are that what they think of as 'literature' is limited to that which is restricted to reading rather than reciting; this is the true difference between poetry and prose.
I have recieved such comments myself in the past, when I have presented my counter arguements (and relevant referances), I have often been placed on 'ignore' for being so presumptuous as to disagree with them.
I tend to use the more traditional presentation since, because of my use of enjambement and caesura, as well as the extended metaphors that I apply, I feel that to do other wise is to instruct my readers to run out of breath well before they run out of words to read.
As for the other aspect of your critique, I am sorry: I do not use simple or short metaphors in my writing. In fact most of my writing is 'a metaphor of a simile of a metaphor'; abstract yet focused on a point not necessarily presented directly (or even indirectly) in the write itself.
I prefer the use of extended and drawn out metaphors in my writing and that can sometimes make the write appear 'shallow' or without detail.
I assure you, "the glint of silver midnight memory upon the shattered mirror of mine own lost destiny" (for example {for me, a very short metaphor }), may be found within this write should the reader seek to find it rather than have it thown blatantly in their faces.
Thank you for your critique, you took the time to think it through and I have locked your thoughts in my psyche, so it will, to some degree, influence my future writing (even should it not appear directly apparent), I hope you enjoty the experience of writing and creation.
Adrian.
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cool
the images your words describe are powerful. a neat story, of the plight of the immature godling in most poets, trying to define, describe, to bring order and definition to chaos, which is mostly what we make of our lives, good thing there are other people to occupy our time, minds, and creativity, or we'd go mad from having nothing intelligent to say...damn, that's good, wish i'd wrote it...
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Aaaagh bro toooo loooooooong to hold me this day but I shall return when a tad fresher
So I gather you cannot find titles and I cannot convert to Roman Numerals but perhaps I shall google and refresh that part
Do looooove the border tho
Sista Justa a Raving Mare
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You know how hard it has always been for me to title my poems Sista, so for a bit I decided to let that bit slide, there is a long tradition of just numbering the bloody things anyway so I figured, why not?
389, save you the google search
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