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Rottir
Metal newbie

Joined: Sat Aug 01, 2015 6:48 pm
Posts: 32
PostPosted: Wed Oct 09, 2019 5:43 pm 
 

Wow, gasmask_colostomy and DividerOfShadows, I am blown away in a very good way by your criticism of my poem. I had no expectation for such depth in your responses, and already it has proven valuable as it allowed me to strengthen the point-of-view of another poem I had in progress.

I owe you a big thanks, but also an apology because I don't feel I can offer the same value to you two on your work. I started writing poetry about a month and half ago after reading the book 'How to Ready Poetry', and while it is perhaps the most satisfying creative endeavor I've undertaken in life, I find myself barely keyed-in to the proper way of writing.

Do you either of you have a method for receiving criticism on your work apart from this board, be it school, poetry groups, editors, etc.? I'd love to get in the habit of receiving feedback but have no idea where that would come from.

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gasmask_colostomy
Metalhead

Joined: Thu May 27, 2010 5:38 am
Posts: 964
Location: Where the heart is
PostPosted: Thu Oct 10, 2019 1:10 am 
 

Rottir wrote:
Wow, gasmask_colostomy and DividerOfShadows, I am blown away in a very good way by your criticism of my poem. I had no expectation for such depth in your responses, and already it has proven valuable as it allowed me to strengthen the point-of-view of another poem I had in progress.

I owe you a big thanks, but also an apology because I don't feel I can offer the same value to you two on your work. I started writing poetry about a month and half ago after reading the book 'How to Ready Poetry', and while it is perhaps the most satisfying creative endeavor I've undertaken in life, I find myself barely keyed-in to the proper way of writing.

Do you either of you have a method for receiving criticism on your work apart from this board, be it school, poetry groups, editors, etc.? I'd love to get in the habit of receiving feedback but have no idea where that would come from.

Haha for a month and a half of writing, that's a pretty high standard! Glad to know that the comments are appreciated. On the other hand, don't look down on yourself for being fresh to this field, since it gives you a different (not to say, natural) perspective on things that old hands might have lost. The only way to improve - both in terms of writing and commenting - is by trying stuff and seeing how it works or how others respond. Really, there is no "proper way" of writing or responding. Don't get hung up on that.

For myself, I was a Literature student at university and wrote a lot during those years, so I got the chance to criticize poetry and writing generally, which made up a large portion of my grade. These days, it's a hobby when I've got time, and I really don't take it that seriously. Apart from this group, there's no one that I talk poetry with, but you could do worse than starting a blog if you want regular readers to say something about your stuff. Link it to your Facebook or other social media so your friends may be the ones getting involved. If you're more interested in being with writers, you'd better search in your local area for universities, libraries, or interest groups. Some of them can be pretty wanky or just devolve into aimless coffee afternoons, though you might be lucky and find (or start) a more focused one.

Anyway, we few guys here are happy to read or talk about whatever you're working on now.

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gasmask_colostomy
Metalhead

Joined: Thu May 27, 2010 5:38 am
Posts: 964
Location: Where the heart is
PostPosted: Thu Oct 10, 2019 1:57 am 
 

DividerOfShadows wrote:
gasmask_colostomy wrote:
Lesson on Efficiency


For some reason this one is rather strange, or at least seems that way to me. I have no recollection of you using such a theme in poetry before. I don't see any metaphors, but it seems like you were having fun describing a story using verses. Maybe it's just me, but it might be a tiny bit too literal for my taste. However, despite that, I like the structure of your poem, how you used three stanzas to convey different ideas - the first as the description of place, the second as the description of a conundrum bugging your interlocutor, and the last one as some sort of a solution to the said problem.

Actually, more and more I feel like the poetry is already there in life and I just have to find a way to tell the story. In some ways, I also view jokes and tales as poems too, because they often have the same kind of effect. As one of my professors once said, poetry is just "concentrated writing". The simplicity of this one is designed to present it without anything extraneous, partly due to the subject, partly to make the reasoning extra clear. I might try to find another one like this, or another "non-poetic" one that I've written.

DividerOfShadows wrote:
Here's my most recent one. I was working out and listening to Young Gods' "Moon Revolutions" and some verses just begged me to write them down. Soon enough I had a theme in my mind that I wanted to describe in various ways.

I like that green. I used to have a notebook made with a really relaxing green paper that was supposed to rest your eyes. I loved it because you're not just looking at a blank white page before you start to write.

DividerOfShadows wrote:
Water of God
Spoiler: show
Spit at the mirror to clean your image
May salt lakes flood and devour my wounds
Finger points towards where heart dared not venture
Electric fuel infused in red emotion

I survived this green pestilence
So I will face the orange skies
Deserts will bloom under my feet
My grasp seizing what's eternal

A shapeshifting memory
A black eye of inability
Snuffing out the suns of yore

Golden rays, expanding rust
Judas walking towards the canyon
A worm becoming one with dust

Labyrinths aglow with red symbols
Doors hidden behind that onedimensional being
I have chosen not to be afraid
But to be a moving sea
Rife with those cognizant of life

Flame will not sear me
But make me a light in the darkness
Confessions to the great beyond
Prayers to oneself

To my left, the demons giving me wings
The dunes bend and sway
The wind is broken
The time stands still

Existence interpolates me
Between the points of horizon
A toxic star redeeming itself

The most real hallucination
Graves communicating with trees
Once you close your eyes and give in
Walk down the aisle between astral stairs
Witnessing unadulterated white
Reality will be yet another dream
Dreamt by those who gave up their divinity

I feel like I'm starting to recognize the places you go in your poems. The desert is back again for instance ("Deserts will bloom under my feet" is a great line) and these natural phenomena are used differently according to the situation. This poem gives me a strong impression of confidence in the speaker, what with all the power they seem to possess, while it seems like the words are thrown down as a gauntlet to others. That last verse probably shows the certain choice that they have made (giving up their divinity or not, I'm not sure); however, the opening was much more like a challenge and one where a disguised self-loathing operates. "Spit at the mirror to clean your image" is a wonderful way to start, since it implies so much in one line.

Recently, your poems are getting more focused and building tension nicely. Looking forward to more.

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DividerOfShadows
Metalhead

Joined: Tue Sep 13, 2016 1:58 pm
Posts: 401
Location: Croatia
PostPosted: Tue Oct 15, 2019 5:16 pm 
 

Rottir wrote:
Wow, gasmask_colostomy and DividerOfShadows, I am blown away in a very good way by your criticism of my poem. I had no expectation for such depth in your responses, and already it has proven valuable as it allowed me to strengthen the point-of-view of another poem I had in progress.

I owe you a big thanks, but also an apology because I don't feel I can offer the same value to you two on your work. I started writing poetry about a month and half ago after reading the book 'How to Ready Poetry', and while it is perhaps the most satisfying creative endeavor I've undertaken in life, I find myself barely keyed-in to the proper way of writing.

Do you either of you have a method for receiving criticism on your work apart from this board, be it school, poetry groups, editors, etc.? I'd love to get in the habit of receiving feedback but have no idea where that would come from.


No sweat, mate! Just like gasmask told you, there's not really a proper way of writing, almost anything goes, the possibilities are endless! We can just offer you our interpretations of your work and some advice to give it an extra sheen. Believe me, if you commit to it, your writing will get better, especially after you familiarize yourself further with various techniques - that way, by experimenting, you'll be able to craft your very own style of writing :-D

Well, personally, I seldom share my poems anywhere else, but I used to show them to my now ex-girlfriend. Granted, she was a bit too subjective and didn't really try to interpret the poem, citing her insufficient knowledge of English as a reason. So, for the time being, this is the only place where I share my stuff.

gasmask_colostomy wrote:
Actually, more and more I feel like the poetry is already there in life and I just have to find a way to tell the story. In some ways, I also view jokes and tales as poems too, because they often have the same kind of effect. As one of my professors once said, poetry is just "concentrated writing". The simplicity of this one is designed to present it without anything extraneous, partly due to the subject, partly to make the reasoning extra clear. I might try to find another one like this, or another "non-poetic" one that I've written.


That's a very interesting perspective! Please do, I'm interested in what you've written.

gasmask_colostomy wrote:
I feel like I'm starting to recognize the places you go in your poems. The desert is back again for instance ("Deserts will bloom under my feet" is a great line) and these natural phenomena are used differently according to the situation. This poem gives me a strong impression of confidence in the speaker, what with all the power they seem to possess, while it seems like the words are thrown down as a gauntlet to others. That last verse probably shows the certain choice that they have made (giving up their divinity or not, I'm not sure); however, the opening was much more like a challenge and one where a disguised self-loathing operates. "Spit at the mirror to clean your image" is a wonderful way to start, since it implies so much in one line.

Recently, your poems are getting more focused and building tension nicely. Looking forward to more.


As always, thank you for your kind comments!

I'd say your feelings are right, I did try to convey this feeling of strength and invincibility, probably to counter all those times of feeling weak and confused by certain things in my life (obviously, the poem itself is a bit personal). When it comes to giving up the divinity, what I believe I was trying to say was that some people have a very narrow outlook on life and most of them are not very creatively driven, which is something I struggle to understand. Reality, in that sense, is mentioned as something mundane and ordinary, unsatisfying, but I don't think I wanted that line to appear escapist - I was aiming more at the idea of combining reality with something that's beyond, something like imagination, a better view of oneself, finding strength within yourself even if all hell is breaking loose around you.

And since you liked that green colour, allow me to humour you for a bit. I finished this one today. At first I didn't really know what the direction it would take, but then I had a bit of an epiphany while listening to David Bowie's "A Small Plot of Land" on repeat. One thing that I think I've noticed recently is that my poems are becoming a bit more naturalistic, almost animalistic in certain motifs. However, I trust that you are more objective than me, so you can either confirm or deny this. Anyway, here it is:

Motion
Spoiler: show
Red Suns on my tongue
Temporary nirvana

Dead cat wrapped in a blanket
Strands of hair whip my eyes
Empty gaze causing famine
Mirrors of the soul hidden
From the mortal's view

You cannot stop the river

Golden plates
Warm as infatuation
Melodic breath
Sharp as a scorpion's tail

What's behind those clouds of mine
Summoning cowardice
Casting a die
Into the world's well?

You cannot stop the river

Devour or starve
Take my chains
Strangle me with them
To escape this night's shadow
And be awake behind the wall of sleep

A crown of pearls
Rising and falling
Garden of succubi
Keeps flourishing

You cannot stop the river

Heathens walking through the city
Feasting on dirt and themselves
Slitting throats in delusional joy
Unable to erase their own marks
Oh, what a jubilant evolution!

Brown smoke flies to the stars
Black ink blinds her eyes
After a gust of wind
Fingers tremble in dismay

Only words uttered today
"Let's try again"

I could not stop the river
No one can stop the river
_________________
Earthcubed wrote:
CradleOfBurzum, about the new Summoning album snippet, wrote:
I was hoping for some material that resembles closer to "Lugburz"


And I'm still hoping for Katy Perry to do another Christian album.


My Last.fm

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gasmask_colostomy
Metalhead

Joined: Thu May 27, 2010 5:38 am
Posts: 964
Location: Where the heart is
PostPosted: Wed Oct 16, 2019 12:56 am 
 

DividerOfShadows wrote:
Well, personally, I seldom share my poems anywhere else, but I used to show them to my now ex-girlfriend. Granted, she was a bit too subjective and didn't really try to interpret the poem, citing her insufficient knowledge of English as a reason. So, for the time being, this is the only place where I share my stuff.

Strangely, I find it quite difficult to share poetry with people I'm very close to. My wife is not a native English speaker and will never take anything artistic very seriously, while I feel that my family wouldn't "get" my poetic persona, since it's quite different to my actual personality. The only person I sometimes show is my mum, because she's studied a bit of literature and has an appreciation of writing styles generally. Still, sharing personal topics is always difficult in personal spaces.


DividerOfShadows wrote:
I'd say your feelings are right, I did try to convey this feeling of strength and invincibility, probably to counter all those times of feeling weak and confused by certain things in my life (obviously, the poem itself is a bit personal). When it comes to giving up the divinity, what I believe I was trying to say was that some people have a very narrow outlook on life and most of them are not very creatively driven, which is something I struggle to understand. Reality, in that sense, is mentioned as something mundane and ordinary, unsatisfying, but I don't think I wanted that line to appear escapist - I was aiming more at the idea of combining reality with something that's beyond, something like imagination, a better view of oneself, finding strength within yourself even if all hell is breaking loose around you.


Motion
Spoiler: show
Red Suns on my tongue
Temporary nirvana

Dead cat wrapped in a blanket
Strands of hair whip my eyes
Empty gaze causing famine
Mirrors of the soul hidden
From the mortal's view

You cannot stop the river

Golden plates
Warm as infatuation
Melodic breath
Sharp as a scorpion's tail

What's behind those clouds of mine
Summoning cowardice
Casting a die
Into the world's well?

You cannot stop the river

Devour or starve
Take my chains
Strangle me with them
To escape this night's shadow
And be awake behind the wall of sleep

A crown of pearls
Rising and falling
Garden of succubi
Keeps flourishing

You cannot stop the river

Heathens walking through the city
Feasting on dirt and themselves
Slitting throats in delusional joy
Unable to erase their own marks
Oh, what a jubilant evolution!

Brown smoke flies to the stars
Black ink blinds her eyes
After a gust of wind
Fingers tremble in dismay

Only words uttered today
"Let's try again"

I could not stop the river
No one can stop the river

I think maybe it's my favourite of yours so far. You're right, the images are coalescing around something a little more definite, but it still has that intense dream-like symbolism where life flashes in its many colours all at once. Somehow, it reminds me of those late '90s power/prog albums covers with giant chess pieces and stuff. This time I feel like the images are references to the main story, not merely a succession of things that have no connection. The motif of "You cannot stop the river" is just great, although I guess the ending where it changes was a bit predictable, along with "Let's try again". I understand that is the real seed of meaning in the poem (a difficult relationship, right?), but I think it undoes the magic a little. However, you've got one golden WTF line that I love: "Empty gaze causing famine." I really enjoy when your images make something totally inexplicable happen.

DividerOfShadows wrote:
gasmask_colostomy wrote:
Actually, more and more I feel like the poetry is already there in life and I just have to find a way to tell the story. In some ways, I also view jokes and tales as poems too, because they often have the same kind of effect. As one of my professors once said, poetry is just "concentrated writing". The simplicity of this one is designed to present it without anything extraneous, partly due to the subject, partly to make the reasoning extra clear. I might try to find another one like this, or another "non-poetic" one that I've written.


That's a very interesting perspective! Please do, I'm interested in what you've written.

Haha, well here goes. This is an example of one of those "other" kinds listed above. It's quite old (think I wrote it in 2012) but it illustrates the point.

Ancient Greek Statue
Spoiler: show
I'm standing,
naked,
in the bathroom,
feeling just like an ancient Greek statue.
I am so cold
that I'm turning to stone,
freezing in this pose,
and my skin is growing hard and grey.
My unadorned penis
would be laughably small,
but it was snapped off about 2,000 years ago.

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DividerOfShadows
Metalhead

Joined: Tue Sep 13, 2016 1:58 pm
Posts: 401
Location: Croatia
PostPosted: Wed Oct 16, 2019 7:57 am 
 

gasmask_colostomy wrote:
DividerOfShadows wrote:
Well, personally, I seldom share my poems anywhere else, but I used to show them to my now ex-girlfriend. Granted, she was a bit too subjective and didn't really try to interpret the poem, citing her insufficient knowledge of English as a reason. So, for the time being, this is the only place where I share my stuff.

Strangely, I find it quite difficult to share poetry with people I'm very close to. My wife is not a native English speaker and will never take anything artistic very seriously, while I feel that my family wouldn't "get" my poetic persona, since it's quite different to my actual personality. The only person I sometimes show is my mum, because she's studied a bit of literature and has an appreciation of writing styles generally. Still, sharing personal topics is always difficult in personal spaces.


Well, I used to share my poetry with my professor of Croatian language back in high school, but obviously, I showed her only my works in Croatian, which are relatively small in number when compared to my works in English. She even published some of my poems on her site, so that's cool! The thing with my ex was that she was heavily invested in literature and even wrote some poems of her own, so I thought she'd be interested in this hobby of mine the most. That being said, I mostly keep quiet about it, I don't really go out of my way to tell people that I like writing poetry, even though one of our professors at college asked us whether any of us had been writing poetry. It's not that I'm ashamed of it, but I guess I don't really know how to present it to people.

gasmask_colostomy wrote:
I think maybe it's my favourite of yours so far. You're right, the images are coalescing around something a little more definite, but it still has that intense dream-like symbolism where life flashes in its many colours all at once. Somehow, it reminds me of those late '90s power/prog albums covers with giant chess pieces and stuff. This time I feel like the images are references to the main story, not merely a succession of things that have no connection. The motif of "You cannot stop the river" is just great, although I guess the ending where it changes was a bit predictable, along with "Let's try again". I understand that is the real seed of meaning in the poem (a difficult relationship, right?), but I think it undoes the magic a little. However, you've got one golden WTF line that I love: "Empty gaze causing famine." I really enjoy when your images make something totally inexplicable happen.


That's right, this time I had a select theme in my mind and I tried to do it justice. As you know, I used to concentrate on feelings and atmospheres more than on a certain subject (or I'd implement many of them), but this time I knew precisely what I wanted to write about before writing down lines (sometimes I know what I want to write about only after having written a couple of interesting lines).

Bullseye, that's the exact meaning I was trying to convey!

Haha, that's great to hear! I'm actually happy I came up with that line and especially the fact that its meaning is not immediately obvious, it's much more down to earth than you might think. However, if I revealed the intention behind it, maybe I'd spoil the magic further... :-P

gasmask_colostomy wrote:
Ancient Greek Statue
Spoiler: show
I'm standing,
naked,
in the bathroom,
feeling just like an ancient Greek statue.
I am so cold
that I'm turning to stone,
freezing in this pose,
and my skin is growing hard and grey.
My unadorned penis
would be laughably small,
but it was snapped off about 2,000 years ago.


I'm not going to lie, this one made me crack a smile. It's simple, yet effective, and definitely humorous. Naturally, the uhm... phallic motif is not something that I was expecting while reading it for the first time, but the last line was the best possible way to end the poem. Great job!

Come to think of it, I think it's been a long time since I wrote such a lighthearted poem, maybe I should look into it...
_________________
Earthcubed wrote:
CradleOfBurzum, about the new Summoning album snippet, wrote:
I was hoping for some material that resembles closer to "Lugburz"


And I'm still hoping for Katy Perry to do another Christian album.


My Last.fm

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gasmask_colostomy
Metalhead

Joined: Thu May 27, 2010 5:38 am
Posts: 964
Location: Where the heart is
PostPosted: Wed Oct 16, 2019 10:11 am 
 

DividerOfShadows wrote:
I don't really go out of my way to tell people that I like writing poetry, even though one of our professors at college asked us whether any of us had been writing poetry. It's not that I'm ashamed of it, but I guess I don't really know how to present it to people.

That's kind of my feeling as well. I don't know how to tell people I write poetry, and I don't know how to tell them what kind of poetry I write, or why.

DividerOfShadows wrote:
I'm not going to lie, this one made me crack a smile. It's simple, yet effective, and definitely humorous. Naturally, the uhm... phallic motif is not something that I was expecting while reading it for the first time, but the last line was the best possible way to end the poem. Great job!

Come to think of it, I think it's been a long time since I wrote such a lighthearted poem, maybe I should look into it...

That was an example of one the "joke" poems. It's a lot of fun to do those. I also like to think of the last line of a short poem somewhat like the punchline to a joke, which delivers a sudden twist, though not necessarily a funny one. I know I'm the last one to post, but I've found a great example of what I mean. Another old one, one of the first "serious" poems I wrote.

Blood Everywhere
Spoiler: show
It’s all better now. I think,
walking to his after college,
of that week in his bedroom
he spent alone waiting for a
quorum to pass the motion of

goodbye. It’s all better now.
I’m reminded, by a toxic
rainbow puddle in the garage
forecourt, of my dad when
he was smaller than

the hospital bed, crimson eyes
opening drowsily on his crown
of gauze like angry poppies
blossoming in soldiers’ fields.
So much can change in a year.

I wonder, as I pass the church
where I learned to dance,
whether I should expect flowers:
I imagine him with two
dozen roses, plucking petals

and lying, waiting, on his bed.
His mother answers the door
and offers me the staircase;
I enter his room and stop
dead – I see blood everywhere.

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Osore
Metal newbie

Joined: Thu Apr 10, 2014 9:55 am
Posts: 301
Location: Serbia
PostPosted: Fri Oct 18, 2019 1:16 am 
 

DividerOfShadows wrote:
Also, I'm very interested in your interpretations of the poem! :-P
Here it is. ;-)

Spoiler: show
DividerOfShadows wrote:
Deliverance
What is life to you?
A canvas to portray winds of change on
To sing songs not rooted in any melody
Something's wrong here. Disharmony of a changing person? Let me see...

Quote:
I am the place between welkin and soil
I am a bleak horizon bereft of a footing
As my mind grows
My Sun disappears
As the multitude of stars appears
Condemned am I not to follow any
Not anchored - loss of stability/self/security/goals. Your guiding light dies and you don't want to search for a light in the dark or, in other words, to look for the grains of happiness in a dark world/circumstances changed for the worse.

Quote:
Bled succulently onto the paper
Where I signed my indecisions
Black horses lead me to every edge
And I poise between oblivion and passion
Here I find that your darkness is made of indecisions. To be or not to be, to forget and move on, or to passionately and (stubbornly) stand by my side.

Quote:
The Sun's burning mane, embrace me
The Moon's enticing surface, scourge me
I'll be vigilant until the sand suffocates me
I'll be a prey for every intruder
Gnawing at my weakened heart
Razing my vagabond soul
This emphasises that you are 'torn beyond reason', like the album title by Woods of Desolation says.

Quote:
If this is to by my end, so be it
I shall drink from this cup of denial
As I have a hundred times before
To shed the pain one needs to succumb to it
Now you want to make a decision and deny all that's pulling you away from it.

Quote:
And every wind will carry dust
And every eye will glance in its way
And every flame will burn this lust
And every name will create a new day
Here we see what happens after you decided. Anger here, than lust there, and at the end it's a new day and a new beginning.



Rottir wrote:
Archean
Spoiler: show
(Blank verse, iambic tetrameter)

This land is like a rotting corpse
With bones bursting through riven flesh
Of Labrador tea, balsam fir,
And lichen, in ceaseless decay.

Terranes of trondhjemite laid bare,
Frail roots of mountains long since gone,
Weathered into an ancient sea,
Three billion years in the making.

For those who tread this wasted land
Devoid of hope and sense of man
Across grey swathes of rock immense
A spectre looms of grave intent.

The slow grind of tectonic force
Writ scarred across the face of time
Hints of a sempiternal scream
That echoes now within my mind.
I have to believe you on metrics, I won't dare to check it in a language that's not my first. Apart from that, your poem has beautiful images, I particularly like how you contrasted that with man. We have to be reminded more often of our insignificance in this vast space and time. I don't have a problem with the ending of your poem, but you can make another one without people to see the difference.


gasmask_colostomy wrote:
Here's one of the few that I've written quite recently. It was a real experience at work, but just seemed to have a certain poignancy.

Lesson on Efficiency
Spoiler: show
In a classroom without a table,
we talk about efficiency.
Face to face, his chair to my bench,
the only words on the board
‘bureaucracy’, ‘House of Commons’, and ‘House of Lords’.

He believes, or he says he believes,
that most meetings are unnecessary
for most of the participants,
that they could accomplish more
by staying away.
However, if they failed to attend,
their leaders would consider them
to be shirking responsibility.
On this point, we concur.

The tables have been taken for use
as a dessert bar in a birthday party,
this quarter’s celebrants crowned
and fussed over with gifts.
He leaves at quarter to;
late enough to miss the games,
but just in time to appear in the photos.
I would classify this as a vignette. It's one of those 'easy poems' that look like an excerpt from a diary or a short vlog. It has that rounded quality of your style, which means complete and coherent, everything is like wrapped in a circle. You probably should continue like this, as opposed to being fragmented like my writings, because you are good at it.


DividerOfShadows wrote:
Here's my most recent one. I was working out and listening to Young Gods' "Moon Revolutions" and some verses just begged me to write them down. Soon enough I had a theme in my mind that I wanted to describe in various ways.

Water of God
Spoiler: show
Spit at the mirror to clean your image
May salt lakes flood and devour my wounds
Finger points towards where heart dared not venture
Electric fuel infused in red emotion

I survived this green pestilence
So I will face the orange skies
Deserts will bloom under my feet
My grasp seizing what's eternal

A shapeshifting memory
A black eye of inability
Snuffing out the suns of yore

Golden rays, expanding rust
Judas walking towards the canyon
A worm becoming one with dust

Labyrinths aglow with red symbols
Doors hidden behind that onedimensional being
I have chosen not to be afraid
But to be a moving sea
Rife with those cognizant of life

Flame will not sear me
But make me a light in the darkness
Confessions to the great beyond
Prayers to oneself

To my left, the demons giving me wings
The dunes bend and sway
The wind is broken
The time stands still

Existence interpolates me
Between the points of horizon
A toxic star redeeming itself

The most real hallucination
Graves communicating with trees
Once you close your eyes and give in
Walk down the aisle between astral stairs
Witnessing unadulterated white
Reality will be yet another dream
Dreamt by those who gave up their divinity
This one is full of images and drama. Like Salvador Dali on steroids. I honestly don't know where the lyrical subject ends up. Was it all just a dream?

Rottir wrote:
I started writing poetry about a month and half ago after reading the book 'How to Ready Poetry', and while it is perhaps the most satisfying creative endeavor I've undertaken in life, I find myself barely keyed-in to the proper way of writing.

Do you either of you have a method for receiving criticism on your work apart from this board, be it school, poetry groups, editors, etc.? I'd love to get in the habit of receiving feedback but have no idea where that would come from.

Nice! Can you give me a name of the writer or a link to that book?
People are usually speechless when it comes to my writings because most of it is hermetic. Sometimes they say Beautiful! or So dark! or both. I hate Hm, Mhm, Aha, or other inarticulate sounds. The most often complain is about its inaccessibility. Once I was compared to Kandinsky's paintings, which was a nice way to formulate the word nothingness or emptiness (of meaning).
I suggest you to create a blog at worpress.com for free. If it goes well, you can upgrade it and remove .wordpress suffix in your web address. Beware that it functions like a social network (like for a like principle), which is not my cup of tea. If I follow your blog and you get a like from me, it means that I genuinely love your poem.


DividerOfShadows wrote:
Motion
Spoiler: show
Red Suns on my tongue
Temporary nirvana

Dead cat wrapped in a blanket
Strands of hair whip my eyes
Empty gaze causing famine
Mirrors of the soul hidden
From the mortal's view

You cannot stop the river

Golden plates
Warm as infatuation
Melodic breath
Sharp as a scorpion's tail

What's behind those clouds of mine
Summoning cowardice
Casting a die
Into the world's well?

You cannot stop the river

Devour or starve
Take my chains
Strangle me with them
To escape this night's shadow
And be awake behind the wall of sleep

A crown of pearls
Rising and falling
Garden of succubi
Keeps flourishing

You cannot stop the river

Heathens walking through the city
Feasting on dirt and themselves
Slitting throats in delusional joy
Unable to erase their own marks
Oh, what a jubilant evolution!

Brown smoke flies to the stars
Black ink blinds her eyes
After a gust of wind
Fingers tremble in dismay

Only words uttered today
"Let's try again"

I could not stop the river
No one can stop the river
I agree with Gas on this one. It's probably the best of you, and the colour of words adds up to the atmosphere. I feel like I'm looking at the painting(s) I would like to buy, thanks for sharing it. It's one of those poems that really speak to my aesthetics.


gasmask_colostomy wrote:
Ancient Greek Statue
Spoiler: show
I'm standing,
naked,
in the bathroom,
feeling just like an ancient Greek statue.
I am so cold
that I'm turning to stone,
freezing in this pose,
and my skin is growing hard and grey.
My unadorned penis
would be laughably small,
but it was snapped off about 2,000 years ago.
:-D

gasmask_colostomy wrote:
Blood Everywhere
Spoiler: show
It’s all better now. I think,
walking to his after college,
of that week in his bedroom
he spent alone waiting for a
quorum to pass the motion of

goodbye. It’s all better now.
I’m reminded, by a toxic
rainbow puddle in the garage
forecourt, of my dad when
he was smaller than

the hospital bed, crimson eyes
opening drowsily on his crown
of gauze like angry poppies
blossoming in soldiers’ fields.
So much can change in a year.

I wonder, as I pass the church
where I learned to dance,
whether I should expect flowers:
I imagine him with two
dozen roses, plucking petals

and lying, waiting, on his bed.
His mother answers the door
and offers me the staircase;
I enter his room and stop
dead – I see blood everywhere.
Like for the poem, confusion about what happened (Does the father of a lyrical subject lay injured in the room?), dislike for dancing in a church. :bow:


When it comes about presenting my work to other people, I used to tell everyone that I'm an artist=writer, first and foremost, but I don't do that anymore because I became self-critical. It's easy to tell people that you write when you think it's grandiose. Also, I'm now in a position when I don't want for people to think that I'm not alright just because I write dark stuff.
Spoiler: show
One of my supervisors at university found out about my blog and it really startled me. Thanks goodness she's open-minded.
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Serbo-Croatian poetry most beautiful (share new poems in The Poetry Thread)

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DividerOfShadows
Metalhead

Joined: Tue Sep 13, 2016 1:58 pm
Posts: 401
Location: Croatia
PostPosted: Fri Oct 18, 2019 12:26 pm 
 

gasmask_colostomy wrote:
DividerOfShadows wrote:
I don't really go out of my way to tell people that I like writing poetry, even though one of our professors at college asked us whether any of us had been writing poetry. It's not that I'm ashamed of it, but I guess I don't really know how to present it to people.

That's kind of my feeling as well. I don't know how to tell people I write poetry, and I don't know how to tell them what kind of poetry I write, or why.


Well, thank goodness Lich Coldheart opened this thread. Here we don't have to explain our motivations so much - we all like poetry from the getgo :)

gasmask_colostomy wrote:
Blood Everywhere
Spoiler: show
It’s all better now. I think,
walking to his after college,
of that week in his bedroom
he spent alone waiting for a
quorum to pass the motion of

goodbye. It’s all better now.
I’m reminded, by a toxic
rainbow puddle in the garage
forecourt, of my dad when
he was smaller than

the hospital bed, crimson eyes
opening drowsily on his crown
of gauze like angry poppies
blossoming in soldiers’ fields.
So much can change in a year.

I wonder, as I pass the church
where I learned to dance,
whether I should expect flowers:
I imagine him with two
dozen roses, plucking petals

and lying, waiting, on his bed.
His mother answers the door
and offers me the staircase;
I enter his room and stop
dead – I see blood everywhere.


I see what you meant by "a sudden twist", but I feel like the title gave it away a bit too soon. However, I think enjambment really helped make your poem more dynamic, I found myself reading it like a thriller of sorts. I especially like these lines: "Crimson eyes/opening drowsily on his crown/of gauze like angry poppies/blossoming in soldiers’ fields." I'd say that motif makes those colours brighter and more striking, especially with epithets like "angry" connected with flowers. In short, I like it!

Osore wrote:
(First stanza) Something's wrong here. Disharmony of a changing person? Let me see...
(Second stanza) Not anchored - loss of stability/self/security/goals. Your guiding light dies and you don't want to search for a light in the dark or, in other words, to look for the grains of happiness in a dark world/circumstances changed for the worse.
(Third stanza) Here I find that your darkness is made of indecisions. To be or not to be, to forget and move on, or to passionately and (stubbornly) stand by my side.
(Fourth stanza) This emphasises that you are 'torn beyond reason', like the album title by Woods of Desolation says.
(Fifth stanza) Now you want to make a decision and deny all that's pulling you away from it.
(Sixth stanza) Here we see what happens after you decided. Anger here, than lust there, and at the end it's a new day and a new beginning.


I. Changing person to a certain extent. It's more about a person who doesn't know what they want, but still want to do everything, which ultimately results in chaos.
II. Hmmm... Interesting way of looking at it. There's definitely a loss of stability, but it's simpler than that. What I believe I was trying to express was that one person suddenly had a lot of options to choose from in life, but never held onto any of them for a longer period of time.
III. That stanza connects in a way to the previous one, but I think I'd agree with what you said :)
IV. Exactly. I also wanted to showcase that person's weakness in the face of life's difficulties. In hindsight, I think I inadvertently predicted that future's person in a way, too, but I won't be going into too many details about that.
V. Yes. This one also connects to the previous stanza and it's supposed to be critical of that person for not getting the bigger picture, or more precisely not wanting to get the bigger picture, despite all warnings and advice.
VI. To be honest, I can't really remember the intended meaning behind the last two lines, but I think they weren't meant to symbolize a new beginning, but more the fact that that person's life will basically go to shit; turning one's eye towards wind carrying dust just to get dust in your eyes and become blind... It means this person will ignore all previous knowledge and experience in order to feel something, but that something eventually makes them regret that decision.

Osore wrote:
DividerOfShadows wrote:
Water of God
This one is full of images and drama. Like Salvador Dali on steroids. I honestly don't know where the lyrical subject ends up. Was it all just a dream?


:lol:

It's a bit hard to explain, actually. If memory serves, images were meant to show a place between reality and... Well... Not dream world per se, more of a higher dimension. The process of epiphany of sorts, everything opening up to the lyrical subject's eyes.

Osore wrote:
DividerOfShadows wrote:
Motion

I agree with Gas on this one. It's probably the best of you, and the colour of words adds up to the atmosphere. I feel like I'm looking at the painting(s) I would like to buy, thanks for sharing it. It's one of those poems that really speak to my aesthetics.


I'm very glad you guys found it that enjoyable :-D

Osore wrote:
When it comes about presenting my work to other people, I used to tell everyone that I'm an artist=writer, first and foremost, but I don't do that anymore because I became self-critical. It's easy to tell people that you write when you think it's grandiose. Also, I'm now in a position when I don't want for people to think that I'm not alright just because I write dark stuff.
Spoiler: show
One of my supervisors at university found out about my blog and it really startled me. Thanks goodness she's open-minded.


Well, a small dose of self-criticism is healthy, that way you push yourself to present all those images that you have in mind in a much stronger fashion. But don't let it get over your head because you might risk losing motivation for further writing, and we certainly don't want that to happen. I now cringe at some of the things I used to write, say, four years ago, those poems were almost emo-like - too depressed, but what's worse, not really inspired. A lot of cliche motifs were present. But here's the deal - I'm now starting to see my poems like a diary of sorts, it showcases my frame of mind at certain points of my life. Some childish stuff makes me admire my previous innocence, and stuff like this "everything is black and dark and bleerrrghhh" make me feel grateful for who I've become later on - more self-assured and mature. So don't look at your work that didn't turn out all that great as a failure - it may just show that you're trying new things, building a new dimension around your style... And who knows, maybe somebody else might actually really like it, everybody knows that the worst critic is the artist himself.

Here's another thing: I've been on this forum for some time now and whenever I write a new poem, I share it here. I can more or less predict whether Gasmask will like it or not (I know he wasn't the biggest fan of "Sleeping Mirrrors", that's when I took my atmospheric style without any inherent message to the extreme and it showed.), but I still post it, I'm not afraid. I have nothing to lose: if people don't find it that interesting, but give me their reasons why they think that, I'm grateful, I can pinpoint my weak spots more easily and work on them. If they find it great, I feel more inspired to write more.

Moral of the story, don't be afraid to show your stuff, but first make sure that the person you're talking to about it understands your ambition and doesn't take it for granted. All of us write dark stuff from time to time - some of us do it for artistic purposes only, some of us try to exorcise inner demons, but it really is a cathartic process, there's nothing wrong about it!
_________________
Earthcubed wrote:
CradleOfBurzum, about the new Summoning album snippet, wrote:
I was hoping for some material that resembles closer to "Lugburz"


And I'm still hoping for Katy Perry to do another Christian album.


My Last.fm

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DividerOfShadows
Metalhead

Joined: Tue Sep 13, 2016 1:58 pm
Posts: 401
Location: Croatia
PostPosted: Fri Oct 18, 2019 12:39 pm 
 

Here's a bit of an older one, from maybe three months ago. I wrote this four days before a very traumatic personal event took place (that was already starting to loom on the horizon). I don't think I precisely wanted to write about that, but it found its way into the poem, maybe even disjointed it a bit. Also, I'm not really sure what to make of it now, so feel free to tell me what you think.

Shades
Spoiler: show
Bubbles rise to the top
Sleeping sirens breathe musically
No glance is thrown their way
No ear is inclined towards the sea
Just a soulless knife
Cutting the ocean in two

A fixed gaze
The sky's tears intertwine
With mine

The moors around your heart
Make acidic pools of sweat
A knight dressed in white
Will be startled
Because he knows something's not right

Hang many a Judas and a Barabbas
Be proud! For your cross is burning
Oh, what a tragedy, woe galore
Please cry for me just a bit more
The path to the pleasure city
Ripe with bloodied thorns
Still do the feet walk across them
So that the voices become mute
So that the sights instilling dread
May forever become dead

A daisy springs from the ocean
Hides the golden ball from our eyes
Calls the soldiers to sleep their battles away
Everything seems to be at peace

Let me speak fluently to my brothers
Strewn across the desert plains
For life has taken refuge within them
As I whisper old songs to myself

Liquid diamonds shine brightly
In the afternoon Sun
Sirens caught my gaze
Took my harp away
And left me only with a dream
_________________
Earthcubed wrote:
CradleOfBurzum, about the new Summoning album snippet, wrote:
I was hoping for some material that resembles closer to "Lugburz"


And I'm still hoping for Katy Perry to do another Christian album.


My Last.fm

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Osore
Metal newbie

Joined: Thu Apr 10, 2014 9:55 am
Posts: 301
Location: Serbia
PostPosted: Fri Oct 18, 2019 11:20 pm 
 

DividerOfShadows wrote:
...It means this person will ignore all previous knowledge and experience in order to feel something, but that something eventually makes them regret that decision.
Thanks for clearing it up. Hopefully this doesn't involve drugs.

DividerOfShadows wrote:
Well, a small dose of self-criticism is healthy, that way you push yourself to present all those images that you have in mind in a much stronger fashion. But don't let it get over your head because you might risk losing motivation for further writing, and we certainly don't want that to happen
That happened long ago. I'm inspired by dark things, and when my life is stable and calm, I don't get inspired. Plus I'm under the pressure to outdo myself. It doesn't matter if someone likes my work or not, I only need feedback on my style and how to improve it. Neither of three professors told me anything about my possible faults, so maybe I'm just losing my mind in excessive analysis.
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Osore
Metal newbie

Joined: Thu Apr 10, 2014 9:55 am
Posts: 301
Location: Serbia
PostPosted: Fri Oct 18, 2019 11:38 pm 
 

DividerOfShadows wrote:
Here's a bit of an older one, from maybe three months ago. I wrote this four days before a very traumatic personal event took place (that was already starting to loom on the horizon). I don't think I precisely wanted to write about that, but it found its way into the poem, maybe even disjointed it a bit. Also, I'm not really sure what to make of it now, so feel free to tell me what you think.

Shades
Spoiler: show
Bubbles rise to the top
Sleeping sirens breathe musically
No glance is thrown their way
No ear is inclined towards the sea
Just a soulless knife
Cutting the ocean in two

A fixed gaze
The sky's tears intertwine
With mine

The moors around your heart
Make acidic pools of sweat
A knight dressed in white
Will be startled
Because he knows something's not right

Hang many a Judas and a Barabbas
Be proud! For your cross is burning
Oh, what a tragedy, woe galore
Please cry for me just a bit more
The path to the pleasure city
Ripe with bloodied thorns
Still do the feet walk across them
So that the voices become mute
So that the sights instilling dread
May forever become dead

A daisy springs from the ocean
Hides the golden ball from our eyes
Calls the soldiers to sleep their battles away
Everything seems to be at peace

Let me speak fluently to my brothers
Strewn across the desert plains
For life has taken refuge within them
As I whisper old songs to myself

Liquid diamonds shine brightly
In the afternoon Sun
Sirens caught my gaze
Took my harp away
And left me only with a dream

:thumbsup: Aquatic motifs and Sleeping (with) Sirens, love their newest album.
:thumbsdown: Medieval religious motifs and the desert. Give me something At the Heart of Winter for a change.
Often I can't see if there's something wrong with the style when it's written in English, so I must leave you with no clues.

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gasmask_colostomy
Metalhead

Joined: Thu May 27, 2010 5:38 am
Posts: 964
Location: Where the heart is
PostPosted: Sat Oct 19, 2019 3:27 am 
 

DividerOfShadows wrote:
gasmask_colostomy wrote:
Blood Everywhere

I see what you meant by "a sudden twist", but I feel like the title gave it away a bit too soon. However, I think enjambment really helped make your poem more dynamic, I found myself reading it like a thriller of sorts. I especially like these lines: "Crimson eyes/opening drowsily on his crown/of gauze like angry poppies/blossoming in soldiers’ fields." I'd say that motif makes those colours brighter and more striking, especially with epithets like "angry" connected with flowers. In short, I like it!

Osore wrote:
Like for the poem, confusion about what happened (Does the father of a lyrical subject lay injured in the room?), dislike for dancing in a church. :bow:

Yes, I think you have a point about the title. When I write that kind of poem, I actually have the final stab in mind from the beginning and I'm writing with it always in mind, which is why I tend to use it as the title. If you read the poem, it should also have a kind of subliminal feeling to it, because you saw the title at the very beginning and then probably forgot it while reading the rest - then it jumps back out in a different light. When I first wrote 'Blood Everywhere', people commented heavily on that "poppies" verse as well: notably, it's the only verse that plays with imagery until the very end, while the rest is all action and narrative.

Actually, I was trying very hard to play with perspectives at that period. Osore's take on it is perceptive, because it should be confusing who is there and why. When I wrote it, the speaker was a girl in her late teens whose father had had an accident not that long ago (he has recovered: "It's all better now"). She has begun to date a boy who is depressed and has attempted suicide, though has also recovered and is trying to be romantic by surprising her with roses. (I wrote this on Valentine's Day.) However, a bed strewn with rose petals looks a lot like someone has just died. It's indicative of how the events have affected her that this is how she interprets it. None of it is true or about me, except for the walk home, which indeed did used to take me past a petrol station and a church where I did ballet when I was young. However, I feel for a poem like this, it actually doesn't have to be clear what happens: the blurriness is one of the main aims.

DividerOfShadows wrote:
Here's a bit of an older one, from maybe three months ago. I wrote this four days before a very traumatic personal event took place (that was already starting to loom on the horizon). I don't think I precisely wanted to write about that, but it found its way into the poem, maybe even disjointed it a bit. Also, I'm not really sure what to make of it now, so feel free to tell me what you think.

Shades
Spoiler: show
Bubbles rise to the top
Sleeping sirens breathe musically
No glance is thrown their way
No ear is inclined towards the sea
Just a soulless knife
Cutting the ocean in two

A fixed gaze
The sky's tears intertwine
With mine

The moors around your heart
Make acidic pools of sweat
A knight dressed in white
Will be startled
Because he knows something's not right

Hang many a Judas and a Barabbas
Be proud! For your cross is burning
Oh, what a tragedy, woe galore
Please cry for me just a bit more
The path to the pleasure city
Ripe with bloodied thorns
Still do the feet walk across them
So that the voices become mute
So that the sights instilling dread
May forever become dead

A daisy springs from the ocean
Hides the golden ball from our eyes
Calls the soldiers to sleep their battles away
Everything seems to be at peace

Let me speak fluently to my brothers
Strewn across the desert plains
For life has taken refuge within them
As I whisper old songs to myself

Liquid diamonds shine brightly
In the afternoon Sun
Sirens caught my gaze
Took my harp away
And left me only with a dream

Yes, it sounds indeed like a time of great grief, with everyone waiting and being able to do nothing. Despite the exceptional circumstances, I feel that it's the same style growing stronger, with some of those incredible lines about "the moors around your heart" and "sleeping sirens breathe musically", as well as the desert making another appearance. It's like I'm becoming comfortable in your world after a long time of reading in this way. If there could be a little more variation in structure or techniques, you could probably turn them into a collection, since they work better as a body of work.

Unlike Osore, I found the religious verse a strong part, not especially because of the theme, but because of how the intensity swelled with those archaisms and biblical references. Back when I was a real My Dying Bride freak, I used to include those a lot more; maybe I'll find one when I'm back home. On the other hand, there's a line about the knight who "Will be startled / Because he knows something's not right" that is suddenly very unpoetic compared to everything around it. That could probably be improved a bit, while I'm also not a fan of the lines that suddenly start to rhyme in that longest verse. It spoils the drift of the poem in my view, especially those very simple single-syllable end words 'more' and 'dead'.

Osore wrote:
I'm inspired by dark things, and when my life is stable and calm, I don't get inspired. Plus I'm under the pressure to outdo myself. It doesn't matter if someone likes my work or not, I only need feedback on my style and how to improve it. Neither of three professors told me anything about my possible faults, so maybe I'm just losing my mind in excessive analysis.

I find the same thing somewhat, but I've changed my view that it's only dark things. When my life is stable and lacks change, my perspective becomes ingrained and I don't really feel much emotional resonance when I write. I'm writing lyrics for a Malaysian friend's band at the moment, and it's very difficult to approach the dark subjects that he's looking for, because I'm not feeling them. I find it very easy to write poetry when I travel because I'm thinking about things in new ways and making different connections. The same thing when I was a student being exposed to interesting material every week; now I just sit in the office and do the same thing every day, which gives me nothing to write about. Change things up, but don't make life too chaotic just for that reason.

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gasmask_colostomy
Metalhead

Joined: Thu May 27, 2010 5:38 am
Posts: 964
Location: Where the heart is
PostPosted: Sat Oct 19, 2019 10:18 am 
 

So this isn't the most religious example I could find, but most of my older poems don't stand up to scrutiny. This is fairly old and you'll probably be able to pick at it a bit, which might be interesting. Osore will be interested to know that this is inspired by the conclusion of the novel Villette by Charlotte Bronte and is basically an assessment of the two main characters. It's named after the street where the heroine settles down.

Faubourg Clotilde
Spoiler: show
Try as you might, you see only hardship
And trials of strength ruled by cruel Fate,
But somewhere, mired in deeper shadows,
Lies the blinding light of truth.
Its ray sheds warmth on those who walk,
Not between the walls of restraint,
But on the invisible plain of reassurance
That demarcates blessed ignorance.
You aspire to be a formal ritual,
A clockwork being of repetition, doubting,
Winding yourself up for a dizzying run-down,
Resignedly beleaguered by suffering.

Silence is no protest against solitude
While your name is breathed by tongues
That spit perfume and swallow poison
And smile as the taste subsides.
But speech is his protest against your silence
And though he scorns you when he comes,
He spits poison and swallows perfume
So he may grow his garden inside.

From this garden in his heart,
Heed the flowers he plucks for you
For I see he thinks you cast them away;
Though you cannot wander far,
You may traverse in solitude
And tend the garden ‘til that golden day
When, in the ray of truth, all will be revealed
And all things in their true light are revered,
Because there are those who forever outwards shine,
But when darkness falls, their souls with misery twine.

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Osore
Metal newbie

Joined: Thu Apr 10, 2014 9:55 am
Posts: 301
Location: Serbia
PostPosted: Sun Oct 20, 2019 2:46 am 
 

gasmask_colostomy wrote:
When I wrote it, the speaker was a girl in her late teens whose father had had an accident not that long ago (he has recovered: "It's all better now"). She has begun to date a boy who is depressed and has attempted suicide, though has also recovered and is trying to be romantic by surprising her with roses. (I wrote this on Valentine's Day.) However, a bed strewn with rose petals looks a lot like someone has just died. It's indicative of how the events have affected her that this is how she interprets it. None of it is true or about me, except for the walk home, which indeed did used to take me past a petrol station and a church where I did ballet when I was young. However, I feel for a poem like this, it actually doesn't have to be clear what happens: the blurriness is one of the main aims.

Thanks for the explanation. Reading it reminded me how Lorca tricked us in the class with non-chronological method in his poem.

Romance Sonámbulo by Federico García Lorca
Spoiler: show
Green, how I want you green.
Green wind. Green branches.
The ship out on the sea
and the horse on the mountain.
With the shade around her waist
she dreams on her balcony,
green flesh, her hair green,
with eyes of cold silver.
Green, how I want you green.
Under the gypsy moon,
all things are watching her
and she cannot see them.

Green, how I want you green.
Big hoarfrost stars
come with the fish of shadow
that opens the road of dawn.
The fig tree rubs its wind
with the sandpaper of its branches,
and the forest, cunning cat,
bristles its brittle fibers.
But who will come? And from where?
She is still on her balcony
green flesh, her hair green,
dreaming in the bitter sea.

—My friend, I want to trade
my horse for her house,
my saddle for her mirror,
my knife for her blanket.
My friend, I come bleeding
from the gates of Cabra.
—If it were possible, my boy,
I'd help you fix that trade.
But now I am not I,
nor is my house now my house.

—My friend, I want to die
decently in my bed.
Of iron, if that's possible,
with blankets of fine chambray.
Don't you see the wound I have
from my chest up to my throat?
—Your white shirt has grown
thirsty dark brown roses.
Your blood oozes and flees a
round the corners of your sash.
But now I am not I,
nor is my house now my house.

—Let me climb up, at least,
up to the high balconies;
Let me climb up! Let me,
up to the green balconies.
Railings of the moon
through which the water rumbles.

Now the two friends climb up,
up to the high balconies.
Leaving a trail of blood.
Leaving a trail of teardrops.
Tin bell vines
were trembling on the roofs.
A thousand crystal tambourines
struck at the dawn light.

Green, how I want you green,
green wind, green branches.
The two friends climbed up.
The stiff wind left
in their mouths, a strange taste
of bile, of mint, and of basil
My friend, where is she—tell me—
where is your bitter girl?
How many times she waited for you!
How many times would she wait for you,
cool face, black hair,
on this green balcony!
Over the mouth of the cistern
the gypsy girl was swinging,
green flesh, her hair green,
with eyes of cold silver.

An icicle of moon
holds her up above the water.
The night became intimate
like a little plaza.
Drunken "Guardias Civiles"
were pounding on the door.
Green, how I want you green.
Green wind. Green branches.
The ship out on the sea.
And the horse on the mountain.


translated by William Bryant Logan

Federiko Garsija Lorka - Romansa mesečarka
Spoiler: show
Zeleno, volim te, zeleno.
Zelen vetar, zelene grane.
Brod na moru
i konj u planini.

Opasana senkom
ona sanja na verandi,
zelene puti, kose zelene,
sa očima od hladnog srebra.
Zeleno, volim te, zeleno!
Pod lunom Cigankom
stvari pilje u nju
a ona ih ne vidi.

Zeleno, volim te, zeleno!
Velike zvezde od inja
dolaze sa ribom senke
što otvara put zori.
Smokva trlja vetar
korom svojih grana,
a breg, mačak lupež,
ježi svoje ljute agave.
Ali ko će doći? I odakle?
Ona čeka na balkonu,
zelene puti, kose zelene,
sanjajuci gorko more.

-Kume, daću ti
konja za kuću,
sedlo za njeno ogledalo,
nož za njen ogrtač.
Kume, dolazim krvareći
iz Kabrinih klanaca.
-Kad bih mogao, mladiću,
lako bi se nagodili.
Ali ja više nisam ja
niti je moj dom više moj.

-Kume, hoću da umrem
pristojno u svojoj postelji
od čelika i, ako je moguce,
sa holandskim čaršavima...
Zar ne vidiš moju ranu
od grudi do grla?
-Trista crnih ruža
pokrivaju tvoj beli grudnjak.
Krv ti vri i miriše
oko pojasa.
Ali ja više nisam ja
niti je moj dom više moj.

-Pusti me bar
na visoke verande,
pusti me da se popnem! Pusti me
na zelene verande.
Verandice mesečeve,
gde kaplje voda.

Već se penju dva kuma
na visoke verande.
Ostavljajući trag krvi.
Ostavljajući trag suza.
Drhtali su krovovi,
fenjerčići od lima.
Hiljadu staklenih defova
ranjavalo je zoru.

Zeleno, volim te, zeleno!
Zelen vetar, zelene grane.
Dva kuma su se popela.
Širok vetar ostavljao je
u ustima čudan ukus
žuči, mentola i bosiljka.

-Kume, gde je, reci mi,
gde je tvoje gorko devojče?
-Koliko puta te je čekala
sveža lica, crne kose,
na toj zelenoj verandi.

Nad ogledalom bunara
Ciganka se njiha.
Zelene puti, kose zelene,
sa očima od hladnog srebra.
Mesečev stalaktit od leda
drži je nad vodom.
Noć je postala intimna
kao mali trg.

Pijani su žandari
lupali na vrata.
Zeleno, volim te, zeleno!
Zelen vetar, zelene grane.
Brod na moru
i konj u planini.


gasmask_colostomy wrote:
I find the same thing somewhat, but I've changed my view that it's only dark things. (...) The same thing when I was a student being exposed to interesting material every week; now I just sit in the office and do the same thing every day, which gives me nothing to write about. Change things up, but don't make life too chaotic just for that reason.
It seems that I should travel or at least wait to slaughter some rats in laboratory, so that I can create a horrific poem about tons of scientific articles and stinky solutions among the bloodshed. :-D When it comes to chaos, other people will create it for me, which is going to leave me with no time for writing, so I’ll better do it now.

gasmask_colostomy wrote:
So this isn't the most religious example I could find, but most of my older poems don't stand up to scrutiny. This is fairly old and you'll probably be able to pick at it a bit, which might be interesting. Osore will be interested to know that this is inspired by the conclusion of the novel Villette by Charlotte Bronte and is basically an assessment of the two main characters. It's named after the street where the heroine settles down.

Faubourg Clotilde
Spoiler: show
Try as you might, you see only hardship
And trials of strength ruled by cruel Fate,
But somewhere, mired in deeper shadows,
Lies the blinding light of truth.
Its ray sheds warmth on those who walk,
Not between the walls of restraint,
But on the invisible plain of reassurance
That demarcates blessed ignorance.
You aspire to be a formal ritual,
A clockwork being of repetition, doubting,
Winding yourself up for a dizzying run-down,
Resignedly beleaguered by suffering.

Silence is no protest against solitude
While your name is breathed by tongues
That spit perfume and swallow poison
And smile as the taste subsides.
But speech is his protest against your silence
And though he scorns you when he comes,
He spits poison and swallows perfume
So he may grow his garden inside.

From this garden in his heart,
Heed the flowers he plucks for you
For I see he thinks you cast them away;
Though you cannot wander far,
You may traverse in solitude
And tend the garden ‘til that golden day
When, in the ray of truth, all will be revealed
And all things in their true light are revered,
Because there are those who forever outwards shine,
But when darkness falls, their souls with misery twine.
This poem actually reads more like a prose. It is somehow informative, so I struggle to remember everything. I think your newer poems are better; images in this one are not vibrant.
My goal is to read as much from different authors as I can, but I might come back to Bronte in the future, especially because critics now praise Villette. ;-)

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DividerOfShadows
Metalhead

Joined: Tue Sep 13, 2016 1:58 pm
Posts: 401
Location: Croatia
PostPosted: Wed Oct 23, 2019 5:28 pm 
 

Osore wrote:
DividerOfShadows wrote:
...It means this person will ignore all previous knowledge and experience in order to feel something, but that something eventually makes them regret that decision.
Thanks for clearing it up. Hopefully this doesn't involve drugs.


No, not at all, don't worry.

Osore wrote:
DividerOfShadows wrote:
Well, a small dose of self-criticism is healthy, that way you push yourself to present all those images that you have in mind in a much stronger fashion. But don't let it get over your head because you might risk losing motivation for further writing, and we certainly don't want that to happen
That happened long ago. I'm inspired by dark things, and when my life is stable and calm, I don't get inspired. Plus I'm under the pressure to outdo myself. It doesn't matter if someone likes my work or not, I only need feedback on my style and how to improve it. Neither of three professors told me anything about my possible faults, so maybe I'm just losing my mind in excessive analysis.


Well, I can sort of understand you in the "stable and calm life = no inspiration" department, but from what I can tell, our process is different. You're going to spend a lot of time on a single poem, making sure to fix any mistake until you're satisfied, and I write mostly on the spot, when I'm in the right frame of mind. Of course, there are exceptions to this from time to time, but I mostly work like that, so maybe that's why I can't really offer you any better piece of advice than to stop worrying so much. If art becomes more of a job/something you have to force than something you just do and enjoy, it's time to take a different approach to it, something less stressful would suffice.

Osore wrote:
(for Shades)
:thumbsup: Aquatic motifs and Sleeping (with) Sirens, love their newest album.
:thumbsdown: Medieval religious motifs and the desert. Give me something At the Heart of Winter for a change.
Often I can't see if there's something wrong with the style when it's written in English, so I must leave you with no clues.


Well, I think that Sleeping with Sirens thing was pure coincidence since I'm not familiar with their work, but hey! :-D
I know it might seem like I have a thing for deserts, but I think this poem was written before I chose to implement that motif more consistently. I believe I had the exact image of it in my head and for some reason I'm able to picture deserts better than, say, polar ice caps. Religious motifs were here not to stress my faith (that would definitely be a wrong conclusion since I wouldn't consider myself a Christian), but as strong images that, mostly, resonate with many (Judas as the symbol of perfidy, Barabbas as the symbol of someone rotten to the core). Thank you for your thoughts!

gasmask_colostomy wrote:
Yes, I think you have a point about the title. When I write that kind of poem, I actually have the final stab in mind from the beginning and I'm writing with it always in mind, which is why I tend to use it as the title. If you read the poem, it should also have a kind of subliminal feeling to it, because you saw the title at the very beginning and then probably forgot it while reading the rest - then it jumps back out in a different light. When I first wrote 'Blood Everywhere', people commented heavily on that "poppies" verse as well: notably, it's the only verse that plays with imagery until the very end, while the rest is all action and narrative.

Actually, I was trying very hard to play with perspectives at that period. Osore's take on it is perceptive, because it should be confusing who is there and why. When I wrote it, the speaker was a girl in her late teens whose father had had an accident not that long ago (he has recovered: "It's all better now"). She has begun to date a boy who is depressed and has attempted suicide, though has also recovered and is trying to be romantic by surprising her with roses. (I wrote this on Valentine's Day.) However, a bed strewn with rose petals looks a lot like someone has just died. It's indicative of how the events have affected her that this is how she interprets it. None of it is true or about me, except for the walk home, which indeed did used to take me past a petrol station and a church where I did ballet when I was young. However, I feel for a poem like this, it actually doesn't have to be clear what happens: the blurriness is one of the main aims.


I can understand that, sometimes that happens to me too. I figured it was something you did on purpose, but maybe I just didn't forget about the title since the poem itself is not all that long like, say, a Wordsworth's poem.

Oooh yeah, I forgot to mention that. Yeah, it was a bit confusing to me who was who and what exactly happened to whom, but I thought asking directly about it would make the poem lose its air of mystery, so to speak - I deduced that it was a deliberate technique and just enjoyed it for what it is :) But still, thank you for the clarifying!

gasmask_colostomy wrote:
(about Shades)
Yes, it sounds indeed like a time of great grief, with everyone waiting and being able to do nothing. Despite the exceptional circumstances, I feel that it's the same style growing stronger, with some of those incredible lines about "the moors around your heart" and "sleeping sirens breathe musically", as well as the desert making another appearance. It's like I'm becoming comfortable in your world after a long time of reading in this way. If there could be a little more variation in structure or techniques, you could probably turn them into a collection, since they work better as a body of work.

Unlike Osore, I found the religious verse a strong part, not especially because of the theme, but because of how the intensity swelled with those archaisms and biblical references. Back when I was a real My Dying Bride freak, I used to include those a lot more; maybe I'll find one when I'm back home. On the other hand, there's a line about the knight who "Will be startled / Because he knows something's not right" that is suddenly very unpoetic compared to everything around it. That could probably be improved a bit, while I'm also not a fan of the lines that suddenly start to rhyme in that longest verse. It spoils the drift of the poem in my view, especially those very simple single-syllable end words 'more' and 'dead'.


I'm really glad you think that! :-D
To be honest, a couple of years back, when I started writing down already finished poems in a special notebook (I still do this), I divided them into categories. There were some that were kind of naive and not that inspired, depressing (I called them "Abandoning Sunlight"), then I started finding my own style with poems becoming a tad bit more interesting (called "Drownings in the Sea of Hidden"), and eventually I got into an experimental phase with lots of abstract imagery (called "Wordscapes"). I'm not really sure where I would put these new works, actually. I think they've kind of moved away from "Wordscapes" into something different, but not all that different.

Yeah, in hindsight, that line rubs me the wrong way as well. I think I know what I wanted to express with it and maybe now I would've written it differently. However, given the fact that the poem was written some months ago and actually captured a part of my life, I don't think changing it would help. Maybe this disjointed line just further drives the context home - it was a miserable time. Or maybe I'm being too romantic about it? :lol:

gasmask_colostomy wrote:
So this isn't the most religious example I could find, but most of my older poems don't stand up to scrutiny. This is fairly old and you'll probably be able to pick at it a bit, which might be interesting. Osore will be interested to know that this is inspired by the conclusion of the novel Villette by Charlotte Bronte and is basically an assessment of the two main characters. It's named after the street where the heroine settles down.

Faubourg Clotilde
Spoiler: show
Try as you might, you see only hardship
And trials of strength ruled by cruel Fate,
But somewhere, mired in deeper shadows,
Lies the blinding light of truth.
Its ray sheds warmth on those who walk,
Not between the walls of restraint,
But on the invisible plain of reassurance
That demarcates blessed ignorance.
You aspire to be a formal ritual,
A clockwork being of repetition, doubting,
Winding yourself up for a dizzying run-down,
Resignedly beleaguered by suffering.

Silence is no protest against solitude
While your name is breathed by tongues
That spit perfume and swallow poison
And smile as the taste subsides.
But speech is his protest against your silence
And though he scorns you when he comes,
He spits poison and swallows perfume
So he may grow his garden inside.

From this garden in his heart,
Heed the flowers he plucks for you
For I see he thinks you cast them away;
Though you cannot wander far,
You may traverse in solitude
And tend the garden ‘til that golden day
When, in the ray of truth, all will be revealed
And all things in their true light are revered,
Because there are those who forever outwards shine,
But when darkness falls, their souls with misery twine.


I think I'll have to partly agree with Osore, I believe I would've understood your poem better had I read the novel in question (sadly, I haven't read anything by the Bronte sisters :( ) - it really brings forth a lot of information that is hard to remember - a lot of careful readings are needed.

Now, I'll also have to partly disagree with Osore - I would say that there are some really interesting images/phrases, like "While your name is breathed by tongues/That spit perfume and swallow poison/And smile as the taste subsides." - I really like how later on you put those motifs vice-versa! That said, it's also curious that you decided to make last two lines rhyme, maybe you wanted to treat the end of the poem in a different way than the rest of it? If so, what prompted you to do that?
_________________
Earthcubed wrote:
CradleOfBurzum, about the new Summoning album snippet, wrote:
I was hoping for some material that resembles closer to "Lugburz"


And I'm still hoping for Katy Perry to do another Christian album.


My Last.fm

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DividerOfShadows
Metalhead

Joined: Tue Sep 13, 2016 1:58 pm
Posts: 401
Location: Croatia
PostPosted: Wed Oct 23, 2019 5:45 pm 
 

This is the newest one, folks, and it's a bit different. Hope you'll like it.

Shattered Diamonds
Spoiler: show
How strong can be the spirit of man
To persevere under the rain of blood
Broken cups filling each other with water
End up as dry as a hollow bone

How adamant can be the will of man
Keeping the gates open during an earthquake
Silver rods left to drown in the lake
Of their own creation

How passionate can be the heart of man
Instilling dread into objects of its desire
One voiceless shiver tearing the skin apart
Exposing a skeleton of tranquility

How naive can be the flesh of man
Enrobing itself with butterfly's wings
Moons hungry for sunlight
Fly to their demise like moths to the flame

How genius can be the mind of man
Perplexing itself with riddles of its own
A jackal's smile, eyes betrothed to the ground
Distancing themselves from the meadows

How serene can be the soul of man
Witnessing its perpetual growth
A brilliant white light still shines
Through the loophole in eternity
_________________
Earthcubed wrote:
CradleOfBurzum, about the new Summoning album snippet, wrote:
I was hoping for some material that resembles closer to "Lugburz"


And I'm still hoping for Katy Perry to do another Christian album.


My Last.fm

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Osore
Metal newbie

Joined: Thu Apr 10, 2014 9:55 am
Posts: 301
Location: Serbia
PostPosted: Thu Oct 24, 2019 1:29 pm 
 

DividerOfShadows wrote:
Well, I can sort of understand you in the "stable and calm life = no inspiration" department, but from what I can tell, our process is different. You're going to spend a lot of time on a single poem, making sure to fix any mistake until you're satisfied, and I write mostly on the spot, when I'm in the right frame of mind. Of course, there are exceptions to this from time to time, but I mostly work like that, so maybe that's why I can't really offer you any better piece of advice than to stop worrying so much. If art becomes more of a job/something you have to force than something you just do and enjoy, it's time to take a different approach to it, something less stressful would suffice.

Sometimes I also write ''on the spot''... Other times I write slowly and weigh every word, estimating and shaping stylistic solutions. It is more difficult to write if you know more about literature, but at the same time you don't make rubbish anymore because you are constantly comparing yourself with eminent writers. It's a burden really, which is why I no longer find surprising when writers say that writing is very difficult. However, that torture is sweet - it ends in art.

I timetabled a sarcastic, anti-christian poem to be published for orthodox easter (which is on the 17th of April). I am completely into its brutality, hence your subtle religious motifs barely touched me.

My favourite novel is Wuthering Heights. Jane Eyre is also interesting and emotional.
It's a shame they were not included into our school programme. :roll:

DividerOfShadows wrote:
Shattered Diamonds
Spoiler: show
How strong can be the spirit of man
To persevere under the rain of blood
Broken cups filling each other with water
End up as dry as a hollow bone

How adamant can be the will of man
Keeping the gates open during an earthquake
Silver rods left to drown in the lake
Of their own creation

How passionate can be the heart of man
Instilling dread into objects of its desire
One voiceless shiver tearing the skin apart
Exposing a skeleton of tranquility

How naive can be the flesh of man
Enrobing itself with butterfly's wings
Moons hungry for sunlight
Fly to their demise like moths to the flame

How genius can be the mind of man
Perplexing itself with riddles of its own
A jackal's smile, eyes betrothed to the ground
Distancing themselves from the meadows

(*And) How serene can be the soul of man
Witnessing its perpetual growth
A brilliant white light still shines
Through the loophole in eternity
Parallelisms make it stylish. ;) *Maybe you can add ''And'' before the last ''How'' if we hear it the same way. Speaking about the content, your misanthropic rating is mild to moderate. Let's have a blast next time!
:evil:

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gasmask_colostomy
Metalhead

Joined: Thu May 27, 2010 5:38 am
Posts: 964
Location: Where the heart is
PostPosted: Mon Oct 28, 2019 10:32 am 
 

DividerOfShadows wrote:
gasmask_colostomy wrote:
(about Shades)
Yes, it sounds indeed like a time of great grief, with everyone waiting and being able to do nothing. Despite the exceptional circumstances, I feel that it's the same style growing stronger, with some of those incredible lines about "the moors around your heart" and "sleeping sirens breathe musically", as well as the desert making another appearance. It's like I'm becoming comfortable in your world after a long time of reading in this way. If there could be a little more variation in structure or techniques, you could probably turn them into a collection, since they work better as a body of work.

Unlike Osore, I found the religious verse a strong part, not especially because of the theme, but because of how the intensity swelled with those archaisms and biblical references. Back when I was a real My Dying Bride freak, I used to include those a lot more; maybe I'll find one when I'm back home. On the other hand, there's a line about the knight who "Will be startled / Because he knows something's not right" that is suddenly very unpoetic compared to everything around it. That could probably be improved a bit, while I'm also not a fan of the lines that suddenly start to rhyme in that longest verse. It spoils the drift of the poem in my view, especially those very simple single-syllable end words 'more' and 'dead'.


I'm really glad you think that! :-D
To be honest, a couple of years back, when I started writing down already finished poems in a special notebook (I still do this), I divided them into categories. There were some that were kind of naive and not that inspired, depressing (I called them "Abandoning Sunlight"), then I started finding my own style with poems becoming a tad bit more interesting (called "Drownings in the Sea of Hidden"), and eventually I got into an experimental phase with lots of abstract imagery (called "Wordscapes"). I'm not really sure where I would put these new works, actually. I think they've kind of moved away from "Wordscapes" into something different, but not all that different.

Yeah, in hindsight, that line rubs me the wrong way as well. I think I know what I wanted to express with it and maybe now I would've written it differently. However, given the fact that the poem was written some months ago and actually captured a part of my life, I don't think changing it would help. Maybe this disjointed line just further drives the context home - it was a miserable time. Or maybe I'm being too romantic about it? :lol:

On the poem first, I understand why you don't want to edit. Sometimes the context is too important to want to change something, because it reminds you of the context, which is one reason for writing the poetry in the first place. Obviously, if one edited to publish, you would probably be more objective on it because then it ceases to be private and personal. I have edited probably about 0.5% of my poems thoroughly, and usually dislike doing that.

Your poem classifications sound pretty cool, especially if you chose different names for them all, which are also cool. Reading back over old work is always very engrossing for me, because I relive a lot of that time while I read. However, I never categorized my poems, because as you can probably tell I try not to write the same thing twice. Even if a line feels a bit like a past line I've written, I won't use it. The thing I loathe most in art is repeating myself.

DividerOfShadows wrote:
gasmask_colostomy wrote:
Faubourg Clotilde
Spoiler: show
Try as you might, you see only hardship
And trials of strength ruled by cruel Fate,
But somewhere, mired in deeper shadows,
Lies the blinding light of truth.
Its ray sheds warmth on those who walk,
Not between the walls of restraint,
But on the invisible plain of reassurance
That demarcates blessed ignorance.
You aspire to be a formal ritual,
A clockwork being of repetition, doubting,
Winding yourself up for a dizzying run-down,
Resignedly beleaguered by suffering.

Silence is no protest against solitude
While your name is breathed by tongues
That spit perfume and swallow poison
And smile as the taste subsides.
But speech is his protest against your silence
And though he scorns you when he comes,
He spits poison and swallows perfume
So he may grow his garden inside.

From this garden in his heart,
Heed the flowers he plucks for you
For I see he thinks you cast them away;
Though you cannot wander far,
You may traverse in solitude
And tend the garden ‘til that golden day
When, in the ray of truth, all will be revealed
And all things in their true light are revered,
Because there are those who forever outwards shine,
But when darkness falls, their souls with misery twine.


I think I'll have to partly agree with Osore, I believe I would've understood your poem better had I read the novel in question (sadly, I haven't read anything by the Bronte sisters :( ) - it really brings forth a lot of information that is hard to remember - a lot of careful readings are needed.

Now, I'll also have to partly disagree with Osore - I would say that there are some really interesting images/phrases, like "While your name is breathed by tongues/That spit perfume and swallow poison/And smile as the taste subsides." - I really like how later on you put those motifs vice-versa! That said, it's also curious that you decided to make last two lines rhyme, maybe you wanted to treat the end of the poem in a different way than the rest of it? If so, what prompted you to do that?

Osore wrote:
This poem actually reads more like a prose. It is somehow informative, so I struggle to remember everything. I think your newer poems are better; images in this one are not vibrant.

Well, I understand both of you if you say it's a bit too involved with things that happened in the book, especially since it is shaped by the characters and to some extent the plot. I think for a poem with such heavy meaning and weighty words, it's probably a bit long, but I expect I was influenced by that heavy Victorian style too, leading to a kind of mirroring in the poem.

Despite what I said above about repetition, I've always liked it as an artistic effect within one poem, so thanks for noticing those mirrored lines :-D I like the power of a rhyme at the end of a poem, and that reflects the end of the book to some degree: things are consonant, they are as they should be, everything is sorted out.

Osore wrote:
Romance Sonámbulo by Federico García Lorca

That's an amazing poem and I'm especially happy that you chose to post it in calm green :wink: I love how everything melds very nicely into one, although actually I think I've missed the point about the achronological method. I don't know what happens...

DividerOfShadows wrote:
Shattered Diamonds
Spoiler: show
How strong can be the spirit of man
To persevere under the rain of blood
Broken cups filling each other with water
End up as dry as a hollow bone

How adamant can be the will of man
Keeping the gates open during an earthquake
Silver rods left to drown in the lake
Of their own creation

How passionate can be the heart of man
Instilling dread into objects of its desire
One voiceless shiver tearing the skin apart
Exposing a skeleton of tranquility

How naive can be the flesh of man
Enrobing itself with butterfly's wings
Moons hungry for sunlight
Fly to their demise like moths to the flame

How genius can be the mind of man
Perplexing itself with riddles of its own
A jackal's smile, eyes betrothed to the ground
Distancing themselves from the meadows

How serene can be the soul of man
Witnessing its perpetual growth
A brilliant white light still shines
Through the loophole in eternity

You're right that it's different. That recurring question keeps everything on track and separates the other images in the poem very nicely. Unlike Osore, I don't really get the feeling that I know what point you're trying to make, but I definitely don't feel that it's misanthropic. There's a kind of rueful tone throughout the earlier verses, while I feel the ending is simply a "brilliant white light" of hope. Regardless of the structure, the imagery is excellent and can be interpreted manifold different ways, so I'm into that.

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gasmask_colostomy
Metalhead

Joined: Thu May 27, 2010 5:38 am
Posts: 964
Location: Where the heart is
PostPosted: Mon Oct 28, 2019 10:40 am 
 

This one is written in a style that I can't write very well anymore, but comes naturally in times of panic and urgent philosophy. Quite personal topic this time.

Terminal Fear
Spoiler: show
First breath in a month:
squatting in the icy morning lull,
thinking shades of ‘You’re so…’
yet wine-tasting your words,
freezing shards wringing my heart,
claret pouring down internally.

All this talk of resignation,
of sleep-walking, voluntary capit-
ulation; into purgatory onwards march,
becoming merely rank and file,
elation cancelled in opiate stupor,
blindfolded in cowardly choice.

Four years is it now?
Since casting and firing myself,
grinding edges sharp as glass;
asking now wherefore worn faculties
come like finding oneself alone
and forlorn on the winding road
that forever leads back home,
yet this chiming within heart’s
chamber which needs to roam
is shrieking with panic.

Recognize the fears as truth:
the traumas of shattered teeth,
vertigo, terror at looming gaps,
know the clash of tempers
in repulsion drawing tempters’ maps
to claw away from following attachment
ever upwards where thunder claps,
for fear contrary to dying;
not screaming, falling, but failing -
a terminal fear of trying.

First step back in time:
cold sunrise heralds warm hope,
so dies this black slumber
as dawn lights a mountainside,
cracking the ice, thaw inside;
dripping clock numbers the strides.

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Osore
Metal newbie

Joined: Thu Apr 10, 2014 9:55 am
Posts: 301
Location: Serbia
PostPosted: Tue Oct 29, 2019 11:53 am 
 

gasmask_colostomy wrote:
Osore wrote:
Romance Sonámbulo by Federico García Lorca
That's an amazing poem and I'm especially happy that you chose to post it in calm green :wink: I love how everything melds very nicely into one, although actually I think I've missed the point about the achronological method. I don't know what happens...
I'm glad you found it enjoyable. When I analysed it at home, I understood that she died, but I wasn't aware of the fact that policemen (drunken "Guardias Civiles") had hanged her before her lover came wounded from the war. They were pounding on the door at the end of the poem, but that happened first, when they had come to her house, before the men in dialogue appeared. This is crucial for the poem because it depicts the violence toward civilians. From a theoretical point we can say that the syuzhet (plot) differs from the fabula (story), or that narrative is simply asynchronous.

gasmask_colostomy wrote:
This one is written in a style that I can't write very well anymore, but comes naturally in times of panic and urgent philosophy. Quite personal topic this time.

Terminal Fear
Spoiler: show
First breath in a month:
squatting in the icy morning lull,
thinking shades of ‘You’re so…’
yet wine-tasting your words,
freezing shards wringing my heart,
claret pouring down internally.

All this talk of resignation,
of sleep-walking, voluntary capit-
ulation; into purgatory onwards march,
becoming merely rank and file,
elation cancelled in opiate stupor,
blindfolded in cowardly choice.

Four years is it now?
Since casting and firing myself,
grinding edges sharp as glass;
asking now wherefore worn faculties
come like finding oneself alone
and forlorn on the winding road
that forever leads back home,
yet this chiming within heart’s
chamber which needs to roam
is shrieking with panic.

Recognize the fears as truth:
the traumas of shattered teeth,
vertigo, terror at looming gaps,
know the clash of tempers
in repulsion drawing tempters’ maps
to claw away from following attachment
ever upwards where thunder claps,
for fear contrary to dying;
not screaming, falling, but failing -
a terminal fear of trying.

First step back in time:
cold sunrise heralds warm hope,
so dies this black slumber
as dawn lights a mountainside,
cracking the ice, thaw inside;
dripping clock numbers the strides.
It's too eloquent for me to dive deeper into it, but I definitely get the feeling of (inter)personal struggles. What stands out the most is "wine-tasting your words". Even though I'm not a drinker, I find it very poetic and cool. :-D
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DividerOfShadows
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Joined: Tue Sep 13, 2016 1:58 pm
Posts: 401
Location: Croatia
PostPosted: Fri Nov 08, 2019 2:25 pm 
 

Osore (about "Shattered Diamonds") wrote:
Parallelisms make it stylish. ;) *Maybe you can add ''And'' before the last ''How'' if we hear it the same way. Speaking about the content, your misanthropic rating is mild to moderate. Let's have a blast next time!
:evil:


Yeah, I guess that could work too. Well, we'll see what will come up ;)

gasmask_colostomy wrote:
On the poem first, I understand why you don't want to edit. Sometimes the context is too important to want to change something, because it reminds you of the context, which is one reason for writing the poetry in the first place. Obviously, if one edited to publish, you would probably be more objective on it because then it ceases to be private and personal. I have edited probably about 0.5% of my poems thoroughly, and usually dislike doing that.

Your poem classifications sound pretty cool, especially if you chose different names for them all, which are also cool. Reading back over old work is always very engrossing for me, because I relive a lot of that time while I read. However, I never categorized my poems, because as you can probably tell I try not to write the same thing twice. Even if a line feels a bit like a past line I've written, I won't use it. The thing I loathe most in art is repeating myself.


Exactly. It would feel unnatural, as if I'm trying to change the past.

Well, those classifications were not put in order to write the same thing twice, their purpose is more to delineate a certain period of my creativity - certain headspaces and all, and I usually classified poems long after they were finished, I just happened to see some common elements within them that made me think of a category per se.

gasmask_colostomy (about "Shattered Diamonds") wrote:
You're right that it's different. That recurring question keeps everything on track and separates the other images in the poem very nicely. Unlike Osore, I don't really get the feeling that I know what point you're trying to make, but I definitely don't feel that it's misanthropic. There's a kind of rueful tone throughout the earlier verses, while I feel the ending is simply a "brilliant white light" of hope. Regardless of the structure, the imagery is excellent and can be interpreted manifold different ways, so I'm into that.


Yup, I wouldn't say there's something inherently misanthropic within it either. More or less it's about experiences, both good and bad, but as you've said - there's hope at the end. Images aren't really arbitrary; I don't want to ruin the poem, but I'll say this - broken cups and water symbolize kissing, so this might be a clue for what the poem is really about.

gasmask_colostomy wrote:
This one is written in a style that I can't write very well anymore, but comes naturally in times of panic and urgent philosophy. Quite personal topic this time.

Terminal Fear
Spoiler: show
First breath in a month:
squatting in the icy morning lull,
thinking shades of ‘You’re so…’
yet wine-tasting your words,
freezing shards wringing my heart,
claret pouring down internally.

All this talk of resignation,
of sleep-walking, voluntary capit-
ulation; into purgatory onwards march,
becoming merely rank and file,
elation cancelled in opiate stupor,
blindfolded in cowardly choice.

Four years is it now?
Since casting and firing myself,
grinding edges sharp as glass;
asking now wherefore worn faculties
come like finding oneself alone
and forlorn on the winding road
that forever leads back home,
yet this chiming within heart’s
chamber which needs to roam
is shrieking with panic.

Recognize the fears as truth:
the traumas of shattered teeth,
vertigo, terror at looming gaps,
know the clash of tempers
in repulsion drawing tempters’ maps
to claw away from following attachment
ever upwards where thunder claps,
for fear contrary to dying;
not screaming, falling, but failing -
a terminal fear of trying.

First step back in time:
cold sunrise heralds warm hope,
so dies this black slumber
as dawn lights a mountainside,
cracking the ice, thaw inside;
dripping clock numbers the strides.


Honestly, I don't really know to say, but I really like it. Something within it resonated with me, probably due to my current situation in life. It truly is apparent that you've written about something that is personal. Verses like "terminal fear of trying", statements that fear is born from a trauma and the ending being seemingly more optimistic than the rest of the poem... It's really my cup of tea!

Here's a newer one, I wrote it a week ago and haven't written anything else since then. The meaning? It's pretty obvious, I'd say.

To Those Impaled
Spoiler: show
Make your heartbeat a drum of war
See the symbols for what they are
Let the ink swim in the water
For not all words will go away

Trying to tame a spectral horse
Will dethrone the stars from the sky
Sun is waiting behind the looking glass;
Only when you kiss this translucent blood
Will the empyreal diamond appear

Roses will bloom in the wake of your breath
Rivers will flow when you cross them over
Golden sands will enrobe your naked soul
When shadows merge with the light

Kingdom built on alien rocks
Will never survive the winter's tempest
So lit the ground you're standing on
And let it burn with irresistible flame
Moths will perish and learn to run
Does will gather around and keep it alive
_________________
Earthcubed wrote:
CradleOfBurzum, about the new Summoning album snippet, wrote:
I was hoping for some material that resembles closer to "Lugburz"


And I'm still hoping for Katy Perry to do another Christian album.


My Last.fm

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gasmask_colostomy
Metalhead

Joined: Thu May 27, 2010 5:38 am
Posts: 964
Location: Where the heart is
PostPosted: Sat Nov 09, 2019 8:02 am 
 

DividerOfShadows wrote:
Well, those classifications were not put in order to write the same thing twice, their purpose is more to delineate a certain period of my creativity - certain headspaces and all, and I usually classified poems long after they were finished, I just happened to see some common elements within them that made me think of a category per se.

Okay, I was probably interpreting what you said a bit too literally, because the idea of having "types" of poems is a bit alien. However, I can see with current writing how that might happen, since you have concentrated pretty hard on one style and only deviated once or twice from that in the poems I've read. When I used to write a lot (measuring numbers of poems per week, not per season, like now) I probably could have done something like that. Man, adulthood and employment are bummers.

DividerOfShadows (about 'Shattered Dreams') wrote:
Yup, I wouldn't say there's something inherently misanthropic within it either. More or less it's about experiences, both good and bad, but as you've said - there's hope at the end. Images aren't really arbitrary; I don't want to ruin the poem, but I'll say this - broken cups and water symbolize kissing, so this might be a clue for what the poem is really about.

You know, some of your symbols totally pass me by, maybe because I'm pretty basic when it comes to symbols myself or maybe because you don't want them to be obvious. That's a real twist, the kissing part. [This post contains hidden content. Quote to reveal it.]

DividerOfShadows wrote:
gasmask_colostomy wrote:
Terminal Fear
Spoiler: show
First breath in a month:
squatting in the icy morning lull,
thinking shades of ‘You’re so…’
yet wine-tasting your words,
freezing shards wringing my heart,
claret pouring down internally.

All this talk of resignation,
of sleep-walking, voluntary capit-
ulation; into purgatory onwards march,
becoming merely rank and file,
elation cancelled in opiate stupor,
blindfolded in cowardly choice.

Four years is it now?
Since casting and firing myself,
grinding edges sharp as glass;
asking now wherefore worn faculties
come like finding oneself alone
and forlorn on the winding road
that forever leads back home,
yet this chiming within heart’s
chamber which needs to roam
is shrieking with panic.

Recognize the fears as truth:
the traumas of shattered teeth,
vertigo, terror at looming gaps,
know the clash of tempers
in repulsion drawing tempters’ maps
to claw away from following attachment
ever upwards where thunder claps,
for fear contrary to dying;
not screaming, falling, but failing -
a terminal fear of trying.

First step back in time:
cold sunrise heralds warm hope,
so dies this black slumber
as dawn lights a mountainside,
cracking the ice, thaw inside;
dripping clock numbers the strides.


Honestly, I don't really know to say, but I really like it. Something within it resonated with me, probably due to my current situation in life. It truly is apparent that you've written about something that is personal. Verses like "terminal fear of trying", statements that fear is born from a trauma and the ending being seemingly more optimistic than the rest of the poem... It's really my cup of tea!

Yes, it definitely concludes much better than it started in terms of mood. It was written about an awful situation that almost happened but was avoided by mutual helplessness. The poem was written after the event, trying to find out what went wrong, and it just became really self-critical.

Osore wrote:
It's too eloquent for me to dive deeper into it, but I definitely get the feeling of (inter)personal struggles. What stands out the most is "wine-tasting your words". Even though I'm not a drinker, I find it very poetic and cool.

We know you're being modest about eloquence being a factor :-P That poem was indeed designed to express some things very specifically, so I'm glad if some of the phrases stand out. "Wine-tasting your words" in particular was meant to summarize that feeling where you are deeply contemplating (imagining) what someone is suggesting even as they are saying it.

DividerOfShadows wrote:
Here's a newer one, I wrote it a week ago and haven't written anything else since then. The meaning? It's pretty obvious, I'd say.

To Those Impaled
Spoiler: show
Make your heartbeat a drum of war
See the symbols for what they are
Let the ink swim in the water
For not all words will go away

Trying to tame a spectral horse
Will dethrone the stars from the sky
Sun is waiting behind the looking glass;
Only when you kiss this translucent blood
Will the empyreal diamond appear

Roses will bloom in the wake of your breath
Rivers will flow when you cross them over
Golden sands will enrobe your naked soul
When shadows merge with the light

Kingdom built on alien rocks
Will never survive the winter's tempest
So lit the ground you're standing on
And let it burn with irresistible flame
Moths will perish and learn to run
Does will gather around and keep it alive

Hahaha if you think it's really obvious, then you'll probably think I'm really stupid! :-P I'm vacillating between Jesus (impaled, symbols, miracles in 3rd verse) and a love interest, though I note there's that critical, cautioning tone that recites catastrophes that might happen. If it's Jesus, Osore is going to hate it :annoyed: The language is great and I didn't find anything that seemed ill-fitting, so the whole thing is engrossing. I feel it's the right length for this kind of poem too. Although there was no desert this time, you still have sand!

A question I have though is whether the last few lines might need a word adjustment. Should 'lit the ground' read 'light the ground', since I feel it's an order? If it's in the past, it's a bit unclear about the transition with 'so'. Also, is the last line a question? It's missing a question mark, so I'm hesitant about how to interpret that.


...And I'll share one that you might not like particularly, though as a student of literature who likes poetry, you always want to see how you can push a classic form to its maximum potential. This was an experiment to see if I could choose a single rhyme pattern for a whole sonnet, and also contract it down to a shorter size. As such, the theme is a bit odd.

The Everything Sonnet
A pretty girl in her bonnet,
Wending her way back home;
I write her a tiny sonnet
For when she is alone.
A bright flash of soaring comet –
Sweet celestial tone;
Unearthly jewel, pray, come sit
On microcosmic throne.
Myst’ries of the sphere atomic
I see are fully grown;
I know this world and all upon it,
But I ask with a moan;
“What say you, girl, in your bonnet?”
That’s never to be known.

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DividerOfShadows
Metalhead

Joined: Tue Sep 13, 2016 1:58 pm
Posts: 401
Location: Croatia
PostPosted: Sat Nov 09, 2019 2:12 pm 
 

gasmask_colostomy wrote:
Okay, I was probably interpreting what you said a bit too literally, because the idea of having "types" of poems is a bit alien. However, I can see with current writing how that might happen, since you have concentrated pretty hard on one style and only deviated once or twice from that in the poems I've read. When I used to write a lot (measuring numbers of poems per week, not per season, like now) I probably could have done something like that. Man, adulthood and employment are bummers.


Yeah, I'm aware of that. I guess I ought to experiment more, even though I feel quite comfortable with my current style of writing. Again, like I've said to Osore, we'll have to wait and see what will happen. Oh, by the way, I've actually written something that is similar in atmosphere to my recent poems, but it reads almost like a prayer of sorts, I'm not sure if you guys are interested in that. It's not all that religious, it's more spiritual in nature.
I get where you're coming from, especially when I have exams to take - then I'm too stressed to even consider writing.

gasmask_colostomy wrote:
You know, some of your symbols totally pass me by, maybe because I'm pretty basic when it comes to symbols myself or maybe because you don't want them to be obvious. That's a real twist, the kissing part. [This post contains hidden content. Quote to reveal it.]


Hmm... It's likely the latter thing. I used to write pretty straightforward before, but I don't find that way of writing very fulfilling anymore. I think that when I write I either tend to describe something that I see in my head, no matter how abstract that may be, or I take a genuine, real-life event and morph that into something slightly less recognizable. [This post contains hidden content. Quote to reveal it.]

gasmask_colostomy (about "Terminal Fear") wrote:
Yes, it definitely concludes much better than it started in terms of mood. It was written about an awful situation that almost happened but was avoided by mutual helplessness. The poem was written after the event, trying to find out what went wrong, and it just became really self-critical.


Well, first of all, I'm glad you were able to avoid such a situation. When it comes to poem's backstory you've provided, I can understand you completely. There's actually something strangely beautiful about taking something traumatic or problematic in life and turning that into art, even if it ends up being a document to poet trying to make sense of it all.

gasmask_colostomy (about "To Those Impaled") wrote:
Hahaha if you think it's really obvious, then you'll probably think I'm really stupid! :-P I'm vacillating between Jesus (impaled, symbols, miracles in 3rd verse) and a love interest, though I note there's that critical, cautioning tone that recites catastrophes that might happen. If it's Jesus, Osore is going to hate it :annoyed: The language is great and I didn't find anything that seemed ill-fitting, so the whole thing is engrossing. I feel it's the right length for this kind of poem too. Although there was no desert this time, you still have sand!

A question I have though is whether the last few lines might need a word adjustment. Should 'lit the ground' read 'light the ground', since I feel it's an order? If it's in the past, it's a bit unclear about the transition with 'so'. Also, is the last line a question? It's missing a question mark, so I'm hesitant about how to interpret that.


Oh, come on, I won't :D I only thought that the meaning of it was going to be more apparent than in some of my other stuff, but if it isn't, no biggie! Strangely enough, I don't think I was intentionally trying to connect the verses to Jesus, but I understand why it might seem that way. To tell the truth (and to make a point to Osore in case he's wondering), I wouldn't consider myself a Christian even though I more or less had such upbringing. Whenever I use Biblical motifs, it's to stress a certain quality (Judas as a synonym for treason, for instance) in a less direct way.
Haha, it seems that I simply cannot escape the call of sand :lol: I really can't explain why I'm so fascinated by that motif, I wish I knew!
It's more or less about facing your fear, letting go of the past and hoping for a better future. Sure, a bit of a vague answer, but you'll understand what I mean. And yeah, just in case anybody's wondering, some verses have a hidden erotic quality to them, but I'll leave it up to you to find out which ones ;)

You're right about the first one, I mistakenly thought that "lit" was an imperative form of "light", but yeah, it should be "light". My mistake, thank you for pointing that out!
Nope, the last line isn't a question actually, that "does" is a plural form of "doe", a female deer. As soon as I wrote that word down, I knew it might cause some confusion :D

gasmask_colostomy wrote:
...And I'll share one that you might not like particularly, though as a student of literature who likes poetry, you always want to see how you can push a classic form to its maximum potential. This was an experiment to see if I could choose a single rhyme pattern for a whole sonnet, and also contract it down to a shorter size. As such, the theme is a bit odd.

The Everything Sonnet
A pretty girl in her bonnet,
Wending her way back home;
I write her a tiny sonnet
For when she is alone.
A bright flash of soaring comet –
Sweet celestial tone;
Unearthly jewel, pray, come sit
On microcosmic throne.
Myst’ries of the sphere atomic
I see are fully grown;
I know this world and all upon it,
But I ask with a moan;
“What say you, girl, in your bonnet?”
That’s never to be known.


Well, you see, your assumption was wrong. I actually dig it quite a lot! I enjoy its playful tone and how lighthearted it is, even the motifs themselves are pretty cool. If I had to choose my favourite lines, those would be "A bright flash of soaring comet – /Sweet celestial tone;/Unearthly jewel, pray, come sit/On microcosmic throne.")

I also admire your inclination to play with the form a bit, maybe I should try that too sometime, I've been writing in free verse for a loooooong time. Osore might not think like me, but I'd say this experiment was a success! :)
_________________
Earthcubed wrote:
CradleOfBurzum, about the new Summoning album snippet, wrote:
I was hoping for some material that resembles closer to "Lugburz"


And I'm still hoping for Katy Perry to do another Christian album.


My Last.fm

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Osore
Metal newbie

Joined: Thu Apr 10, 2014 9:55 am
Posts: 301
Location: Serbia
PostPosted: Mon Nov 11, 2019 4:41 pm 
 

I wasn't serious about misanthropy in the poem, I just liked some negative attributes ascribed to men. :-)

Divider, To Those Impaled has very powerful images. I particularly like the ones which doesn't evoke deserts and biblical motifs. The entire poem can be interpreted as a writer's journey and a call to dissolve ourselves into the art like ink dissolves in the water, and to let our emotions loose like wildfires...

Gas, I had to translate 9 or 10 words from your poem, which meaning I've forgotten since then, so vocabulary is indeed too eloquent for me. It is frustrating, but I can't force myself to remember new words; even when I do that, I forget them after some time. Sometimes a new word sticks with me, but I have zero control over that.
Surprisingly, The Everything Sonnet appears cute and I have to agree with Divider. I would classify it as "cute ugly duckling poem". It has that childish vibe: innocent, repulsive, long-forgotten.

Have you checked any of the poems from my yellow signature? I also wanted to ask if you had any cool moments at the literature class/at the university? I remember when my professor asked me how I heard about Goethe's Faust, and when I told her that I read it thanks to a song by Cradle of Filth, she wanted to hear it, so the entire class was listening extreme metal for the first time. I also translated the lyrics to Serbian and got an excellent mark. In case you are wondering, my professor was not into metal, but I'm glad she was open minded about it (as opposed to my black eyeliner). :-D Who knew Dani sounds better than I look.
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gasmask_colostomy
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Joined: Thu May 27, 2010 5:38 am
Posts: 964
Location: Where the heart is
PostPosted: Fri Nov 15, 2019 4:56 am 
 

DividerOfShadows wrote:
Oh, by the way, I've actually written something that is similar in atmosphere to my recent poems, but it reads almost like a prayer of sorts, I'm not sure if you guys are interested in that. It's not all that religious, it's more spiritual in nature.

Well, now that you've promised it, you'll have to show us once it's done. Anything in a different form is cool, as well as anything where the mood seems totally different to most of your normal work. That's why listening to Candlemass after a day of death is awesome :-D

DividerOfShadows wrote:
gasmask_colostomy wrote:
You know, some of your symbols totally pass me by, maybe because I'm pretty basic when it comes to symbols myself or maybe because you don't want them to be obvious. That's a real twist, the kissing part.


Hmm... It's likely the latter thing. I used to write pretty straightforward before, but I don't find that way of writing very fulfilling anymore. I think that when I write I either tend to describe something that I see in my head, no matter how abstract that may be, or I take a genuine, real-life event and morph that into something slightly less recognizable.

Given some of the "hidden" context, I understand why blurring the lines between abstractions and real life may be preferable. With very complex emotions, the feeling is often more important than the actual symbol that we are using, and that makes it a bit difficult for a reader sometimes - they come head-on at symbols that are actually just emotional markers for something else. When I was a bit younger, I would write extremely directly, partly because I was mostly writing lyrics and not poetry, but even now I find that I want the reader to know what I'm talking about to some degree. Beauty aside, I don't see a lot of point obscuring meaning in poetry if it's written for the reader.

DividerOfShadows wrote:
Nope, the last line isn't a question actually, that "does" is a plural form of "doe", a female deer. As soon as I wrote that word down, I knew it might cause some confusion :D

Thanks for reminding me how interesting that kind of homonym can be!

gasmask_colostomy wrote:
The Everything Sonnet


Well, you see, your assumption was wrong. I actually dig it quite a lot! I enjoy its playful tone and how lighthearted it is, even the motifs themselves are pretty cool. If I had to choose my favourite lines, those would be "A bright flash of soaring comet – /Sweet celestial tone;/Unearthly jewel, pray, come sit/On microcosmic throne.")

I also admire your inclination to play with the form a bit, maybe I should try that too sometime, I've been writing in free verse for a loooooong time. Osore might not think like me, but I'd say this experiment was a success! :)[/quote]

Osore wrote:
Gas, I had to translate 9 or 10 words from your poem, which meaning I've forgotten since then, so vocabulary is indeed too eloquent for me. It is frustrating, but I can't force myself to remember new words; even when I do that, I forget them after some time. Sometimes a new word sticks with me, but I have zero control over that.
Surprisingly, The Everything Sonnet appears cute and I have to agree with Divider. I would classify it as "cute ugly duckling poem". It has that childish vibe: innocent, repulsive, long-forgotten.

A little bit surprised that you both thought that was worthwhile, since I expected it to be sort of throwaway. I guess that description of "cute ugly duckling poem" is about right: it's horrible in some ways but a little bit cheeky too, just like a naughty child.

Sorry about the vocabulary, I guess, since I often try not to overdo eloquence in poetry, since it tends to alienate me when I read anything impenetrable. However, I think I'm a lot better at limiting my vocabulary to the necessary words than I used to be. The right word is right no matter how common it is.

Osore wrote:
Have you checked any of the poems from my yellow signature? I also wanted to ask if you had any cool moments at the literature class/at the university? I remember when my professor asked me how I heard about Goethe's Faust, and when I told her that I read it thanks to a song by Cradle of Filth, she wanted to hear it, so the entire class was listening extreme metal for the first time. I also translated the lyrics to Serbian and got an excellent mark. In case you are wondering, my professor was not into metal, but I'm glad she was open minded about it (as opposed to my black eyeliner). :-D Who knew Dani sounds better than I look.

Actually, I have a deep embarrassment of playing metal in front of many of my non-metal friends, more so when I was in school. If I played Cradle of Filth in class, I suppose I would have been as red as a tomato (easy for someone with my complexion). There were a few crossovers with literature and metal, most notably when I wrote an essay about the influence of gothic literature (Frankenstein, The Castle of Otranto, Rime of the Ancient Mariner) on Iron Maiden. The latter is obviously the inspiration for one song, but it goes surprisingly deep, especially if you consider that Eddie is a Frankenstein too. The biggest shame is that I totally lost the essay and can't locate any copy of it.

The other moment that stands out is less obvious, but really special. As you know, there are quite a lot of black metal bands who got interested in pre-Christian culture in Scandinavia, those people living there before the previous millennium. The British equivalent would be the Anglo-Saxons, who were in Britain roughly from 400AD to 1000AD and had their own language and culture. We studied a module (4 months) on Anglo-Saxon literature (Beowulf is the most famous example, though not really representative) and learned some of the language while we were there, making our translations with a heavy reliance on dictionaries. It's amazing that the spirit of those poems is so much like black metal and serious Nortern European folk metal that it just felt instinctive to translate some of the poems - almost like I already knew what they would say. The assessment was to make our own translation of one of the original texts, then write a commentary on the translation. I will try to find that when I go home tonight (currently at work :-P )

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gasmask_colostomy
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Joined: Thu May 27, 2010 5:38 am
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PostPosted: Fri Nov 15, 2019 10:39 am 
 

As threatened promised, here is the translation I did for the Anglo-Saxon literature course. It was originally a poem written in regular rhythm around 800AD in England and is preserved only in one book, where some damage by fire makes a few parts unreadable. That damage, and the themes of the poem, have led it to be known as 'The Ruin'. However, the Anglo-Saxons typically didn't name their poems, and my essay argued that naming it 'The Ruin' was a way of keeping it incomplete, which is in contradiction to how the poet imagined the past of the buildings he describes. Therefore, I renamed it 'The Last Giants'* and bridged some destroyed parts of the text to repair the poem to something like its original state. The rhythm was removed by the necessity of expanding very compact Anglo-Saxon phrases, while the alliteration in the poem is the traditional style, since the poems were usually read aloud, since most people were illiterate.

The Last Giants
Spoiler: show
This stone-work seems splendid, yet time takes its toll
on this city of giants; their work withers away.
Their houses have crumbled down, time has been ruinous to their towers
and has ravaged the glorious gates; the cold caresses the bones
of fading buildings, fractured and gnarled and
eaten away by age. The masterly architects perished;
they collapsed and now cling to the fingers of the earth,
the bitter clutches of the grave. But this wall has watched
a hundred fathers fall in turn, standing tall from king to king,
supporting the stains of red and grey growths of lichen,
shouldering the sudden storms. The mighty have fallen,
but still this wondrous wall stands strong against all the storms,
unlike its fathers, who fell first to grimly greet the ground.
Their skill shines in this ancient work, this gleaming creation of giants
that keeps its constant vigil; their gift of genius crafted
this crisp plaster to fix the filigree firmly in place.
One ingenious mind quick-wittedly wove the wiry rings
in a wondrous way that would hold the wall-brace together.
There must once have been striking civic structures and bathing halls,
all beautifully gabled and brimful with the bustle
of a prodigious army making merry in the mead-hall;
but almighty fate brought that to an end.
Death swept across the land stealing life from men,
slaughtering the soldiers and spreading terrible sickness;
their home grew godforsaken and the citizens
fell to earth with their worldly wisdom,
like this crumbling city. And so these dwellings grow grief-stricken
and drip rounded red tiles from
the fine face of the roof. This ruin slumps down,
now only rubble, while many men of old stand
shining in their armour and adorned with splendour,
regal and richly dressed, proud and warm with wine;
those men formerly feasted their eyes on treasure, on silver,
on jewels, on precious stones, on prosperity – on their possessions –
on this gleaming gem in the great kingdom’s crown.
A hot spring sped along where the stone buildings stood,
its warmth walled within an inner chamber,
where the people could bathe properly and pleasantly.
They helped the hot streams to freely flow
from the earth where they emerged and over the grey stone,
rough and rugged unlike the other bright bricks,
until the water warmed the circular pool where the baths were.
Then time took its toll on the work of the giants,
though it is a noble thing indeed for one
to honour this house and praise the past of this ruined city.


*'The Last Giants' refers both to the architecture and its architects, who were most probably the Romans. When the Romans left Britain in about 400AD, they left behind a lot of large buildings in stone and concrete that the Anglo-Saxons didn't understand the art of constructing. That meant they were surrounded by what appeared to be the work of giants - impressive beings who could build enormous, strong structures, yet had somehow died out.

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DividerOfShadows
Metalhead

Joined: Tue Sep 13, 2016 1:58 pm
Posts: 401
Location: Croatia
PostPosted: Fri Nov 15, 2019 7:13 pm 
 

Osore wrote:
I wasn't serious about misanthropy in the poem, I just liked some negative attributes ascribed to men. :-)

Divider, To Those Impaled has very powerful images. I particularly like the ones which doesn't evoke deserts and biblical motifs. The entire poem can be interpreted as a writer's journey and a call to dissolve ourselves into the art like ink dissolves in the water, and to let our emotions loose like wildfires...


Fair enough ;)

I like that interpretation! To be honest, that "let the ink swim in the water/for not all words will go away" bit is somehow connected to that idea. I was writing this poem when it was raining and a couple drops of rain fell onto my phone, which in turn made it harder to write (everything was slippery)... And I was just struck by this idea that if I really have something important to say, I don't have to be afraid of losing momentary inspiration, I'll still be able to remember the message even after the rain has passed. So yeah, there's an element of being an artist in there as well.

gasmask_colostomy wrote:
DividerOfShadows wrote:
Oh, by the way, I've actually written something that is similar in atmosphere to my recent poems, but it reads almost like a prayer of sorts, I'm not sure if you guys are interested in that. It's not all that religious, it's more spiritual in nature.

Well, now that you've promised it, you'll have to show us once it's done. Anything in a different form is cool, as well as anything where the mood seems totally different to most of your normal work. That's why listening to Candlemass after a day of death is awesome :-D


Well, if that's so, I'll post it right after this message ;) Again, I don't really know if it's anything of merit, it was written basically to help me deal with some bullshit (and I was playing Devin Townsend's The Hummer while writing it, an album that is really meditative). But I'll let you guys be the judges!

gasmask_colostomy wrote:
DividerOfShadows wrote:
Hmm... It's likely the latter thing. I used to write pretty straightforward before, but I don't find that way of writing very fulfilling anymore. I think that when I write I either tend to describe something that I see in my head, no matter how abstract that may be, or I take a genuine, real-life event and morph that into something slightly less recognizable.

Given some of the "hidden" context, I understand why blurring the lines between abstractions and real life may be preferable. With very complex emotions, the feeling is often more important than the actual symbol that we are using, and that makes it a bit difficult for a reader sometimes - they come head-on at symbols that are actually just emotional markers for something else. When I was a bit younger, I would write extremely directly, partly because I was mostly writing lyrics and not poetry, but even now I find that I want the reader to know what I'm talking about to some degree. Beauty aside, I don't see a lot of point obscuring meaning in poetry if it's written for the reader.


That's completely fine, different strokes for different folks. But again, it's not as if I'm obfuscating everything to the point of complete impenetrability (that was never my plan anyway), given the fact that you managed to see the underlying theme. Those willing to read into the poetry will either see the point that was there originally or may come up with their different interpretations, which is not a bad thing, mind you. It makes everyone participate in the act of creation, of developing imagination, at least that's the way I see it. I've come to realize that I enjoy seeing different interpretations of my stuff here, even if the original point is missed.

The poetry may be written for the reader, but I believe artists also derive some sort of satisfaction from writing. And currently that satisfaction comes from the fact that I play with images and make my readers think for a bit :D. I also feel as if I have more creative freedom if I use symbols as a technique than if I just try to make the meaning plain and visible from afar. As of now, I'm working on a bit ambiguous poem that I hope I will be able to post here in the next few days.

Osore wrote:
Have you checked any of the poems from my yellow signature? I also wanted to ask if you had any cool moments at the literature class/at the university? I remember when my professor asked me how I heard about Goethe's Faust, and when I told her that I read it thanks to a song by Cradle of Filth, she wanted to hear it, so the entire class was listening extreme metal for the first time. I also translated the lyrics to Serbian and got an excellent mark. In case you are wondering, my professor was not into metal, but I'm glad she was open minded about it (as opposed to my black eyeliner). :-D Who knew Dani sounds better than I look.


I haven't yet, but I will, don't worry.

Hmmm... I remember that we were working on Coleridge's poem "Kubla Khan" and I was immediately reminded of Rush's "Xanadu". It took everything in me not to sing silently during that class :lol: However, we were also working on "Rime of the Ancient Mariner" and one girl - who was obviously into metal given her choice of fashion - told the teacher that Iron Maiden also has a song based on that poem. There was a prospect of us listening to the song in class, but unfortunately, that never came to pass.

gasmask_colostomy wrote:
As threatened promised, here is the translation I did for the Anglo-Saxon literature course. It was originally a poem written in regular rhythm around 800AD in England and is preserved only in one book, where some damage by fire makes a few parts unreadable. That damage, and the themes of the poem, have led it to be known as 'The Ruin'. However, the Anglo-Saxons typically didn't name their poems, and my essay argued that naming it 'The Ruin' was a way of keeping it incomplete, which is in contradiction to how the poet imagined the past of the buildings he describes. Therefore, I renamed it 'The Last Giants'* and bridged some destroyed parts of the text to repair the poem to something like its original state. The rhythm was removed by the necessity of expanding very compact Anglo-Saxon phrases, while the alliteration in the poem is the traditional style, since the poems were usually read aloud, since most people were illiterate.

The Last Giants
Spoiler: show
This stone-work seems splendid, yet time takes its toll
on this city of giants; their work withers away.
Their houses have crumbled down, time has been ruinous to their towers
and has ravaged the glorious gates; the cold caresses the bones
of fading buildings, fractured and gnarled and
eaten away by age. The masterly architects perished;
they collapsed and now cling to the fingers of the earth,
the bitter clutches of the grave. But this wall has watched
a hundred fathers fall in turn, standing tall from king to king,
supporting the stains of red and grey growths of lichen,
shouldering the sudden storms. The mighty have fallen,
but still this wondrous wall stands strong against all the storms,
unlike its fathers, who fell first to grimly greet the ground.
Their skill shines in this ancient work, this gleaming creation of giants
that keeps its constant vigil; their gift of genius crafted
this crisp plaster to fix the filigree firmly in place.
One ingenious mind quick-wittedly wove the wiry rings
in a wondrous way that would hold the wall-brace together.
There must once have been striking civic structures and bathing halls,
all beautifully gabled and brimful with the bustle
of a prodigious army making merry in the mead-hall;
but almighty fate brought that to an end.
Death swept across the land stealing life from men,
slaughtering the soldiers and spreading terrible sickness;
their home grew godforsaken and the citizens
fell to earth with their worldly wisdom,
like this crumbling city. And so these dwellings grow grief-stricken
and drip rounded red tiles from
the fine face of the roof. This ruin slumps down,
now only rubble, while many men of old stand
shining in their armour and adorned with splendour,
regal and richly dressed, proud and warm with wine;
those men formerly feasted their eyes on treasure, on silver,
on jewels, on precious stones, on prosperity – on their possessions –
on this gleaming gem in the great kingdom’s crown.
A hot spring sped along where the stone buildings stood,
its warmth walled within an inner chamber,
where the people could bathe properly and pleasantly.
They helped the hot streams to freely flow
from the earth where they emerged and over the grey stone,
rough and rugged unlike the other bright bricks,
until the water warmed the circular pool where the baths were.
Then time took its toll on the work of the giants,
though it is a noble thing indeed for one
to honour this house and praise the past of this ruined city.


*'The Last Giants' refers both to the architecture and its architects, who were most probably the Romans. When the Romans left Britain in about 400AD, they left behind a lot of large buildings in stone and concrete that the Anglo-Saxons didn't understand the art of constructing. That meant they were surrounded by what appeared to be the work of giants - impressive beings who could build enormous, strong structures, yet had somehow died out.


I don't really know what to say save for you've done a stellar job! It's a very picturesque poem, reading it felt like watching a historic movie of sorts. The line "the cold caresses the bones/of fading buildings," was particularly striking to me. Nothing seems to be out of place, so I'd say you bridged those gaps rather well. Congrats!
_________________
Earthcubed wrote:
CradleOfBurzum, about the new Summoning album snippet, wrote:
I was hoping for some material that resembles closer to "Lugburz"


And I'm still hoping for Katy Perry to do another Christian album.


My Last.fm

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DividerOfShadows
Metalhead

Joined: Tue Sep 13, 2016 1:58 pm
Posts: 401
Location: Croatia
PostPosted: Fri Nov 15, 2019 7:29 pm 
 

So, here goes. Warning: It's a longer one.

MASLSIATF
Spoiler: show
May my words be as firm as the rock I'm standing on
And may I become like a tranquil lake lying in front of me
Swallowing clouds of fire and absorbing their energy
Let me be as firm as the bench supporting my weight
So my mind doesn't cave in to the pressure of my thoughts
I wish to discern the glimpses of light in impenetrable darkness
And follow their paths to humility and wisdom
To uncover my true potential and unlock the door
For the ones worthy to hold my soul in hand


Paper flies into the air
But still longs to return to me
Praised be the rocky road
Letting me enjoy the tempest

I see nations of babies crawling in fear
Killing their tomorrow to save today
The pain keeps returning
The sight is still obscured
She stops breathing to feel alive

A grey figure strolls down the path
Perfection clad in good and evil
Approaches me for an embrace
I keep walking away
Terrified of my hollowness

It seems to have rained for years
God's clock dancing without a rhythm
Yet I am here to turn the tides
Become my own victory

Blood in the palms of my hands
Where does it keep falling from?
Primal instincts still driven insane
Endless hours of staring at the wall

I have never lost my wings
I have only forgotten how to fly;
These dunes may seem endless
But there are multiple oases beyond
Those wiling will reach their goal

Tan lips telling me their secrets
Volcanoes letting me dream
Let the history be erased
As I commit myself to you

And these golden rods
Making all those stars ashamed
They'll guide me to something beautiful
And we'll watch them as we fly

Paper flies into the air
But still longs to return to me
Praised be the resting wood
Letting me remember my words
_________________
Earthcubed wrote:
CradleOfBurzum, about the new Summoning album snippet, wrote:
I was hoping for some material that resembles closer to "Lugburz"


And I'm still hoping for Katy Perry to do another Christian album.


My Last.fm

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gasmask_colostomy
Metalhead

Joined: Thu May 27, 2010 5:38 am
Posts: 964
Location: Where the heart is
PostPosted: Thu Nov 21, 2019 11:41 pm 
 

We really need to make our posts shorter to have any chance of continuing the thread, so I'm just going to reply to the new poem.

DividerOfShadows wrote:
So, here goes. Warning: It's a longer one.

MASLSIATF
Spoiler: show
May my words be as firm as the rock I'm standing on
And may I become like a tranquil lake lying in front of me
Swallowing clouds of fire and absorbing their energy
Let me be as firm as the bench supporting my weight
So my mind doesn't cave in to the pressure of my thoughts
I wish to discern the glimpses of light in impenetrable darkness
And follow their paths to humility and wisdom
To uncover my true potential and unlock the door
For the ones worthy to hold my soul in hand


Paper flies into the air
But still longs to return to me
Praised be the rocky road
Letting me enjoy the tempest

I see nations of babies crawling in fear
Killing their tomorrow to save today
The pain keeps returning
The sight is still obscured
She stops breathing to feel alive

A grey figure strolls down the path
Perfection clad in good and evil
Approaches me for an embrace
I keep walking away
Terrified of my hollowness

It seems to have rained for years
God's clock dancing without a rhythm
Yet I am here to turn the tides
Become my own victory

Blood in the palms of my hands
Where does it keep falling from?
Primal instincts still driven insane
Endless hours of staring at the wall

I have never lost my wings
I have only forgotten how to fly;
These dunes may seem endless
But there are multiple oases beyond
Those wiling will reach their goal

Tan lips telling me their secrets
Volcanoes letting me dream
Let the history be erased
As I commit myself to you

And these golden rods
Making all those stars ashamed
They'll guide me to something beautiful
And we'll watch them as we fly

Paper flies into the air
But still longs to return to me
Praised be the resting wood
Letting me remember my words

To be frank, I'm not so keen on this one. There's something very mundane about the topic in general, and I think I can see right through to you sitting on a bench looking at a nice view, which is a great place to write a poem, but not a great topic. I've done it before, so I should know :-P The opening part especially annoys me because of how deliberately it tries to use the imagery, but I'm afraid that I find the ideas a bit cliched. I guess that "prayer" part doesn't fit very closely with your normal writing style.

On the other hand, the other part has more flavour and some interesting ideas, although I still feel it's not your best. The line "she stops breathing to feel alive" is an arresting summary of the ides in that verse, yet some other parts feel well-used like the beginning. "God's clock dancing without a rhythm" is excellent though.

Perhaps one reason why I'm not very keen on the poem is because I don't understand the relation between the two parts, nor really why the title needed to be made as an acrostic of the prayer. Does it have another meaning that I'm missing?


I've written a real brand-new poem for once (most of the ones I'm posting are old ones), and it's inspired by something we've talked about in the thread before. To make it more interesting, I've left the title out; treat it as a riddle and see if you know what the subject is :wink:

You were the bottom of an ocean;
magma, mountain, boulder, this.

The shapes you choose, the ways you feel:
caressed by the wind into curves,
crushing bones like a sudden fist,
counting seconds slip through fingers,
cutting my feet like shattered glass.

Warm and supple daylight companion;
cold lover lying still next to me.

You are made from ceaseless change;
you rest where nothing ever changes:
the perpetual motion of a watchmaker
falling again through an hourglass.

And then you are dust in the wind.

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Osore
Metal newbie

Joined: Thu Apr 10, 2014 9:55 am
Posts: 301
Location: Serbia
PostPosted: Sat Nov 23, 2019 7:44 am 
 

gasmask_colostomy wrote:
...symbols that are actually just emotional markers for something else.
This is exactly why I love Trakl's expressionist manner. It feels like watching a strong, passionate and dark expressionist painting. When you find a writer who's able to captivate you without clear meaning, than the meaning itself doesn't matter (as you are emotionally engaged too).
Hermetic poetry is not for the reader, although, paradoxically, we like when we have responses.

gasmask_colostomy wrote:
The Last Giants
Amazing! Your experience with Anglo-Saxon literature is indeed special and almost magical/spiritual, like you had a seance and made a contact with ancestral spirits. I love the simplicity of oral literature; your translated example is nice and melancholic. ;)
Unfortunately, proto-Slavic language is not recorded, but South Slavic oral literature that dates before and after 1389 AD (when The Battle of Kosovo happened) is, and it's rightfully considered a national treasure for its diversity and unique insight into past traditions, mentality and life styles. I read a lot of it in school; at first it took me a bit to get used to a slightly archaic language (I was 10/11 years old).
Here's the most beautiful poem of that sort recorded in today's Croatia (I guess Divider is familiar with it too). The poem deals with the position of a woman in a patriarchal society. She was named after her husband, Hasan Aga, which also tells us that women were inferior to men in that age. Aga is (in muslim countries, especially under the Ottoman Empire) a military commander or official.
Spoiler: show
Hasanaginica (English translation)

What's so white upon yon verdant forest?
Snow perhaps it is or swans assembled?
Snow would surely long ago have melted.
And a flight of swans would have departed.
No! not swans, not snow it is you see there,
'Tis the tent of Aga, Hasan Aga;
On his couch he lies, severely wounded.
And his mother seeks him, and his sister,
But for very shame his wife is absent.

When the misery of his wounds was softened,
Hasan thus his faithful wife commanded:
"In my house thou shalt abide no longer—
Thou shalt dwell no more among my kindred."
When his wife had heard this awful sentence,
Numbed with dread she stood and full of sorrow.
When outside she heard the tramp of horses,
To the highest window of the tower
Rushed the faithful Hasanaginica,
Would have thrown herself into the courtyard,
But her two beloved daughters followed.
Crying after her in tearful anguish—

"Do come back to us, oh, mother, mother!
These are not our father Hasan's coursers,
'Tis our uncle Pintorovich coming."
Then, returning, Hasanaginica
Threw her arms in misery round her brother—
"See the sorrow, brother, of thy sister:
He would tear me from my helpless children."
He was silent—but from out his pocket.
Safely wrapped in silk of deepest scarlet.
Letters of divorce he drew, and bid her
Seek again her aged mother's dwelling—
Free to win and wed another husband.
When she saw the letter of divorcement,
Parting-kisses on her two boys' foreheads,
On her girls' red cheeks she pressed in sorrow.
But she could not tear herself from baby
Crowing at his mother from the cradle.
But at last her brother with an effort
Tore the mother from her tender infant,
Put her close behind him on his courser.
Hastened with her to the white-hued homestead.

But a short while dwelt she with her people—
Not a single week had been completed,
When a host of suitors wooed the lady
Of a noble family the flower;
One of them Imoski's mighty Cadi.
Said the noble lady, trembling greatly,
"I entreat thee, I implore thee, brother,
Do not give me to another husband.
For the sight of my poor orphan'd children
Sure would break the spirit of thy sister!"

Little cared her brother for her sorrows;
He had sworn she should espouse the Cadi.
Then his sister asked of him a favour:
"Write on snow-white paper, O, my brother.
To the Cadi as a bridal message,
'Friendly greetings from the youthful woman.
And she begs thee bring her as a present.
When thy wedding-guests and thou art coming
Hither to her peoples' white-hued homestead,
Such a long and flowing veil that passing
Aga's home she need not see her orphans.'

When the snow-white letter reached the Cadi,
All his wedding-guests he called together,
And set out with them for his betrothed,
Future mistress of his white-hued homestead.
Safely reached he with his friends her dwelling;
Happily were all returning homeward,
But when they were passing Aga's homestead.
Her two daughters saw her from the window.
Her two sons came out, and from the portal
Called to her, "Come hither! O, come hither!
Take thy night's repast with thine own children!"

Sadly Hasanaginica heard them;
And she said to him who led the party,
"I should be most grateful to you, captain.
If you kindly halted the procession
While I give some presents to the children."

So they stopped at the beloved portal.
Presents gave she unto all the children.
To the boys, high boots with gold embroidered;
To the girls, long and resplendent dresses;
And a silken garment to her baby.—


Near them sat their father, Hasan Aga,
And he called in sorrow to his children,
"Come to me, poor children! to your father.
From your mother do not hope for pity.
Callous is she, cold and stony-hearted."

Hasanaginica, when she heard this.
On the ground she fell all pale and trembling.
And her spirit left its earthly prison
At the glances of her orphan children.


Last edited by Osore on Sat Nov 23, 2019 10:17 am, edited 2 times in total.
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Osore
Metal newbie

Joined: Thu Apr 10, 2014 9:55 am
Posts: 301
Location: Serbia
PostPosted: Sat Nov 23, 2019 9:17 am 
 

A nice introduction to epic poems: https://www.slavorum.org/the-epic-poems-of-the-serbian-people/.
Quote:
Inspired by the beauty of the Serbian epic poetry Grim decided to learn the Serbian language, as well as to work on the popularization of Serbian literature in Europe. Precisely, he will introduce the one of the greats of world literature Johan V. Goethe with Serbian folk songs., Goethe had later declared that Serbian folk songs by their beauty could be comparable with ”The Song of Solomon” from the Bible. Also a major contribution to the affirmation of Serbian folk literature was given by Alexander Pushkin, Countess Teresa Jakob-Talvi, Johan G. Herder, Claude Fauriel and Adam Mickiewicz.


Heroic Ballads of Servia translated by George Rapall Noyes and Leonard Bacon (1913) can be read online here: https://www.sacred-texts.com/neu/hbs/.

If you want to try one day an epic poem, I suggest you to start with Banović Strahinja. :-P It's a very long poem.
Spoiler: show
The greatest significance of the song is in the contrasts that arise between traditional and human: Representatives of traditional morality in the poem are members of the Jugović family, while Strahinja is a figure that goes beyond the limits of the laid down norms and relies only on his own humanity. Whether the adultery was intentionally committed or the woman was abducted and raped, the penalty for the adulteress has traditionally been the death. Banović Strahinja condemns the inhumanity and primitiveness of such understanding, and shows a deep knowledge of the human psyche seeing that his wife has betrayed him not because of the love of the kidnapper, but out of fear for her own life, knowing the traditional punishment.

BAN STRAHIN

STRAHIN was ban of Banska that by Kósovo doth stand;
And such another falcon there is not in the land.
He rose up in the morning:
“Ho, all my knaves, give heed!
Get ye down to the stables and saddle me my steed.
Deck him out fair and seemly, and gird him with the girth;
For hark and hear me, gallants, I go roving o’er the earth.
Weary shall be the milk-white steed, before I shall alight
Where dwell my wife’s good kindred in Krúshevats the white—
Her brave old father Yug Bogdan and her good brothers nine,
Her gallant kin shall take me in and cheer me with the wine.”
 Then forthwith all the servants unto the ban gave heed,
And from the lordly stable led the white falcon steed.
And then the brave Ban Strahin himself the steed arrayed;
He set on him a saddle of velvet and brocade,
Redder than sunset water, more shining than the sun!

So the good ban put on the steed that rich caparison.
So rode he forth that morning, nor ever did alight
Till he came in to his wife’s kin in Krúshevats the white,
Where late the realm men stablished. And him Yug Bogdan saw,
And with his nine gray hawks came on to greet his son-in-law.
They waited little for him, but clasped him one and all;
And while the servants took the steed, they brought the ban to hall.
Down sat they at the ready board, and spake fair words and fine;
And man and maid came in apace to serve or pour the wine.
Then all those goodly Christians their thirst began to quench;
Yug Bogdan set Ban Strahin beside him on the bench;
Upon his right he set him, his sons on the other hand;
But the remnant of his people at the table-foot must stand.
The servants served before them. Nine daughters had that lord,
And each fair daughter in her turn served deftly at the board.
They served before their father; they served their lords that tide;

But most of all Ban Strahin, for their sister was his bride.
One servant stood before them to serve the red wine up;
In a gold cup he measured it—nine measures held that cup.
Much courtesy was there to see and guests from near and far;
Brothers as many came as to a banquet of the tsar.
Long was Ban Strahin’s tarrying; long, long did he abide,
Dwelling among his wife her kin in pleasure and in pride.
 The guests that were in Krúshevats a bitter cry they made,
And came to old Yug Bogdan and unto him they prayed:
 “We kiss thy silken garments, thou art our lord and chief;
We therefore pray thy kindness to do us this relief.
Bring Strahin thy good son-in-law to our castles and our courts,
That we may do him honor as with his worth consorts.”
 Before that mirth was over was long enough, I trow.
Long the ban tarried, ere came forth the tidings of his woe.
But lo, in the fair morning, when the warm sun beat down,

A lad bore a white letter from Banska, the little town,—
Tidings from his old mother! He set it on his knee;
Therein was many a bitter and dreadful thing to see,
For there her curse is written most plain in Strahin’s sight:
 “Where art thou, son? Foul fall the wine in Krúshevats the white!
Evil is the wine and full of shame for thee and thy wife’s kin.
Behold what woes against thee are written down herein!
From Yedren1 with an army is come the Turkish tsar
To Kósovo, and his viziers are with him in the war;
And he hath taken Kósovo with his accurst viziers.
The whole strength hath he brought along of all the Turkish spears;
Along the land of Kósovo hath he ta’en either flood—
Lab and Sítnitsa onward from the marble to the wood,
From the maple dry to Sázliya bridged over by the arch,
Through Zvechan and Chechan to the wood round Kósovo they march,

The valley of their capture; thereto they haste along.
And the tsar hath one army an hundred thousand strong,
That one lone lord hath lent him who hath a fief of the tsar.
Many lords eat of the tsars bread, and ride his steeds of war.
Few arms those chieftains carry; nay, but a single blade!
And yet another army is for the tsar arrayed—
The Turks and janissaries in Yedren’s milk-white tower;
And yet an hundred thousand they say are in that power.
Tuk and Manjuk an army for the tsar lead as well,
And death is in their onslaught and slaughter in their yell.
But yet there is one army of all from far and near—
Vlah Áliya’s, that feareth not for sultan nor vizier,
Nor all within the armies save as ants upon the hill.
 “Such is the Turkish battle, nor departs he without ill.
He smote on little Banska; by the left-hand way he came;
He stormed the hold of Banska, and burned it with the flame.

He hath o’erturned the lowest stone; thy servants fled perforce;
And o’er thy mother’s body hath he ridden on his horse;
With thy wife upon his saddlebow through Kósovo he went,
And he kisses thy belovèd in the shadow of his tent.
And I above burned ruins bewail this fate of mine,
While thou drink’st wine in Krúshevats. God send ’tis Death his wine!”
 When the ban read the letter, Grief took him in her grip;
Down drooped upon his shoulder the black beard of his lip;
He ground his teeth together, and was very nigh to weep;
And old Yug Bogdan saw him, as he rose up from his sleep.
Yug’s voice flashed up like fire; he spake after this wise:
 “God help my son! and wherefore dost thou so soon arise?
And wherefore art thou troubled, good son-in-law of mine?
Have thy brave brothers laughed at thee or mocked thee at the wine?
Have not thy sisters served thee? Is there evil among thy kin?
Tell me, my son, and straightway: what shame is found herein?”

 The ban flashed up before him and to his father said:
 “Father, I find no fault at all in the kin of her I wed,
And my good brothers with me deal pleasantly withal;
The noble ladies speak me fair and serve me in the hall:
Among my wife’s good kindred no fault at all doth stand.
My mother out of Banska sends this letter to my hand.”
 He tells unto his father in the fair morning-tide
How all of his possession is wasted far and wide;
How that the Turks have scattered his servants, knight and knave,
And trampled on his mother, and his wife ta’en for a slave:
 “And O thou old Yug Bogdan, if she be dear to me,
Also she is thy daughter and shame to me and thee!
And if thou ever thoughtest a gift to me to give,
Give it not after I am dead, but now while yet I live.
I pray thee and I kiss thy hand: give me thy children nine,
And we will go to Kósovo to seek this foe of mine—
Yea, this red traitor to the tsar, that hath enslaved my wife.
Be not afraid, my father, nor sorrow for their life;

They shall wear Turkish raiment, turbans as white as milk
And good green mantles, and also broad trousers wrought of silk.
And at the belt long sabers as flashing as a flame.
And I will call my servants, and order them by name,
To saddle up the horses and draw the saddlebelts,
And cover o’er the horses with the strong black bear-pelts.
Strong janissaries shall they be; my counsel shall they know,
What time through the tsar’s army we ride in Kósovo.
And I will be their captain, who have their sister wed,
That they may heed my counsel, and have it still in dread.
And if a soldier of the tsar shall challenge us in speech,
Turkish, mayhap, or Arabic; why, I can speak in each,
And Manov too, and Arnaut, enough to serve that tide.
To seek my foe through Kósovo, so lightly will we ride—
This Turk Vlah Áliya that enslaved my love by might and main.
For though alone among the Turks I might perish or be ta’en,
My brethren and I, we shall not die nor be smitten down in vain!”

 When old Yug Bogdan heard this, he flashed like living fire;
He spake unto Ban Strahin in words of wrath and ire:
 “O thou, my son Ban Strahin, witless art thou and rash!
Wilt thou lead my sons to Kósovo for these same Turks to slash?
Say nothing more, my son-in-law! My sons shall not be slain,
Though thy fair wife, my daughter, come never home again.
Nay, nevermore, Ban Strahin, unloose thy wrath at me,
For wit thou well, my son-in-law—may the plague light on thee!—
If she have been his paramour but one night in the tent,
So may she be no longer the bride of thy content;
God hath slain her forever; accursèd shall she be!
And a worse thing, Ban Strahin, him she prefers to thee.
Go to! The Devil take her! And for this love of thine
I will give thee a better, and with thee drink the wine.
I will be thy friend forever, but my children shall not go
Riding amain across the plain with thee to Kósovo!”
 But when Ban Strahin heard it, he flashed like living fire;

Answered the ban to the old man in agony and ire.
He will not call a servant; for a groom he takes not heed,
But goeth himself to the stable to saddle the white steed.
How royally he saddled him! how girded him thereto!
How over flashing ear and crest the bit and bridle drew!
Before the gateway of the court he led him forth alone,
And held him by the bridle near the white stepping-stone.
And he caught the steed by the shoulder and mounted with a bound,
And looked upon his brethren, but they looked upon the ground.
Upon his sister’s husband Ban Strahin turned his eyes,
But Némanyich looked downward at the black dust likewise.
They had drunken wine and brandy enough to make one nod,
And boasted that they were heroes, and sworn by the name of God:
“We love thee, thou Ban Strahin, more than the tsar’s whole land.”
But woe! the ban has never a man this day his friend to stand.
It is no easy labor to Kósovo to wend;

And the ban looked about him and saw he had no friend.
He rode down through white Krúshevats, but aye he looked behind
To see if his brave brethren would alter in their mind,
And pity his affliction. No friend came to the ban.
And thereupon he minded him of the hound Káraman,1
Whom he loves better than the steed, and holds of richer worth,
And loudly from the strong white throat the hound-call thunders forth.
The hound lay in the stable, but harkened and gave heed,
And swiftly in the field he ran, till he overtook the steed.
And gay beside the milk-white steed the hound rejoicing springs,
And on his neck the collar of corded goldwork rings.
A pleasant thing it was; the ban rode glad on the stallion’s back,
And took by weald and mount and field to Kósovo the track.
When he saw the host at Kósovo his heart was touched by fear,
But he remembered the true God, and to the Turks drew near.
Over the field of Kósovo on all four sides he went,

Seeking the strong Vlah Áliyah, but he could not find his tent.
 By the waters of the Sítnitsa a marvel there was seen,
By the shore of the Sítnitsa was pitched a tent of green.
The tent of green was very fair; it hid the grassy lawn,
The golden apple on the pole shone brighter than the dawn.
A spear is set before the door, and by the spear a steed,
With his head deep in the nose-bag upon the oats to feed.
The steed pawed fierce upon the ground with the off hoof and the near,
And the ban thought unto himself: “Vlah Áliya’s tent is here.”
And forward rode the hero upon the milk-white steed;
He took his spear from shoulder, all ready to his need.
He threw the tent door open, and looked within the tent;
But it was not Vlah Áliya, the strong and insolent;
But a dervish, to whose girdle the white beard sweeps from the chin,
Lies in the shadow of the tent, and no one else therein.
A luckless dervish is the Turk, but he drinks wine in a cup;

He pours the wine out for himself and forthwith drinks it up.
Ban Strahin looked on the dervish that was bloody to the eyes,
And made salam unto him, after the Turkish wise.
The drunken Turk looked on him, and spoke a word of woe:
“Hail to thee, brave Ban Strahin of Banska by Kósovo!”
Now flashed up the Ban Strahin, and answered him in dread;
In the fair-spoken Turkish a bitter word he said:
 “Foul fall thy mother, thou dervish, that drinkest here this hour!
Thou art so drunk thou canst not tell a Moslem from a Giaour.
Wherefore dost thou speak of him? for here is found no ban;
There is none here but I, and I am the tsar’s true fighting man.
All of the tsar’s good horses are scattered near and far,
And the warriors run quickly to catch them for the tsar.
If I go with this thy insult to the tsar and the vizier,
Know well, thou sorry dervish, thy words shall cost thee dear.”
 Laughed the dervish:
“Thou a Turk, Strahin? Good fortune go with thee!

Were I upon Mount Golech, and should haply chance to see
Thee afar in the host of the tsar, well I should know thee, ban—
Thee and that milk-white steed of thine, and the hound Káraman,
Whom aye thou lovest better than the strong stallion white.
And know, thou ban of Banska, I read thy brow aright.
And I know the eyes thereunder and the black beard of thy lip.
Know, ban—and may good fortune be of thy fellowship!—
That when thy guardsmen took me and made of me a slave,
To thee in Suhara of the mount me miserable they gave.
To the bottom of that prison didst thou cast me at that tide,
And there a slave to thine and thee nine years did I abide.
Nine fearful years past over, yea! and the tenth began,
When filled with deep compassion thou thoughtest on me, ban.
Thou badest Rado, the jailer, unbar the doors withal,
And forthwith bring me upward a captive to the hall.
And dost thou know, Ban Strahin, what words thy fierce lips said:

 “ ‘Slave! Turkish snake! Now would that thou within my hold wert dead!
Canst thou then, like a hero, redeem thee with a fee?’
 “So ran thy question to me, and I told the truth to thee:
 “ ‘My life now could I ransom, could I come to my hall,
To my father’s land and my birthplace and my fiefs one and all—
My many farms and freeholds, the price of liberty.
But thither to go, too well I know, hardly thou trustest me.
I will give thee a good bondsman, even God who does not feign,
And another bondsman, his good faith, that I bring that ransom again.’
 “Thou gavest thy trust to me that tide to go to my white hall,
To my father’s land and my birthplace, and my fiefs one and all.
I came to my sad birthplace; no more I knew good luck;
On my houses and my birthplace the pestilence had struck.
It smote the men and women; in my houses none had stayed,
And my whole house had perished and my whole possession strayed.
Fast-barred was all my sire’s estate, and bolted was the door.

The Turks took farm and freehold for their own forevermore.
And when I saw my houses all closed against me stand,
That I had neither friend nor goods, then a good plan I planned.
I rode post unto Yedren, to the vizier and the tsar,
And the vizier boasted me for a hero in the war.
The tsar’s vizier clothed me and gave a tent to me,
And the great raven charger and shining panoply.
For the tsar’s man forever in his book my name they set,
And thou hast come to me to-day to claim of me thy debt.
But, ban, I have not a penny; and woe is on thee this day,
That thou comest to die in folly amidst the tsar’s array.”
 The ban looked on the dervish. Forthwith the man he knew;
From the steed he vaulted, and clasped him, and to his bosom drew:
 “Brother in God, old dervish, no debt is due to me.
I seek no money, brother, nor any ransom fee.
I seek the strong Vlah Áliya, who hath overthrown my hall,
And hath taken my belovèd to be his bounden thrall.

Tell me of him, thou dervish, and do not me betray
Unto the Turkish army, who are yearning me to slay.”
 “By God,” then said the dervish, “thou ban, thou falcon-one,
The strength of this my faith to thee is firmer than the stone.
Shouldst thou with the sword’s edges smite half the army dead,
Yet would I not betray thee, nor trample on thy bread.
Though I ate of it in prison, thou gavest me store of wine;
Thou gavest the milk-white loaves to me that I might freely dine;
Oft in the sun’s light glorious I warmed me in the morn;
Thou didst set me free upon my word, wherein I am forsworn.
I could not keep my word to thee, returning to thy hall:
Faith it was hard for me to keep without the wherewithal!
And for the Turk, Ban Strahin, Vlah Áliya insolent—
On the high mount of Golech he pitches now his tent.
But, Strahin, go from Kósovo, or a fool’s death diest thou here;
Trust not thy hand, nor the sharp brand, nor the venom of the spear.

To pass that Turk in the mountain, it is a hero’s deed;
In his arms alive will he take thee, thy weapons and thy steed.
He will break thine arms asunder; he will blind thee living, O ban.”
 Laughed Strahin: “Dervish, pity me not because of any man,
But to the Turkish army betray me not this tide.”
 And thereupon the dervish unto the ban replied:
 “My faith is firmer than the stone, and plighted thee indeed.
For even shouldst thou madden the anger of thy steed,
And riding on the army the half thereof shouldst slay,
Yet I will not at any time thee to the Turks betray.”
 The ban spoke and departed, but he turned on the stallion white:
 “Dervish, thou waterest thy steed at daybreak and at night
In the waters of Sítnitsa. Say where the fords are found—
The fords in the cool water—that my horse may not be drowned.”
 Said the dervish: “Thou Servian falcon, a ford shalt thou find indeed,
Where’er thou enterest the water, for thy valor and thy steed.”
 The ban forded that water; on the milk-white steed he sped

Over the mount of Golech with the great sun overhead.
It warms all things beneath it, both the near and the far,
And it shines down on Kósovo and the army of the tsar.
 And now behold Vlah Áliya, the strong and insolent,
Ban Strahin’s bride that kisses in the shadow of the tent.
He hath an evil custom, for ever does he fall
In slumber of a morning, when the sun beats over all.
He dreamed a dream upon that tide, and heavy lay his head
On the breast of the belovèd that Stráhinya had wed.
At the tent door she fondled him, but her eyes went to and fro
Over the Turkish army on the field of Kósovo.
She sees what manner are the tents, what steeds the heroes ride,
And by mischance towards Golech she turned her eyes aside.
She slapped the Turk on the right cheek; and, “Master,” did she cry,
“Rise up, Vlah Áliya! stir thyself! or forthwith mayst thou die!
Now belt thou on thy war-belt and thy fair mail likewise!
Ban Strahin comes that will cut off thine head, or blind thine eyes.”

 Vlah Áliya wakened from his dream and flashed up like the fire;
His eye was proud, he laughed aloud:
“Thou Stráhinya’s desire,
Thou art afraid, Wallachian maid; thou fearest him eachwhere!
When I bear thee unto Yedren, yet wilt thou see him there!
“Yon captain is not Strahin; a tsar’s man rideth here:
Either the tsar hath sent him, or Mehmet, the vizier.
He bids that I submit me, nor smite the host of the tsar.
Tsar and vizier, mayhap they fear to feel my scimitar.
Fear not, what time I smite him with the keen, shining sword
That no more captains of the tsar come hither for their lord.”
 But the ban’s bride spake unto him:
“My master, prithee see!
That is no Turkish captain—a blindness light on thee!—
Nay, but my master Strahin, that did my body clip.
Do I not know both eye and brow and the black beard of his lip?
Do I not know his milk-white horse with the spot of brown and tan,

And the tawny hound beside him, the good hound Káraman?
Jest not with life, my gallant lord.”
But when Vlah Áliya heard,
The wrathful Turk leaped to his feet and straight began to gird:
His girdle with the poniards and the scimitar thereto.
And he giveth heed to the black steed, while the ban nearer drew.
The ban is very careful, but he cursed him, nor bowed his head
After the Turkish fashion; and unto him he said:
 “Art thou then there, thou dastard—thou traitor to the tsar?
Whose women hast thou taken that round thy camp-fires are?
And whose belovèd hast thou kist in the shadow of the tent?
Come out to battle against me, thou strong and insolent.”
 The Turk was very angry. He sprang with might and main
Unto the shoulder of the horse, and caught the bridle-rein.
The ban bode not his coming, but straight against him drove;
He lifted the iron spear on high, and hurled it from above.
And the strong Turk, Vlah Áliya, reached out and caught the spear,

And he spake unto Strahin:
“Dastard, what dost thou here?
Here are no maids of Shúmadin to scatter with a cry,
But who fears not vizier or tsar, Vlah Áliya am I!
And I dread not any hero in the army of the tsar;
To me as ants upon the grass all in that army are.
And thou thinkest in the lists this tide to battle with me here!”
 He spake and very suddenly he cast the battle-spear,
Eager to wound. But the good God aided Ban Strahin well.
His white steed, when the spear flew by, down on his knees he fell.
High overhead the great spear flashed, and broke on a stone in three.
Up to the boss that guards the hand was it broken utterly.
Now when the spears were broken, each champion drew his mace;
Vlah Áliya smote on Strahin and beat him from his place,
Forward from out of the saddle on the white neck of the steed.
Now the good God aided Strahin in the moment of his need.
Nor Turk, nor Serb a steed doth curb of half that worth to-day.
The beast swung head and shoulder in the middle of the fray,

And his lord out of that danger to the saddletree threw back;
And upon that Turkish devil the ban made his attack.
But the Turk out of the saddle would neither fall nor flee,
Though ’neath the blows his horse had sunk in the black dust to the knee.
The spiky maces in their hands were shattered left and right,
And forth they drew the sabers, and anew they fought the fight.
But lo, the great Ban Strahin at his belt had such a blade
That a pair of smiths must forge it with three men there to aid!
From Sunday unto Sunday till the steel was waxen cold
Had those same craftsmen cooled it within the earthen mold;
And thereafter had they sharpened it by laying on the sledge.
Smote the Turk, but Strahin waited edge against saber-edge,
Till he smote hard against it, and the Turk’s blade broke in half.
This saw the ban and in he ran, and in his heart did laugh
As he prest in upon him, smiting on either hand,
To strike his head from his shoulders with the edges of the brand.

Hero smote against hero; the Turk good ward he made,
He kept his head and shoulders with the truncheon of the blade.
With the remnant of his weapon he beat the saber back;
And bit by bit as he smote on it to pieces did he hack
The saber of Ban Strahin. Two blades in fragments lay.
 Then leaped they from the horses, and hurled the hilts away.
They gripped each other by the throat like dragons at that tide;
All day till noon they wrestled upon the mountain side;
Till on the Turk’s pale lips the foam like snow new-fallen stood,
And the white foam on Strahin’s lip was flecked with drops of blood;
The blood upon his garments and on his jack-boots ran.
But when the pain had gripped him, at last out spake the ban:
 “My love, God’s curse upon thee! What travail dost thou see?
Take up a splinter of the sword, and strike the Turk or me.
Think which of us, belovèd, is dearer unto thee.”
 But thereto the Turk spake fiercely:
“Belovèd of the ban,

Strike him, for thou shalt never more be dear unto the man;
But aye his sharp reproaches against thee shall be bent,
Because thou once wast with me in the shadow of the tent.
But I will love thee always, nor ever thee disdain.
In Yedren thirty serving-maids shall bear thy sleeves and train;
Sugar and honey ever more shall be set for thee to eat;
With ducats will I deck thee from thy head unto thy feet:
Strike now the ban.”
All womankind are lightly led astray.
She leaped and grasped a splinter of the sword-blade where it lay.
She wrapped it in a napkin, lest it should wound her hand,
And she sought to smite her wedded lord with the fragment of the brand,
And guard Vlah Áliya’s head. She cut the silver plume in twain;
She clove the milk-white turban that guarded him in vain;
The blood flowed down the hero’s face, and was like to blind his eyes,
And the ban dreaded sore that tide to die in foolish wise.
But suddenly within him the thoughts together ran,

And out of his white throat he called on the hound Káraman—
A hound trained to the hunting. He called the hound by name,
And with a bound the tawny hound to help his master came,
And bit the ban’s belovèd. A dog all women fear;
She threw the blade upon the ground, and cuffed the hound on the ear.
Screaming she fled across the mount; afar they heard her cry;
But the strong Turk looked after to see where she did fly.
And new strength burst upon the ban, and courage great and new,
And hither and yon he drove the Turk, and wrestling overthrew.
Howe’er so hard the Turk might guard, he struck from underneath,
And, leaping in under the chin, he fastened with his teeth,
As the wolf throttling a lamb. Then he leaped up from the ground,
And with a mighty voice he called after the tawny hound,
That the beast should cease pursuing the maid the ban had wed;
And swift along the mountain to the Turkish host she fled.
But the ban would not let her; he caught her by the hand;

He brought her back unto the place where the dappled steed did stand.
He took the horse by the shoulders; he threw her on behind;
Then rode he deviously along, the homeward way to find.
Away from the tsar’s army he turned the bridle-rein,
Till he came in to his wife’s kin at Krúshevats on the plain,
And old Yug Bogdan and his sons rose, when they saw him come;
They took him to their bosoms, and gave him welcome home.
But when Yug Bogdan saw his plight his tears ran down amain:
 “Now fair be all thy fortune, that thou art home again.
Strong are the Turkish heroes, the soldiers of the tsar;
A fighting man to wound the ban they must have sought afar.”
 But the nine brothers feared him, till the ban to them spake:
 “Dread nothing, my good brethren, nor be troubled for my sake.
With the tsar there was no hero to conquer me in fight.
Would ye then hear who wounded me, and whose hand did me smite?
When with the Turk I battled, O thou good father mine,

Then my belovèd smote me—this dearest child of thine;
She set aside my love that tide, and to the Turk gave aid.”
 Yug flashed up like a living fire, and to his sons he said:
“Slash the she-wolf in pieces with the nine blades of the brands!”
The strong sons heard their father, and upon her set their hands.
But Strahin will not let them. He speaketh to them apace:
 “My nine good brethren, wherefore do ye yourselves disgrace?
Why are your knives unscabbarded? Heroes ye are, I know!
But why were not your sabers with me at Kósovo,
To do great deeds against the Turk when danger ran most high?
And harken this, my brethren; your sister shall not die.
Without your aid already, all I wished, she had been slain.
Yet, should I slaughter all her kin, no comrade then would drain,
Reveling with me deliciously, the cool cups of the wine.
So now have I given my pardon unto this bride of mine.”
 There are not many on earth to match him, man to man,
And scanty are the heroes as gallant as the ban.


Last edited by Osore on Sat Nov 23, 2019 10:48 am, edited 1 time in total.
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Osore
Metal newbie

Joined: Thu Apr 10, 2014 9:55 am
Posts: 301
Location: Serbia
PostPosted: Sat Nov 23, 2019 9:22 am 
 

DividerOfShadows wrote:
So, here goes. Warning: It's a longer one.

MASLSIATF
Spoiler: show
May my words be as firm as the rock I'm standing on
And may I become like a tranquil lake lying in front of me
Swallowing clouds of fire and absorbing their energy
Let me be as firm as the bench supporting my weight
So my mind doesn't cave in to the pressure of my thoughts
I wish to discern the glimpses of light in impenetrable darkness
And follow their paths to humility and wisdom
To uncover my true potential and unlock the door
For the ones worthy to hold my soul in hand


Paper flies into the air
But still longs to return to me
Praised be the rocky road
Letting me enjoy the tempest

I see nations of babies crawling in fear
Killing their tomorrow to save today
The pain keeps returning
The sight is still obscured
She stops breathing to feel alive

A grey figure strolls down the path
Perfection clad in good and evil
Approaches me for an embrace
I keep walking away
Terrified of my hollowness

It seems to have rained for years
God's clock dancing without a rhythm
Yet I am here to turn the tides
Become my own victory

Blood in the palms of my hands
Where does it keep falling from?
Primal instincts still driven insane
Endless hours of staring at the wall

I have never lost my wings
I have only forgotten how to fly;
These dunes may seem endless
But there are multiple oases beyond
Those wiling will reach their goal

Tan lips telling me their secrets
Volcanoes letting me dream
Let the history be erased
As I commit myself to you

And these golden rods
Making all those stars ashamed
They'll guide me to something beautiful
And we'll watch them as we fly

Paper flies into the air
But still longs to return to me
Praised be the resting wood
Letting me remember my words
Introduction in red is what I need right now in my life, especially "a mind doesn't cave in to the pressure of my thoughts". Darkness below is also close to how I feel... I never thought about it before, but this poem certainly brings neoromantic vibes. In terms of style, it's not your best, but don't be discouraged. You have enough quantity to filter quality.
By the way, do you read my mind? We have the same thoughts about literature and art in general. That's probably because we both deal with symbols, so our minds are similarly wired when we write.


Last edited by Osore on Sat Nov 23, 2019 10:41 am, edited 1 time in total.
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Osore
Metal newbie

Joined: Thu Apr 10, 2014 9:55 am
Posts: 301
Location: Serbia
PostPosted: Sat Nov 23, 2019 10:41 am 
 

gasmask_colostomy wrote:
I've written a real brand-new poem for once (most of the ones I'm posting are old ones), and it's inspired by something we've talked about in the thread before. To make it more interesting, I've left the title out; treat it as a riddle and see if you know what the subject is :wink:

Spoiler: show
You were the bottom of an ocean;
magma, mountain, boulder, this.

The shapes you choose, the ways you feel:
caressed by the wind into curves,
crushing bones like a sudden fist,
counting seconds slip through fingers,
cutting my feet like shattered glass.

Warm and supple daylight companion;
cold lover lying still next to me.

You are made from ceaseless change;
you rest where nothing ever changes:
the perpetual motion of a watchmaker
falling again through an hourglass.

And then you are dust in the wind.
This is my favourite of yours! ;-) I'm afraid I don't know the exact topic, although I can try to smell it. Motifs of time and change correspond to slow, natural processes that happen on Earth (and inside of it). The same could be applied to people: we appear constant, but we change (slowly or not), and we all end up as "dust in the wind". It is thought now that life originated in thermal vents, so the beginning of a poem tells me that live matter perhaps became dead and changed its form, but at the same time stayed the same, since matter is constant and can't be lost like energy. I especially like the expressionist vibe I'm getting from it.

Next time I'm going to post a poem I wrote in October this year.
_________________
PESIMUM: misanthropic asylum
Serbo-Croatian poetry most beautiful (share new poems in The Poetry Thread)

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DividerOfShadows
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Joined: Tue Sep 13, 2016 1:58 pm
Posts: 401
Location: Croatia
PostPosted: Sat Nov 23, 2019 5:08 pm 
 

gasmask_colostomy wrote:
To be frank, I'm not so keen on this one. There's something very mundane about the topic in general, and I think I can see right through to you sitting on a bench looking at a nice view, which is a great place to write a poem, but not a great topic. I've done it before, so I should know :-P The opening part especially annoys me because of how deliberately it tries to use the imagery, but I'm afraid that I find the ideas a bit cliched. I guess that "prayer" part doesn't fit very closely with your normal writing style.

On the other hand, the other part has more flavour and some interesting ideas, although I still feel it's not your best. The line "she stops breathing to feel alive" is an arresting summary of the ides in that verse, yet some other parts feel well-used like the beginning. "God's clock dancing without a rhythm" is excellent though.

Perhaps one reason why I'm not very keen on the poem is because I don't understand the relation between the two parts, nor really why the title needed to be made as an acrostic of the prayer. Does it have another meaning that I'm missing?


That's fair. After all, I didn't originally mean to publish it. It was something that I felt I needed to write in order to make myself at peace, so I allowed myself some cliches - since they were rooted in my genuine ruminations. There are two parts that are only loosely connected - the first one is the 'prayer' part, and the second one is dwelling on problems that were on my mind; that eventually led to acceptance, as well as the resuscitation of hope for the future. I saw it as a process of purification of sorts. They are connected more or less by this implicit fear and need for strength of the spirit. The acrostic is there for no special reason, I believe I was trying to summarize the prayer in a very stupid way - by making the acrostic the title. It wasn't about me being 'quirky' :-P

gasmask_colostomy wrote:
I've written a real brand-new poem for once (most of the ones I'm posting are old ones), and it's inspired by something we've talked about in the thread before. To make it more interesting, I've left the title out; treat it as a riddle and see if you know what the subject is :wink:

Spoiler: show
You were the bottom of an ocean;
magma, mountain, boulder, this.

The shapes you choose, the ways you feel:
caressed by the wind into curves,
crushing bones like a sudden fist,
counting seconds slip through fingers,
cutting my feet like shattered glass.

Warm and supple daylight companion;
cold lover lying still next to me.

You are made from ceaseless change;
you rest where nothing ever changes:
the perpetual motion of a watchmaker
falling again through an hourglass.

And then you are dust in the wind.


Is it about sand? If it is, I swear to God... :lol: After reading Osore's interpretation, I don't think I can come up with a better interpretation than his. However, if I have to comment on anything, I'd like to say that I enjoy those picturesque images that you convey in the poem. "You are made from ceaseless change;/you rest where nothing ever changes:" are my favourite lines!

Osore wrote:
Introduction in red is what I need right now in my life, especially "a mind doesn't cave in to the pressure of my thoughts". Darkness below is also close to how I feel... I never thought about it before, but this poem certainly brings neoromantic vibes. In terms of style, it's not your best, but don't be discouraged. You have enough quantity to filter quality.
By the way, do you read my mind? We have the same thoughts about literature and art in general. That's probably because we both deal with symbols, so our minds are similarly wired when we write.


I'm glad it resonated with you, and thank you for your kind comments :)
Haha, you never know :evil: You're referring to my comments to gasmask, right? Glad we're on the same page ;)
_________________
Earthcubed wrote:
CradleOfBurzum, about the new Summoning album snippet, wrote:
I was hoping for some material that resembles closer to "Lugburz"


And I'm still hoping for Katy Perry to do another Christian album.


My Last.fm

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simonitro
Metal newbie

Joined: Thu Apr 08, 2004 3:41 pm
Posts: 370
Location: Vancouver, BC, Canada
PostPosted: Sat Nov 23, 2019 10:31 pm 
 

This song lyrics got inspired when I was playing Mafia III with its 1968 Blues tracks.

The Voodooist

Entering her lair
Decorated by darkness
Piercing my heart through her gaze
Under the flair
Coming from the abyss
Ascending from bottom of the blaze

Singing those hymns
From the underworld
As magick ruled this room
Wretched music rings
An eternal hold
Until my final hour of doom

She slain the hated ones
The betrayed did die
AND I AM NEXT

(Chorus)----

I fell in love with the witch of New Orleans
As I descend to the darkness
Against my own will
Shall be burning soon in hell
I fell in love with the witch of New Orleans
---------------------


Dancing of dolls
Skulls are all around
Victim to her, I did become
Damnation roles
Shattering the ground
Never escape the only one

Playing with figures
Playing with me
Knowing, I'll eternally be in her grasp
Between the fingers
Shall never set free
Will be thrown in the dark

STAB THE NEEDLES IN ME

The puppets shall dance
The puppets shall burn
Embracing the one of lust
Erotic times with the kiss
To be lain down in her fiery bed
Smokes are turning to red
LET THE FLAMES RISE ALL ABOVE
AS I TOUCH HER CURSED LIPS

...with mine

(Chorus Change)---

I fell in love with the queen of New Orleans
As I kissed the darkness with no fear
Against my own will
Burning down in hell
I fell in love with the witch of New Orleans
-----------------------------


I FELL IN LOVE WITH THE WITCH OF NEW ORLEANS

(Guitar Solo 1)

Insanity shall rise
When I feel her presence
The dolls shall come alive
They carry me to her chamber
Of torture and love
The kind I adore the most
As spirits becoming ghosts

She has companions from the other side
I shall sure know that part of this ride
To be this spiritual guide
To fall into damnation
ALONG WITH HER

She knows my truth
She knows my lies
Knows my future
Preparing for the final moment
To condemn me
Even with my loyal heart
She shall extract it
And to be fed...
WITH MY OWN BLOOD

(Guitar Solo 2)

Entered her lair
For the very last time
It's time to end this life
With a loving flare
Tip of the dime
Piercing my entity with a knife

Trapped in her chamber
For eternity to be eaten
The fool that loved a magic gypsy
A puppet that did temper
Won't be going to Eden
Blood to be let to a fatality

FATALITY FOR LOVE
LOVE FOR THE DEMON QUEEN

(Chorus Change)---

I fell in love with the demon queen of New Orleans
Kissed the final darkness
She was dressed to kill
Sending straight to hell
I FELL IN LOVE WITH THE WITCH
WITH THE WITCH
WITH THE WITCH
OF NEW ORLEANS
YEAH!!
-------------------------------------


(Outro Guitar Solo)
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Pretty much I listen to all metal genres and enjoy them all except for Drone, DSBM, extremely slow Doom Metal, some Ambient stuff and most -core stuff.

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Osore
Metal newbie

Joined: Thu Apr 10, 2014 9:55 am
Posts: 301
Location: Serbia
PostPosted: Sun Nov 24, 2019 12:21 pm 
 

DividerOfShadows wrote:
You're referring to my comments to gasmask, right? Glad we're on the same page ;)
Yes ;-)

simonitro wrote:
This song lyrics got inspired when I was playing Mafia III with its 1968 Blues tracks.

The Voodooist

Spoiler: show
Entering her lair
Decorated by darkness
Piercing my heart through her gaze
Under the flair
Coming from the abyss
Ascending from bottom of the blaze

Singing those hymns
From the underworld
As magick ruled this room
Wretched music rings
An eternal hold
Until my final hour of doom

She slain the hated ones
The betrayed did die
AND I AM NEXT

(Chorus)----

I fell in love with the witch of New Orleans
As I descend to the darkness
Against my own will
Shall be burning soon in hell
I fell in love with the witch of New Orleans
---------------------


Dancing of dolls
Skulls are all around
Victim to her, I did become
Damnation roles
Shattering the ground
Never escape the only one

Playing with figures
Playing with me
Knowing, I'll eternally be in her grasp
Between the fingers
Shall never set free
Will be thrown in the dark

STAB THE NEEDLES IN ME

The puppets shall dance
The puppets shall burn
Embracing the one of lust
Erotic times with the kiss
To be lain down in her fiery bed
Smokes are turning to red
LET THE FLAMES RISE ALL ABOVE
AS I TOUCH HER CURSED LIPS

...with mine

(Chorus Change)---

I fell in love with the queen of New Orleans
As I kissed the darkness with no fear
Against my own will
Burning down in hell
I fell in love with the witch of New Orleans
-----------------------------


I FELL IN LOVE WITH THE WITCH OF NEW ORLEANS

(Guitar Solo 1)

Insanity shall rise
When I feel her presence
The dolls shall come alive
They carry me to her chamber
Of torture and love
The kind I adore the most
As spirits becoming ghosts

She has companions from the other side
I shall sure know that part of this ride
To be this spiritual guide
To fall into damnation
ALONG WITH HER

She knows my truth
She knows my lies
Knows my future
Preparing for the final moment
To condemn me
Even with my loyal heart
She shall extract it
And to be fed...
WITH MY OWN BLOOD

(Guitar Solo 2)

Entered her lair
For the very last time
It's time to end this life
With a loving flare
Tip of the dime
Piercing my entity with a knife

Trapped in her chamber
For eternity to be eaten
The fool that loved a magic gypsy
A puppet that did temper
Won't be going to Eden
Blood to be let to a fatality

FATALITY FOR LOVE
LOVE FOR THE DEMON QUEEN

(Chorus Change)---

I fell in love with the demon queen of New Orleans
Kissed the final darkness
She was dressed to kill
Sending straight to hell
I FELL IN LOVE WITH THE WITCH
WITH THE WITCH
WITH THE WITCH
OF NEW ORLEANS
YEAH!!
-------------------------------------


(Outro Guitar Solo)

The thing with dolls reminds me of two visual kei videos. I'm sorry if they sound awful to you, I'm not knowledgeable about the scene. :-P


Is there a music for The Voodooist? I'm asking because lyrics work better sung, than written down.
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Serbo-Croatian poetry most beautiful (share new poems in The Poetry Thread)

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simonitro
Metal newbie

Joined: Thu Apr 08, 2004 3:41 pm
Posts: 370
Location: Vancouver, BC, Canada
PostPosted: Sun Nov 24, 2019 1:31 pm 
 

Osore wrote:
DividerOfShadows wrote:
You're referring to my comments to gasmask, right? Glad we're on the same page ;)
Yes ;-)

simonitro wrote:
This song lyrics got inspired when I was playing Mafia III with its 1968 Blues tracks.

The Voodooist

Spoiler: show
Entering her lair
Decorated by darkness
Piercing my heart through her gaze
Under the flair
Coming from the abyss
Ascending from bottom of the blaze

Singing those hymns
From the underworld
As magick ruled this room
Wretched music rings
An eternal hold
Until my final hour of doom

She slain the hated ones
The betrayed did die
AND I AM NEXT

(Chorus)----

I fell in love with the witch of New Orleans
As I descend to the darkness
Against my own will
Shall be burning soon in hell
I fell in love with the witch of New Orleans
---------------------


Dancing of dolls
Skulls are all around
Victim to her, I did become
Damnation roles
Shattering the ground
Never escape the only one

Playing with figures
Playing with me
Knowing, I'll eternally be in her grasp
Between the fingers
Shall never set free
Will be thrown in the dark

STAB THE NEEDLES IN ME

The puppets shall dance
The puppets shall burn
Embracing the one of lust
Erotic times with the kiss
To be lain down in her fiery bed
Smokes are turning to red
LET THE FLAMES RISE ALL ABOVE
AS I TOUCH HER CURSED LIPS

...with mine

(Chorus Change)---

I fell in love with the queen of New Orleans
As I kissed the darkness with no fear
Against my own will
Burning down in hell
I fell in love with the witch of New Orleans
-----------------------------


I FELL IN LOVE WITH THE WITCH OF NEW ORLEANS

(Guitar Solo 1)

Insanity shall rise
When I feel her presence
The dolls shall come alive
They carry me to her chamber
Of torture and love
The kind I adore the most
As spirits becoming ghosts

She has companions from the other side
I shall sure know that part of this ride
To be this spiritual guide
To fall into damnation
ALONG WITH HER

She knows my truth
She knows my lies
Knows my future
Preparing for the final moment
To condemn me
Even with my loyal heart
She shall extract it
And to be fed...
WITH MY OWN BLOOD

(Guitar Solo 2)

Entered her lair
For the very last time
It's time to end this life
With a loving flare
Tip of the dime
Piercing my entity with a knife

Trapped in her chamber
For eternity to be eaten
The fool that loved a magic gypsy
A puppet that did temper
Won't be going to Eden
Blood to be let to a fatality

FATALITY FOR LOVE
LOVE FOR THE DEMON QUEEN

(Chorus Change)---

I fell in love with the demon queen of New Orleans
Kissed the final darkness
She was dressed to kill
Sending straight to hell
I FELL IN LOVE WITH THE WITCH
WITH THE WITCH
WITH THE WITCH
OF NEW ORLEANS
YEAH!!
-------------------------------------


(Outro Guitar Solo)

The thing with dolls reminds me of two visual kei videos. I'm sorry if they sound awful to you, I'm not knowledgeable about the scene. :-P


Is there a music for The Voodooist? I'm asking because lyrics work better sung, than written down.


Yeah, those songs are pretty awful. They sound like HIM graduates reject bands. It's too fucking smooth.

And for "The Voodooist", I'm afraid that there's no music to it. :( I was playing Mafia III that inspired because of the game's world that built with that 1968 vibe to it especially the radio music reflecting of that time period. Those are one of the few Blues lyrics that I've written, to be frank.

Just to remind you, I'm not into Blues but I do enjoy them if it just happened to be around. If someone's playing it in their car, why the hell not? It's still way better than the crap that we listen today, anyway.
_________________
Pretty much I listen to all metal genres and enjoy them all except for Drone, DSBM, extremely slow Doom Metal, some Ambient stuff and most -core stuff.

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Osore
Metal newbie

Joined: Thu Apr 10, 2014 9:55 am
Posts: 301
Location: Serbia
PostPosted: Sun Nov 24, 2019 2:06 pm 
 

simonitro wrote:
Yeah, those songs are pretty awful. They sound like HIM graduates reject bands. It's too fucking smooth.
:-D (Pop-)rock and its melodies. Either you get caught or not.

simonitro wrote:
And for "The Voodooist", I'm afraid that there's no music to it. :( I was playing Mafia III that inspired because of the game's world that built with that 1968 vibe to it especially the radio music reflecting of that time period. Those are one of the few Blues lyrics that I've written, to be frank.

Just to remind you, I'm not into Blues but I do enjoy them if it just happened to be around. If someone's playing it in their car, why the hell not? It's still way better than the crap that we listen today, anyway.
I'm not familiar with Blues nor Mafia III, but I still find interesting that you write standalone lyrics (with 3 non-existent guitar solos).

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gasmask_colostomy
Metalhead

Joined: Thu May 27, 2010 5:38 am
Posts: 964
Location: Where the heart is
PostPosted: Thu Nov 28, 2019 4:55 am 
 

Osore wrote:
gasmask_colostomy wrote:
...symbols that are actually just emotional markers for something else.
This is exactly why I love Trakl's expressionist manner. It feels like watching a strong, passionate and dark expressionist painting. When you find a writer who's able to captivate you without clear meaning, than the meaning itself doesn't matter (as you are emotionally engaged too).
Hermetic poetry is not for the reader, although, paradoxically, we like when we have responses.

Yes, the poet can't boss the meaning that the reader will get. However, as a reader, I like to feel that the symbols and expressions <b>do</b> have a meaning, otherwise I see no point in reading it. Without meaning, I may as well read the dictionary.

gasmask_colostomy wrote:
The Last Giants

Osore wrote:
Amazing! Your experience with Anglo-Saxon literature is indeed special and almost magical/spiritual, like you had a seance and made a contact with ancestral spirits. I love the simplicity of oral literature; your translated example is nice and melancholic. ;)
Unfortunately, proto-Slavic language is not recorded, but South Slavic oral literature that dates before and after 1389 AD (when The Battle of Kosovo happened) is, and it's rightfully considered a national treasure for its diversity and unique insight into past traditions, mentality and life styles. I read a lot of it in school; at first it took me a bit to get used to a slightly archaic language (I was 10/11 years old).
Here's the most beautiful poem of that sort recorded in today's Croatia (I guess Divider is familiar with it too). The poem deals with the position of a woman in a patriarchal society. She was named after her husband, Hasan Aga, which also tells us that women were inferior to men in that age. Aga is (in muslim countries, especially under the Ottoman Empire) a military commander or official.
Spoiler: show
Hasanaginica (English translation)

What's so white upon yon verdant forest?
Snow perhaps it is or swans assembled?
Snow would surely long ago have melted.
And a flight of swans would have departed.
No! not swans, not snow it is you see there,
'Tis the tent of Aga, Hasan Aga;
On his couch he lies, severely wounded.
And his mother seeks him, and his sister,
But for very shame his wife is absent.

When the misery of his wounds was softened,
Hasan thus his faithful wife commanded:
"In my house thou shalt abide no longer—
Thou shalt dwell no more among my kindred."
When his wife had heard this awful sentence,
Numbed with dread she stood and full of sorrow.
When outside she heard the tramp of horses,
To the highest window of the tower
Rushed the faithful Hasanaginica,
Would have thrown herself into the courtyard,
But her two beloved daughters followed.
Crying after her in tearful anguish—

"Do come back to us, oh, mother, mother!
These are not our father Hasan's coursers,
'Tis our uncle Pintorovich coming."
Then, returning, Hasanaginica
Threw her arms in misery round her brother—
"See the sorrow, brother, of thy sister:
He would tear me from my helpless children."
He was silent—but from out his pocket.
Safely wrapped in silk of deepest scarlet.
Letters of divorce he drew, and bid her
Seek again her aged mother's dwelling—
Free to win and wed another husband.
When she saw the letter of divorcement,
Parting-kisses on her two boys' foreheads,
On her girls' red cheeks she pressed in sorrow.
But she could not tear herself from baby
Crowing at his mother from the cradle.
But at last her brother with an effort
Tore the mother from her tender infant,
Put her close behind him on his courser.
Hastened with her to the white-hued homestead.

But a short while dwelt she with her people—
Not a single week had been completed,
When a host of suitors wooed the lady
Of a noble family the flower;
One of them Imoski's mighty Cadi.
Said the noble lady, trembling greatly,
"I entreat thee, I implore thee, brother,
Do not give me to another husband.
For the sight of my poor orphan'd children
Sure would break the spirit of thy sister!"

Little cared her brother for her sorrows;
He had sworn she should espouse the Cadi.
Then his sister asked of him a favour:
"Write on snow-white paper, O, my brother.
To the Cadi as a bridal message,
'Friendly greetings from the youthful woman.
And she begs thee bring her as a present.
When thy wedding-guests and thou art coming
Hither to her peoples' white-hued homestead,
Such a long and flowing veil that passing
Aga's home she need not see her orphans.'

When the snow-white letter reached the Cadi,
All his wedding-guests he called together,
And set out with them for his betrothed,
Future mistress of his white-hued homestead.
Safely reached he with his friends her dwelling;
Happily were all returning homeward,
But when they were passing Aga's homestead.
Her two daughters saw her from the window.
Her two sons came out, and from the portal
Called to her, "Come hither! O, come hither!
Take thy night's repast with thine own children!"

Sadly Hasanaginica heard them;
And she said to him who led the party,
"I should be most grateful to you, captain.
If you kindly halted the procession
While I give some presents to the children."

So they stopped at the beloved portal.
Presents gave she unto all the children.
To the boys, high boots with gold embroidered;
To the girls, long and resplendent dresses;
And a silken garment to her baby.—


Near them sat their father, Hasan Aga,
And he called in sorrow to his children,
"Come to me, poor children! to your father.
From your mother do not hope for pity.
Callous is she, cold and stony-hearted."

Hasanaginica, when she heard this.
On the ground she fell all pale and trembling.
And her spirit left its earthly prison
At the glances of her orphan children.

It's indeed a great poem and a very diverting narrative too. I think the English version must lose some of the feel from the original, but it's enough that it has pathos and gives a discreet glimpse of that kind of life. Some very old poetry goes completely over my head, but this one hits the spot.

DividerOfShadows on MASLSIATF wrote:
That's fair. After all, I didn't originally mean to publish it. It was something that I felt I needed to write in order to make myself at peace, so I allowed myself some cliches - since they were rooted in my genuine ruminations. There are two parts that are only loosely connected - the first one is the 'prayer' part, and the second one is dwelling on problems that were on my mind; that eventually led to acceptance, as well as the resuscitation of hope for the future. I saw it as a process of purification of sorts. They are connected more or less by this implicit fear and need for strength of the spirit. The acrostic is there for no special reason, I believe I was trying to summarize the prayer in a very stupid way - by making the acrostic the title. It wasn't about me being 'quirky' :-P

I hope I wasn't over-critical about this one, because I had encouraged you before that to try different things and this was certainly something different. What you say about it being "a process of purification" makes a lot of sense: sometimes the process of writing it is more important than the final result.

I used to write a lot of poems when I had a part-time job as a receptionist; I would throw away lots of paper receipts (about 6x10cm), so I would use those for writing short poems when there was nothing to do. Some of those were just written out of boredom, not inspiration, and I remember my manager picking up on and reading it. It was awful, childish stuff, and I think he knew it, but I told him it was just a kind of exercise and he said he understood. It's one of my worst poems ever, but now the title is 'An Exercise for Leigh' :lol:

Osore on Gas's poem wrote:
This is my favourite of yours! ;-) I'm afraid I don't know the exact topic, although I can try to smell it. Motifs of time and change correspond to slow, natural processes that happen on Earth (and inside of it). The same could be applied to people: we appear constant, but we change (slowly or not), and we all end up as "dust in the wind". It is thought now that life originated in thermal vents, so the beginning of a poem tells me that live matter perhaps became dead and changed its form, but at the same time stayed the same, since matter is constant and can't be lost like energy. I especially like the expressionist vibe I'm getting from it.

You pick up on something interesting from the first line, which I had actually forgotten about. I wasn't thinking explicitly of thermal vents but of the processes called burial and compaction, which returns rocks to the Earth's interior again, though it's a parallel that you are right to see. I was trying to describe the subjcet from many different angles, so seeing people and life and other things is a nice reading :)

DividerOfShadows on Gas's poem wrote:
Is it about sand? If it is, I swear to God... :lol: After reading Osore's interpretation, I don't think I can come up with a better interpretation than his. However, if I have to comment on anything, I'd like to say that I enjoy those picturesque images that you convey in the poem. "You are made from ceaseless change;/you rest where nothing ever changes:" are my favourite lines!

I knew you'd figure it out :wink: I brought up that topic of sand and deserts too often for it to be anything else.

simonitro wrote:
The Voodooist

I get more of the vibe of proto-metal stuff like old Pentagram and Coven, but the lyrics are fairly cool. Perhaps there are a few too many lyrics for the song to give off the same musty darkness you are thinking of, but I'd say it would pass as anything from stoner doom to creepy slow blues. As Osore says, it's a little odd to plan in the guitar solos and so on, but I remember doing that myself in the past. There is actually a thread for lyrics separate to this one, so you may like to try that too. However, people don't seem to give much feedback there: viewtopic.php?f=8&t=57567&start=800

I will post a recent poem a little later; it's time to work now :-P

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