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gasmask_colostomy
Metalhead

Joined: Thu May 27, 2010 5:38 am
Posts: 1051
Location: Behind the wall of fire v.2
PostPosted: Thu Nov 28, 2019 11:39 am 
 

About a real experience from last weekend, and the places my mind went afterwards.

This Passed

At the beautiful gates of the temple
An absence of guiding figures;
The low hum of chants, struck bronze,
Serves as lure to the devout,
Climbing teetering stairs to clarity.

Set fire to all wishes,
Let them stream out like smoke in the sun;
Prostrate before the gilded skeleton,
A relic of that dead age
When peace was a destination.

A room looking inwards,
Grotesque faces and serene grace;
Mist blankets sleeping mountains,
Veil between this world and the other:
This passed, we must be saved.

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Osore
Metal newbie

Joined: Thu Apr 10, 2014 9:55 am
Posts: 382
Location: Serbia
PostPosted: Sat Nov 30, 2019 11:20 am 
 

Gas, I'm glad you liked the old poem I shared, and thanks for explaining your own poem. ;-)

I liked This Passed too! I'm sure it's about Buddhist temple or something like that; it has that aura of spiritual mystery and calmness of old haiku poems. Macabre touch is a big plus! :-D I would like to google it for pictures, but at the same time I would not because I'm afraid it could spoil my impressions of the poem and the picture I have in my head.

Here's a poem I promised:

Spoiler: show
PODZEMLJE

Sprovod u sumrak pogrbljeno gmiže; pod
fenjer pada glava, šišmiš svodom šara.
Tragom crne bube prolaziš kroz duplje,
jecaju krezubi, tmino mutne rake.

Vagoni hukte u zmijske ralje; prnje
gnezdi se na drhtavi čelik što štipa
promaju duž zidova i grebe, a
možda škripe arterijom šarke, ili

neko peva kraj ugasle sveće. Čekrk
ruku pušta, pauk omču spušta: kap bezmerna
na licu tavornika neprimetno biserna.

Prolivena magma, još sveži žig, ugaslim
pipcima kleše novo znamenje: kuglo,
u zaronu meduze slepa sam kosturnica.

13.10.2019.


originally posted here: https://pesimum.wordpress.com/2019/10/16/podzemlje/

I did the best I could for the translation.

UNDERGROUND

Funeral procession grovels at twilight; under
the lantern a head falls, and bat amid the welkin circles.
On the trail of a black bug, you, toothless sob,
gloom of blurry pit, pass through the cavities.

Wagons roar into the serpentine yawn; rags
are nesting on a trembling steel which pinches
and scratches the drought along the walls, and
maybe hinges through the arteries are squeaking, or

someone is singing beside the candle blown. Winch let
go of the arm, a spider releases the noose: an immeasurable drop
on the face of a sufferer imperceptibly pearly.

Spilled magma, still a fresh brand, with extinguished
tentacles carves a new omen: globe,
in a dive of a medusa I am but a blind ossuary.

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LordStenhammar
Metalhead

Joined: Sun Oct 21, 2012 10:46 am
Posts: 2065
Location: The 9th Circle of Hollola
PostPosted: Thu Dec 12, 2019 9:35 am 
 

Translated with Google translator. Looks like shit, but I guess you get the picture. Looks like regular heavy-/black metal lyrics now:

WE ARE YOU
Do not listen to anything but our voice
Uncompromisingly obey all our psychotic commandments
We are now standing before you in the place of your former God
Silence your fellow humans - there are no other laws

We are you -
when the last candles burn out
We are you -
all the devils medieval
We are you -
rough figures in the sacred walls
We are you -
ploughboys for The Reaper

We are inside you, and you are outside
This murder remains dark - there are no trials for the dead
We are your coercers and you will never get peace from us
Hidden from the bookkeeper of souls we secretly entered this world

We are you -
your criminal secrets
We are you -
your silent and shameful thoughts
We are you -
anonymous shadow governments
We are you -
the ring of eyes around the lowest ones

Systematically we steal your personal dreams
We crush your heart and with it your little will
Totally sick and swollen we are because of you
Still, we are present as you walk alone in the dark streets

We are you -
a monument to supernatural fear
We are you -
a testament to the virtue of human life
We are you -
like dead heroes at guard
We are you -
bouncers at the gates of the cemetery

As dusk comes again, we will gather near you
A murderer may have consciense, but not the murderer's hand
As you walk along the lonely path, your shadow casts a shadow over you
You forget your daily work and start to fulfill our prophecies

And here's the original:

ME OLEMME SINÄ
Älä kuuntele sinä kuin pelkästään meidän ääntämme
Pyyteettömästi toteuta kaikki mielisairaat käskymme
Me seisomme nyt edessäsi entisen Jumalasi paikalla
Tee hiljaisiksi kanssaihmisesi – ei liene toisia lakeja

Me olemme sinä –
kun sammuvat tuikut viimeiset
Me olemme sinä –
kaikki paholaiset keskiaikaiset
Me olemme sinä –
karkeat hahmot pyhätön seinissä
Me olemme sinä –
asiainhoitajat noutajan leivissä

Me olemme sinussa sisällä, ja sinä olet ulkopuolella
Tämä murha jää pimeäksi – ei ole käräjiä kuolleilla
Me olemme pakottajasi, etkä meiltä ikinä rauhaa saa
Henkikirjurilta salassa saavuimme tähän maailmaan

Me olemme sinä –
nuo sinun rikolliset salaisuutesi
Me olemme sinä –
vaietut ja häpeälliset ajatuksesi
Me olemme sinä –
nimettömät hallitukset varjojen
Me olemme sinä –
silmän kehä ympärillä alhaisten

Järjestäen varastamme me henkilökohtaiset haaveesi
Murskaamme sydämesi ja sen mukana pienen tahtosi
Kokonaan sairaiksi ja paiseisiksi me tulemme sinusta
Silti läsnä olemme, kun kävelet yksin pimeitä katuja

Me olemme sinä –
yliluonnollisen pelon monumentti
Me olemme sinä –
hyveellisen ihmiselon testamentti
Me olemme sinä –
niin kuin kuolleet sankarit vartiolla
Me olemme sinä –
sisäänheittäjät kalmiston porteilla

Hämärän jälleen koittaessa kokoonnumme sinua lähellä
Omatunto lienee murhaajalla, mutta ei murhaajan kädellä
Yksinäisen polkua kulkeissa oma varjosi sinua varjostaa
Ennustustamme toteutat arkityöt unohtaneena kokonaan

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gasmask_colostomy
Metalhead

Joined: Thu May 27, 2010 5:38 am
Posts: 1051
Location: Behind the wall of fire v.2
PostPosted: Sat Dec 14, 2019 7:34 am 
 

Osore wrote:
Gas, I'm glad you liked the old poem I shared, and thanks for explaining your own poem. ;-)

I liked This Passed too! I'm sure it's about Buddhist temple or something like that; it has that aura of spiritual mystery and calmness of old haiku poems. Macabre touch is a big plus! :-D I would like to google it for pictures, but at the same time I would not because I'm afraid it could spoil my impressions of the poem and the picture I have in my head.

Yes, it written about a Buddhist temple on the top of a mountain, and it's mostly just descriptive. The opening and closing lines both come to an album that means a lot to me, which I started singing to myself while in the temple, My Dying Bride's Turn Loose the Swans. Somehow it connected that very mystic and foreign (for me) place with familiar personal experiences.

Osore wrote:
Here's a poem I promised:

Spoiler: show
PODZEMLJE

Sprovod u sumrak pogrbljeno gmiže; pod
fenjer pada glava, šišmiš svodom šara.
Tragom crne bube prolaziš kroz duplje,
jecaju krezubi, tmino mutne rake.

Vagoni hukte u zmijske ralje; prnje
gnezdi se na drhtavi čelik što štipa
promaju duž zidova i grebe, a
možda škripe arterijom šarke, ili

neko peva kraj ugasle sveće. Čekrk
ruku pušta, pauk omču spušta: kap bezmerna
na licu tavornika neprimetno biserna.

Prolivena magma, još sveži žig, ugaslim
pipcima kleše novo znamenje: kuglo,
u zaronu meduze slepa sam kosturnica.

13.10.2019.


originally posted here: https://pesimum.wordpress.com/2019/10/16/podzemlje/

I did the best I could for the translation.

UNDERGROUND

Funeral procession grovels at twilight; under
the lantern a head falls, and bat amid the welkin circles.
On the trail of a black bug, you, toothless sob,
gloom of blurry pit, pass through the cavities.

Wagons roar into the serpentine yawn; rags
are nesting on a trembling steel which pinches
and scratches the drought along the walls, and
maybe hinges through the arteries are squeaking, or

someone is singing beside the candle blown. Winch let
go of the arm, a spider releases the noose: an immeasurable drop
on the face of a sufferer imperceptibly pearly.

Spilled magma, still a fresh brand, with extinguished
tentacles carves a new omen: globe,
in a dive of a medusa I am but a blind ossuary.

Of course, I'm reading your translation, but it really comes to life! I don't know how much "underground" should be understood from our musical point of view, though I can see how it all fits together into a single imagistic "colour". A little bit of the hermetic style sneaks in, not as much as I've seen in some of your past work, which makes it easier for me to relate to.

Some of the phrases seem to have a very deliberate double meaning, like "toothless sob" coming back to play with "pass through the cavities". I also love how "an immeasurable drop" transforms from the short downwards journey of a hanged man into a tear sliding down someone's face. The whole thing seems to be describing an imagined realm of some sort, but I'm quite happy to just poke at the details and get pleasure from the general impression.


LordStenhammar wrote:
Translated with Google translator. Looks like shit, but I guess you get the picture. Looks like regular heavy-/black metal lyrics now:

WE ARE YOU
Spoiler: show
Do not listen to anything but our voice
Uncompromisingly obey all our psychotic commandments
We are now standing before you in the place of your former God
Silence your fellow humans - there are no other laws

We are you -
when the last candles burn out
We are you -
all the devils medieval
We are you -
rough figures in the sacred walls
We are you -
ploughboys for The Reaper

We are inside you, and you are outside
This murder remains dark - there are no trials for the dead
We are your coercers and you will never get peace from us
Hidden from the bookkeeper of souls we secretly entered this world

We are you -
your criminal secrets
We are you -
your silent and shameful thoughts
We are you -
anonymous shadow governments
We are you -
the ring of eyes around the lowest ones

Systematically we steal your personal dreams
We crush your heart and with it your little will
Totally sick and swollen we are because of you
Still, we are present as you walk alone in the dark streets

We are you -
a monument to supernatural fear
We are you -
a testament to the virtue of human life
We are you -
like dead heroes at guard
We are you -
bouncers at the gates of the cemetery

As dusk comes again, we will gather near you
A murderer may have consciense, but not the murderer's hand
As you walk along the lonely path, your shadow casts a shadow over you
You forget your daily work and start to fulfill our prophecies

You're right that it feels a lot more like lyrics, mostly because of the structure, especially the repetition of the title. If you're aiming for it to be a poem, you could probably start that "chorus" with just one "We are you", then make a list of the things included in that thought. I notice again that the Finnish has very tight rhyme and rhythm, while the translation gets rid of it completely - I think that would be much more satisfying in the original.

As for the subject, it seems quite typical for that style of music to have these lyrics, and it never really goes deeper than listing all those dark urges and deeds that could be controlled by the external force you are talking about. When I try to write lyrics or poetry in that style, I try to make the whole thing more linear and not so expansive, so that the reader (or listener) is pulled along by some story or flow of reasoning.

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LordStenhammar
Metalhead

Joined: Sun Oct 21, 2012 10:46 am
Posts: 2065
Location: The 9th Circle of Hollola
PostPosted: Sat Dec 14, 2019 8:11 am 
 

Thanks for the good and reasonable feedback. Got to think some of it. Yeah, it's kind of more fluent in Finnish, but that's given. Also it doesn't feel so black metal like, at least I think so.

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DividerOfShadows
Metalhead

Joined: Tue Sep 13, 2016 1:58 pm
Posts: 401
Location: Croatia
PostPosted: Sat Dec 14, 2019 7:56 pm 
 

gasmask_colostomy on MASLSIATF wrote:
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:


Oh, don't worry. Your comments are still greatly appreciated, it doesn't matter if they're positive or negative, anything goes ;)

Well, at least you used your free time of sorts for something creative, no matter how childish it might have been. If anything, you can look at that moment in time as something that now brings a smile to your face :)

By the way, that story of unusual papers being used for poetry reminded me of something that happened this summer. After I was done with my student job for the day, I went to a bank and I was dead tired. There was a long queue so I decided to sit, listen to Devin Townsend's "Consciousness Causes Collapse" on my MP3 and pen a poem. However, given that my phone's battery was almost depleted and I didn't have any notebooks by my side, I didn't know what to use for writing. And then I found an old travelling ticket in my bag and decided to write on it. The result? In hindsight, an interesting poem in two stanzas... Semi-philosophical, basically my mind deprived of sleep and overwhelmed with personal issues. I decided to name it "Reflection." I'll post it here along with a newer one to compensate for not having posted anything here in a while.

gasmask_colostomy wrote:
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.


You sneaky mofo ;)

gasmask_colostomy wrote:
About a real experience from last weekend, and the places my mind went afterwards.

This Passed

Spoiler: show
At the beautiful gates of the temple
An absence of guiding figures;
The low hum of chants, struck bronze,
Serves as lure to the devout,
Climbing teetering stairs to clarity.

Set fire to all wishes,
Let them stream out like smoke in the sun;
Prostrate before the gilded skeleton,
A relic of that dead age
When peace was a destination.

A room looking inwards,
Grotesque faces and serene grace;
Mist blankets sleeping mountains,
Veil between this world and the other:
This passed, we must be saved.


Well, since Osore figured it out, there's nothing much I can add. It's a nice little poem and, even though you said it's only descriptive, your descriptions are pretty cool, I like how you jump back and forth from a bit twisted to serene images (grotesque faces -> mist blanketing sleeping mountains). The second stanza is my absolute favourite, it's something I wish I had written :D

Osore wrote:
UNDERGROUND

Spoiler: show
Funeral procession grovels at twilight; under
the lantern a head falls, and bat amid the welkin circles.
On the trail of a black bug, you, toothless sob,
gloom of blurry pit, pass through the cavities.

Wagons roar into the serpentine yawn; rags
are nesting on a trembling steel which pinches
and scratches the drought along the walls, and
maybe hinges through the arteries are squeaking, or

someone is singing beside the candle blown. Winch let
go of the arm, a spider releases the noose: an immeasurable drop
on the face of a sufferer imperceptibly pearly.

Spilled magma, still a fresh brand, with extinguished
tentacles carves a new omen: globe,
in a dive of a medusa I am but a blind ossuary.


I'm not really sure why, but this poem, along with the colour you chose to represent it in, really reminded me of Heroes of Might and Magic 3, the town of Dungeon. I'm not sure if you're familiar with the game, but there's a certain vibe in your poem that brought this picture to my mind.

Now to the poem itself - I really like it, although, I'm not going to lie, it took me a couple of readings to get into the gist of it (then again, who am I to complain about it? I defended that way of writing several messages ago :lol: ) I like how atmospheric it is in some parts ("Someone is singing beside the candle blown"), and some images are pretty damn interesting ("blind ossuary" being the prime example). If what you meant to pull off with this poem is showcase your vision of an underground realm, you sure as hell nailed 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: Sat Dec 14, 2019 8:07 pm 
 

So, anyway, here's the first one, the one written this last summer. Again, bear in mind that I was sleepy as fuck while writing it.

Reflection

Spoiler: show
I am nothing
And I am anything
The culmination of temporal arrangements
My heart beats faster than a rabbit's heart
My blood flows through the veins of the universe
Sightless, yet I see the path in front of me
I see the unfathomable sea throwing waves onto the shore with grace
A little devil in my mind steals my bags of sleep
The allure is too great to ignore
My eyes watch the naked skies and collect dust from foreign worlds

I am alone
And I am unified
A castle too steep to crumble or to wane with time
I have watched the eyes of darkness
And decided not to run
For within myself a child of dusk grew
Arrows bathed in poison abandon my hunched back
And I toss the glass aside
Whisper a cautionary tale
For the next generation
Don't tread where I have
These thorns were too big of a price.


And now, here's a newer one. It's actually my last finished poem at this time, I wrote it about two weeks ago. I'm not sure if you'll like it, though, since it doesn't stick to one theme. Each stanza describes a different picture. Think of it as a movie of sorts.

The Clarity of Snow

Spoiler: show
Tapped into the hidden undercurrent
Permeating the veins of a higher life
Artificial stars gyrate and swim
In this ocean of blue
Uncovering arcane organisms

Opened the doors to an enemy
Grasped his hands and studied them closely
Let red lights embrace shielded eyes
Spoken such a strange string of words
"Good night, are you okay?"

Men and women made of dust
Flying across the orange-tinted skies
Titian hair obscures the view
Hills of gold cry against the monolith
"Am I one of them too? Will I fade from view?"

Petals from the last spring cover the ground
Bare feet walk towards a new season at hand
No wind, no storm, no heat can grasp the being
The road is more intricate than reality itself
No sight can apprehend the clarity of this vision

"Where are your dreams? Where is your Sun?"
Be wary not to lose her again
Islands of water are here to replenish the strength
Lost in a fierce battle against snow
Let the stars bring their shine to you
_________________
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: 1051
Location: Behind the wall of fire v.2
PostPosted: Sun Dec 15, 2019 6:53 am 
 

DividerOfShadows wrote:
So, anyway, here's the first one, the one written this last summer. Again, bear in mind that I was sleepy as fuck while writing it.

Reflection

Spoiler: show
I am nothing
And I am anything
The culmination of temporal arrangements
My heart beats faster than a rabbit's heart
My blood flows through the veins of the universe
Sightless, yet I see the path in front of me
I see the unfathomable sea throwing waves onto the shore with grace
A little devil in my mind steals my bags of sleep
The allure is too great to ignore
My eyes watch the naked skies and collect dust from foreign worlds

I am alone
And I am unified
A castle too steep to crumble or to wane with time
I have watched the eyes of darkness
And decided not to run
For within myself a child of dusk grew
Arrows bathed in poison abandon my hunched back
And I toss the glass aside
Whisper a cautionary tale
For the next generation
Don't tread where I have
These thorns were too big of a price.

It's definitely not bad considering the state you said you were in when you wrote it. Sometimes words come out more easily when tiredness breaks down all your defences. I kind of like the style of using two verses to mirror each other, since they begin in deliberately similar ways. A few bits and pieces from this one could do with editing (e.g. repeating 'heart' in the first stanza; a few too many adjective + noun phrases in the first stanza), but there are interesting things as well, like the devil stealing "bags of sleep" and the arrows that "abandon your back".

DividerOfShadows wrote:
And now, here's a newer one. It's actually my last finished poem at this time, I wrote it about two weeks ago. I'm not sure if you'll like it, though, since it doesn't stick to one theme. Each stanza describes a different picture. Think of it as a movie of sorts.

The Clarity of Snow

Spoiler: show
Tapped into the hidden undercurrent
Permeating the veins of a higher life
Artificial stars gyrate and swim
In this ocean of blue
Uncovering arcane organisms

Opened the doors to an enemy
Grasped his hands and studied them closely
Let red lights embrace shielded eyes
Spoken such a strange string of words
"Good night, are you okay?"

Men and women made of dust
Flying across the orange-tinted skies
Titian hair obscures the view
Hills of gold cry against the monolith
"Am I one of them too? Will I fade from view?"

Petals from the last spring cover the ground
Bare feet walk towards a new season at hand
No wind, no storm, no heat can grasp the being
The road is more intricate than reality itself
No sight can apprehend the clarity of this vision

"Where are your dreams? Where is your Sun?"
Be wary not to lose her again
Islands of water are here to replenish the strength
Lost in a fierce battle against snow
Let the stars bring their shine to you

For this one, it was useful to know that there was no link between the stanzas, because I might have tried to make the meaning bridge them otherwise. Opposite to your normal poems, this has a fixed structure even without any special metre or rhyme; however, I strongly notice something that happens in some your poems. The order of your phrases is a bit too similar, often starting with the subject noun and ending with the object noun. It gets repetitive in stanza 4, because almost every line is a similar length and has that same structure. I think part of that is caused by the phrases being discrete from each other, thus giving you a narrower range of sentence options.

In terms of the actual content, I especially like the 3rd stanza. I'm not sure if you were thinking of a classical painting for that, since you mention Titian (I'm assuming it's the artist) and seem specifically focused on colour at that point. The speech works pretty well there, totally surprising me in the context, though I don't feel that all the interjections of speech work quite so well.


Having mentioned that period of "receipt poetry", as I called it, I'd like to share one of the more successful examples. You should imagine it written down on the back of a piece of receipt paper, neatly filling the whole space. The topic was exactly as the title suggests: I was wrestling with the idea of difficulty in its many forms.

Difficulty
Spoiler: show
Conjunctivial concentration,
The pop and crick of fixed neck tendons;
Pyramidal balance, rhomboid abstrusion
Frays the tightrope of the virtuoso:
Flex into the box of conditions,
Extricate the blade that hurt you oh so
Carefully make the decisive incision;
Trembling fingers dissecting confusion,
Reining in the equine manifestation
You must rally and now spur true to go
Slaloming its hectic course through fir and snow
To salvage the knotty task you attend on –
The difficulty that is its own end.

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Osore
Metal newbie

Joined: Thu Apr 10, 2014 9:55 am
Posts: 382
Location: Serbia
PostPosted: Sun Dec 15, 2019 3:41 pm 
 

LordStenhammar wrote:
Translated with Google translator. Looks like shit, but I guess you get the picture. Looks like regular heavy-/black metal lyrics now:

WE ARE YOU
Spoiler: show
I'm surprised Google translator dealt with so many grammatical cases you have in Finish, because it always messes with 7 cases in Serbian. Anyway, lyrics in English would suit arena rock type of a song, something like 30 Seconds to Mars did on This Is War. I can already hear the crowd singing We are you parts.


gasmask_colostomy wrote:
Of course, I'm reading your translation, but it really comes to life! I don't know how much "underground" should be understood from our musical point of view, though I can see how it all fits together into a single imagistic "colour". A little bit of the hermetic style sneaks in, not as much as I've seen in some of your past work, which makes it easier for me to relate to.

Some of the phrases seem to have a very deliberate double meaning, like "toothless sob" coming back to play with "pass through the cavities". I also love how "an immeasurable drop" transforms from the short downwards journey of a hanged man into a tear sliding down someone's face. The whole thing seems to be describing an imagined realm of some sort, but I'm quite happy to just poke at the details and get pleasure from the general impression.


DividerOfShadows wrote:
I'm not really sure why, but this poem, along with the colour you chose to represent it in, really reminded me of Heroes of Might and Magic 3, the town of Dungeon. I'm not sure if you're familiar with the game, but there's a certain vibe in your poem that brought this picture to my mind.

Now to the poem itself - I really like it, although, I'm not going to lie, it took me a couple of readings to get into the gist of it (then again, who am I to complain about it? I defended that way of writing several messages ago :lol: ) I like how atmospheric it is in some parts ("Someone is singing beside the candle blown"), and some images are pretty damn interesting ("blind ossuary" being the prime example). If what you meant to pull off with this poem is showcase your vision of an underground realm, you sure as hell nailed it!


Thanks for the comments to both of you. I'm glad this one worked in translation. My intention was to create a poem with Gothic motifs related to the dead, which are under ground, so everything goes down and sinks. I wasn't particularly satisfied when I wrote it, but now I especially like the last line and a double meaning of a globe (Earth/crystal ball) and Medusa, in front of whom you must be blind, or you end up as a blind ossuary if you look at her eyes. On a higher plain of meaning is an atheist thought - dead are blind indeed, death is the end.
I'm not familiar with the game, unless you have a Mortal Kombat fatality reference. :-D

I'll reply to your poems in a separate post.

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LordStenhammar
Metalhead

Joined: Sun Oct 21, 2012 10:46 am
Posts: 2065
Location: The 9th Circle of Hollola
PostPosted: Sun Dec 15, 2019 4:03 pm 
 

Osore wrote:
LordStenhammar wrote:
Translated with Google translator. Looks like shit, but I guess you get the picture. Looks like regular heavy-/black metal lyrics now:

WE ARE YOU
Spoiler: show
I'm surprised Google translator dealt with so many grammatical cases you have in Finish, because it always messes with 7 cases in Serbian. Anyway, lyrics in English would suit arena rock type of a song, something like 30 Seconds to Mars did on This Is War. I can already hear the crowd singing We are you parts.


30 Seconds to Mars... As far as I know, that's not a good thing. Now I hate my poem. :thumbsdown: Well, it's only the case with the translation.

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Osore
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Joined: Thu Apr 10, 2014 9:55 am
Posts: 382
Location: Serbia
PostPosted: Sun Dec 15, 2019 4:13 pm 
 

DividerOfShadows wrote:
So, anyway, here's the first one, the one written this last summer. Again, bear in mind that I was sleepy as fuck while writing it.

Reflection

Spoiler: show
I am nothing
And I am anything
The culmination of temporal arrangements
My heart beats faster than a rabbit's heart
My blood flows through the veins of the universe
Sightless, yet I see the path in front of me
I see the unfathomable sea throwing waves onto the shore with grace
A little devil in my mind steals my bags of sleep
The allure is too great to ignore
My eyes watch the naked skies and collect dust from foreign worlds

I am alone
And I am unified
A castle too steep to crumble or to wane with time
I have watched the eyes of darkness
And decided not to run
For within myself a child of dusk grew
Arrows bathed in poison abandon my hunched back
And I toss the glass aside
Whisper a cautionary tale
For the next generation
Don't tread where I have
These thorns were too big of a price.
The 1st person singular gives it intimacy. It is kind of something I wouldn't expect to like, but it seems attractive. I've also noticed the word 'heart' repeated twice. All in all, it is nice that you spent your time in the queue creatively.

DividerOfShadows wrote:
And now, here's a newer one. It's actually my last finished poem at this time, I wrote it about two weeks ago. I'm not sure if you'll like it, though, since it doesn't stick to one theme. Each stanza describes a different picture. Think of it as a movie of sorts.

The Clarity of Snow

Spoiler: show
Tapped into the hidden undercurrent
Permeating the veins of a higher life
Artificial stars gyrate and swim
In this ocean of blue
Uncovering arcane organisms

Opened the doors to an enemy
Grasped his hands and studied them closely
Let red lights embrace shielded eyes
Spoken such a strange string of words
"Good night, are you okay?"

Men and women made of dust
Flying across the orange-tinted skies
Titian hair obscures the view
Hills of gold cry against the monolith
"Am I one of them too? Will I fade from view?"

Petals from the last spring cover the ground
Bare feet walk towards a new season at hand
No wind, no storm, no heat can grasp the being
The road is more intricate than reality itself
No sight can apprehend the clarity of this vision

"Where are your dreams? Where is your Sun?"
Be wary not to lose her again
Islands of water are here to replenish the strength
Lost in a fierce battle against snow
Let the stars bring their shine to you
Like you said, it seems like a collage of images and a lot happens here. If not by meaning, everything is connected by your crossover of apocalypse and Salvador Dali. I want for you to try to get rid of any phrases that sound ordinary or explanatory. Give us only those creatures, monoliths and colours and let them radiate emotions from the way they relate to each other in the poem. (I'm still targeting abstract nouns I was talking about before.)
Obviously, I don't analyse grammar and syntax in English, but I think I felt what Gas noticed and explained. You can see how he enchained sentences in his poems with the use of enjambment, setting a different rhythms, so that you can do it in your next poem.

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Osore
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Joined: Thu Apr 10, 2014 9:55 am
Posts: 382
Location: Serbia
PostPosted: Sun Dec 15, 2019 4:33 pm 
 

gasmask_colostomy wrote:
Having mentioned that period of "receipt poetry", as I called it, I'd like to share one of the more successful examples. You should imagine it written down on the back of a piece of receipt paper, neatly filling the whole space. The topic was exactly as the title suggests: I was wrestling with the idea of difficulty in its many forms.

Difficulty
Spoiler: show
Conjunctivial concentration,
The pop and crick of fixed neck tendons;
Pyramidal balance, rhomboid abstrusion
Frays the tightrope of the virtuoso:
Flex into the box of conditions,
Extricate the blade that hurt you oh so
Carefully make the decisive incision;
Trembling fingers dissecting confusion,
Reining in the equine manifestation
You must rally and now spur true to go
Slaloming its hectic course through fir and snow
To salvage the knotty task you attend on –
The difficulty that is its own end.
No compromise, this was me dissecting a mouse for the first time. :-D Eloquence is so strong it hurts, although I enjoyed well known 'scientific words' in this form.


LordStenhammar wrote:
30 Seconds to Mars... As far as I know, that's not a good thing. Now I hate my poem. :thumbsdown: Well, it's only the case with the translation.
Please don't:-D
I now appreciate mostly their first album, although I was thinking more about We are you as in We lose control:

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Osore
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Joined: Thu Apr 10, 2014 9:55 am
Posts: 382
Location: Serbia
PostPosted: Sun Dec 15, 2019 4:56 pm 
 

Here's a piece I translated a few months ago. I'm not sure if it works.

Spoiler: show
OTISCI

Bilo je tiho i hladno. Rane sumračne skrovitosti stapale su se neopaženo. Izmagličasta mirnoća i meka škriputavost usporavali su odsutni korak dok je opasivao mrežoliko zmijsko gibanje.
Nakon mehaničkog obrta buktinja pucketavo palaca u oklopu.
Možda je šareni prasak leteo ili je samo slepo i teško padalo, neosetno, zasmrdevši mraznom čistoćom. Talasavost vlati postala je cepanje koje odjekuje. Onda se čulo, crno, ali bestežinski tečno i odlazeće, sve tiše, tiho: ono. Posle se videlo, još crnje.
Brojevi automatski postaju nule kojih nema ispod starog stakla.
One noći krljuštasto su se caklile duge krivulje u hvatanju daleke, izranjavane lopte. Šuškanje je neoprezno promicalo dok je isto bilo prevrtano u nemom kotrljanju kroz ništa. Iznenada, kroz maglovite senke zaiskrili su se šaputavi kikoti. Nešto kao da se skrilo.
Čistina se ukazala koloseumski tajnom i nemoguće beskrajnom. Ispod su i dalje bile lepljive liske, a iznad suvi treptaji. Ipak, varljivi obrisi su lelujavo prolazili kroz hrapavost.
Još jednom, obrt kugle spušta zastore i, kao nekad, odjeci tonu tragom minulog listopada.

02.10.2017.


originally posted here: https://pesimum.wordpress.com/2018/02/18/%d0%be%d1%82%d0%b8%d1%81%d1%86%d0%b8/ click for my artistic self-portrait photo

IMPRINTS

It was quiet and cold. Early twilight seclusions were morphing imperceptibly. Hazy stillness and soft creaks were slowing down the absent step while it was girding a web-like serpentine movement.
After the mechanical turn, the torch crackly flicks in the armour.
Perhaps a colourful bang was flying or it was only blindly and heavily falling, insensibly stinking with frosty purity. A waviness of ribbons became an echoing tearing. Then it was heard, black, but weightlessly liquid and departing, ever quieter, quiet: it. Later was seen, even blacker.
The numbers automatically become zeros absent below an old glass.
That night the long scaly curves were shining, catching the distant, wounded sphere. Rustle was incautiously passing by while the same was being rolled in a mute spinning through nothingness. Suddenly, through the foggy shadows whispery giggles sparkled. As if something was hiding.
The clearing appeared secret like a colosseum and impossibly endless. Still, underneath were sticky leaves, and above dry blinks. However, deceptive outlines were swaying through the roughness.
Once again, the turn of the orb is closing the curtains and, like before, reverberations sink in the wake of the passed leaf fall.



Last edited by Osore on Sun Dec 22, 2019 8:37 am, edited 1 time in total.
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LordStenhammar
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Joined: Sun Oct 21, 2012 10:46 am
Posts: 2065
Location: The 9th Circle of Hollola
PostPosted: Mon Dec 16, 2019 7:59 am 
 

Imprints (translation) seems good, but I'm seriously going to need a dictionary for that. If only everybody would write in Finnish, it would be so much easier. Did the Google translator thingie, and it sure seems very poetic, though I didn't understand even half of it.

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gasmask_colostomy
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Joined: Thu May 27, 2010 5:38 am
Posts: 1051
Location: Behind the wall of fire v.2
PostPosted: Thu Dec 19, 2019 12:16 am 
 

Osore on 'Difficulty' wrote:
No compromise, this was me dissecting a mouse for the first time. :-D Eloquence is so strong it hurts, although I enjoyed well known 'scientific words' in this form.

Haha, it was obviously supposed to be difficult! I had forgotten there was such a strong medical/science angle to it as well, but then it does seem to be about dissecting small animals at one point. I was also trying to make the rhyme work with only 2 different rhyming endings. However, some of the lines are not strong rhymes.

Osore wrote:
Here's a piece I translated a few months ago. I'm not sure if it works.

Spoiler: show
OTISCI

Bilo je tiho i hladno. Rane sumračne skrovitosti stapale su se neopaženo. Izmagličasta mirnoća i meka škriputavost usporavali su odsutni korak dok je opasivao mrežoliko zmijsko gibanje.
Nakon mehaničkog obrta buktinja pucketavo palaca u oklopu.
Možda je šareni prasak leteo ili je samo slepo i teško padalo, neosetno, zasmrdevši mraznom čistoćom. Talasavost vlati postala je cepanje koje odjekuje. Onda se čulo, crno, ali bestežinski tečno i odlazeće, sve tiše, tiho: ono. Posle se videlo, još crnje.
Brojevi automatski postaju nule kojih nema ispod starog stakla.
One noći krljuštasto su se caklile duge krivulje u hvatanju daleke, izranjavane lopte. Šuškanje je neoprezno promicalo dok je isto bilo prevrtano u nemom kotrljanju kroz ništa. Iznenada, kroz maglovite senke zaiskrili su se šaputavi kikoti. Nešto kao da se skrilo.
Čistina se ukazala koloseumski tajnom i nemoguće beskrajnom. Ispod su i dalje bile lepljive liske, a iznad suvi treptaji. Ipak, varljivi obrisi su lelujavo prolazili kroz hrapavost.
Još jednom, obrt kugle spušta zastore i, kao nekad, odjeci tonu tragom minulog listopada.

02.10.2017.


originally posted here: https://pesimum.wordpress.com/2018/02/18/%d0%be%d1%82%d0%b8%d1%81%d1%86%d0%b8/ click for my artistic self-portrait photo

IMPRINTS

It was quiet and cold. Early twilight seclusions were morphing imperceptibly. Hazy stillness and soft creaks were slowing down the absent step while it was girding a web-like serpentine movement.
After the mechanical turn, the torch crackly flicks in the armour.
Perhaps a colourful bang was flying or it was only blindly and heavily falling, insensibly stinking with frosty purity. A waviness of ribbons became an echoing tearing. Then it was heard, black, but weightlessly liquid and departing, ever quieter, quiet: it. Later was seen, even blacker.
The numbers automatically become zeros absent below an old glass.
That night the long scaly curves were shining, catching the distant, wounded ball. Rustle was incautiously passing by while the same was being rolled in a mute spinning through nothingness. Suddenly, through the foggy shadows whispery giggles sparkled. As if something was hiding.
The clearing appeared secret like a colosseum and impossibly endless. Still, underneath were sticky leaves, and above dry blinks. However, deceptive outlines were swaying through the roughness.
Once again, the turn of the ball is closing the curtains and, like before, reverberations sink in the wake of the passed leaf fall.


I like it even though I find it difficult to say precisely what the action is. Everything is edge-on and comes from an interesting perspective. Of course, mashing up how the sentences work (abstract nouns doing actions, etc) adds to that effect.

Like the last one you wrote, it's strongly atmospheric, very much a midnight walk through a dark house and out into the woods. Because the movements are described in such intricate detail, it's the feeling of moving on that is strongest, and also the experience of being there. I think "a clearing secret like a colosseum" is my favourite phrase, although I'm also drawn to the mystery of the numbers becoming zeros. The only image I feel doesn't work so well is the ball. Maybe instead of balls, you could try some other words to reflect round objects, like orbs or spheres.

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Osore
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Joined: Thu Apr 10, 2014 9:55 am
Posts: 382
Location: Serbia
PostPosted: Sun Dec 22, 2019 5:10 pm 
 

LordStenhammar wrote:
Imprints (translation) seems good, but I'm seriously going to need a dictionary for that. If only everybody would write in Finnish, it would be so much easier. Did the Google translator thingie, and it sure seems very poetic, though I didn't understand even half of it.
I can feel your pain. I rely heavily on a dictionary when I'm translating. Also, you probably feel isolated, given the fact that Finnish language doesn't belong to a larger family (If I'm not mistaking, you don't understand Hungarian, although it's considered to be related to Finnish). I'm glad that I can understand random words from different Slavic languages based on similarity with Serbian.

gasmask_colostomy wrote:
Osore on 'Difficulty' wrote:
No compromise, this was me dissecting a mouse for the first time. :-D Eloquence is so strong it hurts, although I enjoyed well known 'scientific words' in this form.

Haha, it was obviously supposed to be difficult! I had forgotten there was such a strong medical/science angle to it as well, but then it does seem to be about dissecting small animals at one point. I was also trying to make the rhyme work with only 2 different rhyming endings. However, some of the lines are not strong rhymes.
However, it sounds great this way! Too strict rhyme would have been predictable and uniform.

gasmask_colostomy wrote:
Osore wrote:
IMPRINTS

I like it even though I find it difficult to say precisely what the action is. Everything is edge-on and comes from an interesting perspective. Of course, mashing up how the sentences work (abstract nouns doing actions, etc) adds to that effect.

Like the last one you wrote, it's strongly atmospheric, very much a midnight walk through a dark house and out into the woods. Because the movements are described in such intricate detail, it's the feeling of moving on that is strongest, and also the experience of being there. I think "a clearing secret like a colosseum" is my favourite phrase, although I'm also drawn to the mystery of the numbers becoming zeros. The only image I feel doesn't work so well is the ball. Maybe instead of balls, you could try some other words to reflect round objects, like orbs or spheres.

The title justifies the fact that you can't discern the objects, but what is left of them - impressions, outlines... It is a contemplation on past (and time) that I was trying to capture and this is why it was written in the past tense, which I rarely do.
You are right about the settings and the time! Numbers automatically become zeros absent below an old glass is nothing but a digital clock showing 00:00 (as compared to the analogue). :wink:
We definitely don't want balls in this prose poem, so I fixed it, thanks for reminding me. I mean, I want poetry with balls, but without them, if that makes sense. o_O

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Osore
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Joined: Thu Apr 10, 2014 9:55 am
Posts: 382
Location: Serbia
PostPosted: Sun Dec 22, 2019 5:26 pm 
 

I wrote this one after a dull week when I was preparing tissue samples for centrifugation...

Spoiler: show
NIŠTAVNA VRTEŠKA

Brzinom svetlosti zavitlan
U prostor bezmerni, bez daha
U eone straha odaslat žmureći

Jedan budući vakuum nesrećni što
Centrifugira sopstvene vijuge i
Navijen, bez četvrte dimenzije,

U beskonačnom katapultu
Bestelesnih kodova, pronalazi
Neutešne zavrtnje i spoznaje,

U kovitlavim mrljama sa dve greške
Besane, crvotočnog robota učmalog dok

Vasiona svedoči nemo i isprazno.

17.11.2019.


A NULL CAROUSEL

At the speed of light whirled
In the immeasurable space, breathless,
In the aeons of fear sent with its eyes shut

One future vacuum unhappy that
Centrifugates its own grooves and
Winded up, without the fourth dimension,

In the endless catapult of
Bodiless codes, finds
Disconsolate screws and comprehends,

In the swirled stains with two mistakes
Sleepless, a robot, wormholed and dejected, while

The cosmos is witnessing, mute and absurd.


originally published here: https://pesimum.wordpress.com/2019/12/22/nistavna-vrteska/
_________________
PESIMUM: misanthropic asylum
Serbo-Croatian poetry most beautiful (share new poems in The Poetry Thread)


Last edited by Osore on Sat Dec 28, 2019 11:26 am, edited 2 times in total.
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gasmask_colostomy
Metalhead

Joined: Thu May 27, 2010 5:38 am
Posts: 1051
Location: Behind the wall of fire v.2
PostPosted: Thu Dec 26, 2019 2:53 am 
 

Osore wrote:
I rely heavily on a dictionary when I'm translating. Also, you probably feel isolated, given the fact that Finnish language doesn't belong to a larger family (If I'm not mistaking, you don't understand Hungarian, although it's considered to be related to Finnish). I'm glad that I can understand random words from different Slavic languages based on similarity with Serbian.

Although I'm fortunate because I'm mostly writing and reading in my native language, I find that doing translation or reading in translation sometimes provides an interesting perspective on poems. Searching for words makes you very connected to their true meaning and you tend to come up with slightly different interpretations because they will sound less natural. It's definitely tiring to always use other languages, but it can also help appreciate more about the music of the langauge compared to normal meaning sometimes.

Osore wrote:
The title justifies the fact that you can't discern the objects, but what is left of them - impressions, outlines... It is a contemplation on past (and time) that I was trying to capture and this is why it was written in the past tense, which I rarely do.
You are right about the settings and the time! Numbers automatically become zeros absent below an old glass is nothing but a digital clock showing 00:00 (as compared to the analogue). :wink:
We definitely don't want balls in this prose poem, so I fixed it, thanks for reminding me. I mean, I want poetry with balls, but without them, if that makes sense. o_O

Ah yes, I could probably have understood more if I had thought more carefully about the title. It does indeed seem to be a really intricate description of those imprints, sort of like fossils of life left behind on the sands of time. The digital clock, too, although it changes the medieval feeling I get from some of the other sections.

Especially not "wounded balls" :nono:

Osore wrote:
I wrote this one after a dull week when I was preparing tissue samples for centrifugation...

Spoiler: show
NIŠTAVNA VRTEŠKA

Brzinom svetlosti zavitlan
U prostor bezmerni, bez daha
U eone straha odaslat žmureći

Jedan budući vakuum nesrećni što
Centrifugira sopstvene vijuge i
Navijen, bez četvrte dimenzije,

U beskonačnom katapultu
Bestelesnih kodova, pronalazi
Neutešne zavrtnje i spoznaje,

U kovitlavim mrljama sa dve greške
Besane, crvotočnog robota učmalog dok

Vasiona svedoči nemo i isprazno.

17.11.2019.


A NULL CAROUSEL

At the speed of light whirled
In the immeasurable space, breathless,
In the aeons of fear sent with its eyes shut

One future vacuum unhappy that
Centrifuges its own grooves and
Winded up, without the fourth dimension,

In the endless catapult of
Bodiless codes, finds
Disconsolate screws and comprehends,

In the swirled stains with two mistakes
Sleepless, a robot, wormholed and dejected, while

The cosmos is witnessing, mute and baloney.


originally published here: https://pesimum.wordpress.com/2019/12/22/nistavna-vrteska/

May I say what an incredible title, which I assume is to describe the centrifuge itself :beer: The poem seems like a detailed description of the machine and the process from several different angles, though I guess for it to perform accurate mimesis it would all come out as a blur in the end. I'm enjoying more and more some of those "verbed" phrases, where they wouldn't ordinarily be verbs, such as "centrifuges its own grooves", "disconsolate screws" (maybe a noun there), and especially "wormholed and dejected".

On the other hand, this is the strongest time ever that I've wanted to remove a word completely from one of your poems. Unfortunately, it's "baloney", and it's in a particularly emphatic position.

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gasmask_colostomy
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Joined: Thu May 27, 2010 5:38 am
Posts: 1051
Location: Behind the wall of fire v.2
PostPosted: Thu Dec 26, 2019 3:36 am 
 

A little titbit without much thought or skill put into it. I have a title in mind, but don't want to use it because it's basically just the theme. Feel free to rip it to shreds.

Not the sun, nor blue sky;
Not hip or lip or shapely thigh;
Not the words in heavy tomes;
Not the long-lost roof of home;
Not the smile of grateful kin;
Not the spice of enticing sin;
Not the chills from gentle breeze;
Not the viridian of ancient trees;
Not the glowing dew of spring;
Not the sound when angels sing:
No, the thought that connects these things.

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Osore
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Joined: Thu Apr 10, 2014 9:55 am
Posts: 382
Location: Serbia
PostPosted: Sat Dec 28, 2019 11:48 am 
 

gasmask_colostomy wrote:
Although I'm fortunate because I'm mostly writing and reading in my native language, I find that doing translation or reading in translation sometimes provides an interesting perspective on poems. Searching for words makes you very connected to their true meaning and you tend to come up with slightly different interpretations because they will sound less natural. It's definitely tiring to always use other languages, but it can also help appreciate more about the music of the langauge compared to normal meaning sometimes.
True! Translation is much more enjoyable practice than doing exercises for exam or memorising words, even though both leave me a bit frustrated.

gasmask_colostomy wrote:
Osore wrote:
The title justifies the fact that you can't discern the objects, but what is left of them - impressions, outlines... It is a contemplation on past (and time) that I was trying to capture and this is why it was written in the past tense, which I rarely do.
You are right about the settings and the time! Numbers automatically become zeros absent below an old glass is nothing but a digital clock showing 00:00 (as compared to the analogue). :wink:
We definitely don't want balls in this prose poem, so I fixed it, thanks for reminding me. I mean, I want poetry with balls, but without them, if that makes sense. o_O

Ah yes, I could probably have understood more if I had thought more carefully about the title. It does indeed seem to be a really intricate description of those imprints, sort of like fossils of life left behind on the sands of time. The digital clock, too, although it changes the medieval feeling I get from some of the other sections.
Actually, I was evoking the symbol of imprints, rather than describing them. Nevertheless, your understanding of it is surprisingly good. ;-) If you look again at those 3 sentences in italic, you'll see that they are written in the present tense: the first two are about turning on a gas furnace and looking at the digital clock, while in the last sentence past and present unite (the turn of the orb alludes to one of those crystal balls with artificial snow or tiny sparkly confetti)... I would say the major (hidden) point of this poem is to show that our personalities are based on memories and represent dynamic trails of the past. Everything becomes past, and present moment can't be truly grasped. Even our thoughts and the information we collect with our senses reflect not what is, but what was, since there's a time gap between the receptor activation and information processing. When a thought is formed, it automatically becomes past, it doesn't last until a new one is formed, or the past one is revived (by activating the similar cognitive processes in the brain). Our knowledge and skills are based on what we learned in the past (languages, letters, writing, walking, riding a bicycle, etc.). Procedural, semantic, episodic memory... Without it, we lose what makes us different from other animals, that is self-consciousness and complex personality.
Spoiler: show
IMPRINTS

It was quiet and cold. Early twilight seclusions were morphing imperceptibly. Hazy stillness and soft creaks were slowing down the absent step while it was girding a web-like serpentine movement.
After the mechanical turn, the torch crackly flicks in the armour.
Perhaps a colourful bang was flying or it was only blindly and heavily falling, insensibly stinking with frosty purity. A waviness of ribbons became an echoing tearing. Then it was heard, black, but weightlessly liquid and departing, ever quieter, quiet: it. Later was seen, even blacker.
The numbers automatically become zeros absent below an old glass.
That night the long scaly curves were shining, catching the distant, wounded sphere. Rustle was incautiously passing by while the same was being rolled in a mute spinning through nothingness. Suddenly, through the foggy shadows whispery giggles sparkled. As if something was hiding.
The clearing appeared secret like a colosseum and impossibly endless. Still, underneath were sticky leaves, and above dry blinks. However, deceptive outlines were swaying through the roughness.
Once again, the turn of the orb is closing the curtains and, like before, reverberations sink in the wake of the passed leaf fall.



gasmask_colostomy wrote:
Osore wrote:
I wrote this one after a dull week when I was preparing tissue samples for centrifugation...

Spoiler: show
NIŠTAVNA VRTEŠKA

Brzinom svetlosti zavitlan
U prostor bezmerni, bez daha
U eone straha odaslat žmureći

Jedan budući vakuum nesrećni što
Centrifugira sopstvene vijuge i
Navijen, bez četvrte dimenzije,

U beskonačnom katapultu
Bestelesnih kodova, pronalazi
Neutešne zavrtnje i spoznaje,

U kovitlavim mrljama sa dve greške
Besane, crvotočnog robota učmalog dok

Vasiona svedoči nemo i isprazno.

17.11.2019.


A NULL CAROUSEL

At the speed of light whirled
In the immeasurable space, breathless,
In the aeons of fear sent with its eyes shut

One future vacuum unhappy that
Centrifugates its own grooves and
Winded up, without the fourth dimension,

In the endless catapult of
Bodiless codes, finds
Disconsolate screws and comprehends,

In the swirled stains with two mistakes
Sleepless, a robot, wormholed and dejected, while

The cosmos is witnessing, mute and absurd.


originally published here: https://pesimum.wordpress.com/2019/12/22/nistavna-vrteska/
May I say what an incredible title, which I assume is to describe the centrifuge itself :beer: The poem seems like a detailed description of the machine and the process from several different angles, though I guess for it to perform accurate mimesis it would all come out as a blur in the end. I'm enjoying more and more some of those "verbed" phrases, where they wouldn't ordinarily be verbs, such as "centrifuges its own grooves", "disconsolate screws" (maybe a noun there), and especially "wormholed and dejected".

On the other hand, this is the strongest time ever that I've wanted to remove a word completely from one of your poems. Unfortunately, it's "baloney", and it's in a particularly emphatic position.
Thanks for helping me understand how translation works. Centrifuges should be centrifugates, my mistake. Screws is a noun. Baloney was a second choice, because I couldn't find the right translation for the adverb isprazno. Now I changed it to absurd, but I have no idea if I made an improvement.
My goal was to show how absurd a person can be/feel, just like a robot/humanoid somewhere in the (vacuum of) deep space. Of course, ultracentrifuge itself has to create a vacuum before it starts rotating samples up to 50.000 rpm...

gasmask_colostomy wrote:
A little titbit without much thought or skill put into it. I have a title in mind, but don't want to use it because it's basically just the theme. Feel free to rip it to shreds.

Not the sun, nor blue sky;
Not hip or lip or shapely thigh;
Not the words in heavy tomes;
Not the long-lost roof of home;
Not the smile of grateful kin;
Not the spice of enticing sin;
Not the chills from gentle breeze;
Not the viridian of ancient trees;
Not the glowing dew of spring;
Not the sound when angels sing:
No, the thought that connects these things.
It has a playful sound, but I'm sure I wouldn't like it in my native language. It appears like a children's poem.
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Sedition and Pockets
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PostPosted: Thu Jan 02, 2020 2:10 am 
 

Time came down
like water on stone
grinding through silica and Memory
laying low the High Places
splitting the rock
chasing the dream of a sunlit sea
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aromal31
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PostPosted: Fri Jan 03, 2020 8:03 am 
 

Excellent thread.!!!

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Osore
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PostPosted: Fri Jan 03, 2020 12:21 pm 
 

Sedition and Pockets wrote:
Time came down
like water on stone
grinding through silica and Memory
laying low the High Places
splitting the rock
chasing the dream of a sunlit sea
This is good in all its simplicity and short length. ;-) Feel free to share more.
P.S. Your photographs in another thread are also nice.

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gasmask_colostomy
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PostPosted: Wed Jan 08, 2020 6:05 am 
 

Osore on 'Imprints' wrote:
Actually, I was evoking the symbol of imprints, rather than describing them. Nevertheless, your understanding of it is surprisingly good. ;-) If you look again at those 3 sentences in italic, you'll see that they are written in the present tense: the first two are about turning on a gas furnace and looking at the digital clock, while in the last sentence past and present unite (the turn of the orb alludes to one of those crystal balls with artificial snow or tiny sparkly confetti)... I would say the major (hidden) point of this poem is to show that our personalities are based on memories and represent dynamic trails of the past. Everything becomes past, and present moment can't be truly grasped. Even our thoughts and the information we collect with our senses reflect not what is, but what was, since there's a time gap between the receptor activation and information processing. When a thought is formed, it automatically becomes past, it doesn't last until a new one is formed, or the past one is revived (by activating the similar cognitive processes in the brain). Our knowledge and skills are based on what we learned in the past (languages, letters, writing, walking, riding a bicycle, etc.). Procedural, semantic, episodic memory... Without it, we lose what makes us different from other animals, that is self-consciousness and complex personality.
Spoiler: show
IMPRINTS

It was quiet and cold. Early twilight seclusions were morphing imperceptibly. Hazy stillness and soft creaks were slowing down the absent step while it was girding a web-like serpentine movement.
After the mechanical turn, the torch crackly flicks in the armour.
Perhaps a colourful bang was flying or it was only blindly and heavily falling, insensibly stinking with frosty purity. A waviness of ribbons became an echoing tearing. Then it was heard, black, but weightlessly liquid and departing, ever quieter, quiet: it. Later was seen, even blacker.
The numbers automatically become zeros absent below an old glass.
That night the long scaly curves were shining, catching the distant, wounded sphere. Rustle was incautiously passing by while the same was being rolled in a mute spinning through nothingness. Suddenly, through the foggy shadows whispery giggles sparkled. As if something was hiding.
The clearing appeared secret like a colosseum and impossibly endless. Still, underneath were sticky leaves, and above dry blinks. However, deceptive outlines were swaying through the roughness.
Once again, the turn of the orb is closing the curtains and, like before, reverberations sink in the wake of the passed leaf fall.


I read this in much more detail last week. Is there an owl? It's a great topic and a smart way to write the poem too.

Osore on the centrifuge poem wrote:
Thanks for helping me understand how translation works. Centrifuges should be centrifugates, my mistake. Screws is a noun. Baloney was a second choice, because I couldn't find the right translation for the adverb isprazno. Now I changed it to absurd, but I have no idea if I made an improvement.
My goal was to show how absurd a person can be/feel, just like a robot/humanoid somewhere in the (vacuum of) deep space. Of course, ultracentrifuge itself has to create a vacuum before it starts rotating samples up to 50.000 rpm...

I'm sure that you can change some of those extra verbs to nouns, but it made it more playful and interesting with them in. I like how some languages are very active and others quite passive, so we convert different kinds of words when we translate. Other languages have constructions that are very difficult to translate too, or the grammar comes out in the wrong order.

The mood of that vacuous feeling was there, and swapping "baloney" for "absurd" absolutely improves it a ton!

Osore wrote:
gasmask_colostomy wrote:
A little titbit without much thought or skill put into it. I have a title in mind, but don't want to use it because it's basically just the theme. Feel free to rip it to shreds.

Spoiler: show
Not the sun, nor blue sky;
Not hip or lip or shapely thigh;
Not the words in heavy tomes;
Not the long-lost roof of home;
Not the smile of grateful kin;
Not the spice of enticing sin;
Not the chills from gentle breeze;
Not the viridian of ancient trees;
Not the glowing dew of spring;
Not the sound when angels sing:
No, the thought that connects these things.
It has a playful sound, but I'm sure I wouldn't like it in my native language. It appears like a children's poem.

You are dead right. It was supposed to be called 'Beauty'.

Sedition and Pockets wrote:
Time came down
like water on stone
grinding through silica and Memory
laying low the High Places
splitting the rock
chasing the dream of a sunlit sea

A nice kind of bounded thought, feels sort of haiku-like. I like how specific the simile gets, although I must say I don't quite follow how the last time relates to time. The capitalization is an interesting touch too.

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Sedition and Pockets
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PostPosted: Wed Jan 08, 2020 9:49 am 
 

gasmask_colostomy wrote:
Osore on 'Imprints' wrote:

Sedition and Pockets wrote:
Time came down
like water on stone
grinding through silica and Memory
laying low the High Places
splitting the rock
chasing the dream of a sunlit sea

A nice kind of bounded thought, feels sort of haiku-like. I like how specific the simile gets, although I must say I don't quite follow how the last time relates to time. The capitalization is an interesting touch too.


In motion, time and distance are in some sense measures of the same thing. In this case, I chose to trace the passage of time in the passage of water from the source to the sea. It's old code, but it checks out.

For context, I wrote it to accompany one of those social media "year challenges":

Image
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gasmask_colostomy
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PostPosted: Wed Jan 08, 2020 8:38 pm 
 

Sedition and Pockets wrote:
gasmask_colostomy wrote:
Sedition and Pockets wrote:
Time came down
like water on stone
grinding through silica and Memory
laying low the High Places
splitting the rock
chasing the dream of a sunlit sea

A nice kind of bounded thought, feels sort of haiku-like. I like how specific the simile gets, although I must say I don't quite follow how the last time relates to time. The capitalization is an interesting touch too.


In motion, time and distance are in some sense measures of the same thing. In this case, I chose to trace the passage of time in the passage of water from the source to the sea. It's old code, but it checks out.

Ah, I kinda see what you mean. Maybe the theory has been mostly effaced by the poetic imagery, but it's somewhere behind it. It was that phrase "chasing the dream" that really stuck out, since it seems to imply a will, which I didn't associate with time. Perhaps that's you (or a speaker) coming into it. Funnily enough, the first time I saw your username, I also thought of geology and water, though I was reminded of sedimentation pockets, not sedition :lol:

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gasmask_colostomy
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PostPosted: Thu Jan 09, 2020 10:15 am 
 

Here's another of mine, which I wrote when I was getting interested in non-classic sonnets. The structure is made of a broken sonnet, plus an extra line, with the rhyme scheme muddled, which I think usually resulted in cooler stuff. Anyway, apologies to Osore, because it contains rugby references.

Angles
Spoiler: show
Shoulder-blades arcing press feet to slice
Up the latticed icing of the pavement,
Spitting frosty crumbs of cement.
Desperate halogen penetration sights

Its prey below on the umbraged pitch,
Breaking the gilded line like night freight
Clinging onto a flicked-back S1 switch.

The commentator adopts a warm note,
Recalibrates microphone and throat,
And compares the ease of his exit
To tearing open a packet of biscuits,
A trick of picking the angle to broach

The centres’ static geometry
Or a tutor’s ragged philosophy

Or the phrasing of an anecdote.

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Sedition and Pockets
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Joined: Fri Dec 27, 2019 8:29 am
Posts: 700
Location: United States
PostPosted: Thu Jan 09, 2020 11:35 am 
 

gasmask_colostomy wrote:
Ah, I kinda see what you mean. Maybe the theory has been mostly effaced by the poetic imagery, but it's somewhere behind it. It was that phrase "chasing the dream" that really stuck out, since it seems to imply a will, which I didn't associate with time. Perhaps that's you (or a speaker) coming into it. Funnily enough, the first time I saw your username, I also thought of geology and water, though I was reminded of sedimentation pockets, not sedition :lol:


I wouldn't say there's a will behind time or water, but there's a singlemindedness to them both that resonates with me right now.

Weirdly enough, rock collecting is one of the many pokemons I've cycled through over the years.
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Osore
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Joined: Thu Apr 10, 2014 9:55 am
Posts: 382
Location: Serbia
PostPosted: Sat Jan 11, 2020 7:17 pm 
 

gasmask_colostomy wrote:
Here's another of mine, which I wrote when I was getting interested in non-classic sonnets. The structure is made of a broken sonnet, plus an extra line, with the rhyme scheme muddled, which I think usually resulted in cooler stuff. Anyway, apologies to Osore, because it contains rugby references.

Angles
Spoiler: show
Shoulder-blades arcing press feet to slice
Up the latticed icing of the pavement,
Spitting frosty crumbs of cement.
Desperate halogen penetration sights

Its prey below on the umbraged pitch,
Breaking the gilded line like night freight
Clinging onto a flicked-back S1 switch.

The commentator adopts a warm note,
Recalibrates microphone and throat,
And compares the ease of his exit
To tearing open a packet of biscuits,
A trick of picking the angle to broach

The centres’ static geometry
Or a tutor’s ragged philosophy

Or the phrasing of an anecdote.

After translating some words, I see it begins like someone is crushed on a pavement (although rugby is played on grass), than comes the S1 switch which I'm clueless about (it gives you more tonal options by offering extra pickup-wiring configurations :???:), and the rest is clearly about a commentator, who probably uses that switch to configure the sound, I guess. I'm horrible with electric techniques.
It sounds good to my ears, it's not forced or overdone, but the theme is light years away from my planet (I'm currently eating ice cream on Europa/Jupiter II :-P).
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Osore
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PostPosted: Sat Jan 11, 2020 8:30 pm 
 

gasmask_colostomy on "Imprints" wrote:
I read this in much more detail last week. Is there an owl? It's a great topic and a smart way to write the poem too.
Thanks! I'm afraid I wasn't evoking any owls there, but I can picture them in my mental map of that imaginary place. There's a wood with hoarfrost on naked, black branches; night falls. There's a small clearing, and you walk there. You hear strange whispers and sounds among the branches, and fireworks suddenly break the eerie silence. Perhaps you see spectres: strange, shapeless white lights or shadows. Or is it just a fog in the moonlight?
I'm obsessed with this image of ghosts dancing in the woods, but I don't mention it explicitly, partly because it's purely fantastical.
To go back to the owls. They have soundless feathers; one time an owl flew right above my head at night and I was captivated by its bright and mute appearance. It might have been the same owl that had a nest on a tree in front of my house and used to distract me when I was studying by the window. One time two magpies were flying around her, making unfriendly sounds, and she was just sitting there trying to protect herself (and possibly her eggs or young ones) with wings. The other time I saw her swinging on a branch from left to right on a windy and rainy day, saying: ''Hoo, hoo!'' which I perfectly understood. :-P The saddest story is when I found her eggs crashed below the tree, and later a dead young owl. She left the nest after that and never came back.

To compensate for telling stories rather than sharing poems, here's a prose poem I translated just to show its chaotic complexity. I won't reveal the theme (which is psycho-philosophical). I'll just say my intention was to paint the sky colours using sounds (which are lost in translation). Pretentious, I know.
The picture seen in the spoiler was made from the photograph I took and covered with fragments from Puzzle (words in Cyrillic).

Spoiler: show
PUZZLE

Čujete li?…
Suho ruho cepelini cepaju.
Dole vrve kukuljice slepe dok bezooki lebde.
A blažene mimikrije nežnih, a neosetnih traka lelujaju lahorski u odlasku sa senkom. Zov krasnih fenjerči iza lakših zebnji o amanetima. Vi, omamljene dvojnice draguljarskih odblesaka!… Pevajte kao što modri val se ljulja. Moja glava je laka kada sneva o čeličniku. Vinuti kao perje golicano vetrom što rastače graktaje daleko, daleko.
Tamne ovu tminu bednih tragača.
Vlažno lišće kao da šumi češkajući pospani pad pod istobojnim nitima. Meke oštrine sveprisutne sa olovnim uzdahom se seća.
Poletne palete, vanilu mi smolom ulepite, plačne. Vaši vrbaci se njišu ka čempresu hladnom. Ne bledite, čekajte.
Belo perje nadkriliće uznemireno crno draperje. A lišće će i dalje biti prošeno uzalud. I pokušavaće da zrače smolasto. Uzalud.
Dirižabli gužvaju poslednje baršunaste nedodirljivosti.
Nije ih nikada ni bilo. Prokleti prosjaci truli su plodovi.
Bejasmo tako ištili svi. A sada? Ništite oguljeno. Ili vrištite, ogoljene paljevine, i gle’ – padoste, crkotine jadne.
Tvoja glava, i moja, i naše! konfete pepelaste i svud po dve duplje još tople u žaru čempres okitiše.
…kastanjete vrbama odgovaraju…nit’ smo…

04.08.2016.


originally published here: https://pesimum.wordpress.com/2016/12/30/puzzle/.

PUZZLE

Can you hear?...
Dry attire is being torn by the zeppelins.
Down the blind hoods are swarming while the eyeless are levitating.
And blissful mimicries of gentle, but insensible ribbons are swaying breezily in a departure with a shadow. The call of the entrancing lanterns behind the lighter anxieties of testaments. You, bewitched doppelgängers of gemstone’s reflections!... Sing like the livid wave is swinging. My head is light when it dreams of a steel man. Soared like feathers tickled by the wind that disperses croaks far, far away.
They darken this gloom of miserable trackers.
As if damp leaves murmur, scratching the sleepy fall under the unicoloured threads. Reminiscence of soft sharpness with leaded sigh.
Zestful palletes, paste me vanilla with resin, weepy. Your willow forests waggle towards cold cypress. Do not fade, wait.
White feathers will wing-cover the upset black draperies. And leaves shall still be begged in vain. And they are going to radiate resinously. In vain.
Dirigibles crumple the last velvety intangibilities.
They have never existed. Damned beggars are rotten yields.
We all had been beseeching that way. But now? You nullify the peeled. Or you scream, stripped flare-ups, oh, see – you have fallen, pathetic corpses.
Your head, and mine, and ours! ashy confetti and everywhere the pairs of sockets still warm in the ember have decorated the cypress.
…castanets respond to the willows…neither we are…


Image

For the sake of the clarity, the ones in the zeppelin have fallen and their scorched heads ended up dispersed among the trees. Think about explosion with massive fire, think about Hindenburg if you will, or look at two inspiring images I used superimposed at first: https://pesimum.wordpress.com/2016/12/30/puzzle/.

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BloodMoonRising
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Joined: Tue Apr 28, 2015 12:49 pm
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PostPosted: Fri Jan 17, 2020 9:04 am 
 

Well here goes, both of these were written about two years ago, shortly after I was released from hospital. Posted here in order of appearance.

An actual dream, so this was written minutes after waking up:

Spoiler: show
I dreamt that we were on vacation
in a house of music that we built
Everyone was there we've ever met:
friends, family, lovers, even strangers
that appeared to us in dreams
But whom we left behind in time
Without ever saying goodbye.


And this one was written quickly as well, coming from a not so happy place, in a post-illness haze:

Spoiler: show
Are you aware of the mind that you form,
A bed of thorns and dreams of the dying
Its already late and the flames have flown,
Beyond the horizon into the unknown.

I have swallowed more than my share:
Pride of the peacock and fistful of sin,
Leaving the fate to dance with despair,
And tired bones to sway in the wind.

But I will come back, of this I am certain,
Walking once more through fire to see
For one last time what's behind the curtain,
I will sever the rope and walk away free.


And this one I wouldn't really call a poem, just a random thought that rhymes, written for funs sake:

Spoiler: show
For all the rules of gods and men
there is no other game
but fitting bigger picture
inside a smaller frame.

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gasmask_colostomy
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Joined: Thu May 27, 2010 5:38 am
Posts: 1051
Location: Behind the wall of fire v.2
PostPosted: Sat Jan 18, 2020 3:11 am 
 

Osore wrote:
gasmask_colostomy on "Imprints" wrote:
I read this in much more detail last week. Is there an owl? It's a great topic and a smart way to write the poem too.
Thanks! I'm afraid I wasn't evoking any owls there, but I can picture them in my mental map of that imaginary place. There's a wood with hoarfrost on naked, black branches; night falls. There's a small clearing, and you walk there. You hear strange whispers and sounds among the branches, and fireworks suddenly break the eerie silence. Perhaps you see spectres: strange, shapeless white lights or shadows. Or is it just a fog in the moonlight?
I'm obsessed with this image of ghosts dancing in the woods, but I don't mention it explicitly, partly because it's purely fantastical.
To go back to the owls. They have soundless feathers; one time an owl flew right above my head at night and I was captivated by its bright and mute appearance. It might have been the same owl that had a nest on a tree in front of my house and used to distract me when I was studying by the window. One time two magpies were flying around her, making unfriendly sounds, and she was just sitting there trying to protect herself (and possibly her eggs or young ones) with wings. The other time I saw her swinging on a branch from left to right on a windy and rainy day, saying: ''Hoo, hoo!'' which I perfectly understood. :-P The saddest story is when I found her eggs crashed below the tree, and later a dead young owl. She left the nest after that and never came back.

Weird that I became pretty sure there was an owl being described in that section "Rustle was incautiously passing...As if something was hiding". Again, I thought I could see its eyes gazing glassily around during the "dry blinks". I quite like that experience when writing gives the reader a totally different - but still very clear - image compared to what the writer intended. Poetry does that more than prose because of its condensed nature, though I've seen it with both.

Osore wrote:
To compensate for telling stories rather than sharing poems, here's a prose poem I translated just to show its chaotic complexity. I won't reveal the theme (which is psycho-philosophical). I'll just say my intention was to paint the sky colours using sounds (which are lost in translation). Pretentious, I know.
The picture seen in the spoiler was made from the photograph I took and covered with fragments from Puzzle (words in Cyrillic).

Spoiler: show
PUZZLE

Can you hear?...
Dry attire is being torn by the zeppelins.
Down the blind hoods are swarming while the eyeless are levitating.
And blissful mimicries of gentle, but insensible ribbons are swaying breezily in a departure with a shadow. The call of the entrancing lanterns behind the lighter anxieties of testaments. You, bewitched doppelgängers of gemstone’s reflections!... Sing like the livid wave is swinging. My head is light when it dreams of a steel man. Soared like feathers tickled by the wind that disperses croaks far, far away.
They darken this gloom of miserable trackers.
As if damp leaves murmur, scratching the sleepy fall under the unicoloured threads. Reminiscence of soft sharpness with leaded sigh.
Zestful palletes, paste me vanilla with resin, weepy. Your willow forests waggle towards cold cypress. Do not fade, wait.
White feathers will wing-cover the upset black draperies. And leaves shall still be begged in vain. And they are going to radiate resinously. In vain.
Dirigibles crumple the last velvety intangibilities.
They have never existed. Damned beggars are rotten yields.
We all had been beseeching that way. But now? You nullify the peeled. Or you scream, stripped flare-ups, oh, see – you have fallen, pathetic corpses.
Your head, and mine, and ours! ashy confetti and everywhere the pairs of sockets still warm in the ember have decorated the cypress.
…castanets respond to the willows…neither we are…


Image

For the sake of the clarity, the ones in the zeppelin have fallen and their scorched heads ended up dispersed among the trees. Think about explosion with massive fire, think about Hindenburg if you will, or look at two inspiring images I used superimposed at first: https://pesimum.wordpress.com/2016/12/30/puzzle/.

Well, the note you gave afterwards definitely changed the perspective, because the initial idea (pretentiously describing the sky with sounds) feels a bit content-less compared to that specific imagery you gave with the flesh confetti. As usual, there's a lot going on, most of which has that uncanny feeling, like it's being translated through the mind of someone mentally ill. I know the first time I saw that, I tried to correct your grammar :lol: but now I quite like the blurriness it gives everything, feeling the language like viewing the world without wearing glasses. Two little snippets stand out particularly for me: "Zestful palletes, paste me vanilla with resin" is a crazy cool line that I will take to the grave, and thanks also for teaching me a synonym for 'airship' in 'dirigible'.

Osore on 'Angles' wrote:
After translating some words, I see it begins like someone is crushed on a pavement (although rugby is played on grass), than comes the S1 switch which I'm clueless about (it gives you more tonal options by offering extra pickup-wiring configurations :???:), and the rest is clearly about a commentator, who probably uses that switch to configure the sound, I guess. I'm horrible with electric techniques.
It sounds good to my ears, it's not forced or overdone, but the theme is light years away from my planet (I'm currently eating ice cream on Europa/Jupiter II :-P).

Hence why I apologized for the rugby stuff. An S1 switch has nothing to do with electrical wiring, it's a passing move where one player deliberately runs diagonally in front of a teammate, transferring the ball as he does so. It changes the direction of attack instantly, which is why it's known as a switch. The 'centres' referred to are two adjacent positions on a rugby team, who are usually the ones using switch techniques or defending against them, so their "static geometry" refers to the defense being unprepared for the change of angle.

In fact, the whole poem is a meditation on angles in general and not specifically rugby playing, since even what the commentator does while talking ("recalibrates microphone and throat") is a kind of realigning and shifting of angles, as is his metaphor about opening biscuits. I wrote this during a period when I obsessed a lot about architecture, gaps, and spaces; I would usually imagine lines in my head like a kind of graphic drawing, some of which were sane (the line of a beam of light coming down from halogen floodlights onto a pitch) and some of which were not (the lines that shoulder blades make down into the pavement when you're walking). The poem is a stream of thought that starts with a memory of following cracks in a pavement, then the gritty texture of concrete reminding me of the artificial pitch in the sports centre where I worked, then the imagined game on that pitch, then the commentator of that game, and finally a summary thought.


That kind of writing really appeals to me, because it's a continual flow of thought that operates through (personal) logical connections. It's not like stream of consciousness, it's more a stream of logic. Most of the poems I wrote in that style were after I stole the technique wholesale from Ciaran Carson. I think I mentioned him earlier in the thread, but I want to share another of his poems to explain what I mean about the stream of logic. Also, I'm not writing much these days.

Snow
Spoiler: show
A white dot flicked back and forth across the bay window: not
A table- tennis ball, but ‘ping-pong,’ since this is happening in another era,
The extended leaves of the dining table - scratched mahogany veneer -
Suggesting many such encounters, or time passing: the celluloid diminuendo
As it bounces off into a corner and ticks to an incorrigible stop.
I pick it up days later, trying to get that pallor right: it’s neither ivory
Nor milk. Chalk is better and there’s a hint of pearl, translucent
Lurking just behind opaque. I broke open the husk so many times
And always found it empty the pith was a wordless bubble.

Though there’s nothing in the thing itself, bits of it come back unbidden,
Playing in the archaic dust till the white blip became visible.
Just as, the other day, I felt the tacky pimples of a ping- pong bat
When the bank-clerk counted my money with her rubber thimble, and knew
The black was bleeding into red. Her face was snow and roses just behind
The bullet-proof glass: I couldn’t touch her if I tried. I crumpled up the chit-
No use in keeping what you haven’t got-and took a stroll to Ross’s auction.
There was this Thirties scuffed leather sofa I wanted to make a bid for.
Gestures, prices: soundlessly collateral in the murmuring room.

I won’t say what I paid for it: anything’s too much when you have nothing.
But in the dark recesses underneath the cushions I found myself kneeling
As decades of the Rosary dragged by, the slack of years ago hauled up
Bead by bead and with them, all the haberdashery of loss - cuff buttons,
Broken ball-point pens and fluff, old pennies, pins and needles, and yes,
A ping-pong ball. I cupped it in my hands like a crystal, seeing not
The future, but a shadowed parlour just before the blinds are drawn.
Someone has put up two trestles. Handshakes all round, nods and whispers.
Roses are brought in, and suddenly, white confetti seethes against the window.

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gasmask_colostomy
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Joined: Thu May 27, 2010 5:38 am
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PostPosted: Sat Jan 18, 2020 3:24 am 
 

BloodMoonRising wrote:
Well here goes, both of these were written about two years ago, shortly after I was released from hospital. Posted here in order of appearance.

An actual dream, so this was written minutes after waking up:

I dreamt that we were on vacation
in a house of music that we built
Everyone was there we've ever met:
friends, family, lovers, even strangers
that appeared to us in dreams
But whom we left behind in time
Without ever saying goodbye.

I can tell that the dream struck you very hard, because you've captured its poignancy even in simple words. The simplicity gives it a better kick in my opinion, and maybe you could even go further and start removing more things from it. For instance, don't tell us it's a dream, don't separate the 'I' and the 'we'; I think it would be powerful if you left it as this weird shared experience from an unknown speaker. Anyway, a very cool idea, and it must have been a weird feeling to dream as well.

BloodMoonRising wrote:
And this one was written quickly as well, coming from a not so happy place, in a post-illness haze:

Are you aware of the mind that you form,
A bed of thorns and dreams of the dying
Its already late and the flames have flown,
Beyond the horizon into the unknown.

I have swallowed more than my share:
Pride of the peacock and fistful of sin,
Leaving the fate to dance with despair,
And tired bones to sway in the wind.

But I will come back, of this I am certain,
Walking once more through fire to see
For one last time what's behind the curtain,
I will sever the rope and walk away free.

Yeah, this one has some more grit to it and ends strongly with those two 'I will' phrases. The feeling at first is like contemplating giving up: weakened, exhausted, and dispirited; then it transforms very suddenly, although without any apparent reason. I'm not a big fan of poems with such regular rhyme as this, especially when the lines are so short, but the fact that the first verse skews that system makes it less predictable and generally sound better. Perhaps it would be interesting to only keep that definite rhyme in the final, strong verse, using the scattered rhyme in the two verses that are weak and uncertain.

BloodMoonRising wrote:
And this one I wouldn't really call a poem, just a random thought that rhymes, written for funs sake:

For all the rules of gods and men
there is no other game
but fitting bigger picture
inside a smaller frame.

Is that 'pictures'? It doesn't make total sense, just leaves itself open to interpretation, which is a nice way of doing things. Makes me appreciate very short poems again, sometimes shorter is better.

Please feel free to post more, and to comment on some of the other poems in here. We are all just doing things on a low-key basis :-D

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BloodMoonRising
Metal newbie

Joined: Tue Apr 28, 2015 12:49 pm
Posts: 57
PostPosted: Sat Jan 18, 2020 10:30 am 
 

Thanks for the input, gasmask, I like those suggestions! The first one was pretty easy to implement.

I rarely dream, and rarely something that makes sense, but after that one I remember waking up with a deep sense of calmness. Like everything is gonna turn out alright in the end and there is nothing to worry about. Ever. So, it's pretty close to heart and actually didn't feel weird at all! Wish I had more dreams like that.

gasmask_colostomy wrote:
I'm not a big fan of poems with such regular rhyme as this, especially when the lines are so short...


Honestly, me neither haha. It feels like it just gets in the way, but this one for some reason almost naturally came in rhymes, so I left it like that.

Looking back, I'd say that one came from a place of anger more than anything.

gasmask_colostomy wrote:
Is that 'pictures'?


Nah, it's definitely singular :-D I was just playing with the idea of some sort of universal, transcendental, all-encompassing (permeating?) truth (if there ever was one), recognized within ourselves. Some sort of grand design of simple form, macrocosm and microcosm and all that jazz.

gasmask_colostomy wrote:
Please feel free to post more, and to comment on some of the other poems in here. We are all just doing things on a low-key basis :-D


Will try my best :)

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Rottir
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Joined: Sat Aug 01, 2015 6:48 pm
Posts: 40
PostPosted: Sun Jan 19, 2020 9:42 am 
 

Enjoying some of the poems recently posted - wish I had something interesting or useful to say.

As an aside, has anyone boarded the Instagram poetry train with their work?

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gasmask_colostomy
Metalhead

Joined: Thu May 27, 2010 5:38 am
Posts: 1051
Location: Behind the wall of fire v.2
PostPosted: Sun Jan 19, 2020 11:09 am 
 

Rottir wrote:
Enjoying some of the poems recently posted - wish I had something interesting or useful to say.

As an aside, has anyone boarded the Instagram poetry train with their work?

That's cool to know that you're still reading. Really, however minor you think your comment will be, feel free to share; it can give a wider perspective on things and might be relevant feedback. Even if it's just things you like and dislike, that would make this thread more interesting :) There aren't many people posting here.

Living in a country without a proper connection to Instagram, I didn't even really know that Ins poetry was taking off. What's going on with that?

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~Guest 454771
Metalhead

Joined: Mon Sep 03, 2018 8:01 pm
Posts: 527
PostPosted: Sun Jan 19, 2020 1:06 pm 
 

lightning strikes the church
blood spattered on empty pews
sathanas prevails

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Osore
Metal newbie

Joined: Thu Apr 10, 2014 9:55 am
Posts: 382
Location: Serbia
PostPosted: Sun Jan 19, 2020 4:58 pm 
 

BloodMoonRising wrote:
Well here goes, both of these were written about two years ago, shortly after I was released from hospital. Posted here in order of appearance.

Spoiler: show
An actual dream, so this was written minutes after waking up:

I dreamt that we were on vacation
in a house of music that we built
Everyone was there we've ever met:
friends, family, lovers, even strangers
that appeared to us in dreams
But whom we left behind in time
Without ever saying goodbye.

And this one was written quickly as well, coming from a not so happy place, in a post-illness haze:

Are you aware of the mind that you form,
A bed of thorns and dreams of the dying
Its already late and the flames have flown,
Beyond the horizon into the unknown.

I have swallowed more than my share:
Pride of the peacock and fistful of sin,
Leaving the fate to dance with despair,
And tired bones to sway in the wind.

But I will come back, of this I am certain,
Walking once more through fire to see
For one last time what's behind the curtain,
I will sever the rope and walk away free.

And this one I wouldn't really call a poem, just a random thought that rhymes, written for funs sake:

For all the rules of gods and men
there is no other game
but fitting bigger picture
inside a smaller frame.
I think my favourite is the second poem. Being in a hospital must have been horrible, but the mere fact that you re-energised yourself in order to write says a lot about your recovery (I don't believe people can write when they are physically exhausted). You might be interested in Mallarme's poem Windows I shared few pages back: https://forum.metal-archives.com/viewtopic.php?p=2843956#p2843956; it's set in a hospital and has a very powerful atmosphere.

gasmask_colostomy on Imprints wrote:
Weird that I became pretty sure there was an owl being described in that section "Rustle was incautiously passing...As if something was hiding". Again, I thought I could see its eyes gazing glassily around during the "dry blinks". I quite like that experience when writing gives the reader a totally different - but still very clear - image compared to what the writer intended. Poetry does that more than prose because of its condensed nature, though I've seen it with both.
Associations served its purpose, and I think that's great. I was thinking about glassy blinks of hoarfrost and water droplets moved slowly by the wind under the moonlight, but you saw owl's eyes, which is equally worthy. It would be interesting if a group of painters tried to illustrate Imprints. I would love to compare pictures at the end.

gasmask_colostomy wrote:
Osore wrote:
To compensate for telling stories rather than sharing poems, here's a prose poem I translated just to show its chaotic complexity. I won't reveal the theme (which is psycho-philosophical). I'll just say my intention was to paint the sky colours using sounds (which are lost in translation). Pretentious, I know.
The picture seen in the spoiler was made from the photograph I took and covered with fragments from Puzzle (words in Cyrillic).

Spoiler: show
PUZZLE

Can you hear?...
Dry attire is being torn by the zeppelins.
Down the blind hoods are swarming while the eyeless are levitating.
And blissful mimicries of gentle, but insensible ribbons are swaying breezily in a departure with a shadow. The call of the entrancing lanterns behind the lighter anxieties of testaments. You, bewitched doppelgängers of gemstone’s reflections!... Sing like the livid wave is swinging. My head is light when it dreams of a steel man. Soared like feathers tickled by the wind that disperses croaks far, far away.
They darken this gloom of miserable trackers.
As if damp leaves murmur, scratching the sleepy fall under the unicoloured threads. Reminiscence of soft sharpness with leaded sigh.
Zestful palletes, paste me vanilla with resin, weepy. Your willow forests waggle towards cold cypress. Do not fade, wait.
White feathers will wing-cover the upset black draperies. And leaves shall still be begged in vain. And they are going to radiate resinously. In vain.
Dirigibles crumple the last velvety intangibilities.
They have never existed. Damned beggars are rotten yields.
We all had been beseeching that way. But now? You nullify the peeled. Or you scream, stripped flare-ups, oh, see – you have fallen, pathetic corpses.
Your head, and mine, and ours! ashy confetti and everywhere the pairs of sockets still warm in the ember have decorated the cypress.
…castanets respond to the willows…neither we are…


Image

For the sake of the clarity, the ones in the zeppelin have fallen and their scorched heads ended up dispersed among the trees. Think about explosion with massive fire, think about Hindenburg if you will, or look at two inspiring images I used superimposed at first: https://pesimum.wordpress.com/2016/12/30/puzzle/.

Well, the note you gave afterwards definitely changed the perspective, because the initial idea (pretentiously describing the sky with sounds) feels a bit content-less compared to that specific imagery you gave with the flesh confetti. As usual, there's a lot going on, most of which has that uncanny feeling, like it's being translated through the mind of someone mentally ill. I know the first time I saw that, I tried to correct your grammar :lol: but now I quite like the blurriness it gives everything, feeling the language like viewing the world without wearing glasses. Two little snippets stand out particularly for me: "Zestful palletes, paste me vanilla with resin" is a crazy cool line that I will take to the grave, and thanks also for teaching me a synonym for 'airship' in 'dirigible'.
Professional translator would have done a much better job I think. However, I overdone with this schizophrenic post-modernism, that is fragmentary, deconstructed, formless, just like air (sky) and flesh confetti. In my later works, I slowed down with multiple voices and numerous inversions, so it's closer to Imprints.
We can't escape from French - dirižabl is a word in Serbian, but we also use cepelin. It's a shame they are not used in commercial flights, even though their safety is improved.
Thanks for explaining Angles. Now I have an idea of trying a cubist manner in describing shapes. Weird perspectives, come to me.

gasmask_colostomy wrote:
Snow by Ciaran Carson
Spoiler: show
A white dot flicked back and forth across the bay window: not
A table- tennis ball, but ‘ping-pong,’ since this is happening in another era,
The extended leaves of the dining table - scratched mahogany veneer -
Suggesting many such encounters, or time passing: the celluloid diminuendo
As it bounces off into a corner and ticks to an incorrigible stop.
I pick it up days later, trying to get that pallor right: it’s neither ivory
Nor milk. Chalk is better and there’s a hint of pearl, translucent
Lurking just behind opaque. I broke open the husk so many times
And always found it empty the pith was a wordless bubble.

Though there’s nothing in the thing itself, bits of it come back unbidden,
Playing in the archaic dust till the white blip became visible.
Just as, the other day, I felt the tacky pimples of a ping- pong bat
When the bank-clerk counted my money with her rubber thimble, and knew
The black was bleeding into red. Her face was snow and roses just behind
The bullet-proof glass: I couldn’t touch her if I tried. I crumpled up the chit-
No use in keeping what you haven’t got-and took a stroll to Ross’s auction.
There was this Thirties scuffed leather sofa I wanted to make a bid for.
Gestures, prices: soundlessly collateral in the murmuring room.

I won’t say what I paid for it: anything’s too much when you have nothing.
But in the dark recesses underneath the cushions I found myself kneeling
As decades of the Rosary dragged by, the slack of years ago hauled up
Bead by bead and with them, all the haberdashery of loss - cuff buttons,
Broken ball-point pens and fluff, old pennies, pins and needles, and yes,
A ping-pong ball. I cupped it in my hands like a crystal, seeing not
The future, but a shadowed parlour just before the blinds are drawn.
Someone has put up two trestles. Handshakes all round, nods and whispers.
Roses are brought in, and suddenly, white confetti seethes against the window.
Despite of having troubles translating words and thus cutting a poem in my mind, I grasped almost a melancholic feeling from it at the end. Listening to Karg's Dornenvögel album adds to this effect. ^-^

Rottir wrote:
Enjoying some of the poems recently posted - wish I had something interesting or useful to say.
As an aside, has anyone boarded the Instagram poetry train with their work?
If you have any impressions, we would love to hear them. ^-^
I don't know if there's such a trend on Instagram because I don't have an account there. My friend occasionally shares works from my blog on her Instagram stories though, which I'm very grateful for.

Mellifleur wrote:
lightning strikes the church
blood spattered on empty pews
sathanas prevails
More satanic (haiku) poems, please!
:evil:
_________________
PESIMUM: misanthropic asylum
Serbo-Croatian poetry most beautiful (share new poems in The Poetry Thread)

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gasmask_colostomy
Metalhead

Joined: Thu May 27, 2010 5:38 am
Posts: 1051
Location: Behind the wall of fire v.2
PostPosted: Mon Jan 20, 2020 6:04 am 
 

Mellifleur wrote:
lightning strikes the church
blood spattered on empty pews
sathanas prevails

Haha that's an interesting format for satanic verse(s)! Here's my reply:

Flame-riven beams charred
by indissoluble hate;
a new world aglow.

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DividerOfShadows
Metalhead

Joined: Tue Sep 13, 2016 1:58 pm
Posts: 401
Location: Croatia
PostPosted: Sat Jan 25, 2020 5:13 pm 
 

Hey, guys, long time no read.

I'm not going to beat around the bush, I'll just cut to the chase.

Seven Years of Twilight

Bending shadow
With its translucent grin
Swings the clock of eternity

Sweet chords of the night
Sing together out of tune
And bless me with a song of reality

How will the children remember
The sight of their father's grave
When a fog of blood is underway?

I am to follow my tears torn asunder
And create heavens from this bedlam
Cradle it until its gaze stops cutting flesh

Toxic moons in an arboreal bed
They mean nothing to universe's eyes
But their spectres create another melody

Seven years of twilight
Perpetual kisses between night and day
I witness them growing more passionate with time
_________________
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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