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gasmask_colostomy
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Joined: Thu May 27, 2010 5:38 am
Posts: 939
Location: Where the heart is
PostPosted: Thu Jan 30, 2020 5:11 am 
 

DividerOfShadows wrote:
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
Spoiler: show
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

Hey again :-P
Liking the three-line verses in this one, there's really a purpose to them and section contains a complete thought. A lot of the images nestle between night-time and music, which couples with the "tears torn asunder" verse to give me the idea that you've been listening to Cradle of Filth a lot! Once more, there aren't a lot of actual events in the poem, though I feel a sense of progress from beginning to end.

That verse with children at their father's grave strikes me as something very specific in the context, yet it doesn't seem to echo in the other parts of the poem, especially since it's posed as a question. Perhaps the mood is stitching these separate parts together in some way.


As you probably know, China is in the grip of an epidemic that has led to the lockdown of several cities. People are staying off the streets and work is postponed. Where I am isn't too bad, but life is far from normal.

Doubts Grow
Disease is everywhere,
or so it seems now,
persecuted by the plague that travels each day.

Coming by train,
in packages.

Calculating production dates,
second-guessing what is safe,
what has remained untouched by it.

Doubts manifest,
itches grow.

Can that be scratched?
Bacterial transfer is a butterfly effect,
and everything hangs in the same web now.

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Osore
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Joined: Thu Apr 10, 2014 9:55 am
Posts: 299
Location: Serbia
PostPosted: Fri Jan 31, 2020 6:12 pm 
 

DividerOfShadows wrote:

Seven Years of Twilight

Spoiler: show
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
For some unknown reason, it doesn't work for me. (•ิ_•ิ)? I wish I could identify the problems, it might be just the language after all.

gasmask_colostomy wrote:
Doubts Grow
Spoiler: show
Disease is everywhere,
or so it seems now,
persecuted by the plague that travels each day.

Coming by train,
in packages.

Calculating production dates,
second-guessing what is safe,
what has remained untouched by it.

Doubts manifest,
itches grow.

Can that be scratched?
Bacterial transfer is a butterfly effect,
and everything hangs in the same web now.
What particularly appeals to me is the ease that makes a nice flow. Sometimes the simpler is better (especially when I read in English).
Your evil haiku on the previous page is cool too. ◕‿◕



By Sylvia Plath

Spoiler: show
Crossing the Water

Black lake, black boat, two black, cut-paper people.
Where do the black trees go that drink here?
Their shadows must cover Canada.

A little light is filtering from the water flowers.
Their leaves do not wish us to hurry:
They are round and flat and full of dark advice.

Cold worlds shake from the oar.
The spirit of blackness is in us, it is in the fishes.
A snag is lifting a valedictory, pale hand;

Stars open among the lilies.
Are you not blinded by such expressionless sirens?
This is the silence of astounded souls.



Waking In Winter


I can taste the tin of the sky —- the real tin thing.
Winter dawn is the color of metal,
The trees stiffen into place like burnt nerves.
All night I have dreamed of destruction, annihilations —-
An assembly-line of cut throats, and you and I
Inching off in the gray Chevrolet, drinking the green
Poison of stilled lawns, the little clapboard gravestones,
Noiseless, on rubber wheels, on the way to the sea resort.

How the balconies echoed! How the sun lit up
The skulls, the unbuckled bones facing the view!
Space! Space! The bed linen was giving out entirely.
Cot legs melted in terrible attitudes, and the nurses —-
Each nurse patched her soul to a wound and disappeared.
The deathly guests had not been satisfied
With the rooms, or the smiles, or the beautiful rubber plants,
Or the sea, Hushing their peeled sense like Old Mother Morphia.

Quote:
A poem like “Waking in Winter” presents us with a different kind of nightmare horror – an environmentally degraded landscape that appears to be a Cold War nuclear winter.
Nichols, Kathleen L. "The Cold War Gothic Poetry of Sylvia Plath." AMERICAN A GOTHIC G (2014): 328. (nice article :wink: )
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gasmask_colostomy
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PostPosted: Fri Feb 07, 2020 5:38 am 
 

Osore wrote:
By Sylvia Plath

Her poetry is seriously intense at times, and I especially love 'Waking in Winter'. It's so atmospheric and unexpected, like Sodom lyrics through the eyes of a housewife, plus that fantastic wtf moment when "The bed linen was giving out entirely." That second one especially is what I'd call a content rich poem.

This one is not at all content rich, but supposed to be like a delicate spiderweb of meaning, barely clinging together. Written recently.

Surface Tension
Spoiler: show
Under the ice,
a moving force
of numbness
presses down firm.

Veins holding blood
in desperate
embrace.

All distance
incalculable,
in this moment
transfixed.

The water rises
as moths
stick
to the ceiling.

Let go
and I will fall.

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Osore
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Posts: 299
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PostPosted: Sat Feb 08, 2020 9:18 pm 
 

gasmask_colostomy wrote:
Surface Tension
Spoiler: show
Under the ice,
a moving force
of numbness
presses down firm.

Veins holding blood
in desperate
embrace.

All distance
incalculable,
in this moment
transfixed.

The water rises
as moths
stick
to the ceiling.

Let go
and I will fall.
It gave me an ASMR the first time I read it. It was the same when I heard Hammer of the Witches album for the first time (your poem reminded me of Blackest Magick In Pactice). :) The fact that I didn't have to translate anything definitely helped me to experience the poem. Physics-title is a surprisingly good fit for the drama that comes. Weirdly enough, I'm being reminded of the nightmare I had the last night as I'm writing this: I could see the top of my head covered by ice, and people removing it in panic, saying the bump is going to explode, and then I saw the blood seeping into the ice, and further towards the surface.

Recently I dreamt about a piglet on a moving table being introduced in a classroom, squealing with its abdomen openly cut longitudinally. I was crying, and people asked me why I didn't feel sorry for the rats, and I said they were horribly furry. o_O This leads us to the poem I wrote before this nightmare, and also before I was involved with rats, but after I had to decapitate some mice with scissors. The last line in a poem addresses my indifference for this act, which is why showing empathy in a dream was completely unexpected. I guess I would have felt at least a bit sorry if mice made noise like piglets... The poem can be read here (translation comes second): https://pesimum.wordpress.com/2020/02/0 ... nkom-ledu/.
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gasmask_colostomy
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Posts: 939
Location: Where the heart is
PostPosted: Tue Feb 25, 2020 1:48 pm 
 

Osore wrote:
gasmask_colostomy wrote:
Surface Tension
Spoiler: show
Under the ice,
a moving force
of numbness
presses down firm.

Veins holding blood
in desperate
embrace.

All distance
incalculable,
in this moment
transfixed.

The water rises
as moths
stick
to the ceiling.

Let go
and I will fall.
It gave me an ASMR the first time I read it. It was the same when I heard Hammer of the Witches album for the first time (your poem reminded me of Blackest Magick In Pactice). :) The fact that I didn't have to translate anything definitely helped me to experience the poem. Physics-title is a surprisingly good fit for the drama that comes. Weirdly enough, I'm being reminded of the nightmare I had the last night as I'm writing this: I could see the top of my head covered by ice, and people removing it in panic, saying the bump is going to explode, and then I saw the blood seeping into the ice, and further towards the surface.

Recently I dreamt about a piglet on a moving table being introduced in a classroom, squealing with its abdomen openly cut longitudinally. I was crying, and people asked me why I didn't feel sorry for the rats, and I said they were horribly furry. o_O This leads us to the poem I wrote before this nightmare, and also before I was involved with rats, but after I had to decapitate some mice with scissors. The last line in a poem addresses my indifference for this act, which is why showing empathy in a dream was completely unexpected. I guess I would have felt at least a bit sorry if mice made noise like piglets... The poem can be read here (translation comes second): https://pesimum.wordpress.com/2020/02/0 ... nkom-ledu/.

I am very pleased about the ASMR (and the CoF song, obviously); it's always nice when you touch something that you didn't expect to. I think big themes like ice stir things up in people very easily. A great novel called Ice by Anna Kavan, if you are interested.

Your ice-poem was nicely muddled, especially when it's difficult to say who or what has been decapitated (seems like everyone). Actually, I feel like the dramatic parts should usually come closer to the end of the poem, but here they seem more sudden and unexpected, while the ending pales a bit by comparison.

I'll share a slightly silly poem that took its inspiration from the title A Room of One's Own. I was doing a lot of thinking about gender roles at the time, and it's written from a very male perspective.

A Womb of One's Own
Bubble from the primordial ocean
Rising, buoyant, ripening like fruit;
Octopus embrace crushes love close
(You are my limbs, sweet-segment)
Breathing into dewy flimsy lungs
That inflate majestically the petals
Floating on such tranquil soul-waters
Blossoming into accordant gaps:
Now,
Where do I fit in?
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Osore
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Joined: Thu Apr 10, 2014 9:55 am
Posts: 299
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PostPosted: Sat Feb 29, 2020 8:17 pm 
 

gasmask_colostomy wrote:
Your ice-poem was nicely muddled, especially when it's difficult to say who or what has been decapitated (seems like everyone). Actually, I feel like the dramatic parts should usually come closer to the end of the poem, but here they seem more sudden and unexpected, while the ending pales a bit by comparison.
I knew it would be difficult to tell who is who in the poem - I intentionally made the lyrical subjects indistinguishable from one another, until a mouse (or mice) talked to me at the end. ''I see myself completely beheaded'' is when its head falls down and pulsates shortly with red eyes pointed at the twitching body in the glass funnel turned upside down so that we can collect the blood. I tried to wrap this experience in Gothic/more sublime form; in reality, decapitating would be very relaxed and ordinary to me if they didn't defecate after decapitation. :annoyed:

gasmask_colostomy wrote:
A great novel called Ice by Anna Kavan, if you are interested.
I already have it on my to-read list. It hasn't been translated to Serbian yet, and I'm reluctant to read in English.

gasmask_colostomy wrote:
I'll share a slightly silly poem that took its inspiration from the title A Room of One's Own. I was doing a lot of thinking about gender roles at the time, and it's written from a very male perspective.

A Womb of One's Own
Bubble from the primordial ocean
Rising, buoyant, ripening like fruit;
Octopus embrace crushes love close
(You are my limbs, sweet-segment)
Breathing into dewy flimsy lungs
That inflate majestically the petals
Floating on such tranquil soul-waters
Blossoming into accordant gaps:
Now,
Where do I fit in?
If you hadn't mentioned a male perspective, it would have been only a nice expressionist picture with hidden meaning. I'm not saying this has changed, but it's difficult not to interpret it as an erection/passion projected to nature, which is slightly unpleasant with all those tentacles around. XD
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gasmask_colostomy
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PostPosted: Mon Mar 02, 2020 12:26 pm 
 

Osore wrote:
gasmask_colostomy wrote:
A great novel called Ice by Anna Kavan, if you are interested.
I already have it on my to-read list. It hasn't been translated to Serbian yet, and I'm reluctant to read in English.

As far as I remember, it's not very complex in terms of vocabulary, but the narrative style is tricky. Either original English or translation wouldn't be a big problem for you I think.

Osore wrote:
gasmask_colostomy wrote:
A Womb of One's Own
Bubble from the primordial ocean
Rising, buoyant, ripening like fruit;
Octopus embrace crushes love close
(You are my limbs, sweet-segment)
Breathing into dewy flimsy lungs
That inflate majestically the petals
Floating on such tranquil soul-waters
Blossoming into accordant gaps:
Now,
Where do I fit in?
If you hadn't mentioned a male perspective, it would have been only a nice expressionist picture with hidden meaning. I'm not saying this has changed, but it's difficult not to interpret it as an erection/passion projected to nature, which is slightly unpleasant with all those tentacles around. XD

Funnily enough, I had nothing at all in my mind about erections or anything like that: I was trying to describe not having a womb or being able to bear children. It was part of a series of poems I did that were inspired by a comment by (I think) Simone de Beauvoir, which said that women needed to start writing themselves instead of letting men do it (this was in the '60s). Since then, there have been loads of poems about femininity but not that many poems written by males about the reality of their own masculinity.

This was another one of those, written quite a long time ago.

Other Flesh
Spoiler: show
I’m not looking for what makes you human, I’m
seeking out the animal and the angelic, prying
you open to capture the insect itch of coiled feet, shaking
my reeling head at uncaptured demon eyes, photographed
and lying smugly but hellfire in the smouldering moment, eel
for a stomach belly-sliding in black ocean below, pursed
guardian lips a gargoyle spitting dirty water, bones
stretching against a leopard’s shifting skin, boudoir
curtain of silk hair suggesting illusions, owlish
stare of a piercing nose across harvest fields, spectral
wrist reaching through impugned reality, knowing
tilt of a mare’s dignified head, holy
laughter. Animal glory, angelic dirt; the depraved majesty
of her flesh.
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Osore
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PostPosted: Sun Mar 08, 2020 4:25 pm 
 

gasmask_colostomy wrote:
Osore wrote:
gasmask_colostomy wrote:
A great novel called Ice by Anna Kavan, if you are interested.
I already have it on my to-read list. It hasn't been translated to Serbian yet, and I'm reluctant to read in English.

As far as I remember, it's not very complex in terms of vocabulary, but the narrative style is tricky. Either original English or translation wouldn't be a big problem for you I think.
Hopefully I will be able to open that novel after I finish philosophy of science (at least not so boring like Sartre's Nausea). I also intend to read The Forgotten Garden by Kate Morton.

gasmask_colostomy wrote:
Funnily enough, I had nothing at all in my mind about erections or anything like that: I was trying to describe not having a womb or being able to bear children. It was part of a series of poems I did that were inspired by a comment by (I think) Simone de Beauvoir, which said that women needed to start writing themselves instead of letting men do it (this was in the '60s). Since then, there have been loads of poems about femininity but not that many poems written by males about the reality of their own masculinity.
Now I feel better. ^_^ That is an interesting perspective, although I have never thought about it. As much as I like androgynous style, If I could wake up one day as a female, I would probably go to the nearest bridge or the tallest building for a unidirectional jumping.

gasmask_colostomy wrote:
Other Flesh
Spoiler: show
I’m not looking for what makes you human, I’m
seeking out the animal and the angelic, prying
you open to capture the insect itch of coiled feet, shaking
my reeling head at uncaptured demon eyes, photographed
and lying smugly but hellfire in the smouldering moment, eel
for a stomach belly-sliding in black ocean below, pursed
guardian lips a gargoyle spitting dirty water, bones
stretching against a leopard’s shifting skin, boudoir
curtain of silk hair suggesting illusions, owlish
stare of a piercing nose across harvest fields, spectral
wrist reaching through impugned reality, knowing
tilt of a mare’s dignified head, holy
laughter. Animal glory, angelic dirt; the depraved majesty
of her flesh.
I had to translate roughly 10 words, and it killed the taste of the poem. Nevertheless, I liked the intense, dark cluster of words that seem to make a distorted portrait painted with Dali's brush. It's very condensed and almost surreal.
Was the appearance of animal and angelic at the beginning and at the end intentional? That kind of symploce might be excessive, I'm not sure. What do you think?

I'm publishing a bilingual poem again on the 25th of March on my blog. It would be nice if I could steal the time to write something new soon.
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BloodMoonRising
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PostPosted: Mon Mar 16, 2020 10:05 am 
 

Had a sudden moment of inspiration last night, so I jotted this one down. Its in my native language, so I guess only osore will get anything out of it.

Spoiler: show
Katarza

Cujem grobe opet zoves
Sapatom iz starih rana
Mracni pokrov, snova otrov
Nameces mi svakog dana.

Ima l neko da se nudi
Da zarije noz u grudi?
San je tezak, lose slutim
Razum mi se opet muti.

Da prekratim sebi muke
Mutnoj vodi sirim ruke
Pa nek nosi glavu, kosti
Vodeć me u druge luke.

Iskra seva, besa, gneva
Telo slabo odoleva
No kap kise sprati vise
Nece glavu sto ga sneva.

Da isceznem, da me nema
Nepoznatom sad se spremam
Sta ostane, nek nestane
Muk, tisina pregolema


Heavily inspired by The Stone - Teatar Apsurda album. Really killer stuff, you should check it out if you're into black metal!

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Osore
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PostPosted: Mon Mar 16, 2020 10:49 am 
 

BloodMoonRising wrote:
Had a sudden moment of inspiration last night, so I jotted this one down. Its in my native language, so I guess only osore will get anything out of it.

Spoiler: show
Katarza

Čujem grobe opet zoveš
Šapatom iz starih rana
Mračni pokrov, snova otrov
Namećes mi svakog dana.

Ima l' neko da se nudi
Da zarije nož u grudi?
San je težak, loše slutim
Razum mi se opet muti.

Da prekratim sebi muke
Mutnoj vodi širim ruke
Pa nek' nosi glavu, kosti
Vodeć' me u druge luke.

Iskra seva, besa, gneva
Telo slabo odoleva
No kap kiše sprati više
Neće glavu sto ga sneva.

Da nestanem, da me nema
Nepoznatom sad se spremam
Šta ostane, nek' nestane
Muk, tišina pregolema


Heavily inspired by The Stone - Teatar Apsurda album. Really killer stuff, you should check it out if you're into black metal!


Nice octosyllabic verse! I'm keen on this suicidal call, although it brings the old spirit of Sima Pandurović who overdone this in his poems. Omitting one rhyme in every stanza prevented it from sounding too uniform and monotonous. Perhaps you can avoid having two same verbs in the last stanza (to disappear - nestati).
Your poem does remind me of The Stone. I enjoyed their Nekroza album more. When it comes to domestic BM, May Result and Thriumfall also come to mind.

Feel free to comment on other poems. ^_^ I'd like to read more of you as well.
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BloodMoonRising
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PostPosted: Mon Mar 16, 2020 11:16 am 
 

Quote:
Perhaps you can avoid having two same verbs in the last stanza (to disappear - nestati).


Yea, I noticed and fixed it to "isceznem" in the meantime :D

As for other poems, I'm really enjoying them, but honestly don't feel like I can contribute with constructive criticism, it all sounds pretty cool to me from the start. You guys have a lot more experience with poems than I do, from what I gather (I just learned the term "octosyllabic verse"from you haha), so I just appreciate them in silence.

As for Nekroza, I'm onto it already. Haven't really listened to The Stone ever since Slovenska Krv, which is a looong time, so I'm catching up now, and am really blown away by how much they progressed since then! I'll check out Thriumfall as well, never heard of them.

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Osore
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PostPosted: Mon Mar 16, 2020 11:39 am 
 

BloodMoonRising wrote:
Quote:
Perhaps you can avoid having two same verbs in the last stanza (to disappear - nestati).

Yea, I noticed and fixed it to "isceznem" in the meantime :D
It's better now! ;)

BloodMoonRising wrote:
As for other poems, I'm really enjoying them, but honestly don't feel like I can contribute with constructive criticism, it all sounds pretty cool to me from the start. You guys have a lot more experience with poems than I do, from what I gather (I just learned the term "octosyllabic verse"from you haha), so I just appreciate them in silence.

As for Nekroza, I'm onto it already. Haven't really listened to The Stone ever since Slovenska Krv, which is a looong time, so I'm catching up now, and am really blown away by how much they progressed since then! I'll check out Thriumfall as well, never heard of them.

I had to google for the translation of osmerac actually, although I knew it's octo-something. :-P So, what kind of poems/poets appeal to you?
Atterigner from Thriumfall is a vocalist on Instinctus Bestials album by Gorgoroth.


Last edited by Osore on Mon Mar 16, 2020 2:49 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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BloodMoonRising
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PostPosted: Mon Mar 16, 2020 11:58 am 
 

Osore wrote:
I had to google for the translation of osmerac actually, although I knew it's octo-something. :-P So, what kind of the poems/poets appeal to you?


I actually translated it in my head just now and facepalmed :D As for poems, I actually don't read a lot of poetry, though I'm working on fixing that, so feel free to send some recommendations my way (in Serbian preferably, and the gloomier the better, and I'll check your signature in the meantime :)). On the other hand it's really hard for me to get into songs that have crappy lyrics, so the few bands I listen to lately are as close as I get to poetry on a regular basis. I listened to a lot of Timber Timbre lately, for example, and I really like their writing style (they have nothing to do with metal really, but are pretty gloomy).

Like this one and this one

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Osore
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PostPosted: Mon Mar 16, 2020 2:48 pm 
 

BloodMoonRising wrote:
As for poems, I actually don't read a lot of poetry, though I'm working on fixing that, so feel free to send some recommendations my way (in Serbian preferably, and the gloomier the better, and I'll check your signature in the meantime :)). On the other hand it's really hard for me to get into songs that have crappy lyrics, so the few bands I listen to lately are as close as I get to poetry on a regular basis. I listened to a lot of Timber Timbre lately, for example, and I really like their writing style (they have nothing to do with metal really, but are pretty gloomy).

Like this one and this one

Here you go: https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1wnAiwmCD_jJ7YclgpgsfIG-SvsbI9Heo?usp=sharing. I suggest to try Georg Trakl first. Dark atmosphere ahead! :thumbsup:
I pretty much ignore lyrics because I think most of them don't have the quality of poetry. The examples you provided are okay as lyrics; I would cut some parallelisms to shape them into poems though.
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BloodMoonRising
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PostPosted: Mon Mar 16, 2020 3:00 pm 
 

Got it, cheers! :beer:

Edit: I've also edited one stanza to:

San mi tezak, lose slutim
Razum mi se opet muti
Putem neba trazim, gledam
Hladna vasiona cuti

Cause the previous one sounded like Sinan Sakic or something. Not cool.

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Osore
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PostPosted: Wed Mar 18, 2020 12:18 pm 
 

BloodMoonRising wrote:
I've also edited one stanza to:

San mi tezak, lose slutim
Razum mi se opet muti
Putem neba trazim, gledam
Hladna vasiona cuti


Nice! I would only make an inversion (Vasiona hladna ćuti) in order to keep the caesura in the middle (after the fourth syllable).


Last edited by Osore on Sun Mar 22, 2020 5:58 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Pellinore
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PostPosted: Wed Mar 18, 2020 7:06 pm 
 

I'm not sure if this fits in this thread, but can anyone recommend/suggest some good, dark poetry?

And don't say Poe.
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Osore
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PostPosted: Wed Mar 18, 2020 8:42 pm 
 

Pellinore wrote:
I'm not sure if this fits in this thread, but can anyone recommend/suggest some good, dark poetry?

And don't say Poe.

Of course I won't, Poe's poetry sounds incredibly outdated, just like everything else from Romanticism. His prose, on the other hand, is very good.

Georg Trakl
Georg Heym
Sylvia Plath
Stephane Mallarme (majority is not explicitly dark, rather hermetic, or blind, if you will)
Charles Baudelaire
Gottfried Benn (Morgue and other Poems)

Arthur Rimbaud: Ophelia (he was 15 years old when he wrote it; this English translation sounds bad because it kills the rhymes)
Spoiler: show
Image
I

On the calm black water where the stars are sleeping
White Ophelia floats like a great lily;
Floats very slowly, lying in her long veils...
- In the far-off woods you can hear them sound the mort.

For more than a thousand years sad Ophelia
Has passed, a white phantom, down the long black river.
For more than a thousand years her sweet madness
Has murmured its ballad to the evening breeze.

The wind kisses her breasts and unfolds in a wreath
Her great veils rising and falling with the waters;
The shivering willows weep on her shoulder,
The rushes lean over her wide, dreaming brow.

The ruffled water-lilies are sighing around her;
At times she rouses, in a slumbering alder,
Some nest from which escapes a small rustle of wings;
- A mysterious anthem falls from the golden stars.

II

O pale Ophelia! beautiful as snow!
Yes child, you died, carried off by a river!
- It was the winds descending from the great mountains of Norway
That spoke to you in low voices of better freedom.

It was a breath of wind, that, twisting your great hair,
Brought strange rumors to your dreaming mind;
It was your heart listening to the song of Nature
In the groans of the tree and the sighs of the nights;

It was the voice of mad seas, the great roar,
That shattered your child's heart, too human and too soft;
It was a handsome pale knight, a poor madman
Who one April morning sate mute at your knees!

Heaven! Love! Freedom! What a dream, oh poor crazed Girl!
You melted to him as snow does to a fire;
Your great visions strangled your words
- And fearful Infinity terrified your blue eye!

III

- And the poet says that by starlight
You come seeking, in the night, the flowers that you picked
And that he has seen on the water, lying in her long veils
White Ophelia floating, like a great lily.


Translated by Oliver Bernard


Artur Rembo: Ofelija
Spoiler: show
Image
I
Na mirnom crnom valu gde zvezde sanjaju
Bela Ofelija poput velikog krina
Leluja velovima koji uranjaju...
Odjek hajke stiže iz šuma, iz daljina.

Već vekovima Tužna Ofelija tako
Plovi, sablast bela, rekom što crna teče.
Već vekovima krotka ludost njena lako
Romori svoju romansu u lahor, u veče.

Vetar velove vije, grudi joj celiva,
voda ljuljuška velove, spletene, bele;
Na ramenu joj drhte, plaču rese iva,
Nad čelom koje sanja trske se nadnele.

Uzdišu oko nje lokvanji koji venu;
Katkada u jovi zaspaloj budi gnezda
Iz kojih mali drhtaj prhne u trenu:
- Tajanstvena pesma sa zlatnih pada zvezda.

II

Bleda Ofelijo! Lepa poput snegova!
Da, Ti umre, dete, odnele su te vode.
- Vetrovi što se ruše s norveških bregova
Šaptali su ti reči opore slobode;

To dah jedan što ti guste svijao kose
Čudne nosaše zvuke tvom dahu što sanja;
Slušao ti je srce pev prirode, što se
Javi uzdahom noći i tužaljkom granja.

To ti glas lugih mora, grcaj nedogledan
Slomi detinju grud, a preblaga je bila;
To u aprilsko jutro lep bledi vitez jedan,
Jadni ludak, nemo sede do tvog krila.

Raj! Ljubav! Sloboda! Ludo, kakva snivanja!
Na toj si vatri bila ko sneg što se topi;
Reč ti vizija stesni u svoja zbivanja
- Sa stravom se beskraj u plavom oku stopi.

III

A pesnik kaže da preko zvezdane pruge
Dolaziš noću, tražiš cveće što si brala,
I da vide na vodi velove tvoje duge;
Ofelija plovi, veliki krin vrh vala.


Also, you can always check my signature for something dark.
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Rottir
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Joined: Sat Aug 01, 2015 6:48 pm
Posts: 32
PostPosted: Sat Mar 21, 2020 7:47 pm 
 

gasmask_colostomy wrote:
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?


It tends to be short free verse with relationship-oriented or feminist themes; not something that personally interests me, but quite a number of personalities are making big bucks off of it and I find it fascinating as a cultural phenomenon. Here is an essay eviscerating one such poet - an entertaining piece but highly controversial. Should you read it I'm sure you will draw your own conclusions.

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Rottir
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Joined: Sat Aug 01, 2015 6:48 pm
Posts: 32
PostPosted: Sat Mar 21, 2020 7:51 pm 
 

In my part of the world winter continues to cling to life - it was -20 or -22 C last night - so a few weeks ago it provided fodder for a complaint poem. I also recently became aware of animism - the notion of natural phenomenon having a spirit force - and though I am a strong atheist, recognized a tendency in myself to have almost a superstitious streak about these things. Which resulted in the following poem:

Spoiler: show
BOREAS

Once more the cold descends
Upon a northern land
Where it sometimes hurts to breathe.

A hare huddles in its den,
Eyes blank as the wide expanse
Beyond its patient stare.
Perched still in a leafless oak
A passerine pest derides
Men faring faint, grey lines
Carved into barren fields.
Laments emerge and rise
To soar above a world
Three times encased in ice -
'This winter will never end.'

Lay to the fire burning deep,
Lest the poplars cracking in the cold
Mistake it as a threat.

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Osore
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Joined: Thu Apr 10, 2014 9:55 am
Posts: 299
Location: Serbia
PostPosted: Sun Mar 22, 2020 5:57 pm 
 

Rottir wrote:
Here is an essay eviscerating one such poet - an entertaining piece but highly controversial

Quote:
In 2015 I heard McNish speak on a panel at the Aldeburgh Poetry Festival, where she was also a main performer. Two things she said struck me then as bizarre, both in themselves and for the fact that she chose to admit them publicly. The first was that her publisher (presumably by then Picador) had sent her a pile of books to read, because they thought she hadn’t read enough poetry. The second was that the poems she was writing presently were the same as the poems she had written in her childhood diaries.
:durr:

Rottir wrote:
In my part of the world winter continues to cling to life - it was -20 or -22 C last night - so a few weeks ago it provided fodder for a complaint poem. I also recently became aware of animism - the notion of natural phenomenon having a spirit force - and though I am a strong atheist, recognized a tendency in myself to have almost a superstitious streak about these things. Which resulted in the following poem:

Spoiler: show
BOREAS

Once more the cold descends
Upon a northern land
Where it sometimes hurts to breathe.

A hare huddles in its den,
Eyes blank as the wide expanse
Beyond its patient stare.
Perched still in a leafless oak
A passerine pest derides
Men faring faint, grey lines
Carved into barren fields.
Laments emerge and rise
To soar above a world
Three times encased in ice -
'This winter will never end.'

Lay to the fire burning deep,
Lest the poplars cracking in the cold
Mistake it as a threat.
Subtle alliteration is a nice touch. Thanks to a hare and other constituencies of nature, this poem reminds me of a cute picture book and brings up the childhood memory of a small, precious rabbits my grandfather kept, and how I refused to eat their meat. I love meat, but I'm sure a rabbit would leave a bad taste in my mouth. I haven't tried it yet.
Winter is my favourite season, but this year it disappointed us - no snow. :ugh:
Greeting from +2 degrees, soon to drop to -2. ^_^
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Andre Gaius
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Joined: Fri Dec 09, 2011 1:11 pm
Posts: 71
Location: Brazil
PostPosted: Tue Mar 24, 2020 10:38 am 
 

In Brazil there were a few, but great symbolist/decadent poets, like Cruz e Sousa (the "Brazilian Baudelaire", look at this! that guy was son of slaves), Augusto dos Anjos, Alphonsus Guimaraens (christian approach) and Xavier de Carvalho (from my city, he has an very unknown masterpiece called "Missas Negras" - "Black Masses" in english). Portugal generated some great ones, like Mario de Sá Carneiro and Camilo Pessanha. Hey, the Moonspell singer released some nice poetry books too, which remember me of Augusto dos Anjos (but without musicality or rich rhymes).

Try to pick up it if you speak Portuguese or Spanish at least. Unfortunately, all these poets have little worldwide expression due to the enormous difficulty in translating their poetry (especially to rhymes), so their recognition is limited to the Portuguese world (that is, Brazil and Portugal, since Africans who speak Portuguese are not interested).

Listen to a poem by Augusto dos Anjos in a musical rendition (try to feel the lyrical power, as it is very difficult to translate into the English):

Spoiler: show

Aquele ruído obscuro de gagueira
Que à noite, em sonhos mórbidos, me acorda,
Vinha da vibração bruta da corda
Mais recôndita da alma brasileira!

Aturdia-me a tétrica miragem
De que, naquele instante, no Amazonas,
Fedia, entregue a vísceras glutonas,
A carcaça esquecida de um selvagem.

A civilização entrou na taba
Em que ele estava. O gênio de Colombo
Manchou de opróbrios a alma do mazombo,
Cuspiu na cova do morubixaba!

E o índio, por fim, adstrito à étnica escória,
Recebeu, tendo o horror no rosto impresso,
Esse achincalhamento do progresso
Que o anulava na crítica da História!

(...)

Mas, diante a xantocróide raça loura,
Jazem caladas, todas as inúbias,
E agora, sem difíceis nuanças dúbias,
Com uma clarividência aterradora,

Em vez da prisca tribo e indiana tropa
A gente deste século, espantada,
Vê somente a caveira abandonada
De uma raça esmagada pela Europa!

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Osore
Metal newbie

Joined: Thu Apr 10, 2014 9:55 am
Posts: 299
Location: Serbia
PostPosted: Tue Mar 24, 2020 7:30 pm 
 

Andre Gaius wrote:
Cruz e Sousa, Augusto dos Anjos, Xavier de Carvalho, Augusto dos Anjos, Mario de Sá Carneiro and Camilo Pessanha.
Thanks for sharing, it's good to know that spirit of decadence infected the speakers of Portuguese. Unfortunately, I don't speak neither Portuguese nor Spanish. I found some poems written by the mentioned authors translated to English, and none translated to Serbian. /:
This one stands out, as it doesn't require a dictionary and... :evil:

Spoiler: show
Sexta-feira Santa

Lua absíntica, verde, feiticeira,
pasmada como um vício monstruoso...
Um cão estranho fuça na esterqueira,
uivando para o espaço fabuloso.

É esta a negra e santa Sexta-feira!
Cristo está morto, como um vil leproso,
chagado e frio, na feroz cegueira
da Morte, o sangue roxo e tenebroso.

A serpente do mal e do pecado
um sinistro veneno esverdeado
verte do Morto na mudez serena.

Mas da sagrada Redenção do Cristo
em vez do grande Amor, puro, imprevisto,
brotam fosforescências de gangrena!


Good Friday

Absinthe, green, bewitching moon,
amazed as a monstrous vice...
A strange dog scrabbles in the dunghill,
howling at the fabulous space.

This is the black and holy Friday!
Christ is dead, like a vile leper,
ulcerous and cold, in the ferocious blindness
of Death, his blood purple and shadowy.

The serpent of evil and of sin
a sinister greenish poison
spills from the dead Man in serene muteness.

But from the sacred Redemption of the Christ
instead of the great, pure unforeseen Love,
sprout up phosphorescences of gangrene!

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Andre Gaius
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Joined: Fri Dec 09, 2011 1:11 pm
Posts: 71
Location: Brazil
PostPosted: Wed Mar 25, 2020 2:17 pm 
 

You're welcome. This one is a good literal translation. Unfortunately, rhyme and musicality are lost in English. Well, translating poetry is a hard work... But I've read a handful of Portuguese translations of Willian Blake that are "true" to the original content and form (or as much as possible). There is also an awesome and rhymed translation in Portuguese of Molière's "Le Misanthrope" (after all, ancient theater is often pure poetry and I strongly recommend it to those who have a misanthropic inclination to read this play - funny yet serious).

I don't know any Serbian authors, maybe none have been translated into Portuguese yet. From the Balkans I'm always reading some incredible Romanian authors. I know there is a great poet there (Mihai Eminescu), but I am familiar with others from philosophy, history and theater, like Emil Cioran, Mircea Eliade and Ionesco.

You quoted Georg Trakl. I like the images he creates through his words, but most of his poems seem repetitive (einsamen, schwermut, stille, Herbst, schatten, dunkel, schwarz - these words are written exhaustively) and unintelligible imo. But I enjoy this one:

Spoiler: show
Amen (German)
Verwestes gleitend durch die morsche Stube;
Schatten an gelben Tapeten; in dunklen Spiegeln wölbt
Sich unserer Hände elfenbeinerne Traurigkeit.


Braune Perlen rinnen durch die erstorbenen Finger.
In der Stille
Tun sich eines Engels blaue Mohnaugen auf.


Blau ist auch der Abend;
Die Stunde unseres Absterbens, Azraels Schatten,
Der ein braunes Gärtchen verdunkelt.

Amen (English)

A ghost floats through the rotten parlor;
Shadows on the yellow wallpapers; in dark mirrors arch
Our hands’ ivory sadness.

Brown pearls stream through the dead fingers.
In the stillness,
The blue eyes of an angel open up like poppies.

The evening is also blue;
Our hour of death, Azrael’s shadow,
A brown garden darkens.

Other translation:

Putrid shape gliding through the rotten room;
Shadows on yellow wallpapers; in dark mirrors
The ivory sadness of our hands arches.

Brown beads run through the dead fingers.
In the stillness
The blue poppy-eyes of an angel open.

The evening is also blue;
The hour of our dying, Azrael's shadow,
Which darkens a brown garden.

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Osore
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Joined: Thu Apr 10, 2014 9:55 am
Posts: 299
Location: Serbia
PostPosted: Thu Mar 26, 2020 12:17 am 
 

Andre Gaius wrote:
Spoiler: show
You're welcome. This one is a good literal translation. Unfortunately, rhyme and musicality are lost in English. Well, translating poetry is a hard work... But I've read a handful of Portuguese translations of Willian Blake that are "true" to the original content and form (or as much as possible). There is also an awesome and rhymed translation in Portuguese of Molière's "Le Misanthrope" (after all, ancient theater is often pure poetry and I strongly recommend it to those who have a misanthropic inclination to read this play - funny yet serious).

I don't know any Serbian authors, maybe none have been translated into Portuguese yet. From the Balkans I'm always reading some incredible Romanian authors. I know there is a great poet there (Mihai Eminescu), but I am familiar with others from philosophy, history and theater, like Emil Cioran, Mircea Eliade and Ionesco.

You quoted Georg Trakl. I like the images he creates through his words, but most of his poems seem repetitive (einsamen, schwermut, stille, Herbst, schatten, dunkel, schwarz - these words are written exhaustively) and unintelligible imo. But I enjoy this one:

[spoiler]Amen (German)
Verwestes gleitend durch die morsche Stube;
Schatten an gelben Tapeten; in dunklen Spiegeln wölbt
Sich unserer Hände elfenbeinerne Traurigkeit.


Braune Perlen rinnen durch die erstorbenen Finger.
In der Stille
Tun sich eines Engels blaue Mohnaugen auf.


Blau ist auch der Abend;
Die Stunde unseres Absterbens, Azraels Schatten,
Der ein braunes Gärtchen verdunkelt.

Amen (English)

A ghost floats through the rotten parlor;
Shadows on the yellow wallpapers; in dark mirrors arch
Our hands’ ivory sadness.

Brown pearls stream through the dead fingers.
In the stillness,
The blue eyes of an angel open up like poppies.

The evening is also blue;
Our hour of death, Azrael’s shadow,
A brown garden darkens.

Other translation:

Putrid shape gliding through the rotten room;
Shadows on yellow wallpapers; in dark mirrors
The ivory sadness of our hands arches.

Brown beads run through the dead fingers.
In the stillness
The blue poppy-eyes of an angel open.

The evening is also blue;
The hour of our dying, Azrael's shadow,
Which darkens a brown garden.

I have Misanthrope on my to-read list. I've also found another piece about misanthropy - a novel called The Dwarf by Pär Lagerkvist.
Translators indeed often keep rhymes; I guess those on the internet are done by someone whose English doesn't shine (like mine).

From what I found translated to Portuguese, recommended would be a short novel O Pátio Maldito by Ivo Andrić (https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/7792148-o-p-tio-maldito). Vasko Popa was Romanian, but he lived in Serbia and wrote in Serbian; here are some of his poems in Portuguese (http://www.culturapara.art.br/opoema/vaskopopa/vaskopopa.htm I only know that the first one is good, but I can't guarantee for the other ones as the original text is missing).
I found this book too: Poesia sempre – Sérvia. Fundação Biblioteca Nacional. Ministério da Educação. Brasil. Rio de Janeiro. N 29. Ano 15. 2008. I believe it's the anthology of Serbian poems. (https://escamandro.wordpress.com/tag/poesia-servia/)
I don't hold a high opinion on Serbian writers in general, maybe because I was required to read boring stuff for school. However, I collected some nice poems in my signature.

The Romanian writers you've mentioned are well translated, and I should pick up some of their works. I read only On the Heights of Despair (Na vrhuncu beznađa) by Emil Cioran and it was very good. ^_^

The first time I was reading Trakl, 9 years ago, it clouded my mind in heavy mist of confusion and light suffering, in lack of better words. If I had read 500 pages of such poetry, I think I would have gone crazy from all those repetitive words. Now, I don't notice them at all and every poem is delightful. His poetry is hermetic and common words are seen as personal codes/symbols. Since he carried the keys to the grave, we should let ourselves to the magical, evoking forces of verses, to the atmosphere that vaporises in a formless, yet visible charms.
I noticed that Trakl in English does nothing to me, which is why I succumb to Serbian translations. Damned be the day when they introduced Russian instead of German in my ex-school. :panda:
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Osore
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Joined: Thu Apr 10, 2014 9:55 am
Posts: 299
Location: Serbia
PostPosted: Thu Mar 26, 2020 12:22 am 
 

Osore wrote:
I'm publishing a bilingual poem again on the 25th of March on my blog.
https://pesimum.wordpress.com/2020/03/25/gusenice/ Dadaist vibes. :-P

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