Whether it's a rough draft or one of your personal favorites, feel free to post anything here.


My page: http://hellopoetry.com/poet/pedro-tejada/

Will we remain the only two posters who give a shit? Stay tuned...

hahaha I'm afraid so, I guess

haha, well i liked the elvis one. How long does it take you to write these?

Thought i say hi! New to the forum in terms of being a poster! Always just kind of lurked, since my registration never got approved...

ANYWAYS, i'm a 'poet-in-training', and whilst i might not know a lot about... vocal technicalities and percussion precision, i do know stuff about poetry, so i'm gonna try and contribute to this thread as much as possible! always loved this section of the board

stick around then and welcome!

well, if I'm really into it, about a half hour, 45 minutes. but something like that, which was an assignment, a few hours tops. I find that if it's not naturally just flowing out of you, don't bother writing it (I know that's pitifully cliche and hokey, but it's true)

word

I've been dry for a long time now because I've kind of undergone a(nother) philosophical shift in the way that I think about poetry, but I am working on something for the first time in a while now. Don't know if it'll be any good, but whatever. Here's my dumb little blog that I neglect: http://postcardsfromhome.tumblr.com/

Yeah i'm the same as you two. And it's frustrating as hell because i feel lazy when i stop writing, only there's not much i can do about it. The one thing i do sometimes do, after i 've written something that just kinda came out, is just spend a lot of time reading it over and making minor changes. Staying up late helps, too.

These are what I wrote for my Creative Writing class last year. My prof liked them better than my short stories, which pissed me off because I put tons of effort in to my stories and spent almost no time on these.

Detached

I saw the most creative minds of my generation
Writing for the world
At their best,
Imaginative.
At times,
Pretentious.
Still running off of those ancient
Scribbles for something
Deemed meaningful by those
Who load the canon.

Hard to express beauty
When most always it is captured
Through the lens of someone else
And even then,
Again,
Reinterpreted through
Someone else.

How can we write of tallest mountains,
Or endless seas,
When only from a car door window
Have we ever seen.

So then we read
Rather than experience for our selves.
We learn from other's writings,
Who learned from other's writings,
And write it down for others
To write about.
And never more,
But often much less,
Do the words brought down on page
Speak the truth
Of life,
More than life itself

Looking

They rummage through the bins
Outside the race track
Suffrage only brought more suffering

They wait for the flowers to blossom
But there is too much blockage
Preventing them from sharing nutmeg
On holidays with the neighbors

Cossacks after a cold cold war
Looking for their own plumage
To fly above the wreckage below.

Catastrophe

Radio towers
spread the word
of gloom.

Haunting,
Cataclysmic,
Doom.

Twisted corridors
and tingly spines,
erupting volcanoes
and swinging vines.

The aeroplanes spread dust
Across the ocean
The girls on the beach
Rub on their lotions
But, there,
A signal in the sky.
Music in disguise
Hiding behind metal walls
EXPLOSIONS!
Someone just dropped the bomb.

The birds fly away.
Hearts screaming,
Men feeding off the fumes.
Wait 'til next Spring
Where the stones and flowers bloom.

i don't know anything about poetry, but i did wrote a poem on accident. it was a random piece of flowery prose that was at least meaningful to me, and then i thought hey this might look cool in verse so i hit enter a bunch and voila! i had a poem:

no title, i'm bad with titles.

More swollen letters,
fat with wisdom,
dripping virtuosity—
they echo like thunder in my skull.
Oozing audacity,
those primitive sketches,
stoic in their isolation,
surrender rights without a whisper,
a nation, its proletariat, enslaved.
With matchless potential,
subjects of a tongue dexterous and pliable,
burn, die, and ascend into calculated form,
a form of utmost pleasure;
a word.
A smelted blend of myriad flavors
and delicate evolution
it bears a tinge of unique teaching;
a unique idea,
a taste of creation,
of visceral desire.
I am floored.
Such is the weapon of my foes.
A word. Upon a word. Upon a word.
And through words,
nominated with meticulous care,
strung together and knotted firmly,
the title is born.
Suggestive,
but still furtive in its publicity,
it implies, estimates, informs,
but does not divulge its most delicious innards,
its sage construction.
My brain is mush,
melted by fire of envy.
Such craft! Such mastery! Such envy.
To imagine the pearl inside the clam
is to imagine the artistry beneath the title.
Such ornate art brews below,
of course.
But can a mere summation,
a mortal breath, of a single,
tightly wound syllable
uttered through a pair of mortal lips
encompass the incalculable
beauty within?
Art. If only it were just.
Then my rage,
my innumerable jealousies,
my utter deficiency of creation
and standards held high to myself
would perish joyfully to oblivion.
But alas, it is not so.
I am lost to mediocrity.

You might be surprised to find how many gifted writers actually believed themselves to be mired in mediocrity when in fact they had crafted something of value. Good job. Title ? maybe something like
'Common State of Mind' or something to that effect.

hey thanks. i'll think of one at some point. at the moment i have it saved as 'untitled poem #2'. i never suspected that i could craft an adequate poem. i might try this some more!

How I Found Them

When I was six years
old, I saw a man shot
dead on the side of the road

opposite from
where I lived. Whether justice hung
there, like a flame over wax,
I didn’t care,

for it was beautiful, as his blood
made eyes in the snow, shining
like oracles to a post-

life that no human would ever be
smart enough to see. Then we moved,

from the windows and
concrete to the wilderness that
jutted into the ocean

like a child interrupts a conversation.
they found two dead bodies on our
new street. One, found in the,
woods, had turned rotten
with time. The other had been a fisherman
who lost his balance and had

slipped all the way to our
shore. I was jealous of the places
they’d been.

---

San Fransisco, or Something To Do With Aliens

There’s a café
that once was a record store,
that once was a bookstore,
that sold A Dummy’s Guide to Overthrowing the Government and Defeating Capitalism.
An old man sits outside,
his tremor tapping out the rhythms
to a Charlie Parker tune that the hobo
next to him plays on a kazoo.
Half a block down an aging Huckleberry is
strumming his penance on a
pawned Takamine. There are ciphers, paupers,
and Jacks that laugh and dance in groupthink
on the sidewalk. All the women wear tragedy
masks glued on upside down with lipstick.

Later, after the clock’s
first third stroke, I step out relieved from
behind a dumpster I
once frequented when I slept in beds all
over this block. I pass a kid at a lamppost,
in the dark he looks like a comic book
villain, before his powers. He
has a backpack. He says he just got here. He says he’s excited.
He asks me for a cigarette, I give him my lighter.

Still love Eulogy to death, that's such a phenomenal piece. I'm so glad this is getting more posts than expected (mind you, that's more than none, but still, that's pretty sexy ), I'm reading them all after this post.