Skald

  • #1
    *attached is a picture of the book where I write all my poems in*

    Hi. I've been writing poetry infrequently to vent emotion. I want to continue on in creative writing, so I'm going to try to write more poetry. Please feel free to comment, critique, ask questions, etc. Poetry is expression, and expression without commune and communication is masturbatory.
    Quote from Talore »

    Misanthropy

    Ring around the fire
    The dancers leap and soar
    Shouting, Screaming
    Invoking their strange gods

    The shamans beat their drums
    Incantations esoteric, yet
    Ancient is their call
    Harrowing the mind

    The earth bleeds
    And bleeds their dancing feet
    Drums beat and hearts sound
    Warding away the night

    The fire banishes darkness
    Their chants keep beasts at bay
    Yet in their hearts cloistered
    The Beasts lurk
    Ready to pounce
    Ready to Spring
    To Ruin
    To Rend

    What fell gods are these
    To evoke such dire spirit?

    Their chant
    Barely audible above the revelry

    Me

    The Wicker Men only fuel the fire

    Quote from Talore »

    The Void


    We were doing fine
    I told myself that
    Naively
    Little lies to get through the day
    Stack up

    Without warning
    A mad rush through a waterfall
    To Elysium on faerie wings
    Spinning wildly
    And back

    Falling further
    To Tarterian turmoil
    Slow to pick up
    Contaminated

    Couldn't wash it all
    Was always bad at cleaning
    Reaching for equilibrium
    and lashed down
    by oily strands of the past

    Temoral resolve
    Life becomes normal
    The tar still screams
    From the past
    Is this happiness?
    Am I content?

    Salvage the rigging?
    We could stay this time
    Everbright fields
    Sacred Groves
    of the Rite

    One straw
    Oily and polluted
    Make or break
    Do or die
    Dichtomy

    Laughing spectres
    Am I content?



    Quote from Talore »

    Not as a Sibling


    Leap fly dance grab lunge fall
    catch myself on you
    pulled down, bent
    a blood-lined groove in dirty floorboards

    tumbling

    concussive blasts
    under the swamp
    waves of the roil
    break the surface
    gentle
    like swooning exaustion

    arid worn core
    mired in plastic filth
    dancing shadows
    smoke

    sumbeam
    choked
    fighting
    plunging into the mire
    regret?


    Quote from Talore, PRC 137 »

    Special Snowflake

    First-World problems
    from a laptop sipping tea
    Video games and a furnace
    Existentialism
    Fading into the couch
    Why?

    Sex is cool and all, but accept it and move on
    You're ten years to late
    No persecution
    No bigotry
    There's no struggle
    so man the **** up and move on

    Stop intruding into the
    legitimacy
    of my first-world problems
    with your first-world problems
    It's hard enough making myself
    depressed
    ATTACHMENTS
    • IMG0006
    Last edited by Talore: 3/26/2012 11:43:51 PM
  • #2
    Quote from Talore, PRC 141 »
    Medication (A true story)

    I wake up with a stiff pain
    can't move my neck for a tumor sticking out the side
    swollen lymph node
    take some pills

    Next day, ****ty night, shaking fevers
    spots everywhere
    allergic to the pills
    take some different pills

    Next day bloodshot, worse sleep than the last
    spots are angry hives
    hospital trip
    take some more pills

    But my body is rejecting a system where we
    consume each other like pills

    I threw up when they took my blood
    out of sheer revulsion
    I joked, said I was a wimp
    but I asked if I was the only one strong enough
    to be sick with this world

    Sweating for hours, vitals taken (stolen)
    they don't know what it is
    but they gave me some more pills

    My skin is still pockmarked with the scars of a
    virus? disease? allergic reaction?
    we can't classify it but it eats at me every day
    a manifestation of a pill-popping society

    I went to the hospital, and I still have hives over my body, It kind of sucks, if only because I can't see anyone.

    I don't suspect many people will like the poem, the ending is too simplistic. But I write all my poetry in the moment and at one go, without editing for prettiness. It could be better but it wouldn't be any more true.
  • #3
    Allergies

    "Nobody is born allergic to anything,
    you have to be exposed to it to react to it."

    Born a beast of a mechanical society
    spawned polished groomed programmed
    to carry on the cycle
    under names like peace, good, right
    and political dogma

    The animals cry and the forest bleed
    we march as one nation
    Man
    our quest unstoppable

    We have weapons and we know how to use them
    contracts, money, rhetoric
    friends in high places
    to trample underfoot
    the unenlightened

    Being human is worth NOTHING
    when the sickest liches
    are as innocent as we are
    when everything is valid the evil goes masked
    look in the ****ing mirror
    does this look fixed?
    does it look good?
    then it can't be all good

    There was a time
    in a dream
    when I could extend my arms to an image of a bear
    call "brother"
    and weep

    And I can grab a rifle
    charge like the heroes
    my ancestors
    as valiant as any in 1945
    I breathe their breath, righteousness
    but they had the government

    I'm sick of trying to work in the system
    The human body can purge itself of any sickness
    but sometimes it overreacts
    and develops an allergy
  • #4
    Quote from Talore, PRC 142
    Hilltop

    Azure mist swells through a plastic vial
    bubling through the depths
    By flame through water
    To air from the earth

    We are the shamans
    Sacrilege is our call
    a resonant horn sounds through artificial sound

    We are the explorers
    Barganing with the spirit world
    Through leaf and angst
    Beating against the howling chains
    Of the gentle oppressor

    Tonight, we are free.
    (That's why weed is illegal)

    I had a real good time with my best friend the other night. We took a walk at midnight down the road, and smoked behind a little diner called the Hilltop Cafe. Many substantial things were discussed.
    Last edited by Talore: 8/18/2012 6:22:13 PM
  • #5
    Quote from Talore
    Sanitizer

    I weep
    for the hateful mind
    the soul raised by violence
    the jealousy of a first world that stands so tall
    yet cannot hope to reach meaning

    Idolatry
    the mind that presumes knowledge truly knows nothing
    is this not the meaning of wisdom?
    how do I navigate the ethereal tides
    when knowledge is no anchor
    and we've destroyed everything else
    in jealous love of knowledge?

    The landmarks were bulldozed
    the paths were paved over; wrong
    the stars are shrouded with light pollution
    and the cold streets are a labyrinth

    An envious world
    in jealousy lashes me for asking
    Can I have my life back?

    I don't remember anything triggering this poem. Just some commentary on my perceptions of society, particularily in regards to knowlege, prejudice, and academia. I've also highlighted some of the philisophical dilemmas I've been through.
  • #6
    Quote from Talore
    Written after reading "Fragments from the Alfoxden Notebook (I)" by William Wordsworth (feel free to shorten it to "Written after reading Wordsworth" in the poll options, sentimentG4X)

    I'm sick of imagination
    Because imagination is sick
    The Bard is dead... we have killed him

    We stopped caring about stories
    Every story is a children's tale
    When only children are allowed to dream

    When did it start? I can scarcely fathom
    From alpha to king to CEO it's all there
    Yet there's a false sense that we can just go back in time
    and it'll all be better

    But 200 years ago, Wordsworth tells the same story
    and I'm sure if we looked hard enough
    we'd find a cave painting of an outcast
    abandoned for deviance

    There's few ways to persist
    (as they would like) but
    the romantics had a 40% survival rating
    and the only way is forward

    I should have been born 200 years later
    if I can die to make that future
    I'll have died well

    What it says on the tin, really. Wordsworth is my favourite poet, followed by Keats, and the other romantics. I recently bought a book of selected works of Wordsworth and another of Keats, and I've been devouring the former's work. His views and expressions are something that are extremely relevant to me, and I never thought about it before, but the romantics are people who were struggling with the modern issue of civilization versus the natural world, hundreds of years ago.

    Here's the fragments that I responded to:

    Quote from William Wordsworth »
    I
    there he would stand
    In the still covert of some [lonesome?] rock,
    Or gaze upon the moon until its light
    Fell like a strain of music on his soul
    And seemed to sink into his very heart.

    II
    Why is it we feel
    So little for each other, but for this,
    That we with nature have no sympathy,
    Or with such things as we have no power to hold
    Articulate language?

    -------------------

    And never for each other shall we feel
    As we may feel, till we have sympathy
    With nature in her forms inanimate,
    With objects such as have no power to hold
    Articulate language. In all forms of things
    There is a mind

    III

    Of unknown modes of being which on earth,
    Or in the heavens, or in the heavens and earth
    Exist by mighty combinations, bound
    Together by a link, and with a soul
    Which makes all one.

    To gaze
    On that green hill and on those scattered trees
    And feel a pleasant consciousness of life
    Until the sweet sensation called the mind
    Into itself, by image from without
    Unvisited, and all her reflex powers
    Wrapped in a still dream [?of] forgetfulness

    I lived without the knowledge that I lived
    Then by those beauteous forms brought back again
    To lose myself again as if my life
    Did ebb and flow with a strange mystery.
    Last edited by Talore: 9/30/2013 12:09:11 AM
  • #7
    The most important poem I've written to date

    Today, I put maui rib sauce
    on a cucumber sandwich.

    Today, I spit in the faces
    of sadists, demons, kings;

    Come at me, culture!
    I've got an honest smile
    and more love than a hundred
    of your infomericials.

    Howl, ye winds!
    I've got bards holding me up,

    You see this, gods?
    Your domains are shattered.
    Let come what may!
    Last edited by Talore: 1/30/2012 12:06:50 PM
  • #8
    Quote from Talore
    To Burns

    My love is like a red, red rose
    Frowned upon and laughed at

    I love folk
    anarchic
    at once home in a tavern
    and a celestial anomaly

    Oh, to be able to speak Scots!
    My Robbie impression isn't shabby
    as I'm the only student who gives a damn
    in this whole facade of a church of literature

    Let's study the rebels and great questioners
    and reflect in the proper academic mode

    Angsty poem written in class. I can speak Scots fairly well. Nobody else in class can. Nor can they speak English well when it comes to poetry. I hate the MLA format.
  • #9
    Quote from Talore
    Study

    My muscles feel like foreign beings
    gripping my skull
    like politicians

    I wish to slough them off
    prison bars
    guarding immortality

    Dull pounding at the base of my skull
    the blighted drummer
    of indoctrination

    Lie naked on nature's cold, glass table
    art does not exist
    without sacrilege

    Written during a lecture. I really like the last stanza.
  • #10
    Quote from Talore
    The Human Experience

    Melt into the room
    ebb and flow
    immaterial love
    break down our barriers
    like every seacliff
    into the sand
    Written because I had a really good feeling one day that I couldn't really expllain in another way.
  • #11
    Quote from Talore
    Concert Hall

    My lucid dream carresses reality
    from the far corners of memory
    drifting like petals of rain
    in soft dappled sunlight

    I live in a time of never
    the ifs and fancies dance silent
    like so many bitter wasn'ts
    on a concrete floor
    The title came from a lyric from an Omnia song called Wheel of Time.

    "Life is like a music hall
    But you don't get a curtain call
    The trees of youth have come to fall… asunder
    and the wheel of time rolls on"
  • #12
    Quote from Talore
    Drewid

    Nowebowdee nowes aneething

    I really like this poem. Only some people understood what I was trying to say :/ All knowledge is subjective. Those who claim to know much are the ones who truly know little. Real knowledge comes from natural wisdom, such as what the druid represents. The spelling shows how silly and slippery established knowledge is anyways, and how a wise and smart person could be oblivious to spelling and still be such.
  • #13
    There is a strange sadness
    which arises from reading
    reading is the transfer of
    the human experience
    all that lives and is known
    to the eye and the mind
    lives in simple writing
    why then such sorrow?
    is it not joyous
    to experience outside yourself?
    the Buddhists and Hindus
    are too depressive a people
    in their bleak outlooks
    that all life is suffering
    life is beautiful, not pain
    but why then are all
    great works of literature
    sad?
  • #14
    I

    Oh goddess of fire and healing,
    of blacksmiths and poets hear my cry
    I invoke thee fill my lungs with your breath
    and take my mind from the cold night's worries

    Burn the ghostly bonds of profane doctrine
    heal the weeping cuts along my soul
    forge my heart to be your worthy vassal
    guide my hand so I may celebrate you

    II

    It is fitting that I am never ready
    for the first, most potent offering
    it burns, but let those burns strengthen me
    so that I may breathe deeper
    to be not the journeyman shaman
    but the druid at one with all

    The innumerable stars are fair tribute
    to celebrate beauty and your strength
    I am glad that I could share them

    Greatest are the colours
    that reveal themselves in the dark
    whose only witnesses
    are the celestial and the enthralled

    III

    I can't tell where my mind goes
    or whether it stays
    or if it was ever there at all
    but it feels good
    it feels right
    I can feel your hands at work
    and it makes me glad

    IV

    It really is a rather silly thing
    to worry about knowledge
    and religion
    and science
    and politics
    when I sit here (and here)
    and know that everything is alright
    I am real, and this is real
    everything I feel is real
    what is real?

    V

    Thank you, Brighid
    I'm glad
  • #15
    There is a thick fog in my mind
    I can't see through it
    My mind's eye is blinded
    I can't create

    I didn't think I'd have mental illness
    Looks like I was wrong
    I'm wrong
  • #16
    Green cleansing wind biting cold off the Strait
    wrap 'round all petty shelters, heed no grey construction
    signs marking out their sad little abodes,
    carry the sublime lavender and holly, sing
    sweet soft melodies of a less hateful diety
    and whip the boughs into marching order
    for they have their orders, to endure.

    Moisture and heat, from a million million
    heartbeats in tune with Pan's pipes,
    carry their essence in breath and swoon,
    nay spin faster and faster, let all the sick world
    mark your footprint, carry Morrighan's shrill
    horncall, death is nigh.

    We feel them, we hear them, some of us
    can taste their presence in a bedewed
    sunrise, call, call the sleepers and
    let loose the bards, alight the fires
    in their eyes and let them extinguish
    the fires in their internal combustion engines,
    let spirit again take the rocky throne
    and reclaim the race that got away.
  • #17
    Placeholder
  • #18
    Do you know what it's like to live fully there?
    I've truly learned what that is
    but only through memory

    It's been over a year since it happened
    I get dizzy, all the time
    headaches, I can't concentrate

    I'm only half living
    It's really hard to face at times
    I can't do **** all
    I can't write papers
    or hold a job

    Nobody knows what is wrong with me
    It feels like I'm slowly dying

    I don't want to grow old
    to feel every step closer
    to death's embrace
    mortality is a horrible thing to feel
    it doesn't matter that I'm not actually dying

    I want my life back
    18 is supposed to be the best time of your life
  • #19
    Bound to a house
    manuactured cotton jail cell
    my hunter's muscles ache from disuse
    hawk's eye vision separating
    the totemic from the academic
    it was black magic
    the cool aura of a wet spring evening
    is the scientifc method of a pagan reality
    glass windows let light in but I can't see
    an interpretation of the green other side
    though it calls to me
    leave your house
    and go home
  • #20
    Today is an invisible globe
    the real god particle
    I can only see the impressions
    but oh, how peaceful
    I am a sleeping leaf in the stream
    the stream itself as it flows
    washing over the earth
    like the breathing winds

    Today is the chant of ages
    our ancestors sofly hum
    their song is in the branches
    it's alright
    nobody knows better
    trust in the damp soil
    in long grasses
    and the fallen antlers

    Today is lost and eternal
    the hidden sanctuary
    entirely unscientific
    dancing in the mist
    it stays off the map
    but with peace and warmth
    let the birds guide you
    they know better
  • #21
    I am hafway between your arms
    and a blooded chasm
    separated by crystal bars
    that I can't even punch
    to gain the slightest satisfaction
    just a numb void

    Your lips beg for company
    the space filled with burden
    distance and regret
    a flower still folded
    waiting for the beams of dawn
    that will never shine

    Anticipation lingers
    in the small of your back
    the hunter in your posture
    with the eyes of a nymph
    but so tired, straining
    days have grown long

    Neither of us can help it
    lost, crippled and illusioned
    always chasing fox-fires
    throwing off our trails
    to get to the prey first
    never tasting that joy

    We were the hunted
  • #22
    Crow's wings flutter
    cutting the chill november air
    coal-black feathers fall
    as the crone fades into mist
    echoes of memory

    her spirit drifts, wanders
    lingers in the woodcutter's axe
    by the ancient paths marked by no tombstones
    only gnarled roots
    searching for the home

    shattered timbers rot in the soil
    bones bleached by wind lingering
    old crow's ghost cries
    for the village that once was
    for the heat of our breath

    for a forgotten time
    when we could forget
  • #23
    Vial of glass of swampwater
    beautiful rays of sun
    through roiling murk
    suspended animation

    I'm a deranged bard
    drumming in a foreign language
    I've forgotten my language
    it isn't mine anymore
    I have no language
    but Earth's tongue

    anxiety, anticipation?
    wracks me like deep snowdrifts
    dancing white like faeries

    nothing on Earth is eternal
    but the Earth is eternal
    nature is eternal
    and I am in it
    and I am it

    but what of the moment
    the neverending separation
    sliding along, scraping
    bleeding

    music never lasts
    but it is everlasting
  • #24
    Wit is a poisonous tool
    used by men, scientists,
    those who cradle-born in silver
    presume they know that
    which they stand upon;
    that the god of culture
    bestowed upon them some
    great revelation.

    Wit is an outdated vestige
    of the Enlightenment (of men)
    like the evolution of
    society, that the West
    is the pinnacle of our race.

    The master of wisdom is the Shaman,
    the one who knows darkness,
    who knows that Knowledge is
    unknowable until we can reach
    its vault, the heavens that
    guard it. What then do I
    make of those who claim wit?
  • #25
    That name; Dread
    That name is the echo of a funeral bell
    They dying words lingering
    on the lips of a sigh

    Looming spectrues of a frozen monolith
    melt away in your light
    lower than the sun, humble.

    Take me by this hand
    through this spot of time
    into spots of time less forlorn
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