From Under the Passho Tree
~ A Poetry Anthology ~
"Pointless, meaningless rubbish that's never going to amount to anything significant. Pretty much a waste of everyone's time".
From Under the Passho Tree
~ A Poetry Anthology ~
"Pointless, meaningless rubbish that's never going to amount to anything significant. Pretty much a waste of everyone's time".
Last edited by Poetry; 22nd December 2013 at 7:46 AM.
Song, In Upward Glance
You saw it, it was there,
The very image of callous disbelief –
A collective shudder,
A continental slip
From beyond the still oceans
An envoy of evil
Descended on us,
with malicious intent,
unsteady in flight),
Silhouetted against a mackerel sky.
A part of the Whole, yet itself
Another strand in the coil
Of our frail existence.
Our fears were as one
As it swooped down sickeningly
Towards the Land -
Another log in the flame:
Why is it here?
Will it be gracious?
What must we have done?
What must we have to do?
Shall we sacrifice everything,
And all we Hold Dear to us?
Let us pray, they said, they said.
O Great Saviour
Protector of Us All,
Give us Peace and Wisdom in these Troubled Times,
Salvage us with you Superior Judgement,
We are Not Worthy,
Help them on the Road to Victory,
Give them Respite,
Will to Move on from our Follies,
Knowledge to Reconstruct a Fair and Verdant Land
Emotion to Feel like we Do, Compassion,
And above Else,
Our Final Test.
Lest it Drags Us
Kicking and Screaming
To the Next,
Abandon Us Not,
For We Take Steed Alone,
Venture Blindly into The Darkness,
The Supreme Order,
Last edited by Poetry; 12th August 2013 at 10:20 PM.
Morning Breaks in Eterna
A notch in the stone lit, blooming event horizon,
From a theme of restless wings
Springs the coiled hour.
The stars are drowned in the passive swamp of glass,
Wherein Luna quickens her pace, hurried glances
Shudder to a meagre halt.
The clocks are lighted from their insular dens,
Etch and cough, they splutter the world into existence;
Sounding of a low mist, heavy on soft blades of grass.
Rotating, the hiatus of a tool shed, a Madman’s
Folly, girders ease themselves into the collaboration,
Birds follow, extends greetings
To the purr of a warrior, scarred.
A call rises; the piercing cycle
Is hard on both eyes and ears.
I see myself turn full circle, a casket of dead flowers blinks itself
Into another day of existence. Tones of grey in
The solitary, lonely waltz.
Sparks of silver, pearl and sheen inflected in bronze,
To our oldest common ancestor.
We allow ourselves to gaze upon the facets of wisdom
Like a forbidden fruit,
Quietly observing each imperfection and patch of sheer pleasure;
An apple in Ramona’s orchard.
But we scowl at the bugle’s call,
Shield ourselves from the dazzling watercolour
And disperse our seeds of scorn among the pigeons with a flourish,
And pray that one day, time might just this once,
Last edited by Poetry; 13th August 2013 at 9:42 AM.
Here, in your dusty hearse,
Your victories have left you,
The screeching of a violin,
At your sinews -
In the roaring –
Of the fire,
Mettle in the dirt -
Fiercely, the pulse,
Of the timpani -
Strangling your chords,
Yet passing, passing,
Awake in your comprehension
As you perform,
Throw yourself into the edge,
The scarlet limits,
And in the end,
Last edited by Poetry; 12th August 2013 at 10:32 PM.
From Under the Passho Tree
I tore you from your shady sanctuary
With jealous hands, the impression of green
Reflected in your unyielding branch of olive.
To fill a void, perhaps to assuage the hole
Left in my heart
Like bitter berries, abandoned
Beside an embankment.
Clutching at you like roots to the earth,
Drinking in your tears, spheres of contempt
Sealing you away,
Away from your vistas of Aspiration.
You rue the night.
Regret, my one but treasured muse,
My modus operandi
Sharing old memories of your abode under the sun,
Sky blue consumed with yellow,
Bites back scathing retorts
Reaching out into your failed conscience.
I trace the trajectories of my desperation
With a lone finger in the air,
Envisioned in a dream of white and red.
I touch the light.
The hollow breath received
By dead leaves, lush wasteland are
Marred by your green imaginings,
Born from an evening spent
Drinking away one’s regrets from
Under the Passho tree.
Then I glance at the view
Through a window.
How the glass obstructs the view,
Full-bodied like the taste of your
Troublesome robust wines,
But slyly slips in the same tinge
Bitter and squirming on the tongue,
A jigsaw with discarded pieces
Lying eternally unfinished on the rug.
But look at me,
Struggling to see behind the glass,
Chipped panels and flaking white paint
Obstructing the view.
Because I can only see you sitting there,
Arms outstretched, at your feet
Packages filled with clean panes of glass,
Perhaps to build with.
Last edited by Poetry; 16th August 2013 at 5:15 PM.
Blue fades to black
Like spirit fades dormant.
Vast echoes of silence
Colour the scene,
A disturbing alternative to our reality.
And we are but
An accidental blot of ink on the canvas
Transcending the depth, the pages.
Exhausted and dying, the ruins of on old capital
Which once stood on the dais commanding
Stature and government,
Comforting to the eyes and soul.
Yet although our vision of solidarity
Is being slowly seized by nature’s course,
Take rest in the latter.
They say it was forgotten,
But who can forget
The epitaph, carved in stone by a mourning lover,
Or the songs which take the helm of lost dreamers,
Or the children’s flowers
Laid rest to die in the rain?
For the greatest of followings,
A falling, even greater still.
For the past, we have at least,
Kept the hymnbooks -
One last farewell to an old friend.
Last edited by Poetry; 26th August 2013 at 11:09 AM.
Sprout anew from melting snow.
Jewel set in sky blue
Penetrates high foliage.
Baskets of berries
Picked in the antler's harvest.
Dying sunset meal.
Shining white mountains
Stand tall in the harsh beauty.
The dark before dawn.
Wow this is really cool. I love the direction you took with this; having Pokemon inspire poems out of you. That's not something you see everyday, especially done right. You've won me over as a reader. (:
Unfortunately, I'm not a wide poetry reader. So I can't offer any great suggestions, corrections, etc. But I can tell you that I really like what you've done so far.
Feel like you need a little more Pokemon in your life? Tune into our show!
EPISODE 55 - SLOWPOKE HOLIDAY
Looking for something Pokemon-related to listen to while playing through Pokemon XY? This episode is for you!!
Guess who claimed Luxray?!
Don't worry, I wouldn't think that many people on here are wide poetry readers, so I'm not expecting great big critiques and reviews comparable to the ones the fics here receive. I'll just keep on doing what I'm doing and hopefully with a little bit of luck the end result won't be terrible, especially when I now know that there's at least one person who liked what I'm writing xD
Last edited by Poetry; 27th August 2013 at 8:55 AM.
i find rhyming and rhythm a lot more difficult than free verse, but it sounds a lot nicer. worth writing? hmm...
excerpt of a project hopefully to be completed sometime in the future:
Excerpt, Number Six
And in the room, you'll likely find
A pile of letters;
Addresses made out in italics,
Contemporary calligraphy spelling out the same words,
The same intents,
Like a dirge for a once-blooming love sung in unison.
From the winds of February across the sea,
A night-time watchman ponders.
He sings of mangoes with herbal tea,
And of lusty moonlit yonders.
Last edited by Poetry; 2nd September 2013 at 11:22 AM.
i have... so many things i want to say.
Eyes of the Storm
In pinpoint storm
And needle's eye,
The tempest's lover
Turns to die.
Split in two,
Shades of shadow,
Shades of blue.
Blurs of light
In the liquid fray
Stops to feed
The ocean's spray,
Of captured hearts,
Of misplaced parts.
And in relentless rain
I struggle to see
Your jewel-green eyes
In which I fear love, can be.
When in the presence of clouds
I know you see me too;
In suffocating blue.
Only your hand
Can save me now,
Only your touch
Can tell me how.
But I know when I long
For your treasured embrace,
It's only my imagination
Which can gaze upon your face,
Like a candle in the storm,
Your smile's dying light
shows only what we fear:
Your eyes are nought but
illusions in the night.
In pinpoint storm
And needle's eye,
The tempest's lover
Turns finally to die.
Last edited by Poetry; 8th September 2013 at 3:22 PM.
Old Bark City
Red lights -
Of urban effluent.
Of lamp-lit confluence.
Burning singed, acrid
Coffee to drink,
Cafe, cake and spoon.
A postcard lit
In golden rod,
Potted seedless tree,
In the pulsing of the night,
Red lights -
Last edited by Poetry; 22nd September 2013 at 8:06 AM.
propaganda quote inspired by the Fox from The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry.
"VII" Marks the turbulent world.
Broad white noise hits the concrete slabs,
Conspiratorial whispers, underlying beige pulses.
Atop a tower, faceless crystal formations
Plot to enlighten with the collaboration of silver moonlight.
Wide expanses of marshland are illuminated by
Blinding spotlights which bookend the horizon.
Looking skyward, one only sees the etched clouds
Resting upon pedestals and reflecting, cracked mirror -
Look to the stars and you'll only see yourself gazing down at you,
Standing knee-deep in manufactured grass
And paper flowers.
"VIII" Marks the shifting masses.
In the arboretum only the thorns of black remain.
They probably left them there as a warning, a signpost:
"One sees clearly only after the gunshot has faded.
What is essential is invisible to those who dare to stray
From the established order of morals".
We sing at dusk, every time accompanied with the
Tolling, tolling of funeral bells.
Isn't it a shame, they say,
That such a beautiful sound must fall upon broken ears,
And the sight of the setting sun through a grey filter
Must be thrown away to rot, every day.
Isn't it a shame.
"IX" Marks the mullioned window.
The long road, the whirling sea,
Captured in a snapshot hung over a door frame.
The last place you can hear the gentle tinkling of a music box,
Each precise note like a drop of clear, pure water
Which drop and become lost in a sea of broad static.
Across the tabletop, candles lay waste,
Flames escape rapidly into swirling chaos
To Become infected, sterile - winds like all-encompassing hands
Crush the remainder. Splinters of delicate musical machinery
Can barely be heard over the cracking of wood and hardened varnish.
"X" Marks the regression of progress.
Memory stores categorically
The Data of a million cells.
Processing, the emotions of machines which are stored away
To be splashed across glaring posters, threats being shot like pistols,
Bang, bang, silver and pollen
Spread like diseases, walking insane and blind.
Wide, open spaces accommodate the messages, information
To be absorbed, retained in standard-issue spherical capsules.
To input one's collections into the bank of thoughts,
To initiate sequences and extort the code
Of an imagined utopia, once repeated
Is to gaze into the soul of a nightmare.
Play the game, they tell us.
Last edited by Poetry; 22nd September 2013 at 12:47 PM.
I do not like the epigraph, I hated reading it. I don't know where it's taken from or who P.F. is, but I thought that P.F. didn't mean it, and that neither do you in quoting it. If it's only a self-deprecating apology, a shield raised to all the readers on the forum page thinking "Ugh, a poetry thread?" as soon as they see the title, then without a doubt you should take it off, because you can not defend your work, even ironically. Your job is to believe in it and it's the job of other people to laugh and say words have no power, or substance. But I think I may have misread what you meant by it, so sorry for this whole paragraph.
I don't have an ounce of poetry in me, but I really like reading it. I'll comment on all the poems writing about whatever they made me feel, then at the end I might try to do some kind of critique based on, uh, tradition.
Song, in Upward Glance. This one has two typos, imagine, in a poem:
You must have meant 'your'. If you meant 'you', well, hmmmm.Salvage us with you Superior Judgement,
That is not the tense that goes with 'lest'. It should be "lest it drag us", because the dragging is still hypothetical, and when you use an old word like 'lest' hypothetical verbs should always be in the form of 'drag'.Lest it Drags Us
I like that "continental slip" has to be chased down to its associations before you think of the sense 'earthquake'. By itself, it feels like a jerk of the shoulders, or a slip of the tongue. In the first sentence everything is a piece of body language, an emotion inadvertantly betrayed.
Coil of our existence ---> mortal coil ---> Did you know, that famous Shakespeare phrase does not refer to some kind of physical object? 'Coil' used to mean 'commotion' or 'turmoil'. Strange but true.
The menace of the evil creature is broken, it keeps getting mitigated by -- getting mentioned as ambiguous and unpredictable -- momentarily becoming a part of the people themselves -- at one point almost accepted Zen-like as an essential part of the grand plan.
The commas in your Prayer are faster than the line breaks without commas. I guess the comma gives a marching, dignified pace to that line, as of a litany read from a book, but the lines that don't have commas feel like they were spoken impromptu from the people's hearts, and include hesitations and imperfect breaks
These people talk about taking Steed, in front of an equine god who must be Arceus. Does he appreciate the idea of horseriding?We are Not Worthy,
Morning Breaks in Eterna. "glances" almost coincides with "glass", it feels like the sentence tries to repeat itself in a genuine rhyme, doesn't remember what it'd said, makes a mistake and hurries forward out of it. I have no idea how clear it is whether I'm pointing out a mistake or praising you. I have no idea about that, either. Since you decided to write poetry, you try to figure it out. I really like "blooming event horizon", though. The placid image of a sun peeking out of a terraneous surface establishes itself, erupts wildly, and then it never settles down.
I like how traditional the purpose of this is, as a nature description; except none of the poetic natural objects behave exactly like they should.
Ramona! I love that name.
There's barely any pokemon in this one. How does it feel (how is it possible) to write poetry based in a city that doesn't exist; even the media I think -- game, anime, manga -- wouldn't give you what you needed to write this poetry. Or do they? I'm interested if this poem was directly inspired by something in Eterna canon -- I mean not a legend or a pokedex entry, like in fanfiction, but maybe just an image taken from the manga, or a scene in the DPPt overworld.
Oooh. I felt it in my trachea -- where I perceive my heart to be.Tugs
At your sinews -
I cannot read timpani and think of what a timpani ought to be; it sounds like such a damned wafer-thin bronze cymbal! Or a tambourine. Of course the pressure of the rest of the poem leads me to hear bass Beethoven symphonies.
This one felt really lively. I can't help but think, even though the Fighter is probably cursing his lot here, he must have been waiting for this moment for a long time, he'd have been sorry if it didn't come. The constant references to culture and classy materials make it feel like a mock death on stage. The scarlet limits -- I never thought of blood as scarlet! Instead I thought of red curtains.
From Under the Passho Tree. White and red...? There's your pokemon reference for this chapter.
Li Bai also drank, but I don't think he had any regrets. He just liked sake.
Isn't it nice when something traditional from the natural world can be appropriated for our emotional lives too. That still happens, though it sounds so ancient/mediaeval. My favourite part is when "dead leaves, lush wasteland" creates a pair of symmetrical oxymorons, despite itself.
Transparency. I wish I knew the taste of any/Troublesome robust wines!
(Before I edited that last sentence, it stood as 'your/Full-bodied robust [...]', which is the worst pick-up line in the world.)
My favourite poem up to now! I just really like optics, I guess. The way that portrait of you suddenly opens up composed and square unexpectedly at the end of all this epistemological shuffling.
Depth. I love you for using "echoes" and no other word, because of what it does to the sound of that line. Another typo!
Sometimes your choice of words causes a stronger image to fail to cohere,Exhausted and dying, the ruins of on old capital
I can't feel that 'course' is a good enough match for either the first line or the second, didn't Eliot like Donne for the way his imagination could grasp physically, I can't quite get nature's course to physically seize any vision, nor can I physically get myself to take rest in it.Is being slowly seized by nature’s course,
Take rest in the latter.
I LOVE.Or the children’s flowers
This is the same as that point about choice of words: you mind looking over your sentences once in terms of prose grammar? "Even greater still" is a redundancy, and I don't know how it might be justified other than it pads up that line; though admittedly I don't know many of the things that could justify redundancy, except for the momentum and emphasis of colloquial speech. Which is not here in this line, anyway.
I have an idea this poem is about Undella Bay.
Sawsbuck Haikus. Spring. I confess I don't get most Oriental poetry forms. Spring felt really plain to me aside from, like, the 'cutting-word' of "True evolution", which has the astonishment of "That's not true!"
But then I read the others, and maybe you are making like a Four Jewels anthology, where each piece is a really small thing and yet much bigger than it looks, a collection of four symbols, and each of them try to embody or incarnate something impossible (being so much greater).
I wish my fanfic could have been a poem, then it might have done so much stuff it was trying/wanting to do.
Excerpt, Number Six. Rhyming? I've heard that's an artificial constraint on poetry. Necropastoral, even.
Love the alliteration-metre synergy in this one.
I would agree with that artifical constraint thing, the night watchman stanza feels the most laboured and forced out of you so far, to me. Maybe if you practice it some more. I think of metre as a lot more natural than rhyme, but that's just me.Contemporary calligraphy spelling out the same words,
Eyes of the Storm. Oooooh... You did practice it. It's so minute and elegantly worked, like a minuet, I don't see the tempest but I see the puppet or maybe opera stage upon which it is set.
I can't for the life of me see what the comma is doing there... is it apologizing for the extra syllables? =PIn which I fear love, can be.
Love the one extra line in the penultimate stanza, it's an interesting way to set up the end of a poem, and then the refrain after it. This really is as worked as one of the classical sonnets or alexandrines.
Old Bark City. I'm gonna read it as though the last line is a da capo sending me back to the beginning. To continue the music associations,
here is a nice place where the words appear to dissociate into discrete blocks, uttered discretely poised and square, like a series of triples in 4/4 time. I have no idea if you see what I mean. I like this little jazz city interlude, and could see the city coming as soon as 'faint flashing red lights', even though I've always thought of those rural pokemon towns as just rural.A postcard lit
In golden rod,
So this is the nicest poetry I've read on these forums in... ever, pretty much! You really ought to be the Poetry of SPPF for now, god knows I haven't seen anybody else daring to post any. I was gonna do some professional critique at this point, but, guess not. I'm not actually a professional.
NEO JOHTO. Cool, this looked like a new thing in a more involved, prosy, momentous register, like you have with Gerontion or 2. A Game of Chess. I think you keep away from the climactic structure of, those poems about a world whirling into its destruction, but still the last stanza feels like a culmination of all the technological, political allusions going around. I think this poem is too smart for me. You sort of slipped it in a second before I was going to post. Maybe I’ll talk about it better in a later review.
Ok, first and foremost, thank you so much for your comments and critiques (and apologies in advance for the long post, I really did try to cut it down but it didn't really work out in the end). It really did make my day to find that someone had taken the time to talk about my poems in such a fashion, and frankly I'm flattered that someone would bother to do so in the first place anyway - I wouldn't have thought that these would be anything worth spending time over.
As it always does with such delicious frequency, life in general took a sour turn recently. To cut a long story short, I was not thinking highly of myself, nor my writing, and having again stumbled upon this quote which was said to me quite a while ago, it just seemed at the time like a fitting introduction to this anthology. I was at one point considering deleting the thread altogether because I just hated myself not only for some of my past actions and feelings in the past, but also because the only pieces of work I had posted as of yet on the internet did not seem to match up at all to my own very high personal standards. It's like when you look over stuff you've written years and years ago and you look at how awful and cringe-worthy it seems in comparison to the stuff you're able to come out with now. That's probably by biggest Achilles Heel, and the idea of looking back into the past (or otherwise refusing to do so or over-indulging in it) is actually a theme which has cropped up more than once in these very poems. I can't stand looking back at the past and seeing how much worse I used to be when I feel disappointment even to this very day when I look in the mirror. I think this passage in particular describes it pretty well:
Even though I live for the future, I do spend more time than I ought to in regret. You're right in that the quote it is deliberately self-deprecating. Initially when it was said to me by I didn't particularly think anything of it. I think P.F. themselves were also feeling not quite themselves when they said it, as they're not usually one to be so... scathing. Maybe P.F. did really mean it, maybe they didn't, I don't think I particularly want to find out. In a little corner of my brain however, there is a part of me which wholeheartedly agrees with what they're saying, though. At the end of the day, I wish I could have the guts to remove altogether, but ultimately it won't do much for that constant nagging feeling in the back of my head that nothing I ever do seems to be good enough - neither for my or for other people's standards. Disappointment, alongside general depression and negativity, is an emotion which, more than anything else seems to dog my dreams a lot, and it's not only the disappointment on my part which seems to constantly disturb me. I've been told that I have a very pronounced exterior locus of control and that explains a lot in terms of why I feel so much that I'm not worth much (it also doesn't help that I'm generally just a cynical person anyway and I tend to regard acts of kindness more as a manipulative or an otherwise malicious gesture). Maybe one day I will remove it and restore my previous lengthy Author's Message (it was just a long lecture on my personal feelings and motivations for writing poetry - very dull and irrelevant, I thought) but I think for now it'll stay up there a little longer. People can make up their own minds when they read it. I know I'm probably being a bit stubborn and childish by being so self-critical, but the point is it really made me think about myself and my writing, and it still does whenever I read it. Am I as a writer supposed to believe in what I produce, what I concoct as a result of my thoughts and feelings, even if some of those emotions are ones which I would in usual circumstances leave stewing in my head or otherwise crush into a little ball and push it deep down to the point where I don't have to think about it anymore? Poetry for me is a decisively personal form of expression, and even though certain words and ideas may not translate fully the reader, I know what I'm trying to say because I'm the one who can only really let other people know exactly what's going on in my mess of a head (I've heard it said that creative streaks can be as much as of a gift as well as a curse) . I spend a lot of time within myself and more often than not I emerge with the opinion that there's something wrong,something very, very... off with the whole construct. Life, in this world is not meant to be encapsulated as an evening spent under a berry tree, but why is it that I still think there is something fundamentally wrong for wanting to imagine it as such? Do I shrug off the capacity of my imagination because I fear it, or is it because I cannot stand the crushing ache when I wake up and find myself still alive? Although I'm stubborn in my realist outlook on life, I think maybe at the end of the day I'm going to be spending a lot of my time... apologizing for things I can't help, even though I know that it's nothing to apologize for and there's rarely anyone expecting it on the receiving end. You're not of the opinion that this isn't a "waste of everyone's time"? I'm glad that you think so but without a true means of looking at myself and my works in a truly objective, stoic manner, then I think maybe it's time to concede that from my point of view, maybe P.F. has a point. Besides... do we really know if they're referring to the poems, or my writing in general, or something more substantial than that?Regret, my one but treasured muse,
My modus operandi
It's... a personal thing, more than anything. For now, one of the main facets of my flawed methodology will be encapsulated in that quote, and I don't think it would make much of a difference taking it down. Maybe it's a shield, maybe it's an apology, maybe it's a confession. Whatever my motivation of having posted it as the epigraph for this anthology in the first place, I think I can at least say that it is whole-heartedly relevant.
Jesus christ, that went... a little crazy towards the end there, I apologize.
But anyway. Let's move on.
But Song, in Upward Glance is probably my least favourite of all the ones I've produced so far, along with Excerpt, Number Six (but I don't count that as a proper poem, it's nothing more than just that "sad little tumour" which you get in most anthologies). Glad to hear you enjoyed it nonetheless, though.
I love the Sinnoh region because of its history and various myths, but Morning Breaks in Eterna is meant to be a fairly critical jab on the idea that if we invest too much in embracing our past, and when we become too set in our ways, we eventually become resentful of the nature of time for taking us further and further away from something which obsess over, but can never have again. I chose Eterna because it spoke to me not only as a symbol of Sinnoh's rich history and mythologies, but also because it just seemed like a really interesting location to fill with poetry. Simply put, it's my vision of Eterna. It's one of my favourite locations in Sinnoh and I wanted, more than anything else, to see what would happen if I took it out of the context of the games and presented it as an actual living, breathing city, with quirks and idiosyncrasies and nonsensical metaphors and whatnot. I love being able to give distinct personalities to fictional locations as if they were people and I hope I succeeded in giving Eterna its own sort of voice through the poem. But otherwise it's definitely an interesting point you raise there.
I like to think that the drink in the poem is something like plum wine or something else which makes me seem fittingly distinguished and impressive when splayed out beneath a tree as the sun sets. But that's just me being my pretentious old self.
But otherwise, I'm glad that I managed to nail the rhyming in the end. I'm especially a fan of your descriptions of it being minute and elegant, I think you're giving more praise than the poem deserves, haha.
Actually, that raises an interesting question - what did I intend for it to be initially? I honestly cannot for the life of me remember; maybe it was just an excuse to have a poem whose title was in all caps, or maybe I've been playing too much Cytus and got a little obsessed with the whole dystopian thing. Ehh...
So umm... I guess all that's left to say is thank you again and I hope you'll continue reading until the anthology's finished (which could be while, depending on certain... external factors, so I suggest you get comfortable. damn you, cytus).
Last edited by Poetry; 23rd September 2013 at 8:50 PM.
Poetry. There's only one thing I know about how to write with a clear heart (thanks btw for the long post, I love long posts). An artist's (pokemon fanfic, annunciations, it's all art) sense of inadequacy comes from their regard for their self. The need to feel like a good poet is not about your poetry, but about your self feeling better. It's hard, and it might even require you to change your art a little, but submerge this sense of your self, as far as possible. View the art as something at least partially above yourself, something that you must serve as well as you possibly can. Then, in the first place, you're destined to fail from the beginning, because the art is so far beyond your abilities; you can accept your failure and move on with it. In the second, then the art will stop being about your personal performance, and start being a work that you can constantly strive towards. That's the only way an artist can work (it can be done otherwise, but it's not good).
I remember that, but didn't follow the allusion. Hmm...This is me trying to be too clever for my own good. "Ramona's orchard" is a reference to a character called Ramona Quimby from a book series by Beverly Cleary. There's a scene in one of the books where Ramona takes one bite out of each apple before putting them back because to her, the first bite tastes best. Put it in the context of the poem and make of it what you will.
Cool. Then it looks from my perspective like you're doing exactly what happens in fiction. In fiction, I can only try to give it life using scenes, episodes, detailed events. You use a more abstract method.I love the Sinnoh region because of its history and various myths, but Morning Breaks in Eterna is meant to be a fairly critical jab on the idea that if we invest too much in embracing our past, and when we become too set in our ways, we eventually become resentful of the nature of time for taking us further and further away from something which obsess over, but can never have again. I chose Eterna because it spoke to me not only as a symbol of Sinnoh's rich history and mythologies, but also because it just seemed like a really interesting location to fill with poetry. Simply put, it's my vision of Eterna. It's one of my favourite locations in Sinnoh and I wanted, more than anything else, to see what would happen if I took it out of the context of the games and presented it as an actual living, breathing city, with quirks and idiosyncrasies and nonsensical metaphors and whatnot. I love being able to give distinct personalities to fictional locations as if they were people and I hope I succeeded in giving Eterna its own sort of voice through the poem. But otherwise it's definitely an interesting point you raise there.
I admit I can't think of a lot of instruments with any strong onomatopoeia. I was just reading that passage with an enormous overemphasis on sound.Do names of instruments need to have that onomatopoetic edge to create effect? Some may say so, but I think "timpani" to me does evoke that characteristic dramatic booming noise which I'm very fond of. But I don't think many instruments have onomatopoeia woven into their names - I'm thinking of "violin", "oboe", "saxophone", "organ", etc. I only hear those respective instruments in my head because of the association with the word, but none of them strike me as sounding similar in terms of timbre to the instrument they represent. I suppose of course, it would be different for a lot of people, but that's my take on it. Interesting stuff...
Oh yeah, I quite like that aspect too. My fic will someday enter a point where stage metaphors will more or less determine its whole structure, down to the textual level. It will be glorious!I'm really glad you picked up on the cultural and stage-like parts of the poem. Simply put, the poem personifies battling as not only a tussle for strength and dominance, but also as a performance in which the participants are putting on a show for the spectators, like a concert or more fittingly, a sporting event. I think it's a nice spin on the general battling paradigm because I don't think it's just Contests which should be considered a Pokemon-related spectator sport; that's the motivation behind all the references to music and dancing and whatnot. But considering the fate of the participant himself, I'll leave that open for interpretation in the ending with the "-". But I have actually considered writing a "Fight - Rematch" poem to continue because the structure and style is one which I really enjoyed working with (I'm actually particularly proud of the "surreptitious intermission" line). Watch this space.
...How the hell did I never hear of a passho berry? What gen is it??Hate to nitpick but the title and the ending also has a pretty obvious allusion as well =p But yeah, I plead guilty for falling short on the actual Pokemon aspect (expect that a lot).
The quote directly after that line: "of on old capital".Maybe I'm missing something but what typo are you referring to, if any?
The... music! That's probably what I've been missing. I haven't played Johto as much as the other regions. I ought to youtube that and get back to this poem.Just thought I should point out, although the title is an obvious play on New Bark Town, I wouldn't assume that it is actually talking about the town itself, or at least not how it's portrayed in the games anyway. I like to think that it's sort of alternate version which takes place in something like the past/future/an alternate universe, but I just wanted to put a spin on the standard "starting town" idea and turn it into something a bit more... well, interesting, I guess. Apart from the music there's really nothing that special about it in the games. But again, make of it what you will, this is only my take on it.
This forum is a bit bare these days. I find that one good review has me set for, three or four... five, six... seven... updates.There are no hopping of joints and there are certainly no buzzes of conversation as glasses of plum wine and dishes of cafe, cake and spoon are passed around. But I don't really mind.
EDIT: wait, wut?
Last edited by Poetry; 29th October 2013 at 9:20 PM.
Loom in the dark;
fierce word’s flame.
Bitter rhetoric -
when cut, ice-cold blood
Your dances in the desert,
sheer pleasure oozing
in salt and sweat,
take my soul -
crafted face like sin,
hands of wind
to capture me
with your spell, your
From the Branches of the Passho Tree
We stole away together in the night,
Soft foliage framing the impasto of our
Dark, future landscape.
I gazed only upon the fruits of our turmoil -
The artist’s iris,
Berries glanced with veiled eyes
And sleeping hearts, struggling to move, breathe
In your cold touch, suppressing vehement anger.
Entrapment, cold sunlight and hard frost
Were the troubled components of our al fresco summers.
When we sat under the meadow of the moon,
My tears became the lake
In which we drowned, outstretched hands
Clutching at nothingness -
I saw you drift in flashes, lit momentarily
By the light of your electric cobalt storm.
In a rush of leaves, you were gone -
Your departing gaze crackled
In a spotlight of poetic insanity.
The past laid waste in the olive groves, and in a dull,
Unfeeling coma, the world turned to view the fading silhouette
Of emotion against a dawning, callous backdrop of sun.
What do you see, in the recesses of your wasteland,
The branch’s bark, the cello’s string,
The blackbird’s song,
And the supposed liberation it brings?
Because you know the response; you know that only you
Will be able to see your true face, the
Insidious consequences of one’s actions,
Illuminating your regrets, plucking your bitter berries
From the branches of the Passho Tree.
Froth and vast azure.
The breeze leans back
And becomes undone in the sky.
The day, at its zenith
Brings forward the touch
Of a gentle bliss, dazzling heat
And a lazy haze,
Wherein the horizon appears
To be just out of reach, out of sight -
Lavender shoots and pearl streaks
Carve patterns against sails
Dancing away the day's nor'westerly,
Bringing with it a postcard
Of aquamarine gusto.
The phoenix palm gestures
To a patch of solitary shadow,
In it one is blind to all but
The rhythm of the shifting oceans,
The force, a sound of impossible life
Within rocky veins and sleek reflection -
They are moving vessels to some faraway coast
Without a signal, without direction.
The breeze leans back
And becomes undone in the sky.
Froth and vast azure.
Damn, I didn't mean I can only do reviews that sporadically, that sounds really rude in that light.That definitely seems more than feasible.
that's just what ended up happeningI was talking about my own fic thread and how one good review keeps me happy for a while. Let's see these new pieces. Poems are so short, they're like candy.
A love song! Certainly takes the sense of 'ritual' from 'completely boring morning duties done before going to work' back to 'act done as a symbol to divinity'. The first part of it seems to start coming together as a metaphor for, verbal violence, weaponized conversation. But then it stirs everything together into a meaning that's less eager to explain itself away.Ritual
Are you sure you never think about assonance? The not-rhymes here are very nice. Do you read Plath? She does small not-rhyming sentences like these. The motion of this poem... really does sway, like a desert dance. The commas keep curving the sentence in, giving percussion to their movement. Don't recognize any pokemon influences, obv.crafted face like sin,
hands of wind
That was hilarious! Loads and shoots like a children's rhyme, a few simple motions. The third line still manages to come as a surprise because you haven't registered the presence of the 'gun' and the title within the space of two lines. Pokecide is a hilarious simplification of all problems, for people who are sick and tired of training, drama, morality, etc. It's kind of perverse from one angle that when you see a predator or a prey in the wild, instead of trying to kill it, you throw a glowing ball at it.Wild Encounter
A second eponymous one. The foliage and the human parts try to link with and depend on each other, like a pretty mammal-botanical symbiosis. What on earth is al fresco. 'in the open air', huh. I think my new favorite thing in your anthology is 'the meadow of the moon'. What I wonder is if the frequent 'natural' images are images that you, personally, hold -- does the blackbird's song really make you think of liberation? Or are you using it more as a figure of speech, a pastoral idea that 'supposedly' happens. Perhaps I shouldn't be interested in your personal feelings about the poems' materials. The Passho tree is nature offering both thorns and tranquil afternoons of roses. The images of natural beauty can always be taken as an excuse for bitterness, and apparently love. Regret though is an emotion that never seems very familiar to me. You say you regret the pool of time/life you've left behind, the opportunities that didn't come forth as you'd hoped. Regret certainly seems like a frequent companion of love.From the Branches of the Passho Tree
Hang on, I'm gonna start the RSE soundtrack XDSlateport's Song
I didn't expect it to be so tranquil, Slateport is always associated for me with preteen marketplace cavorting. It's so still. I imagine you lying back very still and putting the things you see down on paper with an immense regard to not disturbing them.
This line is nicer the second time. This song wants you to doze off in very complete ways. It tries to make you stop seeing while you're looking, embrace a movement while stilling all motion. The lines of solid things are still very sharply defined, for all that. All those precious stones.The breeze leans back
And becomes undone in the sky.
I'll admit, I'm often a lazy poet. I've seen people spend weeks and weeks obsess over structure and word choice and whatnot in a poem, racking their brains for the choicest of words and the most elaborate of metaphors. I always thought that the creative process was universally like an obstacle course where it takes sweat and hard work to get to a point where you're happy. It wasn't until I picked up my pen and started writing poetry myself when I realised that it isn't that, at all.
Of course, it's all subjective at the end of the day. This could simply be attributed to the fact that I have generally lower standards of myself than other writers, or that I am genuinely lazy and despite my acknowledgement of it, I'm still willing to let slipshod writing and mismatched ideas exit my head without any refinement and editing just because I like seeing the rawness and rough beauty of a fresh idea. What people think when they imagine the "right" thing to say in a poem... maybe it's something I'm familiar with, I dunno. A lot of the time I like to go into something blind and just feel my way around until I stumble into something that could, with a little work, be a poem.
To the matter at hand, I think personally a blackbird's song does speak liberation for me, but it's strictly a personal image. If I weren't such a fan of The Beatles and I'd never heard McCartney's eponymous song on The White Album, then I would certainly have a different label attached to the bird. As a rule of thumb, the sort of screening process I have in terms of imagery when writing is that if it makes sense to me, then it's probably ok. If it's an idea or a comparison which I personally can't grasp or understand, then there's no reason for it to be present in my poetry. Of course, that means that I end up writing a lot of crap because I tend to see things differently than most, but I think sometimes that is what's most enlightening about writing poems - not only for my audience, but also for myself, when I go back and read what I wrote and realise that I was actually talking more sense than I was making out at the time.
A lot of these poems I write for fun, but there are one or two which I feel close to because in a way, they acted as sort of outlets for painful experiences which I was (and still am) going through. Beyond that personal attachment, I'd still say that all of them a perhaps, a product of me, and my own imagination. What I think, I write, and what I write, I think. I hope I answered your question but I get the feeling I digressed and diverged a lot in that monologue.
vocal version on the OST even more so), it's not meant to have any connection to the poem itself. Probably a bad move on my part.
Last edited by Poetry; 6th January 2014 at 4:57 PM.
The only reason people on this forum don't usually reply to replies of reviews, is, they're not reviewing poetry. So many lines of discussion!
Let me see what I meant. A 'depiction' of a scene -- narration, metaphor, allegory whatever -- is something that's basically representational. Thus, it's made up of events, players, settings etc. Even if you were to make it less obvious by putting everything in metaphors and allegories, the basic conceit would still be representational. What I'm saying is that here, as in all of your poetry, we have a different animal altogether: something not made up of physical things happening, but instead made of images, thoughts, associations, even things why not, fitting together into a new structure, unlike any other. That comes with the package of any poem, of course. One single conceit, like rhetoric metaphors, can never be used to explain away the entire poem.Your interpretation of the first sentences as metaphors for verbal violence are intriguing (as they usually are), but I don't exactly know what you mean by the meaning which is "less eager to explain itself away". Are you just referring to the lack of clarity as to what's going on, or something else?
Nope, I was just being stupid. =P I think sound is a very important thing whether there's full poetic format or not. It's important to prose writers. With sound you can do things on a level that just bypasses all the words and musty ink-paper.Did I really once say I never think about assonance?
Well my humor was definitely of the morbid, violent humor variety (my sister calls it the 'horrified lol', for instance when someone makes a vegetarian joke on Hannibal), but yeah, I definitely read it like it was a deliberate joke.It's interesting to note that I showed this particular poem to a friend of mine and he looked at me like I'd been possessed by the devil and exclaimed, "but why would anyone do such a thing?" Yay, poems.
There's no such thing as overuse ("Nature metaphors are TASTELESS.") (overuse of metaphors? full stop??). You're the one knows what your poems are made of, what kind of materials they need. If it's nature that the structure is asking for, you can only give it nature, what else can you do.It was brought to my attention that not only do I overuse nature-themed metaphors, but I overuse metaphors, full stop. I made a mental note to tone down on all the imagery and crap in future poems, but tbh I'm not sure I want to.
It's euphonic! caffecakandsoon.Actually, probably "cafe, cake and spoon"
I'm also one who just doesn't go over what's been written and refine the words; I hardly make second drafts... It feels like the words are molten for only a few seconds, while the idea is just fresh and forming in your mind, and once you've set it down then all you have are the fixed, unmoving words you translated it to. Recently I tried to make myself 'thaw' it out again, see the idea from the perspective of finding more precise formulations for it, didn't work but I see how it could be done -- there is such a thing as precision, always will be as long as words are descriptive, so that's probably one thing they mean by the 'right thing' to say.Of course, it's all subjective at the end of the day. This could simply be attributed to the fact that I have generally lower standards of myself than other writers, or that I am genuinely lazy and despite my acknowledgement of it, I'm still willing to let slipshod writing and mismatched ideas exit my head without any refinement and editing just because I like seeing the rawness and rough beauty of a fresh idea. What people think when they imagine the "right" thing to say in a poem... maybe it's something I'm familiar with, I dunno. A lot of the time I like to go into something blind and just feel my way around until I stumble into something that could, with a little work, be a poem.
I was thinking somewhat along the lines of 'if it makes sense to me, it's good' when I asked that question. I feel like certain images belong to you. Perhaps you experienced them personally, and were shaken, or they're in your makeup somehow. The opposite of that, perhaps, would be to describe someone as having 'amethyst eyes', without ever having seen an amethyst or a picture of an amethyst.
That was just a joke! I've never heard of that version before, it made my day.Oh no, don't listen to the soundtrack while reading, it'll just clash. While the music is admittedly awesome (and the vocal version on the OST even more so)