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Thread: From Under the Passho Tree - A Poetry Anthology

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    Default From Under the Passho Tree - A Poetry Anthology

    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".

    - P.F.
    Last edited by Poetry; 22nd December 2013 at 8:46 AM.
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    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
    Manifests itself.
    An envoy of evil
    Descended on us,
    (almost certainly
    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,
    Our Children,
    And all we Hold Dear to us?

    Let us pray, they said, they said.
    Let us
    Pray.

    O Great Saviour
    Creator
    Alpha
    Protector of Us All,
    Give us Peace and Wisdom in these Troubled Times,
    Salvage us with you Superior Judgement,
    We are Not Worthy,
    Not Worthy
    But Please,
    The Children,
    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,
    Save Us
    From this,
    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,
    The Unknown.
    Last edited by Poetry; 12th August 2013 at 11:20 PM.
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    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,
    A monument
    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,
    Regress.
    Last edited by Poetry; 13th August 2013 at 10:42 AM.
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    Fight


    Here, in your dusty hearse,
    Your victories have left you,
    Asphyxiated.
    The screeching of a violin,
    Tugs
    Tugs
    At your sinews -
    Acts,
    Fighting
    In the roaring –
    The impatience
    Of the fire,
    Mettle in the dirt -
    Fiercely, the pulse,
    The beating,
    The beating,
    Of the timpani -
    Ashen grit
    Strangling your chords,
    Dancing,
    The Foxtrot.
    Surreptitious intermission.
    Slamming
    Of bone,
    Listless blood,
    Yet passing, passing,
    Awake in your comprehension
    As you perform,
    Throw yourself into the edge,
    The brink,
    The scarlet limits,
    Chaos,
    And in the end,
    Dust -
    Last edited by Poetry; 12th August 2013 at 11:32 PM.
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    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.
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    Transparency


    Then I glance at the view
    Through a window.
    Strange
    How the glass obstructs the view,
    Full-bodied like the taste of your
    Troublesome robust wines,
    But slyly slips in the same tinge
    Of selfishness,
    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,
    Nothing but
    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 6:15 PM.
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    Depth


    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 12:09 PM.
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    Sawsbuck Haikus


    Spring

    Blossoming antlers
    Sprout anew from melting snow.
    True evolution.


    Summer

    Jewel set in sky blue
    Penetrates high foliage.
    Uncomfortable heat.


    Autumn

    Baskets of berries
    Picked in the antler's harvest.
    Dying sunset meal.


    Winter

    Shining white mountains
    Stand tall in the harsh beauty.
    The dark before dawn.
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    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!!
    Released: 12/11/14


    Guess who claimed Luxray?!

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    Quote Originally Posted by jstinftw! View Post
    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.
    Thank you for your kind words! Even though I maintain that I write sorely for the purposes of my own artistic expression, I'd be lying if I said that I wasn't waiting in anticipation for someone to actually come out and comment on my work! I'm glad you think I'm doing a good job as I don't really have much to compare to in terms of quality, so a lot of it is very much blind faith - so your words are very much appreciated.

    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 9:55 AM.
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    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;
    Individually stamped,
    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 12:22 PM.
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    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.

    Mosaic heart
    Split in two,
    Shades of shadow,
    Shades of blue.

    Blurs of light
    In the liquid fray
    Stops to feed
    The ocean's spray,

    Spreading whispers
    Of captured hearts,
    Spreading rumours
    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;
    Piercing emerald
    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 4:22 PM.
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    Old Bark City


    Faint flashing
    Red lights -
    Steaming mist
    Of urban effluent.
    Mute pedal
    Piano jazz,
    Broadcast moon
    Of lamp-lit confluence.
    Burning singed, acrid
    Vapour,
    Coffee to drink,
    Cafe, cake and spoon.
    A postcard lit
    In golden rod,
    Brick, conversely;
    Potted seedless tree,
    In the pulsing of the night,
    Faint flashing
    Red lights -
    Last edited by Poetry; 22nd September 2013 at 9:06 AM.
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    propaganda quote inspired by the Fox from The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry.
    NEO JOHTO


    "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 1:47 PM.
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    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:

    Salvage us with you Superior Judgement,
    You must have meant 'your'. If you meant 'you', well, hmmmm.

    Lest it Drags Us
    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'.

    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

    We are Not Worthy,
    Not Worthy
    But Please,
    The Children,
    These people talk about taking Steed, in front of an equine god who must be Arceus. Does he appreciate the idea of horseriding?


    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.


    Fight.

    Tugs
    Tugs
    At your sinews -
    Oooh. I felt it in my trachea -- where I perceive my heart to be.

    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!

    Exhausted and dying, the ruins of on old capital
    Sometimes your choice of words causes a stronger image to fail to cohere,

    Is being slowly seized by nature’s course,
    Take rest in the latter.
    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.

    Or the children’s flowers
    I LOVE.

    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.

    Contemporary calligraphy spelling out the same words,
    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.


    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.

    In which I fear love, can be.
    I can't for the life of me see what the comma is doing there... is it apologizing for the extra syllables? =P

    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,

    A postcard lit
    In golden rod,
    Brick, conversely;
    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.

    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.

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    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.

    Quote Originally Posted by Luphinid Silnaek View Post
    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 wasn't originally going to talk about the epigraph, but I feel like it would be rude not to acknowledge it after you took the time to comment on the poems. Feel free to skip over this part if you wish, it's not really important.

    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:

    Regret, my one but treasured muse,
    My modus operandi
    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?

    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.

    Quote Originally Posted by Luphinid Silnaek View Post
    You must have meant 'your'. If you meant 'you', well, hmmmm.
    You're right, it was meant to be "your", thanks.

    Quote Originally Posted by Luphinid Silnaek View Post
    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'.
    This is something which I didn't pick up on before but it seems to make sense now that you've explained it... I think. I'm not an expert by any means in grammar or tenses and other technical points of English so yeah, expect mistakes on that front, apologies.

    Quote Originally Posted by Luphinid Silnaek View Post
    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.
    I was genuinely in the dark about this until you enlightened me. Ya learn something new every day.

    Quote Originally Posted by Luphinid Silnaek View Post
    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.
    I like your interpretation of the acceptation as "Zen-like". However true to the idea of panic and desperation throughout the poem, I personally don't think that there was so much of a plan as apposed to just a spontaneous outbreak which was never meant to be. But the poem was written to be deliberately ambiguous of this fact (among others), so make if it what you will. I embrace multiple meanings and interpretations, it's one of the reasons why I favour poetry over prose.

    Quote Originally Posted by Luphinid Silnaek View Post
    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
    I rarely pay attention to rhythm when writing free verse (even though I probably should), but it's an interesting point you raise with the commas and the speed in which words are perceived to be spoken.

    Quote Originally Posted by Luphinid Silnaek View Post
    These people talk about taking Steed, in front of an equine god who must be Arceus. Does he appreciate the idea of horseriding?
    Arceus doesn't really care much for poetry, I doubt he'd see beyond the meaning of taking steed as just "venturing forth". But for the record, Loving Arceus does allow people to ride him, after an offering of two human sacrifices and only on weekdays. Vengeful Arceus charges double and is only available on Saturday evenings.

    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.

    Quote Originally Posted by Luphinid Silnaek View Post
    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.
    Hmm... when reading it aloud to myself it doesn't really strike me as something which would be an intended rhyming mechanic, not even a subtle one. I know poets like Blake used jarring half-rhymes in poems to create effect, but I think you can shrug it off as a genuine mistake on my part. That section of the poem is certainly not one which should be presented in any other way than wonderful free-flowing poetry, so apologies.

    Quote Originally Posted by Luphinid Silnaek View Post
    Ramona! I love that name.
    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.

    Quote Originally Posted by Luphinid Silnaek View Post
    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.
    From my perspective, it's impossible to write meaningfully about a location in the Pokemon universe and not fill in at least 70% of the data based on your own interpretations and imagination; you're right in saying that the canon doesn't give you nearly enough tools as it does to write poetry.

    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.

    Quote Originally Posted by Luphinid Silnaek View Post
    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.
    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...

    Quote Originally Posted by Luphinid Silnaek View Post
    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.
    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.

    Quote Originally Posted by Luphinid Silnaek View Post
    From Under the Passho Tree. White and red...? There's your pokemon reference for this chapter.
    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).

    Quote Originally Posted by Luphinid Silnaek View Post
    Li Bai also drank, but I don't think he had any regrets. He just liked sake.
    I've tried sake, it's really not great in my opinion, haha.
    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.

    Quote Originally Posted by Luphinid Silnaek View Post
    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.
    Haha, there's a reason why this particular one is the title poem of the entire anthology. I'm actually pretty proud of that particular line and I think the ending in general of the poem is pretty well-rounded compared to some of my other efforts (endings are hard).

    Quote Originally Posted by Luphinid Silnaek View Post
    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.
    This is interesting. I dislike Transparency because it feels unbalanced and not really fully... finished, but whatever floats your boat. Glad you like it, even if I don't.

    Quote Originally Posted by Luphinid Silnaek View Post
    Depth. I love you for using "echoes" and no other word, because of what it does to the sound of that line. Another typo!
    Maybe I'm missing something but what typo are you referring to, if any?

    Quote Originally Posted by Luphinid Silnaek View Post
    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.
    Noted. That was a difficult part to write and in retrospect I should have replaced "seized" with another verb, maybe something like "overcome" or just something a bit gentler. Thanks for pointing it out, though.

    Quote Originally Posted by Luphinid Silnaek View Post
    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.
    This is my relative lack of knowledge of language impeding my progress again. It didn't occur to me that it was a redundancy, and to be perfectly honest, even now I know it would slip under my grammar radar because that's the way I've always naturally used language. It does pad the line out, but it doesn't do wonders for rhythm or momentum or anything else, so yeah it's a genuine error.

    Quote Originally Posted by Luphinid Silnaek View Post
    I have an idea this poem is about Undella Bay.
    Bingo.

    Quote Originally Posted by Luphinid Silnaek View Post
    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).
    The haikus are deliberately simple (is it even possible to get haikus which are both complex and coherent at the same time?), but it's a fair point you make about Spring not really being very enticing. I guess I got off to a shaky start but improved as I went along (Winter is my personal favourite, incidentally - go figure). But yes, the poems as a set definitely have more impact because it's worth more than the sum of its parts. I don't mind if people particularly struggle to get that feeling from it though, because either way I think that they're pretty nice little poems on their own.

    Quote Originally Posted by Luphinid Silnaek View Post
    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.
    Don't pay too much attention to Excerpt, it was nothing more than just a (failed) experimental piece. The night watchman part in particular is... well, pretty forced, like you said. But let's not dwell on it for too long.

    Quote Originally Posted by Luphinid Silnaek View Post
    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.
    You know what, opera is actually a surprisingly fitting setting for the poem. It never occurred to me that it could be set upon a stage, but the more I think about it, the more it just seems to... fit! Funny how these things turn out...

    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.

    Quote Originally Posted by Luphinid Silnaek View Post
    I can't for the life of me see what the comma is doing there... is it apologizing for the extra syllables? =P
    Hmm... thinking back, I think the comma was placed there to just emphasise the last two words in the line, but yeah, it can probably do just as well without it.

    Quote Originally Posted by Luphinid Silnaek View Post
    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.
    I've had a bit of a soft spot for Eyes of the Storm before, but it's probably now my favourite after hearing that the extra line actually did worked in favour of the poem (it was an actual concern when writing it). While I don't think it's an especially brilliant piece of writing on its own, it's certainly one of the most personal poems I've written so far, so I'm very pleased to hear you like it.

    Quote Originally Posted by Luphinid Silnaek View Post
    Old Bark City. I'm gonna read it as though the last line is a da capo sending me back to the beginning.
    Yeah, that's the right way to go about reading it, I'd say.

    Quote Originally Posted by Luphinid Silnaek View Post
    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'll be honest, I'm struggling to grasp exactly what you're trying to say here xD. I take it that you're a fan of the rhythm of the poem, and that's a good thing at least - this poem in particular is best experienced when read out loud, either in your head or literally spoken, even if it is a bit stilted in places.

    Quote Originally Posted by Luphinid Silnaek View Post
    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.
    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.

    Quote Originally Posted by Luphinid Silnaek View Post
    I think this poem is too smart for me.
    I think this sums up NEO JOHTO in nutshell pretty well - truth be told, it's a little too smart for the likes of me as well. I found the end result to be a bit disappointing in retrospect because it doesn't really feel like it achieved what I intended it to be initially. But maybe it'll grow on me as time goes on.

    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...

    Quote Originally Posted by Luphinid Silnaek View Post
    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.
    You may not be a professional, but your words have no doubt gone a long way in upping my levels of motivation and drive to write more poetry. It's been very interesting reading your take on the poems and I think now there is a genuine reason to keep on going with the anthology if this is what I can expect in the future (I love reviews, critical or otherwise) but as you can probably see, the thread is a little... bare in that respect. 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.

    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 9:50 PM.
    [CYTUS]
    ICE - L
    eyemedia - Bloody Purity
    xi - FREEDOM DiVE↓

  17. #17
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    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).

    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.
    I remember that, but didn't follow the allusion. Hmm...

    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.
    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.

    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...
    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.

    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.
    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!

    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).
    ...How the hell did I never hear of a passho berry? What gen is it??

    Maybe I'm missing something but what typo are you referring to, if any?
    The quote directly after that line: "of on old capital".

    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.
    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.

    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.
    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.

  18. #18
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    Quote Originally Posted by Luphinid Silnaek View Post
    I remember that, but didn't follow the allusion. Hmm...
    Again, me probably trying to be a little too clever for my own good. Don't worry about it, it was a stupid idea anyway.

    Quote Originally Posted by Luphinid Silnaek View Post
    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.
    Yes, the method you describe I think is one simply better suited to prose. I'm a firm believer that poetry needs that certain degree of abstraction to allow a picture to be formed in a certain way - if I were writing about Eterna in prose I'd almost certainly use a much more direct and simpler kind of lexis because there's not really much of a need to be "artistic" in one's writing, think. I like being abstract because there's just much more room to manoeuvre.

    Quote Originally Posted by Luphinid Silnaek View Post
    ...How the hell did I never hear of a passho berry? What gen is it??
    Gen III, I believe, but it is fairly rare - I'd never heard of it myself until I encountered it on Bulbapedia.

    Quote Originally Posted by Luphinid Silnaek View Post
    The quote directly after that line: "of on old capital".
    After re-reading the entire poem about ten times over trying to find it, I can't believe that that's evaded me up until now. Cheers.

    Quote Originally Posted by Luphinid Silnaek View Post
    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.
    That definitely seems more than feasible. As long as people are reading them at least, I don't mind if I get little reviews - and the last thing I want is for you to feel like you're obligated to post reviews when I post a slew of new poems. That being said however, I don't exactly have a clear idea of just how big this anthology is going to be. I do eventually want to put some of my prose fiction ideas into motion and there are really only so many poems you can write before you just feel like a wrung-out sponge... but we'll see, we'll see.


    EDIT: wait, wut?
    Last edited by Poetry; 29th October 2013 at 10:20 PM.
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  19. #19
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    Ritual


    Loom in the dark;
    lightning eyes,
    fierce word’s flame.

    Bitter rhetoric -
    when cut, ice-cold blood

    gushes,
    voice like

    touch,
    touch.

    Your dances in the desert,
    sheer pleasure oozing
    in salt and sweat,

    take my soul -
    your

    crafted face like sin,
    hands of wind

    do sing,

    to capture me
    with your spell, your

    everything,

    your ritual.

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    Wild Encounter


    Take your gun and lift your head.
    Run in the grass
    And shoot it dead.
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  21. #21
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    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.
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    Slateport's Song


    Salt,
    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.
    Salt,
    Froth and vast azure.
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    That definitely seems more than feasible.
    Damn, I didn't mean I can only do reviews that sporadically, that sounds really rude in that light. that's just what ended up happening I 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.

    Ritual
    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.

    crafted face like sin,
    hands of wind

    do sing,
    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.

    Wild Encounter
    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.

    From the Branches of the Passho Tree
    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.

    Slateport's Song
    Hang on, I'm gonna start the RSE soundtrack XD

    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.

    The breeze leans back
    And becomes undone in the sky.
    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.

  24. #24
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    Quote Originally Posted by Luphinid Silnaek View Post
    Damn, I didn't mean I can only do reviews that sporadically, that sounds really rude in that light. that's just what ended up happening I was talking about my own fic thread and how one good review keeps me happy for a while.
    Yes, I know that that's what you meant - we must have gotten our wires crossed somewhere, haha.

    Quote Originally Posted by Luphinid Silnaek View Post
    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.
    Yeah, definitely the latter over the former - I don't even think I had that definition in mind when writing it. 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?

    Quote Originally Posted by Luphinid Silnaek View Post
    Are you sure you never think about assonance? The not-rhymes here are very nice.
    Oh no, those half-rhymes were definitely intentional. Did I really once say I never think about assonance? It isn't something I always have in mind, I'll give you that, but because I like writing free verse a lot it's only with more rhyme-y, structured poems like Ritual and Old Bark City when I properly pay attention to stuff like assonance and metre and feet, etc. It is probably something I should pay more attention to.

    Quote Originally Posted by Luphinid Silnaek View Post
    Do you read Plath? She does small not-rhyming sentences like these.
    Yes, I've read Plath, but interestingly I actually got the idea of sorta half-rhymes from other poets I've read in the past, not her. I guess it's a pretty common thing in the world of poetry.

    Quote Originally Posted by Luphinid Silnaek View Post
    Don't recognize any pokemon influences, obv.
    I'm working on it =p

    Quote Originally Posted by Luphinid Silnaek View Post
    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.
    I have to say, the main intention of this one actually wasn't to amuse, but once I got past the initial surprise of your reaction, I could see where you were coming from. I guess the tiredness and exasperation of the trainer paradigm could indeed be interpreted in a comic light, despite its tragic conclusion. 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.

    Quote Originally Posted by Luphinid Silnaek View Post
    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.
    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.

    Quote Originally Posted by Luphinid Silnaek View Post
    What on earth is al fresco. 'in the open air', huh.
    Yes, the term is used fairly frequently in British English, mostly to describe meals and drinks and such consumed outside - i.e. "we dined al fresco". Weirdly, even though no definition I can find specifies food and drink, I've never heard it used in any other context.

    Quote Originally Posted by Luphinid Silnaek View Post
    I think my new favorite thing in your anthology is 'the meadow of the moon'.
    "Sea of tranquility" sounded a bit too cliche, so this ended up being the alternative. I don't know what my personal favourite "thing" in the anthology is... maybe "crafted face like sin", or "a spotlight of poetic insanity". Actually, probably "cafe, cake and spoon"; I don't know why but I like to say that line to myself when I think no-one's listening because I just love the rhythm and the sound of it. I have no idea why that line in particular. Maybe it's just because I want to eat cake all the time.

    Quote Originally Posted by Luphinid Silnaek View Post
    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.
    I kinda had to think long and hard about this question you asked because I had to, by extension, look at my internal processes of writing and putting together ideas.

    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.

    Quote Originally Posted by Luphinid Silnaek View Post
    Perhaps I shouldn't be interested in your personal feelings about the poems' materials.
    Oh. Well if so then ignore that *gestures wildly* entire section of text, it's irrelevant.

    Quote Originally Posted by Luphinid Silnaek View Post
    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.
    Hmm...

    Quote Originally Posted by Luphinid Silnaek View Post
    Hang on, I'm gonna start the RSE soundtrack XD
    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), it's not meant to have any connection to the poem itself. Probably a bad move on my part.

    Quote Originally Posted by Luphinid Silnaek View Post
    I didn't expect it to be so tranquil, Slateport is always associated for me with preteen marketplace cavorting.
    I like to think that on the beach, there's a time of day in the summer where everyone just stops bathing and frolicking and whatever the hell people do on beaches, and just relax and take some time out to let the place... breathe. That's what I think, anyway. I really do hate beaches when they're packed to the brim and you can't move for the towels and parasols and pasty middle-aged Brits trying their best not to burst into flames like vampires.
    Last edited by Poetry; 6th January 2014 at 5:57 PM.
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    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!

    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?
    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.

    Did I really once say I never think about assonance?
    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.

    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.
    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 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.
    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.

    Actually, probably "cafe, cake and spoon"
    It's euphonic! caffecakandsoon.

    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'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.

    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.

    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)
    That was just a joke! I've never heard of that version before, it made my day.

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