2021-02-13 06:58:29

I wrote this while in a very peculiar state of mind. I'm wondering what any of you who are more into poetry (free verse, in this case) will think of it.


Spin, Spin

When a door closes
In the quiet, quiet, with a bang!
Metallic bang, a bang trails away on little echo feet
And leaves you in the listening dark
At the twist, somewhere in the nexus
Metal walls that chatter when you touch
And flagstones with no flags, only
Graveheads you must walk upon, for now the
Door is gone, gone, gone. Walk on.

And so the time will pass, and air
Will sometimes billow, silly-sweet,
And othertimes with tempest-teeth tear
At the ragged standard you bear,
Your honour. "Your Honour! I object
To this travesty of traps and
Turnings, this maze of lost regards
And what are those eyes in the ceiling, in cupboards?"
But with, within and without the wind
Wander and weary, weaken and worry
Toward the center, and the sunlight you forsook
So many years ago, when you put
Knives in your tongue, and drew
Fear-blood from care, frost from rebuke

And then, at last! Brightness, brightness
Folding in, furling out
All the broken walls behind
All the chasms, mute and blind
Left behind at the center
A stumble, knee-bound, hands so small I know
Not a mirage, not a dream, not a wish
Of a thousand miles of memory fog
But the reality, begun and shorn
On whims, so fickle but so aching soft

You bathe in that light like silken azure lightning
Electrocuted with knowledge, remembrance, regret
The labyrinth was progress, this caged
Current is failure-stasis, current is failure-stasis, current is--

And there is an end, terminal defeat
Swift retreat from another try
As the maze creaks and groans about you
Its supports, they fall onto dead-sand slopes
One by one, clink-clink. "How are you?"
"My my, that climb is too steep!"
When the walls fall all the way
To wherever it is walls will,
There you will be, weeping evening tears
Lit like a penitent angel with cruciform blue lashes
Strung up in your center, the maelstrom
A heartbeat away all around,
Humming doom like a song-shroud,
But its taste is warm cinnamon
Velvet oblivion, goodnight, goodnight
And are there sweet tones in death-music to match the bitter?
Open, open, the dark
Turns inside in and darkside out
And perhaps the wrecks and rails you rode
Here will turn you free upon
Another romantic axis, all blades and desire
Whirl away, a rising siren whirr
And spin the sphere onward. Spin. Spin.

Check out my Manamon text walkthrough at the following link:
https://www.dropbox.com/s/z8ls3rc3f4mkb … n.txt?dl=1

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2021-02-13 07:46:19

ooooo, pretty words!
And that's basically as far as my comprehension of poetry goes.
So if it means a single thing to you, just know that a complete noob appreciates it at least, even though I got lost after the first like, 6 sentences.

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2021-02-13 07:56:43 (edited by Zarvox 2021-02-13 07:58:06)

Poetry is too hard for me. So good job lol. My interpretation is that you try but you fail, but your grit tells you to move forward. That's as far as I got to understanding.

I'm probably not making much sense in this post. Fuck English and my inability to use it affectively.

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2021-02-13 08:14:03

Zarvox, you've hit at the overall meaning of the poem. There is no possible way you could parse all the imagery without knowing me really, really well though, so don't feel bad.

And that goes for you too, Defender. lol

This poem means several things to me. Several dozen. I won't spill them all out at this point, but a few things that might help:
The maze, nexus, labyrinth, is either life or memory; take your pick.
There are Jewel and Finger Eleven references that mean a lot to me because of who they represent.
There is misery in the middle and hope at the end.
I tried playing tricks with words (bang, silly-sweet, your honour and more) to evoke echoes, repetition, and the blurring of the line between perception and pretend.
This whole poem came about after a good event (someone seeking my advice) made me realize just how rarely such things happen to me. I was feeling very, very small when I wrote that poem, one tiny speck of dust in a monumental machine whose only toil was to grind us down and spit out blood when it was done. In other words, it's extremely navel-gaze-ish, but that's where my head and heart were, so I wrote.

Check out my Manamon text walkthrough at the following link:
https://www.dropbox.com/s/z8ls3rc3f4mkb … n.txt?dl=1

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2021-02-13 11:03:27

I definitely think you could add a whole lot more meaning to the words if you were to perform this at a slam; it has the spoken word feel about it. I'd come to hear that.

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2021-02-13 11:27:46

I've never performed it - I only wrote the damn thing a couple of weeks ago - but I'm acutely aware of how I would want it to sound out loud. Speaking it would definitely add another dimension to it though, that's for sure.

Check out my Manamon text walkthrough at the following link:
https://www.dropbox.com/s/z8ls3rc3f4mkb … n.txt?dl=1

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2021-02-13 17:41:31

The whole time I was reading I felt like my life was on display.  I don't really know how to put it save for saying that it feels like you're always aware of this necessity to, as long as you're alive at least, keep some semblance of equanimity, no matter how bad, or even how good things get.  Both good and bad, if you allow them can make you giddy with unsettling and disturbing dizziness to the point where the former can lead to the latter if left unchecked, and the latter can keep you from experiencing the former if given too much attention.
Of knives and tongues?  Words can be weapons... I know that far too well.  Interestingly enough, sometimes the very things you say you'll never say to other people are the things you end up saying when you're angry or upset or you feel like you're losing your grip on things.  Even when the words are well intended, the audience and the timing are wrong.  Sometimes, you're the audience and you're not ready to receive the richness of reality or the lash of lies and in your lack of knowledge of which is being offered or presented you can't help but reject them both.
Anyway, perhaps I'm overphilosophizing this thing.  It's been about 15 years since I've delved deep into the world of poetry and lyrical content.  I used to be into this like, a lot, but I feel well out of touch right now and like writing much more would debase this wonderful work.

When life gives you oranges, demand lemons since everyone else is obviously getting them.

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2021-02-13 18:16:52 (edited by wing of eternity 2021-02-13 18:25:31)


And a qwick advice  :

   () A person who has regard in writing only to the taste of his century thinks more of his person than of his writings: it is always necessary to reach for what is perfect; the justice that  is sometimes refused us by our contemporaries will be offered to us by posterity.
n  interesting poem, @1, What  were your sources?  Did you have any inspiration for it?   I know this is a horible question, since, there nothing worst than reminding a poet about inspiration. 
May be the poem is a bit also about the nature of stangnation, worth rereading it.
Also, may be you wwould like to read the poems of light by Lucian Blaga.
Never to try to think to your audience so much, this is not really, for a poet it is necesary, if not prudent to write as if posterity is near, at the same time thinking to much at your opera makes it uninteligable, makes it seem as if you rich for the contemporary, and poems even novels must not be that.
There were great writers who were very obsessed by the way in which their writings will be preserved.  This is what I call a writers signess.  May be I will try to write a list of things to avoid.

"a good ruler gives the goblet to his survents, he never drinks from it himself. The survents need his glory. he does not cary the flame alone for a spark does not lit the flame, but the spirit holds it in place Forgeting that leeds one to destruction.
(enhemodius before the altar of the broken)"

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2021-02-13 21:26:10

To me it sounded like being trapped in something so sad that it becomes this depressive trippy state of being. I get the cog in the big machine thing too. That we're pushed on and on but have no reason why or where we're going. It's well written but I sence it comes from a dark place.

Kingdom of Loathing name JB77

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2021-02-13 23:39:33

I like it. It reminds me a bit of Daniel Higgs, who isn't for everybody, but he's one of the few people, actually the only person I know of offhand, who does poems as songs, which is what they started out as before, at some time, they became primarily written and secondarily spoken. He uses a lot of religious imagery, but it's in a very mystic, not literal sense. He plays around with dualities a lot. Here's an example, I can dig up more if anybody's interested.


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2021-02-14 14:17:48

this poem gave me some words to use on scrabble, thankyou for my new weapons

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