12
votes
Poetry Jam to 100 posts! Silliness definitely allowed.
Hey there! Thought it would be nice for some ~creative silliness!
This particular jam is for everyone, not just orginal poets. Although we will need some original poetry to kick things off.
People posting original works post to the main thread! People who would like to respond with their own poems, snippets of lyrics, excerpts from famous poems, or an artful piece of prose, please respond to the original work or comment that set you off.
Jam's considered done when we hit a week or a hundred posts, whichever comes first!
Kicking things off with some silliness:
To rhyme or not;
it's a lot to consider
when your brain rots
at the mere pitter
of an iambic figure.
'Ol will was a sot.
Knocking out pentameter,
while marlowe's black pot
kettle calling for a measure
with a large carpet beater.
It's sure not my lot.
I'm a free verse junkie,
but definitely not a bot
or code constructed flunky,
because poetry's so. Damn.
HOT.
From DaVinci's Notebook:
I've never had
much to gain
by throwing down a rhyme.
If I did
you should know
that I'd do it all the time.
As a kid
back in school
my first love was always reading.
When it came
to poetry
I would leave their ears bleeding.
Though teachers
always tried
to assist and intervene.
I was deaf
but to the words
of Shel Silverstein.
Even now
as an adult
I can't seem to comprehend
anything that's
more involved
than Where the Sidewalk Ends.
Sidewalk ending
In the sand
There is a Shel(l)
Silvering like a stein
A pewter ring
Circling
In a chain of words.
For you:
by Shel Silverstein
Listen to the wind blow
Watch the sun rise.
Run in the shadows
Damn your love, damn your life.
And if you don’t love me now
You will never love me again
I can still hear you saying, “we must never break the chain.”
Never break the chain.
The crocodile went to the dentist
and sat down in the chair,
and the dentist said,
"Now tell me sir,
why does it hurt, and where?"
And the crocodile said,
"Well to tell you the truth,
I have this horrible, terrible
ache in my tooth."
And he opened his jaws,
so wide, so wide!
That the dentist,
he climbed right inside.
And the dentist just laughed,
"Oh isn't this fun?"
As he pulled the teeth out
one by one.
And the crocodile cried,
"You're hurting me so!
Please put down your pliers
and let me go!"
But the dentist just laughed
with a "Ho, ho, ho!"
And he said,
"I still have twelve to go!"
"Oops, that's the wrong one,
I confess.
But what's one crocodile tooth,
more or less?"
Then, suddenly...
The jaws went SNAP!
And the dentists was gone,
right off the map.
To the North, the South,
the East or West,
he left no forwarding address.
But what's one dentists,
more or less?
-Shel Silverstein
Going off memory, but hopefully I got it right. I love the way he reads it.
"Scrimper scamp!" they called to him,
Whose eyes grew wide with glee.
"Spin a yarn, a web for us
Devised of poetry."
He frothed and bubbled metered lines,
Mosaics made of pain,
His fraught and malnutritioned life
Did naught but entertain.
He revelled in attention gleaned
And danced about in joy
As one man watched with great resolve
To make Scrimp Scramp his toy.
He waited and he bid his time,
He followed like a creep
Til one night Scrimper Scamp was bound
And taken in his sleep.
A wicked box was hauled away
With Scrimper Scamp concealed.
Awoken by these grave events,
He struggled and appealed.
Upon arrival, Scamp was cramped,
Afraid, alone, in tears.
The box lid opened, magnifying
All his deepest fears.
Chained into a darkened pit,
Too dark for Scamp to see
A pale and pasty, sneering man
Demanding poetry.
He gnashed upon the cuffs and chains
That held him in his place,
Muttering maniacally,
Building up his pace.
One broken link would set him free
To scamper, scrape, and squeal
Away from this malicious beast
Who kept him locked in steel.
Expectant eyes, impatient ears,
A wicked little grin.
Adorned the visage of his captor's
Grey and lifeless skin.
Anybody else wanna keep it going?
"Sing for me!" The imp did shriek.
"A song of spoken rhyme.
For long I've listened to you scream
But now it is my time!"
I'm not a writer, but I gave it a quick shot!
A curdled creak escaped his throat,
And died upon the wall,
For Scrimper Scamp had lost his heart,
Held captive by the hall.
"You test my patience, useless wretch,
I'll give just one chance more.
And then you'll find your body bleeding
Broken on the floor."
The evil knave, beyond dismayed,
exasperated, fumed.
He thought he'd found his golden goose,
That much he had assumed.
Scrimper Scamp was sobbing now,
But sorrow was his muse,
He let the tide of sadness rise,
with poetry perfuse.
This is really wonderful. I enjoyed reading this a bunch.
(Fair warning, I am no poet - I can do prose way better)
My spirit guides me every day,
Through much work or some play.
Thick and thin it stays,
April storms or flowers in May.
Once it were lost,
Wanted to die, but at what cost?
Others guided me to safe harbor,
All knights in shining armor.
I saw the light it cast,
And my spirit came back at last.
Ones will may fall,
But with friends it'll stand tall.
By Evanescence
The problem with armor is
The weight of the clamour is
The sound of the sorrow is
The wind of the morrow.
Because I could not stop for Death (Part II)
Because I could not stop for Death,
impatient did He grow.
Said I, "My Friend, the Dawn is here,
and there are Fields to sow."
He let out a sigh -- He took off his Cloak
And admired his own Work:
Swellings on the Ground, aligned --
Each Roof finely marked.
Once more, I spoke -- through silent Retort,
"Surely, you must see,
that I've no time -- to spend my day --
in Eternity.
With tender grip, he led me on --
through Pasture, Coop, and Pen.
He led past Horse and Chick --
The Swine -- reveling in the Pen.
We paused before the Field, once bare --
its bounties overflown.
He motioned -- it was time to Reap,
The Field that once was brown.
This.
I'm Dead!
(I think)
And yet
A wake
(I drink)
It makes
Me sink
Into the everlasting silence between stars.
Jisei are traditional poems written by haiku poets and zen monks in their moments before death. One of my favorites is this.
Jisei to wa
sunawachi mayoi
tada shinan
-Toko (1795)
Translates to:
Death poems
are mere delusion
Death is death