Glass eye mounted high,
winged beauty frozen in time,
varnished beaks can't cry
*Author's notes*
A simple haiku about taxidermy.
My fifth in my collection of environmental poetry.
1. Extinct.
2. Harpoon
3. Crocodile Tears
4. The Pack
Tuesday 27 December 2016
Tuesday 13 December 2016
Oh Fuck it
OH FUCK IT!
Did I just swear? Did I just curse? No, I said something even worse.
Nothing to do with innocence stolen across a sheet or desperate screams in the night.
Nothing to do with a "yes, yes, yes" or giving up a sweaty, exhausting fight.
Nothing to do with awkward encounters or becoming a man.
Nothing to do with giving up so much in such a short span.
Nothing to do with two lovers writhing in the dark or knowing your way around.
Nothing to do with becoming lost in paradise or in that sensuous sound.
Nothing to do with lips that kiss and eyes that see all.
Nothing to do with a heartbeat that can rise and fall.
But what if I had? What if that verb that drips with darkness, that verb whose innocence has been twisted and manipulated had crept, like a silent assassin, out of my mouth? Everyone would lose their shit. FUCK IT! Did I do it again?
It's not as if I was talking about the land of flames,
the eternal dark, the tortuous games.
I'm not talking about the silence who speaks too much; the black cavern,
without an echo of sound.
In hell, nobody can hear you scream.
In the void, there's the solitary beating of a solitary heart.
Whose is it? Is it yours? Did I drive you mad by saying the "h" word or the "v" word?
We don't have "h" or "v" words, but we have the "F" word. We have fuck.
Oh, fuck it! Did I say it again?
Oh you cunt! Fuck it, did I do it again? Did I swear? Did I curse? No, I said something even worse. I spoke about the fallen angel.
The fallen angel with a cleft on his chin and a split in his hoof.
The fallen angel who had been exiled by our all mighty Creator.
The fallen angel with his own faith and following who resides in his underworld.
The fallen angel with a trident to match Poseidon's.
The fallen angel who exists solely on belief.
The fallen angel that was known to the ancient civilisations as Pluto, Hades and Horus. We call him Lucifer, Satan, Krop Tor, but what for? We have so many names for the evillest man in creation, yet we are allowed to say them all. We don't have a "P" word or an "L" word, but we have the "C" word. We have cunt. Oh, fuck it! Did I say it again?
Oh son of a bitch! Spare me the pitch. Is bitch so bad? Did I insult? Did I offend? Swearing is a fucking Godsend. Oh, fuck it! I said it again.
You open the paper.
You turn the page, someone has been murdered.
You turn the page, someone else has been killed.
You turn the page, someone else has died.
The papers are full of blood, but nobody reacts. Nobody complains or protests or revolts!
We don't have an "m" word or a "k" word or a "d" word. All we have is the "B" word. All we have is bitch! Oh, fuck it, did I swear again?
Bastard! Bastard! Bastard! Did I upset you? Did I make you cry? Just because I called you a child that was born out of wedlock. That's fucking archaic. Oh you bastard! I said fuck again. Now dry those tears, you little anachronism.
Cry, if I told you about genocide.
Cry, if I told you about Cambodia or Jim Jones.
Cry, if I told you about the Bosnians or the Pygmies.
Cry, if I told you about the Aboriginee abductees.
Cry, if I told you about Columbine or Sandy Hook.
Cry, if I told you about everything that they took.
Cry, if I told you about the slaves,
Cry, as you walk over every single victim's grave.
Don't you dare shed a tear when I say bastard. Oh, fuck it! I swore again.
Life is such a fucking bitch.
*Author's Notes*
For all of the overly-sensitive people who go bat crap crazy after hearing a rather minor word such as "fuck" and "cunt." Words such as murder or genocide have much worse meanings, yet they're not condemned. We're not punished if we say those words. Maybe this is more of a rant I compressed into a poem.
Did I just swear? Did I just curse? No, I said something even worse.
Nothing to do with innocence stolen across a sheet or desperate screams in the night.
Nothing to do with a "yes, yes, yes" or giving up a sweaty, exhausting fight.
Nothing to do with awkward encounters or becoming a man.
Nothing to do with giving up so much in such a short span.
Nothing to do with two lovers writhing in the dark or knowing your way around.
Nothing to do with becoming lost in paradise or in that sensuous sound.
Nothing to do with lips that kiss and eyes that see all.
Nothing to do with a heartbeat that can rise and fall.
But what if I had? What if that verb that drips with darkness, that verb whose innocence has been twisted and manipulated had crept, like a silent assassin, out of my mouth? Everyone would lose their shit. FUCK IT! Did I do it again?
It's not as if I was talking about the land of flames,
the eternal dark, the tortuous games.
I'm not talking about the silence who speaks too much; the black cavern,
without an echo of sound.
In hell, nobody can hear you scream.
In the void, there's the solitary beating of a solitary heart.
Whose is it? Is it yours? Did I drive you mad by saying the "h" word or the "v" word?
We don't have "h" or "v" words, but we have the "F" word. We have fuck.
Oh, fuck it! Did I say it again?
Oh you cunt! Fuck it, did I do it again? Did I swear? Did I curse? No, I said something even worse. I spoke about the fallen angel.
The fallen angel with a cleft on his chin and a split in his hoof.
The fallen angel who had been exiled by our all mighty Creator.
The fallen angel with his own faith and following who resides in his underworld.
The fallen angel with a trident to match Poseidon's.
The fallen angel who exists solely on belief.
The fallen angel that was known to the ancient civilisations as Pluto, Hades and Horus. We call him Lucifer, Satan, Krop Tor, but what for? We have so many names for the evillest man in creation, yet we are allowed to say them all. We don't have a "P" word or an "L" word, but we have the "C" word. We have cunt. Oh, fuck it! Did I say it again?
Oh son of a bitch! Spare me the pitch. Is bitch so bad? Did I insult? Did I offend? Swearing is a fucking Godsend. Oh, fuck it! I said it again.
You open the paper.
You turn the page, someone has been murdered.
You turn the page, someone else has been killed.
You turn the page, someone else has died.
The papers are full of blood, but nobody reacts. Nobody complains or protests or revolts!
We don't have an "m" word or a "k" word or a "d" word. All we have is the "B" word. All we have is bitch! Oh, fuck it, did I swear again?
Bastard! Bastard! Bastard! Did I upset you? Did I make you cry? Just because I called you a child that was born out of wedlock. That's fucking archaic. Oh you bastard! I said fuck again. Now dry those tears, you little anachronism.
Cry, if I told you about genocide.
Cry, if I told you about Cambodia or Jim Jones.
Cry, if I told you about the Bosnians or the Pygmies.
Cry, if I told you about the Aboriginee abductees.
Cry, if I told you about Columbine or Sandy Hook.
Cry, if I told you about everything that they took.
Cry, if I told you about the slaves,
Cry, as you walk over every single victim's grave.
Don't you dare shed a tear when I say bastard. Oh, fuck it! I swore again.
Life is such a fucking bitch.
*Author's Notes*
For all of the overly-sensitive people who go bat crap crazy after hearing a rather minor word such as "fuck" and "cunt." Words such as murder or genocide have much worse meanings, yet they're not condemned. We're not punished if we say those words. Maybe this is more of a rant I compressed into a poem.
Saturday 3 December 2016
The True Meaning of Christmas
It's not about that pesky snow,
fluttering down,
coating the ground,
spreading all around,
to become crushed,
turned into mush.
It's not about runny noses, red cheeks,
transport in chaos, for weeks after weeks,
It's about your granny knitting your sweater,
your little brother writing his letter to Santa Claus
about charades leaving you in stitches,
roast turkey making you burst your britches,
those minced pies, the mulled wine,
that stuffing so divine,
that's what Christmas is about.
It's not about those flashing lights,
high above,
craving love,
on repeat,
in the street
screaming for your attention,
it's not about those trees dancing for your adoration,
red, yellow in decoration,
ball ball wrapped,
tinsel trapped,
holding up the whole world by their fingertips,
with a star crowning their heads,
it's about your mum and dad,
giving you what they never had,
going through hell,
making your wishes come true,
where the priority is always you,
sure they'll play the fool, hop on one leg,
steal, borrow and beg,
dance and sing,
because you are their everything
that's what Christmas is about.
It's not about those blunders,
those one-hit wonders,
blaring out the radio,
oh, God, no
not about Wizzard, Slade, or Santa coming to town,
it's about that family that will never let you down,
that will make you smile,
remind you it's all worthwhile,
where their laughter is the best music
That's what Christmas is about
It's not that laptop slashed to half-price,
that bustling crowd, roaring aloud,
for that next sale,
stampeding without fail for that 4k TV,
that blue-ray DVD,
it's about that family that makes you happy,
and yeah that sounds sappy and just a bit crappy,
but who cares?
It's a cliche,
but what else can I say?
You can't put a price on your family
That's what Christmas is about.
It's not about working to the bone,
feeling alone,
from that stress,
from that boss you're trying to impress,
for that bonus,
so you can go home as a hero,
because you already are one
to that family you're fighting for
That's what Christmas is about.
Click here to see me read out this poem
fluttering down,
coating the ground,
spreading all around,
to become crushed,
turned into mush.
It's not about runny noses, red cheeks,
transport in chaos, for weeks after weeks,
It's about your granny knitting your sweater,
your little brother writing his letter to Santa Claus
about charades leaving you in stitches,
roast turkey making you burst your britches,
those minced pies, the mulled wine,
that stuffing so divine,
that's what Christmas is about.
It's not about those flashing lights,
high above,
craving love,
on repeat,
in the street
screaming for your attention,
it's not about those trees dancing for your adoration,
red, yellow in decoration,
ball ball wrapped,
tinsel trapped,
holding up the whole world by their fingertips,
with a star crowning their heads,
it's about your mum and dad,
giving you what they never had,
going through hell,
making your wishes come true,
where the priority is always you,
sure they'll play the fool, hop on one leg,
steal, borrow and beg,
dance and sing,
because you are their everything
that's what Christmas is about.
It's not about those blunders,
those one-hit wonders,
blaring out the radio,
oh, God, no
not about Wizzard, Slade, or Santa coming to town,
it's about that family that will never let you down,
that will make you smile,
remind you it's all worthwhile,
where their laughter is the best music
That's what Christmas is about
It's not that laptop slashed to half-price,
that bustling crowd, roaring aloud,
for that next sale,
stampeding without fail for that 4k TV,
that blue-ray DVD,
it's about that family that makes you happy,
and yeah that sounds sappy and just a bit crappy,
but who cares?
It's a cliche,
but what else can I say?
You can't put a price on your family
That's what Christmas is about.
It's not about working to the bone,
feeling alone,
from that stress,
from that boss you're trying to impress,
for that bonus,
so you can go home as a hero,
because you already are one
to that family you're fighting for
That's what Christmas is about.
Click here to see me read out this poem
Tuesday 15 November 2016
Revival
"It is better to have loved and lost, than to have never loved at all."-Alfred Tennyson
I've been wading through too many dreams, but I've finally reached the haven of reality.
I've broken through the raw surface of emotion that had trickled into every crack and crevasse, every nook and cranny, every abyss and chasm. Your wondrous glory has burned me; left me with so many scars. I wear the wounds with pride; they've become my trophies. They're sharpened to the point of shininess; polished to perfection. I can see my reflection. Even though my love has lost, I've still won.
Your rosy petals have withered; your kaleidoscopic colours have faded into monochrome.
Your blade sharp thorns have become stepping stones; I'm immune to your cuts and stings. You're the only one in the ocean I ever wanted. Trying to catch you left me with more than just a hook in my mouth. Blood was spilling into the waters of self-pity. Sharks were swarming, surrounding me on all sides, snapping up fish which were mindlessly opening and closing their mouths. What did I do? I grew thicker scales.
Your eyes have become jaded to me; just two more stars in an already cramped sky. Mesmerised by spiralling coils of liquid gold. Your fire has been extinguished now. Mine is still blazing on; all you did was add kindling.
When buildings collapse, the rubble is swept up,
when tyres puncture, we patch up the wounds,
when ice melts, we can refreeze the fluid,
when milk is spilt, the mess is absorbed by towels,
when we cry, we dry our tears,
when muscles tear, they grow back stronger.
*author's notes*
My fourth poem based on a famous quotation. All credit to Lord Alfred Tennyson. I loved you once, but I'm over you now. This is my final act of closure. In retrospect, this seems more of a creative unleashing, rather than something of any true poetical form. You could argue this is a happy sequel to Falling Petals.
1. Left Behind
2. Shattered
3. Crystal
I've been wading through too many dreams, but I've finally reached the haven of reality.
I've broken through the raw surface of emotion that had trickled into every crack and crevasse, every nook and cranny, every abyss and chasm. Your wondrous glory has burned me; left me with so many scars. I wear the wounds with pride; they've become my trophies. They're sharpened to the point of shininess; polished to perfection. I can see my reflection. Even though my love has lost, I've still won.
Your rosy petals have withered; your kaleidoscopic colours have faded into monochrome.
Your blade sharp thorns have become stepping stones; I'm immune to your cuts and stings. You're the only one in the ocean I ever wanted. Trying to catch you left me with more than just a hook in my mouth. Blood was spilling into the waters of self-pity. Sharks were swarming, surrounding me on all sides, snapping up fish which were mindlessly opening and closing their mouths. What did I do? I grew thicker scales.
Your eyes have become jaded to me; just two more stars in an already cramped sky. Mesmerised by spiralling coils of liquid gold. Your fire has been extinguished now. Mine is still blazing on; all you did was add kindling.
When buildings collapse, the rubble is swept up,
when tyres puncture, we patch up the wounds,
when ice melts, we can refreeze the fluid,
when milk is spilt, the mess is absorbed by towels,
when we cry, we dry our tears,
when muscles tear, they grow back stronger.
*author's notes*
My fourth poem based on a famous quotation. All credit to Lord Alfred Tennyson. I loved you once, but I'm over you now. This is my final act of closure. In retrospect, this seems more of a creative unleashing, rather than something of any true poetical form. You could argue this is a happy sequel to Falling Petals.
1. Left Behind
2. Shattered
3. Crystal
Tuesday 8 November 2016
The Pack
They had been running after prey.
When had they become the hunted?
The wolves had seen happier days.
They think it's a game; time to play.
The growth of young wolves is stunted.
Stopped in every single way.
Aerial attacks sent to slay.
Their weapons are never blunted.
Wolves are less each and every day.
Their hot thermal colours betray
them. By traps they are confronted.
Diamond teeth; knives, swords, the San Mai.
Green crimes are fatally risque.
Out of guns, bullets are grunted.
Wolf coats are terribly cliche.
Lust is reflected in chrome trays.
Laughing where the wolves are shunted.
Wealth blinds them in a selfish haze.
For every single wolf, I pray.
*Author's Notes*
This is my first shot at a villanelle. I have to say I'm not a big fan of the rhyme scheme and the tentametre. It's all rather restrictive. Continuing my theme of poaching and the environment, this poem focuses around on wolves been hunted by humans. The San Mai is a type of combat knife. With thanks to my friends Louis and zayd for helping me with this.
Let me know your thoughts
When had they become the hunted?
The wolves had seen happier days.
They think it's a game; time to play.
The growth of young wolves is stunted.
Stopped in every single way.
Aerial attacks sent to slay.
Their weapons are never blunted.
Wolves are less each and every day.
Their hot thermal colours betray
them. By traps they are confronted.
Diamond teeth; knives, swords, the San Mai.
Green crimes are fatally risque.
Out of guns, bullets are grunted.
Wolf coats are terribly cliche.
Lust is reflected in chrome trays.
Laughing where the wolves are shunted.
Wealth blinds them in a selfish haze.
For every single wolf, I pray.
*Author's Notes*
This is my first shot at a villanelle. I have to say I'm not a big fan of the rhyme scheme and the tentametre. It's all rather restrictive. Continuing my theme of poaching and the environment, this poem focuses around on wolves been hunted by humans. The San Mai is a type of combat knife. With thanks to my friends Louis and zayd for helping me with this.
Let me know your thoughts
Tuesday 1 November 2016
Crystal
"Only in suffering do we recognise beauty." - Proust
Only in pain, do we find clarity.
Through torture, who can we truly depend?
They're all demons. Do we want charity?
Villains, foes, family, does the list end?
Angels take cover in the deep abyss.
Waiting for us to call; to see the truth.
Our guardians protect us with their kiss.
Lover's eyes are gentle beacons which sooth
temperate storms. They ignite peace in souls.
They tame the beast and pacify evils.
Lovers defend us. They fill the dead holes.
They fight our little worries-our Weevils.
Lovers hear our screams. They're our protection.
We can't fight our most welcome infection.
*author's notes*
This is my first attempt at a sonnet. Well, I say sonnet, it's not in iambic parametre, which I've never had any grasp on. I tried to stick to the rhyme scheme though. Let me know your thoughts and give me your interpretations of this poem.
Only in pain, do we find clarity.
Through torture, who can we truly depend?
They're all demons. Do we want charity?
Villains, foes, family, does the list end?
Angels take cover in the deep abyss.
Waiting for us to call; to see the truth.
Our guardians protect us with their kiss.
Lover's eyes are gentle beacons which sooth
temperate storms. They ignite peace in souls.
They tame the beast and pacify evils.
Lovers defend us. They fill the dead holes.
They fight our little worries-our Weevils.
Lovers hear our screams. They're our protection.
We can't fight our most welcome infection.
*author's notes*
This is my first attempt at a sonnet. Well, I say sonnet, it's not in iambic parametre, which I've never had any grasp on. I tried to stick to the rhyme scheme though. Let me know your thoughts and give me your interpretations of this poem.
Tuesday 25 October 2016
Crocodile Tears
Centre piece. The eye of the predator has been set into the front of the handbag. Varnished. Polished to perfection. Shining in the midday sun. Having trouble shopping for the Missus? Then buy her a reptile skinned handbag. For the small sacrifice of the Nile's fiercest predator, bring home this fantastic present that will make your wife love you for ever and ever and ever and ever and ever.
The accessories crash and bash in the bag. Fighting for room.
Rolling from one side to the other. Rolling from one side to the other.
Souvenirs, compacts, key rings, the odd adorable reptile hatch ling.
Not even the bourgeoisie can tame wild animals. You will not grow into it.
You rip the smile out of the crocodile. Me, you, I, him, her, we all share toothy grins.
You wear a cashmere coat of scales. It falls past your ankles. Be careful you don't trip. You cry fake tears. It lures the animal in. You blast it to oblivion.
Is it a scarf? No it's a snake. With marble smooth skin. It moves down the woman's body, as she shivers in fear and disgust. It dances away through the grass, leaving the human to lumber after it. CLIP! CLOP! CLUNK! CLUMP! STAMP! BANG!
Who had the luckier escape?
Slow and steady wins the race, unless you're a tortoise. The hunters sprint to the finish and bide their time. They endlessly wait, as the hands trudge around the face. Tick Tock. Tick Tock. Tick Tock! Tick TOCK! Tick TOCK! TICK TOCK! How much time do reptiles have?
Who are the real front runners?
The accessories crash and bash in the bag. Fighting for room.
Rolling from one side to the other. Rolling from one side to the other.
Souvenirs, compacts, key rings, the odd adorable reptile hatch ling.
Not even the bourgeoisie can tame wild animals. You will not grow into it.
You rip the smile out of the crocodile. Me, you, I, him, her, we all share toothy grins.
You wear a cashmere coat of scales. It falls past your ankles. Be careful you don't trip. You cry fake tears. It lures the animal in. You blast it to oblivion.
Is it a scarf? No it's a snake. With marble smooth skin. It moves down the woman's body, as she shivers in fear and disgust. It dances away through the grass, leaving the human to lumber after it. CLIP! CLOP! CLUNK! CLUMP! STAMP! BANG!
Who had the luckier escape?
Slow and steady wins the race, unless you're a tortoise. The hunters sprint to the finish and bide their time. They endlessly wait, as the hands trudge around the face. Tick Tock. Tick Tock. Tick Tock! Tick TOCK! Tick TOCK! TICK TOCK! How much time do reptiles have?
Who are the real front runners?
*Author's Notes*
A continuation of my environmental poetry, this time focusing on the Reptile trade
Wednesday 19 October 2016
Shattered
If you're going through hell, keep going." -Winston Churchill
Have you ever ran from a war zone? Have you ever ran from the Sandman? Have you ever been chased by silently screaming soldiers? Have you ever seen victims of war? Have you ever heard how they whimper? Have you ever smelt burning rubber? Have you ever been touched, by the smoke from a freshly fired gun? Let me tell you something. If you're going through hell,
keep going. The entire world shivers in fear. Something is hiding down there. In anger, in frustration, in torment, it brings down its scaly fist. Reverberations are felt throughout the planet. The oldest of trees stumble and stagger. The coldest of buildings shake and shudder. Humans, animals, vegetation alike are sheltering from the fearsome earthquake. You watch childhood memories crumble into oblivion. Let me tell you something. If you're going through hell
keep going. The printing presses have ran out of ink, ran out of paper. The common man is reduced to the dole. To escape from this hole, he might've to sell his soul. What choice do they have? Rolling around in dirt and filth. Scavengers hiding in a dump. It's not our fault, they say. No. Not me. Never. they say. Blame him, her, them, they say. The average Joe waits. Every Chandra, Garcia and Tyler hopes for change. You and me, we pray. John Smith has ran out of patience, ran out of hope. He collapses in the gutter. I kneel by him and say one thing. If you're going through hell,
keep going.
*author's notes*
All credit to Winston Churchill for thinking up the awesome quotation. From what I understand the Sandman is an equivalent to the Grim Reaper. As you can see for each stanza I explored a different definition of "hell." The identity of "they" in the third stanza, is open for interpretation.
Have you ever ran from a war zone? Have you ever ran from the Sandman? Have you ever been chased by silently screaming soldiers? Have you ever seen victims of war? Have you ever heard how they whimper? Have you ever smelt burning rubber? Have you ever been touched, by the smoke from a freshly fired gun? Let me tell you something. If you're going through hell,
keep going. The entire world shivers in fear. Something is hiding down there. In anger, in frustration, in torment, it brings down its scaly fist. Reverberations are felt throughout the planet. The oldest of trees stumble and stagger. The coldest of buildings shake and shudder. Humans, animals, vegetation alike are sheltering from the fearsome earthquake. You watch childhood memories crumble into oblivion. Let me tell you something. If you're going through hell
keep going. The printing presses have ran out of ink, ran out of paper. The common man is reduced to the dole. To escape from this hole, he might've to sell his soul. What choice do they have? Rolling around in dirt and filth. Scavengers hiding in a dump. It's not our fault, they say. No. Not me. Never. they say. Blame him, her, them, they say. The average Joe waits. Every Chandra, Garcia and Tyler hopes for change. You and me, we pray. John Smith has ran out of patience, ran out of hope. He collapses in the gutter. I kneel by him and say one thing. If you're going through hell,
keep going.
*author's notes*
All credit to Winston Churchill for thinking up the awesome quotation. From what I understand the Sandman is an equivalent to the Grim Reaper. As you can see for each stanza I explored a different definition of "hell." The identity of "they" in the third stanza, is open for interpretation.
Tuesday 11 October 2016
Left Behind
"They fuck you up, your mum and dad. They don't mean to, but they do." Philip Larkin
Good old parents,
sending me to a secondary school,
where I was alone. Isolated. Deserted. Abandoned.
An insignificant fish in a sea of
sharks.
I was the epitome of outsider.
Everybody
laughing.
Screaming! Endless noise
smothering my deaf ears. Everyone else in their social
circles. Closely K-N-I-T-T-E-D.
I felt like a piece of stray
wool.
Slowly unravelling, as I drifted from one group to
another. Hoping for interaction. Receiving neglection.
They knew I'd be alone.
They knew I'd have no friends.
They knew I'd be a wanderer. A migrant. An undesirable.
They knew.
It didn't stop them.
Everybody else.
Me.
The weight of the Others.
Suffocating.
Crushing.
Pushing
down
on
Me.
I remember.
Good old parents,
sending me to a secondary school,
where I was alone. Isolated. Deserted. Abandoned.
An insignificant fish in a sea of
sharks.
I was the epitome of outsider.
Everybody
laughing.
Screaming! Endless noise
smothering my deaf ears. Everyone else in their social
circles. Closely K-N-I-T-T-E-D.
I felt like a piece of stray
wool.
Slowly unravelling, as I drifted from one group to
another. Hoping for interaction. Receiving neglection.
They knew I'd be alone.
They knew I'd have no friends.
They knew I'd be a wanderer. A migrant. An undesirable.
They knew.
It didn't stop them.
Everybody else.
Me.
The weight of the Others.
Suffocating.
Crushing.
Pushing
down
on
Me.
I remember.
*Author's Notes*
In this poem, I let out all of my teenage angst and edginess. This was partly written for school and partly based of the awesome quotation. I felt that freeverse would be more effective, for this type of poem. It's been a while since I've experimented with structure like this. I definitely resent my parents for doing this. This is a bit of a rantish, moany type poem. Not the best of my work, but I needed to express these emotions.
Tuesday 4 October 2016
Harpoon
An organic submarine flies through the water, effortlessly.
Followed by horrible beasts who steal hope.
Men. The silent assassins of the sea.
Teeth for torpedoes. The shark's eyes are its periscope.
Can you hear the animal screaming in the dark? In agony.
Its freedom is taken. Bound by rope.
All it can do is wait. Can sharks cry?
The harpoon rips through the serrated skin, easily.
The animal's eyes begin to slope.
It writhes in the crystal black water. A simple amputee.
This was never predicted in its horoscope.
The lion of the sea has changed into a snivelling puppy.
Its trickling blood is the colour of taupe.
The leaking liquid attracts other predators, moving in on the sly.
Cartilage crushed to cure cancer. Teeth turned into a trophy.
Man's reward is a single cheque. Delivered in a white envelope.
The Dorsal Fin is churned into a tasty
soup. A luxurious treat for those at the height of the slope.
The prey's infected. Through the animal's bloodstream, the chemicals flee.
Listen to the frantic heartbeat of a netted shark. Use a stethoscope.
Beating a thousand times a minute. Preparing to burst out and fly.
Sharks are misunderstood. A mystery
shelled in a cocoon. Viewed through the tainted lens of Man's telescope.
Hunters should thrash in cages, while sharks are free, sailing majestically.
The poachers tuck into Cazon. Manufactured from the meat of the Tope
shark. The lions of the sea are an enigma shrouded in ambiguity.
Men ravage anything they can't control. All they do is interlope.
The sharks are dissected until they're memories, drifting through the sky.
*author's notes*
My second in my environmental-based poetry. ped me edit this. I'm not really a fan of rhyming poems, I much prefer freeverse, but I gave it a shot here. I wrote this in the rhyme scheme of A-B-A-B-A-B-C. This was certainly a challenge.
Followed by horrible beasts who steal hope.
Men. The silent assassins of the sea.
Teeth for torpedoes. The shark's eyes are its periscope.
Can you hear the animal screaming in the dark? In agony.
Its freedom is taken. Bound by rope.
All it can do is wait. Can sharks cry?
The harpoon rips through the serrated skin, easily.
The animal's eyes begin to slope.
It writhes in the crystal black water. A simple amputee.
This was never predicted in its horoscope.
The lion of the sea has changed into a snivelling puppy.
Its trickling blood is the colour of taupe.
The leaking liquid attracts other predators, moving in on the sly.
Cartilage crushed to cure cancer. Teeth turned into a trophy.
Man's reward is a single cheque. Delivered in a white envelope.
The Dorsal Fin is churned into a tasty
soup. A luxurious treat for those at the height of the slope.
The prey's infected. Through the animal's bloodstream, the chemicals flee.
Listen to the frantic heartbeat of a netted shark. Use a stethoscope.
Beating a thousand times a minute. Preparing to burst out and fly.
Sharks are misunderstood. A mystery
shelled in a cocoon. Viewed through the tainted lens of Man's telescope.
Hunters should thrash in cages, while sharks are free, sailing majestically.
The poachers tuck into Cazon. Manufactured from the meat of the Tope
shark. The lions of the sea are an enigma shrouded in ambiguity.
Men ravage anything they can't control. All they do is interlope.
The sharks are dissected until they're memories, drifting through the sky.
*author's notes*
My second in my environmental-based poetry. ped me edit this. I'm not really a fan of rhyming poems, I much prefer freeverse, but I gave it a shot here. I wrote this in the rhyme scheme of A-B-A-B-A-B-C. This was certainly a challenge.
Tuesday 27 September 2016
Extinct
Blade. Bullet. Animals being murdered.
Slaughtered in their prime, for their fur or bones.
Patterned coats, either striped or spotted.
101 Dalmations
Tigers stalked through the wild. Tracked by the eye of the sniper and the greed of Man. Brilliant base orange contrasting with intense black stripes. Sunlight glistens off the big cat's arsenal of a mouth. Swords, daggers, knives are not enough to protect themselves
from keeping the floor warm in the houses of the bourgeoisie.
A snow leopard gracefully jumps. From boulder to rock. Moving so quickly that their beauty becomes blurred. They're still crystal clear in the eyes of Man. More rare than rubies. More precious than pearls. More expensive than emeralds.
Skinless corpses of big cats are decomposing in a pile of bodies, as humans parade round in their stolen fur.
Is this the height of fashion?
*Author's Notes*
A subject I feel very strongly about. I decided to write this in a relatively, regular structure. I realise it's a little short, but I didn't want to stretch it out for fear of losing its effect.
Slaughtered in their prime, for their fur or bones.
Patterned coats, either striped or spotted.
101 Dalmations
Tigers stalked through the wild. Tracked by the eye of the sniper and the greed of Man. Brilliant base orange contrasting with intense black stripes. Sunlight glistens off the big cat's arsenal of a mouth. Swords, daggers, knives are not enough to protect themselves
from keeping the floor warm in the houses of the bourgeoisie.
A snow leopard gracefully jumps. From boulder to rock. Moving so quickly that their beauty becomes blurred. They're still crystal clear in the eyes of Man. More rare than rubies. More precious than pearls. More expensive than emeralds.
Skinless corpses of big cats are decomposing in a pile of bodies, as humans parade round in their stolen fur.
Is this the height of fashion?
*Author's Notes*
A subject I feel very strongly about. I decided to write this in a relatively, regular structure. I realise it's a little short, but I didn't want to stretch it out for fear of losing its effect.
Monday 12 September 2016
Falling Petals
Falling
through
Empty. Space.
I should have
known.
Am I just a Pitiable. Stupid.
Fool?
An idiot in love?
I sound. Pathetic. Pitiful.
I see you. Brilliant. Beautiful.
There might be more fish in the sea, but I don't
want something so common, it can be found in any ocean.
I want something more.
Something special,
something unique.
My treasure,
my Pearl.
I
Wish.
You escaped from me.
Someone else will have to catch you.
Holding back a river.
Building dams to
restrain, rushing rapids.
Slowly the water trickles through cracks in my armour.
Do I care anymore?
I rip down the barriers and a waterfall of
emotion cascades from my eyes.
It takes a fool to realise too late.
I look up at you.
Towering.
Above.
Me.
A gorgeous rose.
You've grown from a pile of
dirt.
I'm still rooted. In the Earth.
I tried climbing over your
blade
sharp
thorns.
I was torn to
Bits.
And.
Pieces.
After I crashed. Back down to Earth.
I noticed a
slow
falling
petal.
I grab onto it.
Hold it close.
It's all I have left.
*Author's Notes*
I took a shot and crashed and burned. Dedicated to you. Some of the lines here are song quotations, which I felt suited my situation, so all credit to them. I structured the poem in this format on purpose and for dramatic emphasis. That's why I experimented with enjambment and caesura.
through
Empty. Space.
I should have
known.
Am I just a Pitiable. Stupid.
Fool?
An idiot in love?
I sound. Pathetic. Pitiful.
I see you. Brilliant. Beautiful.
There might be more fish in the sea, but I don't
want something so common, it can be found in any ocean.
I want something more.
Something special,
something unique.
My treasure,
my Pearl.
I
Wish.
You escaped from me.
Someone else will have to catch you.
Holding back a river.
Building dams to
restrain, rushing rapids.
Slowly the water trickles through cracks in my armour.
Do I care anymore?
I rip down the barriers and a waterfall of
emotion cascades from my eyes.
It takes a fool to realise too late.
I look up at you.
Towering.
Above.
Me.
A gorgeous rose.
You've grown from a pile of
dirt.
I'm still rooted. In the Earth.
I tried climbing over your
blade
sharp
thorns.
I was torn to
Bits.
And.
Pieces.
After I crashed. Back down to Earth.
I noticed a
slow
falling
petal.
I grab onto it.
Hold it close.
It's all I have left.
*Author's Notes*
I took a shot and crashed and burned. Dedicated to you. Some of the lines here are song quotations, which I felt suited my situation, so all credit to them. I structured the poem in this format on purpose and for dramatic emphasis. That's why I experimented with enjambment and caesura.
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