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El Rincón Del Poeta Alegre (The Joyous/Cheerful Poet's Corner); A place for all to share their creative inners with the world!
Topic Started: 15 Jun 2010, 09:07 (314 Views)
The Three Sons
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"Judge"
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Standing in a slightly dilapidated courtyard - beside a boarded up chateau where vines and weeds reign supreme, shaded from the blaring dry heat of the sun by a wreath of overgrown Linden's - your eyes scan the lattice of tables and chairs, home to a mismatched group of poets and artists. There paces Bukowski, looking a little down and out, and is that T.S. Eliot sitting by the fig tree!? Here at El Rincón Del Poeta Alegre, any and all creativity is welcome. Whether you want to try your hand at a short story, show off that essay you wrote about the Flemish political system of the 16th century or finnish that sorrowful poem about flushing your goldfish down the toilet, the corner is here to help. So go on, share your creativity, you have nothing to lose but your banes!



P.S. Please don't post your essay on the Flemish political system of the 16th century, it's not that kind of poet's corner.
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NieLika
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It was a long time since i actually put some effort in writing lyrics, and most of it that i'm content with is in swedish anyway. A proficiency in grammatical english has yet to make its debut i'm afraid. I did manage to dig this out, ignoring any metric whatsoever... which were written as a silly tribute to a drawing so the meaning of the context may be lost. Oh well.

Ahem... *clears throat*


Down the rabbit hole she go
To honour her a hat or two (...Worst. Rhyming. Ever.)
Poor march hare mad as hell
Got knocked by his feet down and well
Pretentious our sweet rabbit is
Away she dressed for showbiz
Nielika Factbook
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The Three Sons
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"Judge"
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:) i love this region.
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Agaralia
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"Judge"
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*re-opened*
Former Secretary-General, for the most part just visiting these-a-days
Former Chief Executive - Renegade Islands Alliance [HumanSanity]
If you are on IRC, I'm "HS"
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The Three Sons
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"Judge"
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As long as this thread has been re-animated...

I just found this poem, which I must have written some years ago in a dreadful state (yes, I was probably drunk and feeling sorry for myself), and thought of the DSA first to publish (because, yes, it’s terrible, but we need something to keep this corner alive :) )


My Brother

Like a violent window-pain, shattered and dust
I am outdated, outsourced
I ride as a loner, without feelings—without movement
Crashing, always, through an invisible barrier
And I can’t return,
I am in a foreign land, alone.

My worth has been over-taken by the young;
I am old, forever
I play my days through, as though I have some vein triumph of a life
At dawn, a new day, I writhe in the glow
You, my brother, you sing of fresh freedoms and friendly finds;
I challenge you to produce
As the darkness, that bitter truth
Roles in.

I was loved once, by that force
It caressed me as an infant,
As a child of the womb
Naïvely, I told her, love
Love is the binder—
‘Love conquers all’;
Love did conquer, and crush
As it does,
Always.

And you, the angle of praise and value
You rob me,
You leave me a beggar;
So I beg you—
Relieve me; I need comfort
I need that darkness, that bitter truth
I need that conquering love,
Always—
What am I without it?
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FridaTheBullDog
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Undead nation.
[ *  * ]
... Guns dont kill people... i do
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Suceavija
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"House Chairman"
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There once was a man from Nantucket...
Just kidding :P

Here is a poem that I still find stirring today:

A Brave and Startling Truth, by Maya Angelou

We, this people, on a small and lonely planet
Traveling through casual space
Past aloof stars, across the way of indifferent suns
To a destination where all signs tell us
It is possible and imperative that we learn
A brave and startling truth

And when we come to it
To the day of peacemaking
When we release our fingers
From fists of hostility
And allow the pure air to cool our palms

When we come to it
When the curtain falls on the minstrel show of hate
And faces sooted with scorn are scrubbed clean
When battlefields and coliseum
No longer rake our unique and particular sons and daughters
Up with the bruised and bloody grass
To lie in identical plots in foreign soil

When the rapacious storming of the churches
The screaming racket in the temples have ceased
When the pennants are waving gaily
When the banners of the world tremble
Stoutly in the good, clean breeze

When we come to it
When we let the rifles fall from our shoulders
And children dress their dolls in flags of truce
When land mines of death have been removed
And the aged can walk into evenings of peace
When religious ritual is not perfumed
By the incense of burning flesh
And childhood dreams are not kicked awake
By nightmares of abuse

When we come to it
Then we will confess that not the Pyramids
With their stones set in mysterious perfection
Nor the Gardens of Babylon
Hanging as eternal beauty
In our collective memory
Not the Grand Canyon
Kindled into delicious color
By Western sunsets

Nor the Danube, flowing its blue soul into Europe
Not the sacred peak of Mount Fuji
Stretching to the Rising Sun
Neither Father Amazon nor Mother Mississippi who, without favor,
Nurture all creatures in the depths and on the shores
These are not the only wonders of the world

When we come to it
We, this people, on this minuscule and kithless globe
Who reach daily for the bomb, the blade and the dagger
Yet who petition in the dark for tokens of peace
We, this people on this mote of matter
In whose mouths abide cankerous words
Which challenge our very existence
Yet out of those same mouths
Come songs of such exquisite sweetness
That the heart falters in its labor
And the body is quieted into awe

We, this people, on this small and drifting planet
Whose hands can strike with such abandon
That in a twinkling, life is sapped from the living
Yet those same hands can touch with such healing, irresistible tenderness
That the haughty neck is happy to bow
And the proud back is glad to bend
Out of such chaos, of such contradiction
We learn that we are neither devils nor divines

When we come to it
We, this people, on this wayward, floating body
Created on this earth, of this earth
Have the power to fashion for this earth
A climate where every man and every woman
Can live freely without sanctimonious piety
Without crippling fear

When we come to it
We must confess that we are the possible
We are the miraculous, the true wonder of this world
That is when, and only when
We come to it.
The United Socialist States of Suceavija
Founding Nation of the Suceavijan Commonwealth of Socialist Nations
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Eternal Defender and Advocate of the
Democratic Socialist Assembly
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