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    thirdwind Contributing Member Contest Administrator Reviewer Contributor

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    Past Contest Poetry Contest #245 -- Theme: "Writing a Poem"

    Discussion in 'Bi-Weekly Poetry Contest' started by thirdwind, May 25, 2014.

    For Poetry Contest #245, I've randomly selected a theme from the Theme Idea Thread. The theme for this contest is "Writing a Poem" (courtesy of @Timewalker). You are free to interpret the theme however you wish, but please make sure your poem does take the theme into account in some way.

    All entries are due by 11:59 PM EST on Saturday, June 7. Please PM me ("Start a Conversation") the poem, and I'll add it to this thread. As a reminder, all submissions are anonymous to ensure fair voting.

    Good luck to everyone who enters!
     
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    "Poetry"

    Poetry
    A subject oft overlooked
    Pure and simple
    They can be short or long
    Large or small
    Rhyming or not
    But all in all
    A poem in itself
    Is just another way
    For the writer
    To express their thoughts.
     
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    "Poet to Know it."

    From sonnets of old to poets of new,
    Poems are around for me and you.
    They come in many forms; that shape and create,
    Often being overlooked is commonly their fate.

    Simple as it may be,
    They express something so profoundly.
    A writers thoughts of something so dear,
    Closer observation is required to make them clear.

    Great poets stand the echoes of time,
    Sometimes poems even rhyme.
    Large or small I really must say,
    Poems will always be here to stay!
     
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    "My Empty Portfolio"

    Tick, Tock,

    I see you time.

    Taunting me with silent measure,

    Taking precedence over pleasure.


    Click, Click,

    Of the plastic keys.

    Wasted ideas befall the backspace,

    Meaningless words I want to erase.


    Until there is a void of space...
     
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    "Yeah, right…"

    What? Write a poem?
    How does one even do that?
    Aren’t there special rules?

    There’s verse and meter
    Rhyme and alliteration
    Torture for some fools

    So check out the word
    The word poem itself
    I think it looks odd

    Say poem enough
    And it starts to morph into
    A fake word, a fraud

    Anyway, I can’t
    I just don’t have it in me
    This ain’t gunna work

    I don’t like poems
    I tried, a little, kinda
    I know. I’m a jerk.
     
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    “Indeed a Treasure”

    The water gently kissed the rock,

    As the ship passed through the lock.

    The gulls were shrieking and diving low,

    His eyes were fixed upon the clock.


    Into his journal began to flow,

    The observations that he would show.

    In not just words, but in a poem.

    The sky above, the earth below.


    A rhyme to paint the waves and foam,

    A rhyme to guide his journey home.

    A picture painted with rhyme and measure.

    As he began to write a poem.


    For nature’s worth’s indeed a treasure,

    Composed of words in rhyme and measure.

    That to the mind bring joy and pleasure,

    For nature’s worth’s indeed a treasure.
     
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    "The Poet"

    This is my poem. This is my mind.
    I wrote it myself, line by line.
    Empty pages. Fill them with thoughts.
    Trying to tame these ideas I’ve caught.
    Some say, “It holds me.” Some say, “It frees me.”
    Some say, “It’s simple,” and some say, “It’s easy.”
    But what they say of this art matters not,
    for difficulty departs when necessity knocks.

    Come rain or shine. Come snow or sleet.
    The pen and the paper are destined to meet,
    For the poet sees all. The poet feels all.
    It’s only a matter of which words he will call
    upon to relay the message that’s spoken,
    for there is no sleep once his pen is awoken.

    So this is my poem. This is my mind.
    I wrote it myself, but I don’t know if it’s mine.
    Because I took the things I’ve seen, time after time,
    asked what they mean, gave them some rhyme,
    and jotted them on anything I could find,
    because I am the poet.
     
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    "Clawing"

    I don’t know why we do it. We must be crazy.
    Welcome, fellow poet.

    -Richard Hugo

    Sheets of ice lie snoring on
    the sky and they are
    our memories. Fretful, we
    claw at it, hoping for
    a perfect snowflake to peel
    and save us from our misery once and
    for all. Our

    hot fingers, hot breaths
    and hot, flustered memories
    but too hot. Phew, and it’s already
    dripping dew. Memories kill
    softer than a cat. What flakes we peeled
    melt before we’ve had a look.

    Shouldn’t we despair? How can
    failures heal with failure?
    How can we tell starlight, spicy and hot,
    from neon light, drenched with salty filth?
    How can we
    go on, night after night,
    flake after forgotten, fired flake,
    each crystal fetus burnt before
    our eyes? Because we

    are cowards, haven’t had
    courage to chomp our fingers off
    like a comet’s tail. The icy sheet:
    thickening, daunting, blackening.
    God help us. Until our arms
    rub off, shiny and round, we’ll
    keep on: failure, failure, another
    thirsty failure. I don't know why
    we do it. We must be crazy.

    Welcome, fellow poet.
     
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    "Writing A Poem: A Study of Form on Mood"

    A faster meter makes for an excited reader,
    and flushes 'n livens the one's heart-beater;
    And a few internal rhymes,
    interspersed like mines,
    sure help to make the 'tanza much neater!

    But, not all schemes hath been created as equal:
    for a limerick surely awakens many passions,
    but a sonnet nonetheless was never less effectual,
    and suffered not from it's mindful fashion;
    It gave a certain air, that of a chatty muse,
    that permeated no matter the word choice;
    and if one endured, and did not "pop a fuse",
    then the evident mood will be of rejoice;
    But, it could be argued by some, and rightly so,
    that it's complexities may oft be too "brainy",
    and that it suits not the fiery moods of Poe,
    but is too intellectual, "insufficiently zany";
    "Truly, the fun lies in the couplet's eyes,
    where the beat is quick and never dies".

    But every rule has exceptions, every poet the right to invent;
    and as every sinner has the right to repent,
    so can people get over misconceptions;
    So try to categorize this, do try, I dare thee,
    and I promise you'll practice self-deception,
    for this stanza's rhyme scheme is too skewed to represent:
    is it formulaic, internal, or free?

    And to prove this is not a mere gimmick,
    I herein mimic for you another limerick,
    slim in the waist,
    randy and haste,
    and will coax a smile from a cynic!
     
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    "Jumbled Poetry"


    It’s a jumble and tumble

    Incomprehensible

    Moments of clarity

    Fleeting, fleeting…

    Gone

    Words on the tip of a tongue

    Trapped there

    With no way out

    Such are the joys

    Of writing poetry
     
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    "If there's a poem to be written,"
    will it not write itself?

    Will it not breath the same air your soul does?
    Will it not find life in your fingertips?
    Will it not keep the company you keep?
    Will it not explore the same universe?

    All the poetry that can be written
    already has been.
    And it has also been loved.
    And so we write it again.
    Because we must.
     
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    "Paper Debris"

    I do not write my poetry.
    I do not write it; it writes me.
    And so, within paper debris,
    a figure's formed; a human, see?
    The person who I want to be.

    And of my figure, staple free,
    built strong to fight the enemy,
    can withstand earth, sand, wind and sea,
    but keep your scissors far from me!
    lest I may lose a game of three.
     
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    “An apology for nothing”

    I’m sorry poetry!
    That I won’t make you rhyme
    Or enjambe your line,
    Make similes like Wordsworth
    Or the metaphors of birds and bees…
    Alliterations always angers my avid attempts
    Heroic verse is a thought I’d better lose
    Because I’m sore’ to say it’s overused.
    And using the pastoral, well then
    You’re just another sheep in the flock,
    Better to be the nymph with harsh replies.


    And since modernity we’re free,
    A broken prison with constraints gone.
    I can’t say I’m sorry,
    I can’t say I’m glad,
    As proliferations proliferate
    And words on pages.


    Are you good?
    Are you moral?
    And did you come from divine
    Inspiration?
    Plato died.


    Are you a story?
    An epic?
    Volumes that speak of
    Creations
    Of heaven and hell.
    Milton died.


    The father,
    A canon unto himself.
    In his left hand,
    Dripping
    With iambic pentameter.
    Shakespeare died.


    They die and die and die
    And their works eternal.
    Thanks Barthes, I’ve always
    Wanted to kill a poet.
     
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