#Blank verse

[gargiyadav]

For as long as I can remember I have always indulged in my reveries with mirth and wonder.

Reveries of the prettiest kind, that light up your little self from within, and make you long for stars and moons.

Reveries that urge you to dig out the very earth that your legs are dirtied in, and hunt for the rarest gems.

Reveries that pull you towards the ocean bed despite your crippling fears, and dive deep in search of pearl oysters.

But when you are so tender and full of fervour, that dreaming is like food, water, and air to you,

You are tested by the onslaughts of this mad, brutal world.

Again and again your tall constructed structures of hopes and dreams,

Are wrecked by opinions,

And words - the most destructive weapon, are aimed at you like cannonballs.

And eyes, that pierce your soul and deem everything that lies there, unholy.

As you watch these structures come crashing down, a peculiar aversion rises from the pit of your belly.

An aversion to the very act of dreaming that once was an enchantment.

But you should know and know this well, that life is just about this.

To learn to listen to the voice of the self when the noise of the world becomes deafening.

To decipher the words of the soul and treat the words of the world with indifference.

© Gargi Yadav

[env0writes]

NaNoWriMo Vol. 4, 11.1.24 “Nov(re)Member”

The eve passed hollow As the bells tolled in the distance Calling me To choir en mass With the passing of this end Promises new beginnings And threatens to repeat this chorus verse Hallowed-out soil drums beneath each step Conserve what little daylight remains Star death flickers, candle light mimicry Words have not passed lips nor pages Flipping through snowed-over shelves of thoughts Shelved for colder – darker days The dead talk and I – balk Walk a little faster past the churchyard Where skeletal hands entreat Walk a little bit faster past the graveyard Holier than thou The passing eve will allow – grievance once Bells, distant bells – ring Sing to thankful revelers Ushering out into the cold and into the warm Blue and black swallow the day-lit orange The fading color shifts in rising gusts Vowing vengeance on the softer pallets I made my choice Forgone the rain not pain Solitude is revelry; utmost unto oneself

@env0writes C.Buck   Ko-Fi & Venmo: @Zenv0 Support Your Local Artists!

[soulmaking]

a poem of mine—title is from Emily Dickinson's "'Hope' is the thing with feathers"

[capricorn-0mnikorn]

Something "English Sonnet"-adjacent

Like jagged rocks beneath the water's skin, Each consequence of long-ago mistakes Disturbs the current narrative of dreams. I wake with aching head and asthma breath, As every headline of the Morning News Keeps dripping, dripping, dripping, in my ears (The world I love is being taken down). I'm feeling like an insect in the rain: By laws of physics, gravity, and mass (The calculations, observations say) This should roll off my back. I can still fly. But all I want is someplace safe to land. So this is my attempt to tame the storm With metered language, measured out in feet.

[now-winter-comes-slowly]

Sudden Hymn in Winter

by Joseph Fasano

What if, after years

of trial,

a love should come

and lay a hand upon you

and say,

this late,

your life is not a crime

[madame-vera]

A Sister's Sonnet

Born and grown together, memories shared

Screamed arguements from either side o' the house

Hushed compromise over crossed arms and pouts

Still smiling, stifling tears to wipe their cheeks

Cracking macadamias between rocks

Under summer sun to split between us

Stuffing veges in meat to make them eat

Under night, reading tales til they slumber

Young yet old, standing tall, the head of four

Like little ducklings following along

For as long as they've lived that's all they've known

Sweetly they call me, Mother Sister Friend

Sweating 'neath the old weight of their laughter

Heart beats, lungs breathe for them, loving them so

Notes

I wrote a sonnet on the love of an eldest child/sister towards her three younger siblings. On what she gives and allows be taken, with hints of parentification throughout.

I wrote the sonnet blank verse, which means it follows the basic structure of 14 lines (8+6), each with 10 syllables per line. But it doesn't follow rhyming patterns. It's also still supposed to follow iambic pentameter, meaning each syllable is in pairs of two with a shorter or less emphsized sound by a longer or more empahised sound, with 5 sets of pairs (total of 10 syllables) following this pattern per line. I know i got the syllables right but I'm uncertain of the pentameter. Not entirely confident i got that one quite right.

I think I did pretty well overall though, especially given it's my first attempt at a sonnet. Or any poetry for that matter, not since high school years ago.

[rael-f-wae]

Teloise & Troikus, a Fragment in Blank Verse "My friend, why do you bleed like this? I wish you'd lay aside your lance, and lay with me." "Go see what second sons have things like mine. I won them in a war, with strength, with gut. You'd have me leave what I have won you with. Or will you say you would be with me still, some second son who had not proved a thing?" "I say I would, if we had met. I wish you wouldn't question fate like this; that if you are secure in me, you will not think I am a hypocrite, who would for you in all your shine prefer some costumed thing, who bruises, and is bruised so, like the lost and pursued knight, in some honeyed land deserted, and only are the closest left with him -- he is a king where he was born, was nourished, would return unto, if he but could. Yet this travail is here, where I can change the day to night with just a word." "What I've bled for, I cannot give for love. You may be indeed the reigning Sun, and as the Sun shows things, so then they are, but things have inner forms, and men do too. I would be, and am, the lion full, and not him who the Sun shows false: lie not of me, and ask me not to lie -- I'm as this creature fully made, this beast I am, and have its wishes with its strength and height. And you do too, I think, you who oft speak more than most dare, and no one's questioned yet."

[creatediana]

My hands are dry, but this November, rain drops brutally and coldly every day. I sit myself down in the crowded bus, no elbow room, and dark and foggy, too, for 12:30 PM. Humanity, I see you must be wooing me again— all men I've ever known know to impose the option in their terms breathed down my neck. It's evident my marriage to my art has been put under strain—but my affairs are solely in my dreams. Poems and I won't sleep now in the center of our bed, and yes, I think of others passionate for me, when I lie on my pillow—yes— and in the droplets on the window, there's a million bacteria, you know. I'm too much of a bore to play along with any wilder fantasies than that I'd find beneath a microscope with light and glass—and there's been none of that this week, the weather not permitting any sun. There's nothing left to do but read John Donne.

"Tuesday thoughts." - a blank verse poem written 11/26/2024

[cookiesandwater]

//I will be chaos, beauty, ruin— anything but mundane//

// if I am not meant to be loved by you;

// for the stars have scrawled a cruel prophecy;

// in the constellations i trace nightly—

// that you can never see me as I see myself;

// or know me as I know myself;

// then remember how I unsettle you.

// I would rather be labelled deranged;

// go down in history as a madwoman;

// than be forgotten.

[aylen-san]

The sky is blue, shining high above,

A single star twinkles, its light so great.

Winds whisper tales, ancient stories told,

Where the Silmarils shine like stars in the sky.

On the horizon, mountains in morning fire,

And stars shine as in a dream.

Where songs are glorious, flowing like water,

The light of the silmarils pierces the night.

In the world beneath the moon, in shadows and mists,

The past lives on, like flashes in a meteor shower.

Waters ripple in rivers, a ring gleams at the bottom.

Ancient Gondolin sleeps in the deep.

[gargiyadav]

The carriers of grief never make it so obvious, you know.

A couple of hours never do justice to any conversation. Only when you spend days living in their mysterious cocoon do you realise what lies behind the misleading walls; the workings of their heart, the heaviness in their world.

All it takes is a picture that transports them back in time with no manual on how to come back.

Or a word or two, that may carry great intentions but somehow lands their world as catastrophically as a meteor.

Coffee mugs, too many for a house of one, lie on the kitchen shelves just like that. Taking up spaces just so that there is a little less emptiness.

However, the unattended corners of that house are the areas that resemble reality the most. Fallen, unpicked objects, rest in those dark corners, screaming negligence. Collected dust somehow won’t appear unwelcoming at all. After all, houses of this kind are the ones meant to collect dust, not the young, lively ones where dreams brim at every corner.

Some pretty little souvenir becomes their most cherished possession. And only when you ask them about it will you see a big glimmering smile on their face, which is otherwise a rarity.

Some pickle jar that falls and breaks, somehow also breaks their hopes of preserving the long-gone. It’s the jar that bottled memories and not just pickles. The smithereens of it are too many to be ever bottled back to life.

However, it’s in the little things that they still keep the dead alive. When the haunting nights become too much and the walls start to creep in, it's these little things; a ring or a locket, that comfort their restless heart.

Then, they just keep the ring in their shirt’s pocket, near to their heart, and all becomes fine.

You and I can never make out the workings of their heart. However, the house they harbour, the walls that surround them, the plants that are withering in their vicinity, and the moss that’s starting to grow in their world, are the only witnesses.

Look at them carefully and they will tell you all about the carriers of grief.

How they carry rocks everyday and the world goes on nevertheless.

@gargiyadav

[env0writes]

A Gust of Words Vol. 4, 8.10.24 “Not A Lengthy Visitor"

@env0writes C.Buck   Ko-Fi & Venmo: @Zenv0 Support Your Local Artists!   Photo by @env0

Opportunity raps and taps Upon my graven sleep My clear breathed coffin Maudlin Mondays Greet the week with open embrace Weeping like willows used for floorboards Whips each step onward Cracking me awake in the sleep light thunder In midst of sleepless nights The rapping, oh the tapping From my door, floorboards And more The house is aching, moaning, more The chance that pounds from every pore Sure I will wake With energy greater than The prior day Will I seize at that noise Snatch the very bugle From the wilting angels lips Morning fog will hide the way As beneath my sheets I hideaway Miserable Monday, I loathe the Owe the Your solemnity Found in the beak of a woodpecker Making opportunities knocks Nicks each bite I wake but will I stir? My soul separated from my body There I lay and here I stand The will and the willful and the will not Pubescently leaping to each rap Beyond that lifeless door imposing Open: Says I Beyond? — Tomorrow

[lebuc]

on the precipice

* standing on the precipice of the rest of my life  as are you -

wondering if apprehension, resignation, expansionism, naturalism or stoicism

will be my running buddy, confidante, consigliere, wingmanperson, foil or comic relief

while i continue to tread tamped time with intrepid steps in sneakers

eschewing stiff soles & sore toes, scuff marks on treasured terra;

a sub-macro goal for this simple soul.

someone said you never walk alone,

except when you're trying to collect a debt, then -

it's o solo mios 'til you get the cheetos.

nonetheless, it's a rarity to quest without an angel or devil by your side ( not on your shoulders, like in the 'toons...)

also known as having an ace up your sleeve, a good luck charm in your pocket, or the blues' lament of being born under a bad sign.

so, who's the wingperson to help me pull the pretty premise ( & their friends ) from the providential bar or club to take home & romance?

my money’s on authentic naturalism, if i was a bettin man...

that's my burgeoning novel's projection & i'm sticking to it. peace. * 7/23 - lebuc - on the precipice

[i-dream-of-pomegranates]

Prometheus' Lament

The hunger eats away at me, my gut destroys itself a thousand times in wait. My stomach lining, silver lining that it is, rebuilds itself again – again.

The hunger is the name I’ve given it, that eagle circling round my swollen head – that need to see the light that leaves me blind, to taste the truth that shrivels up my tongue.

Pandora opened up the wicked box, and Icarus thought he could kiss the sun. Tantalus wastes away his wretched days, no drop of wine or bread to sate his lips.

And all for what? Curiosity – and pride, those deadliest of all the sins! I know too much, too little now it seems, in light of all that now befalls humanity.

The hunger eats away at me, my soul is forfeit in its gaping maw. I brought this fate upon myself, for if they burn, I hold the match – ‘twas I that gave them fire.

[domlarkin]

At The Headland...( April, 2025)

At the Headland, the rocks intone their ancient chant.

The beach is awash with pebbles, seaweed and shale.

O I know that I stand on significant ground,

As awe and wonder, permeate each firm texture!

The gulls' cries uncover myriad strange secrets.

I glimpse the tern's swift flight via reflective pools.

It arcs and jinxes through the salted air of spring,

In and out of sight. Microcosms of delight

Greet me in the gleaming high tides, wave after wave.

And I know that this coast- line is embedded in

My very bones. O it rejects Modernity's

Weak, sullied flesh and centres its curious guests!

It seems to know, how the heart easily fractures,

And provides a robust refuge for those who're lost.

[deveril]

Emotions are stronger in the darkness. 
In the light, it’s easier to pretend, 
Easier to distract myself from pain. 
But there is no escaping in the dark, 
When ghosts of the past haunt my wakefulness. 
I am visited by those who are gone; 
I see the disappointment in their eyes, 
And I know I’m unworthy of the gift 
Of life that I have carelessly squandered. 
In this monastic cloister of a life 
My only visitors are those who died, 
I have been forgotten by the living. 
This is my empty life, of vacant chairs 
And photographs of the dead who loved me.

— deveril