Jump to content
The Official Site of the Vancouver Canucks
Canucks Community

Poetry & Creative Writing


Recommended Posts

Random thought, not creative writing but more for discussion:

This is obvious, I'm sure, to anyone who's actually studied poetry, but the form of it, it's clear to me now, is as important as the content; to become a great poet, one must have mastery of both the syntax and what it carries.

  • Like 1
Link to comment
Share on other sites

  • 2 weeks later...

Didn't even

 

            Feel it,

Didn't even

 

Need It

 

  Every circle ends in the 

 

 

Death of

 

the

 

Radius

 

                      On our knees

                            we fall

Descending to

 

                a crawl

 

the      ANIMUS

     a FAULT,

 

 

 

 

Diameter 

            of Salt

  • Like 1
Link to comment
Share on other sites

Makes it Hard

Makes me weep 

 

  Make me think

  We're All Sheep

 

Soft & Cold

Soft & Old

 

 

   

 

   Softly death

             Will take Hold

 

Cuz' we're lost

Cuz' we're sold

 

   Cuz' the Lies

   need be Told

 

        I can't help 

that there's 

       Pain

I just wish

        that you weren't 

                to

                    Blame

Link to comment
Share on other sites

Gotta like Love

 Kissed with a Fist

 

Once, twice? Nay, Thrice

 

Feel the ice melt

and the embers smoulder 

 

Into a cold decay

Rem'niscent of 

 

October

 

Say you want what I'd like,

"Do you want me to stay?"

 

Asked to Leave

     and yet you stay

 

 

 

 

So it's my fault!

They called the Cops out!

 

Cuz' you hit me, then parked us

In traffic goin' 70

 

Chase me, across a parking lot

 

If I ask you 

   To 

Stop

 

You 

Can

Not

 

 

 

  • Cheers 1
Link to comment
Share on other sites

I wrote these a few months ago; it's supposed to be dialogue, but I don't like either enough to work into a project. I'll share here instead. :)

 

--You know of me, but who knows me? Personalities are inferred by what: the inflexions of a person’s speech, the mannerisms that characterize them,--as in the waves of their hands, their gesticulations,--and how much less by their diction, the content of what they actually say and the meaning behind those utterances? Am I just an unknowable entity? I say again: he who knows me knows not me; he knows me only as I manifest to him, through the many projections his mind applies and through what the Buddhists call the aggregates--or some such psychological matrices, the psychic machines we are subject to but can never comprehend or speak of appropriately enough, for we lack a proper vocabulary or because one cannot exist. My values I can all say, but can I say why I value them such, really? How much of me is not me; as in, how much am I a product of what the psychologists call environment? And of genetics, is that me? Is there not a timeless me, one not bound by cause and effect, as Kant proposed--one outside of the physical world, without a beginning or end, purely spiritual, purely me? If there’s no freedom of will, there is nobody; and if there’s nobody, I am not. All of what I give to the world is borrowed from those I've met in my life: from the ill whose madness I entertained--the cute phrases they managed to communicate, surrounded by angry or humoured nonsense; from my mother whose true self I only ever saw come through in sarcastic idioms and not even then; from the television I’ve watched, the actors and actresses miming others yet before them? We’re all nothing but what we’ve seen. Personality is a tradition like any academic one, and we’re at the mercy of the influences before us in its timeline. It's all a plurality, never a singular person.

 

--Our imperative is to build so that we may fulfill our desire to be remembered. We craft our grandest thoughts into art and monuments for those younger souls who come after us to peer and awe at, so they may know us at our innermost; so that they may know us at our most vulnerable; so that they may know the flurries of our minds and the beauties they considered, imagined and made; so that they may know the immenseness in which we felt our pains and pleasures and learn that life orbits these moments of paramount; so that they may know and not forget us, and so our influence thereby does not cease with our bodies and we can establish happiness from our graves, from our place of timeless nonexistence, and in our isolation from all sense and sensibility still connect with others. So much does it ease our loneliness in the present to think of some other to whom we can today attach no labels or descriptions admiring the work we did in our lifetimes in theirs. We build so that we don't die and so we may be known. And let us be known, we say, for our greatness--for the greatness of the thoughts we immortalized in our passions and vocations and the greatness, too, that was our lives. But let us be known moreover as lighthouses which glowed long after being abandoned, warning of danger, advising those keener than us not to follow where our paths led to jagged rocks and disaster, for we sailed, as all do, often into it--like the tribesmen who ate wild berries, went through agony and perished, like the smoking uncle who developed a malignant cancer and turned his nieces away from that terrible plant, like the man who lived in arrogance and died alone: like them we are examples; like all we strive to be more.


 

  • Like 1
Link to comment
Share on other sites

Just now, 112 said:

I wrote these a few months ago; it's supposed to be dialogue, but I don't like either enough to work into a project. I'll share here instead. :)

 

--You know of me, but who knows me? Personalities are inferred by what: the inflexions of a person’s speech, the mannerisms that characterize them,--as in the waves of their hands, their gesticulations,--and how much less by their diction, the content of what they actually say and the meaning behind those utterances? Am I just an unknowable entity? I say again: he who knows me knows not me; he knows me only as I manifest to him, through the many projections his mind applies and through what the Buddhists call the aggregates--or some such psychological matrices, the psychic machines we are subject to but can never comprehend or speak of appropriately enough, for we lack a proper vocabulary or because one cannot exist. My values I can all say, but can I say why I value them such, really? How much of me is not me; as in, how much am I a product of what the psychologists call environment? And of genetics, is that me? Is there not a timeless me, one not bound by cause and effect, as Kant proposed--one outside of the physical world, without a beginning or end, purely spiritual, purely me? If there’s no freedom of will, there is nobody; and if there’s nobody, I am not. All of what I give to the world is borrowed from those I've met in my life: from the ill whose madness I entertained--the cute phrases they managed to communicate, surrounded by angry or humoured nonsense; from my mother whose true self I only ever saw come through in sarcastic idioms and not even then; from the television I’ve watched, the actors and actresses miming others yet before them? We’re all nothing but what we’ve seen. Personality is a tradition like any academic one, and we’re at the mercy of the influences before us in its timeline. It's all a plurality, never a singular person.

 

--Our imperative is to build so that we may fulfill our desire to be remembered. We craft our grandest thoughts into art and monuments for those younger souls who come after us to peer and awe at, so they may know us at our innermost; so that they may know us at our most vulnerable; so that they may know the flurries of our minds and the beauties they considered, imagined and made; so that they may know the immenseness in which we felt our pains and pleasures and learn that life orbits these moments of paramount; so that they may know and not forget us, and so our influence thereby does not cease with our bodies and we can establish happiness from our graves, from our place of timeless nonexistence, and in our isolation from all sense and sensibility still connect with others. So much does it ease our loneliness in the present to think of some other to whom we can today attach no labels or descriptions admiring the work we did in our lifetimes in theirs. We build so that we don't die and so we may be known. And let us be known, we say, for our greatness--for the greatness of the thoughts we immortalized in our passions and vocations and the greatness, too, that was our lives. But let us be known moreover as lighthouses which glowed long after being abandoned, warning of danger, advising those keener than us not to follow where our paths led to jagged rocks and disaster, for we sailed, as all do, often into it--like the tribesmen who ate wild berries, went through agony and perished, like the smoking uncle who developed a malignant cancer and turned his nieces away from that terrible plant, like the man who lived in arrogance and died alone: like them we are examples; like all we strive to be more.


 

I really enjoyed this, thank you.

  • Like 1
Link to comment
Share on other sites

  • 4 weeks later...

All around this downtown bar there's tragedy.

 

It hangs in the air, lingering as a long lost child, immune to the truth beyond the fear of never knowing if they'll ever find home again.

 

You can taste it, thick and lurid, like a dream fresh awoken...just out of reach, yet it lingers.

 

Home has always been a distant place. Scarce, scant & wanting, forever out of reach.

 

Delicious, yet duplicitous, delightful wings, of those born with less luck than they need, fill the pillow which neither you or I need.

 

Yet to snatch my comfort, or disturb my rest, surely results in the satisfaction of knowing the slumber of less than angels be arrest.

 

Which is why you came, is it not? 

 

Why else endeavour thyself to such wretched, abominable task?

 

Why else labour, incessantly, to one's own wits end? With needless & endless quarrel betwixt the self and the damned?

 

For Azazel will not bear thy scapegoat, nor Thrice denied shoulder the burden.

 

It's a fortunate & just horror...

 

It's just you

 

& Me

 

 

  • Like 1
Link to comment
Share on other sites

Maybe below the waters

We can find something of nurishment;

From the cold springs, I wonder, could we catch something meaty,

Even with hands fit for tools

And minds more for scripture?

 

We're alone and hungry but not alone,

As I'm here with you and you with me,

But I'm still hungry. Aren't you?

 

There's only green, mostly, where we are, and so our clothes are stained, since we've been here a few sunsets, remember?

 

The fruit isn't ripe yet; and I would much rather have meat than any of what the animals in the treetops gouge and gnaw. Besides--if we start climbing, maybe we won't come down. Maybe we'll fall and crush our bodies, turning red the marred images of us in this chilled water. Oh, they go down so far, to the black, 'til where we can't see anymore. Oh, it goes far! We've found a deep one! Huzzah!

 

I wonder if there are fish; we should catch one, two maybe... Come, let's see how far down we can swim; it'll be our ablution from the sinful.

Edited by 112
  • Upvote 1
Link to comment
Share on other sites

White roses on the path home

Met my lips and my blistered nose

When I cupped them in my hands

And guided them to my face.

 

I am gentle with nature,

With vines and berries

And the creatures I meet.

 

It's curiosity, superstition and empathy,

But I would like to learn how to weaponize it.

  • Like 1
Link to comment
Share on other sites

  • 4 weeks later...

I’m not one for poetry but I came up with this piece. Let me know what you think. :)

 

I walk

 

I see nothing but beach; sand 
Stuck between my toes. I see 
Vegetation, a rotting 
Coconut; my stomach growls. 

 

I walk. 

 

I see water; waves crash onto 
The beach like a woman to 
Her husband after a long day 
Of work. I see a crab; I think ‘dinner.’ 

 

I walk. 

 

I see everything and I see 
Nothing. Nothing is new. I stroll along the beach all Day, every day, to no avail. 

My thoughts intrude my sanity.  

 

I walk. 

 

I see my entire life on this beach. I see a

Life devoid of meaning. About 500 feet away, I see a whale.

No, that’s the crest of a wave. It’s difficult to know for sure. 

 

I walk; for I’m doomed to walk
Alone for an eternity. 

 

I walk. 

Edited by Guest
Link to comment
Share on other sites

Bland loose garments draped over the weak legs of my old dear mama

Kept heat to her as she slightly pushed up and down on the hardwood floors,

In a gloomy room and in her rocking chair,

As the days passed by solemnly to us but without her greater notice.
Day and night seemed much the same, to her, at that late hour of life she was at--

The pre-death of someone who's lived long, an experience we can't know

Until our own late hours when we're too frail to question intuition

And we succumb to the same sapping sleep as dear old mama.

Edited by 112
  • Upvote 1
Link to comment
Share on other sites

  • 1 month later...

There were, over the hills, hamlets nicer, the bards said, than the homesteads we lived in; they were said to be decorated with jewels and built with ornate logs of a mysterious type, and they would glitter in the sun--and the trees were all cedar, and the flowers were in bloom for several more months than here, and the people were happy and ignorant. But the path to those lands was harsh--harsh under the unforgiving weather and harsh over the jagged stones and deep mud-pools on the way. And the animals throughout the cliffs and valleys and forests and deserts were predator more than prey; so fierce were even the gaslighting jackals, who would smoke with the odd traveler who passed through their territory and then consume her in her stupor. The animals were dangerous, then, not just for their physical strength which often exceeded a human's, nor just their savage mammalian wills to survive and procreate and overcome, but they were dangerous for their shrewdness and cunning, their minds that had learned to trick the pagans and satanists and now-and-then fugitives who would go through the trees and mountains.

  • Like 2
Link to comment
Share on other sites

The sick, bed-bound, vomited into buckets near the infected ones, whose appendages were dark with something, away from the gun-shot and grenade victims, who were under surgery in the care of overworked medics with dirty equipment and no knowledge but for brute cutting and haphazard stitching.

--Damn, said one whose arm was falling off, I feel pretty &^@#ing hopeless right now...

Edited by 112
  • Like 1
Link to comment
Share on other sites

Join the conversation

You can post now and register later. If you have an account, sign in now to post with your account.

Guest
Reply to this topic...

×   Pasted as rich text.   Paste as plain text instead

  Only 75 emoji are allowed.

×   Your link has been automatically embedded.   Display as a link instead

×   Your previous content has been restored.   Clear editor

×   You cannot paste images directly. Upload or insert images from URL.

Loading...
 Share

  • Recently Browsing   0 members

    • No registered users viewing this page.
×
×
  • Create New...