Looking for some opinions on my poem

[iahag]

A slave to emotion Haunted by grief and confusion He wavers Like a cat in the night Deviates and hides His objectives unclear to all He observes Waits Patiently and waits some more Alone in thought Isolated in soul He does not act Nor speak out The moment passes The balloon shrinks His love, ambition and honesty crushed by mere coin The death of a notion The door is shut And will remain Such a shame Such a shame.

What do you think? Please, be painfully honest, I desire nothing more than to know what people truely think. This is in continuation of my 'emotional education'. Having loved and lost, I feel a profound need to create things in order to remain peaceful and productive. I also feel that science without appreciation of art is nothing more than mere labour, which is why I'am doing my best to stay in touch with the other side of my brain.

[Epistemologist]

Indeed, while the finite aspects of humanity are the subject of science, I think poetry and other such artistic things reflect our infinite qualities such as love, which is what a non-reductionist would say is much more than mere chemical processes and has emergent properties.

As for the poem, it might be more suitable to have a more uniform number of syllables per each line, but of course, many poems don't follow the "rules" and could still qualify; indeed, many don't even rhyme. I like it though. It's quick and cold. It's certainly quite sincere as well.

I guess you have your style. I was writing some poems too recently. In fact, here's one called "Sniper" I wrote recently:

Quote by: Me Killing a man for a foxtrot-fee, Is a difficult job, if you’d like to know. Just watch poor Mike-mouse try to flee With a searing sight of scarlet flow, I locked onto our dear friend For a second clean sierra-shot. I was at my road’s dead-end, And real living human I was not For those one hundred thousand In monthly golf-green bricks. My dear king-finger I would tend The trigger—no—didn’t play my tricks. I sincerely wish I could forget, Yet I took my shot from that dark roof With my cursed cancer-crosshairs set. But in my side—ah—I felt a hoof, So I trembled with an undead fear. I saw no stipend could trump the cost, I felt my future was November-near, For in the mirror, I was truly lost. Just aim the shot and stick it in, Our skilled sergeant said back then. But now I laugh and insanely grin As scope parts monsters from true men. Bravo-bullet—yes—will find its way.

[iahag]

Thank you for your input Epistemologist. Your poem was a pleasure to read.

[Epistemologist]

Thank you iahag. I'm glad you're still here.

[Dadoo]

Epistemologist-

I cannot say "how" I feel about your words.
Yet, I see poetry in your soul, humility and intelligence flow through your words.
I see poetry in everything. The reality of your own inner nature cannot be expressed directly. Poetry attempts the expression in the most demure and direct way available to each of us, according to our state of awareness and pureness of intention.
Firstly, it is not a long, ardurous read.
Second, it is available for translation in myriad ways.
Lastly, it points at the grand design, the fundamentals of human experience and efforts.

I personally enjoy gnomic poetry. I like the direct answer shining forth from verbal gemstones, capturing a notion in many minor pieces.

Continue to write and see the product change with your emotional and literary maturity. Within the attempt to poeticize, there is a glimpse of one's true nature. As the poetry becomes clearer and more direct without losing the artfulness, so too witness yourself as clear and direct.

A warning!

Silent predation
is a silken trap and a toothy cipher:
Even a Lion stalks openly!

Fear That-which-hunts-alone
without fear
Forever unknown
Find yourself innocent,
Epistemologist

you are a cannible
Auto-phage
ignorant
with blood on your tongue.

Please post more and share the beauty of your experience with us all...
your parents and your children.

Found,
Dadoo

[The Architect]

I feel a profound need to create things in order to remain peaceful and productive.

I feel the same way, except I can never seem to get my creations in text or even in image form so they stay in my head. Nice poem

[Zinkovich]

Great poems, guys. I like Iahaqs because it's easy to connect to, in a way. I've gone through a similar experience, a "long dark teatime for the soul", as I believe Douglas Adams put it succintly.

Anyways, I've been working on my poetry for a while as well so I am hoping there's some improvement- please tell me what you think of my more recent one(which is a double-sided metaphor):

A toothy grin on a salty face led me towards my race come one come all for glory! come one come all for chests! We got gold and booty and pleasures galore- we got women who'll ply you thier pleasures and more Then a wooden plank stood before me Thier freedom seems so different than it did before I fall into the blue, red pits come out before me I'm torn asunder in a second or more

Anybody who has taken salvia or some other mind altering drug that isn't of the "party!" variety should understand this one:

So it came upon me and everything went gray and my life went inward coming back again I pictured my friends Amongst the din but I couldnt reach I was drawn in My life was there within my grasp I let go of it with a rasp Then I was soaring Into my mind Outward I went I was struck blind but I didnt care I was tripping balls Near the top there was nothing I took it all Back on earth I was no more The wife cried, children mourned But as the rain falled and the other torrents fell I didn't care- "I" wasn't there Then in the dark Hurling rocks The hurling was the hurling no purpose was brought and then I was a brick chilling amongst blocks and this red plumber came upon me and it was all over Reassembly came- I cried "My name is Zinkovich I'm not a brick I'm a HUMAN BEING" What the hell? It was all false, but it felt so real...

As Iahaq said as well, don't hold back in your criticisms either.

[5010]

I just now found this thread. Zinkovich, I can relate to some of your 2nd poem. Yes, "I" am not Here, but I still care. If Sally has more lessons for me, I hope it is not that one.

[Technosoul]

Quote by: iahag What do you think? Please, be painfully honest, I desire nothing more than to know what people truely think. This is in continuation of my 'emotional education'. Having loved and lost, I feel a profound need to create things in order to remain peaceful and productive. I also feel that science without appreciation of art is nothing more than mere labour, which is why I'am doing my best to stay in touch with the other side of my brain.

The poem is well constructed and people could relate to the topic content.

I learned something from blues songs which are written much like a poem.
They often sing the blues about their stuggles in life but most blues songs toss in a a line that shows a ray of hope. Without a ray of hope it might as well be a depressive suicide note. Finding that ray of hope for a poem might take a little time, but it will come.

" but someday the sun is gonna shine in my backdoor again".

[Technosoul]

Prisoner of love.

by Technosoul.


His thoughts crawed like like a cockrouch on the floor of his prison cell.

Should I squish them or should I yell?
No one would listen so it was hard to tell, so I just watched as my thoughts bugged me in my cell.

They hated the light, and did not want to be seen.
For the pain is real, crushed by a dream.

I watched, it ran into a drain, into the underworld where harsh light cannot find blame.

In the darkness it was secure, left alone it had nothing to fear.
The warm gutter slim was like a freind, and there was nothing of value for fools to hold dear.

The thought followed a network of sewer pipes undergound, while far above the citie's buildings stood like tombstones to mark the graves of those soon to be grown.

The windowless sewer system where night is eternal, where tears cannot be seen and crys only echo.

At last it found the main pipe, it was large and the garbage flowing in it's river was food for thought, in such a place you could be forgot and be not.

But behold, a light shinning at the end of the tunnel, caught in the river he could not stop, in helplessness he flowed towards the illuminated opening, fearing once more it might get caught.

Love, caring, trust, all awated it along with lust. All those things that can kill a soul, and burry it in the dust.

His thoughts fell in to a pool and he opened his eyes to see a yellow sign on a factory of labor that read.

"Sanitation Plant".

Yipes !