<Edited to add "post yours!!" to the thread title. Also, changed the old code to new BB code on the post so that the content under the Spoiler tag will actually show up on the post. 03/18/07 ~Tombow>

My flight was delayed and my family had to wait in the airport for two hours. I got bored.
This resulted in the following haikus (which contain SPOILERS):

Maes Hughes

[spoiler]Hero, brave and kind,
Loving husband, father proud.
Fallen, now he flies![/spoiler]

Roy Mustang

[spoiler]Wielder of the flame,
Tears that are a falling rain
Cannot light a spark

Both take place during Hughes' funeral.[/spoiler]
See what happens when you leave a bored FMA fan alone with a pen and paper?

umm, you may wanna spoiler tag that oh wait. you already said -- whoops. ignore me.

The true poet.

I quite like Bacon's little haiku, actually.

Hey does anyone like poetry i know it is wierd but hey maybe someone does

I like poetry, I suppose. I like writing more than analyzing. Maybe I'll post some here later.

I like reading poetry, but I have a hard time writing it. I always end up rhyming even when I don't plan to, but then I can't keep up the rhyme pattern and it turns out...weird.

I'm better at prose.

My Poems Are Here

That's some of the poetry I've written. The older ones really suck (not that they don't all suck to a certain extent, really), but I posted them there anyway. If you can think of any ways in which I can improve my writing, please feel free to inform me.

Wow! You're really good!

I must have learned 20 new words that began with F.

20!?

I nearly exhausted my F-word vocabulary with that one.

You have quite an extensive vocabulary, then.

Would you ever try X? Or Z? Z may be easier, but I imagine X should be fun.

. . . I'm not going to go there. X . . . perhaps with a haiku.

im the only guy i know that likes reading and writing poetry i have some but i havent posted any

Ahh, yes. Not very many young guys like to read or write poet. Not very many older ones do either, really.

ya i know lol but that is alright im strange one lol but umm YOUR POEMS ARE AWSOME!!!!!! wow u really do know your vocabulary especially your fs lol

Thanks for the comment. I think my F-word one is the only really good one out of the bunch. People sometimes tell me that I forgot to include the four-letter one in the poem.

no but really u are really good umm here on this site there is one of my poems but i just started yesturfday so dont make fun ok http://www.xanga.com/home.aspx?user=Adam222

Ahh, it's nice. A few typos here and there, but other than that, it's good. I like the last line for some reason. *shrugs*

thanks ya it was like 8 o clock when i started typing it so i kinda messed up buts thats alright

Messing up is the best part! You go back to fix it and find ways to improve it instead.

I found this poem on the 'net. It's funny because I'm not a big poetry fan. It was written by Adam Kerby.

Haven't seen that one in a while. It's a delightful read every time.

@ Quistis great poetry! i loved it so much!

I like Shel Silverstein and that's it.

@Quis: I don't know that many words that start with F and so I don't understand that poem at all. Not that I'm a good poem analyzer to begin with.

@ gashole: shel silverstein was the first poetry i read she's pretty good

Thanks.


Good thing there's a dictionary feature on that site. You highlight the word you don't know and press D. And don't worry about not understanding. I don't quite understand it either. And I can't even remember the meaning to some of the words I used in that poem.

"Flee On your Donkey"
Anne Sexton

Because there was no other place
to flee to,
I came back to the scene of the disordered senses,
came back last night at midnight,
arriving in the thick June night
without luggage or defenses,
giving up my car keys and my cash,
keeping only a pack of Salem cigarettes
the way a child holds on to a toy.
I signed myself in where a stranger
puts the inked-in X's—
for this is a mental hospital,
not a child's game.

Today an intern knocks my knees,
testing for reflexes.
Once I would have winked and begged for dope.
Today I am terribly patient.
Today crows play black-jack
on the stethoscope.

Everyone has left me
except my muse,
that good nurse.
She stays in my hand,
a mild white mouse.

The curtains, lazy and delicate,
billow and flutter and drop
like the Victorian skirts
of my two maiden aunts
who kept an antique shop.

Hornets have been sent.
They cluster like floral arrangements on the screen.
Hornets, dragging their thin stingers,
hover outside, all knowing,
hissing: the hornet knows.
I heard it as a child
but what was it that he meant?
The hornet knows!
What happened to Jack and Doc and Reggy?
Who remembers what lurks in the heart of man?
What did The Green Hornet mean, he knows?
Or have I got it wrong?
Is it The Shadow who had seen
me from my bedside radio?

Now it's Dinn, Dinn, Dinn!
while the ladies in the next room argue
and pick their teeth.
Upstairs a girl curls like a snail;
in another room someone tries to eat a shoe;
meanwhile an adolescent pads up and down
the hall in his white tennis socks.
A new doctor makes rounds
advertising tranquilizers, insulin, or shock
to the uninitiated.

Six years of such small preoccupations!
Six years of shuttling in and out of this place!
O my hunger! My hunger!
I could have gone around the world twice
or had new children - all boys.
It was a long trip with little days in it
and no new places.

In here,
it's the same old crowd,
the same ruined scene.
The alcoholic arrives with his gold culbs.
The suicide arrives with extra pills sewn
into the lining of her dress.
The permanent guests have done nothing new.
Their faces are still small
like babies with jaundice.

Meanwhile,
they carried out my mother,
wrapped like somebody's doll, in sheets,
bandaged her jaw and stuffed up her holes.
My father, too. He went out on the rotten blood
he used up on other women in the Middle West.
He went out, a cured old alcoholic
on crooked feet and useless hands.
He went out calling for his father
who died all by himself long ago -
that fat banker who got locked up,
his genes suspened like dollars,
wrapped up in his secret,
tied up securely in a straitjacket.

But you, my doctor, my enthusiast,
were better than Christ;
you promised me another world
to tell me who
I was.

I spent most of my time,
a stranger,
damned and in trance—that little hut,
that naked blue-veined place,
my eyes shut on the confusing office,
eyes circling into my childhood,
eyes newly cut.
Years of hints
strung out—a serialized case history—
thirty-three years of the same dull incest
that sustained us both.
You, my bachelor analyst,
who sat on Marlborough Street,
sharing your office with your mother
and giving up cigarettes each New Year,
were the new God,
the manager of the Gideon Bible.

I was your third-grader
with a blue star on my forehead.
In trance I could be any age,
voice, gesture—all turned backward
like a drugstore clock.
Awake, I memorized dreams.
Dreams came into the ring
like third string fighters,
each one a bad bet
who might win
because there was no other.

I stared at them,
concentrating on the abyss
the way one looks down into a rock quarry,
uncountable miles down,
my hands swinging down like hooks
to pull dreams up out of their cage.
O my hunger! My hunger!

Once, outside your office,
I collapsed in the old-fashioned swoon
between the illegally parked cars.
I threw myself down,
pretending dead for eight hours.
I thought I had died
into a snowstorm.
Above my head
chains cracked along like teeth
digging their way through the snowy street.
I lay there
like an overcoat
that someone had thrown away.
You carried me back in,
awkwardly, tenderly,
with help of the red-haired secretary
who was built like a lifeguard.
My shoes,
I remember,
were lost in the snowbank
as if I planned never to walk again.

That was the winter
that my mother died,
half mad on morphine,
blown up, at last,
like a pregnant pig.
I was her dreamy evil eye.
In fact,
I carried a knife in my pocketbook—
my husband's good L. L. Bean hunting knife.
I wasn't sure if I should slash a tire
or scrape the guts out of some dream.

You taught me
to believe in dreams;
thus I was the dredger.
I held them like an old woman with arthritic fingers,
carefully straining the water out—
sweet dark playthings,
and above all, mysterious
until they grew mournful and weak.
O my hunger! My hunger!
I was the one
who opened the warm eyelid
like a surgeon
and brought forth young girls
to grunt like fish.

I told you,
I said—
but I was lying—
that the kife was for my mother . . .
and then I delivered her.

The curtains flutter out
and slump against the bars.
They are my two thin ladies
named Blanche and Rose.
The grounds outside
are pruned like an estate at Newport.
Far off, in the field,
something yellow grows.

Was it last month or last year
that the ambulance ran like a hearse
with its siren blowing on suicide—
Dinn, dinn, dinn!—
a noon whistle that kept insisting on life
all the way through the traffic lights?

I have come back
but disorder is not what it was.
I have lost the trick of it!
The innocence of it!
That fellow-patient in his stovepipe hat
with his fiery joke, his manic smile—
even he seems blurred, small and pale.
I have come back,
recommitted,
fastened to the wall like a bathroom plunger,
held like a prisoner
who was so poor
he fell in love with jail.

I stand at this old window
complaining of the soup,
examining the grounds,
allowing myself the wasted life.
Soon I will raise my face for a white flag,
and when God enters the fort,
I won't spit or gag on his finger.
I will eat it like a white flower.
Is this the old trick, the wasting away,
the skull that waits for its dose
of electric power?

This is madness
but a kind of hunger.
What good are my questions
in this hierarchy of death
where the earth and the stones go
Dinn! Dinn! Dinn!
It is hardly a feast.
It is my stomach that makes me suffer.

Turn, my hungers!
For once make a deliberate decision.
There are brains that rot here
like black bananas.
Hearts have grown as flat as dinner plates.

Anne, Anne,
flee on your donkey,
flee this sad hotel,
ride out on some hairy beast,
gallop backward pressing
your buttocks to his withers,
sit to his clumsy gait somehow.
Ride out
any old way you please!
In this place everyone talks to his own mouth.
That's what it means to be crazy.
Those I loved best died of it—
the fool's disease.

Is that your favorite poem, Thieves?

EGGS RATED

These eggs
Are eggscellent.
I'm not eggsaggerating.
You can tell by my eggspression
They're eggceptional--
Eggstra fluffy,
Eggstremely tasty,
Cooked eggsactly right
By an eggspert
With lots of eggsperience.
Now I'll eggsamine the bill....
Ooh--much more eggspensive
Than I eggspected.
I gotta get out of here.
Where's the eggxit?

^ I like simple poems like this.

Very typical of Gashole to like this sort. I like it.

Hah, I love that as well. Simple things for simple minds I guess.

i've always been fond of poe, personally. "the raven" is one of my favorites. that and "the tiger" by william blake.

I also enjoy "the raven". Shiel silverstein rocks. I remembered reading one of his books called The giving tree. I post my poems on DA cause I can't draw

I woulden't know if it'll be my favorite poem. I just happened to read it while i was checking up on the board. Although Anne Sexton is a fav. Poe? Love his stories, I never actually read any of his poems, except The Raven, which i forgot about. The 'raven' is made into such a cliche now. Just reminds me of teenage angst, annoying pricks who name themselves raven, wear black, bleach their skin, and rape the thesaurus just to come up with sappy poetry and think they're poets.

All too true. It's quite sad, really.

From The Day After Tomorrow

Lightning flashes across the sky
Illuminating the clouds up high
Seconds later thunder booms
Marking the lightning and all it dooms
Trees catch fire, houses split
All apart like paper ripped
And all the while rain pours down
Intent on making all things drown
And farther on fierce blizzards rage
Forming a dark cold snowy cage
To bind all in and let none go
The people crying in their woe
Simultaneously earthquakes strike
Slashing water and land alike
Tsunamis crash upon the land
Washing away all it can
Hurricanes spin and typhoons twirl
Yanking all things in their ceaseless whirl
A tornado’s twist and a whirlpool’s funnel
Suck things up in an endless tunnel
And through this frightful view we see
The force of nature’s shocking fury
The torment lasts a day and night
As the next day dawns clear and bright
A blanket of snow covers the ground
Over everything that’s around
Everything is white and clean
Just like it once had been
The ice age has come again
Just like when the world began

weirdly..i made this almost half a year after i watched it...tell me what i can fix
to quistis: you have such high vocab!! i like your when angels fall and cry one..

I quite like it, eerabbit.

And thanks for the compliment on my poem.

here's one quis and i came up with in a moment of crack-induced insanity while the forum decided to not let us post and we were going through withdrawal...


sing this to the tune of "take me out to the ballgame"

Take me out to the crack-con, take me out to the con...
Get me some manga and autographs, i don't care if i never come back...
For it's chase and pounce for the Colonel, if we don't aim it's our loss...
It takes 1, 2, 3 glomps to show our ol' Roy who's boss!


^o^

I love it. The forum should not let us post often. Wait, what am I saying . . .

Going back to that thing that was said earlier about people that call themselves 'Raven' isn't entierely true. I'm sure there are some people who do it; but but as always, I'm going to make an exeption to the rule. I some times call myself Raven, (more often 'Blueraven', because I like the combination of my favorite colour with my favorite bird) but I don't usually dress in black. I'm more of a blue hippie/noeo pagan/wicca/odd person who aspires to living in the woods. I never bleach my skin or go any where near make up or accessories; your'e more likely to see me hiding up a tree covered in mud and grass stains.

Anyway, getting back to the disscussion at hand. I'd love to be able to write poetry, but I can't seem to get the images and emotions in my mind written down.

PS. I have to ask, but, what the hell is that little dancing thing?!?! It wierds me out!

i quite like writing and reading poetry , am i weird?

the dancing thing is gir from invader zim, only one of the greatest cracked-out cartoons in the history of cartoons! XD

i was wondering were it was from

What is this topic abbout again??

Poetry, Monkey.

no i write and read petry but i only read dark poetry it always sparks my intrest
by Aimz

Its like a demon,
waiting in the shadows,
waiting for a soul to destroy,
a life to break.

a happy child,
innocent and sweet,
it takes hold of her mind,
and rips it apart.

a doomed woman,
angry and hurt,
its deep inside,
she cant get rid of it.

stuck in the hearts,
of the sad and lonely,
it will not be removed,
drugs cannot cure it.

although doctors try to understand it,
no one can see it,
unless they themselves have felt,
what it can do to a person.

someone who was once happy,
trusting honest and free,
but is now broken and hurt,
someone like me.

this is an awsome dark poem

Good poem, shrunima. *nods*

and thanks see dark poetry rocks

For those who think they're dark and different:
http://www.deadlounge.com/poetry/tips.html

Wow, thanks a million, Thieves.