DavidP

The first time I met her I knew she was the one,
It was too late, her bright smile had left its' mark,
Her long, straight hair flowed down her back,
And her eyes had fire with a jade green glow,
I said hi, and I introduced myself,
and I got to know her, taking it slow,
Her personality was awesome, and shone through her face,
She had the best personality of any girl I had ever met,
The time finally came and I could no more wait yet,
And I gave her twelve roses as soft was white lace,
for my love for her I did want to show,
She said they were sweet, but there was something about herself,
She said there was another guy she was getting to know,
Even though she knew of my love, I hoped our friendship would not slack,
But she stopped talking to me, and left me in the dark,
And now we are none...


What do you think of it? I call it a chiasmatic poem by the way, because it rhymes in this order:

A
B
C
C
B
A

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dbaryl

Hey, I think it's great! You did not write that yourself, did you?

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face_master

haha - poetry

How's that for a one liner, eh?

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johnc

<finger snapping> verry nice. </finger snapping>

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Aran

A poetry thread, eh? i've gotta get in on some of this tomfoolery.

Mind
The inner workings of the mind
Have always puzzled manunkind
He tries so hard, day and night
To decipher it’s uncommon flight
And when he comes close to finding it out
He is forced to work backwards from his own doubt.
And so he ends where he had started
Never finding places that are as yet uncharted.
He takes a break from his work
As it begins to drive him berserk.
He stares at an undecorated cealing
And divines of choices unappealing.
One day he finds the answer,
His life cut short by cancer.
He dies soon thereafter
And unleashes no disaster.

(c) aran elus 2002

stevey

Rudyard Kipling
Poems

THE YOUNG BRITISH SOLDIER


When the 'arf-made recruity goes out to the East
'E acts like a babe an' 'e drinks like a beast,
An' 'e wonders because 'e is frequent deceased
Ere 'e's fit for to serve as a soldier.
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
So-oldier ~OF~ the Queen!

Now all you recruities what's drafted to-day,
You shut up your rag-box an' 'ark to my lay,
An' I'll sing you a soldier as far as I may:
A soldier what's fit for a soldier.
Fit, fit, fit for a soldier . . .

First mind you steer clear o' the grog-sellers' huts,
For they sell you Fixed Bay'nets that rots out your guts --
Ay, drink that 'ud eat the live steel from your butts --
An' it's bad for the young British soldier.
Bad, bad, bad for the soldier . . .

When the cholera comes -- as it will past a doubt --
Keep out of the wet and don't go on the shout,
For the sickness gets in as the liquor dies out,
An' it crumples the young British soldier.
Crum-, crum-, crumples the soldier . . .

But the worst o' your foes is the sun over'ead:
You ~must~ wear your 'elmet for all that is said:
If 'e finds you uncovered 'e'll knock you down dead,
An' you'll die like a fool of a soldier.
Fool, fool, fool of a soldier . . .

If you're cast for fatigue by a sergeant unkind,
Don't grouse like a woman nor crack on nor blind;
Be handy and civil, and then you will find
That it's beer for the young British soldier.
Beer, beer, beer for the soldier . . .

Now, if you must marry, take care she is old --
A troop-sergeant's widow's the nicest I'm told,
For beauty won't help if your rations is cold,
Nor love ain't enough for a soldier.
'Nough, 'nough, 'nough for a soldier . . .

If the wife should go wrong with a comrade, be loath
To shoot when you catch 'em -- you'll swing, on my oath! --
Make 'im take 'er and keep 'er: that's Hell for them both,
An' you're shut o' the curse of a soldier.
Curse, curse, curse of a soldier . . .

When first under fire an' you're wishful to duck,
Don't look nor take 'eed at the man that is struck,
Be thankful you're livin', and trust to your luck
And march to your front like a soldier.
Front, front, front like a soldier . . .

When 'arf of your bullets fly wide in the ditch,
Don't call your Martini a cross-eyed old *****;
She's human as you are -- you treat her as sich,
An' she'll fight for the young British soldier.
Fight, fight, fight for the soldier . . .

When shakin' their bustles like ladies so fine,
The guns o' the enemy wheel into line,
Shoot low at the limbers an' don't mind the shine,
For noise never startles the soldier.
Start-, start-, startles the soldier . . .

If your officer's dead and the sergeants look white,
Remember it's ruin to run from a fight:
So take open order, lie down, and sit tight,
And wait for supports like a soldier.
Wait, wait, wait like a soldier . . .

When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains,
And the women come out to cut up what remains,
Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains
An' go to your Gawd like a soldier.
Go, go, go like a soldier,
Go, go, go like a soldier,
Go, go, go like a soldier,
So-oldier ~of~ the Queen!


now THATS poetry.....take note of the last verse !!! the soldiers would keep a bullet in reserve to 'top' themselves...otherwise the women would mutilate and torture any wounded soldiers for hours, genitals being a favourite area...cruel cruel times....

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doubleanti

><finger snapping> verry nice. </finger snapping><

haha, i got it after a few seconds... but at first i thought you mean the snapping like "uh uh girlfriend, no you didn't!!" hehe...

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tim545666

stevey, that's closer to a novel than a poem.

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doubleanti

What is the purpose behind your structure David?

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johnc

yea, i didn't think to many people would get the finger snapping thing but, did it anyways. lol. but you figured it out!

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stevey

good tho' int it....i love poetry, "charge of the light brigade- cannon to the left of them, cannon to the right of them...into the valley of death rode the six hundred....." brilliant !!!!

heres a top class poem i wrote myself in only 10 minutes !!

Baby Stevey's got a dummy,
to replace the teat of his mummy.

Baby Stevey's got a nappy,
but he's really rather happy....

well his diaper's full of pooh,
but hey whats it to you,
saves on trips to the loo!
tho' its really rather smelly,
when you've **** up to your belly,
and he's getting a little rash,
from sitting in his own slash!
don't end up like me says he,
always go to the loo, when you're gonna pee! he hee!!
yes its really starting to hum,
cos he's cack all round his bum !
how much cack in weight??
dunno, but its affecting the poor wee lads gait!
its a fair weight to tote around,
mebe as much as an English pound!
yep its definitely wiffy,
still he's got his big fat spliffy!

the poor wee lad's no hair (like his daddy),
and i mean none anywhere!
still, he's got his big fat spliff,
so hey what's the diff ??

i might try to get it published....

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DavidP

>Hey, I think it's great! You did not write that yourself, did you?

Actually, yeah, I did write that myself.

>What is the purpose behind your structure David?

I actually had a very good purpose behind that structure. First I will explain what a chiasmus is. A chiasmus is a style used in literature which is basically like a nested loop in programming.

Chiasmus form:

A
B
C
C
B
A

Nested loop:

for ( ___ )
{
for ( ___ )
{
}
}

like my analogy? :-)

If you are familiar with Mary Shelly's Frankenstein, it is one huge chiasmus, because it starts out as one person's story, then goes to the story of a person in that story, then to the story of a person in that story, and then it goes back out again, one by one.

Now that I have explained that, I will explain the purpose of my use of a chiasmus for the rhyming.

Obviously this poem is about a situation I had with a girl. I wanted to express how you start out and get deeper and deeper and deeper into it...and then right at the climax it starts going back....moment by moment....

Like you might get to know a girl, you might ask her out, she might say yes, you go out for a couple months, then she gets hesitant, you start to argue, you finally brake up, and then you might stay friends or you might not.

You see how it has a chiasmatic feel?

Well I wanted to use that chiasmatic feel in this poem to express how it got deeper and deeper, and then she said no to me, and then it started going backwards from there.

So that was my purpose in using the chiasmus in rhyming of the lines.

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stevey

i don't want to be funny, cos its an interesting idea, but your poem actually rymes like this

ABCDEFGHHGFEDCBA

ie it doesn't rhyme at all, it doesn't rhyme when you say it, you can only see the rhyme when its written( unless you have an amazing memory)...with poetry you need to hear the rhyme when the poem is spoken...ie ABABA, AABB (like Aran's), ABBACC etc.
of course thats only my opinion, in fact some would say poetry doesn't even need to rhyme, but thats not what i call poetry...

Poetry of Wilfred Owen

Anthem for Doomed Youth


What passing-bells for these who die as cattle? A
Only the monstrous anger of the guns. B
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle A
Can patter out their hasty orisons. B
No mockeries for them; no prayers nor bells, C
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, -- D
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells; C
And bugles calling for them from sad shires. D

What candles may be held to speed them all? A
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes B
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes. B
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall; A
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds, C
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds. C

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DavidP

>some would say poetry doesn't even need to rhyme

it doesnt need to rhyme...if you think it needs to rhyme...you should read more poetry...there is some beautiful poetry out there.

>ABCDEFGHHGFEDCBA

I know it rhymes that way, I was shortening it to:

ABCCBA

for the sake of examples, not to be exact.

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stevey

aaahhhhh are you impying i know nothing of poetry and haven't read any ??? ive been reading poetry for more than 25 years and i am a traditionalist ie poetry should ryhme, not always in obvious AABB ways, but it should rhyme or else i do not consider it poetry at all. many poets/lovers of poetryhold this view not just me, in fact probably most.... it sounds pleasant to the ear, if it doesn't rhyme its just a collection of words.....i think ALL the great poems rhyme.....try posting a classic poem that doesn't rhyme....

but as i said, thats my opinion, you please yourself.....whatever you like to write/read...

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Poetry of Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Kubla Khan

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round:
And here were gardens bright with sinuous rills
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!

And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced;
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war!

The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves:
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!
A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw:
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight 't would win me
That with music loud and long,
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.

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