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PFFT
Poetry Fantastic Fanfare Talk
Poetry Fantastic Fanfare Talk
白发戴花君莫笑，岁月从不败美人。若有诗书藏在心，撷来芳华成至真
"Don't laugh at the flower in the gray hair, for time has never washed away beauty. Poetry and stories stored in the heart, is the true beauty of it all." - Folk song
"Don't laugh at the flower in the gray hair, for time has never washed away beauty. Poetry and stories stored in the heart, is the true beauty of it all." - Folk song
Welcome to the submission thread of the second PFFT round! This is the place to be to appreciate all of the works submitted and where I will announce when my failing voice will grace the Voice Channels of Iwaku to read them out loud.
PFFT: Poetry Fantastic Talk is an invitation to all members of Iwaku (present and future) to share their love for poetry! Whether they are a veteran who knows all the classics, or a beginning appreciator only dabbling in. PFFT is open for all who wish to challenge themselves and to grow by providing a platform where they can share their appreciation for the art of poetry. Inspired by the old PIPS (Public Iwaku Poetry Spotlight) event PFFT hopes to continue the tradition of writing and discussing original poems written by members and as such inspire each other. PFFT aims to take place twice a year, with each iteration focussing itself surrounding a set theme after which each participant is allowed to unleash their own interpretation and creativity to write a poem.
Note that PFFT will not be a competition. As such there will be no votes or opportunities to review, nor will there be winners for all participants are winners. Participants and members are however encouraged to discuss what they liked about the works of (other) participants, or discuss their own process and understanding of reading or writing poetry, for both are an art by themselves!
The theme of this edition of PFFT was:
"The passing of time."
Before I release the submissions take your time to vote for an appropriate date for the live readings!
- Saturday, February 4, 4pm Berlin time / 10am Chicago time / 10pm Manilla time
- Wednesday, February 8, 9pm Berlin time / 2pm Chicago time / 4am Manilla time
- Saturday, February 11, 10pm Berlin time / 3pm Chicago time / 5am Manilla time
And now onto the SUBMISSIONS
Author: @RiverNotch
Permission to read: yes
Nostalgia
Baptist school: the elderly teacher
gestures to her childhood with a joke
that glides above the Third Graders' heads.
Believing they were balloons, she blew
condoms to sausages stuffed with air
and crossed swords with her brothers.
Where is she now? Below the earth
or, over its surface, ash dispersed
like her grown-up wards who won't respond
to e-mails with subject Reunion?
Brothers, sisters, and in-betweeners
turned nostalgic, schismatic, demonic:
recall the pyres of Yu-gi-oh cards,
the hymnals barely bound by tape,
Manila paper prayer requests,
and Beyblade shredders of blintzy skin!
recall the Holy Spirit's blaze
over the jokers, the bullies, the gays---
Inevitably her makeshift toys would pop
whether she played with them or not.
Permission to read: yes
Nostalgia
Baptist school: the elderly teacher
gestures to her childhood with a joke
that glides above the Third Graders' heads.
Believing they were balloons, she blew
condoms to sausages stuffed with air
and crossed swords with her brothers.
Where is she now? Below the earth
or, over its surface, ash dispersed
like her grown-up wards who won't respond
to e-mails with subject Reunion?
Brothers, sisters, and in-betweeners
turned nostalgic, schismatic, demonic:
recall the pyres of Yu-gi-oh cards,
the hymnals barely bound by tape,
Manila paper prayer requests,
and Beyblade shredders of blintzy skin!
recall the Holy Spirit's blaze
over the jokers, the bullies, the gays---
Inevitably her makeshift toys would pop
whether she played with them or not.
Author: @HerziQuerzi
Permission to read: yes
space is not empty
the earth is not dead
there will always be meaning
to the lives that we led
tears are not weakness
the wolf is not lone
we find our way back
to the place we call home
waves are not fleeting
the night is not cold
once more and once more
we love and grow old
the clock is not cruel
the end is not near
there is nothing ahead
but potential my dear
so sleep softly and dream
as you go back to bed
for space is not empty
and the earth is not dead
Permission to read: yes
space is not empty
the earth is not dead
there will always be meaning
to the lives that we led
tears are not weakness
the wolf is not lone
we find our way back
to the place we call home
waves are not fleeting
the night is not cold
once more and once more
we love and grow old
the clock is not cruel
the end is not near
there is nothing ahead
but potential my dear
so sleep softly and dream
as you go back to bed
for space is not empty
and the earth is not dead
Author: @TheWerewolfBri
Permission to read: yes
Peeling walls and crumbling façade,
An era gone by.
My dress rustles not on the broken walk,
Moonlight becomes my friend.
Each turn is a memory,
Instinct takes over.
The white double doors greet me again,
Back where it all began.
"Inmate", is my new title,
Free no more.
I have a little room with a view,
Home sweet home.
The open ward smells of bleach,
Women take turns at the windows.
Their eyes are longing for home,
But destitution is reality.
Are they criminals, harlots, or truly insane?
No. Free thinkers, liberals, and the barren.
Caged together in silent harmony,
Husbands are now the enemies.
Food is fresh from the gardens, bakehouse, and barn,
Prepared by our caretakers.
Rows of white cloth tables in the dining halls,
A perfect little community.
May to October,
Sunny days turn to cold winds.
Never a visitor greets my doorstep,
Letters are unanswered.
November, a notice from the court,
The verdict, "Insane".
"My wife is barren", he pleaded,
"Divorce granted", sets him free.
I walk, read, and listen to the tales of the forgotten wives,
Their voices are a comfort.
At night, my heart breaks,
Longing for what can never be.
Silent Thanksgiving on the ward,
Dry turkey and dressing.
A wedding notice is posted in the Times,
He's gone forever now.
December brought the snow,
Boilers broke, we have no heat.
Please sent out to families for rescues,
No one comes to our aid.
Ten freeze to death,
Nine more that followed.
I close my eyes and drift to sleep,
20 became the total.
The unclaimed were buried nearby,
Myself among them.
We watch from the frosted windows,
Free now, but never to go home.
New faces, policies, and treatments,
Friends join our rank.
Barren no longer a reason to be kept,
A first step towards our rights.
1920's, Rockhaven opens,
A mental facility for women.
Kindness becomes formal treatment,
The, "insane", become well again.
1930's, my mother dies,
There is no one left.
Electroshock resets the brain, they say,
Lobotomies take them away.
1960's heralds a needed change,
Pills replace the picks.
Widespread acceptance of illness become normal,
Every spirit wept.
The beds slowly empty,
Visits have become less.
That fateful day there came none,
The doors lock forever.
We wandered, prayed, slept, and wondered,
What the future had in store?
Strangers broke in, took pictures, and trashed the place,
Foliage soon reclaimed.
Men in orange vests surveyed the grounds and shook their heads,
Our days were numbered.
We thought of life after death,
Shaken, scared, yet hopeful.
Brick by brick the wards fell,
We rushed to beat the crane.
Said our goodbyes and ran for the trees,
Homeless once again.
We thought there'd be a messenger,
Some golden ray of light.
Crept back after nightfall,
And walked silently among the rubble.
Heaven never came, no hell opened,
Desolate in turmoil.
We stood on hallowed ground,
Listless, melancholy, waiting for our time.
Spring to summer, fall to winter,
Houses now go up.
Families arrive, but none invite us in,
They see past us like the wind.
We roam the acres and remember,
The times we lived before.
We've become the forgotten,
Forever nameless victims of change.
We pray for redemption for sins never committed,
Just wanting to be found.
Till that day, we forever remain,
Former inmates of the lost Overbrook.
With love, I dedicate this to those beautiful halls that housed so many,
Whose staff worked hard to help their patients.
That was torn to dust in 2016,
And became nothing more than a memory.
Permission to read: yes
Peeling walls and crumbling façade,
An era gone by.
My dress rustles not on the broken walk,
Moonlight becomes my friend.
Each turn is a memory,
Instinct takes over.
The white double doors greet me again,
Back where it all began.
"Inmate", is my new title,
Free no more.
I have a little room with a view,
Home sweet home.
The open ward smells of bleach,
Women take turns at the windows.
Their eyes are longing for home,
But destitution is reality.
Are they criminals, harlots, or truly insane?
No. Free thinkers, liberals, and the barren.
Caged together in silent harmony,
Husbands are now the enemies.
Food is fresh from the gardens, bakehouse, and barn,
Prepared by our caretakers.
Rows of white cloth tables in the dining halls,
A perfect little community.
May to October,
Sunny days turn to cold winds.
Never a visitor greets my doorstep,
Letters are unanswered.
November, a notice from the court,
The verdict, "Insane".
"My wife is barren", he pleaded,
"Divorce granted", sets him free.
I walk, read, and listen to the tales of the forgotten wives,
Their voices are a comfort.
At night, my heart breaks,
Longing for what can never be.
Silent Thanksgiving on the ward,
Dry turkey and dressing.
A wedding notice is posted in the Times,
He's gone forever now.
December brought the snow,
Boilers broke, we have no heat.
Please sent out to families for rescues,
No one comes to our aid.
Ten freeze to death,
Nine more that followed.
I close my eyes and drift to sleep,
20 became the total.
The unclaimed were buried nearby,
Myself among them.
We watch from the frosted windows,
Free now, but never to go home.
New faces, policies, and treatments,
Friends join our rank.
Barren no longer a reason to be kept,
A first step towards our rights.
1920's, Rockhaven opens,
A mental facility for women.
Kindness becomes formal treatment,
The, "insane", become well again.
1930's, my mother dies,
There is no one left.
Electroshock resets the brain, they say,
Lobotomies take them away.
1960's heralds a needed change,
Pills replace the picks.
Widespread acceptance of illness become normal,
Every spirit wept.
The beds slowly empty,
Visits have become less.
That fateful day there came none,
The doors lock forever.
We wandered, prayed, slept, and wondered,
What the future had in store?
Strangers broke in, took pictures, and trashed the place,
Foliage soon reclaimed.
Men in orange vests surveyed the grounds and shook their heads,
Our days were numbered.
We thought of life after death,
Shaken, scared, yet hopeful.
Brick by brick the wards fell,
We rushed to beat the crane.
Said our goodbyes and ran for the trees,
Homeless once again.
We thought there'd be a messenger,
Some golden ray of light.
Crept back after nightfall,
And walked silently among the rubble.
Heaven never came, no hell opened,
Desolate in turmoil.
We stood on hallowed ground,
Listless, melancholy, waiting for our time.
Spring to summer, fall to winter,
Houses now go up.
Families arrive, but none invite us in,
They see past us like the wind.
We roam the acres and remember,
The times we lived before.
We've become the forgotten,
Forever nameless victims of change.
We pray for redemption for sins never committed,
Just wanting to be found.
Till that day, we forever remain,
Former inmates of the lost Overbrook.
With love, I dedicate this to those beautiful halls that housed so many,
Whose staff worked hard to help their patients.
That was torn to dust in 2016,
And became nothing more than a memory.
Author: @TenguTango
Permission to read: yes
When
I'm not young anymore.
What was I supposed to do?
I had forgetten that I had forgotten.
I thought I missed my shot, but I made it.
What else did I miss?
What else did I gain?
"I've forgotten more than you will ever know."
I think I did too.
Permission to read: yes
When
I'm not young anymore.
What was I supposed to do?
I had forgetten that I had forgotten.
I thought I missed my shot, but I made it.
What else did I miss?
What else did I gain?
"I've forgotten more than you will ever know."
I think I did too.
Author's note said:
Permission to read: no
晴れ成るや白雪消えと流れべし
Phonetics:
ha reh na ru ya shira yuki ki eh toe naga reh beh shi
Translation:
The weather becomes sunny-
white snow disappears and
must flow.
晴れ成るや白雪消えと流れべし
Phonetics:
ha reh na ru ya shira yuki ki eh toe naga reh beh shi
Translation:
The weather becomes sunny-
white snow disappears and
must flow.
Permission to read: yes
Today I lie on my bed. Though, by yesterdays, this is the shrine I mindlessly returned to.
Today I rest on synthetic clouds. I am bustling with my imageries, drifting into former fancies.
Today I wonder how it could have been and what I should have done.
Today I am mooning about every hello I expressed and every goodbye I uttered.
Today I think about how I had been intrepid. To the times where I have beheld intimate faces. To the moments where I have shared embraces— where now I wish to have never let go. To the seconds I laughed. To the minutes I wept.
Today, my mind is a tempest. In this feathered throne, I feel isolated. Craving to mouth another "I love you" with beams gleaming my semblance. Wanting to be at company with hands that once nurtured me.
But is it regret what I am experiencing? Am I closing in to dying? Do I covet to return? To implore the present to regress?
Today, I am not certain anymore. My heart is void and I have numbed the pain long ago. I can no longer shed tears. I do not need to.
Today, I am looking at bygones, divorced from sentiment. I peer at silhouettes that no longer exist and occasions I cannot restate. I have grown cold. It is fine, however.
Today, I am seasoned to the thought. I am sitting, clocks behind me ticking. Imaginary eyes boring down at my stagnant form, praying for one of them to be you.
Perhaps, I would not be as detached to this world as I am today.
Today I lie on my bed. Though, by yesterdays, this is the shrine I mindlessly returned to.
Today I rest on synthetic clouds. I am bustling with my imageries, drifting into former fancies.
Today I wonder how it could have been and what I should have done.
Today I am mooning about every hello I expressed and every goodbye I uttered.
Today I think about how I had been intrepid. To the times where I have beheld intimate faces. To the moments where I have shared embraces— where now I wish to have never let go. To the seconds I laughed. To the minutes I wept.
Today, my mind is a tempest. In this feathered throne, I feel isolated. Craving to mouth another "I love you" with beams gleaming my semblance. Wanting to be at company with hands that once nurtured me.
But is it regret what I am experiencing? Am I closing in to dying? Do I covet to return? To implore the present to regress?
Today, I am not certain anymore. My heart is void and I have numbed the pain long ago. I can no longer shed tears. I do not need to.
Today, I am looking at bygones, divorced from sentiment. I peer at silhouettes that no longer exist and occasions I cannot restate. I have grown cold. It is fine, however.
Today, I am seasoned to the thought. I am sitting, clocks behind me ticking. Imaginary eyes boring down at my stagnant form, praying for one of them to be you.
Perhaps, I would not be as detached to this world as I am today.
Permission to read: yes
the leaves have changed
from red to green
again
as april brings
may flowers and junebugs
dance around the july
fires
the petals have wilted,
the grass is now brown
as august rolls
into september and the pumpkins
line the streets
again
the leaves have changed
from red to green
again
as april brings
may flowers and junebugs
dance around the july
fires
the petals have wilted,
the grass is now brown
as august rolls
into september and the pumpkins
line the streets
again
