The Workshop

"Emmanuelle" Perhaps a different title would be somewhat nicer? Something more detached from the speaker's P-O-V, to highlight the fact that the poem is more kin to a direct transliteration of the speaker's thoughts (and, ultimately, mental state). Although this as a part of the poem isn't bad. Maybe instead of a title change, the addition of a poetic preface would be better? Hmm...

Emmanuelle, Emmanuelle, how your name rolls off my tongue
Like the boulder off the cliff to the hikers down below:
A long word, hard to utter, yet sweet in its release
And deadly in its approach.

^Needs to be cleaned up a bit. Otherwise, I still get the imagery, so it's good.

Emmanuelle, Emmanuelle, how many young lads
Have fallen for your charms?
How many men have you enticed
To lock you in honey
And lick you repeatedly like candy? I like the imagery here. I believe this was inspired by AT.
How have you used
Your massive, towering breasts Too direct. I think there's a more poetic way of stating this.
To capture men's hearts
And cause them to argue
About things as trivial as psychotic science? Still direct.

Emmanuelle, Emmanuelle, only madness
And nonsense
Is locked in you.
Loving you is like loving a river,
For if one tries to hug and kiss and fuck a river, The bluntness of "fuck" is inappropriate.
One drowns, or gets taken by the current,
But, once again, ultimately drowns. Just say one drowns, self!

Emmanuelle, Emmanuelle, my words are nothing
Compared to your tent.
They are like a pair of wings;
They ARE a pair of wings. *wink*wink*

I like the swinging effect of the speaker's emotions as expressed by the stanzas. "I hate you, I love you, I'm confused by you"

Emmanuelle, Emmanuelle, please
Give me the sleep that I desire,
Which is in your arms
And between your breasts,
Within your chest
Where lies no harm.
Your love. This is a bit weird, though the sudden bluntness of the statement reinforces the swinging effect, in a good way.

Emmanuelle, Emmanuelle,
I love you,
But I do not know where you are. Eh? Needs restating. Too ambiguous in its approach.
In the madness of loving nothing,
Of celebrating the darkness of fate's wheel, A somewhat inappropriate allusion to Greek mythology.
I have lost myself.
I write this ode to you, It's not an ode. Then again, I shouldn't get as technical as this with poetry.
This mess of meaningless words, Awkward.
In the hopes that I may find you, Still awkward.
Unite with you,
And suck the love from your tender
Like a boy and his clementine, Still awkward, though not as awkward as the awkward ones before.
Exchanging, in return,
More words
And seeds.

Emmanuelle, Emmanuelle, dear goddess
I do not worship you
Yet I equate you to the gods.
I do not know
What fate made you known to me,
Why God would let me see you
Know you are truth, perfection incarnate,
Yet not have you.
Perhaps it is punishment The swinging effect of the speaker's feelings for this Emmanuelle suddenly gets distracted by the speaker's musings on fate. This may need to be cut.
For this adoration
For wrongs made in the present
And the future.
Or perhaps I am simply impatient. The bluntness of this statement being a very good reinforcement to the swinging effect.

Emmanuelle, Emmanuelle,
Who are you?
Where have you gone?
I have lost you
And you have lost me.
I am becoming mad because of you.
But I do not care, Again, this feels like a terribly inappropriate statement, mainly because the speaker once again changes subject a bit too abruptly, or a bit too distantly (as in the new subject he chooses is too distant from the main idea of the stanza). This moment of clarity also feels much too inconsistent with the speaker's statement that he is going mad. This, once again, may need to be cut.
As I was mad before,
Now I am only madder,
Mad enough to taste of madness's mercy.

Emmanuelle, Emmanuelle,
You are here
But I am too mad to see you, Once again, it's inconsistent with the speaker's characterization of himself.
To unite with you,
To fulfill.
Would you like a grapefruit? Or... wait, what? An amusing tangent, although something less... overtly mad would perhaps be better. Still, this tangent is quite strong as a showcase of the speaker's madness.
 
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I may, at some point, post a poem in my own native language. For now,

YOUR HEARTH 1.75 (also known as the edit I couldn't finish (both because my ideas for it are a bit messy atm and my computer's broke, so I can't work on a draft for a long-enough period of time))

Cold winds may blow through these golden years,
and quench the flames of love.
The heart may freeze into icy glass,
but cheerful still is your hearth.

Thick mists may blind the wide-eyed soul,
from roads unsullied by doubt.
The cloudless skies may dim their lights,
but brilliant still is your hearth.

Note: I'm terrible with my native language, worse than with English actually. So, yeah, that poem I suggest, it may be of truly fecal quality.
 
We need to talk sometime lol, you're writing is astounding. I love to write poetry too, I write about random things that come to my head at times. Great words and keep up the good work.
 
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Serious art time: "Ars Gratia Artis"

Calling, calling:
My voice is loud and raspy;
It's like my arms,
which ache and ache
as they stretch out for the sun--

Like a jazz trumpet
with notes flowing out
up and down, high and low,
the rolling stones of a crashing hill
is this concerto
for the voice.

"I love you
"I loved you, I'll love you"
I'll love you until I don't
remember what love is--
as the inconstant sea
swallows up the golden gate.

And you laugh with the gravy train,
your groovy way of swaying,
rocking, dancing your skull around:
you laugh and laugh and laugh
as I love and love and love
not for your sake, but for mine.

The sun burns:
And my branches tear off,
my voice fades away;
I melt like a candle,
and the green pasture swallows my remains.
 
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Who is it, that knocks on my door?
That breaks a rhythm into my soul
and fills solitude with song?
A red light flashes, as I open the door,
and crawls inward, slowly, by the floor,
until, at last, like the creeping chill of the night,
the stone foundation is set in blood,
and the golden rays of the morning sun
is replaced with cheerless dusk.

Who is it, that enters my abode?
That enchants with the sweetest sight,
the subtlest smell, the softest sound?
A thread of needles flows out of her opened mouth,
and creeps slowly, crawling like a snake,
cutting with a silent bang through the air,
aiming for my hands, my feet, my head,
wrapping around my spirit, binding me
as Prometheus was bound to the rock.

Who is it, that locks me in an embrace?
That showers me with sweet and holy waters,
then consumes me from within?
A thunderstorm erupts, as she bares her chest,
and sweeps quickly through the sky
until, at last, like the hand of God,
it finds its heathen target,
and strikes her into ash,
leaving me with nothing but a dream.
 
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Read the first so many. I'll get to the rest later, for bed calls my name.

I enjoy your writing style. It's my kind of taste. Dark yet somehow, it seems full of life. Though it may be not the definition of life many look to see. Dare I say, almost comical? In a divine aspect I suppose. A divine comedy to be specific. Uterus for example, though it may be subjective experience, it seemed both comical yet full of meaning. Etched out from some deeper emotion, not quite as apparent as one would find. Maybe a longing for solitude back in the place before memory where your life was comprised of but a cell... Or maybe I'm full of it.
As stated though, its an enjoyable lifestyle.
And I had to read back the last one I read (Uterus) aloud in a 'singing' fashion (in my Hannibal Lector voice) which I found quite amusing. But that's just my personal note however.
 
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Boiling milk on the skin of the waters,
dissolving into a cool mist
as their masters break upon the shore,
blanket his crooked feet.

Chalky stone walls made by the hands of giants
guard the lonely man on the beach
that entombs himself in the salty sea air,
as he rests upon the fallow sands.

High above the young man's opened eyes
lies a boat of sea glass, stretched by the thick fog
through the light of the morning sun.

He wonders how many youths like him,
disimpassioned, joyless, have fallen
from the white cliffs through that particolored arc.
 
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Unclean (and untitled). [Commentary: Another song! But really, much weaker than Uterus...]

Sometimes I think you've lost me
when all that I can write you is hello.
It doesn't matter, does it?
You never seem to read between the lines

And when I read your message,
there aren't any depths to be explored.
You show me only skin, dear,
while we're both in need of wholer signs.

But oh, oh,
when it stares you in the face, you cry,
"No, no."
You tell me that you don't know why.

Everytime we talk, I ask you,
"Do you still desire to take this whole thing slow?"
Your simple answer's quaint, dear,
but your laughter tries to shows me that you do.

Of course, I try to push it.
(Obscurity can be made a blank slate)
And you're never clear to me:
You don't even give me a clue.

But oh, oh,
when I look into your eyes, you cry,
"No, no."
You tell me that you don't know why.

You say that you had no idea;
of this whole affair, you didn't know.
All the times you were pulling,
you didn't hear that you were asking me to stay.

Romantics tend to do that,
to look too deeply into the abyss.
I guess it's all my fault, then.
Now it's time for you and me to break away.

But oh, oh,
when you fare all your goodbyes, you cry,
"No, no."
This time, you really don't know why.
 
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IN MY NATIVE LANGUAGE
I won't provide a translation, but I will provide an explanation: The speaker of the song is basically a mother comforting her child right before, in the middle of, and after a storm. If you want a full translation of it, use Google Translate. :P
Anyway, "Tag-Ulan" means "Rainy Season" in my tongue, a play on this poem's inspiration and melody, "Summertime", by George Gershwin, Ira Gershwin, and Dubose Heyward.

Tag-Ulan

Aking anak,
huwag ka nang lumuha.
Huwag matakot
sa dilim ng ulan.
Iyong pamilya,
gagabay, aalaga,
at balang araw,
ika'y lilipad.

[My child,
don't cry.
Don't be afraid
of the rain.
Your family
is here,
and someday,
you'll grow your wings.]

Ilaw-kandila
ay hindi mapupukaw.
Bubong ng bahay,
sa pag-ibig gawa.
Tubig-baha
ay pagbabago, biyaya,
at balang araw,
ika'y lilipad.

[It won't be dimmed,
the candle light.
It won't be blown away,
the roof over our heads.
The floodwaters
are a blessing: they're new life!
and someday,
you'll grow your wings.]

Aking anak,
huwag ka nang lumuha.
Huwag matakot:
heto na ang araw!
Iyong pamilya,
buhay pa, aalaga,
at balang araw,
ika'y lilipad.

[My child,
don't cry.
Don't be afraid:
here comes the sun!
Your family
is still here,
and someday,
you'll grow your wings.]

The lyrics to "Summertime":

Summertime
and the livin' is easy.
Fish are jumpin'
and the cotton is high.
Your daddy's rich
and your ma is good lookin'.
So hush, little baby,
don't you cry.

One of these mornin's,
you're gonna rise up singin'.
Then you'll spread your wings
and you'll take to the sky.
But 'til that mornin',
there is nothin' can harm you,
with Daddy and Mummy
standing by.
 
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Rough draft (Untitled Project)
Hopefully, I manage to finish this sometime soon. I'm planning on performing this at this open moot thing I've been attending regularly these past few months.

We met at a theater show this fall.
She looked so young and so fresh;
my eyes drooped in lost years.
Grey was my countenance,
like the dimmed light of the moon;
a bright yellow was hers,
like Helios at high noon.

She pecked my cheek
as the chicken hunts for its meal,
nibbling at a miniscule section of my soul.
My cheeks could not help
but spring into ruddy life,
and the arc of my lips reversed.
I would have returned the gesture,
if it were not an imagining.

We were going to watch the same show
(of course we were, we had invited each other).
When the doors were opened, and the aisles, cleared,
the gentleman in me stiffened my posture,
and guided her to her seat;
and when she was sitting down,
my heart guided me to mine.

The orbs of amber set into her skull
fixed themselves upon the lifting veil.
Her mind, giddy with an excitement
I had never seen in her before,
forced her mouth to utter
lines of poetic dissertations
I could easily understand,
yet barely penetrate.
My responses were futile,
either failing to shatter her expectations,
or missing her points entirely.

Darkness fulfilled my passion,
as the evening was set into the chamber.
The thick curtains completed their climb,
and were followed by an equally knotty
hum: an overture of noise
preceding a scene of domestic chaos.
Now, both our eyes were stuck
upon the fly-paper film
(though I kept a vision of her in my periphery).
 
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Still untitled, still unfinished. But hey, progress! Hopefully, the narrative is somehow more straightforward now, but while maintaining a strong sense of the poetic. I'm getting a bit frustrated, though, with the shallowness of the story: though it's definitely unusual, the whole story feels like a meaningless adolescent experience, or an experiment in unsubstantiated style. I know I can explore love in a way much more profound than that, so I'm hoping this will see some drastic changes before the whole open moot thing I mentioned last post.

We met outside a theater a few weeks ago.
She looked so young and so fresh;
my eyes drooped in lost sleep.
Grey was my countenance,
like the dimmed light of the moon;
a bright yellow was hers,
like Helios at high noon.

Standing in the middle of a sea of people,
two friends waited for the same show.
The lady embodied enthusiasm;
the other furrowed his brows.
She could not hear the loud rhythm in my chest,
and I refused to see
the plainness of our being.

I imagined a chicken hunting for a meal
on the two larger apples of my countenance,
showering me with pecks, kisses,
as rough as the valleys
I saw we would grow into with each other.
She seemed to think only of the show.

When the doors were opened, and the aisles, cleared,
the gentleman in me stiffened my posture,
and guided her to her seat;
and when she was sitting down,
my heart guided me to mine.

The orbs of amber set into her skull
fixed themselves upon the lifting veil.
Her mind, giddy with artistic intellect,
uttered poetic dissertations
easy to understand, impossible to penetrate.
My responses were futile,
failing to find solid ground in profundity,
though she did not seem to notice
where the mind wandered.

The darkness sparked my passions,
as evening descended into the chamber.
The thick curtains completed their climb,
and were followed by a knotty hum:
the overture, which preceded a scene of domestic chaos.
Now, all our eyes were stuck
upon the fly-paper film.
(though I kept a vision of her in my periphery)

Honey oozed from the edges of her seat
as sweet romance echoed throughout the theater
when the two stage-heroes looked into each others' souls
and consumed them.
Every breath I whispered
hissed like a startled snake,
as the air froze into a bed of ice,
ready to crack under the weight of our flesh.

The man on screen stretched out his arm,
aiming for the hand of his desire:
I followed his example.
But when his hand gripped tightly
the tenderness of his beloved,
five fingers squeezed the life out of my cheek,
for my hand had retreated in cowardice.
 
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Blue-eyed girl from across the crystal sea,
dream-maker, thief of dawns and aching hearts,
you cast your spell upon this lonely soul,
returning ruddy light into my sleeping cheeks.
Memories of living days rising from the deep
fill me when my eyes catch a sight of you.
Passion flows from your very form, with your sapphires as the fountainhead.

But only your mirror is this voyeur's lens;
only through digital shades self-published
can I enjoy the cool foam of your flesh
bathing the tips of my greedy fingers.
Still, even as fiction, your beauty remains pure;
it steals the bravery in this man's lust,
locking me in an azure cowardice.
The crystal sea between us, by love's meekness, I am barred from crossing.
 
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It's a song! [Commentary: Comment from a friend: "Is this just prose divided into lines?" Actually, yes. Also terribly terrible, though meh.]

"When I First Met You"

It was a cold, cold night in the party hall
and every wall seemed keen to loudly caw
the echoes of my mind's dizzy song,
the tension in the distances all too long.
I snuggled up in a far corner with my textile bag,
trying to read this book by some old hag.
Oh, I knew that I had to stay,
but for the moment I wanted to get away.

Inside my soul was a sticky feeling:
though you familiar faces were all a-smiling,
I couldn't get over the fact
that in this house of birds, I was the only cat!
Then the lights all brightened as the guy on stage
rehearsed his number for the night's soiree.
I was drawn first to his tune
but beside him I saw you!

My eyes kept looking at your sapphire gifts,
and my ears were glued to your vocal slit.
Then you moved to me - it was such a shock!
You said "Hello" to this dirty sock.
I felt so fulfilled in your summer air,
I replied in kind with a voice less fair.
Something warm took over my ruddy core.
I'd never felt this true before.

And then, after that bit of dear and shallow joy,
you left me for your toys, your current boy.
That fleeting meeting ended quickly,
but, oh, it's a feeling I felt so purely.
The night passed by, we didn't meet again.
The fact I didn't come to you, I know was a sin.
But I guess what's done is done.
I'm just happy I found the one.
 
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*in a whiny voice*
COME ON, MA PEEPS. GIMME (reasonable) FEEDBACK. I DUN CARE IF IT'S NEGATIVE OR POSITIVE, AS LONG AS IT AIN'T MADE OF SPITE, AND IS FULL OF PROPER, JUSTIFIABLE REASONS (and poop)!!!
 
Goldenrod

Standing by the blue stone steps of the morning sky,
you raise your head, flashing to me your eyes,
a deep tender amber telling stories of your confusion.

Sunshine flowing down goldenrod spines,
casting on you a shadow like wine:
it's a prismatic rainbow of gold,
synesthesia for the soul.

Dancing that lonely boho dance without a partner to provide
that counterflow, that ever forwards-and-backwards tide
is your lonely future mate, this scruffy Bohemian.

Autumn air flowing as a cool breeze,
then letting out a naughty sneeze:
how I jumped from here to you
is a mystery, I know.

The sorcerer casts his spell upon the damsel in distress
and she chooses to provide me a recourse full of stress:
she leaves me with a tender slap of poetry.

My fasces swung, I know not how:
it may have harmed you, milky cow,
but still I tried to fix it,
and I tried by going oh-so-low.

But in the end, all of that laughter straining out of your throat
made my sacrificing pride something worth for my memory rote:
the mind reviewed it for all that day, that charming "Haha-hey!"

Sunshine flowing down goldenrod spines,
casting on you a shadow like wine:
you're a prismatic rainbow of gold,
jubilation for my soul.
 
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Seasons and Spirits [Commentary: Still my favorite, though I'm still perfecting this.]

I can feel the heat of summer swinging
to your bosom's respiration.
Rapping on your ashen temples
are my greedy fingers, stained red by wine.

The azure atmosphere of fall
nips at your placid countenance.
Enthralling smells of freshly-pressed cider
and boiling maple sap bleed the grey air.

Blossoming flames and heady beer
blend passion into our imprisonment.
The fearless rhythm of our winter love
blushes the silver blind beyond.

You're wearing that shift of flowers again,
your vernal musk, the wax to your honey.
A glen of cherry cordial lies
unsullied in our dim cellar.
 
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Repost (with a little edit):

Seasons and Spirits

I can feel the heat of summer swinging
to your bosom's respiration.
Rapping on your ashen temples
are my greedy fingers, stained red by wine.

The azure atmosphere of fall
nips at your placid countenance.
Enthralling smells of freshly-pressed cider
and boiling maple sap bleed the dull air.

Blossoming flames and heady beer
blend passion into our imprisonment.
The fearless rhythm of our winter love
blushes the silver blind beyond.

You're wearing that shift of flowers again:
your vernal musk, the wax to your honey.
A glen of cherry cordial lies
unsullied in our dim cellar.

Reworked "Who Is It?":

Portraits and Phantoms

Who is it, knocking on my door?
Heartbreaking rhythm, floor to floor,
spreading like your bleed, crimson tide:
one more hard hello to bide.

Noir et blanc, chamber seething musk:
its foundation, cheerless dusk,
chilling heart. It sleeps: the king beast,
lying in his sensual feast.

Who is it, interrupting life?
Rainbow fingers, electric touch:
making me (too clearly) see
the subtlest signs of self-willed sin.

Needles, hundreds of needles,
creeping out of your dirty mouth:
sting me, bind me, wrap around me -
Prometheus, give me gin!

Who is it, embracing my form?
Heaven's gift, Holy water storm,
implosions, messing with my ride:
one more sweet goodbye to bide.

Orbs of glass, shoot the smoking gun:
kissing lovers, naked one,
hand of God. But it ends: a flash,
and you are swayed into ash.
 
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FINAL DRAFTS: (And yes, the meter in 'Portraits and Phantoms' was broken to set it to music. I can't write down the sheet, though, as I never really learned how to do that. Maybe I'll post a recording of it sometime. Also, if you really, really, really wanna figure out the meaning of the aforementioned poem, think anti-war message with a bit of the hot stuff {;)} involved, or a general, perhaps Surreal fusion of the two)

Portraits and Phantoms

Who is it? Who's knocking on my door?
Heartbreaking rhythm going floor to floor,
spreading like my bleed, oh, that crimson tide:
another hard hello to bide.

Black and white, chamber seething musk:
its foundation, cheerless dusk.
See how it sleeps: the emperor beast,
lying in his sensual feast.

Who is it? Who's interrupting me?
But your rainbow fingers are electric glee:
oh, how they make me too clearly see
the subtlest signs of self-willed sin.

Needles, hundreds of metal pricks:
ooh, your mouth's my dirty fix!
Sting me, bind me, wrap around me -
Prometheus, give me your gin!

Who is it? Who's embracing my form?
Heaven's gift, a Holy water storm,
all these implosions, messing with my ride:
another sweet goodbye to bide?

Orbs of glass, shoot the smoking gun:
come on, my dear, we have to run!
But here it comes: an ungodly flash,
and we are swayed into ash.

Seasons and Spirits

I can feel the heat of summer swinging
to your bosom's respiration.
Rapping on your ashen temples
are my greedy fingers, stained red by wine.

The azure atmosphere of fall
nips at your placid countenance.
Enthralling aromas of chilled cider
and boiling maple sap bleed the dull air.

Blossoming flames and heady beer
blend passion into our imprisonment.
The fearless rhythm of our winter love
blushes the silver blind beyond.

You're wearing that shift of flowers again:
your vernal musk, the wax to your honey.
A glen of cherry cordial lies
unsullied in our dim cellar.
 
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Late Night Humor


Two-Thirty in the Afternoon

A flash of grey, a storm of dew:
the evening comes an hour too soon
Umbrellas rise and schedules fall,
while blindness seems to consume all.

Thus sinister grows our old path,
and we hear calls to turn about.
But chilly weather cannot break
the eager fish from learning's lake!

So through the mist, my party goes:
our quest to get to Bio lab.
And, in the end, we exit true,
successful (but with sickness new!)


Someday, My Wall [A macabre Facebook joke]

Someday, my wall
will be filled not with baby-butt faces
or future models striking poses
but with prunes.

Someday, my wall
will be filled not with pictures of cake
or memetically calculated heartache
but with gentle reminders
that my peers forgot their phones at home.

Someday, my wall
will be filled not with little tidbits of distraction
or the elements of procrastination
but with silence.

Someday, my wall
will be filled not with your dirty, dirty excesses
or your sleepless struggles for systematic successes
but with your obituaries
that lament your final victory over the morning.

But when that day comes,
I shall be blessed
with the fact that I probably won't be using this thing anymore anyway.
 
The Scholar

I swim through tempests made of books,
I shout in hallways built by crooks.
My life is filled with knowledge new
but has no wisdom timeless, true.

The solace of my haughty wit,
these times that turn all tat for tit -
because of only these, I go
and live a life so vain and low.

Where is my God? Where is His hand?
Why are my nights devoid of sand?
And all the stars, why are they dark?
Has all our joy turned empty, stark?

And in the end, I graduate,
but still, I own an empty plate.
The cycle, it goes on again,
until death's song ends all my pain.

Of course, at times, I met the sun,
and felt her warmth, like honey, run.
And though her shine, it did not last,
they still hold true, the sparks that passed.

But what has passed cannot be held,
and mem'ries are too eas'ly felled.
The cycle, it goes on again
until death's song ends all my pain.

And then the reaper swings his blade,
and all our debts are duly paid.
I come, I go: I've never been.
What of the things I've learned and seen?
 
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