Xyphlan
Lazy
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A Spot of Meta-poetry
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#1
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Now, if you're not the type who is unusually keen on Latin roots, you may wonder what exactly "Meta-poetry" is. Meta-poetry is a phrase that I fabricated to describe poetry that is written on the subject of poetry itself. I am a rather simple man, and find that while thinking of poetry, I can think of nothing else, so I just write about it.
I can make no promises about its quality. I adhere rather strictly to the rules of rhyme and meter, though this often leads to awkward structure and forced sounding rhymes. Though I can hardly say that awkward structure is so different from the prose that I type. The subject matter is not terribly dark, especially when compared to much of the other verse on this forum, but I find that it's more sober than most of my prose. It seems that I just can't fit my wit within the rules of rhyme. I could say that I'm just looking for honest feedback, but is there anything sadder than a hack pretending to want constructive criticism?
Oh, and, so far at least, all poems here are sonnets, so brace yourself for iambic pentameter.
Meta-Sonnet
Muse
Immortality
Originality
State of Mind
Consumption
I Wonder Why
Aspirations
Solipsism
Red
This poem is actually a response to someone else's attempt to describe the color red without using the word red. This was the effort put forth by "book-halfunread":
"When you dip her in the middle of the dance floor, it is the color of her dress. When she whispers in your ear, it is the color of her lips. When you make love, it is the trace you want her to leave all over your body. When she places her palm over your heart, it is the color that comes to the surface as her fingertips trail like a sentence that can never be finished. When you see her in your bedroom with another, it is the color of your breath. When you smash the vase in the hall, it is the color that threatens you to abandon the shattered pieces. When you scream at the top of your lungs, it is the color that pierces the atmosphere. When she hears you, it is the color of her pulse. When you look in her eyes for the last time, it is the fading color of your heart falling to your knees. It is not the color you see when she leaves."
And now, this is my poem"
The color of a fiercely beating heart
The hue you grew when you first heard “I do”
The fire that rages, deep within my art.
It can combat its calmer brother, blue.
It is the color that provides us life
and yet it's that which signifies our death.
A cross that seeks to stop sickness and strife
A wounded warrior's gasped final breath
The budding tenderness of Valentines
The crimson radiance of setting suns
The flaming hope which in the darkness shines
The color of one's nipples when one runs.
And yet, all of the many things I've said
can be conveyed with just the color red.
Requiem for a Remnant
A vacant vessel, void of hope or faith
A sundered soul, despairing, dying, lost
So it remains, a restless, roving wraith
Until it can collect for Charon's cost.
His life force flowing, going to the grave
It dries, he dies, though does not dread the dead
He fights his fear, but not because he's brave
He must escape the Hell that haunts his head
Descend through darkened doors and dire straits
Towards the destination of the damned.
He can't escape the human heart he hates
The devil's deal he's made has left him scammed.
If you write emo poems, check it, son
You best be taking notes; that's how it's done.
In all likelihood, you just read a clunky wall of text. There's no need for me to make you read even more in my signature.
Last edited by Xyphlan; 11-17-2013 at 04:30 AM.
Reason: Added "Requiem for a Remnant"
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Posted 02-20-2013, 01:19 AM
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