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Verse Submissions

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  • Verse Submissions

    This thread is for posting verses, and is the logical continuation of the "Poetry" thread
    started in "Community Exchange" by HawkLord.

    New verses should be posted here. Technical discussions, questions, and banter should
    be posted to the MWM Verse Discussions thread in this forum.

    LSN

  • #2
    The Patchwork City

    OK here's my first tentative submission to the new verse game, just two rubai - set in a city/aspect of the city called Zanufand (overtones of the historical Samarkand, and Zanarkand from FF10).

    Zanufandique?

    The dark senescent sun began to set;
    And every parapet and minaret,
    �Pon cityscape of Zanufand became
    A chiaroscuro in silhouette.

    Cool air flirted with revellers in bars,
    And breezed along the streets and bright bazaars,
    Toyed with hair, made sport with cloaks and capes,
    And brushed all with the dust of shattered stars.

    Comment


    • #3
      The gentle cypress and the ancient pine
      Give up their savour, subtle, like old wine;
      Though sere and withered in the end-world heat
      They yield their fragrance even in decline.

      A coruscation, nascent with the dark,
      Begins across the falling sun to spark,
      Reminding those who dare to scope its face
      Their fading planet nears its final arc.

      Within the Palace, charts spread high and low,
      The King’s astronomer was in the know,
      Munching a cheroot with a deadly mien:
      �There�s no mistake, this babe’s about to blow!’

      Gathering up an armful of his charts,
      A pensive walk through solemn halls he starts,
      Until at last, obeisant to the King,
      His baleful information he imparts.

      Comment


      • #4
        His features grave with what he has been shown,
        The terminus of all that he has known,
        His wealth now ashes in the hand of Time,
        The King of Zanufand assumes his throne.

        Gath’ring at last his senses, and his court,
        And grinning madly at some inner thought,
        The King of Zanufand, before so dour,
        Relates to all the news he has been brought.

        �The dread time that we feared has now arrived.
        My careful court astronomer has derived
        The end of all dreams dancing in our sun,
        And no escape for us can be contrived.’

        �So go, my courtiers, tell all of our plight,
        Abandon petty thoughts and foolish spite,
        Send harbingers to let the city know,
        The end of Zanufand will be tonight!’

        �Prepare the Vistral Dome at my command,
        And summon all musicians, every band;
        For one vast concert ready all supplies,
        The last gig at the end of Zanufand.’

        End of pt 1.

        Comment


        • #5
          Gray wave-lidded, well-dosed with atropine,
          The evening sun paints clouds incarnadine;
          Wind-whipped spindrift, portent of winter's cold,
          A seascape bathed in light amaranthine.

          A small skiff docks, a stranger disembarks,
          His calm dark face excites but few remarks.
          Of middle height, of aspect nondescript,
          No merchant he -- exiled ecclesiarch?

          That's doubtful, too, for priests don't carry blades.
          The black, rune-worked sheath, slung o'er his back, made
          Comic contrast with his travel-soiled raiment;
          But 'twas no solitary cavalcade.

          Not alone, attended (not pursued)
          By a great white cat, who followed in lieu
          Of brave retainer, or simple man at arms.
          A giant lynx makes fearsome retinue.

          * * *

          Comment


          • #6
            Now through the air
            A pure note resounds
            And through the echoey hall rebounds
            As, sitting apon a simple chair

            The court musician with his lithe grace
            Lets his fingers fly across the lyranthe frets
            And from his fingers sweet magic he weaves
            The people dance to the joyous pace.

            He changes tune, to beautiful sorrow
            The people stare in rapture, some cry.
            Musician is oblivious, engulfed in sound
            Using rubato, from some notes he borrows

            A little extra precious robbed time
            To spin out one long, perfect note
            And bend to pitch, to finally resonate
            In sympathy with a bell, made it chime.

            The sound resounds. He sighs with pleasure,
            For him this is the ultimate joy, nothing better
            Could ever happen in his world than
            Playing his music. There is no way to measure

            How brilliant it makes him feel,
            Spinning and weaving the notes
            Which come, not from the instrument
            But from his heart. Now he begins a reel

            And the dancers dance and the singers sing
            And the musician plays his joyful refrain
            Until the door flies open
            Letting an awful, harsh note ring.

            Comment


            • #7
              No-one knows her, though her face all have seen.
              Call her a toy: idle courtiers are keen
              on hetaerae, yet who cares for a name?
              Countless are hers, variegated as sin.

              Noxious beauty, and a spark in her eye
              (fools could believe was lit by lust and rye)
              portals unlath'd that the plebs may not cross.
              Lascivious dupes on her prey let her nigh.

              Raised in the faith of a resentful cult
              the king's religion they thought an insult.
              Heresiarch he, they must foil at all costs:
              to serve the plot she was given indult!

              Absolved by god as she serves the cabal,
              vice yet ails her: she hates to be a doll
              in these men' s hands, and ev' ry twisted game
              on her sanity has taken its toll.

              Comment


              • #8
                Part 2 - Plaza and Tavern

                Within the ancient cities’ triple gates,
                Past wayward streets and mellowing estates,
                Conflux of buskers, confluence of vibes,
                The Plaza of Philophony awaits.

                Here neophyte musicians hawk their skill,
                For they aspire to woo the crowds that mill
                Between the inns and taverns gathered here,
                The essence of their talent to distil.

                Melodic dissonance and tuneful glare
                Of harsh concordant contrasts splash the air
                With tranquil tempest of a thousand sounds,
                Floats and rebounds about the Plaza square,

                Pleasingly distasteful, strangely normal,
                A touch spontaneous yet strictly formal,
                A whispered shout, a remedy that wounds,
                A combination almost paranormal.

                For each musician plies his art alone.
                Each strives to prove the virtue of his own
                Adopted style as better than the rest:
                By city law that’s all they have been shown.

                By whimsical and old pedantic law
                The city elders all young bards implore
                To join a school devoted to one style;
                An edict many like but some deplore.

                Each school then teaches but a single mode.
                To vaunt it then their students they will goad
                In competition to excel the rest
                And others reputation to erode.

                So here instead of harmony - discord
                As bards of this or that mode seek to hoard
                The fickle graces of the evening crowds,
                The many groups that here and there applaud.

                Yet on the border of the Plaza square
                The largest of the groups is gathered where
                A fresh symphonic melts the atmosphere
                A daring sound with an engaging flair.

                This rebel music braves the evening scene
                With subtlety. Its audience is keen
                To gather closer to its origin
                A little tavern called The Sephirine

                End pt 2

                Comment


                • #9
                  "You will never be a poet, Friend Newburg," Dryden might have said.

                  ---
                  Ornate faأ§ades like harlots brightly farded
                  Crimson, blue, and violet -- many-gabled
                  Superannuated remnants of times
                  And fortunes long dead -- faced one another
                  Across the cobbled streets of Zanufand.
                  The palace sat above it all, its walls
                  Veined with jade and chrysoberyl, its tower
                  Peridot. The reflected twilight glowed,
                  A green radiance whose magic transformed
                  The fountains to a spray of emeralds.

                  Comment


                  • #10
                    Gray wave-lidded, well-dosed with atropine,
                    The evening sun paints clouds incarnadine;
                    Wind-whipped spindrift, portent of winter's cold,
                    A seascape bathed in light amaranthine.

                    Ornate faأ§ades like harlots brightly farded
                    Crimson, blue, and violet -- many-gabled
                    Superannuated remnants of times
                    And fortunes long dead -- faced one another
                    Across the cobbled streets of Zanufand.
                    The palace sat above it all, its walls
                    Veined with jade and chrysoberyl, its tower
                    Peridot. The reflected twilight glowed,
                    A green radiance whose magic transformed
                    The fountains to a spray of emeralds.
                    Unreal city, where dim amber lights glimmer
                    Warm but weakly in night's encroaching gloom,
                    And mist creeps in like a ghostly whisper
                    Amidst the cold bass drumming of the waves.

                    A small skiff docks, a stranger disembarks,
                    His calm dark face excites but few remarks.
                    Of middle height, of aspect nondescript,
                    No merchant he -- exiled ecclesiarch?

                    That's doubtful, too, for priests don't carry blades.
                    The black, rune-worked sheath, slung o'er his back, made
                    Comic contrast with his travel-soiled raiment;
                    But 'twas no solitary cavalcade,

                    Nor pursuit preternatural. In view,
                    A great white cat, stalks silently in lieu
                    Of brave retainer, or simple man at arms.
                    A giant lynx makes fearsome retinue.

                    Through ancient cobbled streets, his muscles taut,
                    His mind alert to dangers he'd been taught
                    To fear, they passed unchallenged through the gate.
                    Karel, he was called; and a man he sought.

                    The lynx (hight Posilipo) at his heel,
                    He strode the vipers' knot of cobbled streets
                    Of Zanufand, not knowing where they led.

                    "Lost your way?"--

                    -- Karel started at the voice,
                    His hand reached for the sword-hilt, then relaxed
                    And wheeled to face a young man dressed in ragged
                    Finery, sea-gray and silken it was,
                    As some royal robe from distant Baharna.

                    "If you're a thief," said Karel cautiously...

                    "You've nothing worth my noble art's display,
                    Unless it be yon stolen blade strapped fast
                    Upon your back," said the man. "Your name?
                    You needn't say your place of origin.
                    Hyperboreans are not strangers here,
                    Though seen rarely enough in Zanufand
                    That your presence here's not robbed of novelty."

                    Comment


                    • #11
                      The threads are gathering, of this wayward tale...swift segue back to The Sephirine...

                      Part 3 The Singer and the Song (incomplete).

                      Her words were merry, witty, comic, sly,
                      And though her song was soft it carried far;
                      She played upon a simple sarabandra,
                      And nimbly worked her fingers at the strings

                      Her chestnut hair was carefully adorned
                      With gifts she had been given for her songs;
                      She wore them proudly, like the rarest gems,
                      Those little rings, beads, feathers, gauds and charms.

                      Her garments were a mix of sundry styles,
                      Blended in brightness by her gentle grace,
                      Patchwork miscellany of homespun art,
                      More gifts from those whose hearts gave her a place.

                      Her smile was quirky, never far from her,
                      Though it would hide when sad compassion moved her,
                      It soon would reappear again when, fondly,
                      The memory of some pleasant thought she pondered.

                      ***Edited to remove tautologious rhyme.***

                      Comment


                      • #12
                        Sadly this thread seems to have died! It was a nice idea. I'm going to post a little poem I came up with but I cant remember it all so it may be slightly different from my original version of it. I dont know if the title is used for another poem.

                        Beauty Eternal

                        If I had wings with which to fly,
                        Spun gossamer wings; if these had I
                        Through the air I would search for thy
                        Tender beauty.

                        And if, by chance, my wings did tire
                        And, fearing my fatigue too dire,
                        I came to alight upon
                        A grassy meadow,

                        And if all this did come to pass
                        And, there among the summer grass
                        I found a bright red rose in
                        Summer garments.

                        And if this rose did chance to be
                        The finest flower in radiant beauty
                        It still could never match thy
                        Tender beauty.



                        Theres another verse but I cannot remember it at all, I'll edit this post to add it in when I remember it.

                        Comment


                        • #13
                          It has not died -- it's just resting!

                          Seriously, I've got a big chunk written, but not revised. It needs some work before I post it.

                          LSN

                          Comment


                          • #14
                            Yep, it's just snoozing for a while Hawklord. I'll add some new bits when somebody gives me a kick when its my turn, or following LSN; likely after Prototype X is finished.

                            PS. Some nice verses Hawklord. What form are your stanzas? Or have you just invented a new one?

                            Comment


                            • #15
                              Here we go folks:

                              Villanelle

                              It’s time, my dear, that you and I agreed
                              To turn our backs on this bedraggled dream
                              It’s not for us to suffer without need

                              Because we know it never can succeed
                              And that strife the wasted hours cannot redeem
                              It’s time, my dear, that you and I agreed

                              We are not of that grim single-minded breed
                              Who can sacrifice what is to what might seem
                              It’s not for us to suffer without need

                              Where others may be full of fearsome greed
                              Through that fog our morning sun may gleam
                              It’s time, my dear, that you and I agreed

                              There is a cleaner dish where we can feed
                              Let’s hold our hearts up high in full esteem
                              It’s not for us to suffer without need

                              Unmoored now, we can marvel at the speed
                              As our stately ship sails centre-stream
                              It’s time, my dear, that you and I agreed
                              It’s not for us to suffer without need


                              I wish I had more time to read all the creative work on this site, and maybe contribute more - roll on June and the end of exams for a while!
                              \"...an ape reft of his tail, and grown rusty at climbing, who yet feels himself to be a symbol and the frail representative of Omnipotence in a place that is not home.\" James Branch Cabell

                              Comment

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