Poems of PHAIL

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    Aichu
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    Poems of PHAIL

    Post by Aichu on Tue Sep 30 2008, 19:47

    I've said before that I'm not a poet. I write prose. I LITERALLY only write about a poem a year, except for this little emo poetry kick I had in middle school...so anyways, here is my collection thus far of my annual poem by age (excluding the craploads of sucky emo poetry). Go ahead and laugh if you will.

    At age 12- I was big on individualism back then, silly naive creature I was.

    With Open Eyes

    I used to see the world in two-dimension,
    And on occasion three,
    But that flat, dull person,
    Is no longer part of me.

    I now see in endless dimensions,
    In a world without day or night,
    I see the world in color,
    Crystal clear and bright.

    I can no longer read a novel,
    This is not by chance,
    For the words on the paper,
    Almost seem to dance.

    What was yellow is now green,
    What was blue is now red,
    The sweet sound of silence,
    Echoes in my head.

    This is the world as I see it,
    My eyes no longer shut,
    That is the world as I see it,
    No ifs or whys or buts.


    At age 13- Now entering my hippy phase, aka my life as an emo, vegetarian, environmentalist wannabe. Good grief. It was worse than my individuality phase.

    Eulogy of a Good Day

    A dearest friend
    Smiled a moonbeam
    Loved like dawn
    Closing every sunset with ribbons of red
    And painted clouds in blue and gold
    Decorated the mountains in colors bold
    Touched with a swirl
    Sugary lollypop
    Fields gently sweeping
    Grass that was green
    Flecked with candied reds and blues
    Flitting gingers flowers
    Smudged against the sky
    Imperial buds in twilight bloom
    Sing a pastel tree
    Reaching branches vanishing
    Into distant heavens
    Soft limbs bathed in livid glow
    Dew sparkles
    Like river flow
    Another day deceased
    Another day to go.


    Age 14- This particular poem was written for rememberance day. It's no a poem typical to this genra because it criticizes society's tendancy to warp the past with the glorification of heroism and little regard to the fact that we cannot truely experience the horrors of a period in time unless we have actually lived them. It's probably my favorite poem- it went on to be published in an anthology.

    Lest We Remember

    You see him November,
    Standing on sidewalk yonder.
    Plastic flower on his breast
    Yet heart without thought fonder.

    There lays a memorial
    That young men’s names do garnish.
    But in the stone we see a God
    That corpses could not tarnish.

    We see faces as pictures,
    Through old movie reels we look.
    There are no souls in these that
    Black and white cameras took.

    Dusty are these graves,
    Between Flanders and dead grief.
    With our blind spots we cannot see
    Between the tombs there runs a thief.

    You see the Poppy Picker.
    Poppy pin makes him tart.
    And yet, the pin digs not deep enough,
    To prick him in the heart.


    Age 15- My poetry is really shabby this year, and a practically give up. The best poem produced during this time is one written for an assignment relating to the novel the Lord of the Flies. I actually really enjoyed writing about the themes of that book- it is a fascinating piece of literature. Anyways, this poem compares the death of the character Simon to the death of Christ.

    The Temple is Destroyed

    How small a beast it was
    Whisper the spears— scarlet-stained brows, their penitence crown
    We watched murder in a court without laws
    The high priests were intoxicated by war-lust
    By the fear of the thing that staggered from the woods
    So were motives of the creatures of dust
    Beghast by the sky-fire, we spears were abandoned in the sand
    And now the sucking sea tastes blood
    Sighing, dragging, waves fall back from land
    Onwards chase the brimming moon
    Upon his face, Triton lays a veil
    Upon the drunken party a swoon
    Caesar and his frantic guard flee the crime
    Pilate with his head in his hands and conch on his lap
    Laments the bloody time
    Barabbas’s place the martyr took
    Punctured in the side and left for dead
    An innocent for a beast they mistook
    The tomb is sealed, no stone to roll
    Save for the rolling sea
    Striking forth, beyond the rampant isle knoll
    Simon the Lamb, salvation’s tragic appointee.


    I don't have a 16 year poem yet, maybe you will see it someday, lol.
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    judai12
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    Re: Poems of PHAIL

    Post by judai12 on Tue Sep 30 2008, 20:45

    wow really good
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    Aichu
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    Re: Poems of PHAIL

    Post by Aichu on Tue Sep 30 2008, 21:22

    Thank you.

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