Patwah's Poetry Corner
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patwah said:Trev,
I have a great love of cultural appreciation you willever see or know. But its not for here for me.
Another thread? Sure, you'll get great responses from like minded people, there are lots on there that do appreciate that sort of thing.
I'll show you my poetry award if you like. (yes I do have one)
Being a lover of poetry (who would have guessed?labrat said:
), may I submit some? Keen as. They wouldn't be mine, as I don't write. but I learn and recite other's works that tickle me.Best to wait for Pat's response first I suppose.
trevorkayakone said:patwah said:Trev,
I have a great love of cultural appreciation you will
Another thread? Sure, you'll get great responses from like minded people, there are lots on there that do appreciate that sort of thing.
I'll show you my poetry award if you like. (yes I do have one)Being a lover of poetry (who would have guessed?labrat said:
Best to wait for Pat's response first I suppose.
it may be clever
if you dont endeavour
to post forever
or paddy may sever
your membership
and patwah
the akff star
always has his hand in the cookie jar
dines at the candy bar
and has some other ID's that are
bizarre
like bevan
who works at a seven
eleven
Joined
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511 Posts
Gra, poetry having motion(s)
G
Guest
·Emocons don't count Mr Wah
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8,050 Posts
I can't leave Gra up on stage all on his own. I organised the venue after all.
The problem is I can't compete with that, especially not in real time. Here's one I prepared earlier, many years earlier. It's not fit for consumption with an after dinner Sauternes, but it's all I got, my one and only attempt at poetry of any form (you'll see why). It describes an ascent of a climb at Point Perpendicular, a highly sensual environment with wind, the smell of salt and crashing waves. It's also highly intimidating due to it's location, dubious rock quality, damp holds, natural gear placements, waves crashing 100m below and (most importantly) the need to abseil in to small ledges, pull down your rope and commit to climbing out. On this occasion, it was the worst day of the Camberra bushfires, adding the smell of smoke and a red sun to the already visceral experience.
For those interested, the climb was Little Red Riding Hood, a 40m grade 17.
Lured to The Edge of Reason
Glimpse it, feel it, freeze it, sea then smoky sky.
Deny your mind its ramblings, strike blind its haunting eye.
Pace it, set it, equalize, belay at edge, replay the prize.
Leave it, luring, lost from view. Abseil another, first sight ring true.
Past the perpendicular, right angle but wrong weight,
As shadows hide the sun burnt star, no exit now but fait.
A deafening, a silence, seas churning sombre spray,
A garden lost from Eden, never noticed. Plan or pray?
Waiting, wondering, listening, fumbling the belay.
No straying, swinging temptress, no way out now but the way.
A presence, partner panting, taking space reserved for fear.
Methodical, dogmatic now, machines switched into gear.
Face upward, face outward, face partner, fane smiling,
Hands chalked beyond excuses, held sterile…sigh 'Climbing'.
It begins with one step, two steps, wee steps, always airways.
It unveils, mind from mission, line from leanings, holds from hearsay.
About toys, about time, about gear for the line, about alloys born of stone,
About shopping for fears, buying motives as gear. What value if they're loaned.
Ease onward, toe outward, white whirlwinds below,
Show reverence, fight reasons, don't let disdain know.
A ledge-let, a let-off, a bypass for fear,
No strength, merely balance, no rope-drag…no gear.
Calm climbing, keep head straight, reward is a stance,
A placement well needed, a pause for romance.
Two voyeurs, heads only, sign praises, sell smiles.
Foam breakers ever distant, ever present, tension guiles.
Preliminaries over, time-cast curtains lift anew.
The siren's sung her secrets, no excuses now but you.
Tempting crackline, twice dissected, sliced suggestively for serving,
Fast food frenzy, fresh cammage, just a pinch of salt…unnerving.
Start shunting, shimmy skyward, staged torment, stance looming,
Mantelshelf, small mercy, all too fleeting. Ocean booming.
No curtain call for warning, no forecast, no preview.
A triangle to tiptoe, tempest-tossing woe, sea-view.
A bolt, some glue, a savior, the reason for it all.
A warning, clue, a daemon, a signpost "Soon to fall."
Short runner, lofty hopes, total silence, no more jokes.
Options sifted, actions coaxed, plan discarded as a hoax.
Balance onward to misfortune, only never greet defeat.
A Friend or two for guidance, lactic acid, no retreat.
Pockets bight with broken smiles, the dentist works his drilling.
More cavities than usual, each deserving of its filling.
No ammo left for practice, no training for this stage.
The final wall upon you calls, a thread belies its rage.
Still choices, ever choices, all different, all the same.
Pick any, but not all of them. Which future? That's the game.
The chosen choice well chosen, there's little else to do.
Test your seating for the second act, there's someone else to screw!
The problem is I can't compete with that, especially not in real time. Here's one I prepared earlier, many years earlier. It's not fit for consumption with an after dinner Sauternes, but it's all I got, my one and only attempt at poetry of any form (you'll see why). It describes an ascent of a climb at Point Perpendicular, a highly sensual environment with wind, the smell of salt and crashing waves. It's also highly intimidating due to it's location, dubious rock quality, damp holds, natural gear placements, waves crashing 100m below and (most importantly) the need to abseil in to small ledges, pull down your rope and commit to climbing out. On this occasion, it was the worst day of the Camberra bushfires, adding the smell of smoke and a red sun to the already visceral experience.
For those interested, the climb was Little Red Riding Hood, a 40m grade 17.
Lured to The Edge of Reason
Glimpse it, feel it, freeze it, sea then smoky sky.
Deny your mind its ramblings, strike blind its haunting eye.
Pace it, set it, equalize, belay at edge, replay the prize.
Leave it, luring, lost from view. Abseil another, first sight ring true.
Past the perpendicular, right angle but wrong weight,
As shadows hide the sun burnt star, no exit now but fait.
A deafening, a silence, seas churning sombre spray,
A garden lost from Eden, never noticed. Plan or pray?
Waiting, wondering, listening, fumbling the belay.
No straying, swinging temptress, no way out now but the way.
A presence, partner panting, taking space reserved for fear.
Methodical, dogmatic now, machines switched into gear.
Face upward, face outward, face partner, fane smiling,
Hands chalked beyond excuses, held sterile…sigh 'Climbing'.
It begins with one step, two steps, wee steps, always airways.
It unveils, mind from mission, line from leanings, holds from hearsay.
About toys, about time, about gear for the line, about alloys born of stone,
About shopping for fears, buying motives as gear. What value if they're loaned.
Ease onward, toe outward, white whirlwinds below,
Show reverence, fight reasons, don't let disdain know.
A ledge-let, a let-off, a bypass for fear,
No strength, merely balance, no rope-drag…no gear.
Calm climbing, keep head straight, reward is a stance,
A placement well needed, a pause for romance.
Two voyeurs, heads only, sign praises, sell smiles.
Foam breakers ever distant, ever present, tension guiles.
Preliminaries over, time-cast curtains lift anew.
The siren's sung her secrets, no excuses now but you.
Tempting crackline, twice dissected, sliced suggestively for serving,
Fast food frenzy, fresh cammage, just a pinch of salt…unnerving.
Start shunting, shimmy skyward, staged torment, stance looming,
Mantelshelf, small mercy, all too fleeting. Ocean booming.
No curtain call for warning, no forecast, no preview.
A triangle to tiptoe, tempest-tossing woe, sea-view.
A bolt, some glue, a savior, the reason for it all.
A warning, clue, a daemon, a signpost "Soon to fall."
Short runner, lofty hopes, total silence, no more jokes.
Options sifted, actions coaxed, plan discarded as a hoax.
Balance onward to misfortune, only never greet defeat.
A Friend or two for guidance, lactic acid, no retreat.
Pockets bight with broken smiles, the dentist works his drilling.
More cavities than usual, each deserving of its filling.
No ammo left for practice, no training for this stage.
The final wall upon you calls, a thread belies its rage.
Still choices, ever choices, all different, all the same.
Pick any, but not all of them. Which future? That's the game.
The chosen choice well chosen, there's little else to do.
Test your seating for the second act, there's someone else to screw!
http://www.google.com.au/imgres?imgurl= ... EwAg&dur=0gra said:
Is the Wha still looking for his poetry award?
Joined
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463 Posts
Yeah, you need to post more Gra - otherwise you'll have to put up with crap like this .....
Port with rum came from the drum to fill the void -
That vacuum - vacant space - waiting there for Wah's award
To ease the tension and suspense and expectation from the masses
But that collapses
With the rising of a star -
Mistah Gra, new avatar and alcoholic beverage
Bring tears to eyes and splits to sides and jizzum pumping rhythm
May his DNA forever stay
At Wivenhoe
Port with rum came from the drum to fill the void -
That vacuum - vacant space - waiting there for Wah's award
To ease the tension and suspense and expectation from the masses
But that collapses
With the rising of a star -
Mistah Gra, new avatar and alcoholic beverage
Bring tears to eyes and splits to sides and jizzum pumping rhythm
May his DNA forever stay
At Wivenhoe
Joined
·
8,610 Posts
The Bevan sent from Heaven.
When chestnuts is what we need, chestnuts is what we get, whilst others play with words, Bevan cuts through their shet.
He tells it like is, he don't bother to hold back, when he see some shet appear, he shuvs if straight back up their crack.
That's why we love our Bevan from the bottom of our heart, we all hold our wind in whilst he pops straight out a fart.
He hasn't been around much, we wish he would return, the fires have been raging and it's time for a back burn.
When chestnuts is what we need, chestnuts is what we get, whilst others play with words, Bevan cuts through their shet.
He tells it like is, he don't bother to hold back, when he see some shet appear, he shuvs if straight back up their crack.
That's why we love our Bevan from the bottom of our heart, we all hold our wind in whilst he pops straight out a fart.
He hasn't been around much, we wish he would return, the fires have been raging and it's time for a back burn.
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