Spring Haiku

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                                         Wind seeps through spring leaves

                                         humming songs of bygone days

                                         so far south from here



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It's haiku... "Gesundheit!" No, a haiku, a poetry genre from 17th century Japan comprised of three lines and 17 syllables (5 in the first line, 7 in the second and 5 again in the third). Traditional haiku's are mostly about nature, but present day western haiku's can be about pretty much everything and anything. It's really fun, try it!

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Side note: thanks to you English speaking folk's insane way of spelling stuff, English haiku's are a lot trickier than Dutch ones. Just your luck...

By the way, special thanks to Timothy Cook - also known as 'Drachma' from his novel 'The Book of Drachma' (book available on Amazon 27th of March!!!) - for kicking me in the butt and making me get my ass back here alright, dammit! Thanks, Tim :).

Broken Shells, a poem in 3 parts

Broken Shells, a poem in 3 parts*

I

At dawn it hatched,

at noon I held

a chicklit in my hand,

frail and soft like spring buds.

At dusk I stand and stay

with my dear bird

long flown away.

II

Clinging to a bird in flight,

Its wings beat solemn through the night

so slow and still, what was, what will

and all that’s in between is seen

through eyes from high above,

and so we rove on and on

past rock, clouds, whatever may

be seen and watch it swirl away,

I frown, I know it is, a long way down.

            III

Closed my eyes when darkness fell,

hope, pray, dream that all is well,

softly curled up I creep

back in my shell,

put the pieces back in place

with crimson ribbon, shreds of lace.

*Author’s note: date = today; just dealing with depression/anxiety and shaking exam stress

Hey guys, sorry I haven’t posted yet in over a week, each day I wake up hoping I’ll finish the next part of the Svart-cycle (I’m almost sure I’m going to call it ‘The Nightingale Paradox. Chronicles of a revolution’), and I end up going to bed unfulfilled, though the chapter is practically done and has been for nearly two week now. Yes, exams are back in town. The regulars among you will know what that meant last time so be warned...

Nice to be back though, however brief. Sorry if I’m slow to respond at the moment, I’m kind of freaking out :S.

when love hurts, a poem

Author's note: Another one of my old poems, I'd say pre-17, maybe from my 18th, but I find that hard to believe. I really can't pinpoint the exact year for this one. And I didn't do drugs, but sometimes going through my older stuff makes me think I secretly did. Truth is I just go(/e)t carried away easily and went for the obvious. I'm cleaning out my virtual closet, so what the heck, I'm posting it anyway. It's there, I have to.

When love hurts

O treacherous heart,
so sweet,
so cruel,
torturing with desire.
Do not deceive my head,
do not betray my mind,
do not dare, to control,
do not force me to surrender.
Weakness, shall not overcome!

Haunted, a poem

Haunted

I walk the street to the beat of a new low.

It was many mournful moons ago,

even so, I quite regret

all day long, can’t help to fret

wake at night and can’t forget.

I found this one scribbled in the margins of my course notes (to the date of 03/03/11), along with a bunch of other ones. I should keep some sort of inventory...

Inspirations:

Daniel Powter - Bad Day:

Anouk - Michel

And a sudden flash of depression. I read something in the student paper before class that unexpectedly got to me and being stuck in class for a few hours without an escape, I had to write something - anything - to deal with it. I'd just heared above songs on the radio that day, they sort of filtered into the first line. So that's how this little things came to be...

Question to be answered, a poem from my 18th

These are from my 18th year, when I just started college, which was one big disillusionment all-round, so that could be in there. There’s something easy about interpreting a former self: anything goes and no one questions youe authority, though you’re groping in the dark. I’m just guessing here, at the order I put the poems in, too. I found them in alphabetic order, grouped per year, so I don't exactly know when they were written within that year or which came before which.

Question to be answered

genius poet or idiot granted too much verve

shooting random arrows like a playful cupid

aimed at getting more pay than I deserve

gorging on minds in an awe-stricken crowd's mid

while foul-playing the game of "strike a nerve".

In My Eyes - a poem

This one is the first poem I wrote in English since I joined Blogger. It's from 5/11/10 and was on the poetry page for some time - so you may have already read it - but I took it down with the rest to rework the page. So here it is again. It's pretty short and simple but I like it.



 

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In my eyes

in my eyes
is not to see
there hides a sea in me
my waves be still
of rising waters
and their shipwrecks
its bottom’s mine alone

Fully Empty, another typographic poem from my early youth

This one is more or less the same style as 'The Gift's Curse' (my oldest poem in English from when I was 14), but I think it's the youngest of the two, but not by much difference. Can't be sure though, it's so long ago. My older work kind of makes me blush with embarassment, I wasn't sure I'd ever post these anywhere, but what the heck, they're part of process that led me to where I am and I vital one at that.



Fully Empty

Strange & thrilling feeling,

                                           so deep inside.

I feel…

            empty,

                        yet so full

                                  full of things

                                            things that are in fact

                                                                              the essence of nothing.

Can’t think

                  clearly,

Can’t see,

          hear,

          speak,

   only sense.              

I want to express,

   want to explode,

                              but everything I want to throw out,

                                                     becomes an implosion.

So much to do,

so much to achieve,

                               but this bitter,

                                                     scorching,

                                                                       crawling,

                                                                                      scratching

                                                                                                          hollowness

claws at my heart,

fills my chest…

Like a warlord surrounding a stronghold.

I want to cry,

  want to scream,

but it just doesn’t

                                   go

                                               away.

The Awakening of the Beast, a neo-mythological epic-apocalyptic poem

This one is a bit difficult for me to categorize. None of the labels given really fits completely with what I have in mind. It's all at once and neither at the same time. Name it after whichever layer you prefer (I'll gladly take suggestions, feel like I forgot a few labels, labelling is a loathed part of internet writing, isn't it?).

This one was written at the same time as 'Phoenix' and finished minutes before. Guess that makes them twins, lol. Anyway, it was just a day after (possibly the same day, memories go hazy that quickly) the elegiac set, when I was still pretty sick and pumped up on stuff to get through classes. So yeah, again, I blame the pain killers. I suppose it is a bit weird.

For insiders (aka residents of The Coffee Shop), I could've called this poem 'an ode on the Rise of the Cult of Mass'. That would make him 'The Beast'. He doesn't visit here, so there's a pretty good chance he's never going to find out and I'll get away with it ;-).

Without further ado... (btw, the song was one of the inspirations. So were my much adored Romantics. And a bunch of other stuff, but I won't keep boring you with endless lists.)

The Awakening of the Beast

A magical cry

splits the tiresome sky

yonder, it howls with thunder

puts the wildest seas asunder

setting mighty Heavens aflame,

the ground from which it came

shall shake and quake.

The beast will reign, shed

smouldering ash and dust from its mane

under its unearthing paws the ground will crack
bring long-forgotten legend back
from what had turned drought
skeletons shall spring and sprout
- eyes wild, flesh tender -

deny their surrender

and wolves in awe and fright

from all around call forth the night.

Suggestions, feedback, criticism (esp. on what doesn't seem to work) and pointers will be very much appreciated.

PS: yes, I'm aware I may have 'overdone' it with all the monsters, but in the horror genre, I just have too many illustrations to choose from. It's a deformity...

From Stories with love ;)

Phoenix - a poem

Phoenix

Parry me, bury me,
in lines of old
interred in fire,
let from the pyre,
my body evaporate
my name expire
that everything else might
eventually, take flight
on wings of gold.


Author's note: I wrote this poem last week, a day after the elegiac set and together with another, longer and pretty weird one that I'll post here soon. I'm not going to explain it, that would largely ruin everything. Hope you like it ;)

All the best,

Stories.

'The Gift's Curse', a typographic poem from my early days

As far as I know, this is my oldest poem in English. It's from all the way back when I was fourteen. As you may be able to tell from the ordering, I was heavily into experimenting with form and typography, as is even more apparent from my Dutch poetry at the time, which according to my teachers shared resemblance to that of the famous Flemish expressionist poet Paul van Ostaijen, who I had never even heard of at the time. Without further ado...



The Gift’s Curse

burning

scorching

                                                on the inside

                                                     the inside of me

crawling up,

                                                   up,

                                                   back down again

                                                                                   filling with fire and flame

searching, striving

                                                                for a way out

                                                                               out of the cage of my body

                                                                                         the gate of my lips

                                                                                                           my hands

                                                                                          it stirs in my mind

                                                                                            flows out of my pen

out, out!

                                                somewhere, somehow

                                                                                   it shall not be stopped

                                                                                   for it does not obey,

                                                                                             does not hold back

                                                                                       … never gives up

                                   no rest,

                                               no sleep,

                                                              no more sanity

                                   the Muse’s fire and flame

                                                      their painful caress

                                   pushing, forcing…

                                                                 to their will

                                                                                   I must comply

no choice,

                                                    no power,

                                                                     it is a part of me,

                                                                                              O rebellious flames

                                                                                  Tortured,

                                                                                                 giving, taking

                                                                                                 offered to a price

                                                                     the fire in me,

                                                                                                  controlling

        steering me.

                                                                     I am the fire!



The Great Evanescence - a poetic story

Alright, I should be doing a post on the awards I got now – especially the ‘versatile Blogger’ one came with rules I haven’t followed yet – but I just finished this and simply can’t wait to hear other people’s thoughts on it... So, sorry, Taylor... What the heck, maybe there will just be two posts today.

When I started writing this, I was determined to write a story, but since I’m still switched on to poetry (that happens from time to time, the two alternate), I ended somewhere in between a story and a poem, which I suppose has a charm of its own. I think if I let this one simmer for a few years and rework it, it could be great. For now it just happened. Please let me know what you think in the comment section.

Cheers!

The Great Evanescence, a poetic story

Though I am old and from long bearing torn from mould,

it feels as though it were just yesterday

when a child I met young Mason Gray.

I was a boy, no more, and full of fright

until one day I lost my way

on a whimsical starry night.

I wandered through a moonlit street

for hours on end

until by chance I got to meet

a boy who’d be henceforth my friend.

There was no house in sight, no hunk of car

and I could see clearly a shimmer from afar

and ran towards it intoxicated

to where the strangest creature waited.

Beneath a lantern stood in ghostly light, all set aglow,

a boy whose face served but to show

the world had not yet killed its verve

and angels would still walk the earth.

I stumbled forward quite in awe

the creature stretched its well-shaped claw

and though his burning gaze revealed a fire mean,

smiled the sweetest smile I’d ever seen.

I like a moth drew ever nearer

for nothing to me ever dearer

then in that sacred flame to smoulder

and so my eyes turned even bolder.

His cheeks the softest crimson blush,

his lashes lush

his skin the purest peach and cream

his eyes as bright as in a dream

tainted by fever great

I met this fairy child of late

tolling a heart-shaped jojo in ennui

at an hour only demons roam free.

When the world was rather dim

this mystic child of light beckoned to come with him

and so I did and together we would knit

the wildest lore forevermore.

Games new and old we’d play

and from the village led astray

we roamed from meadow, bush to wood

where we would act out Robin Hood.

There we would, with sticks and rods,

take for models only gods,

split the forest and feign

to spear even the heavens in our reign.

Until morning bared its teeth

and bit away with pain and grief

at what was our youth

with roses underneath.

All at once the thorns sprung up and marred our face,

robbed us of our innocent grace

and our wondrous camp of clay

faced the stream, was washed away.

Like all things young and fair

my childhood friend dissolved, went up in night air

and left me forlorn in life’s grime

to swallow those sour grapes of time.

And now in death’s shade I stay,

worn from long decay

and as remedy to all that’s gone amiss

have nothing but to reminisce.