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Old 11-12-2012, 01:04 PM View Post #11 (Link)
bookworm (Offline)
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A 'dramatic' poem for the last day of writing. Also a shameless advert of my mum.

TRUE STORIES by Sarah Luczaj

Spoiler:
This is a poem for those without hope.
This is a poem for the man my husband said was “the most intelligent in the village” who later knocked on the neighbour’s door, the old woman who did his washing, and said “it’s Jaś”. “What do you want?” “I want to kill you”. He had an axe so she jumped out of the window.
This is a poem for the man inside the Fiat 126 which was seen driving round and round a field in circles for a whole afternoon. It is said that he had stopped drinking that day. He died later in hospital.
This is a poem for the man who lives in a large concrete house with his step daughter and their three kids. His wife lives across the road with eight more in a small wooden house with a rotting roof. He drives his tractor down the hill fast and with relish, grinning.
This is a poem for the alcoholic who makes brooms out of twigs and once appeared in our doorway holding up a worn pair of long johns that he hoped to sell for the price of a bottle.
This is a poem for the young lad who wanted to make some cash weaving baskets for mushroom pickers out of wire. He climbed a telegraph pole with a pair of pliers and got fried.
This is a poem for all the women who get up at 5am to milk the cow and then don’t know what to do with the milk.
This is a poem for the red-nosed swimming-eyed staggering old man who came once to the door and, mistaking my outstretched hand for a come-on, undid his zip and said “shall we go to the woods?” Since then I have seen him every single day, on the road, in various villages, doing his walkabout. He always takes his hat off to me.
This is a poem for the woman who broke a heavy vase over her drunken husband’s head, sent him to hospital for three days and shamed him forever.
This is a poem for the woman who threw away her husband’s vodka, and he burned down his own barn to spite her.
This is a poem for her neighbour who, not knowing why, went to bed that night wearing trousers.
This is a poem for the man who gets up at 5am every morning and digs until dusk.
This is a poem for his four daughters who need bus passes and school books, and for the beautiful lake he has made.
This is a poem for the woman whose husband chased her around the kitchen table on a motorbike.
This is a poem for the gravediggers who complained of lack of work, and when someone finally died, got paid in advance and drank so much that one couldn’t life a spade and the other was to be found on the morning of the funeral slaving over the grave, muttering furiously “I’ll never finish on time!”
This is a poem for Jaś who was found by police wandering naked down the road. “Do you need help, sir?” they asked “yes I do” he replied and climbed into the car.
This is a poem for those who drink absurdly cheap wine at the bus stop outside the church during holy communion.
This is a poem for those who have their own habitual spots to go and hang themselves.
This is a poem for those who fail every time.
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Originally Posted by Samuel Beckett, Worstward Ho
The void. Before the staring eyes. Stare where they may. Far and wide. High and low. That narrow field. Know no more. See no more. Say no more. That alone. That little much of void alone.
arcadia
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Old 11-12-2012, 07:03 PM View Post #12 (Link)
lalodragon (Offline)
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LAST DAY. We have, at this moment, no entries. If you throw together ten lines of crap you're guaranteed a prize, non?
Nasim that's one I hadn't read & it's amazing <3
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Old 11-14-2012, 03:18 AM View Post #13 (Link)
Ares (Offline)
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was the deadline for this cut short? I remember it being 17. i have a poem written, was gonna send it on 16th. well, guess that isn't working out.
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Old 11-14-2012, 03:54 AM View Post #14 (Link)
mfarr1992 (Offline)
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Sorry, forgot to say contest is closed. We only had one entry, so winner is up by unanimous decision!

Each contest runs for two weeks, so it was always scheduled to end on the 12th.

This was easy thank points people are missing out on, and more than that, reasons to write. I hope to see more entries in future contests.
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"I'm against poetry that's better than mine, or worse than mine, and especially anything that is mine."

"The true poet does not bother to be poetical. Nor does a nursery gardener scent his roses." - Jean Cocteau
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Old 11-14-2012, 04:04 AM View Post #15 (Link)
mfarr1992 (Offline)
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Originally Posted by Ares View Post
was the deadline for this cut short? I remember it being 17. i have a poem written, was gonna send it on 16th. well, guess that isn't working out.
I encourage you to still post your poem in this thread. I will personally give you a 'thank point' for doing so, and when I find the time I'll critique it. I'm sure if you ask nicely the other judges would take a look at it too.
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"I'm against poetry that's better than mine, or worse than mine, and especially anything that is mine."

"The true poet does not bother to be poetical. Nor does a nursery gardener scent his roses." - Jean Cocteau
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Old 11-14-2012, 07:17 AM View Post #16 (Link)
lostbookworm (Offline)
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I had several problems with internet and stuff, and haven't found the time to do a poem. Sowwies.
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and he saw himself nailed to the cross of his own cradle and coffin
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Old 11-14-2012, 09:13 PM View Post #17 (Link)
lalodragon (Offline)
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Originally Posted by lostbookworm View Post
I had several problems with internet and stuff, and haven't found the time to do a poem. Sowwies.
There is no forgiveness.
Post it, Ares, I'll thank & crit it too.
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Old 11-15-2012, 04:02 AM View Post #18 (Link)
Ares (Offline)
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Here?
okay.
Spoiler:

On the footpath besides the
tar covered ribbon
which houses mobile houses
with rolled up windows and
mannequins, all dressed up
who couldn't (do not) care
for the decade old souls that outstretch
their hands
cold and withered
twigs that await rain
in the form of spare change.

We were told
'when the black of your hair
absorbs into your skullcracks
and makes it's way, like venom from the tip
of the naja naja
and slithers to your heart,
you are doomed.'
and so we are.

269 miles away from the road
where the cars honked in unison
and asked the cattle, the urban ones
to move
the rural cattle lay in the expanse
of grass and wheat and prejudice
near the horizon
a silhouette carries a pot
she has walked miles, 12 atleast
and she has done that daily
for the past 28 years of her existence
while her father, and husband, and brothers and sons
waited for her, then beat her up,
then asked her to keep living
like an electric mannequin (not dressed up).

lie still, still lie
to yourself
your hearts will tell you
which is your hometown
the one where the boundary lies between
the rich and the poor
or the one where
it divides the men and women.
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