About a real experience from last weekend, and the places my mind went afterwards.

This Passed

At the beautiful gates of the temple
An absence of guiding figures;
The low hum of chants, struck bronze,
Serves as lure to the devout,
Climbing teetering stairs to clarity.

Set fire to all wishes,
Let them stream out like smoke in the sun;
Prostrate before the gilded skeleton,
A relic of that dead age
When peace was a destination.

A room looking inwards,
Grotesque faces and serene grace;
Mist blankets sleeping mountains,
Veil between this world and the other:
This passed, we must be saved.

Gas, I'm glad you liked the old poem I shared, and thanks for explaining your own poem.

I liked This Passed too! I'm sure it's about Buddhist temple or something like that; it has that aura of spiritual mystery and calmness of old haiku poems. Macabre touch is a big plus! I would like to google it for pictures, but at the same time I would not because I'm afraid it could spoil my impressions of the poem and the picture I have in my head.

Here's a poem I promised:

Translated with Google translator. Looks like shit, but I guess you get the picture. Looks like regular heavy-/black metal lyrics now:

WE ARE YOU
Do not listen to anything but our voice
Uncompromisingly obey all our psychotic commandments
We are now standing before you in the place of your former God
Silence your fellow humans - there are no other laws

We are you -
when the last candles burn out
We are you -
all the devils medieval
We are you -
rough figures in the sacred walls
We are you -
ploughboys for The Reaper

We are inside you, and you are outside
This murder remains dark - there are no trials for the dead
We are your coercers and you will never get peace from us
Hidden from the bookkeeper of souls we secretly entered this world

We are you -
your criminal secrets
We are you -
your silent and shameful thoughts
We are you -
anonymous shadow governments
We are you -
the ring of eyes around the lowest ones

Systematically we steal your personal dreams
We crush your heart and with it your little will
Totally sick and swollen we are because of you
Still, we are present as you walk alone in the dark streets

We are you -
a monument to supernatural fear
We are you -
a testament to the virtue of human life
We are you -
like dead heroes at guard
We are you -
bouncers at the gates of the cemetery

As dusk comes again, we will gather near you
A murderer may have consciense, but not the murderer's hand
As you walk along the lonely path, your shadow casts a shadow over you
You forget your daily work and start to fulfill our prophecies

And here's the original:

ME OLEMME SINÄ
Älä kuuntele sinä kuin pelkästään meidän ääntämme
Pyyteettömästi toteuta kaikki mielisairaat käskymme
Me seisomme nyt edessäsi entisen Jumalasi paikalla
Tee hiljaisiksi kanssaihmisesi – ei liene toisia lakeja

Me olemme sinä –
kun sammuvat tuikut viimeiset
Me olemme sinä –
kaikki paholaiset keskiaikaiset
Me olemme sinä –
karkeat hahmot pyhätön seinissä
Me olemme sinä –
asiainhoitajat noutajan leivissä

Me olemme sinussa sisällä, ja sinä olet ulkopuolella
Tämä murha jää pimeäksi – ei ole käräjiä kuolleilla
Me olemme pakottajasi, etkä meiltä ikinä rauhaa saa
Henkikirjurilta salassa saavuimme tähän maailmaan

Me olemme sinä –
nuo sinun rikolliset salaisuutesi
Me olemme sinä –
vaietut ja häpeälliset ajatuksesi
Me olemme sinä –
nimettömät hallitukset varjojen
Me olemme sinä –
silmän kehä ympärillä alhaisten

Järjestäen varastamme me henkilökohtaiset haaveesi
Murskaamme sydämesi ja sen mukana pienen tahtosi
Kokonaan sairaiksi ja paiseisiksi me tulemme sinusta
Silti läsnä olemme, kun kävelet yksin pimeitä katuja

Me olemme sinä –
yliluonnollisen pelon monumentti
Me olemme sinä –
hyveellisen ihmiselon testamentti
Me olemme sinä –
niin kuin kuolleet sankarit vartiolla
Me olemme sinä –
sisäänheittäjät kalmiston porteilla

Hämärän jälleen koittaessa kokoonnumme sinua lähellä
Omatunto lienee murhaajalla, mutta ei murhaajan kädellä
Yksinäisen polkua kulkeissa oma varjosi sinua varjostaa
Ennustustamme toteutat arkityöt unohtaneena kokonaan

Yes, it written about a Buddhist temple on the top of a mountain, and it's mostly just descriptive. The opening and closing lines both come to an album that means a lot to me, which I started singing to myself while in the temple, My Dying Bride's Turn Loose the Swans. Somehow it connected that very mystic and foreign (for me) place with familiar personal experiences.


Of course, I'm reading your translation, but it really comes to life! I don't know how much "underground" should be understood from our musical point of view, though I can see how it all fits together into a single imagistic "colour". A little bit of the hermetic style sneaks in, not as much as I've seen in some of your past work, which makes it easier for me to relate to.

Some of the phrases seem to have a very deliberate double meaning, like "toothless sob" coming back to play with "pass through the cavities". I also love how "an immeasurable drop" transforms from the short downwards journey of a hanged man into a tear sliding down someone's face. The whole thing seems to be describing an imagined realm of some sort, but I'm quite happy to just poke at the details and get pleasure from the general impression.



You're right that it feels a lot more like lyrics, mostly because of the structure, especially the repetition of the title. If you're aiming for it to be a poem, you could probably start that "chorus" with just one "We are you", then make a list of the things included in that thought. I notice again that the Finnish has very tight rhyme and rhythm, while the translation gets rid of it completely - I think that would be much more satisfying in the original.

As for the subject, it seems quite typical for that style of music to have these lyrics, and it never really goes deeper than listing all those dark urges and deeds that could be controlled by the external force you are talking about. When I try to write lyrics or poetry in that style, I try to make the whole thing more linear and not so expansive, so that the reader (or listener) is pulled along by some story or flow of reasoning.

Thanks for the good and reasonable feedback. Got to think some of it. Yeah, it's kind of more fluent in Finnish, but that's given. Also it doesn't feel so black metal like, at least I think so.

Oh, don't worry. Your comments are still greatly appreciated, it doesn't matter if they're positive or negative, anything goes

Well, at least you used your free time of sorts for something creative, no matter how childish it might have been. If anything, you can look at that moment in time as something that now brings a smile to your face

By the way, that story of unusual papers being used for poetry reminded me of something that happened this summer. After I was done with my student job for the day, I went to a bank and I was dead tired. There was a long queue so I decided to sit, listen to Devin Townsend's "Consciousness Causes Collapse" on my MP3 and pen a poem. However, given that my phone's battery was almost depleted and I didn't have any notebooks by my side, I didn't know what to use for writing. And then I found an old travelling ticket in my bag and decided to write on it. The result? In hindsight, an interesting poem in two stanzas... Semi-philosophical, basically my mind deprived of sleep and overwhelmed with personal issues. I decided to name it "Reflection." I'll post it here along with a newer one to compensate for not having posted anything here in a while.



You sneaky mofo



Well, since Osore figured it out, there's nothing much I can add. It's a nice little poem and, even though you said it's only descriptive, your descriptions are pretty cool, I like how you jump back and forth from a bit twisted to serene images (grotesque faces -> mist blanketing sleeping mountains). The second stanza is my absolute favourite, it's something I wish I had written



I'm not really sure why, but this poem, along with the colour you chose to represent it in, really reminded me of Heroes of Might and Magic 3, the town of Dungeon. I'm not sure if you're familiar with the game, but there's a certain vibe in your poem that brought this picture to my mind.

Now to the poem itself - I really like it, although, I'm not going to lie, it took me a couple of readings to get into the gist of it (then again, who am I to complain about it? I defended that way of writing several messages ago ) I like how atmospheric it is in some parts ("Someone is singing beside the candle blown"), and some images are pretty damn interesting ("blind ossuary" being the prime example). If what you meant to pull off with this poem is showcase your vision of an underground realm, you sure as hell nailed it!

So, anyway, here's the first one, the one written this last summer. Again, bear in mind that I was sleepy as fuck while writing it.

Reflection



And now, here's a newer one. It's actually my last finished poem at this time, I wrote it about two weeks ago. I'm not sure if you'll like it, though, since it doesn't stick to one theme. Each stanza describes a different picture. Think of it as a movie of sorts.

The Clarity of Snow

It's definitely not bad considering the state you said you were in when you wrote it. Sometimes words come out more easily when tiredness breaks down all your defences. I kind of like the style of using two verses to mirror each other, since they begin in deliberately similar ways. A few bits and pieces from this one could do with editing (e.g. repeating 'heart' in the first stanza; a few too many adjective + noun phrases in the first stanza), but there are interesting things as well, like the devil stealing "bags of sleep" and the arrows that "abandon your back".


For this one, it was useful to know that there was no link between the stanzas, because I might have tried to make the meaning bridge them otherwise. Opposite to your normal poems, this has a fixed structure even without any special metre or rhyme; however, I strongly notice something that happens in some your poems. The order of your phrases is a bit too similar, often starting with the subject noun and ending with the object noun. It gets repetitive in stanza 4, because almost every line is a similar length and has that same structure. I think part of that is caused by the phrases being discrete from each other, thus giving you a narrower range of sentence options.

In terms of the actual content, I especially like the 3rd stanza. I'm not sure if you were thinking of a classical painting for that, since you mention Titian (I'm assuming it's the artist) and seem specifically focused on colour at that point. The speech works pretty well there, totally surprising me in the context, though I don't feel that all the interjections of speech work quite so well.


Having mentioned that period of "receipt poetry", as I called it, I'd like to share one of the more successful examples. You should imagine it written down on the back of a piece of receipt paper, neatly filling the whole space. The topic was exactly as the title suggests: I was wrestling with the idea of difficulty in its many forms.

Difficulty

I'm surprised Google translator dealt with so many grammatical cases you have in Finish, because it always messes with 7 cases in Serbian. Anyway, lyrics in English would suit arena rock type of a song, something like 30 Seconds to Mars did on This Is War. I can already hear the crowd singing We are you parts.






Thanks for the comments to both of you. I'm glad this one worked in translation. My intention was to create a poem with Gothic motifs related to the dead, which are under ground, so everything goes down and sinks. I wasn't particularly satisfied when I wrote it, but now I especially like the last line and a double meaning of a globe (Earth/crystal ball) and Medusa, in front of whom you must be blind, or you end up as a blind ossuary if you look at her eyes. On a higher plain of meaning is an atheist thought - dead are blind indeed, death is the end.
I'm not familiar with the game, unless you have a Mortal Kombat fatality reference.

I'll reply to your poems in a separate post.

30 Seconds to Mars... As far as I know, that's not a good thing. Now I hate my poem. Well, it's only the case with the translation.

The 1st person singular gives it intimacy. It is kind of something I wouldn't expect to like, but it seems attractive. I've also noticed the word 'heart' repeated twice. All in all, it is nice that you spent your time in the queue creatively.

Like you said, it seems like a collage of images and a lot happens here. If not by meaning, everything is connected by your crossover of apocalypse and Salvador Dali. I want for you to try to get rid of any phrases that sound ordinary or explanatory. Give us only those creatures, monoliths and colours and let them radiate emotions from the way they relate to each other in the poem. (I'm still targeting abstract nouns I was talking about before.)
Obviously, I don't analyse grammar and syntax in English, but I think I felt what Gas noticed and explained. You can see how he enchained sentences in his poems with the use of enjambment, setting a different rhythms, so that you can do it in your next poem.

No compromise, this was me dissecting a mouse for the first time. Eloquence is so strong it hurts, although I enjoyed well known 'scientific words' in this form.


Please don't:-D
I now appreciate mostly their first album, although I was thinking more about We are you as in We lose control:

Here's a piece I translated a few months ago. I'm not sure if it works.

Imprints (translation) seems good, but I'm seriously going to need a dictionary for that. If only everybody would write in Finnish, it would be so much easier. Did the Google translator thingie, and it sure seems very poetic, though I didn't understand even half of it.

Haha, it was obviously supposed to be difficult! I had forgotten there was such a strong medical/science angle to it as well, but then it does seem to be about dissecting small animals at one point. I was also trying to make the rhyme work with only 2 different rhyming endings. However, some of the lines are not strong rhymes.


I like it even though I find it difficult to say precisely what the action is. Everything is edge-on and comes from an interesting perspective. Of course, mashing up how the sentences work (abstract nouns doing actions, etc) adds to that effect.

Like the last one you wrote, it's strongly atmospheric, very much a midnight walk through a dark house and out into the woods. Because the movements are described in such intricate detail, it's the feeling of moving on that is strongest, and also the experience of being there. I think "a clearing secret like a colosseum" is my favourite phrase, although I'm also drawn to the mystery of the numbers becoming zeros. The only image I feel doesn't work so well is the ball. Maybe instead of balls, you could try some other words to reflect round objects, like orbs or spheres.

I can feel your pain. I rely heavily on a dictionary when I'm translating. Also, you probably feel isolated, given the fact that Finnish language doesn't belong to a larger family (If I'm not mistaking, you don't understand Hungarian, although it's considered to be related to Finnish). I'm glad that I can understand random words from different Slavic languages based on similarity with Serbian.

However, it sounds great this way! Too strict rhyme would have been predictable and uniform.


The title justifies the fact that you can't discern the objects, but what is left of them - impressions, outlines... It is a contemplation on past (and time) that I was trying to capture and this is why it was written in the past tense, which I rarely do.
You are right about the settings and the time! Numbers automatically become zeros absent below an old glass is nothing but a digital clock showing 00:00 (as compared to the analogue).
We definitely don't want balls in this prose poem, so I fixed it, thanks for reminding me. I mean, I want poetry with balls, but without them, if that makes sense.

I wrote this one after a dull week when I was preparing tissue samples for centrifugation...

Although I'm fortunate because I'm mostly writing and reading in my native language, I find that doing translation or reading in translation sometimes provides an interesting perspective on poems. Searching for words makes you very connected to their true meaning and you tend to come up with slightly different interpretations because they will sound less natural. It's definitely tiring to always use other languages, but it can also help appreciate more about the music of the langauge compared to normal meaning sometimes.


Ah yes, I could probably have understood more if I had thought more carefully about the title. It does indeed seem to be a really intricate description of those imprints, sort of like fossils of life left behind on the sands of time. The digital clock, too, although it changes the medieval feeling I get from some of the other sections.

Especially not "wounded balls"


May I say what an incredible title, which I assume is to describe the centrifuge itself The poem seems like a detailed description of the machine and the process from several different angles, though I guess for it to perform accurate mimesis it would all come out as a blur in the end. I'm enjoying more and more some of those "verbed" phrases, where they wouldn't ordinarily be verbs, such as "centrifuges its own grooves", "disconsolate screws" (maybe a noun there), and especially "wormholed and dejected".

On the other hand, this is the strongest time ever that I've wanted to remove a word completely from one of your poems. Unfortunately, it's "baloney", and it's in a particularly emphatic position.

A little titbit without much thought or skill put into it. I have a title in mind, but don't want to use it because it's basically just the theme. Feel free to rip it to shreds.

Not the sun, nor blue sky;
Not hip or lip or shapely thigh;
Not the words in heavy tomes;
Not the long-lost roof of home;
Not the smile of grateful kin;
Not the spice of enticing sin;
Not the chills from gentle breeze;
Not the viridian of ancient trees;
Not the glowing dew of spring;
Not the sound when angels sing:
No, the thought that connects these things.

True! Translation is much more enjoyable practice than doing exercises for exam or memorising words, even though both leave me a bit frustrated.

Actually, I was evoking the symbol of imprints, rather than describing them. Nevertheless, your understanding of it is surprisingly good. If you look again at those 3 sentences in italic, you'll see that they are written in the present tense: the first two are about turning on a gas furnace and looking at the digital clock, while in the last sentence past and present unite (the turn of the orb alludes to one of those crystal balls with artificial snow or tiny sparkly confetti)... I would say the major (hidden) point of this poem is to show that our personalities are based on memories and represent dynamic trails of the past. Everything becomes past, and present moment can't be truly grasped. Even our thoughts and the information we collect with our senses reflect not what is, but what was, since there's a time gap between the receptor activation and information processing. When a thought is formed, it automatically becomes past, it doesn't last until a new one is formed, or the past one is revived (by activating the similar cognitive processes in the brain). Our knowledge and skills are based on what we learned in the past (languages, letters, writing, walking, riding a bicycle, etc.). Procedural, semantic, episodic memory... Without it, we lose what makes us different from other animals, that is self-consciousness and complex personality.


Thanks for helping me understand how translation works. Centrifuges should be centrifugates, my mistake. Screws is a noun. Baloney was a second choice, because I couldn't find the right translation for the adverb isprazno. Now I changed it to absurd, but I have no idea if I made an improvement.
My goal was to show how absurd a person can be/feel, just like a robot/humanoid somewhere in the (vacuum of) deep space. Of course, ultracentrifuge itself has to create a vacuum before it starts rotating samples up to 50.000 rpm...

It has a playful sound, but I'm sure I wouldn't like it in my native language. It appears like a children's poem.

Time came down
like water on stone
grinding through silica and Memory
laying low the High Places
splitting the rock
chasing the dream of a sunlit sea

Excellent thread.!!!

This is good in all its simplicity and short length. Feel free to share more.
P.S. Your photographs in another thread are also nice.

I read this in much more detail last week. Is there an owl? It's a great topic and a smart way to write the poem too.


I'm sure that you can change some of those extra verbs to nouns, but it made it more playful and interesting with them in. I like how some languages are very active and others quite passive, so we convert different kinds of words when we translate. Other languages have constructions that are very difficult to translate too, or the grammar comes out in the wrong order.

The mood of that vacuous feeling was there, and swapping "baloney" for "absurd" absolutely improves it a ton!


You are dead right. It was supposed to be called 'Beauty'.


A nice kind of bounded thought, feels sort of haiku-like. I like how specific the simile gets, although I must say I don't quite follow how the last time relates to time. The capitalization is an interesting touch too.

In motion, time and distance are in some sense measures of the same thing. In this case, I chose to trace the passage of time in the passage of water from the source to the sea. It's old code, but it checks out.

For context, I wrote it to accompany one of those social media "year challenges":

Ah, I kinda see what you mean. Maybe the theory has been mostly effaced by the poetic imagery, but it's somewhere behind it. It was that phrase "chasing the dream" that really stuck out, since it seems to imply a will, which I didn't associate with time. Perhaps that's you (or a speaker) coming into it. Funnily enough, the first time I saw your username, I also thought of geology and water, though I was reminded of sedimentation pockets, not sedition

Here's another of mine, which I wrote when I was getting interested in non-classic sonnets. The structure is made of a broken sonnet, plus an extra line, with the rhyme scheme muddled, which I think usually resulted in cooler stuff. Anyway, apologies to Osore, because it contains rugby references.

Angles

I wouldn't say there's a will behind time or water, but there's a singlemindedness to them both that resonates with me right now.

Weirdly enough, rock collecting is one of the many pokemons I've cycled through over the years.

After translating some words, I see it begins like someone is crushed on a pavement (although rugby is played on grass), than comes the S1 switch which I'm clueless about (it gives you more tonal options by offering extra pickup-wiring configurations ), and the rest is clearly about a commentator, who probably uses that switch to configure the sound, I guess. I'm horrible with electric techniques.
It sounds good to my ears, it's not forced or overdone, but the theme is light years away from my planet (I'm currently eating ice cream on Europa/Jupiter II ).

Thanks! I'm afraid I wasn't evoking any owls there, but I can picture them in my mental map of that imaginary place. There's a wood with hoarfrost on naked, black branches; night falls. There's a small clearing, and you walk there. You hear strange whispers and sounds among the branches, and fireworks suddenly break the eerie silence. Perhaps you see spectres: strange, shapeless white lights or shadows. Or is it just a fog in the moonlight?
I'm obsessed with this image of ghosts dancing in the woods, but I don't mention it explicitly, partly because it's purely fantastical.
To go back to the owls. They have soundless feathers; one time an owl flew right above my head at night and I was captivated by its bright and mute appearance. It might have been the same owl that had a nest on a tree in front of my house and used to distract me when I was studying by the window. One time two magpies were flying around her, making unfriendly sounds, and she was just sitting there trying to protect herself (and possibly her eggs or young ones) with wings. The other time I saw her swinging on a branch from left to right on a windy and rainy day, saying: ''Hoo, hoo!'' which I perfectly understood. The saddest story is when I found her eggs crashed below the tree, and later a dead young owl. She left the nest after that and never came back.

To compensate for telling stories rather than sharing poems, here's a prose poem I translated just to show its chaotic complexity. I won't reveal the theme (which is psycho-philosophical). I'll just say my intention was to paint the sky colours using sounds (which are lost in translation). Pretentious, I know.
The picture seen in the spoiler was made from the photograph I took and covered with fragments from Puzzle (words in Cyrillic).

Well here goes, both of these were written about two years ago, shortly after I was released from hospital. Posted here in order of appearance.

An actual dream, so this was written minutes after waking up:



And this one was written quickly as well, coming from a not so happy place, in a post-illness haze:



And this one I wouldn't really call a poem, just a random thought that rhymes, written for funs sake:

Weird that I became pretty sure there was an owl being described in that section "Rustle was incautiously passing...As if something was hiding". Again, I thought I could see its eyes gazing glassily around during the "dry blinks". I quite like that experience when writing gives the reader a totally different - but still very clear - image compared to what the writer intended. Poetry does that more than prose because of its condensed nature, though I've seen it with both.


Well, the note you gave afterwards definitely changed the perspective, because the initial idea (pretentiously describing the sky with sounds) feels a bit content-less compared to that specific imagery you gave with the flesh confetti. As usual, there's a lot going on, most of which has that uncanny feeling, like it's being translated through the mind of someone mentally ill. I know the first time I saw that, I tried to correct your grammar but now I quite like the blurriness it gives everything, feeling the language like viewing the world without wearing glasses. Two little snippets stand out particularly for me: "Zestful palletes, paste me vanilla with resin" is a crazy cool line that I will take to the grave, and thanks also for teaching me a synonym for 'airship' in 'dirigible'.


Hence why I apologized for the rugby stuff. An S1 switch has nothing to do with electrical wiring, it's a passing move where one player deliberately runs diagonally in front of a teammate, transferring the ball as he does so. It changes the direction of attack instantly, which is why it's known as a switch. The 'centres' referred to are two adjacent positions on a rugby team, who are usually the ones using switch techniques or defending against them, so their "static geometry" refers to the defense being unprepared for the change of angle.

In fact, the whole poem is a meditation on angles in general and not specifically rugby playing, since even what the commentator does while talking ("recalibrates microphone and throat") is a kind of realigning and shifting of angles, as is his metaphor about opening biscuits. I wrote this during a period when I obsessed a lot about architecture, gaps, and spaces; I would usually imagine lines in my head like a kind of graphic drawing, some of which were sane (the line of a beam of light coming down from halogen floodlights onto a pitch) and some of which were not (the lines that shoulder blades make down into the pavement when you're walking). The poem is a stream of thought that starts with a memory of following cracks in a pavement, then the gritty texture of concrete reminding me of the artificial pitch in the sports centre where I worked, then the imagined game on that pitch, then the commentator of that game, and finally a summary thought.


That kind of writing really appeals to me, because it's a continual flow of thought that operates through (personal) logical connections. It's not like stream of consciousness, it's more a stream of logic. Most of the poems I wrote in that style were after I stole the technique wholesale from Ciaran Carson. I think I mentioned him earlier in the thread, but I want to share another of his poems to explain what I mean about the stream of logic. Also, I'm not writing much these days.

Snow

I can tell that the dream struck you very hard, because you've captured its poignancy even in simple words. The simplicity gives it a better kick in my opinion, and maybe you could even go further and start removing more things from it. For instance, don't tell us it's a dream, don't separate the 'I' and the 'we'; I think it would be powerful if you left it as this weird shared experience from an unknown speaker. Anyway, a very cool idea, and it must have been a weird feeling to dream as well.


Yeah, this one has some more grit to it and ends strongly with those two 'I will' phrases. The feeling at first is like contemplating giving up: weakened, exhausted, and dispirited; then it transforms very suddenly, although without any apparent reason. I'm not a big fan of poems with such regular rhyme as this, especially when the lines are so short, but the fact that the first verse skews that system makes it less predictable and generally sound better. Perhaps it would be interesting to only keep that definite rhyme in the final, strong verse, using the scattered rhyme in the two verses that are weak and uncertain.


Is that 'pictures'? It doesn't make total sense, just leaves itself open to interpretation, which is a nice way of doing things. Makes me appreciate very short poems again, sometimes shorter is better.

Please feel free to post more, and to comment on some of the other poems in here. We are all just doing things on a low-key basis

Thanks for the input, gasmask, I like those suggestions! The first one was pretty easy to implement.

I rarely dream, and rarely something that makes sense, but after that one I remember waking up with a deep sense of calmness. Like everything is gonna turn out alright in the end and there is nothing to worry about. Ever. So, it's pretty close to heart and actually didn't feel weird at all! Wish I had more dreams like that.



Honestly, me neither haha. It feels like it just gets in the way, but this one for some reason almost naturally came in rhymes, so I left it like that.

Looking back, I'd say that one came from a place of anger more than anything.



Nah, it's definitely singular I was just playing with the idea of some sort of universal, transcendental, all-encompassing (permeating?) truth (if there ever was one), recognized within ourselves. Some sort of grand design of simple form, macrocosm and microcosm and all that jazz.



Will try my best

Enjoying some of the poems recently posted - wish I had something interesting or useful to say.

As an aside, has anyone boarded the Instagram poetry train with their work?

That's cool to know that you're still reading. Really, however minor you think your comment will be, feel free to share; it can give a wider perspective on things and might be relevant feedback. Even if it's just things you like and dislike, that would make this thread more interesting There aren't many people posting here.

Living in a country without a proper connection to Instagram, I didn't even really know that Ins poetry was taking off. What's going on with that?

lightning strikes the church
blood spattered on empty pews
sathanas prevails

I think my favourite is the second poem. Being in a hospital must have been horrible, but the mere fact that you re-energised yourself in order to write says a lot about your recovery (I don't believe people can write when they are physically exhausted). You might be interested in Mallarme's poem Windows I shared few pages back: https://forum.metal-archives.com/viewtopic.php?p=2843956#p2843956; it's set in a hospital and has a very powerful atmosphere.

Associations served its purpose, and I think that's great. I was thinking about glassy blinks of hoarfrost and water droplets moved slowly by the wind under the moonlight, but you saw owl's eyes, which is equally worthy. It would be interesting if a group of painters tried to illustrate Imprints. I would love to compare pictures at the end.

Professional translator would have done a much better job I think. However, I overdone with this schizophrenic post-modernism, that is fragmentary, deconstructed, formless, just like air (sky) and flesh confetti. In my later works, I slowed down with multiple voices and numerous inversions, so it's closer to Imprints.
We can't escape from French - dirižabl is a word in Serbian, but we also use cepelin. It's a shame they are not used in commercial flights, even though their safety is improved.
Thanks for explaining Angles. Now I have an idea of trying a cubist manner in describing shapes. Weird perspectives, come to me.

Despite of having troubles translating words and thus cutting a poem in my mind, I grasped almost a melancholic feeling from it at the end. Listening to Karg's Dornenvögel album adds to this effect. ^-^

If you have any impressions, we would love to hear them. ^-^
I don't know if there's such a trend on Instagram because I don't have an account there. My friend occasionally shares works from my blog on her Instagram stories though, which I'm very grateful for.

More satanic (haiku) poems, please!

Haha that's an interesting format for satanic verse(s)! Here's my reply:

Flame-riven beams charred
by indissoluble hate;
a new world aglow.

Hey, guys, long time no read.

I'm not going to beat around the bush, I'll just cut to the chase.

Seven Years of Twilight

Bending shadow
With its translucent grin
Swings the clock of eternity

Sweet chords of the night
Sing together out of tune
And bless me with a song of reality

How will the children remember
The sight of their father's grave
When a fog of blood is underway?

I am to follow my tears torn asunder
And create heavens from this bedlam
Cradle it until its gaze stops cutting flesh

Toxic moons in an arboreal bed
They mean nothing to universe's eyes
But their spectres create another melody

Seven years of twilight
Perpetual kisses between night and day
I witness them growing more passionate with time