Of all the arts, poetry is the one that most people consider a sin of their youth. Something you write and never show to anyone. Well I say to hell with that. I’m sure some of you also write poetry as well as taking pictures, making music and all the rest. So, here’s a couple of my poems to get the ball rolling, I’d love to see what other people are up to.


No doubt she told him the familiar lies
Women tell men to stop them brooding: spoke
Of honour, glory and the courage
Only battle proves. Perhaps too she knew
The pulse that urged him to that erotic shore
To be the same that in an earlier time
Had opened her body to his passionate exploration.
That season over, another had begun:
It would have been foolish to oppose the change.

Nothing did she know of heroes, nor wish to:
The invulnerable boy and his besotted clan
Of killers, the vulgar giant pushing forward
In the fray, the reckless king made mad
By the betrayal not of love, but of its contract.

The ten year fight on the beach before the city
Was for poets she would never read to write about,
Herself a note at most in a line that few
Would remember: the hero also had a wife.
She stayed behind to bring up children, tell them
The imagined deeds of their virtuous dad:
He was cunning, unfailing with the bow,
And he never let down a friend.


Birds she loved, loved them perhaps
Because they demanded nothing of her,
A contact always fleeting, glimpsed
Through leaves or disappearing overhead.

Once she gripped me hard by the elbow
At the sight of a koel in a tamarind tree.
Such single-minded delight can be forbidding.

Birds I remember, massing in migratory clouds
Off the African coast, circling slowly upwards
South of the red city towards the High Atlas.
I never cared to know their names.


When you set out from your doorstep
And turn down the road away from the village
Do not ask the way from the people leaning on their gateposts
Or cutting the grass in front of their cottages.
Turn your face towards the low hills in the distance
And leave the sound of home behind you.

If it comes on to rain, you will find a tree
To wait under until the storm has passed,
And if there are no trees nearby, you will hunch your shoulders
And feel the rain on your face as you walk.
At the end of the first day of your journey
The gathering dusk will take you by surprise
In a narrow place where the hills grow steeper;
You will walk on by night and see the moon
Keeping pace with you through the branches of the trees.

The next morning you will come to a village
Different from your own and yet not different at all.
You will recognise the people, although you do not know them,
And they in turn will recognise you.
They will offer you work and lodging;
You will leave the place before nightfall.

Keep walking and in five days you will come to the city,
Its proud towers raised high above its wall.
People will be going in and out of its many gates,
Jostling you and offering you their wares.
A girl will try to drag you into an alley.
Let no-one turn you aside.

Enter by the great gate and go at once
To the square in front of the cathedral.
Do not be distracted by the pimps and touts,
Or the young women at the market stalls.
Look up at the stones and remember that the man who set them there
Came from a village no different from your own,
That he too walked under the rain and through the woods at night,
And left every village he passed through
To come to this very place.

You will look around you and see that you recognise no-one.
You will know that you have arrived.


Looks like I’m the only one then. I’m surprised.

It might be the subject:

Definition of pome. : a fleshy fruit (as an apple or pear) consisting of an outer thickened fleshy layer and a central core with usually five seeds enclosed in a capsule.


1 Like

Ha! I’ll have to put that in a pome.



i think they’ve both diagnosed the problem

1 Like

Not my own poetry but a friends that I added some sounds to.

1 Like

Here we are again, my friends,

The end of civilisation ceases as our shift commences,

We bend our physical needs

And spend the day on our knees,

Surrendered to degrees of contentment,

Can’t see the truth for resentment,

Can’t see the wood for the trees,

And can’t see the dog for fleas,

As they suck the life from the free.

And we seize the day for corporations,

That feast on slaves as their reputation,

Only grows.

The people will overthrow,

The hand that feeds,

But this just leads,

To another leader’s greed,

As the seeds of every revolution,

Contain the elements for it’s dissolution:





And the words of workers to lazy to act,

Too bloated to crack,

Too lacking in backbone,

To reach for the throne with a knife,

And not replace the life of the previous monarch,

With perpetuated strife,

As they raise the sceptre that once ruled them,

And use it to control who were once their friends,

Your will will bend one way or another,

Your freedom will be smothered,

Be it through aspiration or perspiration,

The revelation of our human nature will come to all,

But few will act and fewer still fall,

Into the grace of concluding,

It shouldn’t be their face colluding from a postage stamp,

It shouldn’t be them ruling as armies camp,

In fear and stamp out any near freedom humanity holds dear.

Here we are again, my friends.

The end is near.


: ] -ha… some nice rhymes and images in that one… ( " nice " : / wtf ) cool, perhaps… words words words… and analogies fail me just now.
scannings a bit out in places… though that quite often works well anyway…
are these words lyrics or penned in that light …?

-could almost be a jello intro -or an election pitch… -no offence intended. they’re good.
thanks for sharing them here.

disquieting that… more so as doubtless its true to some extent. Never really played games that much… though I recall having dreams governed by drop-down menus at one stage… The virtualisation of play and the intrigue / allure that computers have with the young is something I try to be really conscious of with my own little girl… ( just now five : ] ) It’s not net bad per-se… just uncharted waters… I’d hate to see screen time eclipse sunshine as her preferred way to spend an afternoon… anyway thats another topic… don’t want to derail… -simply some troubling thoughts that struck a chord…

reading trigger warning and fragile things by Neil Gaiman ( highly recommend ) and seeing this thread today has inspired me to attempt writing things down again…
legibly even.


Nice - keep 'em coming.

Scanning is for losers.

point taken, note to self: think twice cut once. -should have re read my own post.
don’t want to derail it by being a goose.

Here are some that I wrote when I was around 15.


Vibrant green trees
protruding from perspective,
shape hand signs
crying out towards the heavens.

While metal caskets
race by.
In search of monuments
to honor, with palms
around paper prayers.


When we meet
I will be
at how we stop to
shed our skins,
putting aside worlds
to embrace
this connection.
Not to address
but simply to know,
that the rest of existence
sits in twilight.
While two realms
forming one.


Everyone is dead.
Mothers are dead.
Fathers are dead.
Sisters and brothers,
the unborn child is dead
Time made transparent
through the snapshot
of a life.

Past becoming
present becoming
The here
was then, is now
and will be,
all drumming together
in synchronous rhythm.
The heart of the universe
never missing a beat.


The world dangles on a string,
just out of reach.
With fingertips
beams of light,
as they radiate

Not for the weary,
left to watch, with
boiled down souls
and envious rage.
As black crows circle
over head.


We dive headfirst
with lust on our minds
but thorns
in our hearts.
Flesh interlocking flesh,
to bury intangible ghosts emerging
from overturned graves.

Swept up in a brilliant
moment of ecstasy,
and left blinded
unable to see
the sparks spreading,
until fire
singes our feet.

-The overpass.

We sat in silence.
Watching the cars roll by.
Wanting to spill my guts,
but knowing
that this moment,
whether spent confessing our love
or exchanged in
verse of malicious hate
was worth more
than whatever awkward lines could
fumble out our mouths.
And that was enough.
That walk through the streets
in beautiful harmony,
side by side
was enough,
and I thank you.


I was alone.
When I heard a voice
speak my name.
Warm and lush,
coating my mind
with a fresh morning dew,
that saturated the senses.
In my name
it spoke
of such pain and woe
that would tear out my heart
and send it cascading down
into a pit of hell fire.

But there was something else.
An epic of majesty,
love, and triumph.
And a hope,
that flung wide
the doors of my mind,
opening my eyes to a magnificence
that would bring the titans
falling to their knees.

Then as soon as it came,
It was gone.
Left with a ringing silence,
that made my soul plead
for this omniscient being to speak again
leading me back
to a foreign,
yet familiar place.

Hope you enjoy them.



Dig down, brother, deep and until
The tempered edge hits hard
Against some uncommon thing,
New or old it matters not,
But yours to lift into the light
And turn from side to side.

Shake off the dirt and consider
Its dull surface: pocked or smooth,
Eroded by the years below
Or glinting full of promise.
Does it weigh heavy, or like some
Hollow tuber dragged up into air?

Raise the unearthed burden to the sky
And ask what news from underground?
What brings it up into the world above
Of the long tenuous thoughts of roots
And worms? How feels the wind
Now, fresh against its unburied skin?

You only feel and know, it says;
Those who push their long forms
Through the heavy soil have no
Words for those above. The wind
And rain are yours alone.
Return me to the dark.


Crow of many epithets, bastard thief not least among them:
I saw him this morning stalking the footpath.
Ten year old Laxmi watched with sleepy eyes
Swivelling in her face like plastic beads.

Sarcastic Crow: O goddess give me wealth.
O goddess of the street make me rich!
My feathers are black, my beak is black, my voice –
My voice is blacker than the rest. O goddess
Give me what is mine by right, give me wealth!

Goddess Laxmi stirred her foot, cracked and grimy.
She understands the speech of avians no doubt.
Bastard Crow, most ignoble and arrogant of birds,
Go back to your nest of rags stolen from the poor.
Nothing is yours by right save what your foot can compass.
Your wings are black, your beak is strong and sharp, your voice
Discordant as the horns of many taxis.
Force stealth and cunning – these are your rights.
O Crow go back to your nest!

Thus Laxmi, falling back against the footpath wall.
For my part, I settled to read the paper:
One should not eavesdrop on the arguments of gods.

Suddenly I heard his wings pass overhead.

I wrote this last poem (as well as Two Continents) while working on a documentary in Bombay. Every morning I’d go to have a coffee and pastry at the Barista’s on the sea front at Bandra, smoke cheap cigarettes and write poetry while the humid air heated up for the day, before picking up the rest of the crew and getting to it. Laxmi is the Hindu goddess of wealth.

1 Like

I like them. Very much a young man’s poems, but there’s nothing wrong with that. After all, 99% of the poems ever written have been written by teenagers! I particularly enjoyed Someday.


Never really wandered into the land poetry, but hey add music and 1 +1 = 5.
Just last week stumbled onto the amazing work of Poet C Bok and his 5 chapters written with jus one vowel in each -Eunoia. Freak’n amazing, be cool if someone put music to that.

I dig this thread as I’m à poet. So it’s not a sin of my youth, it’s the sin of my present. :blush:
Big up to all ya poets!


Well don’t be shy!


Paolo I sing, the many-minded man,
Who loved all things new, including
The many parts of bicycles, wooden
Toys from Germany, the autumn hills.

One day he walked up from the road
Scratched with torn his red canvas trousers
To give me a handful of brambles,
Taking shyly in return away one green fig.

Also he loved I think the badly-married
Manager of his hotel (who found him
Next to the bed, the window open cold).
She came for English lessons; wept.

E’ morto Paolo - after the grey
Empty room, on the way back we drank
Not a few. The road took the car away
And I walked up to the house alone.

1 Like

Haven’t written anything yet, but have any of you read Frank Stanford or any of the third man books? Main reasons I’m going to start writing

Also really enjoy what’s been posted here so far, keep em coming!

art. poetry. photography.
digital mail art >plz flip it to your clique

1 Like


lo máximo
the severe limitations
of one human lifetime
heart pulled out
standing up