The Campaign Builder's Guild

Nice.  I like how it moves progressively further and further from the monotonous sing-song of so many poems.  It really got interesting when you changed it up from dull rhymed couplets to AAB CCB and AABBA.  Then in Saving Grace there really wasn't a rhyme scheme at all.  Not till the end, at least.  There was rhyme in a sense, but the rhyme for one line would be in the middle of another.  
It also gets progressively more intenst and evocative.  It starts with the cliche, which works quite well to get the reader into the poetry mood, then you hit us over the head with truly inspired literary creativity.

"Truly inspired literary creativity", eh?  I like that.

I think that in poetry the rythm and metre are as important as the content.  In terms of imagrey, Darkness and Dutifully Yours are my favourites, but they are also the dullest metrically.  Shadow Puppets and Saving Grace are much more dynamic, but their content isn't quite as colourful.

With time, hopefully I'll learn to maximise both elements.

I'll be sure to read this again when there aren't a bunch of loud, drunk freshmen in the other room. It does look promising thus far.

Wow. This stuff is great! I love shadow puppets, but my favorite is saving grace. I particularly like the verse that begins with "Not" Even though it's inconsistant.

Ah... returning to sanity and sobriety 'round these parts.
Shadow Puppets is by far my favorite.

Wow! Nicely done. If never really had the nack for poetry myself, but i do love it.
Go Go Gadget Iambic Pentameter, man.
Darkness
Makes the Heart Grow Fonder
As you said, the the most classic and well known rhythm, but it's something known and familiar that helps  to put people into a poetry mood. It also has some very potent imagery in it. The last stanza is my favourite. Also, kudos for using the word gibbous (i love that word so much).

Dutifully Yours
Slightly less standard pacing. It's good, but it doesn't have the amazing imagery of Darkness, or the interesting pacing of the later ones.

Shadow Puppets
This is my favoirite one. A much more interesting rhythm than the earlier ones, IMO, and really good images. This one is very good (the 3rd part especially, when it changes rhythm).

Hate Me Softly
This one is cool, but in a very differnt style. The pacing almost makes me think of like an old chant or a dirge or something (can't remembr the word for a kind of norse tales, but like that. Anyone know tha word i'm thinking of?)

Saving Grace
Finnaly, the broken up timing poetry. These i haveboth the hardest time writing and reading, but i have so much respect for anyone who can do thes well. You're defenitely on your way there i my opinion, but these are some of the hardest to do since you don't have as much already done stuff to guide you (iambic pentameter aren't too hard, but with this you're flying blind).

Well done sir, i salute you.
 :rambo:  :rambo:  :rambo:  :rambo:  :rambo:  :rambo:  :rambo:  :rambo:  :rambo:  :rambo:

It's interesting that Shadow Puppets seems to be the general favourite; I personally like it the least out of the five.  It's a great poem, but it's just too... bouncy.  I wrote it because I had the rythm stuck in my head and I needed to put it to paper, but it's not the kind of poetry I generally like to write.

I too like Shadow Puppets very much, so much that I'd like to make up some music to it. :)

By all means, go ahead.

My goal is to write a "poetic epic", in the tradition of Milton and Homer with a Lewis Carrol edge, based on my setting Concordance.  I figure, short stories based on settings are all well and good, but why not try something a little different?  It's a bold endeavour, but I feel up to the task.

Actually, let me rescind earlier statements concerning Shadow Puppets.  I put the poem to music (just in my head), and it suddenly sounded a whole lot better.

I wrote this for an english assignment in grade 10, so it's no literary masterpiece.  I know it ain't a poem, but...

Anyhoo, enjoy.

The shopkeeper is a fat man.  Not terribly so, but enough that his pink paunch spills over his trousers and hugs his sweaty tunic tight against his chest.  His navel peeks out from beneath the fabric, and his gut jiggles slightly as he takes a startled step backwards, a pistol aimed squarely at his chubby face.  He doesnâ,¬,,¢t know exactly what Iâ,¬,,¢m pointing at him â,¬' Iâ,¬,,¢d wager a hundred to one heâ,¬,,¢s never seen a gun in his life â,¬' but I think he gets the general gist.

â,¬Å"Donâ,¬,,¢t move old son, or tragic things are gonna happen to that pretty face.â,¬Â  Before my boys and I had kicked our way into this dusty convenience store and stirred this chunky bastard from his languid stupor, I wonder what sorry cogitations were working their greasy way through his thick skull.  I doubt he could have conceived this, not out here, so far away from anything worth more than a squirt of hog-piss.  Neverthelessâ,¬Â¦

Iâ,¬,,¢m now giving the fat man a series of instructions, and the chunky sumbitch is taking his sweet time carrying them out.  His stupefied wife blubs quietly in the corner while he plays it cool and itâ,¬,,¢s pissing me off.  He eventually completes his task and hands the hefty sack of dosh to me over the counter. Heâ,¬,,¢s still calm, but I can tell heâ,¬,,¢s seething inside.

I grin, and raise the pistol away from his face.  Ã¢,¬Å"No harm, old son.  Weâ,¬,,¢ll be off then.  Boys!â,¬Â  The others finish rummaging through the chubberâ,¬,,¢s wares and ready themselves to leave.

But he mutters something then â,¬' sounds like â,¬Ëbarbariansâ,¬,,¢ â,¬' and I lose it.  Ã¢,¬Å"Is that so, you pretentious, shit-stained, grit-sucking fuck?  Well, you know what you are?â,¬Â  The pistol is once more trained on his pinched in, smug little face.  Ã¢,¬Å"Youâ,¬,,¢re dead, dead, dead!â,¬Â  Three perfect shots resound through the cramped store, complementing my frustrated shout and launching a deluge of crimson gore from his skull.  To my glee some of it spatters on his wifeâ,¬,,¢s dainty floral dress, and she screams.

This is shaping up to be a pleasant afternoon.
____

We are the Sunrazers: hellions, marauders and mercenaries, tearing across somnolent vistas with a foul stink and a raucous hell following close behind.  We arenâ,¬,,¢t for or against society â,¬' weâ,¬,,¢ve traded the fierce antipathy of our youth for the delightfully brutal ambivalence of experience.  We ride our howling motorknives on the malignant winds of chance, and eke out our wild existence beneath a cruel and unforgiving sun on a famined world where each morning brings only the promise of blood, sweat and the squeals of more ungrateful dead.

As we race across the desert a siren accosts our ears like the shrill cry of some dying beast, and I turn in my seat to send a cursory glance behind.  Itâ,¬,,¢s a lawman; I canâ,¬,,¢t see him yet, but the blaring blue light that cuts through the desert haze in the distance is a dead giveaway, if that god-awful siren wasnâ,¬,,¢t evidence enough.

Orric calls to me over the roar of our motors: â,¬Å"Ready to coast it?â,¬Â

I shake my head, and a fierce excitement stirs in my innards.  Thereâ,¬,,¢s no way Iâ,¬,,¢ll pass this up.  My companion curses in frustration but jerks his motorknife into high gear nonetheless, racing ahead as I veer sharply to the right.  Itâ,¬,,¢s a delicate balancing act keeping the damned vehicle upright as its tail whips around quickly to bring me facing backwards.  The motor dies for a second, and then purrs again.

I wait a moment as the lawman speeds into view.  His own ride is similar to my own, but not as sleek.  A wavering streak of desert sand rises and churns behind him, and as he draws closer the maddening ululation of the demon-spawned siren grows into a deafening cacophony, until suddenly that harsh cry becomes a voice.

â,¬Å"You are under arrest!â,¬Â

I give the engine a good rev, drawing my pistol from its holster with my free hand.  I laugh, spit, and take steady aim.  Ã¢,¬Å"And you know what you are?â,¬Â

Three perfect shots resound throughout the barren plain.

Ah, there are few things as satisfying as having an entire poetic work in progress deleted, then remembering it verbatim.  All is well, and the epic continues!

Nice. Can't wait to see the final result. Must be good, if you know it by head. ;)

Túrin

I started this last year, but only finished it this week.  I wrote it for my girlfirend, but we broke up and she never saw it...

Ah, well.  At least you guys will.

hey... I liked the dooty one. Really, I did.

Beautiful.  I am humbled by thine eloquence.  Your use of allusion in "When I Fall" is just brilliant.  

Thanks.  It was actually the easiest to write of all of them, thanks to the free verse, and it currently stands as my favourite.

Isn't Free Verse wonderful?  And my condolences as to your girlfriend.  That put's us in pretty much the same place right now doesn't it?  Sometimes I wish my ex could see some of what I wrote about her.  But alas for all the bitter ironies of love and life!

I'm at least lucky in that when she discovered I had secretly written poetry about her, she requested to read it.  So I mailed it to her yesterday.  Won't do anything to mend what was broken, but hopefully it will help her at least realise that she was loved - dearly loved - and I wasn't in it for the ass...

Well, not only for the ass.

Quote from: Machinegun PoliticsI'm at least lucky in that when she discovered I had secretly written poetry about her, she requested to read it.  So I mailed it to her yesterday.  Won't do anything to mend what was broken, but hopefully it will help her at least realise that she was loved - dearly loved - and I wasn't in it for the ass...

Well, not only for the ass.

Shame on you.   ;) "ass" should not even be a factor.  I dislike that term, in any case.  It's so ugly.  unbefitting a poet such as yourself.  Still I understand what you mean.  

Irony, my good friend.  Irony.  In juxtaposition to the beauty of the poetry, the word appears all the more disgusting.

It's the same as the way I intersperse my more intelligent dialogue in casual conversation with ugly "ghetto" colloquialisms.  By comparing my standard speech with nigga-speak, people realise just how atypical a black man I am.  It's difficult transcending the stereotype, so sometimes it's good to satirise it.

Gotcha.  "how atypical a black man," you say, so you're Black then?

That I am.  Born in America but raised in Oz.  Virtually all my friends are white, so I can't really relate to other members of "my kind".

We're all humans.  That's "kind" enough for me.  Here on the CBG we're all gaming geeks, that's "kind" enough too.  You aren't given "your kind," you take it.  That would make a great poem. . .

Quote from: Machinegun PoliticsThat I am.  Born in America but raised in Oz.  Virtually all my friends are white, so I can't really relate to other members of "my kind".

you're not the only one. my race is human, and i have a hard time relating to other members of "my kind", too.

oh, and i agree that freeverse is a wonderful thing. wonderful, in that, it's the only form of poetry i can comfortably work with.

Nuttin' wrong with that, so long as you're good ate free verse.

whats the level of quality required for your definition of "good"?

i'm not incredible or anything, but i'm sure i could be worse...

I guess that'll have to do...

Farbeit from me to call myself the final arbitrator of poetic quality.  Damned artistic subjectivity.  Makes it damned hard to be elitist...

Hooray for panic attacks!

Good job, man!

(btw, jk about the hooray for panic attacks... I've had them and they suck)

Quote from: Salacious AngelAll scents and aounds are yours

sounds? :)
nice job, although i am a little confused on the...well i dont know how to describe it so nevermind
otherwise nice, I have to get te courage to post some stuff but i'm not sure how well i write free verse (the current style of my diminuitive amount of prose)
do you always get inspiration from panic attacks? i think best when im exhausted and its dark. idk why. lol

Haha.  Yes, typo...

I get inspiration from a whole lot of stuff, but most often when I'm in some state of misery.  But rather than express my own situation (which I don't consider warrants real melancholic prose) I channel it into fictive literary constructs.

I think that little piece was about someone setting out to destroy all evidence of their lover's presence (the reminder pains them), and in the end destroys either the actual lover or the love they hold for them.  I think that's what it is... but interpret as you please.

And don't hesitate to post your own work.  We are a warm and receptive bunch.