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Found 19 results

  1. ketek

    This thread will be dedicated to the holy Vorin poetry form, a ketek. They must read the same forward and backward, but you can alter verb forms. Please promote this thread, because there isn't much about the ketek on this site, and I love this poetry so much, so let's try and fill this to the brim. Make keteks about life experiences, characters, or anything. My ketek below is about forgiveness.
  2. Post Your Cosmere Haiku here!! Have fun!! Blood mist stirs up lust. Stone demon of ebony smoke. Enemy ended by the book. Booming winds blow quick. A glow stands guard over the weak. Hello giant face in the sky. She looked into the dark. Light drives a corrupt beast. Unmade be gone from here.
  3. I'm only going to post a few to start with, until I know that this is not going to fail epically, but I love to write poetry, (and the only thread I see as yet is solely keteks, which are fun but not my main focus) and I always want feedback - the problem being that I rarely have a chance to ask people I know in real life for that feedback. Assuming I get a response, I'll post more - and be happy to give constructive feedback on other people's poetry as well. None of these are actually all that typical of my style - but I like them all the more for it. The first two was me attempting a contemporary style, but I'm not too sure how it turned out. The last one was me trying to write traditional but not straight rhyming like I usually do. I've written something like 400 poems total - I've been carrying a notebook everywhere since eighth grade. Hah. I like to think I'm pretty decent - opinions?
  4. I'm writing a series of Shakespearean sonnets derived from the powers and personalities of the 16 shards. Check them out!
  5. As we are all book lovers here, I thought many of you would enjoy a poem I wrote today that I'm calling "A Dusty Old Tome". It's supposed to be a prose poem, so don't tell me about the lack of stanzas. Here goes: Watch as the traveller pushes through the heavy oak doors into the portal of brick walls and hardwood floors. A labyrinth of leather-bound books line the walls, lamenting their isolation, waiting and wishing the traveller be tricked into selecting their stories. But despite that, waiting patiently with a hush one could feel more than hear. The reader can sense some sort of reverence in the respectful silence permeating the library. In counterpoint, familiar already-read tales shout in recognition to the traveller, who marvels that no one can hear them but he. Beams of sunlight cascade through the skylight, pointing out hovering motes of dust that tickle the traveller’s nose. The dust in the air swirls like magical pixie powder as the traveller passes slowly through the sunbeams. Slowly, so he can read the spines of the dusty tomes sitting on their tightly packed shelves. Titles glitter in gold and silver on the spines of black or brown books, mere glimpses into the secrets they hold. The traveller selects a candidate, on a shelf almost too high for his reach. The worn book has known many a touch; its pages browned by age, its binding crackling at its opening. But the traveller is careful, ever so careful with the precious, fragile tome. The indescribable scent of ancient parchment wafts to the traveller’s nose: Musty, dusty, and lackluster, but somehow hinting and wonder. And the thin papers smooth to the brush of his fingertips, possessing grit ever so fine. Black-inked words stand stark on the off-white pages, but its story is more than just words. The traveller is already smitten; the reader already in love. The jealously taciturn books unselected would have to wait until his next visit, the traveller remarks. He’d selected his journey for today, but soon he’d return for another. Let me know what you think! And thanks for reading!
  6. Listening to Leonard Cohen's "Anthem," I noticed that there were tons of connections to the Stormlight Archive. It even suggested a theory about what's to come! I know it's way off in tinfoil-land but still, I thought I'd put it together. See the lyrics below, followed by analysis: Ok, we're not off to a great start. Are there even any birds in Roshar? But just replace birds with Wind Spren! They don't dwell on what has passed away or what has yet to be, they just enjoy the moment. This is obviously about the desolation. The wars have literally been fought again and again. This is my favorite part - this is clearly about the Radiants. The crack in their soul lets them bond the spren and then literally lets Stormlight in! Szeth, Nan, Taravangian and others saw the signs that the Radiants were coming back. And the Holy birth of Jesus wasn't betrayed, but the Holy Oathpact sure was. Then, after Taravangian saw the signs, he had Szeth widow a lot of governments. This is all about Rlain (and hopefully Eshonai). They can't run anymore with the lawless Parshendi who have become killers singing their prayers to Odium and his spren, who have literally have summoned up the thundercloud to end all thunderclouds!!! I hope Eshonai manages to stop running with that lawless crowd. Dalinar is trying to strike up the march against Odium. But there's no drum - few are joining him or even believing him. The last line about love has no obvious connection that I can see. But it got me thinking. If Odium is the Divine Hatred Shard, shouldn't there also be a Divine Love Shard? I mean, how could Brandon not have a Shard representing Adonalsium's Love? And might Odium hate that Shard above all others? Might that Shard be fleeing the hatred, and perhaps at some point come into men's hearts as a refugee? I admit I don't know of any evidence for this, so it's pure tinfoil, but I mean, it just feels like there has to be a Love Shard, right? Ok, that's it. Thanks for reading and let me know what you think. I saw a previous post about this (link below), but I wanted to start a new post because I wanted to explore it more deeply.
  7. Hello all. I am an author, playwright , poet, and an avid reader. Brandon's works have made me far better in my writing and analysis of the world. I look forward to delving even deeper into his worlds.
  8. poetry

    I have begun to attempt to write verse; enjoy. Please. Here is a little thing I wrote over the past hour or so: In this, I attempt to deal with loss, but not in a way that is sympathetic or empowering or anything, because none of those are accurate, but the real sense of hollowness that loss can set in motion. I'm aware that it is entirely too emo and I apologize, but I digress. If you wanna post any poetry, feel free. I'll keep trying my hand at verse, arm yourself with kittens and happiness. And antidepressants.
  9. Three years later, a new girl sits cross-legged on your bed. She tastes like a different flavor of bubblegum than you are used to. She opens up a book that you had to read in high school, and a folded picture of us falls out of chapter three. Now there are two unfinished stories resting in her lap. Inevitably, she asks, and you tell her. You say: I dated her a while back. You don’t say: Sometimes, when I’m holding you, I imagine the smell of her vanilla perfume. You say: She was younger than me. You don’t say: The sixteen summers in her bones warmed the eighteen winters my skin had weathered. You say: It’s nothing now. You don’t say: But it was everything then. http://caramel-in-her-coffee.tumblr.com/post/148679585316/untitled
  10. YOU DIDN’T WRITE ME LOVE POEMS, SO NOW I’M WRITING THEM FOR MYSELF. CAPITAL LETTERS ON MY HEADER SO PEOPLE KNOW I’M MAKING CHANGES YOU NEVER WOULD HAVE APPROVED OF. NO MORE SMALL VOICES HERE, I’M LAUGHING LOUD NOW, I’M SINGING WHERE OTHERS CAN HEAR ME, I’M PRETENDING THAT I’M ON STAGE BECAUSE MAYBE SHAKESPEARE KNOWS A LITTLE SOMETHING. YOU NEVER PUSHED MY HAIR BACK BEHIND MY EAR. YOU NEVER HELD ME GENTLY TO WAKE ME. YOU ONLY KISSED ME IF IT MEANT GETTING ME NAKED. YOU DIDN’T BUY ME CHOCOLATE. YOU NEVER DREW ME FLOWERS. WE WATCHED YOUR SHOWS AND LISTENED TO YOUR MUSIC AND ATE THE FOODS THAT YOU LOVED AND I TOLERATED. YOU NEVER HELD MY HAND LIKE YOU MEANT IT. WELL NOW I’M PUTTING IN EXTRA CONDITIONER AND LATHERING UP. I’M NOT WEARING MY HAIR LIKE I USED TO. I’M SOMEBODY ELSE NOW, AND I LOOK IT. MORNINGS ARE BLISS BECAUSE I RISE AND I MEAN IT. I KISS THE MIRROR BECAUSE I’M PRETTY AND PERFECT AND I DON’T NEED TO WAIT AROUND FOR YOU TO REMEMBER TO TELL ME IT, I KNOW IT. I DRAW MY OWN FLOWERS ON EVERYTHING I OWN, I BATHE IN THEM. I MARATHON SEASONS OF TELEVISION WITHOUT WORRYING THAT YOU’LL MISS SOMETHING. I LISTEN TO MY MUSIC SO LOUD THAT THE SPEAKERS START JUMPING. I EAT FOOD THAT FEELS GOOD AND I FEEL GOOD TO BE EATING. AND MY HANDS? THESE HANDS THAT HAVE SCOURED FLOORS AND YOUR SKIN AND HAVE HELD YOU AND HELD US TOGETHER AND PUSHED MYSELF INTO THE IDEA OF WHAT YOU WANTED AND SCRATCHED AND CLAWED AND NEVER TOOK ENOUGH? THESE HANDS ARE ATHENA. THESE HANDS ARE TEMPLE DOOR. THEY ARE WOLF ON THE PROWL. THESE HANDS DON’T NEED TO APOLOGIZE FOR WHERE THEY’VE BEEN, THEY KNOW AND THEY ARE HAPPY ABOUT IT. THESE HANDS COULD BUILD CITIES AND BURN DOWN ROME. THESE HANDS GROW GARDENS AND SEW WITH STEEL. THESE HANDS KNOW FIRE. THESE HANDS WRITE ME DESTINY, PAINT ME SKY, SWADDLE ME SLEEP. THESE HANDS ARE STRONG ENOUGH TO PULL ME TO SHORE. I AM FREE. I AM FREE. NO. I DON’T NEED YOU ANYMORE.
  11. Don’t fall for your best friend, even if cocoa is a really good color on you and her shea butter curls feel like silk in your hand. Don’t sleep in her bed, take her to breakfast, and carry the so what are? question under your tongue while you eat. You know what you are: I’m so glad we’re friends. Don’t make her laugh, because her silhouette will catch the moonlight as you sit hip-to-hip on the apartment roof— I see constellations. The Virgo will give you vertigo, will turn your vertical to horizontal on a mattress too small for two people, and the alcohol on her breath will turn to guilt on your lips will turn to choked morning laughter in the choked morning after, to choked mourning, after. Don’t fall for your best friend, because I love you becomes I love you becomes What are you saying? When you don’t have an answer, you’ll kiss goodbye on the cheek when your eyes can’t meet— you’ll bite your lower lip and wish it were hers. Don’t swallow your feelings with two Klonopin and half an Asprin as you sit in the parking lot, trying not to run back upstairs and ask, What are we? What do you mean? What are we? I’m so glad we’re friends.
  12. Are gods really gods if no one believes in them anymore? Zeus takes walks in the rain and tries to talk up joggers in central park. When they bolt, or only return his advances with polite smiles that look like fence posts too high for even him to jump, he sighs. He tells them he is a god, and his words echo back to him, accompanied by laughter. No one believes him He picks up his wife, who might be his sister in this time, in a beat up car with a beautiful flame job, Hera is a marriage counselor with peacock feather bags under her eyes, her advice falls on her own deaf ears as her jealous eyes roam over every girl they pass, and she is right to. She knows this. She has always known. Poseidon’s hands are rough and calloused, he raises cargo too heavy for a man his age, the young ones say. He laughs his fisherman’s laugh, all depths and riptide, because no one should be his age. He reminds himself he is one of the lucky ones, he gets to be around what he loves. He may not have his dominion any more, but salt water and sun still weather his face. Hades stalks the streets at night, women cross the street to avoid him, and he smiles with his needle-teeth, they are right to. This winter he is without a bride, and he still wants to usher souls into the afterlife, the pistol hangs heavy in his pocket, his tongue glints gold, the coin to pay his Charon, his most loyal employee. He brings knives to gunfights and guns to fistfights, he stands with his arms out like their new God, these fickle humans, he welcomes the bullets. He dares them to kill him. They try. Ares and Athena spit curses laced with whiskey from across dive bar floors, they are moving human pawns across a chessboard. They were strategists before they were gangsters, but it doesn’t matter now. Apollo sings in a nightclub, his crooning voice from a forgotten time. He has his sister’s blood under his fingernails, from stitching up wound after wound, Artemis forgets she is not invincible anymore. He sings about the moon and wonders where she is, picking a fight with some would-be rapist, maybe it’s Zeus. It’s probably Zeus. Again. Dionysus drinks away their shared pain, dealing LSD in dark alleyways, he whispers sweet promises and his followers believe him, he was human once and he can be again, like wine, he knew nothing so sweet could have lasted forever. Icarus sidles up to his side, asking if he’s got anything that can make you feel like you can fly. In this life, he is a junkie, and Daedalus watches with ancient, sad eyes. Icarus is melting and Dionysus is letting him. Hestia sits by the hearth and waits for her family to come home. And she listens while they all curse their immortality. She shakes her head slow and clicks her tongue, I know, my darlings, I know. Are gods really gods if no one believes in them anymore? Does it matter?
  13. Pestilence stalks the hospital corridors, frail and pallid as every other half-dead thing around him. He pours illness into the tiles and slathers it like paint across the stark white walls, wheezing a feeble laugh that would be sinister if it weren’t so decrepit. War haunts the law firms, pressed three-piece suit tailored to perfection. He is the reason for the palpable sting of separation— estates and history and children and love split right down the middle, as if along the crack of a broken heart. Famine curls up on a dirty sidewalk, dirt covering his sunken skin and a hole-filled blanket wrapped tightly around him. His heart beats to the rhythm of street drumming and spare change, ma’am? and the rattle of quarters in empty fast food cups. Death glides proudly through the cemeteries, drinking in the names on the headstones, the tears of the mourners, adding to his collection of eternal conclusions. He swallows grief like it’s an energy source, black and bitter and so, so heavy.
  14. i. when you fall in love with an angel, you must understand that there are things you will not understand. ii. when you first go to run your hands through his hair, his halo will slice your palm. and it will hurt. he will will mend it with the touch of one golden finger, and will leave so abruptly that he is gone almost before you blink. the last thing you see will be him standing in the doorway, a terrified expression on his face and blood in his hair. (later, he tells you that he didn’t realize how breakable humans could be. when he explains what it takes to make an angel bleed, you start to understand.) iii. ask him about the sky, about stars and suns and galaxies light years away, about how the universe looks like a blooming garden. do not ask about lucifer, because your angel will become a soldier before your eyes. do not, do not, do not ask about god. do not ask about rebellious older brothers and absentee fathers, do not infer about a war you know nothing of. iv. in a science class you are taking simply to get the credit, your teacher will be talking about quantum physics. she will call planets “celestial bodies” and suddenly you will only be able to think of the way his mouth curls in at the sides, of all the puckered scars that criss-cross his torso, of the graceful arch on the bottom of his foot. when the teacher calls on you and asks you if you are alright, you will flush an even deeper red. (at times it is lovely to be in love with an angel. but other times, it is not.) v. when you fight, it is like the world is ending. his anger conjures a thunderstorm, and soon the entire state is three inches deep in water. you shatter a picture frame. a bolt of lightening catches the house across the street on fire. you are screaming at the top of your lungs—something about duty, something about god—and there is a crash of thunder that shakes the house. the weathermen talk about the storm for days, and you change the channel. vi. then there are the times when he doesn’t visit for months on end, and when he finally comes back to you, he is not himself. there are new scars across his chest, and he does not speak. he sits with you in his arms for hours, his nose buried in your hair and his arms squeezed tight, so tight. he does not cry. you do not cry. you do not cry. vii. when you fall in love with an angel—oh, sweetheart. it’s too late to take it back now.
  15. there’s a cliff in town. you heard somewhere that someone jumped from it back in high school. no one talks about it. you woke up one day and you notice it where your front yard used to be. you’d never actually seen it before. but it’s there now. you tell your mother and tells you to pray. you tell your father and he asks you if you want to fishing. you mention it to friends and they change the subject. you want to ask strangers if they can hear that strange distant ringing too. you don’t want to leave the house anymore. not with this thing in your yard. you start thinking every room is dark with you inside of it. you don’t know if the cliff is moving closer to you or if you are moving closer to it. it doesn’t matter now anyway. coffee shakes without the coffee. who cares. you’re not sleeping anyway. you feel so clumsy. you don’t want to talk about it anymore. you woke up this morning and your feet are dangling over the edge. you can’t remember how you got here anymore. everything is in pieces. everything is rushing. everything is so very very still. you remember the how relieved someone is when they drop something and realize it wasn’t very important when it hits the ground. you wonder if anyone will sigh in relief.
  16. whenever i see a cinder block stuck in the mud at low tide i wonder whose ankles it used to belong to. i want to kiss them and make them better. I’ll kiss everything. i wanted to call and tell you i saw an ambulance today. but then i’d have to tell you i was at the liquor store again. a gray haired man collapsed in line at the register. the paramedics took his lifeless body away. i just wanted to ride back with them to the morgue. i wanted my own cabinet. instead i bought apricot brandy and some ginger ale. anyway, it was strange to watch someone pass away in front of me. i cried. but it wasn’t like when you left. how i expected an obituary. there was no wake. no room full of sympathetic acquaintances gently cooing as i rest a bouquet of sweet williams on a photos of someone i no longer know. lately i just want to blurt things into your voicemail. i’d say things like “i hate the parts of me that miss you. i wish i could cut them out of me.” or “i would be your oyster. i’ll swallow all the things you’ve done to me and still give you this pearl “i love you.” i’m afraid of saying things like “i just want you to be here when the rain stops.” or “i guess i’ll leave the phones sound on in case you miss me.” but you never do. it’s hard you know? doing things people do in someone’s absence. i get so upset thinking about where you sleep or if you’ve been read to lately. i don’t like having to wonder. i hate that you wrote “i’ll never give up on you” on a piece of paper once and then mailed it to me. it makes me think about how the back of stamps taste like goodbye.
  17. You asked me to write you a poem. I’m sure that you hoped for a love poem So sweet that it makes your teeth hurt. I’m sorry but I can’t do that. I can’t write you a love poem. But if you let me I will write you a new sky, Describe to you in detail the way the clouds war In the moments before they’re about to cry. I can’t write you a love poem. Instead, I can write you butterflies. Butterflies that tickle your stomach In those precious seconds before Planes leave the ground, Before lights flicker in the dark, Before a snake strikes, Before you talk to the girl you love for the first time Or the second time Or the hundredth time. I can’t write you a love poem. But maybe, in its place, I could write you a spring breeze. The very same breeze that gently brushed Her hair in her face. A breeze that orders flowers To dance a slow waltz Your hand against the small of her back Holding her close enough to smell her But gently as not to break her. Flowers are best left unpicked. I can’t write you a love poem. But, to make up for it I will write you constellations Describe how loudly they sparkle And how it sounds like laughter From nights spent in trees and Next to fireplaces. Constellations you have memorized in the Freckles on her face Mapped out by the gentle touch Of fingers to skin. I can’t write you a love poem, But I will write you a creaky swing set, A slow moving stream, A cloudy sky, A warm afternoon. I will write you the color of her eyes, The smell of girly shampoo, The sound of burning wood And the heat from it on your skin. You asked me to write you a poem And I can’t write you a love poem. Instead I can write you my love.
  18. Ok. So in one of my classes we've had to write poetry, and one of the poems required is an ode. I had no idea what to do for mine so I wrote one about FeatherWriter(please don't hate me after this). It's bad, because I am a horrible poet. This is the rough draft. *ahem* Here goes. *winces* Ode to Feather There is a beautiful writer Her name is Feather Her prose can make ones day brighter It does not matter if she’s describing the weather Or Renarin, brave and true She loves him to death And if you listen to her so will you She’d argue to her dying breath That he(and Loki) are the best In one way the featherblades are like Szeth Steadfast in our quest That is, to guard Our Lady, Feather Comments, concerns criticisms and hate-mail all welcome. *sigh* I'm so, so sorry.
  19. Wasing the wanting of snowman building? Hurrying to coming playing, Never seeing of the you, Coming out of door Seeming going away you having Wasing buddies us, Notting now, Wishing of the telling of why Wasing the wanting of snowman building? Not having to being snowman <Away of the going Spook!> Okay, farewelling Anyone care to continue? BTW, wasn't sure if this should go here, or in the Mistborn forum, but decided the Mistborn forum was probably too serious.