The Poetry of Stardestroyer.Net

[His Divine Shadow]

That part and the part that follows is actually talking about how most people will often judge others by their outer appearances. The cat has lost an eye and the kids, like typical humans, will shoo it away because it looks ugly.

I doubt the cat will look ugly, or be shooed away, that'd just be so evil I wouldn't even want contemplate it, it'll probably just have one eye closed or a version of a marble eye.

I know one of my cats got this bad cut above her right eye(got in a fight I guess), healed but made the skin tighter so it looks kinda cool, though you don't really see it after a while.

[neoolong]

Duuuuude. I love that first one, esp the half-rhyme in the first stanza and the broken rhyme in the last one.

And lol on the second one. But good poems, why do you think they are crap?

Because that way I lower people's expectations so that relatively speaking, they turn out good.

By the way, thanks.

lol...I didn't come in expecting them to be anything but poems. In fact, I hate it when someone tells me "it's crap." Besides, I am not going to judge a poem until I've read it. And to agree with Shinova, I like the first one better.

Sorry. I'm just bad at judging my own stuff. And I probably hold it to pretty high standards. You're right I should just let others judge it from reading it.

[Edi]

I think you just summed up writing poetry, my friend.

Thanks!

I know exactly what you mean...the Raven is one of the most extraordianry birds, and one of the most appealing to myself. If I had to choose a bird to describe me, it would have to be the Raven.

I thought you'd be more partial to owls, being the official insomniac around here and all...
Seriously, yes, I agree with you, it has more appeal than many others, even the birds of prey, though it depends on what you're looking for. By the way, if you like ravens and crows, you might want to check out this link: http://ascaronline.org/index.html. The FAQ is worth checking out, it has all sorts of interesting tidbits of trivia and useful knowledge.

It is not our job to judge your works; if you like it, that's what matters.

I like getting feedback on what I write. Of course I think it's good, or at least good enough, because I'm hardly going to post anything that I don't think is worth at least something. In fact, I refuse to write something I can't feel, and once I start, I will not stop until I get it mostly right, even if some polishing is required later. Of course, not all people will like it, but people tend to have different sort of tastes.

But if you insist, I liked it very much. It was very good...a bit enigmatic, but good nonetheless.

Thank you! It's a little heavy with metaphors, maybe that's why it can be a little enigmatic. The theme was being shot down in love and then recovering again to love once more, only someone else this time.

lol. I think it's quality that matters, rather than quantity...and we shall see....we shall see...

Indeed, quality over quantity, the problem with Shinova is that he has both, and while I like to think I can manage quality, I'm not at all sure about the quantity is near the same. You'd also be a definite candidate for the title, but since you're already the official insomniac, you're disqualified. Good thing too, because I think your work is very good. Don't need any more competition...


Shinova, you realize of course that if you cut the second stanza off from Die, Kitty, it suddenly becomes the perspective of the sick fuck who shot it in the first place? Someone twisted enough to shoot an animal and feel some sadness for it while still being gleeful, but who doesn't even notice his own lack of humanity. I can understand the point about people judging others on appearances, but I didn't spot it until you pointed it out. It's pretty well buried under all of the other stuff and hard to spot.

And, by the way, I'm really going to have to strangle you before you post any more of your poems, A Knife to Happiness was far too good for comfort and seems like it could be the knife that kills my chances for the title...

Necron Lord, I liked your poems. Excellent work!

neoolong, your poems aren't all that bad either. The second one is sort of crappy in the sense that it's made tongue in cheek without even trying to be very 'poetic' about it, which is why it's so good and hilarious. The first one was also not a bad piece at all, though I didn't get much of a feel for it.


Oh, and one more poem, this one part of a story of mine:

Heart of Ice and Stone

Sitting, brooding in the dark,
Eyes far away, inward turned,
On his face etched indelible mark,
By an image to his heart burned.

A shining jewel, all that he has left,
The final token of her love;
Wrought near the end by her hands deft,
To set him free of guilt like birds in sky above.

His eyes harden, become chips of ice,
In place of heart a lump of stone;
One wrong choice, too dear the sacrifice,
Dark now the sun that once so brightly shone.

Lying high atop a sunlit hill,
Alone, her broken body bleeds;
Voices of the dying the air fill;
He tries to heal, but has not the power she needs.

Words, full of love, he hears her say,
Soothing, shifting elsewhere the blame,
To no avail, for her he did betray,
Could not shield her from hatred's flame.

Red-bladed sword, mocking laughter,
Tales told around the victors' fire,
Stab him deep in his heart after,
Stoke the hot-burning flames of his ire.

Blood and death, another double-cross,
Betrayal of allies, a knife in the back,
Thousands of lives away he will toss,
To see her killer's soul sent to the Black.

But not enough, there must be more,
So summons he the demons to his hand;
Vengeance as never seen before,
Redhand's realm becomes a wasteland.

But nothing can bring back the past,
Reflects he as he sits and broods alone;
Good things will never last;
Now and for eternity, his heart one of ice and stone.

[haas mark]

I think you just summed up writing poetry, my friend.

Thanks!

Youre welcome.

I know exactly what you mean...the Raven is one of the most extraordianry birds, and one of the most appealing to myself. If I had to choose a bird to describe me, it would have to be the Raven.

I thought you'd be more partial to owls, being the official insomniac around here and all...
Seriously, yes, I agree with you, it has more appeal than many others, even the birds of prey, though it depends on what you're looking for. By the way, if you like ravens and crows, you might want to check out this link: http://ascaronline.org/index.html. The FAQ is worth checking out, it has all sorts of interesting tidbits of trivia and useful knowledge.

Thanks for the link!

It is not our job to judge your works; if you like it, that's what matters.

I like getting feedback on what I write. Of course I think it's good, or at least good enough, because I'm hardly going to post anything that I don't think is worth at least something. In fact, I refuse to write something I can't feel, and once I start, I will not stop until I get it mostly right, even if some polishing is required later. Of course, not all people will like it, but people tend to have different sort of tastes.

Understandable. So do I.

But if you insist, I liked it very much. It was very good...a bit enigmatic, but good nonetheless.

Thank you! It's a little heavy with metaphors, maybe that's why it can be a little enigmatic. The theme was being shot down in love and then recovering again to love once more, only someone else this time.

Hey...it's your writing...do with it what you will.

lol. I think it's quality that matters, rather than quantity...and we shall see....we shall see...

Indeed, quality over quantity, the problem with Shinova is that he has both, and while I like to think I can manage quality, I'm not at all sure about the quantity is near the same. You'd also be a definite candidate for the title, but since you're already the official insomniac, you're disqualified. Good thing too, because I think your work is very good. Don't need any more competition...

No, I don't need another title...

<snip>

This poem was very nice, as well...I liked the way you made the main rhymes on the first and third lines; it makes it so that it seems there is no rhyming at all. Very nicely structured, and very well written. I liked it very much, and will be glad to see any other poems you happen to post.

[haas mark]

Poem 7A, or Bruises.

bruises on my heart,
bruises on my soul,
bruises are like butterflies,
or so it is, i'm told.

my bruises come,
my bruises go,
fleeing here and there,
or so it is, i'm told.

there are bruises here,
there are bruises there,
there are bruises everywhere,
or so it is, i'm told.

the bruises never begin,
the bruises never end,
the bruises are a vicious cycle,
or so it is, i'm told.

bruises nonwithstanding,
bruises nonetheless,
bruises all over me,
or so it is, i'm told.

my bruises pain me,
my bruises don't,
my bruises kill,
or so it is, i'm told.

so many bruises it's hard to tell,
so many bruises, it's not my fault,
so many bruises, where did they come from?
They're bruises—no less.

[NecronLord]

On writing poetry, here's my thoughts: I've never been able to write anything that I can't see first in my mind's eye, but just seeing isn't enough, there must be something else attached, emotion, mood or atmosphere. If you can get those into the picture, lock down the image, so to speak, then it's just a matter of shaping the words to match the image. At that point they can be forced, in the sense that you can try different ways of saying something until you find the one that fits, the line that feels just right. Oh, btw, I'm unable to write any poetry that doesn't rhyme.

A couple of examples of my work that reflect this approach:

Ravens are ugly, right? Scavengers with horrible voices, bad, evil and whatnot? I don't think so. Sure, they're not flashy like peacocks or all those colorful parrots, but they've got a beuty of their own, and their voices are way easier on the ears and even beautiful if you can appreciate them. But not all that many people see that. I've also got a friend who's always described herself as a crow or a raven, and she has been at times severely underappreciated by others. Well, I've seen ravens up close, and I certabily appreciate her friendship, so I wrote this one for her.

The Raven

They say there's no beauty in the Raven,
That it's a bird of ill omen, messenger of doom;
They would rather watch and hear a songbird,
Listen to its trill where the flowers bloom.

Shows they've never really seen a Raven,
Feathers gleaming like a rainbow;
Sunlight playing on the darkness,
Beauty more than enough to lay a songbird low.

They say the Raven cannot sing, but only croak;
Fools, for songs come in many kinds, not just one,
And there is beauty in the Raven's voice,
Just like dark feathers shine in the sun.

Fierce and wild is the Stormcrow,
Proud where the songbird is vain;
Never content being tamed or in a cage,
For the Raven such a fate would be pain.

To find the favor of the Raven, remember:
That black feathered bird, mischievous and clever,
Values respect, kindness and a heart true;
Showing those will make you a friend forever.

Edi

http://www.ascaronline.org/

Ahh the Raven, and corvids in general are far underrated birds.

The raven is the most intelligent bird on the planet, bar none.

It's brain mass to size ration is only exceeded by dolphins chimpanzees and humans.

Ravens raised in captivity have been known to have an understanding of human languages and meaning, and larger vocabularies than african grey parrots.

Also there is the Bible story of Noah and his Ark and the Raven being the infamous bird. This is utter Bullshit. Which bird would you trust to find land? A Raven or a mouldy little pidgeon?

[Shinova]

Oh, and one more poem, this one part of a story of mine:

Heart of Ice and Stone

Sitting, brooding in the dark,
Eyes far away, inward turned,
On his face etched indelible mark,
By an image to his heart burned.

A shining jewel, all that he has left,
The final token of her love;
Wrought near the end by her hands deft,
To set him free of guilt like birds in sky above.

His eyes harden, become chips of ice,
In place of heart a lump of stone;
One wrong choice, too dear the sacrifice,
Dark now the sun that once so brightly shone.

Lying high atop a sunlit hill,
Alone, her broken body bleeds;
Voices of the dying the air fill;
He tries to heal, but has not the power she needs.

Words, full of love, he hears her say,
Soothing, shifting elsewhere the blame,
To no avail, for her he did betray,
Could not shield her from hatred's flame.

Red-bladed sword, mocking laughter,
Tales told around the victors' fire,
Stab him deep in his heart after,
Stoke the hot-burning flames of his ire.

Blood and death, another double-cross,
Betrayal of allies, a knife in the back,
Thousands of lives away he will toss,
To see her killer's soul sent to the Black.

But not enough, there must be more,
So summons he the demons to his hand;
Vengeance as never seen before,
Redhand's realm becomes a wasteland.

But nothing can bring back the past,
Reflects he as he sits and broods alone;
Good things will never last;
Now and for eternity, his heart one of ice and stone.

You know what? I think you'd be a good candidate for sd.net official poet title as well. That poem's pretty good, I say.

[Lagmonster]

Oh, and one more poem, this one part of a story of mine...

You know what? I think you'd be a good candidate for sd.net official poet title as well. That poem's pretty good, I say.

You know, you two really put us limerick-writers to shame.

[Shinova]

Oh, and one more poem, this one part of a story of mine...

You know what? I think you'd be a good candidate for sd.net official poet title as well. That poem's pretty good, I say.

You know, you two really put us limerick-writers to shame.

Compliment accepted in the best of spirits

And here's another poem:


The Great Cradle

His hand rocks our cradle,
And we thrive within its confines.
Our lives to set and a path to run through.
Those who yield to the sidelines, we pass,
And onward to the end goal we go.

The great cradle is where we crawl around in.
Threads of love, threads of conflict,
Whatever it is, all takes place in the cradle;
This great cradle.

I once saw a lonely one, who tried to crawl
Over the great spires of the cradle.
Alas, he himself was his own downfall,
For of course we all know the truth:
No one can live without the great cradle.

[SirNitram]

Homeworld.

Ball in the night,
Spinning in the light,
Full of peace and fight,
Glistening in other's sight.

World in the cold,
Seems already old,
So many tales told,
But more dreams sold.

Orb of blue and green,
More than can be seen.

[haas mark]

THat is strangely.....attracting. I dunno what it is, but I find that one really appealing....I like it a lot....

[neoolong]

Cool. Simple form, but cool.

[Shinova]

Homeworld.

Ball in the night,
Spinning in the light,
Full of peace and fight,
Glistening in other's sight.

World in the cold,
Seems already old,
So many tales told,
But more dreams sold.

Orb of blue and green,
More than can be seen.

This poem's a lot deeper than one would at first suspect. Very good work.

[haas mark]

Poem 8A -- Written for my good friend Peter form San Francisco

I have a Peter,
He is my treat,
My San Francisco Treat.

A friend I've never met,
But one I feel
I need to;
One that will be there,
One that I can see,
One that I can trust,
And touch.

A friend so true that nothing will overcome;
A friend always lasting.

Peter,
My San Francisco Treat.

Always hiding,
Always showing,
Always trying to be there.

Always being a friend,
Always being my friend,
Always being there for me.

Peter,
My San Francisco Treat.

My very own friend,
A very special bond,
Something held by none other.

Something that will always captivate me,
Something that will always hold my eye,
Something that will always keep me still,
His personality.

Peter,
My San Francisco Treat.

How I wish to meet you,
How I wish to see you,
To hear your voice,
To touch your skin,
To speak with you.

Peter,
My San Francisco Treat.

[haas mark]

Poem 8B.

Depression is not an outlet, it is an excuse.
It is nothing to hide, but nothing to gain from.
In all its forms it will be there, haunting me.
It will linger, keeping me behind my goals.
It is not to be taken lightly, or to be laughed upon.
It is not something that just happens out of the blue.
Depression is the cause of lots of problems,
Including mine.

[haas mark]

Poem 9A.

I know boredom like the back of my hand.
Why do I know it so?
Because there is nothing more to know.
There is nothing else to life.
Stuck here, for hours on end,
Stuck here, being bored out of my mind.
I am stuck here, with nowhere else to go.
Afraid to fall asleep,
Afraid of sleeping through classes.
With an alarm clock that doesn't work,
And a roommate who couldn't care less,
Boredom is the answer.
So I sleep through the day, only to be awake at night.
I go nowhere, for a lack of funds.
I do nothing, for a lack of funds.
Friends don't call me, and I can't call them.
I know boredom all too well.
Boredom, it seems, is my only real, true friend.
Boredom, it seems, will never let me down.

[Dargos]

Body Bag
Mother, creator, my flesh from yours
Breath shallow
Eyes dull
Spark of life fleeting
Body cold
My mind numb
Stricken dumb
Wishing to be blind
As see your life ebb

Mother goes away
Silence
Little lost boy again
Crying Mommy
Mommy
Smell of life ending
Blackness of heart descending


They come
Bodybag, the smell of plastic
My life opens a new chapter
Going away
Cold lips
A final kiss
Goodbye

[Dargos]

I wrote this today...I saw the most horrible thing in the world on a .asf file someone sent me in an e-mail last night.....horrible... horrible


Fear

I opened the file, Chechnian it said
And saw a boy, conscript Army, Russian…18? 19? 20 maybe
Head pressed to stone by booted feet
Eyes like a rabbit, trapped
Guttural voices, unknown language
Knife in gloved hand glittering
Death promised

My stomach clinched
Not real, I thought
No way….but too real

War prisoner.. captured
Hand descends,
A poke in the neck
A gasp from the condemned
Knife plunges
Gurgle and blood blossoms
Red
Red
Body convulses, then still, still
Death in 30 seconds

My stomach rebels
Not real my mind screams
But knowing it is
Delete delete file
My finger punches

I go to bed, I lie awake
Sleep will not come
I wonder who this poor boy was
Wife next to me
Asleep, at peace
Sons in room down the hall
I think “War…my sons…could it happen?”

Can’t sleep. Tears,
I go to my boys
And cry for a stranger’s son that would not be going home.
Horrible horrible

[Kuja]

Whoa. That's wild.

[Dargos]

hmmm...I seem to have killed this thread with my ranting..I apologize. Mods please delete my posts, perhaps then someone will post poems again. I like poems, even though I have no skill what so ever in makeing my own.

[Kuja]

Here I sit,
broken hearted,
thought I'd shit,
but only farted.
Later on,
I'll take a chance,
try to fart
and shit my pants.

[Shinova]

Haven't done this in a while


The Way You will be


We see you and we think you magnificent.
You are grand, you are great, you are beyond
Expectations of anyone.
You will be a great thinker beyond all others,
You will be a person of great form,
And you will do good in the world.
Yes, it is truly great that you are good.
A great one you will be.
Make us proud.


-----------------------------

You may at first think the poem is praising the "you", but think harder. Do you think the "you" seems to have any control over what happens to that person?

[haas mark]

I wrote this today...I saw the most horrible thing in the world on a .asf file someone sent me in an e-mail last night.....horrible... horrible


Fear

Wow.....that was one excellent poem.....I dunno what to think of it. It was....wow.

[Shinova]

How could I ever let this thread go extinct?



Iron Heart

A man stands on top of a hill
Tall and strong...chin and pride up.
He is tempted by no deviation,
And commits himself to a single goal.
With unwavering will he perserveres;
All other distractions he casts aside.

A child calls to him from the side,
But the man hears not.
He has a goal to achieve,
And as a man with an iron heart
No obstacle can stop him.
Not even a small child calling to him.

[Shinova]

The thing that draws near


It is coming
It is coming

A great wave approaches,
A harbinger of eternal night.
Against it we draw our strength
From the last drops of the brilliance in our minds.
To comfort each other as the shadow falls
We turn our eyes to age-old books,
Books telling of a place where happiness reigns;
A place foretold by the son of the great one.

But alas, our careful calculations and theories
Do not stem the tide of the coming.
Our books of the old that we cling so tightly to,
Imbue us with only thick veils of euphemisms.

The thing that draws near
Is an eternal thing, and inevitable.
As it draws near it smiles at us with its eyes
Of vast, everlasting night.
All we can do is smile back.