Would you be too embarrassed to post it?

(02-27-2014, 02:34 AM)newsclippings Wrote:  Would you be too embarrassed to post it?

I am going to look for mine and post it!

I'm afraid that should I post my very first poem instant rustication would occur, and my second would be indecipherable to those not born in the north of England.

I'm pretty sure my first poem was a fart.

(02-27-2014, 02:34 AM)newsclippings Wrote:  Would you be too embarrassed to post it?

I /should/ be too embarrassed to post it. Almost everything i wrote for the first ten years has been thrown away but thanks to the magic of the internet, my first poem remains forever. i recently tried to rewrite it into a story:

Goblin's Rime

On yellowed floor sat we three
And little Bobby on Chandra's knee.
She spoke most nights of many things
But that night she spoke of Goblin Kings.
She spoke of Fruelegh and of Blaag
She spoke of Grollen and his dog,

But the name she whispered was One-Eyed-Nick's
Who only spoke in limericks
To end each rhyme there was a riddle
While demons backed him on the fiddle.
An errant child the puzzle he'd ask,
Thrice accepting an answer, each time banging his staff:
Once . . . Twice . . . Thrice.
And if the riddle was answered right,
Old Nick was banished for the night.

Off to hang by dread-locked hair
In Kindra, the ancient dragon's lair.
But if the child answered incorrectly
Nick stole them up, took them directly
To goblin mines, to slave away
Pounding rock 'til judgment day.
The Overseer, a ruthless master,
Whipped them raw to urge them faster.

-Mary giggled to hear such names
-Luke chuckled at childish games
-I wasn't sure, but laughed the same
but Bobby's eyes went wide with fright
there'd be no sleep for him that night.

It was a night like any other
Old One-eye came and took my brother.
I awoke to a sound outside of climbing
Then not long after, the sound of rhyming,
The dreadful sound of Goblin's laugh,
The ominous pounding of a staff,
The chitinous sounds of demons clacking
On devilish fiddles for riddle-backing,
The horrid thump of staff on wood,

If he didn't answer he'd be gone for good.
-Oh fiendish sound of goblin's giggles
-At Bobby's ineptitude with riddles
-And those discordant fiddles.
To the end of my days, I'll hear the resounding
Echo of that staff's last pounding.
I tell my story, nobody believes
Mom says he fell out the window
And blew away with Autumn's leaves.
Today, I still cry sometimes
Thinking of Bobby in goblin mines.

Your rhymes aren't bad at all. How could that be? HOW COULD THAT BE?!

Got it:

Canis lupus

Beneath the radiance of the Arctic moon,
the snarling gray timber wolf
stealthily looms.

Breaking the silence of the long cold night
is the wolf’s terrified prey
in desperate flight.

The howl of the wolf is the ‘Call of the Wild,’
like mournful cries
from a tortured child.

With eyes ablaze from Hell’s inferno,
the wolf strikes fear into
the heart of its foes.

Strength of the wolf lies within the pack.
There is safety in numbers,
the hunt’s odds are stacked.

The timber wolf survives the frozen North
through strong social bonds
and lupine force.


I think they called my Mom about the tortured child bit.

---

(02-27-2014, 02:53 AM)milo Wrote:  

(02-27-2014, 02:34 AM)newsclippings Wrote:  Would you be too embarrassed to post it?

I /should/ be too embarrassed to post it. Almost everything i wrote for the first ten years has been thrown away but thanks to the magic of the internet, my first poem remains forever. i recently tried to rewrite it into a story:

Goblin's Rime

On yellowed floor sat we three
And little Bobby on Chandra's knee.
She spoke most nights of many things
But that night she spoke of Goblin Kings.
She spoke of Fruelegh and of Blaag
She spoke of Grollen and his dog,

But the name she whispered was One-Eyed-Nick's
Who only spoke in limericks
To end each rhyme there was a riddle
While demons backed him on the fiddle.
An errant child the puzzle he'd ask,
Thrice accepting an answer, each time banging his staff:
Once . . . Twice . . . Thrice.
And if the riddle was answered right,
Old Nick was banished for the night.

Off to hang by dread-locked hair
In Kindra, the ancient dragon's lair.
But if the child answered incorrectly
Nick stole them up, took them directly
To goblin mines, to slave away
Pounding rock 'til judgment day.
The Overseer, a ruthless master,
Whipped them raw to urge them faster.

-Mary giggled to hear such names
-Luke chuckled at childish games
-I wasn't sure, but laughed the same
but Bobby's eyes went wide with fright
there'd be no sleep for him that night.

It was a night like any other
Old One-eye came and took my brother.
I awoke to a sound outside of climbing
Then not long after, the sound of rhyming,
The dreadful sound of Goblin's laugh,
The ominous pounding of a staff,
The chitinous sounds of demons clacking
On devilish fiddles for riddle-backing,
The horrid thump of staff on wood,

If he didn't answer he'd be gone for good.
-Oh fiendish sound of goblin's giggles
-At Bobby's ineptitude with riddles
-And those discordant fiddles.
To the end of my days, I'll hear the resounding
Echo of that staff's last pounding.
I tell my story, nobody believes
Mom says he fell out the window
And blew away with Autumn's leaves.
Today, I still cry sometimes
Thinking of Bobby in goblin mines.

Very cool Milo!

(02-27-2014, 02:56 AM)newsclippings Wrote:  Your rhymes aren't bad at all. How could that be? HOW COULD THAT BE?!

I wasn't into poetry at all when I wrote it which I did on a piece of cardboard at work. I had never heard of free verse so I assumed all poetry had to rhyme and, of course, rhymed couplets seemed perfectly ok to me. I still have no idea what caused me to do it but here I am, years later, still writing.

Once there was a goat,
his name was Morris.
He dreamed of sailing in a boat
with his best friend Boris.

Boris was (of course) a pig
and as we all well know
pigs like to dance the jig
where ever they may go.

justcloudy aged 8. I always meant to expand it but never did. That was the cute stage still, and there were others before it but that one is the one that I remember. Years of teeny angst came not long after. ;p

(02-27-2014, 05:36 AM)justcloudy Wrote:  Once there was a goat,
his name was Morris.
He dreamed of sailing in a boat
with his best friend Boris.

Boris was (of course) a pig
and as we all well know
pigs like to dance the jig
where ever they may go.

justcloudy aged 8. I always meant to expand it but never did. That was the cute stage still, and there were others before it but that one is the one that I remember. Years of teeny angst came not long after. ;p

It's adorable!

(02-27-2014, 05:36 AM)justcloudy Wrote:  Once there was a goat,
his name was Morris.
He dreamed of sailing in a boat
with his best friend Boris.

Boris was (of course) a pig
and as we all well know
pigs like to dance the jig
where ever they may go.

justcloudy aged 8. I always meant to expand it but never did. That was the cute stage still, and there were others before it but that one is the one that I remember. Years of teeny angst came not long after. ;p

For age 8 it is outstanding.

My skillz seem to have deteriorated with time. ;D

The very first rhyme I composed was at age 4, I of course could not write it down. It made no sense, but it could be sung. Very short

"Twinkle, twinkle maple toes,
round and round the tootsie roll goes"

The following is I believe the oldest poem which I actually wrote down. I had been composing rhymes and such since I was four, but never put them on paper. At the time I had been reading a lot of the romantic poets, especially Coleridge, and Blake, particularly his "Songs of Innocence and Experience". I think you will notice the influence of both.
-----------------------------------------------------------
Untitled

I feel it in the air today
a stillness and a calm,
creatures all awake to play
as the day wears on.

The seeds that scattered in the fall
carried on the wind,
are bursting through straight and tall,
a sign that spring begins.

And then I fall under nature’s spell,
I become a new born child,
I stop and stare and play awhile.
They’ll look and ask, “Is he well?”

Oh yes I’m well, much better than
all of you who sterile stare,
and cannot see the beauty there.
Better child than blinded man.

Look up there don’t you see
that robin on the limb,
and blossoms there beside of him,
and in the blossoms bumble bees.

And over there those colored flames,
are flowers distant: so alluring
their beauty overwhelms passed all enduring,
fire’s fancy in the most dull brain.

Dale B. Tisdale 1970

My first poem was pretentious, mawkish, filled with love clichés,
inaccurate references to Greek gods, and childish assumptions
about life; all of it scrawled in unpunctuated lower case and
faultlessly executed in iampestic errameter and lost to the ages
in an unlabeled box of highschool memorabilia which my mom left
in the attic of our first house in Kinzua, Pennsylvania which
is now located in the slightly picturesque Allegheny Reservoir
under sixty-eight feet of water.

My first Poem at the age of 10 ish

November

The crack of a fire
No top to a spire
The leaves swirl round
As they fall to the ground
Birds flee their trees
Ponds start to freeze
Winter sets in
like a great white blanket
covered in sin

i can't remember my first poem, i must have done on in the few days i had at school
after that it was about 15 year ago it is one of many soppy things i wrote though i can't remember which. i found a few and picked one

---

captured image

side by side as lovers want
we sat in warm embrace
with book of poems held in hand
i softly read to you

reddened skylight lit my way
to words of age forsaken
serenade of subdued sound
i brought to you i whisper

loves sweet charm and fragrant smells
of kisses met
on moonlit eves of joyous meetings
in the dark

captured moments, shared
by those who know to give
within my soul a feeling stirred
my belly knotted hard

i felt your eyes so dark and warm
reach inside my soul
your silk gloved hand took book away
stroked my face with such finesse

as fingers traced across my cheek
a moment held ecstatic thought
a frame of time
to keep

All you talented smarties. Writing creatively so young. Envy. I don't think I wrote a creative and original word till I was in my 30's. In fact I know so. Kiss, kiss...

I can’t be sure that this was my first poem, could be the third of the sixth whatever, it is one that the academics would love to get their claws into but Mrs Brown of 34 Arcadia Avenue loves it

Pendle Hill
How cool the woodland carpet feels
Under tender barefoot heels
Days of laughter, childhood rambles
Emerging from the leafy brambles
Over the stile and down the dell
Breathing the dark mushroomy smells
Sandra, Davy, me and Jill
Climb the slope to Pendle Hill
~
Buttercup pollen on calf and shoe
Whisper grass still wet with dew
Up and down we ran and ran
"Catch me; catch me, if you can”
Cross-legged in the birch tree shade
Stolen apples, lemonade
The happy times I remember still
Of summertime on Pendle Hill
~
Tired from racing chasing games
We gather round the campfire flames
Tell the tales of pirates bold
Of sailing ships and Spanish gold
High above this fabled land
You snuggle close and take my hand
Safe and warm from twilight's chill
First love bloomed on Pendle Hill

Yes, I did save my first poem. I don't know why, I usually delete or throw them away, especially one so silly and innocent. Maybe I just wanted to be able to remember that feeling when it first struck me completely out of the blue, and I thought "Wow! This is fucking wild and fun."

HERE PRESENT AMIDST
(A Fairy Tale)

Here present amidst the crawling moments,
Time's taut and tedious gestures to the heart
Of each passing wishful thought's delay,
I whisper tenderly in your ear
This eager yet soothing communique.

All awaits with bold and lavish hunger
Far beyond the mainland's awakening shores
Your presence in romantic invention
In the timeless place where the spell was cast
That brought to life this aberration.

Let these words like honey drip to your tongue,
Each one inspired by the heat of the sun,
Temptation for the soul with what it lacks,
So formed with such mischievous design
This my most subtle aphrodisiac.

Crown your waxing passion sovereign
In the towering castle of your mind,
And decree your spirit to wander through
The chilling torchlit corridors deep below
Of memories long since bid adieu.

Open creaking doors behind which do lurk
Those cobwebbed, dusty, antiquated rooms
Where ghost scenes evoke the primal resentments
Of a guileless souls twisted yearnings,
Those tearfully enshrouded disfigurements.

Gather these impressions with haste and resolve,
Like so many elemental ingredients,
And blend them in the cauldron that hangs
Above the glittering and crackling fire
Of yours this brash and resurrected desire.

Upon the eve of your journey's depart,
As your eyes grow weary and heavy for sleep,
Swill deep from this alchemical brew,
Nourishment for your shadow to so prepare
For what the body longs and love does weep.

In velvet slumber beneath the moon's full glow
Shall the smile of an imp bud on your lips,
As within the warmth and lair of your belly
Angels assemble to dance with glee
Around the wellspring of eternity.

From this all that's assuredly nothing,
This nothing just as assuredly all
Flows a melody so clear, unutterably sweet
Such angels dissolve into heavenly mist
And permeate thy form from crown to your feet.

Every drop of red blood, each pore of your skin,
Each quivering nerve, every channel therein
Shall become as one pulsing organ,
The substance of spirit attuned to the heart
Sensually alive and destined for sin.

Standing solely on dream end's breaking shore,
Awaiting the dawn in your causelessness,
Come a whisper…familiar…o'er the sea
Entreating surrender to the outgoing tide,
Death as shameless vulnerability.

Our eyes meet--transfix--in silence we stand
Scouring the other for what should've been known,
Finding no solace without unleash at the last
The fury of love but so few understand
Till desire laments and buries its past.

Hope's incarnate recognition now we exalt
In bubbles of laughter sparkling and pure,
The wonder of all we behold but cannot possess.
On this hallowed ground, within these garden walls,
We consecrate this life, conclude this fall…

Here…present…amidst…the crawling moments,
Time's taut and tedious gestures to the heart
Of each passing…wishful…thought's…delay,
I whisper tenderly in your ear
This eager, yet soothing, communique.

As i turn around and see
The future yet to be
I wonder when dreams end
And reality begins.

Was the first stanza, followed by 2-3 more stanzas that started with:
As i turn around and see

The last stanza was

As i turn around and see
My sense of me set free
As i turn around
I see.


It was powerful stuff. I won 1st place in the middle schoolers "reflections" righting contest. I still got the plaque!