<![CDATA[Poetry Forum - All Forums]]>

<![CDATA[Poetry Forum - All Forums]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/ Tue, 12 May 2026 20:18:48 +0000 MyBB <![CDATA[New Dawn]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27372.html Tue, 12 May 2026 13:46:02 +0000 JohnS]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27372.html the smoke from the cooking fires
which lay like a blanket over the township,
the skyline of distant Johannesburg
glowed like molten gold.

Daniel stepped down from the bus,
and joined a line that snaked sinuously
towards the tin-roofed school house
sitting below the kopje,
in a field more dirt than grass.

The line shimmied forward,
as people sang and toyi-toyied,
bare feet slapping the hard-packed earth.
For hour after hour it moved,
determined,
unstoppable,
inevitable.

A sign above the door - polling station.
Daniel made his choice.
A cross - so simple to make,
so hard to win the right to make.

After, Daniel stood on the school house steps,
raised his arms and cried,
Amandla! (power)
And those in the line responded,
Awethu! (to us)

It was April 26, 1994.]]> the smoke from the cooking fires
which lay like a blanket over the township,
the skyline of distant Johannesburg
glowed like molten gold.

Daniel stepped down from the bus,
and joined a line that snaked sinuously
towards the tin-roofed school house
sitting below the kopje,
in a field more dirt than grass.

The line shimmied forward,
as people sang and toyi-toyied,
bare feet slapping the hard-packed earth.
For hour after hour it moved,
determined,
unstoppable,
inevitable.

A sign above the door - polling station.
Daniel made his choice.
A cross - so simple to make,
so hard to win the right to make.

After, Daniel stood on the school house steps,
raised his arms and cried,
Amandla! (power)
And those in the line responded,
Awethu! (to us)

It was April 26, 1994.]]> <![CDATA[Poetic magic]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27371.html Tue, 12 May 2026 11:10:07 +0000 Smiley]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27371.html A charm
To protect one from harm
So while I do these rhymes and spell
I treat them all well

By drawing a circle round
Negativity shall be bound]]> A charm
To protect one from harm
So while I do these rhymes and spell
I treat them all well

By drawing a circle round
Negativity shall be bound]]> <![CDATA[The Conversation]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27370.html Tue, 12 May 2026 11:07:24 +0000 Bushberry18]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27370.html
Flatness and fatigue, a vacancy where you sat.
To be blunt, I don’t want this.
Leftovers hidden under overcooked greens
harder to swallow when cold.
Here I am plucking on invisible strings
because we are ever connected.
Strains on the tiny thread.
I wish you were here, not just in my head.

Kaleidoscope shows that open all hours
a front row seat that’s ticketless.
I saved you a place; just encase you came.
OK. Black tape rolling.
Are you ignoring me?
Do you remember our chat?
I was that woman, the floppy straw hat.

Miles upon miles, stretched
grey sand, you were never a fan.
It’s so bloody cold. Incandescent, my heart.
Pools of salt water, old memories cleaned.
She was sooo beautiful and so were you.
Grit and the silt and the sound of the sea
I am just asking now, let’s let things be.]]>
Flatness and fatigue, a vacancy where you sat.
To be blunt, I don’t want this.
Leftovers hidden under overcooked greens
harder to swallow when cold.
Here I am plucking on invisible strings
because we are ever connected.
Strains on the tiny thread.
I wish you were here, not just in my head.

Kaleidoscope shows that open all hours
a front row seat that’s ticketless.
I saved you a place; just encase you came.
OK. Black tape rolling.
Are you ignoring me?
Do you remember our chat?
I was that woman, the floppy straw hat.

Miles upon miles, stretched
grey sand, you were never a fan.
It’s so bloody cold. Incandescent, my heart.
Pools of salt water, old memories cleaned.
She was sooo beautiful and so were you.
Grit and the silt and the sound of the sea
I am just asking now, let’s let things be.]]> <![CDATA[Absence and Antinomy]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27369.html Mon, 11 May 2026 03:51:37 +0000 RiverNotch]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27369.html

I cannot say which system is the worse.
In America, there was simply no sign that the pot
was ever owned by someone else: most places

had names in the tongues of their conquerors, most faces
were white or black or even my shape and color,
and there were no honors---no monuments nor exhibits

outside of museums---afforded to their first nations,
while in Australia a heritage more diverse
is championed by place names more byzantine, statues in public

more angular, murals more nonrealistic, and beggars
more universally dark, squat, and ragged.
Is it better to suffer such contradiction
or to be so thoroughly forgotten?

]]>

I cannot say which system is the worse.
In America, there was simply no sign that the pot
was ever owned by someone else: most places

had names in the tongues of their conquerors, most faces
were white or black or even my shape and color,
and there were no honors---no monuments nor exhibits

outside of museums---afforded to their first nations,
while in Australia a heritage more diverse
is championed by place names more byzantine, statues in public

more angular, murals more nonrealistic, and beggars
more universally dark, squat, and ragged.
Is it better to suffer such contradiction
or to be so thoroughly forgotten?

]]> <![CDATA[Whale Fall]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27368.html Mon, 11 May 2026 02:22:05 +0000 Wjames]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27368.html
Sculpin and mollusk devour soft tissue,
snot worms colonize bone,
urchins phalanx stingers.

In my garden, spiderwort blooms.]]>
Sculpin and mollusk devour soft tissue,
snot worms colonize bone,
urchins phalanx stingers.

In my garden, spiderwort blooms.]]> <![CDATA[Should humour be banned?]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27367.html Sun, 10 May 2026 22:03:06 +0000 busker]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27367.html Both races are industrious, while the English have been failing since the first quarter of the twentieth century, when literacy became widespread. Because people started spending too much time thinking of the perfect repartee to actually stoke the boilers and send their children down the mines.

The Americans have no sense of humour, and are hard working to a fault, like Trump, who tweets at all hours of the day. And they have been rewarded for it with oil in Texas and Canada.

So in order to preserve civilisation, nothing funny should be allowed, on pain of death, also known as a Walmart loaf.]]> Both races are industrious, while the English have been failing since the first quarter of the twentieth century, when literacy became widespread. Because people started spending too much time thinking of the perfect repartee to actually stoke the boilers and send their children down the mines.

The Americans have no sense of humour, and are hard working to a fault, like Trump, who tweets at all hours of the day. And they have been rewarded for it with oil in Texas and Canada.

So in order to preserve civilisation, nothing funny should be allowed, on pain of death, also known as a Walmart loaf.]]> <![CDATA[Post Lightning]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27366.html Sun, 10 May 2026 19:35:22 +0000 Bunx]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27366.html Post Lightning

Sometimes I replace
"I don't care"
with silence,
because I forgot how to share.

The aura of shame,
outlined in fear
protected by pills
that hold back tears.

Catalyzed by
hidden events in my life
that happened
during trying times.

Visions witness went
far beyond comprehension.

Portraits morphing in jailcells
to walls changing in the hospital.
Days after being tazed
inside my former living room.

I watched from the
body cams perspective
a nightmare
that I recall differently.

Seeing myself confused, fainting
down my worn blue stairs.

Cops then picked the loose
shocking metal from my skin.

Is this the cost of my sin?
The consequence of a wrong prescription?
I don't deserve these sensations.

It's not that I lack empathy,
it's not that I don't care.

I mourn the days listening
to friends complain about their day
answering compassion's call.

I'd rather write about love
then hospital walls.]]> Post Lightning

Sometimes I replace
"I don't care"
with silence,
because I forgot how to share.

The aura of shame,
outlined in fear
protected by pills
that hold back tears.

Catalyzed by
hidden events in my life
that happened
during trying times.

Visions witness went
far beyond comprehension.

Portraits morphing in jailcells
to walls changing in the hospital.
Days after being tazed
inside my former living room.

I watched from the
body cams perspective
a nightmare
that I recall differently.

Seeing myself confused, fainting
down my worn blue stairs.

Cops then picked the loose
shocking metal from my skin.

Is this the cost of my sin?
The consequence of a wrong prescription?
I don't deserve these sensations.

It's not that I lack empathy,
it's not that I don't care.

I mourn the days listening
to friends complain about their day
answering compassion's call.

I'd rather write about love
then hospital walls.]]> <![CDATA[Time]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27365.html Sun, 10 May 2026 16:33:03 +0000 rowens]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27365.html Time

"The fire must've started a long time ago"

"Fire tends to start that way

"Now"]]> Time

"The fire must've started a long time ago"

"Fire tends to start that way

"Now"]]> <![CDATA[Prologue]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27362.html Sat, 09 May 2026 21:57:01 +0000 Bruce V]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27362.html
The world, like all things else, has its own soul,
Is by the selfsame Source created whole
And individual, as you or I,
With one set term in which to live and die--
An instrument of that one highest power
Who gives sweet purpose to our every hour.
Therefore with Earth, and with her smallest part
Are we conjoined, and held in Heaven's heart
As children all, beloved of God, and meant
To live in happy concord, each with each content
To seek our private destinies, aware
Through all our lone pursuits that we must share
Whatever God has given. Yet few perceive
How thoroughly the spirits interweave
Their subtle essences into each force,
Each form on Earth, how gentle intercourse
Is ever maintained among the several souls
That do indwell this world that onward rolls
In seeming silence through the fields of space;
Or how the spirit of this sacred place
We call our mortal home, communicates
With every spirit that incorporates
It's light into the natural web. And so,
Unheedful of the sweetest strains that flow
Unceasing through this realm, we too oft miss
The surest source of God's intended bliss--
That deep communion holy Nature gives
To whomsoever in her graces lives.
This tale, therefore, is but the simple tale
Of one who came to lift the mystic veil
Which others take as Nature's truest dress,
But which the poets know does not confess
The deeper truths of life unless one's eyes
Are keen enough to see what hidden lies
Beneath the outward, lovely show things,
Into the deeps, where Life to Heaven sings.]]>
The world, like all things else, has its own soul,
Is by the selfsame Source created whole
And individual, as you or I,
With one set term in which to live and die--
An instrument of that one highest power
Who gives sweet purpose to our every hour.
Therefore with Earth, and with her smallest part
Are we conjoined, and held in Heaven's heart
As children all, beloved of God, and meant
To live in happy concord, each with each content
To seek our private destinies, aware
Through all our lone pursuits that we must share
Whatever God has given. Yet few perceive
How thoroughly the spirits interweave
Their subtle essences into each force,
Each form on Earth, how gentle intercourse
Is ever maintained among the several souls
That do indwell this world that onward rolls
In seeming silence through the fields of space;
Or how the spirit of this sacred place
We call our mortal home, communicates
With every spirit that incorporates
It's light into the natural web. And so,
Unheedful of the sweetest strains that flow
Unceasing through this realm, we too oft miss
The surest source of God's intended bliss--
That deep communion holy Nature gives
To whomsoever in her graces lives.
This tale, therefore, is but the simple tale
Of one who came to lift the mystic veil
Which others take as Nature's truest dress,
But which the poets know does not confess
The deeper truths of life unless one's eyes
Are keen enough to see what hidden lies
Beneath the outward, lovely show things,
Into the deeps, where Life to Heaven sings.]]> <![CDATA[Where's the female view and does it matter?]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27361.html Sat, 09 May 2026 12:55:21 +0000 wasellajam]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27361.html
I don't think this is an issue in our workshops, it certainly isn't for me. A writer, a reader, a critic here each comes from their own experience and to me the workshops are, as they have always been, a collection of voices focused on the poem.

But I was wondering about it so, as usual, I vented to milo privately and, as usual, he provided a thought provoking response. So with permission:

milo Wrote:
wasellajam Wrote:(*snipped chitchat*) I was reading the film thread and thought This is so male weighted, I hope some women post. Then I realized oh shit, that would be me lol. I don't know why that is or what to do about it. Any thoughts on this?

Yah - it isn't just here, it is most online communities (although the absence is felt much more on a poetry workshop), men dominate forum posts on almost every subject while women dominate social media posts.

There have been numerous studies around this exact topic and from what I have read over the years:

Men tend to be more involved in discussion of topic while women are more about building communities and connections.

My guess would be that women don't feel as safe on anonymous discussion boards while some men feel too safe.

So I call bullshit on the studies, maybe men are on the surface debating some bullshit point but they seem to me to also remaking connections and are often community minded. And women will engage if they give a shit about the topic.

On milo's guess, it seems to me that an anonymous board would feel safer. Maybe. I'm still thinking about this.

This is not something I've thought about before so my opinions are fluid, I'd love to hear what you all think.]]> <![CDATA[Guggenheim and Pollock]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27360.html Sat, 09 May 2026 11:56:16 +0000 wasellajam]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27360.html
Born into Midcentury Modern,
Danish furniture and art covered walls,
weekend family pass to the city’s
Museum of Modern Art.
Giftshop colorwheels spinners

swirled layers of primaries shifted
endlessly, caught and released,
headwaters and destinations
blurred and fluid.
Only Pollock kept his distance.

A sunlit focaccia breakfast
in Peggy’s breezy sculpture garden
is a prelude to her palazzo
on Venice's Grand Canal.
Guggenheim’s New York ramps and open air
left me unprepared for Peggy’s focus.

Strolling the remnants of a life of choice,
the bric and brac of a well-loved home,
I pause and pause and pause,
at home with the crowded walls
allowing them to imprint.

Then ahead of me a long narrow
high-ceilinged room, one side hung
with a stretched row of huge canvasses.
As I walk the line I'm swimming
as everything I’ve ever felt surfaces,
a crest and dive from piece to piece,
at the end a life exhausted.

(NaPM)]]>
Born into Midcentury Modern,
Danish furniture and art covered walls,
weekend family pass to the city’s
Museum of Modern Art.
Giftshop colorwheels spinners

swirled layers of primaries shifted
endlessly, caught and released,
headwaters and destinations
blurred and fluid.
Only Pollock kept his distance.

A sunlit focaccia breakfast
in Peggy’s breezy sculpture garden
is a prelude to her palazzo
on Venice's Grand Canal.
Guggenheim’s New York ramps and open air
left me unprepared for Peggy’s focus.

Strolling the remnants of a life of choice,
the bric and brac of a well-loved home,
I pause and pause and pause,
at home with the crowded walls
allowing them to imprint.

Then ahead of me a long narrow
high-ceilinged room, one side hung
with a stretched row of huge canvasses.
As I walk the line I'm swimming
as everything I’ve ever felt surfaces,
a crest and dive from piece to piece,
at the end a life exhausted.

(NaPM)]]> <![CDATA[Sex]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27359.html Fri, 08 May 2026 23:10:57 +0000 Smiley]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27359.html Its a good way to release
First, you tease
And after, you will be at ease]]> Its a good way to release
First, you tease
And after, you will be at ease]]> <![CDATA[What poem or play]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27358.html Fri, 08 May 2026 06:48:19 +0000 busker]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27358.html
For me, it was Prometheus Unbound at age 12. Then Love’s Labour’s Lost, and the two songs at the end.]]>
For me, it was Prometheus Unbound at age 12. Then Love’s Labour’s Lost, and the two songs at the end.]]> <![CDATA[Watching cars drive by.]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27357.html Thu, 07 May 2026 19:27:55 +0000 JamesG]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27357.html

Watching cars drive by.

It was a very Seventies light.
The trees wore it like a mantle,
a hint, a tint, of Naples yellow,
a yellow like painted honey.

An old car drove by,
as cars are wont to do,
not the old that I remember,
the cars of my dreaming.
Allegro, Grenada, Fiesta, Capri,
exotically suggestive,
unreliable, constructed from
tin, hope, and disappointment,
you used to say,
when you were still here to say it.

I sat on a bench between
two malnourished trees,
held up by desperate grass
and angry weeds,
chipping at the peeling paint
with my ink-stained fingers,
revealing the old wood
hidden underneath.

The cars kept driving by,
as they are wont to do,
low sunlight slipping
over quivering metal skin,
in that Seventies afternoon light.
Accidents waiting to happen,
you used to say,
when you were still here to say it.

Not too sure about the title, but I think this isn't too bad. What do ya think? Cars with those names were very common in the UK in the seventies.

Watching cars drive by.

It was a very Seventies light.
The trees wore it like a mantle,
a hint, a tint, of Naples yellow,
a yellow like painted honey.

A car drove by, as cars are wont to do,
an old car, though this century,
not the old that I remember,
the cars of my dreaming.
Allegro, Grenada, Fiesta, Capri,
exotically suggestive,
unreliable, constructed from
tin, hope, and disappointment,
you used to say,
when you were still here to say it.

I sat and watched other cars go by,
on a bench between
two unhappy trees
that clung to the
side of the smoky tarmac,
held up by desperate grass
and angry weeds.
Chipping at the peeling paint
with my ink-stained fingers,
revealing the old wood
hidden underneath.

Chipping, chipping,
till my fingers bled and
I had to pick out the
ancient paint that lodged
there like jewelled insects,
desperate to burrow
into the meat of my fingers.

The cars kept driving by,
as they are wont to do,
low sunlight slipping
over quivering metal skin,
in that Seventies afternoon light.
Accidents waiting to happen,
you used to say,
when you were still here to say it.]]>

Watching cars drive by.

It was a very Seventies light.
The trees wore it like a mantle,
a hint, a tint, of Naples yellow,
a yellow like painted honey.

An old car drove by,
as cars are wont to do,
not the old that I remember,
the cars of my dreaming.
Allegro, Grenada, Fiesta, Capri,
exotically suggestive,
unreliable, constructed from
tin, hope, and disappointment,
you used to say,
when you were still here to say it.

I sat on a bench between
two malnourished trees,
held up by desperate grass
and angry weeds,
chipping at the peeling paint
with my ink-stained fingers,
revealing the old wood
hidden underneath.

The cars kept driving by,
as they are wont to do,
low sunlight slipping
over quivering metal skin,
in that Seventies afternoon light.
Accidents waiting to happen,
you used to say,
when you were still here to say it.

Not too sure about the title, but I think this isn't too bad. What do ya think? Cars with those names were very common in the UK in the seventies.

Watching cars drive by.

It was a very Seventies light.
The trees wore it like a mantle,
a hint, a tint, of Naples yellow,
a yellow like painted honey.

A car drove by, as cars are wont to do,
an old car, though this century,
not the old that I remember,
the cars of my dreaming.
Allegro, Grenada, Fiesta, Capri,
exotically suggestive,
unreliable, constructed from
tin, hope, and disappointment,
you used to say,
when you were still here to say it.

I sat and watched other cars go by,
on a bench between
two unhappy trees
that clung to the
side of the smoky tarmac,
held up by desperate grass
and angry weeds.
Chipping at the peeling paint
with my ink-stained fingers,
revealing the old wood
hidden underneath.

Chipping, chipping,
till my fingers bled and
I had to pick out the
ancient paint that lodged
there like jewelled insects,
desperate to burrow
into the meat of my fingers.

The cars kept driving by,
as they are wont to do,
low sunlight slipping
over quivering metal skin,
in that Seventies afternoon light.
Accidents waiting to happen,
you used to say,
when you were still here to say it.]]> <![CDATA[v2. The Generation Ship]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27356.html Wed, 06 May 2026 16:16:38 +0000 alonso ramoran]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27356.html The Generation Ship

Time moves backward—
or, its current awaits surrender, seconds losing
measurement:

Here is the bed I was kept from,
as I answered to many names,
though my answers could never be heard
with the voice of a body.

And above, that clear blue window of air
is for looking into the space
ahead and left behind,
the future and past. Yes I remember:
time must be created
to guide the vessel,
not counted.

So long have I placed faith
in a reunion with the self, deprived sorrows, vespertine
dark of wisdom, under the conditions
of the body's passing, that I counted away
wonderful beings. How
strange it is now
to return to the source—a tear to its oldest ocean, seconds
slowing
into one
moment in the waves
of forever.

The details of the moment become the dream,
the creation of time,
this vessel's direction.

]]> The Generation Ship

Time moves backward—
or, its current awaits surrender, seconds losing
measurement:

Here is the bed I was kept from,
as I answered to many names,
though my answers could never be heard
with the voice of a body.

And above, that clear blue window of air
is for looking into the space
ahead and left behind,
the future and past. Yes I remember:
time must be created
to guide the vessel,
not counted.

So long have I placed faith
in a reunion with the self, deprived sorrows, vespertine
dark of wisdom, under the conditions
of the body's passing, that I counted away
wonderful beings. How
strange it is now
to return to the source—a tear to its oldest ocean, seconds
slowing
into one
moment in the waves
of forever.

The details of the moment become the dream,
the creation of time,
this vessel's direction.

]]>