2nd Annual Poems About Suicide Month
#1
Now that Valentines Day has passed. Our thoughts may turn to the wilting flowers, or the empty vases and contemplate our lives.  As we gaze into our dark chocolate center, does chocolate gaze back.

Okay, I'll stop.

It is now time for the "2nd Annual Poems About Suicide Month" at The Pigpen, where we ask you to FIGURATIVELY slice a vein and pour out your depression onto paper (or make it up as that's what writers do).
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson
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#2
I lay myself down in the snow
and spread my arms out one last time.
My snowy angels used to glow,
now they lie dull. The cold, sublime,
has numbed the last of burning pain,
destroyed what's left of joy and art.
Let snowdrifts wear the crimson stain,
an icicle straight through my heart.


Big Grin I got crimson in there. (edit, tectak)
billy wrote:welcome to the site. make it your own, wear it like a well loved slipper and wear it out. ella pleads:please click forum titles for posting guidelines, important threads. New poet? Try Poetic DevicesandWard's Tips

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#3
Caesura Finem

Dry as diamond, chill ensnares all things from water made;
and me, a cooling corpse of that same fluid, dyed.
What warmth I drew from loves or friends has all but gone;
the last damned drop drawn from a thread-bare vein,
unseen except by some old ego slowly leaving home.
Where is the peace, the promised calm when sound abates,
when even  sight recoils, and shivers shake from atavistic scents?
Strange that red is black; slickly dripping from a pallid palm. It is not mine,
nor any part I called my own...but even that, my name for me,
is hidden now. I know so little yet so much; what is there left
to puzzle out or think upon? Perhaps I should know who I am.
We watch the pool spread subtle shapes; look there...a wilder, grander man.
Look there, look  there...can you not see...or am I quite alone?
I seem to bleed from old, cold bone yet somewhere rhymes still form,
bright rings of string that flit on oil-quelled seas.
Is this the calm?
I still hear waves
that hiss
then
die.
tectak
2015
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#4
Sonnet for Alan


The halo round the half-moon splinters ice,
a gelid gleam that glints on sea-borne spume.
The howl of stray cat fight cuts through the night
as if the sea is screaming at the moon.
.
The skeletons of driftwood twist and writhe
in shadow dance, though they themselves are still
and all my dead tonight return to life
as morepork’s warning call flies from the hill.

The crumpled sheets of night festoon the floor,
they’re stained with pain and dreams of lovers lost
and suicide’s allure slides through the door
with guilt and freedom arguing the cost.

The darkest part of night is yet to come
in wakeful struggle, waiting for the sun.

It hurts her to remember
 
 
My mother’s time rounds out now; near complete,
it twists her bones and memory until
she’s caught in helpless infantile defeat,
replays blocked scenes – poor farmhouse on the hill,
her father’s suicide, his shattered will,
her family fragmented, scattered wide.
She never spoke his name, yet loved him still
then lost as well her homeland, as war bride
 
so wife and mother kept him locked inside
with guilt she hadn’t loved him quite enough.
Now she herself is nearing that divide
a child again - a kiss, his whiskers rough;
she moans. I bend with tissues for her eyes
to hear her whisper daddy as she cries.
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#5
(02-16-2015, 10:28 PM)ellajam Wrote:  I lay myself down in the snow "I lay myself.." may be saying more than you need to say. It follows from the dirge of prayer, "As I lay me down to sleep...", which if deliberate is cliche, but if not is easily improved. You know how.
and spread my arms out one last time.
My snowy angels used to glow,
now they lie dull. The cold, sublime, Why do they lie dull...what is lying dull, anyway? Help.
has numbed the last of burning pain,
destroyed what's left of joy and art.
Let snowdrifts wear the crimson stain,
an icicle straight through the heart. Some may say trite. Not me...but keep it serious. "...through my heart". After all, it's your funeral Smile
Hi ella,
Straightforward and I like that...but not as tight as it could be. I kept comment on the "one last time" until now as it is a figure of speech and in that context, acceptable. As a piece of controlled english it is a loose canon (sic)...the "one" can never be anything else if last. Smile
Best,
tectak



Big Grin I got crimson in there.
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#6
refusal to mourn a poet’s suicide the week before Christmas
 
 
 
faces glimpsed through the window
before, during and after
saxophone darker than shadow
nothing is sadder than laughter
 
before, during and after
waitresses cut through the crowd
nothing is sadder than laughter
everyone’s laughing out loud
 
waitresses cut through the crowd
wounds that instantly mend
everyone’s laughing out loud
in silence the dances end
 
wounds that instantly  mend
his lips left a mark on the glass
in silence the dances end
friends imprinted with loss
 
his lips left a mark on the glass
his life left a son and some poems
friends imprinted with loss
not empty, not full, in balance
 
his life left a son and some poems
faces glimpsed through the window
not empty, not full, in balance
saxophone darker than shadow
 
 
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#7
(02-17-2015, 07:37 AM)tectak Wrote:  
(02-16-2015, 10:28 PM)ellajam Wrote:  I lay myself down in the snow "I lay myself.." may be saying more than you need to say. It follows from the dirge of prayer, "As I lay me down to sleep...", which if deliberate is cliche, but if not is easily improved. You know how.
and spread my arms out one last time.
My snowy angels used to glow,
now they lie dull. The cold, sublime, Why do they lie dull...what is lying dull, anyway? Help.
has numbed the last of burning pain,
destroyed what's left of joy and art.
Let snowdrifts wear the crimson stain,
an icicle straight through the heart. Some may say trite. Not me...but keep it serious. "...through my heart". After all, it's your funeral Smile
Hi ella,
Straightforward and I like that...but not as tight as it could be. I kept comment on the "one last time" until now as it is a figure of speech and in that context, acceptable. As a piece of controlled english it is a loose canon (sic)...the "one" can never be anything else if last. Smile
Best,
tectak



Big Grin I got crimson in there.

Well thank you, Tom, I appreciate the read and the comments. Opening with a cliche, I admit the tack I took towards the prompt was meant to be cliche, hence crimson stain. I sort of like lay me down in this instance.

As I am not suicidal I am sure to be inaccurate but I imagine the prelude with some nostalgia, I will do this just one more time, for the last time. I'm not sure if I want to change it yet.

The glow and dull was meant to signify the demeanor of depression, how children glow and depressed people have that blankness about them. I'll see what I can do.

I have an icicle outside my door that goes from the gutter straight down to the deck, my heart it is.

Thanks so much, I sort of feel bad taking it so lightly after reading the fine work that followed. Ah well, not the first or last time I'm the weakest on the page, grin.
billy wrote:welcome to the site. make it your own, wear it like a well loved slipper and wear it out. ella pleads:please click forum titles for posting guidelines, important threads. New poet? Try Poetic DevicesandWard's Tips

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#8
Dead Beat
 
-Last week of October-
 
Sittin’ on a leaning bench against a left tilting post-hunter S.
top sun photovoltaic green solar cell lamp on Cons-egress,
Aah-Ben-new, ferblocks arso sowth of the
Stay-it Cap-pee-tall Bill-ding sits an old man
who thinks he is still younger than thirty. 
 
The old man is wearing steely gray strands
of  hair-over blue collared work shirt,
jeans drywell worn out bottom topped-out
in dirt-slick Red-Wing non-union work boots.
Overall a pretty good look foray-bum
without a smoke to hiss name.
 
He has long pointy Allen Ginsberg hands
that nervously and continuously turn
the Ann also Rand  pages of a dark
cheap blue fie-dolla-journal with lines,
 onlines, of scragglie-scrawlie scribble-script
from an ex-tree’-super-duper fine punt-bald-pount pæn.
 
One limp-wristed Ginsberg hand  is currently holding
this self-same pæn, while the other, somewhat dainty hand,
with overly long yellowed nails,
thumbs thru the tepid tissues of ledger leaf
as the jaundiced handowner looks up with his
2% milk-fat lipid pale blue eyes
as the fingers continuing to stroll
unconsciously down the imaginary jelly-roll lane
of the collective racial mass memory storage retaining area.
 
“Hey brother,”
 
The old man rumbles out raspilly over fibrous strands
of nicotine-filigreed mucus, to a young pauser passing too slowly by.
 
“Spare a square?”
 
Young hand reaches into the over-priced light blue
cool Arrow shirt pocket and pulls out a nearly empty
pack of yellow injuns, that he hands to the old man.
 
“These do?”
 
“Sure man, thanks., ’preciate it.”
 
A Ginsburg hand fondles the small white phallic symbol
rolling it back and forth between two fingers
feeling the tobacco crumple under the pressure
then tamp it several times 
before bringing it to the thin old man lips
that are waiting to milk it; 
like venom is milked
from poisonous snakes.
As the open flame ignites the tip:
he sucks hard and extracts the combustible offering. 
 
The old man draws deep
the nick-‘O’-teen laced smoke
with a sigh, a sound that seems to echo
out of some ancient cadaverous abyss.
 
Straightly, Cool Arrow asks,
 
“What’s in the book?”
 
“This man? Just a little belles-lettres on beat.”
 
“Really? You a writer?’
“Sorta. I was almost famous once.
Got my brain bashed by a bottle of wine,
that Neal Cassady hit me with.”
 
“Wow, what happened?”
 
“Got five stitches man.”
 
“No, I mean, why did he do it.”
 
“Oh, I said that some stuff he wanted me to read,
by his boyfriend Kerouac’s sucked!” 
 
“Man,” spurts Cool Arrow,
“You must be ancient,
that was like fifty years ago?”
 
Youth! bringing on the feeling of sudden tiredness.
The old man’s head nods in a non-committed
committal way of a beadle.
His attention turns back to his
well worn dark blue fie-dolla journal.
 
Cool Arrow, unaware of being dismissed,
wonders off in a Ritalin deficiency haze
thinking of strong coffee,
long nylon’d legs,
painted pouty lips,
and augmented udders.
He is a child of this new age:
artificial doesn’t bother him.
He was suckled on it.
 
-One week latter Cool Arrow, reading the daily rag-
 
“Unknown man remains hanging from tree on walking trail between
town-lake and the “Austin-American-Statesman” building for three days.
Witnesses said they thought it was a Halloween prank.
Several people thought it was the most life-like display
they had ever seen and sure to win first place.
 
“Yes,” said one elderly woman,
 
“Even down to that God-awful smell. V-e-r-y Authentic.”
 
The only possession found was a small dark blue journal book.
The writing in which was mostly unintelligible and gave no clue
as to the man’s identity. Anyone who might know the identity
of this individual is asked to please contact the city police.”      
 
Cool Arrow thought,  “Wow, I wonder if he started feeling bad about dissing  Kerouac?”
 
–Erthona
 
©2007-2015
 OK, that wasn't exactly about suicide. It had a suicide i it, but it was not talking about suicide, so here's one that is for sure.



My Sewercide
 
In the John,
three sheets to the wind
head in the bowl
drowning.
Not that you care.
 
 
–Erthona
 
 
©2015 
How long after picking up the brush, the first masterpiece?

The goal is not to obfuscate that which is clear, but make clear that which isn't.
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#9
Sphincter muscles relax and bowels
empty across the floor
mingling with congealed blood.
it seeped from cuts across my wrists.
Purple eye-shadow; watered down
drips over my pasty emo-cheekbones
I lack the will to have will.
Mother calls; She knows nothing
of who i am, lacks my understanding
of pain, of deep internal struggle
as it brings me down through the void
of angst into the world of the misjudged.
I bleed for you sister; fellow goth,
emo and person new to poetry.
Where are my accolades!
cut me cliche, do i not bleed.

Why is it taking so long to die
was the pin not sharp enough?
i hate you all.
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#10
Shouldn't that be "pen"? Otherwise nice satire, although according to ella, Tom told us we had to be serious.

dale
How long after picking up the brush, the first masterpiece?

The goal is not to obfuscate that which is clear, but make clear that which isn't.
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#11
(02-17-2015, 11:04 AM)Erthona Wrote:  Shouldn't that be "pen"? Otherwise nice satire, although according to ella, Tom told us we had to be serious.

dale

Hey, I said nothing of the sort. I can't help it if Tom expects me to write well, he's a dreamer, yanno.
billy wrote:welcome to the site. make it your own, wear it like a well loved slipper and wear it out. ella pleads:please click forum titles for posting guidelines, important threads. New poet? Try Poetic DevicesandWard's Tips

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#12
(02-17-2015, 12:21 PM)ellajam Wrote:  
(02-17-2015, 11:04 AM)Erthona Wrote:  Shouldn't that be "pen"? Otherwise nice satire, although according to ella, Tom told us we had to be serious.

dale

Hey, I said nothing of the sort. I can't help it if Tom expects me to write well, he's a dreamer, yanno.
England expects...
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#13


                matches
                gasoline
                penance


almost terse
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#14
i like the pen thing but sadly i meant pin. a pin prick is often seen as fatal by some. i wish i had used pen though.

(02-17-2015, 11:04 AM)Erthona Wrote:  Shouldn't that be "pen"? Otherwise nice satire, although according to ella, Tom told us we had to be serious.

dale
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#15
Urine-sane

Outside a piss yellow asylum,
suicide taints the sunflowers-
and ocher canvases
that could have been.
My new watercolor: 'Nightmare After Christmas'/Chris
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#16
(02-17-2015, 10:30 PM)ChristopherSea Wrote:  Urine-sane

Outside a piss yellow asylum,
suicide taints the sunflowers-
and ocher canvases other or ochre?Gotcher!
that could have been.
....apart from that it's just the "and".Not worth killing yourself over.
Best,
Tom
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#17
(02-17-2015, 11:39 PM)tectak Wrote:  
(02-17-2015, 10:30 PM)ChristopherSea Wrote:  Urine-sane

Outside a piss yellow asylum,
suicide taints the sunflowers-
and ocher canvases other or ochre?Gotcher!
that could have been.
....apart from that it's just the "and".Not worth killing yourself over.
Best,
Tom

What about:

Urine-sane

Outside a piss yellow asylum,
suicide taints the sunflowers-
alas, the ochre canvases
that could have been.
My new watercolor: 'Nightmare After Christmas'/Chris
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#18
(02-18-2015, 01:06 AM)ChristopherSea Wrote:  
(02-17-2015, 11:39 PM)tectak Wrote:  
(02-17-2015, 10:30 PM)ChristopherSea Wrote:  Urine-sane

Outside a piss yellow asylum,
suicide taints the sunflowers-
and ocher canvases other or ochre?Gotcher!
that could have been.
....apart from that it's just the "and".Not worth killing yourself over.
Best,
Tom

What about:

Urine-sane

Outside a piss yellow asylum,
suicide taints the sunflowers-
alas, the ochre canvases
that could have been.

That makes a big difference to me, I like it.
billy wrote:welcome to the site. make it your own, wear it like a well loved slipper and wear it out. ella pleads:please click forum titles for posting guidelines, important threads. New poet? Try Poetic DevicesandWard's Tips

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#19
(02-18-2015, 01:24 AM)ellajam Wrote:  
(02-18-2015, 01:06 AM)ChristopherSea Wrote:  
(02-17-2015, 11:39 PM)tectak Wrote:  ....apart from that it's just the "and".Not worth killing yourself over.
Best,
Tom

What about:

Urine-sane

Outside a piss yellow asylum,
suicide taints the sunflowers-
alas, the ochre canvases
that could have been.

That makes a big difference to me, I like it.
Yup.
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#20
(02-18-2015, 08:22 AM)MilesDavis Wrote:  Where is this a joke and where is this real
How can you talk about ending one's life by self volition here
I have thought about ending my own life
I haven't done it yet, and hopefully I won't

If you need to end it all then find help
Run to you find what you need
There is no catheters here
Those of us who know find our way or we don't

Suicide is real, it ends the life of many poets
Cuts off their words and ideas
Don't let it become a joke by being a prize
Human life is more valuable than that

PS you ever bothered to figure out how many of your entrants are dead by there own hand

My entry is no joke, it emphasizes the tragic loss of one of the world's most brilliant post-impressionists. I am pissed that the poor devil pissed his life away! I can't even fathom how much further he could have gone. Read it again:

Urine-sane

Outside a piss yellow asylum,
suicide taints the sunflowers-
alas, the ochre canvases
that could have been.
My new watercolor: 'Nightmare After Christmas'/Chris
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