Poetry Thread

[arcon]

[ 10-19-2001: Message edited by: arcon ]

[its_me_mango]

okay, we should honor our returning heros from the national competitions,
this doesn't do anyone justice for all their efforts over the years but here I go....

They pack their bags with care,
folding and refolding their shirts,
their spandex, their special towels,
that hold back their hair,
They catch a plane, a cab, and
walk, for one purpose,
to fight.

Fencers, refs, coaches,
beginners, midlife crisesers,
crusaders, men and women alike,
With special gear,
and special care,
They argue a point from time to time,
and it's possible
you stepped over the line,

We still have it! We can win!
Until we meet the 15 year old kid
with an arm like granite,
oh well, next year,
I'll pack my gear,
and we will win,
with special tonics
special charms,
all of them win,
and all of them matadors.
Ole!

[DarkTransient]

O freddled gruntbuggly...
...thy micturations are to me
As plurdled gabbledblotchits
on a lurgid bee.
Groop I implore thee,
my foonting turlingdromes.
And hooptiously drangle me
With crinkly bindlewurdles,
Or I will rend thee in the
gobberwards with my
blurglecrunchcon,
see if I don't!

[Iwant2bafencer]

About 98% of the poems that I know are to long to write on here. Also I can't write poetry only stories. I just thought I would add a post cuz I'm interested to hear other peoples poems.
Lady Rosaline

[Oor Wullie]

On spindly legs they scuttle,
Slicing at the air,
With stings lacking the wicked edge
To rend and to lay bare
The bodies of the opponents
That dance before their eyes.
What use a neutered combat,
In which no-one ever dies?

[HilandDoug]

Hey, Willie, that was AWESOME!

[SteveMcDonough]

Does this have to be fencing-related poetry?
I have written a couple of poems. Not the rhymey type.

Steve.

[SteveMcDonough]

Poem:

"Ode to a metal pimple"
(c)Steve McDonough, 2001. All rights reserved. Please consume within 24 hours of purchase.


Oh, my pustule. You are so Chromey.
How I want to squeeze you in my bearhug and make you pop.
The Llama ate my frog,
and my lightbulb isn't as bright as the sun. But that's okay.
--- Oh! pimpley Pimple. Boss of all the wraught-Iron boils.
So easy to please, so tough to squeeze.
My fingers are no match for you.
You are red all round but not in the middle
There, you're metallic.
Why aren't you yellow?

You stand so proud, Oh mighty melanoma.
Like a great tin volcano waiting to blow.
Spilling your Lava on your slopes.

Oh, powerful boulderblaster.
Please don't leave a gargantuan, pussy, bleeding crater in my face.
I have to go out to the pub tonight.


I have many more poems. Let me know, and I'll post them.

Steve. (poet laureate and wordsmith)

------------------
Pottery ROCKS! (er.. surely poetry?)

[This message has been edited by SteveMcDonough (edited 07-21-2001).]

My adrenaline is rising
As I step upon the piste,
A long cold foil
Clenched in my fist.

Cooly I acknowlegde my opponent.
En gared,allez,avance,attaque,parry and riposte.
The game's begun,
I feel the thrill
of battles lost and won.

Our hearts are all on fire.
Our breathing comes on fast.
The sweat is pouring down
inside silent wire masks.

My body's getting tired.
My legs are getting weak.
My heart is pounding wildly.
There is lead inside my feet.

That kid is younger, faster.
Will she be the end of me?
Think faster, Fight smarter.
Take her to her knees.
Avance, attaque, parry and riposte.
There is no retreat.
En quartata, pasata sotto.
Take her down, take her low.

Une,deux, trois, quatre, cinq.
Your mine! HA!

Affectionately yours,
The Dame

[epeemike81]

Casey on the Strip

The outlook wasn't brilliant for the foil squad that night;
The score stood seven bouts to five, with three more left to fight,
And after Cooney's body cord had snapped - and so he lost -
The third-to-last opponent to the strip had calmly crossed.

The fifty people watching were enthralled in thick suspense.
They thought, "If only now were mighty Casey's turn to fence,
He'd win the bout - he's beat this man two times before, or three,
And Flynn can fence the last man, who is even worse than he."

But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Black,
And the former never parried and the next could not attack.
There was little chance that they'd win, so in spite of Casey's tricks,
The tournament would still be lost by nine bouts to their six.

But Flynn let fly a mighty fleche with feats of daring-do,
And Jimmy Black, the much despised, won by five to two,
And when the lights stopped flashing, all the audience was awed,
For now the score was tied, with seven bouts to either squad.

Then from the fifty people there arose a lusty yell:
It rumbled through the valley and it rattled in the dell:
The epees and the sabres joined this show of fellowship,
For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the strip.

There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped behind the line;
They gently tested weapons, and his smile was benign,
And when his hand closed, tightening, around his pistol-grip,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey on the strip.

One hundred eyes were waiting for the battle to commence.
The two saluted graciously and heard a "Ready, fence!"
Then Casey lunged like lightening, the machine one light gave out,
And Casey very soon amassed four touches in the bout.

Now the opponent's foil plunged at Casey through the air,
And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Unparried, it impacted his lamé's metallic weft.
"That's not my style," said Casey. The director said, "touch left."

From the fifty watching people, there went up a muffled roar
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore.
"Test weapons once again!" one cried. "There must be something wrong!"
And there might have been a riot had not Casey calmed the throng.

Between director and the crowd did Casey intercede,
He stilled the rising tumult, and he bade the bout proceed.
So three more times against him his opponent's weapon fell,
And Casey thrice ignored it. The director said, "La Belle."

"Fraud!" cried the maddened fifty, and the echo answered, "Fraud!"
But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.
His face was stern behind his mask; they saw his muscles strain,
And knew that Casey would not let himself be hit again.

His face is clenched in hate as he salutes and stands en garde.
The director calls out, "Ready, fence!" and Casey's eyes are hard.
Forth comes the other foil like a gleaming metal ghost,
And now the air is shattered by his parry and riposte!

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright,
And somewhere birds are singing, and somewhere hearts are light.
And somewhere men are laughing, and little children play,
But there's no joy on the foil squad since Casey's mal parre.

by Aaron J. Dinkin (with apologies to Ernest L. Thayer)


I assume most of you have read this before. It has been around websites since Aaron wrote it, which must be about six years ago by now.

-m

------------------
DUCK AND COVER!!!!!!

[This message has been edited by epeemike81 (edited 07-21-2001).]

[Iwant2bafencer]

Wow Dame!! yea thats about it. Wow!
Lady Rosaline

---------------------
Carpe Deim

[arcon]

[ 10-19-2001: Message edited by: arcon ]

["Fence like a Cat"]

"The painful warrior famoused for fight, After a thousand victories, once foil'd, Is from the books of honour razed quite, And all the rest forgot for which he toil'd". Sonnet xxv, William Shakespeare (1564-1616).

[SteveMcDonough]

Hey. Welcome, F.L.A.C.

Good Quote.

Steve

[Haze]

hmmm...ok...!? Interesting poem Steve. Pray tell, from whence did said llama and said frog appear? They seem to bear little relation to the rest of the obscure bizzareness that you write. One might almost say you are Random. A trait not to be scoffed at, more for its oddly deficient ambiguity and deep travelling meanings to be admired (albeit from a distance). Surprised no one else has recognised the blinding superiority of your poem - perhaps it was a little too individual for the tone of this thread. No matter.

Ahh, my command of the the English language - how I insult it so.

-Haze

[Xaaron Swiftblade]

<--Applause.
Steve Very cool

[ 08-13-2001: Message edited by: Xaaron Swiftblade ]

[SteveMcDonough]

I thank you. You're a wonderful audience. I feel my creative juices stirring, and another masterpiece coming on....

Steve.

[SteveMcDonough]

Poem:

"On the Piste again."
(c)Steve McDonough, 2001. All rights reserved. Extinguish all naked flames.

Whack! you have jacket O' White!
Boinggg! Oh, Bendy sword. So trusty.
Bendy. Like a hot bit of plastic in a record cabinet that's on fire.
Metal hitting mask. Twonk!! Eyeballs making contact through insect screens.
The piste is made of metal, and the white-clad warriors are hooked up to the national grid.
Sweating people. red lightbulb, little moth. bbbbbbbrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr! shhhhh.

Director is like a demigod who always manages to get it wrong.
But there's no telly. Now, that's not correct.
Aaaah.. the tortured screams of the little fat man, who hasn't been practicing enough.
Aaaah.. The triumphant Yip of the seasoned vet, who has.
Shhhhhhh... the moth, who thinks that if the ewoks had light sabers, then the radio will be wet.
Silly moth. That's why he's playing with a lightbulb, and not performing brain surgery.

...........................................
I have many more poems. Let me know, and I'll post them.

Steve. (poet laureate and wordsmith)

[ 08-13-2001: Message edited by: SteveMcDonough ]

["Fence like a Cat"]

Bravo, Steve...

[Haze]

---applause---