Sin Apophis
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- Posted: Sun, 12 Apr 2009 04:24:28 +0000
Defender name: Kiria Delusional Kitty
Challenger name: Azula_89
Bet: 10k
Type of Duel: call-out (flash), 2 1/2 hour time limit
Judge I prefer: Sin Apophis
Style/Form I prefer: free verse
This poem was interesting, but oddly cliché. I find that staring into the sky thinking about one’s dead [whatever] is so broadly overused in any number of media. This sense of ‘wanting to cry’ is so literal it’s boring, and almost unbelievable. Lines like “moonshine becomes my blanket” or “grass has dried to ash” are just pretty language, but poor descriptions. I had a serene feeling at the beginning of the poem, and throughout, and then this character is near-blubbering. I also didn’t feel as though the prompt Kiria gave you flowed into the rest of your poem with as much ease as I would have liked to see. The poem’s transition fro her writing style to yours is noticeable, and clucky. Your description is good, vivid, and put me in a good place, but I didn’t feel like this was a masterful piece of work. However, you did paint a solid picture; I liked the garden-metaphor you gave for the mother-child relationship. I don’t like the nostaligic camping scene.
I love your subtle metaphors. I had a great sense of emotion from this poem, and your descriptions were so beautiful, without being cliché, that you left a lingering sense of unease. I liked the foggy way you portrayed the misfortunes of this person’s past, which makes the line “to fill the aching, maddening blackness” particularly irksome. Most of your poem is ambiguous, while still giving the reader a sense of emotion. I think stating something so literally right there is almost a mistake. It’s an awkward cliché moment; everyone feels “aching, maddening blackness” nowadays. But it’s an easy fix. Anyway, the way you melt Azula’s prompt into your poetry was expertly done, and I would not have been able to distinguish your lines from his. I particularly like how they’re not in one singular clump, but sprinkled throughout, as though accenting your poetic mastery.
I declare Kiria Delusional Kitty the winner.
Challenger name: Azula_89
Bet: 10k
Type of Duel: call-out (flash), 2 1/2 hour time limit
Judge I prefer: Sin Apophis
Style/Form I prefer: free verse
Kiria’s Material, from Azula
They are these photos: sheds of snake-skin
fading like paper-flower petals.
As I drive through highways of parrel lanes
it feels like memories are crossing blades.
like air and smoke are making love.
fading like paper-flower petals.
As I drive through highways of parrel lanes
it feels like memories are crossing blades.
like air and smoke are making love.
Azula’s Material, from Kiria
A hunter’s moon waxes gibbous above the skeletal trees,
painting a chiaroscuro world: shadows caress the contours
of the mountain, trickling like ink down ravines that only
the night can find. Droplets of light drift down the sky,
painting a chiaroscuro world: shadows caress the contours
of the mountain, trickling like ink down ravines that only
the night can find. Droplets of light drift down the sky,
Azula_89
My Nostalgic Sentiment
A hunter’s moon waxes gibbous above the skeletal trees,
painting a chiaroscuro world: shadows caress the contours
of the mountain, trickling like ink down ravines that only
the night can find. Droplets of light drift down the sky;
and I rest, where moonshine becomes my blanket
as I watch parallel clouds move by. Tonight is silent.
The grass has dried into ash, and here I lie on top
of foliage, reminiscing of olden days when Mother
was still alive. I was like a pebble-seed to her,
where she was my universe and I was her
world, born and raised like a garden. In my family,
before she passed, we used to camp together.
Not a day goes by where I don't remember
her smiles, gazed at me, when we spent nights
fishing for peaceful relics; and I would stare into
that galaxy-mirror, until we caught our salmon.
These penumbra star-nights are photographs, and next to me
is that very river; and though I try not to cry,
I can't help, but shake off the cobwebs of youth, reborn this night.
A hunter’s moon waxes gibbous above the skeletal trees,
painting a chiaroscuro world: shadows caress the contours
of the mountain, trickling like ink down ravines that only
the night can find. Droplets of light drift down the sky;
and I rest, where moonshine becomes my blanket
as I watch parallel clouds move by. Tonight is silent.
The grass has dried into ash, and here I lie on top
of foliage, reminiscing of olden days when Mother
was still alive. I was like a pebble-seed to her,
where she was my universe and I was her
world, born and raised like a garden. In my family,
before she passed, we used to camp together.
Not a day goes by where I don't remember
her smiles, gazed at me, when we spent nights
fishing for peaceful relics; and I would stare into
that galaxy-mirror, until we caught our salmon.
These penumbra star-nights are photographs, and next to me
is that very river; and though I try not to cry,
I can't help, but shake off the cobwebs of youth, reborn this night.
This poem was interesting, but oddly cliché. I find that staring into the sky thinking about one’s dead [whatever] is so broadly overused in any number of media. This sense of ‘wanting to cry’ is so literal it’s boring, and almost unbelievable. Lines like “moonshine becomes my blanket” or “grass has dried to ash” are just pretty language, but poor descriptions. I had a serene feeling at the beginning of the poem, and throughout, and then this character is near-blubbering. I also didn’t feel as though the prompt Kiria gave you flowed into the rest of your poem with as much ease as I would have liked to see. The poem’s transition fro her writing style to yours is noticeable, and clucky. Your description is good, vivid, and put me in a good place, but I didn’t feel like this was a masterful piece of work. However, you did paint a solid picture; I liked the garden-metaphor you gave for the mother-child relationship. I don’t like the nostaligic camping scene.
Kiria Delusional Kitty
Mnemosyne
A wisp of a painfully unfamiliar face teases at my mind’s eye –
it clings for a moment, a tattered shred of cobweb
caught in an eddy of almost-memory, then drifts away.
I make a futile grasp for the fleeting fragment, desperate
to fill the aching, maddening blankness
that pervades the volumes of my memory.
One last page holds the remaining scraps of hope –
they are these photos: sheds of snake-skin
fading like paper-flower petals.
My psyche caresses a sepia moment, plunges
into the space between emptiness and agony:
as I drive through highways of parallel lanes,
it feels like memories are crossing blades –
crossing wills – with a spreading void.
A wisp of a painfully familiar face floats past,
a name trailing in its wake,
insubstantial,
like air and smoke are making love.
A wisp of a painfully unfamiliar face teases at my mind’s eye –
it clings for a moment, a tattered shred of cobweb
caught in an eddy of almost-memory, then drifts away.
I make a futile grasp for the fleeting fragment, desperate
to fill the aching, maddening blankness
that pervades the volumes of my memory.
One last page holds the remaining scraps of hope –
they are these photos: sheds of snake-skin
fading like paper-flower petals.
My psyche caresses a sepia moment, plunges
into the space between emptiness and agony:
as I drive through highways of parallel lanes,
it feels like memories are crossing blades –
crossing wills – with a spreading void.
A wisp of a painfully familiar face floats past,
a name trailing in its wake,
insubstantial,
like air and smoke are making love.
I love your subtle metaphors. I had a great sense of emotion from this poem, and your descriptions were so beautiful, without being cliché, that you left a lingering sense of unease. I liked the foggy way you portrayed the misfortunes of this person’s past, which makes the line “to fill the aching, maddening blackness” particularly irksome. Most of your poem is ambiguous, while still giving the reader a sense of emotion. I think stating something so literally right there is almost a mistake. It’s an awkward cliché moment; everyone feels “aching, maddening blackness” nowadays. But it’s an easy fix. Anyway, the way you melt Azula’s prompt into your poetry was expertly done, and I would not have been able to distinguish your lines from his. I particularly like how they’re not in one singular clump, but sprinkled throughout, as though accenting your poetic mastery.
I declare Kiria Delusional Kitty the winner.
