WHAT IS AN EPIC POEM? An epic (from the Ancient Greek adjective ἐπικός (epikos), from ἔπος (epos) "word, story, poem"[1]) is a lengthy narrative poem, ordinarily concerning a serious subject containing details of heroic deeds and events significant to a culture or nation.
HELPFUL TIPS TO MAKE A EPIC POEM emotion_bigvein Make your poem consistent, since it's just a long poem, you want to keep the reader engaged and still have them know what's going on. emotion_bigvein Don't rhyme if it doesn't make sense...[SOME EPIC POEMS WILL GO STANZA'S WITHOUT RHYMING, SO KEEP IN MIND, YOUR EPIC DOESN'T HAVE TO RHYME.] emotion_bigvein Create a story that will captivate the reader, and remember, if you're not absolutely in love with your piece, take your time, and mold it into something you'll be proud of.
WHAT IS THE PRIZE? 1ST30,000 1ST20,000 1ST10,000
Deadline +April 23rd +Post Poems in the thread and be sure to have [ spoiler ][ /spoiler ] so you can post it here. + Limit 10,oooWords. +Minimum 5oo words.
TheSadGuy666
1ST
Guardian of Agape
2ND
Yutora
3RD; CAME INTO CLOSE SECOND, I REALLY LOVED YOURS TOO!
Yes yes! Thank you, lol, definitely just added it in. :3
Posted: Tue Apr 16, 2013 9:41 pm
My entry:
The Thinker He kneels atop his rock of clay, A mere molded form upon a stone, Who ponders every thought, all day, But despite their comfort, he sits alone.
He lives within the mind deranged, An active brain beneath the façade Of moss-cloaked biceps, cracks, and stains, Tangible, like echoes of drowned applauds.
Although his stance is sedentary, And he whispers not a sound, His mental prowess never varies, And of that, he is quite proud.
For even though passersby revel in his beauty, His toned shape, and robust jaw, They never can grasp the truth beneath, What on the surface they all saw.
For he adventures to lands far and wide, Beyond the corporeal limits of the Earth. Standing amongst giants, flanking their sides, His mind, not body, is a place of birth.
Only he envisions himself as a man, The most horrifying creature, Who kills the beasts and ravages land, Until even Gods cannot measure The gravity of such destruction.
And as a man, he would not waste, The precious time that he holds dear, Because rather than live in haste, He would rather live beyond his seers, And his mortality, he shan’t ever fear.
He sails his ship upon the sea as Odysseus did long ago, And battles all the Sabertooths for every Mammoth hide. He knows Julius Caesar as a worthy foe, And as an Atlantian, the current, he rides.
He travels to depths of the abyss, And feeds Cerberus his tasty toll, To gain entrance to the anti-bliss, Of the world’s darkest place of old.
His breath is hot as Hell’s fire, And his scales burn while his claws curl, His stomach never full, never tired, As a high-pitched bellow does he hurl.
He wields the sword of Arthur, King of Camelot, And his faithful servants follow, like loyal Lancelot. He preaches to his knights, of bravery, through and true, Dictating that they may find they must bid their lives adieu.
Now, underneath his placid face, One never would suspect, That he could run a thousandth pace, Round circles of detection.
And scouring the ground like an eagle, His eyes remain forever fierce, But his smile fades and becomes feeble, As reality seems to pierce: For he knows not to fly the skies, Or whisper the wind’s call, And he would sooner greet his death rather than fall.
His wounded heart, The core, rotten and maimed, Another mere frozen part, Of his immobile pain Reflects his desire to escape, From his ever-thinking state.
His mind may be a playground, But his soul has become dead. His thoughts may frolic round and round, But, they’re only in his head.
He yearns for life to be reality, Not a pensive figment of his dreams, But he waits and suffers silently, As he hears the laughter and the screams, Until his thoughts can be fulfilled, He is but a statue, a man to be redeemed.
Is the man in truth a statue, Purely a marble recluse, Or is he a deadened soul, With only imaginings in his control?
Yes yes! Thank you, lol, definitely just added it in. :3
How can I write a truly heroic epic poem with only a two-thousand word maximum!? Can I have more like... maybe six thousand? I am working an epic poem, truly, just for this contest. Epic in length, epic in nature. Based on simple mathematics, I'd estimate a maximum of my poem a count of six thousand words. Possibly.
Can I not post it due to the longer nature?
This is utterly distressing... sad
Note, quoted from ChibiDanceParty: "an epic is a lengthy narrative poem."
I'm not writing a Homer-length epic!
It wouldn't take fifteen minutes to read all of a six-thousand word poem.
Posted: Wed Apr 17, 2013 10:32 am
TheSadGuy666
ChibiDanceParty
Guardian of Agape
Yes yes! Thank you, lol, definitely just added it in. :3
Lol, I altered it, I thought about it and was like. o_O! TRUE! So, Guardian, if you would like to add more to yours as well before the deadline, feel free, I am going to read most of any entry on Friday.
Yes yes! Thank you, lol, definitely just added it in. :3
Lol, I altered it, I thought about it and was like. o_O! TRUE! So, Guardian, if you would like to add more to yours as well before the deadline, feel free, I am going to read most of any entry on Friday.
Awesome. Now I must pray to the muses to guide my artistry and bring me success.
Posted: Thu Apr 18, 2013 3:09 pm
ChibiDanceParty
May we refer to this type of epic poem: "Another type of epic poetry is epyllion (plural: epyllia), which is a brief narrative poem with a romantic or mythological theme." Just curious to know.
My apologies for the late reply , but yes, you may also do that type of Narrative poem, as long as it tells a story.
Posted: Mon Apr 22, 2013 12:34 am
It's a different type of storytelling but I thought I'd post it since it's one of my better poems...we'll see how it goes? sweatdrop
Anyhow.
Under the Bridge
Because The world tried to imprison you in your own soul, You were unfinished hands of solitaire, afraid to find out Whether or not you'd ever be good enough to make it to the end, To fit neatly into one of those four conclusions and maybe you never knew Where in the game you stood, because cards were left unturned And on days when the sun forgot to rise, you were forced to build your own Or construct elaborate chemical illusions of the light, The infrastructure to consciousness that told you "Look the sky didn't fall, It just tripped over its own feet and I was here to keep it from crashing down" And maybe that was all you ever wanted for yourself-- To stop playing solitaire, toss the cards to the wind and write your own ending for the day, Maybe this was just what you were waiting for but you couldn't hear your own voice Over the choruses of names they sang out to you, like cruelty would banish your demons back to Hell And not just deepen the wounds to let them fester, further infection from their words Until you were trying to anticipate what would come next just so that you could stand your ground When everyone in the whole damn world seemed to want to bury you beneath it,
Because Your life learned to grow inward and no amount of medicine or therapy could break the seal And the pain eventually began to break through. Screaming spells, scarred wrists, bloody noses, Like there was some way to make the effect tangible, the tidal waves of anger might recede... Like uncontrollably you would burn from the inside, starting another fire from the outside might be your best bet To kill the growth of the blaze and escape.
Because You never saw what I saw when I looked at you, You were too busy listening to the voices telling you that you were damaged To hear me telling you that you were beautiful, even with the scars marching up and down your forearms To me those were stories of what you had survived, and a testament to your strength, And if anything they should hope to someday deserve the right to wear such badges of honor, A diploma from the graduating class of "Against All Odds" they would never be able to boast of
Because You etched your life into your skin and now that you are changing, the rest of the world Is so far behind you that they don't even realize THEY ARE WRONG and they always were, Because you have walked eons--you have stepped over the gaping mouth of the Atlantic, You were shackled to a salt pillar in the motherland that wanted to sacrifice you to "psychosis NOS" And you fought so hard to break those chains because you knew there was so much more to see You bathed in the Pacific when times were young, you transcend time and season The purifying burn, the pain with the power to transform You had returned home before they realized the world was even turning And you had seen it all.
Because You could sew their cruelty into your veins but never believe me When I told you there was something so worth fighting for in you. You are looking at yourself through a cracked lens of the past and you never saw It was distorted from the beginning, because they built a point of view for you That you grew far beyond. The frames begin to crack when you see yourself beyond The medical diagnosis that is two part pills, three parts misunderstanding And realize that you aren't playing solitaire at the lunch table trying so hard not to hear Or pretending to be a statue of frost in midwinter--your heartbeat betrayed this facade long ago.
Because I wanted to collect your rattling nerves in the palm of my hand and bridge the gaps in your soul That you fear to cross lest you fall into one, because I heard a melody played on out-of-tune heartstrings As different and something to celebrate, a thing of beauty rather than the afterbirth of a damaged being.
Because I can still describe to you in detail the way the sky warps just before it's about to crack open And the darkness on the far side of the clouded bowl of the heavens engulfs me.
Because You wanted to kiss the wounded parts of my soul And make it all better But were afraid
Because Lying beneath the bridge it felt as though it was something you had built just for me To protect me from the falling pieces of the past as it rains down fire and brimstone
Because I wanted to keep you there forever Where no pain could touch you
Because I wanted to protect you
Because I wanted to save you from whatever it is that sneaks poison into your roots And tells you that you aren't worth it
Because The tightrope act we entertained daily-- Hatred flaming up on one side and tears like an ocean Wishing to drown us on the other-- We survived, And can look back on it now as a memory That had less to do with the agony of our burning souls And more to do with the beauty Waiting when we reached each other.
Because I believe in you even when you don't believe in yourself.
Because I wanted you to see the same thing in the mirror That I saw in your eyes, breathing across The distance to your soul.
The Thinker He kneels atop his rock of clay, A mere molded form upon a stone, Who ponders every thought, all day, But despite their comfort, he sits alone.
He lives within the mind deranged, An active brain beneath the façade Of moss-cloaked biceps, cracks, and stains, Tangible, like echoes of drowned applauds.
Although his stance is sedentary, And he whispers not a sound, His mental prowess never varies, And of that, he is quite proud.
For even though passersby revel in his beauty, His toned shape, and robust jaw, They never can grasp the truth beneath, What on the surface they all saw.
For he adventures to lands far and wide, Beyond the corporeal limits of the Earth. Standing amongst giants, flanking their sides, His mind, not body, is a place of birth.
Only he envisions himself as a man, The most horrifying creature, Who kills the beasts and ravages land, Until even Gods cannot measure The gravity of such destruction.
And as a man, he would not waste, The precious time that he holds dear, Because rather than live in haste, He would rather live beyond his seers, And his mortality, he shan’t ever fear.
He sails his ship upon the sea as Odysseus did long ago, And battles all the Sabertooths for every Mammoth hide. He knows Julius Caesar as a worthy foe, And as an Atlantian, the current, he rides.
He travels to depths of the abyss, And feeds Cerberus his tasty toll, To gain entrance to the anti-bliss, Of the world’s darkest place of old.
His breath is hot as Hell’s fire, And his scales burn while his claws curl, His stomach never full, never tired, As a high-pitched bellow does he hurl.
He wields the sword of Arthur, King of Camelot, And his faithful servants follow, like loyal Lancelot. He preaches to his knights, of bravery, through and true, Dictating that they may find they must bid their lives adieu.
Now, underneath his placid face, One never would suspect, That he could run a thousandth pace, Round circles of detection.
And scouring the ground like an eagle, His eyes remain forever fierce, But his smile fades and becomes feeble, As reality seems to pierce: For he knows not to fly the skies, Or whisper the wind’s call, And he would sooner greet his death rather than fall.
His wounded heart, The core, rotten and maimed, Another mere frozen part, Of his immobile pain Reflects his desire to escape, From his ever-thinking state.
His mind may be a playground, But his soul has become dead. His thoughts may frolic round and round, But, they’re only in his head.
He yearns for life to be reality, Not a pensive figment of his dreams, But he waits and suffers silently, As he hears the laughter and the screams, Until his thoughts can be fulfilled, He is but a statue, a man to be redeemed.
Is the man in truth a statue, Purely a marble recluse, Or is he a deadened soul, With only imaginings in his control?
that was really wondeful
Posted: Mon Apr 22, 2013 6:57 pm
Yutora
Guardian of Agape
My entry:
The Thinker He kneels atop his rock of clay, A mere molded form upon a stone, Who ponders every thought, all day, But despite their comfort, he sits alone.
He lives within the mind deranged, An active brain beneath the façade Of moss-cloaked biceps, cracks, and stains, Tangible, like echoes of drowned applauds.
Although his stance is sedentary, And he whispers not a sound, His mental prowess never varies, And of that, he is quite proud.
For even though passersby revel in his beauty, His toned shape, and robust jaw, They never can grasp the truth beneath, What on the surface they all saw.
For he adventures to lands far and wide, Beyond the corporeal limits of the Earth. Standing amongst giants, flanking their sides, His mind, not body, is a place of birth.
Only he envisions himself as a man, The most horrifying creature, Who kills the beasts and ravages land, Until even Gods cannot measure The gravity of such destruction.
And as a man, he would not waste, The precious time that he holds dear, Because rather than live in haste, He would rather live beyond his seers, And his mortality, he shan’t ever fear.
He sails his ship upon the sea as Odysseus did long ago, And battles all the Sabertooths for every Mammoth hide. He knows Julius Caesar as a worthy foe, And as an Atlantian, the current, he rides.
He travels to depths of the abyss, And feeds Cerberus his tasty toll, To gain entrance to the anti-bliss, Of the world’s darkest place of old.
His breath is hot as Hell’s fire, And his scales burn while his claws curl, His stomach never full, never tired, As a high-pitched bellow does he hurl.
He wields the sword of Arthur, King of Camelot, And his faithful servants follow, like loyal Lancelot. He preaches to his knights, of bravery, through and true, Dictating that they may find they must bid their lives adieu.
Now, underneath his placid face, One never would suspect, That he could run a thousandth pace, Round circles of detection.
And scouring the ground like an eagle, His eyes remain forever fierce, But his smile fades and becomes feeble, As reality seems to pierce: For he knows not to fly the skies, Or whisper the wind’s call, And he would sooner greet his death rather than fall.
His wounded heart, The core, rotten and maimed, Another mere frozen part, Of his immobile pain Reflects his desire to escape, From his ever-thinking state.
His mind may be a playground, But his soul has become dead. His thoughts may frolic round and round, But, they’re only in his head.
He yearns for life to be reality, Not a pensive figment of his dreams, But he waits and suffers silently, As he hears the laughter and the screams, Until his thoughts can be fulfilled, He is but a statue, a man to be redeemed.
Is the man in truth a statue, Purely a marble recluse, Or is he a deadened soul, With only imaginings in his control?
that was really wondeful
Thank you! biggrin Glad you enjoyed it! I enjoyed reading your work earlier as well ^^ and look forward to seeing what you submit for this contest!
The Thinker He kneels atop his rock of clay, A mere molded form upon a stone, Who ponders every thought, all day, But despite their comfort, he sits alone.
He lives within the mind deranged, An active brain beneath the façade Of moss-cloaked biceps, cracks, and stains, Tangible, like echoes of drowned applauds.
Although his stance is sedentary, And he whispers not a sound, His mental prowess never varies, And of that, he is quite proud.
For even though passersby revel in his beauty, His toned shape, and robust jaw, They never can grasp the truth beneath, What on the surface they all saw.
For he adventures to lands far and wide, Beyond the corporeal limits of the Earth. Standing amongst giants, flanking their sides, His mind, not body, is a place of birth.
Only he envisions himself as a man, The most horrifying creature, Who kills the beasts and ravages land, Until even Gods cannot measure The gravity of such destruction.
And as a man, he would not waste, The precious time that he holds dear, Because rather than live in haste, He would rather live beyond his seers, And his mortality, he shan’t ever fear.
He sails his ship upon the sea as Odysseus did long ago, And battles all the Sabertooths for every Mammoth hide. He knows Julius Caesar as a worthy foe, And as an Atlantian, the current, he rides.
He travels to depths of the abyss, And feeds Cerberus his tasty toll, To gain entrance to the anti-bliss, Of the world’s darkest place of old.
His breath is hot as Hell’s fire, And his scales burn while his claws curl, His stomach never full, never tired, As a high-pitched bellow does he hurl.
He wields the sword of Arthur, King of Camelot, And his faithful servants follow, like loyal Lancelot. He preaches to his knights, of bravery, through and true, Dictating that they may find they must bid their lives adieu.
Now, underneath his placid face, One never would suspect, That he could run a thousandth pace, Round circles of detection.
And scouring the ground like an eagle, His eyes remain forever fierce, But his smile fades and becomes feeble, As reality seems to pierce: For he knows not to fly the skies, Or whisper the wind’s call, And he would sooner greet his death rather than fall.
His wounded heart, The core, rotten and maimed, Another mere frozen part, Of his immobile pain Reflects his desire to escape, From his ever-thinking state.
His mind may be a playground, But his soul has become dead. His thoughts may frolic round and round, But, they’re only in his head.
He yearns for life to be reality, Not a pensive figment of his dreams, But he waits and suffers silently, As he hears the laughter and the screams, Until his thoughts can be fulfilled, He is but a statue, a man to be redeemed.
Is the man in truth a statue, Purely a marble recluse, Or is he a deadened soul, With only imaginings in his control?
that was really wondeful
Thank you! biggrin Glad you enjoyed it! I enjoyed reading your work earlier as well ^^
it's only thanks to your piece that i had the resolve to finish mine!
Posted: Mon Apr 22, 2013 7:01 pm
Yutora
Guardian of Agape
Yutora
Guardian of Agape
My entry:
The Thinker He kneels atop his rock of clay, A mere molded form upon a stone, Who ponders every thought, all day, But despite their comfort, he sits alone.
He lives within the mind deranged, An active brain beneath the façade Of moss-cloaked biceps, cracks, and stains, Tangible, like echoes of drowned applauds.
Although his stance is sedentary, And he whispers not a sound, His mental prowess never varies, And of that, he is quite proud.
For even though passersby revel in his beauty, His toned shape, and robust jaw, They never can grasp the truth beneath, What on the surface they all saw.
For he adventures to lands far and wide, Beyond the corporeal limits of the Earth. Standing amongst giants, flanking their sides, His mind, not body, is a place of birth.
Only he envisions himself as a man, The most horrifying creature, Who kills the beasts and ravages land, Until even Gods cannot measure The gravity of such destruction.
And as a man, he would not waste, The precious time that he holds dear, Because rather than live in haste, He would rather live beyond his seers, And his mortality, he shan’t ever fear.
He sails his ship upon the sea as Odysseus did long ago, And battles all the Sabertooths for every Mammoth hide. He knows Julius Caesar as a worthy foe, And as an Atlantian, the current, he rides.
He travels to depths of the abyss, And feeds Cerberus his tasty toll, To gain entrance to the anti-bliss, Of the world’s darkest place of old.
His breath is hot as Hell’s fire, And his scales burn while his claws curl, His stomach never full, never tired, As a high-pitched bellow does he hurl.
He wields the sword of Arthur, King of Camelot, And his faithful servants follow, like loyal Lancelot. He preaches to his knights, of bravery, through and true, Dictating that they may find they must bid their lives adieu.
Now, underneath his placid face, One never would suspect, That he could run a thousandth pace, Round circles of detection.
And scouring the ground like an eagle, His eyes remain forever fierce, But his smile fades and becomes feeble, As reality seems to pierce: For he knows not to fly the skies, Or whisper the wind’s call, And he would sooner greet his death rather than fall.
His wounded heart, The core, rotten and maimed, Another mere frozen part, Of his immobile pain Reflects his desire to escape, From his ever-thinking state.
His mind may be a playground, But his soul has become dead. His thoughts may frolic round and round, But, they’re only in his head.
He yearns for life to be reality, Not a pensive figment of his dreams, But he waits and suffers silently, As he hears the laughter and the screams, Until his thoughts can be fulfilled, He is but a statue, a man to be redeemed.
Is the man in truth a statue, Purely a marble recluse, Or is he a deadened soul, With only imaginings in his control?
that was really wondeful
Thank you! biggrin Glad you enjoyed it! I enjoyed reading your work earlier as well ^^
it's only thanks to your piece that i had the resolve to finish mine!
Well, then, we've both won in our own ways, haven't we? ^_^ I can't wait to read your work!
