Weekly Contest

Poetry contest
7 competitors

Classic poem of the day


The bard whom pilf'red pastorals renown,
Who turns a Persian tale for half a crown,
Just writes to make his barrenness appear,
And strains from hard-bound brains eight lines a year:
He, who still wanting though he lives on theft,
Steals much, spends little, yet has nothing left:
And he, who now to sense, now nonsense leaning,
Means not, but blunders round about a meaning:
And he, whose fustian's so sublimely bad,
It is not poetry, but prose run mad:
All these my modest satire bad translate,
And owned that nine such poets made a Tate.
How did they fume, and stamp, and roar, and chafe!
And swear, not Addison himself was safe.
Peace to all such! but were there one whose fires
True genius kindles, and fair fame inspires,
Blest with each talent and each art to please,
And born to write, converse, and live with ease:
Should such a man, too...

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member poem of the day

Delirious, desperate nonsense with a touch of truth
Brain drain into the atmosphere or outer space
The millions of connections in my cranium, upstairs
Partially short circuit, convoluted and spontaneous
Thinking of fallacies, foolish and fanatic
Like bareback or side saddle, no, no horse for me
Lost in a crappy mountain hotel abandoned

Damn hot blossoming bombshell 
Search for electric companionship
Some mystic spiritual connection
Exude extreme feelings of passion, desire 
Blood ritual, tested friend - floating in space
Insecure, in danger, unsure, eager to escape
As if I was marked by demons  
That special attractive, binding chemistry 
Then mine as a recluse to some tiny corner, somewhere
Safer now - celebrate more creative calm 
Into a word of meditation, of contemplation
Not immune to the witch’s temptations
Away from ideology, war, conflict, stress and danger
Into the self-exile of Nirvana 
In search of self-satisfaction, spontaneity 
That well-earned peaceful soul of the moment
In some corner of this earth  
Even if it means leaving this vault forsaken place