Weekly Contest

Poetry contest
26 competitors

Classic poem of the day

Full are my pitchers and far to carry,
Lone is the way and long,
Why, O why was I tempted to tarry
Lured by the boatmen's song?
Swiftly the shadows of night are falling,
Hear, O hear, is the white crane calling,
Is it the wild owl's cry?
There are no tender moonbeams to light me,
If in the darkness a serpent should bite me,
Or if an evil spirit should smite me,
Ram re Ram! I shall die.

My brother will murmur, " Why doth she linger? "
My mother will wait and weep,
Saying, " O safe may the great gods bring her,
The Jamuna's waters are deep. " ...
The Jamuna's waters rush by so quickly,
The shadows of evening gather so thickly,
Like black birds in the sky ...
O! if the storm breaks, what will betide me?
Safe from the lightning where shall I hide me?
Unless Thou succour my footsteps and guide me,
Ram re Ram! I shall die.

member poem of the day


we ain’t talked in a while. i should have called you first, now, we ain’t talked in a while. rewind, memories in real time of mirrors in reverse and your figure ‘gainst the lights. our eyes, intermingling spies, sierras in the terse valleys, rivers out of sight. i sigh, desolate in desire. the kernels that emerge of relief are just the wiles of time. recovery defined. that thing called moving on is a myth, or so i find as smiles corrode my peace of mind, invaders in a hearse color coded as respite. delight, analogous to spite, the quicker i endorse it, the more i realize that i’m without you by my side. admittedly, of course, i’m the reason for this tide of skies that thunder my demise— that fritter into horses— the horses of the night. need time to slow down this decline 'cause phantasms are haunting— the visions of a life that’s past invigorate this shrine; my ritualistic urges to keep you on my mind. a minefield of emotion spires and fastens me to forces that do incentivize this bind. now you’re my sin and vice and i could search for nurses but judgement is the price of absolution re-divined: a purgatory airless of feeling and desire. yet, i could voyage through that plight and slip into a gaunt image husk of my device. but apathy’s a lonesome crime, a ghost of what i was, that’d be just like suicide.