ZA Furries

Show us! I've tried to write poetry m'self, but it's just...it's never what the Romantics make it look like, is it? It just doesn't line up with the vision for me. I stick to prose. But goodness knows, the world needs poets! Can't just unload all our emotion in bar fights.

Voices:


'The "Good" die Young'
The folly of the things we forgot
a glory so misbegot
that we glorify their ranks of the martyr's lot
and the taste still sour on Our collective tongue.

Misproposed, unprovoked, inadequate
we strive to their presence,
to come to the present
of the misrepresented, the inconsequential.

to find that we're wanting and inconsistent
on the views we find abhorrent,
intrusive yet non-existent

a fraying line
a praying line
entwined by the very line

that would teach us "hope"
to believe in the better "man"
believe in the woman's "equal" line.

Yet this line we tow
little more than the line of a bow
which we fire at those
in the firing line.

"We are the Hollow Men"
a bang at the start
racing to the sounds of the guns
as they fire
at the people protecting their young
ones that would never again
see the light of day, promised by them.

Yet we whisper our dissent
in an accent unheard
a voice among the voices of hate
a plea
a small cry
found wanting in the public eye

did she die
for a cause that was worthy
or merely the whisper
look how they move and twist her
to look like the very thing they abhor
as we see that martyr turned to a whore,

Oh Lady Justice to serve,
please let us be heard...
in the throng
all day long
...not a word.


I've been in the mood to write for a while now...this poem was what finally came to the fore. disjointed, hard to follow and difficult to parse what is being said.

Wow... Just wow... That is awesome

great work Ivic

Very good.
Also been in the mood to post some on my thread again, watch this space.

We met on Thursday evening, fell directly into step as if nothing ever changed, it felt like walking in Cape Town, no awkward hello, nothing. Just as though there wasn't a gap between the last time we said goodbye and now.

I felt oddly at peace, like being around my best friend since grade 9 (I know other people have had friends for longer but that was a luxury a constantly moving folf did not have back in Primary school) brought me a sense of completeness.

However, saying goodbye yesterday and watching the grizzled wolf walk off to the train station made it feel like I was waking up from some dream and that the brief time we'd spent together was merely the smallest respite from the emptiness I really have inside.

Honestly, I miss Cape Town, I miss the familiar paths, the long travelling walks between Bellville Station and someone's place in Stellenberg, trips to the station in Stellenbosch that would inevitably lead me to the rollicking roads of Cape Town, for which I would find my own little haunts. Sunday Evening's spent at Bohemia, awkwardly attempting to play bingo while eating food, enjoying some hubbly and chatting nonsensically about whether or not we could actually make a difference in the world...

That has been what I've missed for the past three years. Not knowing where I am, who I want to be, why I'm still in the turmoil that is my mind and how I would ever consider getting out of it. All this while trying to show students, people who I want to grow up to take the world by the balls, that life is a series of choices and one needs to accept that any choice you make has its set consequences and that any one of them could leave you just a little bit empty inside.

The dream is far from dead, but the little bit that I saw of my best friend, made me realize just how far I still need to travel to be satisfied.

(Technically not poetry but I'd consider this to be a prose piece)

Not Unequally Torn:

This little notepad, empty,
until called for by my hatred,
the pages...uncomfortably white,
the words black, attempting to free

A colour, a life in me,
and why does it matter?
Why did it matter?
and how does it matter to we,

the world of equality?
To wish I could struggle
And wriggle my rhyme
but I stand here
helpless, like an amputee.

To be or not to be,
to free or not too free?
the question asked, inconsistent
to the next parolee.

Comprehension comes at a price to me
a bloodied fist and a bloodied nose
as my thoughts finally come to blows
and blinded by rage, I cannot see;

the English in my cup of tea,
the Europe in my bended knee
the chipped glass in my repartee
the lies in my guarantee

To this falsified me.

To this detainee

To this deportee

"Go back to Africa"
They'd say
"Cause you're not me"

they'd say
"It's just a difference"

they'd say
"Between us and we
and you're not invited
to our little party"

"And that's just that"
they'd say,
a commonplace mystery
and the reason we cannot see

the English in our cup of tea,
the Europe in our bended knee
the chipped glass in our repartee
the lies in our guarantee

Trapped in the white that is my skin,
to face up to my parents' sin
of not letting me struggle
and see the shameful place we're in.

Trapped in this white paper,
the black words that dictate,
like a bloody sentence,
this sentence, that cannot find it's closure...

In

the English in my cup of tea,
the Europe in my bended knee
the chipped glass in my repartee
the lies in my guarantee

Just little useless we...
in this lake of thorns
willing to give the life
just to be reborn...

in a world that was equal
and not unequally torn.

Like I said on watsapp. Wow. Just, wow. You have a skill man. You should join AllPoetry! get it out there!

Oh wow I've been actually waiting for another one of your poetry works.. I simply love them, you're really talented Ivic and that was just wow

Confessions:

Out damned spot.
The words of a long lost sinner.
Out damned spot.
That allow for their internal quandary to overcome them at moments of their weakness.
Out damned spot.

Standing on the knife edge of our lives,
reasons unknown beyond the reality of our choices,
and slowly fading away.

Poor Dorian,
a man misled,
Poor Gray,
by his own beauty.
Poor Dorian Gray,
forever,
like Narcissus broken
by his own curse.

Tragedy, follows Triumph,
Doggedly,
Biting at our heels
A fear unknown.
We walk ever quicker.

A broken lullaby crashes through the (dis)quiet of our reverie.
A Harambe for some, a “We all stand together”
A twisted serenade,
as needle scratches worn,
warped record.

We’ve heard it, not all of it,
But enough to know,
That this is our goal.
Faded, yet still there,
Let’s hope, Hope
Restores our faith.

Beautiful.
You have a remarkable way with words. Also your poetry seems to have captured quite a few of my own feelings, thoughts and frustrations, possibly better than I could expand on them myself. I'm sorry that I haven't read your poetry until now. I would love to see you write more.

Icarus

One respectfully requests, by order of our humanity
To become an unfeeling automaton
So that we may grow to serve your reality
In which our subjugation becomes a conclusion, forgone.

A hive-minded, corporate puppetry, gives assurance,
In which we understand, that exploitation,
Is necessity, in our search for a mutual insurance
Of our mental ruination.

Our unquestioning action,
Requires our bodies to sacrifice,
To oil the cogs with our putrefaction
And to give more children to your market price.

One respectfully requests, by order of our humanity,
To make us not weep at their youthful ignorance,
As we show them the ways of your reality.
And tie their wings, with thoughts of Icarus.

So they may not misstep and destroy our perfect rhyme,
To make us not feel, when we deceivingly tell them,
That their will to be like us, is a dream, sublime
And their freedom is one you condemn.

Our unquestioning action,
Requires our young ones as sacrifice,
To oil the cogs with our putrefaction
And to give more to your market price.

One respectfully requests, by order of our humanity,
To be able to plead for a medication
That would bring bliss in our reality
And a doctor to approve our mental abdication.

A hive-minded, corporate puppetry, gives assurance,
In which we understand, that exploitation,
Is necessity, in our search for a mutual insurance
Of our mental ruination.

We thank you, in advance,
And hope to hear from you soon,
We feel there is a chance,
That you would grant us this boon.

Free

Looking out the window, with the clouds so heavy with rain,
Wishing we were out there, just to feel the air.
A petrifying shadow, falls across my desk,
As my eyes spy the papers placed there,
and the dread of my reality sets in.

My dreams speak to me in pictures,
Of days oh so long gone by,
With thoughts of beaches and out of touch preachers,
On our way to get drunk.

Working the day job, afraid of the slave mob,
Judging my every move.
While I sit and wonder, why they tore asunder,
The morning, my noon and my night.

My dreams speak to me in pictures,
Of days oh so long gone by,
With thoughts of those preachers, coming to meet us,
And finally join the howl of our pack.

Looking out the window with clouds now relenting their tears,
To rise from my desk, at the risk of my cheque,
So we may once again, be one with the sky.
And lovingly howl out and cry.

For my dreams speak in pictures,
Of days oh, so long gone by
When wolf, man and our myriad creatures,
Could stand by the preachers
And be all we want to be.

Ivic_Wulfe wrote:For my dreams speak in pictures,
Of days oh, so long gone by
When wolf, man and our myriad creatures,
Could stand by the preachers
And be all we want to be.

This is beautiful. You really do have a way with words, Ivic. I really liked this poem.
As always, well done.

Trace wrote:

Ivic_Wulfe wrote:For my dreams speak in pictures,
Of days oh, so long gone by
When wolf, man and our myriad creatures,
Could stand by the preachers
And be all we want to be.

This is beautiful. You really do have a way with words, Ivic. I really liked this poem.
As always, well done.

Thanks so much, I really enjoyed writing this one.

Really nice one.

In-Considerable Doubt:

I have felt in consolable need,
Distance offers only problematic conundrum.
To consider the stars would be to forget the moon.
To consider the moon would be to forget the journey ahead.

To ensure the now, would mean to remember the past
but in turn to mis-align the future.
One can (not) apologize in advance.
One can (not, only) be caught in the maelstrom of future mistakes.

Life spent amongst people, in closer proximity,
makes one, at times, forget people further adrift.
An in-considerable doubt and offence.
Lays one’s own intrusiveness to bare

It’s naked body in itself.
One sequesters oneself away,
in part to hide from the noise of those around him.
Your part in all this...?

Infinite.
One’s life has begun to revolve around your interaction.
It frightens, excites and mystifies.
Fear of losing you runs rampant in one’s thoughts
for one’s distance and one’s carelessness

seems to bring that dread to head.
Closer to the sun, our Icarus flies,
heeding no cautionary tales of yore.
But to reach the destination of our closest star

is to burn in heavenly bliss.
To wait, leads to death, to hesitate,
to, hold, hold, hold, only brings more uncertainty.
To hope, disappointment.

One has faith, that the right path is being chosen,
To feel the warmth of your light is a goal.
But fear looms ever closer as one’s insecurities lay
Me to my knees and ask only to ever question why.

Love, love, love, hold me,
But cast me aside if one cannot break from distraction.
As I am, as I have said, I am not perfect, I am not an angel.
One is only Icarus, sworn to burn before he has ever reached his destination.
So one waits, eventually curls away, distraction leading me further adrift.

Consternation, ever present, one feels that one is doing enough to satisfy,
Only to realize, I have done nothing correct and have never taken notice.

Begging now, wanting to prove that his whole heart is with you,
He stammers, he waits, he attempts to provide reason.
For nought but your approval. Adrift, at sea,
on melted wings his shortcomings, the sun, still unobtainable.

His sandstone reasoning, his thoughts, quickly melt away
All left, only the nakedness of the truth within him.
Wanting to say, I love you. Again. Again. Again.
Yearning, yet careful as both past, present and future,

cast only more doubt in his ability. My ability.
To show proper, DUE, affection.
To be everything you’ve pedestalled me to be.
To only show, more the cracks and peels

As your sun bakes my skin.
I cry, but I cannot answer.
I open my mouth, to speak.
“My Love!”

And even at this.
Even here.
I cannot live without you.
To say, “I understand.”

Would incur insult.
To say, “I’ll do better.”
Offers no promise.
To say, “I’ll be here.”

Offers no solace.
I wish I could be more.
To be that which you want me to be...
To be that which I’ve promised I’d be.

I can only offer what I’ve in principle,
Always offered.
Me.
And that is, my painful uncertainty,

my indescribable feelings for you,
but my describable short-comings.
Warned you, I had of these.
But I can only offer this.

I offer me. I want to be.
Yours. Yours alone.
But know...I am here.
Flawed, in considerable doubt.

To face the trials,
The tribulation.
The slings and arrows.
And much like Hamlet.

A decisiveness will come.
And I am here beside you.
I am here to be with you.
To love and respect you.

I am jealous of your vocabulary and your skills with writing. :/
The imagery is really well done. And some parts had me hooked. A pity I'm a little too dense when it comes to understanding these sorts of things.

Would you mind explaining what thoughts made you write this? Or...?

Either way. It was exceptional. ^^

CyntheWightRabbit wrote:I am jealous of your vocabulary and your skills with writing. :/
The imagery is really well done. And some parts had me hooked. A pity I'm a little too dense when it comes to understanding these sorts of things.

Would you mind explaining what thoughts made you write this? Or...?

Either way. It was exceptional. ^^

Thanks! Honestly this poem was a very personal one that came to mind. While writing it, I had to think of a person who had to be introspective, willing but unable. The idea of sandstone for instance is that, it's durable but put it under any real pressure and it dissolves.

The idea of Icarus, a theme I personally enjoy, the attempt to obtain that which is unobtainable. Like when there's a preconceived notion about you and you feel almost duty bound to achieve it. But in your attempt you crash and burn. And the realisation of the fact that maybe there really isn't any more to you than first perceived. However you're still willing to try.

The movement between one and I as well. It shows the disconnect between our speaker and many of their actions and with more decisive action looks at more I terms. I'm hoping this helps.

Might this wonderfully-written poem have drawn any inspiration from your trip to Randburg?

It may have some inspiration in there somewhere. I like it out of certain contexts as well.

Ivic_Wulfe wrote: Thanks! Honestly this poem was a very personal one that came to mind. While writing it, I had to think of a person who had to be introspective, willing but unable. The idea of sandstone for instance is that, it's durable but put it under any real pressure and it dissolves.

The idea of Icarus, a theme I personally enjoy, the attempt to obtain that which is unobtainable. Like when there's a preconceived notion about you and you feel almost duty bound to achieve it. But in your attempt you crash and burn. And the realisation of the fact that maybe there really isn't any more to you than first perceived. However you're still willing to try.

The movement between one and I as well. It shows the disconnect between our speaker and many of their actions and with more decisive action looks at more I terms. I'm hoping this helps.

Wow. You put some real thought and effort in. When I try to write poetry it's all 'herp-derp look it rhymes, haha'. ^^'
Some of the imagery really pulls through, and it shows how well you are at your craft. Have you every tried publishing one of these in a poetry collection or something? You definitely deserve to have more exposure.

Still Unspoken

A thought rift, in this, our minds-eye.
An irrevocable wedge between our destinies.
A sign of times so long gone by
As we quietly stare at the missed opportunities.

These scars, we’d healed together,
Bring only bitter memories,
And surrender
To the day we’d withheld our remedies.

This...resentment, born of decisions made,
This...disquiet in forbearance,
Makes us wish that we could trade
A quiet abhorrence,

For that which we’ve never said.

The mountains we’d painted
That we’d never have thought to traverse
Leading only to a divergence, tainted,
By this, our unspoken curse.

This...resentment, born of decisions made,
This...our distressed white flag flying,
Desperate, to stop this slow fade
A truce, most occupying,

But still unspoken.

CyntheWightRabbit wrote:

Ivic_Wulfe wrote: Thanks! Honestly this poem was a very personal one that came to mind. While writing it, I had to think of a person who had to be introspective, willing but unable. The idea of sandstone for instance is that, it's durable but put it under any real pressure and it dissolves.

The idea of Icarus, a theme I personally enjoy, the attempt to obtain that which is unobtainable. Like when there's a preconceived notion about you and you feel almost duty bound to achieve it. But in your attempt you crash and burn. And the realisation of the fact that maybe there really isn't any more to you than first perceived. However you're still willing to try.

The movement between one and I as well. It shows the disconnect between our speaker and many of their actions and with more decisive action looks at more I terms. I'm hoping this helps.

Wow. You put some real thought and effort in. When I try to write poetry it's all 'herp-derp look it rhymes, haha'. ^^'
Some of the imagery really pulls through, and it shows how well you are at your craft. Have you every tried publishing one of these in a poetry collection or something? You definitely deserve to have more exposure.

It's crossed my mind a couple of times, but I'm never sure if it's ever even good enough. XD

Adult

Reason, cannot, will not, be our most used art here.
One wishes that our parents had taught us that.
Maybe somehow they did,
when they thumbed away that tear,

on the cheeks of our every disappointment and fear,
patted us on the back and told us to rise
our scraped knees, our backs, bowed but unbroken
as adulthood drew near,

and told us it would and could only get better from here.

“Fight this system,” we cried,
while growing older,
we’d realized our movements were bolder
than the similar movement our father had tried

and inevitably gave in and ran to hide,
from, and, unknowingly, with
that hulking great Moloch
under sweet cover of that paycheck guide.

To realize, we too had failed when we notice the beast right by our side.

A cyclical pandemic of quashed hopes and dreams,
incongruous with our passions
and our hearts, our loves,
white-washed away by the thing that gleams,

a paper banknote defines our esteems,
to which we toil and turn our soil,
to what purpose and projection,
to whose soul redeems?

As creativity bleeds out to the gutter streams.

I told you this on telegram but I also want to tell you here that:

this speaks volumes to me... like, absolutely speaks to me. I thank you for giving me this twinkle of understanding into the mentalness that is my life.

RavenSong wrote:I told you this on telegram but I also want to tell you here that:

this speaks volumes to me... like, absolutely speaks to me. I thank you for giving me this twinkle of understanding into the mentalness that is my life.

I'm glad I could help :3

Ivic, your poetry is still amazing.
I love the sense of rhythm your poems contain... You have some beautiful words.

Very, very nice, but I told you in person already.

Wherefore?

The world is tearing itself apart they say,
No thanks to us and the “Human” way.
We struggle like all manner of “people” before.
Our animal instinct, our predator pray-ed.

Dogged by a new instinctual need,
Driven by those that feed,
The lies of the off-shoring, on-shore drug store.
A pleading, bleeding-hearted greed.

The same old song, the same old writer,
Their burning heart, their floated soul, no brighter
For the words that tie the noose for our carnivores,
To find the body of the beaten fighter…

To be stopped, by a thought.

As sure as the ocean’s wa(i)ve,
As solid as the broken roads we pave,
As certain as our writer’s core.
We find what we’re fight for.

One more day to be taught.