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paperbagdude

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paper_bag_poetry

 

I have been into writing poetry since my early teens, and I have some time ago picked up my interest for it once again. To me, poetry is today an underrated form of art. I consider it a creative and artistic way of communicating a message, either for my own joy and relief to put my thoughts and feelings on paper or like other types of art give the recipient inspiration, perspective and thought. I believe poetry cannot be fabricated as of song lyrics (which is awfully mainstream and has been for decades (pop, RnB, rap etc.), but must be written down before either the feeling or thought recede from one's mind.

 

My main source of inspiration from Danish poet Michael Strunge, who was the front figure of establishing the era of Danish punk-poetry or alternatively 80's-poetry, as described within our litterature history. He described contemporary poetry mainly developed through the 60's and 70's as ''living room talk'', as it lacked expressionism and the somewhat abstract core of its content. Today, modern so-called poetry has developed into political or sociological essays without any sense of expression within the written context, it lacks the artistic aspect.

 

I'm not saying my poetry objectively good, I'm not saying it perfect, but I think it is something at least. This is also the first time I ever publish my works anywhere. I haven't showed it no neither friends or family. I'd like to add that all my poetry is originally written in Danish, so some means of expression such as metaphors etc. may be kind of lost in the translation, but I'm doing my best to keep them.

 

 

I'd like to present my most recent work. Feel free to ask me for context, give constructive critism or any sweet opinion or comment. I will post more later.

 

Heartbeats in uncertainty

 

Is it fine

that thing of falling in love

with a woman who you call

a friend?

who by the heart is called a lover

someone whose heart beats for

beats once again

after almost a year’s murk

where the spark of forsaken

love

burned out

and ruined the will

toward prosperity

what does it make me

when I look into your

gorgeous eyes

promote a smile

bring you laughter

and feel such warmth

that the snow surrounding me

melts?

are these emotions, this longing

for you

perverse?

am I traitorous to you

when it seems like you don’t

know me

for who I by truth am to you?

at night I dream

about this memory

from the old flat

where we lied close

distracted by films

hours after we sat together

with the others

and held hands

in subtlety

hidden from the others

hands caressed

and today I ask myself

were you in love with me?

shall I have done more

when we lied there?

perhaps one day

within some time

perhaps never

can I confess myself

am I playing smart

or am I just a coward in despair?

shall I love someone

shall I love you

but for now are you

not ready for the truth

my dear

for while I’m doing great

will I not tolerate another fall

I keep dreaming

dreaming about you

and let the heart beat

heartbeats in uncertainty

Edited by paperbagdude
changed OP and title

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  • 4 months later...
paperbagdude

Sunshine of the Night

 

These nights in lone company, not quite in loneliness nor ever in satisfaction

the Sun goes down on a Summer evening and the streets turn quiet

instead of sleeping, I find myself lying in bed, observing the ceiling

a ceiling so white - white as a canvas

a canvas to be painted with the mechanics of dreams in all shades of the rainbow

yellow my ambition, blue is the present, green makes me young again

then black - this contrast, the sensation I anchor the absence, the anxious unrest

and the deluge of the trauma

 

Red is this heart, still beating

still beating for desire - a desire for soul and beauty,

so precious it is almost blinding

if desire will become love won't be known untill dawn

meanwhile, this night is only getting longer

I crave to close my eyes and sleep the night sky away

tired I am of awaiting this climax, this mutual epiphany among hearts

just the permission to hold that hand or share a gaze up close for once

 

There'll be no sleep in here tonight, just as many before that

for this heart beats for, and these thoughts possessed 

by her

 

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  • 1 month later...
On 7/10/2021 at 4:09 AM, paperbagdude said:

yellow my ambition, blue is the present, green makes me young again

then black - this contrast, the sensation I anchor the absence, the anxious unrest

and the deluge of the trauma

I really love these stanzas. There is a certain romantic Shakespearean quality to them.

 

Quote

I'm not saying my poetry objectively good, I'm not saying it perfect, but I think it is something at least. This is also the first time I ever publish my works anywhere. I haven't showed it no neither friends or family. I'd like to add that all my poetry is originally written in Danish, so some means of expression such as metaphors etc. may be kind of lost in the translation, but I'm doing my best to keep them.

 

Eh, they're fine, there's still that strong emotional effect in English, though I suppose the original Danish version would pack more of a punch. Everyone's got to start somewhere, so it doesn't matter how good the poetry is. I personally enjoyed it.

Edited by DownInThePMs
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  • 3 weeks later...
On 9/4/2021 at 7:55 AM, sabitsuki said:

I really love these stanzas. There is a certain romantic Shakespearean quality to them.

I definitely feel like making stanzas like that is risky. The metaphorical comparison can easily become dilute if the object compared to the subject is dull, thus losing the punch that delivers the message properly. However, I am pleased you liked it :)))

 

On 9/4/2021 at 7:55 AM, sabitsuki said:

Eh, they're fine, there's still that strong emotional effect in English, though I suppose the original Danish version would pack more of a punch. Everyone's got to start somewhere, so it doesn't matter how good the poetry is. I personally enjoyed it.

Thank you very much! I do my best to pick my words wisely when translating, but even with perfectly chosen words, I'm afraid some of the punch is lost, since words have to be rearranged according to English syntax, the specific manner a stanza was originally written may be found different and not as great at achieving the punch it should.

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I wrote this during a bender, so here goes:

 

Isotopes

 

Seeking the road to follow

in the middle of a wasteland without soul and reason

these sore feet grown enough to choose

but too young for wisdom

 

In the distance across a cool lake

a child's laughter can be heard in the glade

amid trees of amber and copper

a glimpse of a juvenile silhouette

darkened by the early sunset to the West

 

pointing toward me,

his innocent and carefree laughter intensified,

together with the sparkling nightsky of the water

and the sun's ember

I find myself paralyzed, unknowing of my next move

in a spontaneous and rational instant

I learn these feet will never carry me around this lake

to the secondary shore

in dejection I accept

that the truth of the child shall never be known

or perhaps soon enough

 

Out here, far away from faces and angst

the nightsky with its neon glowing blue

transforms into a hovering light bulb between the clouds

as the horizon comes closer

 

Among tall walls and a thousand lights

I am lost in the streets of this city tonight

without purpose or motive

it remains unknown where to go

 

This apartment has not hosted much laughter

in sleepless dreams, I find myself lying in bed

unescorted

forced to dream in solus

an aura of red lights and the electric buzz in my ears

perform together with the power of fantasy

a symphony so vivid

a vague ocean of alternate times

a field somewhere out there

manifested with a million dandelions

and there the obscure shadow

of the woman in my life

 

Even in a vibrating room,

I cannot fight this irresistible grasp

for the question that is asked

where I may breathe

when I am dust in a vigorous sea

there, where I may rest

or let my spirit float among the stars

a sense warmer than love

but colder than this life itself

Edited by paperbagdude
minor typos
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  • 4 weeks later...

This is a short poem about something I didn't care much about initially, but over the years grown agonized of. Despite the sh*tposting I swear by daily around here, this is a matter I have not been able to discuss in detail with anyone, not even my friends and family cause I never chose to involve them in the first place. Thus it feels great to get that sh*t carefully written down and published. Now, enough reddit bs.

 

Cut flower

 

Shocked and in horror

the youthful blood in these veins

pumped by a dense heart

the cold around my mind

for what regards the love of my life

the seed

my sunflower in January

forever unable to grasp the Sun

never privileged to perceive the thousand mysteries of the morning

and to learn the words that describe it so lovely

like a forest of beech in October

the leaves reach for the ground like confetti

but there are no celebrations around

unlike these, you shall never sprout again

what you were

and whoever you are

is with a sigh limited to my imagination

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Sad boi hours inbound. Just dug out the first poem I wrote in later years after high school. It is situated in the old town, months before I moved to the city for college. Covid-19 had just started to spread violently across the nation, lockdowns and restrictions were just implemented and I found myself lost and alone among the walls of empty streets, still processing the basics of a painful breakup a week prior of writing this. I didn't give a sh*t about the lyric format or clever metaphors, I just needed to manifest the agonizing confusion surrounding me.

 

A warm day in April

 

In a new decade

we find ourselves incarcerated, bound and chained

to our beds and living rooms

though with exception of the occasional probations

granted fearfully toward the local supermarket

 

No one speaks, no one looks

a cough makes you a spectacle

although it is just my rotten lungs of tar

Alcohol is everywhere

many drink, most clean their hands

today I do both

on my way to the worn factories

I carry a sixpack

in a sinful bag of plastic

with a smoke between my lips

and 17 others by the pocket

 

Day turns into night

as no children are around to play

no bastards are honked at

since the angst keeps them at home

chained, tied up and imprisoned

to their beds and living rooms

 

I wander off to places

where no one else go

we should have seen each other last Thursday

but you chose to call me,

telling me not even I was enough

 

But where to shall I go

when not even the The Flame

welcomes disgusting, degenerated

bums lost of their spirit,

high schoolers

or broken boys like me

 

Where will you go

when you can't even wipe your own ass

sip off your own glass

or count numbers yourself

while people are chained, trapped and bound

in a hospital

and find themselves an unwanted interest in death

 

Cause I think I'll stick around here

close to the abandoned factory

and drink the next beer

as fast as I pissed out the last

pissed at you, and you only

 

Rot like the degenerate you are

or rebuild the relation we shared

for years

now distanced by country roads,

emotion and disease

 

Rage and dread fill my chest

and though what you are

I want you to hold my hand

once again

and again

in these times

chained, tied up and lost

in you

 

 

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  • 1 month later...

Hey! Your pretty good!!!
 

I really like the prose-like quality of Sunshine in the Night, the last stanza of Isotopes is very good, and I love the grit of A warm day in April.
You really have something here. I really think you should consider joining a poetry website; I'd suggest allpoetry as it is the largest, and you'll be able to get some pointers and more peer to peer reviews. I joined seven years ago, and I've improved ten fold. 
 

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