Best Of Old DiP

Highlights of Discussion in Poetry from the old place

Shamefully Basky-biased, because I seemed to do most of the posting there anyway. (This says much about my free time and what I spent it on.) So apologies in advance for tootling my own horn. Take it as a challenge to outdo me.

Poems are grouped not by date, but by category; posting dates accompany each entry.

Let's start with...


Angst

Wyldsong: Wednesday, June 19, 2002 23:03

Too shy to say hi to you, my dear
Too scared to tell my friends how lonely I feel
So I spend my nights wishing away the fear
Asking myself how this lonely hell became real

Frightened by your eyes
Touched by your warm smile
Caged in the night's lies
I'll seek comfort in desire


Baskerville: Sunday, August 12, 2001 16:40
(successfully showing why zie does not write freeform)

Every time I try
To write something honest,
I just end up sounding like

a neurotic
melodramatic
self-centered
teenager;

And although this is indeed
What I am,

That is perhaps
Just a little
Too honest for my liking.


Baskerville: Friday, May 10, 2002 21:33
(from a character's viewpoint)

The views up here intimidate
My ledge is far too high
I start to move but hesitate
Too scared to even try
Too little, poorly done, too late
And none to hear me cry.


Cerhn: Wednesday, June 19, 2002 23:09

I don't know who to greet,
or how to meet,
a friend or foe.

This social inability,
is it merely instability,
of a heinous and copyright-violating sort?


Baskerville: Friday, June 28, 2002 06:05
(from a character's viewpoint)

Okay. We're all pathetic. Didn't you know?
Fragility is strength.
It's cool to have no spine.
The weak shall inherit, and just so you know
We really are just faking it for the attention.


Ree: Friday, August 30, 2002 21:15

I am alone with just my phone,
The phone that won't emit a tone.
Well, not today, since, shall we say,
Our vagrant Ree feels "in the way".
Abandoned, cold, and far from bold,
Our oldest hints at pain untold.

"Apologise," she dully sighs
The "why"s of sorrow still defy
Her hopes to learn, and cease to yearn
For burning hurts she dare not spurn.

And yet she weeps, and seldom peeps
Or creeps beyond her spot of sleeps.

(...now where the HELL did that come from?!? sorry guys...)

Her agony lasts endlessly
And we ignore the sick we see.

For we, the strong, shall never long
For song, love, praise, or even Pong!
We're sterner stuff than all this fluff,
And *cough* -- I think I've said enough.


Baskerville: Thursday, February 27, 2003 16:28

From there the conversation turned
To friends we'd known and lost:
    Betrayals, partings, bile.
    The tears behind the smile.
I asked them, "Is it worth the cost?"
Which caught them unprepared.

"It never is," the Fighter shot.
The Healer turned away
    To mask a heartfelt sigh.
    The Thinker winked an eye.
The Jester, though, would only say
"A joke's more fun when shared."

Though some forgave and some could not
We'd all of us been burned.



Antelope

Baskerville: Wednesday, January 2, 2002 20:22

It's dusty and rotten and almost forgotten
Our friend, the discussion poetic.
And yes, it's a shame the attendance is lame
(I'm tempted to call it pathetic.)

But squirrels are fickle and, starved for a nickel,
So few of us ever find time
Between our employments and real life enjoyments
To hold conversations in rhyme.


Sarina: Sunday, January 6, 2002 19:53

Let me just take this moment to say,
That it's not that we don't want to play,
But rather, me thinks
'Tis that our poetry stinks,
That keeps us from this board away.


Slen: Tuesday, February 4, 2003 15:28

This comment of mine,
Here written in rhyme,
Is jotted in note of the drought,
In only six lines,
I have taken the time,
To ask, "Why does interest run out?"

-- Slen the bored


Baskerville: Wednesday, February 5, 2003 11:25
(satirising members, self included)

The question you pose
To which no-one knows
The answer (which drives me berserk)
Is one I'd like solved
Unless this involved
Me actually having to work.


Sarina: Thursday, May 29, 2003 04:37

I'm all alone
There's no one about.
Oh what's a girl to do?
But cry and moan
And stomp and shout
And send ze Countessa after you.


Baskerville: Sunday, September 7, 2003 15:41
(after frustrated perfectionism trying to make the rhyme scheme work...)

Ree and I discuss at length
Some plot ideas we'd like to see.
Be of cheer, for on their strength
Our vamp-nut may revive M.B.

In that vein, no pun implied,
Now might we do the same for Pro?
"Fantasy is dead", they've cried,
But let us prove it isn't so.


Baskerville: Monday, September 8, 2003 17:01
(if you don't get the second pun, trust me - you don't want to)

Maybe I'm too chicken-$#!£
So for once I'll chant it clear:
^That there cock- er, doggerel
Was a call for new idear.

--Bwaakerville



Pillowülfe

Baskerville: Wednesday, January 30, 2002 10:54

"I'm seeking a cushion
That's bony and grey.
Oh wolfie, dear wolfie,
Do come out to play..."


Cerhn: Thursday, January 31, 2002 00:37

The wolfie is searching for *.prc,
This arrogant schmick is all you will see.


Baskerville: Thursday, January 31, 2002 23:19

"A shame, but no matter"
Says mongrel from hell.
"The wolfie is comfy,
But you'll do as well."


Cerhn: Monday, February 11, 2002 00:14

Like hell,
I say, while caught in a typing swell,
I really should be coding,
but instead I am emoting.
The eventhandler's exploding,
and in truth, I have no loop.



Tiredness

Baskerville: Friday, March 8, 2002 10:48

The monitor's fuzzy and blurgle
My vision is starting to furgle
I'd thwack, but like this
I suspect that I'd miss
G'night folks, I'm going to slurgle.



Cerhn's Programming Homework
(which he was trying to program to say "Hot and Horny")

Cerhn: Friday, March 8, 2002 07:27

The output is not the throughput,
it can't be solved by crossing over one foot,
neither by the crossing of fingers.

"It hates me", I say,
leaping into the fray,
and beating up poor 'puter.

Blue screen.
Can it be so mean,
now bereft of mere civility?

Or close to electronic senility?

Reboot.
'Tis myself I shoot,
for it
is due
in the morning.


Baskerville: Friday, March 8, 2002 06:58

"Program!" said I, "thing of evil! - noncompiling, crafty devil! -
Whether Heaven sent, or whether gremlins - nah, that's far too corny -
Tell this soul with sorrow seasoned, where it is that's poorly reasoned -
Which among your lines has treasoned - solve for me this problem thorny -
Just a clue, I beg thee, for I fear this problem's far too thorny!"

Quoth the program, "Hot and Horny".


Cerhn: Friday, March 8, 2002 09:32

Damn the sneaky, slick and shiny,
OS call that keeps hiding behind me,
Sneering at my every move,
Initialization does not soothe.

For the dynamic is static,
and I begin to panic,
It's nearing 2:30 am,
less'n nine hours til turning in.

Wonder if I should switch majors?



Slash (fan)fiction

Baskerville: Wednesday, June 12, 2002 00:46

If that's the attention you're after
(It's probably all that you'd get)
There are more appropriate fora -
You might try FanFiction dot net.


Sweetangel: Wednesday, June 12, 2002 - 04:02

(coff coff)
If it's slashi'
ye be needin'
drop what you're readin'
and join the fuh-q'in' festin'


Baskerville: Wednesday, June 12, 2002 - 20:02

*reads*

Lupin. Fluffy. Buckbeak.
Mrs Norris too.
Dumbledore. The Sorting Hat.
Colin Creevey - eww.
Basilisks. A giant squid.
Sir Cadogan and Fudge.
Victor Krum and Marcus Flint.
.....This must be hard to judge.



Dreams

Baskerville: Monday, January 20, 2003 15:27

Stray thoughts of mobs and piebald blobs
I thought I liked recurrent jobs?
Instead I find fragmented mind
Will not keep grip on tasks assigned.
Naive, obscure and insecure
With no-one here to reassure
I can't postpone another moan -

I cannot do this on my own.

-- Umaamuttly the Talentless


Slen: Tuesday, January 21, 2003 13:38

Your time, it wastes effectively,
Work rots near bottom of the list,
But dreams of cats mean you should see,
A highly trained psychiatrist.

-- Slen the Pedantic


Baskerville: Tuesday, January 21, 2003 13:57

That's nothing to my dream last night.
I found myself in Gryffindor
With Draco Malfoy had a fight
(I thought I'd be a Ravenclaw...)

It didn't come to wands at dawn -
I don't recall my parting shot -
He ended sprawled across the lawn.
He'd tripped upon a melting pot.

-- Win-GAH-dee-um Leh-vee-OH-sah


Slen: Wednesday, January 22, 2003 14:01

I don't have dreams, I'm sad to say,
At least, not of the night-time kind,
I do, though, nod off in the day,
(No stimulation for the mind).

But do not doze, do not forget,
There are much better things, to boot,
Like playing on the internet,
Whilst dressed up in a squirrel suit.


Baskerville: Wednesday, January 22, 2003 16:54

What did you do to my bruvver?
Did you rip out his spirit and stow it?
Or am I just late to discover
That the kid has the soul of a poet?

-- Baskerville the much impressed


Slen: Thursday, January 23, 2003 14:10

Silence thyself, it's embarrassing!
I'm really not used to this praise,
Oh, now you've got coy tears amassing,

It's lucky it's only a phase.

-- Slen the abashed

Humour

Ree: Saturday, April 26, 2003 03:11

There once was a girl with red hair,
Whom I wrote at a pub clean and fair.
But my own life went south
When my Jaine hit her mouth --
That's the last time I injure a char.

--Ree, being glared at by Jaina


Slen: Saturday, April 26, 2003 21:34

The pub may be clean, if you know what I mean,
And at times it is fair, I am willing to bet,
For the Jaina of Jade, the jaw-pain will fade,
But can you repair a tiger that's wet?

-- Nergye the DRIPPING CAT


Baskerville: Wednesday, February 5, 2003 11:31

Small alarm clock radio,
Wakes me up to advertise,
Brush Up On Your Reading-Writing Skills.
I'm offended.


Ree: Sunday, March 2, 2003 05:27

The book is read, the huntress said,
So now has come the time
To jot things down as they come 'round --
And try to make it rhyme!

I want to play, she said today,
My entrance should go great!
I'll be so crass they'll bite my a**
Until it's very late!

"I hate to scold, my three-year-old,
But where got you that mouth?!
To you I've taught nothing so naught,"
I said with heart gone south.

She sneered, "Well fine! I'll make it mine,
Whate'er you write for me.
But I won't beg -- just find a keg
To soothe my unnerved knee."

I said I would, and took the goods
Requir'd to make it work.
She had it wrong, but it'd been so long
At least she'd not a jerk.

(I hope.)


Baskerville: Tuesday, March 4, 2003 16:29
(Basky didn't think this was anything speshul, but Slen quotes it incessantly.)

At least she isn't topless.
She isn't topless yet.
Just what are you implying?
Put down the bayonet.

I was implying nothing.
That better be the case.
No need to wave that shotgun.
No need to make that face.

That pout may work on others--
But not on you, of course.
So get back in your shoebox.
...I'm filing for divorce.

-- he's nothing to do with me, honest


Cerhn: Thursday, April 3, 2003 22:13

Divorces are only fun,
when they involve more than one.
Otherwise there's no point,
or at least purpose.
Rather like a power electronics porpoise.


Baskerville: Friday, April 4, 2003 11:59

it is not our fault
that our flippers cannot hold
soldering irons


Cerhn: Sunday, April 6, 2003 01:09

Tis indeed. While you do feed,
you could have invented,
or at least incented,
genetic engineering
(can you tell I'm sneering?)
that is, in effective,
retroactive.

By the gods nonexistant,
that was awful.
And now I waffle.
Do I quest for the lab partners,
or just start fer:
home?


Baskerville: Thursday, August 28, 2003 14:23

spot on back of neck
yowl, the base indignity!
flea treatment for cat

--Piper via Mutt


Baskerville: Sunday, August 31, 2003 13:02

even more bad news
the drop didn't work, Piper
time for flea collar

--crimes against felininty purr-pet-rated this time by Mutt's Mom


Baskerville: Tuesday, September 9, 2003 13:09

"Shrike," mutt mutters, "Shadowed Lady!"
Flattered to have been called Shady.
Still, fear not; her rapping's grim
But nobody could call her Slim.

-- just imitatin'



Nonsense Poetry


Baskerville: Wednesday, June 4, 2003 16:07

Purple are the parsnips
Sickly is the gong
Yellow is the repeater repeater repeater rifle
Dirgeful is my song.

Slightly take the matchbooks
Rubble in the stream
Mix with one part custard
Shyly mourns the cream.

-- e. e. kjoot



Slen: Thursday, June 5, 2003 15:42

Sideways fly the swallows
Shift key loses mind
Dog chews on the carpet -
It can't reach the blinds

Wheelchair going fishing
Cotton canapé
Umaa, troll and umaa,
Tell me, What you say?!

--S *giggles about custard*


Baskerville: Wednesday, August 13, 2003 00:07
(driven mad by study-wall-painting)

Tell me if you're seeing purple spots,
it happens to my friends from time to time.
Digitalis and forget-me-nots,
conspire upon my eaves with twist of lime.

Terrahoming pinkish kupo cat,
I wish to scrub my eyes and mind right clean.
Tell it to the wall half-painted matte,
it isn't what you say, it's what you mean.

-- for lo, it was all mushroom grey



World-Famous Ivory-Tickling Extraordinaire

Ree: Thursday, August 14, 2003 23:03

I see no spots, just fluffy lots
Of cats that love to play and purr.
They're rather cute, but that's all moot
When cleaning up their errant fur.

--somebody (can't tell who under the adoring kittens)



Dawnes Gate

Baskerville: Monday, April 7, 2003 12:58

In Dawnsgate, fair city,
the seagates are pretty,
(the Board would get sharp if I didn't say so).
The bob-carts are dashing,
the ogres need washing,
singing "Pastries! Rat pastries! Alive, alive-o!"


Slen: Thursday, April 17, 2003 17:34

This town, with its seagates,
And lodging at low rates,
Will welcome all tourists with pockets of gold,
To wake up in the morn,
And see ready-framed dawn,
Is the image with which our belle city is sold.

The street-trade is quaint,
And even if it ain't,
(Which, from the Board's records, would seem very hard,)
If the merest complaint
Gives your trip here a taint,
Feel free to say so to our internal guard...


Baskerville: Friday, April 25, 2003 13:31

Another dawn; its honeyed light spills out across the harbour
And gilds the masts of fishing boats which bob like flies in treacle
Atop the sea-gates, flames of blue blaze strong and proud, unending
Aloof above the buzzing, milling swarms they are defending.

-- from "Dawnes Gate Fair", c. 1200, by the lady Bernardette Étoile de Matin (probably an alias)



Time

Baskerville: Wednesday, May 7, 2003 - 08:36

It goes, it goes! Unheedful of my cry
It scatters as a shattered mob of crows
Takes wing; I long to find out where it goes
But unlike time and crows, I cannot fly.



Love

Baskerville: Monday, June 23, 2003 13:02
(from a character's viewpoint)

I cannot read you.
Not fair, my lady, not fair.
Stop thawing my cool.



Pirates

Slen: Monday, August 4, 2003 14:17

A scurvy-dog pirate said "Arrr"
On one day receiving a scarrr
While counting his hoard
Was attacked with a sword
Now he keeps his left eye in a jarrr.


Slen: Monday, September 22, 2003 21:46
(referring to a storyboard of the time; from a character's viewpoint)

At the mate's insane direction,
To point a cannon at the Dame,
First came our inane rejection,
Then the mutual main reflection,
Then we thought to do the same.

When "Monsters ahaid!" was cried,
And the Dame began to sing,
The sea-beast's ear-drums were fried,
I'm not surprised the poor thing died,
She made this parrot's ears ring.

--Squaark!


Baskerville: Monday, September 22, 2003 22:34
(ditto)

Ah! have you no pity, compassion or thought
For the dent in the ego your insults have wrought?
Be gentle, be nice, change your tone, feel some shame
For your venom, it crumples this weak female frame.
Alack and alas, my misfortunes are three!
For who would be friendless and stranded at sea?

--Erica


Slen: Tuesday, September 23, 2003 - 18:17
(ditto)

I might have shown you some remorse,
For bringing you quite close to tears,
Except the magnificent force
Of your voice damaged my ears.

-- Parrot the deafened



Vampires

Ree: Monday, September 29, 2003 15:49
(from a character's viewpoint?)

Haiku are quite nice.
They're not desanguination,
but still quite pleasant.


Baskerville: Monday, September 29, 2003 18:48
(from a character's viewpoint)

I hear there'll be an inn,
A spot for all my kin,
Immortal clientele.

It sounds like fun, and yet
I'm not sure where they'll get
The bloodwyne they will sell.

--Silv



Weft

Baskerville: Wednesday, July 16, 2003 12:31

Some hott Wefty action? You wish.
Unless you like swords going swish.
Immune! is my monk
To lurve and that junk
And certainly isn't a bish.

--The Weft-Tormenting Consortium rides again.


Baskerville: Wednesday, July 30, 2003 15:43
(from a character... well, you know whose viewpoint)

I was, at my creation,
A chap of poise and skill.
But then, initiation
At Hall of Celebration
And life went fast downhill.

I've worked fast food and retail
Been beaten, crushed and cursed,
But out of every me-tale -
Of each traumatic detail -
This has to be the worst.

A crowd of hormones squealing
Agendas that dismay;
To sketch me, stretched or kneeling
In poses unappealing
And set me up with Ce!

Unused to this attention
(Though not the disrespect)
If I defy convention
And opt for pride-retention
I trust you won't object.
I'm running off? Correct.


Slen: Saturday, November 8, 2003 21:43
(mutt thinks this is one of the best of the lot)

A Poem To Weft

Oh, duster of fluster,
Oh, man of the cloth,
Revive yourself out of this trance!
Oh, channel of flannel,
Oh, poisonous barb,
I hear Suitov hasn't a chance...

Oh, dishy of bishy,
Oh, fabric of wroth,
Please give us a clue in advance.
Oh, hunkness of monkness,
Oh, gift of the garb,
When will you be marrying Lance?


Erin: Sunday, November 9, 2003 00:14
(from all zir characters' viewpoint)

Marriage is so overdone,
Living in sin is much more fun.


Baskerville: Sunday, November 9, 2003 17:27
(hints at Slen's real name aaarglhkljkl!!)

Weft's Rebuke

I've not the urge to bicker
With Ben, a fellow monk;
His name is famed for liquor
And so, with mirthful snicker,
I'd say the boy is drunk.

'Tis true, inebriation
Makes braggards of the meek,
Persuading Mutt's relation
To seek a confrontation:
An ill-advised technique.


Slen: Monday, November 17, 2003 14:24

Today, I am fully bereft
Of things I could say about Weft.
My thoughts on the monk
Could be said to have sunk
To the base of the hunk
Of my brain, with a clunk,
So now there is bugger-all left.

So why, as I hear you ask me,
Am I prattling in old DiP?
Truly was it said,
The contents of my head
Have bloody well fled,
Or fallen like lead
To the height of the tread
Of my shoes, I'm brain-dead.
A pointless campaign, so you see.

So now, I shall leave you at last.
This poem, gladly in the past.
So pointless, indeed
Was this reason to feed
On attention, my greed
For the clamour, the speed
Of my rhyming, I'm freed
From the incessant need
To make my head bleed
From my poetic creed...
And now I shall run away, fast.


Baskerville: Wednesday, November 26, 2003 17:46
(from an anonymous character's viewpoint)

I'd lief propose a vote of thanks from all
The authors, pets and characters combined.
And where do I intend this praise to fall? -
Upon sweet Writer's Block, so oft maligned.

Fair vacuum! Respite! Inspiration's drought!
I beg of you to tarry one night more;
Indulge those souls who find relief devout
In author-types who cannot write or draw.

Poor wretches, fair of face or meek of heart:
An author's brain-death is their only rest
From mages, angels, jibes and so-called 'art'
Depicting them undignifiedly dressed.

Most noble, graceful, worthy deity:
I beg you, stop these writers' cruelty.


Ree: Thursday, November 27, 2003 21:33
(from a character's, or characters', viewpoint)

The god Diea, I am told,
Is patroness of writers bold.
Her name is mangled from "idea"
Which pun's so bad that I'll just -- cya.

--I have no Diea. Really.


Then I shall now take up the slack,
--is this where I can rhyme with "back"?
Oh blessed naughty limricks mine!
If I only I could have more time!

Diea is a goddess stern
Who rules not over beast or fern
But battles typo-gremlins fierce
That our l33t fingers they'll not pierce.

Ree says I have no meter here,
Although she doesn't make that clear.
Another god I've now offended,
So, my dears, this pattern's ended.

--Pasht, with unnamed assistence


Baskerville: Sunday, December 7, 2003 17:05
(from a charac - oh, hells, you've all guessed it's Weft. He's dissatisfied with the rhyme scheme.)

The pattern never ends. It weaves
A tapestry in stone and wood.
We may not see the whole of it
But no-one said we should.

The dust, the sun, the falling leaves,
A sequence neither bad nor good.
It little cares what man believes
Or if it's understood.

I hadn't realised Pasht did that much poetry -- and yes, that desanguination haiku was in-character.